William W. Johnstone - Rampage of the Mountain Man

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
mwww.kensingtonbooks.com

Willow Creek, Colorado

A heavy, booming thunder rolled over the breaks, and gray veils of rain hung down from ominous, black clouds that crowded the hills. Though it had not yet reached him, the storm was moving quickly, and Smoke Jensen took a poncho from his saddlebag and slipped it on to be prepared for the impending downpour.

Smoke was on his way to Denver, and he was butt-sore from riding. Looking to hunker down from the approaching storm, he saw the little town of Willow Creek rising before him. The town had no more than half-a-dozen commercial buildings, and about three dozen houses.

Smoke leaned forward and patted his horse on the neck.

What do you say that we find us a place to ride this storm out? Smoke asked his horse. Often on long, lonely rides, Smoke wanted to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. Talking to his horse provided him with an excuse for talking aloud, without really talking to himself.

A livery for you, and maybe supper and a beer for me, he continued in his one-sided conversation.

The first few drops of rain had just started when Smoke rode in through the big open door of the Jim Bob Corral. His nostrils were assailed with the pungent but familiar smell of hay, horseflesh, and horse manure. To a city person the odor might be unpleasant, but to Smoke, the aroma was almost comforting. Smoke took off his poncho and rolled it up. He had just finished tying it back onto his saddle when a boy of about sixteen appeared, having come from somewhere deep in the shadows of the barn.

You wantin to board your horse here, mister? the boy asked.

Yes, Smoke answered. Find a dry place for him, rub him down, and give him oats. Smoke gave the boy a dollar.

How long? the boy asked.

Just tonight.

Then its only a quarter, the boy said. Ill get your change.

You keep the change, Smoke said. Just take extra care of my horse.

A broad smile spread across the boys face. Mister, the folks stayin over to the Dunn Hotel wont be gettin no better treatment than this here horse.

I appreciate that, Smoke said.

Smoke looked across the street at the saloon.

Do they serve food in the saloon? he asked.

Yes, sir, and its good food too, the boy said. My ma cooks there.

Smoke smiled. Then I know I will enjoy it.

The rain was coming down pretty steadily now as Smoke hurried across the street for the saloon. Stepping inside, he took off his hat, then poured water from the crown as he looked around. For a town so small, the saloon was surprisingly full. It even had a piano, at which a piano player was grinding away in the back.

More than half the patrons in the saloon turned to look at him, and as they realized he was not a local, even more turned to see who the stranger was in their midst.

The barkeep moved toward him when Smoke stepped up to the bar.

Hope you aint put out none by everone lookin at you, but we dont get a lot of visitors here, especially on a night like this.

A night like this is what drove me here, Smoke replied.

The bartender chuckled. Yes, sir, I see what you mean. Whats your pleasure?

Id like a beer.

Yes, sir, one beer comin up.

A moment later, the bartender put a mug of golden beer with a frothy head in front of Smoke. Smoke blew off some of the head, then took a long swallow. After a full day of riding, the beer tasted very good to him and he took another deep drink before he turned his back to the bar to have a look around the place that called itself The Gilded Lily.

A card game was going on in the corner and Smoke watched it for a few minutes while he drank his beer.

Smokes peripheral vision caught someone coming in through the back door, and turning, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a badge. Because he had just come in from the rain, water was dripping from the lawmans sweeping mustache.

Im lookin for a man named Emerson Pardeen, the man said.

One of the cardplayers stood up slowly, then turned to face the man with the badge.

Im Emerson Pardeen. Who the hell are you?

The name is Buck Wheeler. Marshal Buck Wheeler, he added, coming down hard on the word Marshal.

Yeah? Well, what do you want with me?

Im taking you back to Dodge City to stand trial for the murder of Jason Tibbs.

Dodge City is in Kansas, this is Colorado. You got no jurisdiction here.

Maybe I shouldve told you Im a United States marshal, Wheeler added. Ive got jurisdiction everywhere.

Yeah? Well, Mr. United States Marshal Buck Wheeler, I aint goin back to Dodge City with you, Pardeen said.

Oh, youre going back all right, Wheeler said. Either sitting in your saddle, or belly-down over it.

Realizing that a gunfight was very likely, the others who had been sitting at the table jumped up and moved out of the way, a couple of them moving so quickly that their chairs fell over.

The marshal pulled his gun and pointed it at Pardeen. Now, shuck out of that gunbelt, slow and easy-like, he ordered.

Pardeen shook his head. No, I dont think so. I think maybe Im just goin to call you on this one.

Whatever you say, Pardeen. Whatever you say, the marshal replied.

Smoke, like the others, was watching the drama unfold, when he heard a soft squeaking sound as if weight were being put down on a loose board. The sound caused him to look up toward the top of the stairs. When he did so, he saw a man standing there, aiming a shotgun at the back of the marshal.

Marshal, theres a gun at your back! Smoke shouted. Concurrent with Smokes warning, the man wielding the shotgun turned it toward Smoke.

You sorry son of a bitch! he shouted.

Smoke had no choice then. He dropped his beer and pulled his pistol, firing just as the man at the top of the stairs squeezed his own trigger. The shotgun boomed loudly. The heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar, right where Smoke had been standing. Some of the shot hit the whiskey bottles in front of the mirror, and one of the nude statues behind the bar. Like shrapnel from an exploding bomb, pieces of glass flew everywhere. The mirror fell except for a few jagged shards, which hung in place where the mirror had been, reflecting distorted images of the dramatic scene playing out before it.

Smokes single shot had not missed, and the man with the shotgun dropped his weapon. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, twisting around so that he slid down the stairs on his back and headfirst, following his clattering shotgun to the ground floor. The wielder of the shotgun lay at the foot of the stairs, with his head on the floor and his legs splayed apart stretching back up the bottom four steps. His sightless eyes were open and staring up toward the ceiling.

The sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyones attention on that exchange, and while their attention was diverted from him, Pardeen took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly, the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Pardeen fired at the marshal who had confronted him.

Marshal Wheeler had made the fatal mistake of being diverted by the gunplay between Smoke and the shotgun shooter. Pardeens bullet struck the marshal in the forehead and the impact of it knocked him back on a nearby table. The marshal lay belly-up on the table with his head hanging down on the far side while blood dripped from the hole in his forehead to form a puddle below him. His gun fell from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor. Pardeen then swung his pistol toward Smoke.