Free Destiny Of The Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

might affect his people. The riders came all the way into the center square before Brandt held up his hand.
    â€œTroop, halt!” he called.
    His men, riding in a well-maintained military column of twos, stopped. The little cloud of dust that had accompanied their entrance into the town, drifted away on the hot breath of air.
    Padre Gonzales hurried out to address the obvious leader of the riders.
    â€œ Puedo ayudar, señor? ”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI am sorry, excuse the Spanish. I asked if I may be of some help.”
    â€œSergeant, dismiss the men,” Brandt said.
    Stone stood in the stirrups and looked back over the men.
    â€œTroop dismissed!” he called.
    The men, who until that moment had been as disciplined as any army, let out a yell, dismounted, and started moving toward the two drinking establishments in town, one Mexican cantina and one American saloon.
    Brandt walked over to the well, where a half-filled bucket and dipper sat on the stone wall that encircled the well. Scooping up water with the dipper, he took off his hat and poured it over his head. As it cascaded down, it left rivulets in the trail dirt that was caked over him.
    He turned the second scoop of the dipper up to his mouth, and took a deep, Adam’s-apple-bobbing drink, with water pouring from the edge the cup and running down his chin and onto his shirt. Not until his thirst was slaked did he respond to the padre’s question.
    â€œYeah, you can help me,” he said. “Has this town got a sheriff?”
    The padre’s face brightened into a smile. If the stranger was looking for the sheriff, then he couldn’t mean them any harm.
    â€œ Sí, el sheriff. Su oficina está ahí .”
    â€œSpeak American, you pig-faced bastard,” Brandt ordered.
    The smile left the padre’s face and with an expression of hurt and controlled anger, he pointed to the sheriff ’s office.
    â€œCome with me,” Brandt said to Stone. As they started toward the building the padre had pointed out, they heard a woman scream, and a man shouting curses.
    â€œ Ésa es mi esposa! That is my wife! What are you doing, Señor?”
    The man’s protest was cut short by a blow to his head from a pistol barrel.
    â€œSounds like the men are beginning to get settled in,” Stone said with an evil chuckle.
    Without a second thought as to what the men might be doing, Brandt and Stone continued toward a low-lying adobe building that had a sign over a door reading LA OFICINA DE SHERIFF, and another sign that read SHERIFF’S OFFICE.
    Brandt drew his sword, looked over at Stone, and nodded. Stone drew his pistol, then kicked the door open.
    â€œ Qué es esto? ” the sheriff shouted, standing up from behind his desk. His deputy stood up as well.
    â€œA change of command,” Brandt said, whipping his sword around. The sheriff’s severed head bounced on the desk, then fell to the floor. The headless body fell backward gushing blood from a truncated neck.
    â€œ Madre de Dios! ” the deputy said, looking on in shock. It was the last thing he ever said because Stone shot him dead.
    â€œFind the undertaker,” Brandt said. “Have him get these bodies out of here.” Brandt sat down behind the desk, then put his feet up. “This will be our command post,” he said.
    Â 
    Â 
    Despite its Spanish name, which meant Red Cat, the Gato Rojo was the American saloon in the small town. And while others in the town were frightened by the sudden appearance of so many Americans, Carl Kunz was doing a booming business. Right now nearly forty men were crowded into his place of business, standing at the bar, or sitting at the tables. To Kunz’s delight, they ordered food, drink, and from time to time, took one of the women into the little lean-to room at the back of the building.
    In the time Brandt had been here, he and his men had taken over the town. The women of the town