Free Return of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

wall of the not-yet-opened general store. The mountain man appeared not to be watching Buck, but Buck knew he was watching him. His name came to Buck. Dupre. The Louisiana Frenchman. He remembered him from the rendezvous at the ruins of Bent’s Ford, back in…was it ’66? Buck thought it had been.
    Dupre looked as old as time itself, and as solid as a granite mountain. Buck had been raised among mountain men, and he knew these old boys were still dangerous as grizzly bears. Not a one of the mountain men still left alive could tell you how many men they’d killed. White men. Indians didn’t count.
    When Buck again caught his eyes, Dupre was talking to the store owner. Not owner, Buck corrected himself—manager. The two men went inside. Buck continued walking. Unlike most men who spent their lives on the hurricane deck of a horse, Buck enjoyed a good stroll.
    It was a pretty little town, Buck thought. And not just thrown haphazardly together, like so many frontier towns. He took his time, speaking to the men and doffing his hat to the ladies he passed. He noticed suspicion in many of the eyes; open hostility in a like amount. He wondered about that.
    â€œYou’re up early,” a voice called from Buck’s left.
    He stopped and slowly turned. Sally Reynolds sat on her front porch, drinking what Buck guessed was coffee.
    â€œI enjoy the early morning, Sally.”
    â€œSo do I. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
    â€œTea?”
    â€œTea.”
    â€œSure. I guess so. Never acquired much of a taste for it.”
    â€œI can make coffee.”
    â€œNo, no. Tea will be fine.” He pushed open the gate and took a chair on the porch.
    It wasn’t fine. Buck thought he was going to gag on the stuff. It didn’t taste like nothing. But he smiled bravely and swallowed. Hard.
    Sally laughed at him. “Please let me make you some coffee, Buck. It will only take a few minutes.”
    â€œMaybe you’d better. I sure would appreciate it. This stuff and me just don’t get along.”
    Buck sat alone on the small porch and watched as Dupre rode past, riding slowly, his Henry repeating rifle held in one hand, across the saddle. As he rode past, the old mountain man nodded his head to Buck. “Nice mornin’, ain’t it, son?”
    â€œYes, it is. Have yourself a good day.”
    â€œMy good days are twenty year down my backtrail,” Dupre said. “But I still manage to git by.” He rode on, soon out of sight.
    â€œWho in the world was that?” Sally asked. She placed a cup of coffee on the small table between their chairs.
    â€œYou probably read about them in school,” Buck said. “Mountain men?”
    â€œOh, yes! But I thought they were all dead.”
    â€œMost of them are. The real mountain men, that is. But there’s still some salty ol’ boys out there, still riding the high lonesome.”
    â€œThe high lonesome? That’s beautiful, Buck. Do I detect a wistful note in your voice?”
    â€œWistful?”
    â€œMeans a longing, or a yearning for something.”
    Could he trust her? Buck didn’t know. She could very well be a spy for Stratton or Potter or Richards. Then he remembered how she had stood up to Sheriff Reese. He made up his mind. All right, he would tell her just enough to bait her.
    â€œI guess so, Sally. I came out here just a boy. Alone,” he lied. “I grew up in the mountains. Met a lot of mountain men. They was, were, old men even then. But tough and hard as nails. They knew their way of life was about gone, even then. But it was a fine way of life—for them; not for everybody.”
    â€œAnd for you, Buck?”
    â€œFor me? Do you mean did I enjoy it?”
    She nodded.
    Buck smiled. “Oh, yes. I’ll get a burr under my saddle one of these days and you won’t see me for several days. I’ll have to shake the staleness of town off me; head for the high