Free Return of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page A

country. Me and the horses. But I’ll be back. If it matters to you, that is.”
    She was silent for a very long moment. So long that Buck thought he had offended her with the statement.
    â€œYes, Buck. I think it does matter to me. In…a way that I can’t explain. Not just yet. Buck, I am a very perceptive person…”
    â€œA what kind of person?”
    â€œPerceptive. That means I have a keen insight, or understanding, of things.”
    â€œTerrible to be as ignorant as I am,” Buck said.
    Sally did not pursue that, for she did not believe Buck to be an ignorant person. Just a person who was hiding something. For whatever reason.
    â€œAnd your insight tells you what about me, Sally?”
    â€œThat you don’t fully trust me.”
    â€œI don’t fully trust anybody, Sally. Out here in the west, trust is something that has to be earned. It has to be that way ’cause your life might depend on it.”
    â€œYes. I’ve heard that from several people since I’ve been out here.”
    â€œIt’s very true. You have a lot of outlaws working out here. You have a half-dozen Indian tribes on the warpath. Long as you stay close to Bury, you probably won’t have to worry about the Indians attacking. It’s too big for them. But get a mile away from town, and your life is in constant danger. You’ve got to know the man or men you ride with. Will they stand with you or turn tail and run? See what I mean about earning trust?”
    â€œYes. I suppose so. I won’t tell you what else my insight tells me about you, Buck. Not until I’ve earned your trust. Do you suppose that will happen?”
    â€œI imagine so.”
    Â 
    Buck checked in with the Big Three’s office manager, the office located in a building in the center of town, and told the dour-faced and sour-dispositioned little man he was riding out; be gone for a day or two. Give his horse some exercise.
    MacGregor grunted and told Buck to be back day after tomorrow. He had to ride south to deliver a pouch.
    â€œI’ll be back.”
    He rode north out of Bury, following the Salmon River. He headed for a small town called Salmon. A rough-and-tumble mining camp.
    He had no intention of going to Salmon; Buck just wanted to see if he was being followed. He wanted to test how much trust Richards had in him.
    â€œNot much,” Buck grunted. He was back in the deep timber, hidden, watching his backtrail. He was watching a half-dozen riders slowly tracking him. Using his spyglass, Buck pulled them into closer view. He knew their faces, having seen them loafing around Bury, but didn’t know their names.
    Buck rode deeper into the timber, making a slow circle, coming out of the timber behind the riders. Now he was tracking them. He wore an amused look on his face as he watched the gunhands slowly circling, having lost Buck’s trail, trying to once more find it. Buck rode up to within five hundred or so yards of the men and sat his horse, watching the men.
    One rider finally lifted his head, feeling, sensing eyes on him. “Crap!” the man’s voice drifted faintly to Buck. “He’s watchin’ us , boys.”
    The PSR riders bunched and rode slowly toward Buck, reining up a respectable distance from him. One said, “This ain’t nothin’ personal, partner. We ride for the brand, just like you.”
    â€œNo offense taken, boys. Town was closing in on me. I wanted some space. You know what I mean?”
    â€œKnow exactly what you mean,” a scar-faced rider said. “We got biscuits and coffee and it’s ’bout noon. Let’s build a fire and jaw some.”
    Cinches loosened, bits out, the horses ground-reined, they grazed. The riders sat on the ground, munching biscuits and drinking cups of strong black coffee. The scar-faced rider was Joiner. The oldest of the men, a hard-eyed puncher, was Wilson. Buck took an immediate dislike for