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

Wilson and he sensed the feeling was mutual. McNeil had practically nothing to say. But he kept eyeballing Buck. The man’s head was totally bald. Long was short and stocky. He wore one gun tied down low and his second gun in a shoulder-holster rig. Davis was a long lean drink of water; looked like a strong wind would blow him slap out of the saddle. Simpson was big and mean-looking.
    â€œYou familiar with Brown’s Hole?” Joiner asked Buck.
    â€œBeen there. Went there lookin’ for Jensen. Grave close to the base of Zenobia Peak. Looks like that’s where Jensen planted his pa.”
    â€œYou dig the grave up?” Wilson asked.
    â€œ Hell , no!”
    Davis said, “That’d be a sin. Sorry no good would do that. Let a man rest in peace.”
    Wilson looked pained. “Mayhaps that’d be where the gold is buried.”
    â€œHow would a dead man do that?” Simpson asked.
    Wilson nodded his head. “Ain’t thought about that. You right.”
    Then another piece plopped into place in Buck’s mind.

10
    1 867. Emmett Jensen’s horses had been picketed close to the base of Zenobia Peak. His gear was by his grave, covered with a ground sheet and secured with rocks. The letter from his pa, given him by the old mountain man, Grizzly, was in Smoke’s pocket.
    â€œYou read them words on that paper your pa left you?” Preacher asked.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œI’ll go set up camp at the Hole. I reckon you’ll be along directly.”
    â€œTomorrow. ’Bout noon.”
    â€œSee you then.” Preacher headed north. He would cross Vermillion Creek, then cut west into the Hole. Smoke would find him when he felt ready for human company. But for now, the young man needed to be alone with his pa.
    Smoke unsaddled his horse, Seven, and allowed him to roll. He stripped the gear from the pack animals, setting them grazing. Taking a small hammer and a miner’s spike from his gear, Smoke began the job of chiseling his father’s name into a large, flat rock. He could not remember exactly when his pa was born, but he thought it about 1815.
    Headstone in place, secured by rocks, Smoke built a small fire, put coffee on to boil in the blackened pot, then sat down to read the letter from his pa.
    Son,
    I found some of the men who killed your brother Luke and stolt the gold that belonged to the Gray. Theys more of them than I first thought. I killed two of the men work for them, but they got led in me and I had to hitail it out. Came here. Not goin to make it. Son, you dont owe nuttin to the Cause of the Gray. So dont get it in your mind you do. Make yoursalf a good life and look to my final restin place if you need help.
    Preacher kin tell you some of what happen, but not all. Remember—look to my grave if you need help.
    I allso got word that your sis Janey leff that gambler and has took up with an outlaw down in Airyzona. Place called Tooson. I woodn fret much about her. She is mine, but I think she is trash. Dont know where she got that streek from.
    I am gettin tared and seein is hard. Lite fadin. I love you Kirby-Smoke.
    Pa
    Smoke reread the letter. Look to my grave. He could not understand that part. He pulled up his knees and put his head on them, feeling he ought to cry, or something. But no tears came.
    Now he was alone. He had no other kin, and he did not count his sister as kin. He had his guns, his horses, a bit of gold, and his friend, Preacher.
    He was eighteen years old.
    Â 
    Now, five years later, it all came back to him. Sure, he thought. His pa had dug his own grave, put the gold in the bottom, and then crawled in on top of it to die. The old mountain man, Grizzly, had buried him.
    Well, the gold could just stay there. Damned if he’d dig up his pa’s grave for it.
    â€œWhere else you been lookin’ for this Smoke?” McNeil asked.
    â€œName someplace. I thought I had him cornered over near Pagosa Springs, but he