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

because they think that to fight is manly, or some such crap as that. Excuse my language, ladies. But the point is, you got to watch your mouth out here. The graveyards are full of people ignorant of the ways of the West.”
    Ed Jackson blustered and sweated, but he did not offer to apologize.
    He won’t make it, Smoke thought. Someone will either run him out or kill him. And mankind will have lost nothing by his passing.
    â€œWhy is Franklin doing these things, Mister Jensen?” Haywood asked.
    â€œSmoke. Call me Smoke. Why? Because he wants to be king. Perhaps he’s a bit mad. I don’t know. I do know he hates farmers and small ranchers. As for me, well, I have the Sugarloaf and he wants it.”
    â€œThe Sugarloaf?” Hunt asked.
    â€œMy valley. Part of it, that is.”
    â€œAre you suggesting the election is rigged?” Haywood inquired.
    â€œNo. I’m just saying that Tilden’s people will win, that’s all.”
    â€œHas Mister Franklin offered to buy any of the farmers’ or ranchers’ holdings?” Hunt asked.
    Smoke laughed. “Buy? Lawyer, men like Tilden don’t offer to buy. They just run people out. Did cruel kings offer to buy lands they desired? No, they just took it, by force.”
    Preacher Morrow had ceased his work with the axe and had joined the group. His eyes searched for his wife and, not finding her present, glowered at Ed Jackson.
    Maybe I was right, Smoke thought.
    â€œAre you a Christian, Mister Jensen?” he asked, finally taking his eyes from the shopkeeper.
    Bad blood between those two, Smoke thought. “I been to church a few times over the years. Sally and me was married in a proper church.”
    â€œHave you been baptized, sir?”
    â€œIn a little crick back in Missouri, yes, sir, I was.”
    â€œAh, wonderful! Perhaps you and your wife will attend services just as soon as I get my church completed?”
    â€œI knew a lay preacher back in Missouri preached on a stump, Preacher Morrow. Look around you, sir. You ever in all your life seen a more beautiful cathedral? Look at them mountains yonder. Got snow on ’em year-round. See them flowers scattered around, those blue and purple ones? Those are columbines. Some folks call them Dove Flowers. See the trees? Pine and fir and aspen and spruce and red cedar. What’s wrong with preaching right in the middle of what God created?”
    â€œYou’re right, of course, sir. I’m humbled. You’re a strange man, Mister Jensen. And I don’t mean that in any ugly way.”
    â€œI didn’t take it in such a way. I know what you mean. The West is a melting pot of people, Preacher. Right there in that town of Fontana, there’s a man named Louis Longmont. He’s got degrees from places over in Europe, I think. He owns ranches, pieces of railroads, and lots of other businesses. But he follows the boom towns as a gambler. He’s been decorated by kings and queens. But he’s a gambler, and a gunfighter. My wife lives in a cabin up in the mountains. But she’s worth as much money as Tilden Franklin, probably more. She’s got two or three degrees from fancy colleges back East, and she’s traveled in Europe and other places. Yet she married me.
    â€œI know scouts for the Army who used to be college professors. I know cowboys who work for thirty and found who can stand and quote William Shakespeare for hours. And them that listen, most of them, can’t even read or write. I know Negroes who fought for the North and white men who wore the Gray who now work side by side and who would die for each other. Believe it.”
    â€œAnd you, Smoke?” Hunt asked. “What about you?”
    â€œWhat about me? I raise cattle and horses and farm. I mind my own business, if people will let me. And I’ll harm no man who isn’t set on hurting me or mine. We need people like you folks out here. We need some stability.