Free Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone

prairie grass. He saw the tall spire of a grain silo rearing on the horizon, then the slender one of a church. The town had grown since he had last passed through. Then the blocky shapes of the business district crept above the rim of the world. At a half mile distance, Smoke heard the barking dogs. Shrill cries of children came next. A cow mooed in a backyard. A wagon, badly in need of axle grease, shrieked its way along the main street. Smoke counted half a dozen new houses.
    Smoke felt his initial tension sloughing off. Too early, he realized as he swung off of the trail onto a maintained roadway. Two local farmers, their wagons stopped opposite one another to swap tall tales, looked hard at him with open suspicion. Beyond them, at the first house on the edge of town, three children, barefoot, shirtless boys, stared solemnly. The youngest popped a thumb into his mouth as Smoke rode by. A buxom woman rushed from the side door to scoop them up and hurry them inside. Something, or someone, bad had been here recently, Smoke reasoned. He guided Thunder to the livery first.
    He found it where it had been before. The same bent, stooped old man came forward to take the reins of Thunder when Smoke dismounted. The sturdy, buckskin-clad gunfighter nodded toward his packhorse.
    “I’ve got a horse with a strained tendon. I’d like to trade him or rent another if I have to.”
    “You got his papers?”
    “Sure do. He’s prime stock. Raised him myself.”
    “Say, you’ve been here before, ain’tcha?”
    “That’s right. Last time about two years ago.”
    Thumb and forefinger massaged his whiskered chin. “As I rec’llect yer name’s Johnson, Jennings, something like that?”
    “Jensen. I breed horses down in Colorado.”
    A light gleamed in aged eyes. “Yeah. Do a fair bit of gun-fighting, too, as I recall.”
    “Huh! Let’s keep that between the two of us, all right?”
    Thin lips spread to reveal toothless gums and the old man cackled. “I ain’t got any problem with that. M’lips are sealed.” He went to the roan gelding and ran an experienced hand down the forelegs. He lifted a thick lip and studied the teeth. His keen eyes noted that even with the heavy pack load, the back remained straight and firm.
    “If he comes from your stock, you’ve got a deal, Mister—ah—Smith.” He pointed to the corral beside the livery barn. “I got me a fine little mare out there. I’ll let her go for the swap and thirty dollars. She’s a Morgan an’ been broke to a packsaddle.”
    Smoke gave him a genuine smile. “I’ve been wanting some Morgan blood in my remount herd. I’ll sign the papers over and we can seal it with a drink on me.”
    “Fine as frog hair by me. My name is Issac Rucker. Put it on the transfer an’ I’ll get you Debbie’s papers.” He winked. “I could feel it weren’t broke. I had me a sharper dope a horse with a broken leg with laudanum and try to pass it off as only a strain.”
    Their transaction completed, Smoke and Issac walked toward the saloon at the corner of Spencer and Lode Streets. The Bucket of Blood looked exactly as it did when Smoke last paid it a visit. Green and white bunting decorated the balcony railing. Cut out letters of green blotting paper spelled out Erin Go Bragh! above the center of the back bar. The piano tinkled mournfully, playing The Minstrel Lad. It had been Danny Boy when Smoke had been here last. A huge, portly, handlebar-mustached man stood behind the mahogany, a spotted white apron folded double and tied around his ample middle. He saw Smoke and recognized him immediately.
    “Ah, faith an’ it’s Kirby me lad. C’mon me boyo, cozy up an’ take a wee dram. Jensen may not be a name from the auld sod, but yer an honorary Irishman whenever you are in me darlin’ place.”
    Smoke winced. If he had any hope of going unrecognized, Sean Doolin’s big mouth had ruined all that. If anyone in here connected the name Kirby Jensen with Smoke Jensen, the word would