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

be all over the town in five minutes. He and Issac Rucker crossed to the bar. Doolin slapped down two large, fish-eye shot glasses and poured them with pale amber Irish whiskey and added a tot to his own. He set the bottle aside and raised his glass in a toast. Smoke and Issac joined him.
    “Up the Irish!”
    A surly punk halfway down the bar raised his head and glowered at them. “Up their backsides, I say.”
    Smoke turned to stare at him. He saw a long-haired, trashy piece of barely human refuse, of about twenty-two years, whose lank, greasy hair showed no familiarity with brush or comb. He had a snotty sneer smeared on his thin-lipped face and a two-day stubble of pale, yellow beard. He wore a six-gun slung low on his right thigh, secured by a rawhide thong. The holster, an old, worn military one, had its cover flap cut away to give quick access to the butt of the .44 Colt Frontier it held. Probably considered himself a gunfighter, Smoke appraised.
    The sad thing was that he would most likely die without ever knowing how wrong he was. Smoke looked again at the hateful expression, tiny, mean eyes, and unshaved jowls, then decided he might as well try to enlighten the lout.
    “Who or what are you?”
    Smoke’s words hung in the air a long moment before the punk worked his mouth and deliberately spat tobacco juice at Smoke’s boots. “If you don’t know, you’ve got a treat comin.’ I’m Tyrone Sayers. Folks here-about generally tremble when they learn that.”
    Smoke slid into his black, leather gloves as he forced his voice into a high, squeaky register. “Oh, I am trembling. Don’t you see? As far as I can tell, your name is spelled S-H-I-T.”
    “Back me, Norvie!” Tyrone Sayers erupted in instant violence. His hand dropped to the butt of his revolver and began to yank it free, while Sean Doolin grabbed up a bung starter and started for Sayer’s companion. “Take it outside, boyos,” he commanded.
    Sayers ignored him. He had not cleared the back-plate of leather when Smoke went into action. Instead of drawing, he rapidly stepped forward and slammed a hard right fist into the punk’s mouth. Sayers flew backward and the small of his back smashed into the top rail of the bar. His gun-arm continued moving and he freed the long-barreled Colt. That’s when Smoke hit him again. The revolver thudded on the sawdust-covered floor. His friend went for his gun then.
    A loud thop! sounded as Sean brained Norvie with his wooden mallet. He went rubber legged and slumped to the floor, his head resting on a spittoon, while birdies sang in his head. Smoke did not even hesitate during this one-sided exchange.
    He waded in on Sayers. His elbows churned back and forth as he worked on the exposed gut of the stupid lout. Sayers wheezed and gasped and tried to escape along the bar. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and had to duck fast to escape a sledgehammer blow to his head. Lightning fast, Smoke recovered and smashed a vulnerable nose.
    Blood flowed in twin rivers from Tyrone’s mangled beak. His eyes watered and he pawed at them to clear his vision. Smoke went back to Tyrone’s middle again. Tyrone decided he had had enough of that. From a soft pouch holster at the small of his back he drew a stubby .38 caliber Herington and Richards and whipped it toward Smoke Jensen.
    Chin down to protect himself from any retaliation by Sayers, Smoke did not see the little gun coming until it lined up with the middle of his belly. “Smoke, look out!” Issac Rucker shouted.
    Smoke reacted instantly. With his left he batted the small revolver out of line with his body. It discharged through empty air in the same moment that Smoke Jensen drew his .45 Colt and jammed the muzzle into one ruined nostril on the face of Tyrone Sayers.
    He didn’t have to say it, the tiny .38 was on the way to the floor already, but he did anyway. “Drop it.”
    Through his pain-dulled mind, Tyrone Sayers finally made the connection between names.