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

“Jesus Christ! Smoke Jensen!”
    “Nope. It’s just Ike Rucker…and Smoke Jensen,” the liveryman said through a chuckle.
    All of the strength went out of the legs of Tyrone and he sagged to the floor. He barely caught himself on the edge of the bar. “I didn’t know. For the love of God, I didn’t know! Please, Mr. Jensen, don’t kill me.”
    Smoke eased off a little. “I think you’ve learned some manners. Get a hand on your partner there and clear the hell out of here.”
    Tyrone Sayers could not take his eyes off the six-gun burrowed into his nose. “Yes, sir, anything you say. Yes, sir, right away.”
    With a grunt he came to his boots, grabbed the unconscious lout beside him by the shirt collar and dragged him to the bat wings. When they disappeared through the batwings, Sean Doolin slapped a big palm on the bar.
    “By all the saints, that was a sight to behold. Another round on me.”
     
     
    By the time Smoke Jensen had consumed a substantial meal to rid his head of the buzz brought on by the Irish whiskey and ridden out of Baggs, Tyrone Sayers had cleaned up and his friend had regained consciousness. Tyrone was full of plans, which he quickly shared with Norvil Yates.
    “Norvie, dough dit Billy Beterson nund br’ng hip here.” Tyrone talked funny because he had twin fat lips, and two rolls of cotton batting stuffed in his nose with a heavy layer of tape to hold them in place.
    “What do you want Peterson for?”
    Tyrone explained in his mushy voice. “There’s a bounty out on Jensen. Big money, we’re gonna collect it.”
    Right then, it seemed to Norvil Yates that his friend would not fare well in the prophet business.

6
     
    Back at the Sugarloaf, a worried Monte Carson dropped in on Sally Jensen. He stood on the porch, hat in hand, and related what he had learned the previous day in Big Rock. His expression revealed the level of his discomfort.
    “I have some more news about those escaped convicts.”
    Sally nodded. “Not good from the looks of you.”
    Monte tugged at one side of his walrus mustache. “That’s a fact. They have cut a bloody path across Arizona, following the Colorado River. It is suspected that they are in Utah now.”
    Sally had seen outlaws come and go, had faced terrible odds herself. For some reason she could not bring herself to be overly concerned about these men. “Just how much havoc can three men create, Monte?”
    “It’s not three anymore, Sally. They have a regular gang. There’s more than twenty of them. And it appears they are heading northeast. Could be to here. I’d feel better if you came into town, where I could keep an eye on you.”
    “Honestly, Monte, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
    “Smoke would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
    Sally forced a light laugh she did not quite feel. “And I would never live it down if I picked now to turn delicate and vaporish.”
    Caught on the horns of the proverbial dilemma, Monte fingered his hat nervously and brought up a lame excuse. “Well, if you hear from Smoke, pass along what I told you.” He took his leave and cantered off down the lane.
    After Monte had ridden out of sight, Sally remained standing on the porch, looking after him. She ran over in her mind what he had said and his offer to provide protection. Then she looked through the curtained window into the living room. A golden oak shelf clock ticked steadily, its brass pendulum hypnotic in the stillness. The hands would be in soon, she mused. She would take Bobby aside and tell him to be cautious. She might even tell him why, Sally decided.
    Twenty minutes later a loud clatter arose in the barnyard. Hungry hands tied off their mounts to a corral rail and made for the row of washbasins along one side of the bunkhouse. Sally made herself keep her peace until all had eaten and some sat back with quirleys sending ribbons of blue-white tobacco smoke into the noon sky. Then she went out and gathered in Bobby Harris.
    They