Free Ordeal of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

prisoners.
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    Before making his last rounds of the business district of Muddy Gap, Smoke Jensen returned to the small house owned by Ginny Parkins. He found it dark. Odd, he thought. She said we’d have pie when I returned. He raised one hand and rapped knuckles lightly on the front door. Silence answered him. He knocked again, a bit louder.
    A floor board creaked behind the closed portal and Smoke heard a rustling. “Ginny, is that you? Did I disturb you?”
    â€œGo away.”
    â€œWhat? I thought . . .”
    â€œI heard the gunshots. I heard it all. I know what that means for you to be here now. Someone else didn’t survive. I’m sorry, Smoke. But violence, and those who cause it, are not a part of my life. Now, goodbye.”
    â€œUh—yeah. I—ah—goodbye, Ginny. Thank you for a delicious supper.”
    Smoke trudged away, thinking gloomy thoughts about schoolteachers. His own dear Sally had had similar opinions when first they had met. At least this time, he had no one to woo and win.

Six
    Reno Jim Yurian and his gang sat around a large table in the office of what had once been a prosperous, if short-lived mine. A good twenty years earlier, Arapaho warriors, angered at seeing the belly of their Earth Mother plundered, had attacked and killed the six men working the claim. Because the mine shaft was accessed from a small shed attached to the office, the Indians did not burn it down out of religious awe. Now a new wealth visited the abandoned structure. Each of the outlaws had a stack of coins and currency in front of him.
    To the casual observer, they could have been preparing for a poker game. In fact, Reno Jim had only seconds before finished the distribution of each man’s share of their most recent forays into the criminal life. It came to quite a tidy amount. As one, they began to count the total. Reno Jim waited until they had finished and he had their full attention.
    â€œThat’s only a start, boys. We’ll move the cattle and horses at the same time.”
    â€œWon’t that cost a lot to feed the cattle so long, boss?” Prine Gephart asked.
    Reno Jim bit the tip from a skinny, black cigar and lighted it before answering. “Not really. They’re on graze and there’s plenty of it. When we have the horses, we’ll move them at once. First, though, there is the problem of this fast gun running the horse herd. If he wasn’t bullin’ Colin here.” He clapped the wounded brigand on the shoulder, and Colin Fike winced. “We have a serious obstacle in our way. And his name is Smoke Jensen.”
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    Early the next morning, Smoke Jensen left the sheriff’s office and paid a brief breakfast call on the town marshal. Inside the Iron Kettle, Grover Larsen glared across the red-checked tablecloth at the badge adorning Smoke Jensen’s chest. Somehow he could not manage to meet the amber-flecked eyes. His voice was surly, uncertain.
    â€œWhat did you drag me down here for?”
    â€œI need your cooperation, Marshal Larsen.”
    Suspicion and unease briefly lighted Larsen’s flat, gray eyes. “ ‘Cooperation’? What kind?”
    â€œThe Harbinsons have a printing press over at the general store, don’t they?”
    â€œYes, they do. Why?”
    â€œI want you to come over there with me. I intend to post guns out of town. It would help if I had your name and signature on the flyers also.”
    Grover Larsen considered this while he chewed a bite of ham. “That doesn’t sound like too much to ask.”
    â€œThen you’ll do it?” Smoke watched as Larsen shrugged slightly and speared another piece of ham.
    Another shrug and the jaws worked methodically. Grover Larsen swallowed and spoke softly. “You bought me breakfast. I suppose it’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s my duty. Mind, though, I’m opposed to interfering with a man’s right to