Free Ordeal of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page A

carry a gun.”
    Smoke smiled, satisfied that there might be some grit left in the man after all. “So am I. I intend only to post against nonresidents. The citizens of Muddy Gap, and those known to be local folks, will not be affected by it.” Then Smoke dropped the other boot that Larsen had been waiting for. “That’s why I need your help in enforcing it. You know who belongs and who don’t. Will you do it, Marshal?”
    Larsen’s worried frown turned to a deep scowl. “I didn’t count on that. There’s some rough characters out there.”
    â€œThat’s why I’ll see you have someone to back your play. While you relieve any strangers of their guns, they can cover them.”
    Cocking his head to one side, Larsen mopped at an egg yolk with a fluffy biscuit. “Might work after all. Yep. Let’s finish up and we’ll go see young Eb Harbinson.”
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    A black mourning band showed prominently on the sleeve of Eb Harbinson’s shirt. He seemed reluctant to dig into the cast type and dirty the press to print so small a run. He listened to what Smoke wanted, nodded to show the ability of his equipment to do the job, and rubbed the palms of his hands on his trouser legs.
    â€œWe planned to start a newspaper. But there aren’t enough people in town yet to justify the expense.” He came to his feet from the chair in front of a rolltop desk. “I suppose printing these flyers is a better use of the press than gathering dust. But, if you want signatures, you’ll either have to sign each one separately, or I’ll have you do it on a blank plate and etch around them.”
    â€œHow long will that take?” Smoke asked.
    Eb rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’d say you could have them late tomorrow.
    â€œNot soon enough. We’ll sign them.”
    â€œHow many do you want, Sheriff?”
    Smoke calculated aloud. “I want one in each business in town, on the church and school, also. And two for each end of town. A few spares in case someone takes exception to them. Say twenty-five, thirty.”
    Eb nodded his understanding. “Fine, I can have them ready by ten o’clock this morning.”
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    After leaving the general mercantile, Smoke Jensen started his rounds of the saloons, to hustle the unwanted element out of town. The first of the unsavory milieu he encountered were Bert Toller, Quint Cress, and Big Sam Peiper. The trio of fair-to-middling gunfighters stood at the bar in the Golden Boot tormenting the swamper. The gray-haired, older man toiled to put down fresh sawdust after the previous night’s cleanup and moping.
    â€œHey, boy, yer hand’s shakin’ so much you got sawdust on my boots,” Quint Cress complained.
    â€œWhat you need is a drink, old-timer,” Big Sam told him through a nasty chuckle.
    Harvey Gates looked up with the eyes of a cornered animal. “No, sir. I done gave up drinkin’.”
    Cress twisted his face into a mean sneer. “Oh, yeah? When? After they invented the funnel?”
    â€œPlease, fellers, I’ve—I’ve got work to do.”
    Quint Cress crossed to the cowed man and yanked the bucket of sawdust from his grasp. “You get sawdust on my boots again an’ they’ll be plantin’ you before sundown.”
    A steel-hard voice came from the doorway. “That’s the last time you do that.”
    Cress whirled, a shower of yellowish wood chips flying from the rim of the bucket. “Oh, yeah? Who says so?”
    â€œI do. Sheriff Jensen. Now, return the bucket to the man and let him get on with his work.”
    From farther down the bar, Big Sam spoke hesitantly. “Uh—Quint, I think that might be a good idea. This be Smoke Jensen.”
    A crazed glint shone in the eyes of Quint Cress. “You think I don’t know? I don’t care a damn, either. I say he’s not as hot as he’s put up to