Free Triumph of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

earlier topic. “Ever since you described this heavenly place to me, I’ve dreamed of visiting. And we simply must stay the whole month. Grantland will be tied up in dull meetings every day for a full thirty days. Lawyers have such a dreary life. Besides, Denver is so depressing, with its heavy pall of smelter smoke hanging over everything. And, such rough, unlettered people swarming everywhere, with absolutely no control over them.” Mary-Beth paused and looked at her cup.
    â€œActually, I prefer tea. Could you arrange to have tea from now on?”
    Sally curbed her temper. “I have some tea. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
    Mary-Beth reached over and patted Sally’s forearm. “Fine, dear, I understand.” She looked over to where her sons had started to squabble noisily over the last slice of cake. “Boys, you go outside with that. You’ve eaten quite enough. It will spoil your supper.”
    Grumbling, the three little louts jumped from the table and trudged outside. Mary-Beth picked up again. “At what hour do you serve dinner? We are accustomed to eight.”
    â€œWell, Mary-Beth, we are accustomed to six. If you’ll pardon me, we will stick to that schedule.” Gloomy images of a month of this flashed through Sally’s mind.
    * * *
    Bobby Jensen first encountered the newcomers when he came up to the main house from the foaling barn where he had been mucking out stalls. He went directly to the wash house, where he had laid out clean clothes before beginning his task, to clean himself of the stink of blood, manure and horse urine. Bobby had barely eased himself into the big, brass bathtub and shuddered in pleasure at the feel of the warm water when he heard a sound like rats in the rafters. He looked around and saw nothing, so he went to his ablutions. The sound came again.
    Bobby paused in the vigorous scrubbing of his hands and arms and let his gaze slide from corner to corner. Again he could find no source. He ducked his head of white-blond hair below the surface and began to lather it when he came up. The rustling persisted. Bobby rinsed his hair and pushed up on one arm.
    â€œWho’s there?” When no reply came to his demand, he gave careful examination to the interior for a third time, then returned to his bath. When he was satisfied with his degree of cleanliness—he had not washed behind his ears—Bobby climbed from the tub and stepped under the sprinkler can nozzle attached to a length of lead pipe. Lukewarm water cascaded down on the crown of his head and his thin shoulders when he pulled a chain attached to a spring valve. While he rinsed, he caught sight of furtive movement over by the chair where he had laid his fresh clothing.
    A small, pale white hand reached slowly around the obstruction of the chair and headed for the parrot bill grip of Bobby’s .38 Colt Lightning. Bobby took three quick steps toward the hidden person and called out in as hard a voice as he could muster.
    â€œGet your hand off my gun.”
    Suddenly, a boy somewhat smaller than Bobby popped up behind the chair. His appearance would have made Bobby laugh if he were not so angry. He wore a funny blue suit, with a big old flowery tie done in a bow under his chin, and had hair only a few shades more yellow than Bobby’s, done in a sissy cut. Ribbons tied the bottoms of his trouser legs just below the knees. Full, bee-stung lips that were made for pouting formed a soft, Cupid’s mouth. He screwed those lips up now and spoke in a snotty, superior tone.
    â€œYou can’t have a gun. You’re only a kid. Besides, nobody has a right to have a gun, except a policeman. And even they shouldn’t have them. My mother says.”
    Although naked as a jaybird, Bobby immediately snapped out his verbal defense. “The hell I can’t. Smoke Jensen gave me this six-gun himself. I’ve got a rifle, too.”
    â€œLiar. My mother says no one