Free Journey of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

fathers to see each other, years back. Of course, neither of them paid absolutely any attention to those orders. But their meetings had become a bit more secretive.
    â€œDo you want me to tell Daddy about this, Rita?”
    â€œNo. He’d know it came from me and then you’d get in trouble. I think we’d better tell Smoke Jensen.”
    Sandi giggled. “I’d like to tell him a thing or two—in private. He’s about the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œHe’s also married with children,” Rita reminded her friend. “But he sure is cute. He’s even better looking than the covers of those books make him out to be. Have you seen the Moab Kid?”
    â€œYes! He’s darling!”
    The two young women talked about men and marriage for a few minutes. It was time for them to be married; pretty soon they’d be pegged as old maids. They both had plenty of suitors, but none lasted very long. The young women were both waiting for that “perfect man” to come riding into their lives.
    â€œHow in the world are we going to tell Smoke Jensen about this back-shooter?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I think it’s our bounden duty to tell him. People listen to him.”
    â€œThat Bobby’s been gettin’ all red-eared everytime he gets around me,” Sandi said. “I think maybe he could get a message to Smoke and he’d meet us.”
    â€œWorth a try. We’ll take us a ride tomorrow over to the Smith and have a picnic and wait. Maybe he’ll show up.”
    â€œLet’s do it. I’ll see you at the pool about noon.”
    The young women walked to their buggies. Both buggies were equipped with rifle boots and the boots were full. A pistol lay on the seat of each buggy. Both Sandi and Rita could, would, and had used the weapons. With few exceptions, ranch-born-and-raised western women were no shrinking violets. They lived in a violent time and had to be prepared to fight. Although most western men would not bother a woman, there were always a few who would, even though they knew the punishment was usually a rope.
    Very little Indian trouble now occurred in this part of Montana; but there was always the chance of a few bucks breaking from the reservations to steal a few horses or take a few scalps.
    With a wave, the young women went their way, Sandi back to the Circle Double C, Rita back to D-H. Neither noticed the two men sitting their horses in the timber. The men wore masks and long dusters.
    â€œYou ready?” one asked, his voice muffled by the bandana tied round his face.
    â€œI been ready for some of that Rita. Let’s go.”

Eight
    Silver Jim found the overturned buggy while out hunting strays. The horse was nowhere in sight. He noticed that the Winchester .44 Carbine was a good twenty feet from the overturned buggy. He surmised that whoever had been in this rig had pulled the carbine from its boot and was makin’ ready to use it. Then he found the pistol. He squatted down and sniffed at the barrel. Recently fired.
    He stood up and emptied his Colt into the air; six widely spaced shots. It took only a few minutes for Smoke and Lujan to reach him.
    â€œThat is Senorita Hanks’s buggy,” Lujan said. “I have seen her in it several times.”
    â€œStay with it, boys,” Smoke said. “Look around. I’ll ride to the D-H.”
    He did not spare his horse getting to the ranch, reining up to the main house in a cloud of dust and jumping off. “Switch my saddle,” he told a startled hand. He ran up the steps to face a hard-eyed Dooley Hanks. “Silver Jim found Miss Hanks’s buggy just north of our range. By that creek. Overturned. No sign of Miss Hanks. But Silver Jim said her pistol had been fired. I left them looking for her and trying to cut some trail.”
    The color went out of Dooley’s face. Like most men, his daughter was the apple of his eye.