Return of the Mountain Man (4 page)

“W
hen you gonna tell the boy you still alive and kickin'?” Beartooth asked the mountain man who had been following Buck.

He was called Beartooth because he didn't have a tooth in his mouth. And hadn't had in forty years. No one knew what his Christian name was, and it wasn't a polite question to ask.

“I might not never,” the mountain man said. “He thinks I'm dead. Might be best to keep it thataway. I'm only goin' in if and when he needs help.”

“He'll need help,” Dupre said. “Plenty guns up at Bury. And they all going to be aimed at your friend.”

Dupre had drifted up from New Orleans in the late '20s. His accent was still as thick as sorghum.

“You ain't seen Smoke—'scuse me, Buck—git into action,” the mountain man said. “He's hell on wheels, boys. Best I ever seen. And I seen 'em all.”

“Don't start lyin', Preacher,” Greybull said.

Greybull was a mountain of a man. It took a mule to pack him around.

“What do you think about it, Nighthawk?” Preacher asked.

“Ummm,” the old Crow grunted.

“Whutever the hell that means,” Tenneysee said. “Damned Injun ain't said fifteen words in the fifty year I been knowin' him.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“Might make the lad feel better if'n he knowed you was still breathin',” Pugh said. Pugh was commonly referred to as “Phew!” He hated water. “Then again,” Pugh said. “It might make him irritable. He probably said all sorts of kind words 'bout you. An' thinkin' of enough kind words 'bout you to bury you probably took him the better part of a month.”

“Phew,” Preacher said. “Would you mind changin' positions just a tad. Right there. Don't move. Now the wind is right. Why don't you take a bath? Damn, you'd make a vulture puke.”

“Well, if you ask me—” Audie said.

“Nobody did,” Beartooth said. “Hell, nobody can
see
you.”

Audie was a midget. About three and a half feet tall. And about three and a half feet wide. He was a large amount of trouble in a very compact package.

“As I was saying,” Audie said, “before your rudeness took precedent.” Audie had taught school in Pennsylvania before the wanderlust hit him and he had struck out for the west, on a Shetland pony. When the Indians had seen him, they'd laughed so hard they forgot to kill him. “I think it best that Preacher keep his anonymity for the period preceding our arrival in Bury. Should Preacher reveal his living, breathing self to the young man, it might prove so traumatic as to be detrimental to Jensen's well-being.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said, nodding his head in agreement.

“Whut the hale's far you shakin' your head about, you dumb Injun?” Greybull said. “You don't know no more whut he said than us'ins do.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“Whatever Audie said, I agree with him,” Matt said. Matt was a Negro. Big and mean and one-eyed.

Matt was probably the youngest man present. And he was at least sixty-five. He had lost his eye during a fight with an angry mountain lion. Matt had finally broken the puma's back.

“Good Gawd, Audie!” Deadlead said. “Cain't you talk American? What the hell did you jist say?”

Deadlead had earned his nickname from being a crack shot with a pistol. Like most of the mountain men, no one knew what his Christian name was.

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“I say we break camp and meander on up towards Bury,” Powder Pete said. “Old as we is, some of us might not make the trip if we wait much longer.”

“I opt fer that myself,” Tenneysee said. “What do you say, Nighthawk?”

“Ummm.”

 

“I'll not have this town filled up with would-be gunhands looking to make themselves a reputation,” Marshal Dooley said. “Get your truck together and hit the trail, West.”

“Friendly place you have here, Marshal,” Buck said with a double-edged smile.

“Yes, it is,” Dooley said, ignoring the sarcasm in Buck's tone. “Something about you invites trouble, boy.” He waved a hand absently. “I know, I know. You didn't start the fight. And I understand from talking with witnesses you even tried—slightly—to back away from it. That's good. But not good enough. Clear out, West.”

“In the morning soon enough?”

Dooley wavered. He nodded his head. “Stay out of the saloons tonight and be gone by dawn.”

Buck stepped out of the office onto the boardwalk. He didn't object to being asked to leave town. He didn't blame the law. It was time to be moving on. And there was no point in delaying his departure until morning. Buck was getting that closed-in feeling anyway. And so was Drifter. Last time he'd looked in on the animal, Drifter had rolled his eyes and tossed his head. And then proceeded to kick in the back of his stall.

Buck walked to the hotel, gathered up his gear, and headed for the stable. He had bought his supplies earlier and was ready to go.

“Ready to go, Drifter?” Buck asked the stallion.

Drifter reared up and smashed the front of his stall.

“Guess so,” Buck mumbled.

 

The band of mountain men met Lobo at the base of Grey-rock Mountain, about halfway between the Sawtooth Wilderness area and Challis. Lobo briefed the men on what he'd seen in town.

It was rumored that Lobo had once lived with wolves.

“Faster than greased lightnin',” Lobo said. “I never seen nothin' like it afore in my life. An' the lad didn't even blink an eye doin' it.”

“Tole you!” Preacher said to the men, grinning.

“Don't start braggin',” Powder Pete told Preacher. “It's bad 'nuff jist havin' to look at you.” Powder Pete was so called because of his expertise with explosives.

“Did the law run him out of town?”

“Don't know. Didn't hang around to see. Law might
ask
him to leave. But if that there boy gits his back up, there ain't nobody gonna
run
him nowheres.”

“Wal, les' us just sorta amble on toward the northeast,” Preacher said. “If I know Smoke—and I do, I raised him—he'll take his time gettin' to Bury. He'll lay back in the timber for a day 'er so and look the situation over. We'll cross the Lost River Range, head acrost the flats, and turn north, make camp in the narrows south of Bury. I know me some Flatheads live just west of Bitterroot. Once we set up camp, I'll take me a ride over to the Divide, palaver some with 'em. They'll be our eyes and ears. That sound all right to you boys?”

“Quite inventive,” Audie said.

“Ummm,” Nighthawk grunted.

 

Buck crossed the Salmon to the east bank and began following the river north. He stayed on the fringe of the timber that made up the northern edge of the Lemhi Range. He would follow the river for about thirty-five miles before cutting to the east for about ten miles. That should put him on the outskirts of Bury. Once there, he would make camp south of the town and look it over.

The dozen mountain men, with about six hundred years of survival and fighting experience between them, were riding hard just south of Challis. With their rifles held across the saddle-horns, their fringed buckskins and animal-hide caps and brightly colored shirts and jackets and sashes, the last of the mountain men were returning for one more fight. They were riding hard to help—if he needed it—the youngest mountain man. One of their own. A young man who had chosen the lonely call of the wilderness as home. A young man who preferred the high lonesome over the towns and cities. A young man they had taken under their wing and helped to raise, imparting to him the wisdom of the wilderness, hopefully perpetuating a way of life that so-called civilized people now sneered at and rejected. This gathering, this aging motley crew, knew they were the last—the very last—of a select breed of men. After this ride, never again would so many gather. But hopefully, just maybe, their young protege would live on, known for the rest of his life, as the last mountain man.

T
he town of Bury, with a population of about five hundred, sat on a road first roughed out by Mormon settlers in the mid-1850s. Bury had a bank, probably the best school in that part of the country—a large, two-story building—a large mercantile store, a weekly newspaper, several saloons, several cafes, a large hotel, a sheriff, several deputies, a jail, a leather shop, and several other businesses, including a whorehouse located discreetly outside of town. The town also boasted several churches. A handful of ranches lay around the town, and a lot of producing mines as well.

And nearly all of it was owned by three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.

Bury also had a volunteer fire department. They were going to need a fire department before Buck was through.

The business district of Bury was three blocks long, on both sides of the wide street. It was down that street that Buck rode at midmorning. He had camped some miles from the town, watching the one road for two days. A stagecoach rolled in every other day. Wagons bringing supplies rolled by. Peddlers and tinkers and snake-oil salesmen rattled past.

Booming little town, Buck thought. For a while longer, that is.

The first thing Buck noticed in his slow ride up the street was the number of gunhands lounging about on the boardwalk, and not just in front of the saloons. A couple always seemed to be in front of the bank, as well. Buck guessed there had been some attempts to hold up the place. Or perhaps the Big Three were just cautious men.

He located the livery stable and arranged a stall for Drifter, warning the stable boy not to enter Drifter's stall.

“He's got a mean eye for sure,” the boy said, eyeballing the stallion.

“He killed one man,” Buck said, knowing that tale would soon spread throughout the small town.

The boy solemnly nodded his head.

Buck handed the boy a five-dollar gold piece. “Just between you and me, now. Make certain he gets an extra ration of grain.”

“Yes,
sir
!”

“Both Drifter and the packhorse, now.”

“Yes,
sir
!”

Taking his personal gear and his rifle, Buck stashed the rest of his gear in Drifter's stall. He walked toward the hotel. As he walked, he passed by a very pretty, dark-haired, hazel-eyed young woman. He smiled at her and she blushed. Buck paused and watched her walk on toward the edge of town. Buck crossed the street to better watch her and saw her push open the gate on a small picket fence and walk up onto the porch of a small house. She disappeared from view.

“Nice,” he muttered.

“Sure is,” a voice came from behind him.

Buck slowly turned around to face the sheriff and one of his deputies. Neither one of them would win any prizes for good looks.

“Sheriff Reese. This is Rogers, one of my deputies. I don't know you.”

That's good, Buck thought. But you will, Sheriff. You will. “Buck West.”

“Ahh,” Reese said. “Now I know you. The gunhand.”

“Some say I am.”

“Going to be in town long?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how fast I get rested up, resupplied, and find out more about this Smoke Jensen and how I go about collecting the reward money.”

Reese smiled. “First you have to catch him, hombre.”

“I'll catch him,” Buck said, without changing expression.

Reese stared at the young man. Something about this tall young man was just slightly unsettling. Even for a man like Dan Reese, who had worked on both sides of the law nearly all his life. Reese had worked the hoot-owl trails many times, in several states, ducking and dodging the law that sought him.

Beside him, Rogers stood and glared at Buck, forming an instant dislike for the young man. Rogers was big and solid, including that space between his ears. He was not just dumb; he was stupid. And very dangerous. He had killed more times than he could remember—with fists, guns, knife, or club.

“You stay away from Sally Reynolds,” Rogers said. “I got my eyes on her. 'Sides, she likes me.”

Buck cut his eyes to the deputy. He doubted that even Rogers's own mother liked him very much. Sally Reynolds. He wondered what the pretty lady did in Bury? “Sally Reynolds is one of our schoolteachers,” Reese said. “She wouldn't want notin' to do with no damned bounty hunter like you, West.”

“Uh-huh,” Buck said. “You're probably right, Sheriff. Anything else I need to know about Bury and its citizens?”

Reese got the accurate impression that he had just been dismissed by Buck. The feeling irritated him. “Jist stay out of trouble.”

Buck turned his back to the men and walked on up the boardwalk, toward the hotel.

“I don't lak him,” Rogers said. “I think I'll kill him.”

“I don't like him either. But you don't do nothin' 'til you're told to do it. You understand that, Rogers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's find out what Stratton thinks about this West.”

 

“What's your impression of him?” Stratton asked.

Reese hesitated, then leveled with one of his three bosses. He didn't much care for Buck West, but he knew better than to play the game any way other than straight. “I think he's who he says he is. And I think the rumors are right. He's one hell of a gunfighter.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Buck checked into the hotel, a very nice one for a town so far away from the beaten path, and stowed his gear. He bathed, took a shave, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black string tie, polished boots. He checked and cleaned his .44s, and belted them around his waist, tying down the low-riding holsters.

He stepped out onto the boardwalk, carefully looked all around him, as was his habit, and then headed for the cafe, preferring that over the hotel dining room. He took a seat one table over from Miss Sally Reynolds. They were the only customers in the cafe, the lunch hour over. He felt eyes on him and looked up into her hazel eyes. He smiled at her.

“Pleasant day,” Buck said.

“Very,” Sally replied. “Now that school is out for the summer, it's especially so.”

“I regret that I don't have more formal education,” Buck said. “The War Between the States put a halt to that.”

“It's never too late to learn, sir.”

“You're a schoolteacher?”

“Yes, I am. And you…?”

“Drifter, ma'am.”

“I…don't think so,” the young woman said, meeting his gaze.

Buck smiled. “Oh? And why do you say that?”

“Just a guess.”

“What grades do you teach?”

“Sixth, seventh, and eighth. Why do you wear two guns?”

“Habit.”

“Most of the men I've seen out here have difficulty mastering one gun,” Sally said. “My first day out here I saw a man shoot his big toe off trying to quick-draw. I tried very hard not to laugh, but he looked so foolish.”

Buck again smiled. “I would imagine so. But I should imagine the man minus the toe failed to find the humor in it.”

“I'm sure.”

Conversation waned as the waitress brought their lunches. Buck just couldn't think of a way to get the talk going again.

Deputy Rogers entered the cafe, sat down at the counter, and ordered coffee.

Rogers glared at Sally as she said to Buck, “Will you be in Bury long?”

“All depends, ma'am.”

“Lady of your quality shouldn't oughta be talkin' to no bounty hunter, Miz Reynolds,” Rogers said. “Ain't fittin'.”

Buck slowly chewed a bite of beef.

“Mr. Rogers,” Sally said. “The gentleman and I are merely exchanging pleasantries over lunch. I was addressing the gentleman, not you.”

Rogers flushed, placed his coffee mug on the counter, and abruptly left the cafe.

“Deputy Rogers doesn't like me very much,” Buck said.

“Why?” Sally asked bluntly.

“Because…I probably make him feel somewhat insecure.”

“A very interesting statement from a man who professes to have little formal education, Mr….?”

“West, ma'am. Buck West.”

“Sally Reynolds. Western names are very quaint. Is Buck your Christian first name?”

“No, ma'am. But it might as well be. Been called that all my life.”

“Are you a bounty hunter, Mr. West?”

“Bounty hunter, cowhand, gunhand, trapper. Whatever I can make a living at. You're from the east of the Mississippi River, ma'am?”

“New Hampshire. I came out here last year after replying to an advertisement in a local paper. The pay is much better out here than back home.”

“I…sort of know where New Hampshire is. I would imagine living is much more civilized back there.”

“To say the least, Mr. West. And also much duller.”

Hang around a little longer, Sally, Buck thought. You haven't seen lively yet. “Would you walk with me, Miss Reynolds?” Buck blurted. “And please don't think I'm being too forward.”

“I would love to walk with you, Mr. West.”

The sun was high in the afternoon sky and Sally opened her parasol.

“Do you ride, Miss Reynolds?” Buck asked.

“Oh, yes. But I have yet to see a sidesaddle in Bury.”

“They ain't too common a sight out here.”

“
Ain't
is completely unacceptable in formal writing and speech, Mr. West. But I think you know that.”

“Yes, ma'am. Sorry.”

She tilted her head, smiling, looking at him, a twinkle in her eyes. As they walked, Buck's spurs jingled. “Which line of employment are you currently pursuing, Mr. West?”

“Beg pardon, ma'am?”

“Bounty hunter, cowhand, gunhand, or trapper?”

“I'm lookin' for a killer named Smoke Jensen. Thirty thousand dollar reward for him.”

“Quite a sum of money. I've seen the wanted posters around town. What, exactly, did this Jensen do?”

“Killed a lot of people, ma'am. He's a fast gun for hire, so I'm told.”

“Faster than you, Mr. West?”

“I hope not.”

She laughed at that.

A group of hard-riding cowboys took that time to burst into town, whooping and hollering and kicking up clouds of dust as they spurred their horses, sliding to a stop in front of one of the saloons.

Buck pulled Sally into a doorway and shielded her from the dust and flying clods.

When the dust had settled, Buck stepped aside and Sally stepped once more onto the boardwalk. “Those are men from the PSR Ranch,” she said. “Rowdies and ruffians, for the most part.”

“PSR?” Buck asked, knowing full well what the letters stood for.

“Potter, Stratton, Richards. It's the biggest ranch in the state, so I'm told.”

“How do they get their cattle to market?” Buck asked. “I know they don't drive them over the Divide.”

“They haven't made any big drives yet. I understand that so far they've sold them to people in this area. Leesburg, Salmon, Lemhi. Small communities within a fifty-to seventy-mile radius. The big drive is scheduled for late next spring. They'll be using a hundred or more cowboys.”

“Quite an undertaking.”

“Oh, yes.”

A door opened behind them. A very pretty lady emerged from the dress shop. “Sally,” she said. She gave Buck a cool glance and walked on down the boardwalk.

“That is, ah, Mr. Richards's mistress, Buck. Her name is Jane.”

Buck had just seen his sister for the first time in almost ten years.