Cunning of the Mountain Man Read Online Free PDF

his very real danger.
    More shouts from the distant street soon reminded him. “What’re we waitin’ for?”
    “The fellers at Donahue’s are fixin’ to join us,” Payne Finney bellowed. “Y’all stay here, I’ll hurry them on.”
    Smoke Jensen knew he had to do something before they got the sand to carry out their threats. To do that, he needed help. The question of getting it still nagged him. What had happened to the hands he had with him?

    Three men sat on their lathered horses under a gnarled, aged paloverde tree that topped a large, red-orange mound overlooking the Tucker ranch. The one in the middle pulled a dust-blurred, black Montana Peak Stetson from his balding head, and mopped his brow with a blue gingham bandanna. He puckered thick lips and spat a stream of tobacco juice that struck an industrious dung beetle, which agitatedly rolled his latest prize back toward the hole it called home.
    “That woman down there,” he said to his companions. “She’s got lots of grit. Say that for her. Wonder what the Big Boss will have to come up with to get her off that place?”
    A soft grunt came from the thick-necked man on his right. “I say we jist ride down there, give her what her old man got, an’ take over the spread.”
    Contempt curled the bald man’s lips. “Idiot! You’d kill a woman? That’s why you take orders from me, and I take ’em from Quint Stalker. It’s gotta be all proper and legal, idjit.”
    “Didn’t used to be that way,” the bellicose one complained.
    “Right you are. But ever since ol’ Lew Wallace was territorial governor, we’ve had an extra large helpin’ of law and order.”
    “You tell me? I done three years, breakin’ rocks, because of him.”
    “Then don’t open that grub hole of yours and spout such stupid ideas, or you’ll do more than that.”
    “Sure, Rufe, sure. But I still say it would be the easiest way.”
    “All we’re here to do is drop in and scare her a little.” 
    “Then why don’t we get on with it?”
    They came down in a thunder of hooves. Dust boiled from under their horses, which rutched and groaned at the effort, adding to the eerie howls made by the men who rode them. Quint Stalker had sent only three men because it was such an easy assignment. In less than two minutes, the overconfident hard cases learned how badly their boss had read the situation.
    A skinny, undersized boy with snowy hair popped up out of a haystack and slid down its side, yelling as he went. “Mom! Mom! Hey, they’re comin’ again!” The callused soles of his bare feet pounded clouds from the dry soil.
    He cut left and right, zigzagging toward the house. A woman’s figure appeared in one window. Rufe and his henchmen had no time to take note of that. With a whoop, the bald one bore down on the lad and bowled him over with the churning shoulder of his mount. A wild squawk burst from Jimmy Tucker, as he went tail over top and rolled like a ball. He bit down hard, teeth grinding, and cast a prayerful glance toward his mother.
    In a flash, that became the last bit of scaring they did.
    A puff of smoke preceded the crack of a .56 caliber slug that cut the hat from bald Rufe’s head. He let out a squall of his own and grabbed uselessly at the flying Montana Peak, then set to cursing. Another bullet forced his companions to veer to the side and put some distance between them.
    “Git back here! It’s only a damn woman,” Rufe bellowed.
    Martha Tucker refined her aim some, her left elbow braced on the windowsill, tapered fingers holding the forestock. Calmly she squeezed off another shot from the Spencer. Her third round smacked meatily into Rufe’s right shoulder, and exploded terrible pain through his chest. It also convinced him that this was no simple damn woman.
    He’d had enough. He, too, reined to his left and put spurs to the flanks of his horse. Another shot sounded behind him and sped all three on their way.

    It started with a sound like an