Journey of the Mountain Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

a long way from Oklahoma,” Smoke countered.
    â€œFor a fact. You headin’ north or south?”
    â€œNorth.”
    â€œI never knowed you to hire your guns out.”
    â€œI never have. It isn’t for sale this trip, either.”
    â€œBut you do have a reputation for buttin’ in where you ain’t wanted,” Park added his opinion.
    â€œI got a personal invitation to this party, Park. But if you feel like payin’ the fiddler, you can write your name on my dance card right now.”
    â€œI ain’t got nothin’ agin you, Smoke. Not until I find out which side you buckin’ leastways. McCorkle or Hanks?”
    â€œNeither one.”
    The gunslicks exchanged glances. “That don’t make no sense,” one of the men that Smoke didn’t know said.
    â€œYou got a name?”
    â€œDunlap.”
    â€œYeah, I heard of you. You killed a couple of Mexican sheepherders and shot one drunk in the back down in Arizona. But I’m not a sheepherder and I’m not drunk.”
    Dunlap didn’t like that. But he had enough sense not to pull iron with Smoke Jensen.
    â€œYou was plannin’ on riding in with nobody knowin’ who you were, wasn’t you?” Tabor asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNext question is why?”
    â€œI guess that’s my business.”
    â€œYou right. I reckon we’ll find out when west to Gibson.”
    â€œPerhaps.” He turned to Beans and Ring. “Let’s ride.”
    After the three men had ridden away, toward the north, one of the two gunhands who had not spoken broke his silence.
    â€œI’m fixin’ to have me a drink and then I’m ridin’ over to Idaho. It’s right purty this time of year.”
    Larado, now that Smoke was a good mile away, had reclaimed his nerve. “You act like you re yeller!” he sneered.
    But the man just chuckled. “Boy, I was over at what they’s now callin’ Telluride some years back, when a young man name of Smoke Jensen come ridin’ in. He braced fifteen of the saltiest ol’ boys there was at that time. Les’ see, that was back in, oh, ’72, I reckon.” He looked directly at Larado. “And you bear in mind, young feller, that he kilt about ten or so gettin’ to that silver camp. He kilt all fifteen of them so-called fancy gunhandlers. Yeah, kid, he’s that Smoke Jensen. The last mountain man. Since he kilt his first Injun when he was about fifteen years old, over in Kansas, he’s probably kilt a hundred or more white men—and that’s probably figurin’ low. There ain’t nobody ever been as fast as he is, there ain’t never gonna be nobody as fast as he is.
    â€œAnd I know you couldn’t hep notice that bear of a man with him? That there is Ring. Ring ain’t never followed no man in his life afore today. And that tells me this: Smoke has done whipped him fair and square with his fists. And if I ain’t mistaken, that young feller with Smoke and Ring is the one from over in Utah, round Moab. Goes by a half a dozen different names, but one he favors is Beans.
    â€œNow, boys, I’m a fixin’ to have me a drink and light a shuck. ’Cause wherever Smoke goes, they’s soon a half a dozen or more of the randiest ol’ boys this side of hell. Smoke draws ’em like a magnet does steel shavin’s. I had my say. We partin’ company. Like as of right now!”

    Down in Cheyenne, two old friends came face-to-face in a dingy side-street barroom. The men whoopped and hollered and insulted each other for about five minutes before settling down to have a drink and talk about old times.
    Across the room, a young man stood up, irritation on his face. He said to his companion, “I think I’ll go over there and tell them old men to shut up. I’m tared of hearin’ them hoot and holler.”
    â€œSit down and close your mouth,” his friend