Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) Read Online Free PDF

cartridge belt and six-gun hung on a peg in the wall. Above it hung a shotgun and a use-shiny Winchester. Hiram heard a soft footfall and then the strident click of sear notches as a hammer ratcheted back.
    Hiram did not hear the bark of his Model ’60 Remington conversion revolver. The bullet beat the sound to his head by a split second. Hiram Wells slammed sideways into the wall and fell dead to the floor. Quickly, Ralph Tinsdale undertook the duties of the cook. He provided a warm meal in minimal time. Victor Spectre had to cut Olin Buckner out of his boot, then all three sat down to consume the food hurriedly. They included that which the late Hiram had prepared for himself.
    With their bellies full, they took the flour, cornmeal, sugar and salt, a tub of lard, and the remaining portion of the bacon slab. Done up in a flour sack, the provender accompanied them as they went to the small barn in search of horses. An hour after sinking their escape boat, Victor Spectre and his partners rode off without a trace.
     
     
    Morning found Smoke Jensen still literally up a tree. He awakened to loud growling—from the bear and from his stomach. He had not eaten since the previous noon. Smoke opened gummy eyes and rubbed them, then looked down to find the grizzly reared back on his haunches, staring up. He had a hungry expression. A night in a tree without even a blanket had induced a lot of stiffness. Smoke hoped that it would not make him a quick snack for the bear. Abruptly, the bruin came to all fours and resumed his circular post around the pine tree.
    With each pace on the left side, the grizzly emitted fearsome growls. Each with the right, disturbing rumbles. Smoke looked on and considered his chances of killing the creature with six loads. At least he might incapacitate the animal and not have to track it down later. He had about resigned himself to having to shoot the creature when it stopped pacing abruptly and reared on its massive hind legs.
    Its small, pig-eyes stared myopically while it turned its head from side to side, as it listened to slight sounds as yet unheard by Smoke. Gradually, Smoke made out faint hoofbeats and snatches of conversation. The bear’s ears twitched, the black muzzle pointed in the direction of the sound. Dropping to all fours, the animal bolted for hiding in a lumbering gait as two riders cantered into view. Within three minutes, Smoke recognized them, grateful for the help, yet wishful that it had been anyone else but these two.
    A laughing Monte Carson reined in under the tree. His face wreathed in mirth, Hank Evans sat beside him. “Hoo-haw! Look what we have here!” Monte chortled. Mid-morning sunlight winked off his sheriff’s badge.
    “What do you suppose got him up there?” Hank asked through a titter of laughter.
    “Couldn’t be that bear, could it?” Monte queried rhetorically. “That big ol’ grizzly bear?” He held his sides and howled with merriment.
    “You mean that little-bitty fur ball that got scared off by our horses?” Hank kept up the badinage.
    “That’s it. That’s the one,” Monte guffawed.
    “This is it!” Smoke corrected, while he brandished a big, knobby fist. “This is the one that will smack you right between the runnin’ lights when I get down out of this damned tree.”
    “Oh, why, come right ahead,” Monte taunted.
    Smoke glowered at them. “Do you think you two could stop cacklin’ like a barnyard full of hens long enough to give me a hand getting down?”
    Hank snaked a rope up to Smoke, who draped it over the limb. Then the last mountain man released himself from his emergency sling, restrung his belt and swung one leg over the branch. Balanced sideways, he inserted a boot toe in the loop of the lariat and turned around to hang from his hands.
    “Lower away,” he gave the sign.
    In less than a minute, Smoke had returned to solid ground. His mood had not improved the least while Monte Carson and Hank Evans plied him with questions