The Return of the Mountain Man

Book 2: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

From the USA Today–bestselling author of The Last Mountain Man, an Old West gunfighter closes in on the men who killed his family.

William W. Johnstone's vivid, uncompromising novels stand as violent portraits of the rugged American frontiersman and the forces that forged him. In this powerful novel, Johnstone tells the story of a young Missourian forced by fate and violence into lawlessness—where he sees a chance to right the wrong that shattered his family and his soul...

Smoke Jensen is a young man raised on loss and bitterness, nurtured by a mountain man named Preacher. Now, Smoke Jensen, with his, a new black horse and an old grudge, slips over the unmarked border into the turbulent Idaho Territory. Ahead is a town called Bury, built on stolen gold, and run by a band of ruthless men who had a hand in the murder of Smoke's brother in the Civil War. Smoke's father died in pursuit of those killers, but urged his son not to waste his life in vengeance...

Swift, powerful, and poetic, Return Of The Mountain Man is an action-packed tale by William W. Johnstone, an American master—and a great chronicler of our harsh and often unforgiving last frontier.

Release date: April 22, 2009

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 205

Sample

The man called Smoke looked at the new wanted poster tacked to a tree. This one had his likeness on it. He smiled as he looked at the shoulder-length hair and the clean-shaven face on the poster. The artist had done a dandy job.

But it in no way resembled the man who now called himself Buck West.

Kirby Jensen had been sixteen years old when the old mountain man called Preacher hung the nickname Smoke on him. Preacher had predicted that Smoke would turn out to be a very famous man. And he had. As one of the most feared gunfighters in all the west.

It was not a reputation Smoke had wanted or sought.

Smoke now wore his hair short-cropped. A neat, well-trimmed beard covered his face. He no longer wore one pistol in cross-draw fashion, butt-forward. He now wore his twin .44s butt back and the holsters tied down low. He was just as fast as before. And that was akin to lightning.

He had turned his Appaloosa, Seven, loose in a valley several hundred miles to the east. A valley so lovely it was nearly impossible to describe.

Nicole would have loved it.

Seven had gone dancing and prancing off, once more running wild and free.

Nicole.

He shook his head and pushed the face of his dead wife from his mind. He turned his unreadable, cold, emotionless brown eyes to the west. The midnight-black stallion he now rode stood steady under his weight. The man now called Buck stood six feet, two inches, barefooted. He weighed one eighty: all hard-packed muscle and bone. His waist was lean and his short hair ash-blond.

The stallion shook his head. Buck patted him on the neck. The stallion quieted immediately. The animal’s eyes were a curious yellow/green, a vicious combination that vaguely resembled a wolf’s eyes. The stallion had killed its previous owner when the man had tried to beat him with a board. Smoke had bought the horse from the man’s widow, gentled him, and learned to respect the animal’s feelings and moods.

The stallion’s name was Drifter.

Smoke had carefully hidden his buckskins, caching them with his saddle and other meager possessions in the valley where the Appaloosa, Seven, now grazed and ran free with his brood of mares.

Smoke had very carefully pushed all thoughts of the past behind him. He had spent months mentally conditioning himself not to think of himself as the gunfighter Smoke. His name was now Buck. Last names were not terribly important in the newly opened western frontier, and it had been with a smile that Buck chose West as his last name.

Buck West. Smoke was gone—for a time.

Buck laughed. But it was more a dark bark, totally void of humor.

Drifter swung his head around, looking at the man through cold killer eyes. Buck’s packhorses continued to graze.

High above, an eagle soared, pushing and gliding toward the west. Buck could have sworn that it was the same eagle he had seen months back, after the terrible shoot-out at the silver camp not far from the Uncompahgre. At least fourteen men had died under his guns that smoky, bloody day. And he had taken more than his share of lead, as well. It had taken him months to fully recover.

Many months back, in the southwestern corner of Wyoming, he had seen the first wanted poster.

 

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

THE OUTLAW AND MURDERER

SMOKE JENSEN

10,000.00 REWARD

CONTACT THE SHERIFF AT BURY, IDAHO

TERRITORY

 

He had removed the wanted poster and tucked it in his shirt pocket. He knew he would see many, many more of the dodgers as he made his way west. He had looked up to watch an eagle soar high above him, gliding majestically northwest-ward.

He had said, with the big skies and grandeur of the open country as witnesses, “Take a message with you, eagle. Tell Potter and Richards and Stratton and all their gunhands that I’m coming to kill them. For my Pa, for Preacher, for my son, and for making me an outlaw. And they’ll die just as hard as Nicole did. You tell them, eagle. Tell them I’m coming after them.”

The eagle had circled, dipped its wings, and flown on.

Buck shook away the memories, clearing his head of things dead and buried and gone. He let the smoldering coals of revenge burn on, deep within his soul. He would fan the coals into white-hot flames when branding time arrived. And he would do the branding—with hot lead.

The man who had earned the reputation as one of the most feared gunfighters in the newly opened west spoke gently to Drifter and the big cat-footed stallion moved out through the timber.

Buck was just west of the Rockies, skirting south of the Gros Ventre Range. He would—unless he hit some sort of snag—make Moose Flat in two days. Once at the Flat, he would camp for a few days and rest Drifter. Then he would ride for Bury, Idaho Territory.

Bury was a good name, Buck thought. For that is exactly what I intend to do to Stratton and Richards and Potter: bury them!

 

It was cool during the day and flat-out cold at night; early spring when Buck crossed the still ill-defined line into Idaho Territory. He had seen several bands of Indians, but they had left him alone. He knew they’d seen him, for this was their country, and they knew it as intimately as the roots of a tree knows the earth that nurtures it. But Indians, as Preacher had once put it, were notional critters.

Buck moved out, slowly. He would take his time, get accustomed to the country, and eyeball everything in sight. For if he made it out of Bury alive, he was going to need more than one back door and one hell of a good hiding place.

Buck wore gray pin-striped trousers tucked into soft calfskin boots. Black shirt. His hat was black, low-crowned, and wide-brimmed. His leather vest was black. His belt was silver-studded with a heavy buckle. A jacket and slicker were tied behind the saddle, over the saddlebags. A Henry repeating rifle rested in a boot, butt forward instead of the usual fashion of the butt facing back. He did not ride in the usual slump-shouldered manner of the old mountain men, but instead sat his saddle ramrod straight, cavalry fashion. Because of this, many who saw the handsome, cold-eyed young man believed him to be ex-cavalry. He let them think it, knowing that helped to further disguise his past.

He carried a two-shot derringer in his left boot, in his right boot a long-bladed, double-edged dagger—that knife in addition to the Bowie he wore on his gunbelt, behind his left-hand gun.

Buck was an expert with all the weapons he carried. The legend growing around the man stated there was no faster gunhand in all the west. He was faster than the Texas gun Hardin; even more steel-nerved than Wild bill; meaner than Curly Bill; when he was in the right, crueler than any Apache; as relentless in a hunt as any man who ever lived.

The old mountain man, Preacher, who helped raise him from a lad, had taught him fistfighting and boxing and Indian wrestling. But even more importantly, Preacher had taught him how to win, teaching him that it don’t make a good gawddamn how you win—just win.

The old mountain man had said, and the boy had remembered, “Long as you right, Smoke, it don’t make no difference how you win. Just be sure you in the right.”

And Lord God, how fast the young man was with those deadly .44s.

Buck gave Drifter his head, letting the horse pick his own way at his own pace, staying close to the timber, away from open places, always edging slightly south and west. He wanted to enter the mostly uncharted center of the Territory from the south. Just north of the Craters of the Moon, Buck would turn Drifter’s nose north until he hit the Big Lost River. He would follow that through some of the most beautiful and wild country in the Territory. He would then track the Big Lost for a time, then head more north than west until reaching the new town of Challis. There, he would resupply and head north, following the Salmon River for about thirty-five miles. Bury was located about midway between the Salmon and the town of Tendoy.

But if Buck had his way, the town of Bury would soon cease to exist.

It would be several more years before the toll road would be started from Challis, reaching to Bonanza, with a spur to Salmon. Only then would the big-scale silver mining at Bay Horse get underway.

But that was future. This was now. And Buck was not heading for Bury to pan for gold, search for silver, or start a ranch. And he really didn’t care all that much if he died doing what he’d set out to do—just so long as he got it done. The men now living and prospering in and around Bury had directly killed his brother. They had ordered out the men who had killed his father; raped, tortured, and murdered Buck’s wife, Nicole; killed his baby son; and killed his best friend and mentor, the old mountain man, Preacher.

And then they had done their cruel best to kill the man who now called himself Buck West.

Stratton, Potter, and Richards had thrown their best gunhands at the young man. He had killed them all.

Thus far, Stratton, Potter, and Richards had failed to stop Buck.

Buck had no intention of failing.

Buck was being followed. He had yet to catch a glimpse of his pursuers, but he knew someone was tracking him; knew it by that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. Twice in as many days he had stopped and spent several hours checking his backtrail. But to no avail. Whoever or whatever it was coming along behind him was laying way back, several miles at least. And they were very good at tracking. They would have to be, for Buck not to have spotted them, and Preacher had taught the young man well.

Puzzled, Buck rode on, pushing himself and his horses, skirting the fast growing towns in the eastern part of the state, staying to the north of them. Because of the man, or men, tracking him, Buck changed his plans and direction. He rode seemingly aimlessly, first heading straight north, then cutting south into the Bridger Wilderness. He crossed into Idaho Territory and made camp on the north end of Grays Lake. He was running very low on supplies, but living off the land was second nature to Buck, and doing without was merely a part of staying alive in a yet wild and untamed land.

The person or persons following him stayed back, seemingly content to have the young man in sight, electing not to make an appearance—yet.

Midafternoon of his second day at Grays Lake, Buck watched Drifter’s ears prick up, the eyes growing cautious as the stallion lifted his head.

Buck knew company was coming.

A voice helloed the camp.

“If you’re friendly, come on in,” Buck called. “If you want trouble, I’ll give you all you can handle.”

Buck knew the grizzled old man slowly riding toward his small fire, but could not immediately put a name to him. The man—anywhere between sixty-five and a hundred and five—dismounted and helped himself to coffee and pan bread and venison. He ate slowly, his eyes appraising Buck without expression. Finally, he belched politely and wiped his hands on greasy buckskins. He poured another cup of coffee and settled back on the ground.

“Don’t talk none yet,” the old man said. “Jist listen. You be the pup Preacher taken under his wing some years back. Knowed it was you. Ante’s been upped some on your head, boy. Nearabouts thirty thousand dollars on you, now. You must have a hundred men after you. Hard men, boy. Most of ’em. You good, boy, but you ain’t that good. Sooner ’er later, you’ll slip up, git tared, have to rest, then they’ll git you.” He paused to gnaw on another piece of pan bread.

“The point of all this is…?” Buck said.

“Tole you to hush up and listen. Jawin’ makes me hungry. ’Mong other things. Makes my mouth hurt too. You got anything to ease the pain?”

“Pint in that pack right over there.” Buck jerked his head.

The old mountain man took two huge swallows of the rye, coughed, and returned to the fire. “Gawddamn farmers and such run us old boys toward the west. Trappin’s fair, but they ain’t no market to speak of. Ten of us got us a camp just south of Castle Peak, in the Sawtooth. Gittin’ plumb borin’. We figured on headin’ north in about a week.” He lifted his old eyes. “Up toward Bury. We gonna take our time. Ain’t no point in gettin’ in no lather.” He got to his feet and walked toward his horses. “Might see you up there, boy. Thanks for the grub.”

“What are you called?” Buck asked.

“Tenneysee,” the old man said without looking back. He mounted up and slowly rode back in the direction he’d come.

“You’re not any better lookin’ than the last time I saw you!” Buck called to the old man’s back, grinning as he spoke.

“Ain’t supposed to be,” Tenneysee called. “Now git et and git gone. You got trouble on your backtrail.”

“Yeah, I know!” Buck shouted.

“Worser’n Preacher!” Tenneysee called. “Cain’t tell neither of you nuttin’!”

Then he was gone into the timber.

Fifteen minutes later, Buck had saddled Drifter, cinched down the packs on his pack animal, and was gone, riding northwest.

He wondered how many men were trailing him. And how good t. . .