Cunning of the Mountain Man Read Free Page A

room.
    Turning to him, Payne Finney blinked. Maybe, he considered, he’d pushed it a bit too far. Gotta give them the idea they thunked it up on their own. That’s what Quint Stalker had taught him. Payne silently wished that Stalker was there with him now. He had no desire to get on the wrong side of Clay Unger, this big, soft-spoken man who had a reputation with a gun that even Quint Stalker respected. He raised both hands, open, palms up, in a deprecating gesture.
    “Now, Clay, I was just sayin’ what if . . . ? You know a lot more about how the law works than I do—no offense,” Payne hastened to add. “But from what little I do know, it seems any man with a bit of money can get off scot-free.”
    “And you were only speculating out loud as to, what if it happened to Smoke Jensen?”
    “Yeah . . . that’s about it.”
    Clay Unger raised a huge hand and pointed his trigger finger at Payne Finney. It aimed right between his eyes.
    “Don’t you think the time to worry about that is after it’s happened?”
    “Ummm. Ah—I suppose you’re right, there, Clay.” Finney made his way hastily to the doors and raised puffs of dust from his bootheels as he ankled down the street to Donahue’s. There he set to embellishing his tales of Smoke Jensen’s bloody career. His words fell on curious ears and fertile minds. He bought a round of drinks and, when he left an hour later, he felt confident the seeds of his plan would germinate.

    After Clay Unger and his friends had left the Hang Dog, two hard-faced, squint-eyed wranglers at the bar took up Payne Finney’s theme. They quickly found ready agreement among the other occupants.
    “What would it take to get that feller out of the jail and swing him from a rope, Ralph?”
    Through a snicker, Ralph answered, “If you mean co—oper—ation, not a whole lot. Ol’ Ferdie over there surely enjoys a good hangin’. Especially one where the boy’s neck don’t break like it oughtta. Ferdie likes to see ’em twitch and gag. Might be, he’d even hand that Jensen over to us.”
    “ ‘Us,’ Ralph?” a more sober imbiber asked pointedly. Ralph’s mouth worked, trying to come up with words his limited intellect denied him. “I was just talkin’— ah—sorta hy-hypo—awh, talkin’ like let’s pretend.” “You mean hypothetically?” Ralph’s detractor prodded.
    “Yeah . . . that’s it. Heard the word onest, about a thang like this.”
    Right then the batwings, inset from the tall, glass-paneled front doors swung inward, and Payne Finney strode in. “What’s that yer talkin’ about, Ralph?”
    Puppy-dog eagerness lighted Ralph’s face. “Good to see you, Payne. I was jist saying that it should be easy to get that Jensen outta the jail and string him up.” Finney crossed to the bar and gave Ralph a firm clap on one shoulder. “Words to my likin’, Ralph. Tell me more.”
    Seated in a far corner, at a round table, three men did not share the bloodthirsty excitement. They cast worried gazes around the saloon, marked the men who seemed most enthused by the prospect of a lynching. Ripley Banning ran short, thick fingers, creased and cracked by hard work and callus, through his carroty hair. His light complexion flushed pink as he leaned forward and spoke quietly to his companions.
    “I don’t like the sound of this one bit.” He cut sea-green eyes to Tyrell Hardy on his right.
    Ty Hardy flashed a nervous grin, and stretched his lean, lanky body in the confines of the captain’s chair. “Nor me, Rip. Ain’t a hell of a lot three of us can do about it, though.”
    From his right, Walt Reardon added a soft question. “How’s that, Ty? Seems a determined show of force could defuse this right fast.”
    Tyrell Hardy cut his pale blue eyes to Walt Reardon. He knew the older man to be a reformed gunfighter. Walt’s fulsome mane of curly black hair, and heavy, bushy brows, gave his face a mean look to those who did not know him. And, truth to tell, Ty