Cunning of the Mountain Man Read Free Page B

admitted, the potential for violence remained not too far under the surface. He flashed a fleeting smile and shook his head, which set his longish, nearly white hair to swaying.
    “You’ve got a good point, Walt. But, given the odds, I’d allow as how one of us might get killed, if we mixed in.”
    “There’s someone sure’s hell gonna get killed, if this gets ugly,” Rip Banning riposted. “What’er you sayin’, Walt?”
    Walt’s dark brown eyes glowed with inner fire, and his tanned, leather face worked in a way that set his brush of mustache to waggling. “Might be that we should keep ourselves aware of what’s going on. If this gets out of hand, a sudden surprise could go a long way to puttin’ an end to it.”

    Martha Tucker went about her daily tasks mechanically. All of the spirit, the verve of life, had fled from her. She cooked for her children and herself, but hardly touched the food, didn’t taste what she did -consume. She had sat in stricken immobility for more than two hours, after word had been brought of Lawrence’s death. Now, anger began to boil up to replace the grief.
    It allowed her to set herself to doing something her late husband had often done to burn off anger he dare not let explode. Her hair awry, her face shiny in the afternoon light, an axe in both hands, Martha set about splitting firewood for the kitchen stove. With each solid smack, a small grunt escaped her lips, carrying with it a fleck of her outrage.
    She cared not that at least a full week’s supply already had been stacked under the lean-to that abutted the house,
    beside the kitchen door. Neither did Martha have the words or knowledge to call her strenuous activity therapy; neither she, nor anyone in her world, knew the word catharsis. She merely accepted that with each yielding of a billet of pinon, she felt a scrap of the burden lift, if only for a moment.
    “Mother,” Jimmy Tucker called from the corner of the house.
    He had to call twice more, before his voice cut into Martha’s consciousness.
    “What is it, son?”
    Jimmy’s bare feet set up puffs of dust as he scampered to his mother’s side. “There’s a man coming, Maw.”
    Cold fear stabbed at Martha’s breast. “Who . . . is it?”
    “I dunno. He don’t . . . look mean.”
    “Go in the house, Jimmy, and get me the rifle. Then round up your sister and brother and go to the root cellar.”
    “Think it’s Apaches?”
    “Not around here, son. I don’t know what to think.”
    Jimmy’s eyes narrowed. “I had better stay with you, Maw.”
    “No, Jimmy. It’s best you are safe . . . just in case.”
    “If it’s that Smoke Jensen, I’ll shoot his eyes out,” Jimmy said tightly.
    A new fear washed over Martha. “You hush that kind of talk, you hear? If I had time, I’d wash your mouth with soap.”
    Almost a whine, Jimmy’s voice came out painfully. “I didn’t cuss, Maw.”
    In spite of the potential danger of the moment, Martha could not suppress a flicker of smile. Since the first time, at age four, that Jimmy had used the S-word, a bar of lye soap had been the answer, rather than his father’s razor strap. Oh, how Jimmy hated it.
    “Go along, son, do as I say,” Martha relented with a pat on the top of Jimmy’s head, something else he had come to find uncomfortable of late.
    In less than a minute, Jimmy returned with the big old Spencer rifle that had belonged to his father. One pocket of his corduroy trousers, cut off and frayed below the knees, bulged with bright brass cartridges. Martha took the weapon from her son and loaded a round. She held it, muzzle pointed to the ground, when the stranger rode around into the barnyard two minutes later.
    “Howdy there,” he sang out. “I’m friendly. Come to give you the news from town.”
    “And what might that be?” Martha challenged.
    “Well, ma’am, it looks like it’s makin’ up for a hangin’ for that Smoke Jensen feller. Folks is mighty riled about what happened to your