Return of the Mountain Man Read Free Page A

difference,” Buck said quietly, knowing what was coming.
    â€œThen I reckon that makes you a coward, don’t it?” the cardplayer said, standing up.
    Buck slowly placed the shot glass of bear piss back on the rough bar. He eyeballed the man. Two guns worn low and tied down. The leather hammer thongs off. “Either that or careful.”
    â€œYou know what I think, Slick? I think it makes you yellow.”
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you what I think,” Buck said. “I think you don’t know your bunghole from your mouth.”
    The man flushed in the dim light of the trading post. His dirty hands hovered over his guns. “I think I’ll jist kill you for that.”
    â€œBet or fold,” Buck said.
    The man’s hands dipped down. Buck’s right-hand .44 roared. The gunhand was dead before he hit the floor, the slug taking him in the center of the chest, exploding his heart.
    â€œI never even seen the draw,” the bartender said, his voice hushed and awe-filled.
    â€œAny of you other boys want to ante up in this game?” Buck asked.
    None did.
    The dead man broke wind as escaping gas left his cooling body.
    â€œHe were my partner,” a man still seated at the table said. “But he were in the wrong this time. I lay claim to his pockets.”
    â€œSuits me,” Buck said. No one had even seen him holster his .44. “He have a name?”
    â€œBig Jack. From up Montana way. Never spoke no last name. Who you be?”
    â€œBuck West. I been trackin’ that damned Smoke Jensen for the better part of six months.”
    Big Jack’s partner visibly relaxed. “Us, too. I would ask if you wanted some company, but you look like you ride alone.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œName’s Jerry. This here’s Carl and Paul. Don’t reckon you’d give us a hand diggin’ the hole for Jack?”
    â€œI don’t reckon so.”
    â€œCain’t much blame you.”
    â€œBury him out back,” the bartender said. “Deep. If he smells any worser dead than alive I’ll have to move my place of business.”

3
    T he men watched as Buck rode away, ramrod straight in the saddle. Jerry said, “That young feller is faster than greased lightning.”
    â€œFaster than Jesse, I betcha!”
    â€œAin’t no faster than Wild Bill, though,” Paul said.
    Jerry spat on the ground. “Wild Bill ain’t crap!”
    â€œYou don’t say!” Carl turned on his friend. “I suppose you gonna tell us Wild Bill didn’t clean up Abilene?”
    â€œHe sure as hell didn’t. I know. I were there. Me and Phil Coe. I seen Wild Bill shoot him with a pair of derringers after Phil done put his gun away. Then he turned around and shot the marshal, Mike Williams. Wild Bill better not ever try to brace that there Buck West. Buck’s a bad one, boys. Cold-eyed as a snake.”
    It would be almost exactly two and one half years later, on the afternoon of August 2, 1876, in Deadwood, South Dakota, when a cross-eyed, busted-nose wino named Jack McCall would blow out Hickok’s brains as he studied his poker hand of Aces and Eights. Wild Bill would be thirty-nine years old.
    â€œI think Potter ought to know about this here Buck West,” Jerry said. “Think I’ll take me a ride later on. Let Buck get good and gone.”
    â€œWe’ll tag along.”
    Late that afternoon a stranger rode up to the trading post and walked inside. He cradled a Henry repeating rifle in the crook of his left arm. “I seen the fresh grave out back,” he said to the barkeep. “Friend of yourn?”
    â€œHell, no! Don’t git me to lyin’.”
    â€œMan ought to have a marker on his grave, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’ll git around to it one of these days. Maybe. Big Jack was all they called him.”
    â€œBetter than nothin’. I don’t reckon he died of