Trail of the Mountain Man Read Free Page B

humanity. Sitting astride his horse, whom he had named Horse, Smoke cursed softly. The line must have been five hundred strong. And he knew, in two weeks, there would probably be ten times that number converging on No-Name.
    â€œWonderful,” he muttered. Horse cocked his ears and looked back at Smoke. “Yeah, Horse. I don’t like it either.”
    With a gentle touch of his spurs, Smoke and Horse moved out, riding at an easy trot for town.
    Before he reached the crest of the hill overlooking the town, the sounds of hammering reached his ears. Reining up on the crest, Smoke sat and watched the men below, racing about, driving stakes all over the place, marking out building locations. Lines of wagons were in a row, the wagons loaded with lumber. Canvas tents were already in place, and the whiskey peddlers were dipping their homemade concoction out of barrels. Smoke knew there would be everything in that whiskey from horse-droppings to snake-heads.
    He rode slowly down the hill and tied up at the railing in front of the general store. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, looking at the organized madness taking place all around him.
    Smoke recognized several men from out of the shouting, shoving, cursing crush.
    There was Utah Slim, the gunhand from down Escalante way. The gambler Louis Longmont was busy setting up his big tent. Over there, by the big saloon tent, was Big Mamma O’Neil. Smoke knew her girls would not be far away. Big Mamma had a stable of whores and sold bad booze and ran crooked games. Smoke had seen other faces that he recognized but could not immediately put names to. They would come to him.
    He turned and walked into the large general store. The owner, Beeker, was behind the counter, grinning like a cream-fed cat. No doubt he was doing a lot of business and no doubt he had jacked up his prices.
    Beeker’s smile changed to a frown when he noticed the low-slung Colts on Smoke. “Something, Matt?”
    â€œTen boxes of .44’s, Beeker. That’ll do for a start. I’ll just look around a bit.”
    â€œI don’t know if I can spare that many, Matt,” Beeker said, his voice whiny.
    â€œYou can spare them.” Smoke walked around the store, picking up several other items, including several pairs of britches that looked like they’d fit Sally. In all likelihood, she was going to have to do some hard riding before all this was said and done, and while it wasn’t ladylike to wear men’s britches and ride astride, it was something she was going to have to do.
    He moved swiftly past the glass-enclosed showcase filled with women’s underthings and completed his swing back to the main counter, laying his purchases on the counter. “That’ll do it, Beeker.”
    The store owner added it up and Smoke paid the bill.
    â€œMighty fancy guns you wearin’, Matt. Never seen you wear a short gun before. Something the matter?”
    â€œYou might say that.”
    â€œDon’t let none of Tilden’s boys see you with them things on. They might take ‘em off you ’less you know how to use them.”
    Beeker did not like Smoke, and the feeling was shared. Beeker kowtowed to Tilden; Smoke did not. Beeker thought Tilden was a mighty fine man; Smoke thought Tilden to be a very obnoxious SOB.
    Smoke lifted his eyes and stared at Beeker. Beeker took a step backward, those emotionless, cold brown eyes chilling him, touching the coward’s heart that beat in his chest.
    Smoke picked up his purchases and walked out into the spring sunlight. He stowed the gear in his saddlebags and walked across the street to the better of the two saloons. In a week there would be fifty saloons, all working twenty-four hours a day.
    As he walked across the wide dirt street, his spurs jingling and his heels kicking up little dust pockets, Smoke was conscious of eyes on him. Unfriendly eyes. He stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed through the swinging