Pursuit Of The Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

the river there.
    He swung down from the saddle and spent some time working out his tracks. Satisfied, he mounted up and headed for the settlement. He had probably gained another day; if he was lucky, maybe two days.
    He spent a night in a cold camp, not wanting to chance a fire, on the off chance his hunters had gained on him, and Smoke was in no mood for nonsense when he rode into the tiny town the next day, at mid-morning.
    He told the man at the livery to rub his horses down good and give them all the grain they wanted to eat.
    “Payable in ad-vance,” the man said sourly.
    Smoke looked at him for a moment through the coldest, most dangerous eyes the man had ever seen.
    “It’s for ever’body, mister,” he spoke gently. “Boss’s orders. I just work here.”
    Smoke smiled and handed the man some coins, including a little extra. “Have yourself a drink on me at day’s end.”
    “I’ll do it,” the man said with a returning smile. “Thanks. They’s beds over the saloon or you’re welcome to bed down here. Beth’s is our only cafe and she serves up some pretty good grub.”
    “I’ll check it out. Much obliged.”
    “Ain’t I seen you before, mister?”
    “Never been here before in my life.”
    “Shore looks familiar,” the man muttered, when Smoke had walked away. Then he stood still as a post as recognition struck him. “Good God!” he said. “And I got lippy with him?”
    Smoke checked out the rooms over the saloon, saw fleas and various other crawling and hopping creatures on the dirty sheets, and decided he would sleep in the loft of the barn. He’d always liked the smell of hay.
    “You mighty goddamn particular,” the combination barkeep and desk clerk told him.
    That did it. Smoke grabbed the man by the shirt, picked him up about a foot off the floor, and pinned him to the wall. “Would it too much of a problem for you to be civil?”
    “You better put me down, mister. Tom Lilly runs this town, and he’s a personal friend of mine.”
    “And you’ll run tell him about this little incident and he’ll do your fighting for you, right?”
    “Something like that. And he’ll clean your plow, drifter.”
    Smoke dragged him to the landing and threw him down the stairs. “Then go tell him, you weasel. I’ll be having a drink at the bar. From the good bottle.”
    The man scrambled to his feet and ran out the front door. Smoke walked down the steps, rummaged around behind the bar until he found the good bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. Although not much of a drinking man, the whiskey was smooth and felt good going down.
    He fixed himself a sandwich from the fresh-laid out lunch selection and poured a cup of coffee, then walked to a table in the back of the room. He took off his coat and sat down. Slipping the hammer-thong from his Colts was something he did the instant his boots touched ground out of the stirrups.
    The front door opened and the lippy barkeep entered, followed by a huge bear of a man.
    “There he is,” the barkeep said, pointing Smoke out. Then he ran back behind the bar. “And that’ll be fifty cents for that drink of good whiskey.”
    “Money’s on the bar,” Smoke told him.
    The man lumbered over, stopping a few feet from the table. The floor had trembled as he moved. Smoke figured him to be about six feet six inches tall and weighing maybe two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
    “My name’s Tom Lilly,” the big man rumbled.
    Smoke took a bite from his sandwich and said nothing.
    “Are you deef!” Lilly hollered.
    “I will be if you keep shouting,” Smoke told him. “Quiet down, will you?”
    The man looked shocked. “You really tellin’ me what to do, cowboy?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And you smell bad, too. Step back, before your breath contaminates the cheese.”
    Tom was so shocked he was momentarily speechless. Nobody ever spoke to him in such a manner. A few had challenged him, years back, and he had broken their heads, their