Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
each of three, alone with some of the load from the gang’s pack animals. With loads lightened, the hard-faced men removed their bandana masks and rode off without any thought for the wounded passenger.
4
Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner remained very much on the mind of Smoke Jensen as he rode into Big Rock to telegraph the prison for more details. An emergency breeched foal and other ranch minutiae had prevented him from returning to town with Monte Carson. Now, a week later, he dwelled on the circumstances of the men whose criminal careers he had interrupted. There wasn’t a one of them who did not get what he deserved.
With such dark broodings filling his head, Smoke ambled spotted-rump Thunder onto the northern end of Central Street, the main drag of Big Rock. The recent craze for naming every street in the small community amused Smoke. He considered it pretentious, one of the fancy words Sally had taught him. He did not think what he discovered halfway down the first block of the business district to be pretentious, nor did it amuse him.
A burly man, a stranger to these parts, stood between the driver’s seat and dashboard of a heavy wagon. Muscles rippled in his thick shoulders as he plied a whip to lash the daylights out of a pair of scrawny, sway-backed mules, trapped in the harness of the overloaded rig they pulled.
“I’ll learn ya, gawdamnit, you stubborn, stupid critters. When I say haul, you by damnit haul. Now git to movin’.”
Smoke Jensen just naturally bristled at this unnecessary cruelty. He eased his ’Palouse stallion closer and tipped the brim of his hat back on his head. For all his sudden anger at this abuse, he kept his voice polite.
“Excuse me.” The huge teamster ignored Smoke. “I said, excuse me. I don’t think you will achieve the results you expect by beating these starved, worn-out animals any longer.”
The burly driver turned to face Smoke. “Mind yer own gawdamned business. These lazy bastids, all they do is eat and sleep and crap. Hell, they even sleep standin’ up. Now, git on outta here and leave me to what I have to do.”
When the teamster turned away and applied his whip again, Smoke edged Thunder closer to the wagon. He reached out with one big hand and lifted the man off his feet. With a touch of his heels, Smoke backed Thunder clear of the buckboard and released his grip on the astonished wagoneer. Then Smoke calmly dismounted while the astonished lout dropped to his boots in the dusty street.
Blinded by rage, the foolish man went at Smoke with the whip. In one swift move, Smoke deflected the lash with his left forearm, grabbed the braided leather scourge and yanked it from the man’s grasp. Smoke’s right hand got right busy snapping short jabs to the thick lips of the dolt. Rocked back on his heels, the errant teamster belatedly brought up his arms in an effort to end the punishment. Smoke Jensen merely changed targets.
Hard knuckles dug into the puss gut of the abusive dullard. Coughing out air, the man did manage to land one blow that stung Smoke’s left cheekbone. Smoke responded with a looping left that opened a cut on his opponent’s right brow. A red curtain lowered over the teamster’s right eye. He uttered a bull-roar of outrage and tried to grab Smoke in a bear hug.
Smoke danced back from it, and popped his target on one fat jowl. He felt teeth give beneath the layer of fat. Then the stranger tried a kick to Smoke’s groin. Smoke side-stepped it and grabbed the offending leg. He gave it a quick yank upward.
“Phaw!” the teamster bellowed when his rump contacted the hard-packed street.
Smoke closed with him and battered his head seriously. Groggy, the owner of the mules tried to stand. Smoke knocked him flat on his back with a left to the jaw. Satisfied that he had taken all of the fight out of the man, Smoke turned his back and strode toward Thunder. He barely heard the scrabble of boot soles on the pebble-strewn street as the
4
Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner remained very much on the mind of Smoke Jensen as he rode into Big Rock to telegraph the prison for more details. An emergency breeched foal and other ranch minutiae had prevented him from returning to town with Monte Carson. Now, a week later, he dwelled on the circumstances of the men whose criminal careers he had interrupted. There wasn’t a one of them who did not get what he deserved.
With such dark broodings filling his head, Smoke ambled spotted-rump Thunder onto the northern end of Central Street, the main drag of Big Rock. The recent craze for naming every street in the small community amused Smoke. He considered it pretentious, one of the fancy words Sally had taught him. He did not think what he discovered halfway down the first block of the business district to be pretentious, nor did it amuse him.
A burly man, a stranger to these parts, stood between the driver’s seat and dashboard of a heavy wagon. Muscles rippled in his thick shoulders as he plied a whip to lash the daylights out of a pair of scrawny, sway-backed mules, trapped in the harness of the overloaded rig they pulled.
“I’ll learn ya, gawdamnit, you stubborn, stupid critters. When I say haul, you by damnit haul. Now git to movin’.”
Smoke Jensen just naturally bristled at this unnecessary cruelty. He eased his ’Palouse stallion closer and tipped the brim of his hat back on his head. For all his sudden anger at this abuse, he kept his voice polite.
“Excuse me.” The huge teamster ignored Smoke. “I said, excuse me. I don’t think you will achieve the results you expect by beating these starved, worn-out animals any longer.”
The burly driver turned to face Smoke. “Mind yer own gawdamned business. These lazy bastids, all they do is eat and sleep and crap. Hell, they even sleep standin’ up. Now, git on outta here and leave me to what I have to do.”
When the teamster turned away and applied his whip again, Smoke edged Thunder closer to the wagon. He reached out with one big hand and lifted the man off his feet. With a touch of his heels, Smoke backed Thunder clear of the buckboard and released his grip on the astonished wagoneer. Then Smoke calmly dismounted while the astonished lout dropped to his boots in the dusty street.
Blinded by rage, the foolish man went at Smoke with the whip. In one swift move, Smoke deflected the lash with his left forearm, grabbed the braided leather scourge and yanked it from the man’s grasp. Smoke’s right hand got right busy snapping short jabs to the thick lips of the dolt. Rocked back on his heels, the errant teamster belatedly brought up his arms in an effort to end the punishment. Smoke Jensen merely changed targets.
Hard knuckles dug into the puss gut of the abusive dullard. Coughing out air, the man did manage to land one blow that stung Smoke’s left cheekbone. Smoke responded with a looping left that opened a cut on his opponent’s right brow. A red curtain lowered over the teamster’s right eye. He uttered a bull-roar of outrage and tried to grab Smoke in a bear hug.
Smoke danced back from it, and popped his target on one fat jowl. He felt teeth give beneath the layer of fat. Then the stranger tried a kick to Smoke’s groin. Smoke side-stepped it and grabbed the offending leg. He gave it a quick yank upward.
“Phaw!” the teamster bellowed when his rump contacted the hard-packed street.
Smoke closed with him and battered his head seriously. Groggy, the owner of the mules tried to stand. Smoke knocked him flat on his back with a left to the jaw. Satisfied that he had taken all of the fight out of the man, Smoke turned his back and strode toward Thunder. He barely heard the scrabble of boot soles on the pebble-strewn street as the
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