Journey of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

rest of the way. He’s insane. And he’s making a mistake in trusting those gunslicks he’s hired. That bunch can turn on a man faster than a lightning bolt.”
    â€œAnd McCorkle?”
    â€œSame with that bunch he’s got. Only difference is, Cord knows it. He’s tried to make peace with Hanks . . . over the past few weeks. Hanks isn’t having any of it. Cord had no choice but to hire more gunnies.”
    â€œAnd now . . . ?”
    â€œWe wait.”
    â€œYou are aware, of course, about the rumor that it was really some of your people who beat and sexually assaulted Rita Hanks?”
    â€œSome of that crap is being toted off the street now,” Smoke reminded the schoolteacher. “When Silver Jim and Lujan hear of it—I have not mentioned it to them—the rest of it will be planted six feet under. But I think that rumor got squashed a few minutes ago.”
    â€œAnd if it didn’t, there will be more violence.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy are we so different, Cousin? What I’m asking is that we spring from the same bloodlines, yet we are as different as the sun and the moon.”
    â€œMaybe, Parnell, it’s because you’re a dreamer. You think of the world as a place filled with good, decent, honorable men. I see the world as it really is. Maybe that’s it.”
    Parnell pushed back his chair and stood up. He looked down at Smoke for a few seconds. “If that is the case, I would still rather have my dreams than live with blood on my hands.”
    â€œI’d rather have that blood on my hands than have it leaking out of me,” Smoke countered. “Knowing that I could have possibly prevented it simply by standing my ground with a gun at the ready.”
    â€œA point well put. I shall take my leave now, gentlemen. I must see to the closing of the school for the summer.”
    â€œSee you at the ranch, Parnell.”
    Both Smoke and Bob had lost their taste for beer. They left the nearly full pitcher of beer on the table and walked out onto the boardwalk. Most of the gunnies had left the Hangout, heading back to the D-H spread. Lanny Ball stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, looking across the street at Smoke.
    â€œHe’s a punk,” Smoke said to Bob. “But a very fast punk. I’d say he’s one of the best gunslicks to be found anywhere.”
    â€œBetter than you?” Bob asked, doubt in the question.
    â€œJust as good, I’d say. And so is Jason Bright.”
    Lanny turned his back to them and entered the saloon.
    â€œAnother day,” Smoke muttered. “But it’s coming.”

Eleven
    Smoke was riding the ridges early one morning, looking for any strays they might have missed. He had arranged for a buyer from the Army to come in, in order to give Fae some badly needed working capital, and planned to sell off five hundred head of cattle. He saw the flash of sunlight off a barrel just a split second before the rifle fired. Smoke threw himself out of the saddle, grabbing his Winchester as he went. The slug hit nothing but air. Grabbing the reins, Smoke crawled around a rise and picketed the horse, talking to the animal, calming it.
    He wasn’t sure if he was on Box T Range, or D-H Range. It would be mighty close either way. If the gunman had waited just a few more minutes, Smoke might well be dead on the ground, for he had planned to ride in a blind canyon to flush out any strays.
    Working his way around the rise of earth, Smoke began to realize just how bad his situation was. He was smack in the middle of a clearing, hunkering down behind the only rise big enough to conceal a human or horse to be found within several hundred yards.
    And he found out just how good the sniper was when a hard spray of dirt slapped him in the face, followed closely by the boom of the rifle. Smoke could not tell the caliber of the rifle, but it sounded like a 44-40, probably with one of those fancy