Rage of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page A

Orleans. Arm in arm, they strolled down the depot platform and paused for only a moment to wave a farewell to Smoke and Sally Jensen. Priscilla gazed adoringly up at her husband as the steam whistle shrilled and the train pulled out, headed across Missouri and on north to Chicago.
    “That ended nicely, I thought,” Sally remarked to Smoke, as they stood on the observation platform later that night.
    A full moon lit the prairie and cast silver light on her face as Smoke bent to kiss her gently on one cheek. “And now we have the car all to ourselves,” he murmured.
    Sally gave him an expression of mock disapproval. “Is that all you can say?”
    “Not at all. Henning has a lot of changing to do if he’s going to last with that girl. They are a nice couple,” Smoke declared, then started to add more when Sally cut him off.
    “I’m glad to hear you say that. Do you really mind so much making this visit to my family?”
    “No, not really.”
    “You’re resigned to it, is that it?”
    “Sally, let’s not get started on that. Think about something else.”
    “All right, I will.” Her famous smile bloomed and her voice grew wistful as she opened a new topic. “I’ve never seen anyone so proud as punch over where he slept as Bobby.”
    Smoke nodded. “He figured he’s made it through growing up to be able to sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands. I thought the little nipper would bust when I told him. Then, when the avalanche knocked the building off its foundation, he looked so glum when I had him stay in his old room those five nights.”
    “Surely he realized it took time to arrange rollers and enough teams to pull the bunkhouse back in its place? It was his room in the house, or sleep outside under a tree with the other hands.”
    Smoke’s indulgent chuckle stirred something deep in Sally’s breast. “Bobby would have preferred the ground. I’m sure. He got over it quickly enough, though, when he learned he would not be going to school for the three weeks we’ll be gone.”
    Sally produced a fleeting frown of concentration. “You’re really fond of the boy, aren’t you?”
    “I am. He reminds me of our brood when they were his age,” Smoke admitted.
    “You never told me how it came to be that he wound up with you on the way to Mexico that time.”
    Smoke sighed. “It’s not a nice story, Sal. I’d rather not go into it.”
    “Oh, please. Bobby never speaks of it, either. At least, nothing past that you saved his life.”
    Smoke shrugged and cut his eyes away from her lovely, moon-whitened face, uncomfortable at the recounting. “I saved him from a beating. I’m not sure I saved his life.” 
    “How did that come about?”
    “I killed his stepfather,” Smoke said dully.
    Sally’s eyes went round and wide. “However did that happen?”
    “When I came upon them, the stepfather had beaten Bobby’s pony to its knees,” Smoke began. In a lifeless voice, he recounted the confrontation with Rupe Connors, their fight, and how Connors had come at him with a pitchfork. “I heard him running across the corral, but Bobby’s shout of alarm helped me move in time. I shot him. Then I told him my name. He died knowing for the first time in his life that he had made a big mistake.”
    “That’s awful,” Sally declared. She had thought nothing of the outlaw she had killed only two days ago, yet this unvarnished tale touched her deeply as that never could.
    Smoke nodded and held her closer. “You know the rest. Bobby has no family and could not stay there alone. After a few encounters with some rockheads along the way, I sent him to you. There’s something else I didn’t tell you: Connors pounded on Bobby as savagely as he did that pony from the day he married the boy’s mother. He also beat her so badly she died of it. For a man who abused helpless women, children, and animals, he got what he deserved.” “Yes ... I suppose he did,” Sally answered simply. “What a terrible life the