Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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girl,” she told the horse, while she saddled it, “we’ve got some searching to do.” She retrieved the reins and swung astride.
Sally rode in widening spirals out from the Sugarloaf headquarters. Noon beckoned from close by and still no sign of the boy. Sally began to wonder if he had taken it into his head to go after Smoke.
“Surely he wouldn’t,” she told herself aloud for more assurance.
Her survey took her in the general direction of a low knoll with an ancient, huge, blue-green Douglas fir atop it. How the inviting target had escaped a lightning strike for the more than hundred years it had grown, neither she nor Smoke could guess. While she approached it, with Blue Bonnet bucking in protest to such prolonged activity after two days of idleness in the corral, Sally began to make out the shape of a figure at the base of the tree. At first it appeared to be a jackrabbit hunkered down in the low grass.
After a while, Sally could tell that more was attached to the earlike shape than a mere rabbit body. At fifty yards, she could see the profile of a human face. Closer still, she recognized Bobby’s pug nose and slight frame. His horse grazed peacefully down the reverse slope and his bedroll lay rumpled at his side. Relief swallowed anger but, even so, she spoke harshly when she rode up and he did not even acknowledge her presence. In fact, he deliberately turned away to gaze off toward the 14,000-foot peak that towered to the west.
“Young man, what possible right do you think you have to put us to all the effort to find you?”
“I was right here,” Bobby told her through his pout, tears formed in his big, blue eyes.
“That’s not even a reason.” Sally dismounted and walked to his side. “You have your duties with the hands. Also, you are entirely too old for this sort of behavior.”
Bobby turned to look at her then. It was immediately obvious to Sally that he was about to lose his battle with his tears. “And I’m old enough to have gone with Smoke, too,” he stubbornly maintained.
“ No, you’re not!” Sally snapped back, small fists on her hips. The split skirt of her riding habit swirled violently as she resisted the urge to stomp a foot. “This fantasy of yours has gone on long enough. I’m sorry, Bobby, but you are going to have to look at this realistically.” She softened her tone, surprised at how harsh it had grown. “If you intend to remain on the Sugarloaf, as our adopted son, or even as merely a ranch hand, then you have to learn to face facts.
“You must take responsibility for your acts.” She paused, sighing. Was he absorbing any of this? “And most of all, to obey orders given to you. Smoke and I both love you, and we don’t want to see any harm come to you.”
“Then maybe I won’t stay,” he answered coldly, then stomped away to his horse.
Smoke Jensen and Mogan Crosby found themselves under siege as rifle slugs cracked through the thin hide windows of the cabin. Smoke strode to the door, yanked it open, and made a quick response. A yelp of pain answered him. Then four slugs slammed into the thick log walls. Horse hooves clopped in the barnyard.
Smoke moved also. At one window, he lifted a corner for a quick look. He caught two of the hard cases in the act of entering the barn. That left three more. One no doubt wounded. They would be taking up positions also. He cut his eyes to Morgan.
“I got me a good shotgun an’ a bag of buckshot,” the old man suggested.
“We’re in for a siege. I’m more worried about water and food.”
Crosby chuckled, a sort of squeaky he-he-he sound, and pointed to a squarish wooden structure on one end of the sink counter. “I dug me my well first, then built the cabin around it. ‘Tweren’t nothin’ but Injuns out here then. I spent me many days and nights forted up in here. I’ve got a tunnel to my root cellar, too. And another to the barn.”
Smoke raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s one you might
Sally rode in widening spirals out from the Sugarloaf headquarters. Noon beckoned from close by and still no sign of the boy. Sally began to wonder if he had taken it into his head to go after Smoke.
“Surely he wouldn’t,” she told herself aloud for more assurance.
Her survey took her in the general direction of a low knoll with an ancient, huge, blue-green Douglas fir atop it. How the inviting target had escaped a lightning strike for the more than hundred years it had grown, neither she nor Smoke could guess. While she approached it, with Blue Bonnet bucking in protest to such prolonged activity after two days of idleness in the corral, Sally began to make out the shape of a figure at the base of the tree. At first it appeared to be a jackrabbit hunkered down in the low grass.
After a while, Sally could tell that more was attached to the earlike shape than a mere rabbit body. At fifty yards, she could see the profile of a human face. Closer still, she recognized Bobby’s pug nose and slight frame. His horse grazed peacefully down the reverse slope and his bedroll lay rumpled at his side. Relief swallowed anger but, even so, she spoke harshly when she rode up and he did not even acknowledge her presence. In fact, he deliberately turned away to gaze off toward the 14,000-foot peak that towered to the west.
“Young man, what possible right do you think you have to put us to all the effort to find you?”
“I was right here,” Bobby told her through his pout, tears formed in his big, blue eyes.
“That’s not even a reason.” Sally dismounted and walked to his side. “You have your duties with the hands. Also, you are entirely too old for this sort of behavior.”
Bobby turned to look at her then. It was immediately obvious to Sally that he was about to lose his battle with his tears. “And I’m old enough to have gone with Smoke, too,” he stubbornly maintained.
“ No, you’re not!” Sally snapped back, small fists on her hips. The split skirt of her riding habit swirled violently as she resisted the urge to stomp a foot. “This fantasy of yours has gone on long enough. I’m sorry, Bobby, but you are going to have to look at this realistically.” She softened her tone, surprised at how harsh it had grown. “If you intend to remain on the Sugarloaf, as our adopted son, or even as merely a ranch hand, then you have to learn to face facts.
“You must take responsibility for your acts.” She paused, sighing. Was he absorbing any of this? “And most of all, to obey orders given to you. Smoke and I both love you, and we don’t want to see any harm come to you.”
“Then maybe I won’t stay,” he answered coldly, then stomped away to his horse.
Smoke Jensen and Mogan Crosby found themselves under siege as rifle slugs cracked through the thin hide windows of the cabin. Smoke strode to the door, yanked it open, and made a quick response. A yelp of pain answered him. Then four slugs slammed into the thick log walls. Horse hooves clopped in the barnyard.
Smoke moved also. At one window, he lifted a corner for a quick look. He caught two of the hard cases in the act of entering the barn. That left three more. One no doubt wounded. They would be taking up positions also. He cut his eyes to Morgan.
“I got me a good shotgun an’ a bag of buckshot,” the old man suggested.
“We’re in for a siege. I’m more worried about water and food.”
Crosby chuckled, a sort of squeaky he-he-he sound, and pointed to a squarish wooden structure on one end of the sink counter. “I dug me my well first, then built the cabin around it. ‘Tweren’t nothin’ but Injuns out here then. I spent me many days and nights forted up in here. I’ve got a tunnel to my root cellar, too. And another to the barn.”
Smoke raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s one you might
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