The Family Jensen by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page B

careful from here on out, even with Lew Torrance egging them on.”
    “Torrance?” Matt repeated. “I’ve heard of him. He’s supposed to be a really bad hombre.”
    “He is. I don’t know if Bannerman has him bossing that bunch, but it’s possible. Or maybe Torrance is just one more gun-wolf. Bannerman seems to have plenty of ’em.”
    Preacher snorted in disgust. “Varmints like that put me in mind of flies buzzin’ around a big steamin’ pile o’ buffalo dung. There’s always more where they came from.”
    “Which would make Reece Bannerman that pile of buffalo dung, I suppose,” Matt said with a grin.
    “You said it, youngster, not me.” Preacher spat on the hard-packed dirt floor of the cabin. “Hard to fool a fly, though.”
    Smoke ran his tongue over dry lips. None of them had mentioned how thirsty they were, nor would they. Their canteens were on their saddles, their horses somewhere in the vicinity. Before taking shelter in the cabin they had turned the animals loose, swatting their rumps and yelling so the mounts would gallop off, out of the line of fire. Smoke knew that he, Matt, and Preacher wouldn’t have any trouble finding them later.
    All they had to do was get out past the guns of those hardened killers first.
    To get his mind off how cotton-mouthed he was, Smoke said, “I recall the first time I met Crazy Bear. You had told me about him, Preacher, but just hearing about him doesn’t really prepare anybody for meeting him in the flesh.”
    Preacher chuckled again. “Ain’t that the truth. But you run into his boy first, didn’t you?”
    “That’s right,” Smoke said with a nod. “Not far from here, in fact, over in Buffalo Flat. That’s where I met Sandor. It was years ago, a mighty bad time in my life…”

B OOK T WO

    (Note: The events in this section take place between the novels The Last Mountain Man and Return of the Mountain Man )

Chapter 11

    Hatred filled the heart of the young man who rode a big Appaloosa into the settlement of Buffalo Flat, Wyoming Territory, at the southern end of its main street. Sometimes that hatred burned so hot, it seemed on the verge of erupting, like flames from his brown eyes. At other times it was a cold hate, like ice had coated the expressionless face and it would never thaw again.
    The important thing about that hatred was it didn’t leave room inside him for the pain he would otherwise feel.
    Richards…Potter…Stratton. Those were the names of the men Smoke Jensen intended to kill. The men who had taken away everything that meant anything to him. The men responsible for the deaths of Smoke’s wife Nicole and their son Arthur, as well as the baby’s namesake, the old mountain man called Preacher. They had taken it all from him, and he would take everything from them. His only regret was that the worst he could do was kill them.
    Smoke rode straight in the saddle like a cavalryman. His brown, broad-brimmed Stetson was pulled low over his face. Ash-blond stubble sprouted on his jaw. He had already cropped his hair close to his skull, and was thinking about growing a beard to change his appearance even more. After all, he was a wanted man. There was a $10,000 reward on his head because those lying bastards had made him out to be an outlaw and killer when in reality they were the ones who were evil.
    Bounty hunters were already after him, and they didn’t care whether they brought him in dead or alive. In fact, most of them would probably prefer to kill him. It was easier to handle a dead body than a live prisoner, especially one as dangerous as Smoke Jensen.
    So, as he slowly, methodically, made his way through Wyoming toward Idaho and the town of Bury, where he knew he would find the men he was looking for, he considered the best way to stay alive would be to leave his true identity behind. He needed new clothes instead of the fringed buckskins he wore. As much as he loved the Appaloosa he called Seven, the horse was mighty