Trail of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Tex-Mex border. Watch him. He’s got a border roll that’s fast as lightning.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve heard he’s good. How good?”
    â€œVery good,” the gambler said softly. “He beat Johnny North.”
    A smile passed Smoke’s lips. “But Johnny North is still alive.”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    So Valentine was cat-quick, but couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Many quick-draw gunhands were blindingly fast, but usually missed their first shots.
    Smoke almost never missed.
    â€œI’ll back you up if you ask, Smoke,” Louis offered.
    â€œIt’ll come to that, Louis. But not yet. Speaking of Johnny North, where is he?”
    â€œA question I’ve asked myself a few times since coming here. He’ll be here. But he’s a strange one, Smoke. He hates Monte Carson.”
    â€œSo I hear. I’ve never heard of him teaming up with anyone.”
    â€œLone wolf all the way. Johnny must be ... oh, about my age, I suppose. But age has not slowed him a bit. When do you meet these gentlemen, and where?”
    Smoke opened his watch. “In about fifteen minutes. Down at the stables.”
    â€œAnything you need?”
    â€œA shotgun and a pocketful of shells.”
    Louis reached over the bar and pulled out a sawed-off twelve-gauge express gun. He handed Smoke a sack of shells.
    â€œI loaded these myself,” the gambler said. “Full of ball-bearings.”
    Smoke loaded the express gun. “Got a taste of that scotch handy?”
    Louis walked behind the long, deserted bar and poured two fingers of scotch for each of them. He lifted his glass. “To your unerring marksmanship.”
    â€œAnd hope I shoot straight too,” Smoke said needling the man.

13
    Pearlie opened his eyes. He could have sworn he opened his eyes. But he couldn’t see a thing. Slowly, painfully, he lifted one hand and wiped his eyes. There. He could see ... a little bit, at least.
    He hurt all over. He wriggled his toes. Something was wrong. His boots were gone. He could feel the cool earth against his skin. His jeans were ripped and his shirt was gone. He carefully poked at himself. He was bruised and cut and torn from head to toes, but he didn’t feel any broken bones sticking out. Lucky. Damn lucky.
    Pearlie turned his head and felt something flop down over one ear. He carefully inspected his fingertips. A flap of skin was torn loose. He pressed it back against his head and took his bandana from around his neck, tying it around his head. Hurt like hell.
    Only then did he think of the danger he might still be in. What if the TF riders were still hanging around?
    He looked around him.
    Nothing and nobody in sight.
    He slowly drew himself up to his knees and looked around. He could clearly see where he had been dragged. He looked down where he had lain. A hole in the hard ground, blood beside it. He stuck a finger into the hole and pulled out the dirt. His fingers touched something hard. Pearlie dug it out and looked at it. A battered and mangled .44 slug. The bastards had shot him. They thought they’d killed him with a gunshot to the head. That would account for the flap of skin hanging down.
    â€œBoy, you was lucky,” he croaked, pushing the words out of a dry throat.
    He looked back along the torn path he’d been dragged on. It ran for a ways back toward the cabin. He could see one boot standing all alone in the mangled path. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered back toward the boot, one solid mass of aches and pains and misery.
    And mad.
    Goddamn, was he mad!
    He picked up the boot and wandered off in search of his other boot. Pearlie fell down more times than he cared to recall. He banged and bruised and battered his knees and hands each time he fell, but each time he hit the ground, his anger increased. He began cursing Tilden Franklin and all the TF riders who had dragged him and then left him for dead.
    The verbal barrage seemed to