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

help.
    He found his other boot and sat down to rest, slipping on both his boots. Now he felt better. He could see, just barely, the fallen horse of the TF man. He walked and staggered and stumbled toward it. The animal had fallen on its left side; no way Pearlie could get to the rifle in the saddle boot. But he could salvage the canteen full of water. He sat on the rump of the dead horse and drank his fill. His eyes swept the immediate area. He spotted his six-gun and walked to it, picking it up. He brushed off the dirt, checked the action and the loads, and holstered the weapon. Now he felt better than ever. He dug in the saddlebags of the fallen horse and found a box of .44’s, distributing them in his pockets.
    Now, by God, just let me find some TF punchers! he thought. He managed to pull the other saddlebag from under the dead horse and rummage through it. Some cold biscuits and beef. As tired and as much as he hurt, he knew he had to have something to eat. Them bearsign was good eatin’, but they didn’t stay with a man.
    He ate the beef and biscuits and washed them down with water. He looked toward the direction of the ranch. A good four or five miles off. With an explosive oath, Pearlie stood up and began walking. Miss Sally and the boy was probably in for a rough time of it. And by God, Pearlie was gonna be there to help out.
    He put one boot in front of the other and walked and staggered on.
    Drops of blood marked his back trail.
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    Smoke didn’t know where all the people had gone, but the streets of Fontana were empty and silent as he walked along, keeping to the near side of the long street, advancing toward the stable.
    But he could feel many eyes on him as he walked.
    He slipped the thongs from his Colts as he walked, shifting the sawed-off express from right hand to left hand. He looked up as the batwing doors of a saloon swung open. Tilden Franklin and his foreman, Clint, stepped out to stare at Smoke. The new sheriff, Monte Carson, stood beside them, his large, new, shiny badge catching the late-morning rays of the sun.
    â€œWe don’t like troublemakers in this town, Smoke,” Monte said.
    Smoke stopped and turned to face the men. With his eyes on Monte, he said, “What trouble have I caused, Sheriff?”
    That took Monte aback. He stared at Smoke. Finally, he said, “Man walks around carrying a shotgun like that one there you got must be lookin’ for trouble.”
    Smoke grinned. “Why, Sheriff, I’m just going down to the stables to see about my horse. Any law against that?”
    Monte shook his head.
    â€œThanks. If there is nothing else, I’ll just be on my way.”
    Tilden grinned at Smoke. His mean eyes shone with evil and power.
    Smoke met the man’s eyes. “How about you, Franklin? You got anything to say?”
    â€œYou talk mighty big standing there with that express gun in your hands,” Tilden replied.
    â€œInsurance, Franklin,” Smoke said. “Since you’re afraid to move without your trained dogs with you.”
    That stung Clint. His eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists. But he knew better than to prod Smoke; the gunfighter’s rep was that his temper was volatile, and that express gun would turn all three of them into chopped meat at this distance.
    â€œThat’s right, Clint,” Smoke said, a nasty tone to his words. “I forgot. You’d rather make war against farmers and women and kids, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œStand easy, Clint,” Tilden quietly warned his foreman.
    Smoke laughed and turned, continuing his walking down the street.
    Billy darted from the corral and pressed against the side of a newly erected building. “They’re all over the place, Smoke,” he called in a stage whisper. “Two of ’em up in the loft.”
    Smoke nodded his thanks and said, “Get out of here, Billy. Hunt a hole.”
    Billy took off as if the devil was howling and