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

their pant legs sparkled even in the low light.
    When they stepped outside, Garth strained to hear over the low rumble of conversation and laughter the challenge he expected. It came a moment later in an angry growl from Norm Oppler.
    â€œHey, watch where you’re goin’, greaser.”
    * * *
    Smoke Jensen walked Cougar and Hardy down the broad eastern avenue that led to the Plaza de Armas in the center of Taos. Palo verde trees had been planted in circular basins all along the residential section. Their pale, wispy, smokey green leaves fluttered in a light breeze, like the fine hair of a young woman. Most houses sat well back from the Spanish tile sidewalks, presenting high, blank walls to the passersby. Some had built-in niches where flowers had been planted or religious figures installed. Red tile roofs peeked over the blue and green shards of broken bottles plastered into the tops of these ramparts. The last block before the central square had been overtaken by shops, restaurants and cantinas. Smoke reached the midpoint when a harsh voice called out insultingly.
    â€œHey, watch where you’re goin’, greaser.”
    A handsome, light-complexioned young man of Spanish/ Mexican descent took a step back and spoke soft words of apology. Then the import of the insult sank in. His eyes narrowed, and his full lips twisted in offense. “What did you call me?”
    â€œI called you a bean-slurpin’, chile-chompin’ greaser.”
    Smoke Jensen reined in to watch the exchange. The youth had a familiar appearance, though Smoke could not place a name with the face. Both men were armed, though the well-dressed Spanish youth chose to use his hands. With a suddenness that spoke well of his ability, he swung a balled fist that smashed into the jaw of the loud-mouthed saddle trash with enough force to knock him off his boots.
    He hit the tile walk with a flat smack. At once the youth stepped over him. “I’ll accept your apology for that insult and there will be no harm done.”
    â€œLike hell you will!” shouted the thug as he whipped out his six-gun and fired point-blank into the young man’s belly.
    At once the other Anglo cleared leather. His bullet cut a searing path across the small of Pablo’s back. Smoke Jensen had time only for a hasty shout before his own hand filled with a .45 Colt. “Don’t!”
    Three dark-complexioned vaqueros with the youth only then reacted, spreading apart with shock and surprise on their faces. One drew a knife. The Colt in the hand of the seated hard case roared again. He missed his attempt to shoot the knife wielder through the chest. His slug bit flesh out of the vaquero’s side.
    â€œDrop the guns, both of you,” Smoke demanded.
    When the Anglo opponents refused to comply, Smoke tripped the trigger of his Peacemaker and shot the seated one through the shoulder, breaking his scapula. The smoking revolver in his hand flew from his grasp. His companion spun on one boot heel to face Smoke Jensen. He raised his six-gun to shoulder height and took aim as Smoke cocked and fired his .45 a second time. His bullet took the gunman in the center of his chest. Behind Smoke, Hardy whinnied in irritation. Shouts came from inside the saloon. The man Smoke had shot looked down at his chest with a dumb expression of disbelief as he staggered forward. Slowly he released his grip on his weapon. The revolver thudded in the dirt of the street a moment before the body of the dead assailant.
    By then, the wounded one seated on the tile walk had recovered his Colt and threw a shot at Smoke that cracked past the head of the last mountain man to bury itself deep in an adobe wall across the street. Without a flinch, Smoke returned fire. Hot lead punched a neat hole in the upper lip of the shooter, exposing crooked, yellowed teeth. He went over backward and twitched violently for a few seconds.
    During that time, the three vaqueros recovered their