Return of the Mountain Man

7

“You have an odd look in your eyes, Buck,” Sally said.

“I never have gotten used to being snubbed, I suppose. But I suppose I should have, by now. But to be snubbed by a common whore irritates me.”

“She may be a whore, but she isn’t common,” Sally corrected that. “I’m told she speaks three languages very fluently; her home is the showcase of the state; and her carriage was built and brought over from France.”

“Oh?” Now where in the devil did Janey learn three languages? he thought. She quit school in the eighth grade.

“Here she comes now,” Sally said.

It was a grand carriage, all right. The coachman was a black man, all gussied up in a military-looking outfit. Four tough-looking riders accompanied the carriage. Two to the front, two to the back.

As the carriage passed, Buck removed his hat and bowed gallantly.

Even from the boardwalk, Sally could see the woman in the carriage flush with anger and jerk her head to the front. Sally suppressed a giggle.

“Oh, you made her mad, Buck.”

“She’ll get over it, I reckon.” Buck remembered the time, back before the war, when he had rocked the family outhouse—with his sister in it. She’d chased him all over the farm, throwing rocks at him.

“That funny look is back in your eyes, Buck. What are you thinking?”

“My own sister,” he said.

“Does Jane remind you of her?”

“Not really. I haven’t seen the sister I remember in a long time. I’ll probably never see that girl again.”

Sally touched his arm. “Oh, Buck. Why do you say that?”

“There is nothing to return to, Sally. Everything and everyone is gone.”

He took her elbow and they began to walk toward the edge of town. They had not gone half a block before the sounds of hooves drumming on the hard-packed dirt came to them. Two of the bodyguards that had been with Jane reined up in the street, turning their horses to face Buck and Sally.

Buck gently but firmly pushed Sally to one side. “Stand clear,” he said in a low voice. “Trouble ahead.”

“What—?” she managed to say before one of Richards’s gunhands cut her off.

“You run on home now, schoolmarm. This here might git messy.”

Sally stuck her chin out. “I will stand right here on this boardwalk until the soles of my shoes grow roots before I’ll take orders from you, you misbegotten cretin!”

Buck grinned at her. Now this lady had some sand to her.

“What the hell did she call me?” the cowboy said to his friend.

“Durned if I know.”

The cowboy swung his eyes back to Buck. “You insulted Miss Janey, boy. She’s madder than a tree full of hornets. You got fifteen minutes to git your gear and git gone.”

“I think I’ll stay,” Buck said. He had thumbed the thongs off his .44s after pushing Sally to one side.

“Boy,” the older and uglier of the bodyguards said, “do you know who I am?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Buck replied.

“Name’s Dickerson, from over Colorado way. That ring a bell in your head?”

It did, but Buck didn’t let it show. Dickerson was a top gun. No doubt about that. Not only was he mean, he was cat quick with a pistol. “Nope. Sorry.”

“And this here,” Dickerson jerked a thumb, “is Russell.”

Buck hadn’t heard of Russell, but he figured if the guy rode with Dickerson, he’d be good. “Pleased to meet you,” Buck said politely.

Dickerson gave Buck an exasperated look. “Boy, are you stupid or tryin’ to be smart-mouthed?”

“Neither one. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to continue my stroll with Miss Reynolds.”

Both Dickerson and Russell dismounted, ground-reining their ponies. “Only place you goin’ is carried to Boot Hill, boy.”

Several citizens had gathered around to watch the fun, including one young cowhand with a weather-beaten face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Stand clear,” Buck told the crowd.

The gathering crowd backed up and out of the line of impending fire. They hoped.

“I’ve bothered no one,” Buck said to the crowd, without taking his eyes from the two gunhands facing him. “And I’m not looking for a fight. But if I’m pushed, I’ll fight. I just wanted that made public.”

“Git on your hoss and ride, boy!” Russell said. “And do it right now.”

“I’m staying.”

“You a damn fool, boy!” Dickerson said. “But if you want a lead supper, that’s up to you.”

“Lead might fly in both directions,” Buck said calmly. “Were I you, I’d think about that.”

Some odd light flickered quickly through Dickerson’s eyes. He wasn’t used to being sassed or disobeyed. But damn this boy’s eyes, he didn’t seem to be worried at all. Who in the devil was they up against?

“That’s Buck West, Dickerson,” the young cowboy with the beat-up face said.

“That don’t spell road apples to me,” Russell said. He glared at Buck. “Move, tinhorn, or the undertaker’s gonna be divvyin’ up your pocket money.”

“I like it here,” Buck said.

“Then draw, damn you!” Dickerson shouted. He went for his gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Russell grab for his .45.

Buck’s hands swept down and up with the speed of an angry striking snake. His matched .44s roared and belched smoke and flame. The ground-reined horses snorted and reared at the noise. Dickerson and Russell lay on the dusty street. Both were badly wounded. The guns of the PSR men lay beside them in the dirt. Neither had had time to cock and fire.

“Jumpin’ jackrabbits!” the young cowboy said. “I never seen nothin’ like that in my life.”

Buck calmly punched out the spent brass and dropped the empties to the dirt. He reloaded and holstered his .44s, leaving the hammer thongs off.

Sheriff Dan Reese and Deputy Rogers came at a run up the wide street. Many townspeople had gathered on the boardwalks to crane their necks.

“Drop those damn guns, West!” Reese yelled before arriving at the scene. “You’re under arrest.”

“I’d like to know why.” Sally said, stepping up to stand beside Buck. Her face was very pale. She pointed to Dickerson and Russell. “Those hooligans started it. They ordered Mr. West to leave town. When he refused, they threatened to kill him. They drew first. And I’ll swear to that in a court of law.”

“She’s right, Sheriff,” the young cowhand said.

Reese gave the cowboy an ugly look. “Which side are you on, Sam?”

“The side of right, Sheriff.”

Dickerson cried out in pain. The front of his shirt was covered with blood. The .44 slug had hit him squarely in the chest, ricocheted off the breast bone, and exited out the top of his shoulder, tearing a great jagged hole as it spun away.

Russell was hardest hit. Buck’s .44 had struck him in the stomach and torn out his lower back. The gunhand was not long for this world and everybody looking at him knew it.

“Any charges, Sheriff?” Buck asked, his voice steady and low.

There was open dislike in Reese’s eyes as he glared at Buck. He stepped closer. “You’re trouble, West. And you and me both know it. I hope you crowd me, gunfighter. ’Cause when you do, I’ll kill you!”

“You’ll try,” Buck replied in the same low tone.

Reese flushed. He stepped back. “No charges, West. It was a fair fight.”

Russell groaned, blood leaking from his mouth. He jerked once on the dirt and died.

“Have his full name recorded,” Buck said, playing the part of the hard hunter. “There might be a reward on him.”

“You’re a sorry son of a you-know-what,” Reese said. “Ain’t you got no feelin’s at all?”

“Only for those who deserve it,” Buck said. He turned and took Sally’s elbow. “Shall we continue?”

As the tall young gunfighter and the pretty lady strolled off, the young cowpuncher named Sam looked at them. He thought he knew who the gunfighter was, and his name wasn’t Buck West. But Sam thought he’d keep that information to himself for a time. Might come in handy.

“Your first gunfight?” Buck asked as they walked.

“Yes. And I hope my last.”

“It won’t be. Not if you continue living out here. It’s a big, wild, raw country still. The laws are simple and straight to the point. Justice comes down hard. Out here, a man’s word is his bond. That’s the way it should be everywhere. Tinhorns and shysters and crooks don’t last long in the west.”

“And you, Buck?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you last long out here?”

“No way I can answer that. I hung up my guns once. Thought I would never put them on again. It didn’t work out. Maybe I can walk away from it one more time. I don’t know. Worth a try, I guess.”

They paused at Sally’s front gate. “Would you like to have supper with me this evening?” Buck asked. “At the hotel dining room?”

“You’re awfully young to have already retired once from gunfighting.”

“Some of us had to start young, Sally.”

“Yes, I suppose. It’s an interesting land, your wild west. I’ll be ready at six. Good afternoon, Mr. Buck West.” She smiled. “Or whatever your name is.”

Jane looked out the window of her bedroom. Ever since she had seen the arrogant young man she had struggled to recall where she’d seen him before. She knew she had. But where? She just could not remember. And now the startling news that the young man had bested Russell and Dickerson in a stand-up gunfight.

Incredible.

She sighed and turned away from the window that overlooked the northern vastness of the PSR ranchlands. She had time for a bath before Stratton and Richards and wives came out for their monthly business and dinner meeting.

The face of the tall gunslick remained in her mind. His name would come to her in time.

Sheriff Dan Reese had gone through all his dodgers twice, looking for anyone who resembled Buck West. Nothing. But anybody that fast and sure had to have a backtrail. Trick was in finding it. Russell and Dickerson were both hard men. Or had been. And they both had been almighty quick. Yet this Buck West had handled them as easily as children. Just blew in out of nowhere. Probably came from Texas, way down on the border.

Sheriff Reese stood up and stretched. One thing for certain, he thought: Buck West was trouble. Best way to handle him was to get him on the PSR payroll. He’d talk to Richards about it. First thing this evening.

He glanced up at the clock. Had to shave and bathe now, though. Get out to PSR headquarters.

The dozen old mountain men made their camp about ten miles south of the town of Bury, in the timber of the Lemhi Range. As soon as they were set up, Preacher changed ponies and headed east, toward the Continental Divide and the Bitterroot Range. At first light, Dupre was to head into Bury for a look-see. Pick up some bacon and beans and coffee and salt and keep his ear open.

“Better wash them jug-handle things first,” Beartooth told him. “Probably git five pounds of dirt out of ’um.”

“I’d talk,” Dupre retorted. “Last time you took a bath it killed the fish for five miles downstream.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.