Rage of the Mountain Man Read Online Free Page B

that housed the sheriff's office and jail.
    There, a deputy told Smoke that Monte had left for the day, and could be expected in the Silver Dollar. Monte liked his beer, as the slight rounding and thickening of his middle gave testimony. Smoke thanked the deputy and headed to the saloon anticipating their chat.
    He entered through the batwings and spotted the lawman at the bar. One elbow resting on the mahogany, Monte Carson was turned three-quarters away from the array of bottles on the backbar. His left hand held a large, bowl-like schooner, its contents lowered by half. The other wiped idly at a froth of foam on his walrus mustache. A smile lighted his face when he made out the features of Smoke Jensen.
    “Now, ain’t that a sight,” Monte brayed good-naturedly. “What brings you to town?”
    “Cabin fever,” Smoke Jensen responded, as he neared the lawman. To the apron, “Beer.”
    “Let’s sit down,” Monte invited, when the brew had been delivered.
    They took a table off to one side. Settled in, their conversation ran to small talk, until Smoke mentioned the avalanche of the previous night. Carson asked for details and got them. He shook his head wonderingly as Smoke recounted the initial downfall of winter-packed snow. He literally gaped when Smoke told of the second slide.
    When Smoke concluded, Monte asked with genuine concern, “Did you lose many horses?”
    “Only one had to be put down. Broken leg. The others in the corral got bruised up by ice chunks and a right good chill.”
    Smoke went on to tell of the intended trip and suggested the sheriff might take a swing or two up to the Sugarloaf in their absence. Monte readily agreed. Smoke had started to launch into a colorful account of how he viewed matters in the East, when five youthful drifters entered the saloon.
    They surrounded a table and glowered menacingly at the sole occupant until he rose and hastily departed. The apparent leader plunked into the vacated captain’s chair and propped his boot heels on the scarred, water-ringed tabletop. The over-sharp rowels of his spurs punched deep gouges.
    “Get yer ass over here and bring us a bottle,” he growled in the general direction of the bartender.
    Smoke and Monte exchanged meaning-loaded glances and the ex-gunfighter put their mutual understanding into words. “Looks like you’ve inherited someone else’s troubles.”
Three
    Monte Carson looked again at the five loud-mouthed punks. “I’d say we had a problem.”
    “Where do you get that ‘we,’ Monte? You have a chipmunk in your pocket?”
    Monte didn’t even blink. “You’re here, you’re packin’ iron, and it’s too far for me to go get a deputy.”
    Smoke Jensen gave a mock sigh. “You’re slowing down in your old age, Monte?”
    “I’m not that much older than you, Smoke.”
    “Hey, what’d you old farts come in here for, to take a nap?” another of the rowdies asked the usual throng of regular customers.
    Wisely, the locals refrained from answer and tried to ignore the quintet so obviously on the prod. It did them little good as two of the testy drifters came to their boots and swaggered toward the bar.
    “What’s keepin’ our whiskey, you bag of guts?” he demanded.
    Tortoise-like, Opie Quinn’s head appeared to pop down into the protection of his rising shoulders. Without a word, he pointed to a big, bold sign that read,
    We Reserve the Right
          to Refuse Service
            to Anyone
    “What? You think yer too good to serve us? Y’all think yer too good to drink with us? Waall, jist who do you think that is, sittin’ over there? That’s Red Tyrell. That’s right, Red Tyrell , the man who gunned down three Texas Rangers in a fair fight, an’ all at once.”
    Softly, from a table a dozen feet from Smoke and Monte, came a one-word appraisal of that astounding piece of information: “Bullshit.”
    At once, the punk at the bar whirled in their direction. “You lookin’ for an early trip to the