Trail of the Mountain Man Read Online Free

doors. Stepping to one side, giving his eyes time to adjust to the murky interior of the saloon, Smoke sized up the crowd.
    The place was filled with ranchers and punchers. Some of those present were friends and friendly with Smoke. Others were sworn to the side of Tilden Franklin. Smoke walked to the end of the bar.
    Smoke was dressed in black pants, red and white checkered shirt, and a low crowned hat. Behind his left-hand Colt, he carried a long-bladed Bowie knife. He laid a coin on the bar and ordered a beer.
    The place had grown very quiet.
    Normally not a drinking man, Smoke did occasionally enjoy a drink of whiskey or a beer. On this day, he simply wanted to check out the mood of the people.
    He nodded at a couple of ranchers. They returned the silent greeting. Smoke sipped his beer.
    Across the room, seated around a poker table, were half a dozen of Tilden’s men. They had ceased their game and now sat staring at Smoke. None of those present had ever seen the young man go armed before — other than carrying a rifle in his saddle boot.
    The outside din was softened somewhat, but still managed to push through the walls of the saloon.
    â€œBig doings around the area,” Smoke said to no one in particular.
    One of Tilden’s men laughed.
    Smoke looked at the man; he knew him only as Red. Red fancied himself a gunhand. Smoke knew the man had killed a drunken Mexican some years back, and had ridden the hoot-owl trail on more than one occasion. But Smoke doubted the man was as fast with a gun as he imagined.
    â€œPrivate joke?” Smoke asked.
    â€œYeah,” Red said. “And the joke is standin’ at the bar, drinkin’ a beer.”
    Smoke smiled and looked at a rancher. “Must be talking about you, Jackson.”
    Jackson flushed and shook his head. A Tilden man all the way, Jackson did all he could to stay out of the way of Tilden’s ire.
    â€œOh?” Smoke said, lifting his beer mug with his left hand. “Well, then. Maybe Red’s talking about you, Beaconfield.”
    Another Tilden man who shook in his boots at the mere mention of Tilden’s name.
    Beaconfield shook his head.
    â€œI’m talkin’ to you, Two-Gun!” Red shouted at Smoke.
    Left and right of Smoke, the bar area quickly cleared of men.
    â€œYou’d better be real sure, Red,” Smoke said softly, his words carrying through the silent saloon. “And very good.”
    â€œWhat the hell’s that supposed to mean, nester?” Red almost yelled the question.
    â€œIt means, Red, that I didn’t come in here hunting trouble. But if it comes my way, I’ll handle it.”
    â€œYou got a big mouth, nester.”
    â€œBack off, Matt!” a friendly rancher said hoarsely. “He’ll kill you!”
    Smoke’s only reply was a small smile. It did not touch his eyes.
    Smoke had slipped the hammer thong off his right-hand Colt before stepping into the saloon. He placed his beer mug on the bar and slowly turned to face Red.
    Red stood up.
    Smoke slipped the hammer thong off his left-hand gun. So confident were Red’s friends that they did not move from the table.
    â€œI’m saying it now,” Smoke said. “And those of you still left alive when the smoke clears can take it back to Tilden. The Sugarloaf belongs to me. I’ll kill any Circle TF rider I find on my land. Your boss has made his boast that he’ll run me off my land. He’s said he’ll take my wife. Those words alone give me justification to kill him. But he won’t face me alone. He’ll send his riders to do the job. So if any of you have a mind to open the dance, let’s strike up the band, boys.”
    Red jerked out his pistol. Smoke let him clear leather before he drew his right-hand Colt. He drew, cocked, and fired in one blindingly fast motion. The .44 slug hit Red Square between his eyes and blew out the back of his head, the force of the .44 slug slamming the