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

for Slaughter.”
    Smoke and Cal and Pearlie joined Louis at his table, all three adjusting their chairs so they could watch the men at the bar.
    â€œHowdy, Louis,” Smoke said.
    â€œGood afternoon, Smoke,” Louis replied, his eyes too on the strangers.
    â€œI notice you got some new customers. Anyone I might know?”
    Louis tilted smoke out of his nostrils toward the ceiling and shook his head. “I don’t believe so. But these men are very curious about the whereabouts of our sheriff, Monte Carson. They’ve asked just about everyone who’s come in where he might be.”
    Smoke had filled Louis in on the happenings at Monte’s, and had asked him to spread the word that Monte was away on a trip, letting his deputy Jimmy cover things for him in his absence. “Did they believe the story about Monte gone fishing?”
    â€œNot for a moment.”
    Smoke leaned back in his chair and pushed his hat back on his head. “Do you think you could get Andre to fix us up some lunch? Pearlie’s about to starve to death.”
    Louis grinned for the first time since they entered. “And when is he not?”
    He motioned for the young black man who was the waiter to come to his table. “Bobby, would you ask Andre to fix three steaks, not too well done, and to fry some potatoes for Mr. Jensen and his friends?”
    â€œShore, Boss, and I’ll bring some fresh coffee right over too.”
    While waiting for their food, Smoke got to his feet. “I think I’ll mosey on over to the bar and say hello to our friends there,” he said.
    Longmont sighed. “I’ll tell Bobby to keep the mop handy. I have a feeling he’ll be having a mess to clean up before long.”
    Smoke smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes as he walked to the bar. He leaned on it next to the three men.
    Smoke, who stood a few inches over six feet in height and had shoulders as wide as an ax handle, dwarfed the men next to him. The closest turned his head and looked up at Smoke’s face.
    â€œHowdy, boys,” Smoke said, leaning his left elbow on the bar, keeping his right hand free hanging next to his pistol.
    â€œYou want somethin’, mister?” a short, dark-haired man with a scraggly mustache growled out of the side of his mouth.
    Smoke stared into the man’s eyes, his gaze as hard as flint. “I hear you’ve been asking a lot of questions about our sheriff, Monte Carson.”
    â€œWhat’s it to you, feller?” the man asked, a sneer turning up the corners of his lips.
    Smoke hesitated for a moment, then backhanded the man across the mouth, slamming his face to the side and almost taking his head off. The man spun on his heels and fell facedown on the floor, his eyes crossed and vacant as blood spurted from his flattened nose and torn lips.
    The gunny next to him reached for his gun, but before he could clear leather Smoke drew and slammed his .44 down on the man’s head, driving him to his knees with blood spurting from his forehead.
    Smoke turned the barrel of the Colt toward the third man, who was standing there with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. “I live in this town,” Smoke said in a low voice ringed with steel, “and I don’t like pond scum like you three smelling up the town.”
    Sweat appeared on the man’s forehead as he slowly moved his hand away from the butt of his pistol. “Uh . . . yes, sir,” he mumbled.
    â€œNow, I’m going to ask you once more, why are you fellows so interested in the whereabouts of Monte Carson?”
    The man on his knees glanced up, wiping blood off his face, but didn’t answer. The third man, who hadn’t moved a muscle, looked at Smoke, his eyes switching from the hole in the Colt’s barrel to Smoke’s face. “We had a message from an old friend of his, that’s all. We were just supposed to tell him hello.” His face slowly