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

the short space between himself and Kelso with two strides and took the outraged man by the front of his shirt. With seemingly no effort, he shoved the portly body back against the closed door with enough force to knock the air from the blustering Kelso.
    No, Mr. Kelso, I’m warning you. If that misbegotten piece of garbage you call your son so much as spits on the boardwalk, I’ll coldcock him with my Colt and drag him to jail. From here on, he—and you—will be on the best possible behavior. Now get out of here and let me do my job.”
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    Once Smoke saw the horses on their way, he waded into cleaning up Muddy Gap. His first target was the saloon out of which the drunken trash had come to join in tormenting the attractive young schoolteacher. Word had preceded him, Smoke discovered the moment he entered the barroom.
    â€œWell, what do we got here?” a truculent voice demanded as Smoke strode through the batwings.
    â€œLooks like somebody who don’t have any business here,” a tall, burly saddle tramp gritted. “Why don’t you jist turn around and git the hell out?”
    Smoke centered on him. His left arm extended, he shot an accusatory finger at the pugnacious thug. “I want your name. Now!”
    Grinning in anticipation of a good brawl, the lout answered. “Rafer Diggins. I’m the meanest, toughest, woolliest he-coon in these parts.”
    Blandly, Smoke told him, “I doubt that.”
    With that in the mix, Rafer Diggins let out a roar and charged Smoke Jensen.

Five
    Rafer Diggins saw himself as larger than life. A brawler since his early teens, he had never been bested since the day he walloped his brutal, drunken father and ran away from home. A man who stood a good three inches shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter would be an easy mark. Or so thought Rafer Diggins when he launched himself away from the bar.
    A laughing companion shouted encouragement. “Go git him, Rafe.”
    Rafe puffed himself up on fighting rage and deep breaths as he closed on Smoke. The brawny barroom tough cocked a ham fist back by his ear, prepared to knock the lights out of this lawdog. Grinning, Smoke Jensen waited for it.
    When the punch came, Smoke did not move his body. He jinked his head to the side, and the fist whistled past. Then he unloaded with a low, right uppercut. It buried to the wrist in the beer gut that leaned vulnerably toward him.
    Diggins had time for one groan as his eyes bulged and the air gusted out of his lungs. Then Smoke laid a hard left to the side of the bigger man’s jaw. Stars exploded before Rafe Diggins’ eyes as his feet went out from under him and he landed on his axe-handle broad rear. He did not stay there long.
    With a diminished roar, he sprang to his boots and waded in again. Methodically, Smoke worked at cleaning his clock. A right-left combination halted Rafe’s advance. His arms groped ineffectually to get his opponent in a bear hug. Failing that, Rafe threw wide, looping punches that Smoke slipped on the points of his shoulders.
    Staggered, Rafe tried a kick. Smoke caught his boot and raised it while he twisted. Pain shot up Rafe’s leg, he went off balance and toppled backward. His head made a loud noise as it struck the edge of the bar. Sighing softly, he slumped to the floor and lay with his cheek resting on the lip of a brass spittoon. Confident that it was over, Smoke turned to address the cluster of the remaining trash.
    â€œI want the rest of you out of here and out of town. You have ten minutes.”
    Before Smoke could continue, Rafe Diggins recovered faster than expected. He bounded off the floor with an enraged bellow; a glint came off a knife he held low in his right hand. Smoke saw it at once and pivoted to evade a straight thrust. Diggins had every intention to gut him like a deer.
    Trying a back slash, Diggins bore in with his deadly blade. Smoke considered the alternatives for a moment,