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

then acted as common sense dictated. Quickly he scooped up the leg of a chair broken in the fight. When Diggins lunged again, Smoke brought it down on his right forearm. Bones cracked and Diggins howled in pain. The knife fell from his grasp. At once the experienced brawler went for his six-gun left-handed.
    He barely had the barrel clear of leather when Smoke Jensen shot him in the shoulder. Jolted back, Diggins rammed his back into the bar. He stiffened, then sagged in defeat. Smoke reached him in four quick strides. Roughly he slammed the man around and searched him for more hide-out weapons. Then he began to frog-march Diggins out the door and off to jail.
    Grumbling, the other frontier debris followed after. Out in the street, Rafe Diggins roused enough to overcome his pain and make one more try. From a leather pouch suspended by a cord down his back, he snatched a straight razor and snapped it open as he made a vicious slash at Smoke Jensen’s throat.
    Smoke did not even hesitate. The big .45 Colt Peacemaker filled his right hand, and his fingertip lightly tripped the trigger. Rafe Diggins jolted to a stop and looked down disbelievingly at the black hole in the center of his chest that began to leak red. His uninjured arm dropped to his side, and the razor fell from his numb grasp. His face went slack. Slowly he canted forward and began to fall. He landed on his face with a thud, in a viscous puddle of mud. Smoke Jensen stepped over and looked down coldly at the dead man, whose head was a welter of shattered gore. Then he turned his attention to the thoroughly cowed collection of rogues.
    â€œLike I said, I’m posting you out of town. After ten minutes, if any of you are still here, I’ll come after you. And, I’m warning you, I will shoot to kill.”
    In a mad scramble, they left in all directions, like a flock of pigeons with a fox in the barn.
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    Word of Smoke’s accomplishment spread rapidly around town. Aaron Tucker, the owner and daytime bartender at the Sorry Place saloon rushed outside when Smoke passed by to wring his hand and offer praise.
    â€œLet me tell you, Sheriff Jensen, you’re doin’ a marvelous job. There was some shanty trash hanging around my place. Nothing I did could get rid of them. When they heard of what happened at the Gold Boot, they cleared out without a word.
    â€œWell—ah—thank you.”
    â€œI’m Aaron Tucker. I own this place. Anything you want, any time you come in, it’s on the house.”
    â€œThat’s not necessary, Mr. Tucker.”
    â€œNo. I know that. That’s why I’m offering it.”
    â€œThank you again.”
    When he completed his rounds, Smoke returned to the office to find another form of gratitude. A small rectangle of cream-colored note paper lay on his desk. He opened it and read the contents.
    â€œDear Sheriff Jensen,” it read. “I fear that I failed terribly in expressing my gratitude for my rescue at your hand. Violence upsets me, and I had recently been subjected to such shocking indignities, that I quite forgot myself. Please let me make it up to you with an invitation to a late supper this evening. I will expect you at eight o’clock, if that is suitable.” The invitation had been signed simply, “Virginia Parkins.”
    Smoke Jensen puckered his lips as he put the note aside. It would appear the schoolteacher knew her manners after all. What’s more, he had always been a sucker for a home-cooked meal. Especially one prepared by such an attractive young woman. Yes, he would enjoy their supper. Images of his Sally, so far away, clouded his anticipation. Smoke looked up to see a small, freckle-faced boy standing expectantly in the open doorway.
    His name, Smoke had learned, was Jimmy. He had come by earlier and informed Smoke that he had done odd jobs for the late sheriff. “Like sweep up when the deputies were out on a posse,” he had