Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone Page B

mountains.”
    Smoke needed little effort to sound stern. “Not another word, young man.”
    Sally got right to the most painful item. “When?”
    “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
    Tears swam in Sally’s eyes as she cleared the table, and she brushed them away angrily. He was her man and he would do what he thought best. Though if he would listen to anyone, it was she. Sally tried to use that power sparingly. His feelings hurt, Bobby excused himself early to go to the bunkhouse.
    That night, laying in bed, Smoke reached out and tenderly took Sally in his arms. She came eagerly and they had a long, tender, passionate parting. The one in the morning would be a facade, a formality for the hands who would witness it.
     
     
    Pale gray hovered over the eastern ridge as Smoke Jensen came from the kitchen door and took up the reins to his pack horse and Thunder and turned back to the open doorway. Sally hesitated only a second, then lifted her skirt and apron and ran to his embrace. He held her tightly and she did a remarkable job of holding back the tears.
    Stuff and nonsense, she thought angrily as she felt the burning behind closed lids. She had seen her man off to danger a hundred times before and not acted so childishly. She pulled back and they kissed hungrily.
    “You take care of yourself, Smoke Jensen.”
    “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to do that,” Smoke said with wry humor.
    They kissed again and Smoke swung into the saddle. He looked around, wondering why Bobby had not come out to see him off. With a light-hearted wave he parted from his wife and set out down the lane to the main gate of the Sugarloaf. As he neared it, he saw a forlorn figure waiting for him there.
    Bobby did not argue or even plead. His looks said it all. His throat worked to fight back the lump, his big, blue eyes pooled with tears. He worked lids rapidly to fight them back, determined not to shed them in a shameful display. After all, if he was going to prove he was big enough to go with Smoke, he had to be too old to cry like a baby. Hope died hard in the breast of a thirteen-year-old. It crashed suddenly and swiftly for Bobby when he heard Smoke’s soft, sincere words.
    “No, Bobby, you still can’t go. I’ll see you when this is over.”
    Bobby had to force the words past the thickness in his throat. The effort caused his hat to fall from his head and hang by its string. “Wh-When will that be, Smoke?”
    “Only the Almighty knows that, son.”
    “Then don’t go, Smoke. Please don’t go.”
    Smoke Jensen shook his head at the intensity of the boy’s concern. “I have to, Bobby, there is really no other choice. Some day, something will happen in your life and you’ll know for yourself. Now, goodbye.”
    Fear clutched Bobby’s heart. “No. Don’t say that. Just say so long.”
    Smoke reached out and ruffled Bobby’s snowy hair. “All right. So long, pardner.”
    Then he turned Thunder’s head and rode off to the north.

5
     
    Smoke Jensen no sooner got out of the basin that sheltered the Sugarloaf than he discovered that the word had gotten out on the owl hoot telegraph. It came at him in the form of two proddy young gunhands who trotted along the trail toward him. They reined in and touched fingertips to hat brims by way of greeting. Then, the one on the right who had carroty hair and buckteeth below pale green eyes the color of arctic ice, spoke with the over-confident sneer of youth.
    “You familiar with these parts, old-timer?”
    Old-timer? Although there was a touch of gray in his hair, Smoke hardly thought of himself as an old-timer. It brought forth a testy response from him.
    “I might be, depends on who’s askin’, sonny-boy.”
    Chill eyes flashing, the punk leaned toward Smoke in a threatening manner. “I’m askin’, old man, and you’d best be answerin’, hear?”
    There was that word again. Damn! “What is it you’d like to know?”
    “We were wonderin’ if you might know where we