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

animal snorted its irritation and flicked one iron shoe. A yellow bitch yelped and slunk off. As he passed a saloon, a loud shout attracted Smoke’s attention.
    â€œHey, let me go!” A young man stumbled out onto the street, as though propelled by eager hands.
    Following him came three scraggly ruffians who spread out across the thoroughfare. To Smoke they had the seedy look of low-grade wanna-bes. The one in the middle raised an arm and pointed in a taunting manner. “Yer wearin’ a gun, you little shit. Now yer gonna have to use it.”
    With a start, Smoke Jensen recognized the speaker as Tully Banning, a two-bit gunfighter more renowned for the number of his back shootings than he was for face-to-face shoot-outs. In the next instant, as he reined in, Smoke realized that the challenged youth could not be more than fifteen. A beardless, frightened boy. Smoke quickly sized up the two louts with Banning. What his read gave him he did not like. The boy did not have a chance. Smoke stepped right in the middle of it.
    â€œBanning! Tully Banning.”
    Banning turned only his head. “Who th’ hell wants to know?”
    â€œThat’s not important. What I want to know is why you don’t pick on someone your own age or older?”
    Banning uttered a string of curses, and concluded with, “Maybe you’d be interested in taking this punk kid’s place. If so, I’ll deal with you first, then kill Momma’s little boy anyway.”
    Smoke pulled a face. “I don’t think so. Keep your stray curs off me while I step down so I can accommodate you.”
    â€œYou’ve got that, old man.”
    Old man? Smoke never thought of himself as old. He climbed from the saddle and tied off Cougar and his packhorse, Hardy. Then he walked out to stand beside the youth who had been challenged. “Step out of the street, son. You didn’t ask for this, and there’s no reason you take any harm for it.”
    With an expression of mingled relief and frustration, the sandy-haired boy angled off the street to stand by Smoke’s horses. Then Smoke looked up at Banning. “I’m ready any time you are.”
    Tully Banning’s shoulders hunched, and his right hand twitched; but he did not go for his six-gun at once. It had been a signal, one old and familiar, to his companions. The challenged individual could be expected to focus his attention and anticipation upon the challenger. That’s the way it had worked for Tully Banning time and again. So, when the cheat and sneak made the little jerk and arrest movement, his henchmen immediately drew their revolvers.
    One small miscalculation marred their perfect ambush. Although the trio had often heard of the exploits of Smoke Jensen, none of them had ever met with him face-to-face. Now that they had, it was entirely too late. Smoke expected some sort of dirty work, so he readied himself accordingly. When all three louts drew, Banning last of all, Smoke already had their demise planned.
    Drawing with his usual blinding speed, Smoke killed the one on the left first. Then he swung past Banning in the middle to take on the right-hand gunhawk. The poor soul never had a chance. He did get off one wild shot that split the air high above the head of Smoke Jensen. Then the hammer of Smoke’s .45 Peacemaker fell, and a hot slug ripped into the ruffian’s gut. It burned a trail of agony through his liver before it ripped out a piece of his spine and tore a hole in his back. Rapidly dying, he went to his knees as Tully Banning attempted to level his six-gun.
    To his horror, Tully Banning saw the calm expression and faint smile of the man facing him an instant before flame and smoke spewed from the muzzle of the Colt and a wrenching agony exploded in his chest. Staggered, he took two feeble, uncertain steps to the right and triggered his piece. Banning’s slug kicked up dirt between the wide-spread legs of Smoke