Return Of The Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone
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tightened cinches and was heading out. He found where the war party had ridden south, so he swung Drifter’s head and pointed his nose north, toward the muddy, brawling town of Challis, located just to the northwest of the Salmon River. Buck would hang around Challis for a few days, listening to the miners talk and attempting to get the feel of what the townspeople thought of Bury, some thirty-five miles north and slightly east.
Challis was one short business street, more saloons than anything else, with tents and shacks and a few permanent-looking homes to the north. Most of the shacks appeared to have been tossed in their location by some giant crap-shooter.
Buck stabled his horses—he wasn’t worried about anyone stealing Drifter, for the stallion would kill anyone who entered his stall—and taking his Henry repeating rifle, a change of clothing, and his saddlebags, Buck walked toward the town’s hotel.
After checking in, Buck went to a barber shop and took a hot bath, a young Chinese man keeping the water hot with additional buckets of water. After Buck had soaped off the weeks of dirt and fleas, he dressed in dark trousers, white shirt, and vest. He left his boots to be shined and settled in the barber chair.
“Short,” he told the barber. “And trim my beard.”
“Passin’ through?” the barber asked.
“Could be. Mostly just drifting.”
The barber had noted Buck’s tied-down guns. Being an observant man, and one raised on the frontier, he knew a fast gun when he saw one. And this man sitting in his chair was a gunhand, and no tinhorn. The butts of his .44s were worn smooth from handling, with no marks in the wood to signify kills. Only a tinhorn did that, and tinhorns didn’t last long in the west.
But there was something else about this young man. Confidence. That was it. And a cold air about him. Not unfriendly, just cold.
“If it’s silver you’re huntin’”—he knew it wasn’t—“big strike north and east of here. Close to the Lemhi River.”
“Not for me,” Buck told him. “Too much work involved in that.”
“Uh-huh. You be handy with them .44s?”
“Some folks say that.”
“You head north from here, follow the Salmon until the river cuts through the Lemhi range, then head east. You’ll come up on the town of Bury.”
“Hell of a name for a town.”
“It’s right proper, considerin’ the size of their boot hill. You’ll see.”
“Why would I want to go to someplace called Bury?”
“Maybe you don’t. Then again, you might find work up there.”
“Might do that. How’s the law in this town?” Buck set the stage with that question.
“Tough when they have to be. Long as it’s a fair fight, they won’t bother you.”
“I never shot no one in the back,” Buck replied, putting it just a bit testily.
“You don’t have that look about you, that’s for sure.” The barber’s voice was very bland.
“Where’s the best place to eat?”
“Marie’s. Just up the street. Beef and beans and apple pie. Good portions, too. Reasonable.”
They weren’t just good portions; they were huge. The food simple but well-prepared. The apple pie was delicious. Buck pushed the empty plate away and settled back, leaning back in his chair, his back to a wall. He lingered over a third cup of coffee and watched the activity in the street through the window.
He was waiting for the marshal or sheriff to make his appearance. It didn’t take long.
The town marshal entered the cafe, a deputy behind him. The deputy held a sawed-off double-barrel twelve-gauge express gun in his hands. And it appeared he had used it before.
The marshal was not a man to back up or mince words. He sat down at Buck’s table, facing him, and ordered a cup of coffee. He stared at Buck.
Buck returned the stare.
“Passin’ through?” the marshal asked.
“Might stay two or three days. I’m in no big hurry to get anywhere.”
“You got a name?”
Buck smiled. “I’m not wanted.”
“That don’t answer my question.”
“Buck West.” Buck then placed the man. Dooley. He’d been a lawman over in Colorado for years. A straight, no-nonsense lawman. But a fair one.
Dooley pointed up the street. “Them houses with paint on them beginning at the end of the street is off-boundaries for drifters. Decent folks live there. The dosshouses is on the other end of the street.” He pointed. “Thataway.” He jerked his thumb. “The road out of town is thataway. Feel free to take it as soon as possible.”
“I don’t intend to cause you or your men any trouble, Marshal,” Buck said softly.
“But you will,” the marshal replied just as softly. “You just got that air about you.”
“You’re a very suspicious man, Marshal.”
“Goes with the job, son.” The marshal drained his coffee cup, stood up, and started to leave. He looked once more at Buck. “You sure look familiar, mister.”
“I just have a friendly face,” Buck said solemnly.
“Yeah,” the marshal said drily. “I’m sure that’s it.”
4
As he stood facing the two men in the saloon, it occurred to Buck that perhaps the marshal just might have been right. Buck had entered the saloon, ordered a beer, and had nursed it for about fifteen minutes before the cowboy with a loud and arrogant mouth had begun needling him.
“You gonna drink that beer or stand there and look at it with your face hangin’ out?”
Buck ignored him.
“Boy, you better talk to me!” the cowhand said.
“I intend to drink this beer,” Buck said, “in my own good time. Not that it’s any of your business.”
The cowboy took a step backward, a puzzled look on his face. Buck knew the type. He was big and broad and solid with muscle. And he was used to getting his way.
He had been a bully all his life. He belittled anything he was too stupid to comprehend—which was nearly everything.
“That’s Harry Carson, stranger,” the barkeep whispered.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Buck said, not bothering to keep his voice to a whisper.
“And his buddy is Wade Phillips,” the barkeep plunged ahead.
“I wonder if either one of them can spell ‘unimpressed,’” Buck said. He felt the old familiar rage fill him. He had never been able to tolerate bullies; not even as a boy back in Missouri.
The deputy who had been with Marshal Dooley earlier that day leaned against the bar, silently watching the show unfold before him. Carson and Phillips were both loud-mouthed troublemakers. But he felt he had pegged this tall young man right. If he was correct in his assumption, Carson and Phillips would never pick another fight after this night.
The deputy slipped out of the line of possible gunfire and sipped his beer.
“What’d you say, buddy?” Carson stuck his chin out belligerently.
Buck fought back his anger. “Go on, Carson. Back off, drink your drink, and leave me be.”
“You got a smart mouth, buddy.” Phillips stuck his ugly, broad-nosed and