Creed of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2017-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

GUNS OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

1

Calvin Woods was talking to himself as he rode out to the northern section of the Sugarloaf Ranch. He and Pearlie, the foreman, had been stringing fence earlier, and Cal had forgotten to load up the extra wire and tools when it came time to head back to the ranch house. Now he was having to ride all the way back out there to pick up the tools, and was giving Pearlie first shot at the bear sign donuts Miss Sally was sure to have cooling in the kitchen.

“Darn it all, by the time I get back Pearlie’ll have ’bout near all them bear sign eaten up, Dusty,” Cal said bitterly to the back of his horse’s head. “I’ll be lucky if’n I get more’n one or two.”

Cal’s horse was the offspring of a cross between Joey Wells’s big strawberry roan named Red and one of the Palouse mares Sally had given to him and his wife a couple of years ago. The horse, called a quicksilver gray, was actually almost pure white, differing from a true white albino by having blue eyes instead of pink. The bronc was a pale gray in front with snow-white hips, without the typical Palouse spots on its hindquarters. Cal had named him Dusty, and had formed a deep bond with the animal the first time he’d ridden him.

He found the tools where he’d left them and loaded them in a burlap sack, which he tied to the back of his saddle. As he stood next to his horse, he built himself a cigarette. He figured he’d smoke it out here, since Smoke Jensen’s wife, Sally, didn’t much care for him smoking. She said he was too young, and he’d have plenty of time to smoke and drink all he wanted when he got older.

Heck, he thought, I’m old enough to smoke or drink if’n I want to. I’m dang sure old enough to string ten miles of fence ’round this here pasture an’ work ’til I’m sore all over.

As he puffed, he looked out over the herd of Hereford and shorthorn mixes. Smoke was really smart to get those Herefords from Mr. Chisum an’ breed ’em with the shorthorns last year, he thought. They sure do throw off some good lookin’ calves.

He remembered what Miss Sally had said when she proposed the crossbreeding—that the crosses would be more hardy, give more and better tasting meat, and be more resistant to disease than either of the parent breeds.

Just as he stubbed out his cigarette, he heard the sound of horses, lots of them, coming from just over a nearby ridge.

Wonder who that could be? he thought. This pasture is smack in the middle of the Sugarloaf, and there shouldn’t be nobody riding across it unless they’re up to no good.

He swung into the saddle and loosened the rawhide hammer thong on his Colt as he rode toward the ridge. Lately, he’d taken to imitating his hero, Smoke Jensen, and carried

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