“Don’t know. Didn’t hang around to see. Law might ask him to leave. But if that there boy gits his back up, there ain’t nobody gonna run him nowheres.”
“Wal, les’ us just sorta amble on toward the northeast,” Preacher said. “If I know Smoke—and I do, I raised him—he’ll take his time gettin’ to Bury. He’ll lay back in the timber for a day ’er so and look the situation over. We’ll cross the Lost River Range, head acrost the flats, and turn north, make camp in the narrows south of Bury. I know me some Flatheads live just west of Bitterroot. Once we set up camp, I’ll take me a ride over to the Divide, palaver some with ’em. They’ll be our eyes and ears. That sound all right to you boys?”
“Quite inventive,” Audie said.
“Ummm,” Nighthawk grunted.
Buck crossed the Salmon to the east bank and began following the river north. He stayed on the fringe of the timber that made up the northern edge of the Lemhi Range. He would follow the river for about thirty-five miles before cutting to the east for about ten miles. That should put him on the outskirts of Bury. Once there, he would make camp south of the town and look it over.
The dozen mountain men, with about six hundred years of survival and fighting experience between them, were riding hard just south of Challis. With their rifles held across the saddle-horns, their fringed buckskins and animal-hide caps and brightly colored shirts and jackets and sashes, the last of the mountain men were returning for one more fight. They were riding hard to help—if he needed it—the youngest mountain man. One of their own. A young man who had chosen the lonely call of the wilderness as home. A young man who preferred the high lonesome over the towns and cities. A young man they had taken under their wing and helped to raise, imparting to him the wisdom of the wilderness, hopefully perpetuating a way of life that so-called civilized people now sneered at and rejected. This gathering, this aging motley crew, knew they were the last—the very last—of a select breed of men. After this ride, never again would so many gather. But hopefully, just maybe, their young protege would live on, known for the rest of his life, as the last mountain man.
6
The town of Bury, with a population of about five hundred, sat on a road first roughed out by Mormon settlers in the mid-1850s. Bury had a bank, probably the best school in that part of the country—a large, two-story building—a large mercantile store, a weekly newspaper, several saloons, several cafes, a large hotel, a sheriff, several deputies, a jail, a leather shop, and several other businesses, including a whorehouse located discreetly outside of town. The town also boasted several churches. A handful of ranches lay around the town, and a lot of producing mines as well.
And nearly all of it was owned by three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.
Bury also had a volunteer fire department. They were going to need a fire department before Buck was through.
The business district of Bury was three blocks long, on both sides of the wide street. It was down that street that Buck rode at midmorning. He had camped some miles from the town, watching the one road for two days. A stagecoach rolled in every other day. Wagons bringing supplies rolled by. Peddlers and tinkers and snake-oil salesmen rattled past.
Booming little town, Buck thought. For a while longer, that is.
The first thing Buck noticed in his slow ride up the street was the number of gunhands lounging about on the boardwalk, and not just in front of the saloons. A couple always seemed to be in front of the bank, as well. Buck guessed there had been some attempts to hold up the place. Or perhaps the Big Three were just cautious men.
He located the livery stable and arranged a stall for Drifter, warning the stable boy not to enter Drifter’s stall.
“He’s got a mean eye for sure,” the boy said, eyeballing the stallion.
“He killed one man,” Buck said, knowing that tale would soon spread throughout the small town.
The boy solemnly nodded his head.
Buck handed the boy a five-dollar gold piece. “Just between you and me, now. Make certain he gets an extra ration of grain.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Both Drifter and the packhorse, now.”
“Yes, sir!”
Taking his personal gear and his rifle, Buck stashed the rest of his gear in Drifter’s stall. He walked toward the hotel. As he walked, he passed by a very pretty, dark-haired, hazel-eyed young woman. He smiled at her and she blushed. Buck paused and watched her walk on toward the edge of town. Buck crossed the street to better watch her and saw her push open the gate on a small picket fence and walk up onto the porch of a small house. She disappeared from view.
“Nice,” he muttered.
“Sure is,” a voice came from behind him.
Buck slowly turned around to face the sheriff and one of his deputies. Neither one of them would win any prizes for good looks.
“Sheriff Reese. This is Rogers, one of my deputies. I don’t know you.”
That’s good, Buck thought. But you will, Sheriff. You will. “Buck West.”
“Ahh,” Reese said. “Now I know you. The gunhand.”
“Some say I am.”
“Going to be in town long?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how fast I get rested up, resupplied, and find out more about this Smoke Jensen and how I go about collecting the reward money.”
Reese smiled. “First you have to catch him, hombre.”
“I’ll catch him,” Buck said, without changing expression.
Reese stared at the young man. Something about this tall young man was just slightly unsettling. Even for a man like Dan Reese, who had worked on both sides of the law nearly all his life. Reese had worked the hoot-owl trails many times, in several states, ducking and dodging the law that sought him.
Beside him, Rogers stood and glared at Buck, forming an instant dislike for the young man. Rogers was big and solid, including that space between his ears. He was not just dumb; he was stupid. And very dangerous. He had killed more times than he could remember—with fists, guns, knife, or club.
“You stay away from Sally Reynolds,” Rogers said. “I got my eyes on her. ’Sides, she likes me.”
Buck cut his eyes to the deputy. He doubted that even Rogers’s own mother liked him very much. Sally Reynolds. He wondered what the pretty lady did in Bury? “Sally Reynolds is one of our schoolteachers,” Reese said. “She wouldn’t want notin’ to do with no damned bounty hunter like you, West.”
“Uh-huh,” Buck said. “You’re probably right, Sheriff. Anything else I need to know about Bury and its citizens?”
Reese got the accurate impression that he had just been dismissed by Buck. The feeling irritated him. “Jist stay out of trouble.”
Buck turned his back to the men and walked on up the boardwalk, toward the hotel.
“I don’t lak him,” Rogers said. “I think I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t like him either. But you don’t do nothin’ ’til you’re told to do it. You understand that, Rogers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s find out what Stratton thinks about this West.”
“What’s your impression of him?” Stratton asked.
Reese hesitated, then leveled with one of his three bosses. He didn’t much care for Buck West, but he knew better than to play the game any way other than straight. “I think he’s who he says he is. And I think the rumors are right. He’s one hell of a gunfighter.”
“Keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Buck checked into the hotel, a very nice one for a town so far away from the beaten path, and stowed his gear. He bathed, took a shave, and dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and black string tie, polished boots. He checked and cleaned his .44s, and belted them around his waist, tying down the low-riding holsters.