Ordeal of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

way up when an invisible fist slammed into his stomach. He started to double over in reflex, only to be straightened up by another enormous pain in his chest. He wound up on his back, staring up at Smoke Jensen, who held his Peacemaker in a steady, level grasp.
    Quint Cress used the last of his dying breath to ask his most pressing questions. “Wh-what are you, Jensen? Who are you?”
    A tiny mocking smile lifted the corners of Smoke Jensen’s mouth. “Some people have called me the gunfighters’ gunfighter.”
    And then, Quint Cress heard and saw only blackness.
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    Early that same morning Reno Jim Yurian and three of his men sat astride their mounts overlooking a long, narrow depression in the prairie, too shallow to be called a valley. A wide, deep ravine defined the western margin, with a large, round knob bordering the east. In its center ran the trail north through the Bighorn Mountains, and on toward Buffalo, Wyoming. From there, it led north into Montana and the Crow Reservation. Reno Jim tilted back the brim of his black, flat-crown Stetson and waved a gloved hand at the peaceful spread of terrain.
    â€œThere it is, boys. The perfect place to take that herd. I reckon it will be here in no more than a day, two at the most. Hub, I want you to set the boys up to preparing an ambush. Take your time and make it look natural. The last thing we want is them to get wise too soon. Also, make sure there’s enough mounted men on both sides, beyond the rise, to take quick control of the herd.
    â€œRight, boss. You gonna be here with us?”
    Reno Jim produced a thin-lipped smile. “I wouldn’t miss that for anything. For now, me and Smiling Dave are going to set up camp so you boys can have something hot to eat after you get done.”
    What he meant, of course, was that Smiling Dave Winters would do the work while he sat under a tree and practiced his card-dealing tricks. Naturally, no one mentioned it to Reno Jim. Under Hub Volker’s direction, the men spread out to locate a good spot to establish a roadblock-style ambush. It took only a short while to accomplish that.
    Garth Evans rode back from around a slight bend in the trail with a cheery smile. “Hey, Hub, I’ve got the ideal place. That bend there”—he pointed behind him—“will mask it, an’ there’s some cottonwoods to form a barricade.”
    â€œGood work, Garth.”
    At once, Hub put men on cutting down the trees. Using hand axes was a sure invitation to blisters and sore hands, yet the outlaws set at it with a will. The sound of their chopping rang across the prairie. One by one the thigh-thick cottonwood trees tottered and fell with a crash. Dragged into place by horses, the logs were trimmed and made ready. Sets of post augers appeared from a chuck wagon, and the outlaw rabble groaned.
    Hairy Joe cut his eyes to Prine Gephart as he plied a clamshell post-hole digger. “Doin’ that corral for the cattle was bad enough. Now we gotta build a damn fort wall.” He slammed the device into the hard ground again.
    Prine cranked the long handle on his screw-type digger. “It ain’t a fort, Joe. It’s a sorta fence, like we’re makin’ the whole valley into a corral.”
    Hairy Joe groaned. “This is gonna take a week to close across the whole valley. From what I hear, we ain’t got that much time.”
    â€œWe’ll get it done,” Gephart assured him. “If Hub has to make us work all night.”
    â€œOh, great. I can hardly wait.”
    Progress went quicker than Hairy Joe thought. By nightfall, all but a hundred yards at each side of the valley had been closed off. Tired far beyond their usual limits, they gathered quietly to eat plates of carne con chili Colorado, bowls of beans and corn bread with which to sop up both of them. Only four of them pulled bottles of whiskey from saddlebags to take long pulls before settling