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

down like the rest into deep slumber.
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    Meanwhile, Smoke Jensen set about a quick, harsh cleanup of Muddy Gap. He picked up the posters at ten-fifteen. After putting one on the bulletin board outside the general store, he gave half to Marshal Larsen, and they set about posting the entire town. Their actions generated immediate reaction. Several merchants came onto the boardwalk to voice protest. It never failed to draw a crowd.
    â€œNow, see here,” the butcher, Tiemeier, declared in a loud bray. “You can’t do this. I’ve got a right to carry a gun.”
    â€œYou are not affected, Mr. Tiemeier,” Smoke explained patiently. “Read it carefully. Only nonresidents are required to surrender their arms.”
    â€œEven so, you have no right to do this on your own.”
    â€œI’m not. You can see the city marshal’s signature right there beside mine. And, this morning the mayor and city council met and passed the ordinance.”
    For half an hour, Smoke busied himself tacking up the edicts, ending with the two at the north end of town. He had finished the final nail when five specimens of range trash drifted up. Hats pulled down low on brows, they walked their mounts to the gate post where Smoke had affixed one of the flyers and read it with obvious difficulty. At last one of them turned to glower at Smoke.
    â€œWho are you to try to make us do that?”
    Smoke tapped the badge pinned to his vest with the hammer. “I’m the law.”
    Leaning forward, the mouthy one jabbed a thick forefinger at Smoke. “You’re a fool if you think we’re gonna give up our guns.”
    Smoke stepped closer to him. “You do or you don’t cross the town line.”
    This time the belligerent one reached even farther and poked Smoke in the chest and emphasized each insult with a thrust. “You’ll play hell stopping us, you two-bit, tin-star, yellowbelly—Yeeiii!”
    His scream came when Smoke dropped the hammer and reached up swiftly to snatch the offending finger and bend it backward until the bone snapped loudly. At once, Smoke let go and grabbed the front of the man’s shirt. With a solid yank, he jerked him clear of the saddle. Pivoting, Smoke slammed him to the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs.
    He dropped on one knee to the loudmouth’s belly and delivered a left-right-left combination to his face that left the man dizzy and gurgling. Immediately, the others went for their guns. Smoke came to his boots in an instant and hauled his Colt Peacemaker clear in a blur. The four thugs gaped at him.
    â€œNow put your guns on the gate over there or pick up your friend here and get the hell out of town.”
    Cutting their eyes from one to another, the four stared in wonder. Not a one had half-drawn his revolver. One of them looked at their companion groaning on the ground. “Just who the devil are you, mister?”
    â€œSmoke Jensen.”
    For all his misery, the one at Smoke’s feet got up quickly and mounted his horse. All of them tried not to meet the hot eyes of Smoke Jensen, which bored into them. With submissive touches of their hands to the brims of their hats, they turned their horses and rode away.
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    Little Jimmy showed up at noon with a plate for Smoke from the Iron Kettle. It held fried chicken, gravy with boiled potatoes, and hominy. He also had an encouraging message.
    Freckled face writhing with the energy of his delivery, Jimmy informed Smoke, “Fred Chase, one of your deputies, is back in town. He says he’ll come out and relieve you after dinner,” he squeaked. “Said he should be here about one-fifteen this afternoon.”
    â€œThank you, Jimmy.” Smoke dug in his pocket for a coin. Jimmy looked at him expectantly.
    â€œCan I stay here until you finish? I’ll take yer plate back. Okay?”
    â€œIt’s may I, Jimmy,” Smoke corrected, the image of