Return of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

gave me the slip. I drifted down into New Mexico Territory after him. But he was always one jump ahead of me. He’s slick.”
    â€œHe’ll screw up,” Long said.
    â€œWhen he does I’m gonna be there,” Buck said. And he noticed out of the corner of his eyes that the men seemed to relax. He had passed their test.
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    Buck prowled the area about Bury for two days, planting a permanent map in his brain. He would remember the trails and roads and landmarks. They would come in handy when Buck made his move and sought his escape.
    And he learned from the PSR gunhands about the townspeople of Bury. They were a pretty scummy lot, according to the riders. There were men who had skipped out on partners back east: men who were wanted for everything from petty crimes to murder. In exchange for loyalty, the Big Three had offered them sanctuary and a chance to bury their past. After twenty years, the businesses they ran for the Big Three would revert to the shopkeepers. Free and clear.
    So Buck could expect no help from them.
    In a way, that knowledge made it easier.
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    The saddlebags handed to Buck by MacGregor were heavy. The canvas and leather saddlebags were flap-secured by padlocks. Buck did not ask what was in the bags; the sour little Scotsman did not volunteer that information.
    â€œIt’s about a sixty-five-mile ride,” Buck was told. “Head out east to the Lemhi River and follow it down. Little mining operation down in the Lemhi Valley. Town ain’t got no name. So it’s called No Name. Be a man there waitin’ for you. Name is Rex. Give the saddlebags to him, wait ’til he checks them out, and he’ll give you a receipt. Come back here.”
    The Scotsman turned away and stumped back to his rolltop desk, leaving Buck with the heavy bags. Buck smiled. “Gimme some expense money, friend.”
    The Scotsman sighed and reached into a tin box, pulling out a thin sheaf of bills. He made Buck sign for them. “Bring back anything that’s left. Not that I think there will be anything left, that is.”
    Buck rode out at nine that morning. He stopped by Sally’s place and found her sitting on the front porch. Drinking that damnable tea. “Be back in about three days.” He smiled. “I’ll bring you back a couple of pounds of coffee.” He wheeled Drifter and was gone.
    Staying close to the timber, with the flats to his left, Buck let Drifter pick his own pace. About ten miles out of town he reined up and sat his horse. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Was that an elf up ahead, sitting on a spotted pony? Buck walked Drifter slowly toward the sight. Sure looked like an elf.
    â€œSince I care nothing for life in caves or other subterranean dwellings, I can assure you that I am not a troll,” the little man said, when Buck was within earshot.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œNever mind, young man. My name is Audie. I, along with others of our vanishing breed, have made our meager camp just to the west of where we are now engaged in this somewhat less than loquacious confabulation.”
    Buck blinked. “Huh?”
    Audie sighed. “Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Me and them there other ol’ boys who was pards with Preacher is a-camped over yonder.” He jerked his thumb.
    â€œOh. All right. For a little fellow you got a smart mouth, you know that?”
    Audie jerked out a .44 with the barrel sawed off short. “But I carry a very large friend, do I not?”
    â€œI’d say so. An’ quick with it, too.”
    â€œDid you think I might be an elf?” Audie smiled after the question.
    â€œWell, sir. Ah…yeah!”
    â€œHow quaint,” the remark was very drily given. “But…given the fact that elves are rumored to engage in somewhat capricious interference in human affairs, and are usually represented in diminutive human form, I suppose your first impression might be forgiven.