Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) by William W. Johnstone

walked a distance from the hands before Sally spoke what was on her mind. “Something has come up that makes me feel I should caution you to be very careful when you are away from here. In fact, I think I will rescind my rule about wearing a gun. Take your Colt Lightning when you go out this afternoon.”
    “Why? What’s happened?” the boy asked eagerly. “It’s Smoke, isn’t it?”
    “No,” she hastened to assure him, then read the disbelief in his clear, youthful face. “Well, yes, somewhat.” She had allowed herself to be mousetrapped and it angered her. Reluctantly she related all that Monte Carson had told her. Fire blazed in Bobby’s eyes when she finished.
    “I should have gone with him,” Bobby said stubbornly.
    “No, Bobby. Smoke is not hurt. We don’t even know if he is in danger.” Unwilling to hurt the boy, she unwittingly did just that. “Believe me, there’s nothing you could do to help him more than staying here, being armed and keeping a sharp eye.”
    Bobby’s face turned red. “Yes, there is!” He turned away from her and started for the house. “I’m takin’ my stuff back to the bunkhouse.”
    Suddenly apprehensive, Sally called after him in a rush. “You don’t understand, Bobby. I’m asking you to keep a watch out for me as well as yourself.”
    Bobby turned his head to throw back a hot retort. “I can do that well enough from across the ways. Right now, the hands are better company than you are.”
     
     
    Gus Jaeger crawled back down the slope of the ridge to where the gang waited. The long, thin wisp of hairs that descended from his lower lip moved in agitation when he spoke. “There can’t be more than three families living there. They’ve got ’em a palisade around the houses and barns. Brats runnin’ around in the yard. Didn’t see sign of but two grown men.”
    Victor Spectre showed his appreciation of such skill with a big smile. “You did a good job. How far are we from the Great Salt Lake?”
    “It’s about fifty miles north and a bit west,” Gus answered.
    Spectre nodded. “This must be one of those outposts—what do the Mormons call them? Desseret Towers?—that are strung across Utah. That means they will have quite a lot of valuables. No handy bank to go to after closing shop for the day. Get the men ready, Augustus, we’ll take them, like we did those Utes.”
    Twenty minutes later the outlaw band stormed down on the Mormon encampment. Too late, they discovered the place to be a regular fort. Their rude awakening came in the form of a screeching in the air, followed by an explosion some thirty yards in front of the lead element of the gang. The heavy roar of an artillery piece followed.
    “B’God, they’ve got a six pounder in there.” Gus Jaeger accurately named the weapon.
    Spectre reined in when the outlaw foreman did. He frowned, perplexed. “Does that mean trouble?”
    “If they have any grapeshot or canister, it sure as hell does,” Gus opined.
    So far the residents of the small community had not bothered to close the gate in the stockade that surrounded their dwellings. Another shell burst close by and the cannon roared again. A staggered line of smoke clouds rippled along the parapet and rifle balls cracked through the air around the hard cases. Some looked around nervously.
    In their trade of banditry, they were not accustomed to organized resistance. These Mormons had quickly proven that they were nothing to be trifled with. Victor Spectre studied the next volley of fire from the wall.
    “How many grown men did you say?” he asked Jaeger.
    “Two’s all I saw. There could have been more inside buildings.”
    “Looks to me like everyone over the age of ten has a rifle and knows how to use it. We had best come up with something better than a frontal assault.”
    Gus Jaeger considered that a moment. “They can only point that cannon one direction at a time. And if they’re puttin’ all their guns on the side opposite us, it