The Last Mountain Man Read online

  With those words, Jax reached down and drew his six-gun in a swift, unexpected move. It took only a split second before its muzzle was shoved square in Bullock’s face and held steady mere inches from the tip of his nose.

  “For God’s sake!” Maudie exclaimed.

  From where he sat, Bob saw Bullock’s back go rigid and his hands ball into melon-sized fists. It was obvious the tough saloon owner was coiled tight, wanting badly to tear into Jax. But he didn’t dare, not with a gun jammed practically up his nostrils. Not even Bullock’s notorious quick temper was enough to make him that reckless.

  As far as being reckless, Bob couldn’t afford to be, either. Not for the sake of his friend. But, by the same token, neither could he just continue to sit and watch. The tableau had suddenly escalated into a life-threatening situation that the marshal not only had a right but an obligation to get involved in.

  Slowly, measuredly, Bob stood up and edged toward those grouped in front of the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, Jax took note of his approach. The Mexican and Sideburns were positioned in such a way as to be more or less facing him. Their hands hovered close to the guns on their hips, but so far neither had drawn iron.

  Ever the cautious one, Sideburns muttered, “You seein’ this, Jax? We got a law dog in the mix.”

  “So what? That don’t change the point of this, not a damn bit,” Jax replied through clenched teeth.

  “Might not be the best idea to keep wavin’ a hogleg around, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Never taking either his eyes or his gun off Bullock, Jax said, “I always had a hunch there might be a trace of yella runnin’ up your spine, Reeves. Now’s your chance to prove it one way or the other. Either stand your ground and back my play, or crawfish the hell out of here and never let me lay eyes on you again.”

  Continuing to move forward, his own hand clawed close above the .44 holstered at his side, Bob said, “Your man is giving you some smart advice, mister. You ought to be listening to him, not running him off.”

  “Ain’t nobody runnin’ nobody off, law dog,” Sideburns was quick to say. Then, directing his voice back to Jax, he said with a scowl, “I’m backin’ your play, Jax. I don’t like it, but I’ll back it.”

  Without bothering to acknowledge this and still without taking his focus off Bullock, Jax said to Bob, “If you want to talk smarts, badge-toter, you ain’t exactly showin’ many of your own. You’re outgunned and outnumbered and I’m already primed to blow Mr. He-Goose’s beak clean off if you crowd me too much. What the hell you lookin’ to accomplish? You’d best back off and maybe, just maybe, this can work out with nobody gettin’ serious hurt.”

  “Can’t do that,” Bob said flatly. “You’re the one who needs to back off. Then maybe—just maybe—I won’t have to blast you to hell and gone.”

  “You tell him, Marshal,” Bullock growled. “Don’t let this piece of trail trash buffalo you.”

  All of a sudden Jax’s expression seemed to change. The double dose of Bob’s counterthreat and Bullock’s defiant bravado appeared to rattle him some, perhaps causing him to question the brashness of what he’d set in motion. Given this moment of hesitation on his part and the fact that Sideburns and the Mexican still had their own guns holstered, it could have been a good chance for Bob to make a decisive move—except for the problem of Maudie, whose position where she stood on the back side of the bar placed her directly behind Jax from the marshal’s angle and thereby potentially in the line of fire. Bob wasn’t ready to take such a risk.

  But, at almost the same moment, Maudie realized for herself what a bad spot she was in. What was more, she also sensed the faint hesitation in Jax’s aggression and recognized the opportunity it presented. Abruptly, she wrapped her hand around the whiskey bottle she’d used to pour the second round of drinks and thrust it out at arm’s length, releasing it in a short toss that sent it across the width of the bar to thump against the shoulder of an unsuspecting Sideburns on the other side. The bottle didn’t hit with much force but it was still enough to cause Sideburns to jerk away reflexively and bump against the Mexican beside him. As the bottle bounced off the jostled pair and fell crashing to the floor, Maudie dropped down low behind the bar.

  The overall maneuver now gave Sundown Bob all the opening he needed.

  If the speed of Jax’s earlier draw had seemed impressive, it paled sadly compared to the lightning sweep of Bob’s hand as it skinned his .44 and triggered it into action. Flame and lead spat from the barrel, the roar of the shot shattering the tense silence that had previously gripped the room. Jax’s gun hand was swatted away as if by an invisible blow, and the weapon once gripped in it, torn from his grasp by Bob’s bullet, went skimming down the length of the bar until it smashed into a pyramid of clean glasses stacked at the far end.

  Jax’s knees sagged and his free hand reached frantically to clutch stinging, empty, still-clawed fingers. An instant later, his knees had cause to sag even more and then buckle completely when Bullock immediately uncorked a sizzling right hook that sent him crumpling to the floor.

  As Jax was going down, Bob swung his .44 in a short horizontal arc and centered it on the other two men as they finally, foolishly, decided to grab for their guns. “Don’t even think it!” he warned them.

  Predictably, Sideburns halted his attempt and jerked both hands, palms open, to shoulder height instead. But the Mexican insisted on following through. Or trying to. His hand closed on the grips of his gun but managed to do little more than loosen it in its holster before Bob’s Colt roared again. The bullet it discharged this time smashed into the Mexican’s shoulder, spinning him around and pitching him onto the edge of a nearby empty table. He hissed in pain and filled the air with Spanish curses, clawing the tabletop with his good hand, trying to hold himself upright, but failing and then collapsing to the floor.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  William W. Johnstone is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over three hundred books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen: The Mountain Man, Preacher: The First Mountain Man, Flintlock, MacCallister and Will Tanner: Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground.

  Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.