Dear Readers,
Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”
I’ve never forgotten those words. And now, many years and almost 200 books later, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the last gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid mountain man, or John Barrone and his hard-working crew keeping America safe from terrorist low lifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.
Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.
As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.
Respectfully yours,
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
COURAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
BOOK TWO
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
BOOK THREE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
COURAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
SMOKE JENSEN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The various Indian tribes who knew him called him Ghost Walker, White Wolf, Killing Ghost, and a dozen other names, all attesting to the man’s ability as a fighting man who had no equal. The other mountain men called him Preacher. He had walked and ridden into the high mountains as a mere boy, and had not been west of the Mississippi since then. His home was the High Lonesome. The Big Empty. Preacher was a lean-hipped, wide-shouldered, heavily muscled man of average height for the time. Many women thought him ruggedly handsome. Preacher was a man to ride the river with. He liked his coffee hot, black, and strong, his whiskey raw, and his women lively.
He thought he was about thirty-five years or so, but he wasn’t real sure about that. And while the mountain man known as Preacher was by no means the first mountain man ever to ride the High Lonesome. He was there during the good ol’, wild ol’ times, and he rode with the best of them. Preacher lasted long after the final chapter was written about the breed called Mountain Man, continuing to gain fame as an army scout, a warrior, a leader of wagon trains, and an Indian fighter. Preacher named creeks and rivers that still bear the names he gave them.
Many modern-day campers and hikers return from the high mountains with wild tales of seeing a ghost rider ambling along. Some say he sings old songs; others say they have awakened to find this old mountain man squatting beside the dying embers of their fire, drinking coffee right out of the pot. They say that he smiles at them, stands up silently, and then disappears into the night. Still others have said they have seen a man dressed all in buckskin playing with wolves and cougars.
One camper awakened in the dead of night to the sight of an old man standing over him, and when he recovered from his shock, asked the ghostly old mountain man his name.
“Preacher,” the apparition replied.
BOOK ONE
No matter how thin you slice it, it’s still baloney.
—Alfred E. Smith
1
It was still winter in the high country when the man called Preacher packed up his few possessions and stood for a moment before pulling out.
“Horse,” he said, “I think you and me have done agreed to a bad deal.”
His horse, named Hammer, turned his head and rolled his eyes, as if saying that he didn’t have a damn thing to do with any deal Preacher might have made.
Preacher looked at Hammer. “All right, all right. Stop lookin’ at me that-away. I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t give me no trouble on this run, and with the money I was promised, when we get back I’ll put you out to pasture in a pretty little valley and you can live out the rest of your days with a whole herd of mares. How about that?”
Hammer stared at him for a moment, and then snorted.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Preacher said, then gathered up the lead rope of his packhorse and swung into the saddle. He pointed Hammer’s nose east.
It was not uncommon for solitary-riding men to talk to their horses, and Preacher was no exception. A mountain man’s life was a self-imposed lonely one, and he had not seen a white man all winter; spotting only the occasional Indian during the long winter months. The Indians had left him alone, and he’d returned the favor. Preacher was not a hunter of trouble, but he damn sure wouldn’t back away from it if trouble came calling. And the Indians knew that only too well.
Preacher topped a rise and stopped for a moment, knowing he was sky-lining himself, but not terribly worried about it. Hammer was relaxed, and Hammer was a better watchdog than any canine that Preacher had ever seen. If there had been any Injuns about, Hammer would have let him know.
Near as Preacher could figure it, he had near’abouts seven hundred and fifty miles to go to the jump-off place in Missouri. And while the government had agreed to pay him more money than he had ever seen in his whole life, Preacher damn sure had misgivings about this job.
If them men out yonder in the northwest had such a cravin’ for womenfolk to marry up with, seemed to Preacher like they could do their own fetchin’.
But they hadn’t, and the government man had handed the job to him.
Preacher figured he might just retire after this job was over and done. Providin’ he got it done, that is.
He walked Hammer on down the slope to the valley below. The government man had said there would be between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and fifty women ready to move west across the mountains.
Preacher shuddered at the thought.
He’d spent all winter trying to figure out a way to hand the job to someone else. But he hadn’t come up with anybody he’d felt was dumb enough to take it. Besides, he’d given his word, and Preacher had never broken his word to anybody in his life. The government man had also said there’d be fifty wagons. Preacher would make a bet it would be more like seventy-five or eighty wagons.