Butchery of the Mountain Man
William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone
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The Greatest Western Writer Of The 21st Century
In Montana Territory, one name above all others strikes fear and hatred in the hearts of the Crow Indians--John Jackson, better known these days as Liver-Eating Jackson. Consumed by grief and rage, the mountain man has brutally killed ten braves so far in his one-man war of vengeance against the Crow, who murdered his beloved wife.
Smoke Jensen knows Jackson by another name--"friend." He's not sure to what extent Jackson's exploits are true--devastating loss and frontier savagery have certainly driven lesser men mad. While doing some trapping in the territory, Smoke hears that twenty of the Crow's most fearsome warriors have banded together to hunt down their nemesis. Without a second thought, he rushes to his old friend's aid.
But even with Smoke Jensen at his side, the fierce and fearless Liver-Eating Jackson may not be able to beat the odds this time. . .
don’t remember exactly.” “But, it was before you established Sugarloaf Ranch.” “Oh, yes, long before Sugarloaf, even before Nicole. But I thought I was here to discuss John Jackson, not Preacher and me. You are sort of getting off the track, aren’t you?” “I am indeed. Though many times during the course of research one finds that divergent paths can lead to other fascinating subjects. And quite often, those subjects don’t detract from, but rather enhance your original research, as has happened
obvious to everyone here that she doesn’t want to.” “Now, do you want to tell me why the hell I should care what she wants? She’s got no choice,” Colby said. “Neither do you, mister. Or haven’t you noticed that I happen to be holding a gun in my hand.” “Oh, yeah, I see the gun,” Smoke said. “And I’m asking you, nicely, to put it away.” Colby laughed out loud. “Do you people hear this young punk? He’s asking me, nicely, to put the gun away.” “Or drop it,” Smoke said. “And if I don’t do
each other. John was in a crouch and armed with a knife, which he was holding low with the blade parallel to the ground; the Indian was more upright, and he was holding a war club. They moved around each other in a rather macabre dance, the Indian making a few motions with the war club, while John merely moved his knife back and forth like the head of a coiled rattlesnake. Suddenly the Indian, with the club raised over his head, rushed at John. John leaned to one side so that when the Indian
can tell but what you might run into a grizzly in there.” “It wouldn’t be the first time I seen a grizzly while I was bathin’,” Preacher said. Smoke chuckled. “Considering where you do your bathing—that is, when you do bathe—that’s not particularly surprising.” Angus and Moe were in the lobby of the hotel. “I seen him headed toward the bathing room just a couple of minutes ago,” Angus said. “By now he’s prob’ly in the tub, and, more ’n likely, he took his money in there with ’im.” “How do
“Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers. “It was Owen Wister, in The Virginian who first coined the phrase ‘When you call me that, smile.’ Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son-of-a-bitch. “Did it really