A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The escapees had found a wagon. Had made better time than either Fallon or Lawless had expected. The wagon had reached the clearing.

  “You call this a homestead?” That was Sean MacGregor’s voice.

  “You call them horses?” Bowen Hardin raged.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  He didn’t know how far away Tully had stopped the wagon. At least, he assumed Tully would be driving, since Tully knew the way.

  “Those hosses is what you need,” Tully said. He must have set the brake on the wagon. “It’s called disguise. Like them Army duds y’all wore. Ain’t nobody gonna think you’re runnin’ from the law ridin’ mounts like that.” He laughed and hopped to the ground. “I’ll get some coffee on, and we can settle up, and you boys can be on y’all’s way.”

  Fallon bit his lip. You boys. He had not heard anything resembling a woman’s voice.

  “You got any grub?” Indianola Anderson asked.

  “Grub wasn’t in the price,” Tully said. “But I reckon I can fix up some grits, and they’s probably some corn pone that ain’t too hard. Got some otter jerky, too. Ever et otter jerky? It ain’t half bad. Which means it ain’t half good, neither. But it’ll fill you up, if it don’t jerk out your teeth.”

  He could hear feet, men brushing off their duds, one of the animals urinating. Fallon looked again at the hills, saw only the woods and the sky, and wet his lips. He had no plan. No need of making a plan. At some point, someone would come to the well. Then hell would erupt.

  “You ladies,” Tully said. “The facilities is over yon. It’s a two-seater, too.”

  Now Fallon breathed easier. Ladies. Plural. At least Janice and Christina were still alive.

  Fallon looked toward the barn. The outhouse was past that, near the edge of the woods. They’d come right past him. If they could get that far, that close to the woods . . . if they didn’t gasp when they saw him behind the well. But . . . no . . . that wasn’t going to happen. Bowen Hardin wasn’t an idiot.

  “Holderman,” Hardin said. “Go with them.”

  “Good,” Holderman said. “I need the use of that there facility myself.” He laughed.

  “Piss on the ground while they’re inside,” Hardin barked. “You’re not letting them out of your sight.”

  “But . . . that ain’t what I gotta do. Piss, I mean.”

  “Then hold it till they’re back here. Or dig a hole and squat.”

  Fallon heard the footsteps. Approaching from the barn side. He wondered if it might be possible to slip to the other side, toward the shack that served as Tully’s home. If the men were standing closer to the barn, if no one moved for the shack, he might be able to slide over, hug the wall. No.

  Tully announced he’d go see what he could cook up. He started for the shack. Then Indianola Anderson said, “I’m thirsty. How’s the water here?”

  No one answered, but Fallon heard more steps, coming to the well.

  “Bootsey!” Hardin barked.

  All the footsteps halted.

  “Those two gals might whup your arse,” Hardin said, softer now, but firm. Indianola Anderson began sniggering, revealing his distance to the well. “And since your bowels is troubling you, take one of the ladies. Like you said, it’s a two-seater. Just don’t let the gal catch you with your pants down.”

  All the men laughed at the lousy joke.

  “You can’t mean that,” Christina said, and Fallon felt relief sweep over him from just the sound of his wife’s voice.

  “Oh, I mean it, ma’am. You got to answer nature’s call, you do it with my man with you. You get into them woods, we’d have the dickens of a time to find you. So it’s one at a time. With Bootsey this time. Or . . .”

  “I reckon I might need to see the facilities myself,” Indianola Anderson said, and chuckled with great malevolence.

  “Go!” Hardin barked.

  One step. Then nothing. Anderson cackled again.

  “I said go,” Hardin said. “There’s nothing to stop me from killing you two right now. But it’s your call.”

  Then those footsteps started. Behind Fallon. Behind him and to his left. And off toward his right, near the shack that passed for a house. Fallon listened, keeping the guns in both hands, turned silently, and crouched, knees bent, ready to spring forward. He did not even think about the odds.

  Five against two. Those were the odds. But Fallon had surprise working in his favor. They didn’t know he was here.

  Footsteps. Closer. Closer. He saw them, moving toward the privy, maybe fifteen yards away from him, half the distance between the well and the barn. Then Janice Jefferson turned. She must have caught him out of the corner of her eye, and she gasped, and stepped back against Aaron Holderman.

  That’s when Fallon leaped from behind the well, boosting himself with his strong legs, and ran straight at Holderman and the girl. But he wasn’t looking at the big brute. Fallon shoved the .45 in his holster, and aimed the Navy at Indianola Anderson. The .36 barked.

  Anderson yelped and dived behind the well as the bullet whined off the top stones.

  “Son of a—” Bowen Hardin yelled, and drew his own pistol. But Christina dived, grabbed the killer’s right arm, and jerked it down. Fallon fired at him, missed, then he turned and shot Aaron Holderman in the shoulder as the big man reached for a pistol on his hip.

  Janice Jefferson screamed, stepped away, and Fallon charged toward her, turned back, saw Hardin kicking Christina, who rolled away. Fallon triggered the .36. Hardin turned and dived toward the wagon, but the big draft horses, stolen like the wagon, began bucking in their harnesses.

  Fallon felt a bullet tear through the left side of his chaps. By then he met Janice Jefferson, and he lowered his left shoulder and caught her hard in the abdomen. His legs kept pumping. Another bullet whined off an old, rusted horseshoe a few feet in front of him. Janice fell over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and Fallon kept running even as she vomited all over his back.

  A bullet singed his right ear. And he was at the barn, diving into the hay and pulling Janice behind him.

  Hay wouldn’t stop a bullet, of course, and Fallon had no plans to stay where he was as two more bullets thudded into the barn wall. He fired the Navy again, shoved it into his waistband, feeling the heat singe his skin. He grabbed Janice’s arms and dragged her ten feet to that hole in the wall. Another bullet splintered the wall. Fallon dropped to his knees, dived through the opening, turned around, came back, crawled out just far enough to grab both of Janice’s arms.

  That’s when he saw Aaron Holderman. The man was dazed, but he had found his feet. More important, Holderman had found a Remington revolver. And he was weaving, maybe twenty yards from Fallon and Janice. The gun barked. The bullet kicked up mud and manure into Fallon’s face and mouth. He began backing into the barn, as fast as he could, but pulling Janice was like pulling nothing but deadweight.

  And now Aaron Holderman stood over Fallon, his shoulder bleeding.

  “Stop!” Holderman yelled. “Stop or I kill the girl, Fallon. Hell, you know I’ll do it.”

  And at this range, with the big criminal having covered the distance, Fallon knew even Aaron Holderman, wounded like he was, would not miss. The revolver was pointed at the widow’s chest. Fallon’s guns were in his waistband and his holster. He could see Anderson coming from behind the well, and big Tully moving through the open land with a repeating rifle.

  He stopped moving.

  Aaron Holderman smiled. He wasn’t delirious enough to turn toward Anderson or Bowen Hardin, but he yelled, “I got him. I got Fallon. He’s right here in my gunsights.” Though for the time being, those sights were lined up on Janice Jefferson.

  Out of Fallon’s view, toward the front of the barn, Bowen Hardin yelled, “Well, stop talking and dillydallying with him. Kill him, Holderman. Put a bullet through his damned brains.”

  Laughing, Holderman raised the revolver, so Fallon tried to draw the .45 from the holster.

  All the while kno
wing he did not have any chance at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  A second later, a gush of crimson exploded from the center of Aaron Holderman’s chest, and the big Remington fell, still in his hand, at his side. Holderman stared at the gore, confused, as the report of a rifle sounded from the hills.

  “What the hell!” Indianola Anderson was beside the barn, running toward Fallon and the others. Now he stopped, turned to the woods, and dived beside the hay pile.

  Holderman staggered to his left, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell into the manure and mud.

  Another roar sounded, and a hole appeared in the side of the barn behind Indianola Anderson. “Rifle!” he shouted. “Rifle in the woods! Top of the hill!”

  That’s when Anderson remembered Harry Fallon, and he spun around, seeing Fallon charging him, with the Navy in his left hand and the .45 in his right.

  The killer leaped up, brought his pistol level, but Fallon shot him twice, and both pistols aimed true. The man fell against the wall, dropped his pistol, and staggered toward the yard.

  “Hell’s bells!” Tully cried.

  Fallon saw the river rat beside the well now, and snapped a shot just as Indianola Anderson died. The bullet punched the bucket at the top of the housing, and Tully leaped behind the well. Another blast from the hills echoed.

  “I’m hit,” Tully yelled from behind the well. “No. I . . . am . . . kilt.”

  Fallon found himself at the edge of the barn. He could see Indianola Anderson staring at him with sightless eyes, see the two holes in his dirty shirt. Fallon tossed the Navy away. He hadn’t been counting his shots, but he had to figure it was empty. And Fallon liked the .45 better.

  “Fallon.” It was Sean MacGregor’s voice.

  Fallon kept quiet.

  “Tell your boy in the woods that if he fires one more shot, Christina’s dead.”

  Bowen Hardin echoed MacGregor’s threat. “I got a gun to her head, Fallon. You know me, I won’t hurt a woman . . . lessen I have to. Right now. I figure I have to.”

  Fallon looked at the hills before tossing the .45 out toward the well.

  “Good boy,” MacGregor said. “Now step out here so we can see you. And have your boy start down the hills. No gun. Ask him to join us.”

  Fallon yelled up at the hills. “Hey! They’ve got a gun on Christina! Come on down!” From the hills, a long object was tossed down the hill, and Ben Lawless stepped from the thicket, put his hands on top of his hat, and began coming down the hill. Fallon knew Lawless would be too smart to actually throw away that Marlin. That would be his chance.

  “Your turn, Hank,” Sean MacGregor ordered.

  Only my friends call me Hank.

  Fallon gave himself another chance. Bending, he picked up Indianola Anderson’s revolver and shoved it behind his back. Then he stepped around the corner and smiled at Christina.

  “Well, honey,” he said. “We did pretty good for a while.”

  “Yeah,” she said. Bowen Hardin released his hold on her and shoved her aside. He started to raise his revolver, but MacGregor barked for him to stop.

  “Let the one with the rifle get closer,” MacGregor said. “Then we kill them all. You start shooting too soon, and that man’ll run. And grab that cannon he’s been shooting with.”

  “All right,” Hardin said.

  MacGregor stepped closer, and Christina leaped at him, grabbing his right hand that held a pepperbox pistol and bringing it down.

  Bowen Hardin spun, aiming his gun, but caught the movement of Fallon out of the corner of his eye, and quickly snapped a shot that tore through Fallon’s collar. Fallon held Anderson’s gun now and squeezed the trigger as he ran toward Hardin. The hammer snapped, striking an empty cylinder. Hardin tried firing his pistol, but it, too, was now empty. Both men hurled the pistols, but both targets ducked underneath the somersaulting revolvers. Then Fallon slammed into Hardin, driving him into the side of the wagon. They went down, and Fallon was on top of him. Rage. Rage like he had never known—not even when he had found the man who had murdered his first wife and child—not even after all the abuse he had endured as a convict in all the hellholes he had been in.

  His hands locked on Bowen Hardin’s throat. And he squeezed. Squeezed as hard as he could.

  He did not see MacGregor shove Christina off him. He did not see MacGregor run, run as fast as his thin old legs could carry him and the pepperbox. He did not see Sean MacGregor turn around the corner of the barn, and he did not even hear the pistol shot that punched a hole in Sean MacGregor’s forehead, driving him back into the farmyard, spread-eagled and dead. Fallon did not even see Janice Jefferson walk around the corner, look at Sean MacGregor’s dead body, look at Aaron Holderman’s smoking revolver that she held in her hands, then toss the revolver onto the dirt, move to a shady spot, and sit down.

  And he did not hear his wife, Christina, standing over his shoulder, saying, “Let him go, Harry. Let him go. He’s not worth it.”

  No, somehow Harry Fallon came to that conclusion himself. The rage did not vanish, but it faded enough for him to push himself away, spit out the gall, and find reason and calmness slowly returning.

  Christina offered him her hands, and he let her help him to his feet, while Bowen Hardin rolled over on his side, clutching his bruised throat, trying to get enough oxygen in his lungs.

  The next thing Fallon realized was that Ben Lawless was walking into the farmyard. He grabbed a string around his shoulder and pulled the Marlin rifle that was hanging from his back. “Tossed a tree limb,” Lawless said. “Figured I might need this thing later.” He looked at the dead men. “But I reckon I was wrong.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  As the guards escorted Bowen Hardin to his cell in solitary, Big Tim O’Connor looked at Harry Fallon and Ben Lawless and shook his head.

  “Berrien?” Fallon asked.

  “He confessed,” the big guard said. “Locked up in the federal courthouse for the time being.”

  Fallon nodded.

  Big Tim O’Connor spit tobacco juice and grunted. “Hank, I know you mean well, but you and your humanity,” the guard captain said. “But when will you learn that these sons of strumpets can’t be rehabilitated?”

  Lawless also spit tobacco juice and saw the guards coming to escort him to his cell. He grinned at Fallon, and said, “Tell your wife, I look forward to learnin’ my letters, an’ even doin’ some cipherin’. And tell Miss Janice, too. She’s a fine teacher. And a dead shot.” They shook hands, and Lawless winked at O’Connor. “Capt’n,” he said. “That’s the only reason I come back to these walls.”

  “You won’t be here long, Ben,” Fallon said. “I’ll see to that.”

  “What the blazes was that all about?” O’Connor asked as the guards led Ben Lawless away.

  “Some men will surprise you, Captain,” Fallon answered. “And if you can save one, well, that’s a start.”

  “Well, the governor’s screaming his head off,” O’Connor said. “So is the U.S. marshal, and you won’t believe all the telegrams that have been coming in, from Washington and Topeka. And the reporters . . .” He sighed, wiped his mouth, and watched the prisoners being led to their cells.

  “I still say we ought to lock them all up and throw away the key.”

  “They said the same thing about me,” Fallon said. “Several times.”

  But he shook O’Connor’s hand before excusing himself. The hack had stopped outside the prison gate, and Fallon pushed through it. He smiled as he raced to meet Christina, who stepped out of the hack and put Rachel Renee on the ground.

  The five-year-old screamed, “Papa!” She ran into Fallon’s arms, which swept her up, and held her tightly, as Christina hurried to join the embrace.

  Keep reading for a special preview

  of your next Western adventure!

  A MACCALLISTER CHRISTMAS

  From bestselling authors WILLIAM W. and J. A. JOHNSTONE

  comes a special acti
on-packed holiday western tale of

  peace on earth and bad will toward men . . .

  Ever since he left Scotland to start a new life in

  America, Duff MacCallister has stayed true to the

  values and traditions of his clan in the Highlands.

  But as Christmas approaches, he yearns to

  reconnect with his family—even the ones he hasn’t

  met yet. This year, two of his American cousins—

  twins Andrew and Rosanna—will be joining Duff

  for the holidays at the Sky Meadow Ranch.

  That is, if they manage to get there alive . . .

  The twins’ train is held up by not one but two vicious

  outlaw gangs. The Jessup gang has been using the

  Spalding gang’s hideout to plan the robbery. The

  Jessups just lost two of their brothers in a bank job

  gone wrong—courtesy of Duff MacCallister—and

  they’re gunning for revenge. Together, these two

  bloodthirsty bands of killers and thieves are teaming

  up to make this one Christmas the MacCallisters will

  never forget. But Duff’s ready to deliver his own

  brand of gun-blazing justice, holidays be damned . . .

  Look for A MacCallister Christmas this November

  wherever books are sold.

  PROLOGUE

  Dunoon, Argyll, Scotland, present day

  “’Tis because o’ that television show that yer here, isn’t it, lassie?” the old woman asked as the young American couple came up to the counter to pay for the lunch they’d enjoyed in this picturesque little café.