The Black Hills

by William W. Johnstone

  He looked around as he tried to control the horse in the middle of the sudden chaos he had created. Going back the way he came wouldn’t be too smart. A quick glance in the mirror behind the bar showed both of the black-clad men crowding through the batwings and waving their guns around.

  A savage roar caught his attention. In a corner crouched a black panther, snarling to reveal fierce fangs capable of ripping a man apart. No wonder the black stallion was going loco. He had to be able to smell the big cat.

  The huge creature strained at a chain designed to hold a riverboat anchor. The clamor rose as the bartender shouted at Mac to get his horse out of the saloon. The apron-clad man reached under the bar and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun.

  “Out, damn your eyes!” the bartender bellowed as he leveled the weapon.

  Mac whirled around and began firing, not at the panther but at the wall holding the chain. The chain itself was too strong for a couple of bullets to break.

  The wood splintered as Mac’s revolver came up empty. When the panther lunged again, it pulled the chain staple free and dragged it into the room. The customer nearest the cat screeched as heavy claws raked at him.

  Then the bartender fired his shotgun and Mac yelped as rock salt burned his face and arm. Worse, the rock salt spooked the horse even more than the attacking panther.

  The stallion exploded like a Fourth of July rocket. Mac did all he could do to hang on as the horse leaped through a plate glass window. Glittering shards flew in all directions, but he was out of the saloon and once more in the street.

  The sense of triumph faded fast when both gunmen who’d been pursuing him boiled out through the window he had just destroyed.

  “That’s him, Willy. Him’s the one what killed Jimmy!”

  Mac looked back at death stalking him. A tall, broad man with a square head and the same dark coat pushed back the tails to reveal a double-gun rig. Peacemakers holstered at either hip quickly jumped into the man’s grip. Using both hands, the man started firing. And he was a damned good shot.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dewey Mackenzie jerked to the side and almost fell from the horse as a bullet tore a chunk from the brim of his hat. He glanced up and got a quick look at the moon through the hole. The bullets sailing around him motivated him to put his heels to the horse’s flanks.

  Again the horse bolted through the open door of a saloon. This one’s crowd stared at a half-naked woman on stage gyrating to bad piano music. They were too preoccupied to be aware of the havoc being unleashed outside. Even a man riding through the back of the crowd hardly pulled their attention away from the lurid display.

  Mac slid from the saddle and tugged on the reins to get the horse out of the saloon. He had to shoulder men aside, which drew a few curses and surly looks, but people tended to get out of the way of a horse.

  Finally he worked his way through the press of men who smelled of sweat and lust and beer. He emerged into the alley behind the gin mill. Walking slowly, forcing himself to regain his composure, he left the Tivoli Saloon behind and went south on Throckmorton Street.

  The city’s layout was something of a mystery to him, but he remembered the wagon yard was between Main and Rusk, only a few streets over. He resisted the urge to mount and ride out of town. If he did that, the gang of cutthroats would be after him before dawn. His best chance of getting away was to fade into the woodwork and let the furor die down. Shooting his way out of Fort Worth was as unlikely to be successful as was galloping off.

  Where would he go? He had a few dollars left in his pocket from his trail drive pay, but he knew no one, had no friends, no place to go to ground for a week or two. Mac decided being footloose was a benefit. Wherever he went would be fine, with the gunmen unable to track him because he sought friends’ help. He had no friends in Fort Worth.

  “Not going to get anybody else killed,” he said bitterly, sorry for Rattler catching the lead intended for him.

  He tugged on the stallion’s reins and worked his way farther south along Rusk until he reached the wagon yard. He patted the horse’s neck. It was a strong animal, one he would have loved to ride. But it was distinctive enough to draw attention he didn’t need.

  “Come on, partner,” Mac told the stallion quietly. The horse neighed, tried to nuzzle him, and then trotted along into the wagon yard. A distant corral filled with a dozen horses began to come awake. By the time he reached the office, the hostler was pulling up his suspenders and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was a scarecrow of a man with a bald head and prominent Adam’s apple.

  “You’re up early, mister,” the man said. “Been on the trail? Need a place to stable your horse while you’re whooping it up?”

  “I’m real down on my luck, sir,” Mac said sincerely. “What would you give me for the horse?”

  “This one?” The liveryman came over and began examining the horse. He rested his hand on the saddle and looked hard at Mac. “The tack, too?”

  “Why not? I need some money, but I also need another horse and gear. Swap this one for a less spirited horse, maybe? And a simple saddle?”

  “This is mighty fine workmanship.” The man ran his fingers over the curlicues cut into the saddle. “Looks to be fine Mexican leatherwork. That goes for top dollar in these parts.”

  “The horse, too. That’s the best horse I ever did ride, but I got expenses. . . .” Mac let the sentence trail off. The liveryman would come to his own conclusions. Whatever they might be would throw the gunmen off Mac’s trail, if they bothered to even come to the wagon yard.

  He reckoned they would figure out which was his horse staked out back of the first saloon he had entered and wait for him to return for both the horse and his gear. Losing the few belongings he had rankled like a burr under his saddle, but he had tangled before with bounty hunters Pierre Leclerc had set on his trail. The man didn’t hire stupid killers. Mac’s best—his only—way to keep breathing was to leave Fort Worth fast and cut all ties with both people and belongings.

  A deep sigh escaped his lips. Rattler was likely the only one he knew in town. That hurt, seeing the man cut down the way he had been, but somehow, leaving behind his mare, saddle, and the rest of his tack tormented him even more.

  “I know a gent who’d be willing to pay top dollar for such a fine horse, but you got to sell the saddle, too. It’s mighty fine. The work that went into it shows a master leather smith at his peak, yes, sir.” The liveryman cocked his head to one side and studied Mac as if he were a bug crawling up the wall.

  “Give me a few bucks, another horse and saddle, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Can’t rightly do that till I see if I can sell the stallion. I’m runnin’ a bit shy on cash. You wait here, let me take the horse and see if the price is right. I might get you as much as a hundred dollars.”

  “That much?” Mac felt his hackles rise. “That and another horse and tack?”

  “Don’t see horses this spirited come along too often. And that saddle?” The man shook his head. “Once in a lifetime.”

  “Do tell. So what’s to keep you from taking the horse and riding away?”

  “I own the yard. I got a reputation to uphold for honesty. Ask around. You go find yourself some breakfast. Might be, I can get you as much as a hundred-fifty dollars.”

  “And that’s after you take your cut?”

  “Right after,” the man assured him.

  Mac knew he lied through his teeth.

  “Is there a good restaurant around here? Not that it matters since I don’t have money for even a fried egg and a cup of water.” He waited to see what the man offered. The response assured him he was right.

  “Here, take five dollars. An advance against what I’ll make selling the horse. That means I’ll take it out of your share.”

  “Thanks,” Mac said, taking the five crumpled greenbacks. He stuffed them into his vest pocket. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “Not long. Not more ’n a half hour. That’ll give you
plenty of time to chow down and drink a second cup of coffee. Maggie over at the Bendix House boils up a right fine cup.”

  “Bendix House? That’s it over there? Much obliged.” Mac touched the brim of his hat, making sure not to show the hole shot through and through. He let the man lead the horse away, then started for the restaurant.

  Only when the liveryman was out of sight did Mac spin around and run back to the yard. A quick vault over the fence took him to the barn. Rooting around, he found a serviceable saddle, threadbare blanket, bridle, and saddlebags. He pressed his hand against them. Empty. Right now, he didn’t have time to search for food or anything more to put in them. He needed a slicker and a change of clothing.

  Most of all he needed to leave. Now.

  Picking a decent-looking mare from the corral took only a few seconds. The one who trotted over to him was the one he stole. Less than a minute later, saddle and bridle hastily put on, he rode out.

  As he came out on Rusk Street, he caught sight of a small posse galloping in his direction. He couldn’t make out the riders’ faces, but they all wore black coats that might as well have been a uniform. Putting his heels to his horse’s flanks, he galloped away, cut behind the wagon yard’s buildings, and then faced a dilemma. Going south took him past the railroad and onto the prairie.

  The flat, barren prairie where he could be seen riding for miles.

  Mac rode back past Houston Street and immediately dismounted, leading his horse to the side of the Comique Saloon. He had to vanish, and losing himself among the late night—or early morning now—imbibers was the best way to do it. The wagon yard owner would be hard-pressed to identify which horse was missing from a corral with a couple dozen animals in it. Mac cursed himself for not leaving the gate open so all the horses escaped.

  “Confusion to my enemies,” he muttered. Two quick turns of the bridle through an iron ring secured his mount. He circled the building and started to go into the saloon.

  “Door’s locked,” came the warning from a man sitting in a chair on the far side of the door. He had his hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the rising sun and the chair tilted back on its hind legs.

  “Do tell.” Mac nervously looked around, expecting to see the posse on his trail closing in. He took the chair next to the man, duplicated his pose, and pulled his hat down, more to hide his face than to keep the sunlight from blinding him. “When do they open?”

  “John Leer’s got quite a place here. But he don’t keep real hours. It’s open when it’s needed most. Otherwise, he closes up.”

  “Catches some shut-eye?”

  The man laughed.

  “Hardly. He’s got a half dozen floozies in as many bawdy houses, or so the rumor goes. Servicing all of them takes up his spare time.”

  “You figuring on waiting long for him to get back?”

  The man pushed his hat back and looked over at Mac. He spat on the boardwalk, repositioned himself precariously in the chair, and crossed his arms over his chest before answering.

  “Depends. I’m hunting for cowboys. The boss man sends me out to recruit for a drive. I come here to find who’s drunkest. They’re usually the most likely to agree to the lousy wages and a trip long enough to guarantee saddle sores on your butt.”

  “You might come here and make such an appealing pitch, but I suspect you offer top dollar.” Mac tensed when a rider galloped past. The man wore a plaid shirt and jeans. He relaxed. Not a bounty hunter.

  “You’re the type I’m looking for. Real smart fellow, you are. My trail boss wouldn’t want a drunk working for him, and the boss man was a teetotaler. His wife’s one of them temperance women. More ’n that, she’s one of them suffer-ay-jets, they call ’em. Can’t say I cotton much to going without a snort now and then, and giving women the vote like up in Wyoming’s just wrong but—”

  “But out on the trail nobody drinks. The cook keeps the whiskey, for medicinal purposes only.”

  “You been on a drive?”

  “Along the Shawnee Trail.” Mac’s mind raced. Losing himself among a new crew driving cattle would solve most of his problems.

  “That’s not the way the Circle Arrow herd’s headed. We’re pushing west along the Goodnight-Loving Trail.”

  “Don’t know it,” Mac admitted.

  “Don’t matter. Mister Flowers has been along it enough times that he can ride it blindfolded.”

  “Flowers?”

  “Hiram Flowers, the best damned trail boss in Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for a half dozen in my day.” The man rocked forward and thrust out his hand. “My name’s Cletus Grant. I do the chores Mister Flowers don’t like.”

  “Finding trail hands is one of them?” Mac asked as he clasped the man’s hand.

  “He doesn’t stray far from the Circle Arrow.”

  “What’s that mean?” Mac shifted so his hand rested on his gun when another rider came down the street. He went cold inside when he remembered he hadn’t reloaded. Truth to tell, all his spare ammunition was in his saddlebags, on his horse left somewhere behind another saloon in Hell’s Half Acre.

  When the rider rode on after seeing the Comique was shuttered, Mac tried to mask his move by shifting in the chair. He almost toppled over.

  He covered by asking, “You said the Circle Arrow owner was a teetotaler. He fall off the wagon?”

  “His missus wouldn’t ever allow that, no, sir. He upped and died six months back, in spite of his missus telling him not to catch that fever. Old Zeke Sullivan should have listened that time. About the only time he didn’t do as she told him.” Cletus spat again, wiped his mouth, and asked, “You looking for a job?”

  “I’m a piss-poor cowboy, but there’s no better chuckwagon cook in all of Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for the Rolling J in my day.”

  Cletus Grant’s expression turned blank for a moment, then he laughed.

  “You got a sharp wit about you, son. I don’t know that Mister Flowers is looking for a cook, but he does need trail hands. Why don’t me and you mosey on out to the Circle Arrow and palaver a mite about the chance you’d ride with us to Santa Fe?”

  “That where the herd’s destined?”

  “Might be all the way to Denver. It depends on what the market’s like over in New Mexico Territory.”

  “That’s fair enough. I might be willing to go all the way to Denver since I’ve never been there, but heard good things about the town.”

  Cletus spat and shook his head sadly.

  “Too damn many miners there looking to get rich by pulling skull-sized gold nuggets out the hills. The real money comes in selling them picks, shovels . . . and beeves.”

  “Which is what the Circle Arrow intends,” Mac said. “That suits me.” He thrust out his hand for another shake to seal the deal, but Cletus held back this time.

  “I can’t hire you. Mister Flowers is the one what has to do that.” The man looked up and down the street, then rocked forward so all four legs hit the boardwalk. One was an inch shy of keeping the chair level. When Cletus stood, his limp matched the uneven chair. He leaned heavily on his right leg. “Let’s get on out to the ranch so’s he can talk with you. I don’t see much in the way of promising recruits.”

  Mac mounted and trotted alongside Cletus. The man’s horse was a fine-looking gelding, well kept and eager to run. From the way the horse under him responded, Mac thought it would die within a mile, trying to keep pace.

  “Yup,” Cletus said, noticing Mac’s interest. “The Circle Arrow has the best damned horses. Mister Flowers says it pays off in the long run having the best. We don’t lose as many cattle—or drovers.”

  “That’s good counsel. There’re too many ways of dying on the trail without worrying about your horse dying under you.” Mac thought a moment, then asked, “What’s the trail like? The Goodnight-Loving?”

  “The parts that don’t kill you will make you wish you were dead. Drought and desert, Injuns and horse thieves, disease and
despair.”

  “But the pay’s good,” Mac said, knowing the man tested him. “And if I’m cooking, the food will be even better.”

  “You got a wit about you, son. Let’s hope it’s not just half a one.” Cletus picked up the gait, forcing Mac to bring his horse to a canter.

  As he did so, he looked behind and saw two of the black-coated riders slowly making their way down the street. One pointed in Mac’s direction but the other shook his head and sent them down a cross street. Being with Cletus Grant might just have saved him. The bounty hunters thought he was alone. That had to be the answer to them not coming to question them about one of their gang getting shot down.

  The thought made Mac touch his S&W again. Empty. He kept reminding himself of that. The saddle sheath lacked a rifle, too. If they caught up and a fight ensued, and he couldn’t bite them, he was out of luck.

  “You got a curious grin on your face,” Cletus said. “What’s so funny?”

  “Drought and desert, Indians and—”

  “I get the drift. And I wasn’t joking about them. The trail’s decent enough, but the dangers are real.”

  “Nothing like I’m leaving behind,” Mac said. That got a frown from Cletus, but he didn’t press the matter. That suited Mac. He didn’t want to lie to the man.

  Not yet. Not unless it became necessary to escape the killers Pierre Leclerc had set on his trail.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and Black Friday.

  Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.

  Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.