“Laura?” asked Jessica as the door opened wider. “Good Lord, what—Is that Dan Hartford with you?”
Jessica didn’t have a lamp or a candle with her, but the illumination from the moon and stars was enough for her to be able to make out the two figures on the ranch house’s front porch.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Dan, “it’s me.”
Jessica swung the screen door out and stepped onto the porch. As she had told them, she had a small pistol in her right hand. She said, “What are the two of you—Oh my God. You broke out of jail again, didn’t you?”
“We had to,” said Laura. “Sheriff Olsen found those rustlers and he and a posse wiped them out. But he still believes that Dan and I were working with them all along!” A shudder went through her. “Dan’s still going on trial for murdering Abel and . . . and Henry.”
“But surely, if the sheriff found the actual rustlers—”
“They were all killed,” Dan said grimly. “There’s nobody left to clear my name. That means I’m going to be convicted. They’ll hang me for sure, unless Laura and I get out of this part of the country.”
Laura put a hand on Jessica’s arm.
“Can we stay here until we figure out what to do next, Jess? I know it’s a lot to ask—”
“Nonsense,” said Jessica briskly. Finding the two fugitives on her front porch seemed to have thrown her for a loop at first, but now she had recovered her usual cool aplomb. “Of course you can stay here. Come inside before anyone sees you. We don’t want anybody else to know that you’re here.”
The three of them went into the house. Jessica continued, “Go into the parlor. I’ll be back in just a minute, and we can talk about what we’re going to do.”
She was wearing just a nightdress. Dan figured she wanted to put on a robe. He and Laura stepped into the darkened parlor.
“Light the lamp on the table,” Jessica said from the foyer. “There are matches next to it.”
“I’ll do it,” offered Laura. “I’ve visited here enough that I know my way around.”
“Be careful,” Dan told her as he moved over toward a window that opened onto the front porch. He slid it open a few inches, slowly and cautiously so that it didn’t make any sound. “Don’t burn yourself.”
“I think that’s the least of our worries, don’t you?”
“I don’t want you to be hurt ever again,” he said. “You’ve already been through enough.”
“There won’t be much more,” said Laura as she found the box of matches on the table. She lit one, lifted the chimney on the lamp, and held the flame to the wick. When it caught, she lowered the chimney, and the soft yellow glow from the lamp welled out into the comfortably furnished parlor.
A step sounded from the open, arched doorway between the parlor and the foyer. Dan and Laura both turned in that direction, and despite being somewhat prepared for what they saw, Laura gasped.
A man neither of them had ever seen before stood there gripping a .45 revolver that he leveled at them. Just behind him and to the side stood Jessica Stafford. A cool smile curved her lips, and the small-caliber weapon in her hand was pointed at the two fugitives as well.
“Jess, what—” Laura began.
“Shut up,” Jessica snapped. “There’s nothing else to be said. Sheriff Olsen is probably already on his way out here. He found the two of you here before, after all.”
“Yeah, but this time when he gets here, he’ll just find bodies,” the man said with an ugly grin. “The bodies of the man who murdered Henry Stafford and Abel Dempsey and the slut who planned the whole thing with him.”
Dan started to take a step forward as his face twisted with anger. He said, “You son of a—”
“Hold it right there,” rasped the man with the gun. “Unless you’re in a big hurry to die. If you are, I’ll be glad to accommodate you. Better remember, though, the lady dies a few seconds after you do.”
“I can take care of that, Jack,” said Jessica.
“Hell, baby, after the way you took care of Dempsey and Stafford, I never doubted that.”
Laura forced out words, saying, “Jess, why . . . why are you doing this?”
“Because it wraps everything up all nice and neat. The whole ugly affair will be over. The two people who were behind everything will be dead, and so are all the men who worked for them.”
“Yeah, the sheriff cost us some money when he and that posse raided our hideout this morning,” said the man with the gun, “but in the long run it doesn’t really matter that much. The real payoff was right here, and now we don’t have to split it with anybody.” He glanced at Jessica. “Isn’t that right, Stella?”
“It’s Jessica, damn it,” she snapped. “You’d better get used to that, Jack.”
“Yeah, sorry. I guess I’d better have a new name, too, when I show up in a few months to marry the Widow Stafford and help her run this fine big ranch.”
“It’ll be even bigger by then,” Jessica said, “because I’ll have bought the Box D and the other ranches we’ve nearly wiped out. This will be the biggest, wealthiest spread the Tonto Basin has ever seen.”
“Yeah, and all that’s left to make that come true is for these two to die,” the man said as the gun in his hand came up toward Dan and his finger tightened on the trigger.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Drop it, Rawson!” Stovepipe shouted as he threw open the front door and charged into the foyer.
He had waited to announce his presence until Jack Rawson and the woman he now knew was really named Stella Bellamy had incriminated themselves good and proper. But that meant cutting it close and putting Dan and Laura in even more danger. It had to be done, though, so that Sheriff Frank Olsen could hear everything from the open window.
Now there was no time to lose. Rawson whirled toward Stovepipe. His mouth twisted in a hate-filled snarl. Stovepipe already had his gun out, but Rawson’s reactions were rattler-quick. He got off a shot that burned past Stovepipe’s ear before the range detective slammed two rounds into his body. Rawson reeled back under the impact and fell against Jessica. Blood from his wounds welled out onto her nightdress as he clutched at her shoulder with his free hand to keep himself from falling.
From the window, which he thrust up all the way now, Sheriff Olsen shouted, “Get away from him, ma’am! Get out of the way!”
“Don’t shoot!” Jessica cried. “Don’t kill me! It was all Jack’s idea, I swear! He forced me to go along with him—”
“You . . . lyin’ . . . bitch!” Rawson grated. He still had his gun in his other hand. He brought it up, rammed the barrel against her belly, and said, “You know it was . . . all you!” as he pulled the trigger.
The muffled explosion threw Jessica back against the wall. As she hung there, her face twisted by pain and horror as a crimson stain flooded her midsection, Rawson staggered around in time for four more bullets—two each from Stovepipe and Olsen—to crash into his body. He jittered backward a couple of steps in a macabre dance and then collapsed, half in the foyer and half in the parlor. A couple of feet away, Jessica slid down the wall into a sitting position and died with her hands pressed to her stomach.
By now, Dan had Laura in his arms. He held her so tightly it seemed like he was never going to let her go.
Stovepipe looked over at the window and Olsen and said, “I reckon you heard enough, Sheriff?”
“More than enough,” the lawman replied. “And it’s going to be a while before it stops making me a little sick, too.”
* * *
“That right there is what started me to thinkin’,” said Stovepipe as he held up a red silk thread and placed it on the table in front of him. “I found it caught on one o’ the rocks where the bushwhacker who killed Abel Dempsey was hidin’ when she took that shot at Dan.”
“She,” Laura repeated.
“Yes’m. Miz Stafford—or Stella Bellamy, if you want to call her by her real name—never shied away from doin’ her own killin’ when she
needed to. She killed your husband, and then she killed her own husband. Although I reckon she and poor Mr. Stafford weren’t never legally married, since she’d already gotten hitched to Jack Rawson over in Kansas seven years ago.”
They were all sitting around the table in the dining room of the Box D ranch house: Stovepipe, Wilbur, Dan, Laura, and Sheriff Olsen. Wilbur’s left arm was in a black sling he would have to wear until the bullet wound in it healed, but the doctor had said it was all right for him to ride as long as he took it easy.
His old friend would have been here no matter what the doctor said, Stovepipe knew. Wilbur wasn’t one for missing the wrap-up of a case.
Sheriff Olsen shook his head and said, “It’s almost more than I can believe, if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears. A lady like that, turning out to be a cold-blooded killer.”
“Yeah, it’s hard for a fella to wrap his brain around somethin’ like that,” agreed Stovepipe. “When I found that silk thread, I knew it looked like it came from somethin’ a lady might wear, and then later on I saw Miz Stafford wearin’ a silk shirt.”
Laura nodded and said, “Yes, she did that a lot. She said she liked the way silk feels. Like . . . like money, she said.”
“Her shirt got snagged that day, and that made me remember the thread I’d found,” Stovepipe went on. “I recollected, too, hearin’ Dan say he saw powder burns on the back o’ Abel Dempsey’s shirt. That meant whoever shot him got up close behind him. Dempsey was an old-timer who’d seen his share o’ trouble over the years. He wouldn’t let anybody get the drop on him like that unless it was somebody he trusted. Like, say, his wife’s best friend.”
Wilbur said, “So you knew she had killed Dempsey almost from the first, Stovepipe?”
“Let’s say I had an inklin’. But I didn’t have any real proof and didn’t know for sure what was behind it. Then Stafford was killed, too, at a place where his wife knew he’d be, and I asked myself if maybe he was the real target all along. If Miz Stafford had her sights set on inheritin’ the spread, then all the rustlin’ and the mysterious deaths of those other ranchers would muddy the waters and keep suspicion from fallin’ on her. Plus, they made some money off the stolen stock, too, which never hurts, and weakened the other spreads in the basin so she’d have an easier time takin’ them over when she was ready. If all that was true, she had to be tied up with the rustlers . . . but I didn’t know just how close that tie was until you gave me that reply to my telegram, Sheriff, and I found out that Rawson was married to a lady outlaw named Stella Bellamy who’d disappeared a few years ago. Didn’t take much of a leap to figure out that Stella Bellamy was callin’ herself Jessica Stafford these days. After that came together, it was just a matter of gettin’ the proof.”
“Which we did by staging that jailbreak and using these two as the bait for a trap,” Olsen said with a solemn nod toward Dan and Laura. “That still bothers me. It was too much of a risk.”
Dan said, “With our lives at stake, Sheriff, it was worth the risk. That’s why we were willing to go along with Stovepipe’s idea.” He smiled across the table at Stovepipe and Wilbur. “I’ve got to say, you two don’t look like any range detectives I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve run across that many of them.”
“That’s one reason we’re good at our jobs,” said Wilbur. “That, and Stovepipe’s so blasted smart and stubborn.”
“So what happens now?” asked Laura.
Olsen said, “The judge has already dropped the charges against the two of you, so I reckon you’re free to go on about your business.”
“But what is our business? My husband is dead, my neighbors are dead, the whole valley is in an uproar . . .”
“You’ve got a good foreman and a good crew here on the Box D,” Stovepipe pointed out. “I figure with some work, you can put ever’thing right again.” He smiled. “And I reckon Dan’d be glad to give you a hand.”
“That’s true,” said Dan. “You know it is.”
“That would look scandalous,” Laura objected.
“Not to folks who know the truth,” said Stovepipe. “I ain’t sure I’d worry overmuch about anybody else.”
“Anyway,” added Wilbur, “some other scandal will come along, and before you know it people will have forgotten about all of this.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Laura reached over and clasped Dan’s hand. “I’m willing to risk it, if you are.”
“You know the answer to that,” he told her.
* * *
A short time later, Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Sheriff Frank Olsen stood on the front porch of the ranch house. They had left Dan and Laura inside, talking quietly about whatever it was they needed to talk about. For once, Stovepipe wasn’t the least bit curious about what that might be. It was their business, not his.
“What are the two of you going to be doing now?” asked Olsen.
“Figured I’d send a telegram to our boss first thing in the mornin’,” said Stovepipe. “I’ll let him know how things here played out and tell him that Wilbur’s shot up and needs some time to recuperate.”
“Hey, I can ride,” Wilbur protested. “The sawbones said I could.”
“He also told you to take it easy,” said Stovepipe, “so if there ain’t no other urgent case that needs our attention, I reckon it won’t hurt for us to rest and relax a mite.”
Olsen suppressed a groan and said, “Does that mean the two of you are going to be hanging around Hat Creek for a while?”
“Looks like there’s a good chance of it,” drawled Stovepipe.
“You’re not gonna sniff out some other mystery and wind up causing hell to start popping again, are you?”
“Sheriff,” exclaimed Wilbur, “I sure wish you hadn’t said that. Now you’ve gone and given him ideas!”
Keep reading for a sepcial excerpt
of the new Johnstone adventure
DIE BY THE GUN
A CHUCKWAGON TRAIL WESTERN
by William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone
In this thrilling frontier saga, bestselling authors
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone celebrate an unsung
hero of the American West: a humble chuckwagon cook
searching for justice—and fighting for his life . . .
DIE BY THE GUN
With one successful cattle drive under his belt, Dewey “Mac” McKenzie is on a first-name basis with danger. Marked for death for a crime he didn’t commit and eager to get far away from the territory, he signed on as a cattle drive chuckwagon cook to save his own skin—and learned how to serve up a tasty hot stew. Turns out Mac has a talent for fixing good vittles. He’s also pretty handy with a gun. But Mac’s enemies are hungry for more—and they’ve hired a gang of ruthless killers to turn up the heat . . .
Mac knows he’s a dead man. His only hope is to join another cattle drive on the Goodnight-Loving Trail, deep in New Mexico Territory. The journey ahead is even deadlier than the hired guns behind him. His trail boss is an ornery cuss. His crew mate is the owner’s spoiled son. And the route is overrun with kill-crazy rustlers and bloodthirsty Comanche. To make matters worse, Mac’s would-be killers are closing in fast. But when the cattle owner’s son is kidnapped, the courageous young cook has no choice but to jump out of the frying pan—and into the fire . . .
On sale now, where books are sold.
CHAPTER ONE
Dewey Mackenzie spun away from the bar, the finger of whiskey in his shot glass sloshing as he avoided a body flying through the air. He winced as a gun discharged not five feet away from his head. He hastily knocked back what remained of his drink, tossed the glass over his shoulder to land with a clatter on the bar, and reached for the Smith & Wesson Model 3 he carried thrust into his belt.
A heavy hand gripped his shoulder with painful intensity. The bartender rasped, “Don’t go pullin’ that smoke wagon, boy. You do and things will get rough.”
Mac tried to shrug off the apron’s grip and couldn’t. Pow
erful fingers crushed into his shoulder so hard that his right arm began to go numb. He looked across the barroom and wondered why the hell he had ever come to Fort Worth, much less venturing into Hell’s Half Acre, where anything, no matter how immoral or unhealthy, could be bought for two bits or a lying promise.
Two different fights were going on in this saloon, and they threatened to involve more than just the drunken cowboys swapping wild blows. The man with the six-gun in his hand continued to ventilate the ceiling with one bullet after another.
Blood spattered Mac’s boots as one of the fistfights came tumbling in his direction. He lifted his left foot to keep it from getting stomped on by the brawlers. A steer had already done that a month earlier when he had been chuckwagon cook on a cattle drive from Waco up to Abilene.
He had taken his revenge on the annoying mountain of meat, singling it out for a week of meals for the Rolling J crew. Not only had the steer been clumsy where it stepped, it had been tough, and more than one cowboy had complained. Try as he might to tenderize the steaks, by beating, by marinating, by cursing, Mac had failed.
That hadn’t been the only steer he had come to curse. The entire drive had been fraught with danger, and more than one of the crew had died.
“That’s why,” he said out loud.
“What’s that?” The barkeep eased his grip and let Mac turn from the fight.
“After the drive, after the cattle got sold off and sent on their way to Chicago from the Abilene railroad yards, I decided to come back to Texas to pay tribute to a friend who died.”
The bartender’s expression said it all. He was in no mood to hear maudlin stories any more than he was to break up the fights or prevent a disgruntled cowboy from plugging a gambler he thought was cheating him at stud poker.
“Then you need another drink, in his memory.” When Mac didn’t argue the point, the barkeep poured an inch of rye in a new glass and made the two-bit coin Mac put down vanish. A nickel in change rolled across the bar.
The Range Detectives Page 28
