Flintlock led his horse along the driveway to the front door.
He listened for a while and heard activity inside, the low hum of men’s voices interrupted by a cigar smoker’s rumbling cough. Tweddle was to home all right, but the other man’s identity was a mystery.
Flintlock hoped it was Steve McCord. His presence would make things a lot simpler.
He tried the door handle. Locked. And maybe bolted. No doubt the same with the windows.
On cat feet, Flintlock walked wide around the house, intending to try the back door. But he stopped at a large flagstone patio flanked by a pair of marble statues of Greek nymphs with small breasts and generous hips and thighs.
The ornate French doors that opened onto the patio were locked, behind them a large formal dining room. As far as Flintlock could tell only one lock closed the doors from the inside, unless there were bolts he couldn’t see. There was only one way to find out.
He pulled his Colt, measured his kick then struck out with his booted right foot.
The doors, manufactured for show not security, crashed open. Glass shattered and splintered wood flew in every direction.
Flintlock stepped through the wreckage, tossed aside a door that angled on one hinge across his path, and quickly crossed the dining room.
He almost collided with Steve McCord.
Shocked, the man took a step back. He had shaving soap on one side of his face and a razor in his right hand. He wore only his hat, underwear and his holstered Colt.
“Flintlock!” he yelled. Then his hands dropped to the buckle of his gun belt. He let belt and holster thud to the floor, and shrieked, “I’m out of it!”
“Way too late for that,” Flintlock said. He fired twice into McCord’s chest and didn’t wait to see the man drop.
Flintlock stepped into the hallway and yelled, “Tweddle!”
“In here, Mr. Flintlock,” the fat man called out, his tone calm. “Join me for coffee and pastries and a man-to-man talk in the parlor.”
Flintlock followed Tweddle’s voice and stopped at the partially opened parlor door.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Flintlock, and welcome,” the fat man said. “I am unarmed.”
Flintlock pushed the door all the way open with the muzzle of his revolver and warily stepped inside. Tweddle sat in a leather armchair like an obese, smiling toad. He was fully dressed and wore English riding boots as though he planned to take to the trail that morning.
“I take it young McCord is dead?” he said.
Flintlock nodded. “Dead as he’s ever gonna be.”
“Good. He was a bad apple, take my word for that. Coffee? Pastry?”
Flintlock shook his head. “Not today, Tweddle.” “Well, don’t stand on formality, man, take a seat. We have business to discuss. Fortunes to be made with you at my side.”
“The only business I have with you is in my right hand, Tweddle.”
“Oh, let’s not be tiresome, Mr. Flintlock. I plan to make you a rich man.” He slapped his hands together. “What do you think of that, my buck?”
But Tweddle had made a fatal mistake that morning. He should have armed himself.
The man who faced him was what Sam Flintlock had trained himself to be . . . a cold, efficient and soulless man-killer.
And he demonstrated that now. “Tweddle, I still got three unspent cartridges in this gun. One is for Beau Hunt, one for Brendan O’Rourke and the third for his wife. You’re gonna get all three in your fat gut.”
Tweddle was afraid, but he retreated into bluster. “I’m unarmed, Flintlock. Kill me and you’ll hang.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Flintlock said.
He fired three times.
The morning was bright and the sun beamed, happy to create a brand-new day.
Sam Flintlock carefully closed the front door of the house behind him and swung into the saddle. A crowd of people had gathered, whispering to one another, as they stared at the house and the approaching rider.
Among them stood the tall figure of Marshal Tom Lithgow.
As Flintlock rode close, he touched his hat brim. “Morning, Marshal,” he said.
Smiling, Lithgow returned the courtesy. “It’s over, isn’t it?” he said.
Flintlock drew rein. “It’s over. Play it any way you like, Tom.”
“Thieves fell out over the spoils and killed one another. That’s the truth of it as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’m moving on now, Tom,” Flintlock said. “Headed down Louisiana way.”
“Ride easy, Sam,” Lithgow said.
“You too, Tom. Ride easy.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Sam Flintlock camped by a shallow playa in the rugged, remote timber country south of Horseshoe Mountain. He’d killed a deer the day before and now broiled a venison steak over the fire, the last of his coffee on the bile among the coals.
When he heard a rustle in the brush behind him he didn’t look up.
“Come on in, O’Hara. I’m not easy to kill today.”
The breed led his horse into camp. “It seems that Barnabas managed to teach you something.”
“He taught me how to scout an Injun who’s been dogging my back trail for days.” He passed a hunk of scorched, dripping meat to O’Hara. “Eat,” he said. “I’m a lousy cook.”
The breed squatted, the reins of his horse trailing behind him.
Flintlock stuck another steak on the stick and said, “Why are you following me?”
O’Hara bit into the venison and chewed. After a while he said, “I heard about what happened in Open Sky.”
“I killed two men. Is that what you heard?”
“They needed killing.”
“I reckon so. I’ll ask again, why are you following me?”
“And I ask you: Why are you here, Flintlock?”
“Headed down Louisiana way. Why are you here?”
“Following you.”
“Damn you for a cigar store Indian, O’Hara. Speak plain, white man American.”
“I was bored. When I’m around you, stuff happens.”
“Hold this.” Flintlock handed the venison stick to O’Hara. “Don’t burn it.”
He pulled over his saddlebags and took out a folded paper. “I picked this up at a stage station back a ways. It’s a year old, but what the hell, I’m riding that way anyhow.”
O’Hara opened the paper, a reward dodger, yellowed and ripped at the corners where it was torn from a wall. The breed whistled between his teeth. “Zack Hawk. Flintlock, you aim high.”
“Look at the reward.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Dead or alive.”
“For the murder of a Texas Ranger and two deputy United States marshals in El Paso,” O’Hara said.
“From what I heard, after the killings Hawk rode clear across Texas and skipped over the border into Louisiana. He might still be there.”
“That’s five thousand each,” O’Hara said.
“Suppose I say I like to work alone,” Flintlock said.
“I promised old Barnabas I’d look out for you,” the breed said. “I aim to keep my promise.”
“Old Barnabas! Hell, O’Hara, you’re even crazier than I am, seeing things.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah, it’s a natural fact.”
Flintlock chewed on his steak, then said, “My ma is in trouble down in the bayou country.”
“I know. Barnabas told me.”
“Well, maybe after all you could help. You’re real good at sneaking up on folks.”
“Glad to be of help,” O’Hara said.
“Is Zack Hawk as good with a gun as they say?” Flintlock said.
“Wes Hardin stepped around him, called him ‘Sir.’”
“Then I’m right glad to have you along,” Sam Flintlock said.
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
BAD MEN OF THE WEST . . .
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone are the USA
Today bestselling authors whose western sagas have won a legion of devoted fans. Now they take up the tale of a legendary outlaw who tore up Texas—and left behind a legacy of terror.
LIVE WILD, DRAW FAST, DIE HARD . . .
Born and bred in the Texas Panhandle town of Comanche Crossing, William “Wild Bill” Longley gunned down a dozen of its men in cold blood before he got around to the sheriff and deputy—so he could take over the job himself. Then he found the perfect sidekick in a vicious career criminal named Booker Tate. With his remorseless heart set on a beautiful young woman, Wild Bill teams up with Booker to take the whole town hostage until the young lady agrees to a marriage with a man she despises.
That’s when a cold-eyed stranger comes to town with a dead man strapped to his saddle. In a town where violence and murder rule the day, a terrifying battle is about to explode—between ruthless Wild Bill Longley and a bounty hunter named Tam Sullivan, who’s done a whole lot of killing of his own . . .
A DANGEROUS MAN
A Novel of William “Wild Bill” Longley
BY USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold!
CHAPTER ONE
Scar of the Noose
Two men rode through the freezing night, revolvers in their holsters and evil on their minds. Behind them lay a dead man, murdered for the few dollars in his pocket, his gun, horse, and new boots.
Wild Bill Longley had not known who the man was, nor did he care.
He needed boots, the man had them, so he shot him. Gut shot him, just to watch him die slowly and in agony, as was Longley’s way in such matters.
As snow flurried in the icy wind and settled among the pines like streaks of wan moonlight, Longley drew rein and kicked away the dead man’s ten-dollar horse as it pulled alongside him. “Damn it, Booker, you sure there’s a town at the end of this trail? I’m freezing my nuts off here.”
Booker Tate nodded. An uncurried, dangerous brute, his red beard spread to the middle button of his mackinaw and long hair fell over his shoulders in greasy tangles. “Comanche Crossing is there all right, Bill, and it’s ours for the taking. Man, I’ve been there afore, and it’s prime.”
“What about the town sheriff?” Longley asked. “Is he a gun?”
“Hell, no. The sheriff is elected, Bill. Fat feller by the name of Frank Harm. We can take him, real easy.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t want no slipups on this venture, Booker. I mean, I don’t want to come up against no big name draw-fighting lawman aiming to mess things up.”
“Hell, Bill, there ain’t a named draw fighter within two hundred miles of the Crossing,” Tate said, grinning. “The only one I can think of is Con Collins and he never leaves the San Juan River country. Like I said, the town is there for them as wants it. Come the spring melt, we can ride out rich men.”
“A hick town in the middle of nowhere ain’t going to make us rich. And that’s a natural fact.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but we’ll have enough to keep us in whiskey and women fer a year,” Tate said.
“Well, that’s always something, ain’t it?”
“Damn right it is.”
Longley lifted a whiskey flask from the pocket of his sheepskin and took a swig, then a second. He passed the flask to Tate.
Unlike his muscular simian companion, Bill Longley was a tall, dark, and handsome man. He sported a trimmed imperial that set female hearts aflutter and usually affected the dress and languid, Southern manner of the riverboat gambler, though he possessed none of those gentlemanly traits.
The eyes he turned to Tate were a spectacular blue, but cold as floe ice, tinged with a lurking insanity.
“I say Bill, that time you was hung when you ran with Tom Johnson an’ them, how did it feel?” Tate said. “I was always meaning to ask.”
“Why do you ask me such a question, at this place and time? And you a man who has been my acquaintance only for two weeks?” The gunman’s voice was flat, toneless, like lead coins dropping onto the trunk of a dead tree.
Tate heard that dead voice, accepted its warning, and stepped carefully. He smiled, or tried to. “Well, I figure when it’s time to finally turn up my toes I’ll be shot or hung. I know what getting shot feels like, but I ain’t never been hung afore.”
Longley undid the top button of his sheepskin, pulled the collar away, and craned his neck. “Take a good look. This is what it’s like.” A dull red scar about an inch deep, banded with distorted white tissue, circled his neck.
The terrible scar still bore its scarlet anger, but the vertical bands were white as bone and looked like small, writhing snakes.
It took a great deal to shock Booker Tate, but the livid legacy of a hemp rope did. “My God, Bill, an’ you was only half hung,” he said, wonder in his small, black eyes.
Longley adjusted his collar. “The posse as done it didn’t stay around. They should’ve lingered awhile and made sure the hanging took.”
“What happened to Johnson?”
“His neck broke like a dry twig. I heard it snap.”
“You was lucky, Bill, an’ no mistake.”
Longley shrugged, his hard face empty. “If the vigilantes hadn’t bungled it, I would have swapped one hell for another just a tad before my time. Luck don’t even come into it.”
“You’re a rum one, Bill,” Tate said. “An’ no mistake.”
“No, I’m a man who should be dead on a hell-firing trail to nowhere.”
Tate smiled. “Comanche Crossing ain’t nowhere. It’s somewhere. Any place you can sleep in a bed is somewhere.”
“Every town is nowhere to me.” Longley smirked. “And Comanche Crossing will be nowhere after I get through with it.”
CHAPTER TWO The Man Hunter
Tam Sullivan sat across the table from a man he’d just met. The raging snow and wind had forced him to look for shelter and the rancher had graciously obliged.
“It’s a dugout saloon and hog farm, owned by a man name of Rufus Brooks, and he’s a real bad ’un,” the rancher told him. “Hell, boy, you can’t miss it. Well, you can, but follow my directions and they’ll take you right to the front door.”
The man raised a lascivious eyebrow and smiled.
“Huntin’ fer a woman, are ye? Young buck like you.”
“Nope,” Sullivan said. “I’m hunting a man. Feller by the name of Crow Wallace. You heard tell of him?”
“Who ain’t heard tell of him? He’s another bad ’un like Brooks, maybe worse. Stranger passin’ through tole me Crow killed a man in San Antone real recent, then badly cut up another in a saloon down El Paso way.”
Sullivan nodded. “The stranger said it right. But two weeks ago Crow made the mistake of robbing a Butterfield stage. He shotgunned the guard and got away with ten thousand dollars and a passenger’s gold watch.”
The rancher pushed the bottle of whiskey across his kitchen table, closer to Sullivan. “Ye don’t say?”
Sullivan was not, by inclination, a talking man, but the rancher was a widower and lonely. That, the whiskey, and a reluctance to again brace the wild weather outside loosened his tongue a little. “Seems like the passenger set store by the watch and added five hundred dollars to Crow’s bounty.”
“How much is he worth?” the rancher asked, a gleam of avarice in his eyes.
“Right now, two thousand five hundred dollars and ten per cent of all monies recovered.”
“And you mean to collect?”
“Seems like.”
“Well, I’d like to help you, but—”
“I don’t need any help,” Sullivan said. “I’m a man who works alone.”
“You said you tracked Crow this far?”
“Yeah.” Sullivan waved a hand in the direction of the window. “Then this winter weather cracked down hard and I lost him.”
“Well, if’n he ain’t already skipped out of the New Mexico Territory, Br
ooks’ dugout is the only place he could be.”
“No towns farther north?”
“One. A burg called Comanche Crossing maybe twenty miles south of Grulla Ridge, but nobody goes there. It’s a straitlaced town if you know what I mean. Well, except for Montana Maine, that is. She’s the big attraction, but they say she’s mighty choosy about who she keeps company with.” The rancher leaned back in his chair, like a man ready to state an undeniable case.
“No, if a man’s looking fer shelter an’ a willing women and whiskey to go along with it, he takes his life in his hands and heads fer Rufus Brooks’ hog ranch.”
Sullivan nodded again. “Crow Wallace isn’t a man who’s easy to kill. If he’s at the Brooks place, he’ll be the toughest, baddest hombre there.” He smiled. “That is, until I arrive.”
Through snow flurries that bladed horizontally in a keening wind, Sullivan made out the glow of oil lamps in the distant darkness. He reckoned that was the place, unless the rancher had no liking for bounty hunters and had steered him wrong.
Well, he’d soon find out.
He urged his tired horse in the direction of the lights, then picked up an eyebrow of trail that led to an undercut limestone shelf about as high as a tall pine.
Under the torn sky, the area seemed a bleak, lonely, and dark place for a saloon and cathouse, but as Sullivan drew rein and looked around him, he decided that its isolation was probably one of its attractions. To an outlaw on the scout, a man who avoided the settlements and johnny law, it would be a haven of rest and plenty indeed.
Sullivan let his mount pick its way through a stand of Ponderosa pine then crossed a brush flat where a few struggling Gambel oaks rustled in the raw north wind. He came upon a well-marked trail, a wagon road that ran parallel to the base of the ridge then followed a gradual ramp to a broad shelf of rock.
Across a hundred yards of flat, a second ridge ascended like a gigantic step, its top thick with pine.
Gut-Shot Page 27
