Rimfire

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t know,” Ace answered honestly. From the demonic look on Belmont’s face, the man was capable of almost anything.

  Ling said something Ace couldn’t make out. It made Belmont move closer to her. Suddenly, she thrust her head forward and spat in his face.

  Belmont jerked back. He slashed the still-coiled whip across her face, knocking her head to the side. Then he let the whip uncoil and stepped behind her, raising his arm to bring the lash down on her back.

  Before that blow could fall, shots blasted outside the barn.

  Someone crashed into one of the double doors, making it swing back. Guns spurted flame as men began charging in from the street.

  Angus McPhee was in front, Colt in hand, shouting, “Ling! Ling!”

  McPhee’s men who were behind the barn, hearing their boss yelling inside, crashed through the rear door, eager to get in on the action.

  Any plans Ace and Chance might have made didn’t matter. All that was left was to fight as chaos erupted inside the livery stable. They leaped to their feet and dived off the edge of the hayloft.

  Ace landed on Leo Belmont’s back. The impact drove him to his knees and knocked the whip out of his hand, but the strength in his thickly built body kept him from going all the way to the ground. He reached back, got hold of Ace, and heaved the younger man off him.

  Chance landed feetfirst, with his heels driving into Clancy’s back. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs and flailing fists.

  Belmont’s men were caught in a crossfire as the two groups working for McPhee opened up on them. For a few mad seconds, gun-thunder filled the barn along with spurting muzzle flames and clouds of powder smoke.

  Then McPhee’s bellow rose over it. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! You might hit Ling!”

  Ace was glad to hear that. He and his brother were caught in the middle of that lead storm, too, as they battled with Belmont and Clancy.

  Belmont slashed at him with the whip. It cut his cheek and his hand as he tried to ward off the worst of the blows. Then he was able to catch hold of the whip with his left hand and wrap it around his wrist. He jerked Belmont toward him and rocketed out a straight right-hand punch that slammed into the older man’s jaw with such force that Ace felt it shiver all the way up his arm to his shoulder.

  Belmont collapsed.

  Ace swung around in time to see that Chance had his hands full with Clancy. The big, mustachioed man was on top of Chance, driving punch after punch into his face and body. Ace leaped toward them, and since he still had hold of the whip, he looped it around Clancy’s neck from behind, grabbed it with his other hand, and drew it tight across Clancy’s throat. Ace dug in with his feet and dragged Clancy backwards, off Chance.

  Clancy struggled ferociously, kicking out with his feet and trying to reach back and hit Ace, but he couldn’t get any leverage or work up any force. Ace kept up the pressure, grunting with the strain as he summoned all his strength and made the whip dig deeper and deeper into Clancy’s throat. He was pulling back so hard he lost his footing and sat down, but the death grip in which he had the larger man never slipped.

  Finally, Clancy spasmed several times and went limp, either dead or passed out. Ace didn’t know which, and at the moment, he didn’t care. His chest heaved from his terrific exertions as he looked over at Chance, who seemed to be all right, just battered and groggy as he lay a few feet away.

  With an incoherent cry of rage, Belmont surged to his feet and lunged at Ling. He had pulled a knife from his pocket and drove it at her chest. She was strung up so tightly she couldn’t move out of the way, and McPhee, who watched in horror, couldn’t risk a shot for fear of hitting her.

  Out of nowhere, another shape leaped in front of Ling. Belmont’s knife went into Jack Haggarty’s chest, driving deep. As Haggarty cried out, he lifted the pistol he held, jammed the barrel under Belmont’s chin, and pulled the trigger. A mass of blood, brain, and bone fragments exploded from the back of Belmont’s skull.

  He and Haggarty hit the ground at the same time.

  “Jack!” screamed Ling.

  “I’m sorry, boss.” The man was one of the ranch hands who had brought Haggarty into Rimfire from the Tartan. “As soon as we got to town, he stuck a gun in my side and made me bring him here instead of the doc’s place!”

  The shooting was over. Those of Belmont’s men who had survived the ruckus had surrendered.

  “Cut me down!” Ling cried. “Jack!”

  One of McPhee’s men stepped up and used a bowie knife to sever the ropes holding her. She fell to her knees and crawled to Haggarty, sobbing as she pulled his head into her lap and cradled it.

  With his face set in grim lines, McPhee went over to Ace and Chance. “You boys were telling me the truth about those two, weren’t you? He’s not her stepfather, is he?”

  “No, and earlier tonight we found them trying to break into your safe.” Ace studied the look on McPhee’s face for a moment, then said, “But you don’t care about that, do you?”

  “I feel what I feel for her, no matter what she is,” said McPhee heavily. “There’s nothing else a man can do where a woman’s concerned.” Wearily, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “But I’ll see to it that Haggarty gets a decent burial, and after that . . . well, what Ling does after that will be up to her, I suppose.” He sighed. “And if you two want to stay around here, I reckon there’s no reason for me to forbid it.”

  “You’re not going to cause any more trouble for Mr. Fairfield and the rest of those settlers?”

  McPhee grunted. “No reason to. That fella Fairfield actually has some pretty good ideas. I can work with any man who’s reasonable.”

  “Then there’s no reason for us to stay around these parts.” Chance looked at his brother. “Isn’t that right, Ace?”

  “It sure is.” Ace smiled. “As a matter of fact, I think we’re going to be heading south. . . .”

  * * *

  The next morning, that was exactly what the Jensen brothers did, with new guns for Chance, new clothes for both, and plenty of supplies, all paid for by Angus McPhee.

  As they reached the edge of town, Chance commented. “McPhee had better be careful if he’s going to keep Ling around. That girl’s going to take him for everything he’s worth. He’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill him. She ought to be in jail.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not going to take on McPhee’s whole crew of gunmen to try to put her there,” said Ace. “She’s his problem now, and at least we won’t ever have to deal with her again.”

  Chance looked over at him, narrow-eyed. “You probably shouldn’t have said that. You may have just jinxed us.”

  Ace laughed. “I’m not that superstitious.”

  “All card players believe in luck . . . and sometimes it’s bad.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out,” said Ace.

  “If we live long enough,” added Chance.

  The Jensen brothers rode south, leaving Rimfire behind them.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW!

  THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITER OF THE 21ST CENTURY

  The MacCallister family is legendary in the

  American frontier . . . and wherever a MacCallister travels,

  the legend—and the guns—follow.

  USA TODAY AND NEW YORK TIMES

  BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  TEN GUNS FROM TEXAS

  A Duff MacCallister Western

  When Duff MacCallister journeys to Texas to deliver

  100 head of Angus cattle, he finds a land on fire.

  Unruly, lawless teams of cattle rustlers, branded

  Fence Busters by the locals, are rampaging across

  grazing land and cutting fences in the name of an

  eastern land company. The ranchers are fighting back,

  and Duff joins the fray. The fight leads to Austin

  and into an even deadlier mission.

 
The governor’s daughter has been kidnapped by

  Fence Busters. Duff and his partner Elmer are willing

  to go after her, but they’re going to need more men

  and a lot more firepower . . . The best the governor

  can do is give them the names of three outlaws who

  once served honorably in war. Now Duff MacCallister

  is going up against a fanatical, highly trained enemy,

  riding with gunmen he cannot fully trust. Once the

  shooting starts, there is no turning back—because

  Duff and his posse are heading straight into the

  bloody depths of hell.

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  PINNACLE BOOKS ARE SOLD.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chugwater, Wyoming

  Duff MacCallister was having a Scotch with Baldy Johnson at the Fiddler’s Green saloon when Wang Chow came in.

  “Hey!” someone shouted. “What’s that Chinaman doin’ in my drinkin’ bar?”

  “This isn’t your drinking bar. It is mine,” Baldy said. “You may have noticed on the sign out front, just under the name Fiddler’s Green. It says Baldy Johnson, Proprietor.”

  “Yeah? Well, it seems to me like you would have more consideration for your customers than to allow a stinkin’ Chinaman to come into a bar where white men are drinkin’. I think you should throw him out.”

  “Throw him out yourself,” Baldy replied, smiling across the table at Duff.

  “Really? You mean it’s all right with you if I throw him out?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Wang Chow looked at Duff, who, with a smile, nodded at him.

  “Hood, you really plannin’ on throwin’ that Celestial outta here?” one of the other saloon customers asked.

  “Yeah.” With a malevolent smile, Hood left the bar and started toward Wang Chow. “What’s your name, Chinaman?”

  “My name is Wang Chow.”

  “Well, Wang Chow, you got two choices. You can either turn around and leave now, or you can let me mop up this floor with you and throw you out. Which will it be?”

  “I do not wish to do either,” Wang Chow replied.

  “Well, then, we’ll do it my way.” Hood swung, putting everything into a wide right cross.

  Wang Chow ducked easily under the wild swing, then shot out his hand, palm forward, striking Hood in the chest. The return blow surprised Hood, and drove him back several steps.

  “Why, you—!” Hood swung again, missing as badly as he did the first time.

  Wang Chow hit Hood on his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  “Stop playing around with him, Hood,” someone said.

  Hood decided to try a straight jab and shot his left fist forward. Wang Chow moved his head to one side easily, and with no show of effort, hit Hood in the side, just under his arm.

  Hood punched and swung again and again, never once making contact with Wang Chow, who with movements as graceful as those of a dancer, responded to every one of Hood’s attempts with a counterpunch that scored. It soon became very evident that Wang Chow was carrying Hood and could, at any time, have dealt him a fight-ending blow.

  Hood was getting more and more frustrated, and more and more exhausted. Finally, breathing heavily, he stopped, and held up his hand. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I am Wang Chow.”

  “Well, Wang Chow, come over here and let me buy you a drink. I need to make friends with anybody who can fight the way you do.”

  “Why don’t the two of you come over to my table?” Baldy called out to them. “I’ll get the drinks. You’ve probably worn yourself out.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Hood said.

  The two men walked over to sit at the table with Duff and Baldy.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Hood asked.

  “I am a priest of the Shaolin Temple of Changlin,” Wang Chow replied.

  “A priest? I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen a padre who could do that.”

  “Wang Chow isn’t the kind of priest you are thinking of,” Duff said. “A Shaolin priest is a most unique individual. Wang Chow entered the temple as a boy of nine, and left when he was twenty-eight years old, a master of the Chinese martial art of Wushu.”

  “How did you wind up in America?” Hood asked.

  “Some evil men killed my mother and my sister,” Wang Chow said. “When I went to the temple to burn incense to honor my family, the master of the temple told me to seek no revenge. I was told that if I did so, it would bring dishonor to the temple.”

  “Damn, but you done it anyway, didn’t you?” Hood asked.

  “Yes. I cut the topknot to my hair, which distanced me from the temple, then I went to the tong of the men who had done the evil thing. Six men were there, laughing about having killed my family.” Wang Chow stopped.

  “Well, go on,” Hood said. “What happened?”

  “I killed them.”

  “Wait a minute. You said there were six of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you killed all six?”

  “I am ashamed to say that I let my temper control me.”

  “So you shot all six of them?”

  “I do not use guns,” Wang said.

  “Then how did you kill them?”

  “I killed them with the sword.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I was expelled from the Changlin Temple and the Empress Dowager Ci’an issued a decree ordering my death. I left China with a group of laborers, and came to America to work on the railroad,” Wang said in conclusion.

  “Damn,” Hood said. “I’m glad I didn’t really make you mad.”

  Duff and Baldy laughed.

  “Say, Duff, is it true you’re going to be taking some of your beeves to Texas?” Baldy asked.

  “Aye, ’tis true. I’ve been dealing with a man named Jason Bellefontaine. He owns the Slash Bell Ranch at Merrill Town, which is near Austin. He wants some Angus to improve his herd.”

  “How soon will you be going?”

  “I expect it’ll be at least another month before we’ve got everything worked out. I’ve checked with the railroad. ’Tis five hundred of the creatures I’ll be takin’, so ’tis twenty cars I’ll be needing.”

  “You’re takin’ cows to Texas?” Hood laughed. “Here, now, ’n if that ain’t ’bout the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I thought cows come out of Texas, not go in.”

  “These are Angus cattle. ’Tis a special breed from Scotland they are, and far superior to the Longhorns ’n aye, even the Hereford.”

  “Superior how?” Hood asked.

  “Oh, in about ever’ way you can count,” Elmer Gleason said, joining the conversation. “They have lower calf weights, so the birthin’ is a lot easier, which means you don’t lose as many during calving season. They produce a quality carcass, ’n that means a better beef.

  “But now, you take a Hereford, they have a higher birth weight, ’n they got white faces, which could cause the pinkeye. Also, they ain’t as calm as the Angus is, neither.”

  “What about the Longhorn?” Hood asked.

  “Anyone who is still raisin’ Longhorns don’t even deserve to be called a cattleman,” Elmer said.

  “What do you know ’bout bein’ a cattlemen?” Hood teased. “I mean, seein’ as you ain’t nothin’ but a cowboy your ownself.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Hood,” Duff said. “Mr. Gleason owns a substantial piece of Sky Meadow. He is every bit a cattleman, and has a personal stake in the safe delivery of these cows to Mr. Bellefontaine.”

  Near Phantom Hill, Texas

  As Duff and the others were having a pleasant gathering in Fiddler’s Green, some eight hundred and fifty miles south, two outlaws, Al Simmons and Hugh Decker, were on the run.

  “They’re a-comin’. I can feel it in my gut. They are out there, and they’re close.” Simmons climbed down from a rock and walked over to his horse, where he
slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.

  “What is it you’re a-plannin’ on doin’ with that rifle?” Decker asked.

  “When they get here, I’m goin’ to commence shootin’. It looks to me like we don’t have no other choice.”

  “Yeah,” Decker agreed. “Yeah, you’re prob’ly right.”

  With rifles in hand, the two men climbed back up onto the rock that afforded them not only a good view of the approaching trail but also some cover and concealment. They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.

  “Let ’em come up to about fifty, maybe seventy-five yards away,” Simmons suggested.

  He and Decker weren’t career outlaws. Until earlier that day, they had never done anything against the law. But they’d held up the Abilene stagecoach. During the robbery they took nothing from the passengers, stealing only the money being transported by the coach. They believed they had every right to do that because, until the week before, they had worked for the stage company, keeping the coaches in good repair. However, their supervisor had come in drunk and offensive. They’d gotten into a row with him, and he fired them. When they took their case to the station manager, he upheld his supervisor. To make things worse, they were each due two weeks’ pay, and the company withheld their pay, claiming it was a fine.

  They had moped over the unjust treatment for a few days. When they learned that the bank was expecting a shipment of money, they made up their mind to rob the coach.

  Even though they had worn masks during the holdup, the driver had recognized them and a posse, hastily formed, had chased them into a dead-end canyon.

  As the thieves waited, the posse came into view over a distant rise.

  “There they are,” Decker said.

  “I see ’em!” Simmons raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Wait a minute,” Decker cautioned. “Don’t shoot!” He reached up to pull Simmons’s rifle down. “They don’t have no idea we’re here.”

  “You’re right. I’ll wait until they get closer,” Simmons agreed.

  They waited as the distant riders came closer, sometimes seeming not to be riding, but rather floating as they materialized and dematerialized in the heat waves rising from the ground. On they rode, across the long, flat plain.