Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Vasquez chuckled to hide the fear gnawing at his guts like a dog worrying a bone. “And maybe horse learn to talk, but I do not think so.”

  They crawled across the floor and peeked out the window. They could see nothing, until a sheet of flame shot out of a small group of trees in front of the house and another bullet shattered the door frame, knocking the door half open and leaving it hanging on one hinge.

  “Goddamn,” Murdock yelped. He rose and began to fire the Winchester as fast as he could work the lever and pull the trigger. He didn’t bother to aim, just poured a lot of lead out at the attackers.

  “Vasquez,” he whispered, “see if you can sneak out the back and circle around ’em. Maybe you can get them from behind.”

  “Hokay, señor,” the Mexican answered. He crawled through the house, praying to a God he had almost forgotten existed that he make it to his horse. He wasn’t about to risk trying to sneak up on Jensen and Wells. If he got to his horse, he was going to be long gone before they knew it.

  He eased the back door open and stuck his head out. Good, there was no one in sight and no place to hide behind the cabin.

  Crouching low, he ran in a wide circle to where he and Murdock had left their horses. He slipped between the rails on the far side of the corral and crawled on his belly across thirty yards of horse shit to get to his mount’s reins. He reached up and untied the reins and stood up next to his bronc, his hand on the saddle horn, ready to leap into the saddle and be off.

  “Howdy, El Machete,” he heard from behind him.

  He stiffened, then relaxed. It was time to make his play. Maybe, like Murdock said, he would get lucky.

  He grabbed iron and whirled. Before his pistol was out of its holster, Joey had drawn and fired, his bullet taking the Mexican in the right shoulder. The force of the slug spun Vasquez around, threw him back against his horse, then to the ground. He fumbled for his gun with his left hand, but couldn’t get it out before Joey was standing over him.

  “Okay, Señor Wells. I surrender.”

  Joey’s eyes were terrible for the Mexican to behold. They were black as the pits of hell and cold as those of a rattler ready to strike.

  Joey leaned down and pulled Vasquez’s machete from its scabbard on his back. “I don’t think so, Vasquez.”

  He held the blade up and twisted it so it gleamed and reflected sunlight on its razor-sharp edge. Joey looked at him and smiled. “Guess what, El Machete?”

  Suddenly Vasquez knew what the cowboy had in mind. “No . . . no . . . por favor, do not do this, señor!”

  Joey pursed his lips. “Try as I might, Vasquez, I cain’t think of a single reason I shouldn’t.”

  With a move like a rattler’s strike, Joey slashed with the machete, severing Vasquez’s right arm at the elbow. The Mexican screamed and grabbed at his stump with his left hand.

  “Remember Mr. Williams, El Machete?”

  As Vasquez looked up through pain-clouded, terror-filled eyes, the machete flashed again, severing his left arm at the elbow.

  Vasquez screamed again and thrashed around on the ground, trying to stanch the blood as it spurted from his ruined arms by sticking the stumps in the dirt. It didn’t work.

  Joey stood and watched as Vasquez bled to death, remembering his wife and son lying in their own blood because of this man.

  * * *

  Smoke continued peppering the house with the Sharps, until one of the slugs tore open the potbelly stove, setting the house on fire.

  As flames consumed the wooden structure, Murdock began to scream. Just before the roof caved in, he came running out of the door, his clothes smoldering and smoking, holding a leather valise in one hand and a Colt in the other. He was cocking and firing wildly at Smoke, who stood calmly, ignoring the whine of the slugs around his head.

  “This is for Puma Buck,” he whispered, and put a slug between Murdock’s eyes. His head exploded and he dropped where he stood, dead and in hell before he hit the ground.

  Smoke walked over and picked up the valise, looked in it, smiled, and hooked the handles on his saddle horn.

  He helped Joey up on Red, he climbed on Horse, and they headed home.

  Chapter 24

  On the way back to the Rocking C, Smoke had to stop and reapply the dressings on Joey’s shoulder. All the activity had reopened his wound and started it bleeding again.

  “What’s in the valise?” he asked.

  Smoke smiled. “I’ll show you when we get back to the ranch.”

  They got back up on their broncs and continued to ride, slower this time to make it easier on Joey’s shoulder.

  As they approached the cabin, Smoke glanced at the corral to see if his package had arrived. It had. There were four Palouse mares prancing in there, running and kicking up their heels, glad to be off that train and out in the open air again. There was also a small paint pony. Ready to be ridden.

  Joey, tired and weak from loss of blood, rode with his head down and didn’t notice the new arrivals.

  Smoke helped Joey off Red and called, “Hello, the cabin. We got two hungry cowpokes here.”

  A petite blond woman walked out on the porch. She had her arm around a boy, about three or four years old, who walked next to her, a wooden brace on his right leg.

  “Hungry cowpokes, are ye’?” she said, her hands on her hips. “And how about your wives, who are starved for a little affection from their men?”

  Joey’s head jerked up, and his eyes lit up with happiness. “Betty . . . Tom . . .” He ran up the steps to the porch, all fatigue vanished, grinning like a madman. He threw his right arm around Betty and hugged her until she cried, “Stop that, you big galoot, you’re going to break my neck.” But her eyes were full of laughter. Joey then knelt and hugged, more gently this time, little Tom. “Yore leg . . . you’re walkin’?”

  Betty stood next to him, running her hands through her man’s hair as he knelt next to their son. “The doctor says the brace can come off in two weeks. He thinks the leg will be good as new by then.”

  Joey looked up, tears in his eyes. “And you?”

  “I’m fine, dear. The wound healed without complications.” She frowned, looking at his bloody shoulder. “But I don’t know about you. It looks like you’ve been up to your old tricks again.”

  He stood and laid his head on her shoulder, breathing deep, smelling her hair. “It’s over, Betty. The feud is over and done with.”

  She said, “And you’re home for good,” mock anger in her voice. “No more galavantin’ around doing your man things?”

  Joey, famed killer of over two hundred men, looked sheepish. “No, dear. I’m home for good.”

  From inside the cabin a voice called, “Hey, cowboy, are you going to tell me hello or just stand there with your mouth open?”

  Smoke jumped like he’d been shot. He had been so happy to see the Wellses reunited, he’d plumb forgot that Sally had come to Pueblo with them. He ran up the stairs and swept her up in his arms, whirling her around, kissing her, and whispering in her ear that he loved her.

  * * *

  Later, around the dinner table, Smoke explained to Joey what he had done. “I had Ben Tolson send a wire to Sally to see if she could arrange for Betty and Tom to ride the train up here. I knew you wanted them to see the country and see what they thought of it.”

  Sally patted Betty on the arm. “You have a wonderful wife and son, Joey. We’ve become fast friends already.”

  “I also had Sally bring up those Palouse mares we talked about for Red. It’s time you carried on his bloodline, and I think they’d make a good cross.”

  “But what about that little paint pony out there? Surely you can’t want to breed it to Red?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, that’s for Tom. Soon’s that splint comes off, it’ll be time to put him on horseback and teach him to ride. That Indian paint will be perfect to learn on, small and gentle until he’s ready for more.”

  “Smoke,” Joey said, “I don’t know
what to say. You’ve done so much . . .”

  Smoke put his hand on Joey’s shoulder. “Don’t say anything just yet. Take some time, show your family the country. If they, and you, like it up here like I think you will, then I want you to take over the Rocking C ranch.”

  “But, I cain’t ...”

  “Yes, you can, Joey. Remember, you’ve got lots of partners and we’re all counting on you to make this the best ranch in central Colorado.” Smoke snapped his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

  He reached behind him and placed the leather valise Murdock had been carrying on the table in front of Joey. “Here’s a little something from Murdock, to pay you back for all the pain and trouble he’s caused you and your family.”

  Joey opened the valise, and he and Betty glanced in. She sucked in her breath and covered her mouth. “There must be a million dollars in there,” she said.

  Smoke smiled. “More like twenty thousand. It should be enough to buy the Lazy M and its stock from the bank and combine the two ranches into one big enough to make some real money for all the men and the families of the men who helped us defeat Murdock.”

  Louis interrupted. “Unless, of course, you’d rather play a little poker with those greenbacks.” He cracked his knuckles and smiled. “I’m a little rusty, but if you’ll remind me how to play, we could start a game.”

  Betty reached over and grabbed the valise. “Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Longmont. This money’s going straight to the bank, and then it’s going to be put to use to help all our new friends at our Colorado home.”

  Joey raised his eyebrows and grinned.

  Sally put her hand in Smoke’s. “Looks like we have some new neighbors, Smoke.”

  Keep reading for a special excerpt of

  TEXAS JOHN SLAUGHTER

  THE EDGE OF HELL

  By

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J.A. Johnstone

  Tombstone, Arizona, was the most violent town in the west, until this wide open frontier town got a new kind of sheriff. A rancher, a Ranger, and a veteran of the Civil War, John Horton Slaughter is the true-life hero of bestselling authors William and J.A. Johnstone’s new Western series, a novel of passions igniting into war.

  A beautiful woman, a powerful Mexican rancher, and an exotic new breed of cattle come to John Slaughter’s San Bernardino Valley ranch, along with the prospect of making a small fortune. While Slaughter’s men are out keeping the peace in Tombstone, an act of betrayal turns up the heat under his own roof, and a killer is stalking Slaughter’s wealthy Mexican guest. Indians suddenly savagely attack Slaughter’s ranch, but it is only the first shot in a bigger, blazing Arizona bloodbath. The real enemy is coming next: armed to the teeth, driven by vengeance, and deep into a killing spree that only John Slaughter alone can stop...

  Look for The Edge of Hell everywhere books and

  ebooks are sold.

  Chapter 1

  Exuberant shouts filled the air as a blaze-faced black stallion with four white stockings bucked and sunfished like mad in a desperate attempt to unseat the rider perched perilously on his back.

  People crowded around the corral to watch the spectacle inside the fence. Most were men, but the group included several women as well.

  The sweating rider had lost his hat, revealing that he was a young, fair-haired cowboy. He clung desperately to the horse’s back as the animal pitched back and forth, leaped up and down, and switched ends with blinding speed.

  It was just a matter of time, John Slaughter thought, before his brother-in-law Stonewall wound up on his butt in the dust.

  The man standing beside Slaughter nudged him with an elbow, grinned, and said, “Your young man is quite good. But Santiago’s El Halcón will emerge triumphant in the end. You will see.”

  Slaughter—Texas John, some called him, since he hailed from the Lone Star State—figured his guest was right, but he was stubborn enough to say, “Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t count Stonewall out—”

  Before Slaughter could continue, Stonewall lost his grip and sailed off the horse’s back. He let out a yell as he flew through the air, a shout that was cut short as he crashed down on his back.

  Another young man had started to scramble up the corral fence as soon as Stonewall left the saddle. When he reached the top, he vaulted over and landed lithely inside the enclosure. He was in his middle twenties, a little older than Stonewall, with olive skin and sleek hair as dark as a raven’s wing. He ran toward the still-bucking horse and called, “El Halcón!”

  The horse responded instantly to the name, which was Spanish for “The Hawk.” He stood still except for a slight quivering in his muscles that was visible under the shiny black hide. His nostrils flared in anger.

  Santiago Rubriz walked up to the horse and caught the reins. He swung easily into the saddle and began walking the horse around the inside of the corral. The transformation was astounding. El Halcón now appeared gentle enough for a child to ride.

  “A one-hombre horse, eh?” Don Eduardo Rubriz, Santiago’s father, said to Slaughter.

  “Not much doubt about that,” Slaughter agreed.

  On his other side, his wife Viola looked anxiously between the fence boards and asked, “Is Stonewall all right?”

  Stonewall Jackson Howell, who was Viola Slaughter’s younger brother, still lay on his back, unmoving. Slaughter felt a moment of apprehension. Stonewall had landed pretty hard. He might have broken something. Maybe even his head.

  But then Stonewall groaned, rolled onto his side and then on over to his belly, and pushed himself to hands and knees. He paused there for a few seconds and shook his head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs.

  Then he staggered to his feet, looked around, spotted the grinning Santiago on El Halcón’s back, and said, “Son of a gun!”

  That brought a laugh from the spectators, most of whom were either American cowboys or Mexican vaqueros who worked here on the Slaughter Ranch in southeastern Arizona’s San Bernardino Valley. The crew was divided about half and half in nationality and nearly all of them were fluent in both languages. That wasn’t surprising, because the Mexican border was a mere two hundred yards south of this corral.

  Santiago rode over to Stonewall and said, “You did very well, amigo. You stayed on him longer than I expected.”

  “That ain’t a horse, it’s a devil,” Stonewall muttered. “Why don’t you call him El Diablo?”

  Santiago patted El Halcón and said, “Because when he runs at full speed, he seems to soar over the earth like a hawk riding the currents of the wind.”

  That statement made Stonewall’s blue eyes narrow speculatively.

  “Fast, is he? Well, I bet we got a horse or two around here that can match him—or beat him.”

  Santiago arched a black eyebrow.

  “Are you proposing a race, my friend . . . and a wager?”

  Stonewall had waltzed right into that trap, thought Slaughter. He considered warning his brother-in-law, then decided against it. Stonewall was a grown man, a top hand here on the ranch, and one of Sheriff John Slaughter’s deputies when they were back in Tombstone. Let him make his own mistakes.

  Stonewall picked up the hat he had lost when the horse started to buck, slapped it against his leg to knock some of the dust off it, and said, “You’re dang right I’m talkin’ about a race. As for a wager, we’ll have to figure out the stakes.”

  “Very well,” Santiago said. “We’ll discuss it at the fiesta tonight, eh?”

  “Sure,” Stonewall agreed.

  Viola turned away from the corral and said, “While my brother figures out some other way to make a fool of himself, why don’t we all go back to the house? The sun’s getting rather warm, and we can sit on the patio in the shade.”

  That sounded like a good idea to Slaughter. He linked arms with Viola and used his other hand to usher Don Eduardo and the don’s American wife Belinda along the path that led beside a grove of cottonwood trees back to the sprawling ranch house.


  The four of them made striking pairs. Both men were handsome, dignified, and considerably older than their beautiful young wives. There were contrasts, however. Slaughter was compactly built, below average height but muscular and possessed of a vitality that belied his years and the salt-and-pepper beard on his chin. Don Eduardo was taller, leaner, with a hawk-like face that was clean-shaven except for a thin mustache.

  The two women were both lovely, but Belinda Rubriz was blond and blue-eyed while Viola Slaughter had dark hair and flashing dark eyes.

  Their coloring wasn’t the only difference. Belinda was from Boston, the daughter of a banker who had done business with the wealthy Don Eduardo, and had the pampered air of a young woman who had never done a day’s work in her life.

  Viola, on the other hand, was a cowgirl born and bred. She had been riding almost before she could walk, and she could handle a rifle better than a lot of men. Cool-nerved in the extreme, not much in life ever threw her for a loop—a quality that had come in very handy during times of trouble in the past.

  John Slaughter loved her to the very depths of his soul and always would.

  Like Viola, Belinda was a second wife. Don Eduardo’s first wife, Santiago’s mother, had been dead for many years. Slaughter had learned that during his correspondence with the Mexican rancher. Their letters had been concerned for the most part with the business arrangement they were making, but a few personal details had slipped in on both sides.

  As Slaughter looked through the trees now, he saw grazing in the distance the concrete proof of their arrangement in the small herd of cattle Don Eduardo had brought up here from his hacienda ninety miles below the border.

  Those cattle were some of the finest specimens Slaughter had ever seen, and he was paying a suitably pretty penny for them. He was eager to introduce the stock into his own herd and improve the bloodline.

  Don Eduardo and his entourage, including his wife and son, had arrived with the cattle earlier today. Tonight, he and Slaughter would conclude their deal when Slaughter handed over the payment.