The Legend of Perley Gates

by William W. Johnstone

  “Good shot!” Perley called out.

  “You didn’t think I just came to watch, did ya?” Grandpa called back, grinning from ear to ear.

  He decided that he liked his grandson very much, and he liked to imagine that Perley’s father had been much the same kind of man. Perley won more of his approval when he suggested they should camp there a day or so longer—whatever time it took to smoke the meat and dry the hides some. Perley said it wouldn’t be right to shoot the deer if you weren’t going to use the meat for food, which Grandpa also approved of. They ended up camping there for two days before continuing on down the creek toward the claim and getting back to the business of retrieving the gold.

  “Buck must remember this place,” Perley commented when the big bay whinnied as they approached the site of the fight with the two claim-jumpers. He reined his horse back to take a look around before riding down from the ridge to the creek below. Buck might have been trying to tell him something else.

  Anxious to recover the gold, Grandpa pushed by him and rode on down to the edge of the creek and dismounted. Perley had no choice but to follow.

  While Perley stepped down from the saddle, Grandpa walked over to stand beside a large rock that protruded out over the water. He patted the boulder and said, “Those two skunks snooped around here waitin’ to see which one of these rocks me and Lem was gonna start diggin’ under.”

  “Is that a fact?” The voice came from behind them, startling them both. “That’s right, Mr. Quickdraw, go for that damn gun. I owe you for this hole you put in my shoulder. Now turn around real slow. You, too, old man. I’ve done killed you once, and it would pleasure me to do it again.”

  They had no choice but to do as he instructed, so they turned around to confront Sam Ingram, his shoulder crudely bandaged, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun.

  “Do like I tell you and I won’t shoot you. I’ve got a little work for you two. You’re gonna dig that gold out from under that rock.” He paused to add a devious chuckle. “I’d help you if it weren’t for this bad shoulder, and if you’re thinkin’ ’bout testing me, this shotgun’s got a hair trigger. By the way, I ’preciate you leavin’ the horses and guns for me, Quickdraw. Now, with your left hand, both of you, unbuckle those belts and let those guns drop on the ground.”

  Perley’s brain was swirling as he considered his options, only to conclude that there were none. His only hope was to get an opportunity to catch Ingram off guard while he and Grandpa were digging under the rock. He and the old man were alive only because of Ingram’s bad shoulder, and as soon as the gold was unearthed, they would be executed. I should have paid attention when Buck tried to warn me that somebody was hiding down here, Perley thought as he began to unbuckle his belt, unprepared for what happened next.

  Sick inside for having blundered into an ambush, Grandpa cursed himself for losing the fortune he had intended to pass on to his family. His grandson had paused on the ridge to look things over. He should have waited, too. He decided to take the only option left to him. Having witnessed Perley’s confrontation with Mott Mason on the street in Deadwood, he was confident of the outcome of his intention. With that in mind, he suddenly reached for the .44 he wore on his side.

  The blast of the shotgun covered the sound of Perley’s instant reaction. The old man was knocked several feet backward, landing on his back, while Ingram doubled over and fell on his side.

  “Grandpa!” Perley cried out in anquish, and put another round into Ingram, this one in his head. Then he hurried to kneel by his grandfather. The close-range shotgun blast had torn a terrible circle in the old man’s torso. He lay still, the only sign of life a fluttering of his eyelids as a pool of blood began to spread under him.

  “Grandpa,” Perley said, “you gotta hang on till I can help you.” Even as he said it, he knew there was nothing he could do to save his grandfather. It made Perley sick to think about it—the old man had committed suicide in order for Perley to live.

  “Grandpa,” he continued to plead, “can you hear me?”

  The old man’s words came in short gasps as the blood now flowed from his mouth when he tried to talk. “Get gold . . . for family.”

  “To hell with the gold,” Perley said, “I wanna see if I can get you somewhere for help.”

  Grandpa gripped Perley’s shirtsleeve tightly and repeated, “Get gold . . . for family. Promise.”

  “I promise,” Perley said. “Now, don’t try to talk.” He felt the hand gripping his sleeve relax and knew the old man was almost gone.

  “Not rock—rooster,” were the dying words that came from the old man’s lips in his final exhale, words that had no meaning for Perley. He could only guess that his grandfather was past conscious thought when he spoke them.

  * * *

  Perley unsaddled the horses and unloaded his packhorse, thinking he might as well let them rest, since he would be there awhile.

  He picked a site near the top of the ridge for his grandfather’s grave, under the trees, then went to work digging it. When he had finished, he laid the old man’s body into it as carefully as he could manage. When the grave was filled and covered with rocks and branches, Perley tried to think of something he could say. He was never much with solemn words, so he just thought about what a shame it was that the old man had been so happy about the prospect of going home to meet his family, only to end up in a lonely grave over a played-out mining claim.

  When Perley returned to the edge of the creek, he stood staring at the man who had killed his grandfather. After a long moment, he grabbed the body by the boots and dragged it over to the gully where he had found Lem Wooten’s body before. With a silent apology to Lem, he rolled Ingram’s body over the edge of the gully.

  He was inclined to saddle up and head for Texas and to hell with the gold. Too many had been killed because of it, but he had promised his grandfather that he would dig it up and take it to his family as Grandpa’s atonement for leaving his wife and child.

  “Ah, hell,” Perley cursed, stripping down and entering the water with a shovel.

  All the rest of that day was spent in knee-deep water, digging the dirt out from under the big rock his grandfather had walked up to when they first came to the site. At the end of the day, Perley had to conclude that there was no gold under the rock. Tired and hungry, he was done with the treasure hunt. He remembered the old man saying there was one more thing he needed to know in order to find the treasure, so whatever it was, he’d never know.

  Perley built a fire and cooked some of the smoked venison he was packing. He would camp there overnight, then decide what to do with the extra horses he was now in possession of. His initial feeling was that he didn’t want the horses that had belonged to his grandfather’s killer. He was inclined to unsaddle them and let them go free.

  By morning, however, Perley had decided the horses probably held no ill feelings toward his grandfather. So, with horses to sell as well as extra guns and saddles, he decided to return to Deadwood, where there was a better chance to sell them. He was in no particular hurry to return to Texas now, since he wouldn’t be taking Grandpa home.

  With that settled in his mind, he drained the last cup of coffee out of the pot and stood there gazing at the ill-fated mining claim below him. It looks peaceful enough now, he thought. But it claimed a hell of a lotta lives, and no gold to show for it.

  “That’s the way things work out sometimes,” Perley said with a sigh, and walked down to the edge of the creek to rinse out his coffeepot.

  Then he stood staring at the big rock that had become a symbol for wishful thinking, while he finished the coffee in his cup. When that was done, he rinsed it, too, and decided to take one last look at his grandfather’s grave. He walked up the slope and stopped before the grave, thinking about the funny little man buried there.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a jagged rock about the size of a large gravestone, only a few yards away. He hadn’t taken notice of it before.

&
nbsp; “If I didn’t care if anybody found your grave,” he said to his grandpa, “I coulda buried you over there and used it for a headstone.”

  Taking another look at the rock, it occurred to him that it kind of looked like a rooster from that angle. His grandpa’s last words struck him then. Not rock—rooster. “Well, I’ll be damned . . .” he muttered, when he could speak again.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview . . .

  Johnstone Country. Where others fear to tread.

  Descended from Scottish Highlanders and blood kin to Falcon and Jamie Ian, Duff MacCallister forged a bold new life on the American frontier. But he will always stay true to his clan’s fighting spirit—when it comes to justice . . .

  There’s something rotten in Wyoming, and it’s not just the smell of cow pies—the first whiff is coming from the Laramie County Cattlemen. Right off the bat, Duff notices something odd: no small-time ranchers allowed. It’s big-leaguers only. And none are bigger than Brad Houser, owner of the sprawling Twin Peaks Ranch. He’s up in arms over the small-timers claiming the unbranded mavericks who escape their herds. Which is perfectly legal. No brand, free cow.

  Houser has a plan to stop these former cowboys from taking the runaways. For $1,000, Houser will make the small ranchers go away—six feet under. Duff MacCallister is madder than a wet hen . . . and will let his guns do the screaming.

  THE STALKING DEATH

  A Duff MacCallister Western

  On sale April 2018, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Live Free. Read Hard.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wynton Miller was a fastidious dresser and a man who took pride in his personal appearance. Whereas other men who drifted sought out a saloon as soon as they entered a new town, Miller sought a bath, and if he needed a haircut or a shave, he tended to that as well. His speech was that of an educated man, and in every way, he presented himself as a professional.

  His profession was killing. Wynton Miller was very good with a gun. Some said that he was the best there was, and for three years, he capitalized on that by putting his skill out for hire. Nobody knew exactly how many men he had killed—some said it was as high as twenty.

  Miller made good money by selling his gun, because he was seldom hired unless the one who needed killing was, in his own right, a skilled shootist. In many cases, his victims were officers of the law who had gotten in the way of whatever evil schemes Miller’s employers had in mind.

  Then the time came when Miller was no more. Had he been killed? Had he taken his money and gone east? Had he left for Europe? Where was he?

  The law was after him, but they had always been unsuccessful in their search. Those who lived on the opposite side of the law—men who, for one reason or another, might have need for Wynton Miller’s services—had always been able to find him. But even they had no idea what had become of him.

  Wynton Miller disappeared from sight, but not from legend.

  Valley of the Chug, Wyoming

  Although men of action who were respected by Duff MacCallister—men such as his cousin, Falcon MacCallister, and his friends Smoke and Matt Jensen—had told him that “making the first shot count” is more important than speed, Duff felt that the time had come for him to increase his skill in the use of the pistol. There was no marksmanship instruction necessary. Duff already had the reputation of being a marksman without peer, having demonstrated that on many previous occasions.

  “But it has been an observation o’ mine that the rapid extraction of a pistol from its holster is a necessary skill that is nearly equal in importance to the accuracy of shooting,” Duff explained to his friend Elmer.

  “You may be right,” Elmer agreed. “I’ve seen you drive a nail in to a post from a hundred feet away, ’n I ain’t never seen no one else who could shoot nowhere as good as you can. But if you could draw faster, why, there wouldn’t be nobody who could ever come close to you.”

  “Would you be for havin’ any idea how I might acquire such a skill?”

  “I guess you could just practice a lot ’n . . .” Elmer started; then he stopped and smiled. “Wang,” he said.

  For just a moment, Duff was surprised by the suggestion. Then he smiled and nodded.

  “Aye, ’tis a good suggestion, Elmer. I believe Wang would be a very good person to teach such a skill.”

  Some might have thought it strange that Wang Chow, who had never fired a pistol in his life, could be useful in helping Duff MacCallister further develop his skills with a pistol, but both Elmer and Duff knew that Wang would be ideal for what Duff needed. That was because they were both aware of Wang’s unique background as a Shaolin priest and man of incredible skill in the martial arts.

  Wang avenged the death of his family back in China by killing the fifteen men involved. Upon hearing about the carnage caused by Wang, the Changlin Temple expelled him from their order, and the Empress Dowager Ci’an issued a decree calling for his death. Disguised, Wang left China with a group of laborers who were coming to America to work on the railroad.

  It was one year later that Duff MacCallister saw Wang for the first time. Wang was sitting on a horse with his hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck. He was about to be lynched for driving a surrey with a white woman sitting on the seat beside him.

  Believing this to be unjust, Duff pulled his pistol and approached the lynching party.

  “Who the hell are you?” one of the men asked.

  “I would like to talk to your prisoner.”

  “What do you mean, you want to talk to him? This, here, ain’t none of your business.”

  Duff pointed his pistol at the men; then he turned to the Chinese man who was sitting quietly in the saddle, awaiting his fate.

  “Do you speak English?” Duff asked.

  “I speak English.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Wang Chow.”

  “Wang, it seems like every Chinaman I’ve ever known is a good cook. Are you a good cook?”

  “Here! What the hell is all this?” the man holding the rope asked. “We’re about to hang this son of a bitch, and you want to know if he is a good cook?”

  “Please, don’t interrupt my interview with this man.”

  “Your interview?”

  Duff cocked the pistol and pointed it straight at the man’s head. “I asked you, nicely, not to interrupt my interview.”

  The man put both hands up, palms facing out, fingers spread wide. “All right, all right, I ain’t a-stoppin’ you. Go ahead and talk to him.”

  “Mr. Wang, I am thinking about hiring a cook. Are you a good cook?”

  “I am very sorry, but I am not a good cook,” Wang admitted.

  “I admire your courage and your honesty. All you would have to say is that you are a good cook, and that would save you from being hanged. So, let me ask you this. If I hired you as my cook, would you be willing to learn?”

  “Yes, I will learn to be a very good cook.”

  “Mr. Wang, my name is MacCallister. Duff MacCallister. And you are hired.”

  Duff turned to the man who had been the spokesman for the group. “As you can see, I do have a vested interest in the fate of this gentleman, since he is now one of my employees. And, I would be very disturbed if someone tried to do something such as . . . well, let’s just say, hang him. Now, untie his hands.”

  “The hell we will!” one of the other three men shouted, and, jerking his gun from his holster, he snapped a shot toward Duff and missed. Duff returned fire, and didn’t miss.

  “You can either untie Mr. Wang, now, or I will kill both of you and untie him myself.”

  “Untie him, Floyd, untie him!” the remaining man shouted in fear.

  “That will not be necessary,” Wang said, bringing both hands around front to show that they weren’t tied.

  * * *

  From that moment on, Wang had been a loyal and valued friend and employee, utilizing his martial arts skills reluctantly but willingly when ne
eded, in defense of Duff or Elmer.

  “I do not know how to draw a gun, and I have never shot one,” Wang said when Duff approached him with the request that Wang help him learn a fast draw.

  “That is nae a problem,” Duff said. “I know how to draw a gun, and I know how to shoot it. What I need to know is how to do so quite rapidly. That means I must know how to move my hands very quickly—’n Wang, m’ friend, never in my life have I seen anyone who could move their hands more quickly than you. That speed of the hand is the skill I wish to learn. Do you think you can teach me?”

  “Yes,” Wang said. “I can teach you.”

  For the next several days, Wang devised drills that would increase Duff’s hand speed. One such drill, which he had learned while in the Shaolin Temple of Changlin, was to hold a coin in the palm of his hand and have Duff snatch the coin before he could close his hand.

  Duff’s first several tries were painfully slow.

  “Do not think here,” Wang said, putting his finger to Duff’s head. “Think here.” He put his finger on Duff’s hand.

  “’N would you be for telling me, lad, how ’tis that the hand, that has no brain, can be thinking, now?”

  “If you think in your head first, the head must then tell the hand that it is to move. It is not until then that the hand moves. But if you let the hand move without being told to do so by the head, the hand will move much faster.”

  “Here, now, ’n how can such a thing be?”

  Wang put the coin in the palm of Duff’s hand.

  “I will not reach for the coin until you start to close your hand,” Wang said.

  “That is nae possible. You dinnae begin to close your hand until after you saw me start to reach, but still I could nae grab the coin. And now you say you will nae try for the coin until after you see me start to close my hand?”