Ride the Savage Land
Page 1
Look for These Exciting Series from
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Preacher: The First Mountain Man
Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
The Family Jensen
MacCallister
Flintlock
The Brothers O’Brien
The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal
Hell’s Half Acre
Texas John Slaughter
Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal
Eagles
The Frontiersman
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
THOSE JENSEN BOYS!
RIDE THE SAVAGE LAND
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4034-6
First electronic edition: May 2018
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4035-3
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4035-1
THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
Smoke Jensen—The Mountain Man
The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise (“Denny”) and Louis.
Preacher—The First Mountain Man
Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. Fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.
Matt Jensen—The Last Mountain Man
Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.
Luke Jensen—Bounty Hunter
Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother Luke Jensen is scarred by war and a dead shot—the right qualities to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning, and fierce enough, to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.
Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen—Those Jensen Boys!
Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, are a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself... Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.
CHAPTER ONE
It began with a rattlesnake in a glass jar and Chance Jensen’s inability to pass up a bet he believed he could win.
A balding, beefy-faced bartender with curlicue mustaches reached under the bar, came up with the big glass jar, and set it on the hardwood with a solid thump. The top of the jar had a board sitting across it. Somebody had drilled airholes in the board so the fat diamondback rattler coiled inside the jar wouldn’t suffocate.
“Five bucks says no man can tap on the glass and hold his finger there when Chauncey here strikes at it,” the bartender announced.
A cowboy standing a few feet down the bar with a beer in front of him looked at the jar and its deadly occupant and said, “Step aside, boys! This here is gonna be the easiest five dollars I ever earned!”
The men along the bar shifted so the cowboy could stand in front of the jar. Chance and his brother Ace had to move a little to their left, but they could still see the show.
The cowboy leaned closer and peered through the glass at the snake, which hadn’t moved when the bartender set him down. “He’s alive, ain’t he?”
“Tap on the glass and find out,” the bartender said.
The cowboy lifted a hand covered with rope calluses. He held up his index finger and thumped it three times against the glass, lightly.
Inside the jar, the snake’s head raised slightly. Its tail began to vibrate, moving so fast that it was just a blur.
The saloon was quiet as everyone looked on, and even through the glass, the men closest to the bar could hear the distinctive buzzing. That sound could strike fear into the stoutest-hearted man in Texas.
“Yeah, uh, he’s alive, all right,” the cowboy said. “What do I do now?”
“Show me that you actually have five bucks,” the bartender said.
The cowboy reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar gold piece, and slapped it down on the hardwood. Grinning, the bartende
r took an identical coin from the till and set it next to the cowboy’s stake.
“All right. Tap on the glass a few more times to get Chauncey stirred up good and proper, and then hold your finger there. Then we wait. Shouldn’t be too long.”
Another man said, “Chauncey’s a boy’s name, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” the bartender said with a frown. “What’s your point?”
“I was just wonderin’ how you know for sure that there snake is a male. Did you check?”
That brought a few hoots of laughter from the crowd.
The bartender glared. “Never you mind about that. If I say he’s a boy, then he’s a boy. If you want to prove different, you reach in there and show me the evidence.”
“No, no,” the bystander said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m fine with whatever you say, Dugan.”
The bartender looked at the cowboy. “Well? You gonna give it a try or not? You were mighty quick to brag about how you could do it. You decide you don’t want to back that up with cold, hard cash after all?”
“I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” the cowboy said. “Just hang on a minute.” He swallowed, then tapped three more times on the glass, harder this time.
“Hold your finger there,” Dugan said.
From a few feet away, Chance watched with all his attention focused on the jar and the cowboy who was daring the snake to strike at him. Ace watched Chance and felt a stirring of concern at the expression he saw on his brother’s face.
The cowboy rested his fingertip against the glass. Inside the jar, the snake’s head was still up, its tiny forked tongue flickering as it darted in and out of his mouth. The buzzing from the rattles on the tip of its tail steadily grew louder.
Then, faster than the eye could follow, the snake uncoiled and struck at the glass where the cowboy’s finger was pressed.
“Yeeeowww!” the cowboy yelled as he jumped back. The rattler’s sudden movement startled half a dozen other people in the Lucky Panther Saloon into shouting, too.
For a couple seconds, the cowboy stared wide-eyed at the jar, where the snake had coiled up again, and then looked down at his hand. The index finger still stuck straight out, but it was nowhere near the glass anymore. Obviously disgusted, he said, “Well, hell.”
Grinning, Dugan scooped up both five-dollar gold pieces and dropped them into the till. “Told you. Nobody can do it. It just ain’t natural for a man to be able to hold still when a rattler’s fangs are comin’ at him, whether there’s glass in between or not.”
Ace tried to catch Chance’s eye and shake his head, but it was too late. Chance stepped closer to the spot on the bar where the jar rested and said, “I can do it.”
People looked around to see who had made that bold declaration. If not for what happened next, they would have seen a handsome, sandy-haired man in his early twenties, well dressed in a brown tweed suit, white shirt, and a dark brown cravat and hat.
But all their attention turned to the man who shouldered Chance aside, said, “Outta my way, kid,” and stepped up to the bar. “I’ve never been afraid of a rattler in my life, and sure as hell not one penned up in a jar.” He was tall and lean, dressed in black from head to foot, and probably ten years older than Chance and Ace, who were fraternal twins. His smile had a cocky arrogance to it.
Ace was more interested in the gun holstered on the man’s hip. In keeping with the rest of his outfit, that holster was black. The revolver was the only thing flashy about him. It was nickel plated and had ivory grips.
However, the gun wasn’t just for show. Those grips showed the marks of a great deal of use. Maybe the man just practiced with it a lot—or maybe he actually was the gunslinger he obviously fancied himself to be.
The man in black held the edge of a coin against the bar and gave it a spin. It whirled there for a long moment, so fast it was just a blur, but finally ran out of momentum and clattered on the hardwood. “I reckon my money’s good, Dugan?”
“Sure, Shelby,” the bartender said. “You’re welcome to give it a try.”
A spade-bearded man in a frock coat stepped up. He hooked his thumbs in the gold-brocaded vest he wore and said, “I have fifty dollars that says Lew can do it.”
That wager was too rich for the blood of most of the patrons in that particular saloon in Fort Worth’s notorious Hell’s Half Acre, but the tinhorn gambler got a couple takers. Coins and greenbacks were put on the bar for Dugan to hold while Shelby made his try.
Ace nudged a bearded old-timer who stood next to him and asked, “Who are those two?”
“The gun-hung feller in black is Lew Shelby,” the codger replied. “The one in the fancy vest is Henry Baylor.”
“He looks like a card sharp.”
“Good reason for that. He is. Or at least the rumor has it so. Nobody’s ever caught him cheatin’, though, as far as I know. If they have, they’ve had sense enough not to call him on it.” The old-timer licked his lips, his tongue emerging from the shaggy white whiskers for a second. “Baylor might be even slicker at handlin’ shootin’ irons than he is at cards. Him and Shelby is two of a kind, and they run with a bunch just about as bad.”
Ace nodded. Chance didn’t look happy about Shelby pushing in ahead of him, but for the moment at least, he was keeping his annoyance under control. Ace would say something to him if necessary, to keep him calmed down. They didn’t need a gunfight in the middle of the saloon—or anywhere else, for that matter. The Jensen brothers were peaceable sorts.
That was what Ace aspired to, anyway. Oftentimes fate seemed to be plotting against them, however.
Lew Shelby stood in front of the bar, feet planted solidly, hands held out in front of him and slightly spread. He rubbed his thumbs over his fingertips and took deep breaths, as if he were working himself up to slap leather against the snake, not hold his finger against a glass jar.
The crowd began to stir restlessly.
Shelby sensed that impatience, glanced over his shoulder, and sneered. “Hold your damn horses.” Then he reached out and tapped the glass several times, fast and hard. He pressed his finger against the jar as the snake reacted, coiling tighter in preparation to strike.
Everybody in the place knew it was coming. Nobody should have been surprised, least of all Shelby. But when the rattler struck with the same sort of blinding speed as before, Shelby jumped back a step and yelped, “Son of a bitch!”
Several men in the crowd cursed, too. Others laughed, which made Shelby’s face flush.
Dugan picked up the gold piece that was all he’d had riding on the bet, but the other men who’d placed wagers moved quickly up to the bar to claim their winnings. Shelby and Baylor looked startled and angry.
That anger deepened as Dugan smirked. “Told you so, boys. No man alive has got icy enough nerves to manage that little trick.”
Ace tried to get hold of Chance’s coat sleeve and pull him away, but Chance was a little too quick for him. He stepped forward and said, “I told you, I can do it.”
Lew Shelby looked at him and scowled. “Run along, sonny. This business is for men, not boys.”
Chance’s voice held an edge as he said, “I’m full-grown, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He moved his coat aside a little, revealing a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Second Model revolver with ivory grips resting in a cross-draw rig on his left hip.
Shelby’s dark eyes slitted, giving him a certain resemblance to the snake. “You better walk soft, boy. I don’t cotton to being challenged.”
Ace stepped up next to his brother. He had been born a few minutes earlier than Chance, and he was slightly taller and heavier, too. Dark hair curled out from under a thumbed-back Stetson. He wore range clothes, denim trousers and a bib-front shirt, and his boots showed plenty of wear. He didn’t take the time or trouble to polish them up, the way Chance did his. The walnut-butted Colt .45 Peacemaker leathered on Ace’s right hip was strictly functional, too.
“Nobody’s challenging anybody.” Ace
had plenty of experience trying to head off trouble when Chance was in the middle of it.
“That’s not true,” Chance said. “I’m challenging that rattlesnake, as well as Mr. Dugan here. I can hold my finger on the glass without budging when the snake strikes at it.”
“If I can’t do it, kid, you sure as hell can’t,” Shelby snapped.
“The two hundred dollars in my pocket says I can.”
Ace bit back a groan. Actually, the two hundred bucks was in his pocket, not Chance’s, but they had that much, all right. They had worked for several months on a ranch north of Fort Worth to earn it, and they were ready to take it easy and drift for a while, which was their usual pattern.
They couldn’t do that if Chance’s reckless stubbornness caused them to lose their stake.
Things had gone too far to stop. Chance had thrown the bet out there.
Henry Baylor stroked his beard. “I’m down a hundred dollars tonight. Winning two hundred from you would allow me to show a profit for the evening, son.”
“I’m not your son,” Chance said.
In truth, he and Ace didn’t know whose sons they were. They had been raised by a drifting gambler named Ennis “Doc” Monday, after their mother died giving birth to them.
Once they were old enough to think about such things, they had speculated about whether Doc Monday was really their father, but there was no proof one way or the other and they had never worked up the nerve to ask him about it, since his health had grown bad over the years and he was living in a sanitarium. A big emotional upset wouldn’t be good for him.
“If you actually have the money,” Baylor said, “you have a wager.”
“I’ve got it.” Chance glanced around at his brother. “Ace?”
With a sigh, Ace dug out the roll of greenbacks and set it on the bar. He said to Dugan, “That’s our whole poke. We don’t have an extra five dollars to cover the bet with you.”