Matt and Sam never slowed down, even when slugs were whipping around their heads. They hurdled the fence around the doctor’s front yard, bounded across the grass, and leaped onto the porch, crashing into the knot of struggling figures there. Guns flew out of fingers, and suddenly it was a hand-to-hand battle. Matt smashed his fist into Cimarron Kane’s face while Sam tackled Ambrose Porter and rolled across the porch with him.
Linus Grady was the only one who slipped away. He leaped off the porch and tried to run, only to find himself facing Marshal Coleman, who had freed himself from the cell and finally caught up to the others. Coleman had Bickford’s gun in his hand, and as Grady took a shot at him, Coleman fired. Grady staggered back a step as the marshal’s bullet drove into his body. He tried to lift his gun for another shot, but Coleman fired first. This time Grady went down as the lead ripped through his body.
The wind howled now as it rushed into the deadly, whirling funnel cloud. The few survivors of the gang tried to flee, but they were cut off by Thurman Harlow and his four sons, who had reached Cottonwood just ahead of the storm and were drawn to the far end of town by the gunshots. The two crooked deputies were already dead, so it was Harlows against Kanes in a fierce exchange of shots. Alf and Dex Harlow were hit but stayed on their feet. One by one, the Kanes went down, riddled by Harlow lead. The rivalry between the families had finally come to a bloody end.
Almost.
Cimarron Kane was still alive. He crashed a fist into Matt’s jaw and knocked the younger man aside. Kane reached for one of the fallen guns, but Frankie picked up a revolver and fired, the bullet burning a fiery line across Kane’s forearm. He cursed and rolled off the porch, then broke into a run as Matt scrambled up and went after him.
Meanwhile, Sam and Porter were still struggling. Porter had managed to get on top and pin Sam to the porch. His hands were locked around Sam’s throat, trying to squeeze the life out of him. Sam brought his cupped hands up and slapped them hard against Porter’s ears. Porter yelled in agony as his eardrums burst. Sam was able to buck him off. Porter rolled away and came up in a stumbling run. He wasn’t far behind Kane as both men reached the street.
They turned first to their left, only to find that direction blocked by the grim-faced Harlows, along with Barnabas Smith and the other former prisoners. Chests heaving, the two men looked the other direction along the street. The twister was almost on top of Cottonwood now, and if they went that way, they would be running right into its hungry maw.
Matt and Sam came to a stop about twenty feet away from Kane and Porter. “What’s it gonna be?” Matt shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the storm.
“You afraid to go down fightin’, Bodine?” Kane yelled back.
Matt turned and motioned to the Harlows, who were looking increasingly nervous as the tornado bore down on the town in its slow, steady, inexorable fashion. “We need four guns,” he said to Thurman Harlow.
“Son, we all better hunt a hole to hide in!” Harlow warned with a nod toward the twister.
“Not until this is over!” Matt insisted. Sam nodded in grim agreement.
“Give ’em your guns!” Harlow told his sons. The young men passed the revolvers to Matt and Sam.
Quickly, they checked the cylinders. Each gun had at least two rounds left in it. They turned and tossed two of the revolvers into the street near Kane and Porter.
“You’ll gun us down as soon as we reach for them!” Porter protested.
“Nope, it’ll be a fair fight,” Matt said. Behind the blood brothers, everybody was scattering, trying to find a place to ride out the storm. Over by the doctor’s house, Coleman and Dr. Berger were getting as many people as possible into the cellar underneath the house. Frankie and Hannah didn’t want to go, but their fathers forced them through the open door and down the steps into the cellar.
The tornado had almost reached the far end of the street. “Now or never!” Matt shouted at Kane and Porter.
The two men dived for the guns, snatching them out of the street. Porter rolled to the side and came up in a crouch, his gun belching flame as he fired at Sam, while Kane stood straight and blazed away at Matt. The blood brothers stood their ground as well, the revolvers roaring and bucking against their palms as they squeezed off a pair of shots apiece.
Both of Sam’s bullets punched into Porter’s chest and knocked him over backwards. He landed with his arms outflung as blood bubbled from the holes in his body.
Kane staggered as Matt’s slugs hit him, but he didn’t fall. He kept pulling the trigger, even after the hammer was falling harmlessly on empty chambers. Then crimson welled from his mouth and the gun slipped from his fingers. He took a step forward and pitched onto his face.
Matt and Sam were left standing in the middle of the street, watching as the twister bore down on them. It was too late to run now, even though Coleman was yelling at them to do so from the cellar door.
The three of them were the only ones alive to see what happened next. They watched in amazement as the twister struck the abandoned livery barn where Ike Loomis had his secret saloon. The old building exploded into splinters and kindling as the ferocious winds tore it apart.
But that was the only damage the tornado did. With the capriciousness of nature, the funnel cloud lifted into the air, passing over the rest of Cottonwood. The terrible roar suddenly died away and left an eerie silence behind it.
Then a barrel that had been plucked high into the sky by the twister came crashing down in the middle of the street, bursting apart and spraying gallons and gallons of the Harlows’ moonshine whiskey all around it. The sharp smell of the liquor filled the air.
And Matt and Sam started to laugh. Pretty soon, they were howling like crazy men as the twister vanished into the clouds and went on its way.
Luckily, no one had been in the old livery barn when the tornado struck it. The saloon’s patrons had fled as the storm approached, seeking safer places.
Ike Loomis took the loss philosophically. “Reckon I wasn’t meant to be a lawbreaker, even a law I don’t agree with,” he told Matt and Sam later that day. “My boy’s gonna be all right, so I’m more’n satisfied with the way things turned out.”
That seemed to be mostly true, although a couple of the former prisoners had been fatally wounded during the battle. They were the only casualties, though.
With Cimarron Kane and the rest of his relatives dead, the Harlows were free to rebuild their still without having to worry about being run out of business at gunpoint. Folks would have to venture out to their farm to buy the corn squeezin’s, though, as Marshal Coleman made plain when they all gathered at his house for supper that evening.
“There won’t be any saloons in Cottonwood, secret or otherwise, unless and until they change that law. I don’t have any control over what you do on your farm, Thurman, but I won’t have it here in town.”
Harlow nodded. “I reckon we can live with that.”
“Chances are, though, that the governor will send out some more of those special marshals, honest ones this time,” Coleman warned. Calvin Bickford was locked up down at the jail—in a cell where the wall wasn’t blown out—and the story of the vicious scheme he and Porter had hatched would reach Governor St. John soon enough. “I won’t tell ’em where to find you, but I don’t imagine it’ll take them long to figure out where the best liquor in this end of the state is comin’ from.”
“Well, we’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Harlow replied in his mild-mannered way.
Matt and Sam left Coleman, Harlow, Ike Loomis, and Barnabas Smith talking in the parlor while they walked outside with Frankie and Hannah. The storm had blown on through this part of the country, leaving behind clear skies, a million stars, bright moonlight, and a refreshingly cool breeze.
“Listen, Bodine,” Frankie spoke up before any of the others could say anything, “don’t you even start talking about you and Two Wolves moving on. The two of you are staying right here in Cottonwood for a whil
e.”
“How do you figure that?” Matt asked with a grin.
“Frankie and I decided it,” Hannah said.
“The two of you made the decision, did you?” Sam asked.
Frankie nodded. “That’s right. And remember, you’ve seen both of us handle a gun, so you know we can back up what we say.”
Matt held up his hands, palms out in surrender. “I’ve taken enough chances lately. I don’t plan on arguin’ with you ladies.”
“Taking chances is right,” Frankie said. “I can’t believe you just stood there and waited to see what that twister was going to do! It could have blown you from hereto…to Mexico!”
Matt and Sam looked at each other. “Mexico,” Matt mused. “We haven’t been there in a while.”
“No, we haven’t,” Sam agreed.
Hannah linked her arm with his. “And you’re not going now,” she said.
“No, I suppose not,” Sam said.
But the seed had been planted, and the blood brothers knew that the time would come. For a few moments in recent days, Sam had given some thought to settling down, but he knew now that he wasn’t meant to do that just yet. The siren song of the frontier was still too strong, and one fine morning, when the wind was right and an eagle soared high in the sky, Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves would answer that call once again.
But for tonight, the only song came from the throat of Lobo, who sat on the porch and lifted his shaggy head to howl at the moon as he paid no attention to what the humans were doing in the shadows under the cottonwood trees.
Turn the page for a preview of
The Epic New Series
THE FAMILY JENSEN
from
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
From the bestselling authors of the acclaimed Mountain Man series comes a sprawling Western saga that brings together for the first time the legendary frontiersmen the Jensens in a bloody battle for freedom, justice, and the fate of a nation….
THE FAMILY JENSEN: SMOKE AND MATT
Trapped in a remote cabin, surrounded by ruthless gunmen, Matt Jensen and his adoptive father Smoke Jensen join forces with their old friend, Preacher, in the greatest fight of their lives. A ruthless cattle baron has waged an all-out war against the peaceful native tribes-men who have become Preacher’s friends. In a bloodthirsty bid for land, power, and wealth, the baron has drafted an army of professional killers to destroy the homesteaders—among them the Jensens, the only men brave enough to stand in his way.
Now, Matt, Smoke, and Preacher face their ultimate and most deadly challenge—and share their hopes, fears, secrets, and dreams—in what could be their final, most desperate hour. No matter what happens, they are the family Jensen. Surrender is not an option.
THE FAMILY JENSEN
Coming in May 2010, wherever
Pinnacle Books are sold.
Prologue
The temperature in the small stone-and-log cabin climbed steadily during the afternoon. The single room was about twelve feet by twelve feet. There were no windows, and the door was closed and barred. The only light and air came in through gaps between the logs where the mud chinking had fallen out.
And through the loopholes that had been carved in those logs so that men who had to fort up in this cabin could fire rifles at their enemies.
Shots blasted occasionally from outside, but the bullets stood little if any chance of penetrating the thick walls. Lead smacked harmlessly into stone or logs.
The three defenders fired even less often. They stood at the loopholes, two at the front wall and one at the back, sweat trickling down their faces, and waited patiently for a target to present itself. When they had a good shot, they took it quickly, without hesitation.
The oldest of the trio, who was manning a loophole in the rear wall, squeezed the trigger of a heavy-caliber Sharps rifle. The weapon’s boom was so loud it was almost deafening in the cabin’s close confines. The acrid smell of burned powder already hung in the air, and this latest shot just added to the sharp tang.
“Got that son of a buck,” the old man said with satisfaction. “That’ll learn him to stick his ear out where I can see it.”
“You blew his ear off, Preacher?” one of the younger men asked.
The old-timer called Preacher turned his head and spat on the hard-packed dirt floor as he lowered his Sharps and started reloading the single-shot rifle. “Damn right I did.” He paused and then added slyly, “O’ course, since his brain was right on t’other side of his ear, I reckon that ball went on through and messed it up a mite, too.”
That brought grim chuckles from the other two men, but the respite lasted only a moment before one of them warned, “Hombre coming up on your side, Matt.”
A wicked crack came from Matt’s rifle, and he said, “Not anymore. Obliged for the heads-up, Smoke.”
Smoke Jensen grinned and gibed, “Somebody’s got to watch out for you, youngster.”
Preacher snorted. “You’re a fine one to be callin’ anybody youngster. You ain’t much more’n a kid yourself, Smoke. Why, it don’t seem like it’s been more’n a year or two since I first come on you and your pa, down on the Santa Fe Trail.”
“That was nigh on to fifteen years ago, Preacher,” Smoke said.
The old man snorted again. “When you get as old as I am, the years flow by like water in a high mountain crick.” He grinned, revealing teeth that were still strong despite his age. “The years are as sweet as that water, too, and I still drink deep of ’em.”
“I believe that,” muttered Matt Jensen, who was the youngest of the three men.
They had been holed up in the cabin since a little before noon. It was probably around two in the afternoon now, and the sweltering cabin would just get hotter as the day went on. With the coming of night, though, the temperature would cool off fairly quickly at this elevation. Smoke, Matt, and Preacher weren’t really looking forward to that, however, because darkness also meant that the small army of gunmen out there that wanted them dead could get close enough to toss some torches onto the roof. When that happened, they could either stay inside and die from the smoke and fire…
Or they could go out that door with guns in their hands, fighting to the end, dealing out blazing death to their enemies.
Not a single one of the three had to ponder the question.
They knew what they were going to do.
Unless they could figure out some way to turn the tables on the gunslinging bastards who had forced them to take shelter here.
Preacher ran his fingers through his tangled white beard. He was dressed head to foot in buckskins and had a broad-brimmed leather hat thumbed back on thinning white hair. An eagle feather was stuck in the hatband. He had a Colt .44 holstered on his right hip and a sheathed bowie knife on his left. This was his eighty-first summer, but somewhere along the way, he had become as timeless and ancient as the mountains, weathered slowly by the passage of time but hardly weakened. He could ride all day, and he could whip men half his age, and he could drink just about anybody under the table. He’d been naught but a boy when he went west, and he had been here, by and large, ever since, for more than six decades.
He was a mountain man, one of the last of that hardy breed.
He was also something of a surrogate father to Smoke Jensen, having taken the boy under his wing when Smoke’s own father Emmett had been killed. Smoke hadn’t been known by that name then; he’d been given the name Kirby Jensen when he was born. Preacher was the one who had dubbed him Smoke that long-ago day when Kirby, Emmett, and Preacher had been ambushed by a Kiowa war party. Maybe it was because of the powder smoke that filled the air when Kirby Jensen received his baptism of fire, or maybe it was because his ash-blond hair was almost the color of smoke, but whatever the reason, the handle stuck, and from that day forward he’d been Smoke Jensen.
He wasn’t a boy any longer, but rather a man in the prime of life
, just over six feet tall with shoulders as broad as an ax-handle. Down in Colorado, he had a damn fine ranch called the Sugarloaf and an even finer wife named Sally. He had a reputation, too, as a man who was fast on the draw, maybe the fastest on the entire frontier. Smoke had no desire to live the life of a gunfighter, though. He drew the walnut-butted .44 on his hip only when he had to…but as many men had learned to their short-lived but final regret, he didn’t cotton to being pushed around.
Just as Preacher had helped Smoke out when he was orphaned, so Smoke had taken in Matt Cavanaugh, who had lost his family at an even younger age. That was back in the days before Smoke had settled down, when he was still searching for gold in Colorado. He had found it, and since Matt helped him work the claim, Smoke felt that Matt deserved an equal share in it. He had also taught Matt everything that Preacher had taught him about how to survive on the frontier, and even more importantly, how to live his life as a decent, honorable man.
When the time came for Matt to strike out on his own, as a tribute to the man who had become like an older brother to him he had taken Smoke’s last name, and ever since he had been known as Matt Jensen. It was a name that was becoming more widely known, too, as Matt seemed drawn to danger and adventure like a moth to flame. He wasn’t reckless, but he didn’t back down when challenged.
So the three men who waited in this stifling cabin in the Big Horn Mountains shared not a drop of common blood…and yet they were family. Bonds even stronger than blood held them together, bonds forged by love and respect and shared danger. Most of the time, each of them went their own way, especially Preacher and Matt, both of whom tended to be fiddle-footed, but distance didn’t mean anything to men such as these. When one needed help, the others would come a-runnin’.
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