“All that work, and at the end Malvina gets away—”
“Into the bellies of a couple dozen gators. I wouldn’t exactly call that a clean break,” Johnny said.
“And Barbaroux went down,” Valentine added.
“There’s a satisfaction in that,” Sam conceded.
“Look at all them poor blamed jailbirds got busted loose from that hellhole of a Clinchfield Gaol. That was a mercy,” Johnny said. “Man, the way they were crowded in there, the filth, the stink—Lord!”
He shook his head as if to jar the memory loose. “I felt like Santa Claus giving out presents at the orphanage on Christmas Day when we busted the inmates out of their cells. That was a dirty business and everybody that had a hand in running it deserved to die.”
“And they did,” Sam said. “I’m not kicking. That was a fine job. Can’t say I’m happy with your murdering pard Cullen Baker being at large again, but that was one of the trade-offs.” Sam’s eyes were icy and his face stony when he thought about Baker. “He’s a bad one. You and I will both share in the responsibility for any innocent folks he kills from here on.”
Dean Valentine discreetly eased off to one side, putting himself in the background, not wanting to get involved with whatever was behind Johnny Cross and Sam Heller exchanging harsh words. He hoped it wouldn’t go any further.
“Hell with that,” Johnny flared up, hazel eyes glinting more keenly yellow than brown, as they did when his blood was up and running hot. “Cullen Baker’s a full-grown man, he’s responsible for what he does, not me.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?” Sam fired back.
“I ain’t trying to convince nobody. Cullen’s got his good points and his bad points. He’s a friend of mine—like you. You two couldn’t be in the same room together for more than a minute before there’d be a killing, maybe two. I’m almighty glad you’re clearing out of the Blacksnake before that happens. From here on in Cullen starts out with a clean slate. Me, too. Whatever debt I owed him for things he done for me in times past is paid in full. He’s got no call on me now. Whatever he does or doesn’t do is on his head, not mine. Or yours.”
Sam nodded heavily. “My mistake. My apologies. I talked out of turn.”
“It’s nothing, let it go,” Johnny said.
“No, I should have thought before I spoke. I’ve been in the same bind myself. You start out riding a trail with a friend, a good friend, one you’d trust with your life, and he feels the same about you. Then one day you come to a fork in the road and you take one branch and your friend takes the other and after that everything changes, not necessarily for the better. It can never be the same. You can only hope that things work out and that the path you’ve chosen won’t put you in a showdown with the stranger who used to be a friend.”
“You’ve been there, then. What happened?” Johnny asked.
“Everyone is different. What happened to me need not happen to you. A man’s fate is not set in stone or fixed by the stars.”
Or is it? Sam wondered.
“How did it end?” Johnny pressed.
“Not well,” Sam said. He looked away, watching the green ridges of Pirate’s Point roll past. He was done talking for now.
Johnny was grateful for the return of Valentine, who eased back to join the other two at the rail when he saw their friction had subsided.
“I saw a friend of yours earlier, Val,” Johnny said.
“Who?”
“Sexton Clarke.”
“Clarke’s no friend of mine, merely a shipboard acquaintance,” Valentine said, wiping away the association with an airy wave of the hand.
Sam Heller turned toward the others. “Thought I heard shooting up on the rise right before you came down to the boat. What happened?”
“Clarke decided to stay on in Clinchfield,” Johnny said, his face smoothly untroubled.
“Permanently,” he added.
“What I figured,” Sam said. “Any trouble?”
“He expected me to come at him with my left but I dropped him with my right instead.”
“Come again?”
Valentine laughed. “Clarke took an interest in Johnny after the fight at the pier. He asked me if knew who he was, but I lied and said no. Clarke took note of the left-hand draw that Johnny used to take the Vipe. He was almighty confident he could beat that draw.”
“But Johnny’s a right-hand draw,” Sam said.
“Not wanting to shatter Clarke’s illusions, I let him go on thinking the opposite. Looks like it all worked out,” Valentine said.
“I knew Clarke was watching me that night so I put on a show for him, gunning Viper with my left, kind of laying down a marker for the future if Clarke wanted to play,” Johnny said. “To tell the truth, I didn’t know which way you would jump, Val.”
“I don’t go telling tales out of school, especially about an old drinking buddy. ‘Auld lang syne’ and all that, don’t y’know. Glad it all worked out.”
“Clarke knew my name and who I was but not which hand was coming at him. I maybe could have beat him without the edge, but—it didn’t hurt. Thanks, Val.”
“None needed. Trust in Valentine, friends, and you can’t go wrong!”
“Unless you’re looking at him across a poker table.”
“Ha ha. Johnny’s joking,” Valentine said to Sam.
“Like hell I am—”
“Hard to believe the Sabine Queen is sunken somewhere below us on the bottom of the bay,” Valentine said quickly. “Come to think of it, the Commander went down owing me a week’s wages for my most recent work on his portrait. It’s only fair, though, because the unfinished canvas went down with him. Now the only ones to see it will be the gators, crawdads, and catfish. Which is more than came out for my last gallery showing.”
“Barbaroux was crazier than a maverick bull with a mouthful of loco weed,” Johnny declared flatly.
“Say what you will about him, Rufus Barbaroux had an appreciation for the finer things in life: the best food and drink, beautiful women everywhere . . . A man of taste.” Valentine sighed.
“I reckon the gators would agree,” said Johnny Cross.
The ferryboat coursed to the lee of Pirate’s Point, crossing the bay en route to the river and downstream.
A lone rider came galloping south on Shoreline Road, racing after the steam barge and overtaking it, a task requiring no great speed for the boat moved slowly across the bay, the pilot warily on the alert for any wreckage from the sunken Sabine Queen that might have surfaced to present a threat to navigation.
The rider was a woman, long black hair streaming back behind her. She drew abreast of the boat, passed it, and continued onward for another twenty-five yards or so before stopping. She turned her horse so that it and she faced east, looking across the water in the direction along which the ferryboat must inevitably pass, and soon.
The boat was near enough to shore that the black patch covering the rider’s left eye could be discerned.
“Belle Nyad,” Johnny Cross said with some surprise.
“Swampcat Belle,” Valentine murmured. “She’s all woman and then some more but a tough lady—very tough!”
“Belle’s not as ornery as she likes to make out, she’s quite agreeable when you get to know her better,” Sam Heller said.
“How would you know?” asked Valentine, one eyebrow raised.
“Nice of her to swing by to see us off and say adios, it’s not what I would have expected of Belle, her being kind of standoffish where men are concerned,” Johnny said.
“Sorry to disillusion you, but it’s not us she came to see, it’s me,” Sam said.
“Huh?” Johnny said, genuinely surprised. “You? You mean you, Sam Heller, and Swampcat Belle—?! No sir, it can’t be, it just can’t be.”
“We spent some time over the last day or two getting better acquainted, Belle and I. Quite a gal when you get to know her,” Sam said blandly, poker faced.
“Well if that don
’t beat all!”
Catching sight of Sam, Belle leaned forward in the saddle, waving to him.
Sam took off his hat, swinging it out and down in a grand sweeping gesture accompanied by a courtly bow to the lady, a farewell salute done with such stylish flair as would have done a Musketeer proud.
Belle Nyad blew him a kiss.
“Why you rascal, you!” Johnny exclaimed, shaking his head in bemused wonderment and disbelief.
“Life is full of surprises, no?” Sam said.
The steam barge’s course now curved to the southeast, away from the point and out toward the middle of the river, where the current ran strong and deep. Belle Nyad was lost from view as the ferry made its way downstream.
“Never knew you had it in you, hoss. You come pretty danged close there to handling yourself like a real Southern gentleman,” Johnny said.
“Coming from you, I suppose that’s a compliment,” said Sam.
“You’re damned right it is. Who knows, there may be hope for you yet!”
“Ah, hope,” Dean Valentine said, “the last item left at the bottom of Pandora’s box when she set loose all the troubles in the world, back in the days of the Ancient Greeks. Is it Hope that keeps us going in this hard world, or is it an illusion, the last evil left in the box to plague all mankind? Maybe both!”
Johnny Cross and Sam Heller turned to stare Valentine in the face.
“What the hell you talking about?” Johnny demanded.
“You’re quite the philosopher, Valentine,” Sam said dryly.
“I have to be, to console myself to the loss of Barbaroux’s patronage, his free-spending ways and lavish entertainments, the nights and days of good food, strong drink, and women who are too beautiful to be good. Oh, well, life goes on,” he said, abruptly brightening up. “What say we go to the common room, men, for a drink or ten and perchance even a friendly game of cards?”
“Now I get it,” Johnny said. “Don’t let Val’s fancy talk fool you, Sam Heller! He’s just baiting the hook in hopes of netting a couple of suckerfish. There’s no such thing as a friendly game of cards with that sharpster.”
“Might as well play a few hands to pass the time,” Sam allowed. A pretty fair poker player himself, he was of a mind to trim Valentine out of some of that Barbaroux money.
“We’ll have a few drinks, too,” Valentine chimed in.
“Who’s buying?” Johnny asked skeptically.
“I’ll get the first round,” Valentine said grandly.
“Will wonders never cease! Let’s go, Heller, before he changes his mind,” Johnny said.
“Sounds good at that,” Johnny agreed. “Let’s go.”
Off they went, the three of them, in search of shipboard diversion.
On the point, Belle Nyad watched the ferryboat go downriver until it was out of sight. Then she rode away.
America’s most popular Western novelists,
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone,
begin a bold new series featuring
Breckenridge Wallace, a big, strong,
fierce kid fighting for a home in the
towering Rocky Mountains . . .
Keep reading for an excerpt of
THE FRONTIERSMAN
ONE
Death lurked in the forest.
It wore buckskins, carried a long-barreled flintlock rifle, and had long, shaggy hair as red as the flame of sunset. Death’s name was Breckinridge Wallace.
Utterly silent and motionless, Breckinridge knelt and peered through a gap in the thick brush underneath the trees that covered these Tennessee hills. He waited, his cheek pressed against the ornately engraved maple of the rifle stock as he held the weapon rock-steady. He had the sight lined up on a tiny clearing on the other side of a swift-flowing creek. His brilliant blue eyes never blinked as he watched for his prey.
Those eyes narrowed slightly as Breckinridge heard a faint crackling of brush that gradually grew louder. The quarry he had been stalking all morning was nearby and coming closer. All he had to do was be patient.
He was good at that. He had been hunting ever since the rifle he carried was longer than he was tall. His father had said more than once Breckinridge should have been born with a flintlock in his hands. It wasn’t a statement of approval, either.
Breckinridge looped his thumb over the hammer and pulled it back so slowly that it made almost no sound. He was ready now. He had worked on the trigger until it required only the slightest pressure to fire.
The buck stepped from the brush into the clearing, his antlered head held high as he searched for any sight or scent of danger. Breckinridge knew he couldn’t be seen easily where he was concealed in the brush, and the wind had held steady, carrying his smell away from the creek. Satisfied that it was safe, the buck moved toward the stream and started to lower his head to drink. He was broadside to Breck, in perfect position.
For an instant, Breckinridge felt a surge of regret that he was about to kill such a beautiful, magnificent animal. But the buck would help feed Breck’s family for quite a while, and that was how the world worked. He remembered the old Chickasaw medicine man Snapping Turtle telling him he ought to pray to the animals he hunted and give thanks to them for the sustenance their lives provided. Breck did so, and his finger brushed the flintlock’s trigger.
The crescent-shaped butt kicked back against his shoulder as the rifle cracked. Gray smoke gushed from the barrel. The buck’s muzzle had just touched the water when the .50-caliber lead ball smashed into his side and penetrated his heart. The animal threw his head up and then crashed onto his side, dead when he hit the ground.
Breckinridge rose to his full height, towering well over six feet, and stepped out of the brush. His brawny shoulders stretched the fringed buckskin shirt he wore. His ma complained that he outgrew clothes faster than anybody she had ever seen.
That was true. Anybody just looking at Breckinridge who didn’t know him would take him for a full-grown man. It was difficult to believe this was only his eighteenth summer.
Before he did anything else, he reloaded the rifle with a ball from his shot pouch, a greased patch from the brass-doored patchbox built into the right side of the rifle’s stock, and a charge of powder from the horn he carried on a strap around his neck. He primed the rifle and carefully lowered the hammer.
Then he moved a few yards to his right where the trunk of a fallen tree spanned the creek. Breckinridge himself had felled that tree a couple of years earlier, dropping it so that it formed a natural bridge. He had done that a number of places in these foothills of the Smoky Mountains east of his family’s farm to make his hunting expeditions easier. He’d been roaming the hills for years and knew every foot of them.
Pa was going to be mad at him for abandoning his chores to go hunting, but that wrath would be reduced to a certain extent when Breckinridge came in with that fine buck’s carcass draped over his shoulders. Breck knew that, and he was smiling as he stepped onto the log and started to cross the creek.
He was only about halfway to the other side when an arrow flew out of the woods and nicked his left ear as it whipped past his head.
* * *
“Flamehair,” Tall Tree breathed as he gazed across the little valley at the big white man moving along the ridge on the far side.
This was a half hour earlier. Tall Tree and the three men with him were hunting for game, but Flamehair was more interesting than fresh meat. The lean Chickasaw warrior didn’t know anything about the red-haired man except he had seen Flamehair on a few occasions in the past when their paths had almost crossed in these woods. It was hard to mistake that bright hair, especially because the white man seldom wore a hat.
“We should go on,” Big Head urged. “The buck will get away.”
“I don’t care about the buck,” Tall Tree said without taking his eyes off Flamehair.
“I do,” Bear Tongue put in. “We haven’t had fresh meat in days, Tall Tree. Come. Let us hunt.”
&
nbsp; Reluctantly, Tall Tree agreed. Anyway, Flamehair had vanished into a thick clump of vegetation. Tall Tree moved on with the other two and the fourth warrior, Water Snake.
Bear Tongue was right, Tall Tree thought. They and the dozen other warriors back at their camp needed fresh meat.
Empty bellies made killing white men more difficult, and that was the work to which Tall Tree and his men were devoted.
Three years earlier, after many years of sporadic war with the whites, the leaders of the Chickasaw people had made a treaty with the United States government. It was possible they hadn’t understood completely what the results of that agreement would be. The Chickasaw and the other members of the so-called Five Civilized Tribes had been forced to leave their ancestral lands and trek west to a new home in a place called Indian Territory.
Tall Tree and the men with him had no use for that. As far as they were concerned, the Smoky Mountains were their home and anyplace they roamed should be Indian Territory.
They had fled from their homes before the white man’s army had a chance to round them up and force them to leave. While most of the Chickasaw and the other tribes were headed west on what some were calling the Trail of Tears, Tall Tree’s band of warriors and others like them hid out in the mountains, dodging army patrols, raiding isolated farms, and slaughtering as many of the white invaders as they could find.
Tall Tree knew that someday he and his companions would be caught and killed, but when that happened they would die as free men, as warriors, not as slaves.
As long as he was able to spill plenty of the enemy’s blood before that day arrived, he would die happily.
Now as he and the other three warriors trotted along a narrow game trail in pursuit of the buck they were stalking, Tall Tree’s mind kept going back to the man he thought of as Flamehair. The man nearly always hunted alone, as if supremely confident in his ability to take care of himself. That arrogance infuriated Tall Tree. He wanted to teach the white man a lesson, and what better way to do that than by killing him?
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