Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Something stirred inside Lazarus Cain, a chilly feeling he’d never known before, forming a knot in his belly. He looked down at Blackie Jackson, lying dead as a stone where Smoke Jensen and Joey Wells had killed him as casually as swatting a fly.

  “You can’t be that good,” Lazarus spat at the mountain man. His mouth went dry as he said it, yet he refused to believe the taste on his tongue might be fear.

  “Only one way to find out,” Smoke Jensen replied evenly, no change in his tone or expression. “Go for your guns and we’ll settle this. I’m tired of all this banter. You’re wastin’ a helluva lot of my time.”

  Lazarus gave Jensen a false grin, ready to make his play. “I never was one to let a feller back me down . . .”

  As he grabbed for his gun he saw Jensen’s hand move almost faster than his eye could follow.

  His gun was half out of his holster when Lazarus heard an explosion and felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule.

  The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back looking up at stars and a moon half hidden behind scurrying clouds.

  He reached into his coat pocket, over his heart, and took out the Bible his father had given him. Just above the bullet imbedded in it was a hole. He smiled grimly, then died.

  On the way back to Fontana, Joey glanced over at Smoke. “We’re gonna have to get together more often, Smoke,” he drawled. “Life’s been gettin’ plumb dull without you around.”

  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 s
triking 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.

  Then it would be time to celebrate. Slaughter had lived on the border long enough to adopt many of the Mexican customs, among them the idea that the chance for a party should never be wasted.

  A white picket fence ran around the large compound that included the main ranch house, two bunkhouses, one with a kitchen attached where the meals for the crew were prepared, a chicken coop, and an ice house. An elevated water tank such as the ones found at water stops along the railroad stood to one side. Nearby, sparkling blue in the afternoon sunlight, was a water reservoir contained within a retaining wall built of rocks.

  Here in southern Arizona, where summers were often hotter than the hinges of hell and moisture was a precious commodity, having plenty of water on hand was important. Luckily, the San Bernardino Valley got more rain than some areas and there were also artesian wells located on the ranch that helped keep the reservoir and the water tank filled.

  In fact, the Slaughter Ranch was an oasis of sorts, and John Slaughter was justly proud of what he had built here. When his term as sheriff of Cochise County was up, he intended to hand the badge over to someone else and spend the rest of his days on this spread.

  Viola led her husband and their guests to a flagstone patio at the side of the house. Tall cottonwoods cast cooling shade over the area. A servant came out a side door, and Viola told her to bring a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses.

  The two couples sat, and Belinda Rubriz said, “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Slaughter.”

  “Thank you,” Viola said, gracious as always, adding with a smile, “You should call me Viola, though. We don’t believe in a lot of formality around here.”

  “So, Señor Slaughter,” Don Eduardo said, “is your brother-in-law correct? Do you have horses here on your ranch faster than El Halcón?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Slaughter said, letting a little of a Texas drawl creep into his voice. “I reckon Stonewall’s right about how we can find out.”

  “And would you be interested in a small wager?”

  Slaughter felt Viola’s eyes on him. She knew that gambling was one of his weaknesses. Sometimes she tried to rein in that particular tendency.

  Now, though, when he glanced at her, he saw her head move a fraction of an inch in an encouraging nod. She didn’t believe in being reckless, but the honor of the Slaughter Ranch was at stake.

  “Oh, I imagine we can work out something suitable,” he said.

  He and Don Eduardo both smiled in anticipation.

  The servant came back with the cool, tart lemonade, which never tasted better than on a hot afternoon like this. When Slaughter’s glass was full, he lifted it and said, “To good friends and good times.”

  “A most excellent toast,” Don Eduardo said. “To good friends and good times.”

  The afternoon couldn’t get much more pleasant, Slaughter mused as he swallowed some of the lemonade.

  And that made a shiver go through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.

  He was old enough to know that if a man ever let himself believe things couldn’t get any better, that was when all hell was liable to break loose.

  Chapter 2

  In the foothills of the Chiricahua Mountains northwest of the Slaughter Ranch, a man lowered the spyglass through which he had been peering. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation under the blue bandanna tied around his forehead to hold back the crudely cropped, shoulder-length black hair.

  He was dressed in a blousy blue shirt, breechcloth, and high-topped boot moccasins. A strip of cloth dyed bright red was tied around his lean waist as a sash. He carried a knife tucked into that sash. A Winchester leaned against the rock by which he stood.

  The man lifted his arm, pointed toward the southeast, and said in his native Apache, “There lies the ranch of the one called Slaughter. We will go there tonight and spill much blood.”

  The fifteen warriors to whom he spoke erupted in yips and shouts of excitement. Several of them lifted their rifles above their heads and pumped the weapons up and down.

  A few yards away, a white man stood watching with his hat tipped forward so that the brim shaded his face. Normally a white man who found himself in the company of sixteen bronco Apaches would be getting ready to fight or die. Probably both.

  He’d be praying, too, either way, but this hombre’s lips didn’t move except to curve into a sardonic smile.

  “You’re really gettin’ ’em worked up, Bodaway,” he said in English to the leader of the war party. The Apache had lived on a reservation and had even worked for a time as a scout for the cavalry, so he had no trouble speaking or understanding the white man’s tongue.

  “You know I am called El Infierno,” the war chief said with a glare. “The Fires of Hell.”

  “Sure, sure,” the white man said. “I’d forgotten how you hombres sometimes take Mex names.”

  Ned Becker hadn’t forgotten at all. Calling El Infierno by the name he’d been given when he was born was Becker’s way of reminding the Apache that they had known each other since they were boys.

  Indians had long memories, sure enough, but sometimes if their blood got hot enough, they conveniently “forgot” that they had promised not to kill a fella. Especially a bloodthirsty bunch like these renegade Mescaleros.

  Becker went on, “I know the ranch is too far away for you to see it from here, even with that telescope, but my scouts report that Don Eduardo is there with his herd of crossbreeds. They’ll be celebratin’ tonight, you can take my word for that.”

  “This man Slaughter is said to be a good fighter. He will have guards.”

  “Sure he will,” Becker agreed. “But they’ll be thinkin’ about how they’re missin’ the barbecue and the wine and the dancin’, and they won’t be as alert as they ought to be. Your men should be able to slip past them.”

  Bodaway gave the white man a cold look.

  “My warriors are like spirits in the night,” he said. “No one will see them until
they are ready to be seen.”

  Becker nodded and said, “Fine. You hold up your end of the deal and I’ll hold up mine.”

  They understood each other. Indians liked to bargain. Becker knew that. That and his old friendship with the war chief had made him bold enough to ride into Bodaway’s camp hidden in these rugged, isolated mountains when most men wouldn’t have dared do such a thing.

  Ned Becker wasn’t most men, though, as those who had been unlucky enough to cross him had found out.

  He was almost as dark as the Apaches, but black beard stubble covered his lantern jaw. His eyes under the pulled-down hat brim blazed with hatred. He kept those fires banked most of the time because he knew it was dangerous for a man to let his emotions get out of control.

  But every now and then the flames inside him leaped up and threatened to consume him from the inside out if he didn’t cut loose. When he did, somebody usually died.

  Becker figured if anybody ought to be known as The Fires of Hell, it was him. He wasn’t going to argue about it with Bodaway, though. The war chief was too useful to risk making him mad.

  “Remember, hit ’em hard and fast,” Becker went on. “That’ll draw Slaughter’s crew and Don Eduardo’s men away from the herd. My men and I will take care of everything else.”

  Bodaway’s lip curled slightly in disdain. To an Apache’s way of thinking, stealing more cattle than you could eat was a waste of time and effort. For that matter, they would rather steal horses, since a warrior could ride a horse—and they preferred the taste of horse meat to beef.

  “You will deliver the rifles?” he said to Becker.

  “In two weeks or less,” the outlaw promised. “Just as we agreed. Fifty brand-new Winchesters and a thousand rounds of ammunition for each.”

  Bodaway nodded in solemn satisfaction. Offering him money wouldn’t have accomplished a damned thing, Becker knew. The Apaches didn’t have any use for it.

  But the lure of rifles had been more than the war chief could resist. Only a few of Bodaway’s men were armed with Winchesters. Most of the others carried single-shot Springfields taken from dead cavalrymen. A couple even had muzzle-loading flintlocks that had been handed down for generations after being stolen from fur trappers farther north.