Reprisal

by William W. Johnstone

  “Sure did,” Tin Pan replied, “only some of ’em turned back and took off at a high lope. He ain’t got but maybe half a dozen men with him now, but we’re liable to run into ’em on the trail back south. There could be trouble.”

  “I can handle trouble,” Frank remarked, stalking off to get his saddle horse and packhorse with Conrad’s harsh words still ringing in his ears.

  “I never knew anyone could be so fast with a pistol,” Louis Pettigrew said. “But I saw it with my own two eyes. What a story this will make!”

  Frank ignored the newsman’s remark. There was another story that needed to be told, in detail, to his son. Apparently, Conrad didn’t know the truth about why Frank had to leave his beloved Vivian.

  Frank mounted up and rode back to the trail. Conrad was still struggling to mount the outlaw’s horse.

  “Let’s head southwest,” Frank said. “I’ll ride out front to be sure this road is clear.”

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Tin Pan declared.

  Conrad Browning did not say a word as they left the scene of his rescue.

  * * *

  Seven mounted men were crossing a creek at the bottom of a draw when Frank, Tin Pan, Pettigrew, and Conrad came to the crest of a rise.

  “That’s Vanbergen,” Louis Pettigrew said. “He’s the one who told me all those false tales about you.”

  Frank stepped off his horse with his Winchester .44-. 40, levering a shell into the firing chamber. “I’ll warm them up a little bit,” he said. “You boys pull back behind this ridge. I’m gonna pump some lead at ’em.”

  “The one in the gray hat is Vanbergen,” Pettigrew said as he turned his horse.

  “I know who Victor Vanbergen is,” Frank growled.

  Frank aimed for Vanbergen as his horse plunged across the shallow stream.

  “Good to see you again, Vic,” Frank whispered, triggering off a well-placed shot, jacking another round into the firing chamber as the roar of his rifle filled the draw.

  Vanbergen’s body jerked. He bent forward and grabbed his belly, but before Frank could draw another careful bead on him, he spurred his horse into some trees on the east bank of the creek.

  The other gunmen wheeled their horses in all directions and took off at a hard run. One rider fired a harmless shot over his shoulder before he went out of sight on the far side of the dry wash.

  “I got him,” Frank said, searching the trees for Vanbergen as gun smoke cleared away from his rifle.

  But to Frank’s regret he saw Vanbergen galloping his horse over a tree-studded ridge, aiming due north. Seconds later he was out of sight.

  “I’ll find you one of these days, Vic,” Frank said, grinding his teeth together. “Right now, I’ve got more important business with a doctor to see if my boy’s okay.”

  He strode back over the ridge and swung up in the saddle, booting his rifle.

  “Did you get any of ’em?” Tin Pan asked.

  “I shot Vanbergen in the belly. If Lady Luck is with me, he’s gut-shot and he’ll bleed to death. But if he’s still alive, one of these days I’ll find him and settle this score for good.”

  Conrad glowered at Frank. “Mom was right. You’re nothing but a killer.”

  “There were circumstances back then,” Frank explained. “If you give me the chance, I’ll tell you about them.”

  “I don’t want to hear a damn thing you have to say, Frank. The only thing I want is for you to leave me alone.”

  Frank tried to push the boy’s remarks from his mind. The kid couldn’t know what he’d been through back when Vivian was alive, or what her father had done to him.

  A time would come when Frank would get the chance to tell his side of the story. In the meantime, he’d take the boy back to Durango and let a doctor check him over.

  Then there was other unfinished business to attend to when he got back, and the thought of it brought a slight smile to his rugged face.

  Dog would be waiting for him. And Jeff. Frank had a future if he made the most of it. He only hoped that one of these days Conrad would come around. At least listen to his side of the story.

  “I hope you’ll grant me the time for an interview,” Louis Pettigrew said.

  “We’ll see,” Frank replied. “It depends . . .”

  Thirty-one

  Doc Green finished putting the last stitch in Conrad’s head and put his needle and sutures away. “It’ll take a while to heal up right,” the doctor said. “But you’ll mend. Take a swallow of that laudanum when your head hurts.”

  Conrad nodded, stepping off the table in the doctor’s office before giving Frank a look.

  “Sorry this happened, Conrad,” Frank said. “Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen were out to get me. Wish you hadn’t been the one to suffer for it.”

  They walked out on the doctor’s front porch before Conrad said a word. “I’m grateful for what you did, Frank, but that won’t make up for the years when you weren’t there for me and my mother.”

  Frank stared down at his boots. “I take it Vivian didn’t tell you the whole story?”

  “The whole story? What else is there to say? You left us alone. You left her to raise me by herself.”

  “That isn’t quite how it happened, and I can prove it if you’ll listen to me.”

  “I don’t want to hear a damn thing you have to say. Just leave me alone. You’re nothing but a killer, a paid assassin. Mom told me that much, and so did my grandpa.”

  Frank let his gaze wander across the rooftops of Durango for a spell. “It’s true that I’ve killed a few men. I’m not proud of it. But I didn’t leave you and your mother because I wanted to. I didn’t have a choice. I was framed for a crime I didn’t commit. I didn’t have any choice but to leave both of you, and I’ve regretted it every day of my life since.”

  “A likely story.”

  “It’s the truth. If you’ll allow it, one of these days I’d like to tell you about it. Then you can make up your own mind about who’s telling the truth.”

  “Mom wouldn’t lie to me,” Conrad insisted.

  “There were things she probably couldn’t tell you. All I want is a chance for you to listen to me. Your grandfather had it in for me. He put me on the run and there was no way I could prove I was innocent.”

  “Just leave me alone, Frank. And don’t ever call me your son again.”

  Frank went down the steps to his horse. “All I want you to do is hear what I have to say about what happened. I don’t see how that’s asking too much.”

  Conrad turned to head down the boardwalk. Then he stopped. “Maybe I do owe you that much, but I’ll have to have some time to think about it.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “We’ll see,” Conrad told him. “Right now all I want to do is get you out of my sight. I suppose I should be grateful that you got me away from Ned Pine and his hoodlums, but I’ve had too many years to think about how you abandoned me and my mother. I don’t want to think about it now.”

  “I understand,” Frank said quietly.

  He mounted his horse as Conrad marched away. Frank’s heart was heavy with sorrow. If the boy only knew the whole truth, he might take a different view of things.

  He swung his horse away from the hitch rail, heading out to see about Dog and Jeff. He had plans to make.

  Just once, he looked up at the mountains where he had tangled with Ned Pine and Victor Vanbergen.

  “I’ll be back up there one of these days,” he promised himself. “And when I do, things won’t go so easy on either one of you.”

  Frank led his packhorse down the street, but he drew up short when Louis Pettigrew came off the steps of the hotel.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Pettigrew began, “I was hoping you’d have time to talk to me.”

  “Not now,” Frank replied. “I’ve got some things weighing heavy on my mind.”

  “Would tomorrow be okay?”

  “A day or two,” Frank told him. “Right now, I’ve got a dog
to check on, and a young friend waiting for me.”

  Pettigrew nodded. “Just remember that I would very much like to give my readers the true story of Frank Morgan, the gunfighter,” he said.

  “I’m not a gunfighter anymore,” Frank answered. “Just a man who’s trying to live peaceful, if folks will let me.”

  NEW YORK TIMES AND

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  FLINTLOCK

  A Time for Vultures

  Across the West, badmen know his name. The deadliest

  bounty hunter on the frontier, Flintlock is armed with his

  grandfather’s ancient Hawken muzzleloader, ready to put

  the blast on the face of injustice. As William and J. A.

  Johnstone’s acclaimed saga continues, Flintlock will

  discover an evil too terrifying and deadly to even name.

  WHEN A MAN SAYS HE’S GOING

  TO KILL YOU, BELIEVE HIM

  The stench of death hangs over Happyville. When

  Flintlock rides into town, he sees windows caked in dust,

  food rotting on tables, and a forgotten corpse hanging at

  the gallows. Citizens of Happyville are dead in their

  beds, taken down by a deadly scourge, and Flintlock

  must stay put or risk spreading the killer disease. His

  quarantine is broken by Cage Kingfisher, a mad

  clergyman who preaches the gospel of death. He orders

  his followers to round up the survivors of Happyville and

  bring them home to face the very plague they fled. To save

  them, Flintlock must send Kingfisher to Hell. But the

  deadly deacon has a clockwork arm that can draw a pistol

  faster than the eye can blink. It will take the Devil to bring

  him down. Or the frontier legend they call Flintlock.

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter One

  “I don’t like it, Sam,” O’Hara said, his black eyes troubled. “Those women could be setting us up. Their wagon wheel looks just fine from here.”

  Sam Flintlock shook his head. “You know what I always tell folks about you, O’Hara?”

  “No. What do you always tell folks about me?”

  “That you let your Indian side win through. I mean every time. If you were looking at them gals with a white man’s eyes you’d see what I see ... four comely young ladies who badly need our help.”

  Now there were those who said some pretty bad things about Sam Flintlock. They called him out for a ruthless bounty hunter, gunman, outlaw when it suited him, and a wild man who chose never to live within the sound of church bells. At that, his critics more or less had him pegged, but to his credit, Flintlock never betrayed a friend or turned his back on a crying child, an abused dog, or a maiden in distress. And when the war talk was done and guns were drawn he never showed yellow.

  Thus, when he saw four ladies and a dog crowded around what looked to be a busted wagon wheel, he decided he must ride to their rescue like a knight in stained buckskins.

  But his companion, the half-breed known only as O’Hara, prone to suspicion and mistrust of the doings of white people, drew rein on Sam’s gallant instincts.

  “Well, my Indian side is winning through again,” O’Hara said. “It’s telling me to stay away from those white women. Sam, it seems that when we interfere in the affairs of white folks we always end up in trouble.” He stared hard at the wagon. “There’s something wrong here. I have a strange feeling I can’t pin down.”

  “You sound like the old lady who hears a rustle in every bush.” Flintlock slid a beautiful Hawken from the boot under his left knee and settled the butt on his thigh. “This cannon always cuts a dash with the ladies and impresses the menfolk. Let’s ride.”

  The four women gathered around the wagon wheel watched Flintlock and O’Hara ride toward them. They were young, not particularly pretty except by frontier standards, and looked travel-worn. Colorful boned corsets, laced and buckled, short skirts, and ankle boots revealed their profession, as did the hard planes of their faces. Devoid of powder and paint, exhausted by the rigors of the trail, the girls showed little interest in Flintlock and O’Hara as potential customers.

  Flintlock touched his hat. “Can I be of assistance, ladies?”

  A brunette with bold hazel eyes said, “Wheel’s stuck, mister. ”

  “I’ll take a look,” Flintlock said.

  One time in Dallas he’d watched John Wesley Hardin swing out of the saddle in one graceful motion and he hoped his dismount revealed the same panache. And it might have had not the large yellow dog decided to attack his ankle as soon as his foot touched the ground. The mutt clamped onto Flintlock’s booted ankle, shook its head, and growled as though it was killing a jackrabbit.

  “Git the hell off me,” Flintlock said, shaking his leg.

  The little brunette grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and yelled, “Bruno! Leave the gent alone!”

  But the animal seemed more determined than ever to bite through Flintlock’s boot and maul his flesh. Bruno renewed his attack with much enthusiasm and considerable savagery.

  All four women pounced on the dog and tried to drag the snarling, biting creature away while Flintlock continued to shake his leg and cuss up a storm. As the epic struggle with the belligerent Bruno became a cartwheeling, fur-flying free-for-all, O’Hara’s voice cut through the racket of the melee.

  “Sam! Riders!”

  A moment later guns slammed and O’Hara reeled in the saddle. He snapped off a shot, bent over, and toppled onto the grass. His horse, its reins trailing, trotted away. Flintlock, dragging Bruno like a growling ball and chain, stepped around the horse and looked toward the tree line. Four riders were charging fast, firing as they came. Cursing himself for choosing fashion over common sense and leaving his Winchester in the boot, he threw the Hawken to his shoulder and triggered a shot. Boom! Through a cloud of gray smoke he watched a man throw up his hands, his revolver spinning away from him. The rider tumbled backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard, throwing up a cloud of dust. Flintlock dropped the Hawken and clawed for the Colt in his waistband.

  Too late!

  A big, bearded man drove his mount straight at Flintlock and the impact of horse and man sent Flintlock flying and convinced Bruno that he’d be a lot safer somewhere else.

  Winded and sprawled on his back, Flintlock stayed where he was for a moment, then he sat up and looked around for his fallen Colt.

  There! A few yards to his right.

  He staggered to his feet and for his pains, the bearded man charged again. He swung his left foot from the stirrup and kicked Flintlock in the head, the boot heel crashing into his forehead. For a moment, it seemed that the world around him was exploding in blinding arcs of scarlet and yellow fire.

  Flintlock’s head tilted back and he caught a glimpse of the sky spinning wildly above him . . . and then his legs went out from under him and he saw nothing . . . nothing at all.

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock regained consciousness to a pounding headache and a sharp pricking in his throat. From far off, at the end of a long tunnel, he heard a woman’s voice.

  “What the hell are you doing, Buck?”

  Buck Yarr stopped, his bowie knife poised. “Gonna cut that heathen thunderbird offen his throat, Biddy. Make me a tobaccy pouch, it will.”

  “Morg wants him alive,” the woman said. “You know who he is?”

  “Don’t give a damn who he is,” Yarr said.

  “He’s the outlaw Sam Flintlock,” Biddy said. “Morg thinks maybe there’s a price on his head, his head and the breed’s.”

  Yarr said, “Morg didn’t tell me that. I want the thunderbird. Now git the hell away from me lessen you aim to watch the cuttin’.”

  “I seen a cuttin’ or two before and they didn’t trouble me none,” Biddy said. “One tim
e down Forth Worth way I seen Doc Holliday cut a man, damn near gutted him. But Morg wants that Flintlock one alive.”

  “All I want is some skin, Biddy. He’ll still be alive after I’m done.”

  “He’ll be dead after you’re done, Buck. Look, there’s Morgan, ask him your own self,” Biddy said.

  Flintlock opened his eyes. He tried to move but his arms were tightly bound to one of the wagon wheels. A few feet away O’Hara, his bloody head bowed, was tied to another. Opposite Flintlock, a kneeling man in greasy buckskins held a wicked, broad-bladed knife, his mouth under a sweeping red mustache stretched in a grin. The man’s hat—a tall, pearl gray topper, its high crown holed by a bullet—caught Flintlock’s attention.

  “Morg, the whore says I can’t cut on this man,” Yarr said. “What do you say?”

  Morgan Davis was a tall, cadaverous man with black hair and penetrating black eyes. He affected the sober dress and measured speech of a country parson but the Colt in the shoulder holster under his left arm gave the lie to that image.

  “Not now, Buck,” Davis said. “I’ve heard of this ranny. His name is Sam Flintlock on account of the old smoke pole he carries and he makes his living as a bounty hunter and bank robber. There’s some say he’s real sudden on the draw-and-shoot and has killed a dozen men. Others say he’s just plumb loco and talks to his dead kinfolk, but I ain’t so sure about that. He looks like a mean one though, don’t he?”

  “He ain’t so tough,” Yarr said. “I want the big bird on his throat. Slice it offen him and make a pouch for myself.”

  “It will make a fine pouch, a crackerjack pouch, Buck,” Davis said, patting the man on the shoulder. “But hold off on the cutting until we see if there’s a price on his head. If he’s wanted dead or alive, then he’s all yours. But if the law wants him in one piece, then you can wait until after he’s hung.”

  “Long wait.” Yarr looked sulky.

  Davis smiled. “Be of good cheer, Buck. There’s a settlement close to Guadalupe Peak with a tough sheriff. We can take Flintlock and the breed there. If there’s a dodger on them, once the lawman pays the reward I’m sure we can talk him into a quick hanging.”