The Loner: Inferno #12

by J. A. Johnstone

  Mateo raised the Winchester. Holding it above his head for a second, he wheeled his horse and vanished into the gathering darkness.

  Had that been a salute? The Kid thought it was. Mateo was done with this fight.

  But if their trails ever crossed again, The Kid mused, he suspected he would have himself one more deadly enemy.

  “Come on,” Jess said softly. “The others want to see you and thank you.”

  The Kid nodded and let her lead him away.

  Other than a bit of lameness that disappeared with rest, the dun hadn’t been injured in the fall. The Kid was grateful for that. He and the horse made a good team.

  Two weeks later, he and Jess sat in the luxurious lobby of the Camino Real Hotel in El Paso. A couple of years earlier, Conrad Browning had met with Frank Morgan at that hotel, to ask for Frank’s help, and that was the beginning of the growing friendship and respect between father and son. The Kid hadn’t been back since.

  The saber cut on his hand was healing. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to use his gun during the past two weeks.

  The skirmish at Sago had been brushed under the rug, as far as The Kid knew. Maybe there had been a few angry letters exchanged between Washington and Mexico City. Maybe not. None of that mattered to him.

  With a smile, Jess said, “I can’t help but wonder how a drifting gunfighter can afford to stay in a fancy place like this, let alone pay for four women to start new lives. It wouldn’t do any good to ask, though, would it?”

  The Kid shrugged. “Everybody has secrets.”

  “You know just about everything there is to know about me, Kid. The good and the bad.”

  “I don’t know anything bad,” he told her with a shake of his head.

  “Most people wouldn’t see it that way.”

  “Most people are damned fools in one way or another.”

  She smiled. “I suppose you’re right about that. Speaking of damned fools ... are you sure I can’t talk you into going to Dallas with me?”

  “Leah’s going to be staying with you for a while. The two of you will do fine.”

  “I know,” Jess said. “But if you ever change your mind ...”

  “I’ll know where to find you,” The Kid promised. He got to his feet, holding a black Stetson in his hand. The Rurales uniform was long gone. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and string tie. And the Colt on his hip, of course. He was never without it.

  Jess came into his arms and hugged him, resting her head against his chest for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You’ve said that plenty times already. No need to say it again.”

  “Never enough.” She tipped her head back to look at him. “Come see me sometime.”

  “Count on it,” The Kid told her, although he didn’t know if that promise would ever be fulfilled.

  The dun was waiting outside, and the trail to ... somewhere ... beckoned.

  Kid Morgan was ready to answer that call.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of the USA Today bestselling series

  MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

  In the harsh, unforgiving American frontier, in the vast wilderness that is Wyoming, a ruthless gang of cutthroats is cutting a bloody swath of death and destruction through the territory. No one can stop them ... no one, that is, except for a legendary mountain man named Matt Jensen.

  The year is 1884. A ten-year-old British boy has come to visit his uncle’s Wyoming spread, just as the vicious Yellow Kerchief Gang has the ranch under siege. Outgunned and outmatched, a British rancher is willing to pay $5,000 for help. That is more than enough money to bring Matt Jensen into the fray. A huge, bloody gunfight, fueled by betrayal, erupts at the Powder River. But Matt has to shoot carefully. The Yellow Kerchief Gang has a hostage—the British lad named Winnie. And Matt has history on his hands, because Winnie Churchill must survive. Fifty years later Winston Churchill will fight a war of his own—carrying a Matt Jensen .44 shell in his pocket and a gunfighter’s spirit in his soul.

  MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

  MASSACRE AT POWDER RIVER

  by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in February 2012

  Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Prologue

  20 Grosvenor Square, London, England

  June 23, 1944

  Overhead the distinctive buzzing sound of the approaching V-1 bomb grew silent and the guards around General Eisenhower’s headquarters looked up to the east to watch a small, pulse-jet-powered, square-winged flying bomb tumble from the sky. It was followed by a heavy, stomach-shaking blast as the missile exploded, sending a huge column of smoke roiling into the air.

  A few moments later an olive-drab Packard glided to a stop in front of the American headquarters. The car was festooned with three small flags attached to the hood ornament: a U.S. flag, a British flag, and the four star flag denoting it to be the car of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Captain Kay Summersby, the general’s female driver, hurried around to open the back door as the general came out of headquarters. Before Eisenhower got into the car his chief of staff stepped outside.

  “We just got the all clear, General,” General Walter Bedell Smith said. “No more buzz bombs are headed this way.”

  “Thanks, Beetle,” Eisenhower said as he climbed into the backseat.

  General Smith and the guards saluted as the car drove away.

  Fifteen minutes later the Packard drew to a stop in front of Number 10 Downing Street, and Kay Summersby hurried around to open the door for General Eisenhower.

  “Thank you, Kay.”

  He was met at the curb by Phyllis Moir, Winston Churchill’s private secretary. “This way, General. The PM is in the cabinet room.”

  General Eisenhower followed the secretary through the labyrinthine halls of the residence of the Prime Minister of Britain, and past the two pairs of Corinthian columns that led into the cabinet room. Churchill, with the ever-present cigar protruding from his mouth, was standing at a small bar, pouring whiskey.

  “Tennessee mash for you, right, General?” Churchill said. “I prefer Mortlach, which is an excellent single-malt Scotch.”

  He handed Eisenhower a glass. The whiskey in the glass caught a beam of light that passed through one of the enormous windows, causing the liquor to glow as if lit from within.

  “Please,” Churchill said when he had his own glass. “Have a seat.” He indicated a small seating area which consisted of an oxblood leather couch and two facing saddle-leather chairs. Eisenhower chose the couch. A coffee table separated the sofa and chairs. Churchill flicked the long white ash from the end of his cigar into the crystal ashtray on the table before he settled his rather large frame into one of the chairs.

  “Any word on the buzz bomb attack?” Eisenhower asked.

  “Six killed at Waterloo Station,” Churchill said.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Better than last weekend, when we lost two hundred to the attacks. What’s our status with the invasion?”

  “We’re advancing toward Cherbourg,” Eisenhower said. “I expect we will have it within a few days.”

  “Good, good, that’s wonderful news. Oh, by the way, I want to thank you for that pile of Western novels you sent over last week.”

  “I’m glad I had them.”

  “You enjoy reading Western novels, do you?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I keep a stack of them on my bedside table, and probably read about three a week.”

  “Outstanding,” Churchill said. “I’m a fan of the American Western novel as well. Who is your favorite Western author?”

  “I’m fairly eclectic. I like Zane Grey of course, Owen Wister, Max Brand, and Andy Adams.”

  “Wonderful,” Churchill replied enthusiastically. “I like them as well.” He held out his glass. “Shall we drink to the American West?”

  “It would be an honor.” General Eisenhower held his glass to Churchill’s. The men drank; Eisenh
ower took but a sip, while Churchill took a large swallow.

  “Tell me, General”—Churchill wiped his lips with the back of his hand—“have you ever read anything about a Western hero named Matt Jensen?”

  “Yes, of course.” Eisenhower smiled. “In fact, I even know a bit of trivial information about him. His real name wasn’t Jensen, it was ...” Eisenhower paused for a moment, as if trying to recall.

  “Cavanaugh,” Churchill said, supplying the name. “Matthew Cavanaugh, but after he was orphaned, he took on the name of his mentor, Smoke Jensen.”

  “Whose real name was Kirby Jensen,” Eisenhower said. “And he was quite a hero himself. But, tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, how is it that you know so much about Matt Jensen?”

  “I have what you might call a vested interest in that gentlemen,” Churchill replied.

  “All right, now you have me hooked. Why do you have a vested interest in one of America’s Old West heroes?”

  Churchill took another swallow of his scotch. “I have piqued your interest, have I?”

  “I must confess that you have,” Eisenhower replied.

  “If it had not been for Matt Jensen I would not be the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and I would not be sitting here before you, discussing the greatest invasion in the history of warfare.”

  “How is that so?”

  “Matt Jensen saved my life.”

  Chapter 1

  Livermore, Colorado

  Late March 1884

  When Jarvis Winslow returned home from the city council meeting, he wondered why the house was dark. His wife and daughter should be there, and supper should be on the table.

  “Julie?” he called. “Julie, are you here?”

  Winslow walked over to a nearby table, then lit a lantern. Light filled the room as he turned it up. “Julie?”

  “Hello, Mr. Winslow,” a man said, stepping into the living room from the hallway. He was a smallish man, with black hair, and a large, hooked nose. He had a big red spot on his cheek and a gun in his hand.

  “What?” Winslow gasped. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” the gunman said. “And what is going on is a bank robbery.”

  “A bank robbery? Are you insane? I’m the president of the bank, but I don’t keep any money in my house. Wait a minute, I know who you are. You are Red Plummer, aren’t you?”

  Two other men came into the room then.

  “If you know who I am, then you know I am someone you had better listen to. Let me introduce my associates, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy. You don’t want to get them angry, either.”

  “Where is my wife? Where is my daughter?” Winslow asked.

  “They are safe. For the time being,” Plummer said. “Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are back in the bedroom. Bring your lantern.”

  “Julie?” Winslow called, grabbing the lantern and hurrying into the bedroom. When he stepped through the door he saw his wife and his daughter, both stripped absolutely naked and tied to the bed. They had gags in their mouths, and terror in their eyes.

  “What the hell have you done to them?” Winslow shouted angrily.

  “We ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Plummer looked over at the other two men. “But I have to tell you, I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ Sullivan and McCoy off of ’em.”

  “I want the young one,” Sullivan said, rubbing his crotch.

  “You bastard! She is only twelve years old!” Winslow said.

  “Maybe so, but she’s comin’ along real good.”

  “You see what I’m having to deal with?” Winslow said. “Now, the only way I’m goin’ to be able to keep them away from your women is if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “What do you want?” Winslow asked. “I’ll do it.”

  “I want you to go to the bank, get every dollar the bank has, then bring it here. Once we have the money, we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’ll get the money. Just—just don’t do anything to hurt my wife and daughter.”

  Plummer smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked and broken teeth. “I thought we might be able to work something out.”

  Winslow took one last look at his wife and daughter, then hurried out of the house and over to the bank, which was just one block away. Inside the bank he emptied the safe, taking out twenty-three thousand dollars, and stuffing the money into a bag. He started to leave, but before he did, he scribbled a quick note.

  Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy

  When he got back to the house, he hurried into the bedroom. “I got the money. Let them go.”

  Then, looking toward the bed, he gasped. Their throats had been cut and blood was all over the bed. His wife and daughter were looking up with glazed, sightless eyes.

  “You bastards!” he shouted, throwing the money bag toward Plummer.

  “Really now, Winslow, you didn’t think we were going to let you live after you knew our names, did you?”

  So shocked by the sight of his wife and daughter, Winslow didn’t realize McCoy was behind him until he felt the knife thrust into his back.

  One week later

  Matt Jensen walked into the Gold Nugget Saloon in Fort Collins, twenty miles south of Livermore. On the wall was a sign:

  Card cheats will not be allowed in this establishment.

  Please report any cheating to the Management.

  In addition to the sign cautioning gamblers against cheating, the walls were decorated with game heads and pictures, including one of a reclining nude woman. Three bullet holes strategically placed had augmented the painting, though one shot was slightly off, giving her left breast two nipples. Below the painting was a mirror which reflected back the long glass shelf of whiskey bottles. At each end of the bar was a large jar of pickled eggs as well as pickled pigs’ feet.

  The saloon was also a first-class brothel and Matt saw one of the girls taking a cowboy up the stairs at the back of the room.

  The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front. The main room, or saloon, was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were a score or more customers present, sitting at tables or standing at the bar talking with the girls, drinking or playing cards.

  Matt was one of those standing at the bar when a woman known as Magnificent Maggie went over to him and put her arm through his. She got her name, not from her beauty, but from her size. Weighing over three hundred pounds, she was the owner of the Gold Nugget.

  “Welcome, Mr. Jensen. It has been a while since you have graced us with your presence. What brings you to Fort Collins?”

  “You know me, Maggie. I follow the tumbleweed.” Matt looked around the saloon. “You seem to be doing a pretty good business today.”

  “Some days are better than others. Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wine, beer, or whiskey?”

  Whiskey.”

  At the back of the saloon a piano player with a pipe clenched in his teeth, wearing a round derby hat and garter belts around his shirt sleeves, was playing “The Gal I Left Behind Me,” though few were listening.

  “Oh my, still alone? You haven’t found a girl to keep you company?” Maggie asked when she returned with Matt’s whiskey.

  Matt put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie, do you think I could settle for anyone but you?”

  Magnificent Maggie laughed out loud. “My, my, Mr. Jensen you do have the gift of glib. But what would you do if I thought you were serious and took you up on it?”

  “I don’t know. I’d do my best, I guess,” Matt replied.

  She laughed again, a loud cackle that rose over the piano music and all the conversation in the room. “Oh, damn! You just made me laugh so hard that I peed in my drawers.”

  Matt had just taken a swallow and at her pronouncement he laughed, spewing out some whiskey.

  She hurried off to ta
ke care of the situation, leaving Matt standing alone at the bar, smiling and drinking his whiskey.

  One of the customers got up and walked over to Matt, carrying his beer with him. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a while.”

  “Hello, Bart,” Matt replied.

  “What are you doing in Fort Collins?”

  “A man’s got to be somewhere. You still deputying?”

  “No, I’m working as a messenger for Wells Fargo now. It pays some better. Oh, by the way, I suppose you heard what happened in Livermore last week?”

  “No, what?”

  “Bart, there’s an open chair. You in or not?” someone called from one of the tables.

  “Ah, I’ve been waiting to get into the card game.” Bart held up his beer. “It was good seeing you again.”

  “What happened in Livermore?” Matt asked.

  “Someone killed the bank president and his wife and daughter. There’s a paper down at the end of the bar. You can read all about it.”

  Matt moved down to the end of the counter where newspapers were stacked. He put a nickel in the bowl and took one, then found an empty table where he sat down to read.

  Gruesome Find!

  In what may be the most gruesome event in the history of Livermore, Jarvis Winslow and wife and daughter were found murdered in their home.

  Mr. Winslow was president of the bank and many will tell you there was no finer man for the job, as he always showed a willingness to work with people who needed loans.

  Mrs. Winslow and her young daughter were discovered tied to a bed, their throats cut and their clothes removed, giving evidence of ravages being visited upon them. Mr. Winslow was on the floor with a knife wound in his back.

  The murder seems to be connected to the bank robbery, for over twenty-three thousand dollars is missing. In what must be considered a clue, a paper was found in the bank bearing the names Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy.