Nobody had any objections. Mayor Ivey was huddled close, already trying to convince Bull to run as part of his administration.
With the business part of the session completed, the party went into full swing, finally breaking up around dawn.
Sixkiller saddled up the roan. Town folks gathered to watch him go.
He rode east into the rising sun. At the edge of town, he spurred his horse, causing it to uprear and stand on its hind legs. Sixkiller took off his big hat and waved it in the air—good-bye. The horse touched down and he rode south toward Rock Spring and the Union Pacific train line.
Then he was gone.
J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “When the Truth Becomes Legend”
William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.
“I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”
True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, which planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.
“They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”
After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, Louisiana, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.
Out of the Ashes was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy The Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill’s uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men’s action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI’s Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. “In that respect,” says collaborator J. A. Johnstone, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)
Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill’s recent thrillers, written with J. A. Johnstone, include Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge, and the upcoming Suicide Mission.
It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success and propelled him onto both the USA Today and the New York Times bestseller lists.
Bill’s western series, co-authored by J. A. Johnstone, include The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister (an Eagles spin-off), Sidewinders, The Brothers O’Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter, and the upcoming new series Flintlock and The Trail West. Coming in May 2013 is the hardcover western Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years.
“The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America’s version of England’s Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of The Virginian by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L’Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.
“I’m no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the Western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don’t offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The Western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the Western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man’s horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman’s noose. One size fit all.
“Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.
“It was Owen Wister, in The Virginian who first coined the phrase ‘When you call me that, smile.’ Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son-of-a-bitch.
“Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don’t know. But there’s a line in one of my favorite Westerns of all time, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.’
“These are the words I live by.”
Keep reading for a preview of an
All New Jensen Series!
THE JENSEN BRAND
From bestselling authors
William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone
Bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and
J. A. Johnstone have thrilled readers with the
epic struggles and hard-fought triumphs of the
pioneering Jensen family. Now this great
American saga continues—with the
next generation of Jensens . . .
JENSEN PROUD. JENSEN TOUGH.
It’s the dawn of a new century. But on the vast
Sugarloaf Ranch not much has changed since
legendary gunfighter Smoke Jensen and his wife,
Sally, tamed the land two decades ago. Raising cattle
is still a dangerous business—and just as deadly as
ever. When Smoke is injured swapping bullets with
some cow thieves, Sally puts out a call for help to
Matt, Ace, and the rest of the Jensen clan.
But time is running out. The bloodthirsty rustlers
are ready to strike again—and there are
lots more of them. And the Sugarloaf’s
last defense is Smoke and Sally’s next of kin . . .
Enter the Jensen twins. Denise and her brother
Louis have just returned home from their schooling
in Europe. Louis is studying to be a lawyer and is
too sickly to defend the ranch. But Denise is to the
manor born—she can ride like a man, shoot like
her daddy, and face down the deadliest outlaws like
nobody’s business. And t
here’ll be plenty of
opportunity to prove she’s got Jensen blood in her
veins—cold, deadly, and playing for keeps . . .
Available now wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
Live Free. Read Hard. www.williamjohnstone.net
THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
Smoke Jensen—The Mountain Man
The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise (“Denny”) and Louis.
Preacher—The First Mountain Man
Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. Fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.
Matt Jensen—The Last Mountain Man
Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.
Luke Jensen—Bounty Hunter
Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother Luke Jensen is scarred by war and a dead shot—the right qualities to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning, and fierce enough, to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.
Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen—Those Jensen Boys!
Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, are a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself . . . Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.
Chapter One
The Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado, 1901
A thin sliver of moon hung over the mountains bordering the valley, casting such a feeble amount of light that it did little to relieve the pitch blackness cloaking much of the landscape.
A rustlers’ moon, Smoke Jensen thought.
“Are they there?” Calvin Woods whispered next to Smoke. “I can’t see a blasted thing!”
“They’re there,” Smoke told his foreman. He raised the Winchester he held in both hands but didn’t bring it to his shoulder just yet. A shot would spook the men who had been stealing his cattle, and he didn’t want them to take off for the tall and uncut before he had a chance to nab them. “Hold your fire . . .”
Hidden in the trees along with Smoke and Cal were half a dozen more Sugarloaf hands, all of them young and eager for action, like frisky colts ready to stretch their legs. One reason cowboys signed on to ride for the Sugarloaf was the prospect of working for Smoke Jensen, quite possibly the most famous gunfighter the West had ever known. They figured just being around Smoke upped the chances for excitement.
That was true. Even though Smoke had put his powder-burning days behind him more than two decades earlier and settled down to be a peace-loving rancher, things hadn’t quite worked out that way. Trouble still seemed to find him on a fairly regular basis, despite his intentions.
That was the way it was with Jensens. None of them had ever been plagued with an abundance of peace and quiet.
In recent weeks, for example, Sugarloaf cattle had begun disappearing on a regular basis. Only a few at first, then more and more as the thieves grew bolder. Smoke was in his fifties, and it only made sense to believe that he might have slowed down some. Some might have figured he wasn’t the same sort of pure hell on wheels he had been when he was younger.
Those rustlers were about to find out how wrong they were to assume that.
“There to the right,” Smoke whispered as he looked out across the broad pasture where a couple hundred cattle were settled down for the night. “Coming out of that stand of trees.”
“I see ’em,” Cal replied, equally quiet. He had started out as a young cowboy, too, twenty years earlier. Back then, the reformed outlaw known as Pearlie was the Sugarloaf’s ramrod, and he and Cal had become fast friends. Pearlie was also a mentor to Cal, who’d learned everything there was to know about running a ranch. When it came time for Pearlie to retire, it was only natural for Cal to move into the foreman’s job.
He still looked a little like a kid, though, despite the mustache he had cultivated in an attempt to make himself seem older. However, no one on the crew failed to hop when he gave an order.
On the other side of the pasture, several riders moved out of the trees and rode slowly toward the cattle. It was too dark to make out any details about them or even to be sure of how many there were. But they didn’t belong and there was only one reason for them to be there.
Calling out softly, slapping coiled lassos against their thighs, they started moving a jag of about a hundred head along the valley, toward the north end.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” Cal said. “Let’s blast ’em outta their saddles.”
“I’d rather round up a few of them if we can,” Smoke said. “I’d like to know if they started this wide-looping on their own or if they’re working for somebody.”
“You got suspicions?”
“No . . . but if there’s a head to this snake, I’d just as soon know about it so I can cut it off.” Smoke leaned his head to indicate they should pull back, although it was doubtful Cal saw the gesture in the thick shadows. “Let’s drift on back to the horses.”
“If we go chargin’ out there, we’ll scatter those cows all over kingdom come,” Cal warned.
Smoke chuckled. “They can be rounded up again.”
Silently, the men moved through the trees until they reached the spot where they had left their horses and swung up into the saddles. Over the years of his adventurous life, Smoke had learned to trust his gut. He’d had a hunch the rustlers might strike again that night, so he, Cal, and some of the hands had gone out to a likely spot for more villainy where they could stand watch and maybe catch the cattle thieves in the act.
“Are you gonna give those varmints a chance to surrender, Smoke?” Cal sounded like he hoped the answer would be no.
“Yes . . . but not much of one. They’d better throw down their guns and get their hands in the air in a hurry. Otherwise . . .” Smoke didn’t have to elaborate.
All the cowboys would be checking their guns before they rode out into the pasture.
He gave instructions. “We’ll swing around and come up behind them. I’ll hail them. If they start the ball, you fellas do what you have to. Like I said, it would be nice to take some of them alive, but I’d much rather all of you boys come through this with whole hides. Now let’s go.”
With Smoke and Cal in the lead, the men rode slowly through the trees until they reached the edge of the growth. The dark mass of the cattle was to the left, moving away as the rustlers pushed the reluctant animals along. Smoke and his companions moved out into the open and started after them, still not hurrying but moving fast enough to catch up to the plodding cattle.
The sounds made by the cattle and the hooves of the rustlers’ horses were enough to muffle the advance of Smoke and his men. At least Smoke hoped that was the case. The rustlers hadn’t panicked yet, at least.
The group from the Sugarloaf closed in.
Smoke had his Winchester in his right hand and the reins in his left. He looped the reins around the saddle horn, knowing he could control the rangy gray gelding with his knees. With both hands gripping the rifle, he shouted, “You’re caught! Throw down your guns!”
Instead of surrendering, the rustlers yanked their horses around. Spurts of gun flame bloomed in the darkness like crimson flowers as they opened fire.
In one smooth motion, Smoke brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed at one of the spur
ts of orange, and squeezed the trigger. The Winchester cracked. He barely felt the weapon’s recoil. Working the lever to throw another round in the chamber, he shifted his aim, and swiftly fired a second shot then kneed his horse into motion and charged toward the rustlers.
Around him, Cal and the other Sugarloaf hands galloped forward, yelling and shooting.
The thieves scattered in all directions, abandoning the cows they were trying to steal.
Although it was difficult to see much, Smoke and his allies continued aiming at the muzzle flashes of their enemies. Of course, the rustlers were doing the same thing. The air was filled with flying lead.
Smoke always hoped his men would come through such encounters unscathed, but knew better than to expect it.
He made out one of the fleeing rustlers and closed in on the man, who twisted in the saddle and flung a shot back at him. Smoke felt as much as heard the slug rip through the air not far from his ear. That was good shooting from the back of a running horse. He leaned forward to make himself a smaller target and urged his mount to greater speed.
As he drew close to his quarry, the rustler turned to try another shot, but Smoke lashed out with the barrel of the Winchester. It thudded against the rustler’s head and swept him out of the saddle. Both horses galloped on for a few strides before Smoke was able to swing his mount around. Elsewhere in the big pasture, gunfire still crackled.
He swung down from the saddle and let the reins drop, knowing the horse was trained not to go anywhere. Keeping his rifle pointed at the dim figure on the ground, Smoke approached him. The fallen rustler didn’t move.
Smoke ordered, “Put your hands in the air!” but there was no response. Wary of a trick, he lowered the rifle and drew the Colt on his right hip. The revolver was better for close work. Almost supernaturally fast with it, he was confident he could put a bullet in the varmint before he had a chance to try anything.
Hour of Death Page 18
