The Edge of Hell

by William W. Johnstone

As expressionless as always, the Apache drew his knife from the sash around his waist and stepped toward Santiago.

  The whipcrack of a rifle split the air.

  Bodaway spun around and dropped the knife as the impact of slug striking flesh sounded like an ax splitting wood.

  That shot had barely rung out when more followed it, filling the canyon with their racket.

  Slaughter was on the move before Bodaway even hit the ground. He lunged toward Viola and Belinda and spread his arms wide to encompass both of them. He grabbed them and pulled them down with him as he dived to the ground. Bullets buzzing like angry hornets filled the air.

  “Stay down!” Slaughter told the women. “Viola, don’t let her up!”

  He would have preferred a more peaceful reunion with his wife, but there was no time to keep her in his arms. He scrambled onto his hands and knees and went after the knife that Bodaway had dropped when he was shot.

  His hand had just closed around the knife’s handle when strong fingers clamped on to his wrist. Slaughter jerked his head around and saw Bodaway lunging at him. There was blood on the Apache’s torso from the bullet wound, but he was far from dead.

  Bodaway tried to grab Slaughter by the throat with his other hand, but Slaughter blocked it with his forearm. The two men rolled over as they struggled. Slaughter drove a knee toward Bodaway’s groin, but the Apache twisted away from the blow.

  Slaughter was vaguely aware of shouted curses punctuating the continued gunfire. He knew a battle royal was going on around him. He wanted to know whether Becker was still alive or whether the shots from the canyon rim had cut him down.

  But he couldn’t afford to take his attention off Bodaway for even a split second, because he knew the Apache would kill him.

  Somebody else would have to deal with Ned Becker.

  * * *

  Belinda screamed and shook as the shooting continued, but Viola was pretty sure the blonde hadn’t been hit. John had gotten them out of the way very quickly when this particular hell broke loose.

  She lifted her head and looked around. When the shooting started, Becker’s men had scattered to hunt cover and now they were firing up at the rimrock with rifles and pistols. More lead slashed down from up there and a couple of the outlaws who hadn’t concealed themselves well enough behind rocks and trees cried out and fell as slugs ripped through their bodies.

  Viola had no way of knowing exactly who was up there, but she was certain John had planned things this way. Somehow, he had gotten men into position to attempt a rescue. She wouldn’t be surprised if her brother Stonewall was among them. The young firebrand never wanted to miss out on any action.

  Viola’s breath caught in her throat as she spotted Ned Becker stumbling toward Don Eduardo with a gun in his hand. Becker shouted hoarsely, “I won’t be cheated of my revenge! Whatever else happens, you’re going to die, old man!”

  John had told her to stay down, but Becker was about to shoot Don Eduardo and Viola knew she was the only one close enough to stop him. John was wrestling with the Apache, who was wounded but not dead.

  “Stay here,” she told Belinda, then surged to her feet, hoping she wasn’t standing up in the path of a stray bullet.

  Becker had his thumb looped over the hammer of his revolver and was raising it to shoot Don Eduardo when Viola lowered her shoulder and rammed into him from behind.

  She was a petite woman, but her life as a cowgirl had given her a considerable amount of wiry strength. The impact of her collision with Becker caused the outlaw to fly forward. He landed almost at Don Eduardo’s feet. Somehow Becker managed to hang on to his gun. He twisted around, came up on his knees, and pointed the revolver at Viola, who lay a few yards away.

  “You bitch!” Becker yelled.

  Before he could pull the trigger, Don Eduardo lifted his legs and scissored them around Becker’s neck, jerking him backward. That put even more weight on the don’s wrists, but he hung on with grim determination.

  “Señora Slaughter!” he gasped. “Take my wife and get out of here!”

  That might be the best thing for them to do, Viola decided. She rolled over and leaped up.

  But as she did, the still-struggling John and Bodaway rolled against her legs and knocked them right out from under her, dumping her on top of them.

  * * *

  Slaughter was shocked when Viola landed on him with a startled cry. He had told her and Belinda to stay down, but obviously that hadn’t happened. And now she was in the middle of what amounted to a battle between two desperate wildcats.

  That distraction allowed Bodaway to writhe out of Slaughter’s grip. The Apache still had the knife. He slashed the blade at Viola’s throat. Slaughter caught hold of the back of her dress and jerked her out of the way just in time. The razor-sharp edge missed her throat by no more than an inch or two.

  Her hand shot out with fingers hooked like talons. They dug into Bodaway’s eyes. For the first time the Apache showed a real reaction. He yelled in pain.

  Slaughter’s gaze fell on a chunk of sandstone about as big as two fists put together. He snatched it up and swung it over his head as he shouldered Viola out of the way.

  Slaughter used the momentum of the roundhouse swing to drive the rock down as hard as he could into Bodaway’s face. He heard the crunch of bone shattering. Bodaway spasmed, his back arching off the ground. His arms and legs twitched violently.

  Then he sagged back limply. His eyes stared up sightlessly from his ruined face, which had been battered out of shape by the terrible blow.

  Shots still rang out, but now there were fewer of them. Slaughter hoped that meant Stonewall and the men with him were winning the fight against Becker’s outlaws.

  He dropped the rock and grabbed the knife Bodaway had dropped in his death throes. Slaughter lunged over to Santiago and started sawing on the rawhide thongs binding the young man to the pickets. The knife’s keen edge made it short work.

  “John!” Viola cried.

  Slaughter jerked around and saw Don Eduardo with his legs locked around Becker’s neck, trying to choke him. Becker’s face was dark red with trapped blood. But he still had his gun, and he managed to lift it above his head and fire a shot that ripped into Don Eduardo’s belly.

  Freed now, Santiago plucked the knife from Slaughter’s hand and drove himself at Becker with a roar of fury. Don Eduardo’s legs fell away from Becker’s neck, releasing him. Becker saw Santiago charging him and came up to meet him, gun spouting flame as he did so.

  Santiago shuddered as the bullet struck him, but momentum carried him forward into Becker, who went over backward. The muscles in Santiago’s arms and shoulders bunched as he drove the knife into his half brother’s chest again and again, striking as deeply with the steel as he could.

  Finally Santiago’s injury caught up to him and he slumped atop Becker’s body. The knife was buried in Becker’s chest. The vengeance Becker had sought claimed him instead.

  Slaughter scrambled up and lifted Viola to her feet. An eerie silence fell over Barranca Sangre as echoes of the shots rolled away and died.

  “See to Belinda,” Slaughter told Viola, then he hurried over to Santiago and Becker.

  The outlaw was dead, no doubt about that. Slaughter grasped Santiago’s shoulder and rolled the young man onto his back. There was a bloody bullet hole high on Santiago’s left shoulder, but he didn’t appear to be hurt too badly.

  The same couldn’t be said of his gutshot father.

  Slaughter pulled the knife out of Becker’s chest and went to Don Eduardo. The don’s head lolled far forward as he hung from the cottonwood branch. Slaughter thought he was dead already, but Don Eduardo lifted his head and forced a smile onto his lips.

  “My wife?” he whispered. “My son?”

  Slaughter looked around. Viola and Belinda were helping Santiago to his feet.

  “They’re all right,” Slaughter told the don. “They’re going to be fine.”

  “Thanks to . . . El Señor Di
os . . . and you, Don Juan. Thank you . . .”

  The others reached them as Slaughter cut the ropes holding Don Eduardo up and lowered him gently to the ground. Santiago and Belinda dropped to their knees beside him, clutching him desperately.

  “Do not . . . mourn me,” he rasped. “I lived my life . . . good and bad . . . and the evil that came to me . . . was of my own doing.”

  “No,” Santiago said. “It was not your fault—”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Don Eduardo went on, “The two of you . . . have given me much happiness . . . Now you must . . . comfort each other . . . be happy together . . . yes, I know . . . it is a good thing . . . those I love . . . should be together . . . as I am now . . . with your mother . . .”

  His eyes closed, and he sighed a long, last breath.

  Ned Becker’s crazed hatred had claimed its final victim.

  As Santiago and Belinda cried over Don Eduardo’s body, Slaughter drew Viola into his arms and held her tightly against him. Her arms went around his waist with equal fervor. In the midst of this tragedy, they were together again, and that was something to be celebrated.

  The sound of hoofbeats made Slaughter look around. He saw Stonewall and several of the other men from the ranch riding into the side canyon.

  “Viola! John!” Stonewall cried as he hurried his horse toward them. He reined in, swung down from the saddle, and clapped hands on their shoulders. “I was afraid we weren’t going to get here in time. You’re all right, both of you?”

  Viola nodded and said, “Of course we are. We’re together, aren’t we?”

  Stonewall threw his arms around both of them in an enthusiastic hug.

  After a moment, Slaughter said, “This, uh, isn’t very dignified, Deputy.”

  “No, sir, it’s not,” Stonewall agreed. “But we’re a long way from Tombstone, aren’t we, Sheriff?”

  Slaughter couldn’t argue with that.

  * * *

  All of Becker’s men were dead, picked off one by one by the riflemen on the canyon rim. They were left for the scavengers, and if anyone other than the coyotes and the buzzards ever saw the scattered bones, the sinister reputation of Barranca Sangre would grow that much more.

  The only one buried in that lonely canyon was Ned Becker. Santiago insisted on it.

  “He was mad, and he killed our father, but he was still my brother,” the young man said.

  That was a more generous attitude than Slaughter would have taken, but it was Santiago’s decision to make.

  Santiago, Belinda, and the don’s men who had accompanied the rescue party took Don Eduardo’s body back to his ranch, where he was laid to rest beside his beloved Pilar.

  Two weeks later, Hermosa returned to the ranch as well, but he was alive, still recuperating from the wounds he had suffered at Bodaway’s hands but growing stronger with each passing day. Dr. Fredericks insisted that the vaquero was a medical miracle. Hermosa just shrugged and said that he was too tough for some Apache to kill him.

  And eight months later, John Slaughter, Viola, and Stonewall traveled to the ranch as well to attend the wedding of Santiago and Belinda. There was a great fiesta, and after they had eaten, the crowd adjourned to the race course Santiago had laid out.

  Stonewall led Pacer to the starting line to join Santiago and El Halcón. With a big smile, Santiago said, “So, we will settle this at last, eh, amigo?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want,” Stonewall said. “I figure if I’d just got married, though, I could come up with somethin’ better to do than have some ol’ horse race.”

  “Yes, of course, but this is important, too. A matter of honor for us both.”

  “Maybe, but my honor’s gonna be just fine no matter how this comes out.”

  Viola held a parasol to shade her from the sun as she and Slaughter stood with the spectators waiting for the race to begin. Belinda was with them, looking stronger and happier than she had in all the time they had known her.

  “I may have misjudged her . . . a little,” Viola had admitted to Slaughter. “She wasn’t really doing anything Don Eduardo didn’t want her to do, and she tried to be as honorable as she could about it. I still think she has some growing up to do, though.”

  “They can grow up together,” Slaughter had said. “Santiago’s a good man. They’ll be all right.”

  Pacer and El Halcón both seemed eager to get started on this race. Stonewall and Santiago swung up into their saddles, and then Santiago looked around and called, “Señor Slaughter, will you start us off?”

  Slaughter nodded and said, “It’d be my pleasure.”

  He walked out and stood next to the starting line, drawing his pearl-handled Colt as he did so.

  “Get ready,” he said as he lifted the gun. “All set?”

  Grim, determined nods from the two young men.

  “Go,” John Slaughter said as he pulled the trigger and fired into the air. The two magnificent horses burst forward, galloping full out.

  The race was on.

  Keep reading for a special early excerpt!

  A REASON TO DIE

  A PERLEY GATES WESTERN

  From bestselling authors William W. and

  J. A. Johnstone—the explosive adventures of

  Perley Gates, who’s carving out his own legacy

  in the violent American frontier . . .

  Restless cowpoke Perley Gates wanted nothing more than to track down the grandfather who abandoned his family years ago. What he found was the crazy old sidewinder barely hanging on after a Sioux massacre. The old man’s dying wish was to make things right for deserting his kin—by giving his strong-willed grandson Perley clues to the whereabouts of a buried fortune in gold.

  Finding his grandfather’s legacy will set up his family for life. But it won’t be easy. The discovery of raw gold in the Black Hills has lured hordes of ruthless lowlifes into Deadwood and Custer City—kill-crazy prairie rats, gunfighters, outlaws, and Indians—armed with a thousand glittering reasons to put Perley six feet under. All Perley wants is what was left to him, what he’s owed. But with so many brigands on his backside, finding his grandfather’s treasure is going to land Perley Gates between the promise of heaven and the blood-soaked battlefields of hell . . .

  Look for it wherever books are sold . . .

  Live Free. Read Hard.

  www.williamjohnstone.net

  Chapter 1

  “It’s a good thing I decided to check,” John Gates said to Sonny Rice, who was sitting in the wagon loaded with supplies. They had just come from Henderson’s General Store and John had wanted to stop by the telegraph office on the chance Perley might have sent word.

  Sonny was immediately attentive. “Did he send a telegram? Where is he?”

  “He’s in Deadwood, South Dakota,” John answered. “He said he’s on his way home.”

  “Did he say if he found your grandpa?”

  “He said he found him, but Grandpa’s dead. Said he’d explain it all when he gets back.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Sonny drew out. “Ol’ Perley found him. I figured he would. He usually does what he sets out to do.”

  John couldn’t disagree. His younger brother was always one to follow a trail to its end, even though oftentimes it led him to something he would have been better served to avoid. He laughed when he thought about what his older brother, Rubin, said about Perley. If there ain’t but one cow pie between here and the Red River, Perley will most likely step in it.

  It was a joke, of course, but it did seem that trouble had a way of finding Perley. It was true, even though he would go to any lengths to avoid it.

  “We might as well go by the diner and see if Beulah’s cooked anything fit to eat,” John casually declared, knowing that was what Sonny was hoping to hear. “Might even stop by Patton’s afterward and get a shot of whiskey. That all right with you?” He could tell by the grin on the young ranch hand’s face that he knew he was being japed. As a rule, Sonny didn’t drink very often
, but he would imbibe on some occasions.

  Thoughts running through his mind, John nudged the big gray gelding toward the small plain building at the end of the street that proclaimed itself to be the Paris Diner. He was glad he had checked the telegraph office. It was good news to hear Perley was on his way home to Texas. He had a long way to travel from the Black Hills, so it was hard to say when to expect him to show up at the Triple-G. His mother and Rubin would be really happy to hear about the telegram. Perley had been gone a long time on his quest to find their grandpa. His mother had been greatly concerned when Perley hadn’t returned with his brothers after the cattle were delivered to the buyers in Ogallala.

  John reined the gray to a halt at the hitching rail in front of the diner, then waited while Sonny pulled up in the wagon.

  “Well, I was beginning to wonder if the Triple-G had closed down,” Lucy Tate sang out when she saw them walk in.

  “Howdy, Lucy,” John returned. “It has been a while since we’ve been in town. At least, it has been for me. I don’t know if any of the other boys have been in.” He gave her a big smile. “I thought you mighta got yourself married by now,” he joked, knowing what a notorious flirt she was.

  She waited for them to sit down before replying. “I’ve had some offers, but I’m waiting to see if that wife of yours is gonna kick you out.”

  “She’s threatened to more than once,” he said, “but she knows there’s a line of women hopin’ that’ll happen.”

  She laughed. “I’m gonna ask Martha about that if you ever bring her in here to eat.” Without asking if they wanted coffee, she filled two cups. “Beulah’s got chicken and dumplin’s or beef stew. Whaddle-it-be?”

  “Give me the chicken and dumplin’s,” John said. “I get enough beef every day. How ’bout you, Sonny?”

  “I’ll take the chicken, too,” he replied, his eyes never having left the saucy waitress.

  Noticing it, John couldn’t resist japing him some more. “How ’bout Sonny, here? He ain’t married and he’s got a steady job.”