The Forbidden

by William W. Johnstone

  “Meeker. And I’m goin’. See you, boys.”

  “Bell, Granville, Vance. One of you check out the other side of the street.”

  “I’ll do it, Colonel. I’m closer.”

  “Is that you, Bell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man.”

  Frank drilled Bell before he got halfway across the street. Bell stumbled and fell face-first into the dirt.

  Trainor emptied his pistol into the mouth of the alley, hitting nothing but air. “Get him!” the ranch owner shouted.

  “Forget it,” a gun-handler called. “Me and Vance is haulin’ our butts outta here. He’s all yours, Colonel.”

  “You’re all craven cowards!” Trainor shouted. “Worse than that yellow pup I have to call my son.”

  Jules stirred at that remark and managed to sit up by the boardwalk. He fumbled with his pistol and struggled to reload it.

  Frank waited near the mouth of the alley. He was unable to see Jules from his position. “All right, Trainor,” Frank called. “It’s down to you and me now. What’s it going to be?”

  Trainor cursed him, loud and long.

  “That doesn’t tell me a thing, Trainor,” Frank shouted.

  Trainor offered no reply.

  “What’s he up to now?” Frank muttered.

  “Frank?” Doc Everett called. “Trainor ran across the street. He’s in the store with Julie.”

  “Shut up, you damn quack!” Trainor shouted. “Stay out of this.” He stepped out of the store, onto the boardwalk, pushing Julie in front of him. Trainor had one arm around the woman’s neck, holding her close to him for protection.

  “Look out, Frank!” Lawyer Foster shouted. “He’s got Julie hostage.”

  Frank took a half step out of the alley for a better look. “You’re the coward, Trainor,” he called. “Hiding behind a woman.”

  Trainor cussed Frank, the townspeople, and the farmers.

  “Let her go, Trainor,” Frank said. “Then me and you will step out into the street and settle this thing. Just you and me. How about it?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Morgan?” Trainor shouted. “You’re a professional gunman. I’m just a rancher trying to make a living.”

  “Trainor, you won’t get away with this. You’ve gone too far by using Julie as a shield. The people in this town will testify against you for this. Give it up before she gets hurt.”

  Trainor snapped off a shot at Frank. The bullet went wide, slamming into the building behind Frank. “How about that, Morgan?” Trainor called.

  “I think you’re a lousy shot,” Frank called. “Let Julie go, Trainor.”

  Trainor laughed at the suggestion.

  “He’s crazy, Frank,” Doc Everett called from his office doorway. “Something has snapped in his head.”

  “Just like his son,” Frank muttered. “They’re both crazy as a lizard.”

  Jules began laughing almost hysterically. “Now who’s the coward, Daddy?” he shouted. “Now who’s crazy? I never hid behind no woman. You’re the damn coward, not me.”

  “Shut up!” the father screamed at his son. “You half-brain pup.”

  Jules laughed again, spittle leaking from his mouth.

  “Help me, Frank,” Julie pleaded.

  “I’ll help you, Miss Julie.” Jules called. “I’ll show you I’m no coward.”

  “You?” the father said, laughing. “What the hell could you possibly do to help anybody?”

  “This,” Jules said. He lifted his pistol and shot his father. The bullet hit his father in the side and tore through the man, blowing out the other side.

  Colonel Trainor dropped his pistol and staggered backward, releasing his hold on Julie. He turned awkwardly and looked at his son as Julie ran sobbing back into the store. “Why . . . you miserable little . . .” He tried to take a step, and collapsed on the boardwalk.

  Jules laughed at him. “That’s funny, Daddy,” the young man called. “I bet you can’t do that again.”

  Frank stepped out of the alley and slowly walked toward Jules. He took the pistol from Jules’s hand and stood looking down at the young man. “All right, Jules,” he said. “It’s over now.”

  “Tell Daddy to get up and make me laugh again,” Jules said. “Tell him for me, will you, Morgan?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that, Jules.”

  Doc Everett ran up and knelt down beside Colonel Trainor for a moment. He looked at Frank. “He’s dead, Frank.”

  “Check out the kid, will you, Doc? His legs are a mess.”

  The townspeople began slowly gathering around.

  “We really wasn’t gonna side with Trainor, Mr. Morgan,” one of the men said nervously. “We was just talkin’, that’s all.”

  Frank looked at the man for a moment. The man looked away, refusing to meet Frank’s hard eyes. None of the men or women who had gathered around would meet Frank’s level gaze. Frank shook his head in disgust.

  Frank handed Jules’s pistol to Lawyer Foster and turned to walk away.

  “Where are you going, Frank?” the attorney asked.

  “As far away from here as I can get,” the Drifter said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Weaks later, with winter’s chill strong in the air, Frank had stopped in Cheyenne for supplies, a bath and haircut, and a drink and meal. Spiffied up, he fed Dog and walked over to the saloon for a drink. He spotted a familiar face sitting alone in the back of the bar. He took his drink and walked over to the table.

  “Hello, Drifter,” Ortiz greeted him. “Have a chair.”

  “Hi, Pistolero,” Frank replied, sitting down. “You’re a long way from the ranch.”

  “I quit about a week after you pulled out. I’m heading home to see my parents . . . if they are still alive.”

  “And hang up your guns?”

  Ortiz smiled. “As much as possible. You?”

  “Just drifting. What happened after I left the valley?”

  “Jules recovered from his physical wounds. But his mind is gone. He was being committed to an asylum when I left. He had turned into a babbling idiot. We had to keep him in chains like a wild animal.”

  “Mrs. Trainor and Jules’s brother and sister?”

  Ortiz shrugged. “Viola is a hopeless addict. Martha and Vinson are . . .” He paused. “Worthless.”

  “Julie?”

  “Already making eyes at the editor of the new paper in town. And the town is going to change its name. I don’t know what. Who cares?”

  “Not me,” Frank said. “My lawyers will probably tell me... when they catch up with me, that is.”

  “So our trails cross here for the final time, hey, hombre?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I am glad you and I did not have to meet in gunplay.”

  “So am I, Pistolero. So am I.”

  “But aren’t you the least bit curious as to who would have been victorious?”

  “I would have been, naturally.”

  Both gunfighters shared a good laugh at that.

  “So,” Ortiz said. “Today we will have a drink or two, then get something to eat, and tomorrow we shall say our good-byes.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The Drifter and the Pistolero clinked glasses and silently toasted one another.

  “I hope that someday you find a place to hang up your guns, Morgan.”

  “And you too, Ortiz.”

  The next morning, Ortiz headed south and Frank and Dog headed southwest. Northern Arizona was a good place to spend a few winter months. Maybe, Frank thought, he could stay out of trouble there.

  He laughed at that. “Not likely,” he said aloud.

  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 time 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 gra
y 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.”

  “What town? What sheriff?” Yarr said. “I steer clear of lawmen.”

  “Town’s called Happyville and the sheriff’s name is Barney Morrell,” Davis said. “Me and Barney go back a ways, to the time me and him rode with the Taylor brothers and that hard crowd during their feud with the Suttons. Barney killed a couple men and then lit out for the New Mexico Territory ahead of a Sutton hanging posse. He married a gal by the name of Lorraine Day and for a spell prospered in the hardware business. But Barney never could settle down for long and he worked as a lawman in Fort Worth and Austin and then, the last I heard, became the sheriff of Happyville.”