Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

“Only the ones locked up in the jail. It’s all over, Marshal. You’ve saved the town.”

  “We saved the town,” John Henry said. “All of us together.”

  Alvin Turnage hurried toward them, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was clearly excited about something, but the first thing he asked was, “Marshal, are you all right?”

  “I’ll live,” John Henry said. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Something I found in a locked box in Dav’s desk,” Turnage said. “And you need to take a look at it.”

  What John Henry really wanted to do right now was wash down some breakfast with a few cups of coffee and then sleep for about a week. But he took the documents from Turnage and forced himself to concentrate on them. As he realized what he was looking at, he knew that Peabody Farnham had been wrong a few moments earlier.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter Forty

  Three days later, John Henry walked into the Palace of the Governors in Santa Fe and asked to see Governor Lew Wallace.

  The governor’s aide, Filipe Montoya, stared up at him in obvious surprise.

  “Señor Sixkiller,” he said. “You have returned.”

  “I know,” John Henry said with a grin. “Pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?”

  Montoya stood up from his desk and said, “I’ll take you to see the governor right now. I know he’ll be anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  Wallace was writing again when Montoya showed John Henry into the office.

  “Still putting that fella Ben-Hur through his paces?” John Henry asked as he took off his hat and held it in his left hand.

  “A chariot race, in fact.” Wallace set his pen aside and stood up to offer John Henry his hand. “Do you have a report for me, Marshal Sixkiller?”

  “I do,” John Henry said.

  Wallace nodded and said, “That’ll be all, Filipe.”

  “Actually,” John Henry said, “I’d like for Señor Montoya to stay, if that’s all right with you, Governor.”

  “Me?” Montoya said in evident surprise. “But why?”

  “Because you play an important part in this, señor.” John Henry dropped his hat in a chair and used his left hand to reach into his coat. He brought out a folded sheaf of papers and set them on Wallace’s desk. “There’s my report, along with some other documents, Governor. Samuel Dav is dead, along with a number of the gunmen he hired as deputies. The other so-called deputies are locked up in Chico’s jail. It’s undergoing some repairs, but it’s still sturdy enough to hold those varmints.”

  Wallace looked astonished. He said, “I didn’t expect you to go in there and . . . and clean up the whole town, Marshal!”

  “Then why’d you send me?” John Henry asked in a genuinely puzzled voice.

  A bark of laughter came from Wallace.

  “Why indeed?” he said. “It’s just rare to find a man who performs his job so efficiently these days. Congratulations, sir.”

  “Well, that’s not quite all of it,” John Henry said. “There’s still Señor Montoya’s part.”

  Montoya shook his head and said, “I have no part in this. I’m confused, Governor. I don’t know what this man is talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the plan you hatched with Dav to take over the territory,” John Henry said, a hard edge coming into his voice. “You were going to build him up and get him appointed territorial governor, but you’d be the real power behind him, pulling his strings. I could read between the lines of what you wrote to Dav, even if he couldn’t. He’d convinced himself that he would be running things and you’d just be helping him. But it would have been the other way around.”

  “That’s insane!” Montoya said.

  “And very confusing,” Wallace said. “Why in the world would this Samuel Dav be appointed territorial governor? I’m not planning on stepping down from the post anytime soon.”

  John Henry smiled and said, “Oh, they were going to assassinate you, Governor. And then, once they were running things, they were going to let the Mexican army come in here and take over. They were going to sell the whole territory back to Mexico. It would have been just about the biggest act of land piracy in history.”

  Wide-eyed, Montoya jabbed a finger at John Henry and exclaimed, “He’s loco! None of that is true, Governor! It . . . it’s the ravings of a madman!”

  “It’s all right there in the papers, in your writing, señor,” John Henry said mildly. “You expected Dav to destroy them, but he didn’t. Maybe he was a mite suspicious of you after all and wanted something to hold over your head if he needed to. Anyway, I guess we should leave the governor to look them over.” John Henry paused. “I expect he’ll recognize your hand, Montoya.”

  The aide’s face contorted with hatred. His hand dived under his coat and came out with a small, nickel-plated pistol. He had to know that he couldn’t talk his way out of all the evidence against him, but at least he could shoot the man who had ruined his plans.

  But John Henry was already moving, stepping forward swiftly. His left hand caught Montoya’s wrist and wrenched it aside as the aide fired. The gun went off with a little crack, but the bullet thudded harmlessly into the thick adobe wall.

  The next second, John Henry’s right fist crashed into Montoya’s jaw. The punch slewed Montoya’s head to the side. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and he collapsed, out cold. John Henry took the gun out of his hand, just in case.

  Placing the pistol on the desk next to the papers, John Henry said, “I guess that’s one more bit of proof, Governor, but it wasn’t really necessary. There’s plenty there to put Montoya behind bars for a long, long time.”

  Wallace looked shaken. He passed a hand over his face and said, “Good Lord, I . . . I never suspected. Filipe always seemed like a loyal friend.”

  “Maybe he was once. But people can change.”

  He thought about Steve Buckner and Edgar Wellman. Buckner had risked his life to put things right in Chico, and Wellman had sacrificed his trying to save Lucinda Hammond. John Henry had heard about that from Lucinda while she was recovering from the ordeal she had gone through.

  Yes, people could change . . . but thankfully, that went both ways.

  And although Samuel Dav had done a great deal of damage in Chico, both physical and emotional, most of that damage could be repaired. The town would survive and flourish, John Henry thought.

  He reached for his hat.

  “You’re leaving?” Wallace asked.

  “Job’s done.”

  “There’s that other business I mentioned when you were here before, down in Lincoln County . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Governor,” John Henry said with a smile and a shake of his head. “I’m going home.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW!

  In this powerful new novel, WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  and J. A. JOHNSTONE chronicle

  Smoke Jensen’s early years, long before he became a legend . . .

  Kirby—later Smoke—Jensen has just earned his

  first paying job as a deputy U.S. marshal for the

  Colorado Territory and is sent to the lawless town

  of Las Animas. There he finds a sheriff too

  cowardly to face the outlaw leader Cole Dawson,

  whose six-gun has left a lot of good men dead.

  Young Smoke feels no such fear.

  He takes Dawson down fast.

  Then the real trouble begins.

  It turns out Dawson is only a cog in a plot hatched

  by someone hiding behind the law. For a young

  deputy marshal, going up against the powerful and

  corrupt is almost certainly a fool’s mission, but

  doing nothing is not a choice. When Smoke strikes,

  he’s in all the bloody way. What follows will become

  the stuff of legend as he braves bullets, blood, and

  treachery to face down the most dangerous outlaw

  in Colorado Ter
ritory . . . and earn a reputation for

  justice and the rule of law in a wild, violent frontier.

  New York Times and USA Today and Bestselling Authors

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  THIS VIOLENT LAND

  A Smoke Jensen Novel of the West

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  Northwest Colorado Territory, August 1870

  The snowcapped crag known as Zenobia Peak towered above the two men on the small, grassy plain at its base. At some point in the past, a slab of rock in the shape of a crude rectangle had tumbled down into the field from those rugged slopes above. The rock was small enough that one man could move it—if he was a very strong man.

  The rock sat up on its end, the passage of time having sunk its base slightly into the earth. That, along with the sheer weight of it, discouraged anyone from tampering with it—which was good because the stone marked a place special to the two men who stood beside it.

  A simple legend was chiseled into the rock.

  EMMETT JENSEN

  BORN 1815 DIED 1869

  The few words couldn’t sum up the man’s life. It took memories to do that.

  Smoke Jensen stood at the grave of his father, his hat in his hands, and remembered.

  The images that went through his mind seemed to have a red haze over them. His father and his older brother Luke going off to war. The evil in human form riding up to the hardscrabble Jensen farm in the Missouri Ozarks. His sister being raped, his mother brutally gunned down. And the vengeance he had ultimately taken on the animals responsible for those atrocities, Billy Bartell and Angus Shardeen.

  Red was the color of that vengeance. Red for blood . . .

  The memories cascaded faster and faster through his thoughts, out of all order. They were each part of what had made him the man he was. Hearing about the death of his brother in the great conflict that had split the nation. His father’s return after the war, to find nothing left to hold him and his son—the only remaining Jensens—on the farm. His sister Janey leaving. No telling where she was or if she was even still alive. And the day Emmett Jensen and his son, whose given name was Kirby, set off for the frontier, bound for the unknown.

  Battles with the Indians, meeting the old mountain man called Preacher who gave him his current name. “Smoke’ll suit you just fine. So Smoke it’ll be.” His father’s killing. The long and so far fruitless search for the men responsible.

  Smoke scrubbed a boot in the dirt. And the reputation building around him as one of the fastest guns the West had ever seen . . .

  Years of memories—long, bloody years—had come back to him in a matter of heartbeats.

  He drew a deep breath and looked down at the rock-turned-tombstone, glad that time and the elements had not erased the words he had chiseled there. Preacher stood some distance away, having told Smoke that he needed some private time with his pa.

  It was hard to know if Emmett could really hear him, but Smoke spoke to his father anyway, telling him what he had done, how he had settled part of the score for the wrongs done to the Jensen family.

  And that he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

  He stood there in silence for another moment, then he put his hat on and turned toward Preacher.

  “He was real proud of you, boy,” the old mountain man said. “I know that for a fact. Same as I am.”

  The lump in Smoke’s throat wouldn’t let him reply.

  “Where are you goin’ now?” Preacher asked as they walked back to their horses.

  “I’m heading back to Denver to turn in my badge. I don’t reckon I’ll be needing it anymore.”

  Preacher scratched his beard-stubbled jaw. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to do that, Smoke. A tin star can come in mighty handy from time to time.” He paused, then added, “Most ’specially iffen you’re still wantin’ to go after them fellers what kilt your pa.”

  Denver, Colorado Territory

  The low-lying building was made of white limestone. A United States flag flew from the flagpole out front, flapping gently in the breeze. Chiseled above the doorway were the words United States Federal Office Building.

  Smoke Jensen, taller than most men, with shoulders someone once described as “wide as an axe handle” walked inside. On his shirt, he wore the star of a deputy United States marshal.

  “Hello, Deputy Jensen,” Annie Wilson greeted him as he hung his hat on the hat rack just inside the door. Middle-aged but still quite attractive, she flashed him a welcoming smile.

  “Hello, Miss Wilson. Is the marshal in?”

  Uriah B. Holloway was the chief U.S. marshal for the Colorado District. A while back, he had appointed Smoke as a deputy U.S. marshal for the purposes of locating Angus Shardeen, who had once ridden with John Brown and had personally taken part in the Pottawatomie Massacre in which several pro-Southern sympathizers were murdered.

  After John Brown’s death, Shardeen had started his own group and made his presence known by burning homes and killing innocents in Southwest Missouri. Shardeen had killed Smoke’s mother, then stood by and watched as his men had used Smoke’s sister Janey.

  Smoke would have gone after Shardeen anyway, but the appointment, though temporary and without pay, had made his vendetta legal.

  “He’s in his office, Deputy. If you wait just a moment, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Smoke walked over to look through the window as Annie went into the office to announce him. He saw a couple boys sitting on the ground with their legs spread, playing mumblety-peg with a pocket knife.

  “Ha! You lose, you lose! You have to root the peg out with your teeth!” one of the boys said triumphantly.

  Smoke smiled as he recalled playing that game with his brother, back before the war. They’d played a different variation of the game. The object had been to see who could throw the knife into the ground and stick it the closest to their own foot. When Luke left for the war he was still carrying a scar on his right foot from where he had thrown the knife too close.

  That was a much more innocent time. In fact, as Smoke thought back on it, it was the only innocent time he had ever known in his entire life.

  “Deputy Jensen?” Annie said, coming out of Holloway’s office. “The marshal will see you now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wilson.”

  Holloway was standing behind his desk when Smoke stepped into his office. “Hello, Smoke,” he greeted as he extended his hand.

  Smoke took it and shook.

  “How’s that old horse thief, Preacher?”

  “Preacher’s doing well,” Smoke said, speaking of the man who had become not only his mentor but also the closest thing he had to a father since his own pa had been killed.

  He took the badge from his shirt and placed it on the desk in front of Marshal Holloway.

  “What’s that for?” Holloway asked with a puzzled frown.

  “I want to thank you, Marshal, for putting your trust in me and making me your temporary deputy. That helped me take care of my business.”

  “It wasn’t just your business, Smoke. If it had been, I would have never let you put on that star in the first place. There were federal warrants out for Shardeen and his men.” Holloway pointed to the star. “There’s too much prestige attached to wearing that badge, and too many men have died defending its honor, to give it out to just anyone. I would have never let you wear it if I hadn’t thought you deserved it.”

  “I appreciate the trust, Marshal.”

  “Do you appreciate it enough to wear that star permanently? With proper compensation, I hasten to add.”

  “Are you offering me a full-time job, Marshal?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes. You do need a job, don’t you? I mean, you don’t plan to eat off Preacher’s table forever, do you?”

  Smoke laughed, admitting, “I am getting a little tired of game and wild vegetables.” He reached for the star, picked it up
, and held it for a long moment, examining it.

  He looked up at the man across from him. “Marshal, you do know that I’m after Richards, Potter, and Stratton, don’t you?”

  “Those are the men who killed your brother?”

  “Yes, sir. And as far as I’ve been able to determine, they aren’t wanted anywhere.”

  “You suspect that they killed your father, too, don’t you?”

  “I more than suspect. I know they did.”

  Marshal Holloway held up his finger. “Listen to me carefully, Smoke. You suspect they killed your father, don’t you?”

  Smoke wasn’t sure where the marshal was going with that statement, but he picked up on the inference. “Yes, sir, I suspect they did.”

  “Then as a deputy U.S. marshal, you can always hold them on suspicion of murder.”

  “You do know, don’t you, Marshal, that they aren’t going to let me do that?”

  Marshal Holloway smiled. “You mean they might resist arrest?”

  “Yeah, they might.” Smoke smiled, too. “They might even resort to gunplay in resisting.”

  “Well, as a deputy U.S. marshal, you would be fully and legally authorized to counter force with force.”

  “All right, Marshal.” Smoke pinned the star back onto his shirt. “You’ve just hired yourself a new deputy.”

  Holloway shook his hand. “And now you’ll be drawing forty dollars a month and expenses.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “But I’ll be expecting you to do more than just look for those three men. Are you ready to start earning your pay?”

  That surprised Smoke. “You have a job for me already?”

  “Yeah,” Holloway said. “I want you to go to Red Cliff over in Summit County. Go see Sheriff Emerson Donovan. He’s a friend of mine . . . who was once my deputy, by the way. An outbreak of cattle rustling is so severe it’s causing some of the ranchers to go out of business.”