From Weatherford, Brubaker sent a wire to Fort Smith explaining the situation to Judge Parker. Brubaker kept the details of the judge’s reply to himself, but Bo got the feeling that Parker had pretty well burned up the telegraph wires.
Brubaker didn’t seem worried, though. With the exception of Cara LaChance, the entire Gentry gang was either scattered, wiped out, or due to hang, so they no longer posed a threat to Indian Territory.
Losing Cara was a bitter pill to swallow, but telegrams would go out to the chief marshals across the frontier, warning them to have their men keep an eye out for her. If she was still alive, she would turn up sooner or later.
The local sawbones had insisted on keeping Scratch in the hospital for a couple of days “to make sure that bullet didn’t addle your brain any more than it already was to start with,” as Bo put it. When the doctor pronounced Scratch well enough to travel, the three of them set out for Gainesville, taking their prisoner with them.
Once there, they had picked up Brubaker’s wagon, loaded Lowe and Elam into it along with Brown, and headed for Tyler to finish the long journey at last. Brubaker told the local lawman to go ahead and release Early Nesbit, since they didn’t have to worry about Hank Gentry coming after them anymore.
Scratch had told them how Cara killed Gentry, confirming for all of them, as if they needed confirmation, that the blonde was plumb loco.
When they reached Tyler, Bo and Scratch had had a rather uproarious reunion with Bigfoot Southwick, who momentarily lost the dignity that normally accrued to a federal judge and slapped his old friends on the back, boisterously bellowing, “Bo Creel and Scratch Morton! Hell, I figured some other judge would’ve hung you sidewindin’ scoundrels a long time ago!”
“There wouldn’t be no justice in that,” Scratch had told him with a grin. “If anybody should’ve shook hands with the hangman, it’s you, Bigfoot.”
“You can call me that once,” the burly, white-bearded Southwick had said, holding up a finger, “but if you do it again, I’ll have to hold you in contempt of court!”
Now as the three men paused on the steps of the courthouse following the conclusion of the speedy trial, Brubaker asked, “Are you gonna stay to watch the hangin’, too?”
Scratch made a face and shook his head.
“I’ve never cared overmuch for hangin’s,” he said.
“We’ll trust you to see that justice is done, Forty-two,” Bo added.
A rare smile appeared on the deputy’s face.
“You know, we never did play a game,” he said.
“You need four people for that,” Scratch pointed out.
“I know. One of the jailers said he’d be glad to sit in and make a fourth. We’d have to play at the jail, though, while he’s on duty tonight.”
Bo smiled and said, “I guess we could stay around that long.”
They started down the steps. As they did so, a buggy pulled up in the street. A little old lady in a black dress and shawl was handling the reins. Beside her sat another elderly woman dressed the same way.
Bo’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he caught a glimpse of bright yellow hair under the second woman’s shawl. His instincts shot a warning through him, and he was already reaching for his Colt as he shouted to his companions, “Look out!”
Cara LaChance leaped from the buggy, throwing back the shawl so that her blond curls spilled free around her shoulders. Her hands dipped and came up with a pair of revolvers from the folds of her dress. Her beautiful face was twisted in a snarl of bloodlust that turned it ugly as she began to fire. Flame jetted from the muzzles of both guns.
Brubaker rammed a shoulder against Scratch and knocked him aside. The deputy grunted and stumbled as lead thudded into his body. Scratch caught his balance and whipped out both Remingtons. Bo’s Colt was already in his hand. Gun-thunder rolled across the courthouse steps as the three revolvers roared in unison.
The bullets smashed Cara to the ground. Behind her, the old woman who had driven up in the buggy shrieked, “Don’t kill me! She made me bring her here! Please don’t kill me!”
She didn’t wait to see whether anybody was going to shoot at her. She slashed the whip at the buggy horse and sent it down the street with the buggy careening behind it.
Brubaker had crumpled to the steps. Scratch dropped to a knee beside him and exclaimed, “Damn it, Forty-two, how bad are you hit?”
“I ... I don’t know,” Brubaker said through gritted teeth. “It hurts like hell.”
Scratch pulled the lawman’s coat back and reached inside it to check the wound. He let out a laugh.
Brubaker glared up at him and said, “I’m glad my dyin’ ... strikes you as funny.”
“I don’t think you’re dyin’,” Scratch said. “Looks like Cara only hit you once, and the bullet busted the hell out of that set of dominoes in your coat pocket before it went on in. The slug didn’t penetrate very far. I can feel it with my finger.”
“If that don’t ... beat all,” Brubaker gasped. “Still hurts, though.”
Meanwhile Bo had gone on down to the bottom of the steps, keeping Cara covered as he did so. Her blue eyes still held some life in them when he reached her, but it was fading fast.
“You just had to have your revenge, didn’t you?” Bo said.
“You can ... go to hell!” Cara gasped. She laughed. “You and Morton both! And when you get there ... I’ll be waitin’ for you!”
Her face twisted, her back arched, and when she relaxed a second later, she was gone.
A crowd was gathering, and a lot of people were yelling questions. It wasn’t every day there was a shoot-out right in front of the courthouse.
Bo had a question of his own: what turned a smart, beautiful young woman like Cara LaChance into a mad-dog killer?
He knew he would never have an answer. He wasn’t sure one even existed.
He turned, holstered his gun, and started back up the steps, glad to see that Brubaker was sitting up with Scratch’s arm around his shoulders. The deputy didn’t look like he was hurt too bad.
Maybe they would get that game in, after all, before he and Scratch started south toward home.
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
William W. Johnstone’s legendary mountain men have fought their battles and conquered a fierce frontier. Now, three generations of the Jensen clan are trying to live in peace on their sprawling Colorado ranch. But for men with fighting in their blood, trouble is never very far ...
INTO THE EYE OF A STORM
They are strangers in a strange land—a band of German immigrants trespassing across the Jensen family spread. Led by a baron fleeing a dark past in Germany and accompanied by a woman beautiful enough to dazzle young Matt, the pilgrims are being pursued by a pack of brutal outlaws hungry for blood, money—or maybe something else ... The Jensens are willing to help the pioneers get to Wyoming. But they don’t know the whole story of their newfound friends, or who the outlaws really are. By the time the wagon train reaches Wyoming the truth is ready to explode—in a clash of hard fighting and hard deaths in a violent land ...
The Family Jensen:
The Violent Land
By William W. Johnstone
with J.A. Johnstone
On sale now, wherever
Kensington Books are sold!
CHAPTER 1
The seven men rode into Big Rock, Colorado, a few minutes before noon. Nobody in the bustling little cowtown paid much attention to them. Everyone went on about their own business, even when the men reined their horses to a halt and dismounted in front of the bank.
Clete Murdock was their leader, a craggy-faced man with graying red hair who over the past ten years had robbed banks in five states and a couple of territories. He had killed enough men that he’d lost track of the number, especially if you threw Indians and Mexicans into the count.
His younger brothers Tom and Grant rode with him. Tom was a slightly younger version of Clete, but Grant was the baby of the famil
y, a freckle-faced youngster in his twenties who wanted more than anything else in the world to be a desperado like his brothers.
Until a year or so earlier he had lived on the family farm in Kansas with their parents, but illness had struck down both of the elder Murdocks in the span of a few days, so Grant had set out to find his black-sheep brothers and throw in with them.
Ed Garvey was about as broad as he was tall, with a bristling black spade beard. He wasn’t much good with a handgun. That was why he carried a sawed-off shotgun under his coat. As long as his partners in crime gave him plenty of room, he was a valuable ally. They were careful not to get in his line of fire when he pulled out that street sweeper.
The tall, skinny towhead with the eye that sometimes drifted off crazily was Chick Bowman. The loco eye gave him the look of somebody who might not be right in the head, but in reality Chick was fairly smart for an outlaw who’d had very little schooling in his life.
The one who wasn’t all there was Denny McCoy, who followed Chick around like a devoted pup. Denny was big and barrel chested, and he had accidentally killed two whores by fondling their necks with such enthusiasm that they couldn’t breathe anymore. Chick had gotten Denny out of both of those scrapes without getting either of them lynched.
The member of the gang who had been with Clete the longest was a Crow who called himself Otter. He had worked as a scout for the army, but after coming too damned close to being with Custer when old Yellow Hair went traipsing up the Little Big Horn to his death, Otter had decided that the military life wasn’t for him. He knew Clete, who had been a sergeant before deserting, and had looked him up. Clete’s prejudice against redskins didn’t extend to Otter, the only man he knew who took more pure pleasure in killing than he did.
As the group tied up their horses at the hitch rack in front of the bank, Otter moved closer to Clete and said quietly, “Lawman.”
Clete followed the direction the Crow’s eyes were indicating and saw a burly, middle-aged man moving along the boardwalk several buildings away.
“Yeah, I see him,” Clete said. “His name’s Monte Carson. Used to have sort of a name as a fast gun, but he’s been totin’ a badge here for several years and people have pretty much forgotten about him. I wouldn’t underestimate him, but I don’t reckon he poses much of a problem for us, either.”
“Anything goes wrong, I’ll kill him first,” Otter said.
Clete nodded in agreement. Otter would stay with the horses and watch the street. If shots erupted in the bank, the Crow would lift his rifle and drill Sheriff Monte Carson immediately so he couldn’t interfere with the gang’s getaway.
Otherwise, Otter would wait until the other outlaws left the bank, and if anyone tried to follow them and raise a ruckus, then he would kill Carson.
Either way, there was a very good chance the sheriff would die in the next few minutes.
Clete glanced at everyone else and got nods of readiness from all of them except Denny, who just did what Chick told him to, anyway. The six of them stepped up onto the boardwalk and moved toward the bank’s double doors.
Otter’s head turned slowly as his gaze roamed from one end of the street to the other. This town had been peaceful for too long, he thought wryly. If that hadn’t been the case, someone surely would have noticed the seven human wolves who had ridden in together, not even trying to mask their intentions as they closed in on the bank.
Otter frowned slightly as he thought about the name of the town. Big Rock ... There was something familiar about that. He knew he had heard of the place for some reason. But he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.
It didn’t matter, anyway. After today Big Rock would be famous because the Murdock gang had cleaned out the bank and killed a few of the citizens.
A broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man in range clothes rode past on a big gray stallion. Otter noticed the horse—a fine one, indeed—but paid little attention to the rider, even when the man reined in and spoke to the sheriff. Otter couldn’t hear the conversation between Carson and the broad-shouldered man.
He didn’t think any more about it, convinced of its utter unimportance.
“Matt and Preacher are coming here?” Sheriff Monte Carson asked with a grin.
“That’s right,” Smoke Jensen said as he rested his hands on his saddlehorn and leaned forward to ease his muscles after the ride into Big Rock from his ranch, Sugarloaf. “In fact, they should be riding in today, according to the letter I got from Matt.”
“I’ll be glad to see ’em again,” Monte said. “Good Lord, Preacher must be a hundred years old by now!”
Smoke chuckled.
“He’s not quite that long in the tooth yet, and he never has looked or acted as old as he is. I reckon he’ll slow down one of these days, but the last time I saw him he seemed as spry as ever.”
Sometimes it seemed to Smoke that he had known the old mountain man called Preacher his entire life. It was hard to remember that he had been sixteen years old when he and his pa first ran into Preacher, not long after the Civil War. Preacher had been lean, leathery, and white haired even then, and he hadn’t seemed to age a day in the years since.
It was Preacher who had first called him Smoke, after seeing young Kirby Jensen handle a gun. So fast that the sight of his draw was as elusive as smoke, Preacher claimed. The young man’s hand was empty, and then there was a gun in it spitting fire and lead, and there seemed to be no step in between. Preacher had predicted then that Smoke would become one of the fastest men with a gun the frontier had ever known, and he was right.
But Smoke was one of the few men who had overcome his reputation as a gunfighter and built a respectable life for himself. Marrying the beautiful schoolteacher Sally Reynolds, whom he had met while he was living the life of a wanted outlaw under the name Buck West, probably had a lot to do with that. So had establishing the fine spread known as Sugarloaf and settling down to become a cattleman.
Despite that, trouble still had a way of finding Smoke. He had to use his gun more often than he liked. But he hadn’t been raised to run away from a challenge, and anybody who thought that Smoke Jensen wasn’t dangerous anymore would be in for an abrupt awakening if they threatened him or those he loved.
An abrupt and usually fatal awakening.
Preacher wasn’t the only visitor headed for Big Rock. He and Matt Jensen had agreed to meet in Denver and come on to the settlement together. In the same way that Preacher was Smoke’s adopted father, Matt was his adopted brother, although there was nothing official about it in either case. Smoke had taken Matt under his wing when the youngster was still a boy, the only survivor from a family murdered by outlaws, and with Preacher’s help had raised him into a fine young man who took the Jensen name when he set out on his own.
Although still relatively young in years, Matt had gained a wealth of experience, both while he was still with Smoke and afterward. He had already drifted over much of the frontier and had worked as a deputy, a shotgun guard, and a scout. He had tangled with outlaws, renegade Indians, and badmen of every stripe.
Twice in the fairly recent past, Smoke, Matt, and Preacher had been forced by circumstances to team up to defeat the schemes of a group of crooked politicians and businessmen that had formed out of the ashes of the old Indian Ring. This new Indian Ring was just as vicious as the original, maybe even more so, and even though they seemed to be licking their wounds after those defeats, Smoke had a hunch they would try something else again, sooner or later.
He hoped they wouldn’t interfere with this visit from Preacher and Matt. It would be nice to get together with his family without a bunch of gunplay and danger.
Those thoughts were going through Smoke’s mind as he realized that Monte Carson had asked him a question. He gave a little shake of his head and said, “What was that, Monte?”
“I just asked what time Matt and Preacher are supposed to get here,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t know for sure. They’re ridi
ng in, and I figure they’ll be moseying along. Preacher doesn’t get in a hurry unless there’s a good reason to. I thought I’d go over to the café, get something to eat, then find something to occupy my time while I’m waiting for them.”
Monte grinned.
“Come on by the office,” he said. “We’ll have us a game of dominoes.”
Smoke was just about to accept that invitation when gunshots suddenly erupted somewhere down the street.
CHAPTER 2
There were several customers in the bank when Clete and his men walked in, but they didn’t appear to be the sort to give problems. The men looked like storekeepers, and a woman stood at one of the teller’s windows, too, probably some clerk’s wife depositing butter and egg money.
The two tellers were the usual: pale, weak hombres not suited for doing a real man’s work, or anything else. At a desk off to one side sat the bank president, fat and pompous in a suit that wasn’t quite big enough for him.
Clete hated all of them, just by looking at them. They were sheep, and he was a wolf. They deserved to have their money taken away from them, to his way of thinking.
And their lives, too, if they got in his way.
The banker glanced up from his desk as the men entered the bank, then looked again with his eyes widening in shock and fear as he obviously realized what they were and what was about to happen. He started to get to his feet, but Clete already had his gun out and pointed it at the man.
“Stay right where you are, mister,” Clete ordered. “We’re just here for the money, not to kill anybody.”
What he left unsaid was that he and the others wouldn’t hesitate to kill anybody who interfered with them getting that money.
The other five men spread out and closed in around the customers. Ed Garvey swung his sawed-off toward the tellers, both of whom raised their hands in meek, fearful surrender.
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