Imposter

by William W. Johnstone

  Hibbs started crying softly.

  “Shut up with that damn blubberin’!” Sonny told him. “It ain’t manly.”

  “I’ll never get that sight out of my mind,” Hibbs said. “It was awful. I hope to God I never see nothin’ like it again.”

  “Shut up, damn it!” Sonny yelled.

  “Let him talk,” Frank said.

  Sonny stepped away from Hibbs. “I think I can take you, Morgan. But by God, at least I’m gonna try.”

  “Did I say anything about fighting you?” Frank asked.

  “You ready, Morgan?” Sonny yelled.

  “This doesn’t have to be, Sonny. I . . .”

  “Draw, goddamn you, draw!” Sonny grabbed for his gun.

  Frank drilled him in the belly. Sonny’s feet flew out from under him and he fell backward, losing his pistol when he hit the ground. He tried to grab his six-gun. Hibbs kicked it out of his reach.

  “It’s over, Sonny,” Hibbs said.

  Sonny cussed his riding pard.

  Hibbs looked at Frank. “You goin’ to kill me, Morgan?”

  “No. See to your pardner. I’m riding on.”

  “Freckles Burton and Jack Rice are evil men, Morgan. Made me sick to my soul what they done to the woman and the boy.”

  Sonny groaned in pain, both hands holding his perforated belly. “I’m thirsty, Hibbs. Gimme a drink of water.”

  “You’re belly-shot, Sonny,” Hibbs told him. “You know it ain’t right to drink no water.”

  “Gimmie some damn water, Hibbs!”

  “Give him a drink,” Frank said, squatting down and pouring a cup of coffee. “He’s done for anyway.”

  “Damn you, Morgan!” Sonny hissed.

  “Whatever,” Frank replied, taking a sip of coffee.

  “I’m gonna head on back to Nebraska,” Hibbs said. “See if my pa needs some help on the farm.”

  Sonny cussed his riding pard, calling him all sorts of vile names.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Frank said.

  “I’m done with this outlaw business. I was a fool to get mixed up in it.”

  “Least you’re smart enough to realize that,” Frank said.

  “I’m dyin’ and you two are talkin’ ’bout farmin’,” Sonny said. “Ain’t you got no laudanum, Morgan?”

  “No.”

  “I hope you burn in the hellfires forever, Morgan,” Sonny said. “I hope Jack Rice and Freckles shoot you full of holes. I hope . . .” Sonny ranted and raved on until he was out of breath. He spat out a mouthful of blood and gasped for breath.

  Hibbs began talking, telling Frank everything that had been done to Lara and her son. Frank listened and fought back waves of nausea. When Hibbs finished, the outlaw was crying, tears streaming down his face. “Goody Nolan held a gun on me toward the end,” Hibbs said. “They all knew I wanted to kill those men. I rode out right after that. Sonny hooked up with me later.”

  “I wish they’d a-shot you, Hibbs,” Sonny gasped. “You’re nothin’ but a yeller coward.”

  “Ride on, Hibbs,” Frank told him. “Go on back to your pa’s farm and live a decent life. I’ll take care of Sonny.”

  “I don’t need no second invite, Morgan. Thanks.” A few minutes later, the Nebraska farm boy turned outlaw was riding north.

  “You gonna sit there drinkin’ coffee and watch me die, Morgan?” Sonny asked.

  “I reckon so, Sonny.”

  “You gonna bury me?”

  “I’ll plant you.”

  “That’s white of you, Morgan.” Sonny closed his eyes and did not open them again.

  Frank dug a shallow grave, wrapped Sonny in a blanket, and rolled him into the hole. After covering the body with dirt, he looked at Dog. “Let’s get the hell gone from here, Dog.”

  * * *

  From a ridge about three hundred yards away, Frank studied the ghost town through the lenses of his field glasses. It certainly looked deserted . . . except for a small finger of smoke coming from the chimney of a building in the center of the old town.

  “We end this right here,” Frank said. “Right now.” He returned to his horse and stripped the saddle off him. Stormy could graze and would not go far. Not after Frank told Dog to stay put. Dog would keep the horse close to where Frank had made a cold camp. Dog might be a cur, but he was very smart and easy to train.

  Frank got his rifle and a canteen of water, slung a bandolier of ammunition across his chest, and headed for the old town. He would circle the town and come in from the south, a direction the outlaw scum he knew were waiting for him would not expect. It would probably take him a good two hours of careful going to reach the other end of town, for there wasn’t a lot of good cover.

  Frank paused for a brief rest and counted nine horses in the old livery corral. Figuring a couple of the animals were packhorses, that meant he was up against seven guns. He’d sure gone up against greater numbers in his time.

  Frank began walking toward the front of the livery. He got midway there, and a man he didn’t know walked up. The stranger’s hand dropped to his pistol and he yelled, “Morgan!”

  Frank put a .44-40 slug into the man’s chest. The bullet turned the man around and sent him out into the weed-grown and tumbleweed-littered street. He sat down hard, a dazed look on his unshaven face. Then he toppled over and died. Frank ran to the livery’s front and waited.

  Booger Bob stepped out of what used to be the saloon and onto the warped boardwalk, a Colt in each hand. He was yelling obscenities at Frank, about Frank. The Drifter dropped him with one well-placed shot. Booger hit the boards and rolled off into the street. He kicked and cussed and then was still.

  A man ran out of another building, both hands filled with pistols. He was shooting as he ran, trying to run across the wide street. He didn’t make it. Frank’s shot sent him tumbling to the dirt. The man lay still, his life’s blood leaking out of him.

  “Hey, Morgan!” a man yelled. “It’s me, Goody Nolan. Can we make a deal?”

  “Yeah, Goody, we can.”

  “We can?”

  “You bet. You stick a pistol in your mouth and pull the trigger. That way, I won’t have to shoot you.”

  “That ain’t a bit funny, Morgan.”

  “That’s the only deal you’ll get from me, Goody.”

  “Hey, Morgan!” another man yelled. “It’s me, Big Thumbs Parker.”

  Frank located where the voice was coming from: the second floor of the old hotel. He wanted to keep Big Thumbs talking so he could pinpoint his location. “I hear you, Parker.”

  “You don’t want me, Morgan. I didn’t kill that woman or the kid.”

  “You were there and didn’t stop it.”

  “Yeah . . . I was. But I didn’t kill neither of ’em. ’Sides, it wasn’t none of my affair.”

  Frank put four fast rounds to the left of the second window. Big Thumbs screamed in pain. Frank heard a thump. No way of knowing if his shots were killing ones.

  Goody Nolan decided to make a run for it. He didn’t get far. Frank lined him up in the sights and dropped him.

  “Dumb move, Goody,” Frank yelled.

  Goody struggled to get to his feet, flailing around in the street, kicking up dust. He cussed Frank until Frank fired again. The cussing stopped and the dust began to settle around Goody’s still body.

  “I’ll kill you, Morgan!” The shout came from the second floor of the old hotel. Big Thumbs was still alive.

  Frank shoved fresh rounds into his .44-40 while he waited.

  Big Thumbs suddenly showed himself in the broken window. Frank drilled him. Big Thumbs seemed to rise up on tiptoes, and then did a header right out what was left of the window. He crashed through the old awning to the boardwalk and did not move.

  “Just us left,” Frank called.

  “Hell with you, Morgan,” a man called. “You’re crazy. That boy wasn’t nothin’ to get all excited about. Hell, he liked what I done.”

  “You’re a damn liar, Freckles,�
�� Frank yelled.

  “It’s true, Morgan! I just got tarred of his whining and broke his damned neck.”

  “Hey, Morgan! It’s me, Jack Rice. Your woman was a-prayin’ and a-beggin’ for you to come rescue her whilst I was pleasurin’ myself. When I commenced to skinnin’ her, she really got to carryin’ on. That was fun.”

  Frank had left the livery and had run up behind the old stores to the saloon. That was where Freckles and Jack were. He slipped into the rear of the saloon and carefully made his way toward the front. The door from the rear was missing, and he could see Freckles and Jack near the front. Frank didn’t hesitate. He lifted his rifle and shot Freckles Burton right in the center of his ass. Freckles dropped his rifle and began howling and thrashing around on the floor.

  Jack spun around and Frank shot him in the shoulder. Jack’s rifle hit the floor.

  Frank stepped out of the darkness and smiled. “Now, Jack. I deal with you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  When Jack Rice regained consciousness a couple of hours later, he was tied belly-down across a saddle. His shoulder throbbed from Frank’s bullet, but Jack had a hunch his shoulder wound wasn’t what he should be worried about.

  “Morgan? Where the hell are we?”

  “In the desert.”

  “I can see that! But why are we in the desert?”

  “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

  “It’s real uncomfortable ridin’ this way, Morgan.”

  “You’re about to be a hell of a lot more uncomfortable, Jack.”

  Tiny fingers of fear touched Jack, overriding the pain in his shoulder. “What are you gonna do to me, Morgan?”

  “Time to pay, Jack.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Did you kill Freckles?”

  “He was alive when I left him.”

  “I thought you shot him in the back.”

  “I guess my bullet went a little low, Jack. Hit him in the privates.”

  “You shot off his privates?” Jack yelled the question.

  “Yeah. He was in a lot of pain when I left him.”

  “You’re a cruel man, Morgan.”

  “You’re a great one to talk about being cruel, Jack.”

  Jack said no more until Frank reined up and cut the ropes that held Jack belly-down across the saddle. He hit the sand hard and grunted in pain. “I’ll walk out of here and hunt you down, Morgan.”

  “No, Jack. You’re not going to walk anywhere. Not ever again.”

  Frank squatted down a few yards away from Jack, his Peacemaker in his hand. “Tell me about Lara, Jack.”

  “You’ll let me live if I do?”

  “You’ll be alive when I ride out, Jack.”

  “You swear?”

  “I swear.”

  “Me and the boys got all the good out of her we could and then I killed her.”

  “Tell it all, Jack.”

  “She had nice titties, so I decided to skin one and make me a pouch of some sort. But she was thrashin’ around so much I messed it up. I got tired of hearin’ her scream so I killed her.”

  Frank stood up and eared back the hammer of his Peacemaker.

  “You said you’d let me live!” Jack squalled.

  “I sure did, Jack.” Frank shot Jack Rice in first one knee, then the other.

  Jack screamed in pain and pounded the earth with his fists. “You blowed off my kneecaps, Morgan. I can’t walk. You crippled me, you bastard! Oh, God, the pain is terrible!”

  Frank walked to his horse and got his canteen, taking a long drink.

  “Can I have a drink of water, Morgan?” Jack asked, his voice shaky through his pain.

  “No.”

  “You’re not a decent man, Morgan.”

  “Probably not, Jack.”

  “God’ll get you for this.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that.”

  “I can’t stand this pain, Morgan. I never hurt so bad in my life.”

  “Good, Jack. Pain is good for the soul.”

  “You’re gonna leave me out here, ain’t you, Morgan?”

  “That’s right, Jack.”

  “I’ll die out here, Morgan. I can’t walk! I can’t use my legs.”

  “That’s a real shame, Jack.” Frank looked up into the cloudless blue of the sky. Black dots were circling. He smiled.

  Jack followed his eyes. “Them’s buzzards, Morgan!” he screamed. “You know what they do to a man.”

  “You’re not a man, Jack.”

  “Them buzzards will tear my guts out whilst I’m still alive!”

  “They sure will, Jack.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Frank swung into the saddle. The carrion birds were slowly circling, growing ever closer.

  “Don’t leave me out here, Morgan! Give me a gun so’s I can end it.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Goddamn you!”

  “He probably will, Jack.” Frank lifted the reins.

  “Take me into a town and have me arrested, Morgan. I’ll confess to all I done. I swear to you I will.”

  ‘No way.“ Frank took the reins of Jack’s horse.

  “I don’t want to die this way, Morgan.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Morgan!” Jack screamed, his eyes searching the sky frantically. “Them ugly bastards is gettin’ closer.”

  “They sure are, Jack.” Stormy began a slow walk away from Jack Rice. Dog padded along.

  “You can’t let me die thisaway, Morgan!”

  “I’m sure Lara and the boy didn’t want to die the way they did either.”

  “I’m sorry about them, Morgan. I truly am sorry.”

  “You’re a damn liar.”

  “Morgan! Them stinkin’ buzzards is so close I can hear ’em and smell ’em. You got to help me. Please, I’m beggin’ you.”

  “Like Lara begged, Jack?”

  “Morgan! For God’s sake, help me! Oh, Jesus, get these stinkin’ things off me. Morgan!”

  Frank rode on.

  Jack screamed in agony as the big carrion birds began ripping at his flesh.

  “Morgan!”

  Frank rode on. He did not look back.

  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 ey
es 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.