A balcony with iron railings overlooked the garden. As The Kid approached stealthily, he heard a door open. Pausing in the shadow of a thick shrub, he knelt and looked up.
A man stepped out onto the balcony and walked to the railing. He rested one hand on the rail, and the other lifted a cigar to his mouth. As he took a deep drag on the cigar, the coal at its end glowed brightly, casting a faint light over his face.
From the darkness below, The Kid saw the lean features, the jutting beard, the deep-set eyes. He knew without being told that he was looking at Warren Latch.
The outlaw leader wore a pair of military-style holsters. The odd-shaped butts of the guns were visible in the light spilling through the open door behind him.
The pistols were some sort of foreign make, The Kid guessed, since he had never seen anything quite like them before. It didn’t matter. Latch could have a damned Gatling gun and it wouldn’t matter.
One shot would have ended it simply. From where The Kid crouched, he could have put a bullet through Latch’s head and the man would never know what ended his life.
But The Kid didn’t know where Lace and Nick were. If he killed Latch and then searched the house, only to find that the prisoners weren’t there, he would be at a dead end.
No, Latch got to live a little while longer ... until he told The Kid what he wanted to know.
Latch stood there smoking his cigar for several minutes, then dropped the butt, ground it out under a booted toe, and kicked it off the balcony into the garden. He turned and went back into the house, closing the door behind him.
The Kid stole forward swiftly and silently.
The pillars supporting the balcony had enough scrollwork to provide a few handholds and footholds. His privileged childhood in Boston hadn’t afforded him opportunities to climb trees that most boys got, but he was able to manage. He struggled up one of the pillars until he could reach over his head and grasp the iron railing.
From there it was easy to pull himself onto the balcony.
A couple large windows glowed a warm yellow with lamplight from the room where Latch had gone. The Kid crouched and tried to peer through a corner of one. A gauzy curtain covered the window.
He was able to see a little through the loosely woven curtain, and could tell Latch was standing in front of someone sitting in an armchair. That close to the window, he realized it was raised a few inches to let in the night breezes.
The first thing he heard sent a thrill shooting through him. It was Lace McCall’s voice. “—get away with this, you son of a bitch.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear,” Latch replied. “No one knows where I am or the name I use while I’m here in San Antonio. This house belongs to Stephen Dandridge, the somewhat decadent but law-abiding son of a wealthy businessman from Louisiana. I’ve put quite a bit of time and effort into cultivating that identity.”
“And nobody ever notices that you look like Warren Latch?”
“A lot of men are tall and slender and have beards. Besides, people see what they expect to see.”
“Well, what are you going to do now?”
“If you’re worried that I’m going to molest you, you needn’t be. My interests along those lines are few and rather ... specialized. But I know several men who will be quite taken with you. I thought I would invite them over and have them, ah, place bids on the pleasure of your company.”
“You’re going to auction me off like a horse?” Lace sounded like she couldn’t believe it.
“Between what I make from you and the ransom I expect to get for the young man locked up downstairs, I should clear a nice bit of money. Since I no longer have to share the other loot I brought back with me, I’ll have a small fortune to sustain my lifestyle for an extended period of time.”
“Which you got by double-crossing your men,” Lace said scornfully.
“I think my friend Slim was getting a bit tired of riding with me, and to tell you the truth, I had grown tired of him. As for the others ... well, they were just common outlaws. I can round up a hundred more like them if I ever decide to form another gang. After all ... I’m Warren Latch. Everyone wants to work with me because I’m always successful. And everyone is afraid of me because I’m insane, you know.”
The laugh that came from Latch made a chill go through The Kid, as he suddenly realized it was all an act. Latch didn’t sound the least bit crazy. It was fake, just like the identity of Stephen Dandridge that he had established. Warren Latch, the mad dog ... Don’t cross Warren Latch, he’s loco ... He’ll kill you as quick as look at you.
All a lie to cover up pure evil.
The Kid had heard enough. Gun in hand, he stepped to the door and kicked it open.
Latch whirled, hands going to the butts of his guns, but he stopped short as he found himself staring down the barrel of The Kid’s Colt.
“Kid!” Lace cried. “He told me you were dead, but I didn’t believe him! I never did.” Her hands were tied tightly in front of her. Another rope around her waist bound her to the chair. An ugly bruise stood out on her jaw.
At that moment, The Kid came very close to pulling the trigger and killing Latch.
But he held off. If Lace was the one who turned Latch over to the law, she would get the reward for him. That’s what she had set out to achieve, and The Kid was going to make that possible if he could.
“You’re from that posse!” Latch gasped in astonishment.
“That’s right,” The Kid said. “You didn’t wipe us all out. Half a dozen more are on their way in, but I raced ahead to settle things with you.”
Latch’s surprise seemed to be wearing off. He actually smiled as he asked, “How the devil did you find me?”
“Slim Duval wasn’t quite dead when we caught up to him.”
Latch shook his head. “Slim didn’t know where I live or the name I use here.”
“No, but he knew how to get a message to you. He knew about the girl who works at Flores’ Cantina, who knew about the liveryman, who knew about the priest, who told me about the man named Dandridge who always makes generous contributions to the mission. It wasn’t that hard to find you, once Duval started me on the right trail.”
Latch’s face hardened with anger. “He’s dead, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Good.” Latch practically spat. “He used to be a good man, but he’d gotten sloppy, lazy. He had it coming.”
The Kid ignored that and asked, “Lace, are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’ve been knocked around a little, but I’m fine.”
“How about Nick?”
“Tied and gagged in the pantry off the kitchen downstairs. He’s all right, too, as far as I know. That arm wound may need some attention.”
“It’ll get plenty of attention soon. Can you get loose?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been trying to loosen these ropes, but the knots are too tight.”
“When I’ve finished with Latch, I’ll cut you loose.”
A smile curved Latch’s thin lips. “You’re finished now, my friend.”
“I don’t know how you figure that,” The Kid said.
“A wise man knows how to spend his money. I’ve spent some of mine on men whose job it is to keep an eye on that girl at the cantina. If anyone comes around asking her the wrong sort of questions, they follow and find out who it is.” Latch nodded toward the door. “They’re standing behind you now.”
The Kid shook his head. “You don’t really expect me to—”
“Kid, look out!” Lace screamed.
Instinct sent him twisting down and to the side. Guns roared behind him, and he felt a bullet tug at his shirt sleeve. From the corner of his eye he saw two men on the balcony, one white, one Mexican. Flame spurted from the barrels of their guns.
A slug tore into the expensive rug only inches from The Kid’s hand as he braced himself and fired. One of the men doubled over as the bullet punched into his belly.
The o
ther man weaved to the side as The Kid triggered again. The shot missed.
Another weapon roared, the reports coming so fast and so close together they blended into a roll of gun thunder. Bullets chewed up the rug as The Kid rolled desperately away from them. Latch had yanked out one of his funny-looking pistols. Flame licked from its muzzle as he fired again and again.
Even on the move, The Kid got off a shot that smashed into the chest of the man on the balcony and drove him halfway around before he collapsed. That took care of two of the three threats, but Latch was the most dangerous of all.
The boss’s gun ran dry, but he already had the second pistol in his other hand. Before he could bring it to bear, Lace drew up her legs and kicked him in the back of the knees. Latch cried out in surprise as his legs folded up beneath him and he fell. The pistols slipped out of his hands and fell, clattering to the floor.
Lace couldn’t get out of the chair, but she threw herself forward with such desperation it toppled with her. She fell onto her side and reached for one of the guns Latch had dropped, snatching it off the rug just as he grabbed the other gun and rolled back to his feet.
Did he have the empty one, or did she?
The clicking of the gun as he frantically jerked the trigger answered that. In the next instant, the pistol Lace held in both hands roared. One after another, the bullets thudded into Latch’s chest, their impact driving him backward in a grotesque dance. She kept shooting as he stumbled onto the balcony, crashed into the railing, and toppled over it, falling out of sight into the garden.
Up and on his feet, The Kid started toward Lace, but she cried, “I’m fine! Make sure he’s dead!”
That seemed like a foregone conclusion to him, as many times as Lace had shot the man, but she was right. The smart thing was to be certain.
Gun ready in his hand, The Kid went onto the balcony and checked first on the two men he had shot. They were dead, sure enough. And when he looked over the balcony railing, he saw Warren Latch lying on his back on the flagstones of a patio below. A dark pool of blood spread around him.
“Is he dead?” Lace called from inside the room.
The Kid lined his sights and fired a shot that blew the top of Latch’s head off.
“No doubt about it.”
The Menger Hotel, one of the finest hostelries in San Antonio, was practically next door to the Alamo. The Kid and Lace were sitting in its lobby a week later when Asa Culhane came through the front doors and thumped toward them using a cane. Nick Burton was with the Ranger.
The Kid got to his feet to shake hands with Culhane. “You look like you’re getting around pretty well. Better than I expected, as bad a shape as you were in.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a tough old bird. I heal fast.” Culhane inclined his head toward Nick. “Like this youngster here.”
Nick’s wounded arm was in a sling, but his color was good, and he seemed to be feeling fine. He was dressed in a town suit. “Ranger Culhane called me and told me he was coming over here to see you, Mr. Morgan. I thought I’d come along so I could say good-bye to you and Miss McCall.”
Nick and Culhane sat down in a pair of comfortable armchairs facing the sofa where The Kid and Lace sat.
“You’re headed back to your grandfather’s ranch?” The Kid asked.
“That’s right,” Nick replied with a nod. “Thad and Bill are going with me. They decided they didn’t want to try to make a go of their family’s ranch after everything that happened there, so they’re going to let that neighbor of theirs pay them off for it.” The youngster grinned. “I told them there were jobs waiting for them on the M-B Connected, if they wanted them.”
“Won’t that be up to your grandfather?” Lace asked.
“No, ma’am ... I mean, Miss McCall.”
“Lace,” she reminded him.
“Yes’m ... I mean ... well, you know what I mean. But as for what you asked me, no, I reckon if my grandpa plans on me taking over the ranch, it’s high time he starts giving me some responsibility. And me hiring Thad and Bill is a good place to start. If he doesn’t like it ...” Nick shrugged.
“I’ve got a hunch he’ll like it just fine,” The Kid said with a smile.
“I hope so, Mr. Morgan.”
“I think after all we’ve been through, you can call me Kid.”
“I don’t know ... After reading those dime novels about you, it seems sort of ... disrespectful.”
The Kid laughed. “Don’t worry about that.”
Culhane asked, “Did you get that reward money all right, ma’am?”
“I did,” Lace told him. “I’ve already sent most of it back to my mother.”
“You plan to keep on bounty huntin’?”
“It’s the only thing I know,” she replied in all seriousness.
The Kid and Lace had spent most of the past week in the Menger’s finest suite, paid for by Conrad Browning’s money, resting and recovering and getting to know each other better. On more than one occasion during that time, The Kid had brought up the subject of Lace giving up bounty hunting, but she had always dodged the question.
He knew she didn’t want to give up the life she had made for herself, despite its dangers, and in truth, he couldn’t blame her for feeling that way.
He had done the same thing in his own life.
“Then I reckon there’s a chance our trails will cross again sometime,” Culhane said. “I’m goin’ back to active duty with the Rangers as soon as this leg o’ mine heals up. In fact, it’s really Ranger business that brought me here today.”
“Chasing another fugitive?” The Kid asked.
“You could say that,” Culhane replied. “There’s an hombre I’m after.”
He reached inside his coat for something, and when he brought out his hand and extended it, a silver star on a silver circle lay on his palm. It was a Ranger badge, but it wasn’t the one belonging to Culhane. That badge was pinned to his shirt.
“I talked to my cap’n, and he agrees with me,” Culhane went on. “This is yours if you want it, Kid. What do you say?”
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The Epic New Series from the authors of
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FOUR BROTHERS. ONE DREAM.
From William W. Johnstone, the best-selling master of the epic Western saga, comes a bold new series set in the untamed New Mexico Territory—where four brave-hearted brothers must struggle to work the land, keep the peace and fight for the dream of America.
THE SAGA BEGINS ...
The War Between the States has ended. Now, no longer feeling at home in Yankee-controlled Texas former CSA Colonel Shamus O’Brien set off for a new frontier—New Mexico. Here, where land is cheap, bandits shoot to kill, and rustlers rule the night, it takes more than one man to run a ranch. He offers a partnership to his eldest son, Samuel, with equal shares going to his sons, Patrick, Shawn, and Jacob. Together, the brothers O’Brien will defend Dromore, no matter what it takes. But when Jacob incurs the wrath of a wannabe gunfighter, he puts himself—and his brothers—in the crosshairs of a killer ...
THE BROTHERS O’BRIEN
by William W. Johnstone, with J. A. Johnstone
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Chapter 1
West Texas, May 28, 1866
Texans are a generous breed, but they do not confer the title of Colonel lightly on a man. He has to earn it.
The two men who sat in the sway-roofed, sod cabin had earned the honor the hard way—by being first-rate fighting men.
Colonel Shamus O’Brien had risen though the ranks of the Confederate Army to become a regimental commander in the Laurel Brigade under the dashing and gallant Major General Thomas L. Rosser.
O’Brien had been raiding in West Virginia when the war ended in 1865, and thus escaped the surrender at Appomattox, a blessing for which he’d thank the Good Lord every single day of his long life.
He was twenty-three years old that June and bore the scars of two great woun
ds. A ball ripped through his thigh at First Manassas and a Yankee saber cut opened his left cheek at Mechanicsville.
By his own reckoning, Shamus O’Brien, from County Clare, Ireland, had killed seventeen men in single combat with revolver or saber, and none of them disturbed his sleep.
The man who faced O’Brien across the rough pine table was Colonel Charles Goodnight. He’d been addressed as colonel from the first day and hour he’d saddled a horse to ride with the Texas Rangers. A Yankee by birth, the great state of Texas had not a more loyal citizen, nor fearless fighting man.
“Charlie,” O’Brien said, “it is a hell of a thing to hang a man.”
Goodnight stilled a forkful of beans and salt pork halfway to his mouth. “Hell, Shamus, he’s as guilty as sin.”
“Maybe the girl led him on. It happens, you know.”
Speaking around a mouthful of food, Goodnight said, “She didn’t.”
“She’s black,” O’Brien said.
“So, what difference does that make?”
“Just sayin’.”
Goodnight poured himself coffee from the sooty pot on the table.
“Shamus, black, white, or in between, he raped a girl and there’s an end to it.”
O’Brien let go of all the tension that had been building inside him, words exploding from his mouth, his lilting Irish brogue pronounced. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and all the saints in Heaven save and preserve us! Charlie, he’s a Yankee carpetbagger. He’s got the government on his side.”
“Yeah, I know he has, but I don’t give a damn. He’s among the worst of the carpetbagging scum and I’ve got no liking for him. He called me a raggedy-assed Texas Reb—imagine that. I mean, I know it’s true, but I don’t need to hear it from a damned uppity Yankee.”
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