Trammel had never considered himself a smart man, but he didn’t have to be smart to see what was really going on. He’d had the whole ride from Laramie to figure it out. “You told him you had her ledger, didn’t you?”
“It came up in the course of conversation.”
“And Madam Pinochet will go before a friendly judge who’s in that ledger and a jury who’ll bound to have a few people who were in that ledger, too.”
Hagen smiled and shrugged, content with his silence.
But Trammel was far from content. He felt his temper returning. “That means she’ll get out. She’ll come back and cause more trouble in town.”
“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that, Buck. Our madam has outlived her usefulness as far as Lucien Clay and other prominent members of the territory are concerned. She won’t be troubling us again, I assure you.”
“She can still talk,” Trammel said. “Cut a deal, maybe.”
“Not much possibility of that, I’m afraid, when anyone in a position to offer her a deal is also in the ledger.”
“She could talk about the ledger itself.”
“Without the ledger,” Hagen said, “there’s no evidence. Just the word of a scared old woman without proof.”
Trammel’s jaw tightened. “But you have the ledger, don’t you?”
Hagen nodded. “Which is the only reason why we’re still alive. And it’s the reason we’re going to remain alive, because I intend on assuming her place in the order of things in this territory.”
“You mean the opium.” Trammel gripped the reins harder and his horse began to fuss. “And the corruption. All of it continues through you.”
Hagen grabbed the bridle of Trammel’s horse. “Careful, Buck. You’re not enough of a horseman to know the animal can feel your every emotion and respond accordingly. I wouldn’t want you to get thrown so close to home. Especially after all we’ve been through, even today.”
But his temper was beginning to build. “I’ve got no intention of being the sheriff of a town with the worst damned opium house in the territory.”
“And I have no intention of owning one. It’ll be the finest in the territory, catering to the darkest desires of the most luminary people in this part of our growing country.” An edge came to Hagen’s voice. “And let’s quit pretending that you’ve embraced the mantle of law and order all of a sudden. You’re not some naïve plowboy like Hawkeye who thinks he’s someone different just because he’s got a tin star on his chest. I’d wager you’ve done your fair share of reprehensible things back when you were a policeman and, later, a Pinkerton. I admire a man who desires to change, but abhor a man who refuses to accept what he really is. And how things really are.”
Trammel’s hand dropped to his Colt, but he couldn’t grab it. His hand was shaking too hard and he balled it into a fist to make it stop. “I want that ledger.”
“And I won’t give it to you. You’re not going to take it back, either. Father might not have much use for me, but he won’t take kindly to the man he hired killing his son, even a wayward son like me. You’d lose your position, if not your life, and then where would you be? Back wandering the great expanse of our country? Go back to Wichita and the waiting arms of the fair maiden Lilly? What welcome do you think Earp would have for you? What welcome do you think old man Bowman would have for the man who killed his sons?”
“Don’t think I’m so easy to kill.”
“Only a fool would think that, my friend, and I’m no fool. But you’ll have to kill me in order to get that ledger back, and my death would only bring wreck and ruin to everything we have a chance to build. Me and my empire of vice. You and your yearning for respectability and the love of a good woman. And Emily is a very good woman indeed, Buck. She’ll be yours one day if you want her bad enough, and I believe you do. Why throw that all away over a stupid ledger? You’re not naïve enough to think handing it in would accomplish anything. Someone else would step in and make the payoffs in my stead, just as I’ve stepped into Madam Pinochet’s place.” Hagen leaned forward, too, bringing his face only a few inches away from Trammel’s. “I’m not talking about death, my friend. I’m talking about the kind of life we both want.”
Trammel pulled back on the reins, breaking Hagen’s grip on the bridle. He wasn’t sure if Hagen’s grip had slipped or if he’d let it go. The mount fussed a bit before Trammel brought it back under control.
“I won’t be in your pocket, Hagen. You break the law, you pay the consequences just like anyone else.”
Hagen and his horse stood stock-still. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I take it, then, you’ll refuse your share of the proceeds? It’s a substantial sum, I assure you.”
“I’ll live just fine on what the town pays me.”
Hagen sighed heavily as he looked up at the sky. “Such a beautiful night at the end of such a beautiful day. I’d hate for it to end on such a sour note. We’ve ridden too far together and through too much to be enemies now. Please don’t be my enemy, Buck. I wouldn’t like that. And neither would you.”
Trammel’s horse fussed again as the rage he felt coursed through him and into the animal. Everything in his body wanted him to rip Hagen from the saddle and pummel him for using him this way. For using him as a bargaining chip in whatever game he was playing against his father.
But he remained in the saddle, because everything Hagen had just said made sense. There would always be someone else ready to step to the fore and cater to the vices of men. It might as well be someone in his own town. Someone he could keep an eye on.
Someone he could trust to be untrustworthy.
Without another word, he brought his horse around Hagen and heeled it toward town. The cool night air quelled his temper considerably, and, the closer he got to Blackstone, he could see Emily had been true to her word.
He could see a candle flickering in her kitchen window, beckoning him toward a place he had never known.
Home.
Keep reading for a special excerpt of the new
Matt Jensen western
from WILLIAM W. and J. A. JOHNSTONE!
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN
DIE WITH THE OUTLAWS
On the lawless frontiers of the American West, there is one rule every outlaw should remember: Never cross a mountain man like Matt Jensen. Not if you want to keep breathing.
No gun. No horse. No water or food. And worse yet: No idea how he ended up in the middle of a desert with a bullet in his leg and a bump on his head. That’s the sorry situation Matt Jensen wakes up to—dazed and confused—until he slowly pieces together what happened. The last thing he remembers: He agreed to help out a friend of Duff MacCallister’s. A pretty lady and her husband at a horse ranch. He also recalls their cross-country trip through hell to deliver the horses safely to market. That’s when the outlaws showed up.
That’s when the shooting began. That’s when everything went dark . . .
But now Matt Jensen is alive and well and living for revenge. No time to lose. No holding back. And before it’s all over, no trigger-happy horse thief left standing . . .
Look for DIE WITH THE OUTLAWS,
on sale now where books are sold.
CHAPTER 1
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
When Matt Jensen rode into town, he stopped in front of the Morning Star Saloon, then pushed through the batwing doors to step inside. Saloons had become a part of his heritage. There was a sameness to them that he had grown comfortable with over the years—the long bar, the wide plank floors, the mirror behind the bar, the suspended lanterns, and the ubiquitous iron stove sitting in a box of sand. He was a wanderer, and though his friends often asked when he was going to settle down, his response was always the same. “I’ll settle down when I’m six feet under.”
Matt considered himself a free spirit, and even his horse’s name, Spirit, reflected that attitude. Much of his travel was without specific destination or purpose, but so frequently
was Glenwood Springs a destination that he maintained a semipermanent room in the Glenwood Springs Hotel.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” the bartender said as Matt stepped up to the bar. “Where’ve you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Oh, here and there. Anywhere they’ll let me stay for a few days before they ask me to move on.”
“I envy people like you. No place to call home, no one to tie you down.”
“Yeah, that’s me, no one to tie me down,” Matt said in a voice that the discerning would recognize as somewhat half-hearted.
“So, here for a beer, are you?”
“No, I just came in here to check my mail,” Matt replied.
“What?”
Matt laughed. “A beer would be good.”
“Check your mail,” Max said, laughing with Matt. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“How’s Doc doing?” Matt asked.
“You’re asking about Holliday?” the bartender asked as he set the beer before Matt.
“Yes. Does he still come in here a lot?”
“Not as much as he used to. He’s pretty wasted by now, just skin and bones. Sort of wobbles when he walks. Big Nose Kate is here though, and she looks after him.”
“Is he at the hotel or the sanitarium?”
“Hotel mostly, either his room or the lobby.”
“I think I’ll go see him, maybe bring him in here for a drink if I can talk him into it.”
“Are you kidding?” the bartender asked. “He’ll come in a military minute. That is, if Kate will let him come.”
“What do you mean, if she’ll let him come?”
“She watches over him like a mother hen guarding her chicks.”
“Good for her. Well, I’ll just have to charm her into letting him join me.”
“You’re going to charm Big Nose Kate? Ha! You would have better luck charming a rock.”
* * *
Matt stepped into the hotel a few minutes later and secured his room. Looking around, he saw Doc Holliday and Big Nose Kate in the lobby sitting together on a leather sofa near the fireplace. And though it wasn’t cold enough to require a fire, one was burning.
As Max had indicated, John Henry Holliday was a mere shadow of his former self. Matt had met him in his prime, though even then, Doc had been suffering from consumption and had had frequent coughing spells. He had also been clear-eyed, sharp-witted, and confident. He was a loyal, and when needed, deadly friend to Wyatt Earp.
Big Nose Kate, Mary Katherine Haroney, was by Doc Holliday’s side. Despite the sobriquet of “Big Nose,” she was actually quite an attractive woman. Matt had asked once why they called her Big Nose and was told that it wasn’t because of the size of the proboscis, but because she had a tendency to stick it into other people’s business.
“Hello, Doc,” Matt said as he approached the two.
“Matt!” Doc Holliday greeted enthusiastically. He started to get up.
“There’s no need for you to be getting up,” Kate said with just a hint of a Hungarian accent.
“Hello, Kate. It’s good to see you here.”
“And if Doc is here, where else would I be?”
“Why, here, of course. Doc, I was just over to the Morning Star and noticed something was missing. It took me a moment to figure it out then I realized that it was you, sitting at your special table playing cards. How about going back with me so you and I can play a little poker?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Doc said. “I’m not as good as I used to be.”
Matt chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on. I thought if we could play a few hands I might be able to get some of the money back I’ve lost to you over the years.”
Doc laughed out loud. “Sonny, all I said was that I’m not as good as I used to be. But I can still beat you. Let’s go.” He began the struggle to rise, and quickly, Matt came to his assistance.
“You don’t mind, do you, Kate?”
“Keep a good eye on him, will you, Matt?”
“I will,” he promised.
Doc was able to walk on his own, but his frailty meant that the walk from the Glenwood Springs Hotel was quite slow. When they stepped into the saloon a few minutes later he was greeted warmly by all as two of the bar girls approached.
“We’ll get him seated,” one of the girls said as she took one arm, and the second bar girl took the other.
“Your table, Doc?” one asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
After they were seated one brought a whiskey for Doc and a beer for Matt. Shortly after that two more men came to the table and a game of poker ensued.
They had been playing for about half an hour when Matt saw a man come into the saloon. He stood just inside the swinging batwing doors, surveying the saloon until his perusing came to a stop at the table where Matt, Doc, and the two others were playing poker. The man pulled his pistol from the holster and held it down by his side.
Matt had no idea who this man was, but it was pretty obvious that he was on the prowl. For him? It could be. He had made a lot of friends over the years, but he had also made a lot of enemies.
“There you are, you son of a bitch!” the man said. He didn’t shout the words, but they were easily heard. Curiosity had halted the conversations when he’d first come into the saloon. With his raised pistol, the curiosity had changed to apprehension.
“An old enemy, Matt?” one of the players asked.
“No, gentleman. I’m afraid that one is after me,” Doc said.
“Stand up, Holliday! Stand up and face me like a man!”
“I’m not armed, Hartman. In case you haven’t noticed by my emaciated appearance, I am in the advanced stages of consumption, so you can just put your gun back in its holster. If you are all that set on seeing me die, all you have to do is hang around for a short while, and I’ll do it for you. Your personal participation in the process won’t be needed.”
“Yeah? Well, I want to participate,” Hartman said.
“All right. Well, go ahead and shoot me. I’ve no way of stopping you.” Doc’s voice was calm and measured.
“I wonder if I could intervene for a moment?” Matt’s voice was calm and conversational just like Doc’s.
“Mister, you ’n them other two that’s sittin’ at the table there had better get up and get out of the way. I come in here with one thing in mind, ’n that was to kill the man that kilt my brother. ’N I aim to do it.”
The two others at the table heeded Hartman’s advice and moved out of the way.
Matt stood, but remained in place. “Speaking as John Henry’s friend, and on behalf of several others who I know are also his friends, I’m going to ask . . . no, I’m going to tell you to put aside any grievance you may have with Doc, and let nature take its course. Let him die in peace.”
“Mister, I’m standin’ here with a gun in my hand and you’re tryin’ to tell me what to do? Suppose I tell you I’m goin’ to kill him anyway?”
“You’ll have to come through me first.”
“All right, if that’s what it takes. Doc, I’m going to ask you to get out of the way for a moment,” Hartman said. “I intend to kill you, but I don’t want it to be an accident. When I kill you, it’s goin’ to be purposeful.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about it, Hartman. I’m in no danger here. If you really are dumb enough to engage my friend here, you won’t even get a shot off.”
“What is he, some sort of fool? I already have my gun in my hand,” Hartman said as if explaining something to a child.
“Yes, well, go ahead and do what you feel you must do,” Matt said.
Hartman lifted his thumb up from the handle of his pistol, preparatory to pulling back the hammer, but his thumb never reached the hammer. Matt drew and fired. His bullet crashed into Hartman’s forehead, then burst out through the back of his head taking with it a little spray of pink. Hartman was dead before he ever realized that he was in danger.
&nbs
p; “My God. I’ve never seen anything like that!” said one of the other card players.
A buzz of excited chatter came from all the others in the saloon, and several gathered around Hartman’s body.
“Gentlemen,” Doc Holliday said, “can we please get back to the game? I plan to teach this young whippersnapper here a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen, the Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Flintlock, and Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers The Doomsday Bunker, Tyranny, and Black Friday.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
Visit the website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
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