“Just me and you, Ben, and two six-guns,” Walt announced as he turned and fired. His shot missed by a foot while Ben’s struck him in the center of his chest.
Walt stared down at the hole in his chest in total disbelief. He raised the pistol again but seemed unable to hold it steady and couldn’t think to cock it. The last sight that reached his fading vision was the muzzle of the six-gun that fired the fatal shot that struck him in the forehead. He stumbled backward against the shelf, knocking the pan of water off to fall with him to the floor.
Not a word was said for a long moment before Lem managed to blurt, “I don’t know where in the world he got that gun.”
“You don’t, huh?” Ben replied and swung his gun around to point at him. “Get down on your knees.” When he did, Ben took a coil of rope off a peg by the stall. “Put your hands behind your back.” He tied Lem’s hands and feet and left him there while he saddled the horses and packed up the bags of money, not willing to risk another attempt by Lem to claim some of it. When he was packed up and ready to leave, he told him. “Somebody will likely come along and untie you. I hope I’m halfway to Waco by the time they do. I oughta take you to prison for what you tried to do, but I don’t feel like botherin’ with you. Your penalty for tryin’ to help him kill me is you got the job of buryin’ him.”
* * *
As he had planned to do before, he took the road north out of Navasota but turned sharply west once he was out of sight. He proceeded to take the stolen bank money directly to Austin, where he made his report on the fate of Walt Murphy to Ranger Captain Randolph Mitchell. His biggest regret was the promise he had given to Rosa Cruz to visit her and Wilfred on his return trip, but he would endeavor to make that up some other time. He had already been gone from Buzzard’s Bluff long enough to cause Rachel to think she had lost another partner.
* * *
He led the extra horses he had acquired up to the north end of town to leave them at the stable. Henry Barnes walked out to meet him. “Well, Ben, I’m glad to see you back in town. Looks like you picked up some extra horses.”
“Howdy, Henry. I’m mighty glad to be back. Yep, I picked up a couple of horses. I’ve gotta take that gray back to Waco in a few days, whenever I feel like makin’ the trip. I borrowed him from a fellow who owns a stable there. I’m keepin’ that buckskin for a while, although I think he makes Cousin feel kinda jealous. Anything happenin’ around here?”
“Nothin’ I can think of that’s worth talkin’ about,” Henry replied.
“Good,” Ben said. “I oughta be just about on time to eat whatever Annie’s cooked for dinner.”
“Wait till we put these horses away and I’ll go with you,” Henry said.
When the horses were unsaddled and turned in the corral, they walked down to the Lost Coyote, just in time to meet Ham Greeley coming from the other direction. “Hey, Ben!” Ham greeted him. “You just get back?” When Ben said he did, Ham whooped, “Hot damn! I can’t wait to tell Tuck you’re back in town.” He turned around and hurried back toward the harness shop to announce it to Tuck. He knew it would really get Tuck’s goat not to be the one to make the official announcement.
Keep reading for a special preview!
A MACCALLISTER CHRISTMAS
From bestselling authors WILLIAM W. and J. A. JOHNSTONE comes a special action-packed holiday western tale of peace on earth and bad will toward men . . .
Ever since he left Scotland to start a new life in America, Duff MacCallister has stayed true to the values and traditions of his clan in the Highlands. But as Christmas approaches, he yearns to reconnect with his family—even the ones he hasn’t met yet. This year, two of his American cousins—twins Andrew and Rosanna—will be joining Duff for the holidays at the Sky Meadow Ranch. That is, if they manage to get there alive . . .
The twins’ train is held up by not one but two vicious outlaw gangs. The Jessup gang has been using the Spalding gang’s hideout to plan the robbery. The Jessups just lost two of their brothers in a bank job gone wrong—courtesy of Duff MacCallister—and they’re gunning for revenge. Together, these two bloodthirsty bands of killers and thieves are teaming up to make this one Christmas the MacCallisters will never forget. But Duff’s ready to deliver his own brand of gun-blazing justice, holidays be damned . . .
Look for A MacCallister Christmas, on sale now.
PROLOGUE
Dunoon, Argyll, Scotland, present day
“’Tis because o’ that television show that yer here, isn’t it, lassie?” the old woman asked as the young American couple came up to the counter to pay for the lunch they’d enjoyed in this picturesque little café.
The young woman smiled and said, “Is it that obvious?”
“Ye look a wee bit like the girl who plays the daughter, ya ken.”
“You really think so?” The young woman blushed, obviously pleased by the comparison.
“Oh, aye. In fact, ye look as if ye have some Scots blood a-flowin’ in yer veins.”
“I do! A little. I don’t really know how much.”
“Enough that I’d consider ye a good Scottish lass. We need to figure out what clan. Once we ken what yer colors are, ye can go next door to me sister’s shop, where she sells all sorts o’ goods decorated with all the clan colors . . .”
While that conversation was going on, the young man had handed over his credit card. He took it back from the old woman now as she handed him his receipt along with it. His wife said eagerly, “I don’t really know anything about the clans. Well, other than what I’ve learned from watching TV.”
“Then ye’ve come t’ the right place. I’ll teach ye everything ye need to ken. What is’t ye Americans call it? A crash course?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
While his wife leaned over the counter to continue the spirited conversation with the woman who ran the café, the young man stepped through the door to the narrow cobblestone street to wait for her. He had a hunch it might be a while.
“Snagged another’un, did she?”
The voice came from the young man’s left. A burly older man sat there, puffing on a pipe, bundled up against the day’s chill with his cap pulled down on his gray hair.
“I beg your pardon?” the young man said.
The older man took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem at the café entrance. “Aileen in there. She can spot the tourists and the TV fans and manages to send about half of ’em in her sister Isobel’s shop. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if she gets what you Americans call a kickback.”
“Annabel really does enjoy that show,” the young man said with a smile. “We’ve been all over the Highlands during the past week. Saved up to take this trip for a couple of years.”
The older man moved over on the bench and nodded curtly to the empty space. The young American sat down and held out his hand.
“I’m Richard van Loan.”
“Is that an English name?”
“Dutch, I believe. I’ve never been into genealogy all that much.”
“I’ve nothin’ against the Dutch, so I’ll shake yer hand. Graham McGregor is me name. ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, lad.”
“Likewise,” Richard said. He looked around at the old buildings that fronted the narrow street. Eastward, between some of those buildings, a narrow slice of the Firth of Clyde was visible, the water a deep, deep blue on this cloudy day.
“You have a beautiful city here.”
“’Twas not always so large. Me grandfather told me it grew like wildfire after the port was put in and the steamers began comin’ up the firth, and James Ewing built Castle House next to old Dunoon Castle. A’fore that, ’twas just a country town, Dunoon, spelled a bit different than today. Me great-great-grandfather Ian McGregor had a pub here, the White Horse.”
“Sounds like it would have been a wonderful place to visit,” Richard said.
“Dinna ye go talkin’ about such things! Ye would never believe how many tourists show up in the Hig
hlands searchin’ for some magical place where they can go travelin’ through time!”
Richard laughed. “Really? Well, people take these things seriously, I suppose.”
“Aye, they do. Yer wife . . . I’d wager she’s a wee bit in love wi’ tha’ braw laddie on the TV.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“But he’s not the only hero t’ come from Scotland, ye ken. Why, there was once a lad from right here in old Dunoon who was every bit as big and bold and handsome, an’ even better in a fight! Me great-great-grandfather Ian was his friend, ye ken, before he left to go t’ America and become a famous frontiersman, like in yer Western movies.”
“Your great-great-grandfather became a frontiersman in America?”
“No, th’ lad I’m tellin’ ye about! Duff MacCallister, tha’ was his name. Duff Tavish MacCallister. Did ye ever hear of him?”
Richard shook his head slowly and said, “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Annabel came out of the café, pointed at the shop next door, and said, “Richard, I’m going to be in there for a while looking around. Are you all right out here?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he told her. “Take your time.”
“She will, ye ken,” Graham McGregor said after Annabel had vanished into the shop. “Take her time, that is. Lassies always do.”
“Yes, I’ve been married long enough to know that. You were saying about this fellow Duff . . . Tell me more about Duff MacCallister.”
“I reckon I can do that,” Graham said, nodding. “Old Ian filled me grandfather’s head wi’ stories, and he passed ’em on to me when I was naught but a tyke.” He paused, obviously thinking about which story to tell, then went on, “I know a good one. Lots o’ ridin’ an’ shootin’ an’ fightin’, like in them movies I was talkin’ about. It started in th’ month o’ December, long, long ago, in a frontier settlement, Chugwater, Wyomin’ . . .”
CHAPTER ONE
Chugwater, Wyoming . . . back then
Duff MacCallister took off his hat and raised his arm to sleeve sweat off his rugged face.
“If I dinna ken what day ’tis, I’d say ’twas the middle o’ summer, not December!”
“Not that long until Christmas,” Elmer Gleason agreed. “It’s unseasonably warm, that’s for sure.”
The two men had just finished loading a good-sized pile of supplies, including heavy bags of flour, sugar, and beans, into the back of the wagon they had brought into town from Sky Meadow, Duff’s ranch farther up the valley. Both were in shirtsleeves, instead of the heavy coats most men normally wore at this time of year in Wyoming. In fact, Duff had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt over brawny forearms.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, tawny-haired young man, originally from Scotland, but now, after several years here in Wyoming, a Westerner through and through. He had established Sky Meadow Ranch when he arrived on the frontier, brought in Black Angus cattle, like the ones he had raised back in Scotland, and built the spread into a large, very lucrative operation that took in thirty thousand acres of prime grazing land.
Elmer, a grizzled old-timer who had lived a very adventurous life of his own, had been living on the land when Duff bought it, squatting in an old abandoned gold mine at the northern end of the property. People believed the mine was haunted, but what they had seen was no ghost, just Elmer.
Since Duff had made that discovery, the old-timer had become one of his most trusted friends and advisors. He worked as Sky Meadow’s foreman, and Duff had even made him a partner in the ranch with a ten percent share.
Now, with the supplies Duff had purchased from Matthews Mercantile loaded, Elmer licked his lips and said, “I reckon we’ll be headin’ down to Fiddler’s Green to wet our whistles before startin’ back to the ranch? A cold beer’d taste mighty good on a day like today.”
“Aye, the same thought did occur to me,” Duff said. “Go ahead, and I’ll catch up to ye. I’ll be makin’ one small stop first.”
“At the dress shop?” Elmer asked with a knowing grin.
“Perhaps . . .”
“Go ahead. I’ll be down there yarnin’ with Biff when you’re done. We can talk about the weather, like ever’body else in town is probably doin’.”
Duff lifted a hand in farewell and turned his steps along Clay Avenue toward the shop where Meagan Parker sewed, displayed, and sold the dresses she made, which were some of the finest to be found anywhere between New York and San Francisco, despite the unlikely surroundings of this frontier cattle town. Meagan’s talents were such that she could have been in high demand as a designer and seamstress anywhere in the country, but she preferred to remain in Chugwater.
Duff MacCallister was a large part of the reason she stayed.
Duff and Meagan had an understanding. Neither of them had a romantic interest in anyone else, and because of financial assistance she had rendered him in the past, she was also a partner in Sky Meadow.
The ranch was named after Skye McGregor, Duff’s first love back in Scotland. The young woman’s murder had been part of a tragic chain of circumstances that resulted in Duff leaving Scotland and coming to America. A part of Duff still loved her and always would. Meagan knew all about Skye and Duff’s feelings for her, and she accepted the situation, so it never came between the two of them.
Someday they would be married. Duff and Meagan both knew that. But for now, they were happy with the way things were between them and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.
Now that Duff wasn’t lifting heavy bags and crates into the wagon, the day didn’t feel quite as warm to him, although the sun still shone brightly in a sky almost devoid of clouds. A couple of times earlier in the fall, a dusting of snow had fallen, but it wouldn’t have been unusual for several inches to be on the ground by now.
A little breeze kicked up as Duff walked toward Meagan’s shop. He lifted his head to sniff the air. There was a hint, just a hint, of coolness in it.
Maybe that was a harbinger, Duff thought, an indication that the weather was going to change again and become more seasonable. Even though a man would have to be a fool not to enjoy the pleasant weather—it wasn’t a raging blizzard, after all—with Christmas coming, it needed to feel like winter. That little tang he had detected put some extra enthusiasm in Duff’s step. He was in a good mood, and he didn’t think anything could change that.
* * *
Four men reined their horses to a halt in front of the Bank of Chugwater, swung down from their saddles, and looped the reins around the hitch rail there. Hank Jessup, the oldest of the group, turned to the other three and said, “All right, Nick, you’ll stay out here with the horses.”
They all had the same roughly dressed, rawboned appearance, and their facial features were similar enough that it was obvious they were related. Hank, with his weather-beaten skin and white hair, could have been father to the others, based on looks, but in actuality he was their older brother. Half brother, anyway. Late in life, their father had married a much younger woman and somewhat surprisingly sired the other three—Logan, Sherm, and Nick.
They had willingly followed Hank into the family business of being outlaws, and they had come to Chugwater to help themselves to an early Christmas present of however much loot was in the bank’s vault.
“You said I could go inside this time, Hank,” Nick complained. “I always have to watch the horses.”
Sherm said, “It’s an important job, kid.”
“You’re our lookout, too,” Logan added. “You’ve got to warn us if any blasted badge-toter comes along and starts to go in the bank.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick muttered. “I guess so.”
Hank said, “And you’re watching the horses because I say so, that’s the most important thing.” He squared his shoulders, nodded to Logan and Sherm. “Come on.”
The three of them stepped up onto the boardwalk and headed for the bank’s front door. They didn’t draw their guns yet, because they didn’t want t
o alert people on the street that anything unusual was going on.
Nick lounged against the hitch rail, handy to the spot where the reins were tied so he could loosen them in a hurry if he needed. This wasn’t the first bank robbery he and his brothers had pulled. Sometimes the boys came out walking fast, still not wanting to draw attention, and sometimes they came on the run, needing to make as rapid a getaway as they could.
Inside the bank, Hank glanced around quickly, sizing up the situation without being too obvious about it: two tellers, each with a single customer, one man and one woman. A bank officer, probably the president, was seated at a desk off to one side behind a wooden railing. The man had a bunch of papers spread out on his desk and was making marks on one of them with a pencil, pausing between each notation to lick the pencil lead.
No guard that Hank could see, but it was entirely possible those tellers had guns on shelves below the counter, and the bank president probably had an iron in his desk drawer, too.
Question was, would they be smart enough not to try to use them?
Hank wouldn’t mind gunning them down if it came to that. Wouldn’t mind at all.
He exchanged a glance with his brothers and nodded. No time like the present.
Hauling the gun from the holster on his hip, Hank yelled, “Stand right where you are! Nobody move, or we’ll start blasting!”
* * *
Meagan was sitting at a table with several pieces of cloth in front of her when Duff came into the shop. She had three straight pins in her mouth, taken from a pincushion close to her right hand. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Careful there, lass,” he cautioned. “Ye dinna want t’ be stickin’ pins in those sweet lips o’ yours.”
Deftly Meagan took the pins out of her mouth and returned them to the pincushion, which allowed her to smile even more.
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