A Quiet, Little Town
Page 1
Look for these exciting Western series from bestselling authors
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
and J. A. JOHNSTONE
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AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
A QUIET LITTLE TOWN
•A RED RYAN WESTERN*
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J. A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4438-2
First Pinnacle paperback printing: March 2021
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4439-9 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4439-X (e-book)
CHAPTER ONE
The moment tall Texan Burke Forester stepped off the steam packet Manxman’s gangway onto a London Harbor dock he became the most dangerous man in England . . . if not the entire British Empire.
Forester’s welcoming committee was sleet driven by an icy wind that cut to the bone and, a cable length away, swept the deserted decks of three great ironclads anchored in a dredged deepwater channel awaiting their turn in drydock. A few tattered gulls braved the elements, flapped above the tall masts of the warships, and stridently yodeled their hunger.
Wearing a black, caped greatcoat and red woolen muffler against the cold, Forester made his way toward a labyrinth of warehouses, a sugar refinery, and a paper mill that marked the limit of the dock area and began the adjoining industrial district. He’d been the Manxman’s only passenger, and there was no one else around. He carried a large carpetbag that contained a change of clothing and a Colt revolver, and in his gloved left hand he held a sword cane with an elaborately carved ivory handle in the shape of a Chinese dragon with emerald eyes. The sword had a twenty-three-inch steel blade, razor-sharp, a gentleman’s weapon and a deadly one.
Forester’s thoughts were on the cab that presumably awaited him and thereafter a blazing fire and perhaps a glass of hot rum punch. On that particular Sunday morning in civilized London town, he gave little thought to the cane as a weapon, considering it more of a fashion accessory. In that, he was mistaken. The blade would very soon be called into use . . . with horrifyingly fatal results.
Forester wore the high-heeled boots and wide-brimmed Stetson of a Western man, and, head bent against the slashing sleet, he didn’t see the dockworker stride toward him until the man was almost past, his eyes fixed steadily on a point ahead of him.
Out of the corner of his mouth, the worker said, “Be careful, guv.”
And then he was gone, and Forester briefly wondered at his warning and then dismissed it. After all, the English were a polite breed, much given to strange greetings.
This was a little-used, hundred-year-old dock once trodden by Admiral Lord Nelson that was scheduled to be closed. After a couple of minutes of walking, Forester found himself on a deserted concrete pathway between the paper mill and a rust-colored, corrugated iron warehouse. The mill was silent, its pious owner observing the Sabbath, but a massive ship’s boiler awaiting the scrap heap took up much of the space on the path, and a pile of empty tea chests had fallen over in the wind and were scattered everywhere. Huge Norwegian rats, afraid of nothing, ignored the approaching human and scuttled and scurried among the debris of ten thousand spilled cargoes.
Forester saw the cab ahead of him, waiting for his arrival as it had for the past six days, be his ship early or late. The top-hatted driver muffled in a greatcoat, a woolen scarf covering his face to the eyes, sat in a spring seat at the rear of the vehicle. Despite the biting, cartwheeling sleet, he seemed to be dozing, and the Texan was close enough that he heard the clang of the impatient horse’s hoof as it pawed the wet cobbles.
Forester quickened his pa
ce, desirous of the cab’s meager shelter, but he stopped in his tracks as three men, tough-looking brutes wearing flat caps and rough, workmen’s clothing, stepped into his path.
The biggest of the three was a ruffian with simian features and massive, stooped shoulders. His hands hung at his sides like ham hocks, the knuckles scarred from many a fistfight, and his thick lips were peeled back from decayed teeth in a snarl that passed for a grin. “’Ere, matey, I be Bill Hobson, a well-known name in old London Town, and what’s a toff like you doing, a-walking around my turf like you owned it?” he said.
“He’s a toff right enough, Bill,” another man said. “Looks to me that he can pay his way . . . for a safe passage, like.”
The human gorilla named Bill widened his grin. “Truer words was never spoke, Johnny,” he said. “Money for a safe passage it is, so give us your wallet and watch, your bag, and whatever other valuables you own.” He bowed and waved in the direction of the street. “And then you can go in peace.”
“And we’ll be a-taking of your fancy cane,” Johnny said.
Burke Forester was irritated at being forced to stop in the middle of a sleet storm, but since his mind was on other, more pressing business, he was willing to let this matter go. After all, three impudent toughs were just a temporary inconvenience.
“You boys step aside,” he said. “This is a public thoroughfare, and I have no money for you.” He motioned with the cane. “Now, be on your way and give me the road.”
Bill Hobson’s gaze became more calculating, measuring the Yankee’s height and the width of his shoulders. The man seemed capable, and that gave Bill pause, but more disturbing was the fact that he wasn’t in the least bit scared . . . and he sure as heck should be. Did the dandy know that he was facing three of the toughest men from the violent, disease-ridden cesspit that was the East End of London? Did he realize he faced men who could kick him to death if the need arose? Bill smiled to himself. Maybe the fool needed a harsh lesson . . .
For clarity’s sake, it must be noted here that Burke Forester was a professional assassin and a noted pistolero who’d put the crawl on half a dozen named men, including Wes Hardin and the notoriously fast King Fisher. Historians disagree on the number of men Forester killed, and a man in his line of business didn’t boast of it. For him, it sufficed that his reputation was known to the rich and powerful businessmen, industrialists, and cattle ranchers who mattered and who considered him an efficient, and above all, discreet, executioner. Let Forester’s lowest estimated number of kills stand at sixty-three, fifty-eight by the Winchester rifle and Colt’s gun, three by the bowie knife, and two by his ever-present sword cane. Those numbers are probably near to the truth.
In sum, Burke Forester was a sudden and dangerous killer and a man best left the hell alone . . . something that Bill Hobson and his two companions soon would learn the hard way.
Forester realized that the Englishman’s talking was done when the man reached into the pocket of his ragged jacket and produced a lead-filled leather sap, a vicious, bone-breaking weapon ideal for a close-range fight against a large opponent. Hobson grinned and tapped his open palm with the sap. “Come and get it, fancy man,” he said. Then he swung the blackjack at Forester’s left temple, trying for a killing blow.
But the Texan had already moved.
He leaped to his right, dodged the sap, and with incredible speed and dexterity, drew his blade from the sheath. Off balance, Hobson stumbled and desperately tried to regain his footing, his face panicked. But not for long. An accomplished swordsman, Forester flung his left arm wide and at the same time turned from the waist and elegantly thrust with his blade, running Hobson through. Three feet of steel rammed into his guts will shock a man dreadfully, and Bill Hobson’s scream was a shrieking mix of pain, fear, and despair. As the Englishman slowly sank to the sleet-soaked ground groaning, holding his belly with glistening, scarlet hands, one of his cohorts turned and scampered, but the third, the man Hobson had called Johnny, slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his right fist and came charging. Forester was surprised by this aggression and reluctantly recognized the ruffian as a fighting man. It took sand to take on a sword with nothing but a knuckleduster. As a mark of respect, the Texan decided there and then to spare Johnny the pain he’d inflicted on his gutted companion. He backed off a step, away from the man’s clumsy swing, and his blade flickered like the tongue of an angry serpent, and the point sank into Johnny’s throat just under his larynx. A quick thrust and the steel projected four inches from the back of the man’s neck and then was withdrawn. Dying on his feet, Johnny stared at Forester in bewilderment for long seconds and then sank to the ground, his face in the black, liquid mud.
Savvy swordsmen never sheathe a bloody blade since it can corrode the steel. Forester ripped the cloth cap from Hobson’s head and wiped the sword as clean as he could. He then took a silk handkerchief from his greatcoat pocket and finished the job. He slid the sword back into the cane as Hobson whispered, scarlet blood in his mouth, “You’ve killed me.”
Forester nodded. “Seems like. You won’t survive that wound, my man.”
“Damn you. Damn you to Hades.”
“Better men than you have told me that.”
“I need a doctor,” Hobson said. “Get me a doctor.”
Foster smiled and shook his head. “No, my friend, you don’t need a doctor, you need an undertaker.”
“I’ve got a wife . . . four . . . four kids still alive,” Hobson said.
“That’s sad. So very tragic,” Foster said. He glanced at the leaden sky. “Well, I can’t tarry here talking any longer. Tempus fugit, as they say.”
“Don’t go, mister. Help me.”
“You’re beyond help, pardner,” Forester said. “All you can do now is die. A balestra followed by a thrust to the belly is always fatal.” The Texan nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Ah yes,” he said. Then, “Well, I’ll be on my way.”
Hobson, his throat thick with blood, called out something, but Forester wasn’t listening. He made his way to the waiting cab, walking head bent through driving, icy sleet made even colder by a savage north wind.
Only the driver’s pale blue eyes were visible under the brim of his top hat as he looked down at Forester, sizing him up as the American gent he was there to meet.
“Been waiting long?” Forester said.
“Six days long, yer worship,” the driver said, by his accent a cockney from the London East End. “From dawn to dusk, me an’ his ’ere ’orse.”
“The ship was caught by a winter storm in the mid-Atlantic,” Forester said. “We were driven back by the gale. That’s why I’m late.”
The driver’s shaggy eyebrows were frosted with rime. He nodded and said, “I got no time for ships and oceans. I’m a landlubber, meself.”
“Well, I hope they’re paying you enough,” Forester said. “It’s no fun sitting out for hours in this vile weather.”
“That they are,” the cabbie said. “They’re paying me handsomely.” Then, to Forester’s surprise, he added, “The one who ran away is Charlie Tompkins. He lives with a loose woman in the East End and hangs around the docks, thieving whatever he can. He won’t snitch to the law, never fear. They’d love to get their ’ands on old Charlie, the coppers would.”
Sleet gathered on the shoulders of Forester’s greatcoat, and he was anxious to get inside. “Maybe he’ll talk, maybe he won’t, but he should be taken care of,” he said.
“He will be, and the two dead men back there,” the driver said. “Mr. Walzer don’t leave no loose ends.”
“Ernest Walzer is a careful man,” Forester said.
“That he is,” the driver said. “There’s a flask of brandy and a box of cigars inside, ’elp yourself. It’s an hour and a half’s drive to Mr. Walzer’s house and most of it over cobbles.”
Forester settled in the cab’s leather seat, glad to be out of the storm, though the air inside was still bitterly cold. His breath steamed as he pou
red a brandy from the flask into its silver cup and then lit a cigar. Back in Texas, his rancher client had paid him well for acting as a go-between, making sure that Ernest Walzer held up his end of the contract, and Forester decided that he deserved every cent . . . nobody had warned him about the lousy British weather.
CHAPTER TWO
“Did you have a pleasant crossing, Mr. Forester?” said Ernest Walzer, a round-shouldered man of medium height, his intense black eyes dominating a sensitive, fine-boned Semitic face. He wore a ruby red smoking jacket and a round black hat with a tassel. He had Persian slippers on his feet, and Forester guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-sixties. But he could have been any age.
“Pleasant enough until halfway across the Atlantic, when we ran into a storm,” Forester said. “Pushed us back toward New York for four days.”
Walzer smiled. “I hope you’re a good sailor.”
“I’m not. I was as sick as a poisoned pup the whole time.”
“Ah, well, you’re on dry land now,” Walzer said. “The sherry is to your taste?”
“It’s just fine,” Forester said.
“I’m distressed about your unfortunate encounter with low-class scoundrels,” Walzer said. “On behalf of my country, I offer you an apology.”
“A minor incident of no great account,” Forester said. He waved a careless hand, and the blue smoke from his cigar made curling patterns in the air.
“Nevertheless, the one called Tompkins will not live out the day,” Walzer said. “You can be assured of that.”
He and Walzer sat on each side of a blazing log fire in the mansion’s study that was furnished very much in the current, upper-class style, crowded and ornate with well-polished wood, stuffed animals and birds under glass domes, and thick Persian rugs. A portrait of grim old Queen Victoria hung above the fireplace. The room was warm, cozy, hazy from cigar smoke, and spoke of great wealth.
Walzer studied the Texan for a few moments and then said, “It was Tom Watkins who told me about the difficulty you had at the St. Katherine Dock.”