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  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

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  Texas John Slaughter

  DEADLY DAY IN TOMBSTONE

  William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Look for These Exciting Series from

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Authors’ Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTORS

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 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.

  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: 978-0-7860-4279-1

  First electronic edition: January 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3369-0

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3369-X

  Authors’ Note

  This novel is loosely based on the life and times of legendary Old West lawman, rancher, and gambler John Horton “Texas John” Slaughter. The plot is entirely fictional and is not intended to represent actual historical events. The actions, thoughts, and dialogue of the historical characters featured in this story are fictional as well and not meant to reflect their actual personalities and behavior, although the authors have attempted to maintain a reasonable degree of accuracy.

  In other words, none of what you’re about to read really happened . . . but it could have.

  Chapter 1

  Stonewall Jackson Howell tensed as he stood on the boardwalk in front of a hardware store and looked along the mostly darkened length of Allen Street, one of the two main thoroughfares of Tombstone, Arizona Territory. The hour was late enough that most of the businesses were closed for the night, including the one where he had stopped abruptly. The only oasis of light came from the notorious Birdcage Saloon down at the other end of the street.

  His hands tightened on the short-barreled shotgun he carried as rapid footsteps thudded on the planks not far away.

  When somebody hurried like that at night, it usually meant trouble.

  As one of the sheriff’s deputies charged with keeping the peace in the famed frontier settlement, trouble was Stonewall’s business.

  He was a well-built young man, not long out of his teens, with a shock of fair hair under his thumbed-back brown hat. Despite his youth, he had already taken part in several cattle drives and had worked as a cowboy on the vast ranch in the San Bernardino Valley that belonged to his brother-in-law.

  He was serving as a deputy under that same brother-in-law, John Horton Slaughter, the sheriff of Cochise County. Texas John Slaughter, a lot of people called him, because he had come to Arizona from the Lone Star State.

  Stonewall called him John when they were at the ranch some sixty miles east of Tombstone, since they were related by marriage; in town he called the older man “boss” or “Sheriff .”

  John Slaughter didn’t stand for any disrespect, for him or for the office he held.

  The frantic, running footsteps came closer. Stonewall, who had been making the late night rounds and checking that the doors of various businesses were locked as they were supposed to be, leveled the shotgun at the sound. “This is the law!” he called. “Whoever that is, slow down and sing out!”

  “Stonewall!” The exclamation from the shadows held both surprise and relief as the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “Stonewall, is that you, pard?”

  With a troubled frown on his face, Stonewall asked, “Dallin Williams?”

  “Yeah.” The man’s dark shape loomed from the shadows on the boardwalk as he moved closer. “You gotta help me, Stonewall. Somebody’s after me.”

  A look of disgust, all but invisible in the darkness, passed over Stonewall’s normally open, friendly face. “Somebody’s after you?” he repeated.

  “Yeah. Albie Hamilton.”

  “This trouble of yours wouldn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hamilton, would it?”

  Despite the fact that Williams was breathing hard from running, he chuckled “Well . . .”

  “Good Lord, Dallin!” Stonewall exploded. “When are you gonna learn that it means something when a woman’s got a wedding ring on her finger?”

  “I tell you what. It didn’t seem to mean much to Brenda a little while ago.”

  Stonewall didn’t have to see Williams’s face in the shadows to know that the man was grinning. Even when he was up to his neck in trouble, as he usually was, a quick grin and a joke were his first line of defense.

  He had cowboyed all over Arizona Territory. He was a good ranch hand, a top all-around hand, in fact, but he couldn’t hold down a job. He couldn’t be trusted around a man’s wife and daughters.

  Dallin had the uncanny knack of being able to blind any woman over the age of consent with the bright lights of lust and infatuation. He had cuckolded more husbands and outraged more fathers than anybody could count.

  As far as Stonewall could see, it was only sheer luck that had kept Dallin from being tarred and feathered, shot, or marched in front of a preac
her at the point of a shotgun.

  Just about the only place he had ever failed to land a female he set his hook for was the Slaughter Ranch, when he’d worked there a year or so earlier. He had been mightily impressed with the sultry beauty of Viola Slaughter, Stonewall’s sister and the wife of John Slaughter. It was inevitable that he would make a play for her, with every expectation for success on his part. After all, Viola was a lovely, vibrant woman, and she was also considerably younger than her husband.

  What Dallin had failed to take into account was that Viola was madly, passionately in love with John Slaughter and always would be. When he made his move on her, she had laughed in his face and then grown serious, warning him to get out before she fetched a rifle.

  He had taken his defeat with fairly good grace, Stonewall recalled, and left the ranch before Slaughter ever found out about what had happened.

  Stonewall knew about the incident because he was working on the ranch at the time and Dallin was his friend. His sister had convinced him there was no reason to tell Slaughter and had sworn Stonewall to secrecy.

  Since then, Slaughter had been elected sheriff of Cochise County, Stonewall had gone to work for him as a deputy, and Dallin Williams had drifted on to several other ranches.

  Stonewall didn’t really consider him a friend anymore. Stonewall was something of a ladies’ man himself, or at least liked to think he was, but Dallin always carried things too far. It seemed to be a game with him. An ugly game, as far as Stonewall was concerned.

  Lately, Dallin had been working on the McCabe spread, and Stonewall figured it was only a matter of time before he began trying to seduce Jessie McCabe, the pretty, brown-haired daughter of Little Ed McCabe.

  Clearly, though, Dallin had decided to set his sights on Brenda Hamilton instead. Brenda’s husband Albie drove a freight wagon and was gone from Tombstone quite a bit. Since they didn’t have any children, that meant Brenda was home alone.

  She was also blond and shapely, with daring blue eyes and a tantalizing smile like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. All that put together must have been too tempting a target for Dallin to pass up.

  “What did you do now?” Stonewall asked in the same tone of voice he would have used if he had framed that rhetorical question to an egg-sucking dog.

  “Well, shoot, you know . . .” Dallin replied in that lazy drawl of his that seemed to have a spellbinding effect on most women. “Brenda and me just sorta spent a little time together gettin’ to know one another—”

  “Where is he?” a man bellowed from up the street. “Where is he, by God? I’ll wring his neck!”

  “Albie wasn’t supposed to be back from his freight run until tomorrow.” Dallin started to edge nervously past Stonewall on the boardwalk. “He got in early, though.”

  Dallin sighed and shook his head regretfully. “Wish I could say the same. Now, Stonewall, what I need for you to do is, when Albie comes stompin’ and blowin’ down here in a minute like a crazy ol’ bull, you just tell him you ain’t seen me and order him to settle down and go on home.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Well, he’s disturbin’ the peace, you know. As an officer of the law, you’d be within your rights to march him right down to the hoosegow and lock him up. Come to think of it, that might not be such a bad idea.”

  “Forget it,” Stonewall said. “I’m not gonna lie to Albie Hamilton, and I’m sure not gonna throw him in jail. I won’t help you hide from him, either.”

  “But Stonewall”—Dallin’s voice sounded like his feelings were mortally wounded—“we’re pards.”

  “No, we’re not. Maybe we used to be, a long time ago, but not anymore.”

  Albie Hamilton stood in the middle of the street and stopped to look around. He was a tall, brawny man with heavy shoulders and a bushy brown mustache. He lifted a fist, shook it at the sky, and bellowed, “I’ll find you, Williams! I’ll find you wherever you are, by God, and teach you not to mess with another man’s wife!”

  Stonewall couldn’t see him all that well and without thinking about what he was doing, he edged back deeper into the shadows in front of the hardware store. Hamilton hadn’t spotted them yet, but if he continued in that direction he probably would.

  “Listen here, Stonewall,” Dallin said softly. “If Albie Hamilton tries to lay his hands on me, I ain’t gonna let that happen. He ain’t packin’ an iron, but I am. This could turn into a right messy situation.”

  “It won’t go that far. Mr. Hamilton will listen to me if I tell him to back off.”

  “You sure about that? What happens if he don’t? I’ll tell you what happens. One of us will have to shoot him, that’s what. You bein’ a lawman and all, you don’t want that, do you?”

  Stonewall grimaced in the darkness. His teeth ground together in frustration as he thought about his options. After a moment, going against every instinct in his body, he said, “All right, blast it! Get out of here. Go down that alley. Where’s your horse?”

  “Tied at one of the hitch rails down by the Birdcage.”

  “Circle around through the alleys and stay out of sight. Get your horse and ride out. I’ll try to keep Mr. Hamilton occupied and give you a chance to get out of town.”

  Dallin clapped a hand on Stonewall’s shoulder. “Now that’s bein’ a good pard like I knowed you was.”

  “Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind and call him down here myself.”

  “I’m gone,” Dallin said over his shoulder.

  Stonewall heard him laughing as he disappeared in the darkness of the alley.

  After heaving a disgusted sigh aimed as much at himself as at Dallin, Stonewall started walking toward Albie Hamilton, who was still stomping around in the street.

  Hamilton saw him coming and charged toward him with fists clenched.

  Stonewall swung the shotgun up. “Hold it right there, Mr. Hamilton,” he ordered. “It’s me, Deputy Howell. What’s all the hollerin’ about? It’s mighty late at night to be disturbing the peace.”

  “Deputy!” Hamilton toned his voice down a little, but he still sounded as loud as a bull moose. “Have you seen that no-good young cowpoke Dallin Williams?”

  Lying rubbed Stonewall the wrong way, but he said, “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “Well, if I get my hands on him, you’ll never see him again, either! I’m gonna wring his neck!”

  “Now wait just a minute there. You can’t just go around threatening to kill folks. It ain’t like the old days in Tombstone, anymore.”

  That was true. More than five years had passed since the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday had had their run-in with the Clanton bunch down by the photography studio and the corral. Tombstone had settled down since then . . . sort of.

  “It ain’t a threat. It’s a promise,” Hamilton blustered. “I caught him messin’ with my wife. I got a legal right to shoot the both of ’em!”

  Suddenly, Stonewall was a little worried about Brenda Hamilton. He knew better than to think that Dallin might have lingered to make sure she was all right. No, Dallin would have lit a shuck out of there fast as he could as soon as he realized they’d been caught in the act.

  “Mr. Hamilton, you didn’t hurt your wife, did you?” Stonewall hadn’t heard any shots, but the man could have beaten her to death. Stonewall had to know for sure.

  “What?” Hamilton sounded genuinely surprised by the question. “Naw, I didn’t hurt her. Of course I didn’t! I got to admit, I was mad enough for a second there that I might’ve, but I love Brenda—God help me!—and wouldn’t do nothin’ to her. Anyway, I figure it ain’t really her fault. That blasted scoundrel Williams has a way of gettin’ women to do any damned thing he wants!”

  Stonewall knew that was true. It was sort of like magic. Evil magic.

  “Listen, Mr. Hamilton, I know how upset you are. Best thing you can do now is calm down, go home, and talk to your wife. I know Dallin Williams. There ain’t a serious bone in his body. The last thing he wants
is to steal your wife away from you permanent-like. I’ll bet if you have a talk with her, you’ll see that whatever happened didn’t really mean anything.”

  Hamilton glowered at him. “You think I’m gonna take advice about my marriage from some wet-behind-the-ears kid?”

  Stonewall’s voice hardened a little as he replied, “My ears ain’t all that wet. I’ve got a badge, a Colt, and a shotgun, too, so I’d say that makes me a little more than a kid.”

  A tense moment dragged past, then Hamilton made a disgusted noise in his throat. “All right, all right. I’ll go home. But you better hope I don’t run into that polecat Williams any time soon. If I do, I ain’t gonna be responsible for what happens, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” Stonewall said.

  Hamilton started to turn away, then paused to add, “I’m surprised somebody hasn’t killed that varmint before now.”

  “To tell you the truth, so am I.”

  “You’re not gonna say anything to Sheriff Slaughter about this, are you?” Hamilton suddenly sounded like he was starting to regret making death threats against Dallin Williams.

  “I can’t think of any reason to mention it as long as you stop raising a ruckus.”

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Hamilton muttered. He stomped away.

  As Hamilton walked off, Stonewall heard a faint, swift rataplan of hoofbeats at the other end of town as somebody rode away from Tombstone. He hoped the distant rider was Dallin. It was all right if his former friend just kept going and didn’t ever return to Tombstone.

  With a lawman’s instincts Stonewall was already starting to develop despite being on the job for only a short time, he had a strong hunch that last part wouldn’t turn out to be the case.

  Chapter 2

  John Horton Slaughter was a precise, methodical man. At the same time, he was one who frequently relied on his instincts and played his hunches.