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  AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

  A REASON TO DIE

  A PERLEY GATES WESTERN

  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

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 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: 978-0-7860-4219-7

  First electronic edition: September 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4220-3

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4220-6

  CHAPTER 1

  “It’s a good thing I decided to check,” John Gates said to Sonny Rice, who was sitting in the wagon loaded with supplies. They had just come from Henderson’s General Store and John had wanted to stop by the telegraph office on the chance Perley might have sent word.

  Sonny was immediately attentive. “Did he send a telegram? Where is he?”

  “He’s in Deadwood, South Dakota,” John answered. “He said he’s on his way home.”

  “Did he say if he found your grandpa?”

  “He said he found him, but Grandpa’s dead. Said he’d explain it all when he gets back.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Sonny drew out. “Ol’ Perley found him. I figured he would. He usually does what he sets out to do.”

  John couldn’t disagree. His younger brother was always one to follow a trail to its end, even though oftentimes it led him to something he would have been better served to avoid. He laughed when he thought about what his older brother, Rubin, said about Perley. If there ain’t but one cow pie between here and the Red River, Perley will most likely step in it.

  It was a joke, of course, but it did seem that trouble had a way of finding Perley. It was true, even though he would go to any lengths to avoid it.

  “We might as well go by the diner and see if Beulah’s cooked anything fit to eat,” John casually declared, knowing that was what Sonny was hoping to hear. “Might even stop by Patton’s afterward and get a shot of whiskey. That all right with you?” He could tell by the grin on the young ranch hand’s face that he knew he was being japed. As a rule, Sonny didn’t drink very often, but he would imbibe on some occasions.

  Thoughts running through his mind, John nudged the big gray gelding toward the small plain building at the end of the street that proclaimed itself to be the Paris Diner. He was glad he had checked the telegraph office. It was good news to hear Perley was on his way home to Texas. He had a long way to travel from the Black Hills, so it was hard to say when to expect him to show up at the Triple-G. His mother and Rubin would be really happy to hear about the telegram. Perley had been gone a long time on his quest to find their grandpa. His mother had been greatly concerned when Perley hadn’t returned with his brothers after the cattle were delivered to the buyers in Ogallala.

  John reined the gray to a halt at the hitching rail in front of the diner, then waited while Sonny pulled up in the wagon.

  “Well, I was beginning to wonder if the Triple-G had closed down,” Lucy Tate sang out when she saw them walk in.

  “Howdy, Lucy,” John returned. “It has been awhile since we’ve been in town. At least, it has been for me. I don’t know if any of the other boys have been in.” He gave her a big smile. “I thought you mighta got yourself married by now,” he joked, knowing what a notorious flirt she was.

  She waited for them to sit down before replying. “I’ve had some offers, but I’m waiting to see if that wife of yours is gonna kick you out.”

  “She’s threatened to more than once,” he said, “but she knows there’s a line of women hopin’ that’ll happen.”

  She laughed. “I’m gonna ask Martha about that if you ever bring her in here to eat.” Without asking if they wanted coffee, she filled two cups. “Beulah’s got chicken and dumplin’s or beef stew. Whaddle-it-be?”

  “Give me the chicken and dumplin’s,” John said. “I get enough beef every day. How ’bout you, Sonny?”

  “I’ll take the chicken, too,” he replied, his eyes never having left the saucy waitress.

  Noticing it, John couldn’t resist japing him some more. “How ’bout Sonny, here? He ain’t married and he’s got a steady job.”

  She chuckled delightedly and reached over to tweak Sonny’s cheek. “You’re awful sweet, but still a little young. I’ll keep my eye on you, though.” She went to the kitchen to get their food, leaving the blushing young ranch hand to recover.

  “She’s something, ain’t she?” John asked after seeing Sonny’s embarrassment. “Can’t take a thing she says seriously.” He thought at once of Perley, who had made that mistake and suffered his disappointment. Further thoughts on the subject were interrupted when Becky Morris came in from the kitchen.

  “Afternoon, John,” Becky greeted him. “Lucy said you were here.” She greeted Sonny as well, but she didn’t know his name. “It’s been a while since any of the Triple-G men have stopped in. Perley used to come by every time he was in town, but I haven’t seen him in a long time now. Is he all right?”

  “Perley’s been gone for a
good while now,” John answered. “I just got a telegram from him this mornin’ from Dakota Territory. Said he’s on his way home.”

  “Oh, well, maybe he’ll come in to see us when he gets back,” Becky said.

  “I’m sure he will.” John couldn’t help wondering if Perley had taken proper notice of Becky Morris. Shy and gentle, unlike Lucy Tate, Becky looked more the woman a man should invest his life with. He might be wrong, but John suspected he detected a wistful tone in her voice when she’d asked about Perley.

  Before they were finished, Beulah Walsh came out to visit. John assured her that her reputation as a cook was still deserved, as far as he was concerned. He paid for his and Sonny’s meal, and got up to leave. “We’ve gotta stop by Patton’s before we go back to the ranch. Sonny’s gotta have a shot of that rotgut whiskey before he leaves town.”

  “I never said that,” Sonny insisted. “You were the one that said we’d go to the saloon.”

  “Don’t let him bother you, sweetie,” Lucy said and gave him another tweak on his cheek. “I know how you heavy drinkers need a little shooter after you eat.”

  “What did you tell her that for?” Sonny asked as soon as they were outside. “Now she thinks I’m a drunk.”

  “I doubt it,” John replied.

  * * *

  Moving back down the short street to Patton’s Saloon, they tied the horses to the rail and went inside.

  Benny Grimes, the bartender, called out a “Howdy” as soon as they walked in the door. “John Gates, I swear, I thought you mighta gave up drinkin’ for good.”

  “How do, Benny?” John greeted him. “Might as well have. We ain’t had much time to get into town lately. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”

  “That’s a fact,” Sonny agreed and picked up the shot glass Benny slid over to him. He raised it, turned toward John, and said, “Here’s hopin’ Perley has a safe trip home.” He downed it with a quick toss, anxious to get it over with. He was not a drinker by habit and took a drink of whiskey now and then only to avoid having to explain why he didn’t care for it.

  “Well, I’ll sure drink to that,” John said and raised his glass.

  “Me, too.” Benny poured himself one. After they tossed the whiskey down, he asked, “Where is he?”

  “Way up in Dakota Territory,” John said, “and we just got word he’s on his way home, so we need to let the folks hear the news.” He had one more drink, then he and Sonny headed back to the Triple-G.

  * * *

  The man John Gates had wished a safe trip home earlier in the day was seated a few yards from a crystal-clear waterfall. It was a good bit off the trail he had been following, but he’d had a feeling the busy stream he had crossed might lead to a waterfall. As high up as he was on the mountain, it stood to reason the stream would soon come to a cliff. It pleased him to find out he had been right, and it had been worth his while to have seen it. It was a trait that Perley Gates had undoubtedly inherited from his grandfather—an obsession for seeing what might lie on the other side of the mountain. And it was the reason he found himself in the Black Hills of Dakota Territory on this late summer day—that and the fact that he was not married and his brothers were. It didn’t matter if he rode all the way to hell and who knows where. There wasn’t any wife waiting for him to come home, so he had been the obvious pick to go in search of his grandfather.

  His grandfather, for whom he was named, was buried in the dark mountains not far from where Perley sat drinking the stout black coffee he favored. He felt a strong kinship with him, even though he had not really known the man, having never met him until a short time before he passed away. Even so, that was enough time for the old man to determine that he was proud to have his young grandson wear his name, Perley Gates. The old man had been one of the lucky ones who struck it rich in the Black Hills gold rush before an outlaw’s bullet brought his life to an end. Determined to make restitution to his family for having abandoned them, he hung on long enough to extract a promise from his grandson to take his gold back to Texas.

  The gold dust had been right where his grandfather had said it would be. Perley had recovered four canvas sacks from under a huge rock before he’d been satisfied there were no more. With no scales to weigh the sacks, he guessed it to be ten pounds per sack. At the present time, gold was selling in Deadwood at a little over three hundred and thirty dollars a pound. If his calculations were correct, he was saddled with a responsibility to deliver over thirteen thousand dollars in gold dust to Texas, more than eight hundred miles away. It was not a task he looked forward to. The gold rush had brought every robber and dry-gulcher west of Omaha to Deadwood Gulch, all with an eye toward preying on those who had worked to bring the gold out of the streams. Perley’s problem was how to transport his treasure without attracting the watchful eye of the outlaws. It would be easier to convert the dust to paper money, but he was not confident he would get a fair exchange from the bank in Deadwood, because of the inflation there.

  To add to his concerns, he had accumulated five extra horses during his time in the Black Hills and he didn’t want the bother of driving them all the way to Texas with no one to help him. With forty pounds of dust to carry, he decided to keep one of the horses to use as a second packhorse. His packhorse could carry the load along with his supplies, but with the load divided onto two horses, he could move a lot faster in the event he had to. His favorite of the extra horses would be the paint gelding that his grandfather had ridden. The old man had loved that horse, maybe as much as Perley loved Buck, so he didn’t feel right about selling it.

  With Custer City and Hill City reduced almost to ghost towns, he decided to ride back to Deadwood to see if he could sell the other four. Deadwood wasn’t a good market for selling horses. Cheyenne would be a better bet, or maybe Hat Creek Station, for that matter, but he figured he hadn’t paid anything for them, so he might as well let them go cheap.

  With that settled, he packed up and started back to Deadwood.

  * * *

  “Evenin’. Looks like you’re needin’ to stable some horses,” Franklin Todd greeted Perley when he drew up before his place of business.

  “Evenin’,” Perley returned. “Matter of fact, I’m lookin’ to sell four of ’em if I can get a reasonable price. I’m fixin’ to head back to Texas, and I don’t wanna lead a bunch of horses back with me.”

  Todd was at once alerted to the prospects of acquiring four horses at little cost, but he hesitated for a moment, stroking his chin as if undecided. “Which four?” he finally asked.

  Perley indicated the four and Todd paused to think some more.

  “I really ain’t buyin’ no horses right now, but I’ll take a look at ’em.” Todd took his time examining the four horses, then finally made an offer of ten dollars each.

  Perley wasn’t really surprised by the low offer and countered with a price of fifty dollars for all four.

  Todd didn’t hesitate to agree. “These horses ain’t stolen, are they?” he asked as he weighed out the payment.

  “Not till now,” Perley answered.

  With an eye toward disguising four sacks of gold dust, he left Todd’s and walked his horses past a saloon to a general merchandise establishment.

  “Can I help you with something?” the owner asked when Perley walked in.

  “I’m just lookin’ to see if there’s anything I need,” Perley answered and quickly scanned the counters and shelves while taking frequent glances out the door at his horses at the rail. In the process of trying to keep an eye on his horses, his attention was drawn to several large sacks stacked near the door. “What’s in those sacks?” He pointed to them.

  “Probably nothing you’d be looking for,” the owner replied. “Something I didn’t order. Came in with a load of merchandise from Pierre. It’s about four hundred pounds of seed corn. I don’t know where it was supposed to go, but it sure as hell wasn’t Deadwood. There ain’t a level piece of ground for farming anywhere in the Black Hills. I tried to sell
it to Franklin Todd at the stable for horse feed. Even he didn’t want it.”

  Perley walked over to an open bag and looked inside. “I might could use some of it. Whaddaya askin’ for it?”

  Too surprised to respond right away, the owner hesitated before asking, “How much are you thinking about?”

  Perley said he could use a hundred pounds of it.

  The owner shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. Two dollars?”

  “I could use some smaller canvas bags, too, four of ’em. You got anything like that?”

  With both merchant and customer satisfied they had made a good deal, Perley threw his hundred-pound sack of seed corn across the back of one of his packhorses and started back toward Custer City. Although already late in the afternoon, he preferred to camp in the hills outside of Deadwood, considering what he carried on his packhorses.

  He rode for a good nine or ten miles before stopping. When he made camp that night, he placed a ten-pound sack of gold dust in each of the twenty-five-pound sacks he had just bought, and filled in around it with seed corn. When he finished, he was satisfied that his dust was disguised about as well as he could hope for, and the corn didn’t add a lot of weight with the amount necessary to fill the sacks.

  He downed the last gulp of coffee from his cup and got to his feet. “Well, I can’t sit here and worry about it all night,” he announced to Buck, the big bay gelding grazing noisily a few yards away. “You don’t give a damn, do ya?”