Guns of the Mountain Man

  Dear Readers,

  Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”

  I’ve never forgotten those words. And now, many years and almost 200 books later, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the last gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid mountain man, or John Barrone and his hard-working crew keeping America safe from terrorist lowlifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.

  Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.

  As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.

  Respectfully yours,

  Look for these exciting Western series from

  bestselling authors

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  and J. A. JOHNSTONE

  The Mountain Man

  Preacher: The First Mountain Man

  Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter

  Those Jensen Boys!

  The Jensen Brand

  MacCallister

  Flintlock

  Perley Gates

  The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

  Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

  Texas John Slaughter

  Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal

  The Frontiersman

  Savage Texas

  The Trail West

  The Chuckwagon Trail

  Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming

  AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  GUNS OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Notes

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2006 by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Guns of the Mountain Man copyright © 1999 by William W. 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.

  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.”

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First eBook edition: July 2018

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-2933-4

  1

  Calvin Woods was talking to himself as he rode out to the northern section of the Sugarloaf Ranch. He and Pearlie, the foreman, had been stringing fence earlier, and Cal had forgotten to load up the extra wire and tools when it came time to head back to the ranch house. Now he was having to ride all the way back out there to pick up the tools, and was giving Pearlie first shot at the bear sign donuts Miss Sally was sure to have cooling in the kitchen.

  “Darn it all, by the time I get back Pearlie’ll have ’bout near all them bear sign eaten up, Dusty,” Cal said bitterly to the back of his horse’s head. “I’ll be lucky if’n I get more’n one or two.”

  Cal’s horse was the offspring of a cross between Joey Wells’s big strawberry roan named Red and one of the Palouse mares Sally had given to him and his wife a couple of years ago. The horse, called a quicksilver gray, was actually almost pure white, differing from a true white albino by having blue eyes instead of pink. The bronc was a pale gray in front with snow-white hips, without the typical Palouse spots on its hindquarters. Cal had named him Dusty, and had formed a deep bond with the animal the first time he’d ridden him.

  He found the tools where he’d left them and loaded them in a burlap sack, which he tied to the back of his saddle. As he stood next to his horse, he built himself a cigarette. He figured he’d smoke it out here, since Smoke Jensen’s wife, Sally, didn’t much care for him smoking. She said he was too young, and he’d have plenty of time to smoke and drink all he wanted when he got older.

  Heck, he thought, I’m old enough to smoke or drink if’n I want to. I’m dang sure old enough to string ten miles of fence ’round this here pasture an’ work ’til I’m sore all over.

  As he puffed, he looked out over the herd of Hereford and shorthorn mixes. Smoke was really smart to get those Herefords from Mr. Chisum an’ breed ’em with the shorthorns last year, he thought. They sure do throw off some good lookin’ calves.

  He remembered what Miss Sally had said when she proposed the crossbreeding—that the crosses would be more hardy, give more and better tasting meat, and be more resistant to disease than either of the parent breeds.

  Just as he stubbed out his cigarette, he heard the sound of horses, lots of them, coming from just over a nearby ridge.

  Wonder who that could be? he thought. This pasture is smack in the middle of the Sugarloaf, and there shouldn’t be nobody riding across it unless they’re up to no good.

  He swung into the saddle and loosened the rawhide hammer thong on his Colt as he rode toward the ridge. Lately, he’d taken to imitating his hero, Smoke Jensen, and carried both a Winchester in his left saddle boot and a Greener 10-gauge double-barreled express gun in his right boot.

  Cresting the ridge, he pulled the shotgun from its scabbard and eared back the hammers as he reined his horse to a halt.

  Down the hill, he saw a group of about fifteen or twenty men on horseback. Several of the riders were cutting a fat steer out of the herd while the others sat in their saddles, watching.

  Cal was trying to decide whether he should ride down and brace the men alone or hightail it back to the ranch house and get some help. He didn’t particularly like the odds of twenty to one, but he knew if he took the time to go for backup the men might be gone by the time they got back here.

  His decision was made for him when one of the rustlers looked up and saw him sitting on the ridge. He leaned over and spoke to a tall man wearing a black frock coat, who turned to stare at Cal.

&n
bsp; “Heck,” Cal mumbled to his horse, “in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”

  He spurred his bronc down the hill and rode up to the group.

  “Howdy, gents,” he said, speaking to the tall man who appeared to be in charge.

  Up close, the galoot was even stranger looking than he had been from a distance. He appeared to be over six and a half feet tall, was skinny to the point of being gaunt, and had a scraggly goatee covering his lips and chin. His eyes had a wild, haunted look as if there was nothing behind them, and he was dressed all in black, from his coat and vest to his pants and boots. His boiled shirt was the only spot of lightness about him. As he turned in the saddle, Cal could see he wore a Colt on each hip, and a Henry Yellow Boy rifle was resting across his thighs.

  All in all, he reminded Cal of the man named Ichabod Crane in the story “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” Miss Sally had read to him when he was taking his schooling.

  “You men are aware you’re trespassin’ on private property, aren’t you?” Cal asked when he got no response to his greeting.

  “What is your name, boy?” the man in black asked.

  “My name’s Cal. What’s yours?”

  “Lazarus. Lazarus Cain,” the man answered, acting as if the name should mean something to Cal.

  It didn’t.

  “Have you been saved, Cal?” Lazarus asked.

  Cal snorted. The man’s eyes didn’t lie. He was crazy.

  “Saved from what?” Cal asked, his eyebrows raised.

  “Why, from hell and damnation, of course.”

  “What’s all this got to do with the fact you men are stealin’ my boss’s cattle?”

  “I don’t like this young pup calling me a thief, boss,” a young Mexican said, kicking his horse to ride up in front of Cal. He put his hand on his pistol butt and added, “Why don’t I just kill him?”

  Lazarus turned his head to look at Cal, his eyebrows raised, as if waiting to see how Cal would handle the challenge.

  “Anytime you think you’re ready, cabrón,” Cal said, easing the barrel of the express gun toward the Mexican.

  Cabrón being about the worst thing a Mexican could be called, the man went for his pistol.

  Cal let the hammer down on his shotgun, firing from the hip, and splattered the Mexican all over the men behind him, blowing him out of the saddle to land in several pieces on the ground.

  As the explosion echoed across the hilly landscape and the horses jumped and crow-hopped at the noise, Cal pulled the barrel around until it pointed at Lazarus.

  “We got you outnumbered twenty to one, boy,” Lazarus said, staring at Cal with an appraising stare.

  Cal inclined his head toward the body on the ground. “Nineteen to one now, Mr. Cain, an’ if’n any more of your men get itchy trigger fingers, you’ll be the next one I kill.”

  “You’re pretty brave sitting behind that shotgun, boy.”

  Cal showed his teeth, but he wasn’t smiling. “Like Mr. Colt said, God created all men equal, only this here express gun makes some more equal than others.” He inclined his head. “Now, I’d suggest you gentlemen ride on outta here, leavin’ the beeves you’ve cut outta the herd behind.”

  As he finished speaking, Cal saw out of the corner of his eye a man start to raise a pistol.

  He swiveled in his saddle and fired the second barrel of the Greener, blowing the man’s right arm off at the shoulder and slamming him out of the saddle.

  Before he could turn back, Lazarus drew his pistol and fired twice, one slug taking Cal in the left shoulder and the other in the right chest, shattering a rib and imbedding itself deep within his chest.

  Cal was catapulted off his horse to land flat on his back, staring at a cloudless, blue sky.

  Lazarus got off his mount and walked over to stand looking down at Cal.

  “You got a lot of sand—I’ll say that for you boy.”

  Cal’s vision blurred, then focused in time to see Lazarus do the strangest thing . . . He pulled out a Bible and held it up, spreading his hands wide toward heaven. Then he began to pray for Cal’s soul in a loud, harsh voice.

  As the crazy man prayed, Cal noticed blackness creeping across the sky until it became a large, dark hole which swallowed him up.

  * * *

  After Cal lapsed into unconsciousness, Lazarus continued to pray for a few moments. He had started to walk back toward his horse when he noticed Dusty standing a short distance away from Cal.

  He pursed his lips, thinking. Then his eyes widened and a joyful expression came over his face. He walked over and picked up Dusty’s reins, calming the horse with a low, soothing voice when he tried to shy away from the stranger.

  Lazarus pulled the reins and led Dusty over to the group of men waiting to see what he would do next.

  He grinned and pointed at the white horse with one hand, held up his Bible, and began to speak in low, sonorous tones, “So I looked, and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death, and Hades followed with him. And power was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword, with hunger, with death, and by the beasts of the earth.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Lazarus?” asked Blackie Jackson, who sat leaning forward in his saddle with his arms crossed over his saddle horn.

  Lazarus cut his eyes toward Blackie. “That, Blackie, for your information, is from the Bible, the Book of Revelation, chapter six, verse eight.”

  “Yeah, boss, but what’s it mean?” asked Curly Joe Ventrillo as he upended a small bottle of whiskey and drained it dry.

  “Coming upon this young man, with his pale horse, is another sign from God that I . . . that is we, are on the correct path. That we are indeed doing his bidding and will be rewarded with his blessings.”

  “So, you intend to take that white hoss, or what?” asked another of Lazarus’s gang members—Tom “Behind the Deuces” Cartwright.

  Lazarus bent and released the belly cinch on Cal’s saddle and let it drop to the ground. “Yes, I intend to ride this pale horse, as the Bible said, and I will ride across a fourth of the country, like Death followed by Hades, killing and doing God’s work until he calls us home.”

  Blackie Jackson covered a prodigious yawn with a ham-like hand. “Well, whatever the hell you’re gonna do, you better hurry up and do it. Them shots are liable to bring some more punchers on the run.”

  “If anyone else comes, we will deal with them the same way we did this young man,” Lazarus said, as he tightened down his saddle on Cal’s bronc.

  “I for one do not mind fighting, old chap,” said Jeremy Brett, the Englishman, “but personally, I would rather save my energies for when there might be a possibility of profit in the matter.”

  Lazarus climbed into the saddle. “Well said, Jeremy.” He put the spurs to Dusty’s flanks and called out, “Let’s ride!”

  2

  Smoke Jensen, legendary gunfighter, leaned against the wall of his cabin with his arms folded and watched his ranch foreman, Pearlie, devour Sally’s bear sign donuts as if he hadn’t eaten for months. Sally, standing next to the kitchen table, wiped flour off her nose and shook her head. As many times as she’d seen Pearlie eat, it still amazed her how much food the cowboy could put away.

  Standing just under six feet tall, Pearlie weighed no more than a hundred and fifty pounds and hadn’t an ounce of fat on his body. His face was brown as mahogany and wrinkled from twenty years riding in the sun, and one could usually tell what he’d had for his last meal from the crumbs that accumulated in his handlebar mustache. He was a good foreman, and his hands were intensely loyal in spite of the many practical jokes he played on them.

  “Pearlie,” Smoke asked, “didn’t you just have breakfast a few hours ago?”

  Pearlie mumbled something, but his mouth was so full Smoke couldn’t understand him.

  “Come again?”

  Pearlie swallowed with an audible gulp, then washed the donuts down with a tall glass of fresh cow�
��s milk. “I said, I was runnin’ late this mornin’ an’ I only got to eat three or four hen’s eggs and a handful of bacon and three or four biscuits. Wasn’t hardly enough to keep a body alive ’til noontime.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean,” Smoke said. “I guess I’m going to have to talk to Cookie about keeping you men on starvation rations.”

  Pearlie nodded, then took the platter of bearsign and put them in the cabinet, out of sight. He broke off a small piece of one and placed it in the middle of the table on a plate.

  “Pearlie, what are you doing?” Sally asked.

  Pearlie grinned. “When Cal gets back here, all he’s gonna see is that little bitty piece of bearsign, an’ he’s gonna think I ate ’em all up.” He laughed. “Boy, is he gonna be mad.”

  Pearlie, like most of the Sugarloaf hired hands, thought of Cal as a little brother, and was continually teasing him about one thing or another. Cal had even complained that he was getting calluses on his back from Pearlie riding him so much.

  Smoke walked out on the porch to light a cigar and finish his coffee, as Sally didn’t allow smoking in the cabin. He smiled to himself, thinking back on how Pearlie had come to work for him and the changes in the young man since that day.

  Pearlie had come to work for Smoke in a rather roundabout way. He was hiring his gun out to Tilden Franklin in Fontana when Franklin went crazy and tried to take over Sugarloaf, Smoke and Sally’s spread. After Franklin’s men raped and killed a young girl in the fracas, Pearlie had sided with Smoke and the aging gunfighters he had called in to help put an end to Franklin’s reign of terror.1