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  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 two hundred 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 hardworking 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,

  William W. Johnstone

  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

  BLOOD BOND

  GUNSMOKE

  AND GOLD

  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

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twventy-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  AFTERWORD - Notes from the Old West

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Notes

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright 2018 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 electronic edition: July 2018

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-1760-7

  One

  “Two riders comin’,” the cowboy said, knocking the dust from him with his hat. “They look like hardcases to me. Be here in about five minutes. I grabbed a look-see from the rocks and come in the back way.”

  The knot of men followed him inside the saloon and up to the bar. The cowboy ordered a mug of beer and drank half of it before setting the mug on the bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “What brands?” he was asked.

  “None I ever seen before. Fine horses, though. Real fine.”

  “Then it’s happenin’,” another said. “The damn nesters and sheepmen has hired guns.”

  “Aw, now, hell!” another man spoke from a table. “Don’t none of us here know that for a fact. Simmer down. It’s probably two drifters lookin’ for work.”

  “With tied-down guns?” the messenger asked softly.

  “Some men tie ’em down, others don’t,” the voice of moderation said. “We’ll look ’em over when they get here.”

  “Suppose they head over to the Plowshare?” he was asked.

  “Then we’ll know, won’t we?”

  Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves rode into the town, reined up at the start of the long street, and gave the town a once-over.

  “We have our choice of watering holes,” Sam said. “The Red Dog and the Plowshare.”

  “And a fine hotel,” Matt replied with a grin.

  “I’m more interested in a long hot bath, a shave and a haircut, and something to eat. You see a barber shop?”

  “Not yet. Let’s ride on in and have a beer at one of the saloons.”

  “The Red Dog looks like it’s doing a land-office business. Want to try the Plowshare?”

  “Why not? It looks quiet. Maybe for once we can have a beer without getting into trouble.”

  “That would be a novel experience,” his blood-brother replied dryly.

  They rode on in.

  “I knowed it!” the cowboy said. “Swingin’ down in front of that damn sheep-dip bar.”

  The man who had tried to calm everybody stood up and watched the strangers. The town’s two saloons were located directly across the street from each other. He grunted as he watched Matt Bodine slip the hammer-thongs from his guns the moment his boots touched the ground.

  “Gunhands, all right. Shorty, you’d best ride for the ranch and tell Pete it’s started.”

  “Right, Mr. Dale. I’m on my way.”

  “Frisco, get to the Circle X and tell Blake.”

  “I’m gone, Mr. Dale.”

  Mr. Dale looked around for a rider from the Lightning Arrow spread. There was nobody in the bar who worked for Hugo Raner. Well, he’d hear soon enough.

  Matt turned at the batwings as the two cowboys jumped in their saddles and lit out of town like it was a double payday at the ranch.

  “Curious,” he muttered.

  “Maybe we need a bath more than we think?” Sam said good-naturedly.

  Matt laughed at his half-breed Cheyenne brother and pushed open the batwings. Sam’s father had been a great and respected chief, his mother a beautiful white woman from the East. Matt and Sam had met while just children, and soon Matt was spending as much time in the Cheyenne camp as he was at home on the ranch. They grew up together and Matt was adopted into the Cheyenne tribe and became a true Human Being. Sam’s father had been killed during the battle at the Little Bighorn, after he had char
ged Custer, alone, unarmed except for a coup stick. Matt and Sam had witnessed the slaughter—something they had never told anyone—and when they rode down from the ridges to stand over the carnage, it had affected them deeply. They decided to drift for a time, to blunt the edges of the terrible memory before they returned to their ranches along the Wyoming-Montana border.

  Both were not without resources, for Sam’s mother had come from a wealthy family and was fairly well-off for the time. Matt owned a huge and very profitable cattle and horse ranch—as did Sam—so while they might look like saddlebums, they certainly were not.

  They were handsome and muscular young men, both in their mid-twenties; both with a wild and reckless glint in their eyes. Sam’s eyes were black, Matt’s were blue. Sam’s hair was black, Matt’s was dark brown. Both were big men, but very agile for their size—over six feet tall and weighing about one ninety each. They could pass for full brothers and had many times. Sam had inherited his mother’s white features; only his cold obsidian eyes—which could sparkle with high humor at a moment’s notice—gave him away.

  Medicine Horse, Sam’s father, when he knew war was coming and knew he must fight, had ordered his son from their encampment and ordered him to adopt the white man’s ways and to forever forget his Cheyenne blood. Medicine Horse made his son repeat the pledge, knowing that even after his death, Sam August Webster Two Wolves would not disobey.

  Both young men wore the same three multicolored stones around their necks, the stones pierced by rawhide.

  And both young men were highly respected when it came to gunfighting. It was not a title they sought or wanted, but they were called gunfighters. Of the two, Matt Bodine was faster, but not by much. Matt had been at it longer than Sam.

  Matt had killed his first man when he was fourteen, defending his father’s ranch. The man’s brothers came after him when he was fifteen. They were buried that same day. At sixteen, rustlers came when Matt was nightherding. Two more graves were added. He lived with Cheyennes during his seventeenth year and then went to work riding shotgun for gold shipments. Four men died trying to rob the shipments. Later, two more called Matt out in the street. Neither man cleared leather.

  After that he was a scout for the Army, when they asked him to be. He saved his money and bought land. His ranch was one of the largest in the state.

  Sam Two Wolves was college-educated, while Matt was educated at home by his mother, who was a trained schoolteacher. Matt would be considered well-educated for the time.

  There were four men in the saloon, including the barkeep. Both Matt and Sam noticed how tensed-up the men became as the brothers walked across the room to the bar, spurs jingling with each step.

  Matt smiled at the barkeep. “Howdy,” he said. “How about a couple of beers?”

  The barkeep hesitated, then nodded and pulled two mugs of beer.

  “All the business seems to be across the street,” Matt remarked. “What’s the place have, dancing girls?”

  “Mister,” one of the men seated at a table said, “you sure you’re in the right saloon?”

  Sam smiled at the man. “Is there a right place and a wrong place to get a beer in this town?”

  “There sure is,” another man said. Both brothers noticed he wore low-heeled boots and had his gun stuck behind his belt instead of in a holster.

  Farmer, the brothers concluded. Then the name of the saloon sank in. The Plowshare. A saloon for farmers and sheepmen, probably.

  “Well,” Matt smiled the word. “If we have one beer in here and the second beer across the street, we’ll please everybody, right?”

  A man smiled in return. “A reasonable person might think so, but around here lately, reason seems to have flown the coop.”

  “Was I you boys,” yet another man said, “I’d have my beer and then ride on. You been marked just by coming in here.”

  “Marked?” Sam asked.

  “Range war shapin’ up around here. Cattlemen and hands use the Red Dog. Farmers and sheepmen use this place. You was seen comin’ in here. Them across the street probably think we hired you. You’re marked.”

  “Sheep and cattle can get along, if both sides use some sense. Sheep have to be moved regular to keep from overgrazing. Hell, so do cattle.” Matt took a sip of beer.

  “A reasonable man,” the barkeep said. “What a breath of fresh air around here.”

  “Are you boys lookin’ for work?” the fourth man asked.

  “Not really,” Sam told him. “We’re just drifting. Seeing some country. We both own spreads west of here.”

  “Cattlemen?”

  “Yes,” Matt answered. “There are farms all around our spreads. We get along just fine.”

  The farmer shook his head. “I wish that were the case here. There are three big ranches in this area. The Box H. owned by Pete Harris; the Circle V, owned by Blake Vernon; and the Lightning Arrow, owned by Hugo Raner. They control—or think they do—hundreds of thousands of acres. We came in—the homesteaders and a few sheepmen—and filed on our land legal and proper. We’ve stayed and proved it up according to law. Built us a school and a church. We didn’t expect all the hostility we’re now facing.”

  Sam and Matt took their beers and moved to a table by the window.

  “We put up wire to protect our crops, the cattlemen tear it down. If we try to irrigate—when we need it—the cattlemen dam up the water.”

  “Do you share the water?” Sam asked gently.

  “Absolutely. We don’t want it all, just a small portion of it. This really isn’t an issue of water or land—no matter what the cattlemen say. It isn’t. It’s a question of who is the most powerful. Raul, one of the sheepmen, petitioned the government for grazing rights, and got it, in writing. Hugo Raner told Raul he didn’t give a damn what was written on some piece of paper. Said if Raul didn’t move his sheep, he’d kill them, then he’d kill Raul.”

  “And? . . .” Matt asked.

  “Raul’s lost several hundred sheep. He’s written for some of his relatives to come up here and join him. They’ll be along any day now.”

  “Basque?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. They’re good people. Gentle people. But if they’re pushed, they’ll fight.”

  The farmers filed out, leaving the place empty except for the bartender and the brothers by the window.

  “The hotel have a dining room?” Matt asked.

  “Yep,” the barkeep said. “Good one. Nice rooms, too. But I doubt if Mister Dale will let you boys register there.”

  “Mister Dale?” Sam questioned.

  “Owns this town. Well . . . he don’t own it outright. He settled it. He’s the mayor, owns the bank and the real estate office and some other businesses. He saw to it that Jack Linwood got the sheriff’s job—rigged the election. You boys heard of Jack Linwood?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “Supposed to be a fast gun.”

  “There ain’t no supposin’ to it. He’s fast. I’ve seen him work more’n once. And his deputies is scum. Buster Phelps, Sam Keller, and Wes Fannin.”

  “If the situation is as tense as the farmers say it is, don’t you think you’re talking a bit too much?” Sam asked.

  The man smiled. “Name’s Chrisman. I come in here two days behind Dale. I own this place, free and clear. I also own me a little spread west of town. Run a few head of cattle.”

  “What is the name of this town?” Matt asked.

  “Dale. What else?”

  * * *

  The brothers saw to their horses and walked over to the hotel, carrying their saddlebags, bedrolls, and rifles. They had no trouble checking in, although the desk clerk’s eyes bugged out when he read their names. As soon as the brothers had climbed the stairs to their rooms, the clerk sent a boy running across the street to the saloon.

  “Matt Smith and Sam Jones,” Mister Dale said. “Yeah. I’m sure those are their real names.”

  “I can run them out of town,” Sheriff Linwood said, leaning against the bar, sippi
ng a whiskey. “That’d be the easiest way to handle it.”

  “We don’t know for sure who they are, so for now we’ll leave them alone,” Mister Dale said. “And I mean alone. Let them clean up and have a drink and eat and I think they’ll probably pull out in the morning.”

  “And if they don’t?” Pete Harris asked.

  Mister Dale shook his head.

  “I don’t like it, them goin’ straight to that sheepcrap and nester saloon,” a cowboy said. “It’s like they knew what they was doin.’ ”

  “We’ll see,” Mister Dale said. “If they don’t pull out in the morning, we’ll . . .” he paused, “. . . Take the appropriate action.” He looked at Jack Linwood. “Understood?”

  Jack nodded his head. He was liking this job less and less. He’d used his gun many times, but he was no cold-blooded killer. And if Dale thought that, the man was flat-out wrong.

  Two

  Their boots were polished by a boy in the shop. Now, bathed and shaved, the hair cut off the backs of their necks and around their ears, and smelling like dandies (it was only a dime more to get that genuine imported aftershave splashed on), the brothers dressed in their last clean sets of clothing and left the rest to be washed and ironed by a lady who lived on the edge of town—recommended by Chrisman.

  They stepped into the hotel dining room. The place was about half-full of early diners. “The town’s gentry, so to speak,” Sam muttered, looking around him.

  “Hush,” Matt told him. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you, since you’re the expert at starting trouble.”

  “Thank you.”

  The brothers took a seat, very conscious of the sly gazes being tossed their way by the young ladies in the room; and they did look dashing. Matt was dressed in a red checkered shirt and dark jeans, a black kerchief at his throat. Sam had dressed in a sparkling white shirt, a red kerchief at his throat, and dark jeans. The brothers set some feminine hearts to palpitatin’.