Journey into Violence Read online

  Look for These Exciting Series from

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  The Mountain Man

  Preacher: The First Mountain Man

  Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man

  Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter

  Those Jensen Boys!

  The Family Jensen

  MacCallister

  Flintlock

  The Brothers O’Brien

  The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

  Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

  Hell’s Half Acre

  Texas John Slaughter

  AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

  THEKERRIGANS A TEXAS DYNASTY JOURNEY INTO VIOLENCE

  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

  BOOK ONE - Death in Dodge

  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

  BOOK TWO - Gunfight at Eagle Pass

  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

  BOOK THREE - Sacrifice

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITERS OF THE 21ST CENTURY

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone “Print the Legend”

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 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.

  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: 978-0-7860-3583-0

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3583-8

  First electronic edition: August 2016

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3584-7

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3584-6

  BOOK ONE

  Death in Dodge

  CHAPTER ONE

  “She ran me off her property, darned redheaded Irish witch.” Ezra Raven stared hard at his segundo, a tall lean man with ice in his eyes named Poke Hylle. “I want that Kerrigan land, Poke. I want every last blade of grass. You understand?”

  “I know what you want, boss,” Hylle said. He studied the amber whiskey in his glass as though it had become the most interesting thing in the room. “But wantin’ and gettin’ are two different things.”

  “You scared of Frank Cobb, that hardcase segundo of hers? I’ve heard a lot of men are.”

  “Should I be scared of him?” Hylle asked.

  “He’s a gun from way back. Mighty sudden on the draw and shoot.”

  Hylle’s grin was slow and easy, a man relaxed. “Yeah, he scares me. But that don’t mean I’m afraid to brace him.”

  “You can shade him. You’re good with a gun your own self, Poke, maybe the best I’ve ever known,” Raven said. “Hell, you gunned Bingley Abbott that time. He was the Wichita draw fighter all the folks were talking about.”

  “Bing was fast, but he wasn’t a patch on Frank Cobb,” Hylle said. “Now that’s a natural fact.”

  “All right, then, forget Cobb for now. There’s got to be a better way than an all-out range war.” Raven stepped to the ranch house window and stared out at the cloud of drifting dust where the hands were branding calves. “I offered Kate Kerrigan twice what her ranch is worth, but she turned me down flat. How do you deal with a woman like that?”

  “Carefully.” Hylle smiled. “I’m told she bites.”

  “Like a cougar. Shoved a scattergun into my face and told me to git. Me, Ezra Raven, who could buy and sell her and all she owns.” The big man slammed a fist into his open palm. “Damn, I need that land. I want to be big, Poke, the biggest man around. That’s just how I am, how I’ve always been, and I ain’t about to change.”

  The door opened and a tall, slender Pima woman stepped noiselessly across the floor and placed a white pill and a glass of water on Raven’s desk.

  “Damn, is it that time again?”

  “Take,” the woman said. “It is time.” She wore a plain, slim-fitting calico dress that revealed the swell of her breast and hips. A bright blue ribbon tied back her glossy black hair, and on her left wrist she wore a wide bracelet of hammered silver. She was thirty-five years old. Raven had rescued her from a brothel in Dallas, and he didn’t know her Indian name, if she had one. He called her Dora only because it pleased him to do so.

  Raven picked up the pill and glared at it. “The useless quack says this will help my heart. I think the damned thing is sugar rolled into a ball.”

  Hylle waved an idle hand. “Man’s got to follow the doctor’s orders, boss.”

  Raven shrugged, swallowed the medication with a gulp of water, and handed the glass back to the Pima woman. “Beat it, Dora. White men are talking here.”

  The woman bowed her head and left.

  “Poke, like I said, I don’t want to take on a range war. It’s a messy business. Nine times out of ten the law gets involved and next thing you know, you’re knee-deep in Texas Rangers.”

  Hylle nodded. “Here’s
a story you’ll find interesting, boss. I recollect one time in Galveston I heard a mariner talk about how he was first mate on a freighter sailing between Shanghai and Singapore in the South China Sea. Well, sir, during a watch he saw two ironclads get into a shooting scrape. He said both ships were big as islands and they had massive cannons in dozens of gun turrets. Both ships pounded at each other for the best part of three hours. In the end neither ironclad got sunk, but both were torn apart by shells and finally they listed away from each other, each of them trailing smoke. Nobody won that fight, but both ships paid a steep price.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey. “A range war is like that, boss. Ranchers trade gunfire, hired guns and punchers die, but in the end, nobody wins.”

  “And then the law comes in and cleans up what’s left,” Raven said.

  “That’s about the size of it,” Hylle said.

  “I don’t want that kind of fight. Them ironclads could have avoided a battle and sailed away with their colors flying. Firing on each other was a grandstand play and stupid.”

  Hylle rose from his chair, stepped to the decanters, and poured himself another drink. He took his seat again and said, “Boss, maybe there is another way.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Raven said. “But no more about heathen seas and ironclads. Damn it, man, you’re making me seasick.”

  Hylle smiled. “From what I’ve seen of the Kerrigan place it’s a hardscrabble outfit and Kate has to count every dime to keep it going. Am I right about that?”

  “You’re right. The KK Ranch is held together with baling wire and Irish pride. She’s building a house that isn’t much bigger than her cabin. She’s using scrap lumber and the first good wind that comes along will blow it all over creation.” Raven lifted his chin and scratched his stubbly throat. “Yeah, I’d say Kate Kerrigan’s broke or damned near it.”

  “So answer me this, boss. What happens if her herd doesn’t go up the trail next month?”

  A light glittered in Raven’s black eyes. “She’d be ruined.”

  “And eager to sell for any price,” Hylle said.

  Raven thought that through for a few moments then said, “How do we play it, Poke? Remember them damned ironclads of yours that tore one another apart.”

  “No range war. Boss, we do it with masked men—night riders. We scatter the Kerrigan herd, gun a few waddies if we must, but leave no evidence that can be tied to you and the Rafter-R. Stop her roundup and the woman is out of business.” Hylle smiled. “Pity though. She’s real pretty.”

  “So are dollars and cents, Poke. The Kerrigan range represents money in my pocket.” Raven was a big, rawboned man, and his rugged face was bisected by a great cavalry mustache and chin beard. He lit a cigar and said behind a blue cloud of smoke, “We wait until the branding is done and then we strike at the Kerrigan herds, scatter them to hell and gone before Kate can start the gather. Can we depend on the punchers?”

  Hylle nodded. “They ride for the brand, boss.”

  “Good. A two-hundred-dollar bonus to every man once the job is done and I own the Kerrigan range.” Raven slapped his hands together. “Do you think it can work?”

  “No question about that. No cattle drive to Dodge, no money for the KK.”

  “Hell, now I feel better about things, Poke. It’s like you’re a preacher and I just seen the light. How about another drink?”

  Hylle grinned. “Don’t mind if I do, boss. We’ll drink to the ruin of the KK and the end of pretty Mrs. Kerrigan’s stay in West Texas.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kate Kerrigan stood on her hearthstone and watched the rider. He was still a distance off and held his horse to a walk. The weight of the Remington .41 revolver in the pocket of her dress gave her a measure of reassurance. The little rimfire was a belly gun to be sure, but effective if she could get close enough.

  That Kate could stand on her hearthstone and see the man at a distance was not surprising since her new home was still only a frame and a somewhat rickety one at that. She’d scolded the construction foreman, but Black Barrie Delaney, captain of the brig Octopus, had assured her that he had inspected the work and the basic structure was sound. As she often did, Kate recalled their last conversation with distaste.

  * * *

  “I did not bring, all the way from Connemara, mind you, a slab of green marble for your hearthstone, Kate, only to have your new house fall about your ears.” Delaney wore a blue coat with brass buttons. Thrust into the red sash around his waist were two revolvers of the largest kind and a murderous bowie knife.

  “Barrie Delaney, I’ll never know why I let a pirate rogue like you talk me into building my house,” Kate said. “Why, ’tis well-known that you should have been hanged at Execution Dock in London town years ago.”

  “Ah, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s mercy knows no bounds and she saw fit to spare a poor Irish sailorman like me.”

  “More fool her,” Kate said. “You’ve sent many a lively lad to Davy Jones’s locker and a goodly woman or two if the truth be known. Well, here’s a word to the wise, Barrie Delaney, fix this house to my liking or I’ll hang you myself or my name is not Kate Kerrigan.”

  Delaney, a stocky man with a brown beard and quick black eyes full of deviltry that reflected the countless mortal sins he’d committed in his fifty-eight years of life, gave a little bow. “Kate, I swear on my sainted mother’s grave that I will build you a fine house, a dwelling fit for an Irish princess.”

  “Fit for me and my family will be quite good enough,” Kate said.

  * * *

  Kate shook her head at the memory. As she watched the rider draw closer, she pushed on the support stud next to her. It seemed that the whole structure swayed and she made a mental note to hang Black Barrie Delaney at the first convenient opportunity.

  Kate’s daughters Ivy and Shannon, growing like weeds, stepped out of the cabin, butterfly nets in hand, and she ordered them back inside.

  Ivy, twelve years old and sassy, frowned. “Why?”

  Her mother said, “Because I said so. Now, inside with you. There’s a stranger coming.”

  “Ma, is it an Indian?” Shannon asked.

  “No, probably just a passing rider, but I want to talk with him alone.”

  The girls reluctantly stepped back into the cabin and Kate once more directed her attention to the stranger. He was close enough that she saw he was dressed in the garb of a frontier gambler and he rode a big American stud, a tall sorrel that must have cost him a thousand dollars and probably more.

  The rider drew rein ten yards from where Kate stood and she saw that his black frockcoat, once of the finest quality, was frayed and worn, and a rent on the right sleeve above the elbow had been neatly sewn. His boots and saddle had been bought years before in a big city with fancy prices and the ivory-handled Colt and carved gun belt around his waist would cost the average cowpuncher a year’s wages. He seemed like a man who’d known a life and times far removed from poverty-stricken West Texas. His practiced ease around women was evident in the way he swept off his hat and made a little bow from the saddle.

  “Ma’am.” The man said only that. His voice was a rich baritone voice and his smile revealed good teeth.

  “My name is Kate Kerrigan. I own this land. What can I do for you?”

  “Just passing through, ma’am.” He’d opened his frilled white shirt at the neck and beads of sweat showed on his forehead. “I’ d like to water my horse if I may. We’ve come a fair piece in recent days, he and I.”

  Kate saw no threat in the man’s blue eyes, but there was much life and the living of it behind them. His experiences, whatever they were, had left shadows.

  “Then you’re both welcome to water,” Kate said. “The well is over there in front of the cabin and there’s a dipper.”

  The man touched his hat. “Obliged, ma’am.” He kneed his horse forward. His roweled spurs were silver, filigreed with gold scrolls and arabesques.

  Kate fancied they were such as knights in shinin
g armor wore in the children’s picture books.

  The rider swung out of the saddle, loosened the girth, and filled a bucket for his horse. Only when the sorrel had drank its fill did he drink himself, his restless, searching eyes never still above the tin rim of the dipper. Finally he removed his coat, splashed water onto his face, and then ran a comb through his thick auburn hair. He donned his hat and coat again, tightened the saddle girth, and smiled at Kate. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”

  To the Irish, hospitality comes as naturally as breathing and Kate Kerrigan couldn’t let the man go without making a small effort. “I have coffee in the pot if you’d like some.”

  To her surprise, the man didn’t answer right away. Usually men jumped at the chance to drink coffee with her and she felt a little tweak of chagrin. The man was tall and wide-shouldered. As he studied his back trail, there was a tenseness about him, not fear but rather an air of careful calculation, like a man on the scout figuring his odds. Finally he appeared to relax. “Coffee sounds real good to me, ma’am.”

  “Would you like to come into the house?” Kate said. “Unlike this one, it has a roof and four walls.”

  The man shook his head. “No, ma’am. Seems like you’ve got a real nice sitting place under the oak tree. I’ll take a chair and you can tell your girls they can come out now.”

  “You saw . . . I mean all that way?” Kate said.

  “I’m a far-seeing man, ma’am. I don’t miss much.”

  Kate smiled. “Yes. Something tells me you don’t.”

  After studying the cabin, the smokehouse, the barn and other outbuildings, the man said, “I reckon your menfolk are out on the range, this time of year. Branding to be done and the like.” He saw the question on Kate’s face and waved a hand in the direction of the cabin. “The roof’s been repaired and done well, all the buildings are built solid and maintained. That means strong men with calloused hands. Your ranch isn’t a two by twice outfit, Mrs. Kerrigan. It’s a place that’s put down deep roots and speaks of men with sand who will stick.”