Ten Guns from Texas

  MACCALLISTER

  TEN GUNS FROM TEXAS

  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

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chugwater, Wyoming

  Duff MacCallister was having a Scotch with Baldy Johnson at the Fiddler’s Green saloon when Wang Chow came in.

  “Hey!” someone shouted. “What’s that Chinaman doin’ in my drinkin’ bar?”

  “This isn’t your drinking bar. It is mine,” Baldy said. “You may have noticed on the sign out front, just under the name Fiddler’s Green. It says Baldy Johnson, Proprietor.”

  “Yeah? Well, it seems to me like you would have more consideration for your customers than to allow a stinkin’ Chinaman to come into a bar where white men are drinkin’. I think you should throw him out.”

  “Throw him out yourself,” Baldy replied, smiling across the table at Duff.

  “Really? You mean it’s all right with you if I throw him out?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Wang Chow looked at Duff, who, with a smile, nodded at him.

  “Hood, you really plannin’ on throwin’ that Celestial outta here?” one of the other saloon customers asked.

  “Yeah.” With a malevolent smile, Hood left the bar and started toward Wang Chow. “What’s your name, Chinaman?”

  “My name is Wang Chow.”

  “Well, Wang Chow, you got two choices. You can either turn around and leave now, or you can let me mop up this floor with you and throw you out. Which will it be?”

  “I do not wish to do either,” Wang Chow replied.

  “Well, then, we’ll do it my way.” Hood swung, putting everything into a wide right cross.

  Wang Chow ducked easily under the wild swing, then shot out his hand, palm forward, striking Hood in the chest. The return blow surprised Hood, and drove him back several steps.

  “Why, you—!” Hood swung again, missing as badly as he did the first time.

  Wang Chow hit Hood on his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  “Stop playing around with him, Hood,” someone said.

  Hood decided to try a straight jab and shot his left fist forward. Wang Chow moved his head to one side easily, and with no show of effort, hit Hood in the side, just under his arm.

  Hood punched and swung again and again, never once making contact with Wang Chow, who with movements as graceful as those of a dancer, responded to every one of Hood’s attempts with a counterpunch that scored. It soon became very evident that Wang Chow was carrying Hood and could, at any time, have dealt him a fight-ending blow.

  Hood was getting more and more frustrated, and more and more exhausted. Finally, breathing heavily, he stopped, and held up his hand. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I am Wang Chow.”

  “Well, Wang Chow, come over here and let me buy you a drink. I need to make friends with anybody who can fight the way you do.”

  “Why don’t the two of you come over to my table?” Baldy called out to them. “I’ll get the drinks. You’ve probably worn yourself out.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Hood said.

  The two men walked over to sit at the table with Duff and Baldy.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Hood asked.

  “I am a priest of the Shaolin Temple of Changlin,” Wang Chow replied.

  “A priest? I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen a padre who could do that.”

  “Wang Chow isn’t the kind of priest you are thinking of,” Duff said. “A Shaolin priest is a most unique individual. Wang Chow entered the temple as a boy of nine, and left when he was twenty-eight years old, a master of the Chinese martial art of Wushu.”

  “How did you wind up in America?” Hood asked.

  “Some evil men killed my mother and my sister,” Wang Chow said. “When I went to the temple to burn incense to honor my family, the master of the temple told me to seek no revenge. I was told that if I did so, it would bring dishonor to the temple.”

  “Damn, but you done it anyway, didn’t you?” Hood asked.

  “Yes. I cut the topknot to my hair, which distanced me from the temple, then I went to the tong of the men who had done the evil thing. Six men were there, laughing about having killed my family.” Wang Chow stopped.

  “Well, go on,” Hood said. “What happened?”

  “I killed them.”

  “Wait a minute. You said there were six of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you killed all six?”

  “I am ashamed to say that I let my temper control me.”

  “So you shot all six of them?”

  “I do not use guns,” Wang said.

  “Then how did you kill them?”

  “I killed them with the sword.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I was expelled from the Changlin Temple and the Empress Dowager Ci’an issued a decree ordering my death. I left China with a group of laborers, and came to America to work on the railroad,” Wang said in conclusion.

  “Damn,” Hood said. “I’m glad I didn’t really make you mad.”

  Duff and Baldy laughed.

  “Say, Duff, is it true you’re going to be taking some of your beeves to Texas?” Baldy asked.

  “Aye, ’tis true. I’ve been dealing with a man named Jason Bellefontaine. He owns the Slash Bell Ranch at Merrill Town, which is near Austin. He wants some Angus to improve his herd.”

  “How soon will you be going?”

  “I expect it’ll be at least another month before we’ve got everything worked out. I’ve checked with the railroad. ’Tis five hundred of the creatures I’ll be takin’, so ’tis twenty cars I’ll be needing.”

  “You’re takin’ cows to Texas?” Hood laughed. “Here, now, ’n if that ain’t ’bout the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I thought cows come out of Texas, not go in.”

  “These are Angus cattle. ’Tis a special breed from Scotland they are, and far superior to the Longhorns ’n aye, even the Hereford.”

  “Superior how?” Hood asked.

  “Oh, in about ever’ way you can count,” Elmer Gleason said, joining the conversation. “They have lower calf weights, so the birthin’ is a lot easier, which means you don’t lose as many during calving season. They produce a quality carcass, ’n that means a better beef.

  “But now, yo
u take a Hereford, they have a higher birth weight, ’n they got white faces, which could cause the pinkeye. Also, they ain’t as calm as the Angus is, neither.”

  “What about the Longhorn?” Hood asked.

  “Anyone who is still raisin’ Longhorns don’t even deserve to be called a cattleman,” Elmer said.

  “What do you know ’bout bein’ a cattlemen?” Hood teased. “I mean, seein’ as you ain’t nothin’ but a cowboy your ownself.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Hood,” Duff said. “Mr. Gleason owns a substantial piece of Sky Meadow. He is every bit a cattleman, and has a personal stake in the safe delivery of these cows to Mr. Bellefontaine.”

  Near Phantom Hill, Texas

  As Duff and the others were having a pleasant gathering in Fiddler’s Green, some eight hundred and fifty miles south, two outlaws, Al Simmons and Hugh Decker, were on the run.

  “They’re a-comin’. I can feel it in my gut. They are out there, and they’re close.” Simmons climbed down from a rock and walked over to his horse, where he slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.

  “What is it you’re a-plannin’ on doin’ with that rifle?” Decker asked.

  “When they get here, I’m goin’ to commence shootin’. It looks to me like we don’t have no other choice.”

  “Yeah,” Decker agreed. “Yeah, you’re prob’ly right.”

  With rifles in hand, the two men climbed back up onto the rock that afforded them not only a good view of the approaching trail but also some cover and concealment. They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.

  “Let ’em come up to about fifty, maybe seventy-five yards away,” Simmons suggested.

  He and Decker weren’t career outlaws. Until earlier that day, they had never done anything against the law. But they’d held up the Abilene stagecoach. During the robbery they took nothing from the passengers, stealing only the money being transported by the coach. They believed they had every right to do that because, until the week before, they had worked for the stage company, keeping the coaches in good repair. However, their supervisor had come in drunk and offensive. They’d gotten into a row with him, and he fired them. When they took their case to the station manager, he upheld his supervisor. To make things worse, they were each due two weeks’ pay, and the company withheld their pay, claiming it was a fine.

  They had moped over the unjust treatment for a few days. When they learned that the bank was expecting a shipment of money, they made up their mind to rob the coach.

  Even though they had worn masks during the holdup, the driver had recognized them and a posse, hastily formed, had chased them into a dead-end canyon.

  As the thieves waited, the posse came into view over a distant rise.

  “There they are,” Decker said.

  “I see ’em!” Simmons raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Wait a minute,” Decker cautioned. “Don’t shoot!” He reached up to pull Simmons’s rifle down. “They don’t have no idea we’re here.”

  “You’re right. I’ll wait until they get closer,” Simmons agreed.

  They waited as the distant riders came closer, sometimes seeming not to be riding, but rather floating as they materialized and dematerialized in the heat waves rising from the ground. On they rode, across the long, flat plain.

  “It’s takin’ ’em forever to get here,” Simmons complained.

  “Yeah, well, what else have we got to do?” Decker asked with a chuckle.

  “Nothin’, I suppose,” Simmons replied, also chuckling.

  The two men waited until the posse closed to less than one hundred yards.

  Simmons lifted his rifle again and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim. “Wait until they get just a little closer,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you the word, then we’ll both fire at the same time.”

  “No,” Decker said.

  Simmons looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean, no?”

  “Think about it, Al. Do we really want to do this?”

  “What do you mean, do we want to do this? Seems to me like we don’t have no choice. ’Case you ain’t noticed, this here is a dead-end canyon. We ain’t got no way out ’cept through them.”

  “There’s at least twenty of them. There’s two of us,” Decker said. “What difference does it make how many we shoot? We’ll still be dead in the end.”

  Simmons nodded. “That’s prob’ly true.”

  “And consider this. Some of them men is our friends,” Decker said. “Hell, me ’n you had Thanksgiving dinner with Phil Burke and his wife. And how many times have we pitched horseshoes with Danny Mitchell? If we start shootin’ now, we’ll wind up killin’ some of our friends. I don’t mind goin’ to meet my Maker as a thief, but damn if I want to meet Him with murder on my conscience.”

  “What do you propose that we do?”

  “I say we give up.”

  “We’ll be goin’ to prison.”

  “Yeah, well, at least we’ll be alive, ’n we won’t be murderers. Besides, they’ll feed us there, ’n we’ll have a place to sleep. It ain’t like we don’t know no one that’s there. How bad can it be?”

  “Yeah,” Simmons said. “Yeah, you’re right. So, what do we do now?”

  “We give up. I’ll call down to ’em.” Decker cupped his hands around his mouth. “Phil!” he shouted. “Phil Burke!”

  Burke, Burke, Burke echoed back from the canyon.

  “What do you want?” Burke called back.

  “Me ’n Al want to give up!” Decker shouted.

  Give up echoed several times.

  “That’s up to the sheriff!” Burke called back up.

  “Sheriff, tell them boys not to shoot. We’re comin’ down,” Decker shouted.

  Down, down, down echoed.

  “All right. Toss your guns out, then come down with your hands up,” the sheriff replied.

  Simmons and Decker responded to the sheriff’s order, then, with their hands up, climbed down from their perch behind the rocks.

  Two weeks later, tried and convicted, they were delivered to the prison at Huntsville.

  Chapter Two

  Slash Bell Ranch—Travis County, Texas

  Six mounted men materialized out of the darkness, riding slowly and quietly. Of the six men, only their leader Dirk Kendrick was not carrying a large wire cutter tool. When they reached a long stretch of barbed wire, he held up his hand. More than a hundred calves were on the other side of the wire. Most were sleeping, but many were moving around anxiously, searching for their mothers, for though they had been physically weaned away from the teat, they were not yet emotionally ready to be alone.

  “Cut from here to there,” Kendrick said, pointing to locations on the wire fence. “Cut all five strands.”

  When the wires were cut, five horsemen looped their ropes around the posts standing between the two cuts and urged their mounts on. The horses easily pulled the posts from the ground then dragged the section of fence away, leaving a twenty-foot opening.

  Aware that something had happened, even the calves that had been asleep were on their feet.

  “All right, boys, let’s get the creatures out of there,” Kendrick ordered.

  All six men went into the pen and, within less than a minute, every calf had been moved out, each content to move as long as all the others were moving.

  Merrill Town, Texas

  When Jason Bellefontaine, owner of the Slash Bell Ranch, left the theater, he decided to have a few drinks over at the CSS Alabama Saloon before returning home. Owner Ken Prescott had been a crewman onboard the Confederate raider and had honored his saloon with the name. He had lived in Mobile before the war and was signed on to the ship by Admiral Semmes, who, at the time, was also a resident of Mobile.

  “Tell me, Ken, do the folks back in Mobile actually live in houses?” Bellefontaine teased.

  “Not just houses, my friend, but ma
nsions,” Prescott replied. “You will find some of the most beautiful mansions in all of America on Adams or St. Anthony, Claiborne or Conception Streets, right there in Mobile.”

  “Then why did you leave, if there are such beautiful homes in Mobile?”

  Prescott smiled. “Because I didn’t live on any of those streets. I lived on Telegraph Road.”

  Bellefontaine laughed. “Good enough reason. Besides, if you had stayed in Mobile, we wouldn’t have the Alabama Saloon, and where would I go when I have a thirst for a beer?”

  “You could always go to the Hog Pen,” Prescott suggested, mentioning one of the other saloons in town. Whereas the CSS Alabama was a very pleasant saloon with a convivial atmosphere, the Hog Pen catered to a considerably more crude clientele.

  “Ha. I would be real welcome in the Hog Pen now, wouldn’t I?” Bellefontaine finished his drink, then set the glass down on the bar. “Take care, my friend. I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye, Jason,” Prescott said as Bellefontaine started toward the door.

  * * *

  Bellefontaine rode through the dark to return home, thinking of the unbranded calves that had been rounded up over the last two days. Tomorrow his crew would be branding them, then turning them back into the herd. It promised to be a busy day, so reason told him he would be better served by returning to the ranch and going to bed.

  It took him no more than half an hour to cover the five miles between his ranch and Merrill Town, and though he had no watch, he was certain it had to be after eleven o’clock by the time he dismounted in front of the barn. He was about to unsaddle his horse when someone came toward him, moving out of the shadows. It was so dark he couldn’t see who it was, and for a moment he thought the worst. Cautiously, he let his hand slip down to rest on his pistol.

  Recognizing Sam Post, his foreman, he relaxed. “Hello, Sam. I thought sure you and the others would be in bed by now. Especially given how hard you all worked today,” Bellefontaine said as he returned to the job of unsaddling his horse.

  “We’ve got a problem, boss.”

  “What kind of problem?”