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  SIXKILLER, U.S. MARSHAL:

  BLOOD FOR BLOOD

  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 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

  Teaser chapter

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2013 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: 978-0-7860-4319-4

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3127-6 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3127-1 (e-book)

  Chapter One

  As the sun rose, the shadow of the gallows extended over the prison yard and fell across the faces of those assembled in the grim dawn. Some of them raised a hand to shade their eyes from the glare.

  They wanted to be able to see the man who was about to be marched to his death.

  Reporters, prison officials, and others were relatives of the condemned man’s victims. The lawman who had captured Henry Garrett, Sheriff Mike Rasmussen of Kiowa City, Kansas, was there, too.

  Despite the early hour, the air was already hot and still inside the prison walls. Rasmussen took off his hat and used it to fan his face, but it didn’t do much good.

  A phalanx of guards appeared to escort Garrett from the death house. The squat, stone building was small, with room for just the one cell. It had been ringed by armed men ever since Garrett had been locked into it the previous evening. The prisoner had eaten his last meal there.

  Rasmussen put his hat on again.

  Henry Garrett was in the middle of that group of guards, shuffling forward slowly, his ankles locked into leg irons. He wouldn’t be in any hurry to get where he was going, even if he didn’t have the leg irons on.

  With the guards in the way, Rasmussen couldn’t see the prisoner very well. Garrett wasn’t big to start with, a slender man of medium height with a lean face and a shock of sandy hair. He didn’t look like much, didn’t look very frightening.

  At least half a dozen people had had good cause to be afraid of him, though, as they stared at him in horror over the barrel of a gun just before he killed them. And there was no telling how many other folks he had murdered that the law didn’t even know about. His gang had been responsible for dozens of robberies and shootings while running wild across Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri, and Indian Territory. They hadn’t hesitated to gun down anybody who was unlucky enough to get in their way.

  Followed by the sober-faced prison warden and a black-suited preacher, the guards drew even with the group of spectators. Rasmussen peered between them and got his first good look at the condemned man.

  Several months in prison hadn’t changed Henry Garrett much. He was a little leaner, his piercing blue eyes set a little deeper in his gaunt face.

  Those eyes were as cold and merciless as ever, though, Rasmussen discovered when they swung to the side and locked on him. The outlaw’s gaze still held plenty of power.

  Garrett smiled.

  Rasmussen’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. He blew it out as Garrett looked away.

  The group reached the bottom of the thirteen steps. Still moving slowly, Garrett began to climb them.

  That climb seemed to take forever. Some of the spectators shuffled their feet nervously. They had come this morning to watch a man die, but now they weren’t so sure they wanted to do that.

  Every road had its end, Rasmussen thought. Henry Garrett had come to his. A tall man in a black suit like the preacher’s and a broad-brimmed black hat waited on the platform for him. The hangman stood with his hand on the trapdoor’s lever as the guards maneuvered Garrett into position.

  The warden said in a quiet, gentle voice, “Do you have any last words, son?”

  “There ain’t much left to say,” Garrett responded. “No, wait a minute. There is something.” He looked down at the crowd. “Sheriff Rasmussen?”

  The lawman swallowed hard and asked, “What is it, Garrett?”

  “I just want you to know you never would’ve caught me, you useless sack o’ guts, if my horse hadn’t stepped in that damn prairie dog hole.”

  One of the guards glared and stepped closer to the prisoner, raising the rifle he held as he did so.

  The warden lifted a hand to stop Garrett from talking.

  “Let him go on,” Rasmussen said. “Man’s got a right to have his say, especially now.”

  “That’s right. I don’t want to leave this world with you thinkin’ you’re somethin’ special, Sheriff, ’cause you ain’t. You’re just a fella who got lucky.” Garrett paused to draw in a breath. “When you
get back to Kiowa City, you tell Judge Doolittle and the men who were on that jury I ain’t forgot about them, neither. Tell ’em that I went out thinkin’ about what they got comin’ to them . . . and that I’ll see ’em in hell.”

  “That’s enough,” the warden said. “This isn’t the time or place for threats.”

  “You’re right about that. That’s why I’m not makin’ threats.” Garrett smiled at Rasmussen again. “I’m makin’ promises.”

  The warden signaled to the executioner, who placed a black hood over Garrett’s head. The sky pilot opened his Bible and started praying in a soft, rapid voice. The warden let that go on for a minute, then motioned for the preacher to step back.

  “In accordance with the laws of Kansas and the sentence handed down by a jury of your peers, Henry Garrett, you are hereby hanged by the neck until dead.” The warden gave the executioner a curt nod.

  Rasmussen looked away. He heard the clatter of the trapdoor, the sudden sharp snap of bone, the swift intake of breath from the spectators.

  When he turned his head back toward the gallows, the body clad in its gray prison uniform swung slightly back and forth as it hung from the rope.

  The shadow it cast stretched out across the prison yard, just like the gallows from which it dangled.

  * * *

  In a cell in another part of the prison, Simon Garrett sat on his bunk and watched the slanted rectangle of gray light that came through the small, barred window. It faced east, and he could have stood up, turned around, stepped up onto the bunk, and looked out directly at the dawn.

  Instead, he waited, tracking the time by the way the light grew brighter and brighter. Another wing of the prison blocked the sun, so it didn’t shine directly into Simon’s cell until half an hour after it had risen.

  When that gray light turned red and gold, Simon knew his younger brother Henry was dead and had been for a while. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  A few minutes later a guard wearing a blue uniform and a black-billed cap came along the aisle between the rows of cells and paused on the other side of the bars from Simon. “Reckon it’s all over. That no-good, murderin’ brother of yours is nothin’ but worm food now, Garrett.”

  Simon rested his hands on his thighs and breathed deeply as he fought to keep the emotions raging inside him under control. He didn’t want to give this man—or any of the others inside the prison—the satisfaction of seeing how his brother’s death affected him.

  “Yeah, one of the guards who was there told me all about it. He told me how your little brother screamed and fought and begged for his life while they forced him up the steps to meet the hangman.”

  That was a lie, Simon thought. Henry never would have begged. Never.

  “Pissed his pants, too,” the guard went on. “Did a little jig in midair while he was chokin’ to death. I’ll bet it was a right entertainin’ show. Too bad they’re not gonna do the same thing to you.”

  Simon Garrett was serving a five-year sentence for armed robbery. He had done four years of the allotted time, with one to go. Before he had been caught, convicted, and sent away, the Garrett gang had been his. Henry hadn’t been much more than a kid in those days.

  He had grown up in a hurry, though, taking over the gang when Simon went to prison. He had led them on bigger and better jobs than Simon ever had, until his luck ran out and his horse broke a leg while he was fleeing from a posse.

  “I don’t guess it really matters,” the guard said. “You’ll be back here sooner or later, and we’ll get another crack at you. You’ll wind up dancing on air, just like your brother.”

  Simon kept his eyes down and acted like he didn’t hear the guard. The man let out a bored, frustrated snort and walked away, his thick-soled shoes smacking against the floor and setting up echoes that cascaded around the big cell block.

  Simon didn’t stand up until those echoes had died away. Then he turned toward the wall, clenched his left hand into a fist, and slammed it against the stone. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace as he drove his fist against the wall again and again until his hand was a bloody, broken hulk.

  It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his gun hand.

  Chapter Two

  One year later

  Kiowa City, Kansas, was quiet. Except for the three saloons and the parlor house on the edge of town, all the businesses were closed.

  Most of the residences were dark, as most folks had already turned in for the night. Here and there, the yellow glow of lamplight could be seen in a window. In those homes, somebody was sick or just couldn’t sleep.

  Off to the west, skeletal fingers of lightning clawed through the night sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. A summer storm lurked out there along the railroad tracks. It might move in later, or it might break up before it ever reached the settlement.

  Sheriff Mike Rasmussen wouldn’t mind if it rained. Even a brief shower might break the stifling blanket of heat that had laid over the plains for the past couple weeks.

  His office was on the first floor of the brick courthouse in the square at the center of town. Despite the late hour, he sat at his desk, laboring by lamplight over an expense report for the county commissioners.

  He wrote a word or two, made a face like he had just bitten into a piece of sour fruit, chewed on the black mustache that drooped over his mouth, and wrote a little more. Not a breath of air stirred in the room despite the open windows.

  It was easy for him to hear the gunshots that suddenly shattered the peaceful silence.

  Rasmussen’s head snapped up. He dropped the pen, splattering a few splotches of ink across the paper.

  The gunshots continued as he leaped to his feet. They seemed to be coming from one of the town’s residential areas a couple blocks away.

  The sheriff had taken off his gun belt and hung it on a peg near the door when he had come into the office. Now he grabbed the belt and slung it around his hips as he hurried into the hallway.

  The night-duty deputy sat behind a desk at the end of the corridor. He had a look of alarm on his face.

  Rasmussen fumbled with the gun belt’s buckle as he trotted toward the deputy. “Grab a shotgun, Carl,” he ordered. “We need to find out what’s goin’ on out there.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Kiowa City had a town marshal, Emory Bannister, who broke up saloon fights and threw drunks in jail, but that was all he did. He had made it clear to the town council that he wasn’t getting mixed up in any gunplay.

  So the council contracted with the sheriff’s office to handle any serious problems. Like all politicians, the county commissioners were always responsive to anything that generated extra revenue they could spend, so they were in favor of the deal.

  Hatless, Rasmussen charged out of the courthouse and across the lawn. With the gun belt finally fastened, he drew the holstered Colt revolver.

  The shooting stopped, but a swift rataplan of hoofbeats followed it. Rasmussen could tell by the sound that several horsebackers were galloping away into the darkness.

  That knowledge disturbed him almost as much as the gunshots. Neither boded well for any peace and quiet the rest of the night.

  The screams he heard as the hoofbeats faded away just made it worse.

  “Come on, Baird!” he flung over his shoulder at the deputy as he ran along the street.

  Carl Baird, whose wife had a reputation for baking the best pies and cakes in the county, had a belly to prove it. He was already huffing and puffing as he hurried to keep up with the sheriff.

  The screams led them to a white, two-story frame house with a couple cottonwoods in a yard surrounded by a picket fence. Kiowa City had a lot of houses like that. It was a pleasant, prosperous place, a far cry from the wild, hell-on-wheels cow town it had been ten years earlier when the railhead reached it.

  Rasmussen remembered those days and wouldn’t have gone back to them for anything.

  Other people on the street had heard the screams. Severa
l men came out of their houses wearing nightshirts to find out what was happening. A few carried guns. One wild-eyed hombre gripped an axe in his hands.

  “Sheriff, what was all that shooting?” somebody called to the lawman as he hurried by. “Who’s that screaming?

  “I don’t know,” Rasmussen replied, “but I’m damn sure gonna find out!”

  Nobody had been killed in Kiowa City for more than a year, not even in a saloon shooting. It had been a remarkable run of peace—shattered now.

  Rasmussen flung open the fence gate and charged up the flagstone walk. Charles Houston and his wife Agnes lived here. Houston was a partner in the hardware store and one of the settlement’s leading citizens.

  He wasn’t exactly a rich man, though, not the sort likely to have his house broken into by outlaws bent on robbing him.

  The front door stood wide open. The screams from inside had died away, replaced by wracking sobs.

  Rasmussen went up the steps to the porch in a couple bounds. Behind him, Deputy Baird called, “Be careful, Sheriff! Some of the varmints could still be in there!”

  The lawman bit back a curse. Baird was a halfway decent deputy who could follow orders, but he wasn’t the smartest fella to ever come down the pike.

  “That was them we heard riding away, Carl. You can stay out here, though, just in case they come back.”

  Baird gulped and said with obvious reluctance, “All right, Sheriff.”