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  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

  Matt Jensen

  MacCallister

  The Red Ryan Westerns

  Perley Gates

  Have Brides, Will Travel

  The Hank Fallon Westerns

  Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal

  Shotgun Johnny

  The Chuckwagon Trail

  The Jackals

  The Slash and Pecos Westerns

  The Texas Moonshiners

  AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

  LUKE JENSEN BOUNTY HUNTER BURNING DAYLIGHT

  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

  THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILYOF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 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: 978-0-7860-4404-7

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4405-4 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4405-5 (e-book)

  THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY

  OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER

  Smoke Jensen—The Mountain Man

  The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise (“Denny”) and Louis.

  Preacher—The First Mountain Man

  Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. Fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.

  Matt Jensen—The Last Mountain Man

  Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.

  Luke Jensen—Bounty Hunter

  Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother Luke Jensen is scarred by war and a dead shot—the right qualities to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning, and fierce enough, to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.

  Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen—Those Jensen Boys! Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, are a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself . . . Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.

  CHAPTER 1

  Luke Jensen froze with the glass of whiskey halfway to his lips as he heard the metallic ratcheting of a gun being cocked above and behind him. He glanced at the nervous-looking bartender and asked quietly, “He’s on the balcony, isn’t he?”

  The man’s lips were tight. His double chin bounced a little as he gave a short nod.

  “I’d get down, if I were you,” Luke advised, then he dropped the whiskey and threw himself to the side as a gun roared.

  The deafening blast filled the saloon. From the corner of his eye Luke saw a bullet gouge out a piece of the hardwood bar and send splinters flying.

  By the time he hit the sawdust-littered floor a split second later, his long-barreled Remingtons filled both hands. The guns roared and bucked as he triggered them. The .44 slugs smashed into the chest of the man standing on the balcony and rocked him back a step before he stumbled forward against the railing.

  Luke recognized the man who had just tried to kill him. His name was Son Barton, a West Virginia mountaineer who had fled his home state because he had a habit of shooting people who annoyed him. He had headed west, fallen in with several other killers and outlaws, and ridden the dark trails for the past few years. Luke had tracked the gang to this Arizona Territory settlement and intended to collect the rewards on them.

  The wanted posters said DEAD OR ALIVE, but it looked like Son Barton was going to be dead because life was fading fast in his eyes. The gun he had fired at Luke slipped from nerveless fingers and fell to the saloon floor. As Barton tipped forward over the railing and followed, he turned over once in the air and landed on his back with a resounding thud. He gurgled once but didn’t move and didn’t make any more sounds after that, either.

  Still holding the Remingtons, Luke put a hand on the floor, pushed himself to one knee, and tried not to groan from the effort. These days, he felt every one of his years. He stood the rest of the way up and glanced out the window.

  The four horses he’d been looking for were tied up at the hitch rail outside. Barton’s three friends were still unaccounted for.

  The bartender poked his bald head up enough to gaze wide-eyed over the hardwood. The few men who had been drinking in the saloon had stampeded out as soon as t
he shooting started.

  Luke said, “The other three upstairs, too?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Just two of ’em. Only got three girls workin’ for me. The fourth man said he was goin’ over to the store to pick up some supplies.”

  Since the settlement was small that man was bound to have heard the shots. He’d be heading to the saloon to see what had happened, but it would take him a while get there, so Luke didn’t worry about him for the time being. The other two upstairs concerned him more. And with good reason.

  A man burst through the door of the room where he’d been frolicking with one of the soiled doves and began spraying lead from a Winchester as fast as he could swing the barrel back and forth and work the rifle’s lever.

  The bartender ducked again.

  Luke dived forward and slid through beery sawdust underneath a table. Bullets whapped against the wood above him. His head and shoulders emerged from the other side. He tipped the Remingtons up and fired two more shots. One missed, but the other caught the rifleman in the throat and jerked his head back as it bored on up into his brain. Blood shot out a good three feet from the wound as he went over backward.

  The rifleman’s frenzied firing had served as a distraction, Luke realized. The third member of the gang had made it almost all the way down the stairs while Luke had been dealing with the rifleman. And this hombre held a shotgun. He leveled it and squeezed off one barrel as Luke desperately tried to roll aside.

  The buckshot hit the floor, except for one piece that plucked at Luke’s shirtsleeve. He wasn’t hurt, though, and as he came up on a knee again, he thrust the Remingtons out in front of him and triggered them.

  The shotgunner jerked. Luke bit back a curse as he saw that his aim had been a little off. He’d hit the varmint in the left arm and left shoulder. He might bleed to death eventually, but he was still on his feet and still had hold of that scattergun.

  Luke jammed the revolvers back into their holsters and grabbed hold of another table. As he swung it up, the wounded outlaw fired the shotgun’s second barrel. Luke felt the table shiver as the charge struck it. Then he lunged forward and shoved the table out in front of him. It hit the shotgunner and knocked him back against the wall behind him.

  Luke rammed the table into the man twice more, then, panting from the effort, shoved it aside and drew one of the Remingtons, even though the outlaw wasn’t a threat any longer. He had dropped the shotgun, which was empty, and slumped to the bottom of the stairs, stunned. Luke twirled the Remington around and rapped the butt against the outlaw’s head, knocking him out cold. No point in taking any chances.

  Outside, a swift rataplan of hoofbeats sounded in the street. Luke hurried to the entrance and shoved the batwings aside. Only three horses stood at the hitch rail. The fourth one was making tracks out of town with a cloud of dust curling up from its hooves. The rider leaned forward over the animal’s neck and frantically swatted his hat against its rump to urge it on to greater speed.

  “Well, hell,” Luke said.

  The bartender stuck his head up again. “Is . . . is it over?”

  “Yeah. The fourth one lit a shuck, and I don’t feel like chasing after him. Reckon I’ll have to be satisfied with the three I got . . . for now.” Luke started reloading the Remingtons, keeping an eye on the man he had knocked out. “You have any law in this town?”

  The bartender stood up. “Got a marshal. A deputy sheriff from Singletary, the county seat, swings by now and then, but you can’t ever tell when he’s gonna come through.”

  “A jail?”

  “Well . . . a smokehouse where Marshal Hennessy locks up fellas when he has to.”

  Luke pouched the iron he’d been reloading and took out the other revolver. “I suppose a telegraph office would be too much to hope for.”

  “I’m afraid so. The railroad didn’t come through here, so we never got a telegraph line. Summerville is just a sleepy little place, mister.”

  “That’s the name of this town?”

  “Yes, sir. Summerville, Arizona Territory.”

  Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. A middle-aged, leathery-faced gent peered over the batwings and asked, “What in blazes is goin’ on in there, Doolittle? Sounded like a damn war broke out.”

  The bartender waved a pudgy hand at Luke. “This fella came in and was about to have a drink when some of my other customers started shootin’ at him.”

  The newcomer pushed the batwings aside and took a step into the room, revealing the lawman’s star pinned to his vest.

  Luke holstered the second Remington. “You’ll take note of how this gentleman phrased that comment, Marshal. All three of those men shot at me first. That makes this a clear-cut case of self-defense.”

  The bartender, Doolittle, nodded, making his double chin wobble again.

  “I take it they had a good reason for trying to ventilate you?” the marshal asked.

  “They considered it a good reason. They knew I’ve been tracking them and planned to collect the rewards that have been posted for them.”

  Marshal Hennessy’s lips tightened. “Bounty hunter, eh?”

  “That’s right.” Luke gestured toward the body lying on its back. “That’s Son Barton. The one over there at the bottom of the stairs is Jimmy McCaskill. He’s just knocked out. You’ll find another dead one up on the balcony, but I don’t know which one he is. Didn’t get a good enough look at him, and I didn’t see the fourth man, the one who got away, at all. But Barton and McCaskill ran with Ed Logan and Deuce Roebuck, so I’m sure the dead man will turn out to be one of them.”

  As if he hadn’t heard what Luke was saying, Marshal Hennessy said, “I don’t like bounty hunters.”

  Luke sighed. “Most lawmen don’t. I understand that, Marshal. But we do serve a useful function, you know.”

  “Yeah, so do buzzards, but that don’t mean I got to cozy up to ’em.”

  “I’ll be satisfied if you’ll just agree to lock my prisoner up for the night. I’ll have him out of your hair tomorrow morning. We’ll ride up to the county seat where I can turn him over to the sheriff there.”

  Hennessy rasped his fingers over his beard-stubbled chin, then nodded. “All right, I suppose I can do that. You’re responsible for feedin’ the varmint, though. I’m not gonna ask the town to stand the cost of that.”

  “Fair enough.” Luke went over to McCaskill, bent and took hold of his collar, and started dragging his senseless form toward the door. “Lead the way, Marshal.”

  Hennessy did, trudging along Summerville’s only street until he came to a small but sturdy-looking smokehouse. Brackets had been attached on either side of the door, and a thick beam rested in them. He struggled to lift it, saying, “I keep telling the town council . . . uh . . . they oughta build me a real jail . . . but they say the town can’t afford it.”

  Luke let go of McCaskill’s collar and reached to help the marshal. “I don’t imagine you have much call for one.”

  “Nope. I have to throw a liquored-up cowpoke in here every once in a while, but that’s about it.”

  Luke motioned for Hennessy to step aside. He took hold of the beam and lifted it out of the brackets. When he started to lean it against the smokehouse wall, he spotted McCaskill trying to crawl away. The outlaw had regained consciousness. Luke wondered how long he’d been shamming.

  McCaskill must have thought he could crawl off for a few yards, then leap to his feet and make a dash for his horse. He tried to jump up, but Luke tossed the beam and it caught the outlaw across the back. The weight was enough to knock McCaskill facedown on the street and brought a groan from him.

  Luke planted a booted foot on McCaskill’s head and said, “You’re a determined one, aren’t you? I suppose I can see why, since you’re bound to hang. But you’re starting to annoy me, Jimmy.” He drew one of his Remingtons. “It would be a lot easier just to haul your carcass to the county seat.”

  “Here now,” Marshal Hennessy blustered. “Gunning a man whe
n he’s trying to shoot you is one thing, but that’d be pure murder, mister.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a patient man . . . within reason.” Luke stepped back and kept McCaskill covered while the outlaw climbed to his feet and stumbled into the smokehouse. Luke replaced the beam, effectively locking him in.

  Now that he had a thick door between him and Luke’s guns, McCaskill regained some of his bravado. “You’re gonna be sorry, you damn bounty hunter. Deuce is gonna get me outta here, and we’ll see to it that you die slow and painful.”

  “Deuce Roebuck, you mean?” Luke said. “I hate to break it to you, Jimmy, but the last I saw of Deuce, he was fogging it out of here and never looked back. I expect he’s at least five miles away by now. By nightfall, he’ll have gone twenty miles and completely forgotten about you.”

  “You just wait and see,” McCaskill said, but his voice had a quaver in it that revealed his confidence was slipping.

  Luke turned back to the marshal. “Do you have an undertaker here in town?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t figure you wanted to have those other two buried. Don’t you have to take them to the county seat, too, to collect the bounties on them?”

  “Yes, but I thought maybe he could clean them up a little. Blood attracts flies, you know.”

  Hennessy pursed his lips. “He’ll do it . . . but he’ll charge you for it.”

  “If it makes the ride a little more pleasant, it’ll probably be worth it.” Luke paused. “Of course, I suppose I could just cut their heads off and throw them in a gunnysack . . .”

  CHAPTER 2

  Summerville’s undertaker was a tall, cadaverous man who introduced himself to Luke as Clifford Ferguson. Luke had wondered sometimes why undertakers all seemed to be either thin to the point of gauntness and dour or fat and jolly. He hardly ever ran into one of normal size, with a normal demeanor. He supposed the most likely explanation was that some men who dealt with death all the time lost their appetite, while others coped with the strains of their grim profession by embracing the pleasures of life, including plenty of good food.