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  DEAD TIME

  A HANK FALLON WESTERN

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  and 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

  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

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 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: 978-0-7860-4384-2

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4385-9(e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4385-7(e-book)

  CHAPTER ONE

  The lousy coffee he had managed to drink for breakfast started rising from his gut when he stepped out of the prison wagon and saw “The Walls.”

  Harry Fallon forced the coffee back down. He had seen prisons before—too damned many, thanks to Sean MacGregor, president of the American Detective Agency in Chicago, Illinois—but sight of the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville did something to his nerves.

  Buck up, he told himself. This is no different than Yuma or Jefferson City. And behind those walls, you’re going to find the man or men who sent you to Joliet, that murdered . . .

  Fallon shuddered.

  “She sure has a way of doin’ that to a feller,” the deputy marshal drawled as he stepped up on Fallon’s right. “Another feller once tol’ me that ‘The Walls ain’t no place to be.’” The lawman snorted, laughed, and spit chewing tobacco onto the cobblestone path cut into the spring grass and pine needles.

  The Walls. One hundred thousand square feet surrounded by a foreboding wall of red brick, fifteen feet high and three feet thick. And inside . . . hell on earth.

  “Ready, Fallon?”

  “Alexander,” Fallon told the lawman in a tight, hard whisper. “Harry Alexander.”

  The deputy cursed softly. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I knowed that. Just ain’t good at this private detective business.”

  “Just don’t slip once we’re inside.”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The chains hobbling his legs and wrists rattled as Fallon walked to the gate, where beefy guards waited to welcome the latest inmate to The Walls.

  Those red bricks, the stories went, got their coloring from the blood of every inmate to be sentenced to the prison since it had first opened in 1848.

  * * *

  “Warden,” the deputy said, removing his hat, as he stepped inside the dark office behind Fallon, whose manacles had been removed in the anteroom inside the gate. Another prison official shut the door behind Fallon and the deputy.

  “Superintendent,” the warden corrected. “According to the Rules, Regulations and By-laws for the Government and Discipline of the Texas State Penitentiaries, at Huntsville and Rusk, Texas.” He nodded at a four-shelf bookshelf to his left. One shelf held a Bible. The top shelf held what Fallon figured had to be Rules, Regulations and By-laws . . . The rest of the case was empty.

  Fallon hoped the prison library had more books.

  “Besides, I detest that vulgar word, warden. And Warden Walter Wilkinson has far too much alliteration.”

  The deputy stared in complete confusion. Alliteration would not be in his vocabulary, but Fallon considered him to be a good man . . . as long as he didn’t forget to use Fallon’s alias.

  Walter Wilkinson, warden—personally, Fallon never cared much for the word superintendent—at the Texas State Pen, looked pretty much like every other warden Harry Fallon had known. Sweaty, pale, beady eyes, balding—in fact, Wilkinson was completely bald—whose handshake would be flabby had he dared lower himself to shake hands with a prisoner. Fallon already had the man pegged. A politician, he went to church to keep up appearances, took part in all the fairs, attended the meeting of men of power once a month, and used the underground tunnel that led from the hall to some class
y brothel. He took bribes frequently, but not from prisoners. Prisoners didn’t have enough clout or influence, let alone money.

  “You’ve been a naughty, naughty young man.” Wilkinson shook his head and muttered, “Tsk-tsk.” He did not look up but kept right on reading the file the American Detective Agency and the Texas attorney general had prepared. “A life sentence.” Wilkinson tsk-tsked again. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that when your life is over, we have a very fine graveyard for you.”

  He had a nasal voice, a heavy gut from too many mashed potatoes and port beer, and thick, dark, unruly eyebrows that contrasted with a bald head glistening from sweat. “I suppose you’re innocent, too.”

  Fallon said, “Why should I be different than anyone else here?”

  The warden looked up. His eyes considered Fallon for a long time before he stepped back toward the window, leaned against the sill, and brought the tips of his fingers together.

  “Actually,” he said, “we have one prisoner who says he’s guilty. You’ll meet him eventually . . . if you live that long. The first night usually drives the weak ones to kill themselves. But . . .”

  The fingertips parted, and the warden shoved his hands into the deep pockets on his striped woolen trousers. “. . . I don’t think you’re weak, Harry Alexander.” He said the name as though he knew it was an alias, but, in this part of the United States, people were always choosing whatever name they wanted, and that wasn’t because they were outlaws or running away from someone, or something. Before he pinned on that badge in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Harry Fallon had cowboyed and hunted buffalo, and he had known cowboys and skinners who changed their names with the seasons, sometimes on a whim or bet. Just to freshen things up.

  The warden nodded to the assistant who had been quietly standing near the door and the deputy marshal who had escorted Fallon the one hundred and fifty or sixty miles from Austin to Huntsville. Once the assistant signed a receipt and handed it to the deputy, the lawman looked at Fallon, nodded, thanked the warden, and opened the door. The assistant closed the heavy door behind the departing lawman, and Fallon slowly, discretely, let out a long breath.

  So far, so good.

  The man in the dark uniform spoke in a dreary monotone, as though by rote.

  Fallon would be issued a uniform, of white and brown stripes. This being summer—it was actually spring, but spring usually seemed like a figment of one’s imagination in Texas—Fallon would be given shoes, pants, shirt, and hat. Socks, drawers, and a jacket would be provided in winter.

  “If he’s still alive,” the warden said, sniffed, and searched for a handkerchief in his coat pocket.

  “You may keep any drawers, undershirts, socks, or handkerchiefs that you brought,” the assistant said, “or may receive any through friends, or purchase them but only after receiving permission from Superintendent Wilkinson, the assistant superintendent, or the sergeant.”

  Fallon learned about the bedding he would receive, how to handle mess call—once again, no prisoners could speak while eating—bathing (once a week), privileges (like Fallon would ever be granted any of those), visitations, punishments, and work details.

  “Start him out tomorrow in the mill,” the warden said.

  The assistant went on. Fallon had heard it all before. Maybe one time, Fallon thought, he might hear it coming from someone who cared. Wouldn’t that be something!

  “Questions?” the warden asked.

  “No, sir,” Fallon answered.

  “Peter.” The warden had found his handkerchief and wiped his nose. Spring, Fallon realized. Hay fever. Fallon grinned. It was good to see a man like Walter Wilkinson suffer. Fallon had never been allergic to anything, though he wished he were allergic to prisons.

  “Get him . . .” The warden sneezed. “Outfitted. Show him . . .” Another violent sneeze that almost doubled over the lout. This was only March. Wait till all the cedars started doing their damage, the wildflowers started blooming, and the winds picked up. “His cell. Then . . .” This time, the sneeze provoked a vile oath from the warden. “Turn him over to Sergeant Drexel.”

  The assistant chuckled. “Barney loves breaking in the fresh fish.”

  Every muscle in Fallon’s body tightened. He had been inside The Walls for no more than thirty minutes, and everything—all the planning they had spent—could be jeopardized. Fallon had mentioned the possible risk, but the Texas attorney general and Sean MacGregor had waved off his concerns.

  “What would you say the chances are of you actually running into someone you know in Huntsville?” MacGregor had asked. “As a deputy marshal for Judge Parker in Arkansas and the Indian Nations, the men you sent to prison went to the Detroit House of Corrections.”

  “I ran into them in Joliet,” Fallon had reminded the Scot. “And in Yuma. And in Jefferson City.”

  “But Huntsville’s Texas,” MacGregor had scoffed.

  “I cowboyed in Texas,” Fallon had reminded him. “A lot of men I chased out of the Nations rode south to Texas.”

  The attorney general hadn’t bought that argument, either.

  “The chances are slight,” Malcolm Maxwell had said. “And it’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

  Fallon had corrected him. “You mean it’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

  “If you want out, Fallon,” MacGregor had said, “say the word.” He had spoken that so smugly, condescendingly, that Fallon had found himself grinding his teeth. “Say it, Fallon. There’s always room for you at Joliet. Just remember, this isn’t just a chance to bring justice to a madman. To help your country. But more than that, this is your chance, your only chance, to right your name. To avenge the murders of your wife and daughter.”

  Now, thinking about that meeting, Fallon saw their faces then. His wife, Renee, so young, so beautiful. His daughter, Rachel, a sweetheart of a baby . . . who would be approaching young womanhood had she not...

  Fallon shuddered.

  The warden laughed, and the images before Fallon, those recurring, haunting memories, stopped instantly, bringing Fallon back into the office of the superintendent of The Walls.

  “It happens all the time, doesn’t it, Steve?”

  The assistant chuckled softly.

  “The Walls have a way of sending a chill up your spine. Especially when you know that you’ll be here for the rest of your scum-sucking, miserable life.” The warden sneezed again. “No. No. Not a life. You don’t have a life anymore. You have an existence, and maybe that’s only a figure of speech. Get him out—” Another violent sneeze rocked the warden, and the assistant, Steve, opened the door and nodded for Fallon to follow.

  Barney Drexel, Fallon kept thinking as he picked up his clothing, exchanging his denim pants, cotton shirt, and boots for the scratchy, ill-fitting summer uniform of white and brown stripes, rough shoes, and a cap that had to be one size too small. At least he had socks, relatively clean, and summer underpants. Those shoes would cripple a man without socks.

  Barney Drexel.

  Fallon hadn’t thought of him since Judge Parker had fired the lout back in Fort Smith maybe twelve years back. Drexel had pinned on a badge after Parker had just been appointed as the only federal judge serving western Arkansas and the Indian Territory. Drexel had brought in most of the men he went after dead, but Fallon had also killed his share. The rule of outlaws in the Indian Nations was: die game. Certainly, it beat hanging on the scaffolds outside of the old army building that now held the jail and the judge’s courtroom. Even if, sometimes, you’d get to hang with your friends. Judge Parker’s gallows could hold up to six doomed men at a time.

  Drexel should have wound up on those gallows himself. He shot another deputy marshal dead while both were off duty in a saloon on Garrison Avenue. Put four .45 caliber slugs into Deputy Marshal Flint Logan’s stomach, and another in the back of Logan’s head while he lay in a pool of his own blood on the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor. He would have put another bullet in Logan’s corpse but the Colt misfired the
last chamber.

  That shooting had not surprised Fallon. Drexel had always been a brute and a bully, and too often went for his Colt or Winchester. What saved Drexel from the gallows was the fact that Flint Logan’s reputation also smelled like a coyote’s carcass, and witnesses couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say that Drexel drew first. The argument seemed to be over a prostitute, but she couldn’t be found after the shooting. The U.S. marshal, U.S. attorney, and Judge Parker agreed that they had rid the U.S. Marshals Service of two bad apples. Flint Logan was dead. Barney Drexel was told not to show his face in Arkansas or the Indian Nations again.

  So Drexel had wound up as a sergeant of guards in Huntsville.

  Such was Harry Fallon’s luck.

  He made it through the prison doctor’s evaluation in rapid time.

  “You seem to attract a lot of bullets, sir,” the bony, white-haired old-timer said.

  “And knives,” Fallon told him. “Clubs. Broken bottles. Fists. Hatchets. Fingernails.”

  “I’ve performed autopsies on bodies with fewer scars. Take a deep breath. Exhale.” The doctor lowered the stethoscope. “You’re in remarkable condition for what should be a corpse. Have a peppermint stick, Mr. Alexander. And welcome to The Walls.”

  * * *

  Now he had been turned over to a guard, a redheaded man with a thick mustache and blackened teeth. As the guard escorted Fallon across the prison yard toward Sergeant Barney Drexel, Fallon kept thinking that maybe, just maybe, after all these years Drexel wouldn’t recognize him. A dozen years had passed, and ten of those years had been hard, brutally hard on Harry Fallon. The Illinois State Prison at Joliet certainly had earned its reputation for aging a man.

  “Sergeant Drexel,” the black-toothed guard said. “Fresh fish for ya.”

  Big, ugly, bearded Barney Drexel turned around and rapped a big stick into the palm of his beefy left hand.

  Barney Drexel looked the same.

  Fallon muttered a curse under his breath, but he was saved by another savage curse.