Die with the Outlaws
Look for these exciting Westerns series from bestselling authors
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
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN DIE WITH THE OUTLAWS
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
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: 978-0-7860-3579-3
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3580-9 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3580-3 (e-book)
Chapter One
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
When Matt Jensen rode into town, he stopped in front of the Morning Star Saloon, then pushed through the batwing doors to step inside. Saloons had become a part of his heritage. There was a sameness to them that he had grown comfortable with over the years—the long bar, the wide plank floors, the mirror behind the bar, the suspended lanterns, and the ubiquitous iron stove sitting in a box of sand. He was a wanderer, and though his friends often asked when he was going to settle down, his response was always the same. “I’ll settle down when I’m six feet under.”
Matt considered himself a free spirit, and even his horse’s name, Spirit, reflected that attitude. Much of his travel was without specific destination or purpose, but so frequently was Glenwood Springs a destination that he maintained a semipermanent room in the Glenwood Springs Hotel.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” the bartender said as Matt stepped up to the bar. “Where’ve you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Oh, here and there. Anywhere they’ll let me stay for a few days before they ask me to move on.”
“I envy people like you. No place to call home, no one to tie you down.”
“Yeah, that’s me, no one to tie me down,” Matt said in a voice that the discerning would recognize as somewhat half-hearted.
“So, here for a beer, are you?”
“No, I just came in here to check my mail,” Matt replied.
“What?”
Matt laughed. “A beer would be good.”
“Check your mail,” Max said, laughing with Matt. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“How’s Doc doing?” Matt asked.
“You’re asking about Holliday?” the bartender asked as he set the beer before Matt.
“Yes. Does he still come in here a lot?”
“Not as much as he used to. He’s pretty wasted by now, just skin and bones. Sort of wobbles when he walks. Big Nose Kate is here though, and she looks after him.”
“Is he at the hotel or the sanitarium?”
“Hotel mostly, either his room or the lobby.”
“I think I’ll go see him, maybe bring him in here for a drink if I can talk him into it.”
“Are you kidding?” the bartender asked. “He’ll come in a military minute. That is, if Kate will let him come.”
“What do you mean, if she’ll let him come?”
“She watches over him like a mother hen guarding her chicks.”
“Good for her. Well, I’ll just have to charm her into letting him join me.”
“You’re going to charm Big Nose Kate? Ha! You would have better luck charming a rock.”
* * *
Matt stepped into the hotel a few minutes later and secured his room. Looking around, he saw Doc Holliday and Big Nose Kate in the lobby sitting together on a leather sofa near the fireplace. And though it wasn’t cold enough to require a fire, one was burning.
As Max had indicated, John Henry Holliday was a mere shadow of his former self. Matt had met him in his prime, though even then, Doc had been suffering from consumption and had had frequent coughing spells. He had also been clear-eyed, sharp-witted, and confident. He was a loyal, and when needed, deadly friend to Wyatt Earp.
Big Nose Kate, Mary Katherine Haroney, was by Doc Holliday’s side. Despite the sobriquet of “Big Nose,” she was actually quite an attractive woman. Matt had asked once why they called her Big Nose and was told that it wasn’t because of the
size of the proboscis, but because she had a tendency to stick it into other people’s business.
“Hello, Doc,” Matt said as he approached the two.
“Matt!” Doc Holliday greeted enthusiastically. He started to get up.
“There’s no need for you to be getting up,” Kate said with just a hint of a Hungarian accent.
“Hello, Kate. It’s good to see you here.”
“And if Doc is here, where else would I be?”
“Why, here, of course. Doc, I was just over to the White Star Saloon and noticed something was missing. It took me a moment to figure it out. Then I realized that it was you, sitting at your special table playing cards. How about going back with me so you and I can play a little poker?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Doc said. “I’m not as good as I used to be.”
Matt chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on. I thought if we could play a few hands I might be able to get some of the money back I’ve lost to you over the years.”
Doc laughed out loud. “Sonny, all I said was that I’m not as good as I used to be. But I can still beat you. Let’s go.” He began the struggle to rise, and Matt quickly came to his assistance.
“You don’t mind, do you, Kate?”
“Keep a good eye on him, will you, Matt?”
“I will,” he promised.
Doc was able to walk on his own, but his frailty meant that the walk from the Glenwood Springs Hotel was quite slow. When they stepped into the saloon a few minutes later, he was greeted warmly by all as two of the bar girls approached.
“We’ll get him seated,” one of the girls said as she took one arm, and the second bar girl took the other.
“Your table, Doc?” one asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
After they were seated, one brought a whiskey for Doc and a beer for Matt. Shortly after that, two more men came to the table and a game of poker ensued.
They had been playing for about half an hour when Matt saw a man come into the saloon. He stood just inside the swinging batwing doors, surveying the saloon until his perusing came to a stop at the table where Matt, Doc, and the two others were playing poker. The man pulled his pistol from the holster and held it down by his side.
Matt had no idea who this man was, but it was pretty obvious that he was on the prowl. For him? It could be. He had made a lot of friends over the years, but he had also made a lot of enemies.
“There you are!” the man said. He didn’t shout the words, but they were easily heard. Curiosity had halted the conversations when he’d first come into the saloon. With his raised pistol, the curiosity had changed to apprehension.
“An old enemy, Matt?” one of the players asked.
“No, gentleman. I’m afraid that one is after me,” Doc said.
“Stand up, Holliday! Stand up and face me like a man!”
“I’m not armed, Hartman. In case you haven’t noticed by my emaciated appearance, I am in the advanced stages of consumption, so you can just put your gun back in its holster. If you are all that set on seeing me die, all you have to do is hang around for a short while, and I’ll do it for you. Your personal participation in the process won’t be needed.”
“Yeah? Well, I want to participate,” Hartman said.
“All right. Well, go ahead and shoot me. I’ve no way of stopping you.” Doc’s voice was calm and measured.
“I wonder if I could intervene for a moment?” Matt’s voice was calm and conversational just like Doc’s.
“Mister, you ’n them other two that’s sittin’ at the table there had better get up and get out of the way. I come in here with one thing in mind, ’n that was to kill the man that kilt my brother. ’N I aim to do it.”
The two others at the table heeded Hartman’s advice and moved out of the way.
Matt stood, but remained in place. “Speaking as John Henry’s friend, and on behalf of several others who I know are also his friends, I’m going to ask . . . no, I’m going to tell you to put aside any grievance you may have with Doc, and let nature take its course. Let him die in peace.”
“Mister, I’m standin’ here with a gun in my hand and you’re tryin’ to tell me what to do? Suppose I tell you I’m goin’ to kill him anyway?”
“You’ll have to come through me first.”
“All right, if that’s what it takes. Doc, I’m going to ask you to get out of the way for a moment,” Hartman said. “I intend to kill you, but I don’t want it to be an accident. When I kill you, it’s goin’ to be purposeful.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about it, Hartman. I’m in no danger here. If you really are dumb enough to engage my friend here, you won’t even get a shot off.”
“What is he, some sort of fool? I already have my gun in my hand,” Hartman said as if explaining something to a child.
“Yes, well, go ahead and do what you feel you must do,” Matt said.
Hartman lifted his thumb up from the handle of his pistol, preparatory to pulling back the hammer, but his thumb never reached the hammer. Matt drew and fired. His bullet crashed into Hartman’s forehead, then burst out through the back of his head taking with it a little spray of pink. Hartman was dead before he ever realized that he was in danger.
“My God. I’ve never seen anything like that!” said one of the other card players.
A buzz of excited chatter came from all the others in the saloon, and several gathered around Hartman’s body.
“Gentlemen,” Doc Holliday said, “can we please get back to the game? I plan to teach this young whippersnapper here a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
Chapter Two
Sweetwater County, Wyoming Territory
The man who dismounted and walked over to examine the fence was in his midforties, about five-feet-nine with sloping shoulders and a slight, but not pronounced, belly rise. He had steel-gray eyes below heavy brows, a narrow nose, and a pronounced chin dimple. This was Hugh Conway, owner of the Spur and Latigo, a horse ranch.
Seeing the loose end, he picked up the piece of barbed wire and examined it closely. This strand, as were the five other strands he’d found, had been cut, leaving behind an empty pasture that, yesterday, had held thirty horses. The horses would have brought one hundred thirty dollars apiece at the market. That meant a loss of nearly four thousand dollars, money that the Spur and Latigo Ranch could ill afford to lose.
Hugh shook his head in disgust and despair, then rode back to the house, where he was met by a somewhat larger than average man in denim trousers, a red and black plaid shirt, and a hat that may have been white at one time but was so stained that the actual color was nearly indistinguishable. This was Ed Sanders, Hugh’s foreman. At the moment, though, he was a foreman without anyone to supervise. Economics had forced Hugh to let all of his hands go. Sanders had agreed to take a cut in pay “until things got better.”
“Did you see any of the horses?” he asked as he took the reins to Hugh’s horse.
“No. Every horse we put out there was gone. All thirty of them.”
Sanders shook his head. “We shouldn’ta separated ’em from the others, most especial when we don’t have no men to keep an eye on ’m.”
“It’s my fault,” Hugh admitted. “I’ll be honest with you, Ed. I don’t know why it is that you’re staying on. You’re doing the work of three men, and I had to cut your pay in half.”
“Once you get your horses sold, you’ll be back on your feet again,” Sanders said.
“That’s assuming I will have enough horses left to sell. We’ve lost more than fifty in the last three months. And when I say lost, I don’t mean they just wandered off.”
“No, sir, they didn’t. They was stoled is what they was,” Sanders said. “’N there ain’t no doubt in my mind but what them Regulators is the ones that’s doin’ all the stealin’. They may call themselves deputies, but what they actually is, is horse thieves. ’N they’re stealin’ cattle, too, if you ask me. I was talkin’ to Harley Mack Loomis the ot
her day, ’n he said that they been missin’ cattle over at the Rockin’ P.”
Hugh nodded. “Yes, Mr. Pollard shared that information with me.” Darrel Pollard was the owner of the Rocking P Ranch.
“Mr. Conway, you go on in ’n get yourself some dinner. I know Miz Conway has been some worried about you. I’ll get your horse put away.”
“Thanks, Ed.”
When Hugh stepped into the house, he was met by the enticing aroma of fried chicken.
“You’re just in time,” Lisa Conway said. “I’ll have supper on the table in a minute.”
Lisa was only one inch shorter than Hugh, slender but with hips and breasts that the long gingham dress she wore did little to hide. Her hair was auburn, and her eyes were almost green. She had long lashes, high cheekbones, and a narrow nose. She was, in short, an exceptionally pretty woman, and because Hugh was some fifteen years older, those who didn’t know them sometimes mistook Lisa for Hugh’s daughter.
“Were the horses gone?” she asked as she put a pan of freshly baked biscuits on the table.
“Yes.”
“I thought they probably were, but Mr. Sanders didn’t want to tell me. He didn’t want to worry me, I guess.”
“The problem is, we have no one to keep an eye on the herd. I can’t afford to hire anyone right now, and Ed and I can’t do it by ourselves. To make matters worse, the mortgage payment is coming due soon and we don’t have enough money to pay it. If I can get the bank to give us an extension until we can get the horses to market, we’ll be all right. You said you wanted to do some shopping tomorrow, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. We’ll go into town tomorrow. You take care of your shopping, and I’ll see Mr. Foley at the bank. I’m sure we have enough equity in the herd for him to grant the extension.”
* * *