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  FIRESTICK

  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 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

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  Teaser chapter

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 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: 978-0-7860-4593-8

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4023-0 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4023-8 (e-book)

  CHAPTER 1

  There was a time when Elwood McQueen considered wading into a good brawl with fists, feet, and elbows flying to be about as much fun as a fella could have with his britches still on. But those days were mostly past . . . Mostly.

  And so it was, on a sunny afternoon in April when he got word of a ruckus breaking out in the Silver Spur Saloon, McQueen went there with the intention of taming things down, not joining in the ruckus. After all, as the duly appointed marshal of the little West Texas town of Buffalo Peak, that’s what folks expected from him as part of his duties—to tame things down.

  But no sooner had he stepped through the batwings of the Silver Spur than the strict performance of his duties was put to the test. For starters, the first thing he laid eyes on was the homely, angrily snarling face of Greely Dunlap. That alone was enough to sour the good intentions of practically anybody. And then the whiskey bottle came sailing through the air and nearly ended its flight against McQueen’s forehead. He managed to duck at the last second, the bottle only skimming off his hat instead of splitting his skull.

  “Now you made me waste a whole bottle of good whiskey, you duded-up son of a sidewinder,” bellowed a tall, lanky cowpoke, addressing the man he had viciously swung the whiskey bottle at, missing his mark, and then losing his grip on the bottle when the man ducked. “That earns you more of an ass-whuppin’ than you already had comin’ to begin with!”

  “You tell him, Grady,” Greely Dunlap said, shouting encouragement to his younger and even homelier little brother. “A double ass-whuppin’ is what’s called for, says I, and there’s no sense wastin’ any more time about it.”

  “Make it a triple,” added a third man, one Newt Woolsey by name, a short, stocky redhead who regularly hung around with—and got in trouble with—the Dunlap brothers. “I want me a piece of that slippery-fingered skunk, too, and I ain’t about to be left out!”

  The object of all this anger was a middle-aged man of average height and build who stood on the back side of a round-topped gaming table, where he and the trio now converging on him had apparently been playing cards. The individual being threatened was a stranger to McQueen. He had wavy yellow hair, with a smooth-shaven face made up of rather delicate features, and he was clad in a gray frock coat and black string tie, attire qualifying him for the “duded-up” assessment from Grady Dunlap.

  But anyone bothering to look a little closer would have noted something more: There was a hard-edged wariness in the stranger’s eyes that conveyed no hint of fear or delicate intentions when it came to what he was faced with.

  “Be careful, Firestick,” advised Art Farrelly, the balding fireplug of a bartender on duty at the Silver Spur that afternoon, as McQueen came out of his crouch and took a long stride forward. “Those Dunlaps are spoiling for a fight, and you know what mean drunks they can be.”

  “Yeah, well, gettin’ damn near scalped by a flyin’ whiskey bottle don’t exactly put me in a friendly mood neither,” McQueen muttered out the side of his mouth as he proceeded straight for the knot of men clustered around the card table.

  There was only a handful of other customers in the place at that hour, a mixture of cowpokes and shiftless townies bellied up to the bar and shifted down a ways from where the trouble was getting ready to boil over. The sight of McQueen continuing to advance with fire in his eyes caused the bunch to collectively shift down a bit farther.

  The way the four men at the table were positioned, only one of them—the yellow-haired stranger—was facing toward McQueen. This made him the only one with any awareness of the marshal’s approach. Woolsey had his back turned completely, and the Dunlap brothers, closing in on the stranger from either side, were focused solely on him, their intended target.

  The stranger’s eyes widened hopefully for a moment, but then, having no way to be certain on whose side the big, wide-shouldered new arrival would turn out to be, they once again took on their wary appraisal.

  “All right,” McQueen said in a loud, clear voice as he stepped up close behind Woolsey. “Everybody smooth down your hackles and just stand easy. Whatever this is about, there ain’t gonna be no lettin’ it get out of hand.”

  “The hell there ain’t,” Greely barked a quick reply. The sudden intervention of McQueen’s voice had caused him only the slightest start and wasn’t enough to make him take his eyes off the stranger as he continued talking. “We caught this slick varmint cheatin’ at cards and we’re about to teach him how that don’t go around here. But we ain’t fixin’ to gut him or shoot him—we ain’t even heeled, just like you warned us when we come to town. So it ain’t no never-mind of yours, Marshal. We’re just gonna give him a good thumpin’ to drive home the point of be in’ more careful who he tries to cheat in the future.”

  “Yeah. Comes down to it, we’ll practically be doin’ a public service,” added his brother, Grady.

  “Nobody was being cheated, Marshal—if, in fact, that is your calling,” said the stranger, addressing McQueen’s lack of a badge, which he often neglected to pin on. “The truth of the matter is that the poor attitude these gentlemen display toward losing is matched only by the poor skill they display when it comes to playing poker.”

  “Now he’s callin’ us liars,” said Woolsey, his words intentionally adding more fuel
to the fire.

  “That’s a name I’ll stand from no man!” roared Grady in response. And before McQueen could say or do anything more to try and stop him, the older Dunlap brother accompanied this exclamation by unleashing a clubbing backhand aimed straight at the face of the yellow-haired man.

  The stranger, somewhat distracted by the arrival of McQueen, was caught partially off guard. But his reflexes were sharp enough that he still managed to jerk his face back in time to avoid the full impact of the blow. Nevertheless, it landed hard enough to knock him staggering away from the table.

  McQueen lunged forward, reaching to grab Woolsey by the shoulders, with the intent of flinging the smaller man out of his way so he could get at the brothers before they closed in on the stranger and inflicted more damage. In his haste, however, the marshal forgot what a wily scrapper the redhead was in his own right. Although he’d never turned to look directly back at McQueen, Woolsey had been very aware of how close he’d moved up behind him. So when the lawman’s hands started to clamp onto his shoulders, Woolsey bent his knees just enough to drop below the closing fingers and at the same time twisted sharply at the waist, whipping around with the point of his elbow and driving it full-force into McQueen’s stomach.

  A great gust of air exploded from the marshal as he doubled forward. Anticipating this, Woolsey suddenly straightened his legs and simultaneously jerked his head straight back, hard, slamming it into McQueen’s lowering face.

  Now it was McQueen’s knees that buckled, though not purposefully. He lurched to one side, stunned by the head butt. He could taste blood filling his mouth and feel the sticky warmth of it dribbling down over his chin.

  On the other side of the table, the yellow-haired stranger struggled to regain his balance as the Dunlap brothers rushed him, angling in from either side. Wanting badly to land a blow of his own, Grady allowed his eagerness to outweigh his caution and ended up paying for it when he stepped into a lightning-fast right jab the stranger threw even as he was still leaning back. The fist-to-chin collision popped solidly, stalling Grady’s forward momentum.

  Landing the punch seemed to somehow reset the stranger’s balance, enabling him to get his feet planted as he turned to face the oncoming Greely. Once again, his fists lashed out in a blur of speed, leading with another jab, a left this time, followed instantly by a right hook that snapped Greely’s head to one side and caused him to do a stutter-step off in that direction rather than continue his straight-ahead charge.

  Meanwhile, McQueen was still dealing with the unexpected burst of aggression from the scrappy Newt Woolsey. Momentarily staggered by the smaller man’s initial attack, the marshal fought to right himself and get braced for whatever the redhead tried in the way of a follow-up. When it came, it was another example of Woolsey’s shrewdness and the fighting skills he’d honed to compensate for his lack of size. He went for McQueen’s legs, aiming a piston-like kick meant to crush the bigger man’s kneecap and either dislocate it or possibly break the leg.

  But McQueen’s history of being in ruckuses had taught him a thing or three about fighting, as well—including a host of defensive moves, both orthodox and the kind a body sometimes made up on the spot. His reaction to Woolsey’s attempted kick fell in the latter category. Seeing the foot cock back and then start to hurtle toward his knee before he was properly balanced for a quick sidestep, the marshal instead leaned forward and swung his fist in a downward chop that struck hard just above Woolsey’s ankle. The impact resulted in a loud crack of gristle and bone as the redhead’s foot and leg were knocked violently away, suddenly making him the one off balance. He pitched to the floor, reaching frantically for his damaged foot with both hands while howling in pain.

  Pausing only long enough to backhand some of the blood from his mouth, McQueen pounced on Woolsey. He resorted to a variation of what he’d originally meant to do when he’d first reached for the redhead. Leaning over, he seized the fallen man by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his trousers. Straightening up, shoulders and thick arms bulging under his homespun shirt, the marshal lifted the still-howling Woolsey and whirled him around as if he were no more than a toddler. When he’d turned to where he was facing the three other combatants, McQueen hoisted his burden to chest height and then thrust his powerful arms outward, releasing Woolsey and sending him airborne until he crashed across the lower backs of the Dunlap brothers as they were bunching together in their renewed attempt to gang up on the stranger.

  Woolsey yipped like a kicked dog, the sounds he emitted mixing with the grunts of surprise that escaped Greely and Grady as they were slammed forward and knocked off their feet. All three of the troublemakers tumbled down, tangled together in a kicking, arm-thrashing, cursing pile.

  Shoving away the table and swatting aside tipped-over chairs, McQueen barged forward, following the missile he had launched. On the other side of the flailing pile, the yellow-haired stranger stood poised with raised fists, the expression on his face once again wary, but also touched with a hint of amusement.

  “Hope you don’t mind me hornin’ in,” McQueen said to him as he leaned over to yank the limp form of Woolsey off the pile and toss it to one side, “but I figure you’ll be okay with sharin’ the finishin’-up of these last two with me.”

  Grinning as he reached down to pull Grady back to his feet, the stranger said, “Always been a big believer in sharing, Marshal. One apiece works out about as even as a fella could ask for.”

  And so it went that, for the next handful of minutes—after getting both Grady and Greely upright and finding they still had the hankering for a fight left in them—the stranger and the marshal stood back-to-back and obliged that hankering with a flurry of traded punches. The stranger continued to demonstrate a measure of finesse and boxing skill—ducking, sticking, jabbing, cutting Grady down steadily but unhurriedly. Greely and McQueen—and Grady, too, for what little offense he was able to muster—relied more on hooks and sweeping roundhouses mixed with a few elbow smashes, the occasional uppercut, and lashing kicks from time to time.

  Greely was big and strong, but he also was flabby around the gut and soaked inside with too much alcohol. And although McQueen was a good twenty years older and not as spry as he’d been in his heyday, he was still powerfully built through the chest and shoulders and relatively trim at the waist. So his whittling down of Greely was not as clean or precise as the methods being employed by the stranger, but he was nevertheless getting the job done.

  None of which was to say the Dunlaps were willing to go down easy. They were tough and durable and damned stubborn about hitting the floor. Even after they were clearly bested, they refused to quit.

  This, then, was the scene presented to Jim Hendricks, a mountain of a man who happened to be one of McQueen’s two deputies, as he barged through the Silver Spur’s batwings. All four combatants, bloody and battered, were still on their feet throwing increasingly arm-weary punches.

  Hendricks took one look and didn’t hesitate to react in a way he’d found to be always effective for such situations. Almost lazily, he drew the revolver from the holster on his hip, pointed it ceilingward, and fired off a shot. The whole room shook from the blast. Farrelly, the bartender, and the men lining the bar—even though they were watching Hendricks the whole time—jumped at the sound. More importantly, though, the brawlers froze in what they were doing and let their fists fall loosely to their sides, bruised faces turning to look at Hendricks.

  “Whatever this was about, it is now over,” the deputy proclaimed. Then, aiming a scowl at McQueen, he added, “Thunderation, Firestick, how did you let yourself get involved in this? You oughta know better.”

  “Aw, take it easy, Moosejaw,” McQueen replied wearily. “Like you never jumped in the middle of a fracas before.”

  “That was the old days. We’re supposed to be older and wiser now. What’s more, we wear badges. That means we’re supposed to be breakin’ up fights, not joinin’ in.”

  McQueen raised one hand and patted his chest. “Well, I forgot to put on my badge today. Reckon that must be why I slipped and allowed myself to be tempted into joinin’ this scuffle.” He looked around, glaring at the Dunlap brothers, both of whom remained standing, though weaving somewhat unsteadily. “But badge or no badge,” he added, “I still got the authority to charge these varmints with disturbin’ the peace and strikin’ an officer of the law. They know damn well who and what I am, and they decided to tangle with me anyway. So they’re gonna get what they got comin’.”