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  NATHAN STARK, ARMY SCOUT

  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

  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: 978-0-7860-4785-7

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4727-8 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4727-0 (e-book)

  CHAPTER 1

  If there was anything Nathan Stark hated, it was an Indian. God knew he’d killed his share of them—whenever and wherever he could—and this fine July morning would be no exception.

  From where he and his fellow scout and friend, Cullen Jefferson, hunkered down in the brush along the face of the embankment at their backs, Nathan eased the trigger of the Winchester repeater back gently, taking up the slack in it. The rifle was an old friend, carried through thick and thin for many a mile. He’d been tempted to buy a newer model, the ’73, but in the end, he’d held on to the 1866 model he’d had for the past eight years. He wasn’t sorry. The repeater had stood him in good stead, and he trusted it.

  Cullen crouched beside him, their positioning as familiar as the breath they drew. Neither looked at the other. There was no need. Nearly ten years of traveling and working together more often than not in their assignments with the U.S. Army had brought them as close-knit as brothers.

  Closer, in fact, than the kinship Nathan felt with his own flesh-and-blood brothers he’d been raised with. Though Cullen had a good fifteen years on Nathan, they’d seen one another out of plenty of scrapes so far—the present one being nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Hear somethin’?” Cullen whispered, his own finger ready on the trigger of his .52 caliber Spencer carbine. He was bigger, shaggier, grayer than the lean, dark-haired, wolfish Nathan Stark.

  “Not yet. But they’re out there.”

  Coming up through the eastern part of Indian Territory on their way to their latest assignment at Fort Randall in the Dakota Territory, they’d detoured to Fort Smith. It was the nearest town of any size, and they’d needed to pick up much-needed supplies to see them through the rest of their journey north.

  Nathan had been sent from their last post at Fort Sill. Cullen was to cool his heels with nothing to do. The Apaches and Comanches in that area had been installed on reservation lands, the hostilities having calmed considerably in the eighteen months since the two scouts had been assigned to the Fort Sill command post. The flare-ups that occurred were nothing that couldn’t be handled without them so Cullen had saddled up and ridden north with Nathan when his friend received orders to leave Fort Sill and head to Fort Randall. Cullen had told Colonel Bixby, “Guess my orders were delayed. Nate and me are pardners. Command oughta know that by now.”

  Nathan squinted, waiting for the Creek—at least, he thought that was what they were—to make their appearance again. They’d be along shortly. He and Cullen hadn’t had much of a lead on them.

  They’d spotted at least three of them, and there was no doubt in Nathan’s mind that when he and Cullen rode out of the canyon nestled in the San Bois Mountains of east central Indian Territory, there’d be at least three less Indians in the world—no matter what tribe they hailed from.

  “Come on ... I know you red devils is out there,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

  “Only three, you think?”

  “More, somethin’ tells me.”

  The two didn’t look at one another, keeping their eyes on the place they knew the Indians would appear. It was the path of least resistance—a wide clearing in the trees and brush that surrounded them.

  Just then, the first Creek rode into view, and Nathan pulled the rifle up a notch, taking aim. No need to worry about windage today . . . not with the air as still as the depths of a murky pond. Not a breeze stirred, and the small sounds of the land itself had disappeared around them from the time they’d dismounted, hidden their horses behind an outcropping near the mountainous wall of stone behind them, and taken their position where they could dispense swift and sure justice to the redskins.

  There were three, just as Nathan had th
ought—but that didn’t mean Cullen wasn’t right about more. They might have separated—being cautious. Could be testing the waters to see where Cullen and Nathan were—or quite possibly, they had no idea that the two scouts traveled ahead of them. Somehow, Nathan didn’t think that was the case.

  Catching the first man in his sights, Nathan pulled back farther on the trigger. The Winchester cracked wickedly. The sound came as the bullet found its mark, and the man’s side instantly turned red with blood. Pain filled the Indian’s eyes, and he let out a shriek of surprised agony as he fell from his pony.

  The other two Indians looked at one another, then at their fallen comrade. They seemed to be at a loss as to whether to try to help him or light a shuck out of there. They spoke rapidly between themselves and then Nathan knew they were Creek. Through his travels he’d picked up a smattering of so many dialects he couldn’t keep track. Though not fluent in any one language, he knew a few words and phrases in all of them. One word he recognized immediately—father, one of them had said.

  From beside him, Cullen took careful aim, squeezing the trigger of his Spencer. The one who had seemed reluctant to ride away, who’d wanted to offer help, fell from his horse’s back, nearly landing atop Nathan’s kill.

  “Two down . . . one to go . . .” Nathan muttered, taking aim again as Cullen watched for the others he felt were “out there” following.

  The third Indian had dismounted. Overcome by anger and anguish at the deaths of his two friends, he ran straight toward where Nathan and Cullen knelt behind the scrub brush.

  Nathan watched as the savage ran screaming right at him. He took aim and pulled back on the trigger, only to hear the sickening click of an empty chamber . . . or a misfire, his mind corrected. He’d been carrying a fully-loaded weapon, fifteen rounds.

  Maybe he should have given more thought to buying that ’73 model at Johannsen’s General Store in Fort Smith.

  With a curse, Cullen brought his rifle up, but not to aim at the enraged Indian who was almost on them. He whirled toward something behind them.

  With one part of his brain, Nathan heard the deadly hiss of rattles, a sound dreaded by anyone who spent much time on the frontier. Almost at the same instant, the roar of Cullen’s Spencer reverberated through the still, hot air, accompanied by the Creek’s bloodcurdling cry of vengeance as he drew his tomahawk from his waistband with a practiced hand.

  Nathan threw the rifle aside and drew his Colt, but the lanky young brave had already let his tomahawk fly. Nathan flung himself to the left, and by no more than inches, the weapon barely missed splitting his skull open.

  A wild curse burst from him in a breath of mingled anger and surprise as he hit the ground, hard and off balance. He rolled and came up on his elbows, still gripping the Army Colt, but the Creek leaped at that moment and landed on him heavily, just as he rolled again onto his back.

  The Indian knocked the pistol from his hand and smashed his fist into Nathan’s nose as he snarled like a mad dog and spoke in a steady stream of Muscogee-Creek.

  Between his lack of knowledge of the language and his preoccupation with trying to stay alive, Nathan could make out little of it. He lunged upward, unseating the Creek, and both men scrambled to their feet. They circled warily, hands flexing, ready to go at one another as soon as either of them recognized an advantage.

  The Indian was young—young and reckless. The heat of his anger made him careless. He couldn’t wait and threw himself at Nathan again, the impact carrying both of them to the rough ground.

  Where in the hell was Cullen? Nathan had a fleeting thought that maybe the rattlesnake had gotten him before he got his shot off.

  Nathan and the Indian rolled and tumbled, kicked and gouged, fists slamming at one another as their blood mixed and dotted the dirt and rocks beneath them.

  From somewhere nearby, a rifle boomed again. Cullen’s. But again, not giving Nathan any relief from the crazed Indian pitted against him.

  Must mean Cullen had been right. There were more of the varmints . . .

  The late-morning sun was merciless, and in the July-hot air of the foothills of the San Bois, Nathan could smell the odor of blood, sweat . . . and rage. The madness that gripped him and the savage in their hand-to-hand battle was palpable. One of them was going to die and be left for the buzzards to feast on.

  The brave was stronger than Nathan had anticipated, and younger. More boy than man . . . but all killer.

  Nathan was surprised at his opponent’s tenacious strength that didn’t seem to flag in the least, no matter how long they battled. He fought with the ruthless intensity of a madman. His relative inexperience, stacked up to Nathan’s years of battles, was offset by the false strength that filled him in the rush of shock and anger over the deaths of his companions.

  A rifle sounded from several yards away . . . one of the others this time.

  How many were there? Nathan couldn’t spare a glance to see how Cullen fared.

  The brave suddenly flipped Nathan beneath him, his hands encircling Nathan’s throat, fingers taking on a crushing life of their own as they closed around Nathan’s neck. The black eyes glaring down at him burned with murderous rage.

  Nathan didn’t fear his own death. He’d left that feeling behind years ago. Fifteen years past, to be exact. The day everything had been taken from him. He had prayed for his own end, as well, that day. When it hadn’t happened, he’d rediscovered his purpose.

  Vengeance.

  He had not figured on meeting his death in eastern Indian Territory, however. The bright sunlight began to dim as he tried to dislodge the Indian, to no avail. Joyous murder was in the Creek’s eyes, but Nathan had determined he wasn’t going to be killed today. He would not allow it.

  With every ounce of his strength, he threw the Creek off him, rolled, and lunged to his feet. He glanced around for the Colt, but it was too far away to make a grab for it. He pulled his knife instead, a wicked Bowie that he’d taken from his father’s hand when he’d found him that day—fifteen years past—when Nathan hadn’t been much older than the Indian he fought.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Creek’s eyes widened briefly. A grim smile of satisfaction touched Nathan’s bloodied mouth. He hadn’t felt fear in fifteen years, not through the years of fighting in the war, nor through his dangerous service to the Army in the decade since—but the Indian sure as hell did, and he’d made the mistake of showing it. No matter how fleeting that look had been, Nathan recognized it for what it was.

  The Indian pulled his own knife, a weapon made of bone, sharpened to a fine point, and nearly as long as the Bowie Nathan brandished.

  The two men circled each other once more. Nathan still panted, trying to catch his breath. The lingering feel of the Indian’s hands at his neck made his skin crawl. He would have hated to meet his end by being choked to death, but somehow, it wouldn’t have been nearly so distasteful had it been a white man who killed him. To die at the hands of a red savage—well, nothing could be worse than that.

  As they circled one another warily, he watched the Indian’s eyes. When the Creek made his move, Nathan was ready.

  The brave rushed toward Nathan, seemingly unable to wait another instant to come at him. Nathan easily deflected the Indian’s knife hand and gave a quick upward jab with his own blade. The Indian moved lightly on his feet, turning away in anticipation of the strike, and Nathan stabbed air instead of flesh and bone.

  The Creek tried to dodge away, but Nathan grabbed the Indian’s blade hand with a lightning-quick move and held it immobile.

  Nathan had hunted Indians long enough to know one thing about them—you could never be sure of anything when it came to what a red man might do or think or how he might act or react. He also knew he needed to end the fight soon.

  He cursed his own failure. He should’ve been able to shoot the savage before he had the chance to distract him with the tomahawk and come running at him.

  A part of him grudgingly recognized the courage
of those actions, even as he wondered if Cullen was all right, yet knowing he couldn’t let his attention wander to check.

  A swipe of the bone knife as the Creek fought free brought blood flowing down Nathan’s left arm, crimson soaking the blue shirt he wore. He barreled into the Indian and they both went to the ground again, with Nathan on top in a clearly advantageous position. The Creek had had the wind knocked out of him, but he fought to push Nathan off of him, even so.

  Hearing the distinctive sound of Cullen’s old long-barreled .44 Remington revolver exploding nearby, Nathan hoped it meant an end to all the Creek warriors . . . all but the one he was fighting.

  He struck the Indian’s knife hand on the hard ground again and again, until the knife fell free, then he brought the tip of the Bowie up to the man’s face and deliberately cut him across his cheek.

  The Creek made a grunt of pain, but his eyes glittered with hatred, not pain. “I will kill you,” the Indian said from between clenched teeth. In English.

  Nathan’s eyes narrowed. This one has brass.

  At that point there wasn’t much chance he could manage to kill Nathan, but the certainty in his tone couldn’t be denied.

  “You haven’t managed to do it yet,” Nathan said, pushing himself away from the warrior. “And I’ve killed a heap of men braver than you.”

  “The day is young.” The Indian’s blood streaked across his skin, staining his black hair. He’d lost none of the challenge in his voice or his demeanor.