To the River's End

  Look for these exciting Western 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

  MacCallister

  The Red Ryan Westerns

  Perley Gates

  Have Brides, Will Travel

  Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshall

  Shotgun Johnny

  The Chuckwagon Trail

  The Jackals

  The Slash and Pecos Westerns

  The Texas Moonshiners

  Stoneface Finnegan Westerns

  Ben Savage: Saloon Ranger

  The Buck Trammel Westerns

  The Death and Texas Westerns

  The Hunter Buchanon Westerns

  TO THE RIVER’S END

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  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

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by 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.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS and the WWJ steer head logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3452-5 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3451-8

  Chapter 1

  “What’s on your mind, Luke?” Tom Molloy asked when he pulled up next to Luke Ransom, who had halted his string of packhorses at the mouth of a small stream. The four-man team of two trappers and two camp tenders were on their way to the annual rendezvous at Horse Creek where it joined the Green River. They were following an old Indian trail between the Snake and the Green River that should allow them to strike the Green River a short distance north of Horse Creek.

  “Whaddaya stoppin’ for?” Charlton Lewis wanted to know as he caught up to them now.

  “That’s just what I was askin’, Luke,” Tom answered him.

  “I was just studyin’ this little stream,” Luke explained.

  “What for?” Charlton asked. “If you’re thinkin’ about beaver, forget about it. We checked it out last year, when I was ridin’ with Rex Gorden. It ain’t big enough to attract beaver.”

  “Besides,” Tom said, “we’ve got a pretty good yield for our year’s work. I’m ready to get on to rendezvous. I need a drink of likker bad. Ain’t that what you say, Luke?”

  “I reckon,” Luke hedged. “But I’m still a little curious about this stream. I remember this stream when we rode outta rendezvous last summer. And when I look at it now, I’m wonderin’ why the mouth of it ain’t as big as it was. It was bigger’n that last summer. So, I’m wonderin’ if somethin’s stoppin’ it up back toward that ridge—like a beaver dam that wasn’t there last time we rode along this river.”

  “Maybe it’s just dryin’ up,” Tom said, not really interested in investigating it.

  “I hope to hell this ain’t the rendezvous,” Fred Willis called out, just then catching up to them. “I was hopin’ for somethin’ a sight bigger’n this,” he japed.

  “It’s only Luke havin’ one of his notions,” Tom said. “He thinks he smells beaver up this little stream.”

  “Hell, we’re gettin’ close enough to rendezvous till I can’t smell nothin’ but whiskey,” Fred replied. “I’m goin’ on.” He gave his horse a nudge with his heels and rode around the other horses. Tom and Charlton fell in behind him.

  “I’m gonna take a look up this stream,” Luke called after them. “If I don’t catch up with you pretty quick, I’ll see ya at camp.” Without looking around, Tom held his hand up to let him know he heard him.

  It was still early in the day. He had time to follow the stream back toward the mountains west of the valley, and he could catch up with the others where they camped for the night. They should make the rendezvous by suppertime the day after tomorrow. If he didn’t catch up to them tonight, he’d do it tomorrow night. He guided the big bay gelding he called Smoke along the stream, leading two packhorses. The stream was obviously smaller than it had been last year, but the current was still pretty healthy. He could see no reason why it would dry up. There were no signs anywhere else that there had been a lack of rainfall. So he was not really surprised when he finally saw the dam up ahead of him, after riding less than half a mile. He smiled to himself and muttered, “Yep, I reckon I had another one of my notions.” He discovered only one lodge, which didn’t surprise him, since the dam and the pond it created were not that old. More than likely, the family all lived in the one lodge. That told him the pelts wouldn’t be big, except for those of the mama and papa. Now he had to make a decision on whether or not to set his traps and hope to catch one of the adults—or leave them alone to give the kits a chance to grow up and build more lodges. The problem was, the stream was too close to a commonly used trail, so he doubted they would be left unharmed. “I’ll set just a couple of traps, maybe catch one of the adults,” he decided.

  He took a wide circle around the lodge and the pond created by the dam to leave his horses while he set his traps. After taking care of the horses, he took two No. 4 Newhouse beaver traps and set them, wading down the stream in the water, so he would not leave his scent on the banks near the traps. Working as fast as he could, since it was not the usual time of day when he would normally be setting traps, he set each trap quickly. He placed the cocked trap so that the trigger was about a hand’s width below the surface of the water. Then he pulled the chain to its full length and secured it with a sharpened stick he drove into the bottom of the stream. Once the trap was set, he took a willow twig, peeled it, and covered it with “medicine,” which was a yellow, sticky substance called castoreum. The trapper gets his “medicine” from the beaver’s scent glands. A beaver is a highly territorial animal and each one has a distinctive scent. Luke fixed the willow twig wi
th the castoreum over the trap to bait his trap, knowing a beaver could not resist investigating the stranger’s scent.

  With his traps set, he went about the business of making a camp for the night. He felt pretty confident in his prospects of adding another plew or two to his total, but it was necessary to stay there that night and check his traps in the morning. Beavers did most of their business during the night. It would not be the first time he had failed to show up for a day or so. Tom and the others were accustomed to his occasional absences. He was well aware of the reputation he had acquired during the years he had worked for the American Fur Company. Tom Molloy, especially, couldn’t resist reminding Luke that they trapped for the company and were paid a salary, no matter how many plews they trapped. Fred and Charlton were of a like mind, but they soon learned that it was simply Luke’s nature to work as hard as he could to get every last pelt out there.

  It was Fred, who worked as a camp tender along with Charlton, who put the idea of quitting the American Fur company in his head. “As hard as you work at it, I’m surprised you ain’t quit this outfit and gone free-trappin’,” Fred told him. “Hell, they’ll buy your pelts, same as they do everybody else’s. You’d wind up makin’ a helluva lot more money than you’re makin’, workin’ for the company.”

  Luke had answered the call when William Ashley advertised in the St. Louis newspaper for one hundred men to go up the Missouri River to its source. They were to sign up for one, two, or three years to work there to establish the company in the fur business. Like most of the men, he signed on for three years, to trap the mountain streams for beaver pelts, but the new fur company found itself in a constant war with the Arikara and Blackfoot Indians. A lot of men were killed before Ashley abandoned the upper Missouri and sent his men into the Rocky Mountains to trap the streams and rivers. That was five years ago and now Luke figured he had given the company fair value in exchange for his horse and traps, and it was time to sever the ties and start out next season as a free trapper. This was another reason he had decided to trap this little stream while the others went on to rendezvous. In his mind, he felt he should do the best he could for the company since this was his last year with them. It wouldn’t be a prime pelt, since the beavers had likely lost their heavy winter fur this time of the year. But it was one more plew for his employer.

  * * *

  Before sunup the next morning, Luke rolled out of his blanket and went to check his traps. He found a beaver in one of the traps but nothing in the other one. Satisfied that the one pelt was at least worth the trouble, he pulled the carcass out of the water and pulled his traps out of the pond. An adult male, he estimated the beaver weighed about forty pounds. He was not the biggest catch, but his fur was not bad for this time of the year, which told Luke he was still a young specimen. Instead of his usual custom of skinning it right there, he took the beaver back to his campfire and skinned it there. After he stretched the pelt out on a willow hoop to dry for a couple of days, he extracted the scent glands for the medicine and scraped the tail and charred it over his fire. Then he boiled it for a source of butter-like tallow in addition to the tasty meal it provided.

  He had finished his breakfast and was packing up his horses when he heard the first shot. He paused at once to listen. It sounded as if it had come from upstream, maybe a mile or less away. His first thought was that someone had shot a deer or a wolf. But then, he heard another shot, followed shortly by a third. Better take a look, he decided. Somebody must be having some trouble. Since his horses were pretty well hidden where they were, he decided to leave them tied there while he followed the stream up to the top of a high shoulder of the mountain west of the river. He wasn’t willing to go out of sight of his horses, but if trouble was on its way to visit him, he wanted to be ready to meet it. And he figured he could get a better look at the top of that shoulder. He pulled his Pennsylvania long rifle from his saddle sling as well as his backup rifle from one of his packhorses. Then with a rifle in each hand, he started up the stream at a trot.

  He had not reached the top of the rise before another shot rang out. This time, it sounded as if it was just on the backside of the shoulder he was climbing, causing him to stop and drop to one knee to take a cautious look before proceeding. The mountain was heavily forested, so it was difficult to see very far in front of him. He took another look behind him to make sure there was no one circling back toward his horses before he rose to his feet again and continued up the slope. When he reached the top of the shoulder, he discovered that it leveled out for about fifty yards before rising up into the mountain. He also discovered a small grassy meadow bisected by the stream he was following, and the source of the gunfire.

  It took only minutes to size up the situation. A man, obviously a trapper, was under attack by Indians. His attackers, only two that Luke could see, were between him and Luke, giving Luke a clear field of fire. Some movement among the trees off to his left caused him to watch for a few moments until he caught sight of the horses the Indians left there. The trapper had taken cover behind his packhorse, which had evidently been killed by the Indians. One of the Indians had a firearm, a Northwest Trade Gun, which was usually called by the French name, fusil. A smooth bore gun, it was a popular weapon with the Indians, more so than the rifle-barreled Kentucky Long Rifle. The Indian raised it and threw another lead ball into the carcass of the dead horse. Luke figured the horse had been shot accidentally, since the Indians were no doubt after the trapper’s horses as well as the pelts they carried. He hesitated only long enough to make sure there were no other Indians with the two he was about to assassinate before he acted. When he felt sure, he checked the loads in both his flintlock long rifles, raised one of them and took dead aim on the farthest warrior, and squeezed the trigger. Without waiting to witness the results of the shot, for he was confident of his accuracy, he quickly picked up the other rifle and squeezed off another shot. The rifle ball caught the startled warrior in the chest when he turned to see where the first shot had come from.

  Suddenly, the forest was silent for a long couple of minutes while Luke reloaded his rifles. When there was no evidence of any additional threat, Luke called out. “Hello, the camp! You all right?”

  The gnarly gray-haired little man, lying behind the dead horse, breathed a tentative sigh of relief when he heard a white man’s voice. But hostile Indians weren’t the only murderers and thieves in the Rocky Mountains, so there was the possibility his rescuer was an even nastier scoundrel than the redskins just eliminated. “Yes, sir, thanks to you. Come on in,” he called back. Then, with rifle in hand, he rose up on one knee to watch his visitor approach. In a few seconds, Luke walked out of the cover of the pines. He paused to make sure the two Indians were dead before continuing. Seeing that he was alone, Jug Sartain got to his feet. “You on foot?”

  “My horses are down at the foot of the hill,” Luke said. “I didn’t even know you were up here, till I heard the shots.” Concerned then about his horses, he asked, “Blackfoot, any more of ’em around? Or was there just those two?”

  “Didn’t see any more,” Jug answered. “You on your way to rendezvous?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Luke said. “My name’s Luke Ransom. I work for American Fur Company. I was ridin’ with three other fellows, but I decided to stop here to check on a new beaver dam below.”

  “Well, I’m mighty glad you stopped,” Jug said. “I wasn’t at all sure I was gonna get away from those two boys you shot. That one with the rifle shot my damn packhorse.” He offered his hand. “Jug Sartain’s my name and I’m pleased to meet you, Luke.”

  Luke shook Jug’s hand. “They left their horses back yonder in the trees. We can go over and see if one of ’em can take on your packs for ya. Then, if you’re of a mind to, we can go on down to pick up my horses and we’ll ride on to rendezvous together. I reckon that’s where you were headin’.”

  “I sure was,” he replied. “I ain’t had a drink of likker in two months. That’s when that j
ug on this dead horse went empty.

  Luke smiled at the odd little man, dressed in animal skins from his hat to his beaded moccasins, almost black from the smoke of countless campfires. It was hard to guess just how old he was. His hair was long and gray, as were his whiskers, but his eyes were bright and quick. After the comment he just made, Luke couldn’t resist asking a question. “Jug, that’s an unusual name. Has it got anything to do with the jug hangin’ on your packhorse?”

  Jug laughed in response to the question. “Yeah, I reckon it has,” he said. “Some boys over at Fort Union hung that name on me a few years back. I did some tradin’ there and I always bought whiskey in a jug. When they started sellin’ most of the whiskey there outta bottles, I just kept my jug and emptied the bottles in it. I never gave ’em no first name, so they started callin’ me Jug, and I reckon it stuck. It’s better’n my real name, so I just kept it.”

  “What is your real first name?” Luke asked, curious now.

  “Well, see now, Mr. Luke Ransom, you mighta saved my bacon for sure this mornin’, but you still ain’t knowed me long enough for me to tell you what my mammy named me. She heard a name somewhere that she thought sounded pretty good, but it just didn’t suit me.”

  Luke shrugged. “Jug it is, then. Let’s go round up those Blackfoot ponies, and go pick up my horses.”

  They found the two Blackfoot horses tied in the trees where Luke had spotted them. Both horses were in good condition. Jug looked them over carefully before deciding the bay was his choice as substitute for his packhorse. The other horse, a paint that Luke figured to be about four years old, would have been his choice and they had a friendly discussion over who the paint should belong to. Luke argued that the two warriors were attacking Jug, so both their horses should belong to him. Jug countered with the argument that he might have gone under if Luke hadn’t killed both warriors. And since Luke killed them, all their property should be rightfully his. They were still debating the issue when they got down the mountain to get Luke’s horses. It was set aside, however, when they reached Luke’s camp and Jug saw the load of pelts Luke was packing. “You trap all them plews, yourself?” Jug asked.