When the Shooting Starts Read online

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  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  and J.A. JOHNSTONE

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  WHEN THE SHOOTING STARTS

  A SMOKE JENSEN NOVEL OF THE WEST

  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 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

  Teaser chapter

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by J.A. Johnstone

  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.

  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.

  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.

  First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: March 2022

  First Zebra Book Mass-Market Paperback Printing: June 2022

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4881-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4881-6 (eBook)

  Chapter 1

  “Hey, Buck! Buck West! Is that you, you old hoss thief?”

  The loud, boisterous voice made Smoke Jensen come to a halt on the boardwalk. It had been a good while since he’d heard the name Buck West. When he stopped using it, he had figured he’d probably never hear it again.

  But now here it was, coming from the mouth of the tall, rawboned man striding along the boardwalk toward him. The man’s ugly face was wreathed in a grin. He wore a duster over canvas trousers, suspenders, and a flannel shirt. The brim of his battered old hat was turned up in front.

  A holstered Colt swung on the man’s right hip. Another revolver was stuck in his waistband on the left side. He had a lean, wolfish look about him that came from riding a lot of dark, lonely trails. Hoot-owl trails, some called them. Folks had started using the word “owlhoot” to describe the men who rode such trails.

  Smoke had to search his memory for the name of the man who had just hailed him using that old alias. Sutcliffe, he recalled after a moment. Sort of a distinguished name for a gunman and outlaw. His nickname, Rowdy, fit him better. Smoke didn’t think he had ever heard the man’s real first name.

  “Hello, Rowdy,” he said, willing to be friendly as long as he could. “What brings you here?”

  “Why, the same thing as you, I expect, Buck,” replied Sutcliffe as he came to a stop and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “I heard that a fella name of Franklin was hirin’ guns, so I come to sign on with him. This here is the town of Fontana, ain’t it?”

  That took Smoke by surprise. He frowned slightly and said, “You’re a little behind the times. Tilden Franklin has been dead for almost a year. This is Big Rock. There’s not much left of Fontana. It’s fixing to dry up and blow away . . . like the memory of all the trouble that happened there.”

  Rowdy Sutcliffe cocked his head to the side and gave Smoke a quizzical stare.

  “Franklin’s dead?” he said. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure,” Smoke said. He didn’t add that he had been the one to hammer three slugs into the chest of the treacherous would-be emperor of this valley.

  Sutcliffe peered at him for a moment longer, then shook his head.

  “Well, dadgum it. Seems like I’m always late to the party. Don’t know why I didn’t hear about that. O’ course, I was down in old Meh-hee-co for a while, takin’ my ease with the señoritas, so I weren’t really payin’ that much attention to what was goin’ on up here in Colorado.” Sutcliffe sighed. “I reckon I’m plumb outta luck.” Then he brightened and went on, “Unless you got wind o’ some other work for the likes o’ you and me. Shoot, Buck West wouldn’t be here unless hell was about to pop!”

  “Sorry, Rowdy. I don’t use the name Buck West anymore, and there’s no gun work to be had around here. Big Rock has grown some since the railroad arrived, but it’s still small enough to be pretty peaceful.”

  “Wait.” A frown creased Sutcliffe’s forehead. “Your name ain’t Buck West?”

  “That’s right. That’s just what I called myself for a while.”

  Back in the days when he had been riding the hoot-owl trails himself, searching for the men he had set out to kill. Men responsible for the deaths of several people he had loved . . .

  “Then . . . what is your name?”

  “It’s Jensen. Kirby Jensen. Most folks call me Smoke.”

  Sutcliffe’s eyes widened. “Smoke Jensen,” he repeated. “Dang. I’ve heard that name, all right. Fella’s supposed to be the fastest draw on the whole frontier. The fightin’est son of a gun anybody ever saw.” He let out a low whistle. “And now, come to find out, Smoke Jensen is none other than my old pard Buck West. What do you know about that?
”

  Smoke shook his head and said, “We were never pards, Rowdy. We were just in the same places as the same times, every now and then.”

  Sutcliffe squinted now, instead of staring, as he said, “Well, that’s an unfriendly sort o’ thing to say. If I weren’t such a forgivin’ fella, I might take offense at it. Could be you’re puttin’ on airs, since you’re really the high-an’-mighty Smoke Jensen.”

  “Never claimed to be high-and-mighty,” Smoke replied with a shake of his head. “Just another hombre trying to make his way in life.”

  “Looks like you’ve done all right for yourself,” Sutcliffe said, sneering a little.

  Smoke wasn’t sure what the gunman meant by that. He certainly wasn’t wearing fancy duds or anything like that, just common range clothes and a dark brown, curled-brim hat that had seen better days perched on his ash-blond hair. His boots still had a little mud clinging to them. The gun belt strapped around his waist and the walnut-butted Colt that rode in the attached holster were well cared for but strictly functional.

  He looked like what he was these days, a hardworking, moderately successful rancher with a small but growing spread. He and his friend Pearlie Fontaine did most of the work around the place, with Smoke’s wife, Sally, pitching in when she needed to. She was learning to ride a horse and use a lariat as well as most men.

  Lately, there had been enough work to do that Smoke had hired a couple of extra hands, which had prompted Pearlie to start referring to himself as the foreman. The Sugarloaf—the name Smoke had given to the ranch—was still far from being the equal of some of the massive outfits in other parts of the state. Maybe it would grow to that point someday. Smoke hoped so.

  One thing he knew for sure was that he never wanted to return to the bloody, dangerous, lone wolf days of his existence as “Buck West” . . . and Rowdy Sutcliffe was a living, breathing reminder of those days, standing right in front of him.

  “It was good seeing you again, Rowdy,” he said as he started to turn away. That was stretching the truth considerable-like, but he wanted to end this conversation as smoothly and efficiently as he could.

  “Hold on a minute,” Sutcliffe said as he raised his left hand slightly.

  Smoke stopped, every muscle taut.

  “Least you can do is let me buy you a drink,” Sutcliffe went on. “For old times’ sake.”

  Smoke hesitated, then nodded. What harm could that do? Maybe once he’d had a drink with Sutcliffe, the gunman would decide there was no reason for him to remain in Big Rock and would move along.

  “Sure,” he said. “Come on down the street with me to Longmont’s. It’s the best saloon in town.”

  “Longmont’s,” repeated Sutcliffe as he fell in step along-side Smoke. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Louis Longmont, would it?”

  “Louis owns the place,” Smoke said. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Nope, just heard tell of him. He’s supposed to be mighty slick with a gun and a deck of cards, both.” Sutcliffe glanced around Big Rock’s main street. “What’s he doin’ in a little wide place in the trail like this?”

  Smoke thought the town had grown enough that it was more than a wide place in the trail, but he didn’t waste the time or energy to argue that point. Instead he said, “Louis has put that part of his life behind him, just like I have.”

  Sutcliffe clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont, both settlin’ down. Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Living like we used to can only have one end, Rowdy, and it’s not a good one.”

  “I hope you ain’t sayin’ I ought to hang up my guns!” Sutcliffe let out a bray of laughter. “That ain’t gonna happen. I’ll take my chances and keep on livin’ like I want to.”

  “That’s your choice,” Smoke said solemnly.

  “Damn right it is.”

  A slight air of tension remained between them as they entered Louis Longmont’s establishment. Louis had told Smoke that eventually he intended to make the place as much a restaurant as it was a saloon, since he appreciated superb cooking as much as he did fine wine, a beautiful woman, a good card game, and a perfectly balanced gun. For now, however, it catered primarily to men’s thirst for beer and whiskey.

  Louis stood at the far end of the bar, a glass of bourbon on the hardwood in front of him and smoke curling from the thin black cigar in his mouth. He took the cheroot from his lips and used them to give Smoke a smile of welcome.

  “Good afternoon, Smoke,” the gambler said. “What brings you to town today?”

  “Sally and I came in to pick up some supplies,” Smoke replied. “She’s over at the mercantile and doesn’t really need my help right now, so I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

  “I’m glad you did.” Coolly, Louis appraised Rowdy Sutcliffe. “Who’s your friend?”

  Smoke didn’t correct Louis’s incorrect assumption that Sutcliffe was his friend. He said, “This is Rowdy Sutcliffe.”

  “You probably heard of me,” Sutcliffe said with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

  Louis was about to inform Sutcliffe that he had no idea who he was, Smoke could tell. Before that could happen, Smoke went on, “Rowdy and I met up a few times, a while back.”

  “Back in the days when you was usin’ the name Buck West,” Sutcliffe added.

  Louis cocked an eyebrow. He knew most of the story of Smoke’s background, although Smoke’s laconic nature meant that prying it out of him hadn’t been easy.

  “Well, any friend of Smoke’s is a friend of mine, as the old saying goes,” Louis said. “How about a drink, Mr. Sutcliffe? First one’s on the house.”

  Sutcliffe grinned and said, “I sure won’t turn that down. I favor rye, if you’ve got it.”

  “Indeed we do.” Louis crooked a finger at the bartender and told the man to pour Sutcliffe a shot of rye, then said, “What about you, Smoke?”

  “I’d just as soon have coffee, if you’ve got it.”

  “We always keep a pot on the stove in the back room. I’m glad most of my customers don’t have your moderate habits, Smoke. I’d go broke!”

  “I like to keep a clear head.”

  Sutcliffe picked up the glass of rye the bartender set in front of him. He threw back the drink, wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth, and said, “Whiskey don’t muddle me none. I draw just as fast and shoot just as straight, drunk or sober.”

  “I hope for your sake you’re right, Mr. Sutcliffe,” said Louis. “Being mistaken about a thing like that could have serious consequences for a man.”

  “You mean like he might get hisself shot?” Sutcliffe gestured for the bartender to pour him another drink. The apron glanced at Louis, who gave him a tiny nod. As the bartender splashed more rye in the glass, Sutcliffe snorted disdainfully and went on, “That ain’t gonna happen. I know how good I am.” He picked up the glass and swallowed the second shot of fiery liquor. “I know how good the fellas I have to face down are, too. Ain’t none of ’em that can match me. Not even . . .”

  He thumped the empty glass on the bar and sneered. “Not even the high-and-mighty Smoke Jensen.”

  Chapter 2

  Smoke kept his face carefully expressionless in response to Sutcliffe’s challenging tone as he said, “I told you about that high-and-mighty business, Rowdy. I didn’t set out to get any kind of a reputation—”

  “But that didn’t stop you from gettin’ one anyway, did it?” Sutcliffe snapped. “Ever’where I go, people talk about Smoke Jensen and how he’s the fastest gun there ever was. Bull!” Sutcliffe raised his left hand and pointed a dirty-nailed index finger at Smoke. “Don’t forget, mister, I knew you when you was nobody! Just a snot-nosed kid packin’ an iron like you know what to do with it. Hell, you ain’t much more’n a kid now.”

  “I reckon I’m all grown up,” Smoke said, his voice flat and hard. “I’ve got a wife and everything, and she’s probably waiting for me, so I’ll mosey on. I’d
say that it’s been good to see you again, but—”

  “You ain’t moseyin’ nowhere,” snarled Sutcliffe. “Not until I’m finished with you. Barkeep, put some more whiskey in that glass!”

  Louis Longmont held up a hand to the bartender, motioning for him to disregard Sutcliffe’s order. He said, “Mr. Sutcliffe, I believe you’ve had enough.”

  “Why? Because I ain’t paid for that second drink?”

  “I don’t care about that. It’s on the house. But I think you should move on now—”

  “I know all about you, too, you damn tinhorn,” Sutcliffe interrupted without taking his eyes off Smoke. “You’re supposed to be fast, too. But you ain’t near as fast as me, and once I’m finished with Jensen, I’ll prove it.”

  Smoke said, “You and I are already finished. You can still walk out of here, get on your horse, and ride away from Big Rock, Sutcliffe. No harm done.”

  “There’s plenty o’ harm! I been away so long, folks probably done forgot all about me.” Sutcliffe’s shoulders hunched a little. His right hand hovered near the Colt on his hip, ready to hook and draw. “But they’ll remember, right enough, once word gets around that I’m the fella who killed Smoke Jensen. Then anybody who needs gun work done will be fallin’ all over theirselves to hire me. Yes, sir, once I outdraw Smoke Jensen clean as a whistle—”

  Smoke knew what the words pouring out of Sutcliffe’s mouth were designed to do. They were supposed to anger him and prod him into drawing before he was ready, or else they would distract him, lull him into a split-second of unreadiness when Sutcliffe abruptly made his move.

  The rant didn’t accomplish either of those things. Smoke just stood there stonily, and when Sutcliffe broke off and clawed at his gun, Smoke was ready.

  The walnut-butted Colt appeared in Smoke’s hand as if by magic. Rowdy Sutcliffe actually was pretty fast on the draw, even with two shots of rye whiskey burning in his belly, but he had barely cleared leather when Smoke’s gun roared. And to tell the truth, Smoke could have shot him a little sooner than that, but he’d waited just to make sure Sutcliffe wouldn’t realize his mistake and try to stop this.