Assault of the Mountain Man Read online

  She continued to stare as Smoke got down on his knees long enough to untie the rope that had her ankles bound together. Then he stood up and took his pistol from her hand. Because it was empty, he opened the cylinder gate, poked out all the spent cartridges, then reloaded.

  Sally had not spoken one word since she killed Taggart.

  “What do you say we go home?” Smoke suggested.

  “What about him?” Sally pointed to Taggart’s body.

  “Leave him for the critters.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW OF

  A LONE STAR CHRISTMAS

  by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

  SMOKE JENSEN. MATT JENSEN. FALCON AND DUFF MACCALLISTER—TOGETHER FOR THE FIRST TIME

  They just wanted to get home for Christmas ... but fate had other plans.

  The year is 1890. A Texas rancher named Big Jim Conyers has a deal with a Scottish-born, Wyoming cattleman named Duff MacCallister. Along with Smoke and Matt Jensen, the party bears down on Dodge City, Kansas, to make a cattle drive back to Fort Worth. Soon the drive turns into a deadly pursuit, then a staggering series of clashes with bloodthirsty Indians and trigger-happy rustlers. And the worst is yet to come—the party rides into a devastating blizzard, a storm so fierce their very survival is at stake.

  From America’s greatest Western author, here is an epic tale of the unforgiving American frontier and how, amidst fierce storms of man and nature, miracles can still happen.

  ON SALE NOW, WHEREVER PINNACLE BOOKS ARE SOLD

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marshall, Texas, March 12, 1890

  It was cold outside, but in the depot waiting room, a wood-burning, potbellied stove roared and popped, glowing red as it pumped out enough heat to make the room comfortable, if one chose the right place to sit. Too close and it was too hot, too far away and it was too cold.

  Two weeks earlier, Benjamin Conyers, better known as Big Ben, had taken his twenty-one-year-old daughter Rebecca into Fort Worth to catch the train to visit with his sister in Marshall. It was time for Rebecca to return home, and her aunt Mildred had come to the depot with her to see her off on the evening train.

  Everyone agreed that Rebecca Conyers was a beautiful young woman. She had delicate facial bones and a full mouth. She was slender, with long, rich, glowing auburn hair, green eyes, and a slim waist. She was sitting on a bench in the Marshall depot, the wood polished smooth by the many passengers who had sat in the same place over the last several years. Just outside the depot window, she could see the green glowing lamp of the electric railroad signal.

  “Rebecca, I have so enjoyed your visit,” Mildred said. “You simply must come again, sometime soon.”

  “I would love to. I enjoyed the visit as well.”

  “I wish Ben would come with you some time. But I know he is busy.”

  “Yes. Pa always seems to be busy.”

  “Well, he is an important man. And important men always seem to be busy.” Mildred laughed. “I don’t know if he is busy because he is important, or he is important because he is busy. I imagine it is a little of both.”

  “Yes, I would think so as well.” Rebecca turned to her aunt. “Aunt Mildred, did you know my mother?”

  “Julia? Of course I know her, dear. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I don’t mean Julia,” Rebecca said. “I mean my real mother. I think her name is Janie.”

  Mildred was quiet for a long moment. “Heavens, child, why would you ask such a thing now? The only mother you have ever known is Julia.”

  “I know, and she is my mother in every way,” Rebecca said. “But I know, too, that she isn’t my birth mother, and I would like to know something more about her.”

  Mildred sighed. “Well, I guess that is understandable.”

  “Did you know her? Do you remember her?”

  “I do remember her, yes. I know that when Ben learned that she was pregnant, he brought her out to the house. You were born right there, on the ranch.”

  “Pa is my real father though, isn’t he? I mean he is the one who got my real mother pregnant.”

  “Oh yes, there was never any question about that,” Mildred replied.

  “And yet he never married my mother,” Rebecca said.

  “Honey, don’t blame Ben for that. He planned to marry her, but shortly after you were born Janie ran off.”

  “Janie was my birth mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her last name?”

  “Garner, I believe it was. Yes, her name was Janie Garner. But, like I said, she ran off and left you behind. That’s when Ben wrote and asked me to come take care of you until he could find someone else to do it.”

  “That’s when Mama, that is Julia, the woman I call Mama, came to live with us?”

  “She did. She and Ben had known each other before the war, and everyone was sure they were going to get married. But after the war, Ben seemed—I don’t know—restless, I guess you would say. Anyway, it took him awhile to settle down, and by that time he had already met your real mother. I’ll tell you true, she broke his heart when she left. Julia came after that, when you were two months old.”

  “Why did my real mother leave? Did she run away with another man?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. All we know is that she left a note saying she wasn’t good enough for you. For heaven’s sake, child, why are you asking so many questions about her now? Hasn’t Julia been a good mother to you?”

  “She has been a wonderful mother to me,” Rebecca said. “I couldn’t ask for anyone better, and I love her dearly. I’ve just been a little curious, that’s all.”

  “You know what they say, honey. Curiosity killed the cat,” Mildred said.

  Hearing the whistle of the approaching train, they stood up and walked onto the depot platform. It was six o’clock, and the sun was just going down in the west, spreading the clouds with long, glowing streaks of gold and red. To the east they could see the headlamp of the arriving train. It roared into the station, spewing steam and dropping glowing embers from the firebox. The train was so massive and heavy it made Rebecca’s stomach shake as it passed by, first the engine with its huge driver wheels, then the cars with the long lines of lighted windows on each car disclosing the passengers inside. Some looked out in curiosity, others read in jaded indifference to the Marshall depot, which represented but one more stop on their trip.

  “What time will you get to Fort Worth?” Mildred asked.

  “The schedule says eleven o’clock tonight.”

  “Oh, heavens, will Ben have someone there to meet you?”

  “No, I’ll be staying at a hotel. Pa already has a room booked for me. He’ll send someone for me tomorrow.”

  “Board!” the conductor called, and Rebecca and her aunt shared a long good-bye hug before she hurried to get on the train.

  Inside the first car behind the express car, Tom Whitman studied the passengers who were boarding. He didn’t know what town he was in. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what state he was in. It wasn’t too long ago he left Shreveport. He knew Shreveport was in Louisiana, and he knew it wasn’t too far from Texas, so he wouldn’t be surprised if he was in Texas.

  “We are on the threshold of the twentieth century, Tom,” a friend had told him a couple months ago. “Do you have any idea what a marvelous time this is ? Think of all those people who went by wagon train to California. Their trip was arduous, dangerous, and months long. Today we can go by train, enjoying the luxury of a railroad car that protects us from rain, snow, beating sun, or bitter cold. We can dine sumptuously on meals served in a dining salon that rivals the world’s finest restaurants. We can view the passing scenery while relaxing in an easy chair, and can pass the nights in a comfortable bed with clean sheets.”

  At the time of that conversation, Tom had no idea he would actually be taking that cross-country trip. He was in one more town of the almost countless number of towns—and ten states—he had been in the last si
x days.

  The town wasn’t that large. Although there were at least ten people standing on the platform, only four were boarding, as far as he could determine. One was a very pretty young, auburn-haired woman. He watched her share a good-bye hug with an older woman, whom Tom took to be her mother.

  One of the passengers who had boarded was putting his coat in the overhead rack in front of Tom.

  “Excuse me,” Tom said to him. “What is the name of this town?”

  “Marshall,” the passenger answered.

  “Louisiana, or Texas?”

  “Texas, mister. The great state of Texas,” the man replied with inordinate pride.

  “Thank you.”

  “Been traveling long?”

  “Yes, this is my sixth day.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I don’t have any particular destination in mind.”

  “Ha, that’s funny. I don’t know as I’ve ever met anyone who was travelin’ and didn’t even know where they was goin’.”

  “When I find a place that fits my fancy, I’ll stop,” Tom said.

  “Well, mister, I’ll tell you true. You ain’t goin’ to find any place better than Texas. And any place in Texas you decide to stop is better than any place else.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” In the week since he had left Boston, Tom had shared the train with hundreds of others, none of whom had continued their journey with him. He had managed to strike up a conversation with some of them, but in every case, they were only brief acquaintances, then they moved on. He thought of the passage from Longfellow.

  Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

  Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

  So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

  Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.

  With a series of jerks as the train took up the slack between the cars, it pulled away from the station, eventually smoothing out and picking up speed. Once the train settled in to its gentle rocking and rhythmic clacking forward progress, Tom leaned his head against the seat back and went to sleep.

  Once Rebecca boarded, found her seat, and the train got underway, she reached into her purse to take out the letter. She had picked the letter up at the post office shortly before she left Fort Worth to come visit her aunt Mildred. The letter, which was addressed to her and not to her father, had come as a complete surprise. Her father knew nothing about it, nor did she show it to her aunt Mildred. The letter was from her real mother, and it was the first time in Rebecca’s life she had ever heard from her.

  Rebecca’s first instinct had been to tear it up and throw it away, unread. After all, if her mother cared so little about her that she could abandon her when Rebecca was still a baby, why should Rebecca care what she had to say now?

  But curiosity got the best of her, so she read the letter. Sitting in the train going back home, Rebecca read the letter again.

  Dear Becca,

  This letter is going to come as a shock to you, but I am your real mother. I am very sorry I left you when you were a baby, and I am even more sorry I have never attempted to contact you. I want you to know, however, that my not contacting you is not because you mean nothing to me. I have kept up with your life as best I can, and I know you have grown to be a very beautiful and very wonderful young woman.

  That is exactly what I expected to happen when I left you with your father. I did that, and I have stayed out of your life because I thought it best. Certainly there was no way I could have given you the kind of life your father has been able to provide for you. But it would fulfill a lifetime desire if I could see you just once. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and to grant this wish, you will find me in Dodge City, Kansas. I am married to the owner of the Lucky Chance Saloon.

  Your mother,

  Janie Davenport

  Rebecca knew about her mother. She had been told a long time ago that Julia was her stepmother. But she didn’t know anything about her real mother, and the few times she had asked, she had always been given the same answer.

  “Your mother was a troubled soul, and things didn’t work out for her. I’m sure she believed, when she left you, that she was doing the right thing,” Big Ben always said.

  “Have you ever heard from her again?” Rebecca wanted to know.

  “No, I haven’t, and I don’t expect I will. To tell you the truth, darlin’, I’m not even sure she is still alive.”

  That had satisfied Rebecca, and she had asked no more questions until, unexpectedly, she had received the letter.

  From that moment, she had been debating with herself as to whether or not she should go to Dodge. And if so, should she ask her father for permission to go? Or should she just go? She was twenty-one years old, certainly old enough to make her own decision.

  She just didn’t know what that decision should be.

  She read the letter one more time, then folded it, put it back in her reticule, and settled in for the three and one-half hour train trip.

  Fort Worth, Texas

  The train had arrived in the middle of the night, and when Tom Whitman got off, he wondered if he should stay, or get back on the train and keep going. Six and one-half days earlier he had boarded a train in Boston with no particular destination in mind. His only goal at the time was to be somewhere other than Boston.

  As he stood alongside the train, he became aware of a disturbance at the other end of the platform. A young woman was being bothered by two men. Looking in her direction, Tom saw that it was the same young woman he had seen board the train in Marshall.

  “Please,” she was saying to the men. “Leave me alone.”

  “Here now, you pretty little thing, you know you don’t mean that,” one of the men said. “Why, you wouldn’t be standin’ out here all alone in the middle of the night, if you wasn’t lookin’ for a little fun, would you now? And me ’n Pete here are just the men to show you how to have some fun. Right, Pete?”

  “You got that right,” Pete said.

  “What do you say, honey? Do you want to have a little fun with us?”

  “No! Please, go away!”

  “I know what it is, Dutch,” Pete said. “We ain’t offered her no money yet.”

  “Is that it?” Dutch asked. “You’re waitin’ for us to offer you some money? How about two dollars? A dollar from me and one from Pete. Of course, that means you are going to have to be nice to both of us.”

  “I asked you to go away. If you don’t, I will scream.”

  Pete took off his bandanna and wadded it into a ball. “It’s goin’ to be hard for you to scream with this bandanna in your mouth.”

  Tom walked down to the scene of the ruckus. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I do believe I heard the lady ask you to leave her alone.”

  Tom was six feet two inches tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Ordinarily his size alone would be intimidating, but the way he was dressed made him appear almost foppish. He was wearing a brown tweed suit, complete with vest, tie, and collar. He was also wearing a bowler hat and was obviously unarmed. He could not have advertised himself as more of a stranger to the West if he had a sign hanging around his neck proclaiming the same.

  The two men, itinerant cowboys, were wearing denim trousers and stained shirts. Both had Stetson hats on their heads, and pistols hanging at their sides. When they saw Tom, they laughed.

  “Well now, tell me, Dutch, have you ever seen a prettier boy than this Eastern dude?” Pete slurred the word Eastern.

  “Don’t believe I have,” Dutch replied. To Tom he said, “Go away, pretty boy, unless you want to get hurt.”

  “Let’s hurt him anyway,” Pete said, smiling. “Let’s hurt him real bad for stickin’ his nose in where it don’t belong.”

  “Please, sir,” the young woman said to Tom. “Go and summon a policeman. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I don’t think they will do anything if they
know a police officer is coming.”

  “I think it may be too late for that,” Tom replied. “These gentlemen seem rather insistent. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take care of this myself.”

  “Ha!” Pete shouted. “Take care of this!”

  He swung hard, but Tom reached up and caught Pete’s fist in his open hand. That surprised Pete, but it didn’t surprise him as much as what happened next. Tom began to squeeze down on Pete’s fist, putting viselike pressure against it, feeling two of Pete’s fingers snap under the squeeze.

  “Ahhh!” Pete yelled. “Dutch! Get him off me! Get him off me!”

  Dutch swung, and Tom caught Dutch’s fist in his left hand, repeating the procedure of squeezing down on the fist. Within a moment he had both men on their knees, writhing in pain.

  “Let go, let go!” Pete screamed in agony.

  Tom let go of both men, and stepped back as they regained their feet. “Please go away now,” he said with no more tension in his voice than if he were asking for a cup of coffee.

  “You son of a ...” Pete swore as he started to draw his pistol. But two of his fingers were broken, and he was unable to get a grip on his pistol. It fell from his hand.

  The young woman grabbed it quickly, then pointed it at the cowboys. “This gentleman may be an Eastern dude, but I am not. I’m a Western girl and I can shoot. I would like nothing better than to put a bullet into both of you. If you don’t start running, right now, I will do just that.”

  “No, no. Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Pete cried out. “We’re goin’! We’re goin’!”

  The two men ran off, and the young woman laughed. To Tom, her laughter sounded like wind chimes.

  She turned to him with a broad smile spread across her face. “I want to thank you, sir.” She thrust her hand toward him, but when he shied away she looked down and saw that she was still holding the pistol. With another laugh, she tossed the gun away, then again stuck out her hand. “I’m Rebecca Conyers.”