Damnation Valley Read online

  Breckinridge hated to take his eyes off his mortal enemy, but he glanced around the room to make sure Carnahan was telling the truth. The Black Bull seemed to be empty, all right.

  But then he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows at the top of the stairs leading to the second-floor hall where the soiled doves had their rooms. His first impulse was to jerk up his right-hand pistol and fire at whoever it was, but he controlled that urge. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Carnahan would try some sort of trick.

  A second later, he was glad he hadn’t fired, because a woman’s voice called from the top of the stairs, “The end of the bar!”

  Breckinridge reacted, swiveling in that direction as a man leaped into the open with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. Breck fired first as smoke gushed from the pistol in his left hand. The ball slammed into the shotgunner’s chest and knocked him back as he jerked the triggers of both barrels. The weapon thundered as it discharged its double load of buckshot into the ceiling.

  Breckinridge started to turn back to Carnahan, who had snatched up the pistol from the bar. The gun blasted and Breck felt the shock of the ball. The impact turned him slightly but didn’t knock him off his feet. He thrust out the right-hand pistol and fired at Carnahan. Carnahan rocked back against the bar and dropped his empty pistol, but he caught his balance a second later and charged at Breck, bellowing like the bull on the sign outside might have.

  Breckinridge saw blood on Carnahan’s shirt, but the wound didn’t slow the man down, any more than Breck’s injury affected him in this moment. A year of deep, smoldering hate fueled both men. They came together with a resounding crash.

  Breckinridge was a head taller than Carnahan, but Carnahan weighed as much or more. They were both incredibly strong. Locked together in a death struggle, they swayed and staggered back and forth as they fought for the upper hand that neither seemed able to gain. They crashed into chairs and tables, upsetting the furniture.

  Then Breckinridge stumbled over a chair leg, and Carnahan instantly seized the chance to drive into him and knock him off-balance. Breck went over backward.

  But as he fell, he got a desperately outflung hand under Carnahan’s beard and locked around his throat. Both men toppled to the floor and rolled over and over as they battled.

  When they came to a stop, Breckinridge was on top. He ignored the tremendous blows that Carnahan hammered into his head and body, absorbing that punishment as he clamped his other hand around Carnahan’s throat as well. Breck’s fingers tightened.

  It was like trying to choke a tree trunk to death, but if anyone could accomplish that, it was Breckinridge Wallace. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched under the buckskin as he applied more and more pressure to Carnahan’s throat. Carnahan kept fighting, but his struggles began to weaken.

  Breckinridge leaned closer. His lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace as he snarled, “This is for Dawn Wind! For Rock Against the Sky, the son of Wolf Tooth! For what you did to Morgan! For Absalom Garwood and . . . and for Ophelia!” His face was only inches from Carnahan’s face now. “And for me, you evil son of a bitch! Die! Die!”

  Carnahan’s mouth opened. An ugly gurgling sound came out. His face was purple, and his eyes protruded so much it seemed they were about to burst from their sockets. A stench rose around Breckinridge, and he knew Carnahan’s bowels and bladder were emptying as death claimed him. Carnahan’s eyes rolled up and began to turn glassy.

  He was dead, but Breckinridge held on for another two minutes anyway, just to be sure.

  Then, with his heart pounding so hard that his pulse sounded like peals of thunder inside his skull, he slumped forward. He caught himself and started to crawl off Carnahan’s corpse.

  He heard a shout in Spanish, followed by the blast of a gunshot. Wearily, almost in slow motion, he turned his head to peer over his shoulder.

  The girl with the long black hair was halfway down the stairs, holding a pistol from which smoke still curled. On his knees on the floor near the entrance, a pistol lying in front of him where he had dropped it, was Captain Consalvo. Blood stained the front of his fancy uniform jacket. His mouth opened and closed and opened again to let more crimson well out. Then he pitched forward onto his face and didn’t move again.

  “He was going to shoot you,” the girl said to Breckinridge.

  “Yeah, I . . . I’m obliged to you.” The titanic struggle against Carnahan had exhausted Breckinridge, but he had a nearly endless supply of strength, and vigor was beginning to flow back into him. He staggered to his feet and looked down at his left side, where Carnahan’s shot had creased him. It hurt like blazes and was bleeding some, but he knew neither of those things would slow him down.

  With Consalvo dead, the Mexican authorities would be looking for somebody to hang. Breckinridge met the girl at the foot of the stairs and took the pistol away from her.

  “Get out of here,” he told her.

  “You are hurt!”

  “I’ll be fine. Anyway, it won’t matter much. I reckon they’ll be stringin’ me up for killin’ the cap’n.”

  “No! I shot him—”

  More footsteps sounded, this time from the back of the room.

  “No one is getting strung up,” Audie said as he beckoned to Breckinridge. “Nighthawk and I have horses out back, ready to ride. You can be out of Santa Fe before the confusion subsides.”

  “What about you two?” Breckinridge asked. “Somebody might’ve seen you with me.”

  Audie smiled. “We’ll be heading for the tall and uncut, too, as Preacher would say. Civilization is a fine thing for most people, but men such as Nighthawk and myself have to take it in small doses.”

  Breckinridge knew he was right. He had done what he set out to do—Jud Carnahan was dead—and if settling that debt cost him his life, Breck would have been fine with that.

  But there was still a narrow opportunity to escape, and Breckinridge realized he still had some living to do. There were a whole heap of places out here on the frontier that he hadn’t seen yet.

  As he took a step toward Audie, though, his knees threatened to buckle. The girl gasped and caught hold of his arm.

  Bracing himself, Breckinridge told her, “You ain’t near big enough to hold me up, darlin’, but I appreciate the thought.”

  “I can care for your wound,” she said. “If I go with you.”

  “Not the worst idea I ever heard,” Audie said. “But time is fleeting, Breckinridge.”

  He nodded, took the girl’s hand, and said, “Come on.”

  He hadn’t really thought this through . . . but thinking things through had never been his strong suit, anyway.

  The three of them hurried out into the alley, where Nighthawk waited with Breckinridge’s saddle mount and the packhorse. Breck paused long enough to say to Audie, “Somebody needs to see to poor Ophelia.”

  “I have friends here I can trust,” the little man said. “I’ll leave money with them and make sure that she’s laid to rest properly.”

  “And her sisters and Morgan need to know what happened. It’ll break their hearts, but that’s better than never knowin’.”

  “You say the trading post is on the Yellowstone River?”

  “Yeah.” In just a few words, Breckinridge described how to find it.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see to that, as well,” Audie promised.

  “Umm,” Nighthawk added.

  Breckinridge took the reins from the big Crow warrior and swung up into the saddle. He looked down at the girl for a moment, then held out his hand to her. She grasped it, and he lifted her easily and set her in front of him.

  “Where are you going, Breckinridge?” Audie asked.

  “Someplace I ain’t been before.”

  He rode away without looking back.

  * * *

  They paused on a ridge outside of town. Breckinridge turned the horses for a moment so they could look back. A faint orange glow rose into the sky where the stable wa
s still burning. He was sorry about what had happened to Fernando. Death and destruction seemed to follow in his wake, Breck mused, but maybe now that Carnahan was dead, that would stop . . . for a while, anyway.

  He couldn’t smell the smoke anymore, but the girl’s long hair felt good as she sat close against him on the horse’s back. He said, “What in tarnation is your name?”

  She turned her head to look at him and said, “I am called Belita.”

  Breckinridge pulled the horses around, nudged them into motion headed east through the night, and said, “Well, Belita, let’s go find out what folks are up to in the Republic of Texas.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW

  From bestselling authors William W. and

  J. A. Johnstone—the explosive adventures of

  Perley Gates, who’s carving out his own legacy

  in the violent American frontier . . .

  Restless cowpoke Perley Gates wanted nothing more than to track down the grandfather who abandoned his family years ago. What he found was the crazy old sidewinder, barely hanging on after a Sioux massacre. The old man’s dying wish was to make things right for deserting his kin—by giving his strong-willed grandson Perley clues to the whereabouts of a buried fortune in gold.

  Finding his grandfather’s legacy will set things right, setting up his family for life. But it won’t be easy. The discovery of raw gold in the Black Hills has lured hordes of ruthless lowlifes into Deadwood and Custer City—kill-crazy prairie rats, gunfighters, outlaws, and Indians—armed with a thousand glittering reasons to put Perley six feet under. All Perley wants is what was left to him, what he’s owed. But with so many brigands on his backside, finding his grandfather’s treasure is going to land Perley Gates between the promise of heaven and the blood-soaked battlefields of hell . . .

  NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone

  A REASON TO DIE

  A PERLEY GATES WESTERN

  Johnstone Country. Where It’s Never Quiet

  on the Western Front.

  Live Free. Read Hard.

  www.williamjohnstone.net

  Chapter 1

  “It’s a good thing I decided to check,” John Gates said to Sonny Rice, who was sitting in the wagon loaded with supplies. They had just come from Henderson’s General Store, and John wanted to stop by the telegraph office on the chance Perley might have sent word.

  Sonny was immediately attentive. “Did he send a telegram? Where is he?”

  “He’s in Deadwood, South Dakota,” John answered. “He said he’s on his way home.”

  “Did he say if he found your grandpa?”

  “He said he found him, but Grandpa’s dead, said he’d explain it all when he gets back.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Sonny drew out. “Ol’ Perley found him. I figured he would, he usually does what he sets out to do.”

  John couldn’t disagree. His younger brother was always one to follow a trail to its end, even though it often led him to something he would have been better served to avoid. He laughed when he thought about what his older brother, Rubin, said about Perley. “If there ain’t but one cow pie between here and the Red River, Perley will most likely step in it.” It was a joke, of course, but it did seem that trouble had a way of finding Perley. This was true, even though he would go to any lengths to avoid it.

  “We might as well go by the diner and see if Beulah’s cooked anything fit to eat,” John casually declared, knowing that was what Sonny was hoping to hear. “Might even stop by Patton’s afterward and get a shot of whiskey. That all right with you?” He could tell by the grin on the young ranch hand’s face that he knew he was being japed. As a rule, Sonny didn’t drink very often, but he would imbibe on some occasions. John nudged the big gray gelding toward the small plain building at the end of the street that proclaimed itself to be the Paris Diner. He was glad he had thought to check by the telegraph office. It was good news to hear that Perley was on his way home to Texas. He had a long way to travel from the Black Hills, so it was hard to say when to expect him to show up at the Triple-G. His mother and his brother, Rubin, would be really happy to hear about the telegram. Perley had been gone a long time on his quest to find their grandpa. His mother had been greatly concerned when Perley didn’t return with his brothers after the cattle were delivered to the buyers in Ogallala. These were the thoughts running through John’s mind when he reined the gray to a halt at the hitching rail in front of the diner, then waited while Sonny pulled up in the wagon.

  “Well, I was beginning to wonder if the Triple-G had closed down,” Lucy Tate sang out when she saw them walk in.

  “Howdy, Lucy,” John returned. “It has been a while since we’ve been in town. At least, it has been for me. I don’t know if any of the other boys have been in.” He gave her a big smile. “I thought you mighta got yourself married by now,” he joked, knowing what a notorious flirt she was.

  She waited for them to sit down before replying. “I’ve had some offers, but I’m waiting to see if that wife of yours is gonna kick you out.”

  “She’s threatened to more than once,” he said, “but she knows there’s a line of women hopin’ that’ll happen.”

  She laughed. “I’m gonna ask Martha about that if you ever bring her in here to eat.” Without asking if they wanted coffee, she filled two cups. “Beulah’s got chicken and dumplin’s, or beef stew. Whaddle-it-be?”

  “Give me the chicken and dumplin’s,” John said. “I get enough beef every day. How ’bout you, Sonny?”

  “I’ll take the chicken, too,” Sonny replied, his eyes never having left the saucy waitress.

  Noticing it, John couldn’t resist japing him. “How ’bout Sonny, here? He ain’t married and he’s got a steady job.”

  She chuckled delightedly and reached over to tweak Sonny’s cheek. “You’re awful sweet, but still a little young. I’ll keep my eye on you, though.” She went to the kitchen to get their food, leaving a blushing young ranch hand to recover.

  “She’s something, ain’t she?” John asked after seeing Sonny’s embarrassment. “Can’t take a thing she says seriously.” He thought at once of Perley, who had made that mistake and suffered his disappointment. Further thoughts on the subject were interrupted when Becky Morris came in from the kitchen.

  “Afternoon, John,” Becky greeted him. “Lucy said you were here.” She greeted Sonny as well, but she didn’t know his name. “It’s been a while since any of the Triple-G men have stopped in. Perley used to come by every time he was in town, but I haven’t seen him in a long time now. Is he all right?”

  “Perley’s been gone for a good while now,” John answered. “I just got a telegram from him this mornin’, from Dakota Territory, said he’s on his way home.”

  “Oh, well maybe he’ll come in to see us when he gets back,” Becky said.

  “I’m sure he will,” John replied. He couldn’t help wondering if Perley had taken proper notice of Becky Morris. Shy and gentle, unlike Lucy Tate, Becky looked more the woman a man should invest his life with. And he might be wrong, but he suspected he detected a wistful tone in her voice when she asked about Perley.

  Before they were finished, Beulah Walsh came out to visit. John assured her that her reputation as a cook was still deserved, as far as he was concerned. He paid for his and Sonny’s meal, and got up to leave. “We’ve gotta stop by Patton’s before we go back to the ranch,” he said. “Sonny’s gotta have a shot of that rot-gut whiskey before he leaves town.”

  “I never said that,” Sonny insisted. “You were the one that said we’d go to the saloon.”

  “Don’t let him bother you, sweetie,” Lucy said and gave him another tweak on his cheek. “I know how you heavy drinkers need a little shooter after you eat.”

  “What did you tell her that for?” Sonny asked as soon as they were outside. “Now she thinks I’m a drunk.”

  “I doubt it,” John replied.

 
* * *

  Moving back down the short street to Patton’s Saloon, they tied the horses to the rail and went inside. Benny Grimes, the bartender, called out a “Howdy” as soon as they walked in the door. “John Gates, I swear, I thought you mighta gave up drinkin’ for good.”

  “How do, Benny?” John greeted him. “Might as well have, we ain’t had much time to get into town lately. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”

  “That’s a fact,” Sonny agreed and picked up the shot glass Benny slid over to him. He raised it, turned toward John, and said, “Here’s hopin’ Perley has a safe trip home.” He downed it with a quick toss, anxious to get it over with. He was not a drinker by habit and took a drink of whiskey now and then only to avoid having to explain why he didn’t care for it.

  “Well, I’ll sure drink to that,” John said and raised his glass.

  “Me, too,” Benny said and poured himself one. After they tossed the whiskey down, he asked, “Where is he?”

  “Way up in Dakota Territory,” John said, “and we just got word he’s on his way home, so we need to let the folks hear the news.” He had one more drink, then they headed back to the Triple-G.

  * * *

  The man John Gates had wished a safe trip home earlier in the day was seated a few yards from a crystal-clear waterfall. It was a good bit off the trail he had been following, but he had a feeling the busy stream he had crossed might lead to a waterfall. As high up as he was on the mountain, it stood to reason the stream would soon come to a cliff. It pleased him to find out he had been right, and it had been worth his while to have seen it. It was a trait that Perley Gates had undoubtedly inherited from his grandfather, an obsession for seeing what might lie on the other side of the mountain. And it was the reason he found himself in the Black Hills of Dakota Territory on this late summer day—that and the fact that he was not married and his brothers were. That meant it didn’t matter if he rode all the way to hell and who knows where. There wasn’t any wife waiting for him to come home, so he had been the obvious pick to go in search of his grandfather.