Dead for a dollar, p.1
Dead for a Dollar, page 1
Look for these exciting Western series from
bestselling authors
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
and J. A. JOHNSTONE
Smoke Jensen: The Last 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: U. S. Deputy Marshal
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
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
DEAD FOR A DOLLAR
A FIRESTICK WESTERN
WILLIAM W. 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
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 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.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4798-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4395-8 (eBook)
CHAPTER 1
They had the griz cornered.
Late the previous day, after interrupting the massive bear’s feed on a young beef he’d dragged away from one of the ranches out on the flat, they had driven him into a widemouthed box canyon in the Vieja foothills. Before they were able to get a clear shot at him, though, he’d disappeared into the underbrush and trees back deep in the canyon.
Since going into a thicket after a riled griz ranked almighty close to a death wish, they’d decided instead to back off and settle for waiting him out. With high, steep cliffs rising out of the thicket on three sides, the bear had only one way to go when he got thirsty enough or hungry enough or mad enough at the thought of that half-eaten beef he’d been chased away from.
And when he made his move, they’d be ready . . . hopefully.
“I’d be a sight more comfortable if this canyon mouth was narrower,” stated Jim “Moosejaw” Hendricks, squinting against the early morning sunlight angling down out of the east. He was a big man, massive through the shoulders, thick torsoed, six and a half feet in height. His broad, fleshy face showed its share of wear and weathering yet still belied his near fifty years of age.
Standing next to him, Malachi “Beartooth” Skinner arched a brow and replied, “Hell, if you’re gonna wish for comfort, why not go all the way and wish we was home in our beds instead of camped out here in the path of an ornery grizzly we’ve gone out of our way to piss off ?”
Skinner was right at the fifty mark, age-wise—maybe a year or two one way or the other; he’d lost exact count somewhere along the way. He stood an even six feet tall, was built lean and leathery, with a narrow, slightly wedge-shaped face tapering down to a deeply dimpled chin that seemed well suited to the wide, roguish grin he tended to frequently display.
A few feet away from this pair, straightening up from having just poured himself a cup of coffee out of the big pot simmering on the coals at the edge of their campfire, Elwood “Firestick” McQueen glanced over at his two companions and said, “Sounds to me like you two are gettin’ soft. Wastin’ time wishin’ this and hopin’ for that . . . You’d think we’ve been roughin’ it out here for a month of Sundays instead of for only one night.”
McQueen, the oldest of the trio at the mid-fifties mark, stood a shade over six feet. He was broad shouldered and solidly built with a square, stern face dominated by penetrating ice-blue eyes.
Responding defensively to Firestick’s remark, Moosejaw said, “Well, it was a blamed cold night. And a long one.”
“What’s more,” added Beartooth, aiming his cocked brow in the direction of Firestick, “I heard you doin’ your share of mutterin’ and cussin’ over here durin’ the night, too—tryin’ to settle yourself and keep warm.”
“Okay, maybe we’re all gettin’ soft,” allowed Firestick. “The point is, there was a time not so very long ago when sleepin’ on the ground in conditions a whole lot worse than last night was a way of life for the three of us. We went months and sometimes years without a roof over our heads or a proper bed underneath us. All I’m sayin’ is that a little taste of it now and again ain’t gonna kill us and therefore ain’t worth so much frettin’ and fussin’.”
“Maybe so,” Beartooth said. “But that little taste might’ve gone down easier if, like I said a minute ago, we wasn’t planted smack in the path of that griz.”
“That’s right,” agreed Moosejaw. “It was more than just the cold night air had me worried about the ruination of my health.”
It had been close to evening yesterday when the three men drove the bear into the canyon. They reasoned he likely would stay put for the night. To help make sure, they’d built three large campfires at intervals spaced across the width of the canyon’s mouth. Each man had taken a post at one of the fires, with his rifle kept at the ready and his horse picketed close by to provide early warning in case the griz decided to go on the prowl in spite of the fires and the man scent accompanying them. This bear had proven more than once to have no fear—and maybe even a little hatred—when it came to humans trying to interfere in his business.
Starting just short of a month prior, the grizzly had begun making it his business to feed on cattle and sometimes horses to be found on ranches scattered over the grasslands below the Vieja Mountains. Since the Viejas didn’t normally see much in the way of bear activity, it was speculated that this one, a rogue of some sort, must have wandered down from farther north right after the spring thaw. Whatever his origins, he showed up big and mean and hungry, and the ranchers soon took alarmed note of his attacks on their stock. Attempts to get in the griz’s way had resulted in one death, two serious maulings, and three or four additional close calls.
It hadn’t taken long before all of this was brought to the attention of the men now camped at the mouth of the nameless box canyon where the bear was cornered. Folks in the area had several reasons to look to these three for help and for them to agree to try and provide it. For starters, they represented the law in Buffalo Peak, the nearby town that supplied goods and services to the various ranches now being threatened by the bear. Firestick was the town marshal, Beartooth and Moosejaw his deputies.<
While bear attacks on outlying ranches didn’t normally fall in the category of what most town lawmen might concern themselves with—and technically would fall outside their jurisdiction even if they did—the way Firestick and his deputies approached upholding the law tended to allow room for a fair amount of leeway when it came to formalities like jurisdiction. What was more, in this particular case the backgrounds of the three made them qualified beyond their badges for dealing with the problem at hand.
Prior to arriving and settling in West Texas, each had spent nearly three decades roaming the mountainous regions to the north and farther west. Among the last of a dying breed, they had been mountain men living wild and free and making their way by hunting and trapping in the high reaches far from the encroachment of so-called civilization. During this time, they’d had their share of bear encounters, individually in their younger years and then later after they’d bonded as friends and partners.
It was also during those years together that they had earned, from Indians with whom they frequently skirmished, the colorful nicknames they continued to carry with them even after they quit the mountains and came to the Texas prairie. “Firestick” due to McQueen’s uncanny accuracy with a rifle; “Beartooth” for Skinner’s prowess with a knife that he kept as sharp and wielded as deadly as a grizzly’s fang; and “Moosejaw” resulting from the occasion where an otherwise weaponless Hendricks was caught by surprise yet successfully fended off a band of Jicarilla braves using only the jawbone from a moose skeleton he found on the floor of the canyon where they had attempted to trap him.
These credentials, colorful names notwithstanding, were what prompted the ranchers in the area to look to the three for taking the lead in dealing with the bear. In addition to responding as friends and neighbors and out of whatever obligation they felt as local lawmen, the three also had a personal stake in the matter. Upon first settling in the valley, before donning badges for the town, the three had started their own small horse ranch—the Double M (for Mountain Men)—not too far to the south. Meaning they had stock of their own at risk to the marauder.
“Well, the cold night air and sleepin’ on the uncomfortable ground is past us for now,” said Firestick after pausing to blow a cooling breath across his coffee. “But we all know what ain’t past us—and what we can’t allow to get by whenever he decides he’s ready to make his try. If we let him succeed, we’ll be facin’ more nights of the same.”
Moosejaw made a sour face. “If he succeeds in gettin’ past us, that could mean we won’t be left in any shape to face more of anything.”
“Throw that sort of talk out of here,” responded Beartooth, scowling. “If Mr. Griz shows his face in the daylight where one of us can draw a clear bead on him, the only one endin’ up in bad shape will be him.”
“I like the sound of that,” Firestick agreed. “But it all hinges on the little matter of when the griz decides to make his run. I figure it least likely for the middle of the day.”
Beartooth nodded. “That leaves early or dusk . . . and we’re already slippin’ past what you could call early.”
“I can’t see him waitin’ all the way till dusk,” said Moosejaw. “There ain’t no water back there in that thicket, and I don’t reckon his belly is all the way satisfied, not after we chased him off in the middle of feedin’ on that beef kill yesterday.”
“I’m inclined to think the same.” Over the brim of his upraised coffee cup, Firestick squinted in the direction of the deep thicket. “I expect our fires from last night and our palaverin’ out here now in plain sight are holdin’ the rascal back some. But at the same time his thirst or hunger or plain orneriness are likely workin’ to prod him out of there.”
“In that case,” said Beartooth, “we’re best off spreadin’ back out and takin’ up our night positions again. Even when our friend leaves the thicket, he’ll have some cover in those patches of high grass pokin’ up out there across the middle of the canyon. Bein’ on the lookout from different angles will give us our best chance to spot him as soon as possible.”
“The sooner the better,” Moosejaw seconded. “The quicker we can turn that critter into a bearskin rug, the better it’ll be for everybody.”
“No argument on any of that out of me,” said Firestick. “You fellas go ahead on back to your posts. I’ll keep the coffeepot full and hot. In case we’re wrong and Mr. Griz takes a notion to drag things out for a spell, you can always mosey back for a fresh cup of mud to keep from gettin’ too bored.”
Beartooth made a face. “I’ve never been a fan of bein’ bored, and I sure as hell am all for gettin’ this business over and done with. But you’ll have to excuse me for sayin’ that, on second thought, in this case findin’ myself a mite bored if that dang bear turns out not to be in a hurry to come rushin’ out at us . . . well, for a while anyway, that wouldn’t be an altogether bad thing.”
His two pals chuckled a bit at his admission before allowing as to how they understood exactly what he meant. Then, each of them taking a fresh-poured cup of coffee with them, Beartooth and Moosejaw went on back to the positions they’d maintained throughout the night, one toward either side of the canyon’s mouth. At daybreak, with no bear activity having taken place to that point, they’d let their respective fires dwindle down and had converged on Firestick’s center position, where they cooked coffee and palavered about how they were going to proceed.
Now, with that decided, they were extending the waiting game, leaving it for the griz to decide when he was ready to try his luck. Survival in the mountains had required many traits—skill, endurance, luck—but patience was always a key ingredient. Patience when setting out a trapline; patience when on the hunt; patience when stalking or being stalked by an enemy, man or beast. So the three former mountain men knew well how to play the waiting game. They might be a little rusty or soft, as Firestick had implied, but not so much that they didn’t have another round left in them and one they damn sure reckoned to make end in their favor.
All up to the griz to make the next move, Firestick told himself as he refilled the coffeepot from a partially depleted water bag, set the makings, then placed the pot back on the coals to start brewing. He also fed a few sticks into the fire to keep it burning strong enough for the coffee to boil and stay hot. That done, he hoisted the water bag again and carried it over to where his horse was picketed. Removing his hat, he filled it with water and held it for the animal to drink, like his companions had done for their horses earlier. He noted that plenty of graze still remained within easy reach of the big gelding.
When the horse had slaked its thirst, Firestick shook out his hat and returned to the campfire. He put the water bag down, reached for the half-emptied cup of coffee he’d left sitting on the grass, then squatted on his heels beside his war bag. Tipping up the cup and swallowing some of its now tepid contents, his gaze again went to the heavy underbrush deep in the recess of the canyon. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and the morning air was starting to warm, chasing away the last of the night’s chill. It was early enough in the spring that the days were getting bright and warm, though the nights remained quite brisk.
The air was still, no hint of a breeze. Firestick found himself wishing for one, one that would carry the scent of the griz when he began to move around so that the picketed horses might pick it up and give warning. If the breeze was right, the horses would sense the bear’s movement before any of the men had the chance to spot him.
As he continued to stare into the canyon, Firestick’s right hand drifted down and brushed against one of the two rifles resting across his war bag. One of these was a Winchester repeater, the popular “Yellowboy” model that Firestick favored. The second weapon, the one his hand brushed against, was a single-shot Hawken muzzle-loader. Ol’ Thunder. He had carried this rifle for most of his years up in the mountains—this very one, in fact, whose fine balance and accuracy and powerful .50-caliber punch had earned him the nickname he carried to this day.
From the standpoint of plain practicality, eventually Firestick had shifted more to the use of a repeater. Since taking on the job of town marshal, he’d also adapted to carrying a sidearm, namely the walnut-handled Frontier Colt .44 currently riding in the holster on his right hip.
