Dark night in big rock, p.1
Dark Night in Big Rock, 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
DARK NIGHT IN BIG ROCK
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
THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
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
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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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.”
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-4884-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4885-4 (eBook)
THE JENSEN FAMILY FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
Smoke Jensen, The Mountain Man.
The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise “Denny” and Louis.
Preacher, The First Mountain Man.
Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. He fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man.
Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke, and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter.
Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother Luke Jensen is scarred by war and he’s a dead shot—the right skills to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning and fierce enough to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.
Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen, Those Jensen Boys.
The untold story of Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself . . . Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.
Denise “Denny” Jensen and Louis Jensen,
The Jensen Brand.
Denny and Louis are the adult children of Smoke and Sally Jensen. Denny is the wildcard tomboy, kept in line by the more level-headed Louis. The twins grew up mostly abroad, but never lost their love of the Sugarloaf Ranch or lost sight of what it means to be a Jensen.
Chapter 1
Misery Springs, New Mexico Territory
The new century might be a couple of years old, but in this wide spot in the trail, nothing had changed because of that milestone. Just as they had for years, saddle horses stood tied at the hitch rail in front of Frenchy Lafors’ Gay Paree Saloon, which was constructed of warped, unpainted planks and, despite the name, wasn’t fancy enough for even the most squalid of Paris’s slums.
Of course, that description fit all of Misery Springs, which did live up to its name. The pioneers who had founded the settlement hoped that the springs gushing out of a rocky bluff would be a never-ending source of good water, but they quickly discovered that the stuff smelled bad and tasted worse.
Still, the water wouldn’t kill you to drink it, and in this mostly arid stretch of southern New Mexico Territory, that counted for something.
Six horsebackers and a man in a buggy arrived in Misery Springs on a blistering hot afternoon and came to a stop in front of the Gay Paree. The riders wore range clothes, but a close look at their hands revealed none of the calluses working cowboys usually displayed. Those supple hands, their hard-eyed faces, and the well-cared-for revolvers that rested in well-oiled holsters on their hips testified as to their true profession.
One of them, a sinewy man with a lantern jaw and a permanent squint in one eye, leaned over in his saddle and spoke to the buggy’s occupant.
“You want to come in with us?”
The voice that replied was quiet and mild. “No, I believe I’ll stay here in the shade. It’s terribly hot, and the man we’re looking for may not be here, after all.”
“That fella back in Lordsburg said he was. Got kinfolks here, he said. Planned to stay for a while.” The rider ran his eyes over the dismal surroundings and shook his head. “Kinfolks or not, if I ever got out of this place, I’d never come back, that’s for sure.”
“Perhaps the man in Lordsburg lied.”
The rider snorted. “You know better than that. Once you start asking a fella questions, he don’t lie for very long. The truth comes out in a hurry.”
“Well, there is that. But I’ll still remain here, out of the sun, until we’re certain.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” The rider swung down from his saddle and looped his reins around the hitch rail. “Come on, boys.”
The other men dismounted, and all six of them trooped into the Gay Paree.
* * *
Frenchy Lafors had never been closer to Paris than New Orleans, and he didn’t speak a word of French. His mother, who worked in one of the houses on Bourbon Street, named him Antoine and insisted that his father was a down-on-his-luck French nobleman who had somehow wound up in New Orleans and fallen in love with her before getting himself shot over a poker table. Growing up, the boy had called himself Tony, but that name never stuck. Frenchy did.
He’d decided that if he was going to have the name anyway, he might as well put it to good use. So he dressed well, slicked down his hair, grew one of those little mustaches that curled up on the ends, and learned how to gamble and woo the ladies.
The latter skill had prompted him to skedaddle from the Crescent City when a particularly jealous husband sent men to kill him and dump him in the Mississippi. The former had supported him until a good hand—and surprisingly an honest hand, at tha
Frenchy was standing behind the bar when six men walked in. He caught his breath and pressed his palms against the hardwood. They reminded him of the men who’d come after him in New Orleans. This couldn’t be his past catching up to him. Surely not after all this time.
He glanced down at the sawed-off shotgun resting on a shelf under the bar. If they came at him, he hoped that he’d have time to grab the scattergun and take a few of them with him.
But the man who seemed to be their leader just looked around the room and then headed for a table where four hombres were playing poker. Frenchy breathed a little easier, but only for a moment.
Then he started worrying that his place was about to be shot up, and while it might not be much, it was his, by Godfrey. He might have need of that scattergun after all.
But for now, he could afford to wait and see how things played out.
* * *
“Jake Farrell?”
Jake glanced up from the cards in his hand, annoyed at the interruption. “Yeah?”
“Need a few words with you.”
“If you ain’t blind, you can see I’m a mite busy right now.”
The man who had spoken to him rested a hand on a gun butt. “Oh, I can see just fine. Well enough to shoot, anyway.”
One of the other players, a fat little man who called himself the mayor of Misery Springs, cleared his throat. “I, ah, I’m sure we can postpone the rest of this hand if you need to speak to these gentlemen, Jake.”
Nobody minded him declaring himself mayor because nobody else wanted the job of running an awful settlement like this, although running Misery Springs didn’t really take much effort. Nothing happened here.
Until today, looked like. Six gun-hung strangers riding in didn’t bode well for Misery Springs or anybody in it.
Jake knew that and decided he’d better tread pretty carefully. He had strayed over onto the wrong side of the law a few times. He knew what sort of men these were, just by the look of them.
Slowly, so as not to spook them with any sudden moves, he placed his cards facedown on the table and sat up straighter, an affable-looking man with curly fair hair under his thumbed-back Stetson.
“I’m Farrell.” No point in denying it now. “I don’t think we’ve met before. What can I do for you?”
“You know a man named Martin Delroy?”
So that was it. Farrell frowned slightly to make it look like he was thinking about the question before shaking his head.
“No, can’t say as I do.”
“Fella in Lordsburg told me you were acquainted with Delroy and that you’d headed in this direction.”
“That hombre in Lordsburg made a mistake. I never heard of anybody named Delroy.” Farrell smiled and shook his head again. “Sorry.”
“Not as sorry as you’re gonna be.”
That open threat changed things. Jake had let this go as far as he could. His hand darted for the gun under his coat as he started up out of the chair.
The boss gun-wolf was faster. His left hand grabbed Jake’s right wrist and stopped him from pulling iron. His right fist slammed into Jake’s jaw and knocked him sideways out of the chair.
Two of the other men grabbed the poker table and upended it, sending money and cards flying. The rest stepped back a little and drew their guns to cover the people in the room. One of them leveled his Colt at the man behind the bar, who had started to reach for something under the hardwood.
“I wouldn’t do that, mister.”
The barkeep nodded, stepped back, and raised his hands. His jaw trembled, and that made the curled ends of his little mustache jump up and down.
Jake was groggy from the punch, but it hadn’t knocked him out. He felt a hand reach inside his coat and take his gun. Then more hands took hold of him, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him toward the door. He stumbled and might have fallen, but the hands were there to steady him and force him to keep moving.
One of his captors pushed the batwings aside. Jake stepped out and squinted against the sunlight. The man who had hit him moved up beside him, looked around, and pointed to the livery stable owned by the mayor of Misery Springs.
“That place looks like it ought to do. Take him over there.”
A couple of the men grabbed his arms and marched him toward the stable. As Jake’s wits started to come back to him, he looked around and saw the leader talking to somebody in a buggy. The man climbed down from the vehicle, and he and the leader followed Jake and the others.
Even though the man from the buggy was small and dapperly dressed, something about him made a ball of fear explode in Jake’s stomach. He didn’t give a damn about Martin Delroy. Not selling out somebody you knew was one thing, commendable but not absolutely necessary, and certainly not at too great a cost. Whatever they wanted to know, Jake would tell them, right up front and as honestly as possible.
Thing of it was, he didn’t know if that would be enough to satisfy the appetites of the man from the buggy.
* * *
The men inside the Gay Paree could hear the screams coming from the livery stable as they picked up the scattered cards and money and set the overturned table on its legs again.
Frenchy expected the screaming to stop after a few minutes. He didn’t know Jake Farrell very well, but he didn’t figure the man would hold out for long before he answered the strangers’ questions.
When the shrieks continued for a quarter of an hour, though, Frenchy started to get sick to his stomach, and a little mad, too.
“We got to do something, by Godfrey. We can’t just allow this to go on.”
With a glum expression on his round face, the mayor shook his head. “You saw those men, Frenchy. No matter what they’re doing, do you really want to tell them they have to stop?”
“But . . . but . . .” Frenchy drew in a deep breath. “If we all go—”
“We’ll likely all get killed.”
Frenchy couldn’t argue with that. But neither could he forget all the taunts and bullying he had endured when he was growing up, the child of a prostitute. He looked at the scattergun under the bar, reached for it, then drew his hand back. If he walked up to the stable holding that weapon, more than likely the strangers would just shoot him on sight.
He had a pistol in his trousers pocket, a hammerless Smith & Wesson .32 caliber Safety First model, also sometimes known as a Lemon Squeezer because of its small size. He was pretty good with it and had shot two men in gunfights, maybe even killed them. He didn’t know because he had rattled his hocks out of those places as fast as he could once the shooting was over. He didn’t advertise that fact, because bragging about how good you were with a gun never failed to bring trouble.
The Lemon Squeezer’s five-round cylinder was fully loaded. That wouldn’t be enough to save his life if any gunplay ensued with the strangers, of course, but it was better than nothing. He stepped around the end of the bar and started toward the door.
“Frenchy, don’t . . .”
“I can’t just stand by and listen to it, Mr. Mayor. Anybody who wants to can come with me.”
He pushed the batwings back and stepped outside. He didn’t look behind him as he started toward the livery stable.
He didn’t have to. He knew he was alone.
They saw him coming. A man stepped out and raised a hand to stop him.
“Best hold it right there, friend. This is none of your business.”
A bubbling moan came from inside.
“You have no right to—”
The gunman raised a hand again to forestall Frenchy’s protest. “Wait right here.”
Frenchy didn’t know what the man would do next, but he swallowed and nodded. The man disappeared into the shadowy livery barn. A moment later, the lean, squinty-eyed man who seemed to be the boss sauntered out.
