Hard road to vengeance, p.1
Hard Road to Vengeance, page 1
Look for these exciting Western series from bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Luke Jensen: Bounty Hunter
Brannigan’s Land
The Jensen Brand
Preacher and MacCallister
The Red Ryan Westerns
Perley Gates
Have Brides, Will Travel
Guns of the Vigilantes
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
Tinhorn
Will Tanner, Deputy US Marshal
HARD ROAD TO VENGEANCE
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
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.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4872-4
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4873-1 (eBook)
Chapter 1
Two Months Ago
Denton I. Pulcross owned one square block of increasingly valuable real estate in the pulsing heart of downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. The proprietors of all manner of businesses paid sizable annual fees to Mr. Pulcross for the privilege of earning money in such a prime location—and in proximity to such a civic leader as Denton I. Pulcross. Yes, indeed, it was a much-sought stretch of storefronts.
But as popular as Millie’s Millinery, Tumlin’s Menswear, and the Circle Café were, none could ever hope to match the annual revenue generated by a business nested not along that lucrative face of the block, but behind a steel door on a side street twice removed from the bustle of commerce. This unlikely location was the beating black heart of Denton I. Pulcross’s business dealings.
The establishment, The Dandy’s Haven, Gentlemen’s Club and Reading Room, was not advertised, was not spoken of by the privileged men who were its members, nor was its presence known by the general public.
Indeed, not even a sign nor number marked the entrance’s location. The door itself was a batter-proof, plate-steel portal two-thirds of the way down the alley. A small, sliding panel at face height was manned from inside by a coarse brute in a tight necktie whose knuckles topped hands larger than the faces of most of the clientele. But it wasn’t their head sizes Mr. Pulcross was concerned with. It was the girth of their wallets.
Once inside, members in good standing—powerful men all, with much money and a yearning to spend it on distractions unavailable to them elsewhere—entered a vast room with gaming tables, massage rooms, banquettes with curtains for intimate entertainments, and more. A vast assortment of the world’s most sought-after libations were served by women, also from all over the world, a curated collection of beauties whose looks rated them among the most stunning specimens from their respective countries.
Flanked by two burly gents in tuxedoes and far to the rear stood a thick mahogany door with a brass knob that led to the outer office of Denton Pulcross, aforementioned owner and proprietor of The Dandy’s Haven, Gentlemen’s Club and Reading Room. Then came his office, a sumptuous, leather-and-wood-filled, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves and plush seating dominated by a massive desk.
Denton often sat behind it, puffing cigars and counting cash and bullying city officials and paying off policemen and ordering supplies and bartering for the same.
Through a door behind his desk was another room, with handsome wood panels and carpet. Unused much of the time, it was used for extra special events, and only his extra special clients were invited—only the wealthiest among the usual milling mass of tony members.
Tonight, one of those special events was taking place.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Denton I. Pulcross, striding to the middle of the room and thumbing his satin smoking jacket’s black velvet lapels. “Who among you is interested in a taste of... the exotic?” He gazed upward as if in deep thought, and stroked a gray-flecked dagger beard that did less than he thought in concealing his double chin.
A rheumy, boozy smear of shouts of “Hear hear!” rippled through the room, along with much boot stamping and cane tapping.
He snapped his fingers and a narrow wood panel at the rear of the room swung inward. A flash of red appeared, seemed to hesitate before moving through the doorway, then was shoved forward. The flash stumbled, righted itself, and became a woman with bare limbs and wearing a rather short vermilion dress.
Behind her struggled a thin, not very tall, leering man in a black suit and hank of oily too-black hair that slipped down over his eyes above a long, bulbous, red-tipped nose. He struggled because she struggled, bound as she was behind her back at the wrist with wraps of a gold chain. This contrivance forced her chest forward and the result caused gasps of glee among the assembled jowly white men.
She was tall, slender, but not too slender, buxom, and her glowing skin was the color of powdered cocoa. Long, gleaming, midnight-black hair sat piled high atop her head. Her long neck, arms, shoulders, and legs were bare.
Hands holding drinks trembled, cigars drooped, lips were licked, and sweaty brows were dabbed with pocket kerchiefs. Denton I. Pulcross smiled. At least until a scuffling sound and a low, throaty growl from behind him spun him around, eyes glaring.
What he saw was what all the portly men in the room saw, and they all shared surprised looks that grew horrified. The stately, chain-bound woman had spun on the greasy man bedeviling her. She growled and lunged and jerked and spun around, and in doing so, pulled the man toward her so they were face-to-face.
In eye-blink speed she bent down from her superior height and bit the tip of his bulbous red nose, then jerked backward, tugging the screaming man with her.
Blood sprayed, spritzing her face and running down her chin. She did not let go. She ground her teeth tight together and wiggled her head back and forth as if to sever the offending proboscis.
The flailing, shrieking man soon righted himself and pried her jaw apart enough he could jerk his face away from the snarling woman, though two of his fingertips suffered a similar treatment as his nose. He shoved her away and she stumbled once more, on shoes with heels that lent her already lofty height an impressive stature.
She quickly righted herself and stood with her bloodied teeth gritted, her breath heaving and her flinty eyes glaring at the fleshy faces ringing her. Strands of her hair worked loose from the impressive pile atop her head, lending her face an even wilder look as she stared through narrowed eyes at the men.
The man she’d attacked was doubled over and gripping his face. As blood leached between his fingers, his screeches were muffled by his hands, but the words were unmistakable—and they were nearly as shocking to the assemblage as the young woman’s display. Nearly.
For several long moments, Denton I. Pulcross was uncertain what to do first. He could pull a gun on the woman, which would necessitate him having to lift his trouser leg and retrieve the single-shot derringer nested in a holster about his fleshy calf above his sock and shoe. It would be easier to whistle for his two mastiff men, but he wasn’t sure he could even conjure up enough spit. While all that went through his mind, the two burly men appeared to either side of him.
“Oh, good. Control that beast.” Pulcross nodded toward the glaring woman, who was in the midst of smiling and sneering and feinting a lunge at the tuxedoed gawkers.
The two big men bookended her, gripped her thin arms, and held her rigid. She whipped her head side to side, trying in vain to bite them. She kicked them each in the shins. Neither man moved. With a growl of surrender she once more stood still, breathing hard and glaring at everyone.
Meanwhile, Denton I. Pulcross had bent to the rocking, shrieking man. “Ellis, you damned fool, look what you’ve done! Get the hell out of here!” he growled through gritted teeth. Trying to shield the spectacle of the blood-faced idiot from the crowd had little effect.
“Me?” whined Ellis. “She bit my nose off!”
“If you don’t get away from me, I’ll bite your fool head off!” Pulcross shoved the blubbering man through the panel door, then slammed it shut. He turned and had to work to pull his gaze away from the bloody mess the fool had made of his carpet.
Emboldened by the presence of his burly men restraining the woman, he moved close to her right side. “Turn your face so they can’t see that scar.”
She acted as if she hadn’t heard him.
He growled and once again walked to the center of the room, half occupied with thoughts of how to have Ellis killed. Looking over the crowd, Pulcross laughed. “Ah, ha-ha. What a show, eh? Imagine how fun she’d be.”
Silence filled the room, save for the low growl from the woman’s throat.
“All right now, who’ll start things off? Who’ll give me a . . . a thousand dollars for this dusky beauty?”
The group’s taste for this particular dish had been lost in the frenzy. She smiled and stood tall, no longer looking any of them in the eye.
“Five hundred? A mere five hundred dollars would buy you more satisfaction than—”
“And a case of hydrophobia, I dare say!” shouted someone from the far side of the room.
It might have been the visiting Duke of Orrington, thought Pulcross. Or perhaps Chester Rockwood, the railroad tycoon. He couldn’t be certain which. Didn’t matter. The chance was lost. And his investment in the creature, too.
Denton pasted on an even wider smile. “For that money, I’m tempted to keep her for myself!”
“You’ll need more chains, wot?”
Definitely that annoying Duke. Trust a royal to be that insufferable. Denton Pulcross stepped closer to the tall, beautiful woman in their midst and spoke loud enough for her alone to hear. “I’ll have you chopped and ground up, then I’ll feed you to my pigs. Then I’ll feed you to this lot. That’s what I’ll do, you . . . exotic thing, you.” He sneered as he turned away, but not before catching sight of the slightest tremor on the girl’s lip. Was that fear? Good.
“I’ll pay you five hundred for her.”
Denton turned to see a trim man, not overly tall, with black hair and a sculpted black, waxed moustache standing beside the woman.
Who is he? Oh yes, I’ve seen him before. Previous infrequent visits. In town on business, he’d said.
Denton recalled the man was one of those who’d made their fortune out West. In the heathen lands. Some idiot who’d lucked into a gold mine and could likely buy and sell the lot of them.
Bet he doesn’t know quality from quantity, Denton told himself. Nonetheless, treat this one well. One never knows what the future might bring.
He turned with a smile, hoping the man had not seen the scar running from her right eye and curving down her cheek to her chin. “Six hundred, sir.” Heck, maybe it didn’t matter to him. Some men liked that sort of thing. And the fact that she was bloodthirsty hadn’t deterred the man from stepping forth.
When the man nodded his agreement, Denton said over his shoulder, “Come to my office for a drink and a bill of sale for the $600.” He led the way.
The trim man followed with one backward glance at the woman. He winked at her.
Now that the fun was over, most of the other men had filed back toward the main room and other distractions. Pulcross and the buyer vacated the room as well, leaving the two burly brutes who held the arms of the tall woman in the pretty red dress with dark bloodstains smearing the front. They didn’t move.
She did move, or at least tried to. Once more she kicked at them, tried to surprise them with a lunge, twisting out of their grasp. Nothing changed, save for their tightening grips on her arms. Once more, she gave up.
What next? she thought.
* * *
Les than an hour later, she found herself seated in a sumptuous hansom cab, rolling through the rain-wet streets of St. Paul. She was still chained, although bound with her hands in her lap, and manacles of a thicker steel than the gold chain had been.
Couldn’t break that one, she reasoned. I’m not about to break this one.
The man who had paid $600 for her had draped his wool cloak over her shoulders. She’d given thought to shaking it off, but it was warm. The last thing she wanted was to come down with a creeping, coughing sickness that would drain her strength. She’d need it, always had, always would. She sat rigid at the far end of the seat and did not look at him.
She figured she’d become his love slave or some such. It had happened before, three times, in fact, always to wealthy white men. They’d treat her okay, buy her things, expect a whole lot in return. One man’s wife got wind of her and had tried to kill her with a knife. The old man had her sent away, sold her, she later found out, to one of his card-playing pals.
He’d not been nice at all, that card player. For a fellow who spent a whole lot of time gambling, he wasn’t very good at it. He’d bet her one night and lost her. She wasn’t sad to go, as he could be nasty when he was in his cups.
The night of the card game she’d ended up dragged to the home of the winning player. He’d been the worst of all, so far. He was a man who liked to scuff his knuckles across a woman’s body. He’d only hit her in the face once, though.
Guess he didn’t like seeing her once-pretty face sporting buttoned-up eyes and a split lip. Instead, he took to punching and kicking at her body. She’d be stiff and sore, but she could still manage to do what she was supposed to do.
Eventually, he’d told her he’d grown tired of her. She’d overheard he was to be married. God help that woman, she’d thought. But to choose such as him? Maybe the fool didn’t want God’s help. She’d beg for it before long.
His impending marriage had led him to take her north to St. Paul and so, she’d found herself at Pulcross’s Gentlemen’s Club. Not without first being handled by the master of the place.
She’d tried to get the attention of the other women in the place, see if she could get help somehow. Not a one of them would even look at her. That had been two weeks ago. Then she learned she was being saved for a special event. That’s what Pulcross had called it.
She got pushed once too often by that weasel-faced Ellis, always squeezing her and making nasty sounds behind her before jumping out of her way with a laugh. She got him, though, and that damn homely nose of his. She hoped he didn’t have some sort of nose disease. But it had been worth it. Just to hear him scream had been lovely.
And there she was—bought and paid for once again.
The man spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am or how I came to be there?”
She said nothing. Did not even look at him.
“Do you trust me?”
