Black hills blood hunt, p.1
Black Hills Blood Hunt, page 1
Look for these exciting Western series
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Shotgun Johnny
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BLACK HILLS
BLOOD HUNT
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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: 978-0-7860-4890-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4891-5 (eBook)
Dakota Territory, 1885
The trading post belonged to a fellow known in this part of the country as The Dutchman. His last name was Krieger, and he hailed from somewhere in Germany. That was all anybody really knew about him, except for one thing.
Big, bald, and bullet-headed, nobody wanted to mess with him, because he was a dangerous man to cross. He needed that kind of reputation to ride herd on the rowdy bunch of gun-wolves and owlhoots who frequented his place.
On this December night, the wind howled outside, driving thick clouds of snow almost sideways during the strongest gusts. As Dakota Territory blizzards went, it was pretty stout. By morning, the drifts would be piled up several feet high around the sturdy log building. The snow had started only about an hour earlier, so it wasn’t too bad yet.
And inside the trading post, the air was nice and warm from the flames in the fireplace and the heat that came from a couple of potbellied stoves tucked in the far corners of the room. The Dutchman wasn’t expecting any customers in weather such as this. He leaned on the bar, sipped from a mug of beer, and contemplated the three soiled doves who worked in the rooms off the hall in the back. They were sitting together at one of the tables, and as Krieger’s gaze wandered over them, he pondered on which one would warm his blankets tonight.
The way the wind was blowing and the temperature was dropping, this might be a two-whore night, he decided. That brought a smile to his ruddy face.
Then the door opened and brought in cold air, swirling snowflakes, and Gus Greendale and his gang.
Krieger straightened from his casual pose and rested both hands flat on the bar in front of him. He glanced at the shelf below the bar. Two sawed-off shotguns rested there, both loaded, both with the stocks cut down to make good hand-grips. Krieger had named the big poppers Hugo and Dietrich after his brothers back in Germany who he hadn’t seen or heard from in more than twenty years.
Gus appeared to be in a good mood, though, even jovial, despite yelling, “Shut that door, damn you, you filthy red-skinned heathen!” so maybe there wouldn’t be any trouble.
Lame Wolf, a Crow warrior who rode with the Greendale gang, leaned against the door and pushed it shut. The wind gave a last howl and spit more snow into the room just before the gap closed. Lame Wolf stomped his feet, encased in high-topped moccasins, to knock off the snow that clung to them.
The other outlaws stomped their feet, too, and came toward the bar with Greendale in the lead. Gus was a hatchet-faced man with bushy blond brows and a tangle of greasy fair hair falling to his shoulders. He wore a thick buffalo coat like the other men, except for Lame Wolf who had a buffalo robe wrapped around him.
The Singleton brothers, Hank and Hubert, followed Greendale. Their long black beards made it difficult to tell them apart, but Hubert, the younger sibling, was taller and heavier. With them were Amos Maddock, gaunt and gray and the oldest of the bunch, and a black man called Tiny because he was anything but. Built like a redwood, he towered over the other owlhoots.
All six of them were killers, Krieger knew. They held up trains and stagecoaches and robbed banks and rustled cattle and ruthlessly gunned down anybody who got in their way. Sheriffs had tried to track them down, and so had U. S. Marshals, but Gus Greendale knew the wild country in Dakota Territory better than just about anybody and always gave the slip to any pursuit.
Krieger didn’t like the man, but Greendale’s money, stolen or not, spent as well as anyone else’s. Like most of The Dutchman’s customers, the gang tried to stay on their best behavior when they came here, because they liked having this out-of-the-way place where they could have a drink, gamble, and dally with the soiled doves.
“Howdy there, Dutchman,” Greendale said as he came up to the bar and rested gloved hands on the planks. “It’s blowin’ pretty good out there.”
“Ja,” Krieger said, nodding. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight, Gus . . . or anybody else, to be honest. I figured you’d be holed up somewhere, waiting out the storm.”
“That’s exactly what we figure on doin’ here. Set up beers for me and the boys. ’Cept for Lame Wolf, of course.” Greendale let out a bray of laughter. “Can’t trust no Injun to guzzle down firewater. He’s liable to go loco!”
Lame Wolf had already shuffled over to the trading post part of the building and stopped in front of a counter where a big glass jar full of penny candy sat. He took the lid off the jar, delved into it with his hand, and stuffed several of the sweets into his mouth. Grinning around the candy, which seemed to be his only vice other than being a desperado, he told Greendale what he could go and do to himself, and threw in some references to farm animals, as well. Greendale howled in amusement again.
Krieger drew the beers and set them on the planks in front of the gang. Some places wouldn’t serve black folks, but Krieger had never cared about that, so Tiny got just as big a mug as the other men.
The Singleton brothers were already eyeing the girls, who returned the looks a little nervously. Krieger tapped a blunt finger on the bar in front of the black-bearded duo and said sternly, “You take it easy this time, you boys hear me?”
“They’re whores,” Hubert Singleton growled, “not china dolls.”
“You heard what I said. No argument if you want to stay here. You can go back out in the blizzard if you don’t like it.”
Greendale said, “Hubert, what the hell’s wrong with you? You heard The Dutchman. You want him to introduce you to Hugo and Dietrich, real close and personal-like?”
Hank Singleton muttered, “Don’t worry, Gus, we won’t cause no trouble.”
Greendale jerked
Krieger knew that Greendale’s friendly manner was largely a pose. They depended on this establishment not only for entertainment but also for supplies. That was why they behaved themselves.
If they ever decided that they didn’t need The Dutchman anymore . . . well, then, Krieger held no illusions about his ability to stand up to all six of the outlaws, even with those sawed-offs under the bar. They would gun him down.
But he’d take some of them with him, ja.
Tonight, though, everybody was happy. They drank beer and laughed. Lame Wolf stuffed himself with candy. The Singleton brothers took Daisy and Lucille into the back. Amos Maddock sat and talked with the other whore; Krieger figured at his age, that was about all the old owlhoot could do. Tiny sat by the fireplace, sipped beer, and looked content.
Greendale was at the bar, making small talk with Krieger, when the door opened for the second time since the blizzard started.
Four men came in this time, led by a medium-sized gent in a thick coat and fur hat carrying a Winchester. The three hombres behind him looked like cowboys. Two of them had Winchesters; the remaining man had a shotgun tucked under his arm. He was the one who closed the door behind them.
Greendale turned toward the new arrivals and said, “Whoo-eee! I thought you boys was gonna let half of Canada in here while that door was open.”
“Sorry,” the leader said in a clear, powerful voice with a crispness that marked him as not being from around here. A brown mustache drooped over both corners of his mouth, and a pair of spectacles attached to a ribbon that disappeared under his coat perched on his nose. “It’s a night not fit for man nor beast out there, as the old saying goes.”
“You got that right, friend.” Greendale waved an arm. “Come on over here to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink.”
The leader didn’t budge. Krieger frowned at him and began, “I know you. You’re—”
“Gus Greendale, you’re under arrest,” the man interrupted him. The three cowboys had spread out behind him, their weapons not pointing directly at the outlaws yet but slanted in their general direction.
Greendale laughed. “What’s that you say? Under arrest? Last I heard, mister, you ain’t no marshal or sheriff or any other kind of star packer.”
“A citizen who has knowledge of a crime is empowered to place the lawbreaker in custody and turn him over to a duly commissioned law enforcement officer. That is what we intend to do.”
“You don’t have knowledge of a crime,” Greendale scoffed.
“Indeed we do. Earlier this afternoon, you and your men robbed the bank in Medora. I and my men happened to be in town at the time and followed you here, along with other members of a posse.”
Grinning, Greendale said, “I don’t see no damn posse.”
The man shrugged. “We got separated from them in the storm. But the sheriff mentioned his intention to check out this place, so I’m sure they’ll be along shortly. We were simply fortunate enough to arrive first.”
“Fortunate,” Greendale repeated. “I don’t know how you figure that. If there really is a posse, you should’ve waited for them to get here.”
One of the cowboys said quietly, “I hate to agree with a varmint like that, Teddy, but—”
Just then, Hubert Singleton burst through the beaded curtain that closed off the hallway where the whore’s rooms were. He wore hastily pulled on boots and trousers but was bare and fish-belly white from the waist up. He swung up a Colt and bellowed, “Die, you four-eyed son of a—”
One of the cowboys snapped his Winchester in line and fired before Hubert could finish his threat or pull the trigger. Hubert stumbled as a splotch of red appeared on his pallid chest. His mouth opened and closed and he tried to lift the revolver again, but the cowboy’s second shot drilled through his nose and exploded out the back of his head.
That same slug ripped most of Hank Singleton’s right ear off. He was following his brother, and the shot might have missed him entirely if he hadn’t jumped up at just the wrong moment, trying to see what was happening over Hubert’s shoulder. He screamed and fell to his knees, dropped his gun, and clapped his hand over his suddenly bloody and mangled ear.
Hubert, already dead, reeled back and fell, landing on his brother. Hank squalled even louder.
Tiny sprang up from his seat by the fireplace and lunged toward the knot of men just inside the front door, but he stopped short in his charge and threw his hands in front of him, palms out in surrender, as he found himself looking down the shotgun’s twin muzzles.
Amos Maddock wasn’t going to give up that easily. He leaped to his feet, reached under his buffalo coat, and pulled his gun with his right hand, while he used his left to grab the girl who’d been sitting at the table with him. He jerked her toward him, clearly intending to use her as a shield as he opened fire.
The other rifle-toting cowboy didn’t give him that chance. The Winchester cracked, sending a slug ripping through the side of Maddock’s neck. Blood fountained from the torn artery and splashed over the girl’s face. She shrieked in horror and tore loose from Maddock’s grip. The old outlaw spun in a half-circle and collapsed, folding up into a heap on the puncheon floor.
All that happened in a handful of heartbeats. Gus Greendale had his gun out but hadn’t gotten off a shot when Krieger pressed Hugo’s twin muzzles against the back of his neck. Greendale froze.
“Dutchman,” he breathed, “are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”
“I don’t want any more lead flying around my place,” Krieger replied. “Besides, where you’re standing, if Mr. Roosevelt shoots you, the bullet’s liable to come through and hit me.”
He didn’t know at the time that something very similar had just happened to the Singleton brothers, but the possibility was a legitimate worry every time gunplay erupted, especially in close quarters like this.
“That’s very wise, Herr Krieger,” the man called Teddy said. He had his rifle tucked solidly against his shoulder and his cheek nestled against the smooth wood of the stock as he peered through his spectacles at them. Krieger had seen that sort of icy-nerved look before and knew that if Roosevelt had to fire, he wouldn’t miss.
Greendale must have known it, too. His hand opened and his Colt thudded to the floor.
“You know who I am?” Krieger asked.
“I’ve heard talk of this place,” Roosevelt replied without lowering his rifle. “I haven’t set out to clean it up because that didn’t seem necessary. It’s said you maintain strict order here. From what I can tell, that appears to be correct.”
“I don’t want trouble . . . from anybody.” Krieger pressed harder on the back of Greendale’s neck with the sawed-off popper. “Gus knew not to bring problems here with him, so whatever happened is his responsibility.”
Without looking around, Greendale snarled, “You’re gonna be sorry you done this, you damn Dutchie.”
“Threaten me again and I’ll blow your head off your shoulders right now.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Theodore Roosevelt said. “I don’t believe Mr. Greendale will cause any more problems.”
* * *
By the time the sheriff and the rest of the posse from Medora showed up, Gus Greendale, Hank Singleton, and Tiny were tied securely, hand and foot, and sat on the floor, propped against the front of the bar.
Lame Wolf was gone, having disappeared somehow during the shooting. Krieger figured he had gotten into the back and slipped out a window. The Crow was a canny sort and wouldn’t hang around. He’d find somewhere else to ride out the blizzard and then likely put this part of the country well behind him.
Either that, or he’d freeze to death before the night was over.
The three cowboys, who rode for Roosevelt’s Elkhorn Ranch, had dragged the bodies of Amos Maddock and Hubert Singleton outside so the cold would slow down their decomposition. Krieger didn’t want them stinking up the trading post.
