Bad hombres, p.1
Bad Hombres, 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
Smoke Jensen: The Early Years
Preacher and MacCallister
Fort Misery
The Fighting O’Neils
Perley Gates
MacCoole and Boone
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
Will Tanner, Deputy US Marshal
Old Cowboys Never Die
Go West, Young Man
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTOHE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE
BAD HOMBRES
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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
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.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by J.A. Johnstone
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.
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.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023934464
The K with book logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4955-4
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: August 2023
Chapter 1
Harlan Benson sat astride his horse in the middle of the road, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a fancy notebook bound in soft lamb’s skin. From another pocket he took a short pencil, hardly more than a stub, pursed his lips and touched the tip to his tongue. Properly lubricated, the pencil slid smoothly across the first blank page in the notebook recording his initial impression.
He liked what he saw.
Twice he glanced up at the neatly lettered sign by the roadside proclaiming this to be PARADISE. He wanted to be certain he copied the name properly. After he entered the name in a precise, small script at the top of the otherwise blank page, he carefully wrote “532” centered beneath it. The declared population of Paradise was 532. A few more observations about the condition of the road, and the likelihood of this being a prosperous town because of the well-maintained sign, were added.
He took out a pocket watch and noted the time it had taken him to ride here from the crossroads. All the data were entered in exactly the proper form. Nothing less than such precision would do. The Colonel expected it, and Benson demanded it of himself.
Harl Benson tucked the notebook back into the inside pocket of his finely tailored, expensive cream-colored coat, with beige grosgrain lapels and four colorful campaign ribbons affixed on his left breast. The pencil followed the notebook into the pocket.
“Giddy up,” he called to his magnificent coal-black stallion. The horse balked. It knew what lay ahead. He booted it into a canter. He was anxious to see what Paradise had to offer, even if his stallion was not.
After climbing a short incline in the road, he halted at the top of the rise. Paradise awaited him. The town lay in a shallow bowl. A river defined the northern boundary and provided water for the citizens. Straight ahead to the east lay open prairie. The next town over was far beyond the horizon. To the south stretched fields brimming with alfalfa and other grain to feed livestock. That told him more about the commerce in this peaceful Colorado settlement. It was prosperous and enjoyed a good standard of living in spite of the railroad bypassing it and running fifteen miles to the north.
Giving his horse its head, they eased down the far side of the incline into town. Into Paradise.
His sharp steel-gray eyes caught movement along the main street. He never missed a detail, especially the pretty young woman who stepped out of the grain store to give him the eye. He touched the brim of his tall-center Stetson, appreciating the attention she bestowed on him.
Benson was a handsome man and knew it. Handsome, that is, except for the pink knife scar that started in the middle of his forehead and ran down across his eye to his left cheek. He had survived a nasty knife fight, enduring only that single wound. His opponent hadn’t survived at all.
Most women thought that thin pink scar gave him a dangerous look. If they only knew.
He was a real Beau Brummel in his dress. The cream coat decorated with the mysteriously colored ribbons caught their eye, but he wore trousers of the purest black with a formal silk ribbon down the outsides. His boots were polished to a mirror finish, the leather a perfect match to his ornate gun belt. The six-shooters holstered there hardly looked to be the precision instruments of death that they were. Silver filigree adorned the sides of both Colt .44s. He wore them low on his snake hips, the butts forward on both sides.
Most of all, he was proudest of the intricate gold watch hidden away in a vest pocket lined in clinging velvet to prevent it from accidentally slipping out. A ponderous gold chain swung in an arc across his well-muscled belly. A diamond, the size of his little fingernail, which was attached to the chain, swung to and fro, catching every ray of light daring to come close.
He was quite the dandy and was proud of the look. It was only natural that all the ladies wanted to be seen with him—wanted to be with him.
Benson slowed and then came to a halt. He turned his stallion toward the young lady openly admiring him.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Do you work at the grain store?”
“If you need to purchase some seed, I’ll fetch my pa. He owns the store.”
“No, dear lady, that’s not true.” He enjoyed the startled expression.
“Whatever do you mean? Of course he does. He’s Neil Paulson, and nobody else in these parts runs a store half as fine.”
“You misunderstand me, miss. I meant that you own everything within your sight. How can such beauty not dominate everyone who chances to cast his gaze on your female loveliness?”
She blinked and pushed back a strand of mousy brown hair. The surprise turned into a broad smile—a smile that promised Benson anything he wanted. Then she looked discomfited. Quick movements brushed dust off her plain brown gingham dress. Her clothing was no match for his finery, and here he had ridden into town off a long, hot, dusty summer road.
“Do I take it you are Miss Paulson?”
The wicked smile returned and she nodded slowly. She carefully licked her ruby lips and tried to look coy. Eyes batting, she gave him a look designed to melt the steeliest heart.
“Clara,” she said. “Clara Paulson.”
Harl Benson took his notebook from his coat pocket and made a quick notation in it. He looked up from her to the store and made quick estimates of the store’s size and its inventory. As enticing as it would be to have the girl give him a tour of the store and detail its contents, in private, of course, he had so much work to do and time pressed in on him.
“You want to check the grain bins out back?” She sounded just a tad frantic. A quick look over her shoulder explained it all. A man so large his shoulders brushed the sides of the open door glared at Benson.
“That is a mighty neighborly invite for a stranger,” he said.
An
“I must go, but one parting question, my dear.”
“Yes?” Clara Paulson stepped a little closer, leaning on the broom. She looked expectant that he would offer to take her away from this small town and show her a city where all the best people dressed like Benson—and she could show off a fancy ball gown and flashy diamond and gold jewelry like European royalty. “What is it?”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“What? No, there’s only Grant and Franklin working here, but they’re cousins. I had a brother, but he died when he was only six. He fell into a well. It was two days before Pa found him.”
“Good day,” Benson said, again pinching the brim of his hat. He glanced in her father’s direction and evaluated the man’s barrel chest and bulging arms. In a fight he would be a formidable opponent. But did he have a box of shells nearby to feed the shotgun after the first two barrels were discharged? Benson doubted it.
Benson had faced off with men like Neil Paulson before, men who toiled moving heavy sacks of grain or bales of hay. Their vitality often required more than a single bullet to stop them, even if the first shot was accurately directed to head or heart.
As he made his way down the middle of Paradise’s main street, he took note of the buildings and their sizes. How far apart they stood, the construction and position. Quick estimates of the employees in the businesses were probably within one or two of actual employment. He was expert at such evaluations, having done it so many times before with great success. Not a single man walking the street or working in the businesses along the main street slung iron at his side. Perhaps this town really was Paradise and men didn’t have to strut about carrying iron.
Harl Benson made more notes in his precise script.
The horses tethered outside the stores generally had a rifle thrust into a saddle scabbard. Travelers into town needed such firepower out on the plains and especially when they worked their way into the tall Front Range Mountains to the west. Dangerous creatures, both four- and two-legged, prowled those lonely stretches.
He dismounted, checked the horses’ brands to find out where the riders had come from, and entered a new notation. All these horses belonged to punchers from a single ranch. Where the Double Circle ran its stock, he didn’t know, and it hardly mattered. The hands probably carried sidearms in addition to their rifles and had come to town to hoot and holler. They’d be gone by Monday morning.
Benson entered the saloon. The Fatted Calf Saloon and Drinking Emporium looked exactly like any other to him. Eight cowboys bellied up to the bar, swapping lies and nursing warm beer. That meant they hadn’t been paid yet for their month of backbreaking labor. Walking slowly, he counted his paces to determine the size of the saloon.
It stretched more than forty feet deep, but was narrow, hardly more than fifteen feet. He settled into a chair with his back to a wall where he had a good view of the traffic outside along the main street.
“Well, mister, you have the look of someone who’s been on the trail long enough to build up a real thirst.” A hand rested on his shoulder.
Benson turned slightly to dislodge the woman’s hand and looked up at one of the pretty waiter girls. She wore a bright red silk dress with a deep scoop neckline. White lace had been sewn along the cleavage, since the dress was so old it was coming apart at the seams. If she had let the seams pop just a little more, she would have shown her customers for free what she undoubtedly charged for in private. Benson quickly evaluated everything about her. Her worth matched the cheapness of her dress.
“Rye whiskey,” he said. “Don’t give me the cheap stuff.” He dropped a twenty-dollar gold piece onto the table. The tiny coin spun on its rim and then settled down with a golden ring that brought him unwanted attention from the cowpunchers at the bar.
That gave him a new tidbit to enter into his notebook. Twenty dollars was unusual in Paradise.
“For that, dearie, you can have anything you want,” the doxie said. She ran her tongue around her rouged lips in what she thought was a suggestive, lewd manner to inflame his desires. It did the reverse.
“The shot of rye. Then we’ll see about something . . . else.”
She hurried over to whisper with the bartender. The short, mustached man behind the bar looked more prosperous than the usual barkeep. Benson guessed he owned the Fatted Calf.
He sighed when two of the cowboys sauntered over, thumbs thrust into their gun belts. They stopped a few feet away from him.
“We don’t see many strangers in town,” the taller of the pair said. The shorter one said something Benson didn’t catch. This egged on his taller partner. “You got more of them twenty-dollar pieces?”
“Are you desperate road agents thinking to rob me?” Benson moved a little to flash the twin six-shooters. The dim light caught the silver filigree and made the smoke wagons look even larger than they were.
“Those don’t look like they get much use,” piped up the short one. “You one of them fellas what brags about how many men you’ve cut down?”
“I don’t brag about it,” Benson said. He took the bottle of rye from the floozie and popped the cork with his thumb. He ignored the dirt on the rim of the shot glass she brought with it and drank straight from the bottle. He licked his lips. “That’s surprisingly good. Thanks.” He pushed the tiny gold coin across the table in the woman’s direction. “Why don’t you set up a round for everyone at the bar? And keep the rest for yourself.”
“Yes, sir. And if there’s anything more you want, my name’s Hannah.”
He tipped his head in the direction of the bar in obvious dismissal. Benson looked up at the two cowboys and said, “The drinks are on the bar, not here.” He took another pull from the bottle and then placed it carefully on the table with a move so precise there wasn’t even a tiny click of glass touching wood.
“You ever killed anybody with them fancy-ass six-guns?” The short one stepped closer. “Or are they just for show?”
Benson didn’t answer.
“How many? How many you claim to have gunned down?” The man shoved out his chin belligerently. At the same time he moved his right hand to his holster, as if prepared to throw down.
“How many men have I killed? How many men and boys? Well, now, I can’t give a good answer about that.”
“Why the hell not?” Both men tensed now. Benson had seen his share of gunmen. These two might be good at rounding up cattle, or even rustling them, but they weren’t gunslicks. They’d had a beer too many and thought to liven up their visit to town by pestering a tinhorn dude.
“I stopped counting at a hundred.”
“A hunnerd? You sayin’ you’ve killed a hunnerd men?”
“Only with these guns. The total’s considerably greater, if you want a count on the total number I’ve killed.” Benson laughed at their stunned expression.
“Hell and damnation, Petey, he’s pullin’ our leg.” The tall one punched his partner in the arm.
Petey’s expression was unreadable. The flash of panic mixed with disbelief. A sick grin finally twisted his lips, just a little.
“We got drinks waitin’ fer us back at the bar,” Petey said.
“Yeah, right, thanks, mister. You’re a real friend. You got a good sense of humor, too.” The tall one punched Petey in the arm again and herded him away. They got to the bar and the free setup erased any intention of upbraiding the stranger. In a few seconds they joked and cussed with their partners from the ranch.
Harl Benson added a new notation in his notebook about the quality of the whiskey at the Fatted Calf. He knocked back another shot of the fine rye and started out the swinging doors. A thin, bony hand grabbed his arm. Again he shifted slightly and pulled away.
“You ready for more fun, mister?” Hannah looked and sounded desperate. “I got a room down the street. It’s a real fine place.”
