Blood for Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  The shooting had stopped, John Henry realized as he turned to the old frontiersman. The battle was over.

  And since the only men he saw still on their feet were members of the rescue party and the men from Kiowa City, he knew that they had won. All the outlaws were down, either dead or wounded.

  “I’m fine,” he told Ezra. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Right here,” Mike Rasmussen said as he walked up with a still-smoking Smith & Wesson in his hand. “What about the prisoners?”

  “They’re in the smokehouse,” John Henry said. “They should be all right.”

  Rasmussen nodded. “I’ll go see about getting them out of there.”

  As the sheriff hurried off, John Henry walked around with his gun held ready as he examined the bodies of the outlaws.

  “What are you lookin’ for?” Ezra asked him.

  “Not what. Who.” John Henry’s face was bleak. “I’m looking for Lottie Dalmas. Did you see her during the fighting? A red-haired woman, dressed like a man?”

  “I don’t recollect it,” Ezra said. “But if she’s just one woman, what does it matter?”

  John Henry didn’t answer that, but his expression grew more grim as he searched for Lottie’s body without finding it. As much as he hated to think about it, as long as the Flame of the Prairie was still alive, the battle might not be over.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Other than the cut on his head where he had been pistol-whipped, Judge Ephraim Doolittle was all right, and his wife and niece, although terrified, were unharmed. When they came out of the smokehouse, Clarissa threw her arms around John Henry and gave him a grateful hug.

  Then she stepped back. “Oh, my. Did I hurt you, Marshal Sixkiller? I was so glad to see you that I forgot you’d been wounded!”

  “I’m fine,” John Henry assured her. “Those bullet holes ache a mite, but the sheriff checked the dressings and said it doesn’t look like they started bleeding again.”

  “Maybe now that this is all over, you can actually rest for a while,” Clarissa said with a smile.

  John Henry didn’t mention his concern that Lottie Dalmas had disappeared.

  He had figured there would probably be wounded to transport back to Kiowa City, so he’d had a couple wagons follow Rasmussen and the jury members the day before. They had stopped a couple of miles away, out of sight. John Henry sent a rider to bring them in, and while that was going on the wounded were carried down the trail on stretchers.

  Three members of the rescue party had been killed in the fighting. Their bodies would be taken back to town so they could be laid to rest properly.

  Only two of the outlaws had survived. The corpses of the others would be hauled out to the ravine and dumped in. Their ghosts could join those of all the buffalo Ezra had talked about. Some might say it was a callous thing to do, but John Henry had little sympathy for those who deliberately chose a life of evil and lawlessness.

  With all the details that had to be taken care of, it was early afternoon by the time everyone got back to Kiowa City. The wounded were left at Dr. Harmon’s house. The prisoners were taken to the courthouse and locked up in the basement jail.

  The arrival of the rescue party created quite a stir in the settlement. The streets were thronged with people wanting to congratulate the rescuers and get a look at the freed prisoners. An air of festivity and celebration filled the town. People didn’t have to worry any longer about being murdered in their beds.

  As far as John Henry was concerned, it would be enough of a celebration to crawl into bed and sleep for about eighteen hours straight. It seemed like ages since he had closed his eyes.

  When he left the courthouse with Rasmussen, people crowded around him, wanting to shake his hand or slap him on the back. John Henry tolerated it as well as he could, putting a weary smile on his face and accepting the accolades with what he hoped was grace.

  They were only about halfway to the hotel, on the boardwalk across the street from the Paradise Saloon, when John Henry paused to look at a man who had just pushed the batwings aside and stepped out of the saloon. “Who’s that over there? The hombre who just came out of the Paradise?”

  “You mean J.C. Carson?” Rasmussen said. “That’s him, and the fella right behind him is his ramrod, Dell Bartlett.”

  John Henry had seen the cattleman’s hawk-like face only once before, but there was no mistaking it. The barrel-chested, heavy-featured man who followed Carson out of the saloon was familiar, too. John Henry had no doubt where he had seen both of them before.

  That was all the justification he needed to wrap up another loose end. “Back me up, Sheriff. I’ve got a couple arrests to make.”

  “What the hell are you—”

  John Henry had already stepped down from the boardwalk and started making his way across the crowded street. He wished there weren’t so many people around, because he had a hunch there might be gunplay when he confronted Carson and Bartlett.

  J.C. Carson had been leading that group of riders he’d seen leaving the Silver Skull a week earlier, before the rustling raid on Montayne’s J/M spread. Bartlett had been with the rancher. John Henry was convinced that Carson was tied in somehow with Lottie and Garrett, using them to get rid of Montayne, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

  But before he could reach them, a woman screamed and a commotion broke out in the street. People began scurrying to get to cover. Rasmussen exclaimed, “What in blazes—!”

  “Carson!” a woman shouted. “There he is! There’s Sixkiller! Shoot him!”

  John Henry reached for his Colt as he twisted toward the sound. As the frightened crowd cleared, he saw Lottie stalking along the boardwalk toward the saloon, gun in one hand, bowie knife in the other.

  “Kill him now, Carson!” she screamed at the rancher. “Or I’ll tell everybody who you really are!”

  “You loco bitch!” Carson cried. He jerked his pistol from the holster on his hip and fired.

  But not at John Henry. His shot crashed into Lottie and rocked her back on her heels.

  John Henry broke into a run. “Carson, drop that gun!”

  Dell Bartlett stepped past his boss and slapped leather. His gun boomed, sending a slug screaming past John Henry’s head.

  With so many innocent bystanders around, John Henry knew there was no time to waste. His gun blasted twice. Both slugs punched into Bartlett’s chest and flung him backward. He hit the saloon’s big front window and crashed through it, sending glass flying everywhere.

  Lottie’s gun barked, the shot staggering Carson. He fired again and struck Lottie a second time. The shot spun her off her feet and sent her toppling from the boardwalk into the street.

  John Henry yelled, “Carson, I said drop it!”

  The cattleman whirled toward John Henry. His hawk-like face was contorted with hate. He had seen his world collapse in a matter of seconds, with no warning, and he was in no mood to surrender. Flame spouted from the muzzle of his gun as he fired at the lawman.

  Coolly, John Henry squeezed off another round. It took Carson in the belly and doubled him over. He dropped his gun and collapsed on the boardwalk.

  A stunned Sheriff Rasmussen demanded, “What the hell just happened here?”

  “Justice,” John Henry said. “Check on Carson and Bartlett, but be careful. They were working with Lottie and Garrett.”

  Keeping his gun leveled and ready, the deputy marshal approached Lottie. She lay curled on her side as blood welled from the wounds in her body and was soaked up by the thirsty dust of the street.

  John Henry kicked away the gun and knife she had dropped, then knelt beside her. “Lottie. Lottie, can you hear me?”

  Her eyelids were fluttering. Her breathing was quick, ragged, harsh. She turned her head enough to gaze toward him with an unfocused stare. “S-Sixkiller?” she whispered.

  “That’s right. Carson’s either dead or soon will be. He was working with you, wasn’t he?”

  “We both
wanted . . . Montayne dead . . . It made sense . . . for Carson to pay us . . . for doing his dirty work.”

  John Henry glanced up. A number of townspeople were close by, and even though they were shocked and stunned by the sudden outburst of violence, he could tell by the surprise on their faces that they had heard and understood her words.

  That tied everything up with a neat little bow, as far as Carson was concerned.

  “You got away from the ranch and followed us here, didn’t you?” John Henry said to Lottie. “You wanted one more shot at me, and when you saw Carson you decided to use him like he tried to use you.”

  “He . . . used me . . . all right,” Lottie said, grimacing. “He used to . . . ride the owlhoot . . . came to the Silver Skull . . . when my father was still alive . . . Carson took a fancy to me . . . My pa . . . never knew . . .”

  John Henry’s mouth was a grim line. This affair was even more tangled than he had known.

  But it was finally over. He could tell that Lottie was only moments from death, and with her would die the twisted lust for vengeance that had plunged Kiowa City into a reign of terror.

  Amazingly, there was a smile on her face. She husked, “Looks like . . . the Flame of the Prairie . . . is about to go out.” She laughed, a hollow, breathless sound. “I always had . . . a taste for melodrama . . .”

  She stiffened as the last of her life escaped from her in a throat-rattling sigh. The staring eyes began to glaze over.

  Rasmussen stood over Lottie’s dead body. “Carson and Bartlett are both dead. You reckon you could explain all this to me, Marshal?”

  John Henry got to his feet. “I can try.”

  * * *

  A week had passed since the battle at the Silver Skull and the ensuing shootout on Kiowa City’s Main Street. In that time the wounds in John Henry’s side had healed enough that they didn’t have to be bandaged anymore. He was probably in good enough shape that he could head back to Fort Smith anytime and find out what job Judge Parker had for him next.

  But he wanted to check on one of Dr. Harmon’s patients first.

  He stepped into one of the bedrooms in the doctor’s house and took off his hat, nodding politely to Clarissa Doolittle, who was back at her job as a part-time nurse.

  She had been feeding the patient some soup, but she set the bowl aside and smiled at John Henry. “Hello, Marshal. I told Nick I thought you’d probably be by to see him today.”

  “And here I am,” John Henry said, returning her smile. “How are you feeling, Nick?”

  “Good enough I wouldn’t mind getting up a poker game,” Nick Mallette said from where he was propped up in the bed. “You want to sit in, John?”

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for that much excitement just yet. Doc said you were going to have to take it easy for a couple months until that chest wound heals.”

  “Yeah, he told you to take it easy, too, but you went adventuring anyway, didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t have much choice in the matter,” John Henry drawled. “If I hadn’t, you might not have had such a pretty nurse to look after you.”

  Clarissa blushed. She reached over, rested a hand on Nick’s hand, and squeezed.

  Over the past week, John Henry had seen something growing between the two of them, and he was glad. He’d been happy to discover that Mallette had just passed out, there in the ranch house, and then they had gotten him to Kiowa City in time for Dr. Harmon to save his life.

  “Thought you might be interested in the telegram I got this morning,” John Henry went on as he reached in his pocket to pull out a yellow telegraph flimsy. “It’s from my boss, Judge Parker. He says that the authorities in Kansas City have located enough witnesses who’ll swear you shot that fella in self-defense that there’s no doubt your conviction will be overturned. You’ll be able to live as a free man and go back there if you want to.”

  “That’s great news, all right.” Mallette was still holding Clarissa’s hand. “But I’m thinking I might just stay here in Kiowa City. It seems like it’d be a nice place to settle down.”

  “You reckon a tinhorn gambler could ever do that?” John Henry asked.

  “He could,” Mallette said as he looked at Clarissa, “if the stakes in the game he was playing were high enough.”

  John Henry laughed and said his farewells to the two of them. He had already told Sheriff Rasmussen and Judge Doolittle good-bye. After shaking hands with Mallette and getting a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Clarissa, he went to the livery stable to pick up Iron Heart. The big gray was already saddled and ready to hit the trail.

  John Henry was ready, too. Somewhere out there laws were being broken and the lives of innocent folks were in danger. If there was one thing for sure on the frontier, he thought as he rode away from Kiowa City, it was that the job of a star packer would never be finished.

  John Henry Sixkiller wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Keep reading for an excerpt of the next Johnstone epic!

  DIG YOUR OWN GRAVE

  A WILL TANNER U.S. DEPUTY MARSHAL WESTERN

  by William W. and J. A. Johnstone

  Johnstone Country. Keeping the West wild.

  U.S. Deputy Marshal Will Tanner is one hell of a

  manhunter. But this time, he’s chasing six men

  across three states with one gun and no backup.

  This isn’t justice. This is a suicide mission . . .

  DIG YOUR OWN GRAVE

  It starts with a prison break in Missouri.

  When notorious bank robber Ansel McCoy

  busts out, he teams up with five other outlaws.

  Then he and his gang rob a bank in Kansas.

  Now they’re crossing state lines into Oklahoma

  Indian territory. And that’s where Will Tanner

  steps in. Other marshals from Kansas and

  Missouri have already lost the trail. Which means

  Tanner has to go it alone. Deep in the wilderness.

  Outnumbered and outgunned. One good man

  against six blood-crazed killers. Even if he

  manages to survive the elements and find

  McCoy’s hideout, it’s not just the end of

  his search. It’s his funeral . . .

  Look for DIG YOUR GRAVE, on sale now

  wherever Johnstone’s books are sold.

  Chapter One

  Looks like Tom Spotted Horse was right, he thought. He dismounted and dropped Buster’s reins to the ground, then proceeded on foot to get a better look at the camp by the water’s edge. The Chickasaw policeman had told him Ike Skinner had passed through Tishomingo, headed toward Blue River. Will wasn’t surprised. He figured Ike was on his way to Texas after a series of train station robberies south along the MKT. So when Dan Stone had sent him to arrest Ike, he had headed down the line to Atoka in hopes of cutting him off before he reached that town. Unfortunately, he was too late by half a day to intercept him in Atoka, but he had an idea that Ike might cut over to Tishomingo. He was sweet on a Chickasaw woman named Lyla Birdsong, who lived there, and that was where Will had arrested him before. Ike was never a man to use good judgment, and it looked like the two years he had spent in prison had done little to teach him any common sense.

  Will had also been too late to catch him at Lyla Birdsong’s father’s cabin in Tishomingo, but he hadn’t been hard to track from there. Ike had not waited long to camp for the night, which didn’t surprise Will, since he hadn’t seen Lyla in two years. He should have waited at least until he crossed the Red and celebrated their reunion in Texas, Will thought. He almost felt sorry for him. Ike was not a cruel criminal by any standard. He just wasn’t smart enough to make a living from anything but stealing. Better get my mind back on business, Will reminded himself, and made his way carefully through the stand of oaks on the banks of the river. Close enough to see the two people seated by the fire clearly now, he took a moment to verify what he had suspected. The other person with Ike was, indeed, Lyla Birdsong. He ha
d hesitated because Lyla had apparently grown some in the two years since Ike was away, not so much up, but out. Will had seen her before on only one brief occasion, and she was a husky woman then. Looking at her now, she looked to be more woman than Ike could handle. He could only assume that she had come with Ike willingly, so he wouldn’t have to be charged with abduction on top of the armed robbery charges.

  Will moved a few yards closer before suddenly stepping out from behind a tree and calling out a warning. “Don’t make a move, Ike, and we’ll make this as easy as possible!” As he expected, the warning was wasted as Ike, startled, tried to scramble to his feet. Ready for just such a possibility, Will had his Winchester in position to fire. He placed a shot that kicked up dirt at Ike’s feet and stopped him from running. Then he quickly cranked another round into the chamber and placed a second shot in the dirt on the other side of Ike when he started to run in the opposite direction. “I ain’t gonna waste any more ammunition in the dirt,” Will threatened. “The next one’s gonna stop you for good.” The warning served its purpose. Ike hesitated a moment, but gave up on the idea of running for cover.

  “Will Tanner,” Ike moaned plaintively, “I shoulda known it would be you.” He stood by the fire, feeling helpless as Will approached, his rifle cocked and still trained on him. “Dadgum it, how’d you find me so quick?”

  “You’re a creature of habit, Ike,” Will replied. “You need to change your old ways, if you’re plannin’ to be an armed robber the rest of your life. Now, with your left hand, unbuckle that gun belt and let it drop.” While Ike dutifully complied, Will kept an eye on the Chickasaw woman, who had so far shown no reaction to his intrusion. Sitting calmly, her stoic expression registering no sign of alarm, she prompted Will to be extra cautious, lest she might suddenly explode.

  “Whaddaya botherin’ me for, Tanner?” Ike implored. “I ain’t done nothin’ to get the law on my tail.”

  “You held up the train depot in McAlester and again in Atoka,” Will answered. “Both stationmasters identified you as the bandit.”