The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Tomás’s pride was hurt worse than anything else, because he had allowed Creeger to sneak up on him and had no idea the crazed old man was anywhere around until it was too late.

  “Truly, he must have been a phantom to do such a thing without me knowing he was there,” Tomás had said solemnly while explaining to Frank what had happened.

  Creeger was flesh and blood, though, and the bullet fired by one of the outlaws on the wall had killed him at last, after years of him wandering the desert alone . . . alone, maybe, except for the ghost of his murdered partner. Frank wasn’t even going to speculate about that. He was just glad Creeger hadn’t ruined things for them.

  Diego Ramirez was dead, too, of course, along with Antonia, Kern, Bracken, Sam Woodson, and all but a few of the other bandits. The survivors, most of them wounded, had been rounded up and were locked in a smokehouse, since Saguaro Springs didn’t have a jail. A rider had already left town on a fast horse, bound for Tucson. The sheriff would have to bring a posse and some wagons down here to transport the prisoners and the recovered gold back to the county seat. That gold would wind up back in the hands of those rich men from Monterrey. What they did with it after that was their business. Frank had already put that part of the affair completely out of his mind.

  “You weren’t ever going to pay that ransom money, were you?” he asked Conrad now.

  “I wasn’t going to pay it, but Claudius Turnbuckle had instructions to have the company pay it if I didn’t come back or if he didn’t hear from me in a certain amount of time. I wrote out a telegram for Claudius and sent it with that rider, to send when he gets to Tucson.”

  “So you would have given a snake like Ramirez a fortune just to save my hide?”

  “I just told you, I would have been dead by then.”

  “He would have killed me anyway, even if he got the money.”

  “More than likely,” Conrad agreed. “But I wouldn’t have wanted to give up on you as long as there was a chance. Would you have paid if the situation had been reversed?”

  Frank snorted and said, “Yeah, I’d have paid him in gunpowder and lead.”

  “The apple, as they say, does not fall far from the tree,” Luciana commented with a smile.

  Conrad scraped his chair back and stood up. “I think I’ll go ask Miss Cole to dance,” he said. “She doesn’t like me much, but that’s because she thought I was an outlaw. I’d kind of like to see if I can change her mind.” He took a step, then paused and turned back. “One more thing, Frank. As Ramirez was dying, I told him my real name.”

  “You told him you were Conrad Browning?”

  “I did. And then I told him my real name, the name I plan to go by from now on: Conrad Morgan.”

  Frank felt a surprising tightness in his chest. He said, “You don’t have to do that, son. I know how much you loved your mother.”

  “I did,” Conrad said. “I still do. But I shouldn’t deny my true heritage, either. I’m a Morgan . . . just like you.”

  “And I’m mighty pleased about that,” Frank told him.

  Conrad smiled and turned away again. Frank watched as the young man approached the pretty blonde from the hotel and spoke to her. Peggy’s response looked a little cool at first, but then she smiled and let Conrad take her in his arms and whirl her into the open space where several couples were dancing.

  Luciana reached over and rested her hand on Frank’s where it lay on the table.

  “He is a fine young man,” she said. “Like his father.”

  “I haven’t been a young man in a long, long time.”

  “Perhaps not, but I like a man with some . . . seasoning, shall we say?”

  Frank turned his hand and clasped hers, and they sat there listening to the music and watching the dancing and thinking about the celebrating that would come later.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt!

  THE

  INTRUDERS

  A BUCK TRAMMEL WESTERN

  by

  William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone

  Pinkerton. Sheriff. Lawman.

  Buck Trammel has spent his life fighting for justice.

  Now, he must defend a town against corrupt businessmen

  and scurrilous outlaws turning it into

  a bloody battleground.

  Blackstone, Wyoming, belongs to “King” Charles Hagen.

  The rancher bought land, built businesses, and employs most of the townsfolk. Unfortunately Sheriff Buck Trammel is not on His Majesty’s payroll. The lawdog won’t be tamed or trained to accept King’s position as master of the territory, but neither will he threaten his empire.

  Adam Hagen, King’s oldest son, is vying to take control of

  his father’s violent empire in Blackstone.

  Sidling up with the notorious criminal Lucien Clay, Adam is

  adding professional gunmen to his gang of murderous hired

  guns who perform his dirty deeds without question.

  But moving against his father means crossing paths with his

  former friend Buck—the man who once saved Adam’s life.

  A civil war is coming to Blackstone.

  And when the gunsmoke clears, Buck Trammel is

  determined to be the last man standing . . .

  Look for THE INTRUDERS on sale now!

  Chapter 1

  “Clean up Blackstone! Clean up Blackstone!”

  So yelled the thirty or so marchers from the Citizens’ Committee of Blackstone. Their number was enough to fill the width of Main Street in front of the Pot of Gold Saloon.

  Sheriff Steven “Buck” Trammel stood guard in front of the saloon to prevent the crowd from storming the place. He might only have been one man, at several inches over six feet tall and two hundred and thirty solid pounds, he loomed large over the crowd. He looked larger still from the boardwalk.

  The piano player from the Pot of Gold mocked the marchers by banging out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The patrons joined in, slurring the words loudly.

  “Blasphemy!” Mike Albertson exclaimed. Trammel had heard the man with the crooked back was a retired freight driver who had given up the life of a long hauler to do the work of the Lord. He was the leader of the marchers and raised his voice louder than his followers as he said, “How dare they mention the Lord in a den of such iniquity! Let us go amongst them and defend His holy name from the mockery of drunken rabble.”

  The marchers, who were mostly older men and women, took several steps toward the boardwalk.

  Trammel took a single step forward and said, “That’s enough. You’ve had your say. Now go home. All of you.”

  The crowd’s chants of “Clean Up Blackstone” died down and their banners sagged. Some of the marchers at the back of the crowd took a couple of steps backward.

  Because everyone knew Buck Trammel did not say much, so when he spoke, it was best to listen.

  But Albertson held his ground. Instead, he limped forward and pointed his finger up at Trammel. “Last time I checked, Marshal, this here territory was still part of the United States of America, and that means we can march anywhere whenever we’re of a mind to do so. Says it right in the Constitution.” He glared up at Trammel. “Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning to read?”

  Trammel stepped down from the boardwalk without using the steps. He still towered over all of the marchers. Most of them moved back a couple of steps as the big lawman approached.

  Only Albertson held his ground. “You don’t scare me, big fella. I’ve gone through tougher and bigger than you.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Trammel pointed at the star pinned to his vest. “Says ‘Sheriff,’ not ‘Marshal.’ Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning how to read?”

  Albertson did not look at the star. He stood with a stoop, probably from all his years spent hauling freight all around the territory and beyond. “I don’t care what you call yourself, Trammel. You’ve got no right to order us to
leave.”

  His followers cheered as Albertson pointed past Trammel toward the Pot of Gold Saloon. “But you do have every right to tell them to leave. To tell them to obey the law. Them and their kind. It’s getting so it ain’t safe to walk around town, be it morning, noon, or night. Drunken cowhands from the Blackstone Ranch and miners roaming the streets in a laudanum stupor.”

  Albertson pointed to a shrunken old woman clutching a bag. “Why, Mrs. Higgins here found one of them passed out on her porch the other morning. Gave this poor, God-fearing woman the fright of her life.”

  “I know all about it.” Trammel looked at Mrs. Higgins and said, “I came right over and got him out of there, didn’t I, Helen?”

  The old lady’s scowl turned into something of a smile. “Yes, you did, Sheriff. You came in and dragged him away in no time flat.”

  Trammel looked back at Albertson. “I kept that drunk in a cell until he sobered up. Then I fined him and threw him out of town. I know you’re new around here, Albertson, but this town is used to drunks and knows how to handle them.”

  The old freighter pointed to the new buildings that had more than doubled the length of Main Street. The locals had taken to calling that section of town New Main Street. “And just how do you expect to handle all of them new places once they’re open, Trammel? How many of them are going to be saloons? Your friend Hagen sure ain’t telling us.”

  Trammel said, “Adam Hagen’s not my friend, but he does own those properties. Why don’t you ask him what he has planned? Or ask Mayor Welch.”

  But Albertson and his followers had come to Main Street to shout and argue, not for answers. “Asking either of them is pointless,” Albertson said. “Hagen is crafty enough to keep his true plans hidden, and Welch is gullible enough to believe him. And King Charles Hagen is content to look down on us from his ranch house and watch this town crumble without so much as lifting a finger.”

  The crowd offered a full-throated cheer, and Albertson raised his voice so he could be heard over them. “We will not be deterred by lies and placation. We will not be fooled into thinking Hagen’s plans are for the benefit of anyone but himself.”

  The old freighter’s eyes narrowed in defiance as he glared up at Trammel. “And we will not allow a Judas goat with a star on his chest to tell us to be calm and go home.”

  Trammel snatched Albertson by the collar and pulled him toward himself before he realized what he had done. He easily lifted the man just enough so that Albertson was standing on his toes.

  The marchers gasped and now took several steps back.

  “You listen to me, Albertson, and listen well,” Trammel said. “I’m nobody’s Judas goat, got it? I don’t belong to either of the Hagens. I don’t belong to Montague down at the bank. I don’t belong to anyone or anything but the law and the town of Blackstone. If you ever doubt it, come see me at the jail and I’ll be more than happy to convince you.”

  He released Albertson with a shove that sent him stumbling back toward the marchers he led. Several of them rushed to keep him from falling down. He knew he would regret manhandling the rabble-rouser later on, but now was not the time.

  He faced the crowd. “You’ve all made your point. You’ve had your march. You’ve spoken your mind and you’ve been heard. Now it’s over. If I see any of you clustered together within the next five minutes, I’ll lock you up for disorderly conduct.”

  Trammel did not have to ask if he had made himself clear. Judging by the looks on their faces, they knew.

  And from how they had just seen him take on Albertson, none of them wanted to risk the same treatment.

  Trammel stood his ground alone as he watched the marchers reluctantly fold their banners and head back to their homes.

  As the crowd thinned out, only one man was left in the middle of Main Street. A thin man in his late twenties, his black hair and spectacles gave him a studious look. This man was not Albertson, but Richard Rhoades of the town’s newspaper, the Blackstone Bugle.

  Trammel shut his eyes and hung his head. He had not seen the reporter during the march. If he had, he would have tried to keep a better handle on his temper. Grabbing Albertson would be the bright bow his story needed for the paper’s next edition. And he couldn’t blame Rhoades for printing it. He could only blame himself for giving the newsman something to print.

  “How long have you been there?” Trammel called out to him over the heads of departing marchers.

  “From the beginning.” The reporter finished jotting something down in his notebook as he walked toward Trammel. “I was with them when they began gathering at Bainbridge Avenue and followed them the whole way here. They had about thirty marchers by the time you broke it up. An impressive number for a town this size if you ask me.”

  Throughout his career as a policeman in Manhattan, and then as a Pinkerton, Trammel always had a healthy distrust of newspapermen. They tended to distort the truth to fit whatever message they were trying to convey. But Rhoades was a different sort. Since he had come to town a year before, Trammel found his reporting honest and had even grown to like the man.

  “Guess you’re happy I grabbed Albertson like I did. That ought to make a nice addition to your story.”

  “Maybe,” Rhoades agreed, “but I’m not going to use it.”

  Trammel hadn’t been expecting that. “Why not? Your readers will love it.”

  The reporter shook his head. “Albertson said he wouldn’t be manipulated by anyone, and neither will I. He goaded you into grabbing him because he knew I was there. When he gathered everyone together, he told me to keep an eye on him because he was going to give me ‘one hell of a story’ for my article. I won’t give him the satisfaction of printing it.”

  Trammel’s mood improved some. “I’ll make it a point of keeping a better handle on my temper when he’s around. He won’t rile me so easily next time.”

  Rhoades leaned in closer so no one could hear him say, “Personally, I think you should’ve slugged him for stirring up all this trouble.”

  Trammel had thought about that a lot since Albertson had first come to town six weeks before. The crippled freighter had started grousing about conditions in the town almost from the start. People were always looking for a reason to complain, and men like Albertson had a knack for getting the worst out of them. “What do you think his aim is? About starting up all this trouble, I mean. I’ve known a lot of freighters in my day, and every one of them would prefer whiskey and women over marches and such. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Me neither,” Rhoades agreed. “He claims he was a freighter, but if he was, he’s the most eloquent mule skinner I’ve ever heard.”

  The small question that had been rattling around in Trammel’s mind now loomed large. “That’s been bothering me, too. You think he’s a phony?”

  “He seems sincere in his complaints,” Rhoades said. “There’s no denying that. Now, as for his motivation, I’m still trying to figure that out.” Trammel watched an idea dawn on the reporter’s face. “He says he’s worked freighter outfits in Texas and Missouri and Kansas. I have colleagues in those areas. I’m going to write them to see if they’ve heard of him. I doubt we’ll learn much, but I’ll feel better having tried it.”

  Trammel watched Albertson walk back toward Bainbridge with two old ladies on his arms. He was gesturing wildly, probably carrying on with the same rhetoric he had used in front of the saloon.

  “Think you could wire your friends instead?” Trammel asked. “The town will pay for it.”

  “In that case, of course.” Rhoades looked curious. “But why the urgency?”

  “Because I think Albertson is working up to something big,” Trammel said. “Today’s march proves it. His attempt to barge into the saloon tells me he’s looking to escalate things. The sooner we know who and what he is, the quicker we’ll know what he’s really up to. Might be able to stop him before he does it.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Rhoades pushed his hat further ba
ck and scratched his forehead. “I’ve got to tell you, Sheriff, for a small town, Blackstone’s sure got a lot of intrigue going on.”

  Trammel could not argue with him there. “Too much for my taste. When do you think you could get down to Laramie and send out those telegrams?”

  He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and frowned. “It’ll be well on dark if I leave now and I have tomorrow’s edition to get out. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. That soon enough for you?”

  It wasn’t, but it sounded like it would have to be. “I appreciate it, Rich. And I appreciate you leaving my grabbing of Albertson out of your article.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought.” Rhoades grinned. “Besides, no one wants to read anything that casts ‘the Hero of Stone Gate’ in a bad light.”

  “Knock it off.” Trammel had hated that moniker since the day Rhoades had hung it on him after he kept a group of Pinkertons from taking over King Charles Hagen’s Blackstone Ranch the previous year. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Buck. You’re too modest. I spelled your name right and gave you a legend. You should be pleased. The people of this territory have put you on a pedestal.”

  Trammel knew he was right. And he also knew what people did with things on pedestals.

  They pulled them down after they were sick of looking at them.

  Chapter 2

  Adam Hagen had watched the entire spectacle unfold from the second-floor balcony of the Clifford Hotel. His hotel.

  From there, he could watch the whole town. He could see the carpenters working on the structures he had ordered to be built on lots he had purchased along Main Street. He could see the new houses he was building on the new Buffalo Street, too, in anticipation of the people who would flock to Blackstone when his plans took shape. He had even seen the marchers assemble on Bainbridge, then head toward his Pot of Gold on Main Street. He had watched them pick up more followers along the way until they reached his saloon and hurled insults and prayers at the place.