Leaving the two bodies where they fell, Falcon stepped back off the street, into the space between the land office and the shoe store. A ladder was leaning up against the shoe store, and Falcon made use of it, climbing up onto the roof of the store. He walked up to the false front and watched as two more deputies came running down the street with guns drawn. Falcon didn’t know either of them by name, but he remembered them from having served on the jury that convicted him.
“Son of a bitch!” one of the two men said. “That’s Scarns and Evans!”
“What happened here?” the other asked.
“I killed them,” Falcon said from the top of the shoe store.
“It’s MacCallister!”
Again, Falcon faced two men. Unlike Scarns and Evans, though, these two already had guns in their hands. They began shooting, and one of the bullets clipped the edge of the false front, sending a splinter into Falcon’s face.
Falcon shot back and both men fell.
Another deputy, drawn by the shooting, saw Falcon on top of the shoe store. He had a rifle and drew a careful bead on Falcon. Before he could pull the trigger, though, there was the loud bang of a shotgun blast. Les had come up alongside him and was no more than ten feet away when he pulled the trigger. The sheriff’s deputy fell with half his head blown away.
Falcon looked down toward Les, and with smiles, the two men exchanged waves. Falcon held up one hand with five spread fingers, indicating that they had accounted for five of Poindexter’s men.
Falcon climbed back down the ladder.
“I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!” Peters shouted. Peters was standing back in the alley, and like Les, he was carrying a shotgun. He let loose a blast just as Falcon dropped to the ground and rolled away. The shotgun blast cut one leg of the ladder in two, and it fell. Falcon rolled once, getting out of the way just as Peters threw away the now empty shotgun and fired at Falcon with his pistol. The bullet hit so close that it kicked dirt into Falcon’s face. Falcon returned fire and, as in his previous encounters, his bullet found its mark.
Falcon hopped back up and was on his feet, even as Peters was collapsing with a bullet in his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
By now word had reached Poindexter and Judge Dawes that MacCallister was back in town, and making quick order of his deputies.
“Countin’ Peters, he’s done kilt six of ’em,” Sharp said. “Well, he’s only kilt five; Karnes has kilt one.”
“You had better do something, Poindexter,” Judge Dawes said. “He’s coming for you.”
“It ain’t just me he’s comin’ for, Judge,” Poindexter said. Poindexter was standing at the window of his office, looking out into the street.
“You’ve got to stop him.”
“Sharp, get a rifle and climb up on top of the Brown Dirt. When he comes up the street this way, you’ll have a clear shot at him.”
“Yeah,” Sharp said. “I’d like nothing better than to be the one who kills this son of a bitch.”
“Wait until you have a good clear shot, and don’t miss,” Poindexter said.
“I ain’t goin’ to miss,” Sharp said.
There were five of the new deputies remaining now, and they had learned better than to be walking down the middle of the street. Three of them were now walking on the north side of the street.
Falcon appeared in front of the three, then, seeing them, he ran into the tinsmith’s shop. The three deputies ran down to the tinsmith’s shop and began firing through the windows into the shop, shooting repeatedly until the window came crashing down.
“Hold it! Hold it! Quit firing!” one of the three shouted.
The shooting stopped, and the three men stood there holding smoking pistols.
“I’m goin’ inside. Bill, you go around the left side of the building. Lee, you go around the right side.”
The three men reloaded and started their probes.
After Falcon ran into the tinsmith’s shop, he ran out the back door, even as the deputies began blasting away out front. Running down the alley for a few buildings, he came back toward the street, getting there just as the three men started in and around the building.
Falcon returned to the tinsmith shop, then stepped out into the middle of the street, facing the shop.
“He ain’t here!” one of the men called.
“He ain’t here, either!” another answered.
The three men came back to the front of the shop, one coming up each side and one coming out the door. That gave them a spread that made them difficult targets for one man, but Falcon didn’t care.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Son of a bitch! Shoot him! Shoot him!”
The guns roared, as they all started shooting. The three men were not nearly as proficient as Falcon, and they were also on the verge of panic. All three went down.
Falcon heard the roar of a shotgun and, turning quickly to his left, saw Les take down one of two more deputies who had been advancing on him. Falcon got the second one.
Les smiled and stuck out his hand toward Falcon. Falcon took his hand, then he heard yet another shot, this time the crack of a rifle. Looking up, he saw Mayor Joe Cravens standing in front of his drugstore, holding a smoking rifle. Looking across the street, and up on the top of the Brown Dirt Cowboy, he saw Deputy Sharp drop his rifle, then stagger toward the edge before falling off the roof and crashing through the overhang below.
“He’s one of the sons of bitches who grabbed my daughter out of her own bed,” Cravens said.
“They’re dead!” Judge Dawes said. “They’re all dead! What are we going to do now?”
“There’s only one thing left to do,” Poindexter said. He took his pistol out and checked the loads, then he put it back in his holster. “I should have done this the first day he came into town.”
Poindexter walked out into the street, then stood in the middle, his arms hanging by his side.
“MacCallister!” he shouted.
Falcon looked toward him.
“You got enough guts to face me man to man?”
Les and Mayor Cravens got out of the way, and several of the other town citizens who, by the gunfire, had been drawn out into the street to see what was going on, now scrambled to get out of the way as well. They got out of the way, but they didn’t leave. They knew this was going to be a gun battle people would be talking about long from now.
“Hello, Sheriff,” Falcon said. “I was wondering if we would meet up again.”
“You know, Falcon, you were a foolish man to come here and get involved in this. This isn’t your town; you have no stake here. Why the hell did you come here and make a mess of everything?”
“I didn’t have anything better to do,” Falcon answered easily.
“Nothing better to do than get yourself killed?”
“You’ve got nothing left, Poindexter. Why don’t you drop the gun belt and give yourself up. Unlike the trial you and the judge gave me, I expect you would get a fair trial.”
“Do you now?” Poindexter said. “The only trial I want now is by the gun. Because after I kill you, the deputy marshal . . .”
“He’s the marshal now.”
“All right, the marshal. After I kill you, the marshal, the mayor, and that interfering newspaperman, things will get back to the way they was around here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think things can get back to the way they was?”
“I don’t think you can kill me.”
Suddenly, and with no warning, Poindexter drew his pistol. He was fast, as fast as anyone Falcon had ever faced. He beat Falcon to the draw and got his shot off. Falcon felt a blow to his left arm, then he fired back. He saw a spray of blood as his bullet hit Poindexter in the middle of his chest. Poindexter fell back, a little cloud of dust billowing up around his body.
Everyone in town cheered, and they came running out into the street, many of them going toward Poindexter to make certain he
was dead, and the others coming toward Falcon.
“The judge!” somebody yelled. “Get the judge!”
Judge Dawes had watched the gun fight through the window of the sheriff’s office. Panic stricken at the way the fight turned out, he grabbed a double-barrel shotgun and a satchel, then ran out the back door. He planned to go to the livery stable to get a horse, but there were too many people between him and the livery. When he turned back, he saw others coming toward him, so he turned away from them.
Dawes ran out into the street, still holding the shotgun in one hand and the satchel in the other. He was chased and taunted by the crowd.
“Give it up, Dawes!” someone yelled. “Your day is over! We’re goin’ to get a real judge in here.”
With every escape route denied him, Dawes ran out into the street, brandishing the shotgun.
“Stay away!” he yelled. “I’m ordering you to stay away!”
“You aren’t giving orders anymore, Dawes,” Denham said. “We’ve held a special election, and you are no longer the judge.”
“Stay away!” Dawes shouted again. “I’ll shoot anyone who comes near me!”
Dawes kept backing away from the slowly advancing crowd, until he backed into the steps leading up to the gallows. Still brandishing the shotgun, he climbed the steps, keeping a wary eye on the crowd.
“Put down that shotgun, Dawes!” someone yelled.
“Someone bring me a horse!” Dawes shouted. “A horse! Someone bring me a horse!”
“Why? You aren’t going anywhere.”
Les started up the steps after him, holding out his hand.
“Give me the shotgun, Judge.”
“No! Get back! Get back!”
Les reached the top step and started toward Dawes.
“I’m warning you!” Dawes said. He took several steps back, then, backing into the hangman’s noose that was dangling from the gibbet.
“Ahh!” he shouted. Judge Dawes twisted around, and as he did so, two things happened. The noose dropped around his neck and, reflexively, he pulled the triggers on the shotgun. The shotgun blast hit the lever that operated the drop. The lever moved, and the floor opened under the judge. He fell through. The judge’s scream was cut off, and the crowd gasped in surprise as they saw what happened. Then it was deathly quiet, save for a creaking sound as the judge turned slowly at the end of the rope.
Les stepped over for a closer look.
“Is the son of a bitch dead?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” Les said.
There was a loud cheer from the crowd.
Les reached down to pick up the satchel the judge was carrying. Opening it, he pulled out a canvas bag. The bag was marked BANK OF SORRENTO, and it was filled with money.
“I’ll be damned,” someone said. “I believe that’s the money from the stage holdup.”
Falcon was sitting on a chair in the drugstore. His shirt was off and there was a bandage around his left arm.
“You were lucky,” Doc Gunter said. “The bullet went all the way through. I’ve got you sewed up, and the mayor had plenty of iodine.”
“You enjoyed using it, too, didn’t you? It burned like the blazes.”
“Better a little burning than for the wound to start festering,” Gunter said. “Make sure you keep it clean, and when you get back home, have your doctor take the stitches out and dose it up again with iodine or carbolic acid. Either one will do. And keep doing that until it is healed.”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
Denham, Smalley, and Travers were in the drugstore as well. So was Les Karnes.
“Mr. Mayor,” Falcon said.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you think Marshal Karnes has earned a pay raise? If for no other reason, then for getting back the money shipment that the bank lost.”
“A pay raise? Well, I must say, he did acquit himself well. But a pay raise?”
“Look at it this way, Mayor. You do want him to make enough money to take care of your daughter, don’t you?”
“My daughter?”
Julie and her mother were also in the drugstore, and Julie walked over to stand close to Les, who put his arm around her.
“For heaven’s sake, Joe, are you the only one in town who didn’t know about this?” Emma asked.
The others chuckled.
“A pay raise.” Cravens smiled. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose a pay raise is in order.”
As Falcon rode out of town the next morning, heading for Fort Worth where he would take a train back to MacCallister, he passed by Nunnelee Funeral Home.
“Marshal! I wish you would stay around a while longer,” Nunnelee shouted. “You’ve been just real good for business.”
There were fourteen wooden coffins lined up in front of the funeral home, and those who had gathered out of morbid curiosity laughed as Falcon threw them a wave and rode on.
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
The novels of William W. Johnstone and
J. A. Johnstone have set the standard for
hard-hitting Western fiction. In his new series,
this master storyteller trains his sights on Texas—
and the men and women who sowed their
sweat and blood into the land.
In Hangtree, Texas, any day could be your last.
For on the heels of the Civil War, Hangtree is
drawing gamblers, fast women, and faster
gunmen. Amidst the brawls and shooting, the
land-grabbing and card-sharking, two men barely
hold the boomtown together: Yankee Sam Heller
and Texan Johnny Cross. Heller and Cross can’t
stand the sight of each other. And Hangtree
needs them more than ever.
Comanche war chief Red Hand leads a horde of
warriors on a horrific path of bloodshed and
destruction, with Hangtree sitting right in
Red Hand’s path. For a town bitterly divided,
for Heller and Cross, the time has come to unite
and stand shoulder to shoulder—and fight, live,
or die for their little slice of hell called Hangtree.
SAVAGE TEXAS: A GOOD DAY TO DIE
by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
Coming in September 2012
Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
CHAPTER ONE
On a night in late May 1866, Comanche Chief Red Hand took up the Fire Lance to proclaim the opening of the warm weather raiding season—a time of torture, plunder, and murder. For warlike Comanche braves, the best time of the year.
Six hundred and more Comanche men, women, and children were camped near a stream in a valley north of the Texas panhandle, on land between the Canadian and Arkansas rivers. The site, Arrowhead Rock, lay deep in the heart of the vast, untamed territory of Comancheria, home grounds of the tribal nation.
The gathering was made up mostly of two main subgroups, the Bison Eyes and the Dawn Hawks, along with a number of lesser clans, relations, and allies.
Red Hand, a Bison Eye, was a rising star who had led a number of successful raids in recent seasons past. Many braves, especially those of the younger generation, were eager to attach themselves to him.
Others had come to hear him out and make up their own minds about whether or not to follow his lead. Not a few had come to keep a wary eye on him and see what he was up to.
All brought their families with them, from the oldest squaws to the youngest babes in arms. They brought their tipis and personal belongings, horse herds, and even dogs.
The Comanche were a mobile folk, nomads who followed the buffalo herds across the Great Plains. They spent much of their lives on horseback and were superb riders. They were fierce fighters, arguably the most dangerous Indian tribe in the West. They gloried in the title of Lords of the Southern Plains.
Farther southwest—much farther—lay the lands of the Apache, relentless desert warriors of fearso
me repute. During their seasonal wanderings Comanches raided Apaches as the opportunity presented itself, but the Apache did not strike north to raid Comancheria. This stark fact spoke volumes about the relative deadliness of the two.
The camp on the valley stream was unusual in its size, the tribesmen generally preferring to travel in much smaller groups. The temporary settlement had come into being in response to Red Hand’s invitation, taken by his emissaries to the various interested parties. Invitation, not summons.
A high-spirited individual, the Comanche brave was jealous of his freedom and rights. His allegiance was freely given and just as freely withdrawn. Warriors of great deeds were respected, but not slavishly submitted to. A leader gained followers by ability and success; incompetence and failure inevitably incited mass desertions.
It was a mark of Red Hand’s prowess that so many had come to hear his words.
The campsite at Arrowhead Rock lay on a well-watered patch of grassy ground. Cone-shaped tipis massed along the stream banks. Smoke from many cooking fires hazed the area. The tipis had been given over to women and children; the men were elsewhere. Packs of half-wild, half-starved dogs chased each other around the campgrounds, snarling and yapping.
The horse herds were picketed nearby. Comanches reckoned their wealth in horses, as white men did in gold. The greater the thief, the more he was respected and envied by his fellows.
For such a conclave, an informal truce reigned, whereby the braves of various clans held in check their craving to steal each other’s horses . . . mostly.
North of the camp, a long bowshot away, the land dipped into a shallow basin, a hollow serving as a kind of natural amphitheater. It was spacious enough to comfortably hold the two hundred and more warriors assembled there under a horned moon. No females were present at the basin.
To a man, they were in prime physical condition. There was no place in the Comanche nation for weaklings. Men were warriors, doing the hunting, raiding, fighting, and killing—sometimes dying. Women did all the other work, the drudgery of the tribe.
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