PRAISE FOR
Redemption, Kansas
“Has everything a truly good Western novel should have—a gritty, likable hero, action as explosive as a Colt .45, a page-turning plot, and prose as smooth and swift as a good saddle pony. It’s no wonder he is considered one of the genre’s best writers. A crackling good story that will have me reading more Reasoner.”
—Bill Brooks, author of The Messenger
“A Western novel with characters you care about and a crackerjack plot. If anybody asks you who’s carrying on the heritage of fine traditional Westerns in the vein of Louis L’Amour and Elmer Kelton, tell ’em James Reasoner’s the man.”
—Bill Crider, author of The Wild Hog Murders
“A twisty, fast-paced, stay-up-late-and-read-till-mornin’ saga of the West. Grand stuff!”
—J. Lee Butts, author of And Kill Them All
“James Reasoner knows how to tell a story. He has produced a suspenseful, extremely satisfying page-turner, with a hero who is strong-willed but very human. This book reminds me, once again, of why I became a James Reasoner fan.”
—Troy D. Smith, Spur Award–winning author of Riding to Sundown
“A wonderful book, wonderfully told. James Reasoner has the gift of words, telling a fast-paced story that reaches into the hearts of his characters…and his readers.”
—Frank Roderus, author of Ransom
“A fast-paced cowboy tale written with the flair of a master. If you’ve never read a Western by James Reasoner, pick this one up. You won’t put this novel down until you’ve finished it, and you’ll be ready for more.”
—Larry D. Sweazy, Spur Award–winning author of The Cougar’s Prey
Berkley titles by James Reasoner
REDEMPTION, KANSAS
REDEMPTION: HUNTERS
REDEMPTION:
Hunters
James Reasoner
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
REDEMPTION: HUNTERS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2012 by James Reasoner.
Cover illustration by Dennis Lyall.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
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EISBN: 9781101560082
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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.”
To the Western Fictioneers
Thank heaven, my boys, for a land which is blest
With a frontier so boundless and free,
So drink to the hunters and drink to the West,
And pass the “red liquor” to me.
From a verse printed in the Dodge City Times,
September 29, 1877
Table of Contents
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 1
The loud rumble jolted Bill Harvey out of a sound sleep. Instinct made him jerk upright and throw the blankets aside. He groped for his boots. The herd was stampeding, and Hob would need every hand he could get to bring the panic-stricken cattle under control.
Bill was on the verge of panic himself. Where were his blasted boots? Where was the ground?
Suddenly there was nothing under him for a dizzy second. Then with a painful impact, he landed on something hard. Pain stabbed through his torso and made him gasp.
“Bill?”
That sweet voice didn’t belong to any cowboy on Hob Sanders’s cattle drive.
Bill opened his eyes and looked up just as light flashed around him. He caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face surrounded by blond hair tousled from sleep and realized that she was looking down at him over the edge of a bed.
The light lasted only a second before flickering out. In the darkness, the young woman said, “Bill, what in the world are you doing down there on the floor? Did you fall out of bed?”
The rumble came again. But it wasn’t a stampede, Bill told himself as his sleep-drugged brain finally figured out what was going on.
It was thunder.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I was dreaming. I heard that thunder and thought it was a stampede.”
“You thought you were back on that cattle drive?”
“Yeah, I reckon I did. I was lookin’ for my boots.”
Eden Monroe Harvey laughed. “Once a cowboy, always a cowboy, I suppose.” She reached down to offer him a hand. “Let me help you up.”
Bill took his wife’s hand to brace himself as he
pushed up to a sitting position. He put his other hand on the bed and climbed to his feet. He was wearing the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, but that was all.
Outside, lightning clawed through the Kansas sky again. The brilliant glare lit up the room, giving him another look at Eden as she sat in the bed wearing a white nightgown. There was nothing fancy about the garment, but she sure made it look good.
“Are you all right?” she asked as he lowered himself to the mattress beside her. “It hasn’t been that long since you had that cracked rib, you know.”
Bill wasn’t likely to forget being shot, and on the very day he and Eden were supposed to get married, to boot. But the wedding had taken place a few days later, and he had healed up just fine.
Since then he had enjoyed a couple of months of wedded bliss. It had been pretty doggone blissful at times, too.
He turned to her now and said, “I’m fine. It jarred me a mite when I landed on the floor, but no harm done.”
“You’re sure?”
He slid an arm around her. “Positive.”
“Bill…”
“I just figured since we were both awake already…”
Outside, the thunderstorm continued to whoop and holler its way across the Kansas plains and the town of Redemption. When Bill was little and thunder had rumbled, his ma always said it was the tater wagon rollin’ over. A fella sometimes remembered the damnedest things at the damnedest times, he thought.
Then he stopped thinking about anything except the beautiful young woman in his arms. He closed his eyes as he kissed her and drew her closer.
The burst of silvery light from the electrical display in the heavens reflected off the piece of metal lying on the small table next to the bed.
It was a tin star, and it belonged to the marshal of Redemption.
The cannons were roaring again. Ward Costigan felt the earth tremble underneath him as the bombardment resumed.
He wondered if the Rebs were launching another attack. Be just like those secessionist varmints to come charging out of the night, screaming those devil yells of theirs.
Costigan reached out in the darkness and fumbled for his rifle. He couldn’t find it.
With a huge whumping sound, one of the artillery rounds landed near his tent and shook the ground again. He had to get out and hunt a hole, otherwise he was liable to get blown to bits. The next shell might land right on top of him.
He got onto hands and knees and shoved himself out of the tent, slipping and sliding in the mud outside as he tried to get to his feet. Rain lashed at his face. The Confederates were attacking in the middle of a storm, damn their hides!
Costigan jerked his head from side to side as he searched for the enemy…or for a place to hide from those terrible explosions. A shell went off with a blinding flash and a huge peal of sound that pounded against Costigan’s ears. He clapped his hands over them and fell to his knees.
Nowhere to run, no place to hide. All he could do was wait for death to find him, as it had found so many of his friends and comrades.
So many bodies, broken and bleeding, blown apart by artillery, riddled by musket fire, ripped open by bayonets…Costigan hunched forward in the rain, and the drops flowed together with the tears rolling down his weathered cheeks.
“Costigan! What the hell you doin’ out here in this storm? Better get back in your tent before you drown or get struck by lightnin’, you dang fool!”
Costigan lurched to his feet. He didn’t have his rifle or his old cap-and-ball pistol, but a heavy-bladed knife rode in a sheath at his waist. He snatched it out and lunged at the indistinct figure that loomed up in front of him.
“I’ll gut you, you filthy Reb!”
The man let out a startled, frightened yell and made a desperate grab for Costigan’s wrist. He caught it and twisted the blade aside before Costigan could sink it into his belly.
Costigan felt a wave of despair. He expected a shot to smash the life out of him at any second now.
Instead his opponent stuck a foot between his ankles and tripped him. Costigan sprawled on the wet ground.
The man landed on top of him, driving a knee into Costigan’s belly. He pinned Costigan’s knife hand to the ground and yelled, “Stop it! Stop fightin’ me, Ward! It’s me, Dave McGinty!”
After a moment the words began to penetrate Costigan’s brain. Dave McGinty…The name was familiar. He was…he was…
McGinty was a buffalo hunter.
And so was he, Costigan thought.
Panting for breath, hard rain sluicing into his upturned face and threatening to drown him, Costigan managed to say, “Lemme go, Dave. I’m all right now.”
McGinty kept him pinned down. “You sure about that? You came mighty near stickin’ me with that knife.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Let me up.”
McGinty released Costigan’s wrist and climbed off of him. Costigan rolled onto his side and coughed and choked from the rainwater that filled his nose and throat. He lay there for several seconds.
“Let’s get you back in your tent,” said McGinty. He bent and got his hands under Costigan’s arms. McGinty wasn’t very tall, but he was broad and incredibly strong. He lifted the taller, rangier Costigan without much trouble.
Costigan scrubbed his hands over his wet face. It didn’t help much in the downpour. When these summer thunderstorms sprang up in Kansas, they could dump a lot of water in a short period of time.
“Come on, Costigan,” McGinty urged.
Costigan stayed where he was. He couldn’t believe he had been so lost in his dream—or his memories—that he’d been so convinced he was back in the war.
For a few minutes there everything had been so vivid. He looked down at the knife in his hand, seeing lightning reflect off the blade, and turned to McGinty to ask, “Dave, did I just nearly kill you?”
McGinty laughed. “You came a lot closer than I like to think about. Did you really think I was a Reb?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.”
“That was more than ten years ago, Ward. You got to forget about it. I have.”
The glare from a burst of lightning washed over McGinty’s round, bearded face. Costigan saw the look of concern on his friend’s features. He sheathed the knife and put his hand on McGinty’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to—”
Costigan stopped short and his fingers tightened on McGinty’s shoulder as another flash lit up the edge of the camp. A figure stood there, near one of the hide wagons.
Costigan got a good look at the man, even though it only lasted for a heartbeat. He saw the buckskins, the hawk-like face with streaks of war paint across it, the eagle feather sticking up from the black hair slicked down with grease.
“Indian!”
McGinty twisted free of Costigan’s grip and whirled around to look. His hand went to the heavy revolver holstered on his hip and pulled it out.
“Where?” he asked. The lightning flash had already faded, and darkness covered the prairie again.
“Over there by the wagons,” Costigan said.
“How many?”
“Just one.”
“Did you get a good look at him? Was he a hostile?”
“He was painted for war,” Costigan said. “I’m sure of it.”
For a moment, McGinty didn’t respond. Then he said, “I hate to say it, but you were sure I was a Rebel, too, Ward.”
“You think I imagined that Indian?” Costigan didn’t know whether to be angry that McGinty didn’t believe him, or scared because he knew, deep down, there was a possibility he had imagined the painted warrior.
“Hell, I didn’t say that. Let’s go take a look.”
The two buffalo hunters moved toward the wagons. The rain had let up a little, and the thunder and lightning were starting to move off.
There was still enough lightning for them to see where they were going, though. When they reached the parked wagons, they looked around.
“
I don’t see anybody,” McGinty said.
Neither did Costigan, although a part of him hated to admit it. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.
“Mind you, I ain’t sayin’ he wasn’t there,” McGinty went on. “I just don’t know.”
“But if he was here, he’s gone now,” Costigan said.
“Yeah, looks like it. I’m gonna wake up some of the boys anyway. I think we need to stand a better watch the rest of the night, just in case there’s any trouble skulkin’ around. I was takin’ my turn, that’s how come I saw you out stumblin’ around in the storm.”
“I’m sorry, Dave. I never meant to—”
“Forget it,” McGinty said. “Hell, most of us who lived through that war saw a lot of things we can’t forget but wish we could. Go get some more sleep, Ward. You’ll feel better in the mornin’.”
Costigan wasn’t sure about that, but he hoped McGinty was right. He was a little nervous about trying to go back to sleep.
Most of the time, nightmares didn’t plague him. Tonight, what with the thunderstorm and all, everything had come together just right to get him mixed up in his head. He’d heard the thunder and thought it was artillery, and once that started, the rest of it just tumbled along like rocks rolling downhill.
“Good night, Dave. Be careful. Keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t worry. My eyes are gonna be wide open.”
Eyes wide open, Costigan thought as he stumbled toward his tent. Eyes staring in death, lifeless but still haunted by the stubborn refusal to accept what had happened.
He had seen so many like that.
Ward Costigan crawled into his tent. Water had seeped into it and soaked his blankets, but it didn’t matter since he was already drenched from the rain.
Hunters Page 1