A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Dear Luther, I hope you are in good health. I am fine, but for a touch of the rheumatisms in cold weather. Ah well, we’re not getting any younger, ha, ha. I was a deputy marshal in Lordsburg until last summer when I took the post of city sheriff in a town called Recoil in the Playas Valley country.

  “Well, things were fine for a spell, but recently we’ve been plagued by night riders who are killing and robbing folks. Last night they shot up my town and killed Fred Rawlings who owns the general store and has a simple son. Now folks are scared, because farms and ranches have been raided and livestock stolen and buildings set on fire.”

  Ironside looked up from the letter. “He’s got his problems, don’t he?”

  “Please continue, Luther,” Shamus encouraged. “You read very well.”

  “Where was I? Oh yeah, ‘livestock stolen and buildings set on fire.’” Ironside continued to read. “The people of Recoil don’t lack for sand, but they don’t stand a chance against the night riders as they are professional killers. I do what I can, but I’m only one man and the outlaws have no fear of the law.

  “But here’s the worst part. There are maybe two dozen night riders involved in this terror and the folks around here say they are not human. Luther, this will surprise you, but the outlaws have skulls for faces. Are they alive or dead? I don’t know.

  “I can’t handle this myself and I’ve sent for a U.S. Marshal but when he’ll get here is anybody’s guess. Luther, once during the late war in which we were both honored to serve, I was of some help to you and you said that if I ever needed a favor I was to call on you. Well, I’m calling in that favor to save my town and maybe the whole valley.

  “Can you come, Luther? I know of no one else who has a gun-fighting reputation like yours and I need you at my side.

  “The bearer of this letter will direct you to Recoil should you agree to take up arms again in the cause of justice and liberty.”

  Ironside folded the letter and said, “Yours respectfully, Jas Clitherow Esq.” He looked at Shamus. “I owe him, Colonel.”

  Shamus made no answer to Ironside, but said to the boy, “What’s your name, son?”

  “Sam, sir. Sam Brown.”

  “How old are you, Sam?”

  “Twelve, sir, I think.”

  “Do you have a ma and a pa?”

  “No, sir. I’m a foundling. Sheriff Clitherow lets me sleep in the jail cell behind his office. And he’s teaching me my ciphers and how to read and write.”

  “Well, Sam,” Shamus said, “you understood the contents of the sheriff’s letter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does he fairly and factually state his case?”

  “Sheriff Clitherow told it right. Them night riders are scary, all dressed in black robes, and they’re skeletons, not real men. They’ve killed a lot of folks. I liked old man Rawlings. He gave me cheese and crackers and a soda pop if I’d play with his son.”

  “I suspect there’s more to this than stealing a few dollars out of a granger’s money box,” Shamus said. “Those boys are human, all right, but what do they really want?”

  “There’s one way to find out, Colonel. I’m heading for Recoil,” Ironside declared.

  “Hell of a name for a town,” Jacob commented.

  “The town was started by a miner who bought a new Sharps Fifty rifle, then fought a battle with Comanches. He said the recoil of the rifle near killed him because he’d been shot in his right shoulder afore.” The boy smiled. “Sheriff Clitherow told me that.”

  “Then it must be true,” Ironside said. “You heed Mr. Clitherow an’ you’ll learn something, boy.”

  “Lorena, could you take young Sam to the kitchen and see that he’s fed? He looks sharp set.”

  “Of course, Colonel.” Lorena ushered the boy out of the room.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be back in time for the spring gather, Colonel,” Ironside said.

  Shamus nodded. “I plan to give that some thought, Luther. We’ll talk again after dinner.” He glanced around the room. “All of us.”

  Chapter Fifty

  “Did you see the night riders, Sam?” Lorena asked.

  The boy chewed his ham sandwich, then swallowed. “I sure did, ma’am. The night they killed Mr. Rawlings.”

  “What happened?”

  The boy looked around the kitchen, satisfying himself that the staff was busily preparing dinner. “When the skeleton men rode into town and started shooting, Mr. Rawlings grabbed a shotgun and ran out of his store. He was working late that night because he’d ciphers to do.”

  “His account ledgers, huh?” Lorena asked to keep the conversation going.

  “I guess so, ma’am.”

  “And where were you, Sam?”

  “I was on the boardwalk, walking back to the sheriff’s office.”

  “And what happened to Mr. Rawlings?”

  “Well, he upped his shotgun, but before he could draw a bead, one of the night riders shot him.” Sam pointed between his eyebrows. “Right there.”

  “Where was the sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Clitherow ran out of his office and shot at the night riders with his Colt gun, but they all rode away, hooting and hollering.”

  “And they were skeletons, you say?”

  “Yes ma’am. One time me and Mr. Rawlings’ son came on the body of a dead Indian out by Hatchet Gap, and his face had no skin left on it. That’s what the night riders looked like.”

  “Just bare skulls?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they were all right, ma’am.”

  Lorena rose to her feet. “Drink your milk, Sam. And if you’re still hungry, ask one of the kitchen staff for another sandwich.”

  “Well, I’m surely hungry, ma’am.”

  “Anna, can Sam have some of the roast beef we’re having for dinner?”

  “Of course, Miss Lorena.” The woman’s dark face split in a smile. “Been a long time since I fed a hungry boy, now that the O’Brien brothers are all growed up.”

  Jacob O’Brien played Brahms on the parlor grand, but his ears remained tuned to the conversation going on around him.

  “I don’t understand the skeleton thing.” Lorena shook her head. “Sam swears the outlaws he saw had faces like skulls.”

  “Masks probably,” Samuel guessed. “I imagine they’d be fairly easy to carve out of wood by someone who knows how.”

  “Nobody’s put a bullet into one of those boys yet,” Jacob said from the piano. “That’s strange.”

  Shawn grinned. “Maybe they’re bad shots down there on the Playas.”

  “Maybe,” Jacob acknowledged, “but it’s still strange.”

  “Hell, I’ll shoot a walking skeleton as fast as I’d shoot any other man,” Ironside boasted. “They don’t scare me none.”

  “Now there speaks a true hero of the South.”

  “Seems to me the bullet would go right through a skeleton,” Patrick said, owlish behind his round glasses. “Unless you hit a bone, of course. Plenty of those on a skeleton rider.”

  “I’m going down there and I’ll put it to the test,” Ironside insisted. “Damn right I am.”

  “You’re not going alone, Luther,” Shamus said quietly.

  “I figured Jake might ride with me, Colonel. What do you say, Jake, are you—”

  “Jacob is not riding with you, Luther, I need him here at Dromore. Shawn’s already been through enough down Sonora way and I want Samuel and Patrick here for the gather.”

  “Then I’ll go it alone, Colonel,” Ironside said, his face stiff.

  “No, you won’t. I’m going with you.”

  Shamus’s statement fell on the others like a blow and for a few moments the parlor was silent as an empty courtroom.

  Finally, his words dropping into the quiet like rocks into an iron bucket, Samuel broke the silence. “Pa, your legs won’t hold up to a trip like that.”

  “And it will come to shooting, Pa,” Shawn pointed out. “You haven’t shot any kind of gu
n in years.”

  “Luther, have you anything to add?” Shamus asked dryly.

  Ironside grinned. “Be like the old days, Colonel.”

  Shamus turned to his son at the piano. “Jacob?”

  “You’re a grown man, Colonel,” Jacob said, his fingers moving over the keyboard. “A man’s got to do what he thinks is right.”

  “Hell, Jake, Pa could get killed down there,” Samuel argued. He turned to his father. “And the Playas is nothing but miles of empty desert. How are you going to stay in the saddle, a man of your years?”

  Shamus smiled. “A man of my years will manage very well, Samuel.”

  “Damn right.” Ironside nodded his head in agreement.

  Ever the intellectual, Patrick pointed out, “There are a few mining towns on the Playas. I don’t think it’s a complete wasteland.”

  “That’s right, Pat, encourage him,” Samuel said.

  Shamus, stiff-kneed, poured himself another drink, then sat by the fire. “I believe the town of Recoil, not the Playas, is the key to this mystery.”

  “Pa, there is no mystery,” Samuel argued, “just a bunch of renegades dressed in scary costumes—”

  “Robbing and killing people,” Shamus said. “The question is why, and therein lies the mystery.”

  “Probably to get money for whiskey and whores,” Samuel said. He was slightly angry and his face was flushed.

  “Outlaws rob banks for that, not struggling grangers and small ranchers. Besides—”

  “Then let Jacob go with Luther,” Samuel railed.

  Shamus blinked his displeasure at the interruption. “Besides, Jim Clitherow saved Luther’s life. A man who fought beside me, helped me build Dromore, and remains my closet friend.”

  “Damn right.” Luther said.

  “And in addition to that, as though any other reason is needed, Clitherow wore the gray, and I won’t turn my back on him.”

  “So you’re still determined to go?” Samuel in disbelief.

  “I am going, Samuel,” Shamus said emphatically.

  “Let it go, Sam,” Jacob warned. “You know as well as I do that when the colonel makes up his mind about a thing it would take ten yoke of oxen to move him off his position.”

  “Damn right,” Ironside pounded the arm of his chair again.

  “Lorena,” Samuel begged with desperation in his tone, “Please talk some sense into your father-in-law.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Lorena said, “Samuel, your father must follow the dictate of his heart and conscience.” She smiled at Shamus. “Do what you have to do, Colonel, but come back to us. I’ll pray for your safe return every single day. And yours, too, Luther.”

  Ironside smiled. “That was a right nice thing to say, Lorena. Me and the colonel make a helluva team, you know.”

  “May the trail be kind to you, Pa,” Samuel said, extending his hand.

  Shamus leaned from the saddle and accepted the proffered hand. “Take care of Dromore while I’m gone, son.”

  Jacob removed his hat and slipped his mother’s rosary over his head. He passed it to Ironside. “Wear this, Luther, but bring it back to me.”

  Ironside stared at the beads in his gloved had, his breath smoking in the cold morning air. “Damn, more O’Brien popery.”

  Jacob smiled. “The Virgin Mary will look after you, Luther, even though you’re an unrepentant old sinner and a heathen to boot.”

  “Luther, that was Saraid’s rosary,” Shamus pointed out.

  “Then I am honored.” Ironside slipped the beads into the pocket of his sheepskin. “I don’t know about the Virgin, but I know Saraid is looking down on us. Damn right.”

  “Time to go, Luther,” Shamus said. “There’s a long-riding trail ahead of us.”

  The colonel had made it clear that the Dromore staff were to stay inside, fearing a protracted farewell and women’s tears. He swung his horse away from the house, raised a hand, then he and Ironside rode into the gray morning under a lowering sky.

  Samuel watched until the two men were lost in distance, then turned to Jacob. “They should be sitting by the fire with blankets around their shoulders, not chasing outlaws.”

  Jacob smiled. “God help the skeleton men.”

  Turn the page for an exciting preview!

  William W. Johnstone, the USA Today bestselling master of the epic Western, continues the thrilling saga of the Brothers O’Brien—Samuel, Patrick, Shawn, and Jacob—as they forge their destiny in the untamed New Mexico Territory and stake their claim in frontier America.

  DEATH RULES THE NIGHT

  They ride after sundown. Black-robed figures with skulls for faces, terrorizing the town of Recoil like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. If the sheriff hopes to defeat this hellish band of outlaws, he’ll need backup. Enter Colonel Shamus O’Brien. The seasoned ranch hand and patriarch has fought off more than his share of horse thieves and marauders. But he’s never seen anything like these ornery devils. They torch the town without warning, killing and destroying everything in sight. Shamus could use some extra firepower, namely his sons Shawn and Jacob. But the O’Brien brothers have problems of their own. Vicious banditos have targeted the family ranch, gunning for gold and cattle in a hailstorm of bullets and bloodshed. But both cutthroat gangs are about to learn their lesson—the hard way. When you cross an O’Brien, there’s hell to pay.

  THE BROTHERS O’BRIEN:

  THE KILLING SEASON

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in March 2013

  Chapter One

  Luther Ironside leaned forward in the saddle. “Well, lookee there, Colonel. I ain’t seen something like that in a coon’s age, with the times a-changing the way they are.”

  “Stage out of Lordsburg, I’d say.” Colonel Shamus O’Brien sat upright on his horse. “Three, no, four holdup men. I missed one.”

  Ironside nodded. “Any of our business, Colonel?”

  Shamus considered that for a spell, then shook his head. “I don’t see how it is, us being no part of the law here and with our own pressing business to attend to.”

  “They’re getting the passengers out.” Ironside pointed his finger in the direction of the stagecoach. “And the driver’s climbing down. Keeping his hand away from his gun. Now that’s savvy of him.”

  “Is there a strongbox on board, you reckon?” Shamus asked.

  “I doubt it, They’re more likely to be carrying passengers to Recoil or down Sonora way.”

  “Yes, you’re right. The bandits are collecting the folks’ valuables, looks like. Well, that’s too bad.” Shamus glanced at the sky. “Best be on our way, Luther, if we expect to reach Recoil before nightfall.”

  Ironside frowned. “I wonder if we’ll ever see another one, a stage holdup, I mean.”

  “It’s unlikely, Luther. The West is changing fast, but for better or for worse I can’t really tell. The sight you see down there is going the way of the Indian and the buffalo.”

  “It’s a pity, Colonel, I sure liked the old way better. Hey look, feller down there looks like he’s refusing to hand over his watch or wallet or something. Even from here, I’d say he’s real mad.”

  A revolver shot racketed, drawing Ironside’s attention back to the stagecoach. “Aw hell, now why did he have to go and do that?”

  One of the outlaws held a smoking Colt in his right fist and watched a man in black broadcloth slide down the side of the stage and collapse against a front wheel, his head hanging. Another man and a couple women shrank away from the dead man and even from their position on a rise in the foothills of the Little Hatchet Mountains, Shamus and Ironside heard a woman scream.

  Ironside looked at his longtime friend. “Now what, Colonel?”

  Shamus sighed. “Well, a murder makes it our business, Luther. I can stand aside from an honest robbery, but not a murder.”

  “There’s four of them bandits down there, Colonel. How do we play it?”

  “Like
we’ve always played it, Luther.” Shamus drew his Colt. “We charge home at the gallop, of course.”

  “Like I said, four-to-one odds, Colonel,” Ironside said, skinning his own revolver.

  Shamus smiled that old, reckless grin Ironside remembered from the late war. “We charged Yankees at ten times those odds and scattered them.” Shamus stared at his friend. “Unless you’re getting too old for this kind of horse cavalry warfare, Luther?”

  “Colonel, I’ll be charging so fast your buckskin’s nose is gonna be stuck up my hoss’s ass. Watch this old man and see how it’s done.” Ironside let rip with a wild rebel yell and charged down the slope, Shamus right after him, hollering just as loudly.

  They rode knee to knee as bullets split the air around them and Ironside grinned and yelled, “Just like the old days, huh, Colonel?”

  “Only then I’d have a cavalry brigade behind me,” Shamus pointed out.

  “You don’t need a brigade when you got me, by God,” Ironside hollered.

  Two of the outlaws ran from the cover of the stagecoach and for a moment watched the oncoming riders. Standing in the open scrub desert, they threw Winchesters to their shoulders.

  Ironside fired and one of the bandits went down, his rifle spinning away from him. The other man fired, and Shamus’s hat flew off his head. Enraged at getting a bullet hole in a new, four-dollar Stetson, Shamus charged directly at the outlaw, his Colt spitting fire. Hit hard, the surviving robber staggered, then rose on tiptoe and fell on his face.

  Events crowding in on him faster than his brain could register, Shamus was vaguely aware of hearing a shot behind the stage, and of Ironside chasing a fleeing man across the brush flat.

  As the outlaw ran, dust erupted from his pounding boots and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the fast-approaching Ironside and snapped off shots, his arm fully extended.

  Finally, realizing he couldn’t outrun a horse, the man, a gangly towhead with mean eyes, stopped, tossed away his revolver, and threw up his hands.