Steal a man’s horse and you were the guest of honor at a necktie party.
Molest a good woman and you got a bullet in the heart or a rope around the gullet. Or at the very least, got the crap beat out of you. Rob a bank and face a hail of bullets or the hangman’s noose.
Saved a lot of time and money, did frontier justice.
That’s all gone now, I’m sad to say. Now you hear, “Oh, but he had a bad childhood” or “His mother didn’t give him enough love” or “The homecoming queen wouldn’t give him a second look and he has an inferiority complex.” Or “cultural rage,” as the politically correct bright boys refer to it. How many times have you heard some self-important defense attorney moan, “The poor kids were only venting their hostilities toward an uncaring society?”
Mule fritters, I say. Nowadays, you can’t even call a punk a punk anymore. But don’t get me started.
It was, “Howdy, ma’am” time too. The good guys, antihero or not, were always respectful to the ladies. They might shoot a bad guy five seconds after tipping their hat to a woman, but the code of the West demanded you be respectful to a lady.
Lots of things have changed since the heyday of the Wild West, haven’t they? Some for the good, some for the bad.
I didn’t have any idea at the time that I would someday write about the West. I just knew that I was captivated by the Old West.
When I first got the itch to write, back in the early 1970s, I didn’t write Westerns. I started by writing horror and action adventure novels. After more than two dozen novels, I began thinking about developing a Western character. From those initial musings came the novel The Last Mountain Man: Smoke Jensen. That was followed by Preacher: The First Mountain Man. A few years later, I began developing the Last Gunfighter series. Frank Morgan is a legend in his own time, the fastest gun west of the Mississippi . . . a title and a reputation he never wanted, but can’t get rid of.
For me, and for thousands—probably millions—of other people (although many will never publicly admit it), the old Wild West will always be a magic, mysterious place: a place we love to visit through the pages of books; characters we would like to know . . . from a safe distance; events we would love to take part in, again, from a safe distance. For the old Wild West was not a place for the faint of heart. It was a hard, tough, physically demanding time. There were no police to call if one faced adversity. One faced trouble alone, and handled it alone. It was rugged individualism: something that appeals to many of us.
I am certain that is something that appeals to most readers of Westerns.
I still do on-site research (whenever possible) before starting a Western novel. I have wandered over much of the West, prowling what is left of ghost towns. Stand in the midst of the ruins of these old towns, use a little bit of imagination, and one can conjure up life as it used to be in the Wild West. The rowdy Saturday nights, the tinkling of a piano in a saloon, the laughter of cowboys and miners letting off steam after a week of hard work. Use a little more imagination and one can envision two men standing in the street, facing one another, seconds before the hook and draw of a gunfight. A moment later, one is dead and the other rides away.
The old wild untamed West.
There are still some ghost towns to visit, but they are rapidly vanishing as time and the elements take their toll. If you want to see them, make plans to do so as soon as possible, for in a few years, they will all be gone.
And so will we.
Stand in what is left of the Big Thicket country of east Texas and try to imagine how in the world the pioneers managed to get through that wild tangle. I have wondered about that many times and marveled at the courage of the men and women who slowly pushed westward, facing dangers that we can only imagine.
Let me touch briefly on a subject that is very close to me: firearms. There are some so-called historians who are now claiming that firearms played only a very insignificant part in the settlers’ lives. They claim that only a few were armed. What utter, stupid nonsense! What do these so-called historians think the pioneers did for food? Do they think the early settlers rode down to the nearest supermarket and bought their meat? Or maybe they think the settlers chased down deer or buffalo on foot and beat the animals to death with a club. I have a news flash for you so-called historians: The settlers used guns to shoot their game. They used guns to defend hearth and home against Indians on the warpath. They used guns to protect themselves from outlaws. Guns are a part of Americana. And always will be.
The mountains of the West and the remains of the ghost towns that dot those areas are some of my favorite subjects to write about. I have done extensive research on the various mountain ranges of the West and go back whenever time permits. I sometimes stand surrounded by the towering mountains and wonder how in the world the pioneers ever made it through. As hard as I try and as often as I try, I simply cannot imagine the hardships those men and women endured over the hard months of their incredible journey. None of us can. It is said that on the Oregon Trail alone, there are at least two bodies in lonely, unmarked graves for every mile of that journey. Some students of the West say the number of dead is at least twice that. And nobody knows the exact number of wagons that impatiently started out alone and simply vanished on the way, along with their occupants, never to be seen or heard from again.
Just vanished.
The one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old ruts of the wagon wheels can still be seen in various places along the Oregon Trail. But if you plan to visit those places, do so quickly, for they are slowly disappearing. And when they are gone, they will be lost forever, except in the words of Western writers.
The West will live on as long as there are writers willing to write about it, and publishers willing to publish it. Writing about the West is wide open, just like the old Wild West. Characters abound, as plentiful as the wide-open spaces, as colorful as a sunset on the Painted Desert, as restless as the ever-sighing winds. All one has to do is use a bit of imagination. Take a stroll through the cemetery at Tombstone, Arizona; read the inscriptions. Then walk the main street of that once-infamous town around midnight and you might catch a glimpse of the ghosts that still wander the town. They really do. Just ask anyone who lives there. But don’t be afraid of the apparitions, they won’t hurt you. They’re just out for a quiet stroll.
The West lives on. And as long as I am alive, it always will.
Keep reading for a special excerpt of…
EVIL NEVER SLEEPS
A Will Tanner Western
By William W. Johnstone with J.A. Johnstone
The bestselling masters of the American West add a deadly new twist to the epic saga of U.S. Marshal Will Tanner. This time, the hunter becomes the hunted . . .
He’s the most notorious cattle rustler in all of Texas. His name—Jebediah Cotton—strikes fear into the hearts of every rancher in the territory. So it’s more than a little strange that someone would shoot Cotton’s youngest son in the back. Whoever did it is either a coward, a fool, or a crazy man. Whoever did it must die. Even if he’s a U.S. deputy marshal named Will Tanner . . .
So begins not one, but two of the deadliest manhunts in frontier history. As Will Tanner sets off into Oklahoma Territory in pursuit of godless bank robber named Parson McCoy, Jebediah Cotton sends his five remaining sons and cold-blooded brother-in-law after him. Will has no idea he’s being stalked. But when there are this many players in the game, a U.S. deputy marshal has two choices: kill them all or die trying . . .
Look for EVIL NEVER SLEEPS, on sale now everywhere books are sold.
CHAPTER 1
“Good morning, Will,” Daniel Stone, U.S. Marshal for the Western District of Arkansas, greeted his deputy cordially when Will Tanner walked into his office over the jail. “Have you been taking a little time to rest up since you brought Ben Wheeler in from Muskokee?”
Will was immediately suspicious. As a rule, Dan Stone was businesslike and took little time for idle conversation. He had a feeling he was ab
out to be given an assignment he didn’t particularly want. “I reckon,” he answered. “Doin’ a few chores that needed doin’. Figured I’d have to hang around for Wheeler’s trial.”
“I doubt they’re gonna need any testimony from you,” Stone said. “There were enough witnesses that saw him shoot those two fellows.” He shook his head. “No, Judge Parker won’t need to tie you up for that trial.”
Here it comes, Will thought.
Stone continued. “I know you just got back from a long trip, but I also know how you hate sitting around with nothing to do. So I’ve got the very assignment you need.”
“I kinda figured you might,” Will responded.
“It ain’t nothing bad,” Stone quickly insisted. “It’s an easy job, matter of fact, just transport a prisoner down to Texas and turn him over to the Texas Rangers. That’s all.”
“Who’s the prisoner?” Will asked.
“Billy Cotton.”
“Billy Cotton?” Will questioned. “That’s the young boy Alvin Greeley brought back with those other two outlaws, ain’t it? Why are you turnin’ him over to the Rangers? The three of ’em robbed the store in McAlester, didn’t they?”
“Well, not really,” Stone answered. “It turns out that Billy Cotton just happened to be drinking with the two who done the robbery when Alvin arrested ’em. Come to find out, Billy was telling the truth when he said he wasn’t with ’em when they damn near killed that fellow that owned the store.”
“He wasn’t?” Will replied. “Then why don’t they just cut him loose and let him go home?”
“Like I said, the Texas Rangers have a warrant out for him, so we agreed to turn him over. He wasn’t guilty of anything in Oklahoma, but he’d been up to something in Texas, I reckon.”
“Seems to me, Greeley would be the one to take him back, since he was the one who arrested him,” Will said.
Stone was well aware of the friction between Will and Alvin because of a case they had worked together when Will was still fairly new to the job. “Ah hell, Will, I know what you’re thinking. To tell you the truth, I think Alvin was pretty rough on the boy, so I’d appreciate it if you’ d take him back to Texas. I thought you might take advantage of the trip to check on your ranch down there. I know it’s been a while since you have. We can have the Rangers pick him up in Sulphur Springs. That’s a short ride from that ranch of yours, ain’t it? I’ll wire ’em when you go and they can meet you there. Now that’s a handy arrangement, mixing business with pleasure and I’ll pay your usual mileage down there. Whaddaya say?”
“But no mileage for the trip back,” Will stated.
“No,” Stone said, “’cause you won’t be transporting a prisoner on the way back.”
“All right, I’ll take him. First thing in the mornin’.”
“Good,” Stone said. “And before you start back, wire me, in case there’s some business down in that part of the Nations that needs taking care of.” He grinned. “You might get your mileage paid for the ride back home if there is.”
* * *
Will had a few things to do to get ready to leave in the morning. Foremost on the list was to get new shoes on Buster and the bay packhorse. While that was being done, he decided to back up his supplies for the three-day ride down to Texas with enough food to feed his prisoner and himself. Cartridges for his Winchester were getting low, also, so he would take care of that, too. And coffee—he could do without all the other things, even the cartridges, but he had to have an ample supply of coffee. After leaving the supplies he bought in the small storeroom he rented at Vern Tuttle’s stable, he walked over to the blacksmith to pick up his horses and return to the stable with them. “I ain’t sure how early I’ll be here in the mornin’ to saddle up,” he told Vern. “Depends on when they turn that prisoner over to me.”
“Well, you know I’m always here early,” Vern assured him. “If I ain’t, that feller’s horse is that sorrel yonder in the back stall. His saddle’s in the stall with him.”
When all his preparations were completed, he stopped by the jail to let Sid Randolph know he was picking up a prisoner in the morning. “I heard,” Sid informed him. “They already sent me the paperwork tellin’ me to turn one Billy Cotton over to Deputy Marshal Will Tanner,” he proclaimed grandly. Then he chuckled over his attempt to be clever. “What time you want him, Will?”
Will paused to consider that. He normally set out before breakfast, but maybe he should let his prisoner eat his breakfast before starting. He couldn’t help thinking about also fortifying himself with a good breakfast from Ruth Bennett’s table before starting out again. It was an easy decision. “I’ll pick him up after he’s had his breakfast,” he said. “See you in the mornin’.”
His chores done, he decided to stop by the Morning Glory on his way back to Bennett House. It was still a little while before supper would be ready and he decided he was in the mood for a drink of whiskey before he ate. “Well, howdy, stranger,” he was greeted by Gus Johnson when he walked in the door. “I heard you were back in town.” Gus was down at the end of the bar, talking to Dr. Peters. Will walked over to join them.
“Howdy, Gus, Doc,” Will said, nodding to each in turn. “Just thought I’d stop by to see if you’re still in business. Maybe I’m just in time to get a shot of the same medicine Doc’s drinkin’ there.”
“No matter what ails you,” Doc said, “a little drink of whiskey is the best thing I can prescribe.” He tossed it back and smacked his lips, contented. Doc’s fondness for alcohol was well known, but it had no effect upon his practice. Most folks around Fort Smith felt he was more proficient at his profession drunk than sober. “I haven’t had occasion to patch you up lately,” Doc said when Gus moved down the bar to get a glass for Will. “You’re about due to get shot. It’s been a while.”
“I reckon,” Will replied. He knew Doc was joking, but it struck a somber warning in his mind that he had paid no heed before. There was a sobering promise of tragedy awaiting all men who wore the deputy marshal’s badge in Indian Territory. And the longer a man wore that badge, the more the odds went up against him. He thought of Fletcher Pride then, as he often did, and the vacuum in Ruth Bennett’s life when he was killed. It’s the reason I don’t walk back to the boardinghouse right now and tell her daughter, Sophie, I want to marry her, he thought. He was suddenly startled when he realized it was the first time he had confessed it, even to himself. He glanced at Doc, aware that Doc was giving him a questioning look. “I’ll try to see if I can give you more business from now on, so you can pay your likker bill,” he said, and tossed his drink back.
“How ’bout some service to your other customers?” Alvin Greeley yelled from a table in the back corner of the room. “I need some more of that sorry coffee you sell.” Will had noticed the other deputy when he came in, but had chosen to ignore him. Greeley was not a regular customer at the Morning Glory, so he had not expected to see him there. He was eating supper with Lucy Tyler sitting at the table with him, probably because there was no one else to pass the time with. She had just gotten up from her chair, heading toward the bar, when Greeley called after her. “What’s the matter, Lucy? Ain’t my company good enough for you?”
“Hush up, Alvin,” she called back to him. “I need a drink and it don’t look like you’re gonna spring for it.” She moved up beside Will. “You wanna buy me a drink?”
“Why, it’d be my pleasure,” he said, and nodded to Gus to pour it.
“That man will talk a body to death,” she complained. “I figured that if I didn’t get up from there pretty soon I was gonna go crazy.” She tossed her drink back, then placed her hand on Will’s forearm. “When are you gonna marry me and take me outta this place?”
Will laughed. “Well, no time soon, I reckon. I’ve gotta take a prisoner down to Texas in the mornin’, so it won’t be for a while.”
“If you’re leavin’ town in the mornin’, it might make your ride go better if you stay with me tonight. I’d give
you a special rate.”
“I swear, that’s mighty temptin’,” he said, stroking his chin and pretending to consider her offer. “But I’ve still got some things to take care of before I go, so maybe some other time.”
“Fiddle!” she scoffed. “You say that every time. I think you’re true-lovin’ some gal, maybe that little girl at the boardin’ house.”
“I promise you, that ain’t the case,” he said, and was about to say more to placate her when Alvin Greeley could hold his tongue no longer. Will was sorry to see him push his angular body up from his chair and walk toward them, slumped over to one side, favoring a shoulder smashed by a bullet wound that had never healed properly. In Will’s first year, he had worked one job with Greeley and found that he just couldn’t get along with him. He had decided to simply forget about it and do his best to avoid the man. But for some reason, Greeley had let the incident fester inside him until he developed a deep resentment toward the young deputy. After that first time, Will had worked mostly alone, and on several cases when he was forced to kill or be killed, Greeley had seen that as an opportunity to put the young deputy in a bad light. So he complained to Dan Stone, and everyone who would listen, that Will was too quick to shoot, and would always prefer to kill rather than capture. Greeley fancied himself the senior deputy, now that Fletcher Pride was gone, and he seemed to think he deserved respect from the junior deputies. Had Will known Greeley was in the saloon on this night, he would not have stopped in. Greeley’s usual hangout was the Smith House Saloon. He had a room there, so Will hadn’t expected to run into him in the Morning Glory.
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