* * *
Dr. Peters opened his office door to Will’s knock and said nothing for a moment while he stared at the bandana around Will’s head. “What did that?” he finally asked.
“Handcuffs,” Will answered.
“Well, at least you came to see me before I sat down to eat my supper this time. Come on in and let’s take a look at it.” He stood aside, holding the door for him. When Will passed by, Doc asked, “What’s that on your back?” He saw a wide pattern of small dried bloodstains on the back of Will’s shirt.
“Shotgun,” Will replied. “You might better take a look. A barber up in El Dorado, Kansas, picked most of the shot outta my back, but he said I oughta have a doctor look at it.”
“Take your shirt off,” Doc said. When Will removed it, Doc shook his head, astonished when he saw the pattern of shot. “Well, I’ve seen worse, but there’s a little work to be done on some of those wounds to keep you from dying of gangrene. Let’s take care of that cut on your forehead first.” While he worked away, stitching up Will’s forehead, he was unable to keep from lecturing his patient on his foolish choice of occupations. “I used to try to talk some sense into Fletcher Pride and it looks like you’re heading down the same road. Let me tell you, young man, you can’t be shot at but so many times before you finally get hit with one I can’t fix.” Will sat, silently patient until Doc finished his treatments and said, “That’s about all we can do. Let’s take a look at your back now.” He spent less than an hour removing a few more of the shotgun shots that the skin had already grown over. “That barber did a pretty good job from what I can see. He was right in not trying to go after those deep ones—better off just leavin’ ’em. You ain’t the first deputy carrying a load of lead around. I reckon that’ll do it for this time. I’ll try to patch you up next time, too. Just don’t come in at suppertime.”
* * *
Over three hundred miles northwest of Fort Smith, a stocky little gray-haired man wearing dirty buckskins and riding a paint horse approached the banks of the Salt Fork of the Arkansas River. Oscar Moon was in the process of scratching an itch that had played on his mind ever since he had parted company with Will Tanner a week before. After Will had left with his prisoner, Oscar started thinking about an incident on the Salt Fork that had continued to goad his curiosity until he had to do something about it. When he and Will had crossed the river at this point, they had found it strange that someone had taken such pains to hide their campfire. They made nothing of it at first, since the tracks were heading north, instead of south. Even after they found more tracks that led in the opposite direction, they dismissed it, figuring the rider had forgotten something, or simply changed his mind about where he was going. They hadn’t even speculated that the tracks might have been left by Preacher McCoy. They had lost Preacher’s tracks back at the Medicine Lodge River and had decided to ride straight to the cabin on the Cimarron. It would have been too much of a coincidence to have stumbled on Preacher’s tracks at that point on the Salt Fork. But now, Oscar could no longer resist taking another look around that small clearing in the bushes by the river.
Retracing the trail they had taken to the Cimarron, Oscar found the point where they had crossed the river. Guiding his horse up through the ring of bushes close to the bank, he found the ashes of the campfire again, and dismounted. Then he began a careful inspection around the base of each bush, looking closely for any signs that might indicate someone had dug in the soil around them. He proceeded to repeat the process all around the tiny clearing. After completing the circle, he felt positive that the soil had not been disturbed. Disappointed, he sat down and looked around him. There was no place to hide anything, no rocks, no logs, nothing. So much for hunches, he thought, concluding that he had ridden all the way back there for nothing. Unless, he thought, he hid it somewhere else around here. With that in mind, he pushed through the ring of bushes again and took a sweeping look around the riverbank. There were hundreds of possibilities for a hiding place, he decided. He could spend the rest of his life digging holes, moving logs, climbing trees, and would still have to be lucky to strike it rich. He had ridden a long way to humor his idea of instant riches, so he had to continue his search. He wore away the afternoon in a fruitless search for the hidden money before deciding it useless. Since it was getting late and he had not eaten since breakfast, he decided to build a fire and cook some supper.
“You warn’t meant to be a rich man, anyway, Oscar Moon,” he finally announced to the world in general. “Although I’da liked to have give it a try.” And then it struck him, as he went about the business of gathering wood for his fire, the one place he had never thought to look. Excited again, he grabbed his shovel, pushed back through the bushes, and scattered the ashes of the fire with his boot before starting to dig. Laboring in earnest, he stayed hard at it as he went deeper and deeper, knowing if the money was there, it would have to have a solid layer of dirt over it to protect it from the fire. At last, when over two feet down, the blade of his shovel struck a heavy canvas bag and he blurted, “Hot damn!” He was tempted to dance a little jig, but there was still work to do. The hole had been dug straight down, much deeper than it was wide. Preacher had evidently dug the hole this way so as not to leave a large circle of dirt under the fire to cause suspicion. But the labor now was joyous.
When at last he was able to draw the long sack out of the hole, he sat back to regain his breath and patted the canvas bag affectionately for a few moments before untying the laces at the top. He was almost afraid to open it, fearing it might not be the money at all. After a brief pause, he slowly pulled the bag open and peered in, stunned for a second by what he saw. Then a grin formed slowly on his weathered face. He had never seen that much money in his whole life. Impulsively, he hurriedly looked around him, in case someone was watching, but there was no one, no witnesses, no one to know what became of the money stolen from the Bank of Sherman, Texas. He paused again for just a few moments to think about Will Tanner. A slight tinge of guilt caused him to wonder if he should share his find with Will, since it was through Will that he had been led to this place. After all, he and Will were partners in the capture of Preacher McCoy. “Nah,” he decided. “Will would feel duty-bound to turn it over to Judge Parker. Best I just keep it and keep my mouth shut.” He tied his treasure on his horse behind the saddle in case he had to leave suddenly, still afraid someone might be watching him. After a hasty supper, he started out for his camp that night, reluctant to camp there. As he rode up from the river, he thought about moving a step up in life and feeling as confident as Gaylord Pressley had. Maybe I might think me up a fancy name like that, he thought as a wide smile parted his whiskers.
* * *
She didn’t say a word upon first seeing him as he approached the porch, his saddlebags on his shoulder, his rifle in hand, but this time with a large bandage around his forehead. She propped her broom beside the front door and stood watching him intently, her hands on her hips. Finally, when he reached the steps, she shook her head slowly, released a long sigh, and murmured, “Oh, Will . . .” But she did not move forward to greet him. Instead, she continued to stare at him as if confronting an unruly child. “What in the world happened to you?” Before he could answer, she cut him off. “Never mind, I don’t really want to know. Come on inside and get ready for supper.” She picked up her broom again and gave the porch a few quick swishes in the direction of the steps, then followed him in the door. Inside, she took hold of his arm to stop him while she took a closer look at the bandage on his forehead, concerned by the spots of blood seeping through. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” he answered, a little disappointed by her reception. He had hoped for something more joyful upon seeing him safely home. “Doc Peters put nine stitches in it.”
“I don’t wanna know who knocked you in the head, but I hope it knocked some sense into you,” she said. “What’s this on the back of your shirt?” she asked, just then noticing. When he
explained the reason for the small spots of dried blood, she bit her lip in frustration. “Does Dan Stone plan to send you out somewhere right away as usual?”
“Don’t know,” Will answered bluntly. “I’ve been thinkin’ I might take another ride down to Texas.”
Already frustrated by his attitude, she scolded him. “You were just down there a couple of weeks ago. Why do you have to go back again so soon?”
He tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t hide the beginnings of a shy smile. Feeling like he had been caught stealing chicken eggs, he confessed. “’Cause you ain’t ever seen the J-Bar-J and I need to know if you’d be happy livin’ there.”
“Is that so?” she answered, taken completely by surprise, since the Will Tanner she had come to know would have trouble proposing such a thing. “What kinda girl do you think I am?” she responded, pretending to be shocked. “I won’t go riding off to Texas with a man I’m not married to.”
“I reckon that’s what I was kinda hopin’,” he said.
“Are you asking me to . . . ?” she started, then stopped. “That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard. Are you asking me to marry you?”
“I reckon so.”
“Well then, ask me proper.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Of course.”
She turned as if heading for the dining room, then stopped abruptly, spun around, and jumped up in his arms. Taken by surprise, he managed to catch her in one arm, but he dropped his rifle and saddlebags in the process. They landed with a clatter on the floor, but he didn’t care. The feel of her in his arms was enough to make him know he never wanted to release her. She kissed him hard, as if firmly sealing the contract. Still locked in his arms, she said, “Now comes the hard part.” When he gave her a questioning look, she continued, “Going in to tell Mama.”
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National bestselling authors William W. Johnstone
and J. A. Johnstone spin a breakneck tale about a
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THE CHUCKWAGON TRAIL
Framed for murder, Dewey “Mac” McKenzie is
running for his life. Though Mac’s never even made
a pot of coffee, he talks his way onto a cattle drive
heading west—as a chuckwagon cook. Turns out he
has a natural talent for turning salt pork and dried
beans into culinary gold. He’s as good with a pot
and pan as he is with a gun—which comes in handy
on a dangerous trail drive beset with rustlers, hostile
Indians, ornery weather, and deadly stampedes.
Mac can hold his own with any cowboy twice his age.
At least until the real showdown begins . . .
Mac’s trail boss, Deke Northrup, is one mean spit
in the eye. Before long, he’s made enemies of all
his men. When Mac learns that Northrup is
planning to double-cross the herd’s owner,
Mac stands up to the trail boss and his henchman.
He might be outgunned and outnumbered, but
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THE CHUCKWAGON TRAIL
by WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. JOHNSTONE
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CHAPTER 1
Dewey Mackenzie shivered as he pressed against the wet stone wall and blinked moisture from his eyes. Whether it came from the chilly rain that had fallen in New Orleans earlier this evening or from his own fear-fueled sweat—or both—he didn’t know. He supposed it didn’t matter.
Right now, he just wanted to avoid the two men standing guard across the street. Both were twice his size, and one had the battered look of a boxer. Even in the dim light cast by the gas lamp far down Royal Street, Mac saw the flattened nose, the cauliflower ears, and the way the man continually ducked and dodged imaginary punches.
At some time in the past, those punches hadn’t been imaginary, and there had been a lot of them.
A medium-sized young man with longish dark hair and what had been described by more than one young woman as a roguish smile, Mac rubbed his hands against the sides of his fancy dress trousers and settled his Sunday go-to-meeting coat around his shoulders.
Carrying a gun on an errand like this was out of the question, but he missed the comforting feel of his Smith & Wesson Model 3 resting on his hip. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, and then sidled back along the wall until he reached the cross street. Like a cat, he slid around the corner to safety and heaved a huge sigh.
Getting in to see Evangeline Holdstock was always a chore, but after her pa had threatened him with death—or worse—if he caught him nosing around their mansion again, Mac had come to the only possible conclusion. He had been seeing Evangeline on the sly for more than two months, reveling in the stolen moments they shared. Even, if he cared to admit it to himself, enjoying the risks he was running.
He was little more than a drifter in the eyes of Micah Holdstock, owner of the second biggest bank in New Orleans. Holdstock measured his wealth in millions. The best the twenty-one-year-old could come up with was a bright, shiny silver cartwheel and a sweat-stained wad of Union greenbacks, but he had earned the money honestly at a restaurant in the French Quarter.
Mac held his hands in front of him and balled them into fists. He had worked as a farmhand and a half dozen jobs on riverboats before he washed ashore in the Crescent City three months earlier. Every bit of that work was honest, even if it didn’t pay as well as sitting behind a bank desk and denying people loans.
He tried to erase such thoughts from his mind. Holdstock’s bank served a purpose, and the man made his money honestly, too. It just wasn’t the way Mac earned his. It wasn’t the way anyone else he’d ever known in his young life had earned their money, either.
If he wanted to carry out his mission tonight, he had to concentrate on that. He had gotten himself cleaned up for a simple reason.
Looking his best was a necessity when he asked Evie to marry him.
“Mrs. Dewey Mackenzie,” he said softly. He liked the sound of that. “My wife. Mrs. Evangeline Mackenzie.”
A quick peek around the corner down Royal Street dampened his spirits a mite. The two guards still stood in front of the door leading into the Holdstock house. Shifting his eyes from the street to the second story revealed a better way to get in without being caught and given a thrashing.
More than likely, Evie’s pa had told those bruisers they could toss him into the river if they caught him snooping around. This time of year, the Mississippi River roiled with undertow and mysterious currents known only to the best of the riverboat pilots. It wasn’t safe to swim anywhere near the port.
“Besides,” he said softly to himself, “I don’t want to muddy up my fancy duds.” He smoothed wrinkles out of his coat, then boldly walked across the street without so much as a glance in the guards’ direction.
He stopped and looked up when he was hidden by the wall. A black iron decoration drooped down from the railing around the second-story veranda just enough for him to grab. He stepped back a couple paces, got a running start, and made a grand leap. His fingers closed on the ornate wrought iron. With a powerful heave, he pulled himself up and got a leg over the railing.
Moving carefully to keep from tearing his trousers or getting his coat dirty, he dropped to the balcony floor and looked down to see if he had drawn any unwanted attention. Mac caught his breath when the guard who must have been a boxer came around the corner, scratched his head, and looked down the street. Moving quickly, Mac leaned back out of sight before the man looked up.
Senses acute with fear, he heard the guard shuffle away, heading back toward the door where his partner waited.
Mac sank into a chair and used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his forehead.
If this had been a couple of months later, he would have been drenched in sweat and for a good reason. Summer in New Orleans wore a man down with stifling heat and oppressive humidity, but now, late April, the sweat came from a different cause.
“Buck up,” he whispered to himself. “Her pa can’t stop you. You’re going to marry the most wonderful girl in all New Orleans, and tonight’s the night you ask for her hand.”
Mac knew he had things backward, but considering how Mr. Holdstock acted, he wanted to be sure Evie loved him as much as he did her. Best to find out if she would marry him, then ask her pa for her hand in marriage. If Evie agreed, then to hell with whatever her pa thought.
He took a deep breath, reflecting on what she would be giving up. She claimed not to like the social whirl of a young debutante, but he had to wonder if some part of her didn’t enjoy the endless attention, the fancy clothing, the rush of a cotillion followed by a soirée and whatever else they called a good old hoedown in New Orleans society.
A quick look over the railing convinced him the guard had returned to his post. Stepping carefully, knowing from prior experience where every creaky board was, he made his way along the balcony to a closed window. The curtains had been pulled. He pressed his hand against the window pane, then peered into Evie’s bedroom. Squinting, he tried to make out if she stood in the shadows. The coal-oil lamp had been extinguished, but if she was expecting him, she wouldn’t advertise her presence.
He tried the door handle. Locked. Using his knife blade, he slipped it between the French doors and lifted slowly. When he felt resistance, he applied a bit more pressure. The latch opened to him, as it had so many times before. Evie liked to playact that he was a burglar come to rob her of her jewels, then ravish her.
Evil Never Sleeps Page 27