That was all the opening Bob needed. His Colt streaked from its holster and he triggered two rapid-fire shots. Both hit high on the side of Norton’s neck, just below the hinge of his jaw. The impact sent him staggering partway out the parlor door where he finally dropped and skidded to a halt on the fine carpeting, soon to be taking on the stain of widening pools of blood.
EPILOGUE
What saved John Larkin’s life was his handcuffs. When he threw up his hands as Norton shot him, the incoming slug hit the connecting chain between the two wrist clamps. This fragmented the bullet into three pieces, each of which struck with enough impact to knock him down and do fairly serious injury, but with the force lessened to a degree that was never truly life threatening.
Larkin still required a lengthy recovery period, however. At first it appeared there was going to be some conflict over which of the Emory sisters would help nurse him back to health—Victoria, whom he had returned thinking he still had feelings for; or Brenda, who had believed in him when no one else did and who’d been instrumental in proving his innocence for the murder of Myron Poppe. It didn’t take long for the patient to realize and express that his heart had been won over by the brave loyalty of Brenda.
Nor did it take long for Jackson Emory to indicate his faith in Larkin had been restored and his old job as mining foreman would be waiting for him as soon as he was well enough . . . along, it seemed, with the hand of his youngest daughter.
Outside of town, the peace between the Rocking W and the V-Slash brands, though tenuous at times, continued to hold.
In town, the anti–Bob Hatfield feelings that had been stirred up quickly dissipated and faded from thought and tongue. The only lingering wisp of it may have resided in Owen Dutton—something that concerned Bob, particularly on the off chance the newspaperman might have heard a vague mention of Rance Brannigan’s claims about Bob’s outlaw past. To assuage his concerns, Bob finally decided to confront Dutton about it one day. Careful not to make any direct references or certainly not to use the phrase “Devil’s River Kid,” he poked and prodded in order to try and get a read off the man. In the end, he came away satisfied that Dutton’s firsthand experience seeing gunplay and violence at the skirmish in the draw and then in the aftermath of the battle at V-Slash ranch headquarters had cured him of finding glory in that sort of thing and seeking to sensationalize more of the same. The only thing that came close was Dutton’s parting words, suggesting that one of these days he’d like to sit down with the marshal and learn more about “Sundown Bob.”
Bob’s response was to smile wistfully and say, “Yeah . . . One of these days I’m gonna have to find out a little more about that fella myself.”
But the truth of the matter, he knew, was that the only person he really wanted to be was Bob Hatfield, husband and father. And whenever he went home and found Consuela and Bucky waiting for him to fulfill that role, he realized he was genuinely blessed.
Keep reading for a special preview. . . .
A HIGH SIERRA CHRISTMAS
by WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
A Jensen family holiday takes a dark and dangerous turn—on the infamous Donner Pass—in this thrilling epic adventure from the bestselling Johnstones . . .
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in the High Sierras. But Smoke Jensen and his children, Louis and Denise, won’t let a little snow stop them from heading to Reno for the holidays. There are two ways for them to get there: the long way, going around the Sierra Nevada Mountains, or the short way, going right through them. Smoke decides to take a gamble. They’ll follow the trail that decades earlier brought the legendary Donner Party to a gruesome, tragic end . . .
And so the journey begins.
Coming soon, wherever Pinnacle books are sold.
CHAPTER 1
San Francisco, December 1901
“Give me all your money and valuables, mister, and be quick about it!”
“No, I don’t believe I will,” Smoke Jensen said as he shook his head.
“I mean it!” the would-be robber said, jabbing the gun in his hand toward Smoke.
He had stepped out of an alley a moment earlier and threatened Smoke with the old, small-caliber revolver. Smoke was on his way to an appointment and had taken a shortcut along a smaller street, which at the moment was practically deserted.
A few people were walking along the cobblestones in the next block, but they were unaware of the drama playing out here . . . or ignoring it because they didn’t want to get involved. It was hard to tell with big-city folks.
The thief wore a threadbare suit over a grimy, collarless shirt. Smoke couldn’t see the soles of the man’s shoes, but he would have bet they had holes in them. The man’s dark hair was lank and tangled, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow.
“Opium?” Smoke asked.
“What?” The man looked and sounded confused as he responded to Smoke’s question.
“That’s why you’ve resorted to robbing people on the streets? So you can afford to go down to Chinatown and visit one of the opium dens?”
“That ain’t none o’ your business. Just gimme your damn money!”
“No.” Smoke’s voice was flat and hard now, with no compromise in it. “And you’d better not try to shoot that old relic. It’ll likely blow up in your hand if you do.”
The man turned the gun’s barrel away from Smoke to stare at the weapon. When he did that, Smoke’s left hand came up and closed around the cylinder. He shoved the barrel skyward, just in case the gun went off.
At the same time, Smoke’s right fist crashed into the robber’s face and sent him flying backward. Smoke was a medium-sized man, but his shoulders were broad as an ax handle and the muscles that coated his torso were thick enough to make his clothes bulge if the garments weren’t made properly.
Smoke had pulled his punch a little. The robber looked to be on the frail side, and Smoke didn’t want to hit him too hard and break his neck.
For many years he had been in the habit of killing or at least seriously injuring anybody who pointed a gun at him, but this time it seemed like enough just to disarm the varmint and knock him down. Smoke expected to see him scramble up and flee as quick as his legs would carry him away from here.
The man got up all right, but instead of running away, he charged at Smoke again with a wolfish snarl on his face. His hand darted under his coat and came out clutching a short-bladed but still dangerous knife.
That made things different. Smoke twisted aside as the man slashed at him with the blade. The knife was probably more of a threat than the popgun the man had been waving around.
Smoke tossed the revolver aside, grabbed the man’s arm with both hands while the man was off balance, and shoved down on it while bringing his knee up.
The man’s forearm snapped with a sharp crack. He screeched in pain and dropped the knife. When Smoke let go of him, he fell to his knees in the street and stayed there, whimpering as he cradled his broken arm against his body.
Smoke picked up the gun, took hold of the would-be robber’s coat collar, hauled him to his feet, and marched him stumbling along the cobblestones until he found a police officer.
The blue-uniformed man glared at him and demanded, “Here now! What’ve you done to this poor fellow?”
“This poor fella, as you call him, tried to rob me,” Smoke said. With his free hand, he held out the gun and the knife. “He pulled this gun on me and demanded all my money and valuables, and when I took it away from him he tried to cut me open with the knife. I’d had about enough of it by then.” Smoke shoved the would-be robber toward the officer. “His arm’s broken, so he’ll need some medical attention before you lock him up.”
“Wait just a blasted minute! I’m supposed to take your word for all this?”
“It’s true, it’s true!” the thief wailed. “Lock me up, do anything you want, just keep that crazy cowboy away from me!”
“Sounds like a confession
to me,” Smoke said. He started to turn away.
“Hold on,” the officer said. “At least tell me your name and where to find you, so I can fill out a report.”
“The name’s Smoke Jensen, and my son and daughter and I are staying at the Palace Hotel.”
The policeman’s eyebrows rose. The Palace was the city’s oldest, most luxurious, and most expensive hotel. The man standing in front of him wasn’t dressed fancy—Smoke wore a simple brown tweed suit and a darker brown flat-crowned hat—but if he could afford to stay at the Palace, he had to have plenty of money.
Not only that, but the name was familiar. The officer recalled where he had seen it and blurted out, “I thought Smoke Jensen was just a character in the dime novels!”
“Not hardly,” Smoke said. He was well aware of the lurid, yellow-backed yarns that portrayed him variously as an outlaw, a lawman, and the West’s fastest and most-feared gunfighter. All of those things had been true at one time or another, but the fevered scribblings of the so-called authors who cranked out those dubious tomes barely scratched the surface.
These days he was a rancher. His Sugarloaf spread back in Colorado was one of the most successful and lucrative west of the Mississippi, not to mention the wealth that had come from the gold claim he had found as a young man. He could well afford to stay at the Palace Hotel. More than likely, he could have booked an entire floor and not missed the money.
Instead he had a suite, with rooms for himself; his son, Louis Arthur; and his daughter, Denise Nicole. He was on his way to meet the twins now, and he didn’t want to be delayed.
“Is it all right for me to go on to the hotel?” he asked the policeman.
“Why, sure it is, Mr. Jensen,” the officer said. He took hold of the thief’s uninjured arm. “I’ll tend to this miscreant. I’m sorry you ran into trouble here in our fair city.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Smoke said. “For some reason, I tend to run into trouble just about everywhere I go.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and Black Friday.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
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