Look for these exciting Western series from bestselling authors WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE and J. A. JOHNSTONE
The Mountain Man
Preacher: The First Mountain Man
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
The Jensen Brand
MacCallister
Flintlock
Perley Gates
The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal
Texas John Slaughter
Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal
The Frontiersman
Savage Texas
The Trail West
The Chuckwagon Trail
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
BUCKHORN: BLOODTHIRSTY
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
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 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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.”
PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4488-7
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Electronic edition available:
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3806-0 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3806-3 (e-book)
CHAPTER 1
For the most part, Joe Buckhorn was a somber man seldom given to outward displays of emotion or flights of fancy. When folks tried to kill you fairly often, it helped to be cool-nerved and levelheaded. However, when the telegram from Andrew Haydon reached him, inviting him to New Orleans for the sake of discussing a “lucrative” job proposal and including an offer to provide advance payment for traveling expenses, Buckhorn’s reaction was to not only be interested but actually quite excited by the prospect.
New Orleans. The Crescent City. The Queen Port of the South.
Buckhorn had heard many tales of the place, the exotic melting pot of so many different cultures and influences. Beauty and artistry and rich heritage to be found in its finer sections, mystery and menace lying within its darker recesses.
Menace was hardly a stranger to him. He’d encountered plenty of that—and a smattering of mystery, too—in his dealings throughout the Southwest territories and along the Mexican border. Hell, it wouldn’t be hard to find those who’d claim he was pretty handy at dishing out his own brand of menace. Even though he’d grown more selective in recent years, that aspect was still generally what those who sought his services were looking to pay for.
If the particulars of Haydon’s job proved to be outside the boundaries of what Buckhorn was willing to hire out his gun for these days, he’d have to turn it down. Regardless, he meant to seize the opportunity to finally respond to the lure of New Orleans that had so long tugged at him yet he’d never gotten around to answering.
As he leaned on the railing of the Hannibal Belle’s observation deck, Buckhorn reflected on those things and more. Many would have found him quite interesting to observe. Tall, trim, broad shouldered, and clad in a matching suit jacket and vest over a boiled white shirt with bold red string tie, he could have been taken for anything from a businessman or plantation owner to a riverboat gambler.
Had anyone guessed the truth, of course—that he hailed from the Western frontier and made his way with a gun—their intrigue would have been even greater.
One thing was evident in any case. The grim lines of his face and set of his jaw, the deeply burned ruddy complexion, the dark, ever-alert eyes that seemed to penetrate whatever they locked on, and the crow’swing-black hair spilling from under a precisely cocked bowler hat marked him as someone not to be trifled with.
For Buckhorn’s part, a trip on a Mississippi River paddle wheeler was something else he’d always wanted to experience. So, while his course from northern Texas where Haydon’s telegram had reached him could have angled all the way down on a more direct land route, he’d opted to make a slight out-of-the-way jog to the east and catch a New Orleans–bound steamboat in Natchez.
After all, what better way to arrive in the fabled city than by means of the equally fabled river providing so much of the commerce that supported and helped spread the word of her bountiful charms?
As Buckhorn was thinking of New Orleans’ bountiful charms, coincidentally—or maybe, it remained to be seen, not so coincidentally—a young woman possessing features equally befitting such a description appeared suddenly at the rail beside him.
She looked to be in her early twenties, with glossy black hair piled high above an exquisitely lovely face and a fetchingly shapely form. Her skin, immodestly displayed by an off-the-shoulder gown and a long, elegant neck, was as smooth and milky white as porcelain. Her eyes, almond-shaped and nearly as dark as her hair, met his gaze with a directness that was borderline disconcerting.
When she spoke, it was with the faintest of Southern drawls. “I’m glad to find someone besides me seeking a reprieve from the cigar smoke and bluster of the lounge. When I saw you take your leave, I was hoping you
weren’t headed directly to your room.”
“Not hardly,” Buckhorn replied. “This is my first time on the river and I want to savor as much of it as I can.”
“I understand that perfectly. I was practically born on the river, but I still savor every moment around it on the occasions when I return. I especially love the evening air on the water, but aboard a boat like this, I never feel completely comfortable or safe out on deck alone.”
“I’d think a pretty gal like you,” Buckhorn replied, “would hardly have trouble finding somebody to keep her company wherever she went.”
“Very gallantly spoken. But surely you understand there is ‘company’ and then there is company. A young woman must always be careful about attracting the wrong kind.”
“Not being a pretty young gal, I guess I never looked at it that way,” Buckhorn conceded.
“And why would you?” The question was clearly rhetorical and the girl quickly moved on from it. “A big, rugged-looking individual like you . . . I suspect you feel quite safe wherever you go. Any unwanted company that comes around most likely you shoo away like annoying mosquitoes.”
Buckhorn grinned. “Big and rugged-looking, eh? In other words, rough around the edges and kinda on the homely side.”
“Oh no!” the girl was quick to protest. “I neither said nor meant such a thing. Not at all. Anyone who knows me can tell you I am someone who speaks her mind and always says what she means.”
“Those who know you,” Buckhorn said. “What is it they call you?”
The girl smiled coyly. “Why, by my name, of course. Angelique.”
“Angelique. Very pretty, which makes it very fitting.”
“Ah, more gallantry. And your name, my fellow connoisseur of fresh evening air on the river?”
“Joe. Joe Buckhorn.”
“Joe. Yes. Straightforward and basic. It suits you.” Angelique gave a faint nod of approval. “If you don’t mind my saying, however, the Buckhorn part is rather unusual.”
“I’m mixed blood. My father was Cheyenne Indian, my mother a white woman,” he explained.
“How fascinating.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “Fascinating maybe. But not a particularly pleasant thing to be born to. Out West, a half-breed is never really welcomed by either side. Seems like I’ve been fighting against one or the other most of my life.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up then. I had no idea—”
“Forget about it.” Buckhorn held up a hand, stopping her. “Let’s just move on to something else. Like, say, you telling me about yourself.”
A soft breeze lifted up off the water, carrying the smell of the river along with shoreline aromas that were foreign and intriguing to his nostrils. More captivating than any of those, however, was the subtle, musky scent of Angelique’s perfume, also freshly stirred by the breeze.
Gazing into those eyes, intoxicated by the rush of her perfume, he found it very tempting to let down his guard and simply lose himself in the illusion that he had this rare beauty all to himself. While he knew, despite his earlier self-deprecating remark, that some women were drawn to his powerful build and grim, hawklike facial features, he also remained aware he was far from classically handsome and therefore a hell of a lot more apt to cause members of the fairer sex to steer wide rather than throw themselves at him.
When one did, more or less, his habit was to automatically raise his guard and hold it fast until he had a chance to determine, one way or another, what was afoot. Especially in this instance when, only a short time ago at one of the gaming tables in the lounge—where Angelique had admittedly taken note of him—he’d walked away with considerable winnings. That made it easy to suspect her interest might be more for what was contained in the money belt around his waist than anything else about him.
Still, Buckhorn told himself, there were worse ways to kill some time than allowing a beautiful young woman to fawn over him, no matter her motives . . . as long as he kept a sharp eye peeled in case her scheme included an accomplice showing up to put a knife to his throat or bounce a club off the back of his head.
In addition to the alertness that was second nature to him, Buckhorn was hardly unarmed. In deference to the setting, he did not have his usual .45 caliber Colt Peacemaker holstered on his right hip, but he was carrying a smaller, lighter Colt Lightning tucked behind his belt at the small of his back and under the fall of his suit coat. Sheathed inside his right boot was a bowie knife with a ten-inch blade.
In response to his query, Angelique was saying, “I fear there’s not very much interesting to tell about little ol’ me. You are easy to talk to, though. I feel very comfortable around you so I’m sure we could find lots else to converse about . . . together.” She wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders and gave a little shiver. “On second thought, I don’t know that out here in the evening air is the best place after all. It’s growing chilly and I don’t even have a shawl.”
Buckhorn began unbuttoning his suit jacket. “By all means, let me—”
“That’s not necessary.” She put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Really. I think a far more sensible thing for us to do would be to simply retire to my cabin. It’s one level down, almost directly below where we happen to be standing. We could continue our talk there and, if you need further persuasion, let me say that I have a fine vintage of wine on hand. In the lounge, I noticed that your preferred drink was wine.”
The lady was very observant, Buckhorn told himself. If his suspicions weren’t so fully aroused, he would find that quite flattering. He tried amending his thoughts to consider the possibility his suspicions might not be warranted after all, but fell short of successfully buying it. All of this felt too much like a setup.
In the event it wasn’t, he’d just have to make sure such a discovery didn’t diminish the pleasure of spending time with the lovely Angelique under more desirable circumstances.
“I have to admit, a glass of good wine always makes a tempting offer,” Buckhorn said. “Not that spending time in your company really needs any added incentive. But from your standpoint, are you sure that having me in your cabin is really a good idea?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, not being sure of your station or status, ma’am, I can’t help but wonder if an unescorted young woman keeping company with a fella like me might not be looked on by other folks as—”
“Oh, hang other folks and their dirty minds if it comes to that. We’re two adults who have paid the asking fare for transport on this vessel and have conducted ourselves quite properly ever since coming aboard. A lot more properly than some of the lecherous old goats down in the lounge, I assure you! If we choose to spend some time together—whenever and wherever we please, I might add—then it’s nobody else’s damn business!”
It was quite a speech and Buckhorn couldn’t find a thing about the words that he didn’t agree with. Damn, he wanted to like this gal and wanted her to not be what he suspected her of being, but her ploy of so boldly attempting to lure him down to her cabin was yet another sign that she almost certainly was up to no good.
He could actually see the scene in his mind’s eye. She would usher him into the room ahead of her, where there was sure to be no interruptions by someone unexpected happening by and where the shadows would be nice and deep. Before she got the lamps turned up, Mr. Accomplice would step out of the shadows and take care of Buckhorn before he realized he’d been suckered. As soon as he’d been relieved of his winnings and everything else of value, over the side he’d go—maybe already dead, maybe just close enough it would be easy for the river to finish the job—and then Angelique and her partner would move on to start trolling for their next victim . . .
“Well, Mr. Buckhorn,” Angelique said, with a trace of tartness in her voice that hadn’t been there before, “are you interested in joining me for a glass of that wine? Or are you perhaps the one who finds it too forward of me to be extending such an invitat
ion?”
He smiled down at her. “Lady, if you’re being too forward, that only means there are way too many other women in this ol’ world who are too damn backwards.”
She returned his smile, though hers was far more dazzling. Moving closer to him, she said, “I was hoping that’s how you’d feel.”
CHAPTER 2
Buckhorn was so convinced the actual physical attack on him wouldn’t come until after they’d reached Angelique’s room, he damn near missed the attempt to brain him right where he stood.
The split-second warning came from a flickering reflection on the glass housing around a lantern fastened to a deck post rising just above Angelique’s pile of hair. It revealed a burly gent looming directly behind him with one arm raised and a bulging sap gripped in his fist.
It was all that saved him from getting his skull busted open like a peanut shell.
He reacted by thrusting Angelique away and letting his knees buckle in unison so he dropped suddenly, squatting down as low as he could. The sap slashed through the air above him at the exact level his head had been only a moment earlier.
The empty swing made a great whoosh and the man behind it grunted with the vicious effort he put into it. Swinging so fiercely and not connecting with anything pulled the would-be head crusher off balance and caused him to stagger as he attempted to regain it.
Buckhorn was determined to have a say about that. Staying in his squat long enough to twist around toward the man, he straightened his legs with a hard thrust, exploding upward faster than he’d dropped down.
As he shot to his full height, Buckhorn slammed the top of his head up and under the sapper’s chin. The man’s teeth clacked together loudly and he emitted a desperate gagging sound as his head snapped back. Adding to that, Buckhorn drilled an in-close right hook hard to the sapper’s unprotected ribs. The victim howled in added pain. Buckhorn liked the sound and feel of what he’d done so much that he immediately repeated it.
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