Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

by Johnstone, William W.

  “Damn you, it’s a gallows,” the gambler said. “What kind of people puts an obscenity like that at the door of a church?”

  The man called Uzziah smiled without humor. “It’s a guillotine,” he said. He tucked the butt of his rifle under his arm and bladed his right hand into the open palm of his left. “It removes the heads of the sinful and dispatches them to hell. Instanter, as the drummer said.”

  “Mister,” the gambler said, “you’re a sick man and this is a sick town.”

  “No, it’s a peaceful town, and prosperous,” Uzziah said.

  A dust devil reeled in the street, then collapsed in a yellow cloud.

  “He’s not a sick man, he’s a hired gun and a woman killer,” Shawn said. He stared at Uzziah, a hard blue light in his eyes, “As I recollect, his name is Sheldon Shannon from down Nogales way with time out for a five-year spell in Yuma. I reckon he was spawned with a price on his head. A far piece off your home range, aren’t you, Shel? I never knew you to operate north of the Red.”

  “And who might you be?” Shannon said. “Or do you know?”

  “Name’s Shawn O’Brien from the Glorieta Mesa country in the New Mexico Territory.”

  Recognition dawned in Shannon’s eyes. “Your pa’s the bull o’ the woods down that way an’ you got a brother Jacob. Big man, plays the piano real good.”

  “My father, Colonel Shamus O’Brien is the biggest rancher in the territory,” Shawn said, his face stiff. “As for my brother Jake, he plays the piano among other things.”

  “He’s a rum one, all right, is Jacob,” Shannon said. “I was there the night he killed Everett Wilson down Austin way. You heard of him?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

  “Wilson was no bargain.”

  “So Jake told me.”

  “Judging by your kin, I reckon you’re gun slick, O’Brien. Strange thing in a man who doesn’t carry a pistol.”

  “You should be in Yuma, Shel. But I don’t see you carrying chains.”

  Shannon nodded. “You have a quick wit, O’Brien. Well, I don’t know how long you’ll live, but you call me Shel Shannon just one more time and your life ends right here.”

  “So what do I call you, besides son-of-a—”

  “You call me Brother Uzziah. Get it right next time, O’Brien, or I’ll kill you.”

  “What do we do with them?” Brother Melchizedeck said.

  His eyes still burning into Shawn’s face like branding irons, Shannon said, “Take O’Brien and the gambler to the prison. They’ll be put to the question later.”

  “And the girl?”

  “The hotel. Once the church service is over two holy and righteous women of the town will examine her for the witch’s mark.”

  “Brother Uzziah, look!” one of the other men yelled. He pointed to a rock ridge above the town where a man sat a white horse in front of a stand of aspen.

  Shannon scanned the ridge, then screamed, “Damn him! Damn him to hell!”

  He threw his Winchester to his shoulder and levered off several shots at the rider on the ridge. The man didn’t flinch.

  “Is it him?” Shannon yelled, lowering the rifle. “Is it the shifter?”

  “It’s him all right,” Melchizedeck said, a strange, stricken fear in his eyes. “It’s Jasper Wolfden as ever was. He’s come back from the grave.” Then, “My God, Uzziah, look at that!”

  The rider leaned from the saddle and hefted a long pole that seemed heavy for him because of the human head stuck on the axe-shaved point.

  “Who is it?” Shannon shrieked. “Damn you, whose head is that?”

  “It’s Mordecai,” a young, towheaded brother said.

  “Are you sure?” Shannon said, his voice ragged with near hysteria. “Damn you, are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s Brother Mordecai. I can make out the black powder burn over his left eye.”

  Shawn studied Shel Shannon. The gunman was a cold-blooded killer, lightning fast on the draw and shoot, but his hands trembled and he continually swallowed as though his mouth was filled with saliva.

  “He’s a shifter,” Shannon said. “You can’t kill a shifter.”

  His eyes keen, Shawn directed his attention to the horseman on the ridge.

  The man held his macabre trophy high. By the look of the head, its late owner had died recently. Shawn guessed within the past couple of hours.

  He had no idea who Jasper Wolfden was, but dead men don’t sweat. Dark arcs showed in the armpits of the man’s shirt and his hat had a salt-crusted stain around the crown.

  Wolfden had not returned from the grave, but spook or not, shifter or not, he’d put the fear of God into Sheldon Shannon . . .

  . . . a man who didn’t scare worth a damn.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The doors of the church swung open and the congregation of about a hundred men, women, and children spilled onto the street. They had obviously turned out in their best, the men in go-to-prayer-meeting broadcloth, the women in silk afternoon dresses that boasted much lace.

  All eyes turned to the wrecked stage and then to the passengers who stood under guard.

  It seemed no one had noticed the dead men.

  At least not yet.

  Shawn watched a man stand in the church doorway for a few moments before he too stepped into the street.

  He was very tall; at least five inches over six feet, and his shoulders under the monks’ robes were an axe handle wide. His black hair was cropped close and his clean-shaven face was long, lean and hard, the mouth thin, touched by a hint of cruelty.

  The townspeople bowed their heads as the man walked through them, his stride purposeful, like a soldier crossing a parade ground.

  “Why all the shooting, Brother Uzziah?” the big man said. “I had to cut my sermon short and a mere two hours isn’t nearly enough to drive mortal sin from these people.”

  “Jasper Wolfden was on the ridge, Brother Matthias,” Shel said.

  “He’s dead,” Matthias said. His face was like stone and his eyes slid from Shannon’s face to conceal his emotions.

  “He’s back,” Melchizedeck said. “Look on the ridge, Brother Matthias.”

  The man called Matthias shaded his eyes against the sun and studied the ridge. The rider was gone, but the pole with the head was stuck into the ground.

  “Who is it?” he said. Then louder for the sake of the gathering crowd, “Who is the holy martyr?”

  “Brother Mordecai,” Shannon said.

  “But . . . he was good with a gun,” Matthias said.

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t a patch on Wolfden, boss,” Melchizedeck said. “And Wolfden is a shifter. He may have killed Brother Mordecai as a wolf or a cougar.”

  Matthias looked like a man who’d just been slapped. His nostrils flaring, he said, “I told you never to call me boss. In this town I’m Brother Matthias.”

  “Sorry, it just slipped out,” Melchizedeck said. He looked scared.

  “Don’t let it slip out again or I’ll make you eat it, washed down with hot lead,” Matthias said. “Do you understand?”

  Melchizedeck swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “I won’t forget, Brother Matthias.”

  The big man ignored him and said to Shannon, “Only the heathen Navajo believe in shifters. Wolfden is only a man, a washed-up actor for God’s sake, and like any man he can be killed. We must have shot and buried the wrong feller is all.”

  Matthias’s eyes moved to the two dead men sprawled in the street.

  “Who are they?” he said.

  “A nobody. A ladies corsets drummer,” Shannon said. “And the stage driver who broke his damned fool neck when the stage went over.”

  “The drummer was shot. Why did you kill him?”

  “He made demands,” Shannon said.

  Matthias nodded, only half-interested. His eyes ranged over Shawn, the gambler, and the girl then back to Shawn.

  “Do I know you?” he said to Shawn.

&nb
sp; “Maybe. I’m Shawn O’Brien of Dromore in the New Mexico Territory.”

  “Old Shamus’s son?”

  “One of them.”

  Matthias looked like a man who’d just gotten bad news. And the skin of his face stiffened tight to the skull when Shannon said, “He recognized me, Brother Matthias. He knows who I am.”

  Shawn said, “As I recall, a couple of years back good ol’ Shel here took to running with a hard crowd ramrodded by a feller by the name of Hank Cobb. Seems this Cobb feller got his start in life as a small-time, dark alley crook who’d stick the shiv into any man, woman, or child for fifty dollars. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  Matthias was silent for a long time, then he said, “Brother Uzziah, take these men to the prison. They will face the Grand Council tonight. The girl goes to the hotel. Have the women search her for the witch’s mark. If such is found, she’ll burn.”

  Panic flashed in the girl’s face and she turned and ran toward the church.

  She didn’t get far.

  A couple of men stepped away from the rest of the congregation and grabbed her by the arms.

  “Take her to the hotel, brethren,” Matthias said. “A couple of you righteous women go with her and put her to the test.”

  Shawn O’Brien, made reckless by recent grief that continued to hurt like a knife blade twisting in his belly, said, “Damn you, you’re Hank Cobb all right. Only a lowlife like you would treat a woman that way.”

  Cobb smiled. “Yeah I’m Cobb, the man who’ll sign your death warrant, O’Brien. Your pa and your gunslingin’ brothers ain’t here to protect you now, pretty boy.”

  It looked as though Cobb was prepared to say more, but Shawn’s hard fist crashing into his mouth discouraged any further attempt at speech.

  Cobb hit the ground flat on his back, but the big man made no effort to rise again. He backhanded a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, smearing red across his chin. His eyes were murderous.

  “Want me to gun him, Matthias?” Shannon said.

  “No. I want a different death for him.” Cobb got to his feet, helped by members of his congregation. “Take him to the prison, and the gambler with him.”

  Cobb pushed his face close to Shawn’s.

  “Before this day is done, you’ll regret the day you were spawned and you’ll curse the mother that bore you.”

  Shawn spat in the man’s face . . . and paid the price.

  Something hard crashed into the side of his head and suddenly he saw the ground cartwheel up to meet him.

  And then he saw nothing at all....

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  Copyright © 2014 J. A. Johnstone

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  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.”

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3372-0