No Man's Land

by William W. Johnstone

  At least this way, there was a chance she’d survive long enough for the Texas Rangers to arrest her and cart her off to prison. Before she’d pulled the knife, Frank had been thinking about shooting her.

  * * *

  Half the town was on fire by the time he reached the livery. By design, the huge barn was set off a ways from the rest of the buildings in town so it wouldn’t burn with all the livestock in the likely event the rest of the town went up in flames.

  Frank stood by to the side of the livery’s entry for a full minute, listening. The huge double doors, made to get coaches in and out, were cracked a bit, and he stepped up close to peer inside.

  At first, he saw nothing but shadows. Horses shuffled and stomped their feet, no doubt smelling the surrounding fires. It was difficult to get a full view of the huge enclosure through the tiny crack, but as he stepped to one side, Frank could just make out the flicker of a lantern in one of the back stalls at the end of the structure.

  Sporadic shooting still peppered the night as groups of Company F moved from shack to shack, ridding the town of Ephraim Swan’s outlaws.

  Frank looked around the front of the livery trying to figure out how to rid the town of Ephraim Swan. He thought about taking the outlaw as he rode out on his horse, but that was too risky. The shooting was everywhere, and there was no way to tell whether Swan would come out the front or the back.

  Frank took a deep breath and drew his Peacemaker. The wound on his side was bleeding again. He could feel the warm stickiness of the blood as it soaked through the sheet around his upper body. He was getting weaker by the minute, so he’d have to see this through quickly.

  When it came right down to it, there was really only one way Frank knew to confront a situation—and that was head-on.

  Chapter 38

  Frank waited for the sound of gunfire from behind the livery before slipping inside, hoping it would draw Swan’s attention in the other direction. The gunfighter stepped to the side as soon as he entered and looked down the two rows of stalls, ready to shoot. It was over sixty feet down the narrow alley. Swan’s lanky thoroughbred stood saddled in a pool of lantern light in the back stall. The outlaw was nowhere in sight.

  Frank heard the rustle in the straw to his right just in time to drop to his knees and miss a shot directed at his head. Another quick shot sent him diving into the stall with his own startled black gelding.

  “Step out and face me, Swan,” Frank panted from behind the thick timbers that divided the stalls. His words were met by another volley of gunfire that kicked up splinters of wood and caused the horse to rear behind him in the stall. Frank rolled to one side to avoid the iron-shod hooves. “Take it easy, boy, or I’ll have to shoot you myself.” He spoke in low tones in an effort to calm the white-eyed animal.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Morgan.” Swan’s voice trembled as he spoke.

  “You already had four chances in the last thirty seconds. I say you’re doin’ a damn poor job of it.” Frank cast his eyes around the barn looking for a way to draw the killer out into the open. “Come on. Let’s end this now, man-to-man like it ought to be. I’ll even give you time to reload.”

  Frank heard brass hitting the floor as Swan dumped his empties. He used the precious seconds to roll under the stall dividers and into a new vantage point three stalls down. On his knees now, he found an oval knothole in the thick pine board. From this new location, he had a half view of the left side of Swan’s body. The outlaw’s gun hand was hidden, but his left clutched a wooden divider to steady himself. Even from the distance away, Frank could see his knuckles were white.

  He smiled at the little ironies of life as he took careful aim and blew off three fingers on the outlaw’s left hand.

  Swan screamed out in pain and fell out of sight behind the stall divider.

  “You got something that belongs to me, Swan.”

  “I got money, Morgan. Loads of it. Let me slip out of here and I’ll tell you where it all is hid.”

  Frank could hear the strain in the man’s voice from his new injury, but he was having troubles of his own. Blood had run down his arm again, and his gun hand was a slippery mess. The recoil of his last shot had almost sent the Peacemaker flying out of his grasp. He transferred the pistol to his left hand and tried to wipe his palm on the hay, but the more he cleaned, the more blood flowed down his arm and dripped from his wrist and elbow.

  He was already beginning to see stars. “Help me, Dixie,” he whispered. “I can’t lose him now when I’m so close.”

  “What do you say?” the outlaw called from the shadows. “You want to be a rich man?”

  “I was just wonderin’, Swan.” Frank leaned against the boards. His loss of blood was making him short of breath. “Did my poor wife beg you like you’re beggin’ me?”

  The outlaw was silent, but the mention of Dixie sent a surge of renewed energy through Frank’s body. Even with the shot of vigor, he knew he might pass out at any moment.

  “Might as well go down fighting,” he mumbled to himself. He took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. Swan still hid behind the wooden stall divider.

  “Sorry, Dix. I’m tired,” Frank said loud enough for the outlaw to hear. He held the Peacemaker low against his waist, tight to his body to give him added support, and began to walk toward Swan’s hiding spot, firing as he went.

  “Come out and face me, you child-killin’ son of a bitch,” Frank said between shots. His soft voice pierced as surely as a bullet. He advanced unmolested until he stood in the middle of the alleyway, cocking and pulling the trigger on his empty Colt.

  The sound of an empty gun finally drew Swan out of hiding. He stumbled out, a sneer on his face, his own pistol pointed directly at Frank’s chest. He had his injured hand tucked into his waistband.

  “You want me to face you, do you?” The smug bravado had crept back into the outlaw’s voice. He nodded his head, glancing for a moment at the bloody ooze that dribbled down onto the hay from Frank’s dangling gun hand. “I spend all this time thinking you were already dead, and it turns out I wasn’t far off the mark.”

  A cruel smile crossed his lips, and his white eyebrow shot up in amusement. “You were askin’ about your wife, Morgan. Wanted to know what it was like before I rubbed her out . . . ”

  Frank stood silently before the maniacal killer, panting and saying nothing.

  “I’ll tell you one thing: she was a sight to behold. Didn’t even care what happened to her, just spit and screamed like a wild cat, trying to get us to leave you alone.” Swan chuckled and spat on the ground. “You asked about her last few moments—if she begged for mercy before I cut off . . .”

  Though his right hand hung useless and dripping blood, Frank’s left hand moved with a speed even he’d never known. He snaked Beltran’s pistol from his belt and before Swan even knew what was happening shot him between the eyes.

  “Yeah, about that,” Frank whispered. “I decided I really don’t care to know.”

  Frank staggered, stepping forward to keep from falling. The room closed in around him and he began to sway on his feet. He was vaguely aware of the outlaw’s body thudding to the ground before he sat back on the hay himself. He looked through the dimming haze at the bloody mess of his right arm. Just as he’d feared; he had a bleeder. A broken rib must have sawed through an artery. He’d seen people with bleeders before and knew there wasn’t much hope.

  He used what little strength he had left to try and focus on Swan. The outlaw lay in that peculiar folded-leg twist of a man who was dead before he hit the ground.

  Sighing, Frank leaned back on a pile of bedding straw and chuckled softly in spite of the pain. He’d always figured on going out on some muddy street or filthy saloon floor, Compared to that, this was Heaven. Didn’t really matter though. Dying was dying, no matter where it occurred.

  Dixie’s killer was dead, so he could rest now. The gun slipped out of his hand and he stared up at the wooden rafters. It was surprisingly b
right up there, and he though he could hear his wife’s voice.

  He managed a weak smile. “Dixie,” he whispered—and drifted off into unconciousness.

  Epilogue

  Two days later, Tyler Beaumont, Texas Ranger, sat beside Velda on a short couch at the end of Frank Morgan’s bed. The wounded gunfighter was as comfortable as they could make him, considering what he’d been through.

  Ranger Company F had only lost two men during the raid, but both were friends of his and that was two men too many. Beaumont was determined not to make it three.

  Velda gave the young lawman’s hand a squeeze. She wore a simple lavender dress and her hair was freshly washed. Anyone who saw her would never have guessed what she’d been doing when Beaumont met her. There was a tear in her eye. “You think he’ll make it?”

  Beaumont shook his head and gave a weary groan. “The doc says it’s all up to him now. He’s lost an awful lot of blood and a body only has so much of that to spare.” He looked down at the weeping girl. “But I’m afraid it’s more than that. With his wife gone—her murder avenged—I don’t think Mr. Morgan gives a hoot in hell if he lives or dies. And right now, he has to want to live. He has to fight.”

  “If he fights, he could still pull through?”

  Beaumont shrugged. “It’s not a sure thing, but that’s his only chance.” Frank Morgan had saved his life and the ranger knew what he had to do. He stood and looked at the sleeping gunfighter’s failing body.

  “Morgan,” the young man whispered. “I aim to find you something worth fighting for. The rest . . . well, that’s up to you.”

  NEW YORK TIMES AND

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  FLINTLOCK

  A Time for Vultures

  Across the West, badmen know his name. The deadliest

  bounty hunter on the frontier, Flintlock is armed with his

  grandfather’s ancient Hawken muzzleloader, ready to put

  the blast on the face of injustice. As William and J. A.

  Johnstone’s acclaimed saga continues, Flintlock will

  discover an evil too terrifying and deadly to even name.

  WHEN A MAN SAYS HE’S GOING

  TO KILL YOU, BELIEVE HIM

  The stench of death hangs over Happyville. When

  Flintlock rides into town, he sees windows caked in dust,

  food rotting on tables, and a forgotten corpse hanging

  at the gallows. Citizens of Happyville are dead in their

  beds, taken down by a deadly scourge, and Flintlock

  must stay put or risk spreading the killer disease. His

  quarantine is broken by Cage Kingfisher, a mad

  clergyman who preaches the gospel of death. He orders

  his followers to round up the survivors of Happyville and

  bring them home to face the very plague they fled. To save

  them, Flintlock must send Kingfisher to Hell. But the

  deadly deacon has a clockwork arm that can draw a pistol

  faster than the eye can blink. It will take the Devil to bring

  him down. Or the frontier legend they call Flintlock.

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter One

  “I don’t like it, Sam,” O’Hara said, his black eyes troubled. “Those women could be setting us up. Their wagon wheel looks just fine from here.”

  Sam Flintlock shook his head. “You know what I always tell folks about you, O’Hara?”

  “No. What do you always tell folks about me?”

  “That you let your Indian side win through. I mean every time. If you were looking at them gals with a white man’s eyes you’d see what I see ... four comely young ladies who badly need our help.”

  Now there were those who said some pretty bad things about Sam Flintlock. They called him out for a ruthless bounty hunter, gunman, outlaw when it suited him, and a wild man who chose never to live within the sound of church bells. At that, his critics more or less had him pegged, but to his credit, Flintlock never betrayed a friend or turned his back on a crying child, an abused dog, or a maiden in distress. And when the war talk was done and guns were drawn he never showed yellow.

  Thus, when he saw four ladies and a dog crowded around what looked to be a busted wagon wheel, he decided he must ride to their rescue like a knight in stained buckskins.

  But his companion, the half-breed known only as O’Hara, prone to suspicion and mistrust of the doings of white people, drew rein on Sam’s gallant instincts.

  “Well, my Indian side is winning through again,” O’Hara said. “It’s telling me to stay away from those white women. Sam, it seems that when we interfere in the affairs of white folks we always end up in trouble.” He stared hard at the wagon. “There’s something wrong here. I have a strange feeling I can’t pin down.”

  “You sound like the old lady who hears a rustle in every bush.” Flintlock slid a beautiful Hawken from the boot under his left knee and settled the butt on his thigh. “This cannon always cuts a dash with the ladies and impresses the menfolk. Let’s ride.”

  The four women gathered around the wagon wheel watched Flintlock and O’Hara ride toward them. They were young, not particularly pretty except by frontier standards, and looked travel-worn. Colorful boned corsets, laced and buckled, short skirts, and ankle boots revealed their profession, as did the hard planes of their faces. Devoid of powder and paint, exhausted by the rigors of the trail, the girls showed little interest in Flintlock and O’Hara as potential customers.

  Flintlock touched his hat. “Can I be of assistance, ladies?”

  A brunette with bold hazel eyes said, “Wheel’s stuck, mister. ”

  “I’ll take a look,” Flintlock said.

  One time in Dallas he’d watched John Wesley Hardin swing out of the saddle in one graceful motion and he hoped his dismount revealed the same panache. And it might have had not the large yellow dog decided to attack his ankle as soon as his foot touched the ground. The mutt clamped onto Flintlock’s booted ankle, shook its head, and growled as though it was killing a jackrabbit.

  “Git the hell off me,” Flintlock said, shaking his leg.

  The little brunette grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and yelled, “Bruno! Leave the gent alone!”

  But the animal seemed more determined than ever to bite through Flintlock’s boot and maul his flesh. Bruno renewed his attack with much enthusiasm and considerable savagery.

  All four women pounced on the dog and tried to drag the snarling, biting creature away while Flintlock continued to shake his leg and cuss up a storm. As the epic struggle with the belligerent Bruno became a cartwheeling, fur-flying free-for-all, O’Hara’s voice cut through the racket of the melee.

  “Sam! Riders!”

  A moment later guns slammed and O’Hara reeled in the saddle. He snapped off a shot, bent over, and toppled onto the grass. His horse, its reins trailing, trotted away. Flintlock, dragging Bruno like a growling ball and chain, stepped around the horse and looked toward the tree line. Four riders were charging fast, firing as they came. Cursing himself for choosing fashion over common sense and leaving his Winchester in the boot, he threw the Hawken to his shoulder and triggered a shot. Boom! Through a cloud of gray smoke he watched a man throw up his hands, his revolver spinning away from him. The rider tumbled backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard, throwing up a cloud of dust. Flintlock dropped the Hawken and clawed for the Colt in his waistband.

  Too late!

  A big, bearded man drove his mount straight at Flintlock and the impact of horse and man sent Flintlock flying and convinced Bruno that he’d be a lot safer somewhere else.

  Winded and sprawled on his back, Flintlock stayed where he was for a moment, then he sat up and looked around for his fallen Colt.

  There! A few yards to his right.

  He staggered to his feet and for his pains, the bearded man charged
again. He swung his left foot from the stirrup and kicked Flintlock in the head, the boot heel crashing into his forehead. For a moment, it seemed that the world around him was exploding in blinding arcs of scarlet and yellow fire.

  Flintlock’s head tilted back and he caught a glimpse of the sky spinning wildly above him . . . and then his legs went out from under him and he saw nothing . . . nothing at all.

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock regained consciousness to a pounding headache and a sharp pricking in his throat. From far off, at the end of a long tunnel, he heard a woman’s voice.

  “What the hell are you doing, Buck?”

  Buck Yarr stopped, his bowie knife poised. “Gonna cut that heathen thunderbird offen his throat, Biddy. Make me a tobaccy pouch, it will.”

  “Morg wants him alive,” the woman said. “You know who he is?”

  “Don’t give a damn who he is,” Yarr said.

  “He’s the outlaw Sam Flintlock,” Biddy said. “Morg thinks maybe there’s a price on his head, his head and the breed’s.”

  Yarr said, “Morg didn’t tell me that. I want the thunderbird. Now git the hell away from me lessen you aim to watch the cuttin’.”

  “I seen a cuttin’ or two before and they didn’t trouble me none,” Biddy said. “One time down Forth Worth way I seen Doc Holliday cut a man, damn near gutted him. But Morg wants that Flintlock one alive.”

  “All I want is some skin, Biddy. He’ll still be alive after I’m done.”

  “He’ll be dead after you’re done, Buck. Look, there’s Morgan, ask him your own self,” Biddy said.

  Flintlock opened his eyes. He tried to move but his arms were tightly bound to one of the wagon wheels. A few feet away O’Hara, his bloody head bowed, was tied to another. Opposite Flintlock, a kneeling man in greasy buckskins held a wicked, broad-bladed knife, his mouth under a sweeping red mustache stretched in a grin. The man’s hat—a tall, pearl gray topper, its high crown holed by a bullet—caught Flintlock’s attention.