Blood on the Divide

by William W. Johnstone

  “Give us all one of them hailstorms,” Preacher told the man behind the bar. “And put lots of mint in mine. I do like the taste of mint.”

  “Watch your back in here, Preacher,” the man replied in a whisper. ’The four men at the last billiard table are gunnin’ for you.”

  “Thankee.”

  The trio drank their hailstorms and smacked their lips. “Another round,” Batiste said. “You got anything to eat?”

  “Bread and cheese and a roast over yonder,” the man replied, pointing. “The beef roast is good. I guarantee it. Charlotte cooked it.”

  “You want some, Preacher?” the French Canadian asked, not speaking his name loud enough for it to carry.

  “No. I’ll wait ’til this dance is over. I fight better on an empty stomach. Makes me meaner. You and Watson go on over there and fill your bellies. This spot here might turn plumb unhealthy in a few minutes.”

  Preacher sipped his hailstorm and waited. He had turned as if watching his friends, but he was really looking over the four men at the billiard table. They were everything that Watson had said they were. Big and mean looking and as ugly a quartet as Preacher had ever laid eyes on. And he had seen some uglies in his day.

  One of the men turned slightly and stared at Preacher. He said something in a low voice and the other three straightened up and all looked at Preacher.

  “Here it comes,” the man behind the bar whispered.

  “I reckon,” Preacher replied, holding his drink in his left hand. “You best get out of the way.”

  “My name’s Kelly. You kilt my brother, Preacher!” one of the four man hollered, laying his cue stick on the felt.

  “Son of a bitch needed killin’,” Preacher calmly replied.

  “Damn your eyes and your black heart,” Kelly said, and jerked out a pistol.

  SIXTEEN

  Preacher stepped to one side and the ball smashed into an empty keg. Preacher drew and cocked his pistol and fired, the double-shotted barrel flinging out fire and smoke and lead. Both balls struck the man in the chest and knocked him off his feet, slamming him against the wall. He slid down to rest on his butt, his eyes wide and staring and dead.

  The room was filled with smoke and shouts as Kelly’s friends all drew their pistols and opened up. But Preacher had hit the floor and had both big hands filled with pistols. The shots from his would-be assassins hit the bar and the wall behind it while Preacher calmly pulled himself up to one knee, took aim, and placed his shots well.

  Kelly was joined in death by two more. The fourth man, his pistols empty, dropped his pistols on the billiard table, threw his hands into the air and shouted, “I yield! Don’t shoot no more.”

  Several trappers grabbed the man roughly and tossed him onto the floor, tying his hands behind his back with rawhide strips. Preacher calmly began reloading the empty pistols as other men gathered around, looking at the strange and deadly pistols.

  “Look at them hammers,” a trapper remarked. “The bottom pair’s set forward of the top pair. Damnest thing I ever did see.”

  “Looks awkward to me,” another said.

  “Wasn’t awkward to Preacher,” a third man said, quieting the debate.

  Preacher looked at the remaining member of the quartet. He had been jerked to his feet and was staring defiantly at Preacher. “What’s your quarrel with me?” he asked.

  “Bum was my cousin and you kilt him.”

  “I helped hang him for a fact,” Preacher said, holstering his guns. “And no man ever deserved it more.”

  “Here, now,” a man said, bursting into the smoky room. “Cease and desist immediately. This type of behavior is simply not allowed inside the fort.”

  “Tell them over yonder on the floor all that,” Preacher told the man, obviously some sort of official with the Bent brothers. “Well, tell him that. It’d be kinda hard to get through to the others, I reckon.”

  “Preacher didn’t start it,” Watson stated.

  Preacher’s name brought the official up short. He stared at the mountain man for a moment. “There will have to be an inquiry, sir.”

  “Have at it. I ain’t goin’ nowheres no time soon.”

  The inquiry was held within the hour and Preacher was absolved of all blame. The lone survivor of Kelly’s party was shown to the front gates of the fort and told not to come back. He was last seen heading east.

  Preacher lounged around the fort for several days, until the restlies got flung on him. Early one morning he saddled up and rode out, alone, heading northwest into the Rockies. There was a lot of summer left, and Preacher had him a craving to see some country that perhaps he hadn’t seen before. He thought he might ride clear up into Canada... but he wasn’t sure. Two weeks later, a rider hailed his lonely camp.

  “You be Preacher?” the man said.

  “I be. Light and set. The coffee’s hot and strong.”

  “There’s a wagon train gonna form up next spring in Missouri,” the man said, sitting down on the ground.

  “Good for them. Now that you told me that, I know I’m goin’ to Canada and I might not come back.”

  “Fifty wagons.”

  “Why are you tellin’ me this? I ain’t interested not nary a bit.”

  “I missed you at the fort by only a couple of days. Batiste told me which direction you took.”

  “That Frenchy should have buttoned his lip.”

  “They’ll be a minimum of two people to a wagon come the spring.”

  “I told you, I ain’t interested. Mighty pretty afternoon, ain’t it?”

  “This is an American-government-sanctioned wagon train, Preacher.”

  “Then let the Army lead it. I love this time of year in the high-up country, don’t you?”

  “That is disputed territory out there, Preacher. Other governments might look with disfavor at the American Army leading a wagon train. There are a lot of lonesome men settling along the Coast and in the interior.”

  “Tell ’em to marry a squaw. They’s lot of fine-lookin’ Injun women. And they make good wives. Work hard.” He looked at the government man. “What are you tryin’ to tell me, mister?”

  “This wagon train will be comprised of approximately one hundred and twenty-five women, Preacher.”

  “Women! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Women! Who’s gonna be drivin’ the wagons?”

  “The women.”

  “You’re crazy! Or somebody’s crazy. Them women, for sure.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “The men out here want women, these women want husbands. They have elected to brave the trip. You know the way and you’ve taken wagons across.”

  Preacher sat speechless.

  “You come highly recommended, Preacher.”

  “I’m a-fixin’ to leave highly recommended, too. And if you try to follow me, I swear I’ll shoot you.”

  “What I’m about to tell you must never be repeated, Preacher. The President of the United States is backing this plan. He wants you to take the wagons across. This land must be settled and it must be settled by Americans.”

  “It’s already settled. Ask the Injuns.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “Who is President?”

  “Mr. Martin Van Buren.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Of course, you would have to come to Missouri.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to Missouri. I ain’t leadin’ no damn wagon train of petticoats, neither.”

  “Can you read, sir?”

  “Of course I can read. I ain’t ignorant.”

  The man handed Preacher a wax-sealed envelope. Preacher broke the seal and stared at the words. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and read again.

  The messenger smiled.

  “Twenty fiae hundred dollars!” Preacher shouted.

  “Then may I take it that you are interested?”

  “Twenty five hundred dollars.?”

  “May I tell the President that you will be in Missouri no later than April the fir
st of next year?”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars!” Preacher shook his head and stared at the man for a moment. “I probably am about to make the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Oh, I think not, sir. You might even find you a good woman to marry.”

  Preacher glared at the man and shuddered at the thought. “How many women?”

  “No less than one hundred and twenty-five, sir. Perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty. All the equipment will be brand new and you can hire some men to assist you.”

  Preacher shook his head at the awesomeness of it all. He didn’t even know if something like this could be done. “I ain’t never even seen that many fillies in one spot.”

  “I am thinking it will be a grand adventure, sir.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” Preacher was thoughtful for a moment. Back in the States, twenty-five hundred dollars was near ’bout ten years’ wages. But a hundred and twenty-five women all in one bunch?

  Preacher looked at the man and made up his mind. “Where is it you want me to be come next spring?”

  The messenger smiled. “You’ll not regret this decision, Preacher.”

  Somehow, Preacher doubted that.

  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

  William W. Johnstone

  And J. A. Johnstone

  Smoke Jensen was a towering Western hero. Now his

  two freewheeling, long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance Jensen,

  are blazing a legendary trail of their own.

  Riverboat gambling is a blast, until hotheaded

  Chance finds out just what he won in his final hand

  against a Missouri River gambler named Haggarty.

  Chance’s “prize” is a beautiful Chinese slave girl

  named Ling. The twins want to set Ling free

  and keep their cash, but at Fort Benton, Ling gives

  them the slip, robbing them blind. When they hunt

  her down in Rimfire, Montana, she’s with

  Haggarty, lining up their next mark.

  WHAT WOULD SMOKE JENSEN DO?

  Ace and Chance want payback. So does hard case

  Leo Belmont, who’s come all the way from

  San Francisco with a grudge and a couple of

  kill-crazy hired guns. Belmont wants revenge,

  and Ace and Chance are in the way.

  PROBABLY THIS.

  Soon the boys are fighting alongside Ling and

  Haggarty. Because it doesn’t matter now who’s right

  and who’s wrong – blazing guns and flying lead

  are laying down the law ...

  THOSE JENSEN BOYS!

  RIMFIRE

  The exciting new series!

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  “Let’s take a ride on a riverboat, you said,” Ace Jensen muttered to his brother as they backed away from the group of angry men stalking toward them across the deck. “It’ll be fun, you said.”

  “Well, I didn’t count on this,” Chance Jensen replied. “How was I to know we’d wind up in such a mess of trouble?”

  Ace glanced over at Chance as if amazed that his brother could ask such a stupid question. “When do we ever not wind up in trouble?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point there,” Chance agreed. “It seems to have a way of finding us.”

  Their backs hit the railing along the edge of the deck. Behind them, the giant wooden blades of the side-wheeler’s paddles churned the muddy waters of the Missouri River.

  They were on the right side of the riverboat – the starboard side, Ace thought, then chided himself for allowing such an irrelevant detail to intrude on his brain at such a moment – and so far out in the middle of the stream that jumping overboard and swimming for shore wasn’t practical.

  Besides, the brothers weren’t in the habit of fleeing from trouble. If they started doing that, most likely they would never stop running.

  The man who was slightly in the forefront of the group confronting them pointed a finger at Chance. “All right, kid, I’ll have that watch back now.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Chance snapped. “I’m a grown man. And so are you, so you shouldn’t have bet the watch if you didn’t want to take a chance on losing it.”

  The Jensen brothers were grown men, all right, but not by much. They were in their early twenties, and although they had knocked around the frontier all their lives, had faced all sorts of danger, and burned plenty of powder, there was still a certain ... innocence ... about them, for want of a better word. They still made their way through life with enthusiasm and an eagerness to embrace all the joy the world had to offer.

  They were twins, although that wasn’t instantly apparent. They were fraternal rather than identical. Ace was taller, broader through the shoulders, and had black hair instead of his brother’s sandy brown. He preferred range clothes, wearing jeans, a buckskin shirt, and a battered old Stetson, while Chance was much more dapper in a brown tweed suit, vest, white shirt, a fancy cravat with an ivory stickpin, and a straw planter’s hat.

  Ace was armed with a Colt .45 Peacemaker with well-worn walnut grips that rode easily in a holster on his right hip. Chance didn’t carry a visible gun, but he had a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber, double action Second Model revolver in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

  However, neither young man wanted to start a gunfight on the deck of the Missouri Belle. It was a tranquil summer night, and gunshots and spilled blood would just about ruin it.

  The leader of the group confronting them was an expensively dressed, middle-aged man with a beefy, well-fed look about him. Still pointing that accusing finger at Chance, he went on. “Leland Stanford himself gave me that watch in appreciation for my help in getting the transcontinental railroad built. You know who Leland Stanford is, don’t you? President of the Central Pacific Railroad?”

  “We’ve heard of him,” Ace said. “Rich fella out California way. Used to be governor out there, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right. And he’s a good friend of mine. I’m a stockholder in the Central Pacific, in fact.”

  “Then likely you can afford to buy yourself another watch,” Chance said.

  The man’s already red face flushed even more as it twisted in a snarl. “You mouthy little pup. Hand it over, or we’ll throw the two of you right off this boat.”

  “I won it fair and square, mister. Doc Monday always says the cards know more about our fate than we do.”

  “I don’t know who in blazes Doc Monday is, but your fate is to take a beating and then a swim. Grab ’em, boys, but don’t throw ’em overboard until I get my watch back!”

  The other four men rushed Ace and Chance. With their backs to the railing, they had nowhere to go.

  Doc Monday, the gambler who had raised the Jensen brothers after their mother died in childbirth, had taught them many things, including the fact that it was usually a mistake to wait for trouble to come to you. Better to go out and meet it head on. In other words, the best defense was the proverbial good offense, so Ace and Chance met the charge with one of their own, going low to tackle the nearest two men around the knees.

  The hired ruffians weren’t expecting it, and the impact swept their legs out from under them. They fell under the feet of their onrushing companions, who stumbled and lost their balance, toppling onto the first two men, and suddenly there was a knot of flailing, punching, and kicking combatants on the deck.

  The florid-faced hombre who had foolishly wagered his watch during a poker game in the riverboat’s salon earlier hopped around agitatedly and shouted encouragement to his men.

  Facing two to one odds, the brothers shouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight, but when it came to brawling, Ace and Chance could more than hold their own. Their fists lashed out and crashed against the jaws and into the bellies of their enemies. Ace got behind one of the men, looped an arm around his neck, and hauled him around just in time to recei
ve a kick in the face that had been aimed at Ace’s head, knocking the man senseless.

  Ace let go of him and rolled out of the way of a dive from another attacker. He clubbed his hands and brought them down on the back of the man’s neck. The man’s face bounced off the deck, flattening his nose and stunning him.

  Chance had his hands full, too. His left hand was clamped around the neck of an enemy while his right clenched into a fist and pounded the man’s face. But he was taking punishment himself. His opponent was choking him at the same time, and the other man in the fight hammered punches into Chance’s ribs from the side.

  Knowing that he had only seconds before he would be overwhelmed, Chance twisted his body, drew his legs up, and rammed both boot heels into the chest of the man hitting him. It wasn’t quite the same as being kicked by a mule, but not far from it. The man flew backwards and rolled when he landed on the deck. He almost went under the railing and off the side into the river, but he stopped just short of the brink.

  With the odds even now, Chance was able to batter his other foe into submission. The man’s hand slipped off Chance’s throat as he moaned and slumped back onto the smooth planks.

  That still left the rich man who didn’t like losing.

  As Ace and Chance looked up from their vanquished enemies, they saw him pointing a pistol at them.

  “If you think I’m going to allow a couple gutter rats like you two to make a fool of me, you’re sadly mistaken,” the man said as a snarl twisted his beefy face.

  “You’re not gonna shoot us, mister,” Ace said. “That would be murder.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” An ugly smile appeared on the man’s lips. “Not if I tell the captain the two of you jumped me and tried to rob me. I had to kill you to protect myself. That’s exactly what’s about to happen here.”

  “Over a blasted watch?” Chance exclaimed in surprise.

  “I don’t like losing . . . especially to my inferiors.”