Look for These Exciting Series from
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Preacher: The First Mountain Man
Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
The Family Jensen
MacCallister
Flintlock
The Brothers O’Brien
The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal
Hell’s Half Acre
Texas John Slaughter
Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal
Eagles
The Frontiersman
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
THE LAST GUNFIGHTER:
The Burning
WILLIAM W JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE E-BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PINNACLE E-BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2003 William W 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.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First electronic edition: November 2016
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3767-4
He lies below, correct in cypress wood.
And entertains the most exclusive worms.
Dorothy Parker
Prologue
Frank poured himself a cup of coffee and put the pot back on the coals at the edge of the campfire. He broke a stale biscuit in half and pitched a piece to Dog, who caught it and wolfed it down with a satisfied look before Frank could put his in his mouth, much less chew it.
After a moment’s quiet contemplation of the almost full moon and starlit sky, Frank took a deep drink of his coffee and lay back with his head on his saddle and the campfire behind him. He pulled a dog-eared paperback book from his saddlebag and sipped his coffee while he thumbed through the well-worn pages. He’d picked the book up in the last town he’d passed through, giving only a nickle for it instead of a dime since it was used.
Frank chuckled when he saw the author’s name on the cover, just above a drawing of what appeared to be a rather nasty character holding a screaming woman in one arm while he fired a very large pistol with the other. The author’s name was listed as Ned Buntline, but Frank had met the man on more than one occasion, and knew his real name to be Edward Z.C. Judson, though in truth he had no idea what either the Z or the C stood for.
Judson had offered Frank what most people would consider an enormous amount of money if he’d tell the writer about some of his many adventures. Of course, Judson had no idea that Frank was already wealthy and that money had little or no importance to him. At their last meeting, Frank told Judson that not only was he not interested in cooperating with a story of his life, but that he would consider it a personal insult should Judson try to write it on his own.
Frank held the book up so he could get a better look at the woman on the cover. She had long hair, cascading down onto her shoulders from under a hat with a wildflower sticking up out of it. He wondered briefly if this was to be another tale of Deadwood Dick and Hurricane Nell, or whether this issue would feature Calamity Jane or Buffalo Bill. Frank was acquainted with both Bill Cody and Calamity Jane, and got a real laugh out of the way the pair were portrayed by Judson writing as Ned Buntline.
Buffalo Bill was described as tall and lean, handsome without being pretty, and deadly with a six-shooter. In truth, Bill Cody was just above average in height, ugly as a polecat beneath his large handlebar mustache, and though a pretty fair shot with a long gun, couldn’t hit the side of a barn from inside with a pistol.
Frank knew Judson had also taken a great deal of literary license with his description of Calamity Jane, whom he described as petite and pretty and a deadly shootist. While it was true Jane could shoot the balls off a gnat at fifty feet, she was as plain and ugly as homemade soap, though Frank thought her funny and entertaining after she’d had a few drinks of whiskey.
One thing was sure, he thought as he looked at the cover of the dime book. She looked nothing like the woman on the cover, and Jane would shoot the toes off any man who tried to grab hold of her like the bearded gent had in the picture.
Frank drained the last of his coffee, checked to make sure Dog was bedded down next to the fire, and lay back to read a few pages until he fell asleep.
He opened the book to the first page and the title of the first story: “Dangerous Dan Murdock Bites Off More Than He Can Chew.”
Hmmm, thought Frank, Dangerous Dan Murdock is a new character. Maybe this one won’t be so bad after all. He began to read:
Dangerous Dan Murdock drank whiskey after whiskey as he sat at the bar in Wichita, Kansas, one Saturday afternoon. The more he drank, the angrier he became. Dangerous Dan didn’t have anything in particular to be angry at; it was just that whiskey always made him a little crazy.
A man sitting down the bar a ways got up off his bar stool and moved toward Dan, a lopsided grin on his face. Dangerous Dan, seeing the man grinning at him like a schoolkid, snarled, pulled his Colt .44, and slashed it across the man’s face, knocking him to the floor with blood spurting all over Dangerous Dan boots.
This infuriated Dangerous Dan even more, and so he commenced to kicking the man in the head, which only made the bleeding worse.
The bartender rushed out from behind the bar, grabbed Dangerous Dan by the shoulders, and pulled him away from the unconscious man on the floor.
“Why in hell did you do that? ” the barman asked.
“That fool was laughin’ at me,” Dangerous Dan answered, scowling as he looked down at the man.
“He wasn’t laughing at you,” the barman said. “He was just coming down the bar to get one of those pickled eggs in the jar there next to where you were sitting.”
“Oh,” Dangerous Dan said, though from his grin he wasn’t at all sorry.
“You’re gonna have to leave the bar,” the bartender said, ushering Dangerous Dan toward the batwings.
“That’s all right,” Dangerous Dan said. “I was gettin’ tired of this place anyway.”
When he stumbled out onto the boardwalk running along the main street of Wichita, Dangerous Dan bumped into a young lady who was walking by with her arms full of packages.
As the packages tumbled out of her arms and onto the ground, Dangerous Dan noticed t
he woman was extremely pretty. In fact, he thought her the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
“Hey, honey, what’s your name?” Dangerous Dan asked, trying his best not to slur his words as he bowed and tipped his hat at the woman.
The young lady gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Ladies just did not speak to gentlemen until they’d been formally introduced.
When she refused to speak to him or to answer any of his questions, Dangerous Dan got even more angry and he grabbed her by the arm, jerking her around until their faces were just inches apart.
“I asked you what your name was, little lady, an’I expect an answer!” he growled, snarling like a dog after a bone.
The girl’s eyes opened wide as her face flushed with fear. “I . . . I’m called Sweet Sue,” she stammered.
Dangerous Dan pulled her up against him, his thick black beard almost touching her ruby red lips. “Well, Sweet Sue, how’s about a little kiss for old Dan?”
Sweet Sue stared at Dangerous Dan blackened and stained teeth, and the thought of touching those hideous lips caused her to try and pull away, a loud scream pushing from her dainty mouth.
“Unhand that lady, you blackguard!” a deep, resonant voice called from the street in front of the saloon.
Dangerous Dan couldn’t believe his ears. No one dared to talk to him in that tone of voice, not if they wanted to go on breathing.
He whirled around, still holding Sweet Sue up against his thick body. He dropped his hand next to the butt of his . 44 and scowled at the stranger who’d just spoken.
The man was tall and lean, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He was dressed in buckskins and had shiny black boots on that reached up to his knees. He was wearing a brace of pearl-handled Colt Peacemakers and he was scowling right back at Dangerous Dan.
“This ain’t none of your business, stranger, so why don’t you just mosey on down the road an’you won’t get hurt,” Dangerous Dan said in his most intimidating growl.
“I told you to let the lady go or I won’t be responsible for what I’m forced to do to you,” the man said, not looking at all afraid of Dangerous Dan.
“Who are you, mister?” Dangerous Dan asked, wondering if the man knew who he was talking to in such a manner.
“My name’s Frank Morgan,” the stranger replied. “And if you don’t let go of that young lady right this minute, I’m going to have to make you.”
Frank’s eyes opened wide as he read the name of the hero in the story. That damned Judson is usin’ my name after I told him not to, he thought, vowing to kick Judson’s butt all the way down the main street of whatever town they were in next time he saw the man. Shaking his head, he read on....
Dangerous Dan laughed at the thought of anyone daring to stand up against him. After all, he was the fastest gun in Kansas and everyone knew it.
Dan squared around until he was facing the man named Frank Morgan, and he shifted Sweet Sue from his right arm to his left, so his right would be free to draw his Colt and kill this insolent man.
“Well, then, Mr. Morgan, fill your hand!” Dangerous Dan yelled as he grabbed for his gun.
Seconds later, twin shots rang out and smoke filled the air in front of the saloon. A loud groan could be heard, followed by moaning.
When the smoke cleared, Frank Morgan was leading Sweet Sue off toward her buckboard and Dangerous Dan was down on one knee on the boardwalk, holding his right hand under his left arm.
Frank Morgan had shot the pistol from his hand in a daring exhibition of marksmanship that Wichita had never seen before.
Dangerous Dan screamed out at Morgan’s back as he and Sweet Sue walked away, “I won’t forget this, Morgan! You and me ain’t done yet!”
Frank closed the book and sighed. He wondered briefly if the people back East who read this nonsense really believed the people out West really talked and acted this way. God, I hope not, he thought. It’s bad enough that the schoolkids out here read it and are led to believe that the life of a gunfighter is glamorous and exciting.
He yawned widely and put the book aside as he pulled his blanket up over him, wishing he could somehow get Judson or Erastus Beadle, the other widely read author of the penny dreadfuls, to just once write how it really was to make a living by using your gun. If they did, and if people could be made to believe it, there would be damned few gunfighters in the future, that was for sure.
He rolled on his side and closed his eyes. Dawn was going to come awfully early and he needed to get some shut-eye.
One
Frank first smelled the odor of charred wood, then the smell of burned human flesh. Once that is smelled, the memory of the stink never leaves a person.
Coming from the north, Frank thought, right over that next little ridge.
Just to be on the safe side, Frank shucked his rifle from the saddle boot and levered a round into the .44-40. Might be Indians, he thought. Better to err on the side of caution.
He topped the ridge and looked down at the charred ruins of a homestead and several dead livestock. He could not immediately spot any bodies, but the smell told him there were some down there. He also dismissed the thought of Indians. They would have stolen the horses and driven off the cattle for food, not shot the animals and left the carcasses to rot on the ground.
On the ridge, Frank took a long, careful look around him at the carefully tended fields that formed a crude half circle around the ruins of the homestead. He could see nothing moving and more importantly, could sense nothing. Frank rode down to what had been the small front yard of the homestead. He could tell the picket fence had been torn down by several mounted men. He looked down at Dog, his big cur dog, part wolf, part God only knows what else. Dog didn’t like the smell, but he was not baring his teeth or growling and the hair on his back was not standing up.
Frank swung down from the saddle, and led his horses over to a watering trough and let them drink a bit, but not too much. Then he walked all around the house, still carrying his rifle. There was no sign of any life. He wasn’t expecting to find any.
He looked up at the sound of a wagon rattling up the road. The wagon was followed by a couple of men on horseback. Frank waited in the front yard. He could see a man and a woman on the wagon seat.
The man brought the wagon to a halt in front of the house. The two mounted men sat their saddles and stared at Frank.
“I just rode in from the south,” Frank said. “Over that ridge yonder. I smelled the odor of charred wood and death and decided to investigate.”
“You say,” one of the mounted men said.
“That’s right, mister,” Frank told him, meeting his eyes. “I say.”
“Any sign of life?” asked the man holding the reins of the wagon team. His tone was a lot friendlier.
“I haven’t found any yet.”
“This was Dick and Abby Norton’s place,” the man in the wagon said. “They had two boys, Hubert and Charles.”
“No sign of them,” Frank said. “But I just got here. I’ve had time to walk once around the ruins.”
“Why are you carrying a rifle?” the other mounted man asked.
“Because I didn’t know what to expect,” Frank said. “And I still don’t know about this. Only that it wasn’t Indians and it happened hours ago.”
“Sometime during the night for sure,” the man in the wagon said. “I’m Claude Hornsby and this is my wife, Mavis. The other two are Dan and Hugh.”
“Frank.”
“Just Frank?” Dan asked.
“It’ll do for the time being.”
“Let’s look for the bodies,” Claude said, stepping down from the wagon.
“Maybe they’re not dead,” Hugh said, dismounting.
“They’re dead,” Claude replied. “Just like the others.”
“Others?” Frank asked.
“It’s a long story,” Claude told him.
“As if he don’t know it,” Dan said.
Frank looked at the man and held
his temper in check. There definitely was more to this story than he knew. He waited for someone to explain.
“Mr. Frank,” Mavis said as her husband helped her down from the wagon seat, “we’re farmers in the middle of cattle country.”
“And the cattlemen want you out of here,” Frank replied. It was not posed as a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“I should have guessed it,” Frank said. “Same old story. I’ve seen it before.”
“You wear a tied-down pistol,” Claude said. “The gunmen the big spreads in this area have hired all wear tied-down guns.”
“No one has hired me to do anything,” Frank said. “I don’t hire my gun.”
“But you are a gunman,” Claude persisted.
Frank smiled at the way the farmer pronounced it. “I’ve been called that, yes.”
“I don’t see anything funny about it,” Claude said sourly.
“I assure you, friend,” Frank replied. “There isn’t.” He looked over at Dan. “You know the names of any of these hired guns?”
“Two or three drift in every day, Frank. I’ve heard the names Paco and Jess mentioned.”
Frank whistled softly. “Paco Morales and Jess Stone.”
“You know them?”
“I know them. They’re bad ones. Top gun handlers. I know they don’t like each other.”
“Do they like you?” Hugh questioned.
“No,” Frank said flatly. “They’d like to kill me.”
“Why is that, Mr. Frank?” Mavis asked.
“Oh . . . call it professional jealousy.”
“Then you must be famous,” Claude said.
“I’m known some here and there,” Frank admitted. “Do you want to look for your friends in the rubble? I think it’s cool enough.”
“You’d help us?” Dan asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
They found the bodies of the man and his wife in the house, in the area that Dan said was once their bedroom. The bodies of the boys were found in the ruins of the barn.
Burning Page 1