Burning

by William W. Johnstone

  “Rough? Mister, they’s three, four killin’s ever’day down yonder. Outlaws and scum run that place.”

  “Well, I’m looking for an old friend of mine. I heard he might be somewhere in No-Man’s-Land.”

  “You a lawman?”

  “No. Just a man looking for an old friend.”

  “Best shy away from No-Man’s-Land, partner. Don’t no decent person live there.”

  Frank provisioned up and pushed on. As he drew closer to the northern boundary of No-Man’s-Land, he began to see the remains of homesteads: half-burned cabins, fields that had at one time felt the bite of a plow, small gardens that had all gone to seed, and tiny grave sites. The homesteaders had built too close to outlaw territory, and had paid a terrible price for doing so.

  Back at the trading post, the owner had told him that Kansas didn’t want the strip of land and neither did Texas. He reckoned that someday Oklahoma would have to take it. But for now, it was strictly No-Man’s-Land, a haven for the scum of the earth.

  When he was about ten miles from the narrow strip of land, Frank was halted by a posse, some twenty strong. They had been heading east and had intersected Frank on his way south.

  “You got a name?” the leader of the posse asked.

  “Frank Morgan.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and frowned. “You tryin’ to be funny, mister?”

  “No. You asked my name. I told you.”

  “He’s Frank Morgan,” another man said, walking his horse up to the front of the posse. “I seen his picture lots of times.”

  “You bounty huntin’?” Frank was asked.

  “No.”

  “Where are you headin’?”

  Frank pointed toward the south. “Down thataway.”

  “That’s No-Man’s-Land, Morgan.”

  “I know it.”

  “No man in his right mind rides into that area alone,” the posse leader said. “That strip of land is home to the vilest kind of criminal. Scum of the earth.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Frank replied.

  “And you’re still heading in there?”

  “Yes.”

  The posse leader placed both hands on his saddle horn and stared at Frank. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “I’m the curious type,” Frank answered.

  “You go in yonder alone and you’re goin’ to be the dead type, Morgan. Do you know anything at all about that area?”

  “Not a whole lot. But I intend to find out.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I plan on doing just that.”

  “There’s a trading post right on the line, Morgan. ’Bout two hours’ ride south. Man who runs it stays neutral. The outlaws let him stay in business because of that. Once you ride past that post, you’re in No-Man’s-Land. God help you.” The leader of the posse lifted the reins and rode away, the posse following. As the men passed him, Frank received a lot of very curious glances.

  Frank rode on, heading south. He really didn’t know why he was heading into outlaw country. Like he had told the men of the posse, he was simply the curious type.

  He topped a small rise and reined up, sitting his horse, looking down at several ramshackle buildings. The trading post. There were half a dozen horses tied at hitch rails in the front. There was a barn set off to the south side of the post. Frank could not tell if more horses were stabled there. He slowly rode down to the post, swung down from the saddle, and stood for a moment, looking around.

  “You stay here,” he told Dog. Dog immediately lay down between the hitch rail and the porch.

  Frank pushed open the door and stepped into the post. He stood for a moment, looking around as he let his eyes adjust to low light of the gloomy interior.

  Half a dozen men sat at tables, drinking and playing cards. Frank recognized one immediately. “Kincaid,” he said. “I figured somebody would have hanged you by now.”

  Bob Kincaid glared at Frank. “Morgan,” he finally said.

  “You know that feller?” a man seated at the table asked.

  “I know him. That’s Frank Morgan.”

  “Frank Morgan!” another man seated across the room blurted out.

  “You lawin’, Morgan?” Bob asked.

  “No.”

  “Bounty huntin’?”

  “No. Just passin’ through, Kincaid.”

  “You better bypass that strip of land south of here, Morgan. Lots of folks down there would just love to put lead in you. Including me.”

  “You want to try that now, Kincaid?”

  The outlaw smiled, exposing stained and rotten teeth. “I’ll git my chance one of these days, Morgan. I can wait.”

  Frank turned his back to the man and walked to the bar. “Coffee,” he told the counterman. “In a clean cup,” he added.

  “Picky, ain’t you?” the bearded bear of a man asked.

  “You have a clean cup?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll wash one special for you.”

  “You do that.”

  Frank sipped his coffee. It was surprisingly good.

  “That suit your taste, Morgan?” the counterman asked.

  “Matter of fact, it does. Do I know you?”

  “I seen you in Kansas, right after the war. You gunned down a hothead name of Cledus Head.”

  “I remember. He pushed me into that fight.”

  “He did for a fact.” The man moved away to the end of the bar and began polishing glasses with a rag that appeared to be dirtier than the glassware was.

  Bob Kincaid stood up and walked to the bar, close to Frank. “You’re a fool, Morgan. You got no business comin’ into the strip and stickin’ your damn nose into things that don’t concern you.”

  “I’m just passing through, Bob,” Frank replied. “As long as I’m left alone, I’ll do the same for you and your kind.”

  “Hell with you!” Kincaid said, and walked out of the trading post. His friends pushed back their chairs and followed him.

  “That man don’t like you very much, Morgan,” the counterman said. “You best heed his words.”

  “Nobody tells me where I can or can’t go.”

  “The strip ain’t like no other place in the country, Morgan. There ain’t no law, no rules ‘ceptin’ what a man can back up with a gun. And you just one man, one gun. Alone, with no friends in yonder.”

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “You enjoy stickin’ your hand into a rattlesnake den?”

  Frank did not reply.

  “Ride on out of here, Morgan,” the counterman urged. “I think you’re a decent enough man, but that don’t spell coyote crap in the strip.”

  “I need a few supplies,” Frank said.

  “You’re really goin’ into No-Man’s-Land?”

  “I am.”

  “You got any kin you want me to notify?”

  “I’ll send them a telegram when I come out.”

  “Morgan . . . dead men don’t send telegrams.”

  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

&n
bsp; 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.

  “Morg, the whore says I can’t cut on this man,” Yarr said. “What do you say?”

  Morgan Davis was a tall, cadaverous man with black hair and penetrating black eyes. He affected the sober dress and measured speech of a country parson but the Colt in the shoulder holster under his left arm gave the lie to that image.

  “Not now, Buck,” Davis said. “I’ve heard of this ranny. His name is Sam Flintlock on account of the old smoke pole he carries and he makes his living as a bounty hunter and bank robber. There’s some say he’s real sudden on the draw-and-shoot and has killed a dozen men. Others say he’s just plumb loco and talks to his dea
d kinfolk, but I ain’t so sure about that. He looks like a mean one though, don’t he?”

  “He ain’t so tough,” Yarr said. “I want the big bird on his throat. Slice it offen him and make a pouch for myself.”

  “It will make a fine pouch, a crackerjack pouch, Buck,” Davis said, patting the man on the shoulder. “But hold off on the cutting until we see if there’s a price on his head. If he’s wanted dead or alive, then he’s all yours. But if the law wants him in one piece, then you can wait until after he’s hung.”

  “Long wait.” Yarr looked sulky.

  Davis smiled. “Be of good cheer, Buck. There’s a settlement close to Guadalupe Peak with a tough sheriff. We can take Flintlock and the breed there. If there’s a dodger on them, once the lawman pays the reward I’m sure we can talk him into a quick hanging.”

  “What town? What sheriff?” Yarr said. “I steer clear of lawmen.”

  “Town’s called Happyville and the sheriff’s name is Barney Morrell,” Davis said. “Me and Barney go back a ways, to the time me and him rode with the Taylor brothers and that hard crowd during their feud with the Suttons. Barney killed a couple men and then lit out for the New Mexico Territory ahead of a Sutton hanging posse. He married a gal by the name of Lorraine Day and for a spell prospered in the hardware business. But Barney never could settle down for long and he worked as a lawman in Fort Worth and Austin and then, the last I heard, became the sheriff of Happyville.”

  “He still there?” Yarr said.

  “I haven’t heard otherwise,” Davis said.

  “Then I guess I’ll wait.” Yarr slid his knife into its sheath. “But there’s one thing I need to get straight, Morg.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to cut this man afore he’s hung. Don’t set right with me to go slicing a big bird offen a dead man’s throat. It ain’t proper.”

  Davis nodded. “I’m sure that can be arranged, Buck. Easy thing to cut a man before he gets hung.”

  “What about the sheriff? What’s his name?”

  “I’ll take care of Barney. Kick back a share of the reward money and he’ll cooperate.”