Bullets Don't Argue

by William W. Johnstone

  Emma listened with intent upon what he was saying and was inspired to ask a question. “I wonder if it would do any good if I went with you? Maybe if he could get to know me a little better, he might be willing for me to raise his grandson.” It was a bold suggestion, but after a great deal of discussion followed, everyone agreed that it might make a difference to Slocum if he could change his opinion of Emma as a Gypsy bitch. “With Perley to protect me, I’m not afraid to go,” she said, then turned to her sister. “I hope you don’t mind takin’ care of Danny for me again, but this time don’t take him on another trip.”

  “I ain’t promisin’ nothin’,” Rachael replied, laughing.

  “I’ll go with you,” Possum volunteered, still wanting to be a part of it. By evening’s end, it was decided. They would go with Perley to call on Zachary Slocum.

  * * *

  Two and a half days of travel took them to the headquarters of the Lazy-S Ranch. It was easy to find after they got to Comanche Run and followed a trail from there that took them right to the ranch house. Walking their horses across the yard toward the front porch, they were met by a man who came from the barn to intercept them. When they pulled up before him, he said nothing, but looked from one face to another as if trying to identify them. “We’ve come to talk to Mr. Slocum,” Perley said. “Is he here?”

  “Sí, Señor Slocum is here. Do you have business with him?”

  “Yes, I think we do,” Perley answered. “Tell him his daughter-in-law has come to see him.” Juan Garcia looked at Emma, clearly confused until Perley said, “Go tell him.”

  Still confused, Juan shrugged and said, “I tell him.” He then went to the front door and knocked.

  After a few minutes the door opened, and they could see Juan talking to someone inside. Then Margaret Cross stepped out on the porch, thinking that Juan must have gotten confused. Seeing the two men and the woman, she asked, “What is your business with Mr. Slocum?”

  “What he just told you,” Perley said. “His daughter-in-law wants to talk to him.”

  Margaret did not know what to believe, it being so unlikely. She stared hard at Emma for a few seconds before asking, “You’re Emma Wise?”

  “No, I’m Emma Slocum,” she answered defiantly. “Wise was my maiden name.”

  Margaret was not sure what to do. There was no telling how Zachary would react to such a bold visit. She hesitated but a moment more, then decided, to hell with it, I’ll go get him. To them, she said, “You can dismount and wait on the porch. I’ll go get Mr. Slocum.”

  They dismounted and stepped up on the wide porch. “Best keep on your toes,” Possum warned, halfway serious. “He might come out carryin’ a shotgun.”

  After what seemed a long few minutes, the door opened again and Zachary Slocum walked out to stand before them, glaring at each one in order. Though a few years past his physical prime, he still conveyed the image of a powerful man, with forearms like a blacksmith, attached to heavy, wide shoulders. It was little wonder that he was accustomed to king-like obedience from his family and his men. “Have you brought my grandson?” He asked, thinking there could be no other reason for their bold visit to his home.

  “No, I have not,” Emma spoke before Perley had a chance to. “We’ve come to tell you that Danny is my son, and he belongs with his mother until he’s old enough to decide for himself where his home is. When that time comes, if he wants to go to you, I won’t try to stop him. I’ve also come to tell you how sorry I am that you lost your son when I lost my husband, struck down by an evil man who held no respect for human life. For his evil act, he has paid with his life. Now, I’m askin’ you, as a Christian man, to leave me and my baby alone.”

  When she finished, no one said anything for a long moment, so surprised was everyone by her declaration, especially Perley and Possum. Possum started to say something, but Perley gave him a rough nudge and shook his head, effectively shutting him up. As far as Perley was concerned, Emma pretty much conveyed the message they had come to deliver, and it sounded better coming from the mother. Slocum, suddenly on the defensive, glanced at Margaret, who was still standing in the doorway for support, but she was as stunned as he. The picture they had painted of an ill-bred Gypsy woman did not resemble the confident young woman stating her peace. The wind having been sucked from his rage, Slocum was hard put to deny her claims. “You are denying my grandson the opportunity to grow up on a working ranch where he would have every opportunity to learn and grow,” he argued. “He wouldn’t have to scratch in the ground for enough food to stay alive.”

  “Let me answer that one for you, Mr. Slocum,” Perley spoke up. “I think you probably don’t know that Emma is building a hotel right now in Bison Gap, in a partnership with Mr. Smith, here. I might add that they’re payin’ for it with cash money. So your grandson ain’t hardly gonna be goin’ hungry. And the hotel will be operated by someone named Slocum, spreading your name over a wider area of Texas. That can’t be bad for you.”

  “I heard that rumor,” Slocum said, “but I didn’t believe it. You’re sayin’ it’s true?”

  “It’s a fact,” Possum replied. “The deal’s already set with the town council.”

  Standing behind Margaret in the door now, Brent Slocum listened with more than casual interest. Like Margaret, he was surprised to see his father seeming to be at a loss for words. He stepped out on the porch then. “There has already been too much bloodshed over this matter,” he said. Turning to Perley then, he asked, “The two men Eli Ballenger sent, they’re dead?”

  “They are,” Perley answered. “At least one of ’em is and the other one got shot.”

  “Ballenger?” Brent asked.

  “Dead,” Perley answered.

  Brent turned to face his father and repeated, “There has been enough bloodshed, Papa. Maybe it’s time to call off this feud.”

  Margaret stepped out on the porch then and moved close to Slocum. “Maybe he’s right, Zachary,” calling him by his given name. “Why don’t we invite your daughter-in-law and her friends inside for some coffee and maybe something to eat? I’ve got a fresh-baked apple pie cooling on the windowsill.”

  For a moment, the all-powerful master of the Lazy-S, seemed to be lost. Then he looked from Margaret to his son, smiling at him, and he suddenly regained his pride. “By God,” he exclaimed, “you’re right. You’re all right. Come on inside and tell me about this hotel you’re building. Brent, go get Raye and the girls. They’ll wanna meet your sister-in-law.”

  Possum looked at Perley, both of them grinning. “Ain’t no better way to end a feud than with a slice of apple pie,” Possum said.

  * * *

  It was a happy peace party that returned to Rooster’s cabin close to suppertime a couple of days after leaving the Lazy-S Ranch. There seemed to be reason to believe Zachary Slocum when he assured them there would be no future attempts to snatch his grandson from the arms of his mother. In fact, he and his son, Brent, had suggested that mother and son might wish to visit the Lazy-S when the boy was old enough to enjoy the operation of a working cattle ranch. Of course, that invitation was always open, depending upon Emma being able to take time away from her management of Bison Gap’s hotel.

  Supper that night also served as a farewell dinner for Perley, who once again planned to depart for Lamar County the following morning. Never one to enjoy farewells, Perley said his good-byes soon after supper, saying he had some things to take care of that night before leaving Bison Gap in the morning. Perhaps the hardest part, after a hug from both women and both of Rachael’s daughters, was a handshake with Possum. Rooster and Tom were both in high spirits over their short relationship with Perley Gates, but Possum seemed genuinely sorrowful. As he had told Perley before, he had gotten used to having him around, and he had still had hopes that he would take the sheriff’s job Wheeler offered. Perley told him he could never be a lawman. “I’ve got family wonderin’ where I am,” he said. “I’m already gonna catch hell for never comin’ back
to help drive those cattle to the market. But I wish you and Emma the best of luck with your hotel. I don’t see how you can miss.”

  * * *

  Early morning found him at the stable, where he settled up with Horace Brooks for boarding his horses and ended up selling Horace one Morgan gelding and saddle for a price too good for Horace to pass up. He gave him Ballenger’s packhorse. After saying “so long” to Horace, he headed to Wheeler’s Merchandise to give Ralph the key to the sheriff ’s office and buy supplies for his trip back to Lamar County and the Triple-G. Wheeler was disappointed to see him go but understood his need to leave. “I’ve had a fellow lined up for the job in case you didn’t take it,” Wheeler said. “He’s the foreman for a ranch south of here, and I think he’ll do a good job.”

  “You had him lined up all along, I expect,” Perley said.

  “I was hoping you’d change your mind,” Wheeler insisted.

  “Well, you’ve got some good folks here in your little town. I hope it grows like you want it to.” With that, he said good-bye to Wheeler, packed his supplies on his sorrel packhorse, and stepped up on Buck. He turned the bay gelding toward the bridge over Oak Creek, the same bridge Rooster had showed him when he and Possum and the others found Bison Gap. Once across the bridge, he turned Buck east for two miles to pick up the trail Possum had led them down, before turning north.

  He had not traveled ten miles when he became aware of someone following him. And he began to become a little concerned when each time he paused to take a look back, he discovered the rider was rapidly catching up with him. Just for the sake of being cautious, he decided to pull off the trail when he came to a stream with trees on each side, enough to pull Buck and his packhorse out of sight. He pulled his rifle out and waited. In about fifteen minutes, the rider came splashing across the stream, leading a packhorse behind him. “Possum!” Perley yelled, causing him to almost come out of the saddle when he yanked the reins to turn his horse.

  Perley rode out of the trees. “Possum, what is it? What’s wrong?” He waited a few moments while Possum righted himself in the saddle.

  “Dang, Perley, I took a chance on you takin’ the same trail we came down here on. Good thing you did, else I’da never caught you.”

  “Well, you caught me,” Perley said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Oh, nothin’s wrong, I just wanna go with you,” Possum replied.

  “Go with me?” Perley responded. “Go with me where?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever, I reckon. I ain’t got no place in mind. I just know I ain’t wantin’ to set around a hotel twiddlin’ my thumbs. I talked it over with Emma last night after you left, and she knows I don’t know nothin’ about runnin’ a hotel. When I brought her down here, I never planned to stay in the first place.”

  “So you pulled out of your partnership with her?”

  “Nah, we’re still partners, it’s just money she needs from me. She can handle the hotel without me around to get in the way. I’ll get my share of the profits. She said I can look at the books anytime I wanna. I figure you need a partner, and I’m hopin’ you don’t mind if I ride along with you. If you do mind, then I reckon I’ll leave you at the Red and I’ll go on back to Kansas. Whaddaya say?”

  Perley shook his head, astonished. He laughed and replied. “I reckon I could use some company.”

  Turn the page for an exciting preview!

  JOHNSTONE. WHERE IT’S NEVER QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT.

  In this rollicking new series, the Johnstones cordially invite you to the biggest, baddest, bang-up event of the season—one that gives a whole new meaning to “shotgun wedding” . . .

  Here come the brides. And the bullets . . .

  Bo Creel and Scratch Morton are lifelong drifters who keep one eye on the horizon, one finger on the trigger, and one foot out the door. Roaming the West is what keeps them young, or so Scratch tells Bo. But when they save the life of Cyrus Keegan—the owner of a matrimonial agency—they receive an unexpected offer that’s hard to resist. Keegan needs to deliver five mail-order brides to a mining town in New Mexico Territory. All Scratch and Bo have to do is get these gals to the church on time—and alive, if possible . . .

  The job seems easy enough—and the brides-to-be are even easier on the eyes. Cecilia, Beth, Luella, Rose, and Jean all need good husbands. But their prospects look bad when the journey to the altar includes Mexican banditos, scheming silver robbers, and one overbearing rancher who won’t take no for an answer.

  Bo and Scratch promised to keep the ladies safe—and keep their hands to themselves—but it could be the last vow they’ll ever make . . .

  National Bestselling Authors

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  and J. A. JOHNSTONE

  HAVE BRIDES, WILL TRAVEL

  A MAIL-ORDER BRIDES WESTERN

  First in a new series!

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Live Free. Read Hard.

  www.williamjohnstone.net

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CHAPTER 1

  The two men reined their horses to a halt. Below them to the left, at the bottom of a green, grassy bluff, a river meandered along between steep banks. Ahead of them, perched atop the bluff, were the buildings of a good-sized town, dominated by a big stone courthouse at the north end.

  “Fort Worth,” Scratch Morton said as he leaned on his saddle horn. “Reckon we’ll see the panther?”

  “I’m not sure there’s any truth to that story,” Bo Creel replied. “And even if there was, Fort Worth isn’t a sleepy enough place anymore for a panther to curl up in the middle of Main Street and go to sleep.”

  That was true. Even from a distance, Bo and Scratch could see that the town was bustling. Off to the northwest, on the other side of the Trinity River, lay a broad stretch of cattle pens, over which hung a faint haze of dust. Fort Worth was no longer just a stopover on the cattle trails that led north. It was an important shipping point in its own right these days.

  Scratch grinned. Like Bo, who had been his best friend for more years than either of them liked to count, he was at the upper edge of middle age. He was far from being ready for a rocking chair on a shady porch, though, as he would emphatically tell anybody who even hinted at such a thing.

  “Next thing, you’re gonna be tellin’ me there’s no such place as Hell’s Half Acre,” Scratch said.

  “No, it’s real enough, I reckon. We’ve been there, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, it’s been a while, and last time we were in Fort Worth, we didn’t really have a chance to enjoy ourselves. We were on our way somewhere else, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said, “but I disremember where.”

  “With a couple of fiddle-footed hombres like us, I ain’t sure it matters.” Scratch straightened in the saddle and heeled his horse into motion again. “Come on.”

  The two of them were the same age and about the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. Scratch was the more eye-catching of the duo, with silver hair under a big cream-colored Stetson; a ruggedly handsome, deeply tanned face that usually sported a grin; a fringed buckskin jacket over brown whipcord trousers and high-topped brown boots; and a pair of ivory-handled Remington revolvers in fancy tooled-leather holsters attached to an equally fancy gunbelt.

  Folks always noticed Scratch first, which was just fine with Bo, who never craved attention. He wore a flat-crowned black hat on his graying dark brown hair. The hat matched the long coat and trousers he wore. He’d been accused more than once of looking like a circuit-riding preacher, but not many preachers carried a Colt revolver with such well-worn walnut grips.

  They had become friends as boys during the Texas Revolution, in what came to be known as the Runaway Scrape, when the Mexican dictator Santa Anna and his army chased thousands of Texican settlers eastward after the fall of the Alamo.

  Yeah, Santa Anna chased them, all right . . . until they came to a place cal
led San Jacinto, where they rallied under General Sam Houston’s leadership, turned around, waded into battle against overwhelming odds, and whipped that Mexican army up one way and down the other.

  That was the birth of the Republic of Texas, which eventually became part of the United States, and now, more than forty years after that history-making day, Bo and Scratch were both still proud they had fought side by side in that battle, despite their youth.

  They had remained friends ever since. They had gone through tragedy and heartbreak, danger and hardship, and for a big chunk of that time, they had ridden together, drifting from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, from the Rio Grande—sometimes below the Rio Grande—to the Canadian border. They had seen mountains and deserts and forests and plains.

  But despite all that, something still drove them onward in search of new places to see and new things to do.

  If they ever stopped moving, Bo had reflected more than once, they might just wither away to nothing.

  In recent times, a visit to the ranches where they had been raised down in South Texas, after the revolution, had gotten prolonged to the point where it seemed like they might actually settle down and live out their lives there. It would have been easy enough to do. They had friends and relatives and special ladies who would have been glad to settle down with them there.

  Then one morning Scratch had shown up, trailing a loaded packhorse behind his mount, and had said to Bo, “You ready?”