When All Hell Broke Loose

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  If the head of Jamie’s tomahawk had struck Stone Bear’s arm, it would have broken the bone and inflicted a terrible wound. As it was, only the wooden handle hit the warrior’s arm, but that was enough to make Stone Bear grunt in pain and drop the knife. He threw himself backward as Jamie tried a backhanded blow to the head. Stone Bear’s feet slipped on the thin layer of snow left on the ground, and his legs went out from under him. He landed hard on his rump.

  Jamie rushed but didn’t commit himself fully, which was a good thing because Stone Bear rolled out of the way and came up swiftly, lashing out with the tomahawk in what could have been a disemboweling swipe if it had landed. Jamie pulled back and kicked Stone Bear’s fallen knife well out of the circle.

  Shouts of disapproval came from the Blackfeet at that tactic, but no one moved to interfere. Stone Bear had lost his knife fair and square, and Jamie had every right to deprive him of the weapon for the rest of the fight.

  The chief didn’t appear to care. Sneering, he slowly circled Jamie. “I have no need of a blade to kill you, white man,” he taunted.

  Jamie smiled. “If you’re trying to prod me into throwing away my knife, I reckon I’ll hang on to it for now.”

  Stone Bear’s sneer turned into a growl as he launched another attack, slashing back and forth with the tomahawk so fast the eyes of the watchers could barely follow the strokes.

  Jamie dodged some of the blows, blocked others, and forced Stone Bear to break off his attack and give ground when the tip of Jamie’s blade raked across his ribs and drew blood. The watching Blackfeet roared angrily again. So far, Jamie had the edge in the deadly contest.

  All that mattered was the final outcome, though, and that was still very much in doubt. One slip, one wrong move, and Jamie would be finished.

  But the same was true for Stone Bear.

  All Jamie needed was one opportunity.

  That came when the two men had been fighting for ten minutes that seemed much longer.

  Luck guided Stone Bear’s tomahawk in a wild swing that happened to catch the blade of Jamie’s knife and knocked the weapon out of his hands. A triumphant snarl twisted Stone Bear’s face as he tried to seize the opportunity. He charged in and backhanded the tomahawk at Jamie’s head.

  Jamie went over backward to avoid the slashing blow and landed in the snow. He drew up both legs and lashed out with a double-barreled kick that caught Stone Bear in the stomach and sent him flying through the air. Both men rolled, came up at the same time, and flew at each other, the wild leap carrying them through the space Jamie’s kick had opened between them.

  Stone Bear was hurting, and his reactions weren’t quite as fast as they had been. He tried to block Jamie’s tomahawk with his, but he was a shaved whisker of a second too late.

  The head of Jamie’s tomahawk struck Stone Bear in the center of the forehead, split his skull open, and buried itself in the Blackfoot chief ’s brain.

  Stone Bear’s knees buckled and he dropped, dead before he hit the ground.

  A huge, shocked, grief-stricken wail that sounded like one cry came from the throats of the crowd. Several warriors started to step forward, but Beaver Tail’s shout stopped them. His face was twisted with emotion, but Jamie saw instantly that he was going to honor the bargain his brother had made with the white man.

  “Damn,” Preacher said into the stunned silence that fell, “that was some wallop, Jamie.”

  “Kill them!” Baron von Kuhner screeched. “Kill them all!”

  The Prussian soldiers opened fire. Unfortunately, as nervous as they were, they didn’t wait for the Blackfeet to get out of the way, and several Indians cried out in pain and collapsed.

  With Beaver Tail shouting orders at them, other warriors turned and fell upon the Prussians, who were trying desperately to reload their rifles or haul out the pistols they had used on the American dragoons. Instantly, the village was a bloody, screaming melee.

  Preacher grabbed Jamie’s arm and yelled over the uproar, “Let’s go get the colonel and the rest of the boys!”

  Dodging Blackfoot warriors, they raced toward the lodge where Sutton and the others were being kept, then spotted the American soldiers hurrying toward them.

  “Our guards charged off to get in that battle, whatever it is,” Sutton explained breathlessly as Jamie and Preacher joined them.

  “It’s the Blackfeet against von Kuhner and his men now,” Jamie said, “and the Prussians are getting the worst of it.”

  In fact, outnumbered as they were, it was only a matter of time until they were wiped out. Von Kuhner had led those men to their deaths.

  With a pistol in one hand and his saber in the other, von Kuhner broke free of the battle. Behind him, Becker was armed the same way as they charged toward Jamie, Preacher and the others, shooting and chopping down any of the Blackfeet who got in their way.

  Jamie and Preacher turned to face them.

  Becker charged ahead, only to stop short as a shot blasted. He stumbled, dropped his gun and sword, and pawed at the blood-welling hole in his chest. A split second after that shot, von Kuhner staggered as well and looked down at the arrow that sprouted from his chest as if by magic. He swayed as he dropped his pistol and reached up to grasp the arrow’s shaft. He was trying to pull it free of his body, then blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

  He and Becker hit the ground almost at the same time and didn’t move again.

  Preacher looked over at Roscoe Lomax, who stood to one side holding a rifle with smoke curling from the barrel. “Well, what do you know?” said the mountain man with a grin. “I wondered what happened to you, Lomax.”

  “I’ve been around,” the bullwhacker replied. “Just bidin’ my time and waitin’ for a moment when it looked like I could make a difference. I wasn’t gonna pass up a chance to settle the score with that Becker varmint.”

  Countess Katarina von Falkenhayn, who stood not far from Lomax, lowered the bow she held and stared at the fallen form of Baron von Kuhner. She drew in a long breath, let it out in a sigh, and turned to Preacher. “You had no way of knowing it when you gave me this bow, but when I was growing up, my father spent many hours teaching me archery at our family’s castle.”

  “Looks like you learned mighty well,” Preacher told her. He nodded to Reese Coburn, Helmuth, and Walter von Stauffenberg, who came up behind the countess, trailed by the other ladies. “You boys all right?”

  “We’re fine,” Coburn said. “Looks like the fight’s about over.”

  “Yeah,” Jamie agreed. He watched as Beaver Tail stalked toward them, a bloody tomahawk in one hand. “And now we’ll find out what the Blackfeet intend to do.”

  They stood shoulder to shoulder—the frontiersmen, the soldiers, the aristocrats, the former servants—all ready to fight and sell their lives dearly if need be.

  Beaver Tail stopped and spoke rapidly and angrily in Blackfoot. Preacher and Jamie listened and then nodded. Preacher replied in the Indian tongue. Beaver Tail turned away.

  “For heaven’s sake, what did he say?” Colonel Sutton burst out.

  “He said they wouldn’t kill us, but he advised us to get while the getting’s good and not waste any time about it, either,” Jamie replied.

  “Yeah,” Preacher added. “There are some long-standin’ grudges betwixt me and the Blackfeet, but Beaver Tail’s willin’ to honor Stone Bear’s deal . . . for now. If I ever run into ’em again, though . . .”

  Preacher didn’t have to finish his sentence. They all knew what he meant.

  “We’d better round up our horses.” Jamie squinted at the clouds. “I don’t think it’s going to snow anymore, and the drifts shouldn’t be too bad. If we hurry, we’ll get you folks back to civilization before you know it.”

  * * *

  Six weeks later, Jamie and Preacher stood on a St. Louis dock and watched passengers boarding a riverboat that would take them down the Mississippi to New Orleans. There, the passengers woul
d board a ship that would take them across the Gulf, around Florida, and up the east coast to New York, where another great sailing vessel would be waiting to take them home.

  As Marion von Arnim and Joscelyn von Tellman barked orders at their servants while going up the gangplank to the riverboat’s deck, Preacher shook his head and said quietly to Jamie, “Sure didn’t take long for things to get back to normal with that bunch, did it? Once they got some good food and had a warm bed to sleep in and didn’t have to worry about Injuns killin’ ’em all the time, them damn aristocrats went right back to actin’ like they did before.”

  “Those two did,” Jamie agreed. “I suppose that’s just their nature. They want to put everything that happened behind them. Anyway, not all of them are like that.” He nodded toward the couple strolling along the dock toward them, arm in arm.

  Reese Coburn was still whipcord thin, but he was starting to fill out a little now that he wasn’t living as a half-starved slave in a Blackfoot village. Freshly shaved and barbered and wearing a suit instead of buckskins, he looked downright respectable.

  Beside him, Katarina was beautiful. She smiled as she looked up at Coburn while they talked.

  Behind them came Helmuth and Gerda. Helmuth was even more scrawny than Coburn had been, but like the frontiersman, he’d had his beard and most of his long, tangled hair shorn off. Only part of the time did a crazy expression still lurk in his eyes.

  Gerda held Walter von Stauffenberg’s hand and led him gently toward the boat. He seemed happy enough, although not really sure what was going on. A poignant reminder of Adalwolf von Kuhner’s evil treachery and ambition.

  Katarina and Coburn stopped before Preacher and Jamie. She hugged both big men and kissed them on their leathery cheeks.

  “Ain’t ever’ day I get kissed by a countess,” Preacher said with a grin. “You probably can’t say the same, Reese.”

  Katarina blushed, and Coburn returned the mountain man’s grin as he said, “I reckon there are a lot of ways I’m just about the luckiest fella in the world right now.”

  “I can’t help but wonder how you’re going to like Europe,” Jamie said.

  “We don’t have to stay there if he doesn’t,” Katarina said. “I’ve told Reese I’m perfectly willing to come back here to live, as long as I can visit my family from time to time.”

  “And who knows?” said Coburn. “Could be I’ll fit right in over there with all those highfalutin’ folks.” He looked at Katarina. “With your help, of course, Your Countesship.”

  She laughed, then grew more serious as she asked, “Where’s Herr Lomax? I thought he might come to see us off as well.”

  “He would have,” Jamie said, “but he got wind of a wagon train over at Independence that’s heading off to Santa Fe with a load of freight, so he lit a shuck in that direction, hoping to sign on with them before they left. He said to wish you good luck, though.”

  Preacher said, “You may need it once you get back and tell folks what a lowdown skunk von Kuhner was. I reckon he’s probably still got some friends over there who won’t take kindly to you spreadin’ the news.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Katarina said. “The truth must come out, no matter what the danger.” She looked around at Coburn, Helmuth, Gerda, and Walter. “Besides, I have wonderful friends to help me.”

  “That’s true.” Jamie shook hands with Coburn, then took his hat off and said, “So long, ma’am. Have a safe voyage home.”

  Preacher took off his hat, too, and nodded to her. “Just watch your back trail, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be helpin’ her do just that,” Coburn promised.

  A few minutes later, the riverboat’s shrill whistle sounded as the paddles of the big sternwheel began to turn.

  Preacher and Jamie watched it move out into the mighty river.

  Preacher squinted and rubbed his chin. “You reckon maybe we should’ve gone with her?”

  “To Europe, you mean?”

  “Yeah. We could’ve seen us some o’ them castles and things like that.”

  “You know what I’d rather see? The high country. MacCallister’s Valley. My wife.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon I can argue with you there. I’ve seen your wife. She’s mighty pretty.”

  Jamie laughed, and the two men walked back along the dock. They were heading toward home, ready to answer the call of the frontier.

  Keep reading for a special early preview!

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE and J.A. JOHNSTONE

  HELL FOR BREAKFAST A SLASH AND PECOS WESTERN

  In a twist of fate, Slash and Pecos are riding hard for the law, dispensing justice as they see fit, and determined to watch their final sunset as heroes . . . not outlaws.

  His wicked ways mostly behind him, reformed bank robber Jimmy “Slash” Braddock is getting hitched to his sweetheart. But before the honeymoon, Chief U.S. Marshal Luther T. “Bleed-’Em-So” Bledsoe needs Slash and his former partner-in-crime, Melvin “Pecos Kid” Baker, to don a couple of deputy marshal badges and saddle up for a trip to Nebraska. Seems the town of Harveyville has fallen prey to a trio of murderous badmen blasting away up and down Main Street, and the local law needs some assistance from men who know how to handle a gun.

  But Slash and Pecos killed the wrong man. Worse, the town marshal tells them the outlaws rode on and he doesn’t need their help after all. Now Slash and Pecos are wanted men. Tom Gyllenwater’s son is dead. He won’t rest until Slash and Pecos are permanently relocated to Boot Hill. And as the duo are targeted by every gun-crazy desperado in the territory, Slash and Pecos discover they’ll find no help from anyone in Harveyville, a town of ruthless and corrupt folks willing to kill to protect their secrets . . .

  Look for HELL FOR BREAKFAST in November 2021!

  Chapter 1

  Danny O’Neil wasn’t sure what made him turn back around to face the depot platform. An unshakable premonition of sudden violence?

  He’d never felt any such thing before. The sudden stiffening of his shoulders made him turn around and, holding the mail for the post office in the canvas sack over his right shoulder, he cast his gaze back at the train that had thundered in from Ogallala only a few minutes ago.

  As he did, a tall man with a saddle on one shoulder and saddlebags draped over his other shoulder, and with a glistening Henry rifle in his right hand, stepped down off the rear platform of one of the combination’s two passenger coaches. He was obscured by steam and coal smoke wafting back from the locomotive panting on the tracks ahead of the tender car. Still, squinting, Danny could see another man, and then one more man, similarly burdened with saddle, saddlebags, and rifle, step down from the passenger coach behind the first man.

  The three men stood talking among themselves, in the snakes of steam mixed with the fetid coal smoke, until one of them, a tall strawberry-blond man with a red-blond mustache, set his saddle down at his feet, then scratched a match to life on the heel of his silver-tipped boot. The blond man, wearing a red shirt and leather pants, lifted the flame to the slender cheroot dangling from one corner of his wide mouth.

  As he did, his gaze half met Danny’s, flicked away, then returned to Danny, and held.

  He stood holding the flaming match a few inches from the cheroot, staring back at the twelve-year-old boy through the haze of steam and smoke billowing around him. The man had a strange face. There was something not quite human about it. It was like a snake’s face. Or maybe the face of a snake if that snake was half human. Or the face of a man if he was half snake.

  Danny knew those thoughts were preposterous. Still, they flitted through his mind while his guts curled in on themselves and a cold dread oozed up his back from the base of his spine.

  Still holding the match, the blond man stared back at Danny. A breeze blew the match out. Still, he stood holding the smoking match until a slit-eyed smile slowly took shape on his face.

  It wasn’t really a smile. At least, there was nothing warm or amused about the expression.
The man dropped the dead match he’d been holding, then slowly extended his index finger and raised his thumb like a gun hammer, extending the “gun” straight out from his shoulder and canting his head slightly toward his arm, narrowing those devilish eyes as though aiming down the barrel of the gun at Danny.

  Danny felt a cold spot on his forehead, where the man was drawing an imaginary bead on him.

  The man mouthed the word “bang,” and jerked the gun’s barrel up.

  He lowered the gun, smiling.

  Danny’s heart thumped in his chest. Then it raced. His feet turned cold in his boots as he wheeled and hurried off the train platform and on to the town of Harveyville’s main street, which was Patterson Avenue. He swung right to head north along the broad avenue’s east side. He’d been told by the postmaster, Mr. Wilkes, to “not lollygag or moon about” with the mail but to hustle it back to the post office pronto, so Wilkes could get it sorted and into the right cubbyholes before lunch.

  Mr. Wilkes always had a big beer with an egg in it for lunch, right at high noon, and he became surly when something or someone made him late for it. Maybe he was surly about the lunch, or maybe he was surly about being late for the girl he always took upstairs at the Wildcat Saloon after he’d finished his beer. Danny wasn’t supposed to know such things about Mr. Wilkes or anyone else, of course. But Danny was a curious and observant boy. A boy who had extra time on his hands, and a boy who made use of it. There was a lot a fella could see through gauzy window curtains or through cracks in the brick walls of the Wildcat Saloon.

  Wilkes might be late for his lunch and his girl today; however, it wouldn’t be Danny’s fault. His grandfather, Kentucky O’Neil, knowing Danny spent a lot of time at the train station even when he wasn’t fetching the mail for Mr. Wilkes, had told Danny to let him know if he ever saw any “suspicious characters” get off the train here in Harveyville. There was something about the infrequent trains and the rails that always seemed to be stretching in from some exotic place far from Harveyville, only to stretch off again to another exotic place in the opposite direction—that Danny found endlessly romantic and fascinating.