William Johnstone: Bounty Hunter

EPILOGUE

Three weeks later, on a cool morning with streamers of fog hanging around the mountain peaks in the distance, Luke saddled the fine horse Smoke had insisted was his and led the animal out of the barn, leading a packhorse behind him. He had thought he might be able to slip away from the ranch without anybody noticing until he was gone, but he supposed that was too much to hope for.

Smoke stood waiting for him. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Luke checked the cinches one more time. “I’ve been talking to Monte Carson, and he tells me that Badger McCoy was spotted up in Laramie a few days ago.”

Monte Carson was the local sheriff in Big Rock, and he had a whole desk drawer full of wanted posters he had let Luke look through.

“Badger McCoy,” Smoke repeated.

“Train robber. The reward’s only eight hundred dollars, but I have a hunch I can get more out of the railroad if I’m able to recover some of the loot McCoy’s stolen, too.”

“So you’re bound and determined to go on risking your life hunting down fugitives?”

“It’s what I do,” Luke said. If anybody could understand that, it was Smoke.

After a moment, Smoke nodded. “Sally won’t be happy you didn’t tell her good-bye.”

Luke shook his head. “Not good at that.”

“I know. I’ll try to explain it to her. And I’ll tell her you promised to come back. You will, won’t you? I want you to meet Preacher and Matt.”

“I’d like that.” Luke put out his hand. “Next time.”

“Next time,” Smoke agreed as he shook hands.

Luke swung up into the saddle, but before he could ride away, Smoke went on, “There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Forget about calling yourself Luke Smith. You’ve got a name. You should use it.”

Luke frowned. “You really want people to know me as Luke Jensen? A bounty hunter?”

“You’re a good man and you’re my brother.” Smoke looked up at Luke. “That’s all I care about. Jensen’s a proud name, and I think you should wear it.”

Luke thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right. If that’s what you want, I can do that.”

“Good. So long, Luke.”

Lifting a hand in farewell, Luke turned his horses and rode out of the ranch yard.

“Don’t forget!” Smoke called after him. “You always have a home here if you want it!”

Luke waved, but didn’t look back as he rode north. Home , he thought. He hadn’t had one of those for a long, long time. The idea would take some getting used to.

But it was a pretty thing to think about. It surely was.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of

SAVAGE TEXAS: A GOOD DAY TO DIE

In Hangtree, Texas, any day could be your last.

On the heels of the Civil War, the town is drawing gamblers, fast women, and faster gunmen. Amid the brawls and shooting, the land grabbing and card sharking, two men barely hold the boomtown together: Yankee Sam Heller and Texan Johnny Cross. Heller and Cross can’t stand the sight of each other . . . and Hangtree needs them more than ever.

Comanche War Chief Red Hand leads a horde of warriors on a horrific path of bloodshed and destruction, with Hangtree sitting right in his path.

For a town bitterly divided, and for Heller and Cross, the time has come to unite and stand shoulder to shoulder—and fight, live, or die for their little slice of hell called Hangtree.

Available July 2012

Wherever Kensington Books are sold.

CHAPTER 1

On a night in late May 1866, Comanche Chief Red Hand took up the Fire Lance to proclaim the opening of the warm weather raiding season—a time of torture, plunder, and murder. For warlike Comanche braves, the best time of the year.

Six hundred and more Comanche men, women, and children were camped near a stream in a valley north of the Texas panhandle, on land between the Canadian and Arkansas rivers. The site, Arrowhead Rock, lay deep in the heart of the vast, untamed territory of Comancheria, home grounds of the tribal nation.

The gathering was made up mostly of two main subgroups, the Bison Eyes and the Dawn Hawks, along with a number of lesser clans, relations, and allies.

Red Hand, a Bison Eye, was a rising star who had led a number of successful raids in recent seasons past. Many braves, especially those of the younger generation, were eager to attach themselves to him.

Others had come to hear him out and make up their own minds about whether or not to follow his lead. Not a few had come to keep a wary eye on him and see what he was up to.

All brought their families with them, from the oldest squaws to the youngest babes in arms. They brought their tipis and personal belongings, horse herds, and even dogs.

The Comanche were a mobile folk, nomads who followed the buffalo herds across the Great Plains. They spent much of their lives on horseback and were superb riders. They were fierce fighters, arguably the most dangerous Indian tribe in the West. They gloried in the title of Lords of the Southern Plains.

Farther southwest—much farther—lay the lands of the Apache, relentless desert warriors of fearsome repute. During their seasonal wanderings Comanches raided Apaches as the opportunity presented itself, but the Apache did not strike north to raid Comancheria. This stark fact spoke volumes about the relative deadliness of the two.

The camp on the valley stream was unusual in its size, the tribesmen generally preferring to travel in much smaller groups. The temporary settlement had come into being in response to Red Hand’s invitation, taken by his emissaries to the various interested parties. Invitation, not summons.

A high-spirited individual, the Comanche brave was jealous of his freedom and rights. His allegiance was freely given and just as freely withdrawn. Warriors of great deeds were respected, but not slavishly submitted to. A leader gained followers by ability and success; incompetence and failure inevitably incited mass desertions.

It was a mark of Red Hand’s prowess that so many had come to hear his words.

The campsite at Arrowhead Rock lay on a well-watered patch of grassy ground. Cone-shaped tipis massed along the stream banks. Smoke from many cooking fires hazed the area. The tipis had been given over to women and children; the men were elsewhere. Packs of half-wild, half-starved dogs chased each other around the campgrounds, snarling and yapping.

The horse herds were picketed nearby. Comanches reckoned their wealth in horses, as white men did in gold. The greater the thief, the more he was respected and envied by his fellows.

For such a conclave, an informal truce reigned, whereby the braves of various clans held in check their craving to steal each other’s horses . . . mostly.

North of the camp, a long bowshot away, the land dipped into a shallow basin, a hollow serving as a kind of natural amphitheater. It was spacious enough to comfortably hold the two hundred and more warriors assembled there under a horned moon. No females were present at the basin.

To a man, they were in prime physical condition. There was no place in the Comanche nation for weaklings. Men were warriors, doing the hunting, raiding, fighting, and killing—sometimes dying. Women did all the other work, the drudgery of the tribe.

The braves were high-spirited, raucous. Much horseplay and boasting of big brags occurred. It had been a long winter; they looked forward to the wild free life of raiding south with eager anticipation. An air of keen interest hung over them as they waited impatiently for Red Hand to take the fore.

At the northern center rim of the basin stood a triangular rock about twenty feet high. Shaped like an arrowhead planted point-up in the ground, it gave the site its name. Among Comanche warrior society, the arrowhead was an emblem of power and danger, giving the stone an aura of magical potency.