William Johnstone - Texas Bloodshed

“You can call me that once,” the burly, white-bearded Southwick had said, holding up a finger, “but if you do it again, I’ll have to hold you in contempt of court!”

Now as the three men paused on the steps of the courthouse following the conclusion of the speedy trial, Brubaker asked, “Are you gonna stay to watch the hangin’, too?”

Scratch made a face and shook his head.

“I’ve never cared overmuch for hangin’s,” he said.

“We’ll trust you to see that justice is done, Forty-two,” Bo added.

A rare smile appeared on the deputy’s face.

“You know, we never did play a game,” he said.

“You need four people for that,” Scratch pointed out.

“I know. One of the jailers said he’d be glad to sit in and make a fourth. We’d have to play at the jail, though, while he’s on duty tonight.”

Bo smiled and said, “I guess we could stay around that long.”

They started down the steps. As they did so, a buggy pulled up in the street. A little old lady in a black dress and shawl was handling the reins. Beside her sat another elderly woman dressed the same way.

Bo’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he caught a glimpse of bright yellow hair under the second woman’s shawl. His instincts shot a warning through him, and he was already reaching for his Colt as he shouted to his companions, “Look out!”

Cara LaChance leaped from the buggy, throwing back the shawl so that her blond curls spilled free around her shoulders. Her hands dipped and came up with a pair of revolvers from the folds of her dress. Her beautiful face was twisted in a snarl of bloodlust that turned it ugly as she began to fire. Flame jetted from the muzzles of both guns.

Brubaker rammed a shoulder against Scratch and knocked him aside. The deputy grunted and stumbled as lead thudded into his body. Scratch caught his balance and whipped out both Remingtons. Bo’s Colt was already in his hand. Gun-thunder rolled across the courthouse steps as the three revolvers roared in unison.

The bullets smashed Cara to the ground. Behind her, the old woman who had driven up in the buggy shrieked, “Don’t kill me! She made me bring her here! Please don’t kill me!”

She didn’t wait to see whether anybody was going to shoot at her. She slashed the whip at the buggy horse and sent it down the street with the buggy careening behind it.

Brubaker had crumpled to the steps. Scratch dropped to a knee beside him and exclaimed, “Damn it, Forty-two, how bad are you hit?”

“I ... I don’t know,” Brubaker said through gritted teeth. “It hurts like hell.”

Scratch pulled the lawman’s coat back and reached inside it to check the wound. He let out a laugh.

Brubaker glared up at him and said, “I’m glad my dyin’ ... strikes you as funny.”

“I don’t think you’re dyin’,” Scratch said. “Looks like Cara only hit you once, and the bullet busted the hell out of that set of dominoes in your coat pocket before it went on in. The slug didn’t penetrate very far. I can feel it with my finger.”

“If that don’t ... beat all,” Brubaker gasped. “Still hurts, though.”

Meanwhile Bo had gone on down to the bottom of the steps, keeping Cara covered as he did so. Her blue eyes still held some life in them when he reached her, but it was fading fast.

“You just had to have your revenge, didn’t you?” Bo said.

“You can ... go to hell!” Cara gasped. She laughed. “You and Morton both! And when you get there ... I’ll be waitin’ for you!”

Her face twisted, her back arched, and when she relaxed a second later, she was gone.

A crowd was gathering, and a lot of people were yelling questions. It wasn’t every day there was a shoot-out right in front of the courthouse.

Bo had a question of his own: what turned a smart, beautiful young woman like Cara LaChance into a mad-dog killer?

He knew he would never have an answer. He wasn’t sure one even existed.

He turned, holstered his gun, and started back up the steps, glad to see that Brubaker was sitting up with Scratch’s arm around his shoulders. The deputy didn’t look like he was hurt too bad.

Maybe they would get that game in, after all, before he and Scratch started south toward home.

Turn the page for an exciting preview!

William W. Johnstone’s legendary mountain men have fought their battles and conquered a fierce frontier. Now, three generations of the Jensen clan are trying to live in peace on their sprawling Colorado ranch. But for men with fighting in their blood, trouble is never very far ...

INTO THE EYE OF A STORM

They are strangers in a strange land—a band of German immigrants trespassing across the Jensen family spread. Led by a baron fleeing a dark past in Germany and accompanied by a woman beautiful enough to dazzle young Matt, the pilgrims are being pursued by a pack of brutal outlaws hungry for blood, money—or maybe something else ... The Jensens are willing to help the pioneers get to Wyoming. But they don’t know the whole story of their newfound friends, or who the outlaws really are. By the time the wagon train reaches Wyoming the truth is ready to explode—in a clash of hard fighting and hard deaths in a violent land ...

The Family Jensen:

The Violent Land

By William W. Johnstone

with J.A. Johnstone

On sale now, wherever

Kensington Books are sold!

CHAPTER 1

The seven men rode into Big Rock, Colorado, a few minutes before noon. Nobody in the bustling little cowtown paid much attention to them. Everyone went on about their own business, even when the men reined their horses to a halt and dismounted in front of the bank.

Clete Murdock was their leader, a craggy-faced man with graying red hair who over the past ten years had robbed banks in five states and a couple of territories. He had killed enough men that he’d lost track of the number, especially if you threw Indians and Mexicans into the count.

His younger brothers Tom and Grant rode with him. Tom was a slightly younger version of Clete, but Grant was the baby of the family, a freckle-faced youngster in his twenties who wanted more than anything else in the world to be a desperado like his brothers.

Until a year or so earlier he had lived on the family farm in Kansas with their parents, but illness had struck down both of the elder Murdocks in the span of a few days, so Grant had set out to find his black-sheep brothers and throw in with them.

Ed Garvey was about as broad as he was tall, with a bristling black spade beard. He wasn’t much good with a handgun. That was why he carried a sawed-off shotgun under his coat. As long as his partners in crime gave him plenty of room, he was a valuable ally. They were careful not to get in his line of fire when he pulled out that street sweeper.

The tall, skinny towhead with the eye that sometimes drifted off crazily was Chick Bowman. The loco eye gave him the look of somebody who might not be right in the head, but in reality Chick was fairly smart for an outlaw who’d had very little schooling in his life.

The one who wasn’t all there was Denny McCoy, who followed Chick around like a devoted pup. Denny was big and barrel chested, and he had accidentally killed two whores by fondling their necks with such enthusiasm that they couldn’t breathe anymore. Chick had gotten Denny out of both of those scrapes without getting either of them lynched.

The member of the gang who had been with Clete the longest was a Crow who called himself Otter. He had worked as a scout for the army, but after coming too damned close to being with Custer when old Yellow Hair went traipsing up the Little Big Horn to his death, Otter had decided that the military life wasn’t for him. He knew Clete, who had been a sergeant before deserting, and had looked him up. Clete’s prejudice against redskins didn’t extend to Otter, the only man he knew who took more pure pleasure in killing than he did.