William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Stop where you are.” Mac’s voice broke as he stormed into the room, eyes fixed on Satterlee.

Satterlee swung his Lightning away from Martha and fired double-action. His bullet hit Mac in the notch of at the bottom of his throat. Quickly, Satterlee shot again. This .44 slug punched through Mac’s right lung and ripped out his back. Instantly, Clifton Satterlee grabbed Martha Estes and pulled her in front of him. Driven backward by the agony of his wounds, Ian MacGreggor stumbled into the corridor. He teetered on the bainister for a precarious moment. Then his legs went out from under him, and he caught himself with his elbows.

Smoke did not have time to check the youngster and knew it. He faced Satterlee, who now held the muzzle of his Colt to Martha’s temple. “I’ll kill her. So help me, I will. Holster your iron and get out of my way. Let me go and she won’t be harmed.”

Reluctantly, Smoke complied. Then he heard a miserable groan from Mac, and his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “You’re a dead man Satterlee. There’s no way you are getting out of here.”

Satterlee cut his eyes to a large carpetbag on the floor. It bulged with his portable wealth. Two finely wrought pieces of Tua jewelry spilled from the open top. “I’m taking that and her and leaving.

Smoke eyed the loot and returned his attention to Satterlee. “You killed that boy for nothing, Satterlee. More than for any other reason, I’m going to kill you for that.”

Clifton Satterlee forced a nasty chuckle. “Not likely, Jensen. I’ve worked too hard for that.” Again his eyes shifted to his ill-gotten gains. “You make a try and the girl dies.”

Suddenly, Martha Estes moaned and uttered a huge sigh. She went limp in the arms of Clifton Satterlee. The instant her head fell away from the gun barrel, Smoke Jensen drew with blinding speed and triggered a round. The slug hit Satterlee at the top of his nose and pulped the empire builder’s brain. He did not have time to send a signal to his trigger finger. He flew away from Martha Estes and sprawled across the bed.

At once, Martha straightened and opened her eyes. A big smile adorned her face. “I thought you might do that,” she told Smoke a moment before she rushed to him and gave him a big hug.

Gently Smoke disengaged her. “You’re safe now, Miss Martha. I’ll arrange for passage to your home. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Smoke stepped out into the hall and gazed down at the bloody, sweating, pale-faced Mac. Ian MacGreggor worked his throat, and his lips moved. He spoke in a low, wheezy voice. “I—I guess I’ll not be needing that gardening job.”

Something stung Smoke’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly. “That was fool thing to do, Mac. But you did save a girl’s life. I’m proud of you.” No reason to hide the obvious from the boy. “I’ll see that your family gets your pay.”

“Th—thank you, Smoke. It was—was an honor to fight at . . . your side.” That said, Mac heaved a mighty sigh and died.

Eyes wet and burning, Smoke Jensen turned away to discover that Don Diego Alvarado and his remaining vaqueros had arrived. Smoke went to his friend. “Alejandro took a couple of bad ones.”

“Yes, I saw. What about you?”

“I’ll live. But . . . Mac didn’t make it. I’ll have to see that the Marshal’s Office sends his pay to his parents.”

“It’s a beatiful day,” Martha Estes opined as she joined the two men.

Still deeply moved by the death of Ian MacGreggor, Smoke looked across the early morning vista. The rising sun cast a pink hue on the white caps of the Sangre de Cristo range. No matter the cost, peace could return to Taos and the Tua pueblo. He nodded to Martha.

“Yes, it is right nice day.” She’s right, it’s beautiful, Smoke mused. Almost as beautiful as the Sugarloaf.

* * *

Sally and Bobby Jensen greeted Smoke’s triumphant return to the Sugarloaf with unbounded joy. After a long, energetic embrace, Smoke looked around and then kissed Sally on one cheek.

“It doesn’t look like anything has changed. What did you do while I was gone?”

Sally pursed her lips, fought to banish her sour memories, then answered. “I had a visit fron an old school friend.”

“That’s nice. Did you have a good time?”

“Like heck,” Bobby put in. “Her kids sure are a bunch of brats.” In spite of Sally’s sharp look, Bobby went on. It’s the truth. And you’re always after me to tell the truth, Smoke. An’ to be man enough to stand up for it.”

Smoke put and arm around each of his family and started for the porch, hugging them tightly. “So, tell me about this friend of yours, Sally. And don’t forget the brats.”

NEW YORK TIMES AND

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS

WILLIAMW. 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

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.

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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.