“Shall we count?” Houser asked.
“Aye. Elmer?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you count to three, please?”
“One, two . . .”
Houser started his draw on two, but Duff was not surprised by his move. The moment Houser suggested that there be a count, Duff suspected that it was but a ploy to give Houser the advantage.
Duff let his “hand think,” and even as Houser started his move, Duff’s hand was already pulling the pistol from his holster. Houser was fast, faster even than Bodine, because whereas Bodine had barely completed his draw, Houser managed to bring his gun up and fire. The reason he missed was that the bullet that plunged into his chest had pulled his aim off.
Houser got a surprised look on his face, then fell.
As Duff stood there with a smoking gun in his hand, he heard another shot, and turning quickly, he saw Shamrock going down. Looking back to the source of the shot he saw that Meagan was also holding a smoking gun, having shot Shamrock with Jaco’s pistol.
* * *
Six weeks later Percy and Sara Sue gave a party to celebrate moving into their new house. Everyone who had helped build the house was present, as were all the neighboring ranchers.
Ben Turley was there as well, along with his new bride, Mary Ellen. Turley was still foreman and, for now, sole custodian of Twin Peaks. Turley’s first act was to return all the cattle that had been stolen, and illegally confiscated, by Houser. The court had already negated Houser’s filing on the open range so that once again every rancher in the valley would have access to the grass and water.
Eventual ownership of Twin Peaks was now being decided by the court. A petition, signed by every other rancher in the valley, large and small, was submitted to the court, recommending that the ranch be owned by hands who had worked there, with Turley owning 51 percent. The preliminary indications were that the court would grant the petition.
“Oh, Sara Sue, your new house is beautiful,” Meagan said.
“Yes, it is, thanks to our wonderful neighbors,” Sara Sue replied. “And thank you for making this beautiful dress for the occasion.”
“Miz Sara Sue, you want me to bring out the cakes now?” Poke asked.
“Yes, Poke, that would be very nice of you, thank you.”
“How is it working out with Poke living with you and Percy?” Meagan asked as Poke went back into the house to get the first of four cakes that had been baked.
“Poke is a wonderful boy,” Sara Sue replied. “Percy and I were planning on having a family. Poke is just giving us a head start.”
“Yes, having a family is a wonderful thing,” Meagan said.
Meagan searched through the crowd until she found Duff, who was engaged in conversation with Webb Dakota, Burt Rowe, and Ben Turley.
“A wonderful thing,” she repeated wistfully.
Keep reading for a special preview
of all new Western series
from the legendary Johnstones!
THE CHUCKWAGON TRAIL
Framed for murder, Dewey “Mac” McKenzie is
running for his life. Though Mac’s never even
made a pot of coffee, he talks his way onto a cattle
drive heading west—as a chuckwagon cook.
Turns out he has a natural talent for turning salt
pork and dried beans into culinary gold.
He’s as good with a pot and pan as he is with a
gun—which comes in handy on a dangerous trail
drive beset with rustlers, hostile Indians, ornery
weather, and deadly stampedes. Mac can hold
his own with any cowboy twice his age.
At least until the real showdown begins . . .
Mac’s trail boss, Deke Northrup, is one mean spit
in the eye. Before long, he’s made enemies of
all his men. Mac learns that Northrup is planning
to double-cross the herd’s owner, Mac stands up to
the trail boss and his henchman. He might be
outgunned and outnumbered, but Mac’s ready to
serve up some blazing frontier justice—with a
healthy helping of vengeance . . .
Coming soon, wherever Johntone books are sold.
Live Free. Read Hard.
www.williamjohnstone.net
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Chapter One
Dewey Mackenzie shivered as he pressed against the wet stone wall and blinked moisture from his eyes. Whether it came from the chilly rain that had fallen in New Orleans earlier this evening or from his own fear-fueled sweat—or both—he didn’t know. He supposed it didn’t matter.
Right now, he just wanted to avoid the two men standing guard across the street. Both were twice his size, and one had the battered look of a boxer. Even in the dim light cast by the gas lamp far down Royal Street, Mac saw the flattened nose, the cauliflower ears, and the way the man continually ducked and dodged imaginary punches.
At some time in the past, those punches hadn’t been imaginary, and there had been a lot of them.
A medium-sized young man with longish dark hair and what had been described by more than one young woman as a roguish smile, Mac rubbed his hands against the sides of his fancy dress trousers and settled his Sunday go-to-meeting coat around his shoulders.
Carrying a gun on an errand like this was out of the question, but he missed the comforting feel of his Smith & Wesson Model 3 resting on his hip. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, and then sidled back along the wall until he reached the cross street. Like a cat, he slid around the corner to safety and heaved a huge sigh.
Getting in to see Evangeline Holdstock was always a chore, but after her pa had threatened him with death—or worse—if he caught him nosing around their mansion again, Mac had come to the only possible conclusion. He had been seeing Evangeline on the sly for more than two months, reveling in the stolen moments they shared. Even, if he cared to admit it to himself, enjoying the risks he was running.
He was little more than a drifter in the eyes of Micah Holdstock, owner of the second
