Dead for a Dollar

Book 3: Firestick Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Johnstone Justice. Making the West wild again.
 
Keeping the peace in a West Texas town like Buffalo Peak should be easy for a legendary frontiersman like Marshal Elwood "Firestick" McQueen. He’s got his longtime buddies "Beartooth" Skinner and "Moosejaw" Hendricks as his deputies—not to mention the famous rifle that earned him his nickname. But when Firestick learns that their ornery old friend “Rip” Ripley just rode into town, all bets are off. It’s darn near impossible to keep the peace when Rip’s specialty is disturbing it. Firestick finds a decade-old wanted poster for Rip—the reward is one dollar.
 
Firestick uses it to toss Rip into the clink till he decides to leave town. But Ripley’s still up to his old tricks—he has a new gang of cutthroats coming to Buffalo Peak to steal a king’s ransom in gold in the town bank. Firestick, Beartooth, and Moosejaw become pawns in what just might be the heist of the century. Because Rip’s kill-crazy pals will have to bust him out of jail first . . .
 
Live Free. Read Hard.




 

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

They had the griz cornered.

Late the previous day, after interrupting the massive bear’s feed on a young beef he’d dragged away from one of the ranches out on the flat, they had driven him into a widemouthed box canyon in the Vieja foothills. Before they were able to get a clear shot at him, though, he’d disappeared into the underbrush and trees back deep in the canyon.

Since going into a thicket after a riled griz ranked almighty close to a death wish, they’d decided instead to back off and settle for waiting him out. With high, steep cliffs rising out of the thicket on three sides, the bear had only one way to go when he got thirsty enough or hungry enough or mad enough at the thought of that half-eaten beef he’d been chased away from.

And when he made his move, they’d be ready . . . hopefully.

“I’d be a sight more comfortable if this canyon mouth was narrower,” stated Jim “Moosejaw” Hendricks, squinting against the early morning sunlight angling down out of the east. He was a big man, massive through the shoulders, thick torsoed, six and a half feet in height. His broad, fleshy face showed its share of wear and weathering yet still belied his near fifty years of age.

Standing next to him, Malachi “Beartooth” Skinner arched a brow and replied, “Hell, if you’re gonna wish for comfort, why not go all the way and wish we was home in our beds instead of camped out here in the path of an ornery grizzly we’ve gone out of our way to piss off ?”

Skinner was right at the fifty mark, age-wise—maybe a year or two one way or the other; he’d lost exact count somewhere along the way. He stood an even six feet tall, was built lean and leathery, with a narrow, slightly wedge-shaped face tapering down to a deeply dimpled chin that seemed well suited to the wide, roguish grin he tended to frequently display.

A few feet away from this pair, straightening up from having just poured himself a cup of coffee out of the big pot simmering on the coals at the edge of their campfire, Elwood “Firestick” McQueen glanced over at his two companions and said, “Sounds to me like you two are gettin’ soft. Wastin’ time wishin’ this and hopin’ for that . . . You’d think we’ve been roughin’ it out here for a month of Sundays instead of for only one night.”

McQueen, the oldest of the trio at the mid-fifties mark, stood a shade over six feet. He was broad shouldered and solidly built with a square, stern face dominated by penetrating ice-blue eyes.

Responding defensively to Firestick’s remark, Moosejaw said, “Well, it was a blamed cold night. And a long one.”

“What’s more,” added Beartooth, aiming his cocked brow in the direction of Firestick, “I heard you doin’ your share of mutterin’ and cussin’ over here durin’ the night, too—tryin’ to settle yourself and keep warm.”

“Okay, maybe we’re all gettin’ soft,” allowed Firestick. “The point is, there was a time not so very long ago when sleepin’ on the ground in conditions a whole lot worse than last night was a way of life for the three of us. We went months and sometimes years without a roof over our heads or a proper bed underneath us. All I’m sayin’ is that a little taste of it now and again ain’t gonna kill us and therefore ain’t worth so much frettin’ and fussin’.”

“Maybe so,” Beartooth said. “But that little taste might’ve gone down easier if, like I said a minute ago, we wasn’t planted smack in the path of that griz.”

“That’s right,” agreed Moosejaw. “It was more than just the cold night air had me worried about the ruination of my health.”

It had been close to evening yesterday when the three men drove the bear into the canyon. They reasoned he likely would stay put for the night. To help make sure, they’d built three large campfires at intervals spaced across the width of the canyon’s mouth. Each man had taken a post at one of the fires, with his rifle kept at the ready and his horse picketed close by to provide early warning in case the griz decided to go on the prowl in spite of the fires and the man scent accompanying them. This bear had proven more than once to have no fear—and maybe even a little hatred—when it came to humans trying to interfere in his business.

Starting just short of a month prior, the grizzly had begun making it his business to feed on cattle and sometimes horses to be found on ranches scattered over the grasslands below the Vieja Mountains. Since the Viejas didn’t normally see much in the way of bear activity, it was speculated that this one, a rogue of some sort, must have wandered down from farther north right after the spring thaw. Whatever his origins, he showed up big and mean and hungry, and the ranchers soon took alarmed note of his attacks on their stock. Attempts to get in the griz’s way had resulted in one death, two serious maulings, and three or four additional close calls.

It hadn’t taken long before all of this was brought to the attention of the men now camped at the mouth of the nameless box canyon where the bear was cornered. Folks in the area had several reasons to look to these three for help and for them to agree to try and provide it. For starters, they represented the law in Buffalo Peak, the nearby town that supplied goods and services to the various ranches now being threatened by the bear. Firestick was the town marshal, Beartooth and Moosejaw his deputies.

While bear attacks on outlying ranches didn’t normally fall in the category of what most town lawmen might concern themselves with—and technically would fall outside their jurisdiction even if they did—the way Firestick and his deputies approached upholding the law tended to allow room for a fair amount of leeway when it came to formalities like jurisdiction. What was more, in this particular case the backgrounds of the three made them qualified beyond their badges for dealing with the problem at hand.

Prior to arriving and settling in West Texas, each had spent nearly three decades roaming the mountainous regions to the north and farther west. Among the last of a dying breed, they had been mountain men living wild and free and making their way by hunting and trapping in the high reaches far from the encroachment of so-called civilization. During this time, they’d had their share of bear encounters, individually in their younger years and then later after they’d bonded as friends and partners.

It was also during those years together that they had earned, from Indians with whom they frequently skirmished, the colorful nicknames they continued to carry with them even after they quit the mountains and came to the Texas prairie. “Firestick” due to McQueen’s uncanny accuracy with a rifle; “Beartooth” for Skinner’s prowess with a knife that he kept as sharp and wielded as deadly as a grizzly’s fang; and “Moosejaw” resulting from the occasion where an otherwise weaponless Hendricks was caught by surprise yet successfully fended off a band of Jicarilla braves using only the jawbone from a moose skeleton he found on the floor of the canyon where they had attempted to trap him.

These credentials, colorful names notwithstanding, were what prompted the ranchers in the area to look to the three for taking the lead in dealing with the bear. In addition to responding as friends and neighbors and out of whatever obligation they felt as local lawmen, the three also had a personal stake in the matter. Upon first settling in the valley, before donning badges for the town, the three had started their own small horse ranch—the Double M (for Mountain Men)—not too far to the south. Meaning they had stock of their own at risk to the marauder.

“Well, the cold night air and sleepin’ on the uncomfortable ground is past us for now,” said Firestick after pausing to blow a cooling breath across his coffee. “But we all know what ain’t past us—and what we can’t allow to get by whenever he decides he’s ready to make his try. If we let him succeed, we’ll be facin’ more nights of the same.”

Moosejaw made a sour face. “If he succeeds in gettin’ past us, that could mean we won’t be left in any shape to face more of anything.”

“Throw that sort of talk out of here,” responded Beartooth, scowling. “If Mr. Griz shows his face in the daylight where one of us can draw a clear bead on him, the only one endin’ up in bad shape will be him.”

“I like the sound of that,” Firestick agreed. “But it all hinges on the little matter of when the griz decides to make his run. I figure it least likely for the middle of the day.”

Beartooth nodded. “That leaves early or dusk . . . and we’re already slippin’ past what you could call early.”

“I can’t see him waitin’ all the way till dusk,” said Moosejaw. “There ain’t no water back there in that thicket, and I don’t reckon his belly is all the way satisfied, not after we chased him off in the middle of feedin’ on that beef kill yesterday.”

“I’m inclined to think the same.” Over the brim of his upraised coffee cup, Firestick squinted in the direction of the deep thicket. “I expect our fires from last night and our palaverin’ out here now in plain sight are holdin’ the rascal back some. But at the same time his thirst or hunger or plain orneriness are likely workin’ to prod him out of there.”

“In that case,” said Beartooth, “we’re best off spreadin’ back out and takin’ up our night positions again. Even when our friend leaves the thicket, he’ll have some cover in those patches of high grass pokin’ up out there across the middle of the canyon. Bein’ on the lookout from different angles will give us our best chance to spot him as soon as possible.”

“The sooner the better,” Moosejaw seconded. “The quicker we can turn that critter into a bearskin rug, the better it’ll be for everybody.”

“No argument on any of that out of me,” said Firestick. “You fellas go ahead on back to your posts. I’ll keep the coffeepot full and hot. In case we’re wrong and Mr. Griz takes a notion to drag things out for a spell, you can always mosey back for a fresh cup of mud to keep from gettin’ too bored.”

Beartooth made a face. “I’ve never been a fan of bein’ bored, and I sure as hell am all for gettin’ this business over and done with. But you’ll have to excuse me for sayin’ that, on second thought, in this case findin’ myself a mite bored if that dang bear turns out not to be in a hurry to come rushin’ out at us . . . well, for a while anyway, that wouldn’t be an altogether bad thing.”

His two pals chuckled a bit at his admission before allowing as to how they understood exactly what he meant. Then, each of them taking a fresh-poured cup of coffee with them, Beartooth and Moosejaw went on back to the positions they’d maintained throughout the night, one toward either side of the canyon’s mouth. At daybreak, with no bear activity having taken place to that point, they’d let their respective fires dwindle down and had converged on Firestick’s center position, where they cooked coffee and palavered about how they were going to proceed.

Now, with that decided, they were extending the waiting game, leaving it for the griz to decide when he was ready to try his luck. Survival in the mountains had required many traits—skill, endurance, luck—but patience was always a key ingredient. Patience when setting out a trapline; patience when on the hunt; patience when stalking or being stalked by an enemy, man or beast. So the three former mountain men knew well how to play the waiting game. They might be a little rusty or soft, as Firestick had implied, but not so much that they didn’t have another round left in them and one they damn sure reckoned to make end in their favor.

All up to the griz to make the next move, Firestick told himself as he refilled the coffeepot from a partially depleted water bag, set the makings, then placed the pot back on the coals to start brewing. He also fed a few sticks into the fire to keep it burning strong enough for the coffee to boil and stay hot. That done, he hoisted the water bag again and carried it over to where his horse was picketed. Removing his hat, he filled it with water and held it for the animal to drink, like his companions had done for their horses earlier. He noted that plenty of graze still remained within easy reach of the big gelding.

When the horse had slaked its thirst, Firestick shook out his hat and returned to the campfire. He put the water bag down, reached for the half-emptied cup of coffee he’d left sitting on the grass, then squatted on his heels beside his war bag. Tipping up the cup and swallowing some of its now tepid contents, his gaze again went to the heavy underbrush deep in the recess of the canyon. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and the morning air was starting to warm, chasing away the last of the night’s chill. It was early enough in the spring that the days were getting bright and warm, though the nights remained quite brisk.

The air was still, no hint of a breeze. Firestick found himself wishing for one, one that would carry the scent of the griz when he began to move around so that the picketed horses might pick it up and give warning. If the breeze was right, the horses would sense the bear’s movement before any of the men had the chance to spot him.

As he continued to stare into the canyon, Firestick’s right hand drifted down and brushed against one of the two rifles resting across his war bag. One of these was a Winchester repeater, the popular “Yellowboy” model that Firestick favored. The second weapon, the one his hand brushed against, was a single-shot Hawken muzzle-loader. Ol’ Thunder. He had carried this rifle for most of his years up in the mountains—this very one, in fact, whose fine balance and accuracy and powerful .50-caliber punch had earned him the nickname he carried to this day.

From the standpoint of plain practicality, eventually Firestick had shifted more to the use of a repeater. Since taking on the job of town marshal, he’d also adapted to carrying a sidearm, namely the walnut-handled Frontier Colt .44 currently riding in the holster on his right hip.

Yet while his natural skill and keen eye served well in the use of any kind of firearm—up to and including the discovery he possessed uncommon speed when it came to drawing and firing the Colt—his Hawken continued to hold a special meaning for Firestick. These days, except for taking it down periodically to clean and fire a few target rounds, the finely crafted gun rested on hooks over the parlor doorway at the Double M ranch house. Upon preparing to head out for this bear hunt, however, Firestick had decided that the unmatched accuracy and added punch of his old friend might very well come in handy. The right placement of a .50-caliber ball hurled from its precisely bored muzzle would bring a quick, clean end to the grizzly’s reign of terror.

With this thought running through his head once again, Firestick’s gaze narrowed into a glare and he muttered under his breath, “So show your shaggy ol’ head, you stubborn cuss, and see what I got waitin’ for you.”

But the utterance met only silence. No sound, no movement from deep in the canyon. The only noise came from the nearby coffeepot as its contents started to bubble and boil. Catching scent of the aroma that accompanied this, Firestick tossed away what was left in his cup, figuring to replace it with hot, fresh brew in another few minutes. A glance toward the east caused him to wonder if, what with the sun continuing its steady climb and no sign of movement by the griz, he and his pals might not be in for a long day of nursing coffee.

Scarcely had this thought crossed his mind before something—an intangible sense, a prickling in the short hairs on the back of his neck—demanded his attention. His head snapped back around and he once more glared into the canyon, scouring the thick growth curving along its deepest recesses. Still no movement, no sound from there.

Yet something had triggered the instinctive warning in him, the kind of unsettled feeling he sometimes got when danger was close at hand. It wasn’t something Firestick could define or describe, but times when he’d felt it in the past, it had proven right—and thereby saved his hide—too often to be ignored.

But what was it trying to tell him on this occasion? Something about the bear, most likely. But what? Where?

Firestick glanced over at Beartooth, about fifty yards to his right, and then toward Moosejaw an equal distance to his left. Neither of them seemed to have an awareness of anything amiss. Same for any of their horses.

What the hell? Was he losing his touch? Was his trusted warning instinct steering him wrong, letting him down?

And then, from deep in the bowels of the canyon—amplified and echoing off the surrounding cliff walls—came the thunderously fierce roar of the griz!

“That’s our boy! He’s on the move!” shouted Beartooth.

“I damn well heard him, but I can’t see anything yet,” responded Moosejaw.

“Don’t worry, you will soon enough,” Firestick cautioned both of them. He was standing straight up now, feet planted wide and facing square into the canyon with the Hawken secure in his grip. A quick glance to either side showed Beartooth and Moosejaw poised similarly with their own rifles raised and ready. Back a ways, the horses were beginning to snort and skitter somewhat nervously.

Firestick swung his eyes back to the canyon, sweeping them in tight scrutiny for a sign of something to accompany the hackles-raising roar.

The beast sounded again, another powerful bellow followed by some short, choppy snarls and then the curious, almost goatlike bleating sound a bear will sometimes make when it is highly agitated. The roars had been a warning: Here I come. The snarls and bleats meant he was actually on the move, following through on the warning.

“There! On the left!” Moosejaw suddenly shouted. “He’s coming through the high grass on my side.”

Firestick saw it then, saw the tips of the tall grasses shivering and swaying as the bear made his way through them. The crafty devil was already well clear of the thicket, evidently having advanced stealthily out of the underbrush and along one side of the canyon’s middle area.

“Make it hot for him!” Firestick called. “Even if you can’t get a clear shot, see if you can drive him toward the center where the grass is shorter and me and Beartooth can throw in a little something to help make him feel welcome!”

“If you get a shot with that Hawken, make it count!” Moosejaw hollered back.

“That’s the general idea,” Firestick told him through clenched teeth.

A moment later Moosejaw began levering rapid-fire rounds with his Winchester, riddling the outside edge of the swaying high grass. The bear roared in protest but kept on the move. At first it didn’t look like he was going to change course. But then, just as Firestick was getting ready to shift to his left in order to try and help Moosejaw intercept the charging beast, the bear veered toward the middle of the canyon.

For a fleeting second he was visible as he passed from the stand of tall grass and crossed a narrow, rocky-bottomed span where the grass grew much shorter. He was a huge brute, Firestick saw, with a head as big as a wagon wheel, probably weighing between eight and nine hundred pounds.

Unfortunately, the glimpse that showed Firestick this—because he’d been caught starting his turn to move toward Moosejaw—was too brief for him to get off a shot. By the time he’d wheeled back and again raised the Hawken, the bear had plunged into another patch of higher grass that made him invisible except for the shivering, swaying growth.

Now Beartooth opened up with his rifle, sending a rain of sizzling lead that sawed the grass and chewed the ground ahead of the griz’s new direction. The quarry bellowed and bawled with increasing rage. The canyon mouth, so quiet only minutes earlier, was suddenly filled with a cacophony of noises—the crack of rifle fire, the increasingly louder protests of the bear accompanied by the crash and rustle of him stomping closer, all backgrounded by the snorts and shrill whinnies of the horses in their growing alarm.

Beartooth added to this, shouting between trigger pulls, “He’s turnin’ again! We got him zigzaggin’ but there ain’t no backup in him. He’s gonna be bustin’ out into the clear any second now—and it looks like he’s gonna be headed straight for you, Firestick!”

With Ol’ Thunder raised to his shoulder and the second trigger already set, Firestick sighted down the barrel and raked out, “Let him come—he’ll find out there ain’t no backup in me, neither.”

The ground across the canyon mouth, sandier and more exposed to the elements, was covered with shorter, coarser grass than that farther into the canyon. When the bear emerged into this, charging suddenly out of the taller inner grass, he was once again fully in view. And this time it wasn’t merely for a fleeting glimpse. He was right there, only fifty yards in front of Firestick’s position, barreling full steam on all fours with furious intent to escape the canyon, and woe be to anything in his way. His fangs were bared and shiny with saliva, an ominous rumbling was issuing from his massive chest, and his blazing yellow eyes seemed locked fiercely on Firestick as he bounded directly toward him.

Even as he steadied his sights on a spot between those blazing eyes and just above that savagely gaping mouth, Firestick was aware of both Moosejaw and Beartooth converging on his position, meaning to try and help intercept the advancing beast. Because they were firing wildly as they ran, not taking time to aim carefully, Firestick saw a few of their bullets striking the shaggy body and giving off puffs of dust, but as many or more were sailing wide or gouging into the ground. None of the rounds that hit the griz seemed to slow him at all.

Which was why Firestick continued to take steady, careful aim—meaning to make sure he triggered a kill shot by penetrating the thick skull and planting a .50-caliber ball in the brain beneath.

But the same instant he stroked the Hawken’s firing trigger, the griz stepped in a sharp rut with his right forepaw and lurched abruptly to one side. This staggered him momentarily but did little to slow him down. What it did do, unfortunately, was cause him to jerk his head far enough to the side so that Firestick’s shot missed where it had been intended and instead clipped a large chunk off the bear’s left ear and smashed into his shoulder. The impact was enough to stagger the beast harder, almost stopping him this time. But again, only momentarily. Then he was surging forward once more, emitting a roar of pain and rage as he came.

Realizing he didn’t have time to reload the Hawken, Firestick set aside the muzzle-loader and quickly snatched up his Yellowboy. Beartooth and Moosejaw had both skidded to a halt and were now bracing to take careful aim before doing any more shooti. . .