Every Mother's Son

Book 3: Jackals

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Three men of honor. One impossible mission. No turning back. The Jackals ride again—in the Johnstones' gunblazing chronicle of the wild and lawless West . . .



In Texas's Big Bend country, every man has a price. For crime lord Harry Holland and his ruthless gang of cutthroats, that price is $20,000—a ransom demand for the kidnapped daughter of a retired Army colonel. So far, neither the Army, the Rangers, nor bounty hunters have been able to penetrate Holland's guarded fortress. In desperation, the colonel turns to the Jackals. As a longtime friend, retired cavalry sergeant Sean Keegan is determined to bring the man's daughter back alive—with or without the ransom money—but first he needs to convince his partners, former Texas Ranger Matt McCulloch and bounty hunter Jed Breen. This is no ordinary job. There's a very good chance it's suicide . . .



When word gets out that the Jackals are on the case, all hell breaks loose. They're up against trigger-happy mercenaries, marauding Apaches, and one final, jaw-dropping surprise—a kidnapping victim who doesn't want to be rescued. This time, the Jackals have no one to save . . . but themselves.

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Jed Breen damned well knew how much trouble he was in. Stuck in the middle of the salt fields, his horse dead a hundred yards away, buzzards circling, and those big black birds likely knew they’d have more than a roan gelding to feast on before too long. Two men had Breen pinned down. The baking sun beat him down, too. His canteen lay underneath the dead roan. So did Breen’s Sharps rifle. The only thing Breen had to defend himself was a .38-caliber Colt Lightning revolver, and the two men who wanted him dead positioned themselves far, far away. Out of pistol range, they were, but Breen pulled the Colt from the holster, and cocked it anyway.

At least, he tried to cock it. The casehardened iron would not budge. The Lightning being a double-action, Breen tried to pull the trigger, which should have brought the hammer back, but no matter how hard Breen squeezed, neither trigger nor hammer moved. He jostled the cylinder. Nothing. Not a movement, not a creak. He jammed it on the dead junk of juniper he hid behind, then worked hammer and trigger again. His end results? A string of silent curses.

Breen had yet to catch his breath after running for the nearest shelter he could find—this one dead juniper in the middle of a sea of white. His heart thundered, and Breen wet his tongue while he reevaluated his situation.

No rifle. No horse. No water. And a jammed revolver.

Well, he thought, if those two hombres get close enough, I can always blind them by throwing salt in their eyes.

Breen tested the Lightning once more, only to see the same results.

No rifle. No horse. No water. No revolver.

He sighed.

No chance.

He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his bone-white hair, and briefly checked the position of the sun. Dark was a long ways off. Mountains rose off to the northwest a ways, but Breen would have to run more than three-tenths of a mile before he reached the end of the salt flats in that direction. Southwest and west would take him another mile before he left the white desert for the tan one. It would also take him farther and farther from the water of the river to the east. And if he ran west, his back would provide an inviting target for the two assassins.

Never wanted to cash in my chips with a bullet in my back. Unless I was making love to a jealous husband’s wife.

His smile didn’t last long.

The only directions, heading east, would mean covering two hundred yards or more, and he would be moving straight to two men waiting for him. Two men who had already proved themselves to be pretty good shots with rifles.

Jim Kincaid. That’s who brought Breen to this country. That’s who got Breen in this fix. Kincaid. And that $400 price on his head.

Kincaid had made a name for himself robbing trains in the Indian Nations. Deputy United States marshals had been hunting him for two or three years with little to show for it except three wounded and one dead deputy. The KATY railroad had put up a $200 reward on Kincaid, the dead deputy’s widow had offered another $100, and the state of Texas figured he was worth $100 for being a general nuisance and for the fact that the KATY—nickname for the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railway—had finally reached Texas a few years back.

With the pressure and noose tightening, Jim Kincaid had left the Nations and had last been seen in El Paso. Breen saw the latest reward poster on Kincaid in Mesilla, New Mexico Territory, where he had just deposited a murderer for a $150 reward. Heading back to his home in Purgatory City, Texas, Breen stopped in at a saloon in El Paso, where he learned that Jim Kincaid had just moseyed out of town and was making his way to Lincoln in New Mexico Territory, where he figured he might as well sell his gun to the highest bidder in this range war going on up there.

This time of year, hot as things were getting in Texas, Breen figured that he might as well head to Lincoln, too. Pretty country, that part of Southern New Mexico Territory, and if a man like Jim Kincaid wanted in on the action, chances were other desperadoes would be joining the rival forces in Lincoln, too. Desperadoes with their descriptions on all sorts of wanted posters. If Breen could collect enough bounties, well, he might have enough money to last him till fall.

What Breen had not counted on was that Jim Kincaid would run in to John Murrell on the ride up to Lincoln.

Murrell was wanted for three murders, two assaults, one rape, and six or seven stagecoach robberies. The last poster on Murrell that Breen had seen said his bounty totaled $300, which did seem a tad low for a man who had killed three men and raped a woman, but Breen didn’t think about that until he was trapped in the salt flats.

He saw where Murrell met Kincaid, just northeast of Howell’s Tanks. Neither men had stopped at the roughshod station run by Lucius Howell—at least that’s what rawboned, tightlipped Howell had told Breen, but most smart men knew better than to drink Howell’s rotgut or play cards with any gambler operating there. That meant Murrell must have ridden in to Kincaid’s camp, shared some coffee, then camped there for the night, and that morning, Murrell rode east, and Kincaid kept on the trail to Lincoln.

What Breen didn’t figure on was that John Murrell had been in El Paso, too, and had seen Breen ride off after Kincaid. Probably the same barfly who confided Kincaid’s plans to Breen—for $10—took money from Murrell to learn of Breen’s idea. Breen didn’t even know Murrell and Kincaid knew each other. Maybe they didn’t until then.

A few miles past Howell’s Tanks, the trail went through the salt flats. Breen stopped to rest his horse, drink water from his canteen, and scan the country with his binoculars. The hoofprints left by Kicaid’s horse revealed a man in no particular hurry still riding along at a leisurely pace, it being hot, and Lincoln County being a good distance away.

Satisfied, Breen rode through the country and made a careless mistake. He left his Sharps rifle with the fancy telescopic sight sheathed in the scabbard. Two rifle shots rang out, one punching a hole through the bedroll behind the cantle, another slamming into the roan’s head. Breen barely managed to clear the stirrups. Landing in the sand, two other shots kicked up white dust a few feet from Breen, who climbed to his feet and felt a bullet tug on his bandana and another slug buzz past his left ear.

He took off running before the next two bullets sounded, seeing the juniper, and figuring that his luck would not hold. Yet it had. Breen dived to his right, as two bullets clipped the brittle branches of the dead tree, and that’s where Breen pulled himself up into a ball and started figuring his options.

“Señor Kincaid,” a voice called back from the rocks, “that bouledogue of a chasseur, he runs like a pura sangre, and is uno hombre con suerte.”

“Keep quiet, Murrell,” Kincaid rang out from his position. “And if he raises his head, blow it off.”

That was when Breen understood that the second gunman was John Murrell. He was the only outlaw in these parts who could not complete a sentence in one language. It always came about as a mix of English, French, and Spanish.

While he beat on the Lightning some more, Breen did some backtracking in his mind and came up with his theory about how Kincaid and Murrell met.

“Cazador, mi amigo,” Murrell yelled, “you should have remained in that salon pas cher in the ville of El Paso.”

“Shut up, Murrell. Keep your rifle sights on that mad-dog killer.”

That exchange just confirmed Breen’s theory.

“You should have kept running, bounty killer!” Kincaid yelled. “Might have made it. But not now. We’ve found our range, right, Murrell?”

A bullet shattered a limb on Breen’s right, bathing the brim of his hat in bark.

“Bueno, my new friend. Now . . . regarde ça.”

The next shot thudded into the lower trunk. Had John Murrell carried something more powerful than his repeating rifle—like Breen’s Sharps rifle—the slug probably would have torn through the juniper and punched a massive hole through Breen’s back.

Once the echoes of the bullets drifted away over the white vastness, the two killers started laughing.

Breen wiped the salt off the palm of his left hand and used the right to try to get that Lightning to work again. All he needed was two shots. If he could somehow get close enough to the outlaws.

“Bounty killer!” Kincaid’s voice thundered again. “I’m enjoying a cold sip of water from my canteen right now. I reckon your canteen is keeping your hoss company.”

“And I, mon nouvel ennemi, I sip from this bota that contains un excelente vino blanco.”

“Come join us!” Kincaid yelled after another round of laughing. “Because that sun must be frying your head right about now. And I don’t see a cloud in the sky.”

The laughter continued, and Breen stared across the salt flats, saw the heat waves rippling across the white expanse of nothing.

Hell, he realized, I never knew just how salt could make a body thirsty.

Since his family had been wiped out by Apaches, Matt McCulloch conceded that he had not acted neighborly in years—well, his wife, killed in that raid, probably would have let him know that he had never been on friendly terms with anyone other than his family. And those years as a Texas Ranger had not made him popular with the general public around Purgatory City. He was hardheaded, a hard rock, and a hard man to get to know. Pretty much impossible to like.

Which is why he was surprised that morning when Abel Cook rode up to the horse ranch McCulloch was trying to rebuild. Cook was what McCulloch would have to consider a competitor. He raised and bred quarter horses a few sections over to the east. McCulloch preferred mustangs, but he conceded that Cook knew good horseflesh.

“Mornin’,” Cook called out after reining in his dun a few yards from McCulloch’s dugout. He raised his right hand in a friendly greeting, or maybe it was a gesture from those olden times. When a man raised his hand or offered to shake—to show that he carried no weapon and meant no ill will.

I ain’t that dislikable, McCulloch thought. McCulloch eased his Winchester against the wall, nodded, and stepped out of the shadow.

“Cook,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

McCulloch couldn’t help himself. He scanned the horizon but saw nothing, not a cloud of dust, not a sign that anyone was waiting out in the vastness of West Texas to ambush.

Lord A’mighty, you are getting far too suspicious in your old age.

“Nice day,” Cook said.

McCulloch looked back at the visitor. Cook was middle-aged, in his late forties or early fifties, sat a saddle like he had been born to it. He wore chaps over blue trousers, well-beaten boots with a good set of spurs. McCulloch judged a man by his spurs, and these didn’t sport the big rowels some cowboys fancied, rowels that could cut up a horse’s sides. The vest, collarless paisley shirt, frayed bandana, and badly beaten hat spoke of a man who worked hard and did an honest day’s work. His face was bronzed, scarred, the nose misshapen, and the sandy hair sweaty, with a mustache that would make many a Texan envious.

“Might rain,” McCulloch said.

“Wishful thinking.”

McCulloch couldn’t help but smile. He stepped closer. “Light down, Cook,” he said, for they had never been on a first-name basis. Gesturing toward the dugout, he said, “I got some coffee cooked. It tastes like iron, but there’s a bottle of brandy that could help make it more palatable.”

The saddle creaked as Cook leaned forward, but he made no move to dismount. “Not sure I got time for coffee, McCulloch.” He pointed to the north. “Comanches run off with ten of my horses.” He glanced at the corrals McCulloch had put up. “They bother you?”

He shook his head. “No horses for them to take, except the two I got. Sold what I had. Figured I’d make a ride out to the mountains when the weather cooled. See how many mustangs and ponies I could catch then.” He wiped his brow. “This heat doesn’t make a man want to catch and break horses.”

“But you still drink coffee, hot as it is.”

McCulloch grinned. “You know what they say: Coffee’ll cool a body off.”

“With brandy instead of milk or sugar.” Cook laughed.

The ex-Ranger pointed at the water trough. “Water your horse. You going after your horses.”

Now the horseman swung out of the saddle, and led his brown gelding to the trough. McCulloch admired the horse, with its shoulders deep and strong, the high withers, short back, long legs, and lean muscles. Sixteen hands high, maybe a thousand pounds, probably three years old. A horse like that could take a rider a long way—and run faster than the West Texas wind.

As McCulloch walked to the visitor and horse, he saw the extra canteens over the saddle horn, the well-packed saddlebags, and the rifle in the scabbard. The loops in Cook’s gunbelt had been filled, and the smell of grease and oil remained prevalent. A glance told McCulloch that the holstered revolver was a Colt, and McCulloch figured it would fire the same cartridges as the Winchester.

“You going after the Comanches.” It wasn’t a question.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Not alone.”

The horseman straightened, keeping his eyes locked on McCulloch’s. Eventually he sighed, and shook his head. “The boys I’d hired quit this morning.”

Cook was a bachelor. At least there was no woman in his life as far as McCulloch knew. Now that he stood close to his nearest neighbor, McCulloch could see the crow’s-feet on Cook’s face, the wrinkles, the worries, the redness in the eyes, too.

Sighing, Cook shook his head.

“Must’ve been some raid,” McCulloch said.

“You know Comanches.”

“I know Comanches.” McCulloch looked north. “Unless they were taking those horses they got from you to sell to Comancheros, they’ll be raising dust back to their lodges. Staked Plains.”

Cook pointed northwest. “Trail was headed that way.”

McCulloch frowned. “Comancheros.”

The horse stopped drinking, raised its head, and snorted.

“I reckon so.” Cook drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and swallowed down his pride. “I can pay you two dollars a day. And the pick of the best horse we get back.”

McCulloch shook his head, then hooked his thumb toward his dugout. “I wouldn’t take either. This is what neighbors do in this part of the world. But you best get that coffee and brandy. Fortify yourself while I saddle my black.”

Winchester loaded and slid into the scabbard, canteens filled, the bottle of brandy wrapped in extra clothing and stuffed into a saddlebag, bedroll and rain slicker tied up behind the cantle, McCulloch looked over the black gelding’s back and stared hard at Cook.

“If those Comanches are taking those horses to the Canyon of a Hundred Crying Women, we won’t be able to catch them,” McCulloch said.

“This isn’t a quarter horse,” Cook said. “Or your mustang. It’s—”

“A Thoroughbred, I know. Damn good-looking horse. But no white man outrides a Comanche. Our one chance is to try to intercept them. With luck, they won’t have someone watching their back trail. Hell, they’re Comanches. Comanches want to be followed. Give them more scalps to bring back for the victory dance at their village.”

Cook nodded slightly, understanding.

McCulloch stepped into the saddle. “That horse of yours can outrun mine in a long race. Don’t let him do it. We pace ourselves. Steady. Ride hard. But not too hard. Ride fast. But not too fast. It’s rough country. And you’ve been in West Texas long enough to know that you get put afoot, you’re as good as dead.”

“I know.”

“You could just let the Comanches go. It’s worth considering. Are ten horses worth your life?”

“You wouldn’t let them go.”

“But I’m one of Purgatory City’s Jackals.”

“Which is why I came to you for help.”

McCulloch shook his head, let out a mirthless chuckle, and turned the black’s head. “Let’s ride.”

They made a cold camp that night, then rode out before daybreak. There was no trail to follow, but the men kept the horses at a steady pace, weaving around rocks and yucca. At length they could see the outline of the high country—high in this part of Texas. The Canyon of a Hundred Crying Women lay at the edge of the rugged, rocky slopes before the land flattened into a sea of nothingness that stretched to the salt lakes and beyond that more desert that led into New Mexico Territory.

As the sun dipped, they entered an arroyo and followed it in the gloaming, slowing their horses now, letting them breathe as they walked below the skyline. Cook pulled up one of his canteens, uncorked it, and drank greedily.

“Save the water,” McCulloch said. “We’re a long spell from the tanks.”

Nodding, Cook wiped his mouth with a dirty shirtsleeve and held the canteen out toward McCulloch as they rounded a bend in the sandy, dry bed.

“Hell,” McCulloch said, and reined in the black.

Cook, still holding the canteen, rode a few feet ahead before he saw what had stopped the former Ranger.

His horse stopped, snorted, and pawed the sand.

McCulloch wet his lips, and then let his reins drop over his gelding’s neck.

“Buenos tardes,” said the Mexican with the big black sombrero with bandolieers of ammunition crisscrossing his chest. “You ride good. Good horses you bring us.”

The Comanche with the red and yellow stripes painted across his cheeks and forehead said nothing. The Mexican aimed his rifle at Cook and McCulloch. The Indian had an arrow nocked on a bow. It, too, was pointed at the two white men.

“You’re a long way from the Canyon of a Hundred Crying Women,” McCulloch said.

The Mexican shrugged. “A day’s ride. That would be my guess.”

“Half a day,” McCulloch said.

The Mexican grinned. “On good horses. You two ride good horses.” He laughed. “Or rode good horses. I will take them.”

So, the Comanches had someone watching their back trail after all. Indians were getting smarter. Or maybe the Comancheros had ridden with the Indians on the raid at Cook’s ranch. That seemed to make more sense.

A third man appeared to McCulloch’s left, another Comanchero, but this one much younger, and a white man. He stood on the rim of the arroyo, holding a double-barreled shotgun.

His shadow fell between the Mexican and Indian and Cook and McCulloch, and the Mexican shot a quick glance at the white man, started to say something, but shrugged. He lowered his rifle, reached into his shirt pocket, and withdrew a cigarette. “Well,” he said. “We will take your horses. I will bring them to Reynaldo.”

“You’d leave us afoot?” McCulloch said. “In this country?” He took a quick glance at Cook, who still held out the canteen, as in shock. This would have to be McCulloch’s play.

“We will leave you here,” the Mexican said, and fired up the cigarette. “Step down, and away from your horses.”

“Why?” This was the first thing Cook said.

“So,” the Mexican said, and paused to draw deeply on his smoke. “So we do not accidentally hurt the horses when we kill you.”

McCulloch was diving off the black before the Mexican had finished his sentence, the Colt in McCulloch’s hand, the hammer pulled back, and he triggered a round while in midair. The bullet struck the white kid in the center of his throat, toppling him backward as he pulled the trigger of the shotgun to send buckshot straight into the evening sky.

By the time the roar of the shotgun sounded, McCulloch had hit the ground. He raised his head just in time to see the Comanche send the arrow straight into Cook’s chest. The canteen fell and the horseman somersaulted over the back of his horse.

McCulloch’s second shot twisted the Comanche around and dropped him to his knees. The Mexican had his rifle halfway up now, and jerked the trigger, sending a puff of dust followed by the noise of a ricochet. McCulloch flattened, aimed from the ground, cocked the Colt’s hammer, and fired through dust. He couldn’t hear anything now but a deafening roar, but he caught a glimpse of his black thundering straight ahead.

Another shot. Dust blinded him, but he saw the black rear, kicking hooves widely, then falling, falling, falling right toward McCulloch. He rolled away, saw dust fly again from another ricochet, saw the horse coming down. He tried to lunge, but the horse fell hard, and McCulloch screamed in agony from the weight of the horse as it fell on his left leg, pinning him underneath eight hundred pounds of deadweight. His head slammed into rocks and cactus. He tried to breathe.

When his eyes opened, he saw the Mexican smoking the cigarette, grinning widely.

“You shoot good,” the Mexican said.

The wounded Comanche was limping toward him, nocking another arrow in his bow.

“But not good enough.” The Comanchero lowered his rifle. “Maybe we’ll leave you here to die.”

The Comanche grunted what had to be a hell, no and when the Mexican turned to his comrade, McCulloch twisted as far as he could, screaming at the pain that almost blinded him from his injured left calf. He still held the Colt, and it boomed just as the Comanche loosed the arrow. Now pain shot through his right thigh, but the Mexican was toppling down, and the Comanche was dropping his bow and reaching for his knife. When the warrior lunged, McCulloch had just enough time to thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger once more.

His head dropped, he tried to breathe, tried to stop the pain, got ready for the sound of his scalp being taken.

Instead, he heard iron shoes on stones in the arroyo.

He turned his head, saw the Comanche dragging himself away. McCulloch tried to find his Colt, but knew he didn’t have strength to lift the revolver. He turned back, grimaced at his left leg underneath the dead gelding. He frowned at the arrow in his right leg, the blood streaming.

He knew one thing:

He wouldn’t have to worry about dying of thirst. Very soon, he would bleed to death.

“Now, now, now,” Sean Keegan said, smiling across the card table at Howell’s Tanks. “That is a mighty fine hand you have there, my friend. It certainly beats my queen-high flush.”

The tinhorn let his left hand slide toward the cash and coin, but stopped when Keegan kept talking in that rich Irish brogue. “But do you mind telling me, laddie, how you happened to draw that ace of clubs to fill your full house?”

Hard gray eyes looked from the grizzled face of the gambler. “The gods of poker must have smiled upon me.” The tinhorn tried to smile, but Keegan’s eyes were not friendly, either. The old face rose slightly, and the gambler asked: “And how did you know that I drew the ace—if you don’t mind my asking?”

Lucius Howell, standing behind the bar, began gathering the jugs and glasses and putting them beneath the stone bar. He didn’t bother lowering the mirror, for that looking glass had been so shot up and cracked from brawls and gunfire, a person couldn’t see his own reflection anyway. He just kept the mirror up to hide the myriad bullet holes. Few people stopped at the station these days. Most camped in the clearing and filled their canteens and horses’ stomachs from the rainwater that the cracks and hollows in the igneous rock held. Stagecoach lines eventually bypassed the station because too many people got killed here. The only reason Lucius Howell kept the place open was because he made money selling dead men’s traps and horses, taking gold fillings out of dead men’s mouths, charging for the liquor he made himself, and collecting ten percent of the house gambler’s winnings. The house gambler was Abel Koontz, the long-faced gent holding a Smith & Wesson in his right hand under the table.

“I don’t mind you asking,” Keegan said. “The ace of clubs hasn’t come up in the four hours we’ve been playing.”

“The cards roll that way sometimes.” Koontz had yet to rake in the pot, or show his right hand, which was still below the table.

“Aye. Luck. It’s with some people. And others.” He shook his head, and called out to Howell. “I reckon it’s time for another of whatever it is you’ve poured into that Jameson bottle, me lad.”

As he rose from the table, Koontz relaxed and began to bring in his winnings. But as Keegan stood, he slammed the knife he had onto the table, sending three fingers on the gambler’s left hand flying toward the leaky ceiling as the gunshot roared from underneath the table. Keegan felt the heat of the muzzle blast. Screaming in agony, Koontz hit the floor and kept pulling the trigger of the double-action revolver, more out of reflex than intent.

Keegan adjusted his grip, and as Koontz, frothing, screaming, began to shift the Smith & Wesson toward him, Keegan let the knife fly straight down into Koontz’s chest. The gambler gasped, dropped the pistol, and brought both hands, one with all f. . .