Halfway to Hell

Book 1: Slick Parker Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. GET TOUGH OR GET OUT OF THE WAY.

In this hot-blooded new series from the bestselling Johnstones, a young deputy sheriff earns his badge the hard way—with six cutthroat killers out for his blood . . .

As the deputy sheriff in a small Missouri town, “Slick” Parker Jones doesn’t have much to do except get drunk and chase saloon girls. Life is pretty dull in Rory’s Junction—until Slick sees the wanted poster for a notorious train robber.
 
Parker’s never met an actual outlaw before. He’s never faced any real dangers, to be honest. But when that wanted man staggers into Parker’s nightly watering hole—half dead, with a hole in his gut and a bloody map in his hand—the young deputy’s life takes a wild turn . . . quite possibly fatal.
 
 It starts with the dying man’s final words: “The gold.” Which leads Slick Parker to one conclusion: The map leads to the stolen gold from the outlaw’s latest, greatest train robbery. Instead of calling the marshal, Parker decides to hunt for the gold himself, earn his badge the old-fashioned way, and become the kind of lawman he always knew he could be. There’s just one problem. Parker isn’t the only one searching for the gold. A vicious gang of six barbaric killers are looking for it, too—and they’re gunning for the man with the map.
 
By the time Parker realizes what he’s up against, it’s too late. He’s already halfway to hell. . . .
 

Release date: February 25, 2025

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Parker Jones was just about to lock up when the man with the two-gun rig walked in.

He was tall and lanky, black hair coming down from under his hat to fall over his neck and a mustache that curled down over his upper lip. Except for a starched white shirt, the man was dressed entirely in black.

Silver spurs gleamed as did the twin nickel-plated Remingtons on his hips with the ivory handles. He stood erect , entered the office with a purposeful stride and fixed Parker with piercing blue eyes.

“Name’s Best,” he said. “Tanner Best. I want to see the sheriff. That you?”

Parker stopped himself from sighing. Two more minutes and he’d have had the place locked up and been on his way to Clancy’s Saloon for a much anticipated beer. Still, the man had a no-nonsense way about him, and if he was looking for the sheriff then maybe it was something important. To Parker’s way of thinking, there were only two sorts of man who’d sport pistols like that. One sort was a fella too fancy for his own good, not somebody to take seriously. The other sort was a man who could back them up with action, a man who’d maybe earned the right to carry any kind of six-guns he wanted, and woe unto anyone who elected to criticize.

Parker decided he wasn’t about to criticize.

“Sherrif’s due back from Joplin tomorrow,” Parker said.

“You one of the deputies?” Best asked.

“The only deputy,” Parker told him. “Rory’s Junction tends to be fairly law-abiding.”

“I’ll direct my questions at you, then,” Best told him.

Why me?

Maybe if Parker answered the man’s questions quickly, he could be on his way to that beer. “I guess I got a minute.”

“Son, you got as many minutes as I need. Now, listen up.”

Parker frowned. Son? The man was only ten or twelve years older than he was. “If it’s some simple question, I can try to answer it. Otherwise, the sheriff’s back tomorrow, and you can ask him. I was actually just about to close up.”

Best smirked. “Close up? You might lock these doors and go home, but the law never sleeps, boy.”

Parker wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t dare. “I see. You know something about the law, do you, Mr. Best?”

Best looked down at his jacket and laughed. “Oh, yeah. Forgot. I don’t like to call attention to myself when I’m traveling.” He dipped two fingers into his vest pocket, came out with something. Parker caught a glint of metal. Tanner Best pinned the badge on his lapel.

U.S. marshal. Well, damn.

“Beggin’ your pardon, marshal,” Parker said. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard tell Grady Jenks was seen in the area,” Best explained. “I was wondering if you or anyone around here has heard or seen anything. Maybe saw some strangers wandering through.”

Parker paused to show he was thinking about it and then slowly shook his head. “No, can’t say I’ve ever heard of this Grady Jenks character.”

“Never heard of him, huh?”

“Should I have?”

Best made a sort of low growl in his throat like he was reminding himself to be patient with a small child. He turned and took three lazy steps to the wall on Parker’s right, spurs jingling as he went. The jailhouse wasn’t big. Rory’s Junction didn’t need much. One room with a desk. A jail cell behind him. A rack on the other wall with rifles and shotguns.

But Best had gone to the opposite wall, the one with the big corkboard. Three layers of calendars and announcements and handbills pinned there. Sometimes the sheriff would hang up something he’d cut from the newspaper.

Best rapped a knuckle on a wanted poster. It depicted a rough line drawing of a shady-looking character, the words GRADY JENKS underneath his face.

“He’s been staring you in the face all day,” Best said.

Parker felt himself go pink in the cheeks. “I guess there’s so much hanging on that board, we don’t even see it no more.”

“Maybe sort through it,” Best suggested. “Cull the old news.”

Parker nodded. “Right.”

“But you ain’t seen anyone who looks like that?”

Parker shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Well, the likenesses ain’t always too good on them posters.” Best reached into his jacket and came out with some folded papers. He unfolded one and set it on the desk in front of Parker. “The younger one’s dead. Seen the older one?”

Parker squinted at the wanted poster.

“Not familiar, sir,” Parker said. “Sorry.”

Best refolded the wanted poster and stuffed it back into his jacket. Then he unfolded the other one and slid it across the desk. It was another line drawing of a face, reasonably detailed. Middle-aged. A round, affable face. Thick cheeks and bushy eyebrows. A big nose. But there was no name. No dollar amount for a reward.

Best must have read Parker’s mind.

“This isn’t a wanted poster,” the marshal said. “This is just someone I’m looking for. I’d like to ask him a few questions. Gerald Filmore. He’s a railroad man. That face look at all familiar?”

Parker would have remembered anyone who’d looked like that, but again, he made as if to study the drawing an extra few moments to assure Best he was taking it seriously. Finally, he said, “No, sir. Never seen him.”

Best sighed as he folded the drawing and stashed it back inside his jacket. “Is there a hotel in this town?”

“Lana Ross, at the end of the street, runs a boardinghouse,” Parker said. “She might have a room.”

“Okay, then,” Best said. “Maybe I’ll catch the sheriff in the morning before I leave. If he’s back in time. You have a good day, deputy.”

Parker watched him go, the jangle of the marshal’s spurs playing him out the door. He finished locking up and headed straight for Clancy’s. People were just starting to wander in, and there was still plenty of room at the bar. Parker bellied up and waved at Clancy. The old man brought a beer for Parker without having to be told.

“Another peaceful day in Rory’s Junction, deputy?” Clancy asked.

“Told some loud kids to be quiet,” Parker said. “They were disturbing the fellows over at the barber shop.”

Clancy grinned. “What would the townsfolk do without you to protect us from such villainy?” He kept grinning as he wiped a cloth back down the bar.

Parker shook his head, laughed, then drank half his beer in one go.

More men drifted in, some taking a moment to exchange bland pleasantries with Parker. Yes, it has been warm. Did you hear Martha Quinn’s shepherd had a litter of puppies? Old man Perkins still has the fever and might not make it. A damn shame.

And so on.

Parker saw Marshal Best enter the saloon and turned away, hunching over his beer, trying to look inconspicuous. It didn’t do any good.

Best bellied up next to him at the bar. “Deputy.”

Parker didn’t look up. “Marshal.”

“Thanks for the tip on the boardinghouse,” Best said. “She had a room for me.”

“That’s good.”

Best waved for the bartender to bring him a whiskey. “Leave the bottle.”

Clancy left the bottle.

Best filled his glass, shot the first one back, smacked his lips, and refilled his glass. He held the bottle up to Parker. “Drink?”

Parker didn’t really want to prolong his conversation with Tanner Best. On the other hand, a free drink was a free drink.

Parker reached behind the bar and helped himself to a shot glass, set it on the bar, and Best filled it for him.

Parker held up the glass. “Appreciated.” He threw it back, felt the pleasant burn down his throat.

Best filled his glass again without asking.

Parker felt obliged to offer some conversation. The marshal was pouring whiskey after all.

“So, those men you’re looking for,” Parker said. “They rob a bank around here or something?”

“Those men done a lot of bad things, but nothing around here,” Best told him. “As for me, I’m after them because of the big train robbery.”

Something tickled Parker’s memory. “That thing out in Wyoming?”

“That’s right,” Best said. “There’s a lot of gold still missing, and none of the men have been caught except for one of the Morris brothers—although, I wouldn’t quite say he was caught. Found his body in a freight car.”

Parker remembered the newspaper article a little better now. The conductor and engineer thought they’d heard some kind of commotion, but then thought nothing of it when the train continued to run smoothly. It was only after they’d pulled into the Cheyenne station that they discovered both doors had been blown off the final freight car, which was littered with the corpses of incognito Pinkertons. By the time the law was called in, the train passengers had all gone on their merry way. A spokesman for the railroad claimed not to even know there had been such a substantial amount of gold aboard the train. From the article, Parker got the impression the whole thing was a big, confusing mess.

“If the train was robbed in Wyoming, I guess I’m wondering what you’re doing in Missouri, marshal,” Parker said.

Best sipped his whiskey. “The only clue they had was Eugene Morris’s corpse. Him and his brother were known members of the Grady Jenks gang, so that’s who we have pegged for the crime.” A shrug from the marshal. “Although that other man, Gerald Filmore? Well, he has my interest.”

“Oh? How so?” Parker nudged his empty shot glass toward the marshal, hoping he’d take the hint.

Best refilled the glass. “That sketch I showed you. The one that’s not a wanted poster. He’s a railroad employee that’s gone missing. I wouldn’t mind asking him a few questions. I don’t believe in coincidences, him going missing right around the time of the robbery? No, sir. I have questions.”

“What makes you think he’s in Rory’s Junction?” Parker asked.

“I doubt he is,” the marshal replied. “But the man’s mother lives twenty miles from here in Neosho. I’m showing his sketch in every little town I pass through. Worth a shot.”

Parker pushed away from the bar. He was generally a beer man and was starting to feel the whiskey in his legs. “Well, I wish you luck, Marshal Best. Rory’s Junction is the sleepiest place this side of the Mississippi, so I doubt it’s the sort of place that would attract a hardened criminal with a pocket full of gold. But I’ll keep my eye out.”

A brief smile flickered across the marshal’s face. “You do that, son.”

It was dark when Parker left the saloon and began walking the road home by moonlight. He knew the way and could do it with his eyes closed. Just out of town, the road took a lazy turn to the right to parallel Harold’s Creek. Ten minutes later he arrived at the little flour mill. The creek turned the wheel, and Parker’s brother-in-law, Caleb Burnside, made a decent living with it.

Caleb was just coming out of the stables as Parker walked up out of the darkness. He frowned at Parker. “You missed dinner.” He was short but broad, mouse-brown hair thinning on top, a good twenty years older than Parker, ruddy red cheeks, and white stubble on his jaw. “Get home sooner and you can eat.”

Parker shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Caleb grunted like it made no never mind to him either way, then turned and went inside the small house.

Parker turned the other way and entered the mill through the little side door. There was a room in back that had been for tools and spare parts for the mill, but they’d cleaned it out when the twins had been born to make a place for Parker. The miller’s house was small, and Parker had begrudged it when his sister and brother-in-law said they needed the room for their children. When Parker’s parents had died, his older sister had been of marrying age, and Caleb had always been fond of her. Parker had still been in school. It had been kind of Caleb to put a roof over his head, and Parker maybe didn’t blame the man for wondering when he would finally move on.

But Parker hadn’t moved on. And now he lived in the mill’s old tool room, slept on a narrow cot. He liked working as a deputy, but the pay was a laugh. He kept waiting for some opportunity to present itself.

It never did.

He lit a lantern and sat on a stool and pulled off his boots. He was hungry, and that was for sure, but he’d just have a big breakfast. Anyway, a man didn’t notice his hunger so much while he was asleep, so he supposed he’d just collapse into the cot and close his eyes.

A knock at the door.

“Come in.”

His sister entered, holding a tin plate with a red-and-white-checkered napkin thrown over it. The smell of the food hit him, and Parker’s mouth watered.

“Your husband said I missed dinner,” Parker said.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t listen to him.”

She handed him the plate, and Paker snatched the napkin off the top. A biscuit and a chicken leg. Turnip greens. White beans. Parker immediately bit into the biscuit.

“You’re the best,” Parker said, as he chewed.

She grinned down at him, leaning back against the wall and watching him eat. “Can’t let my little brother starve.”

Sarah Jones—now Sarah Burnside—was still a handsome woman. She was nine years older than Parker, with the same auburn hair and fair complexion. She’d been a catch back in the day, and Parker always thought she could have done better than Caleb, although maybe thinking that wasn’t so generous. Now she looked a bit haggard, especially around the eyes—not bad, but tired, keeping house, running after the twins, helping Caleb at the mill.

Not for the first time, Parker felt a pang of guilt. He should have been off on his own before now. He was young, sure, but a grown man.

Maybe Sarah was thinking the same thing, because she said, “How long you think you’re going to live in this flour mill, Parker?”

He shrugged. “Has Caleb said something?”

“He’s concerned you’re not—well . . . living up to your potential.”

Parker spooned in a mouthful of beans, wondering just exactly how much potential he actually had and how a fella went about getting it up and running. “I just—I need to figure things out.”

“No, I know.” She nodded, reluctant to press him. “I know.”

He ate faster, biting a chunk out of the drumstick.

“You thought any more about the army?” Sarah asked.

Parker shrugged, spooning more beans into his mouth. His father had gone into the army and come out a sergeant. He’d told Parker it was a good way for a man to get a start. Yeah, Parker had thought about it. And then he’d stopped thinking about it.

He finished eating, wiped his face with the napkin, put it back on the empty plate, and handed everything back to her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Well, I guess I’d best get some shut-eye.”

She nodded and smiled weakly. “Sure, Parker. Sleep well.” And she left.

Parker stretched out on the cot. He closed his eyes and was asleep in no time, dreaming of nothing at all.

Six rapid shots—three exploding bottles, and two metallic tinks as the tin cans were knocked off the fallen log.

Parker emptied the six-shooter and thumbed in fresh shells. He liked the feel of the revolver. Liked its weight.

His pay for being deputy sheriff in Rory’s Junction was pretty pitiful, but since he didn’t pay anything for food or a roof over his head, he could save for things he really wanted. A decent horse, for example. The saddle was a little beat up, but the price had been good. He’d purchased the Colt Peacemaker secondhand, but the previous owner had kept it clean. There was some room in the sheriff’s budget for ammo each month, and Sheriff Crabtree let him have a box now and then to practice.

It was the only thing he was really good at. Shooting. Maybe it was because it was the only thing he really practiced. From twenty feet—or even thirty—he simply didn’t miss. And that was from the hip. He was fast, too. Another thing he’d practiced a lot. Quick draw.

Parker set up four new cans on the log. He was shooting toward the creek, with the woods beyond, so he didn’t have to worry about stray shots. He walked back to his spot, turned, letting his right hand dangle down near the Peacemaker, ready to see how fast he could draw and still hit the cans.

He heard voices.

Mary Lou Shaw and Bonnie Morgan were walking together down the road and would pass right by Parker on the way into town. He decided not to shoot until they got closer so that he could show off a bit.

He watched them come in the corner of his eye, saw them turn their heads to look at him.

Parker whipped the six-gun from his holster and fanned the hammer four times.

Boom-tink. Boom-tink. Boom-tink. Boom-tink. Four dead tin cans.

Parker spun the revolver on his finger with a flourish as he returned it to its holster.

The girls put their heads together and giggled.

Then Mary Lou shouted. “I’m sure glad you’re around to protect us, Deputy Jones, in case Rory’s Junction is overrun by all them villains from Dodge City and Tombstone.”

Parker knew when he was being made fun of.

“The law is a serious matter, ladies,” Parker said sternly.

The girls giggled, rolled their eyes, and kept walking.

“Hold on, now.” Parker walked after them. “You two don’t have time to pause and chat?”

The two girls looked at him, then put their heads together again. Then Bonnie kept walking. Mary Lou came toward him.

Parker would have preferred it the other way around. There wasn’t one single thing wrong with Mary Lou. Hair like copper, freckles across her nose and cheeks. Bright green eyes and a nice slender figure. But Bonnie was the one who’d always had Parker’s attention. Bonnie had corn-yeller hair and perfect teeth, and eyes as blue as the sky, and an hourglass figure.

“Where’s she going?” Parker asked when Mary Lou was close enough.

“She wants to make sure she gets a seat close to Lawrence Foley in church,” Mary Lou told him.

“Lawrence Foley? What for?”

Mary Lou shook her head and rolled her eyes, amused. “Parker Jones, don’t you keep up with current events?”

“I was thinking I might call on Bonnie myself.” Parker hadn’t been thinking that, but he began to suspect maybe he should have been.

Mary Lou shook her head again, but the amusement faded. “Parker.”

“I’m better looking than Lawrence Foley,” Parker said. “And taller.”

“Parker, we’re not kids in school no more,” Mary Lou said. “There’s more to a man and woman being together than just looks.”

“Lawrence’s family is farmers,” Parker said. “What’s so special about that?”

“The Foley farm is over a hundred acres,” Mary Lou told him. “They’re building another house on the other side of the property for Lawrence, with a porch and everything. A woman wants to know she’s marrying into something besides a nice smile and good hair.”

Back in school, Bonnie had eyes for Parker, and he’d known it. But she was younger. He always thought she’d keep, that she’d be waiting for him when he was ready. That was foolish. He realized that now.

“Well, I didn’t really fancy her all that much anyway,” Parker said.

Mary Lou put her hand on his arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Sure, Parker. I’ve got to get going, okay?”

“See ya.”

Parker picked up the cans and saved them to shoot again later. Then he walked into town and opened up the sheriff’s office. He took the broom from the corner and gave the place a good sweep. He sat behind the desk awhile, in case anyone needed him for something.

Nobody did.

Just before noon, the sheriff walked through the door.

“Howdy, Parker. Get along okay without me?”

“Nothing but peace and quiet.”

Sheriff Mason Crabtree retired from the army as a major. He had no wife and no kids, and had taken the job of sheriff as a courtesy and simply to keep busy. He was in his late fifties, salt and pepper hair in a sharp widow’s peak, bland brown eyes, clean-shaven except for a thin mustache. He had an easy, unexcitable way about him: even-tempered and thoughtful, but with a kind of quiet strength that made him a good choice for a lawman, at least in a sleepy place like Rory’s Junction.

“Oh.” Parker just remembered. “There was a federal marshal here, asking for you.”

Crabtree raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

“Well, for the sheriff.”

Parker related the details of Tanner Best’s visit, looking at the wanted posters, and Best’s theories concerning the train robbery.

“He wanted a room, and I sent him down to Miss Ross’s place,” Parker said.

“Huh.” Crabtree gave that a few seconds thought. “I reckon I’ll mosey around to the boardinghouse and see if he’s still there. I need to make the rounds anyway. Half a sheriff’s job is being seen. Folks like to know the law’s around—just in case.”

“Okay then,” Parker said. “I’ll hold the fort, here.”

The sheriff left, and Parker looked for something to do. He took all the rifles and shotguns down from the rack and cleaned them, even though he couldn’t remember the last time they’d been fired.

The sky had grown dark by the time Crabtree returned, even though it was only early afternoon.

“Storm coming,” Crabtree said. “I got things handled here, if you want to head home before it starts coming down.”

If Parker went home now, his brother-in-law would find some chore for him to do.

“I can keep you company.”

The sheriff eased himself into the chair behind the desk. “Suit yourself.” He opened a newspaper and began reading.

Parker plopped into the chair on the other side of the desk and twiddled his thumbs.

Crabtree slowly lowered the newspaper and looked at Parker. “Son, how long you plan to do this?”

“Well, until Clancy’s opens maybe,” Parker said. “Not sure.”

“I don’t mean today,” Crabtree told him. “I mean the rest of your life.”

Parker wasn’t sure what the sheriff was asking him. The confusion must have been plain on his face.

“I knew your father from the army,” Crabtree began. “Good man. And I wanted to look out for you and Sarah when your folks passed. But of course, Sarah was already engaged to Caleb. I brought you on as deputy to—oh, I dunno—have you where I could keep an eye on you. Give you something to do. Fact is, Rory’s Junction barely needs a sheriff, let alone a deputy. I had to mess the budget around a bit to give you your paltry paycheck. Anyway, I thought it would only be for a little while.”

“I got no complaints about the pay, sheriff.”

“Okay, but that’s not the point,” Crabtree said. “You’re still young, but you’re not going to stay that way. You might want to think about—well . . . a path.”

“A path?”

“An idea what you’re going to do with your life,” Crabtree said. “A goal you’re working toward. A life you want to make for yourself.”

Parker wondered if Lawrence Foley had chosen his path. To Parker, it seemed more like Lawrence had rolled out of bed and already found his path under his feet, just doing what his folks had done before him. How was waking up at dawn every morning to work the dirt and feed chickens and slop hogs better than what Parker did every day?

Except that Bonnie thought it was. Score one for Lawrence.

“I guess I’m just slower than some about figuring that out.” Parker rose slowly from his chair. “I might take the long way round to Clancy’s. Good for the law to be seen. Like you said.” He tapped the tin star on his v. . .