Hard Road to Vengeance

Book 3: Stoneface Finnegan Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Legendary national bestselling Western authors William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone return with a blistering second installment in the new Stoneface Finnegan series.

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. WHERE PEACE COMES FROM THE BARREL OF A GUN.

Whether serving justice as a Pinkerton agent or serving drinks as a saloonkeeper, Stoneface Finnegan always lines up his shots to kill . . .

GONE TO DEADWOOD

The Pinkertons believe Rollie “Stoneface” Finnegan was the best agent to ever wear the badge. So does dewy-eyed Pinkerton hopeful and sleuth-in-training Tish Gray, who’s just arrived in Boar Gulch. As co-owner of Boar Gulch’s Last Drop Saloon, Stoneface is content slinging booze into guts instead of bullets. But when his partner Jubal “Pops” Tennyson needs help to rescue his daughter, Stoneface saddles up to take a hard ride into hell.

Their destination is Deadwood, Dakota Territory, the notorious mining town and outlaw haven where folks can dig up a gold fortune or dig their own grave. Pops’ daughter is being held captive by the infamous Al Swearengen, owner of the Gem Theater, supplying whiskey, wagering, and women to the desperate, the destitute, and the dangerous.As naïve, young Tish goes undercover at the Gem to find Pops’ daughter, Stoneface and his partner are pinned down in the Black Hills by every trigger-happy gunslinger looking to collect the dead-or-alive bounty on Stoneface’s head . . .

Live Free. Read Hard.
 

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Two Months Ago

Denton I. Pulcross owned one square block of increasingly valuable real estate in the pulsing heart of downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. The proprietors of all manner of businesses paid sizable annual fees to Mr. Pulcross for the privilege of earning money in such a prime location—and in proximity to such a civic leader as Denton I. Pulcross. Yes, indeed, it was a much-sought stretch of storefronts.

But as popular as Millie’s Millinery, Tumlin’s Menswear, and the Circle Café were, none could ever hope to match the annual revenue generated by a business nested not along that lucrative face of the block, but behind a steel door on a side street twice removed from the bustle of commerce. This unlikely location was the beating black heart of Denton I. Pulcross’s business dealings.

The establishment, The Dandy’s Haven, Gentlemen’s Club and Reading Room, was not advertised, was not spoken of by the privileged men who were its members, nor was its presence known by the general public.

Indeed, not even a sign nor number marked the entrance’s location. The door itself was a batter-proof, plate-steel portal two-thirds of the way down the alley. A small, sliding panel at face height was manned from inside by a coarse brute in a tight necktie whose knuckles topped hands larger than the faces of most of the clientele. But it wasn’t their head sizes Mr. Pulcross was concerned with. It was the girth of their wallets.

Once inside, members in good standing—powerful men all, with much money and a yearning to spend it on distractions unavailable to them elsewhere—entered a vast room with gaming tables, massage rooms, banquettes with curtains for intimate entertainments, and more. A vast assortment of the world’s most sought-after libations were served by women, also from all over the world, a curated collection of beauties whose looks rated them among the most stunning specimens from their respective countries.

Flanked by two burly gents in tuxedoes and far to the rear stood a thick mahogany door with a brass knob that led to the outer office of Denton Pulcross, aforementioned owner and proprietor of The Dandy’s Haven, Gentlemen’s Club and Reading Room. Then came his office, a sumptuous, leather-and-wood-filled, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves and plush seating dominated by a massive desk.

Denton often sat behind it, puffing cigars and counting cash and bullying city officials and paying off policemen and ordering supplies and bartering for the same.

Through a door behind his desk was another room, with handsome wood panels and carpet. Unused much of the time, it was used for extra special events, and only his extra special clients were invited—only the wealthiest among the usual milling mass of tony members.

Tonight, one of those special events was taking place.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Denton I. Pulcross, striding to the middle of the room and thumbing his satin smoking jacket’s black velvet lapels. “Who among you is interested in a taste of... the exotic?” He gazed upward as if in deep thought, and stroked a gray-flecked dagger beard that did less than he thought in concealing his double chin.

A rheumy, boozy smear of shouts of “Hear hear!” rippled through the room, along with much boot stamping and cane tapping.

He snapped his fingers and a narrow wood panel at the rear of the room swung inward. A flash of red appeared, seemed to hesitate before moving through the doorway, then was shoved forward. The flash stumbled, righted itself, and became a woman with bare limbs and wearing a rather short vermilion dress.

Behind her struggled a thin, not very tall, leering man in a black suit and hank of oily too-black hair that slipped down over his eyes above a long, bulbous, red-tipped nose. He struggled because she struggled, bound as she was behind her back at the wrist with wraps of a gold chain. This contrivance forced her chest forward and the result caused gasps of glee among the assembled jowly white men.

She was tall, slender, but not too slender, buxom, and her glowing skin was the color of powdered cocoa. Long, gleaming, midnight-black hair sat piled high atop her head. Her long neck, arms, shoulders, and legs were bare.

Hands holding drinks trembled, cigars drooped, lips were licked, and sweaty brows were dabbed with pocket kerchiefs. Denton I. Pulcross smiled. At least until a scuffling sound and a low, throaty growl from behind him spun him around, eyes glaring.

What he saw was what all the portly men in the room saw, and they all shared surprised looks that grew horrified. The stately, chain-bound woman had spun on the greasy man bedeviling her. She growled and lunged and jerked and spun around, and in doing so, pulled the man toward her so they were face-to-face.

In eye-blink speed she bent down from her superior height and bit the tip of his bulbous red nose, then jerked backward, tugging the screaming man with her.

Blood sprayed, spritzing her face and running down her chin. She did not let go. She ground her teeth tight together and wiggled her head back and forth as if to sever the offending proboscis.

The flailing, shrieking man soon righted himself and pried her jaw apart enough he could jerk his face away from the snarling woman, though two of his fingertips suffered a similar treatment as his nose. He shoved her away and she stumbled once more, on shoes with heels that lent her already lofty height an impressive stature.

She quickly righted herself and stood with her bloodied teeth gritted, her breath heaving and her flinty eyes glaring at the fleshy faces ringing her. Strands of her hair worked loose from the impressive pile atop her head, lending her face an even wilder look as she stared through narrowed eyes at the men.

The man she’d attacked was doubled over and gripping his face. As blood leached between his fingers, his screeches were muffled by his hands, but the words were unmistakable—and they were nearly as shocking to the assemblage as the young woman’s display. Nearly.

For several long moments, Denton I. Pulcross was uncertain what to do first. He could pull a gun on the woman, which would necessitate him having to lift his trouser leg and retrieve the single-shot derringer nested in a holster about his fleshy calf above his sock and shoe. It would be easier to whistle for his two mastiff men, but he wasn’t sure he could even conjure up enough spit. While all that went through his mind, the two burly men appeared to either side of him.

“Oh, good. Control that beast.” Pulcross nodded toward the glaring woman, who was in the midst of smiling and sneering and feinting a lunge at the tuxedoed gawkers.

The two big men bookended her, gripped her thin arms, and held her rigid. She whipped her head side to side, trying in vain to bite them. She kicked them each in the shins. Neither man moved. With a growl of surrender she once more stood still, breathing hard and glaring at everyone.

Meanwhile, Denton I. Pulcross had bent to the rocking, shrieking man. “Ellis, you damned fool, look what you’ve done! Get the hell out of here!” he growled through gritted teeth. Trying to shield the spectacle of the blood-faced idiot from the crowd had little effect.

“Me?” whined Ellis. “She bit my nose off!”

“If you don’t get away from me, I’ll bite your fool head off!” Pulcross shoved the blubbering man through the panel door, then slammed it shut. He turned and had to work to pull his gaze away from the bloody mess the fool had made of his carpet.

Emboldened by the presence of his burly men restraining the woman, he moved close to her right side. “Turn your face so they can’t see that scar.”

She acted as if she hadn’t heard him.

He growled and once again walked to the center of the room, half occupied with thoughts of how to have Ellis killed. Looking over the crowd, Pulcross laughed. “Ah, ha-ha. What a show, eh? Imagine how fun she’d be.”

Silence filled the room, save for the low growl from the woman’s throat.

“All right now, who’ll start things off? Who’ll give me a . . . a thousand dollars for this dusky beauty?”

The group’s taste for this particular dish had been lost in the frenzy. She smiled and stood tall, no longer looking any of them in the eye.

“Five hundred? A mere five hundred dollars would buy you more satisfaction than—”

“And a case of hydrophobia, I dare say!” shouted someone from the far side of the room.

It might have been the visiting Duke of Orrington, thought Pulcross. Or perhaps Chester Rockwood, the railroad tycoon. He couldn’t be certain which. Didn’t matter. The chance was lost. And his investment in the creature, too.

Denton pasted on an even wider smile. “For that money, I’m tempted to keep her for myself!”

“You’ll need more chains, wot?”

Definitely that annoying Duke. Trust a royal to be that insufferable. Denton Pulcross stepped closer to the tall, beautiful woman in their midst and spoke loud enough for her alone to hear. “I’ll have you chopped and ground up, then I’ll feed you to my pigs. Then I’ll feed you to this lot. That’s what I’ll do, you . . . exotic thing, you.” He sneered as he turned away, but not before catching sight of the slightest tremor on the girl’s lip. Was that fear? Good.

“I’ll pay you five hundred for her.”

Denton turned to see a trim man, not overly tall, with black hair and a sculpted black, waxed moustache standing beside the woman.

Who is he? Oh yes, I’ve seen him before. Previous infrequent visits. In town on business, he’d said.

Denton recalled the man was one of those who’d made their fortune out West. In the heathen lands. Some idiot who’d lucked into a gold mine and could likely buy and sell the lot of them.

Bet he doesn’t know quality from quantity, Denton told himself. Nonetheless, treat this one well. One never knows what the future might bring.

He turned with a smile, hoping the man had not seen the scar running from her right eye and curving down her cheek to her chin. “Six hundred, sir.” Heck, maybe it didn’t matter to him. Some men liked that sort of thing. And the fact that she was bloodthirsty hadn’t deterred the man from stepping forth.

When the man nodded his agreement, Denton said over his shoulder, “Come to my office for a drink and a bill of sale for the $600.” He led the way.

The trim man followed with one backward glance at the woman. He winked at her.

Now that the fun was over, most of the other men had filed back toward the main room and other distractions. Pulcross and the buyer vacated the room as well, leaving the two burly brutes who held the arms of the tall woman in the pretty red dress with dark bloodstains smearing the front. They didn’t move.

She did move, or at least tried to. Once more she kicked at them, tried to surprise them with a lunge, twisting out of their grasp. Nothing changed, save for their tightening grips on her arms. Once more, she gave up.

What next? she thought.

Les than an hour later, she found herself seated in a sumptuous hansom cab, rolling through the rain-wet streets of St. Paul. She was still chained, although bound with her hands in her lap, and manacles of a thicker steel than the gold chain had been.

Couldn’t break that one, she reasoned. I’m not about to break this one.

The man who had paid $600 for her had draped his wool cloak over her shoulders. She’d given thought to shaking it off, but it was warm. The last thing she wanted was to come down with a creeping, coughing sickness that would drain her strength. She’d need it, always had, always would. She sat rigid at the far end of the seat and did not look at him.

She figured she’d become his love slave or some such. It had happened before, three times, in fact, always to wealthy white men. They’d treat her okay, buy her things, expect a whole lot in return. One man’s wife got wind of her and had tried to kill her with a knife. The old man had her sent away, sold her, she later found out, to one of his card-playing pals.

He’d not been nice at all, that card player. For a fellow who spent a whole lot of time gambling, he wasn’t very good at it. He’d bet her one night and lost her. She wasn’t sad to go, as he could be nasty when he was in his cups.

The night of the card game she’d ended up dragged to the home of the winning player. He’d been the worst of all, so far. He was a man who liked to scuff his knuckles across a woman’s body. He’d only hit her in the face once, though.

Guess he didn’t like seeing her once-pretty face sporting buttoned-up eyes and a split lip. Instead, he took to punching and kicking at her body. She’d be stiff and sore, but she could still manage to do what she was supposed to do.

Eventually, he’d told her he’d grown tired of her. She’d overheard he was to be married. God help that woman, she’d thought. But to choose such as him? Maybe the fool didn’t want God’s help. She’d beg for it before long.

His impending marriage had led him to take her north to St. Paul and so, she’d found herself at Pulcross’s Gentlemen’s Club. Not without first being handled by the master of the place.

She’d tried to get the attention of the other women in the place, see if she could get help somehow. Not a one of them would even look at her. That had been two weeks ago. Then she learned she was being saved for a special event. That’s what Pulcross had called it.

She got pushed once too often by that weasel-faced Ellis, always squeezing her and making nasty sounds behind her before jumping out of her way with a laugh. She got him, though, and that damn homely nose of his. She hoped he didn’t have some sort of nose disease. But it had been worth it. Just to hear him scream had been lovely.

And there she was—bought and paid for once again.

The man spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am or how I came to be there?”

She said nothing. Did not even look at him.

“Do you trust me?”

She shook her head.

“You’re right not to, of course. You don’t know me from Adam.”

They rode in silence a moment more, then he said, “I trust you.”

She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

He smiled and nodded. “Now, how about if I unlock those awful chains?”

She stared at him.

“It’s true. Here.” He reached into a vest pocket, tweez-ered out a skeleton key, and handed it to her.

Her sharp eyes regarded him with a somewhat softening look.

From her end of the seat, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Fine. How did you happen to be there?”

“Oh.” He glanced at her and his eyes widened. “Oh, good heavens, no. I am not the sort to frequent such places. Rather, I was in town on other business and got wind of the frankly repugnant dealings taking place at that . . . that den of iniquity!” The man’s face reddened and shook, and he spat the words as if they were hot coals in his mouth.

He glanced at her and saw that her brow had risen.

“My apologies, ma’am. That such things occur in this enlightened age is too much, really.”

The young woman remained wary. And yet, something about him was different. She didn’t quite know what made him so, but it was there.

Whatever he might turn out to be, he was different. And he had presented her with the opportunity to leave. It’s not like she had anywhere else to go. No money, nearly no clothes, no friends, no kin, no nothing. Just like always. And so Zadie decided not to jump out of the carriage just yet. She’d stick with him, at least for a little while. At least until the train depot. And then she’d decide.

When they arrived at the depot, he made her button up the cloak. “So as not to catch a chill” he said. Then he held the door for her and bought tickets while she waited.

She hoped there would be food. It had been nearly two days since she’d eaten, and then it had been cold, boiled potatoes and the heel of a gone-by loaf of bread.

He bought two steaming cups of coffee from inside while she waited for him outside. “For obvious but unfortunate reasons,” he said, then brought out the cups of coffee for them to sip. “While they ready my car.”

And though she hated to admit it, that impressed her.

He handed her one cup. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering yours with cream and a little sugar added. I guessed.” He shrugged.

She decided that was a kindly gesture. They did not talk while they sipped their coffee. It was good, but too sweet. She would not say so, though.

He began to speak, looked down, said, “No, no—”

“What is it?” she said, maybe too quickly.

He touched the right side of his face with a fingertip and shrugged. She knew right away it was the scar. Always the scar they wanted to know about. Couldn’t blame, them, really. It was not something everybody wore.

She sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not any of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. It happened . . . when I was a child.” But she did not want to say any more, could not bring herself to. She didn’t know this man at all and the night was wearing on her. All she wanted to do was stretch out and sleep for a week.

Before he could say something else, a lean fellow in grubby work clothes came along and nodded to the man.

She guessed his rail car was ready, whatever that might mean. They followed the fellow, who didn’t much look like a porter. He led them along a long line of cars down the tracks to where the darkness threw deep shadows.

She slowed her pace, and looked at the man.

He smiled, and nodded. “Here we are.”

Round about then she began to feel ill, and not a jittery, jumpy sort of ill. But a bad, down in the gut ill. Before she knew it, whup! Up came whatever little she’d had in her gullet. She felt embarrassed and began to apologize, but the man laughed.

“That sometimes happens.”

She fell right over onto her backside and he laughed some more. Before she knew it, the lanky fella who’d been leading them down along the train cars lifted her up and draped her over his shoulder like she was a sack of meal.

The worst of it was she knew it all was happening, could see it, smell it, hear it, feel it, but her sight blurred and buzzed like when you run too fast on a hot, sticky day. She tried to speak but the words came out sounding like mud looked, all thick and wet.

The kind man laughed some more, and the lanky man walked up what felt like a ramp. It was dark until somebody lit a lamp and the man carrying her lay her down.

Oh good, she thought. At least I’ll be in his train car and I can get some rest. It’s been a long day, a long week, month. Heck, it’s been a long ol’ life.

The lamp light came closer, making her sight all buzzy and blurry. Sound came and went like it was being pushed and pulled somehow to each side of her head. The light showed her the divan she was on was all raw wood and tall up the sides, like a box.

Like she was inside a wooden box.

She noticed she was laying on shredded straw or some such. What’s this?

Voices, she heard voices. The two men were talking.

The man who’d bought her leaned down and looked at her. “You’re feeling under the weather, eh? Well, you get yourself some sleep.” He smiled and it was different from the way he’d smiled at her earlier. Yes sir, something was definitely different about this man.

Zadie tried to push herself up out of the mess of straw but her arms just would not do her bidding. Same with her legs.

A scraping sound stopped her feeble efforts. Like a door being closed above her, the light from the lamp in the man’s hand began to narrow. Suddenly, she knew what it was—someone was sliding a lid on the box. The box she was in was going to be closed up. Like a coffin!

No, no. She thrashed her head side to side. No, this can’t be right, can’t be . . .

In a dusty corner somewhere inside her, Zadie found where her voice had been hiding. She grabbed it and used it, making it work once more. It wasn’t a pretty sound, more like a squawk, but it worked. And she kept on with it until she was shouting pretty well. Not words, really, but sounds. Animal sounds, sure, but sounds.

It didn’t seem to matter. That lid kept sliding, tightening the light, pinching it out.

Just before it slid into place, the man leaned close and looked through the gap, smiling. “See you in Deadwood, my dear.”

The lid slid into place and the sound of a hammer nailing it down drowned out the young woman’s muffled shouts from within.

“Rise and shine, you dusky delight!”

Zadie had been awake for some time, perhaps hours. It was tricky to know. They hadn’t been pleasant hours—her head thud, thud, thudded like a cannonade. Nor were they even comfortable hours, but at least they were enough to convince her she hadn’t been buried alive in that crate.

Her last memories had been seeing that wooden cover slide over her, then the nailing, and screaming, screaming, screaming until she cold no longer scream. And then nothing until this morning.

She knew it was morning because it was cold and the light had barely begun to show itself when she first woke.

“I trust you’ve had a pleasant sleep. I rarely touch the stuff myself. Sleep, I mean. It has a nasty way of ruining a perfectly good late-night card game or drinking session or . . . well, anything at all.” As the man spoke, he slowly walked in a crescent some feet before her hunched form.

For the first time, Zadie saw she wore not the tiny red dress that barely covered her, but some sort of sacking, like burlap. It itched when she’d shifted onto her backside. Bound with thick manacles about her wrists and ankles, she was chained once more.

The chains might be attached to a ring in the wall. She’d leaned back from her hunched, sitting position once and felt something cold, perhaps steel, touch her back. The room had a plank floor, plank walls, and a window to her left, too far to reach, even if she could stand. She’d never felt so sore, so weak, so dried out, so . . . confused.

Since waking and coming into her mind once more, however raw and fuzzy it was, she had but one question. What did the man want with her?

And there he was—the same man who’d seemed so kind, who’d seemed, for a time anyway, there might be one good person in the world, one person who didn’t want her dead or hated her because of her looks. Others had only wanted one thing—also because of her looks.

All that thinking made her head ache and pound like a war drum, right behind her eyeballs.

“Tipsy here will tend to you.”

Zadie heard dragging footsteps draw closer. From beneath her hair, Zadie saw two feet, one in a shoe, the other, oddly shaped, wrapped in rags. Whoever it was set down a tin pail beside the feet. Water slopped out the side, slight steam rose from it in the cold morning air of the room. A work-reddened hand, a woman’s hand, draped a grimy rag over the edge of the bucket and another hand set a hunk of lye soap onto the wooden floor beside the pail.

He walked forward, hunkered low before her, and spoke, his voice low and uncurling, like steel smoke, rust flaking from it. “A handy hint, my dear, before you get it in your pretty head to turn rogue once more and somehow fight your way out of this situation in which you find yourself—” He waited.

Long enough, she guessed, for her to look up at him. She did not.

He sighed and continued. “You will not, in fact, win. Ever. You will not escape. You will not do anything in your life from here on out but what I tell you to do. To illustrate what I mean, I’ll tell you a little story, hmm? Let’s see. Once, and only once, a long time ago now, a woman, let’s call her . . . Tipsy . . . tried to run away. Actually, she succeeded. At least for a mile or so. But men, my men, in fact—yes, I have several men who specialize in such situations—tracked her. I’ll wager you’ve come across them, or at least their kind, sometime in your . . . dark past.”

He chuckled at his petty joke. “They used to be slave chasers. Tracked them down, hauled them back for their bounty. Sometimes, though, depending on the circumstance, they could only bring back a head in a sack. I forbid such be. . .