Nathan Stark, Army Scout

Book 1: Nathan Stark Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

In this blazing new series, William W. and J.A. Johnstone tell the tale of a man who became a myth—and a myth that became a legend. This is the epic story of Nathan Stark, Army Scout . . .
 
Johnstone Justice. What America Needs Now.
 
They slaughtered his family. Killed his young bride. And ever since that tragic day, Nathan Stark has devoted his life to fighting the hostile tribes who massacred those he loved. As a civilian scout for the Army, he’s served with such famous commanders as Custer and Crook. He’s battled against such notorious war chiefs as Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. Among the fiercest natives of the untamed west, Nathan Stark is a living legend—one that must be destroyed . . .
 
Against his better judgment, Nathan agrees to be teamed up with a rival Crow scout named Moses Red Buffalo. Their mission: to forge a trail deep into Indian territory under the command of a bloodthirsty army colonel. But the mission is not what it seems. If Stark and Red Buffalo want to stay alive, they’ll have to work together as a team—if they don’t kill each other first . . .
 
Live Free. Read Hard.

Release date: January 26, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 402

Sample

If there was anything Nathan Stark hated, it was an Indian. God knew he’d killed his share of them—whenever and wherever he could—and this fine July morning would be no exception.

From where he and his fellow scout and friend, Cullen Jefferson, hunkered down in the brush along the face of the embankment at their backs, Nathan eased the trigger of the Winchester repeater back gently, taking up the slack in it. The rifle was an old friend, carried through thick and thin for many a mile. He’d been tempted to buy a newer model, the ’73, but in the end, he’d held on to the 1866 model he’d had for the past eight years. He wasn’t sorry. The repeater had stood him in good stead, and he trusted it.

Cullen crouched beside him, their positioning as familiar as the breath they drew. Neither looked at the other. There was no need. Nearly ten years of traveling and working together more often than not in their assignments with the U.S. Army had brought them as close-knit as brothers.

Closer, in fact, than the kinship Nathan felt with his own flesh-and-blood brothers he’d been raised with. Though Cullen had a good fifteen years on Nathan, they’d seen one another out of plenty of scrapes so far—the present one being nothing out of the ordinary.

“Hear somethin’?” Cullen whispered, his own finger ready on the trigger of his .52 caliber Spencer carbine. He was bigger, shaggier, grayer than the lean, dark-haired, wolfish Nathan Stark.

“Not yet. But they’re out there.”

Coming up through the eastern part of Indian Territory on their way to their latest assignment at Fort Randall in the Dakota Territory, they’d detoured to Fort Smith. It was the nearest town of any size, and they’d needed to pick up much-needed supplies to see them through the rest of their journey north.

Nathan had been sent from their last post at Fort Sill. Cullen was to cool his heels with nothing to do. The Apaches and Comanches in that area had been installed on reservation lands, the hostilities having calmed considerably in the eighteen months since the two scouts had been assigned to the Fort Sill command post. The flare-ups that occurred were nothing that couldn’t be handled without them so Cullen had saddled up and ridden north with Nathan when his friend received orders to leave Fort Sill and head to Fort Randall. Cullen had told Colonel Bixby, “Guess my orders were delayed. Nate and me are pardners. Command oughta know that by now.”

Nathan squinted, waiting for the Creek—at least, he thought that was what they were—to make their appearance again. They’d be along shortly. He and Cullen hadn’t had much of a lead on them.

They’d spotted at least three of them, and there was no doubt in Nathan’s mind that when he and Cullen rode out of the canyon nestled in the San Bois Mountains of east central Indian Territory, there’d be at least three less Indians in the world—no matter what tribe they hailed from.

“Come on ... I know you red devils is out there,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

“Only three, you think?”

“More, somethin’ tells me.”

The two didn’t look at one another, keeping their eyes on the place they knew the Indians would appear. It was the path of least resistance—a wide clearing in the trees and brush that surrounded them.

Just then, the first Creek rode into view, and Nathan pulled the rifle up a notch, taking aim. No need to worry about windage today . . . not with the air as still as the depths of a murky pond. Not a breeze stirred, and the small sounds of the land itself had disappeared around them from the time they’d dismounted, hidden their horses behind an outcropping near the mountainous wall of stone behind them, and taken their position where they could dispense swift and sure justice to the redskins.

There were three, just as Nathan had thought—but that didn’t mean Cullen wasn’t right about more. They might have separated—being cautious. Could be testing the waters to see where Cullen and Nathan were—or quite possibly, they had no idea that the two scouts traveled ahead of them. Somehow, Nathan didn’t think that was the case.

Catching the first man in his sights, Nathan pulled back farther on the trigger. The Winchester cracked wickedly. The sound came as the bullet found its mark, and the man’s side instantly turned red with blood. Pain filled the Indian’s eyes, and he let out a shriek of surprised agony as he fell from his pony.

The other two Indians looked at one another, then at their fallen comrade. They seemed to be at a loss as to whether to try to help him or light a shuck out of there. They spoke rapidly between themselves and then Nathan knew they were Creek. Through his travels he’d picked up a smattering of so many dialects he couldn’t keep track. Though not fluent in any one language, he knew a few words and phrases in all of them. One word he recognized immediately—father, one of them had said.

From beside him, Cullen took careful aim, squeezing the trigger of his Spencer. The one who had seemed reluctant to ride away, who’d wanted to offer help, fell from his horse’s back, nearly landing atop Nathan’s kill.

“Two down . . . one to go . . .” Nathan muttered, taking aim again as Cullen watched for the others he felt were “out there” following.

The third Indian had dismounted. Overcome by anger and anguish at the deaths of his two friends, he ran straight toward where Nathan and Cullen knelt behind the scrub brush.

Nathan watched as the savage ran screaming right at him. He took aim and pulled back on the trigger, only to hear the sickening click of an empty chamber . . . or a misfire, his mind corrected. He’d been carrying a fully-loaded weapon, fifteen rounds.

Maybe he should have given more thought to buying that ’73 model at Johannsen’s General Store in Fort Smith.

With a curse, Cullen brought his rifle up, but not to aim at the enraged Indian who was almost on them. He whirled toward something behind them.

With one part of his brain, Nathan heard the deadly hiss of rattles, a sound dreaded by anyone who spent much time on the frontier. Almost at the same instant, the roar of Cullen’s Spencer reverberated through the still, hot air, accompanied by the Creek’s bloodcurdling cry of vengeance as he drew his tomahawk from his waistband with a practiced hand.

Nathan threw the rifle aside and drew his Colt, but the lanky young brave had already let his tomahawk fly. Nathan flung himself to the left, and by no more than inches, the weapon barely missed splitting his skull open.

A wild curse burst from him in a breath of mingled anger and surprise as he hit the ground, hard and off balance. He rolled and came up on his elbows, still gripping the Army Colt, but the Creek leaped at that moment and landed on him heavily, just as he rolled again onto his back.

The Indian knocked the pistol from his hand and smashed his fist into Nathan’s nose as he snarled like a mad dog and spoke in a steady stream of Muscogee-Creek.

Between his lack of knowledge of the language and his preoccupation with trying to stay alive, Nathan could make out little of it. He lunged upward, unseating the Creek, and both men scrambled to their feet. They circled warily, hands flexing, ready to go at one another as soon as either of them recognized an advantage.

The Indian was young—young and reckless. The heat of his anger made him careless. He couldn’t wait and threw himself at Nathan again, the impact carrying both of them to the rough ground.

Where in the hell was Cullen? Nathan had a fleeting thought that maybe the rattlesnake had gotten him before he got his shot off.

Nathan and the Indian rolled and tumbled, kicked and gouged, fists slamming at one another as their blood mixed and dotted the dirt and rocks beneath them.

From somewhere nearby, a rifle boomed again. Cullen’s. But again, not giving Nathan any relief from the crazed Indian pitted against him.

Must mean Cullen had been right. There were more of the varmints . . .

The late-morning sun was merciless, and in the July-hot air of the foothills of the San Bois, Nathan could smell the odor of blood, sweat . . . and rage. The madness that gripped him and the savage in their hand-to-hand battle was palpable. One of them was going to die and be left for the buzzards to feast on.

The brave was stronger than Nathan had anticipated, and younger. More boy than man . . . but all killer.

Nathan was surprised at his opponent’s tenacious strength that didn’t seem to flag in the least, no matter how long they battled. He fought with the ruthless intensity of a madman. His relative inexperience, stacked up to Nathan’s years of battles, was offset by the false strength that filled him in the rush of shock and anger over the deaths of his companions.

A rifle sounded from several yards away . . . one of the others this time.

How many were there? Nathan couldn’t spare a glance to see how Cullen fared.

The brave suddenly flipped Nathan beneath him, his hands encircling Nathan’s throat, fingers taking on a crushing life of their own as they closed around Nathan’s neck. The black eyes glaring down at him burned with murderous rage.

Nathan didn’t fear his own death. He’d left that feeling behind years ago. Fifteen years past, to be exact. The day everything had been taken from him. He had prayed for his own end, as well, that day. When it hadn’t happened, he’d rediscovered his purpose.

Vengeance.

He had not figured on meeting his death in eastern Indian Territory, however. The bright sunlight began to dim as he tried to dislodge the Indian, to no avail. Joyous murder was in the Creek’s eyes, but Nathan had determined he wasn’t going to be killed today. He would not allow it.

With every ounce of his strength, he threw the Creek off him, rolled, and lunged to his feet. He glanced around for the Colt, but it was too far away to make a grab for it. He pulled his knife instead, a wicked Bowie that he’d taken from his father’s hand when he’d found him that day—fifteen years past—when Nathan hadn’t been much older than the Indian he fought.

The Creek’s eyes widened briefly. A grim smile of satisfaction touched Nathan’s bloodied mouth. He hadn’t felt fear in fifteen years, not through the years of fighting in the war, nor through his dangerous service to the Army in the decade since—but the Indian sure as hell did, and he’d made the mistake of showing it. No matter how fleeting that look had been, Nathan recognized it for what it was.

The Indian pulled his own knife, a weapon made of bone, sharpened to a fine point, and nearly as long as the Bowie Nathan brandished.

The two men circled each other once more. Nathan still panted, trying to catch his breath. The lingering feel of the Indian’s hands at his neck made his skin crawl. He would have hated to meet his end by being choked to death, but somehow, it wouldn’t have been nearly so distasteful had it been a white man who killed him. To die at the hands of a red savage—well, nothing could be worse than that.

As they circled one another warily, he watched the Indian’s eyes. When the Creek made his move, Nathan was ready.

The brave rushed toward Nathan, seemingly unable to wait another instant to come at him. Nathan easily deflected the Indian’s knife hand and gave a quick upward jab with his own blade. The Indian moved lightly on his feet, turning away in anticipation of the strike, and Nathan stabbed air instead of flesh and bone.

The Creek tried to dodge away, but Nathan grabbed the Indian’s blade hand with a lightning-quick move and held it immobile.

Nathan had hunted Indians long enough to know one thing about them—you could never be sure of anything when it came to what a red man might do or think or how he might act or react. He also knew he needed to end the fight soon.

He cursed his own failure. He should’ve been able to shoot the savage before he had the chance to distract him with the tomahawk and come running at him.

A part of him grudgingly recognized the courage of those actions, even as he wondered if Cullen was all right, yet knowing he couldn’t let his attention wander to check.

A swipe of the bone knife as the Creek fought free brought blood flowing down Nathan’s left arm, crimson soaking the blue shirt he wore. He barreled into the Indian and they both went to the ground again, with Nathan on top in a clearly advantageous position. The Creek had had the wind knocked out of him, but he fought to push Nathan off of him, even so.

Hearing the distinctive sound of Cullen’s old long-barreled .44 Remington revolver exploding nearby, Nathan hoped it meant an end to all the Creek warriors . . . all but the one he was fighting.

He struck the Indian’s knife hand on the hard ground again and again, until the knife fell free, then he brought the tip of the Bowie up to the man’s face and deliberately cut him across his cheek.

The Creek made a grunt of pain, but his eyes glittered with hatred, not pain. “I will kill you,” the Indian said from between clenched teeth. In English.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. This one has brass.

At that point there wasn’t much chance he could manage to kill Nathan, but the certainty in his tone couldn’t be denied.

“You haven’t managed to do it yet,” Nathan said, pushing himself away from the warrior. “And I’ve killed a heap of men braver than you.”

“The day is young.” The Indian’s blood streaked across his skin, staining his black hair. He’d lost none of the challenge in his voice or his demeanor.

Nathan stood up, breathing hard. “How many others are out there?”

The Indian glared up at him in silence. Nathan tossed the Bowie end over end and deftly caught it by the handle. “I don’t mind cutting your tongue out—either for silence or a lie. Think before you answer.”

The Creek scowled and started up from the ground. Nathan kicked him back to the earth.

“How many?”

“Only four,” the Indian answered sullenly.

“You better be telling the truth.” Nathan gave a sharp, short whistle, and Buck headed toward them from behind the outcropping of rock.

When the horse came to stand beside him, Nathan quickly searched for the short length of rope he needed and roughly rolled the Indian over onto his stomach. “Put your hands behind your back.”

When the Indian was slow to comply, Nathan gave him a swift kick in the ribs. The Creek cried out in surprise and pain, and put his hands behind his back as Nathan had ordered. Quickly, Nathan bent, putting one knee in the Creek’s back, and tied the wrists together with the length of rope. Standing, he glanced up to see Cullen coming toward him, blood staining the side of his buckskin shirt.

“Cullen—”

“Just a cut,” he replied. “Let him get a little too close. Last thing he ever did.” He looked down at the crimson stain. “I’m gettin’ too old for this—gettin’ too slow.”

The brave at Nathan’s feet cried out in frustration and anger at Cullen’s words.

“Don’t move,” Nathan said quietly. He walked to where his pistol lay at the foot of a scraggly redbud tree and put it in his holster, then retrieved his rifle and the Indian’s tomahawk. He put the rifle into his saddle scabbard with a last, disgusted look at it, and then secured the tomahawk in one of his saddlebags.

The Indian had inched his way over to where the bone knife lay on the ground. Nathan wasn’t sure how the Indian intended to make use of the weapon with his hands tied behind him, but he wasn’t about to find out.

“Thought I said don’t move, Injun.” The pistol was in his hand, hammer cocked with a sinister click.

The other man lay still at the warning.

Nathan walked over and picked up the knife, wiping his own blood off of the blade on the Indian’s pant leg. Then he put the knife in the saddlebag alongside the tomahawk.

He reached up and unknotted the bandana he wore, taking it from his neck and wrapping it around the gash the savage had given him on his forearm. He pulled the ends tight around the wound, cut shirt and all, with his right hand and his teeth. He’d gotten good at makeshift bandaging over the years.

“Let’s have a look, Cullen,” Nathan said, turning toward his friend. “From the looks of it, he got you pretty good.”

“This? Huh. I been gilled by a catfish worse ’n this little ol’ cut. This ain’t nothin’.”

“Still, can’t have you bleedin’ all over everything while we’re traveling. Let’s take care of it.”

At Nathan’s no-nonsense tone, Cullen whistled for his own horse, and gave Nathan a disgusted look. “You ain’t my nursemaid, Nate.”

“How well I know it—and glad of it,” Nathan answered, a quick smile taking the sting out of his words. “Just easier on both of us if someone has the good sense to patch up your side and keep a little blood inside you, right?”

“It ain’t that bad,” Cullen grumbled, turning his side away from the Creek’s view. “And one of us had the good sense to shoot that there rattler dead before he got his chance at you. You sure weren’t payin’ attention.”

“Had my hands full, Cul. In case you didn’t notice,” Nathan answered gruffly. “But thanks for savin’ my hide. Hard choice—death by snakebite or tomahawk.”

Cullen gave a short laugh. “You sure enough had yourself in a jam, come to think of it.”

As Nathan applied a makeshift bandage from a strip of one of Cullen’s spare shirts, Cullen gave him a sharp look than nodded toward the brave. “What about him?” he asked in a low voice.

Nathan glanced at the Creek. The warrior stoically waited for Nathan to kill him. He didn’t beg for mercy. In fact, he made no sound at all.

“Never known you to leave one of them red devils alive before.”

“Nope. Never have.” Nathan hadn’t realized until Cullen mentioned it that he had planned to leave the brave alive.

Nathan tied off the bandage tightly. “That’ll have to do till we get farther on up the trail. We need to move on out of here.”

“You gonna just leave this one behind, then?” Cullen persisted.

“Want me to check the bodies for valuables or did you already do that?” Nathan didn’t look at Cullen.

“I did it. Got it all. Got the weapons. Got ever’thing but the scalps.”

Nathan nodded, ignoring the edge in Cullen’s voice. “We don’t need ’em.”

Cullen’s head shot up, his gray eyes narrowing. “Never thought I’d see the day when Nathan Stark would pass up takin’ a redskin scalp.”

Nathan finally met Cullen’s steady stare. “Count yourself lucky. You lived to see it. Do you need the money so bad you’re willing to carry those bloody hanks of hair up to Fort Randall with you or detour back over to Fort Smith? Two nearest places to collect on those scalps, you know.”

Cullen pulled his hat off and wiped his forehead. “This heat must’ve got to your head, Nate. This ain’t like you at all.”

“Maybe not,” Nate agreed. “Like I said—if you want to take those scalps and collect on ’em, I’ll head on up north to Fort Randall and let ’em know you’ll be along shortly—”

“No need.” Cullen gave him a look that said he still believed Nathan was a bit touched in the head.

Nathan gave him an easy grin. “Let’s get the hell out of here, pard. We’ve got us five ponies to sell. That beats scalps, any day.”

“Kill me!”

Nathan and Cullen turned to look at the brave who was still on his stomach, trying to look over his shoulder at them.

Nathan gave a short bark of laughter. “Why?” He strode to where the Indian lay and turned him over with a boot.

Black eyes glared up at him. Blood dried across the young warrior’s cheek from the cut Nathan had given him. More crimson was smeared across his mouth from the punch Nathan had landed squarely on his nose, breaking it. If an Indian could sport a black eye, this one did, and it was swelling shut.

“Why should I kill you because you ask it?”

“I could not avenge my brother and father . . . and the others. I am—”

“So . . . you feel humiliated? Good.”

You beg for death as my Camilla begged for her life—for the lives of herself and our child—

“Kill me!”

Nathan knelt over the Creek. “Remember my name every time you think of this day. I’m Nathan Stark.” He leaned closer and said distinctly, “Nathan. Robert. Stark. Indian killer. You’re the only one in fifteen years that’s lived to tell the tale. I let you live. You by God didn’t earn it! I could have killed you any time, you Muscogee scum!”

“Then do it!” The Indian rose up on his elbows as far as he could, glaring. Only inches separated them.

Nathan’s fists clenched. He cursed the fact that the damn repeater had misfired and the inconceivable chain of events that unforeseen action had set in motion. Why had he not been a split second sooner? Gotten that fatal shot off with the Colt? He should have ended the fight and been on his way.

Indians, of any kind, weren’t worth wasting time, energy, or breath on. They weren’t real people. No one who claimed to be a human being could wreak the vengeful chaos and destruction as they did—with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts.

No one could kill an innocent young woman . . . a pregnant woman . . . and ride away joyfully having done something so heinous.

No human being could steal children . . . his little sister, Rena . . . three years old. Was she even still alive?

He shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs of memories—memories that kept him going, kept him seeking vengeance for all of them from fifteen years past . . . his parents, his little sister, his wife . . . their unborn baby . . . and the other friends and neighbors who had lost family during the Pawnee raid.

“Kill me, then, Nathan Robert Stark. I will come after you. Black Sun will kill you.” He leaned forward, straining toward Nathan that last impossible half-inch. “This, I promise you.” He spat in Nathan’s face. “I swear it!”

Nathan wiped the spittle away with his shirt sleeve, then stood slowly. He understood. The warrior Black Sun was not so different from what he had been fifteen years ago . . . before the raid, the deaths, the kidnappings. Before the war . . . before his time in the army revealed his true calling. Scout. And Indian killer.

Black Sun was of an age that Nathan had been when it had all started. He wouldn’t kill the Creek. Let him suffer as Nathan had. Let him plot his own vengeance for what had been taken from him. Let the young man face the coming days, wondering if there had been something—anything—he might have done to change the outcome of this day—the deaths of his brother and father.

Let the Creek live.

Nathan and Cullen mounted up after stringing the Indian ponies together and tying them to Cullen’s horse. They wound their way deeper through the San Bois.

It was slow going with the five ponies, but they’d bring a good price, and neither man was one to leave an animal to suffer.

Black Sun had been a wily one, and stronger than Nathan had anticipated with the anger born of his shock. Something else Nathan understood completely. After Camilla’s murder at the hands of those red devils, Nathan had felt as if he needed no food, no sleep, nothing but the need for revenge that raged through his soul.

Black Sun would follow him. It had been a mistake to let the Indian live. Why had he? He refused to accept the kinship he’d felt when he looked into the savage’s face. They were nothing alike. Nothing. Except . . . Nathan knew, without a doubt, that Black Sun would follow him as soon as he managed to free himself from where he’d been left, trussed hand and foot.

Black Sun’s heart burned with revenge. Though he’d been spared, he knew he would be shunned by his people. He’d seen his father and brother murdered before his eyes, but had not been able to avenge them. He had not even been able to die fighting the men who had slain them.

Instead, he’d been captured and tied up, left to watch as the man they called the greatest Indian killer alive rifled the bodies of Kikikwawason and Hasse Ola, who lay fallen in the prairie grass. Black Sun . . .