Rattlesnake Valley

Book 5: Loner

by J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

In the heart of West Texas an ocean of troubles has come ashore—and the Loner is adrift in a sea of hungry sharks. Welcome Aboard. Now Die. . . They came from the sea: a former ship captain named Owen Bird who inherited a Texas ranch from his brother. . . A former pirate named "Black Terrance" Malone, who has arrived in the once peaceful Rattlesnake Valley with a crew of sea dogs to do his dirty work. And dirty work it would be, as Black Terrance begins a campaign of thieving and threatening, even targeting Bird's beautiful young niece. Into this storm rides the Loner—Conrad Morgan, son of the legendary gunfighter Frank Morgan. The Loner sees what no one else does: a war born on the high seas and a third party is biding his time—waiting to strike a death blow on solid, bloody ground. . .

Release date: March 12, 2010

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Kid Morgan reined his horse to a halt and looked at the bleached white skull on the ground in front of him. He rested his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward to study not only the grotesquely grinning skull but also the two long bones laid across each other that accompanied it.

“Skull and crossbones,” The Kid muttered. “Pirates.”

More than a dozen years earlier, in what seemed like a previous, half-forgotten lifetime ago when he had still been known as Conrad Browning, The Kid had read a novel called Treasure Island. He knew about pirates and the symbol on the flags flown on their ships.

The question was, what was that ominous symbol doing in the mostly arid landscape of West Texas, hundreds of miles from the sea?

The Kid lifted his head. Keen eyes gazed at his surroundings. A broad valley bordered by ranges of low, brush-covered hills fell away to his left and right and stretched in front of him for at least twenty miles to the east before the hills closed in sharply and pinched it off, leaving only a narrow opening for the trail. Beyond the hills, what appeared to be an endless stretch of sandy wasteland was visible through the gap. Behind The Kid was the pass through which he had just ridden in the rugged gray mountains that closed off the western end of the valley.

In stark contrast to the desert, the mountains, and the scrubby hills, the valley itself was an unexpected oasis of green. A line of trees marked the meandering course of a river that rose from springs in the mountains and flowed eastward, watering the rangeland on either side of it before the desert wasteland swallowed it whole at the far end of the valley. The grass that covered the range might not have been considered lush in some parts of the world, but in West Texas, it certainly was. Not surprisingly, The Kid saw cattle grazing here and there, hardy longhorns that not only survived but actually thrived on the graze they found. A man who had been riding for days through sandy, rocky country that wasn’t much good for anything, as The Kid had, would find the sight of the valley mighty appealing.

Except for the skull and crossed bones in the trail that looked for all the world like a warning to keep out.

A tight smile pulled at the corners of Kid Morgan’s mouth. Even before the events that had changed his life so dramatically, he had never been the sort of hombre who took kindly to being told what to do. He lifted the reins and heeled the buckskin into motion again.

As he did, movement stirred within the bleached skull, visible behind the empty eye sockets. A rattlesnake suddenly crawled out through one of those sockets and coiled on the ground. The vicious buzz of its rattles filled the air as it raised its head, ready to strike. Its forked tongue flickered in and out of its mouth.

The Kid’s horse was used to gunfire and the smell of powder smoke, but the sound and scent of the snake spooked it. The buckskin tossed its head, shied away, and tried to rear up.

The Kid’s strong left hand on the reins kept the horse under firm control. His right hand brushed his black coat aside and dipped to the Colt holstered on his hip. Steel whispered against leather as he drew the gun, then the hot, still air was shattered by the blast of a shot.

It seemed that The Kid hadn’t even taken time to aim, but the snake’s head exploded as the bullet found it. The thick body with its diamond-shaped markings uncoiled and writhed frenziedly as the knowledge of its death raced through its prehistoric nervous system. The Kid’s lips tightened in distaste as he watched the snake whip around and die.

With his gun still in his hand, The Kid dismounted. He stepped around the snake, which had a grisly red smear where its head used to be. A swift kick from The Kid sent the skull bouncing into some brush. He reached down, picked up one of the long bones, and flung it off in a different direction. The other bone went sailing away with another flick of his wrist.

You shouldn’t have done that, a voice seemed to say in the back of his head. Whoever those bones belonged to may have been innocent of any wrongdoing.

The Kid didn’t know if the voice belonged to his own conscience—not that he would have admitted to having such a thing after all the men he had killed, justifiably or not—or to his late wife. Either way, hearing voices was a sure sign that a person was going mad.

The revulsion he had felt toward the snake was the last straw. He’d already been a little angry about being warned to keep out of the valley and he’d given in to his irritation.

He usually tried to keep his emotions under control at all times. A man who wanted to live very long in that harsh land couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted by hatred or fear or loneliness.

Morgan was a tall, lean young man, not yet thirty, with sandy hair under a flat-crowned black hat. He wore a dusty black coat over a white shirt, and black trousers that weren’t tucked into his high-topped boots. His saddle was a good one, relatively new, and he carried two long guns in sheaths strapped to the horse, a Winchester and a heavy-caliber Sharps. His clothes and gear were a notch above those of the average saddle tramp, but his deeply tanned face and the slight squint around his eyes that was becoming permanent spoke of a man who spent most of his time outdoors.

That hadn’t always been the case. Once he had spent his days either in an office or a mansion, depending on whether or not he felt like working. As Conrad Browning, he had grown up among the wealthy on Boston’s Beacon Hill, had attended the finest academies and universities, had taken his place in the business world and owned stakes in mines, railroads, and shipping companies. He was rich, with probably more money than he could spend in the rest of his life.

None of that meant a damn thing after his wife was murdered.

He avenged her death by tracking down and killing the men responsible for it, and chose not to return to his old life as the business tycoon Conrad Browning. Instead he held on to the new identity he had created in his quest for vengeance, that of the gunfighter known as Kid Morgan. For months now he had roamed the Southwest, riding alone for the most part, not searching for trouble but not avoiding it when it came to him, as it seemed it inevitably did.

For a while, a young woman he’d met during some trouble in Arizona had traveled with him, but she had stayed behind in Santa Fe to make a new life for herself while he continued drifting eastward into Texas. That was better, The Kid thought. It was easier not to get hurt when you didn’t allow anyone to get too close to you.

He was reaching for the buckskin’s reins when a voice called, “Don’t move, mister!”

Two things made The Kid freeze. One was the tone of command in the voice, which meant it was probably backed up by a gun. The other was surprise that the voice belonged to a woman. He looked over his shoulder and saw her coming out of a nearby clump of boulders. He’d guessed right about the gun. She had a Winchester leveled at him.

“Don’t even twitch a muscle,” she ordered, “or you’ll be damn sorry.”

“Take it easy,” The Kid began, but the woman didn’t. She pulled the trigger and the Winchester went off with a sharp crack.

Just before the shot, though, The Kid heard another wicked buzzing from somewhere very close by. The buckskin jumped and landed running, racing a good twenty yards before it came to a halt. The Kid stayed right where he was, just in case the woman had missed.

She hadn’t. When he looked down, he saw a second rattler writhing and jerking in its death throes at his feet. He hadn’t seen it slither out from among the rocks bordering the trail, but there it was, and very easily could have sunk its fangs in his leg.

The woman’s shot hadn’t been quite as clean as The Kid’s. Her bullet had ripped away a good chunk of flesh from the snake’s body just behind its head, a gaping wound from which crimson blood gushed, but the head was still intact and attached to the body. The mouth was open and ready to bite, and The Kid knew that dying or not, the venom was still there and the creature was as dangerous as ever.

He lifted his foot and brought the heel of his boot crunching down on the snake’s head, striking almost as fast and lethally as a snake himself.

He ground his heel back and forth in the dirt, crushing the rattler’s head and ending its threat. Then he looked over at the woman, who had lowered the rifle, and said coolly, “Thanks for the warning.”

“I shot the blasted thing.”

“Yes, but you didn’t kill it,” The Kid pointed out.

“You know how hard it is to hit the head of a snake when it’s moving?”

The Kid smiled and made a casual gesture toward the second reptile carcass that lay on the ground nearby. “Apparently I do,” he drawled.

The woman came forward, looked at the snake The Kid had shot, and frowned. “That first shot I heard?”

“Yeah.”

She let out a low whistle of admiration. “Pretty good.”

The Kid could have said the same thing about her appearance, as well as her shooting. She was in her early twenties, he estimated, with curly golden hair pulled back behind her head. She wore a low-crowned brown hat with its strap taut under her chin. Her skin had a healthy tan a little lighter in shade than her hair. She wore a brown vest over a white shirt and a brown riding skirt and boots. She didn’t look like the sidesaddle type.

She still held the Winchester, and while the rifle wasn’t pointed at The Kid, she carried it with an easy assurance that said she could swing the barrel toward him again very quickly if she needed to. Keeping her distance, she asked, “Who are you?”

“The name’s Morgan,” he replied, not offering any more information than that.

“Why’d you kick that skull into the brush? The poor hombre it belonged to never did you any harm.”

“I know,” he said without mentioning that the same thought had occurred to him. “I took it as a warning to keep out of the valley . . . and I don’t like being told where I can and can’t go.”

“A warning is exactly what it was,” she said, “and you were foolish to disregard it. But if you were bound and determined to do that, why didn’t you just ride around it?”

“I wanted whoever put it there to know how I felt.” He paused and studied her. “Was that you?”

She bristled in anger. The Winchester’s muzzle edged toward him as she said, “Do I look like the sort of person who’d do something like that?”

“I don’t know,” The Kid said. “That’s why I asked. You’re the one who just told me I’d be making a big mistake if I rode on into the valley.”

“Well, for your information, I didn’t put those bones there. I’m not the one you have to worry about. It’s—”

She stopped short. Her head came up in a listening attitude. Alarm leaped into her eyes.

The Kid heard it, too. A swift rataplan of hoofbeats that was approaching too fast. Half a dozen riders swept around a stand of thick brush about fifty yards away and thundered toward them.

There was nothing The Kid could do except stand his ground. He had six rounds in his Colt, which meant it was possible to kill all six of the strangers—if he was damn lucky.

But the young woman was armed, too, he reminded himself, and if she could account for one or two of them, he might be able to get the rest. Of course, he would probably die, too, and so would she, but it was better to go down fighting and take as many of your enemies with you as you could.

Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, he thought as the riders reined in . . . although from the looks of the bunch, they were no strangers to killing.

The man who sat his horse a little in front of the others was a big hombre, tall and broad shouldered with brawny arms. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up over forearms matted with dark hair. More hair curled from the open throat of the shirt. A beard jutted from his belligerent jaw. A gray hat was cuffed to the back of his head. He wore a pair of pearl-handled revolvers. Cruel, deep-set eyes studied The Kid from sunken pits under bushy eyebrows.

The apparent leader was the biggest of the bunch, but the man who rode to his right was almost as large. His slablike jaw bristled with rusty stubble, and a handlebar mustache of the same shade twisted over his mouth. As he took off the battered old derby he wore and used it to fan away some of the dust that had swirled up from the horses’ hooves as they came to a stop, The Kid saw that the man was totally bald. The thick muscles of his arms and shoulders stretched the faded red fabric of the upper half of a set of long underwear he wore as a shirt. Double bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed over his barrel-like chest. He held a Winchester in his right hand.

To the leader’s left was a smaller man dressed all in gray, from his hat to his boots. His size didn’t make him seem any less dangerous. Those rattlers The Kid had killed hadn’t been very big, either, but they were deadly nonetheless. In fact, the dark eyes in the man’s lean, pockmarked face had a reptilian look about them. The Kid noted how the man’s hand never strayed far from the butt of the pistol on his hip.

The other three men were more typical hard cases, the sort of gun-wolves that The Kid had encountered on numerous occasions. He didn’t discount their threat, but the trio that edged toward him and the young woman garnered most of his attention. He’d kill the big, bearded man first, if it came to that, he decided, then the little hombre in gray, and then the bald-headed varmint. Once the three of them were dead, he’d use what was left of his life to try for the others. He was pretty sure he’d have some lead in him by that point, though.

White teeth suddenly shone brilliantly in the leader’s beard as he grinned. “Been stompin’ some snakes, huh?” he asked in a friendly voice.

The Kid wasn’t fooled. The man’s eyes were just as cold and flinty as they had been before.

“That’s right,” The Kid said. “Looks like you’ve got some diamondbacks around here.”

The man threw back his head and guffawed. As the echoes from the booming laughter died away, he said, “Hell, yeah, we do. Why do you think they call this Rattlesnake Valley?”

“I didn’t know they did,” The Kid replied with a shake of his head.

“You’re a stranger to these parts, huh?” The man looked at the young woman. “You should’ve warned your friend what he was gettin’ into, Diana.”

“He’s not my friend,” she said. “I never saw him before until a few minutes ago.”

“Is that so?” The black-bearded giant sounded like he didn’t believe her. His eyes narrowed. “And here I thought your uncle had gone and hired himself a fast gun.”

The woman shook her head. “He’s a stranger here, Malone. Why don’t you let him just turn around and ride away?”

“Why, who’s stoppin’ him?” The man called Malone grinned at The Kid and went on in an oily tone of mock friendliness, “You just go right ahead and mount up, mister. We wouldn’t want to keep you from goin’ back to wherever you came from.”

The Kid had a feeling that if he got on the buckskin and headed west through the pass, he wouldn’t make it twenty yards before he had a bullet in his back. He said, “What if I want to ride on down the valley?”

Malone rubbed the fingers of his left hand over his beard. “Well, I ain’t so sure that’d be a good idea. We got all the people we need in the valley right now.”

“It’s a public road, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly. There’s supposed to be a marker here so folks will know they’re enterin’ Trident range, and they’d be better off turnin’ around.”

“That’s not true,” Diana said with a sudden flare of anger. “The boundaries of your ranch don’t extend this far, Malone. You’re claiming range that doesn’t belong to you.”

He turned a baleful stare on her. “I don’t like bein’ called a liar, even by a pretty girl like you, Miss Starbird.”

The Kid had noticed the brand on the horses the men rode. It was a line that branched and curved into three points. Now he said, “Neptune’s Trident.”

That distracted Malone from the young woman named Diana Starbird. He looked at The Kid again and asked, “You know of it?”

“Neptune was the Roman god of the sea, and he was usually depicted carrying a trident like the one you’re using as a brand. The Greeks called him Poseidon.”

“Didn’t expect to run into a man who knows the classics out here in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness,” Malone said.

The Kid didn’t waste time explaining about his education. He knew that he and Diana were still balanced on the knife-edge of danger from those men.

Yet there was something about Malone, something about the way he looked at Diana, that told he didn’t want to hurt the young woman. The Kid’s own fate was another story. He had a hunch Malone would kill him without blinking an eye, if the whim struck to do so.

“Is there a town in the valley?”

Malone looked a little surprised by the question. “Aye. Bristol, about fifteen miles east of here.”

“I need to replenish my supplies, and my horse could use a little rest before I ride on. I’m not looking for trouble from you or anyone else, Malone. Just let me ride on to the settlement and in a few days I’ll be gone.”

Malone frowned. “Are you sure Owen Starbird didn’t send for you?”

That would be Diana’s uncle, The Kid recalled. “Never heard of him until now,” he replied honestly.

“Well . . .” Malone scratched at his beard and hesitated as if he were considering what The Kid had said.

While that was going on, the little man in gray turned his horse from the trail and started riding around the area, his eyes directed toward the ground as if he were searching for something. After a moment, he found it. He reined in, dismounted, and reached into the brush to pick up the skull. He turned and held it up to show the others.

“Look at this, Terence.”

“My marker,” Malone rumbled angrily. “Part of it, anyway.”

The bald-headed man pointed toward the trail. “Only one set o’ fresh tracks comin’ from the west, Terence,” he said. “And the bones were there earlier. I seen ’em with my own eyes.”

Malone glared at The Kid. “That means you disturbed my marker, mister . . . what is your name, anyway?”

“It’s Morgan.”

Malone smiled, but his eyes were flintier than ever. “Like Henry Morgan, God res. . .