Shot to Hell

Book 4: Perley Gates Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

The Johnstone hero with the heavenly name—and the hellish task of living up to it—Perley Gates—takes on a gang of cold-blooded killers to save the soul of a small Western town....

They say that home is where the heart is. And no one knows that better than Perley Gates. After helping the lovely Miss Emma Slocum reunite with her sister's family in Bison Gap, Perley can't wait to rejoin his own kin at the Triple-G Ranch. No sooner does Perley settle in when he receives an alarming telegram from Bison Gap. Emma's brother-in-law has been murdered. Her sister wants justice. And Perley is their only hope to get it....

Perley can't refuse a family in need. So he saddles up with his salty cowhand Possum Smith and heads to Bison Gap. He notices that the town's new sheriff is acting suspicious—and likely in cahoots with the local gang of deadly outlaws. In no time at all there's a target on Perley's back—and the vicious gang leader is calling all the shots. Justice may be hard to find in a town this wicked. But vengeance is swift—straight out of the Gates....

Release date: January 28, 2020

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 260

Sample

“I’ll sit down and have a cup of coffee with you,” Rachael Parker said to her husband, “now that we’re not so busy.” She filled his cup and poured one for herself, then sat down at the table with him after she returned the pot to the stove. “What’s the occasion for this unexpected visit? I’m surprised Rooster let you come into town by yourself.”

Tom laughed. “He didn’t. He’s down at Wheeler’s gettin’ a few things we needed to finish fixin’ the roof on that shack of his. I told him he could come and get somethin’ to eat here, but he said he’d druther not. Said he’d get somethin’ to eat at the Buffalo Hump. Said the hotel dinin’ room was a little too fancy for him.” Tom laughed again just thinking about the odd little man who worked with him at the farm. “Said he’s gonna get him some of that meatloaf Ida makes.”

Rachael shook her head and commented, “It’s a wonder he ain’t dead as much as he eats in that saloon. There’s no telling what that woman mixes up in that meatloaf.”

“Rooster says it’s that heapin’ portion of gunpowder she mixes in with it, that and the hot pepper, that gives it a kick,” Tom said with another chuckle. “Probably not the same recipe Bess uses here in the fancy hotel dinin’ room.”

“I don’t know if Bess even has a recipe for meat loaf,” Rachael said. “If she does, she hasn’t sprung it on us yet.” She smiled at her husband, grateful that he had not fought her on her ambitious partnership with her sister. The hotel that Emma had built, with money that she and Possum Smith had acquired, already showed signs of success. And Rachael was especially proud of the dining room’s apparent acceptance, since that was her part of the partnership. Although at first, Tom was not in favor of the two women trying to run a hotel and dining room, Rachael believed he was actually very proud of her. He seemed content with the situation as it now stood. He worked every day with Rooster Crabb on the farm but came to the hotel at the end of the day, having supper and then breakfast the next morning before going back to work. It seemed to be working out for them.

“Here you go, Tom,” Kitty Lowery sang out when she placed his plate on the table before him. “When I told Bess it was for you, she put an extra piece of cornbread on it. She knows how you love cornbread.” The cheerful young woman suddenly sprouted a deep frown when she glanced toward the door. “Uh-oh,” she muttered. “Here comes some more of Ned Stark’s men. Looks like you’re gonna have to remind them about the rule, Rachael.”

Rachael released a tired sigh and got to her feet. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, then hurried to intercept the two men. “You fellows looking for some dinner?” Rachael made a point to speak politely.

Curly Williams paused while he looked her up and down before responding. “Yes, ma’am, and anything else you’re sellin’.”

Ignoring the obvious insult, Rachael maintained her polite reception. “You gentlemen probably missed the sign that requests you leave your firearms on the table by the door. So, if you’ll leave those pistols on the table, I’d be happy to have you eat with us.”

“I’d like to see somebody try to take my gun from me,” Quirt Taylor replied.

“I’m afraid that’s one of the rules we have in the hotel dining room,” Rachael said. “It’s for the comfort of the other customers, so if you don’t want to leave your weapons on the table, we refuse to serve you.”

“I say to hell with your damn rules,” Curly spat. “They don’t apply to us.” He took a step to the side, preparing to walk past her, but she stepped to block him. “You’d best get the hell outta my way, woman.” Rachael shook her head and pointed to the weapons table by the door.

Watching the confrontation from his table, Tom decided he had heard enough of the crude affront to his wife. He got to his feet and walked up beside Rachael. “You boys got a lotta rough bark on you, ain’tcha? I expect it’s been a while since you’ve talked to a respectable woman, so you most likely don’t know any better. Look around in here. You don’t see anybody else wearin’ a gun, do you? So who do you think is gonna shoot you?” He pointed to the weapons table. “Just leave your weapons on that table and they’ll be right there when you finish eatin’.”

Curly didn’t say anything for a long moment while he eyed Tom up and down. When he finally spoke, he offered a suggestion. “Why don’t you stick that table where the sun don’t shine?”

“I think you’d better leave,” Rachael said.

“To hell with ’em,” Quirt Taylor said, noticing that everyone in the dining room was staring at them. “We don’t wanna eat this crap they serve in here, anyway.” He took hold of Curly’s elbow and pulled him toward the door. Aside to him, he muttered low, “Ned don’t want us to stir up no trouble with the town folks. They’ll be hollerin’ for the sheriff.”

“Let ’em holler,” Curly blurted defiantly, but he allowed himself to be pulled out the door, knowing Quirt was right. Ned had a working arrangement with Sheriff John Mason, an arrangement that was beneficial to both Ned and Mason.

Rachael took Tom by the arm and walked him back to his table. “Now, don’t get all upset about that. They just make a lot of noise, and I don’t want you getting yourself to worrying about me.” She sat back down at the table while he finished eating.

“I just don’t like people talkin’ to you like that,” Tom said.

“I know,” she said and gave him a little peck on his cheek. “But don’t worry yourself about that bunch that works for Ned Stark. They don’t usually show up here at the hotel. They eat at the Buffalo Hump. I don’t know how those two wandered in here today, but they’re gone, so that’s the end of that.”

“I reckon I’d best go get Rooster,” he said. “He oughta be about through eatin’ his meatloaf by now. I’d like to finish up that roof before supper tonight. If I’m a little late, you’ll know Rooster had too much liquid refreshments with his dinner.”

“If you’re late, I’ll keep a plate in the oven for you,” she said as she walked him to the door.

There was a pretty good crowd in the Buffalo Hump for this time of day. That was usually the indication that a cattle herd was passing nearby on its way to market, but it was not the time of the year for cattle drives. Most likely a lot more drifters were attracted to the little town of Bison Gap, Tom thought. He paused just inside the door and looked at Jimmy McGee behind the bar. Jimmy nodded to him and pointed toward a small table in the back corner of the saloon. Tom returned the nod to Jimmy and walked back to the table where Rooster was hunched over a plate of food. “Gunpowder meatloaf?” Tom asked.

“Nah, beef stew,” Rooster answered. “She didn’t make no meatloaf today.”

“You ’bout ready to get on back and finish that roof? You don’t wanna have another rain catch you before it’s done.”

“I’m finished,” Rooster declared and pushed the plate away from him. “The tar and stuff’s in the wagon. I parked it around back. Lemme pay Jimmy on the way out.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, released a loud belch, and followed Tom to the bar.

“Well, lookee here,” Curly Williams said and immediately got up on his feet, “if it ain’t that jasper from the hotel.”

Quirt Taylor turned to see where Curly was looking. “Damned if it ain’t,” he said. Then, when Curly headed for the bar where Tom was waiting for Rooster to settle up with Jimmy, Quirt called after him. “What are you fixin’ to do?”

“Just wanna say ‘howdy’ to our friend from the hotel,” Curly answered. When Rooster was finished, Tom turned to leave, only to come face-to-face with the man he had confronted in the dining room. “Howdy, Tater Head,” Curly said. “What you doin’ runnin’ around without that little woman to protect you? Don’t you know we got rules in this saloon, just like you’ve got rules in that dinin’ room?” Tom wasn’t prepared to confront the two drifters. He hadn’t noticed them sitting at a small table beyond the end of the long bar. Curly didn’t wait to hear his response and continued to press him. “I notice you’re wearin’ a gun now, so I’ll tell you about the rules we got in here. If a man’s wearin’ a gun, he better be ready to use it. Else, he ain’t no man a-tall. So I’m fixin’ to let you show us you’re man enough to wear that gun in here with all us men. Whaddaya say, Tater Head?”

“I say you’re just tryin’ to make trouble for no good reason a-tall,” Tom answered, having no intention to respond to the bully’s challenge. “You ready, Rooster?” He stepped aside and started to walk around Curly, but the determined bully quickly stepped in front of him.

“You ain’t walkin’ outta here till I say you can,” Curly said, much to his partner’s amusement.

“Make him crawl outta here on his hands and knees,” Quirt encouraged.

“All right,” Tom said. “You’ve had your fun with me, but I ain’t havin’ a duel with you just so you can entertain your friend. So I’ll be leavin’ now.” He looked back at Rooster, who was looking undecided as to what he should do. “Come on, Rooster.” When he turned back again, it was to find Curly, right up in his face, the mocking grin gone from his face, replaced by a grim, threatening glare.

“You’ll go when I say you can go,” Curly warned him, his voice almost a growl. “Now, you ask me real polite-like, ‘Please, Mr. Williams, can I crawl outta here, like the yellow-bellied dog I am?’” All talking in the saloon stopped when everybody became aware of the confrontation between the two.

“You can go to hell,” Tom responded.

Rooster, still uncertain what he should do, dropped his hand down to rest on the handle of his pistol. That was as far as he got before Quirt caught his eye and shook his head to warn him, his smirk conveying a message that he hoped Rooster would test him. With no choice but to watch, he lifted his hand and looked back in time to see Tom take a step backward. What followed next left Rooster gasping in disbelief. Curly drew his six-gun and fired. Tom doubled over, shot in the stomach. He dropped to his knees while fumbling to find his pistol before Curly put the fatal shot in his forehead.

The silence in the saloon was deafening, broken only by the sound of Tom’s body as it keeled over to land on the floor. Rooster pushed past Quirt to rush to Tom’s side, but one look told him Tom was gone. He glared up accusingly at Curly, who responded with a smug grin. “He shouldn’ta tried for it,” Curly said, loud enough for the benefit of everyone in the saloon. “He made that move for his gun, but I was too fast for him.”

“That’s a fact,” Quirt confirmed, equally as loud. “I seen him go for that gun. Everybody did.” He looked around at the still speechless spectators to see if anyone had the guts to disagree. No one did until Jimmy McGee finally said someone should go fetch the sheriff.

“I’ll go,” Rooster volunteered and hurried out the door, intent upon getting the sheriff there before Curly and Quirt decided to ride out of town. Hurrying across the open area between the jail and the saloon, he met the sheriff coming out the door of his office.

“I heard the shots,” Sheriff Mason said. “What happened?” He was already aware that Curly Williams and Quirt Taylor were in town, and he was hoping it had nothing to do with either of them.

“Curly Williams shot Tom Parker down!” Rooster answered. “Shot him down in cold blood, murdered him!”

“I’ll take care of it,” the sheriff assured him and hurried along to the saloon. He went in the door, with Rooster right on his heels, to find everyone in the saloon still standing and staring at Tom’s body, most of them in disbelief. He looked at once to Curly and Quirt, standing at the bar, the only customers casually having a drink of whiskey. “Curly?” Mason asked.

“Yep, I done it, Sheriff,” Curly freely confessed. “He didn’t give me no choice. When I saw him reach for that forty-four he’s carryin’, I had to go for mine. I reckon this was my lucky day, ’cause it turned out I was faster’n him.”

“That’s a fact, Sheriff,” Quirt immediately attested. “I saw the whole thing. I was standin’ right there beside ’em. That feller made out like he was fixin’ to leave and then he reached for that gun. Look there, he got it halfway outta his holster. He came in here lookin’ for me and Curly. We was in the dinin’ room at the hotel a little while ago and there was words between him and Curly. That feller didn’t like the way Curly talked to the lady that runs the place, and I reckon he decided to come after Curly when we walked outta there peaceful.”

“That’s a damn lie!” Rooster blurted. “Tom Parker ain’t never drew down on anybody. Everybody in this town can tell you that.” He looked at the sheriff in desperation. “Hell, you know that, Sheriff.” He pointed a finger at Curly. “He tried to get Tom to draw, but Tom wouldn’t do it—told him he wouldn’t do it—so that feller shot him down!” Rooster ignored the menacing warnings on the faces of Curly and Quirt, to plead with Mason. Then a thought struck him that something else didn’t look right and it occurred to him what it was. “When I left here to go get you, Tom’s gun wasn’t halfway outta his holster like that. They musta done that!” He glared up at them.

“Just calm down, Rooster,” the sheriff told him. “Anybody else actually see what happened?”

No one volunteered except the bartender. “I think it happened the way Rooster said it did,” Jimmy said.

“I was standin’ between him and the bartender,” Quirt declared. “There ain’t no way he coulda seen him reach for that gun, but I saw him when he done it.”

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, including the sheriff’s, that Rooster’s version was what had actually happened there. And he was not happy with the situation that two of Ned Stark’s men had created. “Tom Parker was a good man,” Mason began, “but sometimes any man can get to thinkin’ dangerous things, things that they wouldn’t normally do. I don’t see how this could be looked at in any way other than an unfortunate thing, but it is a case of self-defense, pure and simple. We’re all sad to see Tom Parker go this way.” He turned to address Curly. “I expect it would be best if you boys get on your horses and ride on outta town.”

Curly started to object to the suggestion, but Quirt stepped in before he could say anything. “Yes, sir, Sheriff, we don’t want no trouble, we’re goin’.” He grabbed Curly by his elbow and pulled him toward the door.

When they were gone, Mason said to Jimmy McGee, “I’ll go tell Floyd Jenkins to come get the body.”

“No,” Rooster spoke up, although still in a state of shock over Mason’s failure to lock Curly up for the shooting. Totally disgusted by the lack of backbone in all the men who had witnessed the cold-blooded murder, he paused to glare at them. They all saw the same thing he had just witnessed, but this was the state of things in Bison Gap since Ned Stark and his gang had moved in. “I’ll take care of Tom. I’ll bury him, myself,” he declared.

“Somebody needs to go tell Rachael up at the dinin’ room,” Jimmy said.

“I’ll do that, too,” Rooster said.

“I don’t know, Rooster,” Jimmy said, looking at the body. “It might be too much for Rachael to see him like that, with that hole in his forehead. Might be Floyd could fix him up a little bit, so it wouldn’t look as bad as it does now.”

Rooster reconsidered after Jimmy said that. It wouldn’t be a very pleasant remembrance for her to carry with her for the rest of her life. And it would be worse for Tom’s two daughters to see him this way. “I expect you’re right,” he decided. “I think it best if I take Tom back to the farm and bury him after Floyd nails him up in a coffin. I’ll take him to Floyd’s shop, if somebody will help me put him in the wagon.” He had half-a-dozen volunteers to carry Tom out to the wagon. “Much obliged,” he told them after Tom’s body was laid in the back of his wagon. He climbed up into the wagon seat and drove the team of horses up the street to Floyd Jenkins’s barbershop. Behind the barbershop, the building was located where Floyd practiced his undertaker chores as well as a little doctoring. Rooster got down from the wagon and walked around to the back of it. “I reckon I need to apologize, partner. I wasn’t able to help you, but I was as surprised as you was when that dry-gulcher shot you. I reckon I’ll be fixin’ that roof by myself.”

After agreeing with Floyd on a price to close Tom up in a pine box, Rooster left to take care of the part he dreaded the most, telling Rachael about her husband’s death. When he walked into the hotel dining room, there were only a couple of people still eating. Kitty Lowery was near the back of the room, but he didn’t see Rachael. When Kitty turned around and saw him, she didn’t say anything, but pointed toward the kitchen door as if she knew why he was there. He nodded in return and walked inside the kitchen, where he saw Rachael sitting at the end of the kitchen table. She was weeping and Bess was standing by her, her hand on Rachael’s shoulder. Hearing him come in, they both turned to see him. Seeing the dwarflike little man there with his hat in his hand respectfully, his solid white bearded face bowed in sorrow, Rachael broke into a series of sobs. “Somebody’s done told you,” Rooster guessed.

“Richard Hoover,” Bess said. She said the postmaster sent his young son up to tell Rachael right after the shooting.

Rooster walked into the kitchen and stood before the table. “I’m sorry, Rachael. I woulda been here to tell you, but I took Tom to Floyd’s first.” She looked up to ask why, reacting just as he had at first. “I had to, Rachael, I didn’t want you and the girls to see Tom like that. I left him with Floyd, and he’s gonna put him in a coffin and close it up. He’s already got a couple built, so he said I could pick Tom up in about an hour.” When she started to protest, he said, “It’s better for you to remember Tom like he was the last time you saw him. I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the lid off that coffin. I figured I’d take him back to the farm to bury him, but I’ll take him to the cemetery here in town, if you druther.”

Rachael didn’t have to think about it. “No, I know Tom would rather be laid to rest out there where he loved to work with you. Thank you, Rooster, for taking care of him.”

To hear her thanks was painful to Rooster. “Not a-tall, ma’am,” he insisted. “I’m just sorry as I can be that I weren’t no help to him. It happened before either one of us could do anythin’ about it.”

“Don’t you worry yourself about it,” she said. “There wasn’t anything you could have done to prevent it. Those two outlaws were determined to get even with Tom for standing up to them in here. If they hadn’t gotten him in the saloon, it would have been somewhere else.” She shook her head as she recalled the confrontation there in the dining room. “Where are those two now? Are they in jail?”

“No, ma’am, and that’s the sorry part of it. John Mason said it was self-defense, and he ran ’em outta town.”

Rachael was fairly startled, unable to believe what he told her. “Self-defense? Surely, there must be some mistake. Mason didn’t arrest them at all?”

“No, ma’am,” Rooster answered. He hesitated before saying more, but decided she probably suspected the same as other folks had. “There’s been some talk around town that the sheriff always goes easy on Ned Stark’s men.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Rachael said, getting too angry to cry, “but this is murder! How can he go easy on murder?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Rooster agreed, “it’s murder, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

The days that followed that fateful afternoon were hard indeed for Rachael and her daughters, as well as for Rooster. Emma agreed with her sister to close the dining room down for half a day in order for Rachael to hold a funeral service for Tom at the recently built Baptist church. It was the first funeral service held in the new church, led by the Reverend Harvey Poole. Tom was buried near Rooster’s cabin in a meadow where he, Rachael, and Emma had lived in a couple of tents when they first came to Bison Gap.

It was no less sorrowful for the bowlegged little elf, Rooster Crabb. He could not count any friends beyond those he had acquired during the last eight months of his life. And now, one of them was dead, and at such a young age. He had two more whom he considered to be his closest friends, Perley Gates and Possum Smith. It was mainly these two who had transformed his existence as an often-bullied little man to one of some respect—although he acknowledged that it was a minor portion of respect—but far more than it was before Perley Gates came into his life. He wished Perley and Possum were there now, but they were a long way away in northeast Texas. He thought they would want to know what happened to Tom, so he decided to send them a letter.

Your friend, Rooster Crabb

Perley looked at the date and said to Possum, “He wrote this letter almost two weeks ago. Look at that date.” He held it out for Possum to see.

Possum just shook his head. “I can’t read neither. I know my numbers, though, and I see the number twelve.”

“That’s right,” Perley said, “and today’s the twenty-fifth. So Tom got killed two weeks ago.” He shook his head. “I declare, that’s a downright shame. I know Rachael must be really sufferin’ over it. And the girls,” he said, “Alice and Melva, that’s a terrible thing for them to deal with.” He paused when he thought of six-year-old Alice, who was determined to marry him when she grew up to be sixteen.

“Can I see the letter?” Possum asked and Perley handed it to him. Possum unfolded the single page and studied it intently.

“I thought you said you can’t read and write,” Perley couldn’t resist reminding him.

“I can’t,” Possum replied while he continued to study the letter. “Somethin’ I always said I was gonna get around to, but I never did.” He folded it back again and handed it to Perley. “Emma writes with a fine hand.” He considered that for a few moments before continuing. “That letter makes me think ol’ Rooster’s feelin’ down and out. I reckon he’s on his own again, like he was when we found him.”

“You mean when he found us, don’t you?” Perley japed, since Possum was about to miss Bison Gap before Rooster came along and put them on the right path to the little town.

“You ain’t never gonna forget that, are you?” Possum responded. “I told you I’d never been there before.” Perley laughed and Possum paused to think about it for a few moments. “You know, maybe I shoulda stayed down there with Rooster, at least till Emma and Rachael got that hotel up and runnin’.” He gave Perley a businesslike glance. “After all, I own half interest in that hotel. All the money I’ve ever had went into it. And it ain’t the easiest thing to do to make a hotel pay off in that territory, even for a man. Two women tryin’ it, I musta been crazy to leave it with ’em.”

“They’re two pretty smart women,” Perley said. “If any two women could do it, I’d put my money on them.” He was thinking that Possum might be right in thinking he should have stayed to help run the hotel. But he didn’t want to remind Possum that he wanted to tag along with him back to the Triple-G. He had to admit that he was more than a little concerned for Emma and Rachael, too. They had become close friends to him in the time he had spent with them, and he hated to think any of his friends were in trouble. He had a feeling that he should do something to help his friends in Bison Gap, but he didn’t know what in the world that might be. He had held the temporary job of sheriff there for a short time until they found a man for the job. Ralph Wheeler, the mayor, had lined up a man who was a foreman for some big cattle ranch and also had some law-enforcement experience. His rambling thoughts were interrupted when Possum asked a question.

“We gonna eat, or just stand out here lookin’ at the wagon?”

“We’re gonna eat,” Perley said at once. “That’s the only reason I came into town with you in the first place. I wanted to eat at the Paris Diner.” He jumped down from the wagon and waited for Possum to tie the horses.

“Why do they call this place the Paris Diner?” Possum wondered. “Is that supposed to be short for dinner? They serve breakfast and supper, too, don’t they?”

“I don’t know,” Perley replied. “Maybe Beulah ain’t too good at spellin’.” Then he had to explain that dinner had two n’s while diner had only one. “The important thing is she knows how to cook.”

“Howdy, Perley,” Becky Morris sang out cheerfully when they walked in. “I shoulda known you’d be in town, because we’re serving pork chops today. And I know how you love pork chops.”

“Well, we did pick a good day to come in, didn’t we?” Perley responded. He enjoyed a good pork chop occasionally, since they didn’t raise hogs on the Triple-G. His late father had made that an iron rule, n. . .