The Last Wagon Train

Book 1: Last Wagon Train

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Anthologies; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Legendary nationally bestselling Western authors return with a brand-new West Texas–set series for their legions of loyal fans.

WILL THIS BE . . . THE LAST WAGON TRAIN?

A new railroad line is coming to Hansen’s Bend—and the Old West will never be the same. Especially for the Callahans. They’ve been running the local wagon train outfit for years. But now a pompous rail boss named Arbuckle wants to put them out of business. This big-city weasel mocks the Callahans’ “slow-poke” wagons—and bets he can finish laying track all the way to the end of the line before Callahan’s wagon train even makes it over the mountains. Callahan accepts the challenge—and gets gunned down before it even starts . . . 

But the contest isn’t over. The wagoner’s son, Luke “Tomahawk” Callahan, has returned to Hansen’s Bend after five years as an army scout. He knows nothing about the rail boss’s challenge or his father’s murder—until he sees the newspaper headline: “The Last Wagon Train?” The pretty lady journalist who wrote it wants to ride along and follow this story to the end. And of course, Tomahawk wants to defend his father’s honor and avenge his death. But Arbuckle has sent his henchmen to sabotage the wagon train to make sure Tomahawk and his wagons are dead on arrival . . .

Release date: October 22, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

They would have just let the Indians go if not for the prospector.

A team of mule skinners out of Deadwood and angling northwest to Montana had found him along a creek when they’d stopped to water the animals. He was a mess, all beat up, shoes gone, and scalped, which was how they’d known it was Indians. One of the freight drivers recognized the prospector as Henry Jakes. A mule and the man’s Spencer rifle were missing. The mule skinners took the body to the nearest marshal, who sent a telegram to the blue coats at Fort Keogh.

Lieutenant W. P. Clark hadn’t been happy. The Northern Cheyenne trouble was supposed to be over, but there were always rogue groups, and a murdered white man wasn’t something he could ignore. A green second lieutenant named Foster and a dozen equally green troopers were all he could spare.

After careful consideration, Clark couldn’t in good conscience send out all those inexperienced men without somebody who actually knew what he was doing.

He called Master Sergeant Isaiah Parks into his office. Parks snapped to attention, throwing out his barrel chest. He was a beefy, florid-faced man with red hair now streaked with gray, forty-five years old, twenty-two of which had been spent in the army. He’d taken a Confederate bayonet to his left buttock at Bull Run and had only in recent years developed a sense of humor about the scar. He sported new stripes on his blue sleeve, three up and three down.

“At ease, Sergeant,” Clark said. “How would you like to escort our young Mr. Foster on a little nature walk?”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“You understand what’s expected?”

“Noses wiped and diapers changed,” Parks said. “Bring the lieutenant back relatively undamaged.”

Clark hid a smile. “That’s not how I’d put it if Mr. Foster’s in earshot, but yes, you have the basic idea. I suppose I should send an experienced scout with you. Is Mort Whittaker still in camp?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Tom would be my suggestion,” Parks said. “He’s at that saloon he likes so much, and it’s on the way. If we leave early enough, we can pick him up before he gets started.”

Tom referred to Luke Callahan. Tom was short for Tomahawk, which was what all the men called him. Lieutenant Clark had never worked with the man, but he trusted the sergeant’s judgment.

“Okay, then,” Clark said. “You know what to do. Get started.”

Luke “Tomahawk” Callahan sat at a corner table in Shakey’s Place, a low-ceilinged, ramshackle saloon inside a squat log structure along a muddy road between Fort Keogh and the rest of the world. A traveler wouldn’t have known it was called Shakey’s Place if he just happened by. One either knew Gil Shakey, or one didn’t. The shutters were closed against the cold, what with winter clinging and spring slow to develop in the first week of April. The only light in the place came from three lanterns and a modest blaze in the stone fireplace.

Callahan tossed two cards on the table and kept three. The two horse soldiers, a lanky corporal and a short private with a bushy mustache, had already thrown their cards down in disgust, wishing they could have their antes back.

That left the slicker.

Or, at least, slicker was how Tomahawk Callahan thought of the man. He had back East written all over him, talked educated. He wore a dark suit with a red waistcoat, some kind of tight pattern in the fabric that was hard to make out in the saloon’s dim light. A gold chain disappeared into the waistcoat pocket, and presumably there was an expensive watch in there. Gold cufflinks. Bowler hat cocked at a jaunty angle. He smoked a thin cigar. Callahan was no expert on fine tobacco, but the cigar smelled good, so it was probably expensive, too. Mustache and beard well trimmed. No dirt under his fingernails. He told everyone he’d recently been let go from the railroad and was on his way to anywhere else.

The slicker’s eyes flicked back and forth between his cards and Callahan. He licked his lips. Nervous.

Or maybe just pretending to be nervous. Callahan had learned early on you played the man as much as you played the cards.

He wondered how he must look to the slicker. Tall and rangy, five days of black stubble on his square jaw, beat-up buckskin jacket, battered old brown hat hanging on the back of his chair. A Colt Peacemaker hung on his right hip.

Luke didn’t see a gun on the slicker’s hip. The man was either too trusting or hadn’t been West long enough.

The slicker looked at his cards again and then at the pot. A lot of money there, a sizable pot for so early in the day. It wasn’t quite lunchtime.

“I seem to be facing a conundrum.” The slicker looked at Callahan. “I beg your pardon, conundrum means—”

“A confusing or difficult problem,” Callahan said. “I know.”

“See, you’ve only taken two cards, so I’m forced to infer the three you have left are good ones,” the slicker mused. “Whereas, I’d planned to take three cards.”

A child could see the man was stalling, running his mouth just to see if Callahan would blink or flinch or give anything away.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything specific about my cards,” Callahan said. “You are, of course, welcome to infer as you like.”

The man laughed. “Sorry. I guess that was pretty clumsy. I noticed you haven’t looked at your new cards yet.”

“I don’t have to yet.” Callahan had learned he couldn’t give away anything about his cards if he didn’t know what they were. If the slicker folded, then it wouldn’t matter. If Callahan had to bet, he’d look at his cards then.

The slicker grinned as if amused. “Not even curious?”

Callahan shrugged. He could wait all day.

The slicker threw down two cards. The corporal dealt him two new ones. The slicker looked at them, face blank.

Callahan picked up his cards, forcing himself not to hurry. He held them low and squeezed them out one at a time, seeing his original cards first—three nines. He squeezed the next one. Jack of spades. No help.

He scooted the final card out from behind the rest with his thumb.

The fourth nine.

It was difficult to keep his mouth from quirking into a smile, but Callahan managed to maintain a blank expression. Luck was on his side. Callahan had won a few hands, small amounts of money, but he’d just gotten the best hand of the day right when the pot was the biggest. A bet too big would scare the man off.

Callahan tossed his chips onto the pile, not enough to confirm to the slicker he had a winning hand, but enough to make him pause and think.

“Well.” The slicker pushed his bowler back on his head and wiped his forehead. “I can’t legitimately claim to have a very strong hand. Having said that, it chagrins to let that sizable pot go without a look at your cards.”

Callahan smiled. “It’s a conundrum.”

The slicker laughed and tossed in his chips. “Call.”

Callahan laid down his cards.

The corporal whistled.

The slicker leaned over the cards and frowned. “Four nines. That figures.”

He tossed in his cards.

Callahan scooped the chips toward him, allowing his poker face to finally drop in favor of a pleased grin.

The corporal pushed away from the table and motioned for the private to follow him. “That’s all for me. Come on, Del, let’s get a beer.”

The slicker said, “I’d love a chance back at all that money I just lost, but I suppose I’d better not dig my hole any deeper.”

A shrug from Callahan, not quite apologetic. “Some days you get the cards. Other days, the other fella has the luck.”

“Well, I’d like to prove I’m not a poor sport at least. Let me buy you a whiskey.”

“I’ll buy you two whiskeys if I can get one of them cigars,” Callahan said. “Smells good.”

“That seems a fair trade.” The slicker stuck out his hand. “Ronald Parsons.”

Callahan shook. “Tomahawk Callahan.”

“Tomahawk?”

“Long story.”

Parsons patted his jacket pocket, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “You know what. I don’t have any cigars on me. I’m pretty sure I have more in my saddlebags. Follow me. I’ll set you up. I need some air, anyway. It’s too close in here with all the shutters closed. My horse is out back.”

Callahan stood, and then gathered the chips. “Let me cash these in. I’ll meet you out there.”

He took the chips to the man behind the bar, Gil Shakey, a man barely as tall as he was wide with a bald head and a drooping mustache that looked like he was letting a squirrel live rent free on his face.

Callahan cashed in his chips and pocketed the money, then stepped out the back door, and a cold wind hit him at once. He grumbled. Tomahawk Callahan had already had his fill of winter. Spring was taking its own sweet time getting here. He went to where Parsons had his horse tied and stood politely, waiting. They were the only two out back. Most people tied their horses out front. Probably, Parsons had come up from the southern trail, and he’d seen the back door first.

Parsons went from one saddlebag to another. “Apologies. I’m sure I have a few more of those stogies stashed somewhere.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I’ll still stand you a whiskey for good intentions.” Callahan wasn’t keen to linger any longer in the biting wind. The cigar was rapidly losing its attraction.

“No, no. Just a moment.”

It was a bit early in the day to start on the whiskey, but now Callahan figured he’d need it just to warm up.

“Voila!” Parsons came out of the saddlebag with a small, wooden box in his hand. He opened it and fished out one of the cigars, then handed it to Callahan.

Callahan stuck it in his mouth. “Obliged. I’ll light it inside, and we’ll get our drinks.”

“Thank you, but I’ll need to drink quickly,” Parsons said. “I should have been on my way to Bozeman long before now.” He pointed. “Is that the best way to go?”

Callahan turned to look where he was pointing. “You can go that way, but it’s not the fastest route. If you angle south a bit—”

Pain exploded at the base of Callahan’s skull, white lights and stars flashing in his eyes a brief moment before everything went dark.

Callahan came awake with a start, sputtering and spitting and freezing cold. He wiped water from his eyes, looking around, trying to remember where he was and how he’d gotten there.

He looked up into the grinning face of Isaiah Parks. The sergeant held a bucket in his hands. “Looks like you started on the whiskey a bit early even for you.”

Callahan checked his pockets. All of his money—including the poker winnings—was gone. He stood, spitting a string of curses.

Parks frowned. “Problem?”

“I’ve been robbed.” Callahan touched the sore spot at the base of his skull with three fingertips. Tender, but he’d be okay. “He hit me.”

“Who did?”

“Ronald Parsons . . . if that’s even his name.”

Callahan squinted up at the sun. He’d been out at least an hour. He cursed again, scanning the ground. Too many hoofprints. People came and went all the time to the saloon. Parsons had said he was headed to Bozeman, but, of course, that was a lie. If Callahan followed the wrong trail for half a day, that would only increase the slicker’s head start.

He went back inside Shakey’s Saloon, asked everyone within if they knew anything about Ronald Parsons or where he might be headed, but nobody had any useful information.

“Some bad luck,” Sergeant Parks said. “Sorry, Tom.”

“Dirty son of a . . . If I ever see him again, there’ll be nothing left of him, I can tell you that. He didn’t take my six-gun and knife, at least,” Callahan said.

“Good, because you’ll need ’em,” Parks said. “That’s why I come looking for you.” Parks briefly explained the expedition with Lieutenant Foster to find the rogue Cheyenne.

“Huh.” Callahan scratched his head, thinking it over. “I guess I’m in no position now to turn down a paying job. Okay, Sarge, just let me change into some dry clothes.”

They angled southeast toward the spot where the prospector had been found. Callahan rode his painted horse next to Parks, the dozen cavalrymen riding two-by-two behind them. They were traveling known roads, so Callahan’s skill as a scout wouldn’t be needed yet. Foster rode out front, and Callahan sized up the man.

He was the worst possible combination of everything that made for a rotten officer. He was fresh out of West Point, which meant he probably thought he already knew everything, even though he’d been west of the Mississippi for less than a month. He was appallingly young, which didn’t make him a bad person or stupid, but experience counted for a lot out here, and Lieutenant Horace Foster didn’t have any. What he did have was a perfectly clean and pressed uniform and the shiniest buttons Callahan had ever seen.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

Callahan chastised himself. His opinion was based on young officers he’d met before. Every man deserved a chance to be a blank page. Let Foster write his own story, then Callahan would judge.

They spent the night on a knoll overlooking the road. The troopers were green, according to Parks, but they went about the business of making camp, hobbling the horses, preparing dinner, and setting sentries in a professional manner.

Later that evening, Foster approached Callahan near the campfire, a folded newspaper under one arm. “Callahan? We left Fort Keogh in a hurry and haven’t had a chance to meet officially. I’m Second Lieutenant Horace Foster.”

“Lieutenant.” Callahan shook his hand. “I usually answer to Tom or Tomahawk, but Callahan works, too.”

“I understand you have people back in Missouri.” He handed Callahan the newspaper. “That issue of the Post-Dispatch is only a week old. I’ve finished it, if you’d like a look.”

“Obliged for that.” He took the paper and angled it to catch the firelight. A headline caught his eye. THE LAST WAGON TRAIN? Curious, he folded the newspaper and stashed it inside his jacket. “I’ll read it when I have better light. Thanks again.”

“Well, I’m going to sleep,” Foster said. “Early day tomorrow.”

They set out the next morning just as dawn was humping up red-orange from the horizon. It warmed soon after, and Callahan wondered if spring had finally made an appearance. By midafternoon, they’d made it to the place where the mule skinners had found the dead prospector.

Callahan dismounted next to Foster. “Lieutenant, keep the men back, will you?”

Foster twisted in the saddle. “You men hold position.”

Callahan approached the creek, taking it slow and stepping carefully. He knew the area, knew the little trickle was called Gibson’s Creek, although he had no idea who Gibson was. The mule skinners who’d found the body had made Callahan’s job harder, both men and horses tromping all over the scene. At least it hadn’t snowed or rained. He found a churned up piece of ground on the other side that he suspected as the location of the murder—lots of boot prints and moccasin prints, both in all different directions, like maybe the prospector had put up a fight, and of course, why wouldn’t he? Callahan tried to imagine them pushing and shoving and stepping every which way.

He slowly made an ever-widening circle from the spot until he found what he was looking for, a trail made by moccasined feet, trudging single file away from the creek, going north. They’d gone single file, which made it tougher to determine how many.

“Wait here!” he called back to the troopers.

He followed the trail a quarter mile to see if the Indians continued on foot or if they’d tied horses somewhere. No hoofprints, but he spotted a muddy patch of ground that gave him pause. Tracks came in from another direction to intersect the trail he’d been following. He examined the ground for a while and drew a conclusion.

Callahan guessed maybe two or three Cheyenne had ambushed the prospector. They left the scene of the crime and had met another group, a little larger. Then all of them left together, the trail going north.

Callahan went back to the blue coats and took his horse by the reins. “We’ll need to walk a ways. I don’t want to lose the trail.”

“Sergeant, have the men dismount,” Foster said.

Parks shouted the order back to the troops.

“How many?” Foster asked.

“Can’t be certain,” Callahan told him. “A half dozen at least. More maybe.”

“More like maybe eight or ten? Or more like fifty?”

Callahan chuckled. “Not fifty. Not a war party. And they’re not mounted.”

“That’s something at least.”

They crossed the creek and followed Callahan into the forest, staying back about ten yards to give him room to work. Callahan kept his eyes on the ground, but his mind worked as he followed the trail. It had been his experience that Indians were like anyone else in most respects. Some were good, others bad. Some smart and some stupid.

Callahan wondered if these were stupid Indians. Why kill the prospector? For a mule and a rifle? They surely knew that would bring the blue coats. And they were on foot, so they didn’t have the option of a quick getaway. Something wasn’t adding up, but there was only so much a man could glean from footprints in the mud.

The forest thinned, then cleared, and Callahan found himself looking across open ground. His attention was drawn east to a rocky formation atop a low hill. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the top. He followed the trail another half mile to confirm it angled toward the hill.

Callahan waited for Foster to catch up and pointed out the smoke.

Foster grinned. “They’re making it easy for us.”

“They’re probably cooking the prospector’s mule,” Isaiah Parks commented offhandedly.

The lieutenant found the notion distasteful, if his expression was any indication.

Callahan mounted his horse. “Well, we found them. Now the hard part.”

“I suppose we go up and get them,” Foster said.

Callahan shook his head. “Nope.”

Foster frowned. “What is it you suppose we’re doing out here, Mr. Callahan?”

“I know we’ve got a job to do, Lieutenant. I just mean we can’t go charging up that hill,” Callahan said.

“Explain.”

“First, they’re going to see us coming, maybe have seen us already,” Callahan said. “That means they’ll have time to decide. Fight or run. Except they can’t run, and they know it. They can sneak down the other side of the hill, but on foot, we’d ride them down easy. That means they have no choice but to dig in, shooting down on us from good cover.”

“They might wait until nightfall,” Parks said. “Then try to sneak away. They might even scatter.”

“They might,” Callahan agreed.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Foster asked.

“Let’s get closer,” Callahan said. “Make sure they see us, so they know they’re in it deep.”

“And then?”

“Then I go up there,” Callahan said.

He spurred his horse forward, and the others followed.

They called a halt just out of rifle range, and Callahan dismounted to search his saddlebags. He came out with an Indian tomahawk and stuck it in his belt. He checked the load on his Peacemaker, then dropped it back in the holster. He pulled his Henry rifle from the saddle sheath and checked it, fifteen .44 rimfire shells and one in the chamber.

He mounted again and put the Henry across the saddle in front of him. “Wait here. Keep your eyes open. Everything I said might be wrong. They might try to run, so be ready.”

“What do you figure to do up there all by yourself?” Foster asked.

“I guess we’ll see.” Callahan spurred his horse to a gallop.

He reached the foot of the hill without getting shot and dismounted. He didn’t bother tying the horse to anything. It was a good animal and wouldn’t wander off. He took his time looking for the best way up and soon found the path the Indians had used. He put his rifle on his shoulder, holding it casually, hoping he was conveying the right demeanor. I’m ready for trouble, but not looking for it.

Callahan headed up the hill.

He kept his eyes and ears open but also turned his thoughts back to the two groups of Indians. Callahan had a hunch. If he was wrong, it might get him killed.

About halfway up, the path took him through a cluster of boulders. Some instinct put Callahan on alert, and he crouched through, rifle up and ready. He came out the other side of the cluster, paused, looked left and right. Nothing to see.

He lowered the rifle and let out the breath he’d been holding.

Callahan heard the all-too-familiar sound of a lever action sliding a shell into a rifle chamber. He muttered a curse under his breath. Caught like some fool greenhorn.

He turned slowly, eyes going up. Four Indians in buckskin stood on the big boulder above, three pointing rifles down at him. The fourth was older, gray streaks in his braided hair. He held his rifle in the crook of his arm, a dour expression on his face.

“Looks like you got the drop on me,” Callahan said.

The older Indian’s eyes fell to the tomahawk in Callahan’s belt. “Where did you get that, white man? Did you take it off a dead brave?” His English was good.

“It was given to me by Dull Knife,” Callahan said.

The Indians stirred, shooting glances at each other. They recognized the name as Callahan had hoped.

“Why?” asked the one in charge.

“I saved his nephew’s life.”

The Indians exchanged words, then the one with gray in his hair said, “So you saved Laughing Otter’s life?”

“His name’s Walks with the Wind,” Callahan said. “And he’s got big ears.”

A sly smile. “Perhaps you speak the truth after all.”

“Where are the others?” Callahan asked.

The Indian’s smile faded. “There are no others.”

Callahan considered his next words carefully. “You left a trail, and the trail told a story. Some Indians killed a prospector along Gibson’s Creek. These Indians met some others and then they traveled together to this hill. I seek the end to the story. You’ve seen the blue coats below?”

“We’ve seen them.”

“The story ends one of two ways,” Callahan explained. “The blue coats take all the Cheyenne here, and all are punished for the murder. Or the blue coats take only the killer. Help me write the best ending to this story.”

“Why did you come up here alone?”

“What would happen if all the blue coats came at once?”

The Indian thought about it. “A bad ending to the story for all.”

Callahan nodded. “My name’s Callahan.”

“I am called Slow River,” the Indian said.

“And those at the top of the hill?” Callahan asked.

“Tall Elk. He is the one who killed the prospector,” Slow River said. “His brother Bright Pony is with him.”

“Dull Knife has already made peace,” Callahan said. “There’s talk your people won’t be sent south again. Some of the Cheyenne like Little Wolf have even started working as scouts for the blue coats. There’s no reason to begin trouble anew. Give the blue coats Tall Elk for the prospector.”

Slow River thought long about it but shook his head. “I warned Tall Elk it was foolish to kill the prospector. It would bring the blue coats. And now that very thing has come to pass. But I am Cheyenne. Tall Elk is Cheyenne. It goes against my heart to give him to the blue coats. Still, I know the blue coats will not rest until there is justice for the dead prospector. Fetch him yourself, if you will, Callahan. We will not stand in your way.”

Callahan looked up the mountain, then back at Slow River. “Can I call up the troopers to help me?”

“There is not trust for that yet,” Slow River said. “You must go alone, Callahan. The story is in your hands. Write the best ending you can.”

Callahan headed up the hill slowly, a tight grip on the Henry. It hadn’t gone so bad with Slow River. He’d started with a six Indian problem, which was now down to two Indians. He considered trying to signal Lieutenant Foster. Maybe he could bring the troops up the other side of the hill and they could close in on Tall Elk from there.

No, it was a bad move. Slow River wasn’t a fool. If he saw the blue coats coming, he’d think Callahan had pulled some trick. Callahan had to face facts. He’d made his bed when he’d started up the hill alone. Now he had to lie in it.

The smell of meat cooking increased as Callahan approached the top of the hill, and he wondered if it was the mule, as Isaiah Parks had suggested. Men had eaten a lot worse in the deep winter when game was scarce. He paused, listened, thought maybe he heard voices. Or maybe it was a trick of the wind.

It didn’t matter. There was nowhere to go but up.

The crown of the hill was ringed by huge boulders. It would have been the perfect place to hole up if they hadn’t given themselves away with the cookfire. The path led him to a crack between two boulders just large enough to squeeze through. It would take him into the clea. . .