Journey into Violence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
HE
KERRIGANS A T
EXAS
D
YNASTY
JOURNEY INTO VIOLENCE

W
ILLIAM
W.
J
OHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

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Table of Contents

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Copyright © 2016 J. A. Johnstone

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone's outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone's superb storytelling.

 

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3583-0

ISBN-10: 0-7860-3583-8

 

 

First electronic edition: August 2016

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3584-7

ISBN-10: 0-7860-3584-6

BOOK ONE

C
HAPTER
O
NE

“She ran me off her property, darned redheaded Irish witch.” Ezra Raven stared hard at his
segundo
, a tall lean man with ice in his eyes named Poke Hylle. “I want that Kerrigan land, Poke. I want every last blade of grass. You understand?”

“I know what you want, boss,” Hylle said. He studied the amber whiskey in his glass as though it had become the most interesting thing in the room. “But wantin' and gettin' are two different things.”

“You scared of Frank Cobb, that hardcase
segundo
of hers? I've heard a lot of men are.”

“Should I be scared of him?” Hylle asked.

“He's a gun from way back. Mighty sudden on the draw and shoot.”

Hylle's grin was slow and easy, a man relaxed. “Yeah, he scares me. But that don't mean I'm afraid to brace him.”

“You can shade him. You're good with a gun your own self, Poke, maybe the best I've ever known,” Raven said. “Hell, you gunned Bingley Abbott that time. He was the Wichita draw fighter all the folks were talking about.”

“Bing was fast, but he wasn't a patch on Frank Cobb,” Hylle said. “Now that's a natural fact.”

“All right, then, forget Cobb for now. There's got to be a better way than an all-out range war.” Raven stepped to the ranch house window and stared out at the cloud of drifting dust where the hands were branding calves. “I offered Kate Kerrigan twice what her ranch is worth, but she turned me down flat. How do you deal with a woman like that?”

“Carefully.” Hylle smiled. “I'm told she bites.”

“Like a cougar. Shoved a scattergun into my face and told me to git. Me, Ezra Raven, who could buy and sell her and all she owns.” The big man slammed a fist into his open palm. “Damn, I need that land. I want to be big, Poke, the biggest man around. That's just how I am, how I've always been, and I ain't about to change.”

The door opened and a tall, slender Pima woman stepped noiselessly across the floor and placed a white pill and a glass of water on Raven's desk.

“Damn, is it that time again?”

“Take,” the woman said. “It is time.” She wore a plain, slim-fitting calico dress that revealed the swell of her breast and hips. A bright blue ribbon tied back her glossy black hair, and on her left wrist she wore a wide bracelet of hammered silver. She was thirty-five years old. Raven had rescued her from a brothel in Dallas, and he didn't know her Indian name, if she had one. He called her Dora only because it pleased him to do so.

Raven picked up the pill and glared at it. “The useless quack says this will help my heart. I think the damned thing is sugar rolled into a ball.”

Hylle waved an idle hand. “Man's got to follow the doctor's orders, boss.”

Raven shrugged, swallowed the medication with a gulp of water, and handed the glass back to the Pima woman. “Beat it, Dora. White men are talking here.”

The woman bowed her head and left.

“Poke, like I said, I don't want to take on a range war. It's a messy business. Nine times out of ten the law gets involved and next thing you know, you're knee-deep in Texas Rangers.”

Hylle nodded. “Here's a story you'll find interesting, boss. I recollect one time in Galveston I heard a mariner talk about how he was first mate on a freighter sailing between Shanghai and Singapore in the South China Sea. Well, sir, during a watch he saw two ironclads get into a shooting scrape. He said both ships were big as islands and they had massive cannons in dozens of gun turrets. Both ships pounded at each other for the best part of three hours. In the end neither ironclad got sunk, but both were torn apart by shells and finally they listed away from each other, each of them trailing smoke. Nobody won that fight, but both ships paid a steep price.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey. “A range war is like that, boss. Ranchers trade gunfire, hired guns and punchers die, but in the end, nobody wins.”

“And then the law comes in and cleans up what's left,” Raven said.

“That's about the size of it,” Hylle said.

“I don't want that kind of fight. Them ironclads could have avoided a battle and sailed away with their colors flying. Firing on each other was a grandstand play and stupid.”

Hylle rose from his chair, stepped to the decanters, and poured himself another drink. He took his seat again and said, “Boss, maybe there is another way.”

“Let's hear it,” Raven said. “But no more about heathen seas and ironclads. Damn it, man, you're making me seasick.”

Hylle smiled. “From what I've seen of the Kerrigan place it's a hardscrabble outfit and Kate has to count every dime to keep it going. Am I right about that?”

“You're right. The KK Ranch is held together with baling wire and Irish pride. She's building a house that isn't much bigger than her cabin. She's using scrap lumber and the first good wind that comes along will blow it all over creation.” Raven lifted his chin and scratched his stubbly throat. “Yeah, I'd say Kate Kerrigan's broke or damned near it.”

“So answer me this, boss. What happens if her herd doesn't go up the trail next month?”

A light glittered in Raven's black eyes. “She'd be ruined.”

“And eager to sell for any price,” Hylle said.

Raven thought that through for a few moments then said, “How do we play it, Poke? Remember them damned ironclads of yours that tore one another apart.”

“No range war. Boss, we do it with masked men—night riders. We scatter the Kerrigan herd, gun a few waddies if we must, but leave no evidence that can be tied to you and the Rafter-R. Stop her roundup and the woman is out of business.” Hylle smiled. “Pity though. She's real pretty.”

“So are dollars and cents, Poke. The Kerrigan range represents money in my pocket.” Raven was a big, rawboned man, and his rugged face was bisected by a great cavalry mustache and chin beard. He lit a cigar and said behind a blue cloud of smoke, “We wait until the branding is done and then we strike at the Kerrigan herds, scatter them to hell and gone before Kate can start the gather. Can we depend on the punchers?”

Hylle nodded. “They ride for the brand, boss.”

“Good. A two-hundred-dollar bonus to every man once the job is done and I own the Kerrigan range.” Raven slapped his hands together. “Do you think it can work?”

“No question about that. No cattle drive to Dodge, no money for the KK.”

“Hell, now I feel better about things, Poke. It's like you're a preacher and I just seen the light. How about another drink?”

Hylle grinned. “Don't mind if I do, boss. We'll drink to the ruin of the KK and the end of pretty Mrs. Kerrigan's stay in West Texas.”