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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Lawless
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Then all went quiet and still and he neither saw nor heard.
For Michael Feeny, late of County Mayo, Ireland, the Battle of Shiloh, just aborning into history, was over.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
Kate Kerrigan rose from her chair and returned her husband's letter to her writing desk.
It had been brought, no, the word was smuggled, to her by Michael Feeny, who arrived in Nashville more dead than alive from a wound received at Shiloh.
She'd been poor then, and all the poorer for her husband's death, but Kate had a family to care for and playing the weeping widow and living off the charity of others had never entered her thinking.
Still, it had been a long, long time since she'd filled a bucket with water, soap, and a scrubbing brush.
The blood of the dead robber and would-be rapist still stained her bedroom rug and she could not abide the thought of it remaining there.
She was at the foot of the grand staircase, bucket in hand, when someone slammed the brass doorknocker hard . . . once, twice, three times.
Kate's revolver was in the parlor and she retrieved it, then returned to the door as a man's hand—for surely a woman would not have knocked so loudly?—hammered the knocker again.
“Who is it?” Kate said, her voice steady. The triple click of her Colt was loud in the quiet. “I warn you I put my faith in forty-fives.”
A moment's pause, then, “Miz Kerrigan, it's me, ma'am, Hiram Street, as ever was.”
Kate recognized the voice of one of her top hands and unlocked the door.
“Come inside, Hiram,” she said.
Street was a short, stocky man with sandy hair and bright hazel eyes.
He was a good, steady hand with a weakness for whiskey and whores, but Kate did not hold that against him.
“I was on my way back from town and met Sheriff Martin on the trail and he told me what happened,” Street said. “I rode here as fast as I could to see if you needed help.”
Kate pretended to be annoyed.
“Running my horses again, Hiram?”
“Well, I figgered this was an emergency, Miz Kerrigan, begging your pardon.”
The cowboy wore a mackinaw and a wool muffler over his hat, tied in a huge knot under his chin.
He looked frozen stiff.
“Were you drinking at the Happy Reb again?” Kate said.
“I can tell you no lie, ma'am. I sure was, but I only had but two dollars and that don't go far at Dan Pardee's prices.”
“Come in and I'll get you a drink, Hiram. You look as cold as a bar owner's heart.”
“Dan Pardee's anyway,” Street said as he stepped inside.
He looked around at the marble, gold and red velvet of Ciarogan's vast receiving hall and said, “I ain't never been in the big house before, ma'am. Takes a man's breath away.”
Kate smiled.
“It wasn't always like this, Hiram, back in the day.”
“You mean when you fit Comanches, Miz Kerrigan. I heard that.”
Kate nodded.
“Comanches, Apaches, rustlers, claim jumpers, gunmen of all kinds and ambitions, even Mexican bandits raiding across the Rio Grande. Yes, I fought them all and killing one never troubled my sleep at night.”
“Maybe that's why I'm a mite uneasy about that there iron you got in your hand, ma'am,” Street said.
“Oh, sorry, Hiram.” Kate smiled and let the revolver hang by her side. “Please come into the parlor.”
Street, with that solemn politeness punchers have around respectable women, and with many a “Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” asked if he could remove his hat and coat.
“And should I take off my spurs, Miz Kerrigan?” he said. “I don't want to scratch your furniture, like.”
“My sons don't take them off, so I don't see why you should,” Kate said.
“Ciarogan is sure quiet tonight, ma'am,” Street said, accepting a chair and then a bourbon. “That's why that no-good saddle tramp came here.”
“As you know, my sons are out on the range and Misses Ivy and Shannon are helping Lucy Cobb give birth. I also gave the servants the night off.”
“Got fences down everywhere, but Mr. Trace told me to stay to home on account you'd be here alone,” Street said. “I'm real sorry I left, Miz Kerrigan.”
“How were you to know what would happen this evening, Hiram? Though I'll make no fuss about your lapse this time, don't do it again.”
“Never, ma'am, I swear it.”
“Then we'll let the matter drop. I'll tell Trace that I sent you into town on an errand.”
“I appreciate that, ma'am. He has a temper, has Mr. Trace.”
“Ah, he takes after me,” Kate said.
Street hurriedly took a sip of his whiskey and said nothing.
Then, “Miz Kerrigan, I haven't been riding for Ciarogan long, but I'd like to hear about how it all started.” Street smiled. “You got the only four-pillar plantation house in Texas, I reckon.”
“I doubt that,” Kate said. “But I started with a small cabin and a thousand acres of scrub,” Kate said.
Street spoke into the silence that followed.
“Ma'am, I'd like to hear the story of how you got here.”
“Really, Hiram? Do you want to hear my story or do you like being close to the Old Crow bottle and warm fire?”
Street's smile was bright and genuine.
“Truth to tell, both,” he said. “But I'm a man who loves a good story. I figger to get educated some day and become one of them dime novel authors.”
“A very laudable ambition, Hiram,” Kate said.
She thought for a few moments, then said, “Very well, I won't sleep tonight after what happened and the servants won't be back until late, so I'll tell you the story of Ciarogan and what went before.”
Kate smiled. “But you have to sing for your supper, Hiram.”
“Ma'am?”
“There's a bucket of water and scrubbing brush at the foot of the stairs, and I have a rug in my bedroom that needs cleaning.”
Street had the puncher's deep-seated dread of work he couldn't do off the back of a horse, but Miz Kerrigan was not a woman to be denied.
“Follow me,” she said.
Street grabbed the soapy, slopping bucket and followed Kate up the staircase, his face grim, like a man climbing the steps to the gallows.
Wide-eyed, the cowboy stared at the bloodstained rug.
“Him?” he said.
“Him.”
“Gut shot, ma'am?”
“I didn't take time to see where my bullet hit.”
“But look at the rug, Miz Kerrigan.”
“I see it, Hiram. That's why you're here.”
“But, ma'am, it looks like Miles Martin and his deputies tramped blood everywhere. The tracks of big policeman feet are all over the rug.”
“Then you have your work cut out for you, Hiram. Have you not?”
Street made a long-suffering face, like a repentant sinner.
“This is because I rode off and left you alone, Miz Kerrigan. Ain't it?”
Kate smiled.
“Why Hiram, whatever gave you that idea?”
 
 
After an hour, many buckets of water, and a good deal of muttered cursing, Hiram Street threw the last bucketful of pink-tinted water outside and returned to the parlor.
“All done, Miz Kerrigan,” he said.
Kate put aside the volume of Mr. Dickens she'd been reading and rose to her feet.
“I'll take a look,” she said.
Kate cast a critical eye over the wet rug and said, “There, Hiram, in the corner. You missed a spot.”
“Sorry, ma'am,” Street said.
He got down on his knees and industriously scrubbed the offending stain with the heel of his hand. The spot was only the size of a dime, but Kate's eagle eyes missed nothing.
“Very well, Hiram,” she said. “Now, we'll let the rug dry. I'll use one of the guest rooms for a few days.”
Once the chastened cowboy was again sitting by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand, Kate smiled at him.
“Do you still wish to hear the story of Kate Kerrigan, her life and times?”
Street settled his shoulders into the leather and nodded.
“I sure do, ma'am.”
“I'll tell you of my early days, when just staying alive was a struggle. To relate all that's passed in the last forty years would be too long in the telling.”
Kate flashed her dazzling smile and continued to do so.
“I'm sure there's enough material in the story of my younger days for a hundred dime novels,” she said.
“Beggin' your pardon, Ma'am, but I'm eager to hear the tale of Kate Kerrigan,” Street said.
“Then, Hiram, you shall at least hear some of it.”
J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone
“Print the Legend”
William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.
“I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”
True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in
Beau Geste
when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, that planted the storytelling seed in Bill's imagination.
“They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man's socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”
After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff's Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn't be until 1979 that his first novel,
The Devil's Kiss
, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (
The Uninvited
), thrillers (
The Last of the Dog Team
), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983,
Out of the Ashes
was published. Searching for his missing family in a postapocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation's future.
Out of the Ashes
was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy the Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill's uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men's action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI's Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. In that respect, I often find myself saying, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)
Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill's recent thrillers, written with myself, include
Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge,
and the upcoming
Suicide Mission.
It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success. His westerns propelled him onto both the
USA Today
and the
New York Times
bestseller lists.
Bill's western series include
Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister
(an Eagles spin-off),
Sidewinders, The Brothers O'Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter,
and the new series
Flintlock
and
The Trail West.
May 2013 saw the hardcover western
Butch Cassidy: The Lost Years.
“The western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America's version of England's Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of
The Virginian
by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L'Amour, the western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.
“I'm no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don't offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man's horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman's noose. One size fit all.
“Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.
“It was Owen Wister, in
The Virginian
, who first coined the phrase ‘When you call me that, smile.' Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son of a bitch.
“Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don't know. But there's a line in one of my favorite westerns of all time,
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
, where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.'
“These are the words I live by.”

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