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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Bad Men Die
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While McCluskey sat in prison in Cheyenne, Luke returned to Rattlesnake Wells on the train as soon as the railroad bridge was repaired, to pick up his horse and see how Sundown Bob Hatfield and the other friends he had made were doing. He used part of the reward money to pick up a new pair of Remingtons, a new gun belt, and a set of holsters. He was breaking in the weapons, and it felt good to be fully armed again.
There was just one more thing to do before he left that part of the country. With his horse in the animal car, he rode the train back to Cheyenne. McCluskey was scheduled to be hanged, and Luke intended to be there. He took no pleasure in it. It was more like something he had to do to close the last page of a book.
 
 
All the way from the jail, up the thirteen steps to the gallows, while a black-suited preacher droned a prayer and the federal marshal in charge of the hanging asked McCluskey if he had any last words to say, the outlaw looked around, jerking his head from side to side as if waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for someone to come along and save him from his fate.
But Delia wasn't there. She was buried two hundred miles away in Pine City's cemetery, with a plain marker giving only her name and date of death. There was nobody else to help a vicious, two-bit owlhoot like Frank McCluskey.
McCluskey was still waiting for that miracle, though, as the hangman put the black hood over his head, fitted the noose around his neck, and nodded to the marshal who held the lever. From under the hood, McCluskey said in a muffled voice, “Wait! This isn't—”
The marshal shoved the lever, the trapdoor dropped out from under McCluskey's feet, and Luke heard the sharp pop of the outlaw's neck breaking as he hit the end of the rope.
So much for visions, Luke thought as he went to his waiting horse. He swung up into the saddle and rode out of Cheyenne without looking back at the figure dangling from the gallows.
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
 
 
USA TODAY
BESTSELLING AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
 
 
In a sprawling new saga that embodies the pioneer
spirit, the masters of the Western introduce the Kerrigans,
a rough-and-tumble clan of pioneers making their
own way across darkest America led by a woman
as ferocious as the Texas sun.
 
 
MEET THE FAMILY THAT TAMED
THE WILD WEST
 
A strong, beautiful mother of five, Kate Kerrigan
has made do since losing her husband in the
bloody Battle of Shiloh. Two years after the
Civil War, there's nothing left for her and her family
in Tennessee but poverty and bad memories
so Kate decides a better life awaits them in
far-off West Texas. Thus begins a thousand-mile trek
through some of the harshest and most dangerous
territory on the frontier. By pulling together,
the Kerrigans discover the conviction to
overcome the unimaginable hardships and the
strength of spirit that will help them build
one of the largest cattle empires in the
history of the American West.
 
THE KERRIGANS: A TEXAS DYNASTY
An All-New Frontier Series from the Authors of
The Family Jensen
 
On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
CHAPTER 1
“You had to do it, Miz Kerrigan,” Sheriff Miles Martin said, hat in hand. “He came looking for trouble.”
Kate Kerrigan stood at her parlor window, stared into moon-dappled darkness, and said nothing.
“I mean, he planned to rob you, and after you fed him, an' all,” Martin said.
Kate turned, a tall, elegant woman. Her once flaming red hair was now gray but her fine-boned, Celtic beauty was still enough to turn a man's head.
She smiled at Martin.
“He planned to murder me, Miles. Cover his tracks, I guess.”
“Where is Trace?” Martin said.
“Out on the range, and so is his brother,” Kate said.
“And Miss Ivy and Miss Shannon?”
“My segundo's wife is birthing a child. Doc Woodruff is off fly-fishing somewhere, so Ivy and Shannon went over to Lucy Cobb's cabin to help. Lucy has already had three, so I don't foresee any problems.”
Then as though she feared she was tempting fate, Kate said in the lilting Irish brogue she'd never lost, “May Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven protect her this night.”
“He was a city slicker,” Martin said.
The sheriff, a drink of water with a walrus mustache and sad brown eyes, stood in front of the fire. He had a Colt self-cocker in his holster and a silver star pinned to the front of his sheepskin.
The fall of 1907 had been cold and the winter was shaping up to be a sight worse.
“He had the look of one,” Kate said.
Martin looked uncomfortable and awkward, all big hands and spurred boots. He chose his words carefully, like a barefoot man walking through a nettle patch.
“How did it happen, Miz Kerrigan? I need to ask.”
“Of course, Miles,” Kate said. “Why don't you sit and I'll get you a brandy. Only to keep out the chill, you understand.”
The big lawman sat gratefully in the studded, leather chair by the fire.
“I'm right partial to brandy,” he said. “Warms a man's insides, I always say.”
Kate poured brandy in two huge snifters, handed one to Martin and settled herself in the chair opposite.
The lawman thought she sat like a queen, and why not? Kate's range was larger than some European kingdoms.
Martin played for time.
He produced the makings and said, “May I beg your indulgence, Ma'am?”
“Please do. My son Quinn is much addicted to cigarettes, a habit he learned from our vaqueros who smoke like chimneys.”
“Doctors say it's good for the chest,” Martin said.
“So I've heard, but I do not set store by what doctors say.”
Kate sipped her brandy, and then stooped to poke the logs into life. She didn't look up.
“I've killed men before, Miles.”
“I know, Miz Kerrigan, but I was trying to spare you a lot of fool questions.”
The woman's emerald green eyes fixed on Martin's face.
“I'll tell you what happened here earlier this evening and you can ask your questions as you see fit.”
The lawman nodded.
“I'd given the servants the night off, and I was alone in the house when I heard a horse come to a halt outside.”
“What time was that, Miz Kerrigan?”
“It was seven o'clock. I was here, sitting by the fire eating the cold supper the cook had prepared for me, and heard the grandfather clock chime in the hallway. A few moments later a knock came to the door.”
Kate's blue silk day dress rustled as she sat back and made herself more comfortable.
“I answered the summons and opened to a man, an ordinary looking fellow wearing an old dark jacket that was several sizes too large for him. He had no overcoat; the evening was cold and he shivered.
“He said he was hungry and could I spare him a bite of food? Since I'd no kitchen staff available, I opened the door and let him come inside.”
“That was a mistake, Miz Kerrigan,” Martin said.
Kate smiled.
“Miles, over the years I've let many men into this house. Geronimo once sat where you're sitting. We had tea and cake and he wanted to talk about old Queen Vic.”
The lawman stirred uncomfortably in his chair and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected to see the old Apache's ghost glowering at him from a corner.
“Well, I led the way to the kitchen and the man followed me. He said his name was Tom and that he was looking for ranch work. He had the most singular eyes, rather mean and foxy, like those I used to see in some Texas gunmen back in the old days. I must admit, I did not trust him.”
“You did right,” Martin said. “Not trusting him, I mean.”
“Thank you, Miles. I'm sure your approval will stand me in good stead should you consider hanging me.”
“Miz Kerrigan! I have no intention . . . I mean . . . I wouldn't . . .”
Kate gave the flustered lawman a dazzling smile.
“There, there, Miles, don't distress yourself. I'm certain the facts of the case will speak for themselves and banish all doubt from your mind.”
“Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Please proceed.”
Martin was fifty years old and Kate Kerrigan could still make him blush.
“I fixed the man some beef sandwiches, and indeed, he was as wolf hungry as he professed,” Kate said. “It was after he'd eaten heartily that things took a dangerous turn.”
“Was the sugar scattered all over the kitchen floor part of it?” Martin said.
“Indeed it was. A small sugar sack had been left on the counter by a careless maid and Tom, if that was really his name—”
“It wasn't,” Martin said.
Kate looked at him in surprise.
“Please go on, Miz Kerrigan,” the lawman said.
“Well, the man jumped up, grabbed the sugar sack and threw the contents over the floor. He shoved the empty sack at me and said, ‘You, fill this. The jewels you're wearing first.'”
“‘Mister,'” I said, “‘I've been threatened by more dangerous bad men than you.'”
Martin reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a revolver.
“Then he drew this on you.”
Kate glanced at the gun.
“Yes, that's it, a Hopkins and Allen in thirty-two caliber. He said to fill the sack or he'd scatter my brains.”
“Oh, Miz Kerrigan, you must have been terrified,” Martin said.
Kate shook her head.
“Miles, you've known me how long? Thirty years? You should remember by now I don't scare easily.” She frowned. “And for God's sake, call me Kate. You never called me anything else until I got this big house and eight hundred thousand acres of range to go with it.”
Now it was the lawman's turn to smile.
“Kate it is, and you're right, you never did scare worth a damn, beggin' your pardon.”
“I also used to cuss, Miles, before I became a lady.”
“You were always a lady, Kate. Even when all you had to your name was a cabin and a milk cow and a passel of young 'uns.”
Kate nodded.
“Hard times in Texas back in those days after the war.”
“We'll wind it up,” Martin said. “It's growing late and I'm only going through the motions anyhow.”
“The fact remains that I killed a man tonight, Miles. It's your duty to hear me out.”
Kate rose, poured more brandy from the decanter into the lawman's glass and then her own.
She sat by the fire again and said, “When the man pointed the gun at me, I took off my necklace and bracelets and dropped them in the sack. He wanted my wedding ring, but I refused. When he looked at it and saw it was but a cheap silver band, he demanded the expensive stuff.
“I told him I kept my jewelry in my bedroom and he told me to take him there. He also made an extremely crude suggestion and vowed he'd have his way with me.”
“The damned rogue,” Martin said, his mustache bristling.
“In my day I've heard worse than that, but right then I knew I was in real danger.”
Kate's elegant fingers strayed to the simple cross that now hung around her neck.
“There's not much left to tell, Miles. I played the petrified, hysterical matron to perfection and when we went upstairs I told the robber that my jewels were in my dresser drawer.”
Kate smiled.
“How often men are undone by their lusts. The wretch was so intent on unbuttoning the back of my dress that he didn't see me reach into the dresser drawer and produce—not diamonds—but my old Colt forty-four.”
“Bravo!” Martin said, lifting his booted feet off the rug and clicking his heels.
“I wrenched away from him, leveled my revolver and ordered him to drop his gun. His face twisted into a most demonic mask and he cursed and raised his gun.”
“The murderous rogue!” Martin said.
“I fired,” Kate said. “John Wesley Hardin once told me to belly shoot a man and I'd drop him in his tracks. I followed Wes's advice—the only bit of good advice he ever gave me or mine—and hit the bandit where a respectable man's watch fob would have been.”
“But he got off a shot,” Martin said. He reached into his pocket again and held up the spent .32. “Dug it out of your bedroom wall.”
“Yes, he got off a shot but he was already a dead man. He dropped to the floor, groaned for a few moments and then all the life in him left.”
“Kate, you've been through a terrible ordeal,” Martin said.
“I've been through it before, Miles. The man who came here was intent on raping and robbing me. I fight to keep what is mine, whether it's a diamond ring or a single head of cattle. I've hanged rustlers and other men who would threaten
Ciarogan
and as God as my witness I'll do it again if I have to.”
Sheriff Martin's eyes revealed that he believed every word Kate had just said.
He'd known some tough, fighting ranchers, but none even came close to Kate Kerrigan's grit and determination.
She'd built an empire, then held it against all comers, an amazon in petticoats.
Martin built a cigarette and without looking up from the makings, he spoke.
“His name was Frank Ross. He'd served five years of a life sentence in Huntsville for murder and rape when he killed a guard and escaped. He later murdered a farmer and his wife near Leesville and stole three dollars and a horse.”
Martin lit his cigarette.
“Then he came here.”
“Miles, why didn't you tell me all this before?” Kate said.
“After what you've gone through, I didn't want to alarm you.”
Martin read the question on the woman's face and shrank from the green fire in her eyes. She had an Irish temper, did Kate Kerrigan, and the sheriff wanted no part of it.
“I got a wire a couple of days ago from the Leesburg marshal and he warned that Ross could come this way,” he said. “I never thought it could happen the way it did.”
“It did happen,” Kate said.
“Yes, Kate, I know, and I'm sorry.”
Martin rose to his feet.
“I'll be going now. One of my deputies took the body away. You should know that. I'll see myself out.”
The big lawman stepped to the door, his spurs chiming.
He stopped and said, “My respects to your fine family.”
“And mine to Mrs. Martin.”
Martin nodded.
“I'll be sure to tell her that.”
 
 
Kate Kerrigan had defended herself and her honor, just another battle to stand alongside all the others that had gone before.
But the killing of Frank Ross hung heavy on her, and she felt the need for closeness, to hold something her husband, dead so many years, had touched.
All she had was the ring on her finger . . . and the letter that had begun it all.
Kate walked to her office, unlocked the writing bureau, and took the worn, yellowed scrap of paper from a drawer.
She returned to the parlor, poured herself brandy, and sat again by the ashy fire.
After a while, she opened the letter and read it again for perhaps the thousandth time . . . the letter that had founded a dynasty.
BOOK: Bad Men Die
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