LOOK FOR THESE EXCITING WESTERN SERIES

  FROM BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE

  The Mountain Man

  Luke Jensen: Bounty Hunter

  Brannigan’s Land

  The Jensen Brand

  Smoke Jensen: The Early Years

  Preacher and MacCallister

  Fort Misery

  The Fighting O’Neils

  Perley Gates

  MacCoole and Boone

  Guns of the Vigilantes

  Shotgun Johnny

  The Chuckwagon Trail

  The Jackals

  The Slash and Pecos Westerns

  The Texas Moonshiners

  Stoneface Finnegan Westerns

  Ben Savage: Saloon Ranger

  The Buck Trammel Westerns

  The Death and Texas Westerns

  The Hunter Buchanon Westerns

  Will Tanner: U.S. Deputy Marshal

  Old Cowboys Never Die

  Go West, Young Man

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Copyright © 2026 by J.A. Johnstone

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  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.

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  PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: March 2026

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-5217-2

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-5219-6 (eBook)

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  CONTENTS

  Look for these Exciting Western Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  CHAPTER 1

  Preacher looped his thumb over the hammer of his rifle and said, “I got a hunch we’re walkin’ into a trap, boys. I know that’s what we figured on, but just to make sure, how do you feel about turnin’ around and goin’ the other way?”

  “Umm,” the tall, broad-shouldered Indian standing nearby replied.

  “You’re absolutely correct, Nighthawk,” said the diminutive figure standing between the buckskin-clad frontiersman and the towering Crow warrior. “That would indeed feel as if we were running away, and doing so has always stuck in my craw, shall we say? In the Scriptures, the Book of Lamentations advises us not to flee from trouble but to face it head-on. It’s widely believed that the Prophet Jeremiah was the author of Lamentations, and he certainly was one to face his troubles and not run from them. You make a very good point, my friend.”

  “So what you and Nighthawk are sayin’, Audie, is we should go ahead,” Preacher drawled with a faint smile on his rugged, beard-stubbled face.

  “Indubitably.”

  The man called Audie stood only a little taller than Preacher’s waist. He didn’t even come that high on Nighthawk. Despite his small stature, he was wiry and muscular and a fierce fighter when he needed to be.

  Generally, though, Audie preferred to outthink trouble if he could. He had spent years as a professor of natural history and philosophy at an Eastern university before turning his back on the academic life to head west and become a mountain man. He had fit in surprisingly well in the untamed mountains, especially after he’d met Nighthawk and the two of them had become inseparable friends.

  During their travels, the two of them had encountered Preacher, who was already becoming a legend west of the Mississippi despite being a relatively young man.

  Over the years since then, they had shared many adventures—and much danger and hardship. Preacher had no better friends than these two.

  So when he’d heard talk that they were headed for Dutch Charley’s, an isolated trading post in the Bitterroot Mountains northwest of the Yellowstone country, he had pointed his stallion’s nose in that direction, too, figuring he would find them there and trail along with them for a while.

  As it turned out, he’d run into Audie and Nighthawk before any of them ever reached the trading post. Dutch Charley’s was still a couple of days away on the other side of Wailing Woman Pass. The three of them would make the rest of the journey together.

  The problem was, Audie and Nighthawk had trouble dogging their trail.

  “We ran into a bunch of ne’er-do-wells three days ago,” Audie had explained to Preacher as they sat next to the faintly glowing remains of a campfire their first night together. “They did everything correctly. They hailed the camp before they came in. They spoke respectfully and politely and shared some of their provisions.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk had chimed in.

  “But as my esteemed friend points out, one could almost smell the villainy on them. We both saw how they eyed not only the pelts we’ve taken but also our supplies and our pack horses. Their avariciousness was as plain as the proverbial nose on your face.”

  “Did they have any pack animals with ’em?” Preacher had asked.

  “No. The only supplies they had were what they carried on their saddle mounts.”

  “Umm.”

  Audie had laughed. “Indeed. They had lean and hungry looks, as the Bard had Julius Caesar say of Cassius, only their expressions were born of actual deprivation rather than naked political ambition. I’m not sure which is more dangerous, the hunger for power or the hunger for food!”

  “They didn’t try nothin’ that night, though?” Preacher wanted to know.

  Audie shook his head and said, “No, perhaps because they realized that the presence of strangers had put us on the alert and they would have preferred to take us by surprise. But ever since, our instincts have told us that we were being followed. I trust my own instincts quite a bit, but Nighthawk’s are infallible. Those men are out there, all right, just waiting for a good chance to kill us and steal all our belongings.”

  Preacher had taken a sip of strong black coffee from the tin cup in his hand.

  “I don’t doubt it a bit,” he said. “How many varmints are there?”

  “Six that we saw. I suppose it’s possible others could have stayed back out of sight and not come into camp.”

  Preacher mulled that over for a moment and then shook his head. “More than likely not. They only had three-to-one odds. I can see why they’d be a mite leery of tanglin’ with you two.”

  Audie laughed and said, “Surely, they wouldn’t have counted me as a full opponent. But of course, Nighthawk is approximately the size of two men, so that would balance things out, would it not?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short—so to speak.”

  That brought another laugh from Audie.

  “Folks out here in the high country know who you and Nighthawk are,” Preacher went on. “Chances are, those fellas have heard tell of you and don’t want to risk a fight o
ut in the open. They’d rather find someplace they can ambush you. That’d tilt the odds a mite more in their favor.”

  “That does sound like a reasonable scenario,” Audie agreed. “Do you have any thoughts on where such a suitable ambush site could be found?”

  “We got to go through Wailin’ Woman Pass to make it to Dutch Charley’s,” Preacher had said. “Either that or go the long way around, and that’d add fifty miles to the trip. Did you happen to mention that’s where you fellas are headed?”

  “No,” said Audie, “but they could see for themselves that we have a load of pelts. Charley’s is the closest place we can dispose of them, so it being our destination is a logical assumption to make.”

  “Knowin’ that, they could ride around you and push hard to make it to the pass first. Then they could lay in wait there like the skulkin’ varmints you took ’em to be.”

  “I can certainly see that happening,” Audie said, nodding. “We’ll just have to be ready for them.”

  So, for the past day and a half, the three friends had traveled with all their senses alert but had seen no sign of potential trouble. Now they had reached Wailing Woman Pass, so called because when the wind blew at just the right speed through its narrow confines, it created a moaning sound like a woman consumed with grief.

  On the other side, the trail led down into a beautiful landscape of rugged mountains, lush meadows, towering evergreens, and fast-flowing streams. The trading post was located on one of those streams and they would reach it by nightfall—but only if they survived the trip through the pass.

  Almost sheer stone walls rose seventy or eighty feet on either side of the opening through a saw-toothed ridge that ran for many miles roughly north and south. The pass was no more than twenty yards wide.

  What made it intimidating was that instead of cutting straight through the barrier, as most passes did, it zigged and zagged so that travelers had to cover almost a mile in length to traverse a ridge half a mile wide. A man couldn’t ride more than a hundred yards without having to go around a sharp bend, followed by another and another.

  Preacher, Audie, and Nighthawk had dismounted to study the pass as much as they could before they started through it. After the brief conversation about the possibility of riding into a trap, the men swung up into their saddles again, Nighthawk giving Audie a hand as he usually did.

  Preacher nudged the heels of his high-topped boots into Horse’s sides and sent the rangy gray stallion walking forward. He called, “Dog, stay with me.”

  The big, shaggy cur, who looked as much like a wolf as he did a dog, had started to bound ahead of the riders. He stopped at Preacher’s call, looked back over his shoulder, and whined softly. He was used to ranging far out in front of the mountain man, searching for trouble as well as rabbits or any other small critters he might scare up.

  Dog wanted to do that now, but he obeyed the mountain man’s command. He and Preacher and Horse had been trail partners for a long time. They made a formidable team, but Preacher was definitely the leader.

  “I don’t want you runnin’ into a bunch of no-count robbers,” Preacher said to Dog as he caught up to the big cur. “Chances are they wouldn’t shoot you ’cause they wouldn’t want to tip their hands, but we can’t count on that. Don’t worry: if there’s any fightin’ you’ll be able to get in on it.”

  Dog paced alongside the big stallion, clearly holding himself in and not liking it.

  Preacher led his own pack horse, then Audie came next, followed by Nighthawk who led the two pack horses he and his friend had brought with them. One of those animals was loaded with the beaver pelts they had taken, while the other carried their supplies.

  “Times sure have changed,” Preacher said without looking around, knowing his companions could hear him in the close confines of the pass. “I remember a day when you’d have both o’ them pack animals loaded down with plews and have to split up the provisions on your saddle mounts. I ain’t sayin’ the streams are all trapped out, but the beaver sure ain’t as plentiful as they once were.”

  “The demand is less, too,” Audie pointed out. “Gentlemen don’t wear beaver hats as much as they used to, nor do ladies sport fur mufflers and jackets. Given time, the beaver population will recover.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Umm,” Nighthawk said as he brought up the rear.

  “You’re right, the beaver will be as plentiful in the mountains as the buffalo are on the plains,” Audie replied to his friend’s comment. “Nothing could ever destroy all of them.”

  Preacher grunted. “I wouldn’t put nothin’ beyond the ability of civilization to destroy it.”

  “But civilization is progress.”

  “So they say,” Preacher responded, “but I ain’t convinced.”

  “In truth, neither am I. That doubt is a major reason I’m out here in the mountains instead of inside the ivy-covered halls of learning. I wanted to see this land in all its glory and majesty while I still had the chance.”

  The conversation was interesting, as it always was when talking to Audie and Nighthawk. They were a couple of mighty smart hombres.

  But the talking served another purpose, as well. Preacher wanted it to sound as if he and his companions were just ambling along through the pass, not paying any particular attention to their surroundings, so that the bushwhackers—if there were any waiting for them—would believe they were riding blindly into the trap.

  The reality was that Preacher’s keen eyes were moving constantly, searching the walls ahead of them on both sides for any telltale signs of lurking danger. His rifle was ready in his hands. He could cock it, raise it to his shoulder, and fire in less than a heartbeat.

  All he needed was a target.

  The rifle was a .54 caliber model 1841 Whitney Armory weapon with a percussion lock rather than a flintlock like the rifles Preacher had used for many years. It was more dependable, more resistant to the elements, and a beautiful piece of work with brass trim and gleaming wood.

  It fired only one shot, however. Preacher had become a mite spoiled by the Paterson Colt revolvers he had been carrying ever since a troop of Texas Rangers had presented them to him a couple of years earlier. He liked them so well he had bought a second pair that he kept stowed in his belongings.

  The Colts carried five rounds apiece. When a fella wound up fighting for his life as often as Preacher did, having ten shots at your disposal could make a heap of difference. It could mean life or death, in fact.

  He was still yammering on about the blight of civilization when he heard something from around the next bend. It was just a soft thump, but that was enough to tell him something had fallen from one wall.

  At the same time, a low growl sounded from deep in Dog’s throat and the hair on his neck ruffled up.

  “I heard it,” Preacher told the big cur. “Might be nothin’. Might be somebody gettin’ ready to start the ball. Only one way to find out.”

  He drew the rifle’s hammer back and held it one-handed as he guided Horse around the next turn. Spotting movement from the corner of his eye, he turned his head and lifted it.

  A short distance ahead, at the top of the left-hand wall, a man’s head and shoulders rose from behind a rock and a rifle barrel thrust out.

  Preacher had only an instant to react and a small target at which to aim. Even so, he didn’t hesitate.

  The rifle sprang to his shoulder and boomed as he squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 2

  The ambusher on the rimrock never got a chance to fire his own weapon. His head jerked back, and his hat flew off as the ball from Preacher’s rifle smashed through his brain. The rifle slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and fell to the floor of the pass as its former owner slumped forward over the rock he had used—unsuccessfully—for cover.

  Behind Preacher, another rifle boomed. Either Audie or Nighthawk had fired this shot; he didn’t look around to see which because he knew it didn’t matter.

  From the top of the stone wall to the right, a man screamed. Preacher saw the ambusher lurch upright and topple over the brink, turning over completely in midair before crashing lifelessly to the ground.

  A swift rataplan of hoofbeats sounded from around the next bend. Preacher rammed the empty rifle back in its saddle scabbard and put the stallion’s reins in his teeth. He reached down to his hips and drew both Paterson Colts as he leaned forward and prodded Horse into a run with his heels.