John Lee Johnson Will Hurt You Bad—Real Bad: Hondo Goodrich's Last Ride

By Sheron Dickerson and Conn Hamlett

It is 1865 and former Brigadier General Frank McGrew has not forgotten the loss of his brother at Fort Pillow and the everlasting thorn in his side, ex-Confederate John Lee Johnson. Unfortunately while recklessly acting on his hatred for Johnson and exacting revenge for his brothers death, McGrew has lost his rank and prestige in the military. Still, he remains determined to bag the big Texan, no matter what it takes or costs him personally.

McGrew ultimately hires a group of disciplined gunmen and its infamous leader, Sabbath Sam, to help him carry out his mission. Sam, known as the fastest gun east of the Mississippi, has his own reasons for hunting Johnson. As Sam pursues Johnson with a rabid hatred, he and his pack of twenty-one hired killers ride toward Texas. While McGrew anxiously awaits the news whether Johnson is finally eliminated or if he has managed to escape death once again, two of the most deadly gunmen in the West finally meet in a showdown deep in the Nations where fate is left to determine the outcome.

In this western thriller, an ex-military general continues his vengeful mission to eliminate his greatest enemy, with help from a notorious gunman and his gang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781458220769

Sheron Dickerson

Conn Hamlett earned a bachelor of arts degree from Lipscomb University and his masters degree from Vanderbilts Peabody College. His diverse career has included roles as a Latin teacher, professional wrestler, competitive bodybuilder, radio personality, and radio sports host. When Conn is not traveling the world, he lives in Joelton, Tennessee.

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Copyright © 2017 Conn Hamlett.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Book cover illustration by Sheron Dickerson, the Rembrandt of Joelton, Tennessee.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-2075-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2074-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2076-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016921392

Abbott Press rev. date: 01/11/2017

This book is dedicated to Sherry Ray, Teresa Swift, Denise Troutt, and Julie West. They were angels in my life at a time when I needed angels.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

F aro Frank Talbert rode wearily into Baileysboro, Texas, in late March of 1865. It was six in the late afternoon, and the sun was heading toward the horizon. The brightened but horizontal orange rays slithering through the spaces between buildings and illuminating corners portrayed the sullen face of Faro Frank: sterile, yellowish eyes and a heavy whisker stubble that gave evidence of a long, hard ride. A wide-brimmed hat with a deacon’s crown shadowed some of his features, but what could be seen was hawkish and predatory. Faro Frank was a stranger in town, and he considered himself a very dangerous man. He wore a dust-covered frock coat with a distinctive and expansive red bandana around his neck. But the most ominous thing was the jutting butt of his Army .44.

He pulled up to the hitch rack in front of Big Willard’s Saloon and sat mulling the task at hand. He was tall and slender but not skinny. His carriage was military, but he was supple in his practiced movements. The citizens of the town moving around did not pay any particular notice of him, but if they had, they would not have mistaken him for a wandering waddy looking for work. He did appear, whether they noticed or not, like a gambler or a gunfighter. He was both. He had been paid one thousand dollars in advance to kill John Lee Johnson. He would be paid another thousand dollars when the job was done. He had killed eight men in Kansas and Nebraska in so-called fair fights. His method was to humiliate his victims verbally until they reached the breaking point. They inevitably would draw, and he would kill them, walking away draped by the mantle of self-defense. A man representing Pugh Larrimore, the chieftain of the Comancheros, had approached him a month and a half earlier, and they had made a deal. That agreement was to kill John Lee Johnson. Faro Frank, a very confident man, had no idea who John Lee Johnson was, but in his mind Johnson was already a dead man.

He remained in the saddle soaking in the ambience of the west Texas town. Although all the towns were similar, each one had its own spirit. This one seemed especially docile. Over the twitching ears of his sorrel, he watched an inebriated cowhand stagger out the doorway and make his drunken way down the boardwalk, going in the opposite direction. The tinkling sounds coming from the rinky-dink piano bounced the skeletal notes of Oh! Susanna over the batwings.

He inhaled tiredly and slowly dismounted. His spur sang some when his right boot hit the sandy soil. He tied his mount and looked once more up and down the street and stepped dramatically up on the boardwalk. He decided to get the dance on. He would call out John Lee Johnson, kill him, ride away, and get back to Kansas where he belonged. He smiled when he heard laughter and the slap of cards. He imagined that would all change when he brought his foreboding presence into the midst of the impressionable cowhands. Always in the past whenever he had entered a room, he had been met by curious eyes and nervous looks. He enjoyed the heavy drama. He delighted in causing people to be unsettled and nervous. He imagined he was like a slithering serpent amidst a warren of rabbits.

He eased the right batwing open and took in the size of the joint. His eyes took in a rather large room filled with numerous cowhands seated here and there playing cards and drinking from heavy beer schooners. The long bar extended almost the length of the room. The two bartenders made his eyes move up some from the shadows of his dipped hat brim. They both were enormous men with imposing physiques. He gathered quickly that there would be few disturbances in this establishment. One of the two wore a derby hat cocked to one side of his head. He was reading a newspaper probably several days old. He appeared as though he were the owner. Faro Frank had no way of knowing that it was Big Willard, a former pugilist from Fort Smith, Arkansas. He was indeed the owner and wanted a happy place free from senseless violence. The other man, equally large, Monk Danielson, was his bartender and his right-hand man. He looked like a gorilla. He had simian features, but his expression was jolly.

Faro Frank entered fully and stood still for a moment so that his entrance would be noted. He was disappointed that no one seemed to take particular notice of him. One cowhand raised his vision from his cards, saw him, and tossed a finger up in greeting, but not waiting for a reply he dipped his head quickly back to his cards as though he had seen nothing of consequence. Faro Frank pushed back his dusty frock coat, exposing the ivory-gripped Army .44 lightly ensconced in a black holster decorated with argent conchas. Not drawing any discernible interest in this action, he began walking toward the bar with jouncing spur noise. He looked to the left and right, but it was if he were invisible.

He arrived at the bar and turned his back to it to survey the room once more. Again he was piqued by the lack of regard he drew. He turned toward the bar and settled his elbows on the zinc surface, awaiting the large bartender with the big smile plastered on his face. Monk ambled toward him and asked what he could do for him. Faro Frank dropped a gold dollar on the counter that made a rattling metallic noise. Give me a whiskey with a beer chaser.

Monk scooped up the dollar and placed his change carefully in front of him. Then he departed to draft his beer and fill a shot glass. Faro pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and struck a match on his boot sole. He lighted up, flicked the match, and turned his focus to the shot glass now before him filled with amber liquid. He downed it in one gulp and reached for his beer schooner.

Again he considered how this town and saloon were different than others he had been in. For some reason, he surmised, these folks hardly noticed his presence. In fact, his baleful look decidedly had been a waste of time. His eyebrows arched over his eyes as he weighed this over while sipping his beer. He dismissed that from his mind as he turned once from the bar and settled his back against it.

He did not see anyone that remotely fit the description of the quarry he was after. He had been informed that he was the owner of a large ranch but could be found occasionally in the saloon. He definitely did not want to go the ranch. That would be a disadvantage to him. Ranch hands might be bad shots, but there would be more than one, and that did not fit his gambler’s odds. He figured he would have to entice John Lee Johnson into town one way or another. He stood tall and absentmindedly dusted his coat off and puffed his cigar. He looked down the bar at the two big men, who now were talking to an angular cowhand who had just purchased a beer.

Faro Frank cleared his throat, and hearing it, Monk turned his head and made his way dutifully toward him. Faro, with his cigar severely clenched in his teeth, looked the fearsome bartender in the eyes and asked, Do you know a man named John Lee Johnson?

Monk innocuously nodded since the man’s voice was neutral. Hell, yes, I know John Lee. He’s got big ranch just four hours’ ride from here. Monk, not getting any response from Faro, carried the conversation further. You got business with John Lee, do you?

Faro removed his cigar from his mouth and nonchalantly spit a tobacco fleck to the side. He said, Yes, I have a message for him. He gave Monk a steely look and inhaled to make his statement even more momentous. I think he is a cowardly rebel who deserves shootin’.

Monk’s smile evaporated fast. His deep-set eyes took on anger and surprise. Mister, I don’t you from Adam. He paused, and his expression morphed into a puzzled look of horror. But if I was you, I would head to that door and get on your hoss and ride back to where you come from real fast.

Faro let a creepy smile move across his face as he flannelly retorted, But you see, bartender, I have no intention of getting on my horse and riding anywhere. I intend to shoot the bastard.

Monk nodded slowly as he sized up Faro Frank. He turned his head a few degrees and said loud enough for Big Willard to hear him, Boss, you need to come down here.

Since it was out of character for Monk to make those types of importuning requests, Big Willard courteously nodded at Stony Adams, folded his paper, pushed his derby hat up some with his index finger, and made his way to Monk and the guy who appeared to be a gunman. What can I do you for you, Monk?

Monk nodded toward Faro Frank and replied, This gent is calling out John. Monk’s tone sounded like a cross between surprise and condolence.

Big Willard’s head swiveled pronto toward Faro Frank as his eyes narrowed. Have you gone loco, Mister?

Again the course of conversation was disturbing to Faro Frank. He had not expected this response. He shook it off and stated, I intend on killin’ him, if he is not a coward like I have heard people say.

Monk sighed and said, Mister, you been listening to the wrong crowd. He started to say more, but Big Willard held up his hand as though he had heard enough.

Big Willard looked over the bar and down at Faro Frank’s boots; then his eyes moved up his body until he got to his hat. He then turned his head toward Stony Adams, the lanky cowhand who worked for John. Stony had his back to the bar where he and Big Willard had been talking earlier. Hey, Stony, go get the undertaker and bring him here, would you? When Stony looked confused, Big Willard indicated the gunman with his index finger and said, This bird just called out John.

Stony nodded abstractedly and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. He quickly perused the stranger and placed his beer on the counter and left without any further questions.

Faro Frank let a ghoulish grin move across his hawkish features. I ain’t killed him yet.

Big Willard snorted contemptuously, and Monk suppressed a tight, mirthless smile. Big Willard leaned in toward the gunman and countered, We ain’t gettin’ him for John. He rapidly wiped his face two times as though searching for words. We’re gettin’ him for you.

Faro Frank’s eyes narrowed. He started to say something but held back since Big Willard’s statement had flummoxed him. He felt awkward, and the course of the conversation was unwieldy. He frowned, and his eyebrows slanted over his angry but confused eyes.

Big Willard looked over at Monk and said, Get the cards out, and high card gets the first choice. Monk nodded dutifully and pulled a deck of cards from a tray behind him. He began shuffling. Monk set the cards on the bar and tapped them with his index finger. Big Willard cut and slapped the deck together. He gave a nod to Monk to draw a card. Monk drew the queen of diamonds, to the chagrin of Big Willard, who drew the eight of spades. Damn, he exasperatedly said.

Monk looked over the counter and down at Faro Frank’s boots. His boots look like he has been in the horse lot a lot. He sighed and let his vision pan up Faro Frank’s body. I want his gun belt and pistol.

Big Willard nodded approvingly at the good choice his bartender had made, and he looked over the bar and down at Faro Frank’s pants. I don’t think either of us want his pants and drawers. He then knowingly nodded his head. I want what money he has on him.

Monk nodded in admiration of his boss’s good choice. I didn’t think of that.

Big Willard sighed dramatically and said, I don’t think either of us want his hat.

Monk dolefully sighed and said, It looks like the type of hat a man would wear who likes other men.

Faro, getting angrier by the minute, grated out, Now, just wait a minute!

Big Willard put up both hands to shush him. Listen, you turd, if John comes through that door, you’re a dead man—pure and simple. Besides that, you ain’t gonna have any use for clothes or guns or hats or money where you’re going. He sighed deeply and looked at the batwings, expecting the undertaker at any moment. His eyes then settled on his fancy window with his name written on it in curlicue letters. That window view struck a disturbing chord in his mind. He added, When he gets here, stand away from my window.

Monk leaned toward Faro Frank to get his attention. Stranger, you have no idea of how expensive that window is.

Faro Frank, not sure whether Monk was seriously naïve or sarcastically condescending, angrily whipped his head back and forth from bartender to bartender. This perception that he was not being taken seriously was working on his self-esteem like an acid. Remembering that Big Willard had called him a turd seemed the avenue to regain his leverage in the conversation. He grasped his gun belt threateningly and grated out, Don’t call me a turd again. He exasperatedly flung his hand towards the window. I don’t give a damn about your window—or for any of you, for that matter.

The sudden absence of noise seemed to disturb his equilibrium. He quickly jerked his head erratically in quick stops and starts to ascertain where he had lost his edge. There was no rinky-dink piano music, no slap of cards or desultory laughter. His audience had grown considerably. All the cowhands had turned in their chairs and were looking at him with a certain curiosity, similar that of a bumpkin looking at a two-headed goat.

Big Willard and Monk took on grim looks. Big Willard thoughtfully nodded and said, It don’t matter if I call you ‘turd’ or the queen of England. He paused and completed his thought. You’re still a dead man.

Faro Frank stood back from the bar and gave them a vicious snarl. I ain’t dead yet, but I’m not sure about you two.

When he said that, Big Willard pulled up a .10 gauge Greener whose barrel openings seemed like twin black caves to Faro Frank. When his eyes moved to Monk, it seemed as though a large, thick nightstick had magically appeared in his hands. Big Willard resignedly removed his cigar and exhaled tiredly. Like I said … when John gets here, stand against that back wall. It don’t take a lot of work to dig pistol balls out of the wood.

Before Frank could respond, the angular cowboy who had left earlier returned with a wizened older man wearing a dark suit. They ambled through the batwings as though they were getting ready to go to a long Sunday sermon.

Doctor Baker, who also served as the town undertaker, looked over at Faro Frank and then to Big Willard to get confirmation. Is he the gent who wants to commit suicide?

Yep. He’s the one.

Again Faro Frank incredulously looked around the room. He hoped to find a vestige of fright or respect for him, but again he found no one who had even the remotest look of fear of him. The dead silence and the disrespect caused him to swallow and struggle to maintain his confidence. He was swimming in an element he was not used to. All the cowhands who had put aside their cards looked at him as though he were pitiful. Some were mockingly smiling as though he had an invisible sign on his back that said, fool. These looks were far from the intimidated looks he had imagined earlier.

Doctor Baker pulled out a small notebook and a thick-leaded pencil and began making notes and looking at Faro Frank intently. He’s six feet two inches and weighs about … He paused and looked a second time at Faro Frank’s frame. 160 pounds. Doc Baker leaned in and asked in a kindly voice, the type voice you would use for a child, You got a name for us to put on the tombstone, sonny?

Stony Adams curtly broke in before the glowering Faro Frank could respond. He looked at both Monk and Big Willard and blurted out, Who is this turd?

Again ignoring the red face of Faro Frank, who was angrily biting at the bits to respond, Monk said, He just walked in here Billy Goats Gruff and called out John.

Stony’s eyes widened. His face took on a disbelieving, thunderstruck expression. Taking that face, he turned to the gunslinger with his full attention. He looked him up and down with a mien of disgust, much like a man might give to another man upon seeing his dirty drawers. He allowed his compressed lips to broaden to a crooked grin. He shook his head trying to make sense of this daft hombre’s poor judgment. Finally composed by a deep breath, he straightened and said, Looky here, Mister, I ain’t got no idea where you come from, but whoever paid you played a real bad trick on you. He paused and took a deep breath and continued, You see, a man with good sense don’t call out John. You run from him—not only that, you run real fast. He ain’t like anyone you ever met before. He took a deep breath, and his expression took on a sympathetic look. You don’t want no part of him. Stony could see that he had Faro Frank’s full attention, and he added with a genuine chuff that the gunman could not ignore, You see, Mister, John Lee Johnson will hurt you bad. The pause was made more dramatic when he added, Real bad.

The anger in Faro Frank’s face dissipated. The crowd could see a palpable change in his expression. It went from being that of a confident predator to that of a wary prey. However, to save face, he gave the undertaker and Stony a dour look and turned his gaze in a semicircle as he panned the room. He felt as though he was in some surrealistic dream, but it was all too true. He adjusted his gun belt anxiously and nodded agitatedly. I’ll be back.

He nervously looked back and forth at the seated cowhands as he walked backward. He suddenly felt his confidence collapse as he looked at the scoffing faces. He warily continued to step toward the batwings. Upon reaching his destination, he then turned and quickly bolted through the batwings and saddled up with alacrity. Faro Frank galloped out of town with loud guffaws bellowing over and out of the batwings. These raucous outbursts served as a backdrop as his horse pounded down the sandy street. He finally escaped the humiliating laughter as he rode beyond the last building of the town. He spurred his tired horse onward until he was swallowed up by the encroaching, murky purple shadows of the gloaming.

Faro Frank pulled up two miles out of town and composed himself. He had never run before, and it was eating at his vast self-confidence. But he had more than his self-image to contend with. He had backed out of a contract with Pugh Larrimore, and that was tantamount to a death sentence—that is, if he kept the money and ran. He decided then and there to return to where he knew the agent was and make some sort of hem-hawing response and hand over his fee. He wanted to forget the hell he had ever come to Baileysboro in the first place.

One hundred miles away in a small settlement called Hawkshaw, four sheriffs were huddled together in a small jail lobby. They represented four different but contiguous counties. They were commiserating over recent developments in Texas. Sheriff Henry Nelson, the tough, whipcord sheriff of Baileysboro, Texas, was holding court. Sitting in cane-bottom chairs facing him were Sheriffs George French and Roger McFadden and Hawkshaw’s sheriff, Dan Doby. Henry, thin and leathery, had three-day whisker stubble that shadowed his weary face. He and his deputies had ridden hard to meet with fellow law officers because the Texas state government had collapsed, leaving a large vacuum in law enforcement. He usually remained calm during crises, but recent developments had left him confused and angry, but no more so than the three sheriffs who were listening to him.

The deputies of the four counties were holding their own meeting in the saloon. Usually they would have had a jocular drinking and good-time attitude, but not so much this time. The situation in Texas was grave, and they were as concerned as the county sheriffs they served. They drank their beers and talked quietly, trying to settle their apprehensions and fears for their own lives, and for west Texas in particular.

Sheriff Nelson pushed up his sweat-stained hat brim and started talking. Boys, I have heard that Robert E. Lee is on the verge of hanging it up. If and when he goes under, the South don’t have a tinker’s chance of surviving, and those Yankees that have taken over Austin will be even more insufferable. Sheriff Nelson pointed his index finger in the air to make his point further. They ain’t paid the rangers in eight months! They have wrote them off as agents of the Confederacy and have all but terminated them. He thoughtfully placed a long-nine cigar in the corner of his mouth and took his time striking a match with his thumb. He lit his smoke and said through the exhaled blue cloud, The rangers have pretty much seen the handwriting on the wall. Some have become sheriffs here and there, and others have taken up bounty hunting to survive.

George French pushed his hat brim up with his index finger, indicating he wanted the floor. He was a short stern-looking man with expressive blue eyes. Bounty hunting? He said it like a question, but it was more an indictment. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. You mean like Royce Jay Peacock? Again his words were phrased as an interrogative, but it was more of a disdainful statement.

Sheriff Dan Doby, a rotund-shaped man with a ten-gallon hat that seemed ridiculous, turned in his chair close to his desk and rumbled through some yellowed reward posters. Finding what he wanted in the sizable stack, he handed an old poster to Sheriff French. His gruff voice hacksawed words in the small room. You ain’t ever got over that Hondo Goodrich kerfuffle, have you, George?

Sheriff McFadden, a solemn-looking man, turned his soulful eyes toward George French, who seemed ready to respond. Sheriff McFadden took the initiative and said, I ain’t sure what a kerfuffle is, but I sure in hell have heard of Hondo Goodrich. He looked around at the other three sheriffs and said, He’s dead, ain’t he … that is, Hondo Goodrich.

Sheriff McFadden could see the sour look on Sheriff French’s face. He patiently waited for the words he knew his old friend could not restrain.

George turned to them all and angrily sighed and stated, That is a sore spot for me. He rapidly shook his head side to side as though shaking the distaste he had for Royce Jay Peacock out of his mind. His eyes narrowed under the shadows of his upraised hat brim. I believe Hondo Goodrich escaped to Mexico. He could see that Sheriff McFadden looked surprised, but before the thoughtful lawman could respond, Sheriff French continued. Hondo Goodrich lived not too far from here close to that rock shelf called the Hondo Goodrich Rise. He let his eyes move above the sheriffs’ heads as his voice droned on as though he had practiced this speech many times in his solitude.

Hondo and his brother Tom were robbing stagecoaches and small banks south of here. They had a hombre named Slim Waller who rode with them. Hondo had a reward of one thousand dollars on his head, and his brother, five hundred dollars, and Slim was worth … He paused and made a zero with his thumb and index finger. He dropped his vision to the lawmen and levelly eyed them. "Anyway, to make a long story longer, Hondo was married, even had a small female child, and holed up in a small cabin about thirty miles south of that particular ridge.

The way I figure it, somehow Royce Jay and that little toady that runs with him tracked Hondo to his cabin, and they hid until nighttime. I imagine they waited until the lights went down, or partially down, and Royce Jay opened up on the doorway. He had a full moon to see by, and when Tom darted out the door illuminated by the moon—and probably some light behind him—he could see him clearly and shot him. I guess Slim heard the shots, and who was most likely sleeping in a lean-to probably ran around the cabin with his gun out, and Royce dropped him. Royce shot through the cabin and killed Hondo’s wife, accidentally or not. George’s voice register dropped a level. I believe Hondo Goodrich made his escape out the back door, taking his baby daughter, and headed to the border.

The portly Dan Doby leaned toward George and in a neutral voice so as not to offend his longtime friend said, Well, he brought the body of Hondo and his brother Tom, in to you, George.

Sheriff French snorted, and his face took on a pained look as he gathered his thoughts. Royce Jay brought in the bodies of Tom Goodrich and Slim Waller. He sighed. Oh, it was Tom all right, but he was passing off Slim as Hondo. Slim had been dressed in Hondo’s well-known garb … you know, buckskins. Royce was slick enough to shoot Slim in the face with a shotgun and make him unrecognizable. He sarcastically snorted again. I looked at the body and saw a hole in his chest, which indicates to me he was dead and later shot in the face in an effort to fool me—and more unimportantly, the two counties that had a bounty on Hondo. He solemnly nodded. I reckon he ransacked the cabin and got some of Hondo’s clothes to dress ole Slim up. At least he had the decency to bury Hondo’s wife.

Sheriff McFadden, stroking his chin in thought, broke in referring to the subterfuge. I don’t know why you let him get by with that, George. McFadden sighed and continued, Especially if you knew he was pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.

George sharply retorted, That damn miscreant that rides with him swore it was Hondo. The face of George relaxed some as he turned to each lawman. The counties paid him the bounties on the Goodrich brothers, but not before I made Royce Jay and that fat lickspittle that runs with him sign depositions that if Hondo was found alive, they would have to pay the bounty back and would be subject to a charge of fraud. That might make him look over his shoulder for Hondo for a few years.

George added, I went out to the cabin and saw what I think took place. One shotgun shell was located back from the house, and I think that little turd that rides with him carried it there, on purpose and by the orders of one Royce Jay Peacock. You would think that Royce Jay would know that silly trick wouldn’t fool a good lawman. But being caught up with himself, he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I think he was too busy plannin’ how he could pawn off Slim as Hondo. I think that when Royce Jay could not find Hondo, he blasted away Slim’s face—I saw pellets in the ground not far from the porch stoop, and they were shot pointing straight down. He nodded and said, You figure it out.

The lawmen chuckled at the sagacity of Sheriff French, but soon their attention turned to the serious matter at hand.

Sheriff Nelson took the wanted poster from the hand of Sheriff Doby and held it up as a visual aid. It had an ink drawing of Russell House and the words Wanted—Dead or Alive: $1,800.

Boys, this bird is causin’ some serious trouble. He has robbed three banks and is probably headed our way. But then again, who knows? We’ve got to figure a way to communicate and bring that bastard down. He paused and nodded his head toward the east and said, We shore in hell won’t get any help from those damned Yankees running Austin. They’re too busy huntin’ secessionists and Confederates.

George French leaned in and said, I think I’ve got an idea of how we can work this thing. We’re going to use couriers and work hand in hand. Together we can bring this to a successful conclusion. We just need our own pony express.

At the same time, in St. Louis, Missouri, another meeting was taking place. It was in the royal suite of the Missouri Palace hotel. The former brigadier general Frank McGrew sat holding court. Frank was an impressive-looking man … handsome, auburn hair, tall