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SIX WAYS FROM SUNDAY
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter One
Them shots across the mountain valley kind of interested me. There was a crackle of shots, and then an answering boom from some heavier artillery. But that boom wasn’t on the breeze much, compared to all that crackle and snap.
Curiosity got the best of me. That’s my weakness. I turned Critter, my ornery nag, toward the ruckus, thinking I’d at least find out who’s shooting at what. Me, I’m a sucker for that stuff and I didn’t have much to do. Maybe I’d get to drill a few rounds myself.
But I sort of doubted it. I was thinkin’ it was another claim-jumping. This here valley had seen some pretty fancy claim-jumping last few months. That was all anyone talked about at Swamp Creek, the little mining town maybe fifty miles south of Butte that was the heart of this gold-mining district.
“Critter,” I says, “that’s a bunch of lead flying around, and it sounds like a dozen’s ganged up on one, from the way the noise is coming at me.”
Critter, he farted. He never did give me much credit for being smart.
I sort of wrestled with myself as I headed that direction. What was some cowboy doing getting into a mining war? But I hadn’t been practicing cowmanship for a while now, and thought maybe there might be a job ahead, forty dollars and found, so I proceeded. It was a right peaceful valley, full of sunlight and pine scent on the wind. These here were the Pioneer Mountains, and there were more little gold mines being sunk in the rock hereabouts than I could count. Swamp Creek, the town, sort of mushroomed into a canvas-and-rough-plank place overnight, and now all sorts of entertaining types were digging in there, mostly to mine the miners.
The valley was drained by Swamp Creek, which was named for a big old swamp about a mile above town. It was like that creek got constipated for a mile or two there, and spread out every which way. It was said there was no bottom to it, just black muck and more muck in there, and a person would sink in and keep on sinking until the muck closed over his head. It sure was the only swamp around. I steered Critter toward a rocky gray slope that had a lot of pine forest at its base, and more forest high up, where the jagged mountains stretched toward the blue. That poppin’ got louder, so I knew I was gettin’ close, but so far I couldn’t see nothing.
I was taking myself and my sturdy horse into someplace where lead was flying around, and I argued with myself some. My ma, she always told me to stay outta trouble, and my pa, he always told me to stay clear of women, but they’s both gone now, so I get into whatever I get into. I wish I’d paid them more heed, because even though I didn’t know it then, I was going to get into trouble and women both.
I rounded a bend that opened on a wide gulch feeding into that valley, and now at last I got me a little peek at what the ruckus was all about.
“Critter,” I says to the nag, “I do believe they’ve got a little claim-jumping party a-going full tilt.”
Up in the middle of that cliff was a mine head. All I could see was the mouth of a shaft driven into the side of that big old mountain, a black hole staring down upon me. And blocking that hole was an overturned one-ton ore car, rusty yeller, and a few chunks of metal I couldn’t rightly name ’cause when it comes to hauling rock outa the ground, I’m dumb as a stump.
But I hauled up to study the matter, stayin’ well out of range of any hot lead. It was plain enough, even to a dumb-ass cowboy. Up yonder were half a dozen hardcases banging away at someone holed up at the mine. That old boy in the mine, he had him a Sharps, with a big throaty boom, while the rest were using lighter artillery, and no one was gittin’ anywhere.
Like that feller at the mine was outnumbered but dug in.
It didn’t look like any fair fight either, ’cause I seen some hardcases working around to either side, like they’re planning to rush the old boy in the mine, coming at him from the flanks where he won’t see much until it’s too late.
I got the itchy feeling they were gettin’ set to shoot that old miner plumb dead, probably for reasons I didn’t want to think about, such as ownership. It must be some mine, I thought, to stir up a kettle full of pain like that.
“Well, Critter, you and me are going to buy into this here fracas,” I said. Critter, he rolled an ear back and shook his muzzle in disgust. He was telling me I’m plumb nuts, and I never would argue the case, ’cause he and
