The Mustangers Read online

  Titles by ANDREW J. FENADY

  The Mustangers

  The Christmas Trespassers

  Black Noon

  Range Wolf

  Destiny Made Them Brothers

  THE MUSTANGERS

  and A Bonus Story told by

  THE WISE OLD MAN OF THE WEST:

  Paths of Glory

  ANDREW J.

  FENADY

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prelude: Out of the Past

  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

  Epilogue

  THE WISE OLD MAN OF THE WEST: Paths of Glory

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 Andrew J. Fenady

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  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.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4503-7

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4504-4 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4504-3 (e-book)

  For

  BEN JOHNSON

  Champion Rodeo Cowboy

  Academy Award Actor

  Unflappable Friend

  All-Round “Nicer Feller”

  DUKE FENADY

  With a Beholden

  Tip of the Stetson

  And, of course

  MARY FRANCES

  Prelude: Out of the Past

  The land changes. Sometimes it takes years. It takes centuries. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of centuries, during the journey of ages immemorial. At other times, the land shudders, cracks, and abrupt peaks protrude to pierce the skin of soil and steeple over the still-restless earth. And with the infinite turning of the earth, vast oceans waste and dry into sand and desert.

  The sea, sporadically dotted with islands, at times is calm, a liquid horizon. But the sea at other times is fierce, with scolding winds, upturned trees, and stark destruction, leaving naked islands sinking to a watery tomb of an exhausted deep.

  But the sky is eternal. Ever changing, yet ever the same. Sun and clouds and mist. Even through thunder, lightning, and rain. Then, after the curtain of night falls and rises, the sky is ever the same. Sun and clouds and mist.

  Where, a hundred years ago, in the mid-1870s, through the same western sky, only eagles flew, on this day a lone jet streaks between towering spires to fulfill a promise . . . a promise made when the West was old . . . but younger.

  Chapter One

  Flying over the rugged crests of the western countryside, the silver Gulfstream jet streamed through protruding peaks.

  Patrick Merrill walked out of the pilot’s cabin and closed the door, then paused. There were those who said he had a striking resemblance to the actor Tony Curtis. Merrill didn’t mind, didn’t mind at all. In fact, he agreed.

  He smiled and looked down at the leggy, blue-eyed, freckled, blond attendant sitting in a front chair, reading Life magazine. The small metal plate pinned to her tunic identified her as Trudy Ryan.

  Merrill pointed back to the pilot’s cabin.

  “Just checked the compass. You can relax, Tru; we’re right on course.”

  She glanced up, semi-smiled, and went back to Life.

  Unfazed. Patrick Merrill continued to smile. He smiled a lot, like he was kidding the whole world, including himself—but not his boss, Senator Jimmy Deegan.

  Senator Jimmy Deegan sat at a small desk making notes on a yellow legal pad, with a slim open briefcase on the desk. Near the briefcase, a framed photograph of a handsome redheaded woman and two young sons.

  In his midforties, Senator Deegan, shirtsleeved, with a rugged face, muscled build, and a few needles of gray at the temples, looked up at his approaching assistant.

  “Senator, the pilot says that we just crossed the state line. Your state, Senator. Be landing within the hour.”

  “Thanks, Patrick.”

  “Can I have the attendant get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” He nodded toward the photograph. “Mary Frances says I drink too much coffee.”

  “I know I do. I’ll pass, too.” Merrill turned and started to walk toward the attendant.

  “But I do have the time and inclination for an overdue Montecristo. Why don’t you sit down, Patrick?”

  “Don’t want to interrupt you, Senator.”

  “All done, m’boy, take a seat.” An unlit cigar rested in an unused ashtray. Senator Deegan lit the Montecristo, placed the legal pad into the briefcase, then lifted and looked at the photograph.

  “You know, Patrick, next month will be our tenth anniversary.”

  “Congratulations, Senator. Too bad she couldn’t come along.”

  “With two young ones and expecting a third, Dr. Davies prescribed no flying. We’re hoping for a girl this time. Even got a name picked out . . . Shannon. Mary Frances is Irish, you know.”

  “You’re a lucky man, sir. It isn’t easy to find a girl like her.”

  “You bet.”

  “Me, I’m waiting for a girl like that to find me . . . in the meanwhile . . .” Merrill looked up front toward the attendant.

  Senator Deegan chuckled, puffed on the Montecristo, put the photograph into the briefcase, and looked down out the window.

  “You were born around here, weren’t you, Senator?”

  “No, born in the East, but I used to spend the summers here on my father’s ranch, the Big Brawny. In those days it was on the rim of the Dust Bowl.”

  “Dust Bowl?”

  “Yep. And you, Patrick, where were you born?”

  “In the East,” he smiled. “The far East. New Jersey. Passaic. But seems I heard about the Dust Bowl . . . saw a movie about it once on television. Can’t remember the name . . .”

  “The Grapes of Wrath.”

  “Yeah. All that happened a long time ago, didn’t it?”

  “Well.” The senator shook his head and smiled. “It wasn’t all that long ago, at least it doesn’t seem
like it, during the thirties.”

  “Still, I guess that things have changed a lot since then.”

  “In a movie, John Wayne once said, ‘Things usually change for the better.’ I’d like to think he was right.”

  The senator looked out of the window again. The plane was flying lower now. He pointed below.

  Patrick Merrill leaned and looked down.

  A herd of horses galloping across the terrain. The speeding shadow of the jet approached . . . crossed . . . and passed by the herd running wild and free.

  “Horses.” Merrill smiled. “I guess there’ll always be horses.”

  “Those aren’t horses. Not just horses.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No. You city fellas can’t be blamed for not knowing the difference, but those are mustangs. And in a way that’s why I’m making this trip.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No reason why you should unless I tell you.” The senator looked at his wristwatch. “We’ve got some time yet. You want to hear?”

  “You bet. Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, light up one of your coffin spikes and I’ll bend your ear.”

  Patrick Merrill reached inside his suit coat jacket, pulled out a half-empty—or half-full—pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, lit one, and leaned back to listen.

  “It started when I met a cowboy named Ben Smith.”

  The senator thought a moment, then proceeded.

  “No, I guess it started before.” He took a draw from the Montecristo. “I’ll tell it like a story I might write about him someday when I’m through with politics—and vice versa.”

  * * *

  A rodeo arena in Globe, Arizona—band music—the stands overflowing with spectators—men, women, and children. Flags, balloons, streamers. Rodeo clowns performing in the arena, prelude to the next event.

  Beer flowed and was swallowed from the bottle, the can, and paper cup. There were hip flasks left over from Prohibition and the early thirties, when hard cash was rare in the cities, states, and country. But there was prize money to be won during the Depression of the midthirties.

  Ben Smith had ridden thousands of broncos at hundreds of rodeos. He was no stranger to Globe, where he broke some of Tom Horn’s records that people said would last hundreds of years.

  But this time it was different.

  There’s an old saying “There never was a horse that couldn’t be rode—there never was a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.”

  Ben Smith made his way toward the chutes.

  Three of the most interested spectators stood watching while he walked closer to one of the gates.

  Two friends. One, the opposite.

  The friends, Quirt Dawson and Stretch Monahan.

  Quirt, lanky, nearly six and a half feet tall, almost a couple of decades past his rodeoing days, with a broken beak that had been struck by fists and the ground. And even in these lean days, there were scattered few ranchers, racehorse owners, and speculators in this area who didn’t pay for Quirt Dawson’s appraisal before shelling out hard cash for horseflesh.

  Stretch Monahan, former jockey, and a good one, until he started spending prize money on booze, broads, and betting on the bangtails. He got the nickname years ago when he enlisted in the Fighting 69th during the War to End All Wars. The recruiting sergeant asked, “Weight?”

  “One hundred twenty . . . more or less.”

  “Height?”

  “Five foot two . . . when I stretch.”

  From then on, Danny became Stretch Monahan. Now, instead of riding racehorses, Stretch Monahan groomed and timed them.

  Spud Tatum, the third interested party, was a young cowboy contestant full of himself, and himself only. He could sit a bronc well enough, but the size of his Stetson kept swelling in order to keep up with his hubris.

  The announcer’s voice gusted through the speakers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen . . . and cowboys and cowgirls, the next rider is number thirteen, Ben Smith, riding that dreaded terror of the circuit, Basher.”

  Ben Smith was in the chute and saddled. Tall, lean, broad of shoulders, with a creased face, clear, narrow blue eyes, and a chiseled chin line, leaning forward on Basher.

  The announcer’s voice heightened dramatically.

  “You all know Ben is a three-time All-’Round Champion Cowboy . . . a living legend of the rodeo circuit.”

  “More like ‘ancient history,’” Spud snorted. “Ol’ bones was lucky to step up on that horse.”

  “And you, flannelmouth,” Stretch looked up at him, “are a horse’s ass.”

  “Yeah, button up, tinhorn.” Quirt looked down at him. “You couldn’t carry Ben’s spurs.”

  Spud Tatum grinned.

  “We’ll just see who carries home the prize money.”

  The announcer was now at full steam on the public-address system.

  “Ben Smith in the saddle, now ready to ride on Basher!”

  Ben Smith nodded toward the gateman.

  “Outside!” Ben declared.

  The gate swung open—the animal leaped into the arena as the crowd roared. Hooves springing into the air, pounding, forward, scraping against the fence, snorting, sunfishing . . .

  . . . all in less than five seconds. Ben was thrown off.

  Ben’s head crashed hard, too hard, through the fence rail—spectators stood—some screamed—some turned away—then stunned silence.

  Rodeo clowns and other cowboys rushed to the aid of the unconscious man.

  There never was a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.

  Chapter Two

  In the first aid room, Ben was conscious, barely, and still disoriented, as they all come into focus.

  Dr. Blake Lewis, a big man with a gentle touch and a bedside smile, who had been through it all too many times, for better or worse.

  Deek Evans, the rodeo owner, friend and foster father to Ben since Ben won his first contest at his first ride at this same arena in the early postwar years.

  And, of course, Quirt Dawson and Stretch Monahan.

  Ben looked around and did his best to raise his bandaged head from the bed. It was not easy.

  Dr. Lewis placed his hand on his patient’s shoulder.

  “How you doing, Ben?”

  His patient managed a smile.

  “You tell me, Doc.”

  “You were sent for, but you didn’t go. You’re all together, but that fence isn’t.”

  “That hammerhead . . .” Ben coughed. “. . . lived up to his name.”

  “You gave him a ride, son,” Deek Evans said.

  “Yeah,” Ben replied. “A short one.”

  * * *

  Night at the Appaloosa Saloon, the bar was populated with men and women in western attire at the counter and at tables—drinking, playing cards, pinball machines—smoke crawled upward toward the tin ceiling to the tune of western music from the blinking jukebox near one of the circulating fans suspended from above. Some of the jukebox lyrics were audible, some were lost due to the cacophony of conversation, laughter, and alcoholic intake of the customers.

  At a table not far from the entrance, Ben, Deek Evans, Quirt Dawson, and Stretch Monahan were drinking beer. Ben’s head was still bandaged but it didn’t prevent him from wearing his Stetson.

  Irene Swinderski, one of the waitresses, strawberry blond, hazel-eyed, a wee mite thick, but fetching, dressed in jeans cut off above the knees, pink boots, and tight-fitting denim shirt, was weaving her way around tables and customers. Not coincidentally, the lyric refrain from the jukebox accompanied her tour . . . “Good night, Irene, good night . . .”

  “Hey, Irene,” one of the customers stood up from a table and shouted, “they’re playing our song!”

  “Not our song, bub, my song,” Irene Swinderski shot back, and kept on traveling toward her destination.

  “How’s the beer supply, boys?”

  Quirt lifted a near-empty mug.

  “Close to desperate, Miss Irene.” br />
  “Well, that’s my department. I can do something about that.” She pointed to Ben’s bandaged head. “Would you want me to toss a couple of aspirin in that beer, cowboy?”

  “Shot of bourbon might be better,” Stretch suggested.

  “No, thanks,” Ben smiled. “Just a straight mug of Lucky Lager, if you please.”

  “I try to.” Irene Swinderski nodded and walked away.

  “Some try, she succeeds,” Stretch snorted. “Or so I’m told.”

  There was applause from the area near the entrance as Spud Tatum strode in, one hand full of money and the other arm wrapped around the upper body of a voluptuous Valkyrie who could start or stop a human stampede.

  Spud Tatum nodded and smiled at the hand clappers, then smiled even broader as he approached, then paused at the table where Ben Smith and his friends sat.

  “Evenin’, gents,” then at the rodeo owner, “Mr. Deek Evans, you run the best rodeo west of the hundredth meridian, yeah-bo, most prize money I won this year—or any year,” then waved the money toward Quirt. “I told you, didn’t I, Quirt, ol’ dirt?”

  Quirt, ol’ dirt didn’t respond, and Spud continued and squeezed the Valkyrie’s bare shoulder.

  “Hey, you fellas all know Wanda, here?”

  All the fellas nodded.

  Wanda nodded back.

  “Sure, I know the fellas.”

  Spud grinned toward Ben Smith.

  “How you doin’, ol’-timer?”

  “Still tickin’.”

  The winner winked at his companion. said, “Yeah,” more than a little too loud, “but windin’ down, I’d say,” and laughed.

  Quirt rose in a quick, aggressive move, but Ben took hold of Quirt’s arm for just a beat.

  Spud stopped laughing and turned toward Wanda.

  “Come on, you sweet bag o’ sugar. We got some celebratin’ to do.”

  He commenced to guide her across the room. The way she walked was an anatomical marvel.