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  BLACK WIDOW

  “She’s a damn black widder. She killed her husband up there, didn’t she?”

  “She never killed him,” Johnny said.

  “I read all about her. Belle Nelson. She also killed two Texas lawmen came to arrest her husband.”

  Slocum had all he could stand. “They were bounty hunters and they came for the wrong man.”

  The station man shook his head. “That’s her story. You know that someone went back and shot that wounded one in the doc’s office. I’d sure bet it was her done it. How many women her age could get the drop on a man like she did him? Some sheriff down there sent a letter to the Cheyenne Leader, and it said he was sure that her man was the outlaw they were after. Those two got kilt were law-abiding citizens of long record in his county and they died in the line of duty. Her man’d been on the run a long time.”

  “Don’t listen to Lester too much. He’s a troublemaker,” Johnny said.

  Slocum thanked him and checked on the prisoner lying flat on the roof. Strange she’d never mentioned the second man was gunned down in bed.

  DON’T MISS THESE

  ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES

  FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him…the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex…

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  Meet J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  JAKE LOGAN

  SLOCUM AND THE WIDOW’S RANGE WARS

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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

  SLOCUM AND THE WIDOW’S RANGE WARS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2007 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1902-7

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  A meadowlark’s shrill whistle cut through the early morning chill. Skirt in her hand, Belle hurried through the dew-damp grass for the outhouse, a weathered gray unpainted structure complete with its strong fecal odors wafting up as well as with spiders. She always dreaded spending any more time than necessary inside the small structure. Her plans for the day ahead filled her thoughts when she pulled the drawstring to open the door.

  Bushy whiskers faced her with two dark eyes that bore the look of a rabid wolf. The man’s tough calloused hands grasped her forearms and jerked her inside before she could shrink back. A scream trapped in her throat never managed to escape. Her heart thumping from fear, she gasped hard for air, her knees threatening to buckle. The man roughly slammed her back against the sidewall, and his fetid breath in her face smelled far worse than the contents underneath the bench seat.

  “One peep out of you and I’ll cut your throat.” With one hand to steady her, he leaned out and closed the door. They were shut in the darkness, save for small beams of light that came through knotholes and cracks in the wood. Now she was alone with a madman who she’d never seen before. Cramps in her stomach threatened to bend her over.

  “Who-who’re you?”

  He was standing on his toes with his back to her, peering out through a crack in the wall in the direction of the cabin. “You don’t need to know.”

  “What do you want?”

  He turned around, and she could see the frown of disbelief in his hard-set eyes. “We’re here to get him.”

  “Who?” she asked, managing to straighten her dress in the front as she stood as far away from him as she could in the close quarters.

  “Tray McGraw.”

  “Who?” There was no one there by that name.

  “Quit acting so dumb, lady. That man of yours is who we’re after.”

  “Hank, Hank Nelson. You think he’s this McGraw?” A new fear rose behind her tongue. He was wrong—mistaken. Hank wasn’t McGraw. Her face trembled when she shook it and she gasped for more air in the stinking closeness.

  “There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward on his head dead or alive—” The man went back to looking at the cabin through the slit in the wall.

  “N
o. No, he’s Hank Nelson. You’re wrong.”

  “Lady, I know my business. He’s McGraw.”

  She began to beat him on the back with her fists, screaming, “No! No, he’s Nelson!”

  His backhanded slap to her face made her see stars. “Shut up.”

  Her palm went to her burning cheek. She was shocked he would do such a thing to her. A slow realization crept in to her thoughts. This man would kill her for no reason. No reason at all. It made her knees weak. No coward, she still didn’t want to die. Not in this foul-smelling outhouse, that was for sure.

  Her gaze fell on the polished wooden grip of the six-gun in his holster. Cock and shoot. Nothing to it. Hank had shown her how to fire his—but in the outhouse, could she jerk it out and do that?

  Any minute Hank would be bringing in the errant milk cow who’d run off in the night. Where was the rest of this gang? How many were there? Hank’s own handgun was hung in his holster on a peg by the back door; she’d seen it there on her way out. He was unarmed!

  She reached, grasped the gun’s grip in her hand, and jerked it free. With her other palm, she cocked it and shot as the man whirled around. The explosion in the close confines made her ears scream as if there were hot needles in them. But worse than that, the man’s rough hands clutched her throat and were pressing on her windpipe. She managed to cock the revolver again as he closed off all her wind. Then, with her strength fast fleeing, she jammed the muzzle in his gut and pulled the trigger.

  The second blast was more muffled and threw him backward. The force tore his hands off her. His knees bucked into her. He shouted obscenities at her as he went down. Repulsed, she tried to draw herself away from him without any place to go.

  Then, his weight against the door broke the small latch. He spilled half out of the crapper onto the ground holding his belly and moaning, “You gut-shot me! You gut-shot me! I’m dying!”

  Die then. She stepped past him holding the gun ready in case he needed more. Away from her tormentor, she began to run for the rise the cabin sat upon. Hank would need his guns. Where were the others with the man? Hank had surely heard the shots. Her ears would never be the same, they still rang from the blasts.

  At the back of the cabin she saw two men on horseback crossing the meadow firing rifles at something. Hank. That was the direction he’d gone in earlier to find Bessy. What could she do? Get the rifle down. Out of breath, she rushed into the cabin, put the pistol on the table. Standing on her toes, she took the Winchester off the wall pegs, then rushed outside using the lever to load the .44/40.

  At the corner of the house, she used the log ends for a rest and fired at the rider on the black horse. He fell out of the saddle, and the one on the bay shot at her. She could see the puffs of smoke from his rifle. The bullets buzzed like hornets around her, some smacking into the side of the cabin. She didn’t let up shooting at him until he turned and, beating his horse on the butt with his repeater, raced for the timber.

  The heavy Winchester in one hand, her skirt in the other, she ducked through the rail fence and raced across the meadow. The black horse, dragging its reins, shied from her approach. Its rider was facedown and not moving. She ran past him, looking everywhere—then spotted the brindle milk cow.

  Where was Hank? He had to be—Then she saw his boots in the grass. Oh, dear God, let him live. Please. She skidded on her knees to look in his face.

  He forced a smile at her. “Sorry, Belle. Who were those fellars?”

  Blood was soaking through his shirt and she ripped it open. The bullet holes were in his chest. The gravity of his wounds shocked her. She wet her lips searching for words. “Bounty—bounty hunters.”

  “You all right, Belle?”

  “Yes—yes—I shot two of them.” She scooted forward to cuddle his head in her lap.

  “Who did they want…”

  “Tray McGraw. I never heard of him. They thought you were him.”

  He barely shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  She could see the pain written in his blue eyes and the life inching out of him. They didn’t need to talk about trash like those three; these were the last minutes they would share on earth until the hereafter. A pain stabbed her in the chest as she bent over and kissed him. Kissed him and kissed him until she realized he had gone limp.

  Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Hot tears that stung cascading off her face. She clutched Hank to her breasts and rocked him as if there was hope she could bring him back. Then she realized her bladder had let loose too. Oh, what else!

  Then she heard something, and looked up in time to see the one she’d wounded struggling to get on his black horse. The animal acted spooked and the man had trouble getting it to stand, but he finally managed to get across the saddle and fought to get his right leg over the circling mount.

  “No,” escaped her lips. She set Hank down and ran for the rifle she’d dropped. Tripping over her hem sent her sprawling facedown in the knee-high grass. In desperation. she crawled on her stomach and elbows to the Winchester, and sent the last cartridges in the breech after the fleeing rider. With her eyes stinging from the black powder smoke, she last saw him, bent over in the saddle, obviously wounded. Horse and rider disappeared into the pines. In defeat, she buried her face in the sweet/sour-smelling timothy grass—the hay Hank had intended to start harvesting that week.

  The funeral was the hard part, with all Hank’s old friends and family for her to greet, accepting their teary-eyed condolences. In her black dress, she tried to stay stiff-backed and strong despite the hurting in her heart. Reverend Gipson, the small man behind the eyeglasses, was way too familiar. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. Hank was such a delightful person—I’m certain God in his wisdom has taken him to a better place.”

  Better place than being with her? She doubted that. With the Reverend patting her on the back, walking close like she needed support, and acting like they were old friends, it was about more than she could stand. She knew her looks attracted men, but Gipson was not the one she wanted. For the moment, she wanted no man except the two who’d shot Hank and she wanted them dead. As Gipson said at the graveside, “Vengeance is mine saith the Lord….”

  Vengeance would be hers when she got those other two in her gun sights. One of them was lying upstairs in Doc Green’s office. The deputy said he wouldn’t talk. When Hank’s body was in the ground, she’d go up there and make him talk. He’d want to talk when she got through with him. She dabbed at her wet eyes and looked at the Wind River Range. Still snow in patches in the higher country. In two weeks she’d have everything sold, accounts settled, and be on her way.

  “…may he rest in peace. Amen.”

  “Belle, you’re as welcome as can be to come to our place.” Willy Stauffer’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he held his hat all wadded in his hands.

  “Thanks to you and the missus for all your kindness,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s talk you want to sell the N7 Bar?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘Well, this ain’t no place to talk business. I’m sorry.”

  “No, Willy. I’d sell the ranch and the cattle for four thousand dollars.”

  He looked at her hard. “That’s lots of money, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but its got lots of irrigated bottomland. It has a good crop of timothy and in the other meadow alfalfa.”

  Willy nodded. “Hank was a good farmer for a Texan.”

  She knew the horse-trading game. Don’t rush to drop your price. The buyer could hem and haw, make you think he was squeezing his chin because the price was more than he wanted to pay, when all the time he was stalling to see if the seller would break. Her father had taught her that when she was in her teens.

  “Would you—”

  Her head shake cut him off.

  “Well, I sure hate to do business at a man’s funeral with his—”

  “Widow? I can meet you at the bank next Tuedsay in Riverton.”

  He squinted at her out of hi
s left eye. “You’re serious?”

  “Willy, I’m as serious as I can be.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The bank in Riverton. At what time?”

  “Make it at ten in the morning. I’ll have the farm sale the next Saturday and you can take possession the following day.”

  “Would it bother you any if I sent the boys over to start cutting the hay?”

  “Send them. I may not be there to cook for them.”

  He held up his hands in defense. “No, no. I never expected that. Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I know it ain’t none of my business, but—are you going back to Texas to your family?”

  She simply nodded.

  “My dear Mrs. Nelson, would you come have lunch with all of us up at the schoolhouse?” the preacher asked. “The folks have prepared plenty to eat.”

  She noticed the sheriff was standing back and acting like he wanted to talk to her. “I’ll be right along. Go ahead, Reverend Gipson.”

  “Oh, I know you must want a last minute alone with Hank. I could stay and pray with you.”

  She shook her head to dismiss him. When he started for the schoolhouse, the sheriff, Lewis Grimes, stepped over. A man of medium build, with graying hair and a white mustache, he swept off his white Stetson to talk to her.

  “Mrs. Nelson, we’re going to charge this galoot that’s shot up with murdering your husband. When he gets to where he can travel, I’ll take him to Riverton and put him in my jail until the judge comes for the court sessions.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  Grimes shook his head. “He’s tough, but he’ll break down and tell us and we’ll learn his other partner’s name, the one that got away. The one that you—I mean, the one that was dead had a letter on him addressed to Jim Talbot, General Delivery, Burkhart, Texas.”