Sundown Comes Twice

by Art Isberg

  Sundown Comes Twice

  Judd Miller and his brother work to start a small ranch outside the town of Red Bluffs. But other interests in their valuable property lead to the powerful mayor of the town, working with other crooked officials, to fleece the brothers of their deeded ground, culminating in the killing of Judd's brother, Randall. Unknown to Judd, the transcontinental railroad is coming through, with an interest in buying his property to shorten their route through the mountains.

  Judd flees attempts to kill him, turning instead to a gunfighter to avenge Randall's death, while exposing the men who conspired against him. Can a young widow and a reformed preacher be enough to battle and beat the odds?

  By the same author

  Showdown in Badlands

  Will Keen, Indian Scout

  Bighorn Gold

  Writing as Shorty Gunn

  Blood Red Star

  The Legend of Link Bonner

  Sundown Comes Twice

  Art Isberg

  ROBERT HALE

  © Art Isberg 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-3022-8

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Art Isberg to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The blazing white, sun-bleached desert was interrupted only by tall-armed saguaro cactus reaching for the sky as if praying for rain that would never come. A sidewinder rattlesnake quickly S-curved across burning sands to the safety of shade under a rocky outcrop. Nothing else seemed alive or moved except the slow advance of shadows cast by the blistering midday sun. But something else was moving, coming slowly closer: the filmy figure of a horse and rider making its way through shimmering waves of heat. The man wore a sweat-soaked, wide-brimmed hat pulled low across his face, his eyes mere slits against the blinding glare. Judd Miller was still alive, still in the saddle trying to outrun and outride the five-man posse that had dogged his trail for nearly a week. Were they still back there, he wondered, or had they finally given up and turned back to the safety and shady heights of hill country where the chase had started?

  Judd eased back on the reins, pulling the big bay horse to a stop. Getting down he stood in the thin shadow of a tall saguaro, wiping his sweat-soaked face with the back of his shirt sleeve. Squinting back the way he’d come, Miller stood for a long time studying his back trail. Lean and bone-dry thirsty, Judd Miller had one unusual thing about his appearance: although right-handed, he wore his six-gun on his left hip, pistol butt forward, favouring a cross-draw.

  Nothing stirred. It seemed that at long last the hanging posse had finally given up and turned back. He took in a deep breath of relief. Lifting one of two canvas water bags looped over the saddle horn, he shook its liquid contents. The quiet splash said nearly empty. One long gulp finished it. Pulling the plug off the second, he took off his hat, half filling it, holding it for his horse to drink from.

  ‘That’s it for a while,’ he patted the tall animal on the neck.

  ‘No telling when we’ll find more to fill up these bags. Let’s rest for a while before we move again. We’ve both earned it.’

  Many miles back Jared Bass pulled to a halt, peering out intently across the desert in front of him. He cursed bitterly under his breath, trying to think of something to say to the four men riding with him. One of them spoke up before he could.

  ‘Looks like he’s gone, someplace out there, Jared,’ the man shook his head. ‘The desert will finish him off even if we couldn’t, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Yeah,’ another chimed in. ‘Let’s get out of this God forsaken country and turn for home. Even a horny toad would fry in this heat. No man can stick it.’

  A third rider pushed his hat back on his head, eyeing his pals. ‘Besides that, the thousand dollar reward split five ways means we’d only get two hundred each. The longer we have to ride chasing him, the smaller that money gets. If we keep at this, it’s hardly worth it any more. Let the buzzards and coyotes finish him. He’ll never see another sundown, that’s for sure.’

  Bass still stared across the savage landscape, the grim look of failure playing across his stubbled face. He was tempted to tell the rest of them to turn back, and keep riding on his own. Miller was only flesh and bone, just like any other man. If he was still riding out there, so could he. It galled him to admit defeat, and to have to give up and return home to Red Bluffs empty handed. For him, the money was only part of the reason why he wanted Judd Miller dead without any thought of a judge, jury or trial. Too much might come out at a trial that could implicate the man he worked for, Mayor Cyrus Toomey.

  Toomey didn’t want a trial either. That’s why he’d sent this posse out in the first place, to finish off Judd and leave his body to rot without it ever being found. The Miller name had haunted the mayor for more reasons than one. Judd’s brother Randall had been ambushed one night riding home from town, and killed by unknown assailants. Randall had been in a hurry to tell his brother some stunning news that he’d just learned regarding the ranch property they’d recently purchased and were building into a place of their own. His murder meant that secret died with him.

  On a more personal note, Toomey’s daughter, Rachel, had become romantically involved with Randall over the previous few months, and her father could not stop it, try as he might. Toomey had big plans for himself to move up in the political world, the mayorship of Red Bluffs being just the first step along the way. He wasn’t about to jeopardize his climb by allowing his daughter to get more involved with a struggling small-time rancher like Randall and his brother Judd, trying to make a go of their property. How would it look when whispers of breeding and background began tittering through social settings and smoky back rooms, where deals were cut and political decisions made. It all came to a head one evening, just days before Randall was killed.

  ‘I’m ordering you to stop seeing this cowboy, and I mean right now, today. Do you hear me, Rachel? I’m demanding it, by God!’ he shouted, red-faced, the blood vessels distended on his fat neck.

  Rachel held her ground. She had known this confrontation was coming, and wasn’t about to let her father bully her into submission. ‘Do you think I’m a child you can order around, like you did my mother? I will not let you do that to me. I’m twenty years old and I know what I want in my life. Don’t try and tell me who I can and cannot see – not now or at any other time!’

  ‘I’ll cut you off without a dime if you don’t listen to me. So help me, I will!’

  ‘You do, and I’ll pack up and move in with Randall and his brother. How would you like that attached to your untarnished name? Your daughter living in sin with two brothers just outside town. I’ll do it, I swear I will!’

  Cyrus’s hand came up as if to strike a blow. He caught himself shaking with rage, and instead picked up a picture of his deceased wife, hurling it across the room, the glass frame shattering in the
fireplace. One last glare at Rachel, and he stormed out of the room.

  The sudden, unexplained murder of ‘Randy’ Miller, as everyone called him, had sent shock waves through the citizens in Red Bluffs. He was a likeable, outgoing young man, with the drive to make something of the new piece of ground he and his brother had purchased. But like all brothers, they argued from time to time, and unfortunately had done so just days before his death, while in town buying supplies. A number of people present had heard the disagreement, part of it over Rachel. When Cyrus Toomey heard about it he acted quickly, ordering the arrest of Judd on suspicion of murder, even though he knew better.

  Jared Bass had made the mistake of riding out to the Miller ranch to take him in, with only a phony badge and a young deputy, Evan Dixon, backing him up. When Jared confronted Miller at his door, Judd had accused him of being a stooge of Toomey’s, and to get off his property. Bass had tried to force the issue until Judd had grabbed the shotgun he kept next to the front door, levelling it on Bass.

  ‘You come back out here and try this again, I’ll give you the wrong end of this shotgun. Now get off my property. You can tell your boss what I said, too.’

  Bass had backed up with both hands in the air, staring with alarm at the gaping barrels on the shotgun, along with wide-eyed Dixon. ‘I’ll be back. Next time with enough guns to put a rope around your neck!’

  ‘You do, and you’ll wish you never tried,’ Judd had warned one last time. ‘Even you can’t be crazy enough to think I’d kill my own brother. Get going!’

  But Judd knew that Bass would try again. That night he sat in the darkened cabin by the window, looking out into the night. Randall had been murdered for some unknown reason, and now Red Bluffs law wanted to take him, Judd Miller, in for it. None of it made any sense, yet somehow he knew they had to be connected. The only thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to allow anyone to try hangman’s law.

  The hours passed slowly and the night grew still, except for the lonesome call of a coyote somewhere out in the dark. The only other sound was the steady tick-tick-ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel, which he couldn’t see. Judd took in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to rest, fighting back the overwhelming urge to sleep. Maybe he was wrong about Bass showing up at night. It was already late. Maybe he’d try it tomorrow. Maybe. . . .

  He suddenly sat straight up, opening his eyes again, searching for the strange sound he’d just heard. Now he heard it again, the sound of hard-soled boots slipping slowly closer over gravelly ground. He leaned closer to the window until dark shadows materialized out of the night, the outline of two men advancing at a crouch on the front door.

  ‘Get back!’ Judd shouted, jumping to his feet, thrusting the shotgun out of the window. Both men suddenly fired six-guns, the brilliant gun flashes lighting the night and briefly themselves. Judd fired a ball of flame lasting just long enough to see one man throw up his hands, then fall to the ground with a pitiful moan. The second turned to run. Judd fired the second barrel, cutting him down in mid-stride, before all hell broke loose. Pistol and rifle fire erupted from a line of men hidden just yards away in front of the cabin, forcing Judd to dive to the floor, bullets thudding into the front wall, holing the door and shattering the other front window. A coal oil lamp on a shelf shattered, spilling the liquid down the wall.

  Miller was half way across the room when a flaming torch spiralled through the night, landing with a thud against the outside wall. A second quickly followed, then a third, until flames licked up the wall and through the window, igniting the coal oil inside with a rush of hot air. Shouts outside demanded he give up, as he reached the back door. Getting to his feet with the empty shotgun still in his hands, he reached for the door handle. Throwing it open he saw two more men running around the side of the house to block him from escaping.

  Judd didn’t hesitate: his cross draw pulled up the .45, firing once, twice, and a third time, both men going down before they could fire back. The pole corral stood a short sprint away. He dashed for it, mounting his horse that he had saddled earlier that evening in case something unexpected like this happened. He kicked the tall horse away with one last look back at the cabin now roaring with flames, as more wild shots rang out after him.

  That fateful night put Judd Miller’s name and face on wanted posters as a killer, on the run with a reward on his head. For the first time in his life he found himself on the wrong side of the law, being hunted like a wild animal, forced to flee into the desolation of the desert, not knowing where he was. He knew he could not go back to Red Bluffs as only a hangman’s rope waited for him there. Judd decided his best bet was to keep riding farther out into this bitter land until he found water or some sign of civilization.

  The posse arrived back in town six days later, to the relief of all riders except Jared Bass. He had to face Toomey, and he wasn’t looking forward to it, for good reason. The mayor quickly began berating him the minute he stepped into his office.

  ‘You mean you let him get away . . . all five of you!’ Cyrus stormed around the room shaking his head, throwing dagger glances at Bass, who stood in front of the desk avoiding eye contact, as the Canyon City stagecoach rattled by outside.

  ‘Listen, Cyrus, we ended up a week south of here down in desert country. You don’t know what that’s like. It’s nothing but heat and rattlesnakes. No man can track anyone over that stony ground. Besides, it’s likely Miller is dead by now. We damn near died ourselves trying to run him down.’

  ‘He better be, or someone might end up being hung, you want to guess who? I’m going to get that property of his under foreclosure, or any other way I can. That’s what started this whole mess in the first place. I could have hung him by now and be done with all this until you let him get away.’

  That evening Rachel Toomey sat on the bed in her room, her face buried in a handkerchief, sobbing quietly over Randall’s brutal murder. The emotional collapse that she had endured since his death was only worsened by the fear that her father might have had a hand in it. He had threatened her about seeing the young man – could he actually have carried out that threat with a death sentence? The question haunted her. Slowly the tears stopped and she dried her eyes, knowing that she had to find out – otherwise, not knowing the answer, she knew she would go insane.

  Cyrus was sitting at his desk in the small office in his home when she walked in; at the click of the door handle he looked up from the paperwork he was reading, and one look at Rachel’s face was all it took for him to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.

  ‘You look terrible, Rachel. Why don’t you have a cup of hot tea, and try to get some sleep?’ He tried to cut her off before another argument started.

  ‘I haven’t been able to sleep since Randall was murdered.’ She approached the desk, leaning with both hands on its surface, staring at her father without blinking. ‘I want to ask you something, and I want a straight answer.’

  Toomey locked eyes with her, knowing the question even before she asked it.

  ‘All right, Rachel, I’ll answer whatever you want if it will help calm you down. What is it, dear?’

  ‘I want to know . . if you had anything to do with Randall’s death – anything, even in the remotest way. Tell me the truth. I have to hear it for my own sanity.’

  Toomey got up. Coming around the desk, he put both hands on Rachel’s shoulders, pulling her so close he could feel her breath on his face.

  ‘Of course I didn’t. Do you think your father is some kind of a monster because we had a little disagreement?’ He wrapped both arms around her, pulling her even closer – but with a small smile on his face that she never saw.

  Judd’s second water bag was down to the last dregs of the precious liquid when he reined to a stop, studying what looked like a thin veil of dust rising still some distance away but coming in his general direction. Was it just another spinning dust devil? He urged the big bay forwards to get closer and intercept its line of trave
l. In less than a mile he came to a rough wagon track, the first sign of anything man-made since his run from Red Bluffs, a week earlier. Now he could make out that the growing black dot was some sort of wagon. In a few minutes more he saw it was a wagon pulled by a mule, the figure of a man at the reins wearing a tall, black top hat. When the wagon rattled to a stop, Judd got his first close-up look at the driver, who was surely strange in appearance. He was an older man, tall and thin, wearing a dusty black suit and, as Judd had already made out, a well worn, silk hat. His weathered, unshaven face had a thick growth of black stubble, which had all but overgrown the remnants of a thin moustache.

  ‘Howdy, neighbour!’ The wagon man lifted his hat with a smile. ‘Fancy meeting another one of God’s children way out here. The Israelites may have spent forty years wandering in the desert, but they didn’t do it here, or they’d still be at it!’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘What would be your name, brother, if you don’t mind me asking you?’

  ‘I’m called Judd Miller.’

  ‘Well, Judd Miller, I propose we find some nice shady spot and retire from this devil’s furnace until sundown gives us mere mortals a little rest. I haven’t seen another white man out here in a long time. We can jaw for a while. What do you say to that?’

  ‘If you know a place like that, I’d say it’s a good idea. And what is your name?’

  ‘Mine? Well, I’ve given up the name my sweet mother gave me, and decided to take one from the Lord. I call myself Moses Canaan, and have done so for a lot of years.’

  ‘So you’re a man of the Good Book?’

  ‘I am. I only came to it as an adult, to change my wicked ways whoring around after fallen doves, drinking the Devil’s brew of rye whiskey, and cheating at parlour games. I was real mean, once upon a time. I had a bible in one hand and a bottle in the other. I had to do something or die young. But I’m saved now, good as gold. This desert around us has become my Promised Land. I minister to anyone and all who need it. You see the sign on my wagon, don’t you? It means what is says: ‘Repent, or Hell Fire Will Be Your Reward!’