Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  Copyright

  Rocky Mountain Retribution

  The Ames Archives Book 2

  Peter Grant

  Castalia House

  Kouvola, Finland

  www.castaliahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Notwithstanding historical similarities, any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Peter Grant

  All rights reserved

  Editor: Vox Day

  Version: 001

  This book is dedicated to Alma Boykin,

  with grateful thanks for all the effort she’s put into

  introducing myself and other writers to the

  stories and history of the Texas Panhandle.

  Contents

  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

  Author’s Note

  The Laredo Trilogy

  The Missionaries

  Castalia House

  As the half-light of dawn began to spread across the eastern horizon, Walt settled himself into his prone shooting position, tucking the stock of the Remington Rolling Block rifle more tightly into his shoulder. Its powerful .50 Government cartridge would kick back like a mule if he wasn’t positioned correctly to absorb its recoil. He put his eye to the full-length Malcolm telescope sight mounted over the barrel, but the shadows were still too deep and too dark to make out the carcass in the field below.

  He waited patiently as the light grew slowly brighter. Looking downward from his hide in a rocky outcrop, he began to make out a dark mass against the green grass of the field. It looked larger than it had the evening before, when he set up this position… and, yes, it was moving! He grinned triumphantly, and bent his head to the sight once more.

  The big brown bear was breaking its fast, ripping chunks of meat off the dead cow, eating quickly. Walt reckoned it had probably already learned the hard way that, while farmers’ cattle were easy prey, the farmer would express his resentment of their loss with burning powder and hot lead. Even as he watched, the bear took a last mouthful, then turned, looking up past the rocks as it prepared to climb the hill to the safety of the tree line.

  He took a deep breath, let it half-out, and held it. Aim low, he reminded himself. You’re shooting downhill. You’ve got to make allowance for that. He’d already pushed forward the set trigger until it clicked, adjusting its pull weight to mere ounces. He set the sight’s crosshairs on the bottom edge of the bear’s body, to the left of its head, as it walked towards him on all fours. His finger tightened on the trigger, gently… slowly… gently…

  The rifle boomed in the still morning air, sparks and white gunpowder smoke erupting from its muzzle. Instantly Walt reached up with his right hand, re-cocked the hammer, and flicked open the breech to remove the fired case, then withdrew another fat .50-70-450 cartridge from the box at his side and slid it into the chamber. Closing the action, he pushed the trigger forward to reset it. The whole sequence took no more than a few seconds before his eye was back at the telescope sight.

  The first round slammed into the top of the bear’s left shoulder and raked downwards into its chest, rocking the beast’s massive body. It roared aloud in pain and anger as it reared upright, standing on its hind legs, looking to see where the unexpected attack was coming from. It spotted the cloud of smoke drifting away on the light morning breeze, and roared again—just as Walt’s second bullet smashed into its breast, piercing its heart. It bellowed once more in anguished fury as it fell forward onto all fours. It started up the hill towards him, but within a few steps, its gait faltered. With a final groan, the bear toppled forward onto its snout, then slid back a few feet on the dew-wet grass.

  Walt reloaded, then stood up and stretched to relieve the stiffness in his joints from lying still on the cold earth for so long. At least the summer night had been relatively warm, so he wasn’t too chilled. He picked up the box of bullets and slid it into his coat pocket, then took his rifle and began to walk down the slope, being particularly careful not to slip and fall with the cocked weapon in his hands. He reached down with his right hand to loosen his revolver in its holster, and removed the rawhide loop around its hammer, in case he had to deliver a coup de grace to the formidable animal. Bears died hard. More than one hunter had been killed by a beast he’d thought to be safely expired.

  As he walked, he saw the farmer wave in triumph from his own hide at the foot of the field, and start running up the slope towards him. He smiled, and returned the gesture… only to frown as the farmer waved again, and yet again. What on earth…? He suddenly realized that the farmer wasn’t waving—the man was trying to warn him! He spun around to see a second brown bear, nearly as large as the first, charging down the slope towards him. It was already no more than thirty yards away, a distance it would cover in less than two seconds.

  He didn’t even try to aim through the telescope sight. The range was too short and there wasn’t time. Instead, he threw up the rifle and looked over the top of the barrel, placing the foot of the forward telescope mount in the center of the charging bear’s body, as if it were a shotgun’s sighting bead. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle boomed.

  The bear roared in pain and outrage, but Walt didn’t dare wait to see where the bullet had struck. He threw himself sideways, dropping the rifle and drawing his revolver. As the bear stumbled, badly wounded, he raised the handgun and opened fire, emptying the cylinder. All six rounds hammered into the beast as it fell to the ground and rolled past him down the slope, almost close enough to touch. The animal roared again, scrabbling at the grass as it tried to get back to its feet; but it was too hard hit, and the wet grass was too slippery. It slid at least twenty feet past him before it stopped.

  From below the bear, Walt heard another rifle shot as the farmer opened fire with his Sharps carbine. The bear arched its back and squalled as the bullet struck its right rear leg, breaking the bone. As it did so, Walt dropped the empty revolver and dived for his fallen rifle. Tugging the box of ammunition from his coat pocket, he ripped it open, spilling the shells onto the grass in his haste. He grabbed one and reloaded the rifle, then spun around, lifting it. With the bear now immobilized, he could take time to aim more carefully down the barrel. His shot struck it full in the mouth as it roared its defiance, smashing out through the base of its skull. It collapsed, lying motionless on the grass.

  Walt reloaded once more, then stood there for a long moment, looking down at the second bear, feeling his heart pounding as if he’d just run a race against a horse. He panted for breath, feeling almost as if he was drowning, as his body demanded more oxygen than the thin Rocky Mountain air could supply.

  At last his hands stopped shaking. He gathered up the spilled rifle rounds, then walked over to his revolver, picked it up and re-holstered it. The handgun had helped him prevail against outlaws in Missouri, Indians in Kansas and eastern Colorado, and horse thieve
s and robbers in and around Denver, but he’d never needed it more desperately than he had this morning. It was a good thing, he thought, that his rifle was breech-loading and cartridge-firing, or he’d have been left defenseless once he’d emptied the revolver. A cap-and-ball handgun took far too long to reload, and he hadn’t carried a second sidearm for what he’d expected to be a simple, uncomplicated hunting trip. It was high time he considered replacing his revolvers with cartridge guns as well, although they weren’t yet as common in handguns as in rifles.

  “I thought for sure it was gonna get you!” the farmer called as he hurried up the slope, puffing and panting. “You were just wavin’ back at me, instead of lookin’ round!”

  “I guess I didn’t understand you,” Walt admitted. “Where did it come from?”

  “It come out of the tree line behind you as you fired your second shot at t’other bear. I dunno why. Grizzlies are solitary animals, but I guess that one wasn’t.” He gestured to the first dead bear, near the carcass of the cow it had killed two days before.

  Walt shook his head. “The second one may not have been with it, but just passing through before it smelled that beef—or it might have run into hunters elsewhere. If it was wounded before, it might have worked up a real hate for men and the sound of their guns.”

  “Maybe so. I’m thankin’ you for helpin’ me take care of my problem, Mr. Ames. That was the second animal I’ve lost this summer, but I’m thinkin’ there won’t be a third, not unless there’s another big b’ar hangin’ around below Squaw Pass—an’ that isn’t real likely at this time o’ year.” He gestured to the mountain behind them.

  “I’d say I should thank you for helping me, Ezra. That shot of yours broke this one’s back leg.” Walt indicated the wound with the barrel of his rifle. “I put seven shots into it, but without yours, it might still have had enough fight left to come back up the slope at me.”

  “Yeah, this here Beecher’s Bible may be old, but she still shoots straight and true. I’ll get Lemuel to help me skin out these two, take the flesh off the hides, and salt them. Where do you want me to send them?”

  “You keep this one. After all, you kept it off me when you broke its leg, so I’d say you’ve earned it. I’ll take the first bear’s hide. I’ve used the furriers on 16th Street before. Take both hides to them, tell them to charge the work to my account, and ask them to make rugs out of them, and turn the claws into necklaces. The second rug is yours.”

  The farmer grinned. “Will do, Mr. Ames. Thank you. If you head down to the farmhouse, Martha will cook up some breakfast for you. Tell Lemuel to bring the wagon up here. I’ll start skinning this one while I wait.” The farmer produced a knife from its sheath on his belt.

  Walt felt saliva suddenly flood his mouth at the thought of food. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  * * *

  Walt rode his horse up the drive to the small carriage house and stable at the rear of the property. Jethro waved cheerfully at him from where he was clipping grass beneath the shade of the trees, sheltering from the early afternoon sun, and limped over as he dismounted.

  “Welcome back, suh. Did you get it?”

  “Yes, I did, and another bear besides.” Walt handed him the reins. “You can rub him down and give him a ration of oats. I won’t need him again today.”

  “Yassuh.” The servant reached up and rubbed the horse’s head, just above his nose. The gelding snorted amiably at him. Lady, Rose’s buggy horse, whickered jealously from the little paddock, envious of the attention her stable-mate was receiving.

  Walt looked over the back yard as he walked to the house, thinking, Jethro may move slowly, but he does a good job of keeping things in order. The former teamster had broken his leg very badly when he’d fallen off one of Samson’s transport wagons, and been run over by a wheel. It had set permanently crooked, preventing him from working a normal job, so Walt had hired him and his wife as house servants. The couple lived in a small cottage next to the carriage house. Jethro took care of the horses and grounds, which he could manage if allowed to work at his own pace, while Lily helped Rose cook and kept the house tidy. They would stay on as caretakers and look after the house when he and Rose left for Pueblo next week.

  He let himself in the back door, maneuvering his saddlebags and the long leather rifle case through the opening with some difficulty. Rose was in the kitchen with Lily. She turned to greet him, smiling.

  “Hello, darling! You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until this evening. Did it go well?”

  He kissed her, enjoying the always-welcome sight of her sparkling eyes, light brown hair and slim, trim figure. “It did. I must admit, though, when we bought that place, and hired a tenant farmer to grow hay and oats for our horses and mules, I never thought shooting bears that were taking his cows would be part of my duties as a landlord!”

  She giggled. “It’s certainly not what I expected, either! Still, it got you out of the freight yard for a couple of days. Wait, you said bears? Were there more than one?”

  “Two of them. The second one nearly bushwhacked me, but fortunately, Ezra saw him coming.”

  “Oh, dear! Are you all right?”

  “He nearly scared the shadow right off me, but that’s all. We got him too.”

  “You need to be more careful, darling!”

  “Well, if the Yankees and Injuns couldn’t get me, I don’t figure on letting a bear take my scalp. Any letters waiting for me?”

  “One from our lawyer, and one from Tyler Reese, your Texas friend. Have you had lunch, dear?”

  “No, and I’m famished. Is there something simple in the larder, like bread and cheese?”

  “You go and wash up, and read your letters. I’ll have something ready in ten minutes.”

  Walt skimmed through Tyler’s letter first. They’d met when their paths had crossed in Kansas, some years before. The Texan had been driving cattle north to Nebraska, while Walt and Rose had been on their way west to Colorado Territory. Tyler had much to say about the cattle business in his state, which was helping to restore the local economy after its near-collapse following the Civil War. However, he stated flatly that its success was no thanks to the policies of the Pease administration, and its successor under former Union Brigadier-General Davis.

  “I need money to expand,” he wrote, “but there’s no loans to be had for the likes of Rebel veterans like me, except at interest rates that’d beggar us. Davis’ term isn’t up for several years yet. By then, all the prime cattle country that’s going to open up along the border with Indian Territory, and in West Texas and the Panhandle, may be gone. I reckon, over the next couple of years, someone with the right contacts and, say, fifty thousand dollars to spend, could get twenty to thirty thousand acres; but unless you’ve got the money already to hand, you’ll be shut out. I’ve only got half that much. Once the Indians have been cleared out of that area, so it’s possible to raise cattle without losing your hair, the value of the land will shoot up. It’s the kind of opportunity that comes once in a lifetime. I fear it may not come again in mine.”

  Walt decided to write back, giving Tyler what encouragement he could. His future plans included selling horses to cattle ranches, among other buyers, so he needed to keep abreast of developments concerning them. Tyler’s regular news was an important part of that. He opened the letter from their lawyer next, and smiled with satisfaction at the news it contained.

  Rose had hastily prepared a light lunch of bread, cheese, pickles, onions and tomatoes. She sat down at the dining-room table with him, and watched affectionately as he wolfed down the first mouthfuls. “You really are hungry,” she observed. “Didn’t Martha feed you well?”

  “She tried, but I just can’t get used to her cooking. Nothing against her, you understand, but she and Ezra hail from New England. They don’t cook Southern-style, like you and Lily.”

  “Bella, too,” she observed. “She’s from South Carolina, which is a different style of Southern cooking, but it�
��s still very tasty.”

  “Yes. I’m sure Samson was happy to find a woman who can feed him so well.”

  She smiled. “You did very well when you hired him, back in St. Louis. Look how far he’s come since then!”

  “Yes, from deck waiter on a paddlewheel riverboat to freight yard manager is a big jump. You were a part of that, teaching him to speak, read, write and figure better after we got here. He can stand on his own two feet in just about any company now.”

  “He and Bella have both come a long way for former slaves, God bless them. So, what does our lawyer have to say?”

  “Good things. You’d better brace yourself. For the livery stable and its grounds, plus our hay farm outside the city, the buyer’s offered seventeen thousand dollars.”

  “Seventeen thousand?” Rose’s eyes widened with astonishment. “But– but– we paid less than five hundred for the livery stable’s land, back in ’66. We didn’t have to pay much for the buildings—you put them up using lumber from the damaged buildings we tore down on some of the other lots you bought, so they were dirt cheap. The farm only cost us eight hundred, just three years ago. That’s an enormous profit!”

  “It is, and it’s all thanks to the railroad. After construction started in ’68, prices of land and businesses began to go up again. Since it began running last year, they’ve almost doubled again. The business district’s expanded outwards until our stable’s only three blocks away from it. The buyer doesn’t want it as a livery stable; he wants the land it’s standing on. It’s big enough for two or three large buildings when the business district reaches it in a year or two. He bought the farmland because it was part of the deal, but he’ll likely sell it separately. It’s already worth two or three times what we paid for it.”

  She laughed, delighted. “I remember how worried I was when you told me, a few months after we got here, that you wanted to use most of our money to invest in property along the line of the railway. It hadn’t even been surveyed then! How did you know where to buy?”