by Stephen Paul
The Last
Gunfighter
Stephen Paul
Contents
Prologue
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
Biography of Author
Prologue
"Don't hang us," she begged. "We didn't rustle any cattle, I swear." The woman turned and faced her husband. His bloody and bruised face looked back at her with sorrow and pity.
"Shhh, it's okay," he said.
Both had their hands tied behind their backs as they stood huddled together on trembling legs in front of a gang of men on horseback. One man had their son, held close to his chest, as he sat on his saddle.
"You sodbusters think you can just squat on someone's property and take any ole cow you see?" The leader sat tall in the saddle on a big buckskin, two well worn Colts strapped on, the holsters tied down to his legs.
"Those cattle inside that sorry excuse for a corral are the property of the Stockgrower's Association. Ain’t no way poor sodbusters like you can buy cattle like them. Nope, no two ways about it, you had to have rustled ‘em. When you get caught rustlin', you hang."
"My ma and pa didn't rustle no cattle," the boy said, then yipped out in sudden pain as the man holding him in the saddled cuffed his ear.
"You keep your mouth shut. Little pups like you don’t talk unless you’re told to, and I ain’t talking to you," the man said.
The child nodded tearfully.
"God, please, don't hurt him. My…my brother's a prospector, he'll give you money to let us live."
“Ellie, don’t beg. These men aren’t going to listen to you.” Her husband stated in a somber tone. He turned and looked at the leader. "I know this is a set up to get our place. Let us go and we'll sign it over to you, everything."
“Shut up.” A boot landed on the man’s chest, knocking him to the ground. "You don't talk less I tell ya, sodbuster."
“Sam!” Ellie cried. She struggled to break the rope that bound her hands, but couldn’t. Tears ran down her cheeks and she tried to wipe them off. Her lower lip trembled.
The leader looked down at her, a spark of interest flashed on his face. "Prospector, eh? What's his name?"
"John, John Bronson. He's up in the Ferris Mountains, working a claim. He wrote us a letter and said he’s going to give us the money to pay the place off. Said he'd be by in a week or so when we started branding." The hope she felt made her voice rise in volume. "He'll have gold. Please. I know he’d give it to you for us."
"Now that sounds pretty interesting, missy; your brother knew you were rustling cows too?"
“No, we weren’t rustling. My brother is going to help us pay off the place! I swear!”
He pulled the reins on his horse and turned it around to face the group of men behind him. "You men take them up Rattlesnake gulch where Horse Creek meets the river. I'll be up shortly. We'll have us another talk, ma'am."
Grateful tears ran down her cheeks this time. "It'll be okay, Sam." She told her husband. "I just know it. John will pay them and we'll be all right."
Two men put them up in the back of a buckboard wagon, one of the men brought out from the barn, one horse haltered to the tongue. They headed south toward the gulch at a leisurely pace flanked by the Stockgrower's Association hands on both sides of the buckboard. The leader, three men and the boy stayed behind at the ranch house.
"You aren't gonna hurt my folks, are you?"
"Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut?" the man in the saddle hissed.
"Kid, you and Caleb stay here and work the place ‘till I get someone out here permanent. It's not a bad place; plenty of water off Horse Creek and some good meadows. Yeah, a nice little place.” The boss looked over to Matson with cold eyes and said, “Matson, you take the boy and lose him between here and Rawlins. You get my drift?"
"Yeah, boss," Matson, replied. He had a sparse growth of whiskers that hadn't seen a razor in a long time, and his clothes were threadbare. When he noticed the boy's questioning stare, he looked away.
The leader spurred his horse and galloped after the gang of drifters and hard cases, and the man and woman with them who sat in the back of a buckboard, their hands bound tight behind them.
Matson leaned down in his saddle and spit a wad of chew out on the ground. In a soft voice, he said, "If this Bronson fella shows and wants to buy the boy, send him to Rawlins. I'll find him. He'll have 'till the end of the month."
"Ya heard what the boss said, lose him." The Kid spoke in a raspy voice, his hand caressed the pistol at his side. He was young and dressed in a fancy vest and had on snakeskin boots. "I don't know why you have to go against what the boss says."
"Just do what I tell you and keep quiet. I'll split the loot with you two. You know there won't be anybody else besides the brother that will help him," he said in a low voice. "No reason not to get some gold out of this."
"All right, but he gives me any reason, and I'll kill him on the spot," the Kid said. "I don't care what kind of slick deal you're trying to pull. I’m mad anyway. We didn’t know we were going to hang around out here for who knows how long? Do you want to argue the point, Matson?” He looked mean with the gun hung low and tied to his leg. A gunslinger ready for a gunfight.
"I seen him kill three men so I wouldn’t push him if I were you, Matson. The Kid here is the fastest I ever seen," Cleatus piped in, admiration showing in his eyes.
"Let's hope the prospector don't want to make no trouble. I know you're fast Kid, it wouldn't even be a fair gunfight," Matson replied. He gripped the boy around the chest and headed toward Rawlins.
They rode at a fast trot and wind blew dust into their faces. Matson pulled his bandana up over his nose. He leaned down to the boy's ear and said softly, "You just keep quiet and don't cause no trouble. This will all be over before you know it and you'll be back with your folks."
No sound came from the boy; only tears silently fell down his cheeks and blew away on the hot wind.
Chapter One
The horse gently swayed and the saddle creaked from the rhythm of the motion. The rider’s eyes slowly closed, then opened with a jerk. His clothes were those of a working man — canvas pants with heavy rivets, a tattered shirt stained with sweat and mended in several places. A small shovel and gold pan tied to the bedroll were the sign of a prospector. Inside one saddlebag were several sacks of gold dust. In the other, on top of his only other shirt was a Colt .44 Peacemaker, oiled and clean, nestled inside a holster on a gun belt.
Bronson looked forward to a bath and meal at the Sand Draw Stage Station. After being in the mountains for four months panning for gold and only one trip out for supplies, he wanted more than a quick jump in a creek where the water was so cold it took his breath away. His strike had played out and he figured he had enough gold to help Ellie and Sam and still have enough to stake himself to a small ranch. Maybe he could find one by their place.
The time alone with only a mountain lion or elk or deer as company seemed to cleanse some of the anger from his soul. He was surprised he'd lived to be forty-one. He'd expected to been cut down by a
bullet years ago. Times were looking up, he thought.
The route down the mountain followed a game trail. Huge limestone outcroppings formed a ridge along the entire south side of the Ferris. They looked like bottom teeth sticking up from the mountain, smooth and white, forming a canyon three miles long and too rugged for a horse to climb over. He had been high up a ravine behind the outcroppings, living in a small cabin he'd built after he found the first pan of dust. He felt weary from backbreaking work fourteen hours a day, digging the gravel and panning each shovel full of dirt, carefully picking out the small flakes caught in the rim of the pan. The only living thing he had talked to was his horse, and now he felt ready to socialize or at least talk with real people.
The sun was setting behind the Ferris with long fingers of crimson stretched across the sky leaving the clouds looking as if they had been soaked in blood. Shadows lengthened from the cliffs and forests trying to engulf him in darkness before he reached his destination. As Bronson rode up the dusty street to the general store, saloon and stage stop, he turned in his saddle, saw the color of the sunset, and wondered if it was an omen. A little too bloody. He tied the reins of the blue roan to the hitching post and went inside the building. One side housed the store with a ticket counter; and next to it, the eating tables. On the other side, long, planked boards made the bar top of the saloon.
“What’ll you have?” asked the short stocky man stacking cans on some lower shelves. Glancing up he stopped what he was doing and with a look of surprise, said, “Bronson! I haven’t seen you for a coon’s age. How’re you doing?” His long brown hair hung to his shoulders and a mustache drooped over his upper lip.
“Good, Russell. Better, now that I’m here. Give me a beer, and I could use a hot bath.” Bronson leaned over the counter and shook Russell's outstretched hand. “You have your scales handy? I’m going need some supplies and cash, to trade for some gold dust,” Bronson said.
“My scales are always handy. But first I’ll get the water ready and we can take care of the gold after you eat." Russell walked through the bathhouse door and came back a few minutes later. "How about some food?” He went behind the bar of the saloon and drew a beer, handing it over to Bronson's outstretched hand.
“Yeah, a plate of whatever you have, and put my horse up with a bag of oats, will you?” Bronson took a long draw of his beer and sat down at a table, taking his hat off. He had a full head of hair turning gray, a thick neck, square jaw and piercing steel-gray eyes that made most people uncomfortable when he looked at them. His hands were rough and callused and he had a lean and muscular looking frame.
Russell went through a door to the back and a few minutes later Bronson saw him lead his horse toward the barn. He must have dozed off because he heard, rather than saw, the plate being set down in front of him. Filled with a large steak, boiled potatoes and gravy with two thick slices of bread sitting on top of the meat it was a worthy meal.
“I’ve been waiting for this for two months,” Bronson said, staring at the food with pleasure. "My supplies been running low so I've mostly been eating venison and wild onions, with a biscuit every now and then." He picked up the knife and cut into the meat. A huge piece went into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. "This is good." After swallowing the meat, he lifted the glass of beer and drained it in one long pull.
“You must have had some good luck panning, huh?” Russell asked as he put another beer down in front of Bronson and sat down at the table. "You look different – content maybe."
“I'm getting that way. The panning wasn't bad. Maybe money makes a man content.”
“What creek did you take it out of, if I can ask?”
“I don’t mind telling since I got it all. Haggerty Creek. Up above the limestone cliffs.” Bronson rolled his neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life before but it’s been worth it. There’s enough dust here to help out Ellie and Sam with their ranch and keep me through the winter and then some,” he said between bites. The bread soaked the gravy up and went into his mouth. “I must be tired, I usually don’t talk this much about family, especially when I’m eating.”
“Ahhh, that reminds me.” Russell slapped himself on the forehead. “A letter come for you on the Rawlins stage about three weeks ago. I put it in the safe.” He scurried over to the ticket counter and unlocked a small safe sitting on the floor. The stage stop manager pulled an envelope out and held it up like a prize. “Here it is,” he said, bringing it over to the table. The writing on it was in a small, fine, script.
Bronson took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. “Probably asking about helping them with the branding.” He put the glasses on and opened the letter. A frown appeared on his face as he read.
John, we need your help. Someone is trying to force us off our ranch. We've been shot at several times and I fear we’re facing more than we can handle. Please come.
Love, Ellie.
“Dammit!" He slammed a fist on the table. "You heard if anything is going on around Horse Creek?” he asked Russell.
“The stage driver said some cattle rustlers were hung the other day up north, but that’s all. Need to hang more of them thieves, you ask me.”
Bronson felt his blood turn cold and a small grip of fear took hold of his stomach. “You don’t know the names of who was hung?” His eyes bored into Russell.
The stage stop keeper stood up and stepped back from the table. “No, no one told me. Didn’t ask. Hey, you ain't mad at me, are ya?”
"No, not you, I'm worrying some." Bronson saw the sun had set and darkness was shadowing the buildings rapidly since it sat on the east end of the mountains.
“I need to sleep for a few hours. I’ll take that bath first—you mind if I sleep in the barn?” Bronson asked. His weariness showed on his face.
“That’ll be fine. You need anything else?” Russell walked to the shelves of dry goods past the sacks of flour stacked on the floor.
“Yeah, two boxes of .44s.” The plate of food was only half eaten, his appetite gone. He finished the beer, stood up and took a small sack out of his pocket. “Weigh out what I owe you and give me cash for the rest.” Bronson laid the pouch down on the countertop.
The shopkeeper reached under the counter and grabbed two boxes of cartridges. He set them by the scale and looked at Bronson with a puzzled expression. After the gold dust was poured into a scale tray and weighed, Russell took some money from his pocket and held them out to Bronson. “Why the cartridges? I ain’t ever seen you carry a gun.”
“Guess I’m gonna start.” Bronson took the offered bills and stuck them in his pocket. He picked the two boxes of .44s up and walked toward the bathhouse door.
Chapter Two
An hour before the sun crested the far Pedro Mountains Bronson was riding east. The pistol and holster were still in his saddlebag, but freshly oiled and wiped clean. New cartridges were in the cylinder; maybe I won't have to buckle it on. Maybe everything is fine and Ellie just jumped the gun on writing me. Wishful thinking; things didn't start then go away without some kind of resolution, and in the west, that usually meant trouble.
It hadn't been that hard of a decision to put the gun away and change his life after Laramie. Sometimes at night, dozing by a campfire, he would hear the screams and see their blood on his hands. He was forty-two years old, how long before the visions disappeared? In the back of his mind, there was a slight gnawing of doubt. Could he still kill someone? The last time he drew his gun, he paused – couldn’t help it. If the outlaws’ old black powder pistol hadn’t misfired, he might be dead.
Still, no one had better hurt his family because the gun would fit comfortable in his hand and blood would spill. There was a difference in fighting for family and being paid to bring in outlaws.
The sun had been shining in his eyes for the last ten miles when he reached the top of the ridge that overlooked Sam and Ellen’s ranch. The rock, where the pioneers heading to Oregon chiseled their names on the
side, was a couple hours’ ride farther east. His sister and her husband had homesteaded 160 acres, breaking horses for the stage line and raising a few head of cattle. Smoke drifted out of the chimney but he didn’t see their son, Tommy or anyone else about doing chores or working with the horses in the corral.
I hope they're eating breakfast, he thought and heeled the horse forward. Cautiously, Bronson and the roan came down into a pasture and crossed Horse Creek. As he came closer to the ranch house, a stranger come out of the front door and stood on the porch, a gun slung low on his hip.
“You're on private property, amigo.” The man was young, had shaggy hair and swaggered when he walked to the edge of the porch. The vest he had on was flashy, like a gambler.
“I’m looking for the owners, Ellen and Sam Hudson,” Bronson said. He leaned on the saddle horn trying to act easy going.
“They ain’t here no more.” The man’s thumbs were hooked in his gun belt. "This is my place now."
Bronson felt the chill and dread of knowing the answer. “Your place, huh? They were here a couple of weeks ago.” Where they’d go?
“Probably to hell: They was hung a couple of days ago cuz they was cattle rustlers.”
“They weren’t rustlers,” Bronson said quietly. His emotions went blank, he didn't say anything else, just looked at the self-proclaimed hard case.
The man turned toward the open door and yelled, “Cletus, come on out here.”
Another man, older than the first, with his gut stretching his shirt and hanging over his belt, walked out of the ranch house door. “What’s up, Kid?”
“This sodbuster says the whore and her man weren’t no cattle rustlers,” the Kid said, a smirk on his face.
“Don’t call her a whore.”
“He’s telling you what to say and callin’ you a liar, Kid. A man not carrying a gun shouldn’t be callin’ no one a liar.” Cletus spit on the porch floor. He was a man who didn’t have the guts to fight but liked to stir the kettle for someone else. “I think you better get out of here, sodbuster. You don't know who this is.”