Death Rattle

by Sean Lynch

  My editor, the inimitable Gary Goldstein. If ever there was a fellow who in another life should have been the captain of a pirate ship, it’s Gary. I’d pretty much follow him into hell with nothing more than a damp sponge.

  My agent, Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group. He’s the real deal. I am grateful for his counsel, stewardship, and friendship, and for his steady hand at the tiller.

  The Usual Suspects, whose support and encouragement are deeply appreciated.

  The Calaveras Crew. Better men to “ride the river with” never existed.

  Lastly, and most important, my wife, Denise; daughter, Brynne; and son, Owen: the greatest blessings ever bestowed on a fellow. I am humbled every day. Today, tomorrow, and forever. You know the rest.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW

  SAMUEL PRITCHARD DOESN’T LOOK FOR TROUBLE

  It’s now 1874, and Samuel Pritchard is once again living under his true name. As Atherton’s town marshal, he longs to put his bloody past behind him and finally settle into a peaceful life. But fate has other plans for Pritchard—strangers begin arriving in Atherton. Hard-eyed men wearing guns. Some come alone, others in groups. Besides the fact that every one of them is armed to the teeth, the newcomers share something else in common; they’re all gunning for Smokin’ Joe Atherton.

  IT’S THERE WHEN HE WAKES UP EVERY MORNING

  Someone’s placed a bounty on Pritchard’s head: $10,000 in gold, payable to whoever can put the legendary pistolero into a pine box. And that someone is Dominic “Cottonmouth” Quincy, a wealthy and politically connected former Union spy, riverboat captain, and the meanest, deadliest cutthroat west of the Mississippi.

  THIS DEVIL IS NO ANGEL

  Pritchard isn’t sure why Cottonmouth Quincy wants him dead—but he’s about to find out that the ghosts of boot hill won’t stay buried . . .

  COTTONMOUTH

  THE GUNS OF SAMUEL PRITCHARD by Sean Lynch

  Coming soon, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter 1

  Sarpy County, Nebraska,

  five miles east of Papillion, March 1874

  The reverend reined his wagon to a halt. Four men on horseback were blocking the road ahead. All were wearing town suits and bowlers, and he’d never seen any of them before. They were also wearing revolvers in shoulder holsters that were plainly visible under their open riding jackets.

  “Top of the mornin’ to you, Reverend Hoskins,” the oldest of the riders said. He tipped his hat.

  “Do I know you gentleman?” Reverend Hoskins said.

  “No,” the man said. “But we know you. You’re Charles Hoskins, the pastor of the Baptist church in town. We know your family, too. Sitting next to you is your wife, Mary, your daughter, Maura, and your wee little son, Charles Junior.”

  “How, exactly, do you know all this?” Hoskins asked.

  “Why,” the man said, “you’re famous, Reverend. Your sermons are all the rage. They’re right popular with the railroad laborers in these parts. Especially the ones where you call for all the workers to band together, hold out for more money, and strike iffen they don’t get what they want from Brody’s railroad company. Those sermons are real barn burners, so I’m told.”

  “Now I know who you are,” Hoskins said, making no effort to hide his contempt. “You’re Quincy Agency men, aren’t you? Cottonmouth Quincy sent you to intimidate me into silence and to stamp down the poor, abused souls being worked like slaves by John Brody.”

  “It’s true,” the man confirmed, “we’re employed by the Quincy Detective Agency. And as a matter of fact, we did come here to persuade you to temper your sermons to a tone more sympathetic to Mr. Brody’s interests. By the way, Mr. Quincy certainly wouldn’t appreciate being called ‘Cottonmouth’ by the likes of you.”

  “I didn’t give him that name,” Hoskins retorted. “Quincy earned it himself by slithering around like a serpent, hiding like a thief, peering into keyholes like a rat, and doing John Brody’s bidding.”

  “You surely have a right hostile notion of Mr. Quincy’s character,” the man said, “for a man of God. I thought all you preachers were supposed to be the forgivin’ type?”

  “Quincy doesn’t need my forgiveness,” Hoskins said. “If he wants to save his soul, he needs to repent his wicked ways and stop helping Brody wage war on his poor workers.”

  “I’ll be sure and tell him you said that,” the man said. The men with him chuckled.

  “Charles,” Mary said in a hushed whisper to her husband, “turn us around.” The fear was plain on her face and clear in her voice. “We need to leave. Now.” She pulled Maura, who was twelve, and Charles Junior, who was six, closer.

  “I’ll not be buffaloed by Cottonmouth Quincy’s hired thugs,” Hoskins declared. “You’re blocking our way,” he said to the riders. “Yield the road and let us pass.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to voluntarily agree to stop sermonizin’ against the railroad,” the man said, “and stirrin’ up all the workin’ folks, are you?”

  “I certainly am not.”

  “Mr. Quincy figured you was gonna say that,” the man said, drawing his revolver. He nodded to his men, who also drew theirs.

  One of riders guided his horse close enough to the team pulling Hoskins’s wagon to seize the harness. Mary stifled a scream and covered both her children’s eyes as they huddled together.

  “Step down outa that rig, Reverend,” the man ordered, “and bring your family with you.”

  “We will not,” Hoskins said. “I’m not afraid of your guns.”

  “Maybe not,” the man said, aiming his Remington at Mary Hoskins and cocking the hammer back, “but I’ll wager your wife is.”

  “All right,” Hoskins said, clambering out of the buggy. “Don’t shoot.” He helped his wife and children disembark.

  As soon as the Hoskinses left the wagon, the Quincy men dismounted. One climbed into the driver’s seat the reverend vacated.

  Hoskins stood protectively in front of his family. It did him no good. The leader holstered his pistol, nodded again, and another of the men clubbed the reverend in the kidney with the butt of his gun. The thin pastor fell gasping to all fours. Mary Hoskins began to cry, along with both of her children.

  “Today we’re gonna preach you a sermon,” the leader said, “and it ain’t even Sunday. The topic of this sermon is wrath and retribution. Put your right hand under the wagon wheel.”

  “What?”

  The man kicked Hoskins in the ribs, dropping him from all fours to his stomach. “You heard me, Reverend. Put your hand under the wheel.”

  “Please,” Reverend Hoskins pleaded. “Don’t do this.”

  “Either your hand goes under that wheel, or your daughter’s head. Which’ll it be?”

  The terrified Hoskins hesitated. The leader gave another silent signal, and one of the men roughly snatched twelve-year-old Maura from her mother’s arms. Another simultaneously grabbed Mary and Charles Junior by the hair and held them in place.

  Maura was dragged, also by her hair, screaming and flailing in terror, and forced to the ground with her head under one of the wagon’s rear wheels. The Quincy man in the wagon’s seat held up his whip, awaiting the order to start the team of horses.

  “No!” Reverend Hoskins said. “Let my daughter go.” He crawled to the wagon on his belly and extended his right hand under the front wheel.

  The leader gestured to release the girl. Maura Hoskins scrambled to her feet and ran sobbing into her mother’s arms. Then the leader nodded a final time, and his man in the wagon cracked the whip.

  The wagon lurched forward. Reverend Hoskins cried out in agony as his hand was crushed. His wife sank weeping to her knees, bringing her children with her.

  The leader halted the wagon. He walked over to where the reverend lay cradling his mangled hand.

  “Are you gonna continue to rile up workers against Mr. Brody and his railroad?”

  “N-no,” Reverend Hos
kins sputtered.

  “That’s good,” the man said. “Because Mr. Quincy gave specific orders about what we’re to do if we catch wind of you givin’ any more sermons incitin’ unrest against the Brody Railroad Company. We’ll be back, and what happened today will seem like a church social. We’ll burn your church down, Reverend, with you and every one of your flock in it. Then we’ll end your wife and daughter in their own beds and shoot your son dead on your doorstep. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Hoskins said.

  The Quincy men holstered their revolvers and remounted their horses. “Don’t you make us come back,” the man admonished, “you hear?”

  “I won’t,” Hoskins said weakly. “You’ll have no more trouble from me.”

  “I reckoned as much,” the man said. He shouted, “Cottonmouth Quincy sends his regards,” over his shoulder as he and his three companions rode off.

  Chapter 2

  Atherton, Missouri, April 1874

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Ditch Clemson said as he entered the marshal’s office. His lifelong friend, Marshal Samuel Pritchard, was seated inside at his desk. He was assembling the components of a chair he’d crafted himself.

  Ditch put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “It’s almost noon,” he said, “and the train from Saint Louis is due to arrive any minute.”

  “So?” Pritchard said without looking up.

  “So?” Ditch mimicked, making no effort to conceal the exasperation in his voice. “You know that European feller, Count Strobl, is gonna be on the train.”

  “So?” Pritchard repeated.

  “All the newspapers are writin’ about how Strobl got himself kicked out of his own country on account of dueling. He’s reputed to be exiled royalty and one of the deadliest shots east of the Mississippi.”

  “Why should I care?” Pritchard asked.

  “You should care,” Ditch said, “because he’s been bragging to every reporter who’ll listen that he’s gunning for you.”

  “Keep your shirt on,” Pritchard said, looking up from the partially assembled chair. “Why would this Strobl fella be on the prod for me? I don’t know him from General Lee.”

  “Evidently, he knows you,” Ditch said, “at least by reputation. You’re tellin’ me you ain’t a little worried?”

  “Nah,” Pritchard said. “What’s worryin’ get you? Anyhow, I’m almost finished puttin’ the last leg on my chair. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Sometimes a little worryin’ can keep you alive. What am I supposed to tell your sister, Idelle, after you get shot to pieces sittin’ at your desk, covered in sawdust, fiddlin’ with a wooden chair?”

  “You worry too much,” Pritchard grinned, fitting the final leg into the seat. He placed the chair on the floor, sat in it, and smiled in satisfaction. “After all we’ve been through together, do you reckon I’m gonna let a fancy-pants, foreign duelist put a hole in me?”

  Pritchard stood to his full six-and-a-half-foot height and smiled down at his medium-sized friend. “Besides,” he said, “I have no choice but to make my own office chair. The old one is too small. The only way I can get furniture big enough to fit me is to make it myself.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get shot again,” Ditch said, looking up at the towering marshal. “Neither does Idelle. She is the mayor, after all. She’s insisting on going to the station herself to meet this Count Strobl. She plans to ask him not to provoke you. She doesn’t want to see anybody get hurt.”

  “Sometimes,” Pritchard said, “people get hurt. That’s a fact. Occasionally it can be prevented, other times it can’t. More often than not, it’s their own damned fault. Idelle ought to know that as well as anyone. You, too.”

  “I reckon so,” Ditch agreed.

  Samuel Pritchard and David “Ditch” Clemson had grown up as friends, neighbors, and blood brothers in rural Atherton. Teenagers when the Civil War began, they fled as partners after Pritchard’s father was murdered, his family’s property and lumber business were stolen, and his mother was forced to marry the man who’d orchestrated it all: Atherton’s corrupt mayor, Burnell Shipley. Young Pritchard was shot in the head, presumed dead, and buried in an unmarked grave.

  That was when his fiercely loyal friend, Ditch Clemson, dug him up and found him still clinging to life.

  After his resurrection, and bearing a telltale gunshot scar on his forehead over his right eye, Pritchard assumed the alias “Joe Atherton” to protect what was left of his family. Departing Missouri, the boys enlisted in the Confederate army as guerrillas in Arkansas. After a series of harrowing escapades, Pritchard and Ditch, no longer boys, survived the war and parted ways.

  Ditch, a skilled horseman, had grown weary of war and killing. He went farther south and sought his fortune in Texas. Within a few years he flourished as a rancher and cattleman.

  Pritchard chose a different path, also in Texas; he joined the Texas Rangers. Over the next ten years he blazed a trail, in gun smoke and blood, throughout the Republic of Texas and the New Mexico and Arizona territories. “Smokin’ Joe” Atherton, as he became known, earned his nickname for his propensity to send those who challenged him to “smoke in hell.” He also earned a well-deserved reputation as the fastest, and most lethal, gunman on the frontier.

  The previous summer, fate brought Pritchard and Ditch together once more. The duo joined forces on a cattle drive and ended up back in their hometown. There they courageously faced down Burnell Shipley and his crew of murderous lawmen, but not before Pritchard’s mother was killed and his younger sister, Idelle, was taken hostage. The two heroic young Missourians, neither yet thirty years old, eliminated the mayor, cleaned out his crooked gunmen, rescued Idelle, and freed the town of Atherton from the yoke of abuse and corruption that had characterized Burnell Shipley’s decades-long reign.

  In the nine months since their epic battle in the streets of Atherton, the town, finally out from under the shadow of Shipley’s iron-fisted rule, once again prospered. Ditch and Idelle, fulfilling her childhood wish, got engaged.

  Ironically, with Burnell Shipley’s death and the passing of their mother, Idelle and Samuel Pritchard inherited the vast wealth of Atherton’s lucrative lumber, cattle, and merchandising enterprises once controlled exclusively by Shipley.

  Pritchard, however, refused any part of the abundant inheritance. He left his share of the money, and the running of Atherton, in his younger sister’s capable hands, comforted by the knowledge that Ditch, his most trusted friend, was at her side. As a result of Pritchard’s reticence, Idelle found herself in the unique and unexpected position of being the wealthiest person in Jackson County, Missouri. And until the special elections coming up in June, she was also the acting mayor of Atherton.

  Pritchard contented himself with putting to rest the alias Smokin’ Joe Atherton, and the role of Ranger, gunfighter, and man-killer that had made him a legend under that infamous title.

  Meanwhile Ditch, at Idelle’s insistence, announced his candidacy for mayor to fill the vacancy created by Burnell Shipley’s abrupt demise. She knew he had the temperament, business acumen, and ethical foundation to lead Atherton out of the trauma the community had endured throughout the war and at Shipley’s filthy hands.

  At Ditch’s, Idelle’s, and the town council’s prodding, Pritchard had taken on the job of town marshal. He had also, reluctantly, allowed himself to be nominated as a candidate for Jackson County sheriff and grudgingly accepted the position of acting sheriff until the election.

  “Are you comin’ with me to the train station,” Ditch asked impatiently, “or ain’t ya?”

  Pritchard brushed off the sawdust from his button-front shirt and belted on his pair of .45 Colt revolvers. He topped his blond hair, which was closely cropped at the sides and back but long enough on top to mostly cover the bullet-hole scar on his forehead, with his Stetson.

  “Let’s go welcome the count,” he said to Ditch, gesturing toward the door. “I’d h
ate to keep royalty waiting.”

  Chapter 3

  It was overcast, chilly, and threatening rain when Pritchard and Ditch reached the depot. A sizable crowd, larger than the usual group of townspeople meeting the afternoon train, had assembled at the station. Both men surmised the extra gaggle of spectators were connected to the impending confrontation between the mysterious European passenger and Atherton’s town marshal. The train slowly came to a halt in a cloud of hissing steam.

  Idelle waved to them from across the station. When they met, she gave her brother and fiancé a hug. Like Pritchard, she had blond hair and crystal blue eyes. But unlike her colossal, rawboned, and muscular brother, Idelle was petite and delicate of feature.

  “There’s talk all over town of a showdown,” she said, glancing around at the people milling excitedly about. “All these folks have come to watch you and that Count Strobl fellow shoot each other to pieces.”

  “They’ll likely be disappointed,” Pritchard said.

  “Please be careful,” Idelle said. “I read in the Kansas City Enterprise that Count Strobl has already killed four men in duels since coming to America; one of them with a sword. They say he killed over a dozen more in Europe.”

  “Hell,” Ditch grunted, “Samuel’s killed more’n that in one afternoon.” Pritchard elbowed his friend.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Idelle said. “According to the article, Strobl’s a professional duelist. Which means somebody’s put up money to have you killed.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” Pritchard said calmly. “Maybe this Strobl feller’s just passin’ through?”

  “Who are you kidding?” Idelle said. “Atherton’s only a small town on the rail line to Kansas City from Saint Louis. There’s no reason for him to get off the train here, other than you. And why would he brag to all those reporters about wanting to challenge you if he wasn’t on the prod?”