by B. S. Dunn
Brothers of the Gun
Buford Lance fought for every inch of his B-L connected ranch, so he’d be damned if he was going to hand over a large portion of his Cottonwood Creek range to homesteaders.
Instead, he decides to fight again. This time, he hires two of the best guns in the business.
Lucas Kane: The Gun King. They said he was invincible, that there was nobody faster.
Jordan Kane: The Prince. Next in line for the throne. He’d take on any job. It was said that he’d shoot his own mother if the price was right.
One, an out and out killer, the other, his polar opposite who could never commit murder, no matter the price. When Lucas Kane refuses the job, Lance has him bushwhacked.
It begins an infamous blood-letting talked about for years to come and leads to the change of a town’s name in an effort to forget.
Ultimately, it draws two brothers into a showdown where only one can walk away.
Will the ‘Gun King’ keep his throne? Or can the ‘Prince’ finally get to wear the crown he desperately covets?
By the same author
Fury at Bent Fork
Brolin
Brothers of the Gun
B.S. Dunn
ROBERT HALE
© B.S. Dunn 2017
First published in Great Britain 2017
ISBN 978-0-7198-2208-7
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 B.S. Dunn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This one is for Sam and Jacob.
Prologue
Cottonwood Creek Range: Present Day
Thirty years, the lone man marvelled. Had so much time passed since it had happened?
He sat on his horse at the top of a tree-lined hill and looked out over the farms along Cottonwood Creek.
He was in his mid-sixties; his hair grey and his face cut by lines of age and hard work.
He could remember the emptiness when there was nothing here but Cottonwood Creek itself and mile upon mile of grazing land.
Then the settlers had come, hauling with them a world of hurt that saw the range run red with blood.
The old man shook his head as he remembered the killing. So many innocents had died because of one man’s greed.
Somewhere in the distance, a whip cracked, loud enough to reach his ears. It sounded like a gunshot and he instantly dropped his hand to his thigh and went for a gun that was long gone.
‘Old habits,’ he grunted to himself.
He dropped his gaze to a large stand of cottonwoods. A graveyard, now home to many of the original homesteaders who’d fought for what was theirs because they had nothing else, lay deep within the circle of trees.
There was a noise beside him and a woman of about thirty-six, with long flowing black hair, halted her bay mare beside him.
‘It’s certainly changed from what it used to be, hasn’t it?’ she commented.
The man nodded. ‘Yeah, it sure has.’
He paused then asked, ‘What brings you up here?’
‘You do,’ she answered. ‘I know you come up here every year at this time. What’s it been? Thirty years now?’
‘Yeah, thirty years.’
The time had passed quickly and it seemed just like yesterday that hell had come to the Cottonwood Creek range.
Chapter 1
Before
Buford Lance sat quietly atop a flat, copper-coloured rock and surveyed his kingdom, everything before him as far as the eye could see. The late afternoon sun had already begun its slow but steady descent towards the mountains.
He was a tall man of fifty-five years, with grey hair and brooding grey eyes. His face was lined from years of hard toil and his scuffed range clothes bore similar signs to those of his features. From his position on the sparsely covered ridge, he could see the thousands of acres he claimed as his own; hard-won acres.
On first arrival at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo range, with a few head of cattle and a head full of dreams, he’d faced many trials. They’d included every two-legged outlaw around these parts, plus Arapaho Indians, Kiowa and Southern Cheyenne. Thankfully, he was still alive to tell the tale and had himself the biggest ranch around. Lance even had the honour of having the town named after him.
Buford had become a thriving town which supported the surrounding ranches and homesteads. It was also used as a supply point for prospectors who travelled deep into the Sangre de Cristo Range.
His kingdom was some of the best grazing land around. It was crisscrossed with streams lined with cottonwoods. There were great stands of aspen, fir and spruce trees. The great bald, rocky crags and snow-capped peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Range provided a stunning backdrop to all this beauty. Magnificent giants that thrust their hands from the wilderness in an attempt to touch the sky.
He paused and thought once more of the homesteads. They were the bane of his existence. They’d come into his territory and tried to take this land that he’d fought so hard for. Armed with their papers and their so-called rights to 160 acres. At first, he’d allowed a few to settle, but the floodgate had never closed and a torrent had washed into his valley. They were not the ones who’d fought for this land. They’d not shed a drop of blood for it. What gave them the right? Certainly no piece of paper.
His bay horse snorted an alarm and brought Lance back to the present. He looked down to the base of the slope and saw a rider approach at a fast gallop. When the man’s horse hit the incline, he spurred it on, urging it to climb faster.
When horse and rider reached the top, he rapidly dismounted and strode across to the bench where the old rancher sat.
‘We got problems, Buford,’ gasped Chuck Lane. ‘Big problems. I just came from town and the hands said you were up here.’
Lance studied his foreman’s square-jawed face and saw concern etched deep in his brown eyes.
‘Take your time and tell it to me straight, Chuck,’ Lance said measuredly.
Chuck removed his brown Stetson and slapped at the dust on his blue jeans and shirt. He ran a calloused hand through his hair and took a deep breath to compose himself.
Chuck had been foreman of Lance’s B-L connected spread for the past ten years. He’d worked for him much longer, but now at forty, he was Lance’s most trusted and relied on man.
‘I went to town this mornin’ to get some supplies ’cause Chowhound was runnin’ short of things to try and poison us with,’ he started to explain. ‘While I was in the store, I overheard some of them homesteaders, talkin’ about more of ’em comin’ to Buford to take up homesteadin’. So after I finished loadin’ up the wagon I went and seen that lawyer feller, Grimsby.’
‘What did he have to say?’ Lance asked in his customary gravelly voice.
‘He said it was true,’ Chuck nodded. ‘Only this time it’s not just one or two takin’ up their quarter section. This time, there is a whole wagon train of ’em comin’ in to set up on the range by Cottonwood Creek. The lot of it.’
Lance turned and looked toward his land to the south. ‘How many, Chuck?’
‘Accordin’ to Grimsby there’s twenty families comin’ in.’
Lance’s face contorted with rage at the prospect of having so much more taken from him. Twenty quarter sections; just over 3,000 acres of prime grazing land. Not to mention good water for his cattle and some large tracts of timber.
‘No, God damn it!’ his voice rumbled. ‘No damn sodbuste
r is comin’ in here and takin’ all of that range from me. I fought for it and I aim to keep it.’
Lance stood and began to walk towards his bay. ‘Come on, Chuck.’
‘Where are we goin’?’
‘Back to the house,’ Lance answered. ‘There’s only one way to stop what’s comin’ and that’s with guns. I’m not givin’ them one inch of my graze. The government says they have to be there five years to make the land theirs. They ain’t goin’ to be there five damned minutes.’
‘Here,’ Lance said as he held out a piece of paper. ‘Take this to Grimes and tell him to find these men. I don’t care how many wires he has to send or what it costs. Just tell him I want ’em all found.’
Chuck read the paper by the dull lamplight in the ranch house living room, looked at his boss then read it one more time.
‘Are you sure about this, boss?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Yes, damn it. I’ve never been surer about anythin’ in my life before. I want those men. It’s the only way to stop them sodbusters from stealin’ my range.’
Chuck folded the paper and tucked it into the top pocket of his shirt. ‘Fine, if it’s the only way, then me and the boys will back you one hundred per cent.’
Lance nodded. ‘Thanks, Chuck, I knew I could count on you.’
A whole town held its collective breath as Lucas Kane, the ‘Gun King’, faced down three Shaw brothers in the dusty main street of Spanish Fork, New Mexico. Jeb, Seth, and Mo stood shoulder to shoulder, totally undaunted by the man who stood before them.
Lucas Kane was thirty-four and his solid 6-foot-1 frame cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun. His hair was black and his brown eyes stared hard at the brothers while his right hand rested on the butt of his holstered Colt Peacemaker which was tied down low.
His blue pants and buckskin jacket were well worn but in good repair.
The Shaw brothers were well known, tenth-rate back shooters who’d ridden into Spanish Fork a month before. The first day in town, they’d taken out the local sheriff and since then, had waged a campaign of fear and violence.
Jeb and Seth were the older brothers, both in their thirties, thin and unkempt. While Jeb was of average height, Seth was tall at 6-foot-4. Both wore Colt .45s and knew how to use them.
Mo was cut from a different bolt of cloth. At twenty-eight, he was fat and well groomed. He tried to keep himself as tidy as possible, but as an outlaw found it nigh on impossible. Like his brothers, he wore a Colt .45 but instead of a Stetson, he preferred a derby style hat. Unlike his brothers, his nervousness showed openly in these situations.
Mo would be the last shot. Kane’s assessment of the three was that Mo would shoot too quick and miss, which would give him more time.
He was certain he could take the other two, even on his worst day.
‘Are you ready to die, Kane?’ Jeb Shaw snarled from his position twenty paces away. ‘Even you ain’t that good. You’re outgunned, so there’s no way you can beat all three of us.’
‘Just waitin’ for you to start the ball,’ Kane replied, ‘then we’ll see if what you say is true.’
Jeb Shaw licked his lips and shot a glance over Kane’s right shoulder then settled his gaze once more on the gunfighter.
Kane frowned. It was the second time he’d looked that way.
Crowds lined the boardwalks on both sides of the street as they waited patiently, onlookers at some bizarre sideshow.
‘You boys can still walk away,’ Kane informed them. ‘Just turn around, get your broncs and leave town.’
‘The hell we are,’ Seth cursed. ‘We ain’t goin’ nowhere. But you are, Kane, feet first into the ground.’
They were Seth Shaw’s final words. He grabbed at the butt of his holstered Colt and started his draw.
The six-gun was still pointed down when the first slug from Kane’s Peacemaker blew through his teeth and out the back of his head. The impact sprayed splinters of skull and grey brain matter onto the street behind him.
Kane moved his aim slightly and fired again, this time at Jeb Shaw. The bullet slammed into Shaw’s chest before he could clear leather. His mouth flew wide as he gasped with pain and Kane fired again. The second slug hit the outlaw in the throat and bright red blood sprayed over Mo.
Shock registered on the younger brother’s face when he realized that he too would suffer the same violent fate as his brothers.
Kane had been wrong about him. Mo had been so scared that his fear had rendered him incapable of even attempting to draw his gun. The youngster froze then cried out, ‘No, wait!’
The gunfighter pulled his finger back from the trigger of his Peacemaker then realized that Mo hadn’t shouted at him. The younger brother’s gaze was directed behind Kane. He whirled about desperately, looking for the back shooter he knew must be there.
Once more, a gunshot thundered and the sound reverberated around the false fronts of the buildings on the main street. Kane spotted the bushwhacker and snapped the Peacemaker into line with his target. He was too late; the man had already buckled at the knees and slumped to the ground. A red stain spread across his shirt.
Kane looked about the crowd of onlookers, in search of the person responsible for the shot. Out into the street stepped a tall figure, dressed in jeans, red shirt, knee high boots and black Stetson. His left hand held a still smoking six-gun.
‘Thought you were more careful than that, Lucas,’ the newcomer observed.
Kane was about to say something when a voice suddenly screamed, ‘Lookout!’
Kane spun around to find Mo Shaw bringing his gun into line. His courage had grown remarkably when Kane’s back had been turned. Two shots rang out and the younger Shaw died beside his brothers in the dust of Spanish Fork’s main street.
The newcomer walked forward and stopped beside Kane. ‘I see you’re startin’ to slip a little, Lucas.’
‘Yeah, Rio,’ Kane allowed as he ejected the empty cartridges from his Colt and thumbed in fresh loads. ‘I must be gettin’ old. Thanks for your help, by the way.’
Rio Smith was a man made from the same mould as Lucas Kane. A hired gun with a reputation for taking only the honest jobs.
‘Mr Kane?’ an uncertain voice wavered from behind the two men.
They turned and Kane recognized the mayor of Spanish Fork. In his hand he held an envelope which the gunfighter assumed contained his payment.
The portly man stepped forward. ‘There you are, Mr Kane, one thousand dollars, just as you asked.’
Kane took the money and nodded. ‘Thank you, Mayor.’
The civic leader smiled timidly then turned and hurried off.
‘What are you doin’ in town, Rio?’ Kane asked as he stuffed the money inside his shirt.
‘Just passin’ through,’ Rio explained. ‘Been down in old Mex helpin’ out some villagers who had trouble with a local bandit. Turned out he was American. An outlaw by the name of Bob Flint.’
Kane nodded. ‘Come on, let’s get out of the street. I’ll buy you a drink. I guess it’s the least I can do since you saved me from a bullet in the back.’
‘Where are you headed?’ Kane asked as he placed the empty shot glass on the scarred tabletop.
Rio looked about the brightly lit room. The Hashknife saloon was almost full. Tables were jammed with customers as they excitedly related their version of what they’d witnessed in the street.
‘I’m headed north. What about you? Anythin’ on?’
‘Nope, might head over to Texas, see if anyone is hirin’ ranch hands.’
Rio looked as if he’d been slapped in the face.
‘What?’ said Kane.
‘Did I hear you right?’ Rio managed to get out. ‘You did just say “ranch hand”.’
Kane shrugged. ‘What can I say? I like cows.’
Rio shook his head in disbelief.
A short, wiry man with hair parted down the middle entered the saloon and Kane watched his progress as he made his way through the crowd to the lon
g, timber bar. He saw the man speak to the elderly barkeep in the large mirror which hung on the wall behind the counter. The barkeep pointed to Kane and the man turned and walked towards the table where the two gunfighters sat.
The man stopped in front of them and asked nervously, ‘Mr Kane?’
Kane nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’
The anxious man smiled faintly. ‘My name is Bentley, Cyrus Bentley. I’m the telegraphist here in town.’
Bentley held out a folded piece of paper for the gunfighter. ‘This came for you earlier.’
Kane took the paper, thanked the man and tipped him four bits for his trouble.
Bentley smiled thinly, thanked Kane then hurried off through the crowd.
The gunfighter read the note then placed it in his pocket.
‘Work or trouble?’ Rio asked.
‘Work,’ Kane confirmed. ‘A place called Buford, up in the Sangre de Cristo foothills. Must be important, feller is offerin’ a thousand.’
‘Sounds like a real earner,’ Rio acknowledged. ‘Just be careful, Lucas, as you know high payin’ jobs usually come with high risk.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. Feel like some company on your way north?’
‘Sure, why not? Be glad to have you along.’
Chapter 2
Jordan Kane felt a buzz course through him and he smiled. Today he was going to kill a man. Not because he needed killing, but because he could. Payment for the job made it feel just that much better.
He looked at his reflection in the fly-specked mirror and liked what he saw. A tall, lean but muscular body clad in black clothes, black Stetson with a silver band and black leather gun rig with silver conchos. The holsters housed a matching pair of nickel plated, ivory handled Colt .45s.
He relaxed briefly then drew his six-guns, a smooth, fluid draw that was almost invisible to the eye.