by Abe Dancer
The face of Diamond Bob Casey was branded into his mind.
It had been the only thing to keep him out here in this arid land for so long. He could have retired three years earlier and returned East with a tidy pension, but that would have robbed him of the chance to find and kill Casey.
It was the only thing which had kept Forbes alive.
Now Forbes could actually see the rider ahead of him. A rider who was not having any joy controlling the bareback Indian pony beneath him.
The troop of eighteen cavalrymen and the scout were spread out wide as they thundered along the canyon after the pair of men they knew must be wanted outlaws.
The larger saddle horse that Frank Smith rode was now finding its long legs capable of far greater speed than the smaller Indian pony Talbot was riding. It started to draw ahead. But to ride ahead of a man like Talbot, or Diamond Bob Casey, was not the smartest thing to do.
At last Tate Talbot had his chance. He would take it.
The outlaw drew one of his deadly .45s from its holster and aimed at the rider who was now two horse’s lengths ahead of him.
He squeezed the trigger and watched Smith’s back explode as the bullet found its mark. Smith released the grip of his reins, arched his back just as Talbot sent a second lethal shot into him.
The larger horse began to slow as the spurs were no longer being rammed into its flesh. Smith’s body rotated atop the saddle for a few moments as Talbot forced the Indian pony to draw level.
Balancing astride the unsaddled pony, Talbot raised his right boot and placed it on the back of the galloping pony. He straightened his leg, rose and catapulted himself across the distance between them. He landed on to the horse just behind his lifeless companion.
Without a second thought, Talbot pushed Smith aside. The body fell and hit the ground hard and rolled across the sun-baked ground but Talbot did not see it. He grabbed the saddle horn, jumped on to the seat of the saddle and poked both boots into the stirrups. He gathered up the reins and whipped the mount’s shoulders. The horse responded and vainly tried to ride away from the pain which kept on coming.
Sergeant Coogan looked across at the face of the cavalry captain who rode beside him.
‘Did ya see that? He just killed his pal, sir!’ the sergeant shouted out.
But Forbes just narrowed his eyes against the dust they were thundering into. He ignored Coogan’s shout and pointed one of his white gauntlets ahead.
‘Look, Coogan!’
Coogan screwed up his eyes to where Captain Forbes was pointing. Then, through the shimmering haze, he saw them.
The near-naked men painted for war were standing defiantly waiting for them to ride into range of their rifles. Coogan’s head turned back to his superior officer.
‘Nazimo!’
‘To hell with Nazimo!’ Forbes bellowed back. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry!’
‘What’ll we do about those Injuns?’ Coogan hollered.
But Forbes did not care about the Apache warriors. His thoughts were for one man only. He could see Talbot turning his horse and heading towards the golden-coloured buttes to their left. He quickly glanced at his sergeant.
‘I’m going after Casey, Sergeant,’ Forbes shouted. ‘You charge those renegades.’
‘But, Captain….’ Casey gasped.
Forbes turned his powerful horse. ‘That’s an order, Coogan!’
Coogan watched as the seasoned officer spurred his mount and peeled off the line of cavalrymen in pursuit of the outlaw. He cleared his throat.
‘Bugler?’ Coogan yelled out. ‘Sound the charge!’
The canyon resounded with the haunting sound of the bugle. The cavalry charged.
There was no mistaking the sound of a troop of cavalrymen charging as their bugler heralded. For the first time since they had escaped from the reservation, the other Apaches ignored the words of Nazimo. They ran for their ponies and leapt on to them. They rode off into the desert.
Seeing his braves desert him, Nazimo defiantly returned his attention to the approaching sabres. There was no fear in him unlike those who were fleeing.
Nazimo spat at the sight and then turned back towards his prisoners with his rifle at hip height. But this time Hal Harper was not cradling the wounded Talka. This time he was coiled like a puma ready to strike.
No sooner had Nazimo’s eyes focused upon him and the rest of the small band of kneeling men than Harper leapt up off the sand and caught the brave around the shoulders. As both men fell, the rifle fired into the sky and fell from Nazimo’s grip. Harper landed on top of the Indian and smashed his clenched right fist into his jaw. The sound of cracking teeth came a split second before the Apache drew his knife from his belt. Harper grabbed the wrist of his opponent. They wrestled across the sand and rolled down into a gully.
Nazimo managed to rise first but Harper would not release his grip on the hand with the knife in it. They struggled like rutting deer. The Apache tried to take the knife into his other hand but Harper raised a boot and kicked out.
Nazimo flew back.
Faster than he had ever moved before, Harper got to his feet when he saw the blade glinting in the blazing sun. His hand went to his holster but the Colt had gone. The blade of the knife was like a mirror. It flashed in the eyes of the young drifter who moved backwards.
The furious Nazimo whooped and threw himself across the distance between them. He was only halfway to his target when an ear-splitting noise deafened the drifter. Nazimo’s body was knocked sideways and hit the sand hard. Harper staggered and looked at the body. Then he saw the blood pumping from the bullet hole in the Apache’s side.
He looked to the Indians and saw Talka with the gun in his shaking hand. Harper rushed to the side of the brave.
‘I thought ya was dead, Talka.’
Talka returned the gun to its owner.
‘You drop this, White Eyes Hal.’
Harper slid the six-shooter into its holster and then looked across the sand. He could see the raging battle between the cavalry and the last of Nazimo’s followers. It did not last long.
‘Them Apaches are done for, Talka,’ Harper said.
Talka did not answer.
It was a lot further to the golden-coloured buttes than Talbot had figured. His mount was flagging beneath him as he steered it between the cactus and brush in an attempt to reach a place where he thought that he might find salvation.
Then a shot came from the barrel of Eli Forbes’s service revolver. The bullet hit the horse in the top of its muscular left leg. The animal crashed into the ground heavily and threw its rider a dozen or more feet over its head. Talbot came to a halt beside the base of a Joshua tree. For a few seconds he lay winded, then he saw the horseman approaching him through the thicket of tall cactus.
Instinctively Talbot’s hands went to his guns as he scrambled to his feet. He pulled them both from their holsters and cocked their hammers.
For the first time in his entire life the man who had been born Robert Casey was afraid. One stiff-backed cavalry officer riding towards him with a smoking gun in his gloved hand was actually frightening him.
Talbot raised both guns and fired. Red-hot flashes erupted from the gun barrels.
Forbes continued to approach through the gunsmoke.
Again the outlaw fired. Still the cavalryman rode closer.
Talbot ran forward and cocked his hammers again.
Captain Eli Forbes stopped his horse and blasted one more shot at the outlaw. The accurately placed shot went straight into Talbot’s chest.
Talbot crumpled and fell on to one knee. The gun in his left hand fell to the sand. Blood soon encircled the kneeling man as he gasped and tried to raise the gun again.
Forbes dismounted and strode toward the outlaw.
‘Look at me!’ Forbes commanded.
Talbot coughed. Blood gushed from his mouth and poured down over the shirt with the tin star pinned to it. His eyes looked upward.
‘Stinking Yankee!
’ the outlaw mumbled.
Forbes raised his weapon and cocked its hammer. He aimed at the head of the man he had sought for so many years.
Then Talbot fell on to his face.
Captain Forbes closed his eyes and then returned his gun to its buttoned-down holster. He sighed and walked back to his powerful horse. He mounted and turned its noble head and tapped his spurs.
FINALE
An exhausted Hal Harper sat on the sand beside the burly Coogan as the sun started to go down. He watched silently as the army surgeon worked on Talka beside the campfire. Captain Forbes had returned hours earlier and also remained silent. Eventually the veteran cavalry officer moved to the young drifter and his loyal sergeant.
‘Will Talka be OK, Captain?’ Harper asked.
Forbes smiled. ‘I’m informed that your friend will survive, Mr Harper!’
Harper nodded. ‘That’s good.’
‘Who are these Indians, Mr Harper?’ Forbes asked, looking at the small group of braves who sat close to where their leader was being operated upon. ‘I do not seem to recognize their unusual clothing at all.’
Harper got to his feet. ‘I don’t know, sir. They saved my bacon a couple of days back but they say that their tribe ain’t got a name.’
‘Highly unusual!’ Forbes observed. ‘I thought that I knew every single tribe in these parts but they’re a total mystery!’
Coogan got to his feet and walked toward the campfire. ‘I’ll get ya some coffee, Captain.’
Forbes gave a salute. ‘Thank you, Coogan. Bring Mr Harper one as well.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Coogan acknowledged.
Harper sighed and looked out at the desert to where the soldiers had fought with the last of the Apaches. He rubbed his neck and stared at the officer beside him. ‘Were you chasing them Apaches, Captain?’
‘Indeed,’ Forbes replied. ‘They escaped from a reservation at Fort Myers and killed a couple of families on their way here.’
‘Settlers?’
‘Yes.’ Forbes gave a sigh. ‘They killed women and children as well as a few men. Sixteen lives lost for nothing.’
The young drifter stared out at the dying remnants of the sun as it sank far beyond the distant mesas. The sky was stained with ripples of scarlet. He then noticed that Forbes was staring at him. He turned and looked at the veteran cavalryman.
‘Anything wrong, Captain?’
‘I had a son about your age, Mr Harper!’ Forbes sighed again. ‘You remind me of him. He had spirit like yourself.’
Coogan returned with two tin cups of black coffee and handed them to Forbes and Harper. He then went about his business.
Harper held the cup in his gloved hands and blew into the steam before taking a sip. The cavalry officer held his cup and stared at the braves again, then returned his gaze to Harper.
‘What are you going to do now, Mr Harper?’
Harper smiled. ‘I’m going to ride with those Indians back to their land, Captain.’
‘Where is their land?’
‘I don’t know.’ Harper shrugged. ‘But they say that they live in a golden-coloured mountain higher than the eagle flies, sir. I’d like to see that place.’
Forbes raised his white eyebrows.
‘Sounds pretty good, son.’
Harper nodded. ‘If it’s half as good as its people I’m sure it’s mighty fine, Captain.’
‘Indeed, my boy. Indeed!’
Rawhide
Ransom
Tyler Hatch
Rawhide Ransom
Cole was a good sheriff, maybe a mite too lenient at times, but when the chips were down, the town of Barberry fully appreciated his prowess with guns and fists.
But they didn’t know there was a tragedy in his past that would affect his actions – until a local boy was kidnapped while Cole was supposed to be guarding him. And the only one who could deliver the ransom was Cole himself.
By the Same Author
A Land to Die For
Deathwatch Trail
Buckskin Girl
Long Shot
Vigilante Marshal
Five Graves West
The Brazos Legacy
Big Bad River
Reno’s Renegades
Red Sunday
Wrong Side of the River
Longhorn Country
Cheyenne Gallows
Dead Where You Stand!
Durango Gunhawk
Knife Edge
Wilde Country
Copyright
© Tyler Hatch 2009
First published in Great Britain 2009
This ebook edition 2011
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Tyler Hatch to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
CHAPTER 1
GUNSMOKE
As the gunsmoke began to clear it revealed the three dead men sprawled in the dirt of Front Street, thin ribbons of blood trickling into the slush of the gutter.
Adam Cole still remained in the half-crouch he had assumed when the gunfight had become inevitable.
‘Damn fools. They could still be alive. Jailbait, but breathing.’
No one was close enough to hear his muttered remark. He commenced to reload his Colt. The townsfolk began to appear from their hurried choices of cover when the bullets started to fly; they had huddled in doorways, behind awning posts and rainwater butts, under parked buckboards, some even lying prone in the street itself, having dropped there hurriedly at the first gunshot.
Dusting down their clothes, all of them stared at the lean sheriff as if they had never seen him before.
In a way they hadn’t; this man who had cut down three violent bank robbers in their tracks barely resembled the quiet-spoken, non-violent lawman the town council had hired a couple of months ago. He had been popular because he had good manners, raised, or at least touched his hat to the ladies in passing on, the street, settled many an argument by quiet counselling, or just once or twice with his fists. But those times had been few and far between, though once he took on three drunken trail rowdies passing through and ready to hooraw the town. They tried to blind-side him but all three needed attention from Doc Partridge before quitting town, with Cole riding shotgun out as far as the county line.
Folk had wondered about his gun: a used-looking Colt in oiled leather. No one had seen him even brush his hand against the butt and a few worriedly – and quietly – remarked that they wondered how he would react if he had to use it.
Now they knew.
The men he had taken on and who now lay dead in the town’s main street had been seasoned outlaws, ready and willing to shoot their way out of trouble. They had been led by Louisiana Dann, notorious for his gunplay and violence.
They came running out of the bank, clutching their booty – and stopped dead when they found the lone figure of the sheriff standing there, casually hipshot, hands hanging down at is sides.
‘Stop right there, boys, and you’ll see sunrise tomorrow.’
Startled, they had looked around for this lone lawman’s back-up – he surely would have five or six deputies planted somewhere…?
There was no sign of even one.
Good enough for Dann. Playing to the staring, nervous townsfolk, he spoke to Cole: ‘You’re the one ain’t gonna see the sunrise!’
People scattered before all the words were spoken and the guns came up blazing.
There was a brief volley of scattered shots and, later, several witnesses maintained that Cole only fired three times – and Louisiana Dann and his pards lay dead in the dust, the stolen moneybags crumpled under their bodies.
And now the dissipating gunsmoke revealed the whole scene and fast-talking townsfolk crowded around.
‘He got all three!’
‘Never seen him
draw!’
‘They had him surrounded – the poor bastards!’
‘They never stood a chance!’
Cole was jostled, patted on the back, several men insisted on shaking his hand.
‘Someone get a door and take ’em down to the undertaker’s.’ Cole spoke tersely, obviously uncomfortable with all this attention. ‘And get that money back in the bank! Every damn cent!’
‘I’m taking care of that, Cole. My clerks will see it’s all collected.’
Linus Charlton, the town banker, looked sallow, face drawn, although his figure was corpulent enough and normally his face had a florid, pudden-look. He was trying to light a long thin cigar, his hands shaking, the match flame burning his fingers. Cole snapped a vesta on his thumbnail and held it for Charlton.
‘Easy, banker. It’s all over. Anyone hurt inside?’
‘Uh – two clerks, I think. Yes, Ernie Hall and Benton Ness. One female clerk fainted.’
‘They need a doctor?’
‘Ernie will. They split his scalp and knocked him cold.’ Just then Doctor Partridge appeared, hurrying up with satchel in hand, and the banker directed him inside. Then he looked back at Cole; the cigar seemed to have calmed him some but he had an almost angry look on his face.’By God, I – we never expected to see anything like this, Cole!’
‘What you hired me for.’
‘Yes – and thank God we did hire you. Just three shots and that gang is ready for Boot Hill! How come you never told us how good you were when the committee interviewed you?’
‘They asked if I was fast with a gun and I said I’d been fast enough so far.’ His deep voice held hardly any interest. He jerked his head at Charlton and walked to the law office on the opposite side of the street, the crowd opening out to let him pass.
He was seated at his desk, rolling a cigarette when the banker puffed in, half-smoked cigar down at his side. He dropped into a chair.
‘I think this calls for a drink.’
The sheriff fired up and swung the chair around, bending to open a drawer in the desk. He set a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses on the paper-cluttered top and poured two drinks, filling each glass to the brim.