The Vengeance Seeker 2

by Will C. Knott

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Wolf Caulder’s lips set in a thin line as he rode toward the ranch. Suddenly a shot came his way and he ducked involuntarily.

  This was the way it was going to be, he thought almost wearily: more guns, more killing. But what he didn’t realize at the time was that one of his enemies was a torturing murderer – and the other a snake right out of hell.

  THE VENGEANCE SEEKER 2: DEADLY PROMISE

  By Will C. Knott

  First published by Ace Books in 1975

  Copyright © 1975, 2020 by Will C. Knott

  First Digital Edition: March 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  One

  Wolf Caulder reined in his black and let his gaze sweep over the lush grasslands that opened up before him. He had just come through a pass and was looking down now at a broad valley with a wide creek snaking through the center of it, willows lining the bank. The entire valley floor was a sea of grass, the fragrant wind rippling it like water. And far below, barely visible from where Wolf sat his horse, at a point where the creek took a wide, lazy meander, a small nest of cabins and corrals had been set in among a stand of cottonwood.

  Profoundly relieved to be quitting the parched and dry land behind him, Wolf urged his black on down the slope toward the distant cluster of buildings. Soon he was riding through grass that reached to his stirrups, the pungent odor of sage clouding his senses.

  When he was close enough, he was able to see a thin tracery of wood smoke lifting from the chimney of the largest log house. Fine. That would mean coffee at least. A brook feeding into the creek crossed his path and he pulled his black up gently and eased him into the soft mud around it.

  The shot came as the horse stepped carefully down into the brook’s channel. As Wolf heard the slug whistle past his left ear, he quickly spurred the black up the far bank, fell forward over the horse’s neck, then slid sideways to the ground. Rolling quickly over as soon as he struck, he pulled his single-action Colt out of its well-oiled flapless holster.

  The black pulled up about ten yards further along, then glanced back at Wolf, whickering questioningly. Wolf smiled grimly, deepening the scar that ran from his patched right eye all the way to his ear. He was a lean ugly man at first glance and he lay perfectly still in the tall grass, waiting.

  A horse galloped up from the direction of the buildings. Not until the rider was almost on him could Wolf get a good look at the rider. He was an old man, his face covered with a white stubble. The two saw each other at about the same time. Wolf rose quickly to his feet, his Colt sighted on the man’s head. The old fellow’s rifle remained in its scabbard as he flung both hands into the air. His horse pulled up quickly.

  “All right, mister,” the old man said. “You got the drop on me.”

  “What’s the idea? You always greet strangers that way?”

  “Wasn’t my idea. I got a nervous grandson back there. He’s just a kid, but his father taught him to shoot before he taught him manners.”

  “A kid? Seems like someone ought to take a belt to him. If you ain’t willing, maybe I am.”

  The old man put his hands down and grinned. “Now, mister, that would suit me just fine.”

  Wolf holstered his gun and started for his horse. “We’ll ride in together, old man, and I’ll be right anxious to get to that chore. But I’d appreciate a cup of coffee first—if it’s on.”

  “It will be,” the old man said, pulling his horse around.

  Wolf swung into his saddle and followed the other. The man was dressed poorly, with faded and patched Levi’s, a woolen shirt open at the neck and a battered Stetson that had carried too much water and seen too many hot suns. Only the horse showed quality—that and the way the old puncher rode him.

  As they neared the main cabin, a tall, skinny boy of about twelve jumped down from the top rail of a corral fence and started toward them. He was carrying a Winchester—like Wolf’s, an 1873 model that used a 44-40 caliber shell. At that distance the boy’s shot had been a good one. Wolf could still hear the whine of that bullet as it passed him.

  “Ben,” the old man said, after chucking back his Stetson and folding his hands over the pommel, “this here gentleman seems to think you need a whupping for throwing down on him like that. I happen to agree.” The old man glanced at Wolf. “I’ll see to that coffee, stranger.”

  “The name’s Wolf. Wolf Caulder.”

  “Pike Hanson. This here’s Ben Hanson—my grandson—of which I ain’t overly proud at the moment.” Pike dismounted, dropped his mount’s reins over the hitching post in front of the cabin and went inside.

  The boy had a pinched, angry face with shiny dark hair that flopped over his forehead. The eyes were as dark as the hair and glowed angrily. He was dressed as poorly as his grandfather—a lack of a woman’s caring fingers everywhere apparent, in the ripped seams, the failing patches, the dirt.

  “Just turn right around, mister,” the boy said coldly, “and ride on out of here. You can’t buffalo me like you can my grandpap.”

  Wolf smiled. He liked the boy at once. “Just as soon as I teach you that lesson your grandfather is so anxious for me to teach you—and after I’ve had my coffee. I’ve come a long dry way. I reckon a short spell in a chair that ain’t moving under me would be a real comfort.”

  The boy levered another cartridge into the firing chamber and stepped back, his eyes becoming smoky. Wolf dismounted casually, led his black to the same hitching post the grandfather had used, and dropped the reins over it. Then he turned to the boy and smiled.

  “I’m a stranger to you, Ben. You don’t know me. I ain’t done you no harm at all. So you ain’t going to shoot me. Not unless you’ve been brought up like a no-account savage.” He stepped toward the boy and reached out for his Winchester.

  The boy took another step back and leveled the rifle at Wolf. Wolf stopped. The kid was spooked pretty bad, he realized.

  “You ain’t no stranger to me, mister,” the boy said, his voice thick with hate. “You’re one of Blackmann’s hired guns. He’s been bringing them in from all over—Texas mostly, and that’s where you’re from. I can tell.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Those boots. And your gun belt and holster. Hand tooled.”

  Wolf nodded. “You’re right about the gun belt, Ben. A very old Mexican in Piedras Negras fashioned it. The boots and the holster too, I reckon. He was nearly blind and worked mostly by touch. A fine craftsman. But Texas was a long time ago for me. And I don’t work for this Mr. Blackmann you mentioned. And that’s a fact.”

  “Then who do you work for?”

  “I don’t work for anyone,” Wolf said, his voice developing a slight edge to it. He took another step closer to the boy. “And I don’t take kindly to talking to a young snot-nosed kid down the length of a rifle barrel, neither.”

  With the suddenness of a snake striking, Wolf reached out and grabbed the barrel, yanking it free of the boy’s grasp in an instant and flinging it back over his shoulder. Still moving in on the boy, he caught one of his bony wrists, pulled him closer, and then slapped
him on the side of the face with all the force he judged would be necessary. The boy’s face snapped around and Wolf let him go reeling to the ground.

  But even as the boy struck the ground, he was gathering himself to come after Wolf. As he scrambled to his feet and got ready to charge, Wolf drew his Colt and fired over the boy’s head—but not so far over that he wouldn’t be able to hear the bullet as it went on its way. The boy pulled up, his narrow face suddenly pale. Wolf holstered his Colt and smiled again.

  “Thought that might get you to thinking sensibly, Ben. Now let’s go inside for that coffee—and you can tell me about this here Mr. Blackmann that’s got you so fired up.”

  The boy stood there, glowering. He was not tamed yet and from the spreading red flush on his cheek, Wolf could see that it must still be smarting plenty. Before he could reply to Wolf, Pike stepped out onto the low porch.

  “Damn it, Ben,” Pike said. “This here fellow’s handling you as pretty as a grizzly handling a puppy dog and you still ain’t got enough sense to show him proper manners.” Pike placed his hands on his hips and shook his head, then looked at Wolf. “Coffee’s ready. Maybe we can drink it in peace if this young savage wants to go off and sulk somewheres.”

  The boy spun on his heels and stormed off toward one of the barns, making a short detour to pick up his rifle as he went.

  Shaking his head, Pike watched him go, then looked at Wolf. “Come on in. There’s more than coffee. Not much more, but enough to fill a man’s belly. We don’t have much fancy fare no more, but we don’t starve neither.”

  Wolf followed the old man inside the dim interior of the cabin. It was all one huge room with a ladder in the rear leading to the second floor loft. Two cots, one in each corner, were only roughly made. A huge fireplace dominated one whole side of the room. A large iron wood range was along the opposite wall, a big enamel coffee pot sitting on it. Next to it was a table with a lamp on it, three chairs up to it facing three steaming cups of black coffee. One place was set more elaborately with a plate piled high with red beans and thick strips of bacon, a wooden bowl of sourdough biscuits beside it. The smell of the beans and the bacon—obviously just reheated by Pike—filled the place. Wolf smiled. If this was not elegant fare, it sure as hell beat another night of jerky.

  With a brisk nod Wolf took off his black flat-crowned Stetson and placed it down beside his plate, sat down and commenced to eat. He didn’t favor much palaver at meals and he knew Pike understood. At last, reaching for his second cup of black coffee to wash it all down, he leaned back and nodded his thanks to Pike.

  “A welcome meal, Pike—especially after the ride I’ve been having. But I’ve a horse out there that’s been on the trail as long as I have.”

  Wolf got up and went out to see to his black, imagining as he led the animal across the yard to the water trough that the black had fastened reproachful eyes on him the moment he stepped through the cabin door.

  As he finished watering the horse, Wolf glanced at Pike, who had come out of the cabin and was walking across the yard toward him. “I’d like to let this horse rest up a while. That’s fine sweet grass you’ve got out there. And good water, too. Maybe you could use an extra hand for a couple of days.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. This spread could use an extra hand, all right. I guess you could see that right off.” He smiled apologetically. “This ain’t the way it used to look, I can tell you.”

  Wolf led the black into the horse barn, removed his saddle and then walked him through the barn and, slapping his rump smartly, sent him out into the pasture land behind the barn. The black whisked its tail once, then bolted out into the lush grass. Wolf turned around then and walked back through the barn toward Pike.

  The old man was at least a foot shorter than Wolf, with short bandy legs and a face cracked and weathered like an old saddle cloth. His eyes had the perpetual squint of a man who has spent long winters and long summers in a creaking saddle searching the wide horizon for strays or hostiles, for sudden windstorms and prairie fires.

  “How big is this spread?” Wolf asked.

  “The Double B owns this entire valley,” Pike said with quiet pride, “and damn it, Ben and me, we intend to hang onto it as long as we’re both standing. The valley is ten miles long and a good five miles deep. Right plumb through the center of it runs the sweetest water this side of the Big Horn. Every bit of this valley belongs to the Double B,” he repeated for emphasis, “and we have clear title to it.”

  Wolf smiled. “I didn’t expect an argument,” he said. “I just wanted to know.”

  The man grinned at Wolf, then shook his head. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you understood we own this land. A man gets a little nervous with everybody trying to take away what’s rightfully his. Every time I think of ...” He caught himself in time, then looked at Wolf. “You’re just a stranger passing through. You’re not interested in our troubles. Wouldn’t be fittin’ to bother you with them.”

  They were out of the barn by this time, walking across the yard toward the main cabin. Wolf looked it over as they approached. It was fashioned of roughly squared cottonwood logs with mud filling the chinks; but the roof was shingled and looked almost new—a startling novelty this far out onto the range. The builder of this homestead undoubtedly had planned on making things permanent. He had come to stay and to settle, to put roots down.

  Wolf looked at Pike. “If I’m going to help around here, I should know what kind of trouble would spook a kid like that. I might need to keep a look out myself.”

  The old man sighed. “Guess maybe you should.”

  There was a wooden bench on the low porch. The two sat down. Wolf took out his sack of Bull Durham and rolled himself a smoke. Pike took out a plug of chewing tobacco and bit off a sizable chaw. He spoke first.

  “John Blackmann wants this spread. Before my son purchased this valley, Blackmann thought of it as his, part of the open range he’s been fattening his stock with since he moved in ten years ago.”

  “John Blackmann?”

  “He’s the biggest rancher in these parts, the owner of the Snake Bar, a Bible-toting hypocrite. With his Bible in one hand and six-shooter in the other, he’s come pretty close to owning this territory.”

  “How come he let your son buy this valley?”

  The old mail snorted. “He didn’t see as it made any difference who bought it, he’d just up and use it whenever he wanted to use it. He’s the law in these parts, Wolf—that’s the long and the short of it.”

  “Where’s your son now?”

  “My son—and his wife—are over there under the ground in that small stand of cottonwood near the creek. It was Amy’s favorite spot.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Two months. This spring. Some of Blackmann’s men were riding through. One of them dropped his rope over Amy while she was picking some sage for the dinner table. He might have just been funning—but it scared hell out of her. Jason—my son—came galloping up. He’d just about had it by that time. He drew his gun ...” The man paused a moment, his gaze returning to that clump of cottonwood for a moment before it swung away again. “When the dust cleared one of Blackmann’s riders was dead, but so was Jason. Amy was shot up pretty bad. A stray bullet, I guess. She didn’t last out the ride into town. She died on her back in the buckboard, Ben kneeling beside her, myself whipping the horses.”

  Pike’s face was grim by this time and Wolf asked no further questions. He didn’t need to know much more than Pike had already told him anyway. He’d find the rest out soon enough, he had no doubt.

  A shout from the corral caused them both to look that way. It was Ben. He was climbing over the corral. As they watched he jumped down and raced across the yard toward them.

  “They’re coming back!” he shouted to Pike. “I knew they would!”

  “Damn!” said Pike, jumping up from the bench and hurrying for the cabin door. As he went through the doorway, he looke
d back out at Wolf. “Either find a place to hide, mister, or see to your weapons.”

  Wolf had stashed his Winchester in the horse barn where he’d left his saddle roll after unsaddling his black. As he started across the yard to the barn, he looked at Ben. “What’s this all about, Ben?”

  The boy hesitated for just a moment; then he spoke up. “Some of Blackmann’s riders. They’ve been deviling us now for the last three days. It keeps us busy so they can rustle our beef.”

  Wolf nodded as he entered the coolness of the horse barn, the boy alongside him.

  “But this ain’t your fight, mister. We don’t need no hired guns.”

  Wolf pulled his Winchester out of the saddle scabbard and looked down at Ben. “Maybe that’s just what you do need, Ben.”

  Not more than five minutes later four horsemen rode insolently into the yard and pulled up in front of the main cabin where Pike Hanson—a ten-gauge cradled easily in the crook of his right arm—was waiting for them in the doorway.

  “Hello there, old man,” the rider closest to Pike said. He was a lean scarecrow of a man with a smooth face and hollow cheeks. Watching from the barn window to the right of the riders, Wolf figured the puncher might be called Slim. “What you doing here anyway? Thought you and that whelp’d be long gone by now.” The rider beside Slim snickered and moved a piece of grass he was sucking on to the other side of his mouth.

  Pike cleared his throat. “Just turn around, the four of you. This here shotgun’s loaded with nine buck to the barrel. At this distance it spreads just fine. Now just turn around real gentle-like and vamoose.”

  Wolf smiled. Pike had played it perfectly, allowing a bit of a tremble in his voice. It was important that the riders think they had the man scared—that they not suspect he was simply baiting a trap.

  “What’s the matter, old man?” Slim asked. “You sound a mite nervous.”

  “I’ll show you who’s nervous. Now turn your horses around and git!”