Strong Convictions: An Emmett Strong Western (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 1)

by GP Hutchinson

  Seth scowled and held a gloved finger to his lips.

  A serious-faced fellow whose horse stood just behind Seth’s said quietly, “Mr. McIntosh could pass her off as an Egyptian beauty. That should fit his style.”

  Seth nodded and flicked the leather loop off the hammer of his pistol. “I like that,” he said. “An Egyptian beauty.”

  He admired her graceful form and dark locks as her boyfriend gave mock chase to her on the riverbank. When the young man slipped on the mud and plopped unceremoniously to the ground, the girl put a hand to her mouth and laughed aloud.

  Seth looked up and down the waterway. As far as he could see and hear, no one else was around.

  “OK,” he said. “Are we ready?”

  The wispy rider to his right nodded.

  “Let’s go then.”

  At that Seth and his five hands walked their horses out into the river and fanned out around the youthful couple.

  “Having fun, are we?” Seth asked with a wry smile.

  The boy shaded his eyes from the sun. “Yeah, Mister. Just havin’ a little fun. We weren’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

  The girl’s grin faded. She edged toward the young man.

  Up close, Seth thought she looked maybe seventeen or eighteen and even prettier than from a distance.

  “Well, young William,” he said, “my friends here”—he nodded to the three riders closest to him—“are gonna have you follow them a little ways down the river. Y’all are gonna have a little chat.”

  William was frowning now. “Wha—what’re y’all gonna do?”

  Seth observed William’s fists tighten. The girl now stood almost behind him.

  One of the three men Seth had designated already had a lasso in hand. He tossed it skillfully over William’s shoulders. The young man fought to wriggle free. Before the girl could do anything about it, the rider on the opposite end of the arc roped her.

  She screamed, “No, William. Don’t let ’em do this to me.” She too struggled against the rope and began to cry.

  “William,” the one who had lassoed him said, “if you don’t want to get dragged down underneath the water, you’ll come along with me.” He started his horse downstream.

  The young man began to slosh along, laboring to maintain his footing. He kept looking back helplessly. “Just don’t y’all hurt her,” he called out, fighting back tears. “Ain’t no reason to hurt her.”

  The wispy rider led a spare, saddled horse to the girl.

  “You ride?” Seth asked the girl.

  She stared down the river toward William. Although the afternoon air was warm, she shivered.

  “Help her up,” Seth said to the wispy rider.

  The rider dismounted and waded to the girl. “Foot in the stirrup. Go on.”

  The girl obeyed. Once she was in the saddle, Seth’s companion tied her hands to the saddle horn.

  Seth glanced around. He nodded toward the east. In response, the ones who had helped him lasso and secure the girl led her off in that direction.

  She peered over her shoulder, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Where we goin’?” she barely managed to say.

  “We’ll be riding awhile,” the one who had helped her into the saddle said.

  “I can’t. My pa’ll be waitin’ for me.” She began to cry more vocally. “My pa’ll be waitin’.”

  No one replied.

  Seth wheeled his horse and rode downstream. Just around a bend and behind a copse of cottonwoods, he found the other three hands and William. One of the three had gagged the boy. Seth gave the bottom of his vest a tug with both hands, tilted his head, and sized up the young man.

  William’s eyes were red and tear-rimmed.

  “Oh, we could make such sport of this, couldn’t we, boys?” Seth said, a crooked grin reappearing.

  The three chuckled.

  A long-haired rider with a dark stubble chin asked, “How we gonna play this, boss?”

  Seth reseated the hat on his head. “Quick and quiet.”

  The stubble-chinned fellow raised an eyebrow and rested his hand on the big, antler-handled knife that hung from his belt.

  Seth nodded. He glanced at William.

  The boy went pale.

  “Leave him in the bushes when you’re done. And hurry to catch up with us,” Seth said. He reined his horse around. Then giving a little spur, he galloped off in a cloud of dust.

  CHAPTER SIX

  From his saddle, Emmett patted the neck of his tobiano pinto—a horse he loved dearly—and scanned the broad horizon. Pancake-flat land, dotted here and there with stunted cedars, stretched out miles and miles in front of them. Only off to one side did a few low hills break the monotony of the plain. Although it was late March, the grass remained mostly straw colored with just a hint of new green.

  The sun shone brightly and the air was already quite warm, so Emmett appreciated the steady breeze. His stomach fluttered just a bit as he contemplated closing in on his brother’s killer.

  Juanito, Sikes, and he had spent a solid week on horseback, heading northwest from Austin in pursuit of Charlie Blaylock. Now, straight ahead—maybe a mile away—lay the brand-new railroad town they believed the outlaw had been headed for.

  “Hard as heck to read sign on roads and trails as heavy traveled as the ones we’ve covered,” Emmett said. “You’ve done a fine job, Juanito.”

  “Glad Blaylock’s horse had that one bad shoe,” Juanito said. “Tracking him would’ve been a whole lot tougher without it.”

  “Had to have slowed him down some too.”

  Sikes’s saddle leather creaked as he shifted his weight. “If he has any sense at all, he’s got to assume you’re on his tail, Strong. He didn’t risk stopping to get the animal reshod. You think he’ll risk it to wait on a train?”

  Emmett nodded. “This has got to be the end of the line. Press that horse much farther like that and it’ll end up buzzard bait.”

  “Doubtful he ever planned on riding all the way to Nevada anyway,” Juanito said. “Not all alone. Not on just one horse.”

  Sikes squinted toward the town. “How often does a westbound train pass through?”

  “Not sure,” Emmett said. “At least daily, I hope. Blaylock gets to El Paso more than a day ahead of us, and the whole game changes.”

  Sikes undid a few of the buttons of his bib-front shirt, pulled up the edge of his loose neckerchief, and mopped his brow. “So that’s where a Texas Ranger’s jurisdiction ends then—at the next state’s border?”

  “That’s where it ends—officially.”

  “Ever chase a man outside your jurisdiction?”

  “I have,” Emmett said. “Way outside.”

  “People respect your badge out there?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Couple times it resulted in a whole new set of problems.” Emmett glanced back and decided the horses and pack mule had been spelled long enough.

  Sikes asked, “Ever go as far as Nevada?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you this time? If that’s what it takes?”

  In his mind, Emmett could just about see Sikes wearing his pith helmet and red British Army tunic. It made him grin slightly for the first time in days. “Yep. If that’s what it takes. However,” he continued, “depending on what time the train comes through, this thing could be over inside the next hour. Charlie Blaylock might be right ahead of us—right there in Sweetwater. You gentlemen ready for action if it comes to it?”

  Sikes patted his holstered Colt. “Ready enough.”

  Juanito broke his coach gun, took a look, and whipped it closed again. “Listo, hermano.”

  “OK then,” Emmett said. And with that, he gave a chirk that set his horse trotting toward the town.

  Sweetwater was a busy place. The Texas and Pacific Railroad ha
d only recently established service there. Townspeople were building as though it was going to be the new Abilene or Dodge City. The pounding of hammers and rasping of saws emanated from all quarters. New livestock pens, stores, hotels, and places of entertainment were going up everywhere.

  “Save ourselves a lot of time if we go straight to the rail station, sí?” Juanito asked.

  Emmett gazed up and down what seemed to be the main avenue. Horses stood flicking their tails in front of a number of establishments. He wouldn’t know Charlie Blaylock’s mount from any other without checking the shoes of each. “I suppose you’re right,” he answered.

  The train station’s raw lumber siding hadn’t yet begun to weather. A graying fellow in shirtsleeves and suspenders whistled as he energetically applied the first coat of forest-green paint to the building.

  “Afternoon,” Emmett said to him.

  He turned around, brush in hand, and pushed back his hat. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Emmett rested his hands on his pommel. “Nice little burg you’ve got here. Looks like the railroad’s been a boon to you.”

  The man smiled broadly. “Oh, it is. It is indeed.”

  “What time’s the westbound come through?”

  The man set his brush down on the edge of the paint pail, pulled out a pocket watch, and took a look at it. Shaking his head, he said, “Afraid you fellas just missed it by…an hour and fourteen minutes. Next one won’t come through till tomorrow. Eleven fifteen a.m.”

  Emmett thought for a moment. He didn’t figure Blaylock could have made it to Sweetwater in time for yesterday’s train. He had to have just purchased a ticket today. “You sell the tickets here in Sweetwater, right?”

  “I do,” the man said. “Just got out of my ticket office clothes to come out here and get this started. Thought it’d make the town look fine as cream gravy to have a pretty painted railroad station. And the Texas and Pacific’s payin’ for the paint.”

  “Mighty nice,” Emmett said. “Anybody buy tickets this morning?”

  The railroad man nodded, beaming. “Yes, sir, sold six tickets this morning. Won’t be any time before Sweetwater’ll be a real hoppin’ town.”

  Sikes chuckled. “A veritable London on the prairie.”

  Emmett wiped the lower half of his face to hide his grin.

  “Name’s Emmett Strong. Texas Ranger. We’re trailing a man who shot a state senator down in Austin a few days ago.” Just saying the words turned Emmett all business once again. “It’d be tough to describe the fella in a way that he’d stand out from others. Looks pretty ordinary. Tall and thin. Whiskers.” Emmett visualized Charlie Blaylock back at the fine restaurant in Austin. “Thin nose,” he added.

  The railroad man nodded. “You’re lucky. Five tickets went to one family this mornin’—husband, wife, and three kids. The other one I sold to a tall, thin fella. Looked as dusty as you three—like as if he’d been on the trail a few days. Brown pants and coat. And a Stetson, of course.”

  “Packin’ iron?”

  “Two pistolos and a long iron.”

  “Don’t reckon you got a name from him?”

  The railroad man shook his head. “He wasn’t in a real friendly frame of mind, that one.”

  “I expect not.” Emmett blew out a long breath. His gaze followed the parallel rails west to the horizon.

  “Bought a ticket to El Paso,” the railroad man said. He bent over and stirred the paint with his brush. “If you decide to follow him by train, I’ll be happy to sell you gentlemen some tickets in the morning. Meanwhile, the Palacio over there on Broadway Street is a real nice hotel.”

  Emmett cleared his throat. Sam Hill! Missed him by less than an hour and a quarter. And that throws us almost a day behind now.

  He peered at the railroad man once again. “Accommodations for horses on the trains each day?”

  “There’s a livestock car, yes. Costs extra, of course.”

  “And did the outlaw we’re talking about take his horse?”

  “No, sir. Must’ve left it or sold it in town.”

  Emmett nodded. “Much obliged, sir. Let us confer.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, wheeled his horse around, and headed for the Palacio. Juanito and Sikes pulled up on either side of him.

  “Left his horse here,” Sikes said.

  Emmett nodded. “Money from even a mediocre horse could pay for passage all the way up there. A little left over for food, too.”

  “He’s got another one-day jump on us,” Juanito said.

  Sikes looked back toward the station. “Any other options for us? Other than waiting till tomorrow for the next train?”

  “There’s a stagecoach route pretty much parallel to the railroad,” Emmett said. “The Bidwell Overland Mail Road.”

  “The stagecoach will never catch up with the train.” Juanito said. “Not even if it comes through town this afternoon.”

  Emmett reined in his horse. “There is one thing we can do,” he said. “Let’s find the telegraph office and send word to the marshal in El Paso. He can be waiting for Blaylock when the train stops there. If that murderer sold his horse, he won’t hop off the train anywhere before El Paso.”

  “Telegram—brilliant idea,” Sikes said. “He can’t outrun electricity.”

  At the telegraph office, all three men dismounted. It felt good for Emmett to stretch his legs. As frustrated as he was to have so narrowly missed bagging Blaylock in Sweetwater, his hopes rebounded at the prospect of having Blaylock caught, jailed, and waiting for pickup by the time he and his compañeros arrived in El Paso.

  A short, balding man attended the window in the telegraph office. He wore garters on his sleeves and leather bracers on his forearms. With a pinched voice he asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Leaning on the counter at the window, Emmett said, “I need to send a message to the town marshal of El Paso, please.”

  “Ah, official business, is it?”

  “Actually,” Sikes said with a straight face, “we’d like to invite him to a soiree we’ll be throwing over at the Palacio right here in Sweetwater.”

  The telegraph employee stopped in his tracks, pencil and paper in hand, eyes fixed on the Englishman. “You must be from back East,” he finally said.

  “Quite so,” Sikes said with a mischievous smile.

  Emmett chuckled. He took the pencil and paper and wrote down his message. Sliding it back across the counter along with the fee, he said, “My friend was just funnin’ you. But if the marshal sends a reply, the Palacio is where you’ll find us.”

  Juanito grinned on the way out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The train ground to a halt and released a loud hiss of steam at the station in El Paso. Onboard, Charlie Blaylock pulled his Stetson a little lower over his eyes. His nerves were as tight as banjo strings. He scanned the platform for armed men with stars or shields on their chests. There were none.

  Never know who you can trust these days, he thought. Never know who’ll stab you in the back even after you’ve paid handsome.

  He waited till the aisle was clear, then rose and stretched, trying to look as nonchalant as any other passenger. Before stepping down he bent and peered out the railcar windows again, scouring not only the platform but also building fronts along both sides of the tracks. Good. Still no sign of wary lawmen.

  As he passed the conductor, he asked, “How long now till the train rolls on?”

  The blue-uniformed railroad man squinted at a large clock on the outside wall of the station. “About twenty minutes, sir. They’ve got to top off the water and load some more firewood.”

  “So I’ve got time to go send a telegram?”

  The conductor gave a sharp nod. “I would think so.” He pointed catty-cornered across the way. “Telegraph office is right over there.”
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  “Much obliged,” Blaylock said.

  He rested his Winchester on his shoulder and strolled casually, eyeing folks of every walk going about their daily business.

  Charlie Blaylock was beginning to feel pretty clever. He hadn’t wasted the week he’d spent in the saddle making the dash from Austin to Sweetwater. Neither had he written off as sapheads the lawmen who’d certainly be on his tail. Texas being a big state, it would take some time for him to make good an escape. In a flat-out horserace to the state line, the law dogs would most assuredly catch him, especially since his own mount had come so close to throwing a shoe. The railroad was the only smart choice. But getting on and getting out of the state before the law nabbed him in one rail town or another—that was the trick. Now here he was in El Paso—the last stop before leaving Texas.

  Yeah, Charlie, he thought, some folks take you for stupid, but you ain’t stupid. He smiled to himself for choosing a town that had only just gotten railroad service two weeks earlier. Figured a lot of lawmen might not be aware yet that Sweetwater even had a train station.

  But there had been one more consideration, just in case the law did follow him to Sweetwater: wherever there was a railroad station, there was bound to be a telegraph office. And they could always telegraph ahead. So Charlie Blaylock had paid off the telegraph operator in Sweetwater. Paid him plenty not to send any message about him to the law in El Paso. He’d told him to accidently send it to Fort Worth.

  Seems like the ballast I offered the telegraph man was enough.

  Blaylock paused just outside the door of El Paso’s telegraph office, looked back and forth, and proceeded in.

  Only now did he feel safe enough to wire his brother, Seth, up in Nevada to let him know he was coming.

  Once again he couldn’t hold back a grin. Told them boys back home in Austin I was headed to Virginia City. Seth ain’t in Virginia City. He’s in Carson City. And from what I hear, he’s rich and powerful up there. Law dogs won’t be able to touch me.

  To the operator behind the counter he said with a smile, “How much to send a telegram to Carson City, Nevada? I wanna let my baby brother know I aim to pay him a visit.”