The Reckoning

by Mike Torreano

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Reckoning

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Ike McAlister spurred hard

  for the two renegades galloping dead ahead. Early spring mud flew from his horse’s hooves as he closed on his prey. He felt the familiar sense of cold fury come over him. His parents’ killers had eluded him for far too long. Ike slapped his reins left and right on Ally’s neck, something he’d rarely ever done, even during the war. He’d catch these murderers like he’d caught the others, or die trying.

  The Reckoning

  by

  Mike Torreano

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Reckoning

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Mike Torreano

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Historical Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0929-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0930-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This is dedicated to my wife, Anne,

  for her constant love and support throughout the passionate process of writing a novel.

  Chapter One

  Southeastern Kansas, Spring 1868

  Ike McAlister spurred hard for the two renegades galloping dead ahead. Early spring mud flew from his horse’s hooves as he closed on his prey. He felt the familiar sense of cold fury come over him. His parents’ killers had eluded him for far too long. Ike slapped his reins left and right on Ally’s neck, something he’d rarely ever done, even during the war. He’d catch these murderers like he’d caught the others, or die trying.

  The nearest outlaw turned in his saddle, and the setting sun glimmered off the fugitive’s pistol. A shot rang out, and a bullet whistled past Ike’s cheek. Ike yanked Ally’s reins and dove off the horse as she slowed. Tumbling on the ground, he grabbed for his gun. The men ahead also pulled up.

  Nobody had ever outrun Ally.

  There was no proper cover for miles on the windswept Kansas mesa. Last year’s knee-high brown grasses served as woefully inadequate concealment for both hunter and hunted.

  Ike’s brother, Rob, fired his Winchester from behind Ike, then leapt off his horse as well and landed next to his older brother.

  One of the fugitives appeared as a dark form backlit against the lowering afternoon sun as he pulled his horse down in front of him. Ike steadied his gun hand with his other arm and drew a bead on him with his long-barreled Colt .44. His first shot missed but came close enough to motivate the outlaw to drop toward the ground, but before the killer disappeared from sight, Ike’s rapid-fire second shot hit him square in the chest. The sharp report of gunfire echoed over the gently rolling hills.

  “Damn!” the fallen outlaw howled to his partner hidden nearby. “They got me, Johnny.” Wind carried the wounded man’s plaintive voice over the still landscape.

  Moving grasses gave away the other killer’s location as he crawled toward his stricken companion. Rob fired twice into the center of the shifting grass, then knelt down, rifle at the ready. The grasses resumed a gentler movement with the wind.

  Ike kept his breathing steady and stayed as still as possible. Rob took short breaths beside him.

  One of the bandits pleaded, “Johnny, you okay? Johnny, I’m hurt bad. Johnny!” Then silence.

  Ike waited. He held his pistol well out in front of him, pointed in the direction of the men’s last sounds. After a crouching walk, he found them both motionless in the grass, ten feet apart. The one Ike had shot lay curled up, eyes fixed on nothing, a still hand on his chest. As Ike turned to the outlaw Rob hit, the killer swung his six shooter up and fired. The bullet buried itself deep in Ike’s thigh and knocked him to the ground. Before Ike could return fire, Rob pumped three shots into the murderer. Smoke trailed lazily from his rifle barrel, and a breezy quiet reclaimed the land.

  Ike struggled to his feet with a hand to his leg and limped to where the shooter lay dead. Imaginary artillery shells boomed all around him, and a cold sweat traveled down his back. Too close a call, but there had been too many close calls in his life. The odds were increasing that one of these would put him down for good. His breathing slowed, and the shells went silent.

  Rob shouted from behind, “He’s dead, ain’t he, Ike?”

  Ike answered without looking back at his brother. “Well, if not breathin’ qualifies as dead, then he’s dead.” Ike flung his hat to the ground. Nothing was as it should be. The war had destroyed nearly everything he once knew. There wasn’t much left inside him either. He stumbled slightly but caught himself with a hand on Rob’s shoulder.

  He eyed the body sprawled at his feet with two holes in the brown leather vest, then his gaze traveled back to the other murderer. Neither one was Manning. His fury faded to resignation. “You’re too good a shot, Rob. Wish you’d have just wounded this one. Maybe we could have found somethin’ new about Manning, but you dropped him cold. Damn!” he yelled into the empty Kansas air.

  “Couldn’t take that chance, Ike. The vest already shot you once, and I wasn’t gonna give him another chance, far as I was able. Just sit back down now, and let me take a look at that leg.”

  Ike worked himself to the ground and let Rob rip at the bullet hole in his britches. All he could think about was finding Ross Manning and his killers. He’d been tracking Quantrill’s Raiders ever since the Confederate guerrillas killed his father and more than a hundred other unfortunates on a raid through Lawrence during the Civil War. His father’s butcher—Manning—was still out there. Somewhere.

  “That wound don’t look good, Ike. Got to get you back to Lawrence and let the doc have a look at it. How the heck did he get the drop on you? I never knew that to happen before.”

  “I just got stupid, and thought I’d already dispatched him to Hell.” Ike grimaced, the s
tinging pain burning its way into his consciousness as his adrenaline drained away. Pain was his constant companion these days, but it wasn’t just from the throbbing of a gunshot wound. The hurt he felt hung heavy around his heart. Hunting killers was the only thing that helped him mask the ache of all he’d lost.

  “Don’t know if I can get up again or not, Rob. Damn leg feels like it’s on fire.” Ike untied his dirty yellow cavalry bandana from around his neck. As he pressed it against the bullet hole, artillery shells sounded again in his head, and his ears filled with the screams of the dying. He pushed them away and pressed harder. There wasn’t much blood from the wound, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  “Well, you ain’t got a choice, Ike. I got to get you up on Ally. Can’t leave you here and go for help. It’s too far. You’re just gonna have to ride back to town.”

  Ike whistled for Ally, and the mare came trotting, reins hanging down from her neck. He jammed his stained gray Stetson over his long brown hair, grabbed hold of Ally’s stirrup, and pulled himself off the ground a bit. “Help me up.”

  From behind, Rob got his arms under his brother’s broad shoulders and lifted him the rest of the way to a stand. Ike gave Ally a down motion with his hand, and the mare knelt so he could straddle her more easily. He swung his bad leg over Ally’s back but couldn’t reach the stirrup with it. As Ally rose, Ike grimaced, his wounded leg dangling uselessly to the side.

  After several hours of riding, camp that night was cold and painful. There was no wood for a fire on the windswept prairie, so dinner was a cold mix of beef jerky and two-day-old coffee. Cool night air chilled the brothers as wolves howled their lonely calls in the distance. Ike lay back on the grass and pulled his thin blanket over him. He stared up at the brilliant stars overhead and wondered how he’d come to be on a Kansas prairie, leg shot up, and a big hole in his heart.

  The brothers reached Lawrence by midday the next day. The uneven ground and the stabbing ache in his leg had stolen Ike’s sleep the night before, so by the time he reached town, he was teetering in the saddle. The doctor got him to lie down on what passed for an operating table and the chloroform put him under fast. When Ike came to, he was still on the table. In his daze, he rolled to one side and started to push up, but the doctor stopped him with a hand to his chest.

  “You’re not going anywhere just yet, Ike McAlister. You sure do know a lot of curse words though, and I think you used ’em all on me as I was putting you under. And don’t you give me any backtalk about not getting up. I brought you into this world, so you just heed what I say. Lie back now and get some shut-eye.”

  Ike slurred. “Did you get the bullet out, Doc?”

  “I did, but had to dig deep for it. It was hiding in a place that’s not good to poke around in. Couldn’t tell if it hit anything important; we’ll find that out soon enough. Hopefully, it will heal in time though. Rob, you just make sure to keep the wound clean. Splash some whiskey on it regular, and let me know right away if the skin around the bullet hole starts to turn red.”

  Rob said, “But he’ll be okay, right, doc?”

  “If you’re asking if he’ll live, likely he will unless infection sets in, but I don’t think he’ll ever be right again. I never did see anybody so scarred up though. The war was awful hard on you, Ike.”

  “I got nicked up a bit but never put out of action.” He closed his eyes.

  “Well, you’re gonna be out of action for a while now.”

  ****

  When Ike first returned to Lawrence after the war, he and Rob rode out to what was left of the family farm on the outskirts of the small city. As Ike slid off Ally in front of the blackened farmhouse, his sister Sue burst out of the front door and ran toward him. He stared at her like he was looking at a ghost. “We thought sure you was dead, too.”

  Her worn dress hung limply on her thin body. “It’d take more than those devils to do me in.” Her eyes blazed, then welled up.

  Ike pursed his lips, held out his arms, and she rushed into them. He wrapped her in a tight bear hug. Tears dripped as he embraced his sobbing sister. A blaze of anger surged in him, but he pushed it back. The raiders had taken a lot from him, but they hadn’t gotten Sue. He was going to make sure no one ever would.

  “Then you didn’t get my letter?” She still held him tightly.

  “No,” he said softly, “I didn’t. I heard in town they killed Dad, but I ain’t heard how Momma died.”

  Sue wiped at her face and stammered as she looked up at him. “She couldn’t take Poppa dyin’ in her arms. Couldn’t handle it. She took his gun…”

  Ike reached out and wrapped his arms around her tighter. “No need to say any more. No need. I’m just so sorry I couldn’t get back here before now.” His heart raced. An angry flush spread up from his neck and over his face. Killers had stolen his folks from him.

  ****

  Over the next few months, the three McAlisters patched the farm back together as best they could, but their hearts weren’t in it. Every room of the farmhouse brought back memories of their parents. There were two things wrong with the farm—it didn’t produce enough food to live on, and there wasn’t any extra to sell. The occasional anonymous provisions on their front porch were what kept the three of them going. Ike and Rob farmed in fits and starts, in between chasing down raiders they got tips about.

  Ike was hunched over one day, working on a broken wagon wheel outside the barn when he spied a lone rider heading his way.

  Sheriff Will Butler pulled his horse up in front of the farmhouse. “Hello, Ike. Thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doin’. How’s the leg?”

  “Still there.” He put his hoe down, straightened up, and tried to stand taller by shifting weight off his bad leg. Butler wasn’t a man he looked forward to seeing, for a number of reasons.

  “How’s things here on the farm?” The bulky sheriff began a laborious effort to get down off his horse.

  “Not so good, Sheriff. Me and Rob been ridin’ out so much lately, sometimes I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’. And sure enough, when we are able to get around to farmin’, along comes another ride we light out on. We got winter wheat we should be gatherin’ in soon, but the way things have been goin’ lately, it may rot in the fields before we get to it.” A fleeting image of his father straining in these same fields flashed through his mind. He shook his head. “Ahh, don’t mind me. Come on in and set a spell.” Ike sat at the kitchen table and indicated a chair to Butler.

  The sheriff sat heavily. “Sometimes things around here don’t feel too good to me, either.”

  Sue set a glass of apple cider in front of him. “Knocks back the Kansas spring heat and humidity.”

  “Tastes like it’s been fermentin’ quite nicely, Sue. Thank you kindly.”

  Ike stared at Butler. “Can’t say as I look forward to your visits, Sheriff.” He was torn about the lawman. He held it against Butler for not being able to save his folks, but also knew the lawman was his best chance to track down their killers.

  “I understand, Ike. I got a big territory to watch over, or I’da been out here sooner. You know I ain’t had no deputy since the raid. Guess nobody’s fool enough to want to help me chase down those devils.”

  Ike rubbed at his beard. Any sheriff worth his salt would be out on the trail himself, after what those killers did. At the same time, Ike wanted to be the one dispatching the killers. Any way he looked at it was painful. “Jim Hunt was a good man. My oldest friend.” It was just like Jim to take the raider’s bullet meant for Butler.

  The sheriff said, “I can still see you and Jim as kids, runnin’ away down main street after chuckin’ stones at the older boys.” He frowned. “Some of them never did come back from the war.”

  Ike stared at his empty coffee cup, then looked back up at the old lawman. Ike had had enough of small talk. It wasn’t his strong suit anyway. Butler was likely sitting there because he brought news about more raiders. “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?�
�

  The lawman put his cider down and leaned in toward Ike.

  Ike’s palms grew moist. A mixture of eagerness and unease warred inside him as he pictured another hard ride ending in death. He pushed an image of his folks out of his mind.

  Butler’s face turned grim. “I just caught wind of a group I thought you ought to know about. I’m told that one of the varmints in this bunch mighta been leadin’ part of the raid that killed your pa.”

  Ike straightened up. “Manning?”

  “Could be, but I don’t rightly know. No way to be sure from this distance.”

  “What’s that mean, from this distance? Where’s this raider supposed to be now?”

  “Well, the trail’s pretty old, but a fella I trust told me this outlaw and his gang headed west a few years ago to Colorado. Somewhere outside of Denver a ways.” He raised a cigarette to his mouth and lit it. “Ain’t often we get a lead on one of the ringleaders, now is it?” The sheriff looked at Ike for a moment, then changed the subject. “You look like you’ve lost some more weight, Ike. Never seen you so scrawny, even as a kid. You sure you’re okay?”

  Ike got up and limped to the stove. He rubbed his forehead, poured another cup of warmed-over coffee, and squinted back at Butler. “Reckon I’m about as okay as I’m ever gonna be. But nothin’s gonna stop me from doin’ what needs to be done.”

  Butler nodded, then looked over at Sue. “Can I have another one of those ciders, Miss Sue?”

  Sue glanced at Ike, and he shook his head. She said, “Looks like you just drank your limit, Sheriff. Don’t want you falling off your horse on the way back to town. You might not get found for weeks.” She broke into a slight grin, and an outline of the same appeared on Butler’s face. Ike’s hand tightened hard around his cup.

  The sheriff lumbered to a stand and fixed Ike with a stare. “This town still ain’t got over what those sumbitches did to it. And to your family.” He put his weathered hat back on. “And Lawrence won’t never get over it ’til those varmints are all rounded up and hung. Or shot.”

  Ike stared back. The worst part was not knowing how many more killers he’d have to chase down before he found Manning. He straightened up and limped out of the kitchen to the front porch.