Revenge Riders

by Alex Frew

  Revenge Riders

  Hawk had Indian forebears, but lived the life of a peaceful rancher. Until, that is, the bandits came. With his wife dead and his son gone, kidnapped and beyond finding, Hawk returns to the ways of his people. He goes hunting, only this time he is hunting for the hardest game of all – the evil men who have committed the attack.

  Along with the men who have worked for him for most of his life, Hawk finds out that a member of his wife’s family has conspired against him, but who is the mysterious girl with his son? What is the connection between the kidnappers and the bandits?

  As Hawk digs deeper he becomes the unwilling leader of men who need to track down the bandits who have devastated their once-peaceful community. A seemingly idealistic leader has taken hostage many people for his own evil purposes and Hawk must find out why.

  By the same author

  The Broken Trail

  Bandits Gold

  Fear Valley

  Iron Hand and Bear

  Blaze of Fury

  Bad Day in Greenville

  The Hunted Four

  The Defenders

  Purgatory

  Law Killers

  Revenge Riders

  Alex Frew

  ROBERT HALE

  © Alex Frew 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-3028-0

  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 Alex Frew to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Chapter One

  Jay Hawk had come to terms with the bandits. Not actual speaking terms, just the kind of terms where he accepted that bandits lived and roamed in the area of Hatton Falls, Texas. This was pioneer country quite a few years after the Civil War. Like it did for so many others, the war stood out in his mind. He had been a boy at the time and was now a man in his early forties with a family of his own, but he remembered the struggles of that time well. Sometimes in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep and had to get up for a smoke, he thought back to those times. Although long gone, in the early hours they seemed like yesterday.

  His father, a man much on his mind, had been a member of the Blackfoot Sioux and had acted as a scout for the blues during the war. Neither accepted by the people who employed him – because he was Indian – nor welcome once his job was done, Hawk senior had one factor in his favour; he had fallen in love with, and had married, one of the pioneer women when he himself was already in middle age. That woman had been Anna, Hawk’s mother, who was the daughter of a Scots Missionary who had brought his particular brand of Presbyterian religion out to the untracked wilderness of the so-called Wild West.

  Hawk’s father had brought his family out to Texas on the strength of his connections, and had been accepted as a part of the community in a way that many of the Indians had not. This did not mean that everyone had treated Hawk senior in a kind or favourable manner, but with his wife and her family behind him and a natural drive to get forward in life, Hawk senior had built up a life in these lands, before dying at the age of sixty. He’d left all his property, his land and his stock to his one surviving son some fifteen years before. Life out here on the plains of Texas was hard, but there was no other place Hawk would rather be. His own son Rye, short for Ryan, was sleeping in the other bedroom of their roomy, one level ranch. There was a faint smile of pride on his otherwise impassive features as he thought of the young man, eighteen years old and in full physical strength.

  In the other bedroom was his wife. The smile vanished now that he could hear her breath rasping as he sat out here in the shaded back porch.

  No one knew what the disease was. Some kind of lung infection that was sure, one that prevented her from drawing a deep breath when she wanted, a condition that made her weak and dizzy when she tried to stand, while getting worse all the time.

  He drew on his hand-rolled cigarette and felt the tobacco soothe away some of the gremlins that proliferated inside his head. She was his Mary, from the same kind of stock as his mother. A solid, dependable woman, but bright and attractive, who had made his heart sing in a way that no other could when they had married in their late teenage years, and it had been that way ever since, twenty-odd years later. He just did not want to live life without her: only the thought of his son keeping him going.

  He had no more time to contemplate the inner workings of his life. A man called. Hawk rose and walked round the shadowy corner of the porch and the same man appeared at the front of the ranch, and nodded to Jay to come forward. Even from his outline Jay recognized Yancey Barnes, a big, solid man who, in contrast to Hawk’s naturally slim build, was as thickset and wide as the very type of door after which he was named. It was said that at Thanksgiving in the village he was able to eat half a turkey, a big one, in one sitting. Some people considered him to be half-witted but he was strong and did as he was told, so he was always able to find employment in the ranches where hard labour was always needed to deal with the huge herds of cattle.

  ‘Hoya,’ said Yancey, a strange kind of greeting he employed with those he knew.

  ‘What are you doing about here at this hour?’ asked Hawk, a direct man.

  ‘Strange things is happening,’ said Yancey. ‘Don’t know a lot, so to speak, but there’s been things happening around the ranches o’ this district.’ He was standing beside the main gate of the ranch and came forward with a look of concern on his face, just barely visible in the gathering light of the day. ‘I know you come out here early at times. Can’t sleep, I think.’ He entered the shadow of an outhouse, a strange outline of a man despite his bulk, his voice barely raised above a whisper. Hawk, who had been meaning to get back to his bed for a couple of hours once he had soothed his nerves with a smoke, came forward to ask this unwanted pest to leave.

  He did not have the chance to do this. A piece of the outbuilding turned out to be a shadowy figure that rushed at him from one side. He did not even have time to turn around before a thump on his head sent him to the ground, his last impression being the grateful thought that at least he did not have a hard path up to his property.

  He awoke with the sun still low in the sky, a dry mouth and an aching head. Luckily his face was the shade of his father’s so the sun had not burned his skin, although the day was heating up. He rose and staggered towards the ranch building, seeing at once that the door was hanging wide.

  ‘Mary,’ he said as he staggered inside, still fighting off the dizziness caused by the blow, ‘Ryan, where are you?’

  His wife gave a groan and he went into the bedroom. Her face and hands, the only bits he could see, were whiter than the coverlet beneath which she lay.

  ‘Noises . . . heard noises in the night . . . been here, couldn’t . . . couldn’t move. Rye, where is he? I heard noises.’

  He left his wife and went into Ryan’s bedroom. His son was gone. His first thought was that there was no sign of a struggle: the blankets were still intact
, although thrown aside, and nothing had been knocked over except for the candle and dish that sat at the side of his bed ready to be lit. The books lined up on the shelf facing his bed – Shakespeare, the Bible, books on law (he was a smart boy), one or two dime novels – were lying in different directions as if the shelf had been banged, but apart from that there was nothing wrong with the room. Hawk, though, had extremely acute senses and he caught the acrid scent in the air of some chemical that he recognized – chloroform. It was a substance that was all the rage now with Texan doctors because it was easily stored in brown carboy bottles, and was a substance that could be used to knock a man out during a surgical procedure. The only reason he knew the scent was that the previous year he had been in an accident, a riding injury, and he had to have his broken leg set. The pain had been excruciating, and the local doctor had used the chemical for the first time. He had been grateful for the easing of the agony, but he would never forget that sweetish smell and the feeling of suffocation that followed its use.

  He went back to the room where Mary lay in almost an attitude of prayer, one hand lightly sitting on top of another.

  ‘Is he . . . is he all right?’ she gasped, forcing the words out. He looked at her upturned face and he did what any merciful person would have done in the circumstances. He lied.

  ‘Rye’s fine,’ he said, ‘he just went out early to deal with some scattered longhorns we need to round up ’fore they get into rocky territory.’

  ‘I heard noises . . . in the night. You weren’t there.’

  ‘Bad dreams is all they were, Mary.’ He fought an impulse to take her in his arms and hold her tight, knowing that in her condition he would harm her fragile body. He stroked her brow and could see her taking comfort from his touch.

  ‘Good,’ she said, wanting to hear only things that soothed her. ‘Tell him . . . Tell him I love him. It’s time, Jay.’

  ‘No,’ he said, knowing what she meant. ‘No, that can’t be right. You’re a fighter. You’ll win this one too, you’ll get better.’ But he was a man mouthing words, and that was all they were.

  She smiled suddenly, and her face lit up like that of the Mary he had known so long ago when they were young, setting out on the road of marriage with barely their parent’s approval. ‘You were a good husband. You’re a good man. Look after Ryan.’

  He was holding her hand by then, and as she sank back on the pillow after raising her head slightly, he heard a rattle in her throat that said more than any words, then she closed her eyes, that old familiar half smile on her lips, and died.

  He sat there for a long time, thoughts rushing through his head of their life together, how she had worked tirelessly with him to build up the ranch that his father had left as his legacy. She had carried four children for him, only the youngest surviving, while none of the others had lived beyond four years. She had not been a wife; she had been far more than that. Too many wives were just a person who carried the children and stayed at home to cook for their rancher husbands. She had been far more than that; she had been his lifelong companion and his dearest friend. He had seen a parting in the long future, too far away to even think about, and now she was gone forever. He took hold of her and held her in his arms for a long time. The tears did not come, that was not his way, but he held her and was glad that he had helped her pass in peace with a lie about what had happened to her beloved son.

  Chapter Two

  The fire was not a thing that seemed to be planned, but when it burned, the whole village of Hatton Falls was out to bring it to a halt. Like all villages they were situated near a river – a fork of the mighty Brazos – at a time of the summer when the waters were low and they had no hoses or horse-drawn fire wagons where the water could be pumped by hand through the hoses. Such things were only kept in places like Houston, and some of the bigger towns round about. The only water stored around here was in wooden barrels, gathered from the waters or the river or from the god of the sky. Worse still, the place that was on fire was the saloon, ironically called the Watering Hole.

  Starting just before dawn, the fire was a focus for almost the entire population as they brought out every container they could think of and slung the contents at the thick flames that leapt from the foundations. They had a reason to be worried: Hatton was built from the plentiful wood that abounded in this county, and if the fire spread across the twenty or so buildings that constituted the small town it would take grip fast and hard in these dry conditions. Given that the population of the village was smaller than one hundred souls it was clearly in the interests of every man, woman and child to pull together.

  It would be hard to think of an easier way to get everyone in one place, which was what the fire was for. Just as they had got it under control there was the sound of horses’ hoofs, and every resident was confronted by the sight of what seemed like an endless stream of beasts coming down the one main street. They could see a variety of horses, and on them big solid Mexican bandits, all armed with a variety of weapons that would satisfy a small army – which is what they were.

  The raiders wasted no time whatsoever. They dismounted from their big steeds and quickly took charge of the proceedings. They were dressed in traditional garments, most of them, wrapped in ponchos against the chill of the early morning air, grey woollen leggings and wide-brimmed straw hats. Their obvious leader was a tall, somewhat austere-looking man. Most of them had big moustaches of varying shapes and sizes, but he was clean-shaven and wore dark, almost military-type clothes. His black trousers were tucked into long riding boots and he was not slow to point out what was going to happen.

  ‘People, all of you, you are coming with me and my men. There is no other way! Surrender now or die.’

  This was not a place where people carried guns out of habit, but one of the men who had been fighting the fire, a big, bristling shopkeeper, pulled a pistol out of his deep pocket where he kept it all the time and ran forward, aiming it straight at the stranger’s heart. In a long street with no escape bristling with weapons from every angle – because the horsemen had come in from every side – this was a foolish, not a brave thing to do. A whole host of weapons sounded at once and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder before his finger even had time to squeeze the trigger. He fell forward on his face, the blood that poured from his body looking black in the early twilight. His wife, a big woman of uncertain age, rushed forward to his side and fell on to her knees sobbing.

  Another woman, a young one this time, started running into the shadows, a ploy that might have worked, allowing her to hide in the darkness outside the village where the hills and woodlands mounted up rapidly, but she too was halted when a young Mexican stepped forward and smacked her on the side of her head with the butt of his rifle. She too fell to the ground and lay there sobbing, crying and screaming.

  Stepping forward, the military-looking man engaged their attention and held up his arms. ‘All of you,’ he said in ringing tones, ‘are going to be working for a greater purpose from now on. If you behave, you will be treated well. If not . . . well, you see what has already happened. I, Aguste Rivero, promise you this thing. Obey my men now.’ The authority in his stance and his words seemed to draw all the fight out of the villagers. These were not military people: they were shopkeepers, the owner of a livery, a hardware store keeper and his family, and others of similar ilk. The so-called soldiers of the invaders soon tied the arms of the people, male, female, young and old alike, and made them walk in procession, leaving the village on the earliest light of day, weaving their way through the woodlands and into a trail that led into the hills.

  They had been enslaved.

  Hawk should have gone in search of his son; he knew that. An obvious loss like that could not be followed by a wait to see what was going to happen. He was the son of an Indian scout, he knew the ways of the hills and he had a wide knowledge of the area.

  The trouble was, his wife was lying dead in their – his – bedroom, and the heat of the day, c
ombined with the time it took for decay to begin, meant that she would have to be buried soon, and not in the way he would have wanted. She would have desired a church service with all of her friends (and they were many) present, with most of the mourners there when she was interred. He was not going to miss the burial of the woman who had been with him for most of his adult life. He had to get help, he knew that much. At that moment he was still beside her, his Mary. He folded her hands over again and tenderly arranged her hair, then did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he went for his men.

  The bunkhouse was situated only a few hundred feet from the ranch, but in such a way that it was on the other side of a bluff. Mary had liked it that way, had always wanted to keep her home life separate from the work they were doing. Hopefully some of his men would be back from their work. If he didn’t appear to work with them, as sometimes happened because of the paperwork that had to be done, they would quite happily go out and perform their duties on their own, experience giving them all the direction they needed.

  The bunkhouse was a big building made of a mixture of adobe foundations and wooden walls, with a tiled, pitched roof that sloped down to keep off the sweeping winter rains. The building had been constructed in such a way that it could house twelve, or at a pinch, fourteen men. At this time of year – it was early summer – Hawk did not need that number, and employed only three full-time cowboys who would see to the needs of his cows and make sure that they didn’t stray too far, especially when they were calving.

  There was a frantic beat in the back of his mind telling him to go, to let whoever was there know that his wife was dead, so that they could bury her and he could just leave to find his son, but that wasn’t going to be the way.