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When Sam Wilcox reached the Brasada country in West Texas, his enemies were still following him. He was wounded - and his only chance to stay alive was young Billy Calhoun. When he regained his consciousness at Rancho Bravo he tried to hide his dark past, but it was only a matter of days until the killers found out where to find him. Tom Calhoun and his cowboys had to make a decision - and they offered their help. But nobody knew at that time that other dangers were waiting - especially for Billy. Now Wilcox was standing at his personal crossroads - and there was only one direction left for him.
GUNFIGHTER’S LEGACY
RIO CONCHO 2
By Alfred Wallon
Copyright © 1981 by Alfred Wallon
English Translation © 2013 by Alfred Wallon
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: August 2013
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.
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Author’s Introduction
History tells about two kinds of men, who made their living by the gun. The first was the man who used his weapon to satisfy his own personal needs, such as revenge or bloodlust. Most bounty hunters or killers would fit this description. Some of these men of dubious fame were King Fisher, the James Brothers and the Younger clan, Bill Doolin and perhaps also Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.
The second category was represented by men who did not kill because of personal reasons. They stood for law and order and kept it. Men like Chris Madsen, Heck Thomas, Texas Ranger Jack Hays, Bat Masterson und Charles A. Siringo were representatives for this type of man.
The way they used their guns was also quite different: quite a few were quick draw gunmen. They drew their weapons as fast as they could, and mostly they hit their target with the first shot. Some historians compare these quick draw gunmen with artists, because they had to train daily to achieve their ability.
Cowboys were never able to act and behave like gunmen. They were hard working men and therefore not able to shoot like professional gunslingers. Quite a few historical witnesses have reported that cowboys wasted a lot of ammunition when they had to shoot, because they never had been trained to hit a special target.
The following quotation by Andy S. Jeffrey from 1938 describes it perfectly:
“...when I see cowboys in a movie, shooting from the hip, I feel sick. I had never met a cowboy who was able to hit even a wardrobe from a ten-yard distance. That’s just pure crap what they show in these movies...”
The real life of a cowboy was far away from fame and glory. It was a bone-breaking, hard-working daily job from sunrise until sundown. These men were pioneers of a special kind, and they are still a part of America’s legend....
Alfred Wallon
Chapter One
It was close to noon when a rider approached the thorn brush country from the southeast. His brown horse stirred up yellow dust in its wake.
He was sweating under the hot sun, although a dark hat protected his face. With his left hand he grabbed for the canteen, opened it and drank sparingly. Although the Colorado, the Brazos, Pease, Wichita and Rio Concho rivers flowed through the region, it was still dry country, and so you didn’t drink any more water than you had to.
He studied his surroundings. There wasn’t a whole lot to see. Blue sky, a merciless sun – and not a single cloud in sight. He knew that the rest of this hot summer day would take as much energy as he had to give. Sundown was still a few hours away, and until then he and his companions had to work hard for their living.
The thorn brush country – better known as the brasada – extended from the western region of Caprock to many miles southeast. It was a hard and dangerous country. Temperatures rose as high as fifty degrees, even in shadow. Its numerous canyons and gullies extended for miles. Hundreds of small hidden creeks wound their way through the hostile land. The brasada was still a blooming desert area, with rich vegetation that included cedar colonies, cottonwoods and Palo Verde trees. Cactus grew alongside long stretches of thorn brush, which formed an almost impenetrable wall.
The young cowboy thought of his comrades, who had been working in this thicket for many days now. It was the time of the great round up. He was willing to work as hard if not harder, because he was the ranch owner’s youngest son.
Tom Calhoun never showed his sons, John and Billy, any favoritism. They worked hard for their wages, and their wages were the same as those of all the other hired men. Billy never complained about this. Although he was still relatively young, he knew that the other cowboys respected him as a full-grown man because he pulled his weight.
Tom Calhoun had ordered this season’s round up two weeks ago. It was not easy work. The cattle, most of them man-shy and aggressive as hell, kept to the largely inaccessible corners of the brasada. The men have to brave that wild tangle of thorns to find them, chouse them out, herd them together and then brand them. It was bone-breaking toil, and dangerous, too.
Only those who knew longhorns knew how dangerous it was to work with them. Leery of man, a longhorn was more likely to hook him with a horn than go gently into the herd. The horns were dangerous weapons, which could and did frequently kill cowboy and horse alike.
On this day, Billy’s thoughts were with his brother John, who was bossing this group of cowboys. Normally this was the responsibility of Rancho Bravo’s foreman, Jay Durango. But right now Jay had other things to do. His boss had decided that Durango should help him back home at Rancho Bravo. There was a lot of paperwork to do, and even if Durango didn’t exactly relish that kind of work, he accepted the rancher’s decision and helped out as best as he could.
Suddenly Billy’s attention was taken by a brief sparkle of sunlight in the rocks high above. He acted instantly, drove his horse to the left just as the crack of the shot reached him and the bullet itself smacked into a cottonwood tree.
Before the unknown shooter had the opportunity to fire a second shot, the rancher’s son and his horse disappeared out of the attacker’s sight. A few rocks provided cover and gave Billy a chance to take stock.
He dismounted, drew his gun and studied the rocks from whence the attack had come. Everything up there looked quiet now.
Billy was shaking. If he hadn’t seen that tell-tale flash of light off the would-be assassin’s rifle-barrel he’d be dead by now. That was enough to make any man feel shaky. But this was no time to count his lucky stars. Whoever was up there might decide to try his luck again. And for his part, Billy wanted to get his would-be killer before that killer got him.
As anger replaced fear, he started picking a careful path up through the rocks, expecting at any moment for his opponent to suddenly show himself with rifle blasting.
Sweat ran down his face and into his ice-blue eyes, and he had to stop and sleeve it away before moving on.
Higher and higher he climbed. Still there was no movement from the ridge above. Although fear continued to nag at him, he knew he could take care of himself. He’d had the best teachers, in the shape of John and Jay Durango. They had taught him as much as was possible about staying alive in this godforsaken brush country. Anything that was left to learn could only be learned through experience.
As he gained the ridge, he spotted a brown gelding waiting patiently beneath an overhanging rock. It followed that its owner couldn’t be too far
away.
A moment later Billy saw the man. He wore a long, creased duster and was intently watching the place in which he thought Billy was still hiding.
Billy made his move. He came up over the ridge with his gun in his hand … and realized at once that something was wrong.
The assassin didn’t move at all. He was motionless – almost as if asleep.
Billy came slowly nearer. Still the man showed no sign of life.
“Throw the rifle away, Mister!” called Billy. “Do it right now, or I’ll shoot you!”
At first the other man made no move at all. Then he tried to follow Billy’s order, but his movements were slow and labored. After a moment or so he groaned and slumped back.
Billy frowned. “Mister,” he said, “I told you to throw your gun away!”
No response.
“Didn’t you hear me? You got three seconds left – then I’ll shoot you.”
The man’s right hand opened, and the rifle went down. He murmured something and tried to stand up, but it was clearly impossible for him.
Then Billy saw the blood staining the would-be killer’s shirt and realized the man had been shot.
“I’m a fool,” hissed the wounded man. “Now I got to pay...”
Billy watched the man, whose face was very pale. He had gray hair that he wore longer than was fashionable. It fell to his shoulders, and an untrimmed beard covered the lower part of his sun burnt face.
“Why did you try to shoot me, mister?” asked Billy.
The stranger’s eyes mirrored his emotions. At first he seemed to be angry that someone had gotten the drop on him. But then his face changed into a grin.
“It’s just a … mistake, boy,” he answered hoarsely. “I thought you belonged to these bastards....”
“I don’t understand what you’re sayin’,” said Billy.
The other man nodded weakly. His wound was obviously giving him considerable pain. He tried again to rise, but he was too weak. Without warning he fell back and lost consciousness.
Shoving his gun away, Billy knelt beside the man and briefly inspected the wound. This man needs a doc, he thought. Pronto.
Just then he realized that the stranger had been carrying a heavy ammunition belt. And in addition to the rifle, which now lay beside him, he carried a .45 Colt in an oiled leather holster. Holster and Colt both looked scrupulously clean, as if the man used them daily.
“A gunman,” Billy muttered when he realized the stranger’s profession.
He’d heard quite a few stories about gunmen and their dangerous life. A lot of penny dreadfuls had been written about them, and sometimes Billy felt as if he’d read them all.
As for this hombre … Was he gunman, killer – or just a man whose luck had run out? Billy had no way of even guessing at the truth. In any case, all that mattered now was that he do something to ease the stranger’s pain and get that wound doctored. There’d be time enough then for answers.
Chapter Two
The thorny branches left deep scratches in the cowboy’s batwing chaps. But he found three cows deep in the thicket, as he had expected he would.
The round up had started a couple of days earlier. Tom Calhoun had ordered his men to search this part of the brasada for lost cattle, which still had to be branded and driven back to the main herd. This was easier said than done, because many cows sought shelter deep in the brush, and it was hell to find them and then chouse them out. There were numerous canyons and gullies where they could hide, and some days it seemed that the cowboys spent more time searching for cattle than they did actually finding them and rounding them up.
John Calhoun reined his horse and watched the cows running back to the herd. Tom’s eldest son was tall and muscular. Beneath his Stetson his hair was dark and curly. He had green eyes and a black mustache that made him look older than he was.
Another rider approached John. He was bigger than John, his hair was the color of fine white sand, and his grin told John that he had good news to report.
“We found twenty mavericks over yonder,” said Rio Shayne. He gestured toward a deep ditch that was just visible beyond a line of brush.
John nodded. “If it keeps going like this, we’ll have the herd complete inside a couple more days.” He hawked and spat. It was midday, the hottest part of the day and too damn’ hot for such work. “Tell the others to take a break,” he said.
Rio turned his horse around and rode away. John remained where he was for a couple of minutes and watched the horizon. He was looking for Billy, because his younger brother should have been here by now, and he was late.
He felt a familiar pang of concern for his brother. Billy had changed since he’d returned home to Rancho Bravo after a two year absence. He had been abducted by Quanah Parker’s Comanche warriors and had been forced to live with them. Neither his father nor John knew exactly what Billy had gone through during that period. Billy himself never spoke about it. He was quiet and sometimes didn’t listen to his father’s orders, because he still seemed to be far away at another place. Where that place was, only Billy knew.
Sometimes John wondered if Billy would ever live a normal life ever again, but never mentioned it. His father had gone through his own personal hell during Billy’s absence. It was a hard time for both of them, and the shadows of the past had not disappeared completely.
All at once he heard a ripple of gunfire in the near distance—and from the direction he had been expecting Billy to come from.
One of the cowhands, a red-head named Gus, called out, “What the heck? What’s goin’ on?”
As he rode up John said, “Could be that Billy’s in trouble.”
No other words were necessary. John and Gus rode as fast as they could.
All of a sudden the shooting had stopped.
Rancho Bravo had been built to last, and Tom Calhoun saw as much every time when he stood on top of the hill that overlooked the valley in which he had settled. The main building had not been erected on the highest point, but from here a visitor could see the bed of a small creek, which wound its way along the valley down south.
The house where Tom and his two sons lived consisted of separate living and working rooms, a kitchen, two guest rooms and even a small chamber for weapons and ammunition. Not far away from the main building, about twenty yards below, Tom had erected a bunk house and cook-shack for the benefit of his cowboys. A smaller room just behind it was used as storage for the men’s personal belongings and saddles.
From there it was only a couple of steps away to a wooden building, which was used partly as a forge and carpenter’s workshop. Directly beside it, a smaller shed had been built, which contained branding irons, hammers and nails, axes as well as fresh cut wood, which would be used in the following weeks for a new corral at the bottom of the hill.
The stable lay behind these buildings, next to which a corral was still under construction.
At the center stood a wooden tower surmounted by a wind turbine. This structure was also used as a watchtower. The whole day over it was occupied, because the danger of roaming Comanche warriors was still present. If any hostiles tried to attack Rancho Bravo, the man on the watchtower would see them first and sound the warning.
Tom stood on the front porch and from here could see the valley and the nearby brasada. From here it was only a couple of miles to the Rio Concho and the mountains which led directly to the Mexican border country.
He was no longer a young man. His hair was grey and a full beard covered the lower part of his striking face. Wind and weather had left their traces, but the fire in his eyes still burned. More than ten years earlier he had left Independence with his wife Sarah and his two sons John and Billy. Now he was the master of this domain.
Tom wished that Sarah could have seen what had become of his dream. But fate had decided otherwise. His wife had been killed during a Comanche attack just one year after the family had settled in this valley. Although it had happened many years ago, Tom still mour
ned the loss of his beloved wife. She had been buried on top of this hill, in the shade of three giant oak trees. Tom visited the place nearly each day to talk to his wife about the daily work and how good her two sons had turned out.
Slowly he turned and went back into the house. It was relief to get out of the sun. Besides, there was work to do: he and his foreman, Jay Durango, had to check the accounts. The bank in San Angelo had demanded this before they agreed to give any more credit, which Rancho Bravo needed this summer. Even the money Tom had earned by selling a cattle herd in Abilene this spring was not enough to pay back the money the bank had loaned him when he’d first started his business. So it was a daily fight evening up the odds – and this time they had so check the books very carefully.
A huge painting just above the fireplace showed three Indians on their hunt for buffalo. It was flanked by two mighty flintlock rifles, which Tom Calhoun had inherited from his father, Benjamin, many years ago. The furniture in the room was decorated with leather, and a coal oil lamp on the ceiling provided the necessary light after sunset.
Tom went through to his office. Behind a massive desk sat a man who looked anything but the bookkeeper he was presently trying to be. He looked like a fighter who had faced hard times in his past. This was Jay Durango, Rancho Bravo’s ranch boss, and together with Tom he was also responsible for running the business. Without his help Rancho Bravo would not be as big as it was now.
Durango looked up when he saw his boss enter the room.
“It’s hotter than hell out there,” said Tom. “It stays like this, I reckon all the water holes will dry out.”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” said Durango. “But Rancho Bravo’s faced worse’n that, I reckon.”
“Are you talking about the accounts?” asked the rancher.
“Nope,” answered Durango. “We’re doin’ okay, far as my understandin’ goes. But David Douglas from the San Angelo Bank will keep on asking us about the bank credit. The sooner we can pay it back, the happier I reckon we’ll all be.”
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