Drovers and Demons
A Weird Tale of the Old West
Scott Langrel
Cover Art:
bubaone
Copyright © 2018 by Scott Langrel
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or by photocopying or recording, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or for the purposes of brief quotations for articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Geographical locations are used in a fictitious manner.
Books in the Finn McCoy series:
The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Prequel)
Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #1)
Shadows in the Sand (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #2)
Cold Chills (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #3)
Dark Hollows (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #4)
Blood Carnival (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #5)
Bloodlines (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #6)
Hungry Gods (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #7)
Tiny Terrors (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #8)
Books in the Wolf Donovan series:
The Blight (A Wolf Donovan Supernatural Thriller #1)
Books in the Josiah Grizzle series:
The Shearing Season
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Author’s Note:
I may have taken a few liberties concerning timelines and locations. Let’s try not to be too anal about it. It’s all in good fun.
Table of Contents
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 One
The stick might have come first, but it was the hat that actually saved Murphy’s hide.
He’d had three Colts pointed at him at the time, and none of the men holding the guns looked as if they’d lose a minute’s sleep from pulling the trigger. Murphy was fast—maybe the fastest in that part of the state—but there wasn’t a man alive who could clear a holstered gun and take out three seasoned shootists who already had a bead on him. That hadn’t stopped Murphy from seriously considering it, but in the end, common sense had won out.
Poor old Pennyfeather was either dead or dying in the dust beside the trail they’d been traveling. Murphy felt bad about that, since the attorney had seemed like a decent fellow, and Murphy seldom got to make the acquaintance of anyone decent. The man had been full of laughter and had owned an uncannily large repertoire of bawdy jokes, but he’d sweated a lot more than Murphy thought a man should. And, unfortunately, the barrister had shown a total lack of common sense—along with the inability to keep his mouth shut—when confronted by three armed men on a lonely trail in pretty much the middle of nowhere. Those two failings had been his downfall, and had directly led to his current pitiful condition.
“Now,” said one of the men pointing iron at Murphy, “you have anything smart to say, too?”
Murphy slowly shook his head from side to side. Unlike the former attorney Wilford Pennyfeather, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“That’s good,” the man said. “Now, how about you come down off that horse? I don’t like dealing with a man when I’m having to look up at him.”
Sighing, Murphy complied, though he suspected the best ‘deal’ he would get would consist of being left stranded on the trail halfway between Phoenix and Vulture City. And that was if the men were in an exceptionally affable mood, and if he could convince them that he wasn’t worth wasting a bullet on. Which was about as likely as Pennyfeather recovering enough to perform a final, rousing rendition of God Save the Queen while doing a vaudeville dance.
It helped that it was Murphy’s custom to dress in a somber and drab fashion, with no fancy hat or boots to call attention to himself. His gun belt, currently hidden under his duster, was also plain and functional, as the was Colt Frontier nestled securely in its holster. To the casual observer, his appearance and demeanor marked him as a cattle driver or ranch hand, not a hired gun.
A more meticulous examination, however, revealed the truth of the matter. His movements were efficient and economical, with no wasted energy, and his blue eyes were cold and calculating, able to take in his complete surroundings while also concentrating on a single target. His brown hair and beard were neatly trimmed, displaying none of the unkempt shagginess associated with long cattle drives or days upon end spent fencing property.
Being mindful to move slowly and steer clear of his Winchester resting in its saddle scabbard, Murphy dismounted and edged back to the rear of his horse. The barrels of the men’s guns traced his every move.
“That’s better,” the spokesman for the trio said. He gave Murphy a quick appraisal. “That fat man said you were heading to Vulture City.”
“That’s right,” Murphy agreed.
“You a miner? You don’t look like a miner.”
“I’m a surveyor,” Murphy lied. “Jim Viers, out of Prescott. Just traveling to Vulture Mine for a job. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Do we look like trouble to you?” the man with the gun grinned.
Murphy thought that the men looked like the worst kind of trouble, but he wisely bit his tongue.
“I hope you don’t mind if we take a look in those saddle bags,” the man said. “I’m sure the other fella’s not gonna be too upset about it.”
Murphy shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. And it was true that Pennyfeather was too busy drawing flies to give much of a shit one way or the other.
“That’s good,” the bandit said, smiling. He nodded toward one of the other men. “Jacob, go ahead. We’ll keep an eye on Mr. Viers here.”
Jacob looked a bit irritated, either because he’d been picked to do the heavy lifting, or because the other man had used his name. Maybe both. In any event, he reluctantly holstered his gun and moved toward Pennyfeather’s riderless mount.
That left two guns on Murphy. The odds were improving.
“While he’s doing that,” the first man said, “why don’t you peel that duster back and let us see what you have on your hip.”
“I’ll take the coat off, if you don’t mind,” Murphy replied. “It’s getting warm, and your friend looks like he might be a while.”
“Suit yourself,” the man said. “Just do it slowly. Personally, I’m a calm man. But my friend here’s a tad on the nervous side. Better safe than sorry.”
Murphy nodded and began to ease himself out of the duster. He folded the long coat and placed it gently on the ground beside him. Unwittingly, the bandits had done him a favor, for though his gun was now exposed for them to see, he now had unfettered access to it.
The man doing the talking gave Murphy’
s revolver a cursory glance and was seemingly unimpressed. Even a surveyor from Prescott could hardly be faulted for traveling armed through the badlands of Arizona, where the law was scarce and the outlaws and Indians weren’t. Especially if your lone riding companion happened to be an eastern-educated lawyer who thought—erroneously, as it had turned out—that he could talk his way out of anything.
“You might want to unbuckle that gun belt,” the bandit said casually. “And, again, the slower the better.”
Murphy hesitated. If he did as the man said, he’d either wind up dead or stranded about forty miles from anywhere. Neither of those options held any appeal.
On the other hand, if he went for his revolver, he was pretty sure he could take out at least one of the gunmen. They’d both relaxed their guard somewhat, though it would be a hell of a stretch to say that either man was distracted to the point of being inattentive. But while Murphy could probably drop one of the bandits, the other would most assuredly get a shot off before the hired gun could get to cover. This scenario left much to be desired, as well, because it would leave Murphy either dead or wounded and still facing two healthy shooters.
Murphy wished fervently for some type of distraction. And that’s when the charred walking stick fell out of the sky and landed in the dust between Murphy and his adversaries.
“The hell?” the talkative bandit yelped, taking a leap backwards as the stick thumped to the ground. It was the ideal distraction that Murphy had just prayed for, but it caught him as much by surprise as it did the outlaws. He found himself looking up at the sky, trying to determine where the stick had come from. When he looked back down, both gunmen were eyeing him suspiciously, their guns still trained on him. The third bandit had stopped rummaging through Pennyfeather’s saddlebags and was looking questioningly at his two companions.
Murphy cursed himself for a fool. He’d squandered what would undoubtedly be his only opportunity.
“How’d you do that?” the only outlaw with vocal chords asked.
“Do what?”
“That thing with the stick.”
“It wasn’t me,” Murphy assured him. “How could it’ve been me? You were watching me the whole time.”
The bandit’s eyes narrowed. “You got friends hiding somewhere?”
“Where would they be hiding here in the wide open?” Murphy asked. Bandits were bad, but dumb bandits were worse. “We saw you fellas coming from a mile back on the trail, and I’m sure you saw us. You see more than two horses?”
The talker turned to look at his two companions, who merely returned his gaze and shook their heads in silence.
“Well,” the bandit said, “it sure as hell didn’t just drop out of thin air.”
“Clayton?” hissed Jacob, who had heretofore been silent.
“What?” Clayton shot a glance at Jacob, then followed the other’s gaze into the sky above them.
A hat was descending gently from the heavens, twirling and dancing in the gentle breeze as it was buffeted along by the air currents. Like the walking stick, it had apparently materialized out of thin air, with no obvious source of origination visible.
“The hell?” Clayton asked again, and they were his last two words on Earth as Murphy drew his revolver and ended the outlaw’s life with a well-placed shot to the center of his chest. Even as Clayton gave a final, violent exhale and crumpled to the ground, Murphy fired at the unnamed second gunman, sending him to pick up his wings and harp with a bullet to the throat.
Stepping around the side of Pennyfeather’s horse, Murphy squared up against Jacob, who was staring incredulously at the bodies of his two companions. The man hadn’t had the presence of mind to draw his own weapon, and he looked at Murphy with fear and trepidation.
“You have two choices,” Murphy said flatly. “I don’t think I have to spell them out for you.”
“My horse?” Jacob asked.
“Leave it, along with your revolver.”
“But it’s forty miles—”
“At least,” Murphy agreed. “So I’d get going, if I were you. Otherwise, make your play when you’re ready.”
If Jacob took any time to consider the second option, he didn’t show it. Using his left hand, he slowly removed his gun from its holster and tossed it to the ground several feet away. He then began to back away slowly, his hands raised in the air.”
“Go on,” Murphy said impatiently. “I’m not going to shoot you in the back.”
Though he looked thoroughly unconvinced, Jacob turned and began to walk briskly toward Phoenix. When he was thirty or so yards away, he broke into a dead run. Murphy watched as the little clouds of dust the bandit kicked up receded into the distance.
Turning around, Murphy focused his attention on the mysterious hat, which had come to a rest near Clayton’s sprawled body. He walked over and bent down to pick it up. Straightening up, he turned the hat around in his hands as he studied it.
The hat, like the walking stick, showed signs of being singed, as if the previous owner of the items had been subjected to fire or some other form of intense heat. The hat itself was rather flimsy; it was constructed from what appeared to be straw. Murphy supposed it wouldn’t stand up to much more than a light shower at best, and even then not for any prolonged length of time. He turned the hat over and looked inside. Attached to the hat’s inner band, Murphy saw, was a small white tag with words on it. He bent his head closer to read the writing.
One size fits all. Made in China.
Since Murphy O’Bannon wasn’t an overly curious man, he shrugged and walked over to his horse, where he opened his saddlebag and placed the hat inside. Maybe he’d meet up with the Chinaman who’d lost the hat someday. If he did, he’d return it and thank the owner for saving his life.
The walking stick proved to be uninteresting, so Murphy left it lying where it had landed. He did take the time, however, to collect the dead men’s guns and ammunition; between the revolvers and rifles, he could probably make an extra hundred dollars or so at the next trading post he came across, which would likely be in Vulture City. He also rifled through their clothes and saddlebags, pocketing an additional thirty-eight dollars.
The horses and saddles would bring money as well, so he tied them to follow along behind him. Lastly, Murphy secured poor Pennyfeather’s body to the barrister’s mount. It wouldn’t do to leave the body of his new employer’s lawyer lying out for the buzzards to feed on, even though the corpse would likely be ripe by the time Murphy arrived at Vulture City. Besides, the body would back up his story, and Murphy supposed it was the right thing to do, in any event.
With the lawyer strapped down sideways over the saddle, Murphy set out for his destination. It promised to be a long, boring ride.
He had the feeling Pennyfeather wouldn’t be near as much company as he had been before.
Chapter Two
Ford Earheart had a bad feeling.
It wasn’t the effect of being underground in the cramped mine shaft; Ford had never suffered from claustrophobia a day in his life. It wasn’t even from the constant threat of a cave-in. Ford had always subscribed to the opinion that when it was your time to go, there wouldn’t be a damned thing you could do about it. Amor fati, as an educated man had once put it to him. Ford didn’t know exactly what those words meant, but he liked the sound of them, and he tended to toss them around when drunk or trying to impress a lady.
But the feeling of doom persisted, just the same. It was kind of like that feeling you got when you smelled something dead and started searching for the source of the stench. You knew you wouldn’t like what you found—you dreaded it, actually—but you had to keep looking. It was something like that. Not quite, maybe, but it was the closest Ford could come to describing the sensation.
“Ain’t paying us to stand around,” Black Pete grunted as he swung his pickaxe.
“Ain’t paying us to badger one another, neither,” Ford replied, giving the other man a sour look.
Black Pete gave
a partial shrug in between swings. “No skin off my back, nipper. Just trying to save you a headache if the foreman comes along.”
“Well, thanks for the consideration,” Ford said sarcastically. Just the same, though, he grasped his own pickaxe and went back to work. Foreman Skillings wasn’t a big fan of idle hands, and if Ford got bounced, there were three dozen men waiting in town to take his place. Ford hadn’t worked for months prior to getting on at the Vulture, and he wasn’t eager to resume unemployment anytime soon.
The shaft was narrow, with barely enough room to accommodate Ford and Pete standing almost shoulder to shoulder, and even then they had to be careful not to impale each other as they continued to chip away at the soil and rock in front of them. Every so often, they would take a short break while an Indian with a cart came in and shoveled up the debris to haul outside. The Indian had never offered his name, and Ford had never asked for it. He’d heard scuttlebutt that the Indian was an Apache, and there was hushed talk that he’d been banished from his tribe. Ford figured being ostracized from your own people was likely to put anyone in a bad mood, so he’d given the man a wide berth since starting at the mine.
Besides, Ford didn’t want any trouble. He needed this job. The work looked to be steady for the foreseeable future, and the pay was decent enough. The way Ford had it figured, if he scrimped and saved for the next six to eight months, he could build up enough of a stake to finance his ultimate dream: passage to California.
California. The land of ultimate opportunity. The perfect location for a young man like Ford to build his fortune. The possibilities were limitless. He might pan for gold on his own, or perhaps he could open his own saloon in one of the booming mining towns out there; word had it they’d found silver in the Calico Mountains. Anything seemed possible.
Drovers and Demons: A Weird Tale of the Old West (Murphy and Loco Book 1) Page 1