Ballard and McCall 1

by Neil Hunter

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  One of them came to Gunner’s Creek at the end of a long search.

  The other had simply drifted into the town.

  Fate drew them together. Two Texans who found a town in trouble, and being who they were, had to throw in their hands to help.

  Chet Ballard and Jess McCall.

  Texicans down to the tips of their boots. Big men with hard fists and fast guns, who saw trouble and refused to back away from it.

  TWO FROM TEXAS

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2014 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: March 2014

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  Jess McCall, all six foot six inches, left the King High saloon without touching the ground. The batwing doors crashed open as his one hundred and eighty pounds catapulted through. McCall made an awe-inspiring sight as he sailed over the boardwalk. He landed hard, with a thump that rocked the building he had just left. Dust billowed up around McCall’s body as he slid into the middle of the wide, sun baked main street of Gunner Creek, Territory of Kansas.

  McCall climbed to his feet and tried to rid himself of the coat of gray-white dust that had settled on him. He managed to half choke himself when he attempted to brush it off. He gave tip when, on glancing up, he saw on the saloon steps the three bouncers who had just thrown him out. A loud snort of anger came from his throat as he made for them. They, seeing his intention, moved down the steps.

  Though it was early, only ten in the morning, a fair sized crowd was rapidly gathering.

  McCall’s opponents seemed pleased with the crowd, as though they wanted plenty of spectators. They also seemed confident and relaxed. As if this sort of thing happened often.

  For a few seconds the men in the center of the dusty circle made by the crowd, eyed one another. McCall stood motionless, his arms at his sides, feet spread wide apart for balance

  Then the center one of the three bouncers moved forward. He was a big, solid built man, with a thick chest and long arms and huge fists. His name was Ed Quince. His beefy face was rough and bore the marks of a seasoned saloon brawler. Just before he had been thrown out, McCall, in an attempt to lessen the odds, had landed a single blow on Quince’s face. Now a big purple and blue bruise was forming on Quince’s left cheek. Mute testimony to the power of the McCall fist.

  McCall tried to keep one eye on the advancing Quince and also watch the moves of Quince’s partners. He only got a pair of aching eyeballs for his efforts. He did, however, get a glimpse of the two as they split up. One going to the left, the other, to the, right. Then his range of vision was greatly reduced by Quince’s vast bulk.

  Quince stood before McCall, his great fists clenching and unclenching. He said, ‘Bucko, I’m going to split you in two.’ He was, by nature, a man of few words.

  Without giving Quince time to carry cut his threat McCall drew back his right arm. It slashed forward again and his fist slammed into Quince’s stomach with crippling force. Quince’s small eyes shot wide open, his mouth forming a round O as his breath left his body in a rush. McCall flinched back from the gust of whisky-stale air. As Quince buckled forward, clutching his stomach, McCall swung his right again; this time it came hard and fast from his shoulder, a punch that ended on Quince’s unshaven jaw with a crack that was heard by every man in the crowd. It dropped Quince like a sack of potatoes.

  A moving shadow on the ground made McCall swing round fast. The owner was one of the other bouncers, a tall hulk of a man called Pink. Before McCall could complete his turn, Pink stepped in close. A ham-sized fist caught McCall a solid thump on the side of the head. The blow sent the Texan reeling, his arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. Pink kept swinging as he followed McCall’s weaving body. Then McCall’s feet went from under him and he fell. Swift to make the most of an offered opportunity, Pink rushed in, launching a powerful kick. McCall rolled clear of Pink’s booted feet. Clouds of dust followed in his wake as he spun himself across the ground.

  Coming to his feet McCall was able to meet Pink as the bouncer came at him.

  Behind Pink was the third bouncer and McCall saw a chance to end the thing fast. Lowering his head, McCall launched himself forward at Pink. The top of McCall’s head slammed into Pink’s stomach, the force of the blow sending Pink back into collision with the third bouncer. As the two men crashed to the ground in a tangled heap McCall moved in. He grasped hold of them by the fronts of their shirts and swung them together. Two heads slammed together with a loud crack. McCall released the two and they dropped to the ground and lay still.

  McCall drew in a deep breath and shook his head. His body ached and his head rang, but apart from that he felt fine. He glanced at the two still forms on the ground and grinned.

  Then the grin left his lips as a voice cracked the hot silence.

  ‘I’m ending this now, Bucko,’ said Quince.

  McCall turned in the direction of the voice and saw Quince standing near the saloon steps. Quince’s right hand hovered over the butt of his tied down .44. Blood ran from his lower lip and dripped onto his shirt.

  Prom somewhere in the crowd a man shouted, ‘He’s got no gun.’

  Quince grinned at that. His head moved back and forth as he scanned the faces of the crowd. The low murmur of voices died away under his gaze.

  ‘Maybe one of you wants to lend him one?’ he said.

  Nobody spoke up, or moved and McCall, despite the heat, felt a knot of ice-cold fear twist his stomach. He wasn’t afraid to die, but this way was no way to go, being gunned down like some stray dog. It seemed that not a man in the crowd had the guts to stand up to Quince, even though it meant seeing a man shot down without a chance. McCall saw some of the men look away as he glanced at them. But he found he had more pity than hate for them.

  Quince was still grinning. ‘Looks like you ain’t gettin’ a gun, big man,’ he said. His hand began a slow, deliberate move towards his own sidearm.

  He’s waiting for me to beg or run, McCall thought.

  Then suddenly a man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, McCall saw the man, and as McCall saw him, the man called, ‘Hey, cowboy.’

  McCall cocked his head in the man’s direction and saw the rifle the man held. In that instant the man swung the rifle up and tossed it in McCall’s direction. McCall’s hands came up and he caught the rifle. His right hand was working the lever as he swung the gun round to bear on Quince.

  Quince saw McCall’s move and his hand speedily yanked his gun from its holster. His face was a mask of surprise and anger.

  As McCall’s finger curled around the rifle’s trigger he dropped to one knee.

  Then Quince had his gun out and it blossomed flame at McCall. The slug tore into the ground close to McCall’s left heel, sending up a geyser of dirt as it struck.

  Before Quince could fire again, the rifle in McCall’s hands rose, and he triggered off his first shot. The rifle was a 44-40 Winchester, and the heavy slug slammed into Quince’s left shoulder. Off balance, Quince tried to sight his gun again.

  As he saw Quince trying for a second shot McCall let go a second and third
slug from the Winchester.

  Quince took both slugs in the chest and the force of them slammed him backwards. He came up against the railing that edged the boardwalk and hung motionless for a moment. Then he slithered loosely along the railing until he fell face down in the. dust of the street. His back was a blood-soaked mess of torn flesh and cloth where the rifle slugs had ripped their way right through his body.

  The deep rumble of gunfire still echoed in the hot air as the crowd began to find their voices again. Slowly at first, then faster, they moved forward, pushed closer now the danger was over. All of a sudden they were men again as they surged towards the body of Quince. No longer afraid of the man who had made them back down scant minutes before.

  Jess McCall shoved his way free of the crowd, not too gently for he was angry that this thing had happened. But, he realized, it was the way of things out here. A small thing, like a few wrong words and a man could find himself in deep trouble. And nine times out of ten the matter would be settled by the roar of guns and the spilling of blood. McCall gave a shake of his head.

  He was brought out of his dark thoughts by a deep voice that asked, ‘Finished with it, friend?’

  McCall glanced up. Standing before him was a big, dark haired man in sun-bleached, dusty clothing. The man was McCall’s height and weight. He wore a tied down Colt .45 strapped to his right leg.

  ‘Nice gun,’ McCall remarked as he returned the Winchester. He smiled. ‘I sure do thank you. It looked like my time was up before you stepped in.’

  The man held out a big hand. ‘Ballard is the name. Chet Ballard.’

  McCall took the, offered hand in his own large fist. ‘Jess McCall,’ he said.

  ‘Howdy, Jess,’ Ballard said.

  They moved away from the crowd of men and walked slowly across the street.

  ‘You had breakfast yet?’ McCall asked suddenly. Ballard shook his head and McCall said, ‘Me neither. Let’s go get some.’

  Chapter Two

  From a window two floors above the King High saloon a man’s face drew back from the glass. The window overlooked the main street and the man had watched the incident below with detached interest. Now, however, he jerked away from the window as if the glass had suddenly become hot.

  The man was Wade Temple, owner of the King High. A self-styled man of many, and ever changing, moods and ideas. But he was a dangerous man too because of his inability to control his emotions. In Gunner Creek he was the hand that held the reins of command over a crew of hired gunmen who, in turn, ran the town the way Temple wanted it run.

  Since his coming to the town, a year ago, he had worked his way up to his present position by the sheer brutality and violence his crew wielded. His reason, his objective for all this was one thing.

  Money.

  The rigged gambling tables in his saloon brought in a great deal. But Temple wanted more. So his men collected more from the town’s storekeepers. They used the old, and well-tried protection insurance, by which the storekeepers paid to have their stores protected against non-existing accidents.

  At first the townsfolk resented Temple’s rule. But after a couple of men had been badly beaten up and one store almost destroyed they knuckled under. They paid up rather than risk being set on by Temple’s vicious crew.

  So a town was broken by a man who lived and cared for only one thing. A man who would go to any lengths to reach his goal. Someone who had no thoughts or worries about what he was doing to a town and its people.

  Wade Temple didn’t give a damn about anyone. So long as his wealth was accumulating he lived in a world of his own creation. A world he had built when he was a child to blot out the picture of his squalid home life. And ever since that childhood, living in a stinking sod hut on the bank of the Mississippi, when he had sworn to better himself, the lust for the finer things in life had driven him to desperate measures to obtain them. From petty thieving in his teens, his desire for greater gains had set him on an insatiable trail of stealing and cheating. And in some cases killing. He had carried his dealings into the war by turning to gun running, and after had traded the weapons to hostile Indians from Arizona to Texas.

  The army had finally broken up his gun running after a Texas rancher named Jack Halstrom had stumbled on one of Temple’s rendezvous points and alerted the nearest cavalry post. After a running fight, Temple, and his second in command, a hard case gunslinger named Rio, were the only ones to escape. And before they left Texas they paid a visit to the Halstrom ranch. When they rode out they left Halstrom, his wife, and young son dead.

  They also left for dead a man by the name of Chet Ballard.

  Ballard had been a deputy in the small town where Temple ran his gun running from. Temple hated him. His hate for Ballard came from an incident that had taken place one hot day. Ballard had been arresting one of Temple’s men for attacking a young girl. After talking had failed, Temple tried to get his man off by bribing the Texan. The bribe failed too. And Ballard had dragged Temple out into the middle of town and given him the biggest beating he’d ever had, with most of the town watching.

  Temple had never forgotten the beating, and when he had seen Ballard at Halstrom’s ranch that day he had gunned the Texan down without hesitation.

  The incident had drifted into the past as Temple and Rio had moved around the country in the following couple of years. Then they had come on Gunner Creek. A small, one street town, way out in the empty vastness of Kansas. It lay in a wide sweeping valley that gave it ample protection from severe weather conditions. And the town was ringed by a number of ranches and farms.

  Wade Temple had moved in and brought hired guns to do his work for him while he sat back and played king.

  But suddenly, without warning his kingdom lost some of its glamour and the foundations crumbled a little. Out of his past came someone who could cause his downfall. Or his death.

  Temple’ a handsome face became pale beneath its tan. He crossed from the window of his office and sat down behind his huge oak desk.

  He was a tall, well-built man. His carefully groomed hair was fair. So was the neat mustache he wore on his upper lip. The clothes he wore were expensive and stylish, his boots hand stitched, the leather embossed.

  Now he sat staring down at the highly polished surface of the desktop. He ran a trembling hand through his thick hair. Then he gave a groan and slammed his fists down onto the desk, hard.

  ‘Dame you, Ballard,’ he said softly. ‘Damn you.’

  Abruptly he raised his head and shouted: ‘Rio, get in here!’

  Footsteps sounded beyond the office door, then it opened and a man came in. He closed the door and looked at Temple curiously as he crossed over to the desk.

  Rio was a lean, sun-darkened man dressed in somber black from head to foot. His face was hard, and the skin was drawn tight over the bones of his face giving him a wasted, gaunt appearance. From behind half-closed lids his eyes settled unwaveringly on Temple.

  ‘What the hell is up with you? Somebody steal your dam safe?’ he asked dryly.

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ Temple snapped. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

  Rio’s reply was a faint smile, more a sneer, that tugged at the corners of his thin lips.

  ‘So what do you want?’ he asked.

  Temple rose from his seat and led the way back to the window. Rio followed him and peered through the glass.

  ‘You see the two men walking across the street?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Take a close look at the one with the rifle.’

  ‘So?’ Rio asked after a second or so.

  ‘Recognize him?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on then. Why?’

  ‘Because he happens to be Chet Ballard,’ Temple said, turning away from the window.

  Rio leaned forward and studied the figure. Then he gave a dry chuckle.

  ‘Hell, it is Ballard! How’d that son turn up here?’

  He turne
d from the window and shook his head at Temple.

  ‘You sure did kill him good,’ he said. And there was an edge of contempt in his tone.

  He glanced out the window again in time to see Ballard and his companion entering the Bonanza Restaurant on the other side of the street. On turning back into the office Rio saw Temple standing behind his desk. Temple was thumbing shells into a .44 Remington revolver.

  ‘Think you’ll need that?’ Rio asked. He seemed amused at Temple’s obvious nervousness.

  Temple looked up sharply, his smooth features twisted into a dark scowl. He finished loading the gun and lifted a rolled gun-rig from an open drawer in his desk. He strapped it on before he spoke.

  ‘Ballard didn’t come to Gunner Creek by chance. He came because he knows we’re here.’

  ‘And you reckon he’s going to come looking for us?’ Rio said softly.

  ‘Wouldn’t you if you were in his place?’ Temple asked.

  Rio perched himself on the edge of Temple’s desk. He watched Temple drop the loaded Remington into its holster. He knew the reason for Temple’s fear. In the long time they had been together it had always been Rio who did the gunning. The simple explanation for this was in the fact that Temple was no use as a gun hand. For one thing he didn’t have the nerve, for another he was too slow. Oh, he could plan and organize an operation with ease and speed. But come any gunplay and Temple was out. If he ever had to face up to a man in a fair fight he would panic and run. This, Rio knew without ever having seen it. Hell, he thought, one look at Ballard and the bastard is ready to go underground.

  In answer to Temple’s question, Rio said, ‘If it were me, I guess I would use a gun. But Ballard is a thinking man. He’s got brains and he’ll use them. He’ll make us sweat, let us worry until we don’t know what we’re doing. Then he’ll let us make the mistakes so we fall right where he wants us to.’ Rio shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s only my opinion. I could be wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ Temple said. ‘Maybe we ought to move first. Get rid of him fast. I’ve got enough worry with this trail end town. I don’t want to get tangled up with a Texas saddle tramp who has a grudge against me.’