Table of Contents
About the Book
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
About the Author
Although Clay Taggart had been strung up and left to rot under the burning desert sun, he wasn’t about to play dead. After a desperate band of Indians rescued Taggart, he headed into
the Arizona wilderness and plotted his revenge. One by one, Taggart hunted down his enemies, and with the help of the renegade Apaches, he acted as judge, jury, and executioner. But when Taggart set his sights on a corrupt marshal, he found that the long arm of the law might just have more muscle than he expected.
To Judy, Joshua, and Shane
One
A warm wind fanned the craggy features of Samuel T. Walker as he rode toward his ranch house. It was twilight, and he was looking forward to the thick steak and potatoes his Mexican cook Pedro would have ready for him shortly after he strode in the door. Pedro was a fine cook, almost as skilled with a frying pan as Walker s dear departed wife Charlotte.
Walker thought of her gentle, loving nature and the amazing fact that she had loved him above all other men. A familiar lump formed in his throat. It had been three years since his darling Charlotte had gone to meet her Maker, yet a day did not go by that he did not think of her.
“Lord, I miss that woman,” Walker said softly to himself, and he was startled by his lapse. In his opinion, it didn’t do for a grown man to talk to himself. Sure, city-bred folks did it all the time, but they had puny thinkers. Any man worthy of the handle never went around babbling to himself.
Walker rubbed the stubble on his chin. Three days had gone by since he had taken a razor to his skin. He was toying with the notion of growing a beard. Twice in the past few months he had started to do so, but then he would recall that Charlotte had never liked facial hair. She’d claimed it itched when they were intimate, and he would shave it off. Maybe this time he would have the courage to grow a beard.
The trail Walker followed was one he had taken countless times. Mesquite flanked it on both sides. Ahead was a bend; beyond lay a small hill. From the top, he would look down on his house, barn, and corral, and he’d feel the same pride he always felt. The Bar W was one of the most prosperous spreads in the territory, thanks to years of sweat and toil.
Walker’s dun suddenly raised its head and nickered. Walker promptly placed a hand on the smooth butt of the Colt on his right hip. It didn’t pay for a man to be careless, even in the vicinity of Tucson. The damned Apaches could strike anywhere, anytime.
As the dun rounded the bend, Walker saw a pair of mounted figures a dozen yards farther on. Automatically, his hand tightened on the Colt, but then he saw that they were white men, not renegades. His first thought was that they must be two of his hands on their way out to pull night-herd duty. But when he looked closer, he recognized his nearest neighbor and the marshal of Tucson.
Surprised, Walker rode to within six feet of them, then reined up. “Howdy, Miles,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “What brings you over here at this time of the day?”
Miles Gillett was a big man, broad at the shoulders and also at the hips. He was immensely powerful, his body rippling with iron sinew. His strength helped to explain why he so seldom carried a gun. When he had a dispute with someone, he preferred to resort to his massive fists.
He lifted one of his ham-size hands and said in greeting, “Hello, Sam. I reckon you know why I’ve come.”
“Again?” Walker said in disbelief. “How many times do I have to tell you the same thing? I’m not about to sell – not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Charlotte and I worked too long and hard to make this place a success for me to part with it at any price.”
Gillett kept his face a blank slate so his neighbor wouldn’t suspect his true feelings. “I’m awful sorry to hear that, Sam. I’ve made it as plain as can be that I aim to have the Bar W, no matter what.”
Amused, Walker grinned. “You just can’t take no for an answer, can you? I suppose I should have expected as much. How long have we known each other, Miles? Twenty, twenty-five years? If anyone should know how mulish you can be, it’s me.”
Plastering a smile on his great moon of a face, Gillett sighed and rested his hands on his saddle horn. “Sam, please, for the last time. I’m willing to pay twenty thousand dollars more than I offered you last week.”
Walker whistled. “That’s mighty generous of you, I’ll admit. With that much money, I could go anywhere I want and live out my days in the lap of luxury. But my answer is still the same: I won’t sell. Sorry.”
“So am I.” Gazing out over the Bar W, Gillett went on. “I need you to understand so you won’t think badly of me afterward. You have to realize that my dream has always been to own the largest spread around.”
Samuel Walker could not help laughing. “In case no one has told you, Miles, you already own the biggest damn ranch in the entire Arizona Territory.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Oh?”
“No. Before I’m done, I’m going to have the largest spread anywhere. Not just in Arizona. Not just west of the Mississippi. But the biggest damn ranch that ever existed.” Gillett’s dark eyes sparkled. “Actually, the Triangle G will be more than a ranch, Sam. It will be an empire.”
Walker could not believe his ears. “I never knew you felt this way, Miles. But I don’t think you’re being very realistic. To own a spread like that, you’d have to buy up half the land in these parts. And I know for a fact that a lot of ranchers will be just like me and refuse to sell.”
Gillett was so caught up in the vision of his sprawling dominion that he said absently, “Taggart wouldn’t sell either, and look at where it got him.”
“Clay Taggart?” Walker said, puzzled by the reference.
Taggart had owned a small spread between Gillett’s and his. Some time back, the man had tried to rape Gillett’s lovely wife Lily and killed a puncher who had gone to her aid. Taggart had been forced to flee into the mountains, and the next Walker heard, he had taken up with a band of renegade .bucks from off the Chiricahua Reservation. Folks called him the White Apache.
That turn of events had shocked Walker almost as much as the death of his wife. He’d known Clay well, or at least he’d believed he had. The two of them had shared bottles of coffin varnish on occasion, and they’d played poker together in Tucson from time to time. He’d always rated Taggart as an upstanding, hardworking hombre, just like himself.
Not all that long ago, Walker had learned that Gillett had bought Taggart’s ranch for pennies on the dollar shortly after the trouble began. He had not thought much of that news at the time, although he did recollect Clay saying once that Gillett had been badgering him to sell out.
With those memories fresh in his mind; Walker asked, “What does Taggart have to do with this?”
Miles Gillett regretted what he was about to do. He truly did. But he had reached the limits of his patience. Walker left him no other choice. “I wanted his place, but he wouldn’t cooperate. So I took steps to guarantee he couldn’t stand in my way.”
“Steps?” Walker said. “I don’t understand.”
“Must I spell it out for you?” Gillett asked. He could tell by his neighbor’s expression that the older man was thoroughly confused. “Very well. Taggart never tried to rape my wife. I trumped up the charge so he would be the guest of honor at a necktie social.”
“You wanted him to be hanged?’ Walker said.
; Gillett nodded, then frowned. “How was I to know he’d get away and join Delgadito’s cutthroats? I sent a posse after him. Crane and the rest lynched him over in the Dragoons, but somehow he survived. I swear, that bastard has more lives than a damn cat!”
Walker glanced at Marshal Tom Crane. Until that moment, he had not paid much attention to the lawman’s brooding presence. Truth was, Walker had never much liked the man. There was something about Crane’s wolfish features, flinty eyes, and long, waxed mustache that made him appear sinister.
Walker had always felt that Crane was no good. A rumor he had heard tended to confirm that suspicion. According to a story making the rounds of Tucson’s saloons, the lawman routinely pistol-whipped drunks who passed out in the street just to teach them not to make a nuisance of themselves. No self-respecting tin star would ever do such a thing.
“It’s only a matter of time before Taggart makes a mistake,” Gillett said. “Sooner or later, I’ll make him pay for all the grief he’s caused me.”
“What about the grief you’ve caused him?” Walker said, practically exploding. “You’ve made him an outcast, Miles! You’ve turned every white man in Arizona against him! You’ve ruined Clay’s life just so you could get your hands on his land!”
“That’s about the size of it.” Gillett wasn’t worried about confessing his crimes to Walker. No one else would ever discover the truth.
“How could you?” Walker glared at Crane and added, “And how could you be a party to this crime? You’re supposed to uphold the law, for God’s sake, not break it!”
For the first time Tom Crane spoke, his voice deep and raspy. “Whatever Mr. Gillett wants, he gets.”
Walker studied the two of them a moment. Then he jammed his hat back on and said, “So that’s the way it is, Miles? Crane is in your hip pocket? Well, the two of you won’t get away with this! At the crack of dawn, I’m leaving to pay the governor a visit. Once he hears what you’ve done, there will be a full investigation. I wouldn’t be surprised if the both of you end up behind bars. And it will serve you right!”
Miles Gillett smiled again, this time the smile was genuine. He never ceased to be amazed at how stupid other people could be. “Sam, what makes you think I’m going to let you go to Fort Whipple to see Gov. Goodwin?”
His words were spoken lightly, with a tinge of silken sarcasm. Yet they seared through Sam Walker like a branding iron. Abruptly , he realized that Marshal Crane’s right hand rested on a pistol. Gillett’s smile took on a whole new meaning.
“You can’t be saying what I thin k you’re saying,” Walker said.
“Why not?” Gillett asked. “Folks are getting butchered by Apaches all the time.”
Walker broke out in a cold sweat. “Someone will suspect,” he said, wishing he sounded more confident.
The man who craved an empire shook his ponderous head. “Wishful thinking on your part, old friend. By the time Tom is done carving you up, it will look just like the handiwork of the White Apache and the red vermin he rides with.” Twisting, Gillett reached into a saddlebag. “One of my hands found this a while back and gave it to my wife. Recognize it?”
Walker did. It was the broken end of an iron-tipped arrow, the kind used by Apaches. His mouth went dry. He had to cough before he could speak. “So what if you make wolf meat of me? You still won’t get my spread. I have a will, Miles. Everything I own goes to my brother in Ohio.”
Gillett slipped his other hand into the same saddlebag and pulled out a sheath of folded papers. “This the one you’re talking about, Sam?” After unfolding the document, he said, “ T, Samuel Thaddeus Walker, being of sound mind and body—’. ”
“That can’t be my will!” Walker said. “Mine is in my lawyer’s safe up in Tucson!”
“Is it?” Kneeing his sorrel closer, Gillett offered the document. “Here. Check for yourself.”
Walker snatched the papers and ran his eyes down the first page, then the next. Everything appeared to be in order. Stunned, he flipped to the very last page and found his signature next to the official seal.
“Your lawyer Emmet Floyd is a fine attorney,” Gillett said, savoring Walker’s confusion. “But he’s just like any other law wrangler. He’ll do anything for money.”
Walker’s mind was in a whirl. He began to realize that this man – a man he had known for over two decades, a man he had been proud to call a friend, a man who had been his dinner guest more times than either could remember, a man he had helped during good times and bad – was fixing to kill him.
“You’ll still never get away with killing me,” Walker said. “Even without the will, my brother will put in a claim to my spread. He’s aware I’ve left it to him.”
“Is he also aware that you recently made out a new will leaving everything to me?” Gillett asked smugly.
“I did no such thing!”
Miles Gillett reached under his jacket and pulled out another legal document. “You know that, and I know that. But anyone else who reads the new will Floyd prepared is going to be convinced otherwise.”
Bending, Walker tried to snatch the document from Gillett’s grasp, but the big man was too fast for him. “I never signed it! No judge will say it’s genuine!”
Laughter burst from the wealthy rancher. “Do you have any idea how easy it is to forge a signature? A little practice and practically anyone can do it.” Opening the document, he showed a signature that was a perfect copy of Walker’s narrow scrawl. “Lily did this one herself. She’s quite talented in that regard.”
“Your wife?” Walker knew a stacked deck when he ran up against one. He glanced at Marshal Crane, certain the crooked lawman would make his play at any moment.
“She works with me on everything I do,” Gillett said.
“It was her idea to frame Taggart by claiming he tried to rape her.”
“Poor Clay.”
“If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for yourself,” Gillett said.
Without warning, Gillett struck. Exhibiting the speed of a rattler combined with the raw brute force of a bull buffalo, he backhanded Walker across the chin. His knobby knuckles made a resounding crack as they connected with the older man’s jawbone.
Sam Walker never saw the blow coming. Still watching Tom Crane, he was catapulted backward over his bedroll. The blow jolted him to his core, stunning him so badly that he had no idea he had left the saddle until he thudded to earth. Dazed, he struggled to sit up. Walker was keenly aware that he was a dead man if he did not get out of there quickly.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Miles Gillett climbed from the sorrel. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, Sam. I truly do. It would have been so much nicer, so much easier all around, if you had agreed to my terms.”
Out of the corner of an eye, Walker glimpsed a heavy boot streaking toward his midsection. He tried to dodge aside, but his sluggish brain didn’t relay the message to his body soon enough. Lancing agony speared through him. He collapsed onto his hands and knees and sputtered for air, sure every rib on his right side had been shattered.
“You’re awful quiet all of a sudden,” Miles Gillett said while circling like a vulture.
Walker, balling a fist, focused intently, then threw everything he had into a punch to the wealthy rancher’s gut. To Walker’s dismay, Gillett blocked the blow with astounding ease. Even worse, his arm was clamped in a vise of steel. Gillett’s leg, the size of a tree trunk, whipped upward.
There was a loud snap, and Walker nearly cried out in anguish. Overcome by agony, he pitched onto his chest. “You broke my arm. Damn your hide!”
“You brought this on yourself,” Gillett said. “It’s what you get for being so pigheaded.”
Rough hands gripped Walker from behind and he was hauled to his feet. He knew it had to be Marshal Crane who held him because Gillett stood before him. His six-gun was snatched from its holster, then flung aside.
“I apologize for having to rough you up first.” Miles Gillett winked. “But you
knew how vicious Apaches can be.”
Setting himself, Gillett let his fists fly. The first blow filled Walker with more torment than he had ever felt. The next rocked him on his bootheels, and he would have fallen if not for the lawman supporting him. The third punch was the worst. Walker s insides churned so violently that he expected to be sick. After that punch, his senses swam. His body was a mass of pain from his head to his toes. He wanted to curse Gillett to high heaven, but he needed all his strength to catch his breath.
After a while, Marshal Crane let go of Walker. The older rancher sagged to his knees, blood pouring from his ruptured nose and battered mouth. Mustering the feeble energy left to him, he said, “May the two of you rot in hell!”
“You first, old friend,” Gillett said, then nodded at the marshal.
Crane stepped in front of Walker holding an Arkansas toothpick. The slim blade glinted dully in the fading light as he wagged it near Walkers eyes. The marshal’s thick mustache curled upward. “Remember that time one of your cowhand’s was caught by Nana’s pack of wolves?”
A grisly image popped into Walker s mind. An image of a young man stripped naked and staked out under the burning sun, his eyes gone, his fingers and toes missing, his private parts crammed down his throat. Walker nearly gagged.
“I figured you would.” Marshal Crane laughed. Then the knife descended.
Samuel T. Walker wanted to scream, but his vocal chords were the first thing Crane cut. All Walker could do was suffer in silence. And suffer he did. He suffered so intensely that his very soul shriveled. He was profoundly grateful when, at long last, with the name of his precious Charlotte on his lips, he passed into eternity.
Three hours later Marshal Tom Crane entered Tucson from the northwest. He had circled completely around the town to avoid any suspicion, not that anyone would ever link him to Sam Walker s death. He just didn’t believe in taking chances.
Crane could feel the wad of bills Gillett had given him in his pants pocket. Another thousand could be added to the nest egg he was squirreling away. Five more years, Crane figured, and he’d have enough to buy a small place out in California, where he’d spend the rest of his days fishing and loafing.
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