Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  For the first time ever, Piccadilly Publishing presents SEVENTEEN classic western stories by B. J . Holmes, bestselling author of THE REAPER and SHATTERHAND series!

  GRIMM HEFTED THE CLEAVER.

  It was bigger than a throwing axe but it had a similar balance. He raised it and waited. Spurred on by his boss the ugly squat figure of Toad burst through the door, two guns at the ready. What could Grimm do with no guns against two? In the situation as it was, Jonathan Grimm had one, and only one, chance. He grabbed the cleaver and hurled it. Its vertical rotations whooshed the air rhythmically slicing through the dust motes. It split the reptilian gunny at the neck as easy as splitting a melon; and just as messy as that action could be. With no noise other than an ugly gurgle, Toad staggered back and collapsed in a bloody heap. Then bullets started slamming non-stop into the building from back and front…

  HEAD WEST

  By B. J. Holmes

  First Published by Saxon Books in 2010

  First Digital Edition: May 2020

  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.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Author’s Foreword

  3:10 From Hondo

  Dry Run

  The Blue, The Grey and The Red

  Dollar for Dollar

  Autumn Gun

  Shatterhand and the Widow McCool

  The Word and the Gun

  The Long Shot

  Brennan’s Catch

  Duval’s Big Game

  Blood on the Snow

  A Hanging at Constitution Pass

  For a Bagful of Dollars

  A Bullet for One-Eye

  Two Grand on the Side

  A Dead Man’s Tale

  A One-Hoss Town

  In memory of J. T. Edson

  Author’s Foreword

  My dear friend J. T. Edson (John) once invited me to participate with him in the production of a regular Western periodical. But neither of us were in the best of health at the time and the idea did not progress beyond a meeting in John’s favorite White Lion on the middle of Melton Mowbray where we did nothing more than enjoy a pub lunch together, talk western shop, and fix on a provisional title for the projected “epic”–– Head West. Alas, John’s health did not improve and he was called to the big ranchero in the sky well before his time. i

  From the earliest days when I knew him he had repeated his wish that a film be made from his books, specifically with his lead character Dusty Fog to be played by Audie Murphy whom he had envisaged in the role from the beginning. Sadly the star passed away long ago so that that particular combination was doomed not to be. But I was glad to see that John did live to see his dream come partially true with not one but two movies being made from his Floating Outfit novels. I thought that the fact that they featured established stars of the caliber of Martin Sheen and Jurgen Prochnow would more than compensate for the absence of Universal’s blonde, baby-faced hero. But it didn’t appear to redress the balance as he did a fair bit of grumbling about both films. He was especially galled by Mr. Sheen’s refusal to sit in the wheelchair which was such an integral part of Old Devil Hardin’s situation and character which anyone familiar with the series will know. So, on the surface John didn’t seem at all happy about the matter––but I believe he was secretly very proud to see his fictional characters finally come alive on a Technicolor screen. Anyway I was thrilled that he should have his moment in the sun and to some extent I see myself as picking up the flag he waved first when he became an inspiration for me from the moment I saw him on BBCTV’s Tonight programmed in the 1960s.

  So, I don’t think he’d mind that I have taken the liberty of using the title of our mooted magazine for this humble book of my short stories which I dedicate to his memory.

  Authors are often asked about their experience with the realities of their subject matter and I readily confess to lack of experience in two areas crucial to western writing: guns and horses. Regretfully in hindsight, I managed to wangle an early discharge from national service (“regretfully” because it is a decision which I have constantly regretted to this day) and didn’t get as far as basic training so I never had a serious gun in my hands.

  Years later I was tagged as THE WESTERN AUTHOR WHO DOESN’T LIKE GUNS. The way this came about is as follows. I had been invited to a publicity shindig at a western theme park called Frontier City near London. On arrival we authors were “kidnapped” for the cameras and subjected to a shootout “rescue”. I had never experienced such a deafening thing in my life even though the shots they fired were blanks. Later George G. Gilman (Terry Harknett of A Fistful of Dollars and Edge fame) and I were resting our feet on a corral fence having a chat when a staged shoot-out broke out in front of us. This time it was Terry who was unhappy with the explosive volume and suggested we excuse ourselves in the light of the ear-shattering cacophony. (I happened to mention this aversion to the sound of guns to a reporter and got stuck with the above-mentioned label for some time afterwards.) And that is as much as I have experienced “hardware” being fired.

  With regard to horses I had written about riding them for years in many books yet I’d never been astride one (elephants yes, but that’s another story). To rectify this deficiency many years ago I enrolled with a local riding school for a series of lessons just to get the feel and smell if nothing else. I’d got as far as acquiring riding hat and crop when I was struck down by illness and had to postpone my attendance. Then, when the illness took on what looked like permanency, I had to cancel altogether. So I have no experience of the two main ingredients of my chosen subject area! I also have no stomach for blood which might explain why I don’t overly describe scenes of gore! None of these shortcomings seem to put off my readers, even in the U.S.

  Like most fiction writers, I am asked about research and experience of things that I write about. Punters seem to think research or experience is necessary. The fact is, although real-life experience and research into an area can be helpful, far more important is imagination and if you can write about an area you don’t know about but in a believable way, you don’t need research or experience! Witness: H G Wells never had to go the moon to write about a voyage there; and would Hamlet have been a better play if Shakespeare had left his writing desk to dutifully do research in Denmark?

  With regard to the material offered here an astute western fan might find some of them ringing obscure bells. If this is so, it could be because some of them have already appeared in print e.g. Western Magazine and for a spell on the one-time Head West web site; plus they embody themes and scenes that have eventually been incorporated into my novels over the years. I make no apology for the latter habit because, as I have discovered, it is a long-used practice by authors to use the short story form as a test run for ideas i.e. to see if it has enough substance in it to generate something more extensive. It was the standard working method of the great Raymond Chandler for instance and The Big Sleep (novel and subsequent film noir with Humphrey Bogart) is actually a pushing together of three quite separa
te short stories.

  When one collects stories together “under one roof”, stories that were written separately over a span of 40 years, one can spot dreadful similarities in theme, plot and plot devices––all of which were unintended. That can’t be helped. As director Billy Wilder said, “Hindsight is always 20:20”!

  On particular stories, 3.10 From Hondo pays homage two classic stories (and subsequent films) in the title. This was deliberate but similarities do not exist beyond the “hybrid” title! Autumn Gun was the trigger for a novel but the publisher didn’t like the title so it became the enigmatic Gunfall. Neither did he like the American Civil War as a background but somehow I managed to slip The Blue, the Grey and the Red in as the foundation for a novel.

  Needless to say, the stories that make up this volume and first written as shorts in their own right, can be read independently of their origins and their varied eventual homes.

  Finally my thanks go to fellow writers Mike Linaker and Dave Whitehead who helped me see this project to fruition.

  So all there is left to say is: good luck and happy trails! Or as Dave would say: “Keep your powder dry!”

  BJH

  3:10 From Hondo

  Lieutenant John Haycox walked his horse through the main gate of Fort Hondo, New Mexico. He mounted, saluted the sentry, and nudged his horse into a gentle canter towards the town of Hondo. Like many such pairings across the West the town had come into existence to serve the fort and was now a self-standing town in its own right.

  He threw a glance in the direction of the whistle blast coming from the station. The rasping sound of steel skidding on steel accompanied the heavy chuffing as the loco built up steam. Gathering power the train began to move and the soldier checked it against his pocket watch. Three-ten. Dead on time as always.

  Reaching the main drag he hitched his horse at the rail outside of The Crossed Keys Saloon then made his way over the road. He worked his way along the boardwalk, stopped outside The Red Lion Saloon. Stepping under the sign proclaiming “Harold Cooper, proprietor” he pushed through the batwings and entered. It being early in the day, faro and roulette wheels stood unused and the place was devoid of customers save for a shape at the far end. In the gloom sat Cooper himself, luxury-suited with elaborate vest and an expensive looking Chicago topper.

  The soldier crossed the room and halted in front of the seated man. He unbuttoned the top of his jacket glanced around the room to check if anyone was watching. Satisfied there was only the barman with his back to them and he preoccupied with stacking glasses, the soldier took out a wallet. He extracted two bills from it and dropped them on the table. Without speaking the seated man scribbled something on a piece of paper and flicked it across surface. Even though the men were physically close, words were not exchanged and their eyes told of their bearing mutual distaste for each other.

  The soldier made a circular gesture with a forefinger; and the seated man smirked and placed a large piece of paper on the table. He scribbled something on it, it was scrutinized by the man in blue who, in an unfelt token of courtesy, touched his hat and left.

  It irritated him that with every repayment he had to remind Cooper to amend his marker. His receipts might not add to anything if there wasn’t a corresponding and signed subtraction on the original marker.

  He re-crossed the drag towards The Crossed Keys, noticing how boards had been hastily patched over a couple of broken windows. Little Jim, the colored houseboy was sitting on the boardwalk and his face broke into a flashing-toothed smile. ‘Morning’, Master John.’

  ‘Mornin’, Jim. Your mistress is in.’

  ‘Isn’t she always, sir?’ the little fellow said, leaping up and following the soldier in.

  The soldier’s face beamed when he sighted his girlfriend Constance behind the bar. He leant over the counter and they exchanged a kiss.

  ‘And what would please sir, this morning.’

  He grinned. ‘As it is morning I’ll make do with a beer.’

  She laughed and poured the drink.

  As he sipped the beer he angled his head to the back door.

  ‘Look after the bar for a few minutes, Little Jim,’ she said as she dropped the rag with which she had started to wipe the bar and came round.

  ‘Paid off another $20,’ he said when they were outside in the sun.

  ‘How much does that leave to pay?’ she asked.

  ‘Something over a grand.’

  ‘It’s gonna take five years to clear at that rate.’

  ‘Less if I get promoted and can up my repayments.’

  ‘Is that on the cards?’

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t mention cards.’

  ‘Sorry. What I meant is, is promotion likely?’

  ‘There’s talk in the mess of a gap in the establishment coming up.’

  He had been introduced to playing cards as a rookie. That was for nickels and dimes over a bunk bed and, although gambling was strictly against regulations, for those in the know real serious games existed within the barrack walls. Winning and losing in equal measure he became addicted without being much out of pocket. When he realized there were even bigger games without restriction in civilian life he never missed a chance to find out the nearest game when on furlough.

  That’s how come he took a nosedive into big money debt at the tables of Mr. Harold Cooper. He was allowed credit until up to over a grand. Each night his liability increased until, when he was several hundred over the grand, Cooper himself intervened and put an end to it. ‘It’s about time I saw some folding money,’ Cooper had said.

  It was then Haycox met Constance. By giving him something lacking in his life, namely a loving woman, she managed to wean him off his gambling habit and for him to strike up an arrangement with Cooper for paying off the debt piecemeal. It would take a long time and as long as Haycox was in this position the lieutenant knew he had to toe the line. Carrying a debt like this would put him under a court-martial and certainly earn him a dishonorable discharge. He had to act as lamb to Cooper’s wolf as one word to the army hierarchy from Cooper and the soldier’s career would be over ––as the magnate constantly reminded him.

  ‘So if I get promotion,’ he said, ‘I’ll be able to clear the debt quicker.’

  ‘Even so, it’ll still be a drag. I wished I could help but financially I’m on my uppers too.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Noticed some more broken windows back there. Had more trouble?’

  ‘Yes. Happens several times a week now.’

  ‘Sounds like a concerted plan. Know who it is?’

  ‘No witnesses––but it has to be Cooper.’

  Constance Shaw’ parents had been settlers with a little homestead. A young child was not to know the hard work that went into such things and all she could remember of those early years was glorious summers and happiness.

  When it was time for her to try to earn a living the only thing she knew was domestic work so she became a maid. Having no social life she managed to save a few dollars and from time to time she would send her parents a little. All went well until something happened so that she was unable to send her paltry dollars.

  One day the son of the family for whom she worked, thinking they were alone, had caught her in a bedroom and, despite her protestations had forced her onto the bed, tearing at her clothes. However, his mother had been in the house and, hearing the commotion, had burst in upon the scene to see the girl’s young body exposed. She blamed Constance for playing the temptress and dismissed her on the spot.

  The girl was on the street, far from home, nowhere to live and only a handful of dollars and cents in her purse. Worse, her former mistress had quickly spread the word of her ‘character’, removing her prospects of further work in that line locally. She dearly wished to return home but, not wishing to put a further load on her parents, she just moved on and on till her money ran out. It was in a town called Hondo that she used up her last cents purchasing a meal. The town was small enough for knowledge of a new
comer to spread quickly. Especially when the stranger was a pretty young girl counting her pennies. Knowledge quickly reached the ears of a resident by the name of saloon owner Smokey Sue who offered to take Constance under her wing, to employ her in her drinking parlor.

  However Smokey was not always herself. She regularly smoked some vile smelling concoction that she got from the Chinese coolies who had been left over after the railroad had been built. Whatever it was it seemed to take her mind away. Then Smokey would be ill, confined to bed for days. Constance had never seen the like before. But with the passage of time she noted that Smokey’s bouts of “illness” increased in intensity and frequency. Anybody with a pair of eyes could see that Smokey’s habit was killing her. Constance tried to talk sense into her to no avail.

  After a completely bad bout Smokey became obsessed with death. She could see what she doing to herself but was incapable physically or mentally to lay it aside. Realizing her own mortality Smokey made a will. Constance didn’t know that Smokey was really Mrs. Cooper, wife of the infamous Harold. And she only learned that when Smokey said: ‘That bastard isn’t getting anything.’

  During their time together Harold had given Smokey a bad time and she left. The Coopers owned most of Hondo and the Keys were in Smokey’s name, given to her as a present in the early days of their marriage. Then Smokey realized that having no written will meant that the Keys would revert to him on her death. So, in spite against her hated husband, she had a will drawn up making Constance the single beneficiary.

  Constance began to take over the running of the place with her boss becoming increasingly incapable through her habit, her intervals of narcotic-induced torpor increasing. During all this, Constance had had to learn new skills––managing, accounting, dealing with the obstreperous bank manager––and so efficient was she at the exercise that she had returned the business to a profitable concern. The place had run to seed during Smokey’s last drug-fuelled years but Constance put every spare dollar into repairs and sprucing up the decor.