Once a Renegade

by Peter Brandvold

  "All right, this is a holdup!" he yelled, drawing his revolver and flashing it at the teller in his cage and at the bank president seated at his desk behind the mahogany rail. "Mi amigos will supply the sacks. All you have to do is fill them with greenbacks!"

  Jarvis pushed past the three customers who had been waiting in line at the Paying and Receiving window, and Whitehead hurdled the rail.

  "On your feet and in the vault," he told the president, a stocky man in a gray suit and gold-rimmed spectacles. "Now! Move!"

  "Just sit tight there, my good man," Carstairs told the loan clerk, a young, mustached gent who sat at a rolltop desk facing the wall. He appeared fidgety and cunning, and Carstairs didn't like either trait in those he was robbing. They were likely to pull a derringer or some other hideout from the end of a watch chain or some sleeve contraption.

  The three people who'd been standing in line appeared relatively calm. They stood to the left of Carstairs, their hands raised—an old lady in a blue calico housedress, a farmer in a bullet-crowned hat and Quaker beard, and a plain young woman wearing the dour, spiritless expression of a store-clerk's wife.

  Carstairs covered them and the clerk, swinging his gun from left to right, staying back by the wall. Jarvis was yelling at the teller to hurry, and, back in the vault, Whitehead was doing the same to the president, using just enough epithets to make the women blush and the farmer to wrinkle his nose uncomfortably.

  "You'll never get away with this," the clerk said, sitting on his swivel chair, his small, beringed hands in the air.

  "Shut up," Carstairs said. "And empty your pockets on the desk."

  The clerk's face blanched. "What? I—"

  "You heard me," Blade said, aiming his revolver at the clerk and ratcheting back the hammer. "Empty your damn pockets, smartass!"

  When the clerk had done as ordered, Carstairs told him to remove his rings, as well. The man looked truly pained by the order, but, with Carstairs's weapon aimed directly at his left eye, he complied, wrapping everything in the top page of his blotter, and giving it a halfhearted toss to Carstairs, who caught it with a grin and a wink.

  By this time, Jarvis had two sacks filled with greenbacks and was waiting by the door, peering anxiously out at the street. "Come on, Cal—what's takin' so damn long?" he yelled at the vault.

  The only answer was more epithets spewed at the president. A minute later Whitehead appeared holding two hefty bags in each hand. He whooped and said, "Much obliged, Mr. Fancy-Pants!" He kicked the heavy door closed, locking the president inside, then came running, tossing two bags over the rail. Carstairs caught them, nearly dropping them as he laughed at their weight

  "There was more cash back there than we even figured!" Whitehead whooped.

  "Come on, come on," Jarvis carped from the door. "I'm gettin' nervous. It's too damn quiet out there."

  “Take it easy, Newt," Blade said, adjusting the bags in his arms. Turning to the teller and the clerk, he said, "Much obliged, good people. Keep up the good work, and maybe we'll see ye again real soon!"

  With that he turned and headed out the door, which Newt Jarvis had already opened. On the boardwalk he hung a sharp right heading down Third Avenue toward the alley flanking the bank. He ran as fast as he could with the heavy bags, laughing, the other two men following close behind.

  Jarvis mumbled, "I got a funny feelin' about this, damnit!"

  "Oh, take it easy, Jarvis," Calvin Whitehead said, his voice trilling as he ran. "You're rich, for chrissakes!"

  "Wait a minute," Blade said. He'd just turned into the alley and, seeing the empty hitchrack behind the bank, stopped suddenly. The others did likewise. "Where are the horses, Jarvis?"

  "I tied 'em right there!"

  "Are you sure it was here?" Whitehead snarled.

  "Of course I'm sure."

  There was a two-hole privy on their left, about twenty feet away. The privy door squeaked.

  "Hold it right there, boys," Leon McMannigle said.

  He'd been waiting in the privy. Now he stepped out, his long-barreled Smith & Wesson extended in his right hand, hammer back. A second revolver, an old model Colt, was wedged behind his cartridge belt, the butt against his belly.

  "One move and they'll be putting you to bed with picks and shovels."

  "What the hell?" Carstairs rasped, turning his head slightly to see the deputy over his shoulder.

  "You done been duped and duped good," Leon said, a touch of humor in his deep, sonorous voice. "Now drop them guns."

  "By the girl?" Jarvis asked.

  "I ain't gonna tell you again. I want all your hardware on the ground. Now!"

  "Damn you, Blade!" Whitehead shouted. "I told you she was no good!"

  Carstairs just stood there, his face flushed, his jaw set hard. He couldn't quite believe what had happened. He'd always been able to sweet-talk women onto his side without any trouble at all. Women loved him. Why, when they gazed at Blade Carstairs, they had stars in their eyes!

  Damn—women were crazy for him!

  Damn—women would give him the shirts off their backs ... the shoes off their feet... !

  "That devil!” he said.

  "Drop it, Carstairs. You too, Jarvis. Whitehead."

  "That devil done sold us out!" Jarvis carped at Carstairs.

  "Drop 'em!"

  There was a tense pause, the three robbers standing before Leon stiffly, their guns in one hand, money sacks in the other.

  "Well, I don't know about you fellas," Jarvis seethed, dropping his money sack, "but I ain't lettin' no deputy nigger take me in!"

  He jerked around, bringing his shotgun up. Before the barrel was level, however, Leon fired a bullet through his chest, knocking him backward off his feet. Jarvis hadn't landed before Carstairs brought his own gun to bear, raging, "Damn you to hell!"

  Leon fired again, aiming at the sunlight flashing on Carstairs's Colt. The bullet smashed through Blade's hand, drilling a neat little hole about an inch below the middle knuckle, and pinged against his Colt, throwing it wide.

  Carstairs screamed, clutching the wounded limb, squeezing it between his knees.

  Leon brought his revolver to bear on Whitehead, who had started turning toward him, but froze when he'd seen his compatriots go down. He dropped his shotgun and money sack quickly, throwing his hands up and lacing them behind his head. "Don't shoot!"

  "Now, that's what I like to hear," Leon said, moving forward.

  Gun extended, he patted down Carstairs as he stood holding his wounded hand, grunting and cursing. When he'd discarded the ringleader's two hideout guns, he handcuffed him, then patted down Whitehead and cuffed him, as well. He could tell without even having to check for a pulse that Jarvis was dead.

  "I need a doctor, damnit!" Carstairs raged, his crimson face creased with pain.

  "You'll get one soon enough," Leon said, pushing him and Whitehead toward the street

  Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk, and then the bank president and his loan clerk appeared around the corner, running into the alley. "You got 'em!" the president yelled. "Good work, Leon!"

  "Anyone hurt inside?"

  "No one," the clerk said as he followed the president after the money, some of which had seeped out one of the sacks and was blowing westward down the alley. "We all stayed calm, just like you said, Leon."

  "Good for you," McMannigle said, and pushed the two men into the street.

  As they started down Third Avenue, toward the jail, Doc Evans and Evelyn Vincent ran toward them. Evans carried his stout, double-barreled greener in case Leon had needed any help. "Leon, you got 'em!" Evelyn cried. "Thank God!"

  "You devil!" Carstairs raged.

  “That's no way to talk to a lady," Evans said with a touch of irony.

  "She's no lady," Carstairs groused, twisting the wrist of his injured hand.

  "Well, you're no gentleman!" Evelyn shot back, fists on her hips.

  Whitehead turned to Evans. "That was you in the jail ...with her?"


  "Laughing, you mean?" Evans grinned. "Yes, that was me." He put his arm around Evelyn's shoulders. "We were having a little laugh over your pictures on the Wanted posters Leon found in his desk drawer. You boys didn't even have the sense to change your names!"

  Evelyn giggled. Producing a long slip of paper from the bosom of her dress, she said, "Here's your stage ticket, Blade. I guess I won't be needing it after all. But thanks, anyway." She laughed.

  Carstairs took the ticket, scowling, and tossed it into the wind. He cursed and turned to the deputy. "Are we going to stand here all night? I'm bleeding to death!"

  "Doc, will you look at his hand for him? It's all shot to hell."

  "Yeah, I'll have a look at it after supper," Evans said as he and Evelyn started for Sam Wa's.

  "Hey, what about my damn hand?" Blade fumed.

  Leon pushed him and the thoroughly cowed Whitehead toward the jailhouse. "You heard the doc. He'll have a look at it after supper." Leon chuckled. "If he ain't half shot by then."

  Epilogue

  TWO DAYS LATER, Leon and Doc Evans were sitting outside the jail, in the shade beneath the awning. They had their legs crossed, and they were smoking the tobacco which the doctor had ordered in special from St. Louis. It was a dark Turkish blend, finely cut, and it smelled sweet and aromatic.

  Not only that, but it seemed to burn especially slow— or did the slow burning result from the fine-grained, tissue-thin paper the doctor had also ordered?

  It had been a slow, warm, summery morning, and they were discussing the merits of the cigarettes, studying their ashes, when Leon glanced up to see a grizzled man in a cream-colored, high-crowned, Texas-style hat riding along First Street on a bay horse that looked a hell of a lot like Sweets.

  Leon stared at the trail-worn figure, scrutinizing the broad-shouldered man beneath all that dust and sweat and several days worth of beard on his jaw. A buckskin coat was tied behind the man's saddle, and he wore a blue-checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. The man's forearms were tanned and corded with muscle, slick with sweat. Evans stopped talking when he saw that Leon's attention had been compromised. Turning to see what the deputy was gawking at, he, too frowned, and exhaled a slow, thin stream of smoke from his nose and mouth.

  "Why, that's Ben."

  Leon stood. "I'll be damned." He grinned. "It is!"

  He ran into the street as Stillman drew near, heavy and slouched in his saddle. "Ben—hellfire and damnation! It's you! You been gone over a week! We 'bout gave up on you! What the hell happened, anyway? Where's Jody? What about Shambeau?"

  The deputy sidled up to Stillman's stirrup as the sheriff drew up to the hitchrack. He didn't have to rein Sweets to a halt. The horse knew he was home, and his tired rump rippled with mute delight.

  "Jody went on home," Stillman said tiredly. "Shambeau's dead. The Bar Seven men are dead. It's over. Finished. Done with."

  "The Bar Seven men?" Leon asked, frowning.

  "It's a long story," Stillman said. "I'll tell you all about it as soon as I get a bath and about a week's worth of shut-eye." He groaned as he not so much dismounted as rolled out of his saddle.

  "Will you pull the gear off ole Sweets for me and stable him with plenty of oats and water?" he asked the deputy.

  "And I'll give him one hell of a rubdown," Leon said, grabbing Sweets's bridle. "Looks like he needs it."

  "We both do," Stillman said. "I'm gonna go home and get mine from a schoolteacher I know."

  "She's been in every day lookin' for you," Leon said, taking the bay's reins. "She'll be at school now, though."

  "I'm gonna climb into a hot tub and wait for her."

  Like a man half asleep, Stillman shucked his Henry from his saddle boot and started walking toward French Street, kneading the back of his neck with his right hand.

  "Oh," he said, turning to Leon and Evans, who stood watching him wistfully. "Anything happen around here while I was gone?"

  Leon bit his lip and furled his brow, studying his boots thoughtfully. "Uh... let me see." He glanced at Evans. "Can you think of anything, Doc?"

  Evans shrugged. "No, it's been pretty quiet around here, Ben. I set a few broken bones. Mrs. Lotton's water broke a few hours ago. Katherine's with her now." He shrugged again and glanced at Leon. "That's about it."

  "Yeah, it's been pretty quiet, Ben. You know—calving season and all. You go on home and get some rest."

  Stillman nodded gratefully. "I think I'll do that."

  He turned and ambled down the boardwalk.

  McMannigle looked at Evans, a devilish smile toying with the deputy's lips, and drew deep on his cigarette.

  A Look at: Once Upon A Dead Man (Sheriff Ben Stillman Book 7)

  A MURDERED LAWMAN AND A FRONTIER TOWN WITH A DEADLY SECRET…

  FROM THE KING OF THE HARD-HITTING, FAST-ACTION, WESTERN ADVENTURE!

  Sheriff Ben Stillman knows that every lawman could face sudden death. But that doesn't ease his anger over Marshal Charlie Boomhauer's brutal murder. And ol’ Charlie's shoes have already been filled by his brash, young deputy--who isn't exactly out shaking the bushes to find Charlie's killer or killers.

  The new marshal is blaming the murder on a band of Gypsies who moved north--or was it south? It's becoming clear that the town of Lone Pine has something to hide--and that Stillman is outside his jurisdiction. But the lawman's code says that you take care of your own. Ben isn't going home until he's served up some justice--whether it's by the rules or not.

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  Peter Brandvold

  About the Author

  Peter Brandvold grew up in the great state of North Dakota in the 1960’s and ‘70s, when television westerns were as popular as shows about hoarders and shark tanks are now, and western paperbacks were as popular as Game of Thrones.

  Brandvold watched every western series on television at the time. He grew up riding horses and herding cows on the farms of his grandfather and many friends who owned livestock.

  Brandvold’s imagination has always lived and will always live in the West. He is the author of over a hundred lightning-fast action westerns under his own name and his pen name, Frank Leslie.

  READ MORE ABOUT PETER BRANDVOLD HERE.