A Reckoning E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Someone is hell-bent on killing Detective Simms of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

While investigating a clutch of brutal murders, Simms is dragged into a life-and-death struggle with a bunch of desperadoes, numerous Indians, a gunfighter and a double-crossing U.S. Marshall by the name of Dixon.

This will not be the easiest time of his life, nor the most peaceful. By the end of it, a lot of people will end up dead.

All Simms needs to do is make sure he isn't one of them.

Leseprobe

A Reckoning

Unflinching Book IV

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2016 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, 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 storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgments

A big thank you once gain to Alex of BOO BOOKS, whose great professionalism and attention to detail always leaves me breathless

This one is for Honey, with thanks, for the happiness shared

Chapter One

The moment Dan Stoakes discovered the vein of silver in the bank of a tributary of the South Platte River, he fell down in the dirt of the muddy bank and cried with joy. Careless of the water lapping over his cord pants, when he clambered to his feet, deliriously happy, he slipped and fell head first to the ground. He rolled over and peered towards the sky. “I've died and gone to heaven,” he said aloud, bursting into more tears. For five long years he had toiled in this little known part of the river system, wary of Indians and strangers but never encountering either. He rarely ventured into the nearby town of Twin Buttes, and then only to get supplies. He kept himself to himself and did his best not to make eye contact with anyone. An almost unhealthy belief in what lay beside the river pushed him towards ever greater efforts.

Up until now, his precautions seemed to have worked. Nobody knew of his progress. And now, of course, success.

Alone in his little camp, made from nothing more than an old piece of tarpaulin, he laboured at the riverbanks, following his instinct and knowledge of rock formations. This one particular cold morning, when his handpick prized away a heavy clump of mud and shale, he paused in disbelief at the silver trail threading its way through the exposed bedrock, and for a moment believed he had slipped into a dream world. To verify the truth of his efforts, he continued chipping away to discover more of the vein. There was no doubting his eyes or any other sense – he had struck silver.

For the remainder of the morning, he staked out his claim. The stakes, prepared more than four years before, he fetched from where he'd stacked them in the far corner of his camp, waiting for the day. Well, the day was here and he worked feverishly to finish pounding them into the hard-packed soil. Satisfied, he set to making a monument out of a collection of stones and boulders to identify the location. Finally, he gathered some samples into a leather pouch to take down into the town assay office. He paused, eyeing his work with grim satisfaction, took a long drink from his canteen and packed up his mule ready for the journey.

He sang as he rode, a tuneless rendition of something his mother used to hum when he was just a toddler. It helped ease the tedium of the trek down to Twin Buttes.

Cutting across a ford in the river, he meandered along the valley, skirting woodland and rocky high ground until he reached the ancient trail which marked the way to town. He did all he could to keep his mind from his discovery, but every now and then the enormity of what had happened hit him and he would emit a high-pitched cackle, giving himself over to uncontained joy at what it might mean for himself and his family. A single daughter, from a marriage long since annulled, lived a quiet life in Kansas City, bringing up her young son alone. A miscreant husband, having realised life with Melody was not one he wished to continue, especially after the boy was born, left her to find his fortune in New York. That was some four years previously, and Bradford Milligan had not been heard of since. Dan felt elation when the news reached him and, with the promises of riches so close, the future seemed bright – for his daughter, grandson and himself.

Now, rolling into town, Dan steered his mount towards the lone saloon Twin Buttes possessed and eased his weary body from the saddle. He stretched his back before stepping inside, licking his lips with anticipation, and crossed to the bar.

The room was small, cramped, the floor covered with sawdust and a scattering of rushes. The interior decorations, uniformly grey in colour, appeared tired and in need of refurbishment. Cleaning might help, for the place smelled of musty clothes too long in the cupboard edged with traces of urine, human or otherwise. Either way, the aroma stuck in the back of Dan's throat, urging him to want to down the whisky he ordered from the diminutive barman in one. “Don't often see you in here,” the barman said, putting another shot of whisky in front of Dan.

Dan gazed at the amber liquid, imagining its taste trickling down into his stomach. “Don't often come in here, that's why.” He lifted the drink, inspecting it closely, savouring the moment. Then, in a sudden movement of his arm, he threw the entire glassful down his throat. Gasping, he bent forward, holding onto the counter edge with his free hand and shaking his head. “Hot dang, that's good.”

“Is it your birthday?”

Shaking his head again, Dan grinned. “No, a celebration of an altogether different kind.” He patted his shoulder bag containing the silver sample. “Life changing.” He gestured with the glass for a refill, which this time went down with a good deal more care. Snapping a dollar on the counter, when he finished his drink he turned on his heels and went outside.

His next stop was at the newly opened telegraph office. He scrawled out a few lines and slid the paper across to the operator, who twisted his mouth, sighed and tapped out the message. Dan leaned on the counter, head filled with something thick and heavy, and thought he was going to be sick. Not waiting for confirmation, he paid his due and quickly went outside.

Swaying, he waited until the cold air cleared his head before tramping across to the assayer's office. “Damned whisky,” he muttered to himself and stepped up to the office door. Finding it locked, he craned his neck to survey the building, hoping to find some clue as to when it might open again, but the wooden walls and blacked-out windows gazed back at him in silence. Disappointed, he decided to try the bank in hope of finding some information.

Inside the small, cramped confines of the bank, a teller, bent over a large ledger, peered at Ben over the top of his glasses. “I know you.”

“You should, I've lived around these parts for more than two years.”

“Well, that might be it, but from the look of you and,” he sniffed, “the smell, I think I'd know if you were a regular customer. You ain't.”

“I was hoping to find the assay office open.”

“Assay office? Don't believe that has been open for quite a while. Years maybe. You have some items to assess?”

“You might say that. Where would I find the assay officer?”

The teller blew out his cheeks and sat back, contemplating Dan for a moment. “That would be Arnold Schiller, I reckon. Half Moon Street, above the haberdashers there, which his brother and wife own. That would be your best bet. He is retired now, I do believe. Why are you so keen to find him?”

“I'm wondering – if I don't find him, or if something else has happened, might I deposit my bag here in the bank?” He brought up the said bag and placed it on the desk front.

The teller leaned forward, pressing his lips together. “Well, there's a possibility, I suppose. What's in it?”

Dan chuckled and picked up his bag again. “I'll let you know – if Mr Schiller ain't at home.”

A hard look, followed by a snappy “I see,” and the teller returned to his ledger, leaving Dan to wander outside and make his way down to Half Moon Street.

As things turned out, Dan did find Schiller at home and, after recounting his tale, persuaded the assay officer to cross over to his office and open it up. Dan stood in the dull half-light whilst Schiller strained to open first one, then the other pair of shutters. The light streamed in, revealing a dust-encrusted interior, everything grey, forlorn. Schiller took his time, assembling a set of scales, arranging the collection of weights and then examined the contents of Dan's bag. After much grunting and chewing of his lip, he finally sat back and declared the metal genuine. “You have struck silver, sir,” and presented Dan with the appropriate papers to complete.

Emerging from the office some two hours later, Dan did not notice the two men loitering across the road. Nor was he aware of them leading their horses out into Mainstreet to follow him out of town and back to his encampment.

If he had noticed them, Dan may have lived.

Chapter Two

Simms spent his morning sweeping out the sheriff's office at Glory. Stepping inside, he read again, for the umpteenth time, the telegram the Pinkerton office in Chicago had sent him the previous day. They wanted him to report to headquarters, to discuss suggestions put forward by the new mayor of Glory, Doctor Grove. They also wanted him to bring in the money, something Simms had put off for long enough. The original idea was to secure it at Fort Bridger, under the watchful eye of Colonel Johnstone, but trouble was again brewing in the north of the Territory. With a Mormon splinter group growing more belligerent with every passing day, the army's orders were clear – suppress any hint of trouble which may impair the negotiated settlement made between Brigham Young, the Mormon leader, and the President.

“I brought you some corn bread.”

Simms looked up to see Mrs. Miller standing before him, well-kitted out in powder blue dress and matching bonnet. She held a tray, covered by a white, embroidered cloth. She smiled and lifted the cover to reveal half a dozen pieces of soft, moist bread. Simms leaned forward, eyes closed, and breathed in the aroma.

“My, they smell good, Mrs. Miller.”

“Call me Laura,” she said, stepping up onto the boardwalk. She studied the broom in the detective's hands. “You should get someone else to do that.”

He blanched a little, looking away, awkward, “There is no one else … Laura. Thank you for the bread.” He propped the broom against the wall and took the tray from her.

“You should have someone, Sheriff. A man like you, so busy and all, you need someone to share the load.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words, so he simply gave a small laugh.

“I could make you some coffee. Coffee and corn bread is a wonderful combination.”

“Mrs Miller, I—”

“Laura.”

“Yes, Laura. I, er, I have quite a lot to do this morning. I need to tidy this place up before I leave.”

“You're leaving?”

He caught something in her voice, a shred of alarm perhaps, and he quickly continued, “Only temporary, you understand. I'll be back in a week, perhaps less.”

“Well, even more reason for me to make that coffee.”

She set about brewing the coffee whilst Simms did his best to keep his mind on sweeping the floor, but his eyes constantly drifted towards her slim waist, those tumbling curls, the random sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

They sat down, Simms behind his desk, Laura Miller beside the wood burner, sipping hot coffee. The lawman munched on a piece of bread, grateful for having something to do whilst her eyes burned into him.

“It must be hard for you,” she said at last, her voice sounding overly loud in the confines of the small office.

He arched a single eyebrow. “Hard? No, no, once I get back from Bridger I shall swear in a deputy or two before beginning to look through what needs to be done.”

“I didn't mean your work, Mr Simms. I meant your life. Moving backwards and forwards from here to Bovey, holding down your shared responsibilities, living out in your ranch house, all alone. I know what it is like to be alone, Mr Simms. My husband was taken two years ago this spring. I understand your wife, too, was taken by the fever?”

Pausing with a piece of bread hovering close to his mouth, Simms forced down a swallow and, no longer hungry, returned the slice to the tray, sat and stared. “It was the birth that killed her, Mrs. Miller. No doubt she was weakened by the fever before she went into labour, but …” His voice trailed away and an awkward silence followed, during which neither looked at each other, Simms preferring to focus his attention on the crumbs sprinkled across his desk.

“Listen,” she said suddenly, slapping her knees and standing up, “why don't you come to dinner? My cooking is renowned throughout the entire town, Mr Simms, and you won't find a better—”

“That's kind of you, it surely is, but like I told you – I have to leave for Bridger.”

“When you get back, I mean. The first Sunday of your return, what do you say?”

“Well, I …” He looked up into her eyes. Green eyes, flecked with hints of gold. Heat rose to his jawline and he squirmed in his chair, staring into his empty coffee cup for something to do. “That's very kind of you.”

“We shouldn't dwell on the past, Mr Simms. We should do all we can to move forward.”

“Should we?”

“I believe so. If we don't, we become immersed in grief, regret, thoughts of what might have been.” She stood and moved to the desk. “I'm not saying forget, Mr Simms, but we should try and—”

“Live with it?”

Laura Miller averted her eyes, twiddling her thumbs. “Time. Time eases the pain, but the memories remain. The good memories. My Tom was a kind, loving man. We married back in Fifty-One. Five years we were together. I often wonder where those five years went, and I struggle sometimes to recall what we did, where we went, most of it being little more than a blur. But he is still here,” she put her fist against her breast, “and he always will be. Such thoughts won't bring him back, of course. Nothing will, but I believe it is important, for my own wellbeing, to move on.” Smiling, she gathered up her purse and put out her hand. “The first Sunday then?”

Simms half-rose, taking her slim, soft hand, not knowing whether to shake it or kiss it, social etiquette not being a strong point of his. She saved him by giving his fingers a squeeze, then turned and left.

Slumping back into his chair, Simms blew out a long sigh. The last woman he'd allowed into his heart almost got him killed. Although he did not believe Mrs. Milligan harboured such dark desires, nevertheless Simms had promised himself not to succumb to the charms of a pretty woman again. And Mrs. Miller was pretty, no doubts about that. But then, so was Tabatha, and Tabatha wanted him dead.

Chapter Three

Returning to his camp, Dan tied up his old mule and sat down amongst the rocks and scree. He didn't care about the discomfort. Years of living outdoors, in all sorts of weathers whilst he scrabbled around searching for precious metals, meant his body had grown well-conditioned to anything nature threw at him. He stretched out his legs and pulled out the papers he'd signed back at the assay office and grinned like a little boy. All the years of struggle, all the disappointments, the constant setbacks, all of it worth it, for now he was on the brink of something big. Once Melody came out, they could discuss in which direction their lives might lead. She was a good girl, but with her husband gone, she struggled, as most did, to make ends meet. Now, none of that mattered. Only good times waited for them all to enjoy.

Rousing himself, he set to making a fire. He put an old iron pot, filled with water, onions and sweet potatoes, on the flames and lay back as the stew gently bubbled. He peered up to a sky of uniform blue, not a cloud to break up the view. In a few months, the heat would rise, as it always did, and life would change. Winter proved hard, as always, but summer too held its own particular dangers. But for now, out here with no worries, he allowed himself to relax and, before long, with his eyelids growing heavy, he snuggled into his coat and dozed.

The sizzling of the pot, accompanied by an acrid smell, brought him back to full consciousness and he sat up. Stretching out his arms, he went over to the fire and stared into what was left of his stew. “Ah, damn it,” he spat. The water had all boiled away, leaving the vegetables a congealed, dark brown mass on the bottom of the pan. He doubted he could save two spoonfuls but made a brave try of it nevertheless. Scooping up the burnt remnants, he found a couple of pieces of potato and, keeping his mouth half open to allow the cool air to circulate inside, he tenderly munched them down.

It was then he heard the footfall.

He did his best not to react; instead he fanned his mouth in an exaggerated way, giving himself time to check how far away his shotgun was. Perhaps six paces it stood propped against a tree, alongside the bivouac. He might make it. Then again, he might not. So he stopped, put the pan down on the ground, and turned.

Two men stood before him, heavy set, dressed in long overcoats, black hats, faces ruddy with the cold air. Neither spoke, their dark eyes never blinking. The world waited.

Dan sucked in a breath. “Howdy,” he said and nodded to the remains of the burnt stew. “I'd offer you some, but it's … Well, let's just say it ain't all that palatable.”

A sudden gust of wind rampaged through the tiny camp, sending up a swirl of dead, fallen leaves and particles of dust. It ended almost as soon as it began, but something about it brought a stab of fear to Dan's insides and he quailed, taking a quick glance towards his shotgun. “Fellas,” he managed, voice quivering, “I'm not sure what it is you're wanting, but whatever it is, I ain't got it.”

“The deeds.”

The two words crackled, filled with threat. Of what, Dan could not say, but he could guess. He watched the way their arms hung loose at their sides, so close to the revolvers holstered there. A loud swallow before he threw out his arms, “Fellas, I ain't sure what you mean by deeds.”

“This place,” said the spokesman, casting a glance around the camp, ticking off the hammered-in stakes with a single nod of his head, “this claim. How much is it worth, do you figure?”

“Worth? Hell, I doubt if it is anything more than a couple of hundred.” Dan licked his lips, trying to buy some time. He climbed to his feet and took a small, sideways step. “Fellas, I'm not sure where you've got your information, but I swear to you, there ain't much of anything left around these parts. You must know that. What there is couldn't feed a family for a year. I promise.”

“Show us.”

Frowning, Dan chanced another glance towards his shotgun. In that single look, he knew he would never make it. His shoulders sagged. “How did you know where to find me?”

“We saw you in town. Followed you. Now, show us.”

“It ain't worth it, fellas. If I had found anything of value, I'd have—”

The single, metallic clunk of a gun hammer being cocked caused Dan to turn his gaze to the spokesman, and the gun filling his hand. The man snarled, “Now.”

Defeated, Dan sank within himself. Shaking his head, he led them along the stream, to the place where he'd dug through the surface rock. The little mound of stones stood where he'd built it, a monument to his hopes and dreams, all of them now dashed. He stifled a cry of anguish and pointed with a trembling hand towards where he'd mined. “There. It runs through the side of the hill, but I don't know how deep.”

The second man grunted and went over to investigate. He scrabbled around in the earth for a few moments before turning again to grin at his companion. “Silver.”

The other returned the grin, bobbing his head with triumph. He looked across at Dan. “You did well, old-timer. How can we ever thank you?” Then he fired the gun, the bullet taking Dan in the side of the neck, blowing him backwards into the stream, where he writhed and gargled, blood welling from the wound to mingle with the gently rolling water. Within a few seconds, he grew still, his body rolling over, taken down stream by the current, soon to disappear.

Chapter Four

In the late afternoon, he set out across the plain towards Fort Bridger. Simms followed the ancient trail snaking through the land, a trail so old nobody knew of its origins. Some said it was an old Ute pathway. If it was, they no longer used it. Only pilgrims and homesteaders did so now. He passed a few, plodding along in slow, weary processions, sometimes a dozen or more wagons snaking by. Some acknowledged him, some grabbed for their rifles, most simply kept their eyes set firmly ahead. Simms wondered how many of them would make it.

On the second day, after a breakfast of salted biscuits and steaming coffee, he spotted a cluster of half-erected buildings and turned his horse towards them. Set in the shadow of a small mountain range, the jagged grey peaks soaring way above the tree line, the buildings were close to completion. Men laboured in the cold, their exertions rendering the need for coats unnecessary, their breath steaming in the sharp air. Approaching them at an easy gait, when he was within earshot, Simms pulled up his horse and leaned forward in his saddle, observing the workers hammering nails, fitting joists and securing wood panels for the walls. A broad, heavily built individual, sporting a black Derby hat, sauntered over. He smoked a cigar and regarded Simms with obvious wariness, eyes narrowed, coat pulled back to reveal a handgun holstered at his hip.

“Good day to you,” he said, his accent strange, not unlike Martinson's, the Swedish merchant who continued to run a store and eating place just outside of Bovey, despite the mines having dried up years before.

Simms grunted, motioning towards the construction work. “Seems a mite strange to be building a home all the way out here.”

The man tilted his head, cigar clamped between his teeth. “It's not a home, mister, it's a staging post. Now, if I could ask you what you—”

“A staging post? You mean, a stage will run through here?”

“A stagecoach, yes. What's your interest, mister?”

“I'm sheriff over in Glory,” said Simms, emphasising the point by drawing back his coat to reveal the star pinned to his vest. He also made sure the man got a good glimpse of the Dragoon at his side.

The man munched on the cigar, punctuating his words with puffs of thick smoke. “I see. Well, my name is O'Shaughnessy, Liam O'Shaughnessy. You may have heard of me?”

Simms stared back, nothing stirring in his memory.

“Well,” the man puffed up his chest, as well as his cigar. “Me and my colleagues have been hired by the stagecoach company as security for these here workers,” he jerked a thumb behind him towards the men labouring away at the construction of the buildings, “so I'll be asking you to move on, if you don't mind.” He grinned. “Sheriff.”

Another grunt, and Simms twisted around to survey the mountains, the various passes, outcrops and clumps of undergrowth which hyphenated the jagged rock face. “This is a dangerous area, Mr O'Shaughnessy. It would be my advice to post sentries, night and day. You have horses here, and Bannocks want horses.”

“Bannocks? What in the hell are they?”

“Indians. There's a lot of Indians around here, and most of them are mean and desperate, so you'd best be prepared.”

“Bah,” O'Shaughnessy leaned to his right, pulling out the cigar, and spat into the dirt, “I ain't got no worries about Indians, Mister Sheriff. Only white folk looking for mischief.” He fastened the cigar between his teeth again. “Of whatever kind.”

Straightening himself in his saddle, Simms gave a final sweeping glance across the building site and sighed, “Well, all my best to you and I hope it all goes according to plan.”

“Oh, it will. Don't you worry about that none.”

“No, I won't.” Simms doffed his hat and turned his horse away, a little riled at O'Shaughnessy's gruff manner, curious why he seemed so anxious for Simms to leave. He made a mental note to look through the records to see if there was anything pending on Mr Liam O'Shaughnessy and, if there was, he may well return for a second, more searching visit.

Chapter Five

There were enough of Dan's prospecting tools and equipment in the camp for both men to set about excavating the silver lode on the morning after they killed him. The killer sat on a boulder, reading through the papers, stumbling over some of the words, his mouth forming them silently. “Says nothing here about limitations of rights,” he said at last, folding the papers and stuffing them inside his shirt.

“What in hell does that mean?” said the other, studying a gnarled and chipped spade.

“I'm guessing that means there is no legal impediment to our prospecting and developing the mine.”

“Impediment? Jesus, Quincy, you sound like a damned lawyer.”

Stretching out his legs, Quincy beamed, basking in the words of his friend, liking the idea of being thought of as a lawyer. “Hell, Charlie, I ain't even been to school, saving Miss Franklyn's Sunday School back in Oakley when I was nothing but a kid. All we learned there was how to tie our bootlaces and recite the Lord's Prayer.”

“I ain't even been to no Sunday school,” said Charlie, hefting the spade. “I reckon, if there is no impediment, we should set to it without delay. Other people might have the same idea as us.”

“I doubt that. How could anyone else know?”

“The old-timer might have told people. We saw him at the bank. He may have been arranging a deposit for all we know. We need to be careful.”

Grunting, Quincy stood up. “You might have something there, Charlie. We need to protect our investment. I know the folk who work at the bank. It might secure our position if we were to silence any tittle-tattles.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I'll kill the bastards, that's what I'll do.”

Quincy screwed up his mouth. “Seems a mite extreme, Quincy.”

“Needs must. Let me ruminate on how best to do the deed. Hand me that pick, old friend, and I'll think it through whilst we're working.”

They worked through the best part of the day, sweating despite the raw cold. Muscles burned and sinews strained as they hacked and dug, cutting through the rock, opening up the initial hole made by Dan until it was big enough to crawl through. They shored up the roof with timber cut from the surrounding trees, lit animal fat candles to enable them to continue in the gloom and prized out hunks of rock with lines of precious metal running through them.

By the early evening, both exhausted, they lay stretched out on the ground, quenching their thirst with water taken from the stream. They slept in the open, ignoring the cold, mindless of any dangers.

The following day they huddled around the meagre campfire Charlie managed to make, their bodies trembling with the cold, limbs aching with the previous day's exertions.

“We should take it slower,” said Quincy. “If we continue at this rate, we'll end up killing ourselves.”

“Every day we linger is another day someone else might come here. We can't delay, Quincy.”

“Yeah, I know. And I've thought of something.”

Charlie drew closer, intrigued.