Blood Rise E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After the murder of a U.S. Senator, Pinkerton Detective Simms is tasked with bringing the killer to justice.

This would be a simple case for someone as determined and experienced as Simms, but shadowing him is someone far more dangerous and deadly than mere hired murderers.

Across the unforgiving Territories comes a spectre of death, and once again Simms finds himself in a struggle for survival against an old enemy who will stop at nothing to achieve his goal: the death of Detective Simms.

Blood Rise is a standalone novel and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

Blood Rise

Unflinching Book V

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.

'…in the end the law will follow the wrong-doer to a bitter fate, and dishonor and punishment will be the portion of those who sin.' 

— Allan Pinkerton

This one is also for Honey, my own White Dove.

One

On the banks of the Colorado River, where it flows so fast and so wide the far bank might as well be a thousand miles away, a man stooped and cupped his hands, preparing to plunge them into the crystal clear water.

From the rear he appeared a solid-looking man, shoulders bunched with muscle. But from the front, it was clear this man was suffering. His shirt, spattered with crimson, hung from torn trousers, his hair fell lank across his pain-ingrained face and his hands, as they brought the cool water to his broken lips, trembled. Dried blood covered him like a second skin, the largest patch of which spread across his inner thigh. And he was swathed in bandages.

He drank, more water slipping from between his fingers than into his mouth, forcing him to repeat the action, gasping every time. Missing from his right hand were several digits, nothing more than bloody stumps.

A movement from the thick sagebrush caused him to swing around awkwardly. Wincing, for a moment he almost buckled over onto the ground before he used one hand, palm flat against the hard earth, to stop himself . His other squeezed against his thigh.

“You be careful of them stitches, fella,” came the voice of an older, gnarled individual, stomping from the brush, a muzzle loading musket draped over his shoulder, two large buck-rabbits in his fist. “I told you to rest.”

“I was thirsty,” said the man, his voice creaking like a worn, dried-up piece of leather.

“Wait for me next time,” said the old man, dropping everything onto the ground. He leaned backwards and stretched out his arms from either side. Bones cracked and he cackled, “Dear God, I am too old for all of this.”

“I'll do my share when I can.”

“Well, that won't be for best part of a week, fella.” He hobbled forward, bow-legged, rocking side to side like a pendulum. “We have a good enough camp here. When you're feeling up to it, we can go down to Twin Buttes and…” He stopped, noting the black cloud settling over the man's face at the mention of the town's name. “Jeez, what the hell is up with you?”

“I'm not going back there,” he said, falling down on his backside, staring at the river. He nonchalantly picked up several stones and threw them into the depths one by one.

“Care to tell me why.”

“It's a long story.”

“Can't be as long as mine.”

The man turned to the older one, arching a single eyebrow. “You never did tell me why you saved me.”

“Fella, I ain't in the business of detailed explanations. I saw you bleeding to death back at my camp, so I helped you out. Simple as, fella.”

“Your camp?”

“You heard me. Figured I'd patch you up then, when you is able, you can tell me what in the hell happened back there. And,” his hand moved behind his back and when it returned, it was filled with a revolver, “you can explain to me why my daughter was sitting in my shack, dead.”

“So you're Dan Stoakes.”

“That be me. Who are you?”

“My name's Dixon. I'm a US Marshal out of Fort Bridger. You can check if you like, back at Twin Buttes – but I ain't going there. Not yet.”

“A US Marshal…” He rubbed his grizzled chin. “Here's my proposal, fella. I'll make us coffee. Then you tell me your story and I'll tell you mine.”

“Sounds like a good enough trade.”

“Uh-huh, it is. But you make one move against me, or tell me any lies, and I'll blow your damned head off. You get me?”

“I get you.”

Grunting, Dan put the revolver into his waistband and went over to where the fire spat and hissed. With the blaze virtually out, Dan got down on his haunches and revived it, adding more sticks and bracken before dropping lower and blowing at the embers. Once the flames took hold, he set to loading up an old, blackened pot with coffee beans and water and placed it amongst the gathering flames. He sat back. “I need to know how she died.”

“She had fever. We'd met and I was accompanying her to your place. To find you, Dan.”

“Me?”

“You sent her a telegram, so she told me, of your silver-find. She was on her way when a bunch of cutthroat Indians kidnapped her. But I saved her from them, Dan, helped her with the rest of her journey. Unfortunately, she contracted fever.”

He turned his eyes towards Dixon, wide, wet eyes, the anguish clear. “Is that how she died? From fever?”

“I wish to God it was, Dan, but no.”

Dan's voice grew close to breaking. He raked in a deep breath. “Tell me.”

“I had come across a mighty mean and contentious individual whilst at Bridger. A man I would not wish to turn my back on. He followed us, without my knowledge, and when we reached the camp, he shot me. That was how you found me.”

“And my baby girl?”

Dixon lowered his eyes. “He drew down on me, shot away my gun.” He held up his shattered hand. “This is the result. He then told me I had to sign over Sarah's claim. When I refused, he smothered her.”

“He did what?”

“She was so weak she could not resist. He kept his gun on me and put his hand over her mouth and—”

“Stop!” Dan held up his hand, pressing the fingers of his other into his eyes. “Stop, no more. Holy Mother of God … he murdered her.”

“That he did. Then he shot me to pieces.”

“How – how could a human being be so vile?”

“That is him, I fathom. A vile and detestable sonofabitch. When I see again, I'll kill him.”

“No. No you won't. That will be me who does the killing. I'll go into Twin Buttes and shoot that bastard dead.”

“He ain't in Twin Buttes any longer, I reckon. He'll be in Glory. He's Sheriff there.”

“Is he, by God? Well, I'll set out for Glory and kill him right there. Sheriff – pah!” He leaned over, hawked and spat into the dirt. “Murdering bastard. What did you say his name is?”

“I didn't,” said Dixon, “but he is well known around these parts as a cruel and callous killer. No one dares cross him.”

“Well I dare, damn your hide. What is his goddamned name?”

“Simms,” said Dixon and hurled the last of his pebbles far out into the churning water of the Colorado River.

Two

They killed them with a knife. The man and the woman, their aged mother and a child, barely 6 months old. Moving out from between the rocks in the early hours, they struck them hard and fast. Curly was the one with the knife, the other two holding down the woman, who kicked and screamed so much Curly was forced to put the blade into her throat.

“Ah, shit, Curly, why do you do that?”

“Shut your face, Brewster,” spat Curly, stepping back, watching the woman going into spasm, clutching her throat, dying right there before their eyes.

The sun was barely up over the horizon when they chopped up the woman and put her limbs in a big old pot over the fire.

The third man, a huge hulking brute named Arthur, strangled the old man in the back of the wagon, the baby wailing like a banshee beside him. He smothered the infant with a pillow. It took no more than a few moments. Now he sat stirring the pot, breathing in the aroma. He'd added onions and a carrot that he found in the wagon to the stew. “This is gonna be a feast.”

“We ain't eaten nothing but dust for the past six days,” said Curly, sitting cross-legged, holding the bloody knife in both hands, “so even if that was horse shit it would taste like it's come from a New York eating house.”

“Well it ain't horse shit,” said Arthur, “this young lady is nothing but good, lean meat.”

“We can make good steaks from her prime, young butt-ocks,” said Brewster. “Pity you had to kill her, Curly.”

“Shut up, you heathen sap! Killin' is enough for me, it should be for you. I ain't no goddamned fucking rapist.”

Brewster remained silent, sinking into himself, staring at the ground.

“And you,” said Curly, pointing the blade towards Arthur, “you cook and shut the fuck up.”

Arthur touched the brim of his hat and did as Curly bid. He knew better than to argue with Curly 'Lonesome' Price.

“When we broke out,” said Brewster when he finally felt able, “you told us there'd be rich pickings for us. You said the same after helping you with that damned stage robbery.”

Curly blew out his cheeks. “And there will be rich pickings, Brewster. Now we have this here carbine,” he hefted it in his hand, taken from inside the wagon, “life is going to be easier.”

“What we gonna do?” asked Arthur, chewing on a piece of flesh.

“There's a town not so very far. It's called Twin Buttes. We can hole up there.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safe as anywhere. I know the sheriff there, man name of Silas. We goes back a long ways.”

“And how will that help us?”

“He'll give us fresh clothes and horses, and we head deeper into the Territory. There are many towns, most dead, a few dying. Some have banks. We hit 'em hard and we hit 'em fast.”

“If they is dead or dying,” said Arthur, chewing furiously, “then we ain't likely to find no banks nor no rich pickings, now are we?”

“What are you, Arthur, a goddamned philosopher or somesuch?”

“Stands to reason, Curly. I is just sayin', is all.”

“Well don't say nothin'. You have not one clue what awaits us out there in the Territory. Not one.”

“I hear there is Indians,” interjected Brewster, tossing away a gnawed piece of bone. “I hear they is mighty mean too.”

“Hell, there is always Indians. Once we are at Twin Buttes, we will stock up with firearms and enough powder to start a war. We will be fine. Besides, I've fought Indians before, and they are not much to be afraid of, I can tell you that. They carry their reputation with 'em like some sort of suit of armour from those old knights in England. They ain't worth shit.”

“How you know about those – what was it, knights? What the hell is they?”

“You is ignorant, Brewster.”

“I is alive.”

“Well, that's a topic for discussion right there.” Curly hawked and spat. “You have a choice. You can stay out here and fry to death, or you can come with me to Twin Buttes and prosper. I couldn't give a damn either way.”

He lay back with his head against a small outcrop of rock and tipped his hat over his eyes. “You just let me know.”

Brewster and Arthur exchanged a look. “Ah hell, Curly,” said Arthur, “you know we have no choice in the matter.”

“Then get some rest. We will cross the prairie at night and keep ourselves out of this heat. I will rise you when it is time to leave.”

He wriggled around in the dirt, trying to get comfortable.

Arthur sighed, nodding towards the wagon. “I'm gonna put my head down in there, Brewster.”

“Fine, well I will—”

“You will take first watch,” said Curly without stirring. “As you say, there is Indians hereabouts.”

“Goddamn you both!” spat Brewster, kicking at the ground as Curly rolled over and Arthur wandered across to the wagon. “This ain't fair. Why am I first?”

But there was no reply and he slumped down on a large boulder and munched on the remaining piece of meat from the young girl's arm.

Three

Simms went into town on Monday morning, grimacing with each step his horse took. Having worked all weekend in the raging heat, his back and arms were sore from ploughing through earth as unforgiving as the coarsest, hardest stone.

There were two messages waiting for him. One from his bank, advising him of concerns raised over a land acquisition and a telegram from the Illinois headquarters of the Pinkerton Detective agency. This took most of his attention.

Returning from the Mexican War in Eighteen-Forty-Nine, as news of the California Goldrush hit every headline and passed over every set of lips, Simms found himself taking up work as a detective in the recently formed agency founded by Allan Pinkerton. Now, ten years later, as chief manager of the first eastern branch of the agency, Simms divided his time between his duties as a Pinkerton and that of Sheriff in the town of Glory. Life's curious passage brings with it many unlooked for changes, and so it was with Simms. And often, like now, the weight of responsibility brought profound weariness.

The words of the telegram did not relieve his mood.

'Escaped convicts must be recaught, STOP. Make for Fort Bridger, immediate, STOP. News there. STOP. A.P.'

The route from the town of Bovey to Fort Bridger took two days and, although it followed an old, well-used Indian trail for the most part, danger lurked every step of the way. With this in mind, he unlocked the rifle cabinet and selected his recent acquisition of a Colt Root rifle, with five shots in the cylinder. This allowed him greater firepower than his old Halls carbine, which he affectionately ran his fingers down the stock of before closing up the cabinet once more. At his hip was the Navy Colt given to him by his friend Martinson, who ran an eating-place some distance from the town of Bovey. He had enough paper cartridges for this gun, assembled by his partner White Dove back at the ranch house. He always marvelled at her patience and dexterity at making such fine pieces of ammunition. This cut down on the time it took to reload his sidearm, but even this could not compare to the Smith and Wesson Model One in his shoulder holster. This gun held self-contained metallic cartridges, making reloading fast and effective. So armed he put the coffee pot on the stove and reread the telegram from Illinois one more time.

He sighed. There was still the matter of investigating the Hanrahan funeral robbery. Ruminating on what to do for the best, he barely had enough time to throw down a cup of half-brewed coffee before he climbed into his saddle and cantered across to the big old house on the outskirts of town to talk to the deceased's surviving offspring.

The daughter of the deceased greeted him at the door. Doffing his hat, Simms stepped inside, his dust-caked boots sounding hollow on the entrance hall's floorboards. He smiled to her, somewhat self-consciously, as a young maid emerged and stooped down next to him with dustpan and brush. “My apologies.”

“Don't trouble yourself none, Detective,” said the daughter, and beckoned him to move farther inside. “Betsy, make us some coffee after you've cleaned up.”

The maid nodded and Simms gave her an apologetic smile which she did not return.

He followed the daughter into the parlour, a large room with chintz-covered couch, writing table and straight-backed chair in the corner. The fireplace, although empty, bore the marks of recent use. Twin patio doors opened up to an impressive back yard, with mature trees and flower beds. An air of tempered opulence hung over the room., as it did much of the rest of the impressively decorated house.

Taking his attention were the wallpaper designs, rendered in powder-blue with a floral motif. He leaned across and peered at a section closely.

“You are interested in such decoration, Detective?”

“I am indeed, Miss …?” He looked at her from over his shoulder.

“My name is Naomi.” She held out her hand. Simms straightened and took it, wondering if he should kiss it in the old-fashioned way. He'd heard it was appropriate in certain sectors of society. He decided against it. “I am the second of my late father's four daughters. Elspeth, the eldest, is seeing to some of the legal wrangling associated with my father's estate, whilst my—”

“Forgive me, Miss Naomi, but my time is pressing. I need to know what happened.”

“Oh, I see.” She grew a little flustered, a slight reddening appearing around her jaw. “Well, I, suppose we will start here as this is where my father lay.” Waving her arms vaguely towards the patio doors, she pressed the back of the same hand to her mouth, eyes closed, and swallowed down a tiny sob. “I'm sorry.”

“Perhaps I should come back at another time, when you are feeling more at ease.”

He held his breath. He wanted this case done and dusted before he set-out for Bridger. Escaped convicts were more pressing than a simple robbery. Or so he assumed.

“No, no,” she said quickly, producing a silken handkerchief from inside her sleeve. Dabbing her eyes, she forced a tight smile. “It's all been – well, hectic is the word I suppose you could use, Daddy struck down so quickly, you see. Unexpected.”

Simms caught his breath, his interest tweaked.“Oh? I didn't know that. I assumed he was ill.”

“Daddy was at his fittest for years,” Naomi said, pausing a moment to dab her eyes again. “He had begun socialising with a group of like-minded landowners and would often invite them here for dinner. At one such meeting, he grew to be very fond of a widow from town. A Mrs Miller, who had lost her husband some years back from—”

“Excuse me, did you say Mrs Miller. Mrs Laura Miller, from the town of Glory?”

“Yes, that's her. Do you know her, Detective? An extremely handsome and affectionate woman, whom Daddy took a shine to almost as soon as she appeared on our front porch.” She giggled at the memory, her eyes growing distant, “She imbued him with a new lease of life, Detective. I have not seen him as happy for many years, not since Mama died.”

Reflecting on these revelations, Simms wandered across to the porch doors and looked out towards the manicured lawn. “And the robbery, Miss Naomi? What happened exactly?”

“Well, people were coming and going. Jacob, our manservant, did the best he could, but we had no way of knowing who came to pay their last respects.”

He turned, staring at her. A fragile little thing, pasty-faced, awash with grief. “Could you possibly make a list of everything that was taken?”

“Yes, I can do that. Somebody must have slipped upstairs to Mama's room. All of her jewellery…” She coughed, again the handkerchief pressing against her face. “Poor Daddy. I thank God he didn't have to suffer any of that.”

“I think, perhaps, if he hadn't suffered the way he did, none of this would have happened.”

“I don't understand you, Detective.”

“As ghastly as it may sound, there are professional thieves out there who prey on people when they are at their lowest – funerals being the main one. They also frequent society weddings, sometimes purporting to be newspeople looking to report the event. However they do it, they get inside and help themselves to whatever they can find. This theft is clearly in the same mode.”

“I see. But yes, you are quite right, Detective – it is ghastly.”

“If you could make up the list, send it over to my office, I would be obliged. And if you can cast your mind back, try to think of any strangers you may have noticed. A couple perhaps.”

“A couple?”

“Yes, they often work in pairs. A man and woman, full of grief, draped in black, the woman probably wailing, the man standing apart, serious.”

“Dear Lord, as if such a thing could happen.”

“All too often, Miss Naomi, it does.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Please get those scraps of information to me, no matter how insignificant they may seem.”

“I will, Detective.” She reached out and touched his arm as he went to move to the door. “Thank you. All of this, at such a time…”

He smiled knowingly, nodded and walked out.

Stepping out onto the porch, the heat hit him like a door slamming in his face. He hauled himself into his saddle and gently turned the horse away. The maid gave him a small wave and he tipped his hat in response and spurred his mount into a canter.

All the while, on his ride back to Bovey, a single thought burrowed its way deeper into his brain.

Laura Miller knew Randolph Hanrahan.

And now Randolph Hanrahan was dead.

Four

After Dixon told the old man his abbreviated and heavily altered story, he slumped back against a boulder, blowing out a long, meaningful sigh. “If I could have saved her, Dan, I would have.”

The old man sat some way opposite, the big old musket across his lap, chewing at a piece of dried-up grass, running through the Marshal's words, not giving anything away by his expression, allowing the seconds to tick idly by. Dixon shifted and was about to speak again when the old man held up his hand, cutting him off. “My daughter was a courageous girl. Strong, intelligent. She'd made something of herself over in Kansas City before that feather-brained bastard of a husband left her when she fell pregnant. Bradford Milligan his name was. A waster, a shirker, a spineless bastard. As soon as he done the deed, off he shot like a prairie turkey running from a fox.” He leaned to his right and spat. “If I find him, I'll kill him.”

“But your daughter made good – you said so yourself.”

“Yes she did. And I am mighty proud of her.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, a sudden thought striking him. He swallowed hard. “Was mighty proud of her. Now she has gone. And this varmint, this – what did you say his name was again?”

“Simms. Sheriff over in Glory.”

“I ain't ever been to Glory, but I have a mind to now. Why would he kill her?”

Dixon shrugged. “To claim the silver, I shouldn't wonder.”

“Well, I'll check on that. Mister, you appear genuine, but I have lived a long time and been through some scrapes …” He patted his side to give emphasis to his words. “Those two bushwhackers thought they'd killed me when they came into my camp and took over. Shot me. Fortunately, I fell into the river and it carried me off downstream. I didn't trust them and I don't trust you.”

“Well, I don't see why not, because I—”

“Because of this.” He pulled out a soiled and torn piece of paper. He waved it in his hand. “This here is a claim on my silver mine, which I found in your jacket. It says you is the rightful owner of said claim, counter-signed by the assayer office down in Twin Buttes. At the bottom,” he tapped the paper, “are three more signatures – those of the claimants. I can just make out your name here. Dixon. And beside it, that of my daughter and that of the witness.” He swung the musket around. “You is one lying sonofabitch and now you're gonna die.”

Cracking his hip on large, jagged pieces of rock, Dixon rolled across the broken ground as quickly as he could. He felt several of his wounds opening up, but he had no time for such trivialities. Not now, as the musket boomed, sending a piece of hot lead screeching inches from his head.

Old Dan worked frantically at the ramrod, knowing time was against him.

Time he simply did not have. He looked up frantic and went for the revolver in his belt.

As Dixon put his boot under the old man's chin and rocketed him onto his back, Dan knew the end had come.

This time there would be no river to enable escape. To save his life.

Dixon wrenched the musket from Dan's feeble grip and put the stock into the old man's face half a dozen times, smashing it to pieces, not stopping until the brains mingled with the many pieces of bone fragments, facial features broken and unrecognisable.