Gunman's Pledge E-Book

Ethan Flagg

• Herausgeber: Robert Hale Fiction
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Black Horse Western
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 176

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Infamous gunslinger Wes Longbaugh is heading for his next job in Utah when he comes across a traveller cast afoot in Nevada's arid Humboldt Sink. Never one to turn the other cheek when help is needed, Wes intercepts the staggering loner. It turns out that Mace Farlow was the sole outlaw to survive a stagecoach robbery that had gone badly awry. All the other robbers had been gunned down due to the treachery of a turncoat. Mace tags along with his saviour but is determined to track the double-crosser down. Fate, however, takes a hand when trouble in the next town leads to flight and a stand off in a lonely canyon where Mace is killed. Before he dies, the aging outlaw makes his young sidekick promise to abandon the precarious life of a gunslinger. But this is far harder to achieve than Wes could ever have imagined.

Leseprobe

Gunman’s Pledge

Infamous gunslinger Wes Longbaugh is heading for his next job in Utah when he comes across a traveller cast afoot in Nevada’s arid Humboldt Sink. Never one to turn the other cheek when help is needed, Wes intercepts the staggering loner. It turns out that Mace Farlow was the sole outlaw to survive a stagecoach robbery that had gone badly awry. All the other robbers had been gunned down due to the treachery of a turncoat.

Mace tags along with his saviour but is determined to track down the double-crosser. Fate, however, takes a hand when trouble in the next town leads to flight and a stand-off in a lonely canyon, where Mace is killed. Before he dies, the aging outlaw makes his young sidekick promise to abandon the precarious life of a gunslinger. But this is far harder to achieve than Wes could ever have imagined.

By the same author

Dead Man Walking

Two for Texas

Divided Loyalties

Return of the Gunfighter

Dynamite Daze

Apache Rifles

Duel at Del Notre

Outlaw Queen

When Lightning Strikes

Praise Be to Silver

A Necktie for Gifford

Navajo Sunrise

Shotgun Charade

Blackjacks of Nevada

Derby John’s Alibi

Long Ride to Purgatory

No Way Back

Revenge Burns Deep

Bad Deal in Buckskin

Send for the BAD Guy!

Cross of Iron

Day of the Hired Gun

Bad Blood

Cast a Dark Shadow

Writing as Dale Graham

High Plains Vendetta

Dance with the Devil

Nugget!

Montezuma’s Legacy

Death Rides Alone

Gambler’s Dawn

Vengeance at Bittersweet

Justice for Crockett

Bluecoat Renegade

Gunsmoke over New Mexico

Montaine’s Revenge

Black Gold

Backshooter!

Bitter Trail

The Reckless Gun

Snake Eyes

Sundown over the Sierras

Wyoming Blood Feud

Hangman’s Reach

Lonely is the Hunter

Wichita Town Tamer

Reluctant Tin Star

Hellbound for Spindriff

Vigilante Law

Bleak Winds of Destiny

Gunman’s Pledge

Ethan Flagg

ROBERT HALE

© Ethan Flagg 2019

First published in Great Britain 2019

ISBN 978-0-7198-2959-8

The Crowood Press

The Stable Block

Crowood Lane

Ramsbury

Marlborough

Wiltshire SN8 2HR

www.bhwesterns.com

Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

The right of Ethan Flagg to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

CHAPTER ONE

Snake in the Grass

‘Make sure those logs are laid out across the whole trail.’

Juno Macklin’s gruff order was aimed at two hard-faced jaspers while he himself strutted around directing operations. Mace Farlow and his sidekick Whiskey Dan grunted as they trundled the heavy obstructions into place.

Macklin was a dour, grim-faced outlaw boasting a luxuriant black moustache who enjoyed giving orders. It had always been the same since his school days. Bullying tactics to ensure his way prevailed had become second nature. That said, he possessed a sharp brain and had always come top of the class in school tests.

Being leader of the pack was an automatic corollary, though not in the way his teacher would have preferred. The gunning down of a drunk who was harassing his mother had set him on the owlhoot trail at an early age. And here he was twelve years on still leading the most notorious gang of brigands in Nevada. For all his faults, there could be no denying that Juno Macklin certainly had a knack of sussing out jobs that paid well.

‘We don’t want to give that stagecoach any chance to swerve around them. The strong box is meant to be holding twenty big ones,’ the gang boss added, drawing hard on the cigar gripped between tobacco-stained teeth. Macklin’s steely grin was due to this being the largest heist yet planned by the gang of hard-nosed desperadoes. His previous crew had been caught red-handed robbing the Elko bank three years before. Only Macklin and Farlow had survived the ensuing shoot-out to live and rob another day. Such was the notoriety Macklin had garnered, there had been no shortage of eager followers wanting to join the notorious desperado.

He and his men had arrived at this remote corner of the Humboldt Sink the previous evening. They had camped out in a dried up arroyo close to the main trail, four days’ ride from the nearest town of Winnemucca. Their purpose for being in such a remote locale was to waylay the weekly mail coach bound for Big Timber.

The outlaws had been up at first light, the coach being due around ten o’clock in the morning. Preparations for the surprise ambush needed time to be made effective. The desert terrain ensured that trees were few in number. This rare clump of desiccated cottonwoods providing the logs for the barricade were sustained by the rare occasions when water filled the arroyo – the result of infrequent flash floods originating in the distant mountains.

The ambush site was an isolated cluster of rocks that appeared to have been blasted from the heart of the flat wilderness. An anomaly known far and wide as Goliath’s Stack, it was ideal for their purpose. All else within a day’s ride was sand interspersed with scrub vegetation mainly comprising mesquite and saltbush. An occasional Joshua tree broke up the monotonous vista, its pointed leaves probing the cloudless sky.

The reminder from the boss about their share of the loot spurred the two loggers to greater efforts. A third man, ex-negro slave Moses Gate, was resting on a nearby rock having just hacked the three cottonwoods down with a hatchet. ‘Come on you lazy coon, on your feet,’ Whiskey Dan’s gravelly vocals barked out as he dragged a sleeve across his sweat-beaded brow. ‘This ain’t no time to be mooning over that skirt in Reno what turned you down.’

The saloon doxie in question had snootily spurned the black man’s inept advances the week before during a stop over in the booming Nevada gold camp. When his buddies had openly expressed their delight, Macklin had quickly stepped in with a blunt denunciation of the girl’s lack of merit in the bedroom department. The girl was all set to challenge the brusque putdown with a stiff retort of her own when Macklin’s dark scowl threatened a violent reprisal that effectively curbed her indignation. Sniffing haughtily, she kept silent and moved away to accost a more acceptable client.

This was not the first time Macklin had saved the poor guy’s face. Moses had latched onto the gang boss when Macklin had saved him from a severe whipping at the hands of southern rebels who had refused to accept the days of one human owning another were over. The grateful recipient had repaid the gesture that very same day by warning his benefactor when the two disgruntled bushwhackers had tried to gun him down. That had been two years ago. Moses had since become a valued member of the Macklin Gang.

That said, the negro’s former subservient life under the yoke of slavery was hard to throw off. And he still felt obliged to obey his so-called ‘betters’. Accordingly, Moses levered himself up and leant his muscular physique to the weighty task. In truth he could have handled the job single-handedly. Farlow and Whiskey Dan made no further comment, acknowledging the black man’s help with curt nods.

All the while Macklin was keeping a weather eye on the bunched clouds building up over the mountains of the Stillwater Range. Rumbles of thunder interspersed with flashes of forked lightning were heralding the approach of a storm. He was hoping their business of stopping the mail coach would be concluded before the threatened outburst reached them.

His other eye was focussed on the tall figure of a sentinel keeping watch from atop a rock ledge. The lofty perch offered a panoramic view of the terrain along which the expected stage coach would be travelling. The Ute half-breed had been told to raise his hand when the coach appeared then get down quick to join the forthcoming action. Charlie Wolf had abandoned his Indian name of Broken Hand and favoured a more acceptable alternative to suit his white association.

Macklin had discovered that those lurking on the fringes of frontier social order tended to be more loyal and less prone to questioning their Good Samaritan’s decisions. He was always wary of hard-bitten gunslingers who might get it into their heads to challenge his position as top dog. Previous attempts to usurp his leadership had been dealt with in a ruthless manner.

Nevertheless, he was still a tad unsure of his latest recruit. Rowdy Bill Hogget, an outlaw wanted for murder and bank robbery in three states, had proved his worth on their last two jobs so Macklin had no reason to doubt his reliability. But he still couldn’t rid his mind of the Elko fiasco in which some critter had spilled the beans. Whether by accident or design remained a niggling mystery. Nevertheless, it had made Macklin wary of all new recruits.

Luckily the present gang worked well together. Unlike many such bands that roamed the western territories, they all rubbed along, including the fringe men. This was a vital factor that had so far enabled them to successfully evade capture. All the same, there was still something about Hogget that that didn’t quite sit right. His gaze swung to where Rowdy Bill was levering a boulder to fill a gap in the barricade. It was his job to herd the passengers over to one side once the coach had been stopped.

The gang leader shrugged off the niggling itch. This was neither the time nor the place to be mulling over such issues. With the logs in position, Macklin checked his pocket watch for the umpteenth time. That coach should have been along fifteen minutes past. The lines creasing his weathered face tightened.

Had it been delayed? Or even worse, taken a different route? The teller who had been cajoled with a substantial cut of the proceeds into betraying his position at the Winnemucca Bank had insisted this was the regular monthly route. The greenbacks being carried were to pay off the numerous logging camps established around Big Timber.

That unsettling notion was fizzing around inside his head, when Wolf’s raised hand gave him the signal he needed. The heist was on. Macklin heaved a sigh of relief. ‘The coach will be here in ten minutes, boys.’ His voice, crackling with excitement, was laced with a perceptible hint of tension. ‘Check your hardware and get in position. Those turkeys are in for the surprise of their lives.’

The makeshift barricade had been erected immediately beyond a bend in the trail where it veered around the rocky promontory; too late for the driver of the stage coach to effect any retaliatory manoeuvring. Charlie rejoined the group taking up a stance to one side of the trail with Whiskey Dan stationed opposite. Mace Farlow had made the suggestion that he should hide behind the barricade where the coach would be forced to stop. ‘That way we’ll catch them in a crossfire if’n there’s some damned fool wanting to be a hero.’ Macklin had agreed, positioning himself at the far end alongside his most trusted associate.

And there they waited, each man mulling over the notion that this was the biggest job they had pulled. Farlow was dreaming about his share of the take, enough to take a nice long vacation to California. He was the oldest of the gang, being a follower rather than a leader like the younger Macklin. His musing was interrupted by the steady thud of hoofs drawing ever closer. A tight hand gripped the rosewood butt of the .36 Whitney revolver. His whole body stiffened. Only when the waiting ended and the action broke would his natural devil-may-care style take over.

Moments later, the stage coach trundled around the bend. The driver spotted the obstruction just in time to haul back on the reins, stamping his boot on the brake lever. As the coach shuddered to a halt, Macklin spurred out from behind the barricade. His gun was aimed at the guard, who immediately raised his hands.

‘Keep them mitts sky bound, fella, and nobody need get hurt,’ he snapped. ‘Now heave that cannon over the side.’ Macklin’s shooter remained rock steady as the shotgun dutifully hit the dirt. A similar brusque command to the driver saw the guy likewise offering no resistance.

The rest of his men all now made their presence felt. With cocked pistols pointed his way, the driver, an old-timer nearing retirement, remained frozen to his seat. Only with the next order did he move. ‘Now toss down that bag you’re carrying.’ Again the order was obeyed without resistance.

Macklin smiled. This was going much better than he could have hoped. ‘OK, Bill, open the door and invite the passengers to step down and surrender their finery.’ Only then did he notice that the window blinds were rolled down. Strange. One blind perhaps was customary, but all three including that on the door?

Suddenly without warning, all the blinds were released on both sides of the coach. At the same moment, a tarpaulin allegedly covering passenger luggage up top was cast aside. Gun barrels appeared and let fly with a furious barrage of rifle and pistol fire. No warning had been forthcoming. The driver and guard instantly threw themselves to the ground, crawling beneath the coach. From here they were both able to retrieve their weapons and add to the surprise ambush.

Whiskey Dan and Moses Gate were chopped down without any chance to get off a single round. Only then did Macklin’s turgid brain cotton to the odious fact they had been double-crossed. Far from being a well-planned payroll snatch, this debacle had become a killing ground. The gang leader responded by pumping a full chamber of shots at the coach. A cry of pain told his fizzing brain that one bullet at least had struck paydirt.

‘It’s a set-up, boys,’ he yelled. ‘That darned teller has double-crossed us.’ But those were to be his final words. Sat atop the paint mare, he offered an easy target. Five bullets struck his body, punching him out of the saddle. Charlie Wolf realized that resistance was hopeless. Yet still trusting in the magical potency of the lucky charm slung around his neck, he hollered out a tribal battle cry and charged the coach. The Navy Colt bucked five times, taking down a man who had raised his head too high above the luggage rack.

The reckless act of bravado was only ever going to end one way, but Wolf’s demise came from a startling direction. As soon as the firing started, Rowdy Bill had quickly dropped down behind the coach and stayed there. Only with the valiant defiance of Charlie Wolf did he show himself, emptying a full chamber into the careering half-breed.

As quickly as it had blown up, the battle was over. The roar of gunfire still echoed around the killing ground where four potential robbers lay sprawled, blood seeping from their fatal wounds. Smoke from a myriad guns drifting in the static air slowly dispersed to reveal the full nature of the carnage. With all their assailants lying dead in the sand, the defenders of the payroll slowly emerged from cover.

‘You did well, Hogget,’ a husky voice declared from inside of the coach. A man’s face appeared at the window. A gloved hand followed in which was clutched a package. The Judas took hold of the bulky envelope, making to open it. ‘No need to count it. All the dough is there,’ the voice continued with barely concealed disdain. ‘I hope you enjoy your blood money.’

‘What are we gonna do with these bodies?’ Rowdy Bill thought it best to ignore the jibe as he stuffed the money into his saddle-bag.

‘Let the coyotes and buzzards enjoy a surprise feast,’ the chortling voice added. ‘That’s all they’re fit for now.’ Same as you, mister. Although he kept that scathing opinion to himself.

A tall broad-shouldered man in his forties opened the door and stepped down. Government agent Isaac Broffey had thick grey hair beneath his wide-brimmed Stetson. More noticeable, however, was the uniquely revered badge of a US Marshal pinned to his buckskin jacket.

Surveying the carnage, his next order was for the rest of his posse. ‘OK boys, move those logs out the way and make sure our own casualties are buried proper. I’m getting too old for hard stuff like that,’ he remarked, sitting on a boulder and rolling a quirly. ‘But I’ll say a few words when you’re done.’

Once the formalities were concluded, Broffey’s final comment was for the driver. ‘OK Whipsaw, we’re already thirty minutes behind time due to this unscheduled halt. So get them nags on the road pronto.’

Rowdy Bill Hogget had already left, heading in the opposite direction. But his disappearing profile was being followed by the searing gaze of the one man who had survived the ambush.

CHAPTER TWO

Chance Encounter

Once the mail coach was out of sight still carrying its valuable cargo, Mace Farlow emerged from cover. He was thoroughly shaken up. All his buddies had been cut down on account of the treacherous betrayal by that scumbag Hogget. His face hardened into a grim resolve to avenge his partners-in-crime.

Crawling out from where he had skulked in fear for his own life, shame now wrapped its icy fingers around his soul. Humiliation suffused his whole being at having survived without a shot being fired in retaliation while his pals lay dead. He felt like a coward. But what else could he have done?

With the heist thrown into complete disarray, Farlow convinced himself that he would have suffered the same fate unless he had taken cover. Luckily the bed of the arroyo just to his rear had offered a gully in which to hide. Yet seeing the blood-stained corpses of his partners in crime splayed out across the battle site only served to compound the guilt eating away at his innards.

Farlow had always considered himself to be a gutsy outlaw. And he had dearly wanted to jump out letting fly with his own guns. But their attackers were well hidden with much greater fire power at their disposal. Accordingly, he figured that his only means of survival was to lie low and pray he would not be hunted down. It was a hard decision for his conscience to accept.

Nonetheless, he managed to persuade himself that a man had a duty to maintain his own survival. Playing the hero would have been the act of a brave yet foolhardy martyr. How else could he search out that double-crossing snake and repay the treachery in kind?

A sorrowful gaze rapidly coalesced into a glitter of hate as he scanned the odious slaughter. Already the desert predators were gathering. Buzzards circling overhead cawing with anticipation were matched at ground level by the morbid howl of coyotes. Farlow hustled out and dragged the bodies over to the side of the trail. There he laid them out, attempting to thwart the scavengers’ gruesome intent by covering them with rocks. The laborious task took some time, but Farlow considered he owed them that much at least.

An hour later and it was time to leave. His determination to hunt down Rowdy Bill Hogget had been strengthened by the arduous chore. That was when he cottoned to the unwholesome fact that the attackers had taken all the loose horses. He hurled an impotent curse at the Heavens. Being cast afoot in this godforsaken terrain did not auger well for his continued survival. It was sheer force of habit that had seen him grab his canteen before hiding out in the arroyo, but that wouldn’t last long. He was at least three day’s ride on horseback from the nearest town, double that on foot.

Forced to walk out of here, his canteen would run dry long before he reached Big Timber. Thankfully water could be had in the Stillwater Mountains, although that was a stiff two-day hike across the bleak expanse of sand that encompassed the Humboldt Sink. No sense in putting it off. Stick around here and the scavengers would surely get their wish. Mace Farlow still valued his skin. Windmilling arms scared off the watching predators as he set off.

Since making a swift exit from the town of Battleaxe, Wes Longmire had abandoned the main trail. Instead, he had favoured the safer trek across country by heading due east towards the Utah border. There was sufficient food in his saddle-bag and a full canteen to keep him going for the few days needed to lose any pursuit. He slowed the golden palomino to a steady walk, his mind harking back to the unsavoury incident that had blown up in Battleaxe’s biggest saloon.

The Occidental was run by a shrewd businessman called Tuff Selman, who had employed Wes as a house floor walker. His job specifically was security, to ensure that any chancers who attempted underhanded chicanery at the numerous gaming tables were summarily dealt with. And Wes was good at his job. What he objected to was Selman introducing marked decks and loaded dice to fleece honest patrons of their hard-earned poke.

When he voiced his antipathy to the shady practice and quit the job, Selman was none too pleased. A couple of his heavies were despatched to waylay the unsuspecting gunfighter on his way back to the lodging house at the edge of town. That would have been the end of Wes Longbaugh had not two mutts decided to join the proceedings. Alerted to the presence of the dry-gulching duo by their howling, Wes had responded with split-second timing, allowing his newly acquired Colt .45 Peacemaker to speak louder and more effectively than any words.