9,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
While the Civil War still raged on in the southern parts of the United States, a series of stagecoach robberies had taken place between the cities of Alder Gulch, Virginia City and Bannack in Montana. After Vigilantes has put an end to it and the robbers as well as their ring leader were hanged, the violence was considered to be over. However, soon after that, another series of stagecoach holdups has started. Federal Marshal Joseph Pernell is called from his winter quarters in Prescott, Arizona to Fort Laramie. President Abraham Lincoln and the U.S. Cavalry ordered him to stop the stagecoach raids and to bring the robbers to justice. In early spring of 1865, Joseph “Joe” Pernell travels through Montana searching for the bandits while further holdups are taking place. The gang of robbers seem to become more violent as they have started killing witnesses. There must also be an outside informant to let the road agents know where to hit next. With the help of the Sheriff of Missoula and 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Cavalry, Marshal Joseph Pernell takes on the gang of road agents.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 213
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Ähnliche
Karlheinz Moll
Hell Gate
The Last of the Vigilantes
© 2024: Karlheinz Moll
Druck und Distribution im Auftrag des Autors:
tredition GmbH, Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland
Das Werk, einschließlich seiner Teile, ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Für die Inhalte ist der Autor verantwortlich. Jede Verwertung ist ohne seine Zustimmung unzulässig. Die Publikation und Verbreitung erfolgen im Auftrag des Autors, postalisch zu erreichen unter: tredition GmbH, Abteilung "Impressumservice", Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland und per E-Mail unter [email protected].
ISBN
Paperback
978-3-384-45070-8
Hardcover
978-3-384-45071-5
e-Book
978-3-384-45072-2
This is a work of fiction. All names, their background and stories herein are the product of the author´s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual real-life persons are purely coincidental and unintended.
Table of contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue I
January 10, 1864 – Bannack, Montana
Prologue II
January,1865 – Hell Gate Valley, Montana
Chapter 1
February, 1865 – Prescott, Arizona Territory
Chapter 2
February, 1865 – Fort Whipple, Arizona Territory
Chapter 3
February 1865 – Hell Gate, Montana Territory
Chapter 4
March 1865 – Fort Laramie, Dakota Territory
Chapter 5
March 1865 – Stevensville, Montana
Chapter 6
March 1865 – On the way through Wyoming
Chapter 7
April 9,1865 – Hell Gate, Montana
Chapter 8
April 10, 1865 – Missoula, Montana
Chapter 9
April 10, 1865 – Stevensville, Montana
Chapter 10
April 10, 1865 – Near Missoula, Montana
Chapter 11
April 16 1865 – Missoula, Montana
Chapter 12
April 19, 1865 – Missoula, Montana
Chapter 13
April 20, 1865 – Stevensville, Montana
Chapter 14
April 21, 1865 – Hell Gate, Montana
Chapter 15
April 21, 1865 – Hell Gate, Montana
Chapter 16
April 21, 1865 – Hell Gate, Montana
Chapter 17
April 21 1865 – Hell Gate, Montana
Chapter 18
April 30, 1865 – Missoula, Montana
Chapter 19
May 1865 – Prescott, Arizona
Acknowledgements
The Author
Author´S Notes
Bibliography (English)
Coming Soon
Hell Gate
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue I
Coming Soon
Hell Gate
Cover
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
Prologue I
January 10, 1864 – Bannack, Montana
He walked out of a small shack built out of logs with a false front to make it look bigger than it actually was. It had recently been a blacksmith shop but was now used as a temporary jail for prisoners waiting to be executed. His hands were bound behind his back, as were those of his former deputies Buck Stinson and Ned Ray. Behind them stood a man with a thick, grey mustache and missing front teeth. He had his index finger on the trigger of his double-barreled shotgun pointed at the backs of the bound men. If any of them tried to do anything, he would not hold back and would simply shoot them to pieces. The other heavily armed men circling around the three would do the same, if any friends of the prisoners tried to rescue them.
The temperature on this early January morning was just slightly above freezing and snow mingled with the dirt from the muddy street. The sun was just about to set when a group of men guided the three bound men down the street. There were very few bystanders at this cold early morning hour. Most of the group were those that had arrested the three men just hours ago.
The three men were led to a tree at the end of town, behind a stable. Anywhere else, the tree would have been cut down as it didn’t fulfill any natural purpose in this still growing town of over ten thousand residents. In summer, the tree had no leaves and in winter it just stood there alone. Ever since Bannack was founded in 1862, the big tree had been put to another practical use. It served as hanging tree.
The hanging tree had been in plenty of use during the past few months, ever since the residents of Virginia City and Bannack had founded the joint Vigilante Committee of Alder Gulch.
Henry Plummer looked up at the tree where three nooses had already been prepared. Underneath, three calm horses awaited him, Stinson and Ray. He hadn’t said a word since the vigilantes had arrested him before dawn. There wasn’t much that he could have said. There was no prosecution, no defense, no judge and no jury. There was just this angry mob who couldn’t wait to see him and his deputies swinging on the big hanging tree.
The group of men led the three now former lawmen to the hanging tree. Some of them wore long dusters, some woolen jackets, with the brims of their hats pulled deep down their faces. There was no talking. Plummer and his former deputies knew what was coming. They´d seen it in the faces of the men when they had been captured hours ago and they saw it in the faces of the men now lifting them on to the saddled horses and putting the nooses around their necks.
Members of the vigilantes and, standing a bit further back, some citizens of Bannack watched while others straightened the knots of the nooses or held the horses who breathed heavily through their nostrils in the morning cold. No prayers were said nor any other speeches made. The self-proclaimed leader of the vigilantes nodded slightly with his head giving the men holding the horses the sign. They stepped away from the horses and slapped them on their rumps. The horses moved forwards, just enough to pull the three men out of the saddles. One broke his neck immediately, the other two kept swinging for a bit, kicking helplessly with their legs until the life left their bodies.
A few of the bystanders remained but most of them, one by one or in small groups, walked away from the hanging tree back to their homes in town or wherever they lived. Public hangings weren’t common in these parts so it was no wonder that so many had flocked to the spectacle even though most of them had looked away or closed their eyes as the men were pulled out of the saddles dying with their necks broken instantly or suffocating slowly an a tight noose.
The small group of men who remained cut down the three dead bodies from the tree and put them on a wagon to be carried to the cemetery. They couldn’t leave them hanging there any longer than necessary as more hangings were scheduled for the following days.
One of them, the road agent Dutch John Wagner was expected in town after being captured four days ago on his way to Salt Lake City by vigilantes led by Captain Nick Wall and Ben Peabody. During the attempted Milt Moody´s train robbery in December 1863, Wagner had been wounded, tracked down and caught.
Among the men who had just participated in the hanging was a small group of people grinning under their hats. As far as they were concerned, Plummer may be gone but his line of business was still out there, theirs to take.
Prologue II
January,1865 – Hell Gate Valley, Montana
A group of five rugged riders dismounted from their horses on a treed hill off the main trans-portation road to the Hell Gate Valley. In the morning hours the snow had turned into cold rain pouring down from the sky and soaking the soil. The men with their broad-brimmed hats and in long coats tried to find some cover under some pine trees sur-rounded by massive granite blocks.
They hitched their horses, six in total; the five they rode on and a spare, also a saddled horse, to some thick tree branches, out of sight from the road. It would be hours until their target appeared on the horizon as it would have had a journey just as difficult as theirs to get to this place. Having the prospect of getting their hands on the small fortune being carried across these parts of Montana made it worth the wait.
The wait ultimately paid off when the men saw something approaching from afar. There was no doubt among them that it was what they were waiting for. Three of them put bandanas over their mouth and nose to cover their faces. The other two didn’t cover themselves.
Six strong horses in their winter fur pulled the heavily loaded stagecoach, which made its way on the road to the next stagecoach station in Hell Gate, still a settlement but far off its notorious prime. In addition to the precious cargo, the stagecoach carried only three passengers. They all looked exhausted from the ride across the western part of the Montana Territory.
On one side sat a man in his thirties hiding himself behind a newspaper. He wore a dark suit with a starched white shirt and his leather bag made him appear as a business man from the East Coast. Opposite him sat an older man who looked like a travelling salesman with a carpet bag, though nothing gave away what he was buying or selling. His arms were crossed over his chest and he tried to get some rest with his head leaning against the wooden frame of the door.
The third man in his fifties wore round glasses and tried to read as much as possible from the front page of the newspaper the man on the other side of the coach was holding in his hand. It was end of January and the newspaper contained reports from the eastern theater of the civil war and the latest developments in North Carolina.
According to the newspaper, Union forces under Rear Admiral David Porter and Major General Alfred Terry had conquered Fort Fisher in North Carolina, taking over the last port the Confederacy had been able to hold until now. Porter´s warships had put Fort Fisher under heavy bombardment while Terry´s troops stormed the Fort from land further on to Wilmington the next day. The overwhelming Union onslaught had forced Major General Willliam H.C. Witting to surrender Fort Fisher with its garrison of almost 2,000 troops to the Union army.
The reader of the war report had long ago stopped worrying about the war. Originally from the south, he had moved to Pennsylvania long before the conflict between the Blue and the Gray had begun and had expanded his business westward to the new Territories in recent years. If it continued at this speed, the war could be over in a few months or even weeks which was good for business, he figured.
The muddy road narrowed just as it reached a part of the route where there was little visibility, regardless of the weather conditions. The driver was an experienced man who had almost twenty years under his belt working for the Butterfield and Wells Fargo stage line companies. He kept a watchful eye on the surroundings as if he was expecting danger.
Nothing had happened to him while he had been driving this route regularly for Wells Fargo but one of the other drivers, going in the opposite direction, had been held up just recently. The same had happened frequently on other routes which made a job like driving a stage a rather dangerous one. The driver wasn’t the only one who believed that there was some organized bunch behind the holdups. The only reason he figured why he hadn’t been up so far that he was only delivering mail and passengers instead of gold or silver. Today it was different.
The company hadn’t yet considered having someone driving shotgun even though there was mounting pressure to do so from all sides, including the drivers and, especially, the ultimate recipient of those gold shipments, the Federal U.S. Army. The driver had a strange feeling and wished someone was sitting next to him, hands close to a gun. His gut feeling proved right when he steered the six horses around the next curve.
Two of the rugged men leaped out from among the trees and rocks and stood in the middle of the road, pointing their double-barreled shotguns, with both triggers cocked, at the slowly approaching stagecoach. The driver pulled his horses to an immediate halt. He didn’t dare to grab the revolver, which he had in the belt covered by his thick winter coat, especially when he saw that the two road agents weren’t alone. To his left and to his right he saw three other masked men standing behind the trees with rifles pointing at him and the coach.
One of them yelled at the passengers to stay in the coach and not to try anything. Then he told the driver to throw down the strongbox. The driver didn’t think twice and did what he was told. Inside the coach, the two older men were nervous but reacted differently. The man with the glasses didn’t move. He just sat there, scared stiff as he looked into the muzzle of one of the rifles pointed at them from outside the coach. The other one had a different idea, reaching down into his carpet bag and pulling out a gun.
In the moment the older salesman lifted the gun a shot was fired through the newspaper. It didn’t come from the salesman´s gun but from the younger man sitting opposite of him. The salesman stared into the eyes of the man in the black suit before his upper body bent over and he fell to the floor of the coach. The man with the glasses looked down at the dying man when another shot cracked from the other man´s revolver. Like the salesman, his body fell to the floor, both were dead.
The man in the black suit pulled down the rim of his hat deep over his face as he exited the coach. With a lowered head and without saying a word, he walked to one of the armed men who briefly greeted him silently with his hand. The man in the black suit didn’t turn around, cautious not to be seen, and kept on walking to the group of trees where the horses rested, including the spare one the five men had brought with them.
When the two shots rang out, the driver of the coach shuddered briefly but remained focused on the two shotgun barrels still being pointed at him. He didn’t see the man who had leaving the coach right after the shooting.
Two of the men picked up the strongbox the driver had thrown down from under his seat. One of them asked the driver for the key of the locked box. The driver trembled and shook his head, signaling that he didn’t have it. He wasn’t telling the truth. The key to the strong box was hidden under the seat. But he didn’t want to be the person who handed the bandits the gold on a silver plate. He nevertheless hoped they would believe him and would keep him alive. He was wrong. Keeping the key to the strong box hidden was the last thing he did in his life.
The two men without any masks each fired a shot from their shotguns into the body of the stagecoach driver, who fell off the coach and was dead before his body reached the muddy ground.
Then one of the masked men turned around his rifle and hammered the shaft against the lock which broke after a few tries. The box contained several sacks of gold dust and nuggets which the man took with him with the help of one of the others. They knew that there was enough gold for all of them to live on for a while, but not enough for a life in luxury. At least the loot would enable them to have enough funds to get them through for many months to come, maybe even a year or two, without having to worry about money.
Once again, the man in black had kept his promises. The five still had no idea from where he got his information but all the stagecoaches they had held up so far were loaded with treasure. So far, there were only rare occasions where they shot the passengers or the drivers but today was different. One of the passengers was too trigger happy and the driver had looked too closely at the two of them not wearing masks, which posed a risk they didn’t want to take.
After three of the road agents had disappeared behind the trees, the two in front of the coach walked backwards before lowering their guns, turning around and running towards the horses.
The six men rode off through the snow-covered terrain.
Chapter 1
February, 1865 – Prescott, Arizona Territory
It had been a mild winter so far in this part of the Arizona Territory. Only a few inches of snow had so far covered the otherwise muddy ground where rain was more common than snow. Already in these early morning hours, temperatures were slightly above freezing with the grass and needles of the pine trees marked by the overnight frost.
Like any other day, Claire Deveraux was up long before sunrise, looking after her growing herd of horses which were spread out in a fenced pasture close to her ranch house. Most of them stood still, resting. Only a few were putting down their noses amongst the snow covering the soil, trying to find a few bites of grass.
As long as her pastures didn’t produce enough grass for her animals, Claire fed her ever growing herd with hay she had stored in her barn from last summer mixed with alfalfa, which grew on another section of her ranch.
Her late husband had taught her that alfalfa was higher in energy and protein, making her horses stronger and prepared for the heavier exercise they would get once they were sold off to the Union Army later this spring. In caring for and feeding her horses, she made no distinction between the valuable mustangs which were strong and fast enough to become cavalry horses and simple sod horses which she held onto to be used at the ranch or sold to farmers in the Prescott valley.
After her husband had died, the thirty-year old woman was mostly alone operating the ranch during winter and was used to the hardships that came with it. The wranglers working for her, all of them vaqueros from south of the border, were back home with their families in Mexico. But this winter was different as she wasn’t alone anymore. She had a welcome helping hand who had arrived just shortly after her wranglers had departed.
Behind her, Joseph Pernell, whom she’d got used calling Joe, pulled a wooden cart with another load of hay. Joseph had returned to her ranch just weeks before last Christmas, after they had first met while he passed through on duty hunting down a group of murdering thieves last summer.
Her ranch down on the Williamson Valley was close enough to Prescott to allow for a short commute for supplies but far enough outside the township to avoid gossip about a man living on her ranch for several months who was neither her employee nor her husband.
He´d slept in the bunkhouse for the first couple of weeks, just as her vaqueros did during the season. The situation changed on the first day of Christmas. Claire had prepared a turkey dinner for the two of them, just as she had done for her seasonal employees on Thanksgiving before they headed to their homes in the south. She had lit candles in the living room and they had a long conversation during and after dinner.
Remembering the particular moment, which she called a “magic moment”, put a smile on her face. Joe had helped her with the dishes in the kitchen, something she had never seen a man doing.
She laughed when he picked up a towel and dried the dishes. He had to laugh too when he realized what had put a smile on Claire´s face. Their eyes locked and both realized that something had just happened.
The remaining hours of that Christmas evening were filled with romance followed by a sensuous night. From that night on, Joe slept in the ranch house and they became a couple, even though they had no clear idea what kind of couple they wanted to be and whether marriage was part of it.
Anywhere else, in town or in any other heavily populated area, their romantic relationship would have been almost impossible to maintain but out here in the farther outskirts of Prescott, it was just the two of them.
A week ago, they had celebrated her thirtieth birthday. Joseph had bought her a new Sunday dress. The dressmaker in town had helped him to get the right size but then had asked him about for who the dress was for, stating that he knew all the single women who lived in town and the valley.
“Must be a very special kind of woman.”, the dressmaker said pointing at the dress and again trying to get a name.
“You really have no idea.”, Joseph said again, this time with a smile on his face.
The dressmaker had given up after the second try and had wrapped the dress in paper.
He had first thought about a ring but considered it a bit too early to ask that question. Luckily, the dress fit perfectly and she looked even more beautiful when she was wearing it.
Today, Joseph rode into town again and, as always, he kept his badge under his fringed buckskin jacket, out of sight. Like he did every time, he made it appear as if he was just visiting the town attending to some business. He didn’t want to start any speculation about what might have brought him to Prescott other than buying some supplies and picking up the mail at the post office.
Most people in Prescott hadn’t taken any notice of him during previous visits, except for the Sheriff´s office, the merchant shop and the postal office. Both, his former military command in Fort Union as well as the Federal Marshal´s Bureau in Washington knew where to reach him during the winter months and the local post office held his mail until he collected it every other week or so. Today was one of those days.
There was only one customer ahead of him and while he and the postal officer attended to his business, Joseph browsed through today´s edition of the local newspaper. Before he read the latest about the ongoing war in the South, he focused on a report about a nearby successful Apache attack on a United States Army post.
