Rimrock Renegade E-Book

Ned Oaks

• Herausgeber: Robert Hale
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 163

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Hank Chesham spent five years in a New Mexico prison, convicted of a crime he didn't commit. When he was finally released, he only wanted to return home to his ranch, the Rimrock, and resume his old life. But then he discovered that he had been betrayed by both his wife, Phoebe, and his best friend, Ted Flynn, who had conspired to steal the Rimrock from him. Now Chesham has but one thing on his mind: vengeance. Before he can take action, however, Flynn unleashes some of his hired killers and nearly succeeds in murdering the Rimrock's real owner. Chesham barely survives after he is secretly nursed back to health by his former wife's sister, Mandy. They decide to make a future together. Back in fighting shape, Chesham takes the fight to Ted Flynn, and he will stop at nothing until he brings his enemies to their knees and reclaims what is rightfully his.

Leseprobe

Rimrock Renegade

Hank Chesham spent five years in a New Mexico prison, convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. When he was finally released, he only wanted to return home to his ranch, the Rimrock, and resume his old life. But then he discovered that he had been betrayed by both his wife, Phoebe, and his best friend, Ted Flynn, who had conspired to steal the Rimrock from him.

Now Chesham has but one thing on his mind: vengeance. Before he can take action, however, Flynn unleashes some of his hired killers and nearly succeeds in eliminating the Rimrock’s real owner. Chesham barely survives after he is secretly nursed back to health by his former wife’s sister, Mandy. They decide to make a future together.

Back in fighting shape, Chesham takes on Ted Flynn, and he will stop at nothing until he brings his enemies to their knees and reclaims what is rightfully his.

By the same author

The Drygulch Trail

Quarter to Midnight

Rimrock Renegade

Ned Oaks

ROBERT HALE

© Ned Oaks 2016

First published in Great Britain 2016

ISBN 978-0-7198-2171-4

The Crowood Press

The Stable Block

Crowood Lane

Ramsbury

Marlborough

Wiltshire SN8 2HR

www.crowood.com

Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

The right of Ned Oaks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

PROLOGUE

New Mexico, 1882

Pile Territorial Penitentiary was located in the desert about ten miles south of Santa Fe. It had been named for William Anderson Pile, a Republican governor appointed by President Grant. However, for the prisoners who lived within its walls, ‘pile’ had connotations completely unrelated to politics.

‘The Pile’ is what they called it. Many of the guards did, too, although the warden disapproved. It was, by any measure, the worst prison in the arid Southwest. Given the general state of prisons in New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and California, that was no small feat.

Some areas of the Pile were nicer than others. The cell where they held Hank Chesham in solitary confinement was the worst to be found in the brick and adobe structure. Many men who had been sent into that cell alive had come out dead.

The cell was on the back corner of the top floor of the main prison block. There was no relief from the molten heat in the daytime, and at night it got so cold that Chesham invariably curled into a shivering ball, teeth chattering. His bed was a pile of smelly straw, and he hadn’t been provided with a blanket. He had been in the cell, alternately roasting and freezing, for over a month now. All because he had defended himself from a mad man who had been hell bent on killing him.

Chesham had been in the Pile for nearly five years. He had been convicted of robbing a stage coach and, despite protesting his innocence, sentenced to twenty years in prison. From the day he had been transferred from the jail in Santa Fe, he had known to be on his guard. The Pile was a very dangerous place, and any sign of weakness would be exploited by the other prisoners, or the guards.

Chesham was a loner. He hadn’t made friends with the other prisoners, and he hadn’t tried to curry favor with the violent thugs who ruled the cell blocks. He despised them, although he had never tried to provoke conflict with them. And he didn’t fear them – which made them hate him. Butch Tancred was the most powerful and vicious prisoner in the Pile, and he had decided to teach Chesham a lesson.

When Tancred had demanded that Chesham take another prisoner’s place on laundry duty, Chesham had refused. After that, he was a marked man. He knew it, and everyone else knew it, too. It would only be a matter of time before Tancred or one of his men sought revenge.

That time came when Chesham was assigned to dig ditches outside the prison walls with about hundred other prisoners – including Tancred. There were more than thirty guards standing around watching the prisoners as they worked. The guards were armed with pistols and shotguns, and in the turret above the wall of the prison behind them were two more guards armed with rifles. The men in Pile Territorial Penitentiary were considered the worst of the worst in all of New Mexico, and the warden was taking no chances.

The prisoners had been roused an hour before dawn, when it was still cold out. The rising sun soon warmed them, and then the warmth turned into a blistering summer heat. The rags the prisoners wore as ‘uniforms’ were soaked through as they picked and shoveled the hard ground. Chesham had started at the end of the line, near the wall. He had noted Tancred’s position about halfway up the line of laboring prisoners.

After two hours, the guards called a halt to the work and allowed the men to come out of the ditch to drink water from giant iron tubs set on tables. It hadn’t passed Chesham’s notice that Tancred was steadily moving closer and closer to him as they worked.

Chesham plunged the dipper into the lukewarm water and held it to his lips, drinking deeply. He noticed nervous glances from a few other prisoners, and saw a group of men – rapists and murderers all – clustered around Tancred. There was an atmosphere of expectation. He took another gulp of water and assessed his chances if Tancred decided to take him on, one on one.

Tancred was a huge man, standing about six-and-a-half feet tall. He had thick dark hair and a bushy beard, with broad shoulders and massive arms. He was going to fat now, but Chesham had no illusions about how strong the man was. He had seen Tancred beat down some of the biggest and strongest men in the Pile. He knew what he was capable of – and he knew how dirty Tancred fought, too.

After one last drink from the dipper, Chesham went back to work. He saw that Tancred was now even closer, with only about five men separating them. He feigned indifference as he dug, not wanting to put the big man on guard before the attack. He wanted his retaliation to come as a complete surprise to Butch Tancred.

Another hour passed, and then another. Still Tancred remained where was, making no move in Chesham’s direction. Chesham began to wonder if he had misjudged the situation. He had, after all, been prepared for the worst ever since he had refused to obey Tancred’s command.

The guards called the men up for another water break. Chesham turned to put down his shovel, and suddenly the five men between him and Tancred moved aside as one, making an opening for Tancred.

For such a physically colossal man, Tancred moved with startling swiftness. He closed the gap between him and Chesham in barely a second, raising his pick above his head. Chesham crouched and thrust the blade of his shovel just under Tancred’s sternum. Tancred groaned, dropping his arms but maintaining a loose grip on his pick. His face was a deep crimson as he struggled to get a breath, and Chesham knew the time to strike was now. He also knew that he would have to kill Tancred, here and now, if he wanted a chance of surviving another day in the Pile. Despite the misery of his daily existence, Chesham certainly wanted to stay alive; and if he had to die, he was damn sure going to take Butch Tancred with him.

Chesham swung the shovel again, taking Tancred in the side of the head. But Tancred had been seized by blood lust and, although he swayed on his feet for a moment, he didn’t go down. Instead he lunged forward, still struggling to breathe, and took another swing at Chesham’s skull with his pick. Chesham ducked and felt the air move as the blade of the pick passed a mere few inches over the top of his head. When it had passed, he leapt upward, smashing the top of his head into Tancred’s chin. Tancred shrieked and dropped his pick, blood pouring from between his dark yellow teeth. His eyes were glassy with pain as he put his hand to his mouth and spit almost half of his tongue into his palm. He had bitten clean through it.

Tancred stumbled backward a few steps, struggling to yell something at Chesham. All that came out were garbled sounds. Then he looked down at the pick on the ground and stepped toward it, his face twisted with murderous rage. His fingers had almost gripped the handle when Chesham stooped and picked it up first. He grasped it solidly and, before his opponent had time to react, slammed it into the side of Tancred’s head, the blade sinking up to the handle. Tancred fell over on his side, the pick lodged in his cranium. Blood still pumped from his mouth for a few seconds as he stared vacantly into the blazing sun, and then his heart stopped and he stared into oblivion.

Exhausted, Chesham sat down on the edge of the ditch. He realized then that a crowd had gathered to watch the festivities, brief though they were. The expressions on the men’s faces were of disbelief and grudging respect. Chesham had killed the most dangerous and feared man in the Pile. As far as he was concerned, he had done what he had to do to stay alive. He knew he was lucky that Tancred hadn’t actually gotten his hands on him, because the outcome would almost certainly have been much different.

He looked up and saw that the guards in the watchtower had witnessed the entire thing. One of them smiled at Chesham and doffed his hat. Chesham wiped sweat away from his eyes and looked down at Tancred’s body. A feeling of enormous relief flowed through him.

The sound of a guard yelling caused him to look to his right. The crowd parted and three guards approached on the edge of the ditch, looking at the bloody corpse with the pick protruding from its head. One of the guards looked at Chesham.

‘You did this?’ he asked incredulously.

Chesham nodded. ‘Afraid so,’ he said evenly. ‘It was him or me.’

The guard rubbed a hand across his jaw, assessing the situation.

‘I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d see the day someone got the better of Butch Tancred.’ He squinted as he looked at the body. ‘And by God, you sure got the better of him.’

‘Like I said,’ Chesham replied. ‘It was him or me.’

The guard looked at Chesham curiously for a moment, then turned to the other guards. ‘All right, fellers. Take him in. The warden’s going to want to see him.’

Chesham rose and the two guards grabbed him roughly and began to shove him toward the main gate of the prison. As he was led away, he heard the guards ordering the men back to work. He also heard someone ask, ‘Who’s going to pull that thing out of his head?’ There were no volunteers.

Although he didn’t mourn the passing of Butch Tancred, the warden had absolutely no tolerance for violence among the prisoners. In fact, the issue had been one of the determining factors in his appointment as warden to begin with. The governor had said he wanted a ‘hard man’ to tame the prisoners of Pile Territorial Penitentiary. The warden had promised to be that man.

He decided to make an example of Hank Chesham. He had no other choice.

The warden sentenced Chesham to six months in solitary, in the far room of Cell Block C. Solitary confinement meant more than just isolation from the rest of the prison population. It meant reduced rations – a chunk of moldy bread and one cup of water per day – in a cell that was exposed to the sun throughout the daytime hours, during the height of the New Mexican summer. It would almost surely constitute a death sentence.

After four weeks, Chesham was near death. His weight had dropped to the point where his ribs and hip bones protruded. His skin was parched from dehydration. He had trouble seeing, was constantly lightheaded, and walked in a shuffle. Sometimes he even hallucinated.

He certainly thought he was hallucinating the day he heard the hinges of his cell door creak and opened his eyes to see the warden standing in the doorway, looking down at him with a strangely neutral expression, containing neither contempt nor compassion. Chesham blinked a few times before he recognized the man, but he still wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real or not.

‘Chesham,’ the warden said. ‘Get up.’

The prisoner tried to obey, but his weakness undermined him. Only on his third try was he able to reach his feet and stay on them. He leaned against the wall for support as his head spun.

‘Afternoon, warden,’ he said weakly. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘You’re free, Chesham.’

Now I know I’m seeing things, thought Chesham. Hearing things, too.

‘I’m . . . free?’

‘You heard me. You’ve been ordered released by Judge Owens. I’ll have one of the guards bring your clothes. Then you’re free to go. I want you off the grounds of this prison within the hour. Understood?’

Chesham stared at the warden’s face for several seconds, gradually realizing that his head wasn’t playing games with him. This was really happening.

‘Understood, sir.’

The warden turned to the nearest guard. ‘Get him his clothes, and then bring him to my office.’ He glanced back at Chesham. ‘The judge died last night and this was his last action in office. He also left you a thousand dollars in his will. I’ll give it to you when you’re ready to leave.’

With those words, the warden turned on his heel and walked down the corridor. The guards followed behind him.

They left the cell door open.

CHAPTER ONE

Hank Chesham pulled reins and patted his sorrel’s mane. The sky was darkening, and Chesham knew that soon a heavy rain would be pouring down on him. He sighed and removed his slicker from one of his saddle-bags. Before putting it on, he fingered the makings from his pocket and built a cigarette.

‘It’s going to be a wet night, girl,’ he muttered to the horse.

He thumb-snapped a lucifer and held it to his smoke, inhaling deeply. He had halted on the ridge of a small, densely forested Oregon valley. Giant fir trees towered imperiously above and below him, suffused by a thick mist. There was a strange stirring in his chest as his keen gray eyes took in the scenery.

He was, at last, home.

He almost couldn’t believe it. For five years, he had rotted in a New Mexico prison, arrested, tried, and convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. There were many days when he thought he would die – indeed, when death would have come as a welcome reprieve. But Hank Chesham was alive, and he was home.

By the time he finished his cigarette, it had already started to rain. He flicked the small remnant of his smoke onto the ground, and the ember hissed as the rain drops extinguished it. Chesham donned his slicker and pulled the brim of his dun Stetson down a little further on his head. He heeled his mount through the trees and descended into the valley.

The rain increased steadily as he made his way down to the bottom. He decided to call it a day and moved to the edge of a clearing to make camp. Exhaustion had Chesham in its grip and all he wanted was some food and sleep.

He moved beneath a canopy of trees and dismounted. Very little rain made its way through here. Picketing his horse, he removed the saddle and rubbed the animal down with a blanket. He put some oats in a bag and placed it over the sorrel’s head. The wetness precluded a fire, so Chesham had no choice but to have a cold camp, although he would dearly have liked to warm his frigid limbs. He took down his bedroll and rolled into his blankets as dusk spread across the sky, barely discernible behind the now-black clouds. He ate some hard tack and some jerky, then laid his head against his saddle and fell into a deep slumber.

Chesham slept for nearly four hours. When he awoke, it was a little after midnight. The rain had stopped, although water dripped off the branches of the trees. He was less cold than he had been earlier. He could see his horse standing in the shadows nearby. His tired mind turned back to the unlikely events that had led to his release from prison and subsequent return to Oregon.

He had been arrested five years before, in an alley outside a saloon in Santa Fe. He had made the long journey south to settle the estate of his brother. Art Chesham had moved to New Mexico more than a decade ago, and during those years in the desert he had established himself as a very successful cattle agent. His sudden death had terminated his lucrative career. Art had been thrown from a horse and suffered a major head injury. He lingered unconscious for a few days before dying. The telegram reached Hank Chesham some days later, and as his brother’s only surviving relative he had immediately headed out to fulfill his familial duty.

Everything had gone smoothly. Art had left his brother his entire estate, totaling more than seven thousand dollars. Chesham transferred the funds to his bank account in Oregon and, after tying up a few other loose ends, decided to have a couple beers at a saloon located four blocks from his hotel. He was due to leave for Oregon the next morning.

He had finished his drinks and was looking forward to a restful night’s sleep. He exited the saloon and passed through a narrow walkway that led to an alley. That was when the two men emerged from the darkness and stood before him.

‘Hank Chesham?’ one of the men asked.

Chesham halted. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do I know you?’

The man smiled and pulled back his heavy trench coat, revealing the star on his chest. It glinted in the moonlight.

‘I’m the town marshal,’ he said. He was a large man with a bulging belly. His dark eyes sparkled malevolently. ‘Name’s Jack Borg.’

Something about the man’s tone was mildly alarming to Chesham.

‘How can I help you, Marshal?’ he asked.

Borg sneered. ‘You can help me by taking that pistol out of your holster,’ he said. ‘You’re under arrest.’

A cold tingle snaked down Chesham’s spine. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked. ‘Under arrest for what?’

The other figure had lingered in the shadows, but now he stepped up beside Borg. He was also a large man, with a tawny mustache and bushy sideburns. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. Chesham knew the man would like nothing more than to have an excuse to start a fight.

‘You don’t ask the questions here, feller,’ said the second man.

Chesham spotted a tin star on this man’s chest, too. A tarnished star. He must be a deputy marshal.

‘I ask questions when someone tells me I’m under arrest,’ Chesham said coldly. ‘Especially when I ain’t broken any laws.’

‘Maybe you got a hearing problem,’ Borg said. He turned to his deputy, a sarcastic expression covering his face. ‘That must be it, Phil. He didn’t hear me tell him to hand over that pistol.’

‘What the hell is this all about?’ Chesham demanded.

His eyes flicked around the alley and he realized there was no escape route. Whatever was happening here, Chesham didn’t trust the two lawmen who were trying to take him into custody. Not one bit.

‘You’ll hear all about it when you surrender peaceably,’ said Borg.

Both men took another step, closing the already small distance between themselves and Chesham.

‘We got ourselves a real smart-mouthed polecat here, Marshal,’ said the man called Phil.

Chesham looked toward Borg, and as he did so, Phil made his move. He leaned forward, his arm darting out toward Chesham’s holster. Chesham’s fist shot forward, clipping Phil on the jaw. The deputy’s head snapped sideways, and he folded at the waist and collapsed onto the ground in an untidy heap.

Chesham raised his head toward Jack Borg, and the last thing he saw was the butt of a shotgun swooping downward toward his skull. Then darkness engulfed him and he, too, fell to the ground.

It was the beginning of a nightmare that wouldn’t end for five long, bitter years.