The Hard Dozen: Western E-Book

Neal Chadwick

• Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 105

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Two dozen riders came down Roswell's Main Street at a slow pace. The men were well armed. Winchester rifles were in their scubbards, Revolver grips protruded from the low-buckled holsters. Here and there a shotgun could also be seen. Some of the riders wore bandoliers around their shoulders. Dust covered their clothing. At the head of this sinister pack rode a man with a black beard. He wore a suit with a bowtie. At his side hung a Colt with a name engraved on the ivory-colored handle. DARREN McCALL - in large letters. McCall reined in the reins near the McMillan store. Next to him rode a dark-haired beauty - the only woman in the crowd of riders. She was wearing a riding dress and fanning herself with her hat. "Is this that nest called Roswell?" she asked with clear contempt in her voice. McCall laughed. "Now Roswell is still a rat hole. But that will change soon... Once everything here is mine!" Neal Chadwick aka ALFRED BEKKER is a well-known author of fantasy novels, science fiction, crime novels and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Inspector X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Adrian Leschek, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell .

Leseprobe

Neal Chadwick

The Hard Dozen: Western

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

The Hard Dozen: Western

Copyright

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The Hard Dozen: Western

Western by Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker)

The size of this book corresponds to 120 paperback pages.

A full-bodied morality tale from the time of the Wild West.

Two dozen riders came down Roswell's Main Street at a slow pace. The men were well armed. Winchester rifles were in their scubbards,

Revolver grips protruded from the low-buckled holsters. Here and there a shotgun could also be seen. Some of the riders wore bandoliers around their shoulders. Dust covered their clothing. At the head of this sinister pack rode a man with a black beard. He wore a suit with a bowtie. At his side hung a Colt with a name engraved on the ivory-colored handle. DARREN McCALL - in large letters.

McCall reined in the reins near the McMillan store. Next to him rode a dark-haired beauty - the only woman in the crowd of riders. She was wearing a riding dress and fanning herself with her hat.

"Is this that nest called Roswell?" she asked with clear contempt in her voice.

McCall laughed.

"Now Roswell is still a rat hole. But that will change soon... Once everything here is mine!"

Neal Chadwick aka ALFRED BEKKER is a well-known author of fantasy novels, science fiction, crime novels and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Inspector X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Adrian Leschek, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Bathranor Books, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of

Alfred Bekker

© Roman by Author

© this issue 2024 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities between names are coincidental and not intentional.

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

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1

Two dozen riders came down Roswell's Main Street at a slow pace. The men were well armed. Winchester rifles were in their scubbards,

Revolver grips protruded from the low-buckled holsters. Here and there a shotgun could also be seen. Some of the riders wore bandoliers around their shoulders. Dust covered their clothing. At the head of this sinister pack rode a man with a black beard. He wore a suit with a bowtie. At his side hung a Colt with a name engraved on the ivory-colored handle. DARREN McCALL - in large letters.

McCall reined in the reins near the McMillan store. Next to him rode a dark-haired beauty - the only woman in the group of riders. She was wearing a riding dress and fanning herself with her hat.

"Is this that nest called Roswell?" she asked with clear contempt in her voice.

McCall laughed.

"Now Roswell is still a rat hole. But that will change soon... Once everything here is mine!"

He kicked his horse in the switches.

The mob continued to move along the street. The passers-by on Main Street stopped, looking over at the strangers, some curious, some fearful.

"I hope there's a chance to get drunk here and pick up some nice girls for cheap!" said a redhead in a long saddle coat. Instead of a hat, he wore a dust-covered southern cap.

McCall gave a dirty laugh.

"You'll get your money's worth here, Mort! I guarantee you that!"

"I'll get back to you on that, boss!" said Mort. Some of the other men laughed harshly.

Finally, they reached the hotel.

It was the only one in town and Abe Martinson, the owner, had thought about giving up many a time.

The men dismounted and tied their horses to the crossbar in front of the entrance.

"I don't know if I'll feel comfortable in this nest," said the dark-haired woman.

McCall grinned wryly. "You can keep riding, Francine!"

Laughter broke out among the men. Francine turned dark red. "How could I ever get involved with you, Darren!" she hissed.

McCall patted her backside patronizingly. "You haven't had a bad time with me so far. Better than in that third-rate brothel in Wichita where I picked you up!" McCall signaled to his men. "Mort, Bugley and Norman - you're coming with me. And you too, of course, Francine..." He grinned at them. There was a flash in his eyes.

McCall and his entourage entered the lobby of the hotel.

Abe Martinson, a small, slight man with gray hair, stood behind the counter and looked at the arrivals with his mouth open.

McCall approached him.

"Is anyone staying at the hotel at the moment?" he asked.

"Yes, a man called Smith. He came by stagecoach today."

"Throw him out!" McCall demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"You've understood correctly. Throw this Smith out of his room. I need the whole hotel for my men - until further notice."

Martinson stared at McCall like an exotic animal. McCall smiled cynically. He reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. "By the way, I'll pay you in advance," he added and slammed the money on the hotelier's counter. A jolt went through his slender body. With trembling fingers, he took the dollars and pocketed them.

"Brook!" he shouted. "Brook, for fuck's sake, where are you?" The hotelier's voice sounded hoarse. A moment later, the hotelier's assistant came in through a back door. He was tall and strong. His face looked puffy. The washed-out dungarees he was wearing were covered in patches. He frowned at McCall and his entourage. Then he stared at Francine. She just grimaced.

"Go upstairs and tell the gentleman from No. 5 that we can't give him the room after all," Martinson ordered.

"But... I've only just carried his luggage up!"

"Then you're going to take it back downstairs and put it outside the door, Brook."

"If you say so, boss."

"You can see that the gentlemen here need all the rooms. How long will you be staying?"

"Let's see," said McCall. "Actually, I'm planning to stay here longer..." He grinned broadly, exposing two rows of flashing teeth. "You're going to make a fortune out of it, anyway!"

Brook had gone up the stairs in the meantime. He returned a little later.

"What's going on?" asked Martinson.

"Mr. Smith.... He won't vacate the room!"

"What?"

"He says he's entitled to it!" Martinson began to sweat. He turned to McCall.

"Don't you think you could perhaps do without a room?"

McCall put a cigar in his mouth, bit off the tip and lit it. He struck the match across the wood of the counter.

"Have you looked out of the window?" he then asked. "It's getting tight enough for my men as it is." He turned to Mort. "See that you sort it out, Mort!" The man with the southern cap nodded.

"No problome, jefe!" he growled, briefly checked the seat of his Colt and then climbed the stairs.

"He's been in Mexico for a long time," McCall murmured. "Mort already speaks better Spanish than English." Then McCall pointed to Francine. "Tell your assistant to prepare a bath for the lady here."

At that moment, a shot was heard from the upper floor.

Francine winced. McCall laughed. "You can rely on Mort!" he grinned.

The other men laughed harshly.

But her laughter stopped when a man came striding down the stairs moments later. It wasn't Mort. He was young, about mid-twenties. He was wearing a dark leather vest and a white shirt. The revolver hung strapped low at his left side. His hand touched the grip.

"Mr. Smith!" Martinson groaned. Smith's face remained unmoved. His lips were a thin line.

His eyes narrowed as he reached the foot of the stairs. He stood to one side so that his Colt was out of sight. "Did you send that guy with the funny hat?" he asked, addressing McCall. Smith had immediately realized who was the boss here.

"I did," McCall growled grimly.

"He wasn't fast enough."

"You don't say."

"That's a good thing for you, too. At least one of your men won't need a room!"

"I'll shut him up, boss!" one of the other men from McCall's entourage spoke up.

"Go ahead and try, Norman," McCall encouraged him. In a flash, Norman pulled out his Colt. This was exactly what the man who called himself Smith had expected sooner or later. He was quicker, perhaps he had even drawn his Colt before, it was impossible to tell for sure. Smith fired immediately. Norman had no chance. The first shot caught him before he had even cocked his revolver. The bullet entered his head, right between the eyes. The head was jerked back as if after a punch. Norman staggered backwards without getting a shot off. Smith's second shot penetrated his upper body and literally nailed him against the wooden wall. At the same second, McCall had also drawn his gun and fired immediately. The first hit caught Smith in the left arm. Smith tried to jerk the gun around, but the arm no longer obeyed him. Horror spread across his features, while McCall then caught him in the heart with the second shot. His white shirt turned red. The gun slipped from Smith's grasp. He clung to the banister. The third shot hit him in the face. Smith slid down the banister. Then McCall turned to the hotelier.

"They realized that Smith pulled first!"

Martinson just nodded. He had turned white as a sheet.

2

"Not here!"

Blonde Dorothy Willard's defense was just an act. Clay Braden had his arms around her from behind.

They were in the McMillan store, running a few errands. Slim Davis, the assistant, had just left the room - but it could only be a matter of moments before the boy returned.

Dorothy held his hands tightly. "You'll have to be patient until we get back to Sundance Ranch," she breathed.

Clay Braden grinned broadly.

"But that will be difficult for me..."

"As a marshal and bar owner in one person, you're already impossible for many people, but what do you think people will think of you if you start going down on innocent women in public..."

"U n s u c h u l d i g?" he echoed. "Then you can hardly mean yourself!"

"Oh, no?"

"A Sundance Ranch girl and innocent!"

"Some of the guys who visit me find my kind of innocence quite appealing!" she laughed.

"Let's go to the marshal's office."

"And what about Archie?"

"I can make my assistant marshal do an official tour of the city..."

At that moment, Clay froze in mid-motion. And that had less to do with Slim Davis, who re-entered the room at that exact moment, than with the sound of the gunshots.

"That was close by!" Dorothy said. Clay nodded. "Wait here," he instructed her. Then he ran out into the street.

More shots could be heard. The sounds came from the direction of Martinson's hotel, diagonally opposite. Two dozen horses had been tied up in front of it. The riders were loitering in front of the hotel. The shots had electrified them. Martinson must not have had this many customers for ages, Clay thought. He sprinted across Main Street.

The men froze when they saw the star bearer. They were unsettled.

Clay walked between them. He hadn't seen any of them before in Roswell.

Then he pushed open the door to the hotel lobby. The Colt was already in his hand, the cock pulled back... Two dead bodies lay in the room.

Everyone present froze. The men from outside also rushed inside.

Clay looked at the two dead men.

Then he turned to Martinson. "What was going on here?" he asked the hotelier. All in all, he seemed to be the most independent witness. Martinson remained silent. His lips were pressed together.

"Tell me already," McCall demanded. "Tell me how it was."

Martinson pointed to the dead Smith. "The man there pulled first... There's probably another dead one upstairs."

"My name is Darren McCall," the leader of the group snapped. He blew cigar smoke at the sheriff and then pointed to Smith's body. "That man there shot my buddy. Unfortunately, I wasn't fast enough to save his life." One of the other guys grinned wide and ugly.

"If you want, we can all swear to that in court!" he laughed.

"It was self-defense!" one of the others intervened.

"You've used up a lot of bullets for self-defense, McCall," Clay said. "I don't want there to be any more trouble!"

"That's not in my interest either."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. McCall."

Clay noticed that the dark-haired beauty in McCall's wake was looking at him blatantly. Her eyes flashed. "Aren't you going to introduce me to the marshal, Darren?" she asked.

McCall paid them no further attention. "I'm going to set up shop around here," he revealed, addressing Clay.

"So it wouldn't be bad if we got on well."

"As long as you abide by the law, I don't see a problem."