To Die In Glory E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Three men ride into the town of Glory and by the look of them, they are not coming to enjoy themselves. After a brief meeting with the local law enforcement, the sheriff lies gunned down.

Meanwhile, things are not going too well for Detective Simms. Having found love, only to have it cruelly snatched away from him, his only way of facing the loss is to seek solace from the bottom of a bottle. But soon his skills are called upon again, as he hears of a telegram sent from Glory; a cry for help.

Promises will be broken.

People will die.

And in the end, Simms will have to use all his guile and experience to survive.

Leseprobe

To Die In Glory

Unflinching Book III

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.

Also by Stuart G. Yates

UnflinchingIn The BloodVarangianVarangian 2 (King of the Norse)Burnt OfferingsWhipped UpSplintered IceThe Sandman ComethRoadkillTears in the Fabric of Time

Acknowledgments

A big thank you, as always, to the team at Next Chapter, and a very special mention for Alex Davis who helped me make this Western what it is.

'Conflict follows wrongdoing as surely as flies follow the herd' Attributed to Doc Holiday, infamous gunfighter

One

Three men in long, drab dustcoats, faces obscured by the shadow of their broad-brimmed hats, rode into the town of Glory at the start of a new day, the sky iron-grey like everyone's mood. Grim. Winter bit deep, forcing townsfolk, when they braved the elements, to scurry from door to door, hunched up, swathed in thick coats, scarves, gloves and hats, memories of the long, dry summer almost forgotten. The rains, when they did finally come, brought a deluge, causing flash floods, catching ranchers unawares, inundating land, sweeping away cattle and other livestock. Soon blizzards and snow followed. Now everything from tiny field mice to the largest, strongest residents shivered and cursed behind closed doors. Except for the three men who arrived, rigid in the saddle, their eyes set straight ahead, faces hard, chiselled from granite. Or ice. Cold as the air they breathed.

Across the street Old Man Dempsey, who had seen many things in his eighty-odd years, tipped his rocking chair forward and studied the men keenly. Their demeanour seized his attention; their expressions, the way they wore their guns. Men on a mission. He watched them turn as if responding to some silent order, dismount and tie their horse reins to the hitching rail outside the Golden Nugget saloon. The lead man gave a cursory glance down one end of the street to the other before motioning to his companions. Together they mounted the steps, clumped across the raised boardwalk, spurs singing, and disappeared through the double-swing doors. Dempsey leaned over to his left and sent a trail of tobacco juice into the dirt. He scratched his armpit, grunting loudly as he stood up, and hobbled over the hard, impacted ground towards the Golden Nugget to satisfy his curiosity.

Within, the depressive mood hung thick like a cloud. At this time of day customers were few. A couple of businessmen sporting Derby hats and tweed suits ate their breakfast in the corner whilst Wilmer Bryant, the pot-boy, looking half-asleep, swept the floor with a wide broom. Lester Tomms, the barkeeper, polished a glass before filling it with whisky then slid it over to the stranger leaning against the counter. The other two strangers were standing some distance apart, one at each end of the long bar. The leader sampled the whisky, smacked his lips in appreciation and downed the whole drink. He indicated another needed pouring and flicked his fingers to the other men. Tomms took the hint, poured out three more whiskies and went to either end with the drink. When he returned to the centre, he stood back, never allowing his eyes to settle too long on any of them. By now, the tension had developed into a palpable thing, broken momentarily when Dempsey came wandering through the doors. No one spoke.

Looking up from another round of polishing, Tomms cracked his face in a forced attempt at a smile and, relieved, beckoned for the old-timer to move closer. As Dempsey went to take his first step, the stranger in the middle threw the second whisky down and turned. He arched a single eyebrow towards Dempsey, who stopped, mouth dropping open.

“You know where the sheriff is?”

The man's voice was low, deep, bereft of emotion. Hunching his shoulders, Dempsey tried to look away but the stranger's eyes seemed to lock him up tight, with nowhere to go. He swallowed loudly, “I reckon he's in his office.”

“Fetch him.”

And the stranger turned again to Tomms and motioned with his glass for a refill.

Dempsey tried another swallow, but his throat was now dry. He could do with a drink himself and he gave a little jig, somewhat unconsciously, licking his lips as he tasted the imaginary shot of good whisky sliding down to simmer in his stomach.

“Best do it now, boy,” said the stranger closest to him, leaning against the counter, one foot propped up on the rail running along its lower edge.

Dempsey jumped, snapped his head to the owner of the voice, tipped his hat and rushed outside.

The cold hit him like a punch, but he didn't care a fig for any of that. His rickety old legs propelled him down into the street as fast as he could manage. Something wasn't right with those boys, he felt it in his water.

Two

Out on Cemetery Hill, over-looking the town of Bovey, exposed to the elements, Simms stood in his thick coat and stared towards the graves. There were two, side by side, one so much smaller than its neighbour, rough-hewn crosses at their heads proclaiming the names and dates of demise. Caleb and Noreen Simms. Whoever carved them did not know Noreen's birth date, but the little boy's was there for all the world to see. The same day as his death. And that of his mother's too.

In a tight cluster, the other mourners, all four of them, hands clasped in front of their stomachs, looked down into those gaping holes without speaking. Reverend Tucker had spoken the words and now the only sound was that of the wind.

Martinson was the first to break the silence, slipping over to Simms's side, brushing the detective's arm lightly with his fingers. “You okay?”

Forcing himself to drag up an awareness of where he was, Simms sucked in his lips and muttered, “What do you think?”

There was no answer to such a question. Martinson's cheeks reddened somewhat and he screwed up the cap he held in his hands, not knowing what to do or say. What does anyone say at such a time? Clearing his throat, Martinson mumbled, “I'm so sorry.”

“No more than me.” said Simms, turning away and moving down the hillside towards the town. He settled his hat onto his head, conscious of the chill wind but not affected by it. He doubted anything would ever affect him again.

Moving through Main Street of Bovey, most people did their best to avoid his stare, some stopping to doff hats, or utter awkward-sounding words of sympathy, commiserations or whatever the hell any of them thought it best to say. Like Martinson, they probably thought it best to say nothing at all at a time such as this. Grief. Total, all-consuming. Simms strode like a somnambulist to his office door, face blank, and stepped inside.

The tiny office, so cold, so unwelcoming, oozed with memories of yesterday and he stood in the doorway for a long time, building up the courage to venture within.

Yesterday.

He'd sat behind his desk, scribbling down the reply to the telegram the Pinkerton Headquarters in Chicago sent him. The news seemed grave and their demands, as always, short and to the point. 'Travel to Glory. Stop. Contact US Marshal travelling there. Stop. Vital you arrive as soon as possible.'

But then Wilbur Brunt came through the door at a run and his wild eyes spoke volumes. Already on his feet, a lump the size of a melon developing in his throat, Simms managed, “What's happened?”

Noreen took to her bed, on the doctor's advice, some three days ago. Old Jim Meadows said the baby had turned in her womb. “It's going to be mighty difficult, Detective. No point me saying otherwise.”

“What can we do?”

“Not a lot to do. We need to wait, she needs to rest. Let nature take its course.”

On the morning he left for his office, to pen his reply to the telegram, she'd smiled up at him from beneath the covers. “I'll be fine. You go, get it done. “

But she hadn't been fine. And then the message came.

He rode with Wilbur Brunt, pounding out of the town and cutting across the open range towards the little ranch he and Noreen had set up together. After putting paid to the contract killer Beaudelaire Talpas, a period of calm and peace followed. It seemed to Simms life might be taking a new turn, one free from violence and fear. As he threw himself from the saddle and burst through the door of his ranch house, Doctor Jim Meadows caught him around the waist, holding him tight. “It's too late, son. She's gone.”

The baby too. She'd wanted him to be called Caleb, if it were a boy. So Caleb it was, the name engraved on the simple wooden cross marking his place. Beside his mother, Noreen. Saved from almost certain death out on the plains by Simms. But he couldn't save her this time, not from the fever, which struck her down so quickly. Meadows said it was typhus, someone else Scarletina, but Simms wasn't listening. They were dead. Who the hell cared what from?

So here he stood, on the threshold of his miserable office, his life laid waste. He eased the door closed and turned the key in the lock. In the bottom drawer of his desk was the unopened bottle of Bourbon someone from the Town Council presented him on the day of the opening of the first Pinkerton office established in the West. Not a drinking man, Simms had put it away. Sitting down with a deep sigh, he pulled open the cork stopper and, having no glass or cup, raised it to his lips and drank.

He didn't stop drinking until the bottle was empty.

Three

Old Man Dempsey was half jogging alongside the sheriff, who took enormous steps on his walk through Glory towards the saloon. He held a loaded carbine in the crook of his arm, and a holstered Colt Dragoon at his hip. He chewed tobacco but, other than that, his face remained hard and focused.

“There was three of them,” rattled Dempsey, out of breath, fighting hard to keep up with the sheriff. “They seemed mean.”

“You said that.”

They passed Stockton's Livery Stable, with Stockton in the doorway, arms folded across his barrel chest. “You want some help there, sheriff?”

“I reckon not,” came the reply, but Dempsey, panting, close to his limit, veered away from the lawman and staggered over to where the big horse-trader stood.

“I think there's gonna be trouble.”

Stockton frowned, “I can see he is resolute. What has riled him so?”

“Three strangers, gunslingers I reckon. They look like avenging angels, and from the way they spoke I reckon they is on some sort of mission.”

“Avenging angels? Why in the hell do you say that?”

“Just an inkling. They appear single-minded, hard. The one who spoke to me, he put the fear of God into me.”

“You're old, with a tendency to exaggerate, Dempsey. The whole town knows it.”

Shaking his head, Dempsey turned his eyes towards the swiftly diminishing figure of the sheriff. “There's gonna be trouble. I knows it.”

Stockton grunted. “And to think I was gonna go and visit my niece today, partake of tea and cream cakes.” He leaned forward, hawked and spat into the dirt. “I'll get my shotgun.”

The saloon crackled with tension as the sheriff pushed open the twin swing doors and stepped inside. He met the wild eyes of the two businessmen sitting in the far corner, white as sheets, twiddling their thumbs, before taking in the men positioned along the counter. To his left stood the first, foot on the rail, grey coat pulled back to reveal the big Dragoon at his hip. In the centre, the tallest, rolling a tumbler of whisky between his palms and, over at the far end, the third, eyes locked in on the sheriff's. No one moved; the seconds ticked by.

“Dylan,” said the barkeep, clearing his throat, flat up against the wall, long mirror to his back, “these gentlemen …”

The tall one chuckled, pushed the glass away and turned. He wore two guns, but the smile he wore struck Dylan as far more deadly. “Is that what they call you now?”

The sheriff frowned. “Do I know you?”

“You should.”

“My name is Dylan Forbes and I'm sheriff of this town. I hear—”

“Dylan Forbes … Must have taken you a fair time to think that one up.”

“Mister, I don't know who you are, but I think you should—”

“Oh, you know all right. And I know you.” The smile transformed into a sneer. “Thing is, when last we met, you went by the name of Lance. Lance Sinclair.”

The air froze. Everything froze. No one breathed. Dylan felt his stomach turn, becoming liquid, horrible, sickening. Fear, total, gripped him, causing limbs to grow heavy and useless. He struggled to remain steady on legs which no longer had the strength to support him. A low moan escaped from his lips.

“I see it's all coming back to you, Lance.”

Stepping away from the counter, the man at the far end crossed to the businessmen and laid his hand on the shoulder of the closest, whose eyes, like those of a puppy dog, looked up. “Please,” he said, voice a whimper.

“You're both witnesses to this.”

The sheriff forced a swallow, shooting his glance from the tall one to the one to his left. “I …”

“Sure you remember. Of course you do, Lance.” A smile, as slick as an eel, spread ever wider across his face. “You knew this day would come.”

“No, no, I never …”

“Sure you did.”

“Your Day of Judgement,” said the one to his left.

The sheriff shot him a look and watched the way the man's hand drifted closer to the butt of his revolver.

Dylan moved, swinging up the carbine, but the tall man was faster and the two bullets from his revolver hit the sheriff in the chest, throwing him back out into the street with the force of their impact.

The nearest businessman let out a whine and the barkeep slid down the wall, face in hands, whimpering like a small child.

“Do shut him up,” said the killer, stepping towards the doors. The one at the end leaned across the counter and put two bullets into Tomms's chest. The whining stopped.

“Oh God Almighty,” wailed the businessman, knocking away the third stranger's hand from his shoulder. He stood up with such a violent jerk he sent his chair backwards to the floor. “You murdering bastards!”

“Oh shit …” The stranger beside him put his own revolver to the smaller businessman's head and blew the back of his skull off, sending a shower of blood and brains behind him.

The second businessman turned white and collapsed in a dead faint, next to his murdered friend.

“Well, at least we can have some quiet now,” and the stranger caught the amused expression of the one by the door just as Dylan's killer went outside into the sunlight.

Coming around the corner at a run, Stockton ground to a halt as he watched the sheriff's body come blasting out through the doors to land on his back in the street, arms thrown out, blood pumping from the two holes close to his heart. “Oh sweet Jesus,” Stockton moaned, moving forward towards the stricken lawman as if in a dream. He pulled up again as the swing doors opened and a tall stranger in a long grey coat stepped out onto the boardwalk, a smoking revolver in his fist.

Their eyes met.

Stockton, not remembering he held a twin-barrelled shotgun in his hand, whirled around and made as if to run. He didn't make the first step.

The tall stranger shot him with a well-aimed shot in the back of his head.

Then, a short while later, the three strangers put a rope around the dead sheriff's neck and hanged him from a telegraph post just off the main street of the small, rundown town of Glory.

Four

A small crowd of gaggling townsfolk gathered outside the closed office, some peering through the glass, most moving away after a few moments, disinterested. When Martinson came, he did not hesitate. Pushing those closest aside, he snapped his foot against the door several times, kicking it in, almost falling flat on his face when he eventually broke through.

A jumble of voices, curious but unconcerned, looking for gossip, not wishing to offer any assistance. “Where is he?” asked someone. “Is he hurt? Is he dead?” On his knees in the doorway, Martinson climbed to his feet, dusted off his trousers and rounded on them.

“I'll take it from here,” he said.

“I heard a gunshot.”

Martinson, not liking the sound of that, ushered them away, returned the door to an upright position and, before wedging it into the door well, smiled a distinct 'goodbye' to the onlookers.

In the corner, behind his desk, Simms lay slumped in a heap, a trail of vomit drooling from the corner of his mouth, the empty whisky bottle rolling backwards and forwards next to his gun. Getting down on his haunches, Martinson checked the body. There was no sign of blood and he let out a long sigh before setting about making a pot of coffee.

Sometime later, Simms sat hunched up in his swivel chair, chin on chest, moaning low like a wounded bear. Across the other side of the desk, Martinson absently clicked the Navy Colt's cylinder from one empty chamber to the next. He stared at the top of Simms's slumped head. “What were you hoping to do, blow your brains out?”

“Something like that.”

“I'm glad you failed.”

“I was blind drunk.” Slowly, Simms brought his head up, his face chalk-white, eyes red-rimmed. “Maybe when I'm sobered up my aim will be back to what it was.”

“You can get that thought out of your head straight away.”

“Why the fuck should I.”

Shaking his head, Martinson leaned on the desk, clenching his teeth, “This isn't like you. Caving in, giving up. You've been through so much, Simms. Give it time.”

“Why didn't you come for me when she took bad?” Martinson leaned back, mouth opening slightly, the anger leaving him, replaced by uncertainty, even dread. Simms stared at his friend through bloodshot eyes. “That's the part I don't understand, why you sent for Doc Meadows, but not me.”

“Hell, Simms, everything happened so quick I – I was sitting with her, like you asked me, and it came on so sudden like. I didn't know what to do for the best. She had been coughing, coughing all morning, but it got worse. So bad it doubled her up, made her face as red as blood. She started screaming, telling me the baby was coming. I ran out and got hold of Wilbur, told him to fetch you whilst I went for Meadows. There's no complexity to it, just me trying to do the best I could.”

“Well, I suppose, but even so.” He grew silent for a moment, eyes staring into nothingness and his voice much lower and more distant. “Meadows, he said there was nothing to do, but I would give anything to have been with her. At the end, I mean.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“There's no reason in any of it. I knew she was ill, but … For the boy to die, an infant.”

“Meadows said it was the stress, her being so ill and all.”

“I thought it was a head cold, nothing more. She seemed fine, and she still had a month to go before the baby came, so Meadows said.”

“You can't blame yourself. It's life, Simms. All of us, we could all do things differently, better, if we had the chance. But we can't. We can't bring it back.”

“I've sat out on that prairie many a long year and wondered why things happen the way they do and I can't reach no answers. I have sat in holes in the ground, stinking in my own shit and piss, as scared as hell, wishing to die quick and easy, but I never did. I came through it all. Through that ghastly war, and lately through my time with the Pinkertons. I have hunted cold-blooded killers and put them in the ground, without conscience. They deserved to die. But that little boy – what did he ever do to harm anyone? Answer me that.”

“There ain't no point in looking for someone to blame for the simple reason there is no one to blame.”

“'cepting God, whatever the hell He is.”

“Fate brought you and Noreen together, and fate tore you apart. You could call that God, I guess.”

“I don't know anything about any of that, Martinson. We're just blades of grass. We die, and the rest just keeps on growing, as if we'd never been there at all. I look at people, living their lives, and no one stops to consider what happened to me, Noreen or the child.”

“That's because they have their own lives. You can't blame them for that.”

“No, I don't blame them. I don't blame anyone. It's just all such a heap of shit, Martinson. I got through so many life and death events and I'm wondering what the hell it was all for.”

“You're a survivor.”

“You reckon? Well, I'm not sure I'm gonna survive this.”

“You will. Time. Time will be your helper, Simms. It'll not make you forget, but it will ease the pain. I lost my own wife to scarlet fever, as you know, and there ain't a day passes by that I don't think of her. I loved her, and I love her still. But I don't cry no more. At least, not as much.”

“Well, it's a mystery, is what you're saying. Love. Perhaps love is God, in a strange kind of way. I don't know. I don't know much about anything anymore. I guess I'll continue doing what I do, but – I remember after the War ended and we was disbanded, I made my way down to Louisiana and the great city of New Orleans. My, that was some place. I got me to talking with someone who told me they had heard some music composed by a German guy by the name of Back, or Bark, somesuch name. He said it was the most wonderful thing he'd ever heard, brought him as close to God as he could imagine. Anyway, the strange thing is, an orchestra had sailed across the ocean from Europe to play this man's music. Imagine that, to sail across the ocean! Dear God. Well, I went along to hear and, you can guess what I'm about to say – it was God's music. I came out of that theatre as if in a dream and I stayed that way for a long time. “

“So what happened to change your mind?”

“Time. It works both ways, Martinson. It softens the heart, eases the pain, and brings forth changes. I shot two men in a ramshackle place down in Texas and when the Rangers came, I shot them too.”

“Jesus.”

“I rode north and didn't stop until it was all just a distant memory. So, you see, God came and spoke to me in that music, but I didn't pay no attention to what He said. And now, I think I'm paying the price.”

“You believe that? That you're being punished?”

“I reckon. And what's more, I think the dues have yet to be fully paid.”

Five

“You gonna eat that piece of ham, or can I have it?”

Stella, sitting on the big man's knee, was eyeing his almost-finished dinner plate with the look of someone close to starvation. “If you must.”

Not waiting for a second prompt, Stella swept up the knife and fork and set about demolishing the ham with gusto. The big man laughed and crept his fingers up her spine. She giggled and spluttered, mouth full of food. “You'll give me indigestion.”

“That's not all I'm planning on giving you.”

She coughed and laughed but carried on eating, taking a scrap of bread to mop up the last of the grease on the plate. As she crammed it into her mouth, the swing doors opened and the second of the three strangers stood there, disdainfully. “Clifton, Shelby wants you outside right now. He's addressing the townsfolk.”

“Clifton?” Stella swivelled on his knee. “Is that your name?”

Nodding, he stood up and she almost toppled over. If she were angry, she didn't show it, choosing to cackle instead. She stood with her hands on her broad hips and cocked her head. “That's a nice name. You gonna be nice to me?”

He winked, taking up his gun belt from around the back of the chair and fastening it around his waist. Studying her with an appreciative look, he took in her full figure encased in white petticoat and red and black dress, the bodice open at the top to reveal her plump, milk white breasts. “I'm gonna be real nice.”

“Clifton, move your sorry ass!”