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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
All three books in 'To Kill A Man', a series of western novels by Stuart G. Yates, now available in one volume!
Bloody Reasons: Bounty hunter Gus Ritter is determined to seek retribution for his brother's murder, and his quest takes him to the small town of Archangel where death rapidly follows. As he fights for his own life, Gus also protects the local preacher and a young girl. But as he approaches the final showdown with his brother's killer, Dan Hardin, in a dusty Mexican pueblo, the question remains: who will emerge alive?
Pursuers Unto Death: Gus Ritter continues his quest for revenge, but now finds himself surrounded by a group of people in need of his protection. As he fights for survival against the Comancheros and posse, he discovers love amidst the violence. Meanwhile, John Wesley Hardin and an Okinawan bring their own deadly contributions to the fray. Will Ritter finally confront his brother's killer, or will death claim them all? Find out in the thrilling second part of To Kill A Man.
A Man Dead: Gus Ritter's search for his brother's killer takes him on a dangerous journey south. Along the way, he discovers a new purpose and unexpected love. But violence and danger lurk at every turn, from gun battles with Comancheros to a final, deadly showdown. As the truth is revealed, the fate of all involved hangs in the balance. Will anyone survive the brutal journey to El Paso?
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TO KILL A MAN COLLECTION
The Complete Series
STUART G. YATES
CONTENTS
Bloody Reasons
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Pursuers Unto Death
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
A Man Dead
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Tying Up Loose Ends
El Paso, 1895
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Stuart G. Yates
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
Cover art by Cover Mint
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.
BLOODY REASONS
To Kill A Man Book 1
'The easiest way for a man to be killed is for word to get out that he backs down when somebody thinks he has the upper hand'
Attributed to Bat Masterson, famed gunfighter and lawman
'But Masterson always was full of… sheep-dip.'
Spoken by John Bernard Books in the film 'The Shootist'.
For the good friends I've known along the way
and for Janice for showing me the right direction
1
“What the hell is this?”
The two men sat astride their horses – horses which refused to move any closer, despite their vain efforts, which included shouting, kicking and slapping. Frustrated, the two men gave up.
Across from them, no more than twenty paces away, stood the tiny taverna. A raven-headed whore stood outside. Her skirts were hitched up to reveal a well-muscled thigh, one booted foot propped on a small stool as she rubbed olive oil into her flesh. She threw back her hair and smiled in their direction.
“That is his woman,” said the Mexican, kicking at his horse's flanks one last time. The animal still refused to budge.
“Damn it, if she ain't the prettiest damned thing I've seen in a month of Sundays,” drooled the man beside the Mexican. He sucked at his teeth. “How old would you say she is?”
“I don't know, maybe forty. But if you try anything on with her, he'll kill you.”
“He'll try.”
“If he's inside, he'll kill you.”
“Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?”
The man eased himself from the saddle and dropped to the ground. Hands on hips, he stretched his back, the long grey coat hanging open to reveal two revolvers at his belt, butts pointing inwards. He tried a wide-mouthed grin in her direction and she stood straight, hands on her own hips in a mocking imitation of him, pelvis thrusting provocatively forward. He cackled. “Shoot, she is flirting with me, Sanchez.”
“She is playing you for a fool, Root.”
“Nah. I think she likes what she sees.”
Root rolled his shoulders and strolled nonchalantly towards her, taking his time, pulling out a tiny cotton bag from his right vest pocket. From the other, he produced a cigarette paper, trickled tobacco from the bag along it, drew the bag shut with his teeth and put it away. Running his tongue along the edge of the paper, he rolled it expertly and tightly and popped it into the corner of his mouth. Upon reaching the taverna, he stepped up onto the creaking, dilapidated veranda and stared directly into her smouldering, black eyes.
“My, you sure is pretty.”
“Gracias,” she said.
“What's your name?”
“Maria.”
“Yeah… of course it is.”
She pulled out a long match from somewhere amongst the folds of her skirt and ran the head along the wall adjacent to the open door. It flared into life. Cupping the flame with her hands, she offered it to him, and Root obliged, leaning into her, lighting his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the paper sizzling as the dry tobacco smouldered brightly. Releasing a long stream of smoke, he picked at his teeth with his free hand and nodded to the interior of the taverna. “I'm looking for a friend of mine. Last I heard, he was inside.”
“My last customer is inside. He is young.” She cast her eyes around, an impish light playing around her face. “He is young and very energetic.”
“Is he, by God?”
Nodding, Maria looked away – feigning coyness, Root decided. Without warning, Root shot his right hand out to grab her crotch. She cried out and he slammed her against the wall, blew smoke in her face, then kissed her before she could cough.
When at last he pulled back, gasping, she pressed the back of her hand against her lips, saw the spots of blood on her skin and hissed, “Bastard.” Screwing up her lovely face in fury, she launched a punch in his direction, but Root turned and parried the blow, grabbing her wrist with his right hand. He grinned as she desperately tried to break free.
Her efforts proved useless and Root squeezed. She cried out, “Let me go, you gringo sonofabitch!” She struggled against him, but her protestations merely resulted in him tightening his grip still further and she squealed, dropping to her knees, tears springing from her eyes. “Please, señor…”
A man stepped out from the gloom of the taverna and put a bullet through Root's head. In one easy, flowing movement, he altered his aim slightly and put another bullet into the throat of the Mexican as he struggled to turn his horse away. Hands flew to where the blood boiled, and Sanchez gurgled and screamed until the lights went out. His body fell to the dirt, where he lay, legs twitching now and then until he died. His terrified horse bolted, along with the second animal and, as the echoes of the gunshot dwindled away into the far-off mountains, the silence gradually settled once more.
The man with the gun got down to the girl's level and helped her to her feet. She sobbed into his chest as he drew her to him. He kissed her on the cheek and stared down at the dead man lying on his back, eyes wide open in total disbelief, the hole between his eyes a perfect circle, smoke still curling from the cigarette protruding from his thin, pale, dead lips.
“Wonder who they was?” said the young man, slipping his revolver back into its holster. He led Maria back inside, his hand already disappearing beneath her skirt to find her firm buttocks.
2
Gus Ritter leaned on the bar counter, idly turning the beer glass in his palms, lost in thought.
He'd ridden for three days straight, sleeping as best he could in the saddle, forced to stop and camp only once on the journey. More for his horse's sake rather than his own, he'd decided to rest up for a while, found a slit in a rocky outcrop and managed to grab a few fitful hours. The horse ate oats, gulped down water and seemed, in the morning at least, renewed. He did his best not to push the mare too hard. If it were to die out there, in the wide, open prairie, he'd be rich pickings for the buzzards within a day.
And now he was here. Archangel. He pondered why anyone would choose such a name. Wasn't it something to do with God, or religion, or some such hokum? He never could fathom those stories as his old mom had never forced him to attend Sunday School, owing to her being drunk most days, and especially on the Sabbath. He chuckled at the memory. Poor old Mom. She'd been kicked in the head by their mule whilst cussing the animal and thrashing it across the rump with a stick. She got paid her dues when it lashed out with its hooves and broke her skull. Ritter never shed a tear.
He was eleven years old.
Thoughts of church and Bible stories seemed apt at that moment, as the batwing doors burst open and a heavy-set man in a long brown robe of coarse cloth strode in, his face a mask of pure fury. A couple of old men in the corner took one look and, cards and drinks forgotten, made a quick exit.
“Now, padre—” said the barkeep sharply. He quickly put down the glass he had been polishing and strode over to the swing hatch at the end of the counter.
“You hold your tongue, Wilbur,” snapped the padre and moved to the far end, where a fat, slovenly-looking individual bent over the counter, spittle drooling from thick lips, a whisky tumbler before him, almost empty.
The padre stepped up to this miserable-looking individual and jabbed him in the arm with a thick finger. The man groaned, muttering some indecipherable garbage from his slack mouth, and peered at the padre with narrow, unblinking eyes. “Ah, shit, Father. What the hell are you—”
Moving fast for such a big man, the padre gripped the fat man by the shoulder and swung him around, slamming his knee upwards into the crotch. The man squawked, and the padre swung a looping left into the man's temple, smashing him against the edge of the counter. Crying out again, the man retched as if he were about to vomit before the padre sent him reeling backwards with a tremendous right punch straight into his nose.
Crashing against the far wall, the man slid to the floor, blood leaking from his face like beer from the barroom tap to mix with a stream of puke covering his shirt front. In a blur, the padre was on him as if possessed, raining down punches, the screams of the fat man drowned by the sound of smashing bones and the squelch of blood.
Ritter saw it, but didn't believe it. A man of God? A padre? He was certainly not like any country parson Ritter had ever laid eyes on. He sighed, returned to his beer and drained the glass.
“Padre, you needn't have done any of that,” said the barkeep, moving across the barroom towards the blubbering fat man on the ground. “I try to keep a decent establishment and you've just about undone six months of good house-keeping right here with all of this bullshit.” He got down on his haunches and studied the semi-conscious man's face. “Dear God, you sure bust him up real good. What the hell is all this about?”
The padre, breathing hard, struggled to control the anger in his voice. “You tell that bastard when he wakes up, he has until sunup to get out of town. If he ain't gone by then, I'm gonna come a-calling.”
“That still don't tell me what this is about.”
“Wilbur, is you an old woman, or is you an old woman? Just do what I damn well say.”
Shaking his head, Wilbur stood up, placing his hands on his hips. “He's got friends.”
“If they are anything like him, then I'll kick their butts, too.”
“I don't know what in hell has gone on here, padre, but something tells me it ain't gonna end well.”
“He took the Parker girl into a barn and he had his way with her.”
Gaping, Wilbur looked from the priest and back to the fat man. “Nati Parker?”
“No, her younger sister, Florence.”
“Shit. She ain't but—”
“She's thirteen, Wilbur. This bastard violated her.”
“Shit…”
“Her sister found her in a dreadful state. This bastard had beaten her, torn off her dress and had his way. I won't tolerate that, not from anyone. You understand me, Wilbur – I will not tolerate it. So, you tell this miserable piece of filth, if he ain't gone by tomorrow, I'll see he hangs.”
And with that, the padre whirled around and stomped out of the bar.
Gus Ritter watched him go and whistled silently through pursed lips. “Damn, that man is hell on wheels.”
“He sure is,” said Wilbur, prodding the fat man with his boot. By now, he was fully unconscious. “I don't think I've ever seen him so riled.”
“Ain't you got no sheriff to sort such troubles out?”
“No. Sheriff Herbert fell down and died not six or seven weeks ago from a failed heart. We ain't had the necessary to swear in a replacement yet. There's supposed to be a marshal coming down from Cheyenne to oversee it all, but we ain't heard nothin' from anyone. Nobody gives a good damn about Archangel, not even those of us who live here.”
“You said he has friends.”
“Yes…” Wilbur ruminated around in his empty mouth. “I can see trouble coming. There is old Silas, the uncle, his two boys, and a couple of firebrand working partners called Jessup and Martindale. They is trouble, mister. Been a-hootin' and a-hollerin' every Saturday night for weeks, shooting up bars, dance halls and the like. I had a set-to with 'em, fired my sawn-off and scared the shit out of 'em. They don't bother me no more. But this …” He shook his head again, gazing down at the fat man. “This here is Tobias Scrimshaw and his uncle, old Silas, owns a cattle ranch not more than ten miles from here. He has more money than sense, that old bastard, but he is meaner than a hornet with a toothache.”
“I didn't know hornets had any teeth.”
Wilbur gave him a look. “Mister, if you is fixing on buying another beer, then do it. If not, you take your clever remarks someplace else. I ain't in the mood.”
Ritter shrugged and pushed the empty glass away. “I's about finished, anyway.” He swung around and returned Wilbur's scowl. “And don't be thinking I'm like those two boys you scared with your sawn-off, Mister barkeep, 'cause I ain't. I don't take kindly to being spoken to like some rat in a barrel.” He patted the Colt Cavalry at his hip. “My journey has been long and hard and it ain't finished yet. Aggravation, I can do without.”
“Journey? What journey?” Wilbur frowned, eyes dropping to the revolver for the first time. “You wear that gun like you is capable of using it.”
“Don't see no point in having a firearm if you can't use it.”
“Yeah, but… Mister, what is your business here?”
“I'm lookin' for someone, is all.”
“Someone important?”
“You could say.” Ritter drew in a deep breath. “But he ain't here, and that has pissed me off some.”
“Who is it you is looking for?”
“I wanted to ask you the same thing, but then the padre arrived and shot everything to pieces.”
“Well, I might know. I tend to know everyone in this here town. If I don't, Cable Hughes over in the Wishing Bone saloon will know, but he rarely opens nowadays, thanks to those Jessup and Martindale bastards.”
“Maybe you can help.”
“Maybe I can.” Wilbur tilted his head to one side. “For a price.”
Ritter smiled, fished inside his waistcoat pocket and snapped a silver dollar on the counter top. “That should do it.”
“Yes,” said Wilbur, licking his lips. “A second might get you even more.”
“Don't push it, barkeep.”
Something changed in Wilbur's demeanour, his previous bravado swiftly replaced by a tremor of fear running across his lips. Perhaps he saw something he hadn't seen before, thought Ritter, and drew comfort from the fact. The barkeep gulped, his eyes flickering from the dollar to Ritter's Colt. “What's this person's name?”
“John Wesley Hardin.”
3
The street brimmed with people going about their daily routines. Ritter doffed his hat to the occasional passing lady, nodded to various men, most of whom looked at him askance, frowning at his tied-down gun. Few held his stare. Ritter carried the air of a man confident in his own abilities – but just what these were, most citizens of Archangel that blustery morning preferred not to ponder on. Few of his sort passed through the town streets, but when they did, it invariably meant trouble.
He went into a small coffee-house and ordered a midday meal of eggs and bacon. Ignoring the stares of the other customers, he looked out of the window towards the many shops and service businesses lining the street. A group of shirt-sleeved men laboured like ants around a large, semi-completed building and he studied them with keen interest.
The waitress loomed over him and placed a full plate of food in front of him. He smiled. “Busy place.”
“Yes,” she said, following his gaze to the street. “And it'll be getting busier with any luck.”
Grunting, he turned to his meal, enjoying every mouthful.
Later, having paid the bill, he crossed the street. Stopping beneath the swinging sign of The Wishbone Saloon, Ritter leaned forward to read the notice pinned to the boarded-up entrance. Lessons in Miss Winters' one-room school house back in Denver had given him a basic knowledge of words, but he continued to find difficulty with more complex sentences.
“It says we're closed due to the excessive libations of certain hot-headed individuals who caused inappropriate and extensive damage to this establishment.”
Frowning, Ritter turned to regard the owner of the voice, a swarthy-looking individual with a cheery face and ample midriff. “You'd be Cable Hughes?”
The man tilted his head, arching a single eyebrow. “I am. I am the owner of this here establishment.”
“So I understand.” He gestured towards the sign. “These here 'hot-headed individuals', they be—”
“Two gunhands from the Scrimshaw ranch. Jessup and Martindale, I understand them to be called. A nastier pair I have yet to meet.”
Ritter stepped up onto the boardwalk fronting the saloon and tapped the notice. “What is 'libations'?”
“Drinking.”
“Ah… So they was drunk?”
“Beyond drunk, sir. Could I ask you what is your interest?”
“I am travelling through the State, looking for a certain fugitive from justice.”
“An outlaw?”
“A killer.”
Sucking in his breath, Hughes rocked back on his heels. “A killer? That sounds somewhat dramatic.”
“It is.”
Surveying Ritter from head to foot, Hughes' eyes settled on the other's revolver. “I'm surmising you are a bounty hunter?”
“What of it?”
Hughes held up his hands. “I am not judging you, sir, merely pointing out the obvious.”
“My gun is my tool of trade. It enables me to make sense of a world which has lost its way. Violence, lawlessness, the abandonment of common decency… The War created deep divisions within us, Mr Hughes, and it is all a man can do to find a path through it which does not lead him to confrontation and death.”
“Yes, well, the War has been over these past eight or so years.”
“Even so.”
“Yes…. even so.”
Ritter stepped down into the street again and stood level with Hughes, towering over the saloon owner by a good head. “You have plans on re-opening?”
“Perhaps. When those two trouble-makers have moved on.”
“You think they will?”
“Who knows? Old man Scrimshaw has lost his way, leaving control of his business affairs to his sons.” Hughes paused, glancing up and down the main street. A train of three wagons trundled by, pots and pans clanking against the sides. “More tenderfoots looking for the promise of a new life.” He shook his head, forcing a smile at the lead driver as he moved on. “They sure as eggs is eggs won't find one here in Archangel.”
“It seems prosperous enough.”
“Oh, it is. When the railroad finally opens, it will be reborn. Merchant men, traders, shopkeepers, they are all making ready for that great day.”
“Might even be the moment for you to re-open.”
“Perhaps. Mister, who is it you are looking for? This so-called killer?”
“Nothing 'so-called' about it, Mr Hughes. I understood from my previous stopping place that he was headed this way.”
“I know of no killers ever stopping by here.”
“He doesn't advertise the fact. Indeed, if ever you set eyes upon him, you would find him a most respectable individual, well-dressed, polite, slight in stature. But if you looked close and caught the glint in his eyes, you'd see something you would not like. Unfortunately, such an action would almost certainly cause him to be affronted, or give him rise to suspect you were challenging him. No one has ever held his stare and lived.”
“Dear God.” His eyes widened as he latched on to something beyond Ritter's shoulder. “Blessed Jesus,” he said, his face paling, “that looks like trouble.”
Ritter swung around to see two horsemen charging up the main street. They dismounted at a run and charged towards the entrance to the saloon where Tobias Scrimshaw had received his beating. Ritter whistled as the riders burst through the batwing doors, their guns already materialising in their fists. “Yep, you could be right, Mr Hughes. They sure look like trouble to me.”
“What in tarnation has gone on in there?”
“A beating,” said Ritter. “Seems like your priest can dish it out with some considerable skill.”
“You mean Father Merry?”
“I do indeed. Some fat man in there got the living shit kicked out of him, and now I suspect his friends have got wind of it.”
“One of them looks like Reece, old Scrimshaw's youngest.”
“They'll be wanting retribution from the priest.”
“No doubt. Someone must have told Reece about what happened.”
“There were two others there. Maybe it was one of them.”
“People will stir up all sorts if they think they'll get paid for it.”
Ritter nodded grimly. “I've a mind Father Merry may be the one I need to speak with about my quarry. The proprietor of yonder establishment told me as much, in exchange for a dollar. I do believe a man of the world such as the good padre would recognise John Wesley without so much as a blink.”
“John Wesley…?”
Turning, Ritter saw the deathly pallor of the saloon owner and grinned. “Yeah, his name does tend to cause that reaction. Now, if you would be so kind, could you point me in Merry's direction?”
As Hughes opened his mouth to speak, the commotion across the street in the other bar came to a climax as the two men kicked through the doors, carrying the large, semi-conscious frame of Tobias between them. Behind them appeared the barkeep, wringing his hands, a troubled expression on his face which, when he caught sight of Ritter, turned to desperation. He gestured towards the bounty hunter and cut through the gathering groups of onlookers, all curious to see what was happening.
“They'll be meeting up with some others and going over to Father Merry's place, I shouldn't wonder,” Hughes said, rattling off his words at a furious pace. “If I know them boys, they plan on killing him.”
Grunting, Ritter swung around to face Hughes. “Well, seems I might have to skedaddle if I'm to make it to him first. Now, tell me where he lives.”
4
Silas Scrimshaw rolled over onto his side and rattled out a long breath. “I'm not so sure I can do this for much longer.”
Next to him, Manuela propped herself up on her elbow and gave him a searching look. Twenty-two years of age, half-Mexican, her skin as brown as a nut, she pursed her lips and smiled. “Silas, you be the finest man I have ever known.”
Twisting his head to face her, he frowned. “Well, that's nice of you to say, my lovely, but I know that ain't so.”
“Of course, it is.” She reached out and brushed his cheek with the back of her forefinger. “You make me very happy.”
Grunting, Silas threw back the covers and got out of bed. Blazing through the open window, the early morning sun flooded the room and he went across and gazed out at the wide, open plain. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, allowing the rays to warm his body. “I wish I was thirty, even twenty years younger. Damn it to hell, Manuela,” he swung around, eyes drinking her in, her body naked, supine on the bed, “where the hell have you been all my life?”
She giggled, seeming to relish his hungry expression, and allowed her hands to roam over her full breasts and across the flat of her belly. “For most of it, I was not even born.”
“God, if you ain't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life!”
Another giggle. She patted the empty space next to her. “Come and lie with me. Make me purr like a mountain lion again.”
Silas made as if to speak, but was cut off by the sound of a rider galloping into the open yard in front of the sprawling ranch house. Swinging back to the window, he peered out and swore under his breath. “Ah shit, this looks like trouble.”
Moving quickly to the bed, he pulled on his robe, tightened up the belt and strode out of the room, with Manuela's cry of, “Come back soon, my love,” ringing in his ears.
Sweeping out into the landing, Silas leaned over the balustrade and peered down to the large, open entrance room of his beautiful home built in the Mexican style. Silas had always wanted to maximise the amount of light coming into the house and, right now, this helped him to clearly see the young cowboy striding forward, covered in dust and sweat, hat thrown back to dangle down his back by its chin cord, his hair a wild mess.
“What in the hell is going on, Reece? You look like you is fit to fall down in a stupor.”
“Ah, hell, Pa,” said Reece, “we got trouble.”
Tugging his robe closer, fears confirmed, Silas padded along the landing and descended the stairs. “Where the hell is Grimes?”
“I don't know – I only just got here.”
“Yeah, I saw you riding in.” Reaching the bottom step, he paused, one hand on the rail. “What the hell is going on?”
“Tobias got himself beat up.”
Silas squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, damn. Is he in a bad way?”
“I don't know, I only heard it from some of the townsfolk.” He looked about him. The room was dominated by a massive table, with seating enough for twenty people. Right now it was bare, the top scrubbed clean, ornate chairs neatly pushed under on all sides. Reece reached for the nearest, drew it back, flopped down and put his face in his hand. “He did something bad, Pa. Mighty bad.”
Frowning, Silas went up to him and sat down to the young cowboy's right. “Tell me.”
Dropping his hand, Reece hissed through his teeth, “He went and took the young Parker girl into a barn and …” He shook his head. “He fucking raped her, Pa.”
Silas gaped and for a moment didn't know what to say or think. He sat back, shoulders drooping, overcome by the enormity of his eldest son's words. “The youngest girl?”
“Uh-huh. Florence. She's thirteen years old, Pa.”
“Oh, my God.”
Silas's voice, low, tremulous, reflected Reece's mood and the two men sat in silence, staring into nothing for a long time.
A wiry man of indeterminant age waddled into the entrance room and pulled up short when he saw father and son. Seeming to sense the depressed atmosphere, he shuffled his feet and, clearing his throat, said, “Can I get you anything, sir?”
Without looking up, Silas nodded. “Bring me some of my old Scotch whisky, Grimes. I think we both need it.”
As the old man went out, Reece turned to his father. “I came here as fast as I could. One or two of the boys are going to take Tobias to Doc Wilson's place. His nose is broken and I think he might be bleeding inside. He sure is bleeding everywhere else.”
“Holy shit. I would never have thought old Harvey Parker could do such a thing.”
“It wasn't Parker. Besides, he's dead.”
“Hell, really? I didn't know. Who did it, then?”
“It was the priest – Father Merry.”
Again, Silas's mouth fell open, struck dumb by the news.
“I've heard stories about that man,” continued Reece. “He fought in the War, so I heard. Was a member of a group of marauders who ranged far and wide across the Shenandoah Valley. With the surrender, he, along with all that other scum, was given free pardon. Seems he found God…” he blew out his lips, scoffing, “but a murdering son of a bitch he will always be. And now he's shown his true colours, right enough.”
“I find this all hard to believe, Reece. A priest kicked Toby's butt?”
“He might die, Pa.”
“Well,” Silas crossed his arms, “I don't give a good damn about that, Reece. Toby is just like his father – a fat, lazy turd.”
“Pa, he is kin!”
“Kin or not, he's still a wastrel. Always has been. His mother begged me to take him in when Guthrie got himself killed. I suppose I felt duty-bound by family ties, but I have to admit I have never felt comfortable with it. And now, it seems my lack of good judgement in this matter has come home to bite me on the ass.”
Reece pushed back his chair, glaring down at his father. “I never would have took you for a shirker, Pa.”
“A what? Maybe you haven't heard your own words, boy – that waste of space has violated a young girl. Holy God damn, Reece, I will not support him in any of this, if that is what you is hoping.”
“I just thought you might have at least gone to pay that bastard padre a visit, to let him know he can't do such things as beat up one of our own. We have a reputation to maintain, Pa.”
“Well, that'll be as good as a pail of dog-shit if we go condoning what Tobias has done. No, best leave it well alone. I'll go speak to the priest when this has all blown over.”
“That'll be too late.”
“Don't you go confronting me on this, boy. My decision is final. I want nothing to do with rapists – be they kin or not. I'm better than that.”
“Rapists… Dear God, do you hear yourself? As if you haven't done anything like it yourself.”
Springing to his feet, before Reece could even raise an arm Silas struck his son a back-hander across the face, sending him crashing to the floor. Wheezing loudly, Silas leaned forward on the table, pressing his knuckles hard into the woodwork. He glared at his stricken son, who rolled over and sat up, dabbing at his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand. “I may have done some bad things in my time, boy, but rape was never one of them. I will not be associated with it and if Tobias is bleeding to death, then good riddance, I say.”
Squinting at his blood-smeared hand, Reece climbed groggily to his feet. “That does it, Pa. I've suffered your indifference, your insults and bitterness for too long. I'll not suffer your abuse.”
“Grow up, Reece. You insulted me, and if you think I would allow anyone to—”
“Anyone? Jesus, you sanctimonious old bastard – I'm your fucking son!”
“What're you fixing on doing, Reece? Riding out of here with your tail between your legs, to set up on your own?”
“I think it's about time I did. You never had any intention of leaving this ranch to me, anyways.”
“No, that's right. I'm leaving it to Manuela.”
The sound of the girl's name struck Reece harder than the back-handed slap he'd only moments ago received. He blinked repeatedly, his breathing shaky. “Dear God, she truly has possessed you, like the devil she is.”
“I love her, you impudent whelp.” He stood up straight as Grimes returned, holding a silver tray on which stood a cut-glass decanter and two matching tumblers. Silas released a long breath. “Pour out two good measures, Grimes. The boy here will be leaving shortly, but he can take a drink first.”
“I'll not drink with you,” spat Reece.
“Call it a good luck toast, Reece.” He licked his lips as Grimes dutifully filled up the tumblers with two good measures of the golden liquid. Silas took one proffered glass and breathed in the whisky aroma before swallowing down a large mouthful.
Without a word, Reece took the second glass and drained it in one. “You're all heart, Pa.”
“Just go, Reece. It's been a long time coming.” He took another sip and narrowed his eyes towards his son. “But I warn you, boy – you go looking for that priest, to avenge what he did to your cousin, I'll put you in the ground myself.”
“You're a bastard,” said Reece. “I'm glad Ma didn't live to see you for what you have become – an unfeeling, uncaring old fart.”
“Get out.”
“And don't be worrying about me doing anything to that shit-faced priest – Jessup's already tooled up and looking for him.”
Lowering his head, Silas sighed. “I just knew it, as soon as the words were out of your mouth about what happened. That stupid firebrand will get us all hung.”
“There was a time when you wouldn't have given a good damn about the law – because you was the law! Now, you ain't nothing but a hen-pecked old retard for that lithesome young thing upstairs in your bed. She's addled your brains, Pa, and I'll not stay here and see any more of it.”
“So you said. Now, is you as good as your word or not?”
Reece threw down his glass. It rolled across the table top and Grimes caught it before it fell and shattered into pieces of the floor. “Mario will hear of this.”
“Mario hasn't got shit for brains, unlike you. He'll do what I tell him.”
“Well, there's another good reason for me to go.” He turned on his heels and strode away without a backward glance.
“Pour me another,” said Silas, thrusting out his hand towards Grimes, who took the glass and did as he was bid. Watching the whisky trickle into the tumbler, Silas considered his son's words, but paid them little heed. Manuela was the best thing that had ever happened to him and, when he sat back down and heard her soft, bare-footed approach… felt her fingers kneading his shoulders, her warm lips nuzzling at his ear, he knew he couldn't give a fig for anyone else in the entire world.
5
With the heart-breaking sobs of the young girl ringing in his ears, Father Merry came out of the tiny bedroom and went to the hand pump. He worked the lever, splashing water over his hands, then his face. Temporally blinded, he groped around for a towel. A pair of soft hands pressed a coarse cloth into his grip and he grunted his thanks. Patting his face dry, he turned to Nati Parker standing before him.
A slender woman of just over thirty, Nati possessed the smouldering good looks which betrayed her Mexican heritage – dark eyes and raven-black hair pulled back from her smooth, burnished face. She ran her tongue over her teeth and said, “How is she?”
“A little better. It's going to take time, Nati.”
“We both have plenty of that.”
“Maybe not.”
She titled her head. “What do you mean?”
“I beat the bastard who did this half to death. I may even have actually killed him.”
His words brought no change to her blank expression. “A pity you didn't. That son of a whore deserves to be in the ground for what he did.”
“Yes, but even so… His friends will come-a-calling, and when they find I'm not at home, they'll come here.”
“Then I shall kill them.”
“No. You do that, they'll hang you.”
“Pah, what a horse-shit world it is that allows my sister to be raped by that bastard, and does not give me the chance to avenge what he did. What kind of law is that, eh, padre?”
“The thing is, they are the law round these parts, Nati.”
“Then where is the justice?”
“There isn't any.”
“Then I will find my own.” She swung around and strode over to the door, above which hung a Spencer carbine. She took it down and worked through the loading mechanism with obvious skill. Grunting, she looked again at the priest. “When they come, I will shoot them. My father taught me how to use this when I was twelve. I do not think he ever believed that one day I would have to use it.”
“There is another way.” Merry stepped up to the rough-hewn table and sat down. She followed him, placing the carbine between them. Leaning across the table, he took her hands in his. “You could load up your wagon and make it across the trail to Oregon. Start again.”
“What? You think it is so easy to simply start a new life? And what with? What would we do? Whoring?”
“Don't be so stupid. You could—”
“What else is there for women such as we to do, eh?” She threw herself back in her chair. “None of this was our fault – none of it!”
“I know that, but you cannot—”
“My father brought us here nearly twenty years ago. This is our home, padre. I have no husband, no man. Father died a year ago, six months after the fever took my mother. He died of a broken heart, crying every night until…” She bit down on her bottom lips, brushing away the tear that tumbled from her eye. “Have you any idea how hard life has been since then? No, of course you haven't. You sit in your church, dispensing your prayers and your absolutions, but you have no sense of the hardships ordinary people face. But face it we have, and face it we will. My father built this place with his own two hands, padre. He broke every bone, pulled every muscle and he did it for us. And now you tell me to turn away and run? From sons of whores who destroyed my sister's life? She is probably with child, padre. Think on that the next time you come up with one of your ridiculous solutions.”
She crossed her arms and sat there, seething, her breaths coming in short, sharp snatches. Merry waited, not daring to catch her eyes, to see the anger there, the indignation, the strength of conviction.
Eventually, he blew out a long breath. “All right, Nati, I'm sorry. You're right, of course. To run away is not an option.”
“What then? Fight them?”
“They'll kill you, after having had their way with you. And Florence.”
Sucking in her bottom lip, she nodded towards the Spencer. “I have maybe seven bullets. How many will come? Six, eight, ten?” She gave a short, scoffing laugh. “I will save the last two for myself and Florence. Better to die than to suffer more indignity at their filthy hands.”
“I agree.”
She frowned at him. “You do? So, you think it is all right for them to assault us here, to do what they want, to cause the deaths of us both?”
“No, I don't think anything of the sort.” He leaned back and delved into the folds of his rough brown robe and produced a Colt Navy revolver, conversion model. He hefted it in his hand. “I will stand with you.”
She stared, wide-eyed. “What are you doing with a gun, padre?”
He shrugged. “Old habits. This little beauty got me out of some scrapes back in the War, so I think she can do so again. I practise most days and can still plug a nickel at twenty paces.”
“The War? But… Padre, I do not understand. You're a man of God.”
“I wasn't back then, Nati. Back then I was part of a troop of raiders. We did some unspeakable things, none of which I am proud of. When the War ended, I came back to Missouri, found my old ma and she sat me down and heard my confession.”
She gaped at him. “Your own mother? But… You told her what you did?”
“Her father – my grandfather – was a priest, you see. I suppose she took it upon herself to continue the tradition.” He smiled, looking back through the years to his younger self, kneeling before his mother, her hand upon his head, blessing him. “I took holy orders a year or so after that. I've never looked back.”
“Until now.”
“Some things test you, Nati. Today tested me worse than anything since General Lee signed the surrender. I thought I'd buried the man I was back there in Arlington, but I was wrong. I'm still the same murdering scoundrel I always was. I beat the living hell out of that man, Nati. It all came back – the hate. I don't think it's ever gone away.”
6
They stopped within sight of the Scrimshaw ranch. Reece cast a glance towards Tobias, who was slumped over the neck of his horse, a constant moan escaping from his broken mouth. “Will you shut the hell up, you whining cloth head.”
His companion, rangy and red-headed, cackled through blackened teeth. “Hell, he sounds like a fart trapped in a bottle.”
“And you would do well to keep your mouth shut also, Kelly.”
Kelly went to speak, but clearly thought better of it as Reece continued to snarl and glare.
Turning back to the view of the ranch, Reece let out a long sigh. “I was hoping Mario could talk some sense into Pa. The old bat has lost his sand.”
“Mario knows about all of this?”
“I told him after Pa threw me out. Anyways, we don't need him, but I reckon it is prudent to wait and see. We'll have enough trouble going up against the priest without putting Pa in the mix.”
“Trouble against a priest?” said Kelly, scoffing. He leaned over to his right, hawked and spat into the dirt. “Hell, he's nothing but a boil on my ass. I'll kill him myself if you wanna.”
Turning towards his companion, Reece gave a shake of his head. “You obviously know nothing about Father Patrick Merry, or you wouldn't be spouting such verbal diarrhoea, Kelly.”
“Well, I knows he wears a dress and spends all of his time talking in that rickety church of his. Ain't nothing about any of that to cause me troubles, Reece. You hired me as a gunhand, not to sit back and whistle Dixie.”
Sighing, Reece turned away. “First things first, we take Tobias here to get patched up.”
“Doc Wilson was out on his rounds. Some lady is giving birth and he—”
“I couldn't give a good damn about what Doc Wilson is doing. I know an old woman down aways who used to be a nurse.”
“We could try Wilson again. If Toby lasts that long.” He looked at his companion and shook his head.
“Doc Wilson will have had news of what has happened by now and he'll send a telegraph to the US Marshal's office in Cheyenne as soon as Toby is at his door. We don't need that sort of aggravation. A Marshal is supposed to be coming here, anyways and I don't need any further complications. Besides, old Ma Donnington don't even know such things as telegraph wires exist. She still thinks Andrew Jackson is President.”
“Who?”
Shaking his head in despair, Reece turned his gaze towards the ranch house. “We'll wait, and if Mario don't show up in another hour, we'll head off to Ma Donnington's and then pick up Martindale. Three of us should be enough to take care of the priest.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” He nodded towards a clump of sagebrush. “Tie up the horses over there. We may as well stretch ourselves out whilst we're waiting.” He looked to the sky. “We have plenty of hours of daylight left. If the rain keeps off, we'll be well set to have this grisly mess sorted before sundown.”
Grunting, Kelly led the horses to the bush as Reece jumped down from his mount and stretched out his back. “Damn your hide, Pa, you obstinate old coot,” he mumbled and looked around for a place to lay himself down and get some rest before Mario deigned to arrive.
* * *
Kelly Jessup looped the reins around one of the more substantial branches and looked over his shoulder towards Reece, only to see him stretched out in the dirt, hat tipped over his eyes. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Kelly ran through his options. It would stand him in good stead to put the priest in the ground, especially in Mario's eyes. Mario was a man he respected; one he could do business with, whose assertiveness and strength made him a range boss to be obeyed. Reece, on the other hand, was a hothead and not much else; a man full of bluster who talked a good fight but had neither the mettle nor the skills to see one through to the end. His reaction over Jessup's suggestion of taking out Father Merry revealed the depth of his gutless, spineless approach to life. A priest – a man of God – was not someone to be fearful of, he reasoned.
A loud grunt brought Jessup out of his reverie and he looked over to see Reece, now clearly asleep, rolling over onto his side. Jessup waited, holding his breath, the plan already formulating in his mind. If he rode across to the church right now, he could end all of this before it had even begun. Mario would reward him handsomely and everyone could get back to living their lives and doing what they did best – having a good time, drinking, gambling and making money. So, as quietly as he could, he tugged his horse free and led it away from the small encampment.
Every other step, he paused to look back to check Reece was still asleep. By now, Jessup's range boss was snoring loudly and poor old Tobias lay flat out. He grinned and, once he was well out of earshot, he climbed into the saddle and spurred his horse into a gentle canter.
Soon he would be at the church and this Father Merry character would get what was due.
7
Father Merry's neat yet tiny church lay a few miles out of town and Ritter approached it at a steady trot. White-washed walls, windows down each long side and a small belfry topped with red-tiles, gave the building a tranquil air and Ritter understood why the townsfolk would look forward to filling up the pews every Sunday morning. Both Wilbur the barkeep and Cable Hughes had asserted that Merry's sermons were eagerly anticipated and his flock was growing. People sought solace after the uncertainties of the War. Even now, with the hostilities long over, there were many who feared what they saw as a godless land. Men like Jesse James and John Wesley seemed to underline these sentiments, despite so many believing these killers to be champions of the downtrodden. Fear walked alongside every man, woman and child and Merry provided hope for a better world.
Salvation.
Ritter rubbed his chin. He had never believed in such things, but right now, sitting astride his horse, he could certainly sense something beyond the visible. Perhaps it was God.
He tied up his horse and clumped up the wooden steps to the door in his heavy boots. At the top, he paused to turn and survey the open prairie, the trail leading to the town of Archangel cutting a silver line through the coarse grass. If the men Wilbur told him about were to come seeking their vengeance, this would be the way they'd arrive. At least he would have ample warning.
Sighing, he turned to the church entrance, pushed down the handle and eased the door open.
The smell of new-mown hay, tinged slightly around the edges with cigar and pipe tobacco, greeted him as he stepped inside. Despite the low ceiling, his steps echoed around the small interior as he strode down a central aisle bedecked with beautifully maintained floorboards.
Towards the rear, and to the right, stood a pulpit, reached by a set of steps. Fashioned from oak, the ornately carved panelling was not something Ritter had expected to see in a small rural church. Frowning, he stepped closer and ran his fingers over the intricate latticework, impressed.
A movement over to his left caused him to swing around in a half crouch, right hand sweeping up the Colt Cavalry revolver from its holster, hammer already engaged, the entire movement fluid, without hesitation.
He gaped.
In the vestibule doorway, a woman stood, her face ashen with fear but her lips full and her eyes glowing. Her hands came up in supplication. “Don't shoot, stranger.”
Easing down the hammer, Ritter straightened, studying the woman intently. From the way she bore herself, her black, pleated dress, the hair tucked under a bonnet, he guessed her to be no more than forty. Her unblemished skin shimmered as the colour slowly returned to her cheeks.
Sliding the gun into its holster, Ritter tried a smile. It was not returned. “Sorry, ma'am, you took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting anyone to be at home, except for the priest.”
She frowned as she lowered her hands, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Father Merry? He's not here.”
“Ah.” Ritter cast his gaze back towards the church. “When do you think he'll return?”
“I couldn't say.”
He watched her as she glided past him. Pausing before the congregation pews, she gave him a piercing stare. “What would such a man as you want with Father Merry?”
“Just a little information.”
She gave a dismissive grunt. “Well, as far as I know he went visiting the Parker girls.” Another searching look. “You're not from around these parts.”
“No, ma'am, I ain't. You could say I'm just passing through.”
She sniffed loudly. “You carry the smell of the prairie with you, mister. You could do with a bath.”
Ritter chuckled and touched the brim of his hat, “I daresay I could. But I ain't got no time for such luxuries… Unless, of course, you is offering, that is.” He grinned as her face took on a look of disgusted outrage and shock. “I jest, ma'am.”
