Wanted: Dead or Alive E-Book

Ralph Hayes

• Herausgeber: Robert Hale Fiction
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Black Horse Western
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 180

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A year after being saved from kidnapping, Dulcie Provost is waiting for the return of her rescuer, bounty hunter Certainty Sumner. But first Sumner has to carry out one more mission - tracking down the sadistic outlaw known as the Lakota Kid. But unbeknown to Sumner, he himself is also the quarry of an equally ruthless bounty hunter, Luther Bastian. The father of a gang member Sumner killed while rescuing Dulcie wants vengeance and has duped Bastian into believing that Sumner has turned outlaw. Can Sumner possibly survive being hunted down by a bounty hunter as skilled and determined as himself?

Leseprobe

Wanted Dead or Alive

A year after being saved from kidnapping, Dulcie Provost is waiting for the return of her rescuer, bounty hunter Certainty Sumner. But first Sumner has to carry out one more mission – tracking down the sadistic outlaw known as the Lakota Kid.

But unbeknown to Sumner, he himself is also the quarry of an equally ruthless bounty hunter, Luther Bastian. The father of a gang member Sumner killed while rescuing Dulcie wants vengeance and has duped Bastian into believing that Sumner has turned outlaw.

Can Sumner possibly survive being hunted down by a bounty hunter as skilled and determined as himself?

By the same author

The Way of the Gun

Wanted Dead or Alive

Ralph Hayes

ROBERT HALE

© Ralph Hayes 2019

First published in Great Britain 2019

ISBN 978-0-7198-2909-3

The Crowood Press

The Stable Block

Crowood Lane

Ramsbury

Marlborough

Wiltshire SN8 2HR

www.bhwesterns.com

Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

The right of Ralph Hayes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

CHAPTER ONE

Amos Latham was not a forgiving man.

It had been reported to him a few months ago that his only son Duke had been cowardly murdered in the Indian Territory by a back-shooting bounty hunter named Certainty Sumner. Apparently a rancher’s daughter had run off with Duke to marry him, but her father Maynard Provost had illegally hired Sumner to find the couple, dispose of Duke if necessary, and bring the runaway girl home. Sumner had ambushed Duke and the girl in a lonely place, caught Duke off guard, and murdered him for the bounty Provost paid him.

That story had been boiling inside Amos’ head like acid in a closed container for almost half a year now, and he had resolved to answer his son’s killing, even though he and Duke had been estranged for years and he knew very little about his recent life. But Amos was Duke’s only surviving relative, and as such he was determined to defend the family name. On that brisk spring morning in April he was addressing the problem with an ex-foreman who had worked for him before Amos’ retirement from his hide company. The two men sat together in the plush comfort of the well-appointed book room of Amos’ sprawling Victorian home outside Missoula, Montana.

‘I’ve asked about Sumner all over this area,’ the foreman Guthrie was telling Amos. He was a brawny, tough-looking man in his fifties, about a decade younger than Amos, and had a deeply lined, weathered face. ‘Nobody knows where he’s operating nowadays. He’s an elusive man to keep track of. The local sheriff says he ranges far and wide for the targets of his guns. Lawmen keep away from him. He’s very dangerous.’

‘What’s this with a name of Certainty? I never heard that one before.’

‘His real name is Wesley. He got the nickname because he’s never failed to find and kill the man he goes after. The Wanted dodger has to say “Dead or Alive”, but he’s never brought a man in alive.’

Amos, sitting in an overstuffed chair near Guthrie, sat forward and stared at the floor for a long moment. ‘I can’t imagine that Duke had a Wanted dodger on him. He was a little wild, but he steered clear of the law.’

‘Provost put the bounty on Duke’s head,’ Guthrie reminded him. ‘Nobody knows how much it was. I understand the girl – her name is Dulcie – is back on the ranch.’

Amos let a long breath out. ‘It was his daughter. When he hired that yellow-belly Sumner he probably figured he could get the girl back without gunplay. But this Sumner obviously loves killing. I have no plans to have it out with Provost.’ He looked up at Guthrie grimly. He had silver hair and beard, but a rugged-looking body and a square, unlined face. ‘But this man Sumner has made me hate bounty hunters. I’m going to find him, Guthrie. And I’m going to kill him.’

Guthrie, reclining on a long sofa across from Amos, made a grunting sound in his throat. ‘You or I wouldn’t have a chance against Sumner, Amos. Even if we tried an ambush. It would be much too dangerous.’

‘I have no thought of exposing myself to that killer,’ Amos told him. ‘I want to find us somebody who can do it for me. Somebody that’s as good as Sumner. I’ll pay well for the service. But I want that sonofabitch dead. And if possible, I want him to go slow. To suffer for taking my son’s life.’

Guthrie blew his cheeks out. ‘Amos, I have to tell you this. I didn’t put any credence in it, but I think you ought to hear it, anyway. It was told me by a drifter over in Omaha. He says he heard the story a different way.’

Amos frowned. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

Guthrie took a deep breath. ‘He says that when Duke was working on the Provost ranch for a short time, he got hung up on this Dulcie, but his interest wasn’t returned. Then Duke was fired because he wouldn’t back off trying to win the girl, and a short time later he found her out on the ranch somewhere, and took her with him by force. That’s when Provost hired Sumner to find them, so Sumner was going after an abducted daughter.’ He watched Amos’ face closely. ‘And last of all, that Duke was killed in a fair shoot-out by Sumner, after Sumner had re-taken her.’

A heavy silence fell into the room like a five-hundred-pound weight hitting the floor between them.

‘For God’s sake!’ Amos growled at him.

‘Like I said, it was just this drifter’s story. A man I’d never seen before. It’s probably bull-pucky, Amos. But I thought you ought to hear it.’

Amos’ face slowly hardened. ‘Now you listen to me, Guthrie. You and me got our story from honest sources. People we know. What you heard is goddam hogwash! I know my son was ruthlessly murdered by that killer-for-money. And I won’t rest in my grave, by Jesus, until that piece of scum pays for what he did to my flesh and blood!’

Guthrie leaned forward, watching Amos’ angry face. He waited a respectful moment, then spoke again. ‘We have to face facts, Amos. This man might be unkillable.’

Amos’ dark eyes flashed at him. ‘Nobody is unkillable, damn it. I didn’t bring you in on this to tell me we can’t have our vengeance on this man. When we locate him, we can throw a couple sticks of dynamite in where he sleeps. Or hire a gang of men to surround him and blast away together. There are ways.’

Guthrie shook his head. ‘You couldn’t find anybody stupid enough to gang up on him. They’d have to have clabber for brains. And the other thing just wouldn’t work, Amos, it’s just too iffy.’

‘By God, I don’t want to hear what we can’t do!’ Amos fairly yelled at him. ‘I’m not giving up on this! I owe it to Duke. My only son, may he rest in peace. I’ll go try to back-shoot him myself if I have to.’

‘That would be suicide, Amos,’ Guthrie told him. ‘You don’t owe it to Duke to throw your own life away.’ He looked past Amos, to a sunny window across the room. The faint odour of musty, unused books came to him from the library on the nearby wall. ‘I do have an idea, though.’

Amos’ square face turned quizzical. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Spit it out.’

‘The chance of it working is maybe a mite remote. But it’s all I have.’

‘For God’s sake, say it!’ Amos fumed.

‘About a month ago, I ran into a fellow that used to work for us at the hide company. Name of Pritchard. He was one of your best riflemen when we went after the buffalo. He sat with me in a local saloon, and got on to the subject of this bounty hunter he met a couple years ago.’

‘A bounty hunter?’ Amos exclaimed. ‘Why the hell do I want to hear about another goddam bounty hunter?’

‘Just hear me out,’ Guthrie continued patiently. ‘He got to talking about this man named Luther Bastian. Seems this Bastian had pretty much the same reputation as Sumner. Only went after the toughest outlaws. And, like Sumner’s targets, his people never saw the inside of a jail cell.’

‘So he was good, this Bastian.’

‘None better. Unless it was Sumner. They never met. Bastian dressed all in black, and rode a black stallion. Because of his look, some called him The Preacher. Outlaws feared him. And he had legitimate ties, too. He was a close friend of Captain Brett Mallory of the Texas Rangers. Seems they used to do some lawing together.’

‘A lawman? Turned bounty hunter?’

‘There was something about a younger brother getting murdered by thieves. And that stuck in his craw. Lawing had too many rules for him, I guess.’

‘Well, he don’t sound like no ordinary bounty man. Can we get in touch with this Bastian?’

‘That should be no problem. The problem is, he’s not doing that any more.’

‘He gave it up?’

Guthrie nodded. ‘According to your rifleman, a couple of years ago he hung up his guns and bought a small ranch down on the Rio Grande, and got himself married. There’s also a boy. Not his. But he’s settled into a quiet, domestic life now. And that’s why I said the whole idea of getting him interested is doubtful.’

Amos sat there mulling all of that. Cracking his knuckles. Staring fiercely at a medallion design on the oriental carpet at their feet as if his entire future and its outcome was decipherable there.

‘I like it,’ he finally said, looking up at Guthrie. ‘It might be our best chance.

Guthrie was mildly surprised. ‘It’s a long shot, Amos. You have to understand that. I get the idea Bastian ain’t a man easily persuaded about anything. But there is something in our favour. He’s not doing well on the ranch, and he might be in need of capital to keep it going.’

‘I want to ride down there. You and me. Sweet-talk this Bastian and make him an offer that’s hard to turn down.’

‘If anybody could find Sumner and do the job, it’s Bastian. It was his business. Going after men that were hard to find and kill.’

Amos nodded. ‘1 like it more and more. When can you be ready to ride?’

‘Just tell me when,’ Guthrie told him.

Amos rose from his chair, looking physically impressive despite his age.

‘My stable boy will have our mounts saddled by dawn. And you sleep here tonight. It will be a long day tomorrow.’

At that same moment, in a Tulsa saloon in the Indian Territory, and a world away from Montana, Certainty Sumner entered through swinging doors and stood surveying the place. It was late afternoon, and cowboys from nearby ranches and trail drifters had already gathered noisily, red-eyed from drink and gratingly loud in their inebriated exchanges, most with six-shooters hanging ostentatiously from low-slung holsters, riding spurs playing staccato notes to their excursions from mahogany bar to oak tables, gin splashing from held shot glasses.

The obese bartender and several patrons near the entrance turned to stare at the tall intruder, and there was a diminished noise for a moment in the room. He had an easy, athlete’s stance and a young but impassive face that women found attractive. Long, dark hair showed under a black Stetson. He wore a dark blue corduroy jacket over a dark red vest with a lariat tie at his neck. A thick gunbelt hung on his right hip, heavy with a big Colt .45 Peacemaker partially hidden by the open jacket. It had a bone grip and was the first thing you saw as he approached you. In addition to the Colt, he had a one-shot Derringer stuffed into his right boot, below his knee.

A piano player at the rear of the room had stopped playing when the noise decreased. Sumner’s careful appraisal now complete, he strode over to the mahogany bar and leaned on it, away from the other drinkers there. The bartender laid a bar towel down and came over to him, eyeing him studiedly.

‘A Planters Rye, barkeep, the unwatered stock.’ Sardonically, in a well modulated voice. ‘And about four of the hard-boiled eggs. I’ll be at that nearest table over there.’

‘We got the best double-rectified bust-head whiskey south of Kansas City,’ the barman frowned. He squinted down on Sumner. ‘Say, you look familiar, mister. You been in here before?’

‘A long time ago,’ Sumner said heavily.

The fat man snapped his fingers. ‘I got it! You’re that bounty man. Sumner, ain’t it?’

Sumner was irritated. ‘Keep it down,’ he said in a level voice. ‘And pay attention. Has a man been in here in the past week that calls himself Wild Bill Christian?’

The bartender hesitated. ‘Oh. Wild Bill. Well, he used to come in here. But I ain’t seen him here for a long time.’ Picking up the bar towel to avoid Sumner’s eyes.

Sumner made a sound in his throat. ‘A friend of yours, is he?’

The other man scowled. ‘Even if he was here, you think I’d tell the likes of you?’

‘He’s a multiple killer,’ Sumner said easily.

‘So are you,’ the barkeep retorted. By now a number of drinkers nearby were listening to the exchange. ‘You was in prison for murder. The way I hear it, you’re a back-shooting killer for money. Why should I help you?’

Sumner regarded him darkly, ‘If I were the man you describe, you’d be dead now.’ The barkeep swallowed hard.

‘Like I said, the Planters and the eggs at that table. And they had better be over there in five minutes or you’ll be explaining why.’

There was fear in the other man’s face now. ‘You’ll get your order. I don’t refuse nobody in here.’

‘You’re such a sweetheart,’ Sumner said flatly. He went to the nearby table and sat there, removing the hat and laying it on the table. His hair was dark and thick, and his eyes always had a serious, pensive look. The bartender was right. He had gone to prison for multiple murder when he was only seventeen. Three drifters had raped and murdered the aunt he lived with, and made him watch. They had left him for dead, but he had lived. He had bought a gun, and tracked all three murderers down, and shot them down in cold blood. Without warning. He just wanted them dead, and he knew nothing about drawdowns. An unsympathetic sheriff sent him off to prison despite his youth.

‘Sumner.’

He was jerked out of his reverie by a middle-aged man standing over his table.

‘Yes?’ Curiously.

‘I overheard what you asked the barkeep. Christian was here.’

Sumner’s face changed. ‘Oh?’

‘A couple days ago. I also saw him at the Trail’s End, down the street. He was in town for a week or two. Bullying locals. Insulting their wives. Hoping somebody would draw on him. I know what he’s done. But he’s gone now. I’d guess he knows you’re looking for him.’

‘I appreciate the information, mister. Can I buy you a drink?’

‘I’m due somewhere,’ the fellow replied. ‘The name’s Walters. Good luck to you.’

‘Thanks. Do you know which way he rode out?’

Walters furrowed his brow. ‘No. But when he was in the Trail’s End, he mentioned a cousin in Sloan’s Corners. That’s about a half-day’s ride south of here.’

Sumner let a brief smile touch his lips. ‘You’ve been a big help, Walters. If we meet again, I won’t forget it.’

Walters had just exited the saloon when a man sitting not far away at another table called out to Sumner.

‘Hey you! That barman called you Sumner. Was he right?’

Sumner sighed. This was what he always tried to avoid like the plague. ‘Drink your ale,’ he replied curtly.

The bartender arrived with the eggs. ‘I’ll be right back with the whiskey.’ Watching Sumner’s face warily.

‘Skip the Planters. Make it a mug of your best beer,’ Sumner told him.

The barkeep gave him a sour look and mumbled something to himself as he walked away. Sumner ignored him. In a moment he was back with the beer, and served it without comment to Sumner. As soon as he was finally gone, the same man from the nearby table called out again to Sumner.

‘Hey, over there! Don’t you hear good, Fancy Dan? Are you that back-shooting bounty man that killed Curly Quentin?’

Sumner shook his head. The man was sitting with two friends, and they were now laughing quietly among themselves. He glanced over at them, a boiled egg in his hand. ‘I’ve never shot a man for money that I didn’t give a fair chance to defend himself,’ he said so the room could hear it. ‘That’s the truth of it. Now, let me eat my eggs in peace.’

‘I heard you caught Quentin by surprise and sucker-shot him,’ the big fellow persisted. He was a foreman from a nearby ranch, and was considered a wizard with the Colt Army revolver on his hip. He believed all bounty hunters were over-rated as gunslingers, and didn’t deserve any reputation they had.

‘You heard wrong,’ Sumner said impatiently, eating an egg. He swigged a drink of the beer. ‘I recommend you drop the subject.’

‘Oh? You recommend?’ the big man blustered.

The entire room had fallen quiet now. The bartender, leaning on the bar from behind it, was grinning. ‘Don’t take no crap from him, Hank!’ Then shooting a look towards Sumner.

Sumner ignored both of them, trying to concentrate on eating. But then Hank rose from his chair, and stepped away from his table. One of his ranch hands eyed him with concern.

‘Hank. Don’t,’ he said quietly.

But quick-tempered Hank’s blood was up. ‘I recommend you take your last swig of that beer, fancy boy, and light out of here. Now. Before I blow a hole through your liver.’

Sumner carefully laid an egg down and regarded the big man solemnly.

‘Hank, if your brains were dynamite, you couldn’t blow the top of your head off. Cool down and sit down.’ Like talking to a child. In a calm, unruffled manner.

Hank’s face reddened. ‘You calling me dumb, you bounty scum! You just lost your chance to get out of here alive! Get up and go for iron!’

‘Take him, Hank!’ the bartender grinned.

But the ranch hands at Hank’s table looked sober-faced.

Sumner was irritated. He took another drink of the beer and rose fluidly from the table, facing Hank. He glanced at the bartender. ‘You, fat man. Bring me another mug. And make it dark ale this time.’

The bartender stared quizzically at him.

‘You’ll never taste that ale,’ Hank breathed out harshly. Then he went for the Colt on his hip.

In the next few seconds it was hard for those present to follow what happened. While Hank’s right hand was still drawing his revolver from its holster, Sumner drew the big Peacemaker in a move so lightning fast the eye could not follow the motion. Suddenly the gun was in his hand as if it had always been there, and while Hank’s Colt was just clearing leather, three quick shots issued from the Peacemaker, in split-second sequence, the big gun roaring in the room like claps of overhead thunder.

Directly behind Hank a kerosene lamp exploded loudly, a hanging cigarette pail clattered to the floor, and a Wanted poster received a hole in the centre of the wanted man’s face, setting the poster on fire. Gunsmoke hung thick in the air.

Hank, with his gun hanging now in mid-draw, stood open-jawed, not understanding why he wasn’t dead. His left hand came up and gingerly felt his chest, to assure himself he wasn’t hit. One of his ranch hands softly whistled between his teeth.

Off in a corner, a drinker whispered to a companion. ‘Did you see that?’ The bartender was staring unbelieving. ‘Holy mother of God.’

Sumner twirled the Peacemaker twice forward, then let it fall backward once into its holster. Two more customers exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Hank swallowed hard, and re-holstered his gun. Sumner resumed his seat, picked up a boiled egg, and called out to the bartender again.

‘How about that second drink, barkeep? I’m waiting.’

The bartender hesitated for just a moment, casting a look at the stunned Hank. Then he went for Sumner’s ale. The room was otherwise still deadly silent. Hank shot an embarrassed look at the men he sat with, then without a word to them, or looking at Sumner again, he left the saloon.

A moment later, the room erupted in soft laughter.

It was almost a week later when Amos Latham and his man Guthrie arrived at the small ranch of Luther Bastian. It was a spread of only a couple of hundred acres, and the two men rode through a small herd of fat Longhorns before they arrived at the ranch house.

It was a low-built, modest-looking place with a stables building at the back, a chicken coop and a pigsty. Chickens ran loose around the house, and there was a flower box on a narrow porch. As they rode up and stopped at a short hitching post, a young boy came out onto the dirt yard and stared at them. He was limping. ‘Afternoon, strangers.’ Sober-faced. Looking them over. ‘I’m Jonah Spencer. What can we do for you?’

Amos looked him over. He was a bright-looking boy of about nine or ten, with sandy hair and freckles. His left leg looked permanently bent slightly at the knee. ‘We’re from Montana, boy. We came way down here to find Luther Bastian. Is this his place?’

Jonah frowned at them. He had already had experience with bad men in his young life, and he was suspicious of strangers. ‘Yes, sir. This is the Bastian ranch. You here to buy cattle?’

‘We’re not cattle buyers, boy,’ Guthrie spoke up curtly. ‘Is Bastian here?’

Amos saw the frown deepen, so interposed quickly. ‘We just got some private business with him, son. Would you get him for us?’ He and Guthrie dismounted, and stood holding their mounts. But at that moment, Luther Bastian emerged from the doorway, looked them over from the porch, then came on down to the dirt yard.

He was tall, about Sumner’s size, with broad shoulders and a long angular face. He looked around forty, and was obviously in good physical shape. Before he had come outside he had strapped on something neither of them had seen before, a sawn-off Colt .44 in a custom, break-open holster that lay ominously across his belly, the gun that had been responsible for the deaths of many wanted men before Bastian had got married and begun the more sedate life of ranching.

‘Can I help you boys?’ he asked warily.

‘They want to talk business with you,’ Jonah blurted out.