Hell stage to lone pine, p.1
Hell Stage to Lone Pine, page 1
Hell Stage to Lone Pine
Young Ben Brewer is looking to prove himself to the owner of Lone Pine ranch, Morgan Hethridge, and his beautiful daughter, Josie. But trouble is brewing as Hethridge’s rival is scheming to take over Lone Pine ranch. To protect the land Brewer must face the feared gunhawk Calvin Choate.
As the situation grows desperate, old timer Whipcrack Riley steps in. Will his wily ways and his skills driving a stagecoach be enough to help Brewer once the situation gets really rough and the bullets are flying?
By the same author
Showdown at Dirt Crossing
Comanchero Trail
Hell Stage to Lone Pine
Jack Dakota
ROBERT HALE
© Jack Dakota 2011
First published in Great Britain 2012
ISBN 978-0-7198-2306-0
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
This e-book first published in 2017
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of Jack Dakota to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Chapter One
It was lucky for the horse that Ben Brewer had been bog riding and had his rope and shovel with him. It was unlucky that he was on his own, making it more difficult to extricate the horse from the quicksand. He jumped from the saddle, quickly fastened one end of his rope round the horse’s neck and the other end to the cantle of his saddle. He cinched the saddle as tight as the latigo straps would allow, climbed back into leather and started his horse forward as gently as he could. The strain was immediate and he feared that the rope would draw too tightly round the stranded horse’s neck and strangle it. There was a slight movement but not enough.
He dismounted and took off his boots to prevent the mud and sand filling them. Then he took up the short shovel and waded out into the gumbo. He was taking a chance. The mud came over his ankles and he could feel it sucking him down. At least he didn’t need to go too far in before he could start digging at the horse’s feet, concentrating on the back legs, so that if the animal got any sort of grip with its front legs it wouldn’t begin to flounder. The suction gripped like a vice and if the animal had been struggling the situation would have been hopeless. As it was the horse seemed to have passed that stage and succumbed to a dumb hopelessness.
A short period of shovelling was enough to make Brewer’s back and shoulders ache and it took all his strength to struggle the few yards back to the edge of the swamp. Once again he mounted the sorrel and touched his spurs to its flanks. The rope took the strain. For a few moments nothing happened, then suddenly something gave way and the sorrel started forward again.
‘Come on, boy! You can do it!’ Brewer shouted, encouraging the straining animal as the rope took the full weight of the bogged creature.
Brewer looked over his shoulder at the pitiful beast in the swamp. Its head was pulled to one side and there was a wild look in its eye. Brewer was fearful that the effort would be too much for it and its legs would break. Either that or its neck. Slowly they inched forward and then the sorrel came to a stop. For a second time Brewer jumped down and, taking the shovel, began to dig. Then, wearily, he got back into the saddle and urged the sorrel to one more effort. Now the bogged animal began to struggle and Brewer felt encouraged. It had regained its fight and he felt that real progress was being made. If it could just hold out; if its neck and legs could only withstand the strain. He concentrated hard to keep pulling in line with the stranded horse’s body. One pull out of line and the further pressure might be the final thing to crick the horse’s neck or snap its leg. The sorrel was sweating but it was moving more freely.
Brewer glanced behind one last time. The bogged horse’s back legs were coming free and the front ones were loosening. Brewer touched his spurs to the sorrel’s flanks, urging it to one last effort. The sorrel strained and then, with a lurch, the stranded horse was loose and struggling up on to firmer ground.
Without losing any time Brewer undid the rope from the cantle and slid to the ground. He drew his knife and cut the rope from the horse’s neck. The animal was exhausted, weak and cold. It stood stiff-legged as Brewer threw a blanket over its back and then fed it some oats. He stroked its neck and whispered a few encouraging words into its ear. While he was preoccupied with this he didn’t notice a group of three riders bearing down on him until they were almost upon him. Then he became aware of pounding hoofs and looked up. Instinctively he took a step towards the sorrel to reach his Winchester rifle but he was too late. Already the group of riders had drawn to a halt and there was a six-gun in the lead rider’s hand, which was pointed at his chest.
‘I wouldn’t try anythin’.’ The man barked.
He was growing to fat and a scar ran down his left cheek. His two companions were nondescript but looked as vicious as a pair of weasels in a sack. Brewer noted the brand marks on their horses: a Buzzard On A Rail. That was Jed Sloane’s ranch. Jed Sloane employed some pretty ornery hombres, but these were mean even by his standards. In the silence that followed the leader’s words Brewer became aware for the first time of the insects which were hovering about his mud-encrusted garments: heelflies. He swatted them away with the back of his hand.
‘That hoss,’ the man said. ‘Looks to me like that’s one of ours.’
‘See for yourself. It ain’t got no markings.’
The man turned to one of his companions. ‘What do you reckon, Rafe?’ he said. ‘Seems to me that hoss is carryin’ the Buzzard On A Rail brand.’
‘Sure looks that way to me,’ the man replied.
‘Horse-stealin’,’ the leader continued. ‘That’s a mighty serious offence.’
‘I ain’t stole no horse. That bronc is barely saddle broke. Someone rode it into that swamp and left it there.’
‘Ain’t no arguin’,’ the man said. ‘You steal someone else’s hoss, you got to take what comes.’
‘Stealin’ hosses is a hangin’ offence,’ the man referred to as Rafe put in. ‘Come on, let’s string him up.’
The other one whooped.
‘Got us a necktie party!’ he shouted. ‘What are we waitin’ for?’
The leader grinned. ‘You see what these boys are like?’ he said. ‘There just ain’t no denyin’ ’em when they’re lookin’ for justice.’
‘Shouldn’t we let the marshal decide that?’ Brewer said.
The three riders guffawed.
‘The marshal might hold some sway in Eagle Gulch,’ the leader said, ‘but out here the Buzzard On A Rail says what’s right and what’s wrong.’
‘This ain’t Buzzard On A Rail land.’
The man looked about him. ‘Don’t see nobody else’s cattle,’ he said.
‘This is free range.’
‘Like I say, we ain’t here to argue.’ He pulled back the hammer of his gun. ‘Drop your gun belt and get back on your hoss. We gonna take a ride.’
His two henchmen whooped again. ‘Sure are. To the nearest cottonwood tree!’
Brewer paused for just a moment. He had been quickly working out a vague plan which involved putting the rescued horse between him and his attackers, but the horse had walked away and was cropping some grass at a little distance. He looked down the barrel of the six-gun. There was nothing he could do but go along with them. He dropped his guns and climbed into the saddle of the sorrel. One of the Buzzard On A Rail men dropped down and picked up the gunbelt.
‘OK. Let’s go!’ said the leader.
They set off, the Buzzard On A Rail men riding close. Brewer was conscious of the gun aimed at his back. After a short ride they arrived at a stand of trees.
‘This will do fine,’ the leader said. He turned to one of the others. ‘Van, get the rope.’
Brewer was watching for his chance, and as the man dismounted he dug his spurs hard into the flanks of the sorrel. The horse started forward and Brewer flung himself flat along the length of its body. There was a shout behind him and then the crack of a gun. He felt a searing pain in his arm, then the sorrel reared up and sent him crashing to the ground. He scrambled to his feet but in an instant the leader had ridden him down. Brewer looked up to see a horse standing over him and the figure of its rider leaning over with his gun pointed at Brewer’s head.
‘Get up!’ he barked.
Brewer struggled to his feet, clutching his right shoulder. His arm was damaged but there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. Before he had time to dwell on his injury he was seized from behind and his arms were pinioned to his sides. Brewer clenched his teeth with the pain. Without any consideration for his wound two of the riders pushed him to his horse. One of them tied a rope around his neck, then they manhandled him up into the saddle. The one called Van gave the other end of the rope to the leader, who dismounted and swung it up and over a low-hanging branch of a tree. The sorrel was restless and was only prevented from moving by one of the riders, who held it by the bridle.
‘Say your prayers, Brewer.’
Brewer looked towards the leering face of the leader.
‘How come you know my name?’ he said.
‘I know you like I know your brand. They both stink.’
‘And what’s yours?’
‘What’s it to you? You’re about to die.’
‘A dying man gets to have one last request.’
The man laughed. ‘OK. Whatever you want. The name’s Choate, Calvin Choate. Remember me in hell.’
‘One other thing,’ Brewer said.
The rope was already tightening around his neck.
‘Yeah. Make it quick.’
‘Better take a look behind you.’
The man laughed. ‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘But you’d better come up with something better than that.’
There was a brief pause and then a voice sounded from somewhere in the trees.
‘Better do as he says, Choate. Less’n you want to be blown to bits. I got me a shotgun with a hair trigger and it’s pointed right between your shoulder blades.’
Brewer watched Choate closely. Choate looked towards his comrades who had half-turned their heads towards the trees. They could see nothing and could give him no kind of sign.
‘I don’t know what that young man is supposed to have done,’ the voice continued, ‘but I never held with no kind of lynchin’.’ There was another pause and then the voice continued:
‘One of you boys better start undoin’ that hemp cravat before there’s some kind of accident.’
The men’s eyes sought those of Choate, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. While one man continued to hold the horse, the other reached up and lifted the rope from Brewer’s neck and over his head. While he was doing so, Choate seemed to find his voice.
‘This hombre’s a horse-thief!’ he shouted. ‘Just so you realize what you’re doin’.’
‘Now ain’t that a coincidence? I just seen a horse lookin’ pretty unhappy with itself down by the swamp. Now if my guess is correct and that there’s the horse in question, seems to me it ain’t carryin’ no brand.’
Brewer dropped down from his horse at the same moment that the bushes behind Choate parted and a man stepped out. Even under the circumstances, Brewer was surprised by his appearance. The newcomer was an oldster and he carried a slight limp.
‘I suggest you boys just ride away,’ he said.
Brewer’s eyes were on Choate. The man was caught in a quandary. Choate looked again at the other two and then the situation was resolved for him. Van had obviously seen the oldster and fancied his chances. In a flash his hand had dropped to his holster; his gun was in his hand and spitting lead in an instant but even so the old man was quicker.
The crash of the oldster’s shotgun almost coincided with the report of Van’s six-shooter but it was Van who fell to the ground. Rafe’s gun was in his hand, but as he fired Brewer kicked out and caught the barrel with his foot. The shot flew high and wide as Brewer flung himself upon his assailant and they went down in a tangle, Brewer’s hand gripping the other man’s gun hand. There was an explosion of shots behind them as they rolled over on the grass. Rafe was on top of Brewer but Brewer kicked out and the man fell backwards.
Springing instantly to his feet, Brewer kicked out again and the gun went flying from Rafe’s hand. Brewer moved to pick it up but Rafe had already reached for his other gun and was about to pull the trigger when a shot rang out and he went staggering back, blood pouring from his chest. He looked up once more and tried to raise his gun hand but then fell to his knees. His baffled eyes looked into Brewer’s and then, with the question they were asking unanswered, he sank face forward to the ground. His body twitched and he was still.
Brewer looked behind him. The oldster’s shotgun was smoking. Near by Choate lay in a crumpled heap but even as Brewer watched he struggled to his feet. Blood flowing down his arm indicated that the oldster’s buckshot had inflicted a minor injury.
‘Who are you, old man?’ he said.
‘Someone to avoid,’ the oldster replied. ‘Now git on your horse and ride before I change my mind about lettin’ you have another chance.’
For a moment Choate hesitated. If he had been contemplating resistance he thought better of it. Instead, he mounted his horse, not without difficulty. He looked down at the old timer and spat on the ground.
‘I’ll remember you,’ he said.
‘You better,’ the oldster replied.
With a last ugly leer Choate jammed his spurs into the horse’s flanks and rode off in the direction of the Buzzard On A Rail. The old man turned to Brewer.
‘You OK?’ he shouted.
‘Yeah, more or less.’
In the heat of battle Brewer had forgotten about his shoulder but now he became aware of an intense pain and he suddenly felt weak. He started to walk towards the oldster but before he had gone a few paces he fell to the ground. The last thing he remembered was the grizzled face of the old man bending over him and then he passed out.
When he awakened it was night and he lay in the warm shelter of a campfire. A blackened tripod hung over the flames and there was bacon sizzling in a pan. His shoulder hurt but it had been bound up and bandaged. His neck was sore where the rope had burned it but otherwise he felt OK. He was alone but after a few minutes he heard footsteps and the oldster emerged from some bushes, carrying a blackened tin kettle which he placed on the tripod. The oldster turned and saw him.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You’ve come round. How are you feelin’?’
Brewer tried to sit up but the pain in his shoulder forced him to lie back again.
‘Shoulder hurts like hell,’ he said.
‘Not surprisin’,’ the oldster replied. ‘Took me a good time to prise that bullet outa you. You lost a lot of blood.’
‘You took out the bullet?’ Brewer said.
‘Done a purty good job of it,’ the oldster replied. ‘Guess that’s what comes of practice.’
‘You ain’t some kind of a sawbones?’
‘Nope, but I’ve picked up plenty of doctorin’ in my time. Mad stone for snakebite, bear oil for rheumatism and a drop of this for most anythin’ else.’
He pulled a flask from his pocket and proffered it to Brewer.
‘Best forty-rod. Take a sip. If it don’t make your eyes bleed it’ll cure you.’
Brewer took the flask and swallowed a mouthful. Next moment he was sitting up, gasping for breath and coughing and spluttering as the whiskey burned its way down his throat. His head felt like a volcano.
‘Yeah, takes you that way at first,’ the oldster said. ‘There’ll be some black coffee pretty soon and I guess a few strips of bacon might grease your innards.’
By the time he had eaten Brewer had to admit he was feeling a lot better. There was a glow in the pit of his stomach and the world seemed a cosier place. He looked across at the oldster. The man seemed to have developed an almost fatherly aura.
‘Say,’ Brewer said, ‘I ain’t thanked you yet for savin’ my life.’
‘Weren’t nothin’. Just lucky I happened to be around.’
‘I didn’t steal that horse,’ Brewer said.
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘ ’Cause that horse is mine.’
Brewer looked at him and a smile spread across his features.
‘Your horse?’ he said.
‘Yup. Someone stole him from me. Plumb got away with a good saddle as well. Musta taken it with them after they rode him into the swamp. Maybe one of the same varmints as tried to lynch you. There’s a bunch of ’em been on my tail one way and another for the past few days.’
‘They ride for the Buzzard On A Rail ranch,’ Brewer said. ‘Their horses carried the brand.’
‘Yeah. Maybe so. Or maybe they bin the ones doin’ the horse thievin’. Either way they ain’t gonna be doin’ it now.’
The oldster pulled out a pack of Bull Durham. After building himself a smoke he offered the pack to Brewer.
‘You punchin’ for anybody?’ he asked. ‘Looked to me you got the equipment.’
‘I ride for the Lone Pine.’
‘Is that so? What sort of a spread is that?’
‘Small but growin’. Mr Hethridge, he’s the owner. A real nice man. Gave me my first job as a wrangler.’
‘You liked hosses?’
‘Sure did.’
‘Yeah. Guess you still do, otherwise you wouldn’t have put yourself to the bother of rescuin’ old Flume.’
