The Bounty Hunters, page 1
The Bounty Hunters
Copyright © 2013 by Van Holt and Three Knolls Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Three Knolls Publishing • www.3KnollsPub.com
Cover and Book design: KB Design •
www.kbdesign1.com
First Printing, 2013. Printed in the United States of America.
Chapter 1
A tall lean man in a dark suit and hat came out of the hotel with a carpetbag and looked down the dusty road the way the stage would come. He did not seem to notice the woman in the green traveling dress sitting in one of the veranda chairs, or the man with the black hair and mustache lounging nearby. After a moment he set his carpetbag on the floor and stood with his shoulder against a post, idly rolling a cigarette.
The dark man with the black hair and mustache also had black eyes. He was as lean and almost as tall as the other man. He watched the other man roll his cigarette and noticed that his hands looked strong and sure and steady. His face was lean and hard and tanned to smooth leather by the sun and wind. Despite the clothes, he did not look like a man who spent much time indoors.
Then against his will the dark man’s eyes were drawn to the woman in the green dress. He did not like women or trust them. They had never brought him anything but grief. But this one was so beautiful that he could not keep from looking at her. It was a cool, remote beauty, at least on the surface, but he had a feeling that was only a thin skim of ice over a volcano. She had glossy dark brown hair that was almost black and cool green eyes. Her face was smooth and lightly tanned. She was rather tall and slender, but full-breasted and well formed. He would have put her age at twenty-five or a little more. She was also waiting for the stage and he thought it odd that such an attractive woman was traveling alone.
The dark man sauntered into the hotel lobby. There was no one at the desk and he had a look at the register. Then he got some writing paper off the desk and sat down in one of the leather-covered chairs and began writing with a pencil stub.
Twin Buttes, Texas
Oct. 12, 1878
“Man here calling himself Rex Farley, but I’m pretty sure he’s the man you knew as Travis, the one who killed your brother. He’s about six feet tall or a little better and weighs around one seventy or one seventy-five pounds. His eyes are gray or blue—it’s hard to tell which. His hair is a sort of pale copper-yellow or you might say it’s a light golden brown tinged with red. It’s darker around the edges and if he had a beard or mustache it would probably be copper-brown or chestnut-brown. But he’s clean-shaven. He has a poker face that don’t show what he’s thinking. He doesn’t look happy or unhappy, friendly or unfriendly. He seems quiet and courteous like a gentleman, but he don’t smile or talk much and there’s something about him that keeps people at a distance. I’ve got a feeling that’s where he wants them—at a distance, although he don’t let on like it bothers him one way or the other. I’m writing all this down because I want to make sure he’s the right man before I try to collect the $5000 reward you offered for him, dead or alive. I’m aware of course that the law has a bigger reward out on you, but I know my limitations and don’t want to find myself on the run from your men the way Travis has been now for four or five years. So you don’t have to worry about me trying to collect the reward on you when I come to collect for him.
“He’s waiting to board the stage for Cottonwood Creek about half a day’s ride southwest of here. I intend to be on the same stage and keep close to him until I hear from you. I understand your men are on his trail, but as they haven’t had much luck so far I thought I’d offer my professional services. That’s how I earn my living—bounty hunting, and I don’t care who pays the bounty.
“As a matter of fact I’ve been interested in this case for some time and have been keeping my eyes peeled for anyone fitting Travis’s description. I’ve also found out all I could about him. He used to work on Chet Ramsey’s Big R Ranch not far from Cottonwood Creek. He came there when he was about eighteen or nineteen and soon became the foreman over Ramsey’s son Lyle who was about the same age. Lyle Ramsey’s feelings toward Travis were about what you’d expect, and Travis never seemed to have a very high opinion of Lyle. But when Lyle came back to the ranch unexpectedly one day and found his beautiful young stepmother with a strange man and got himself killed, the man you knew as Travis went looking for the killer and found your brother. Whether he got the right man or not is not for me to say, but I thought you might like to know something about Travis.
“Who Travis was before he went to work at the ranch and where he came from, no one seems to know. My own personal belief is that he was that kid, Dan Britton, who killed three or four people in a shootout in Colorado and then disappeared about a year before Ben Travis turned up at the Big R. People who saw the shooting said the Britton boy was tall and slender and had blond or blond-brown hair and blue or gray eyes. That fits Travis’s description and also the man who’s now calling himself Farley. But whatever his name is, I’m convinced he’s the man you want. Its almost stage time so I’ll close hoping to do some business with you in the near future.
Link Colman”
Colman read the letter and decided it wasn’t bad for a man who hated to write letters. Now, he thought, if I just knew where Sam Grayson is, so I could send it to him.
He did not have an envelope, so he folded the letter and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Hearing the stage, he picked up his saddlebags and went out onto the veranda. Travis or Farley or whatever his name was, was still where he had been before, watching the approaching stage with no expression on his hard face. The woman in the green dress was getting to her feet, about to pick up her heavy suitcase and smaller traveling bag. Scowling, Colman reluctantly lifted the suitcase and she said in a cool voice, “Thank you.”
The hotel man came out saying, “No hurry, folks. I just figgered you knew they’d stop here to eat and change horses.”
The woman sighed and sat back down in the veranda chair. The hotel man picked up her bag and got the suitcase from Colman, who gladly surrendered it. “I’ll help the driver load your luggage on top, ma’am,” the hotel man said. Then he turned to the quiet stranger and said, “What about your bag, sir? Like it put on top?”
“No thanks,” the stranger said quietly. “I’ll hold onto it.”
The hotel man hesitated, studying the man who had signed the name Rex Farley in the register. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” Farley said, and turned away, dismissing the hotel man.
Two passengers arrived on the stage, a fat drummer and a man who was dressed like a gambler but built like a lumberjack or a hard-rock miner. He stood an inch or two over six feet, had broad shoulders and a lean waist. His eyes were pale and watchful behind a powerful nose. He looked at the woman, Lorna Mason, and then followed the drummer into the hotel to eat.
Twenty minutes later the stage got under way. Link Colman and Lorna Mason sat on the rear seat facing the stalwart, keen-eyed gambler, the fat drummer and the quiet man who said his name was Farley.
Farley didn’t seem to be armed, but Link Colman felt certain there was a gun in the carpetbag on the floor at his feet.
The fat drummer, Wallis, seemed to be what he said he was. But the bronzed gambler, Hubbard, was something else again. Colman had a memory for faces and he was all but certain that he had seen the gambler’s face on a wanted poster. If he was right, then the gambler’s name was not Barney Hubbard, but Barney Pierce, who had been Sam Grayson’s right-hand man for many years. Colman had heard a rumor that Pierce had quarreled with his chief and struck out on his own, but it may have been nothing more than that, a rumor. Colman decided not to try for the bounty on Pierce until he found out for sure. The last thing he wanted was the Grayson gang on his trail.
At that moment, by a strange coincidence, the fat drummer said, “I hear some of the Grayson gang have been seen not far from here. The driver said he was afraid they’d hold up the stage, but I told him I figgered they were looking for Ben Travis.”
Everyone looked at the drummer with interest except Farley. He kept looking out the coach window as if he had not heard. He seemed lost in thought. His clear gray-blue eyes were remote and his smooth hard face showed no change.
“What do you know about Ben Travis?” Colman asked the drummer, after glancing at Farley.
“Why, I figgered everyone had heard of him by now,” the drummer said. “Four-five years back, he joined up with the Grayson gang and waited until he got Red Grayson alone, then killed him and disappeared. The rest of the Grayson gang’s been looking for him ever since, when they ain’t holding up banks and stages.”
Lorna Mason glanced at the gambler and then asked Wallis, “Do you know why he killed Red Grayson?”
The drummer shook his head. “Nobody seems to know that.”
“I know why,” Colman said, watching the man called Farley.
Farley looked at him out of those clear, remote eyes, but his expression did not change.
“If you know, I’m sure the rest of us would be interested in hearing it,” the fat drummer said.
Colman glanced at Farley again and shrugged. “I only heard some talk. Somebody said Red Grayson killed a boy at the ranch where Travis worked.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” the drummer said skeptically. “By the way, Mr. Colman, what did you say you do for a living?”
Col
Just then the driver cracked his whip and yelled, “Grab yore hats, folks! We got company!”
The drummer leaned over Farley and looked out the window, his big eyes flashing with excitement. “Three riders trying to head us off!” he exclaimed. “I’ll lay odds it’s the Grayson gang!”
“Oh no,” Lorna Mason said softly, looking desperately at the tall gambler, Hubbard. He frowned slightly at her and she looked away.
Link Colman was watching Farley. If possible, Farley’s face had become even more expressionless than before, but his gray-blue eyes grew colder and sharper as he watched the progress of the three riders, who were cutting across the prairie to head the stage off at a curve up ahead.
The drummer looked at Colman. “You’ve got a gun! You better get ready to use it!”
Colman shook his head. “Not against the Grayson gang. I don’t want the rest of them on my trail.”
The drummer then appealed to the gambler, Hubbard. “What about you? You look to me like a man who could put up a stiff fight.”
“No, don’t,” Lorna Mason said. “They’ll kill you!”
Hubbard looked at the woman and then shook his head. “All I’ve got is a derringer. It’s not much good at more than ten feet.”
In desperation the drummer turned to Farley, whom he had apparently taken for an Eastern businessman of some sort.
“What about you, sir? You don’t seem to be armed, but if you know how to shoot, Mr. Colman might loan you his gun.”
“No, don’t!” the woman said again. “You can’t fight those men. You’ll just get them mad and they’ll kill us all.”
Farley did not seem to hear either the woman or the drummer. But when the three riders were only a hundred yards from the bouncing stagecoach and closing the distance, he bent over, opened his carpetbag and drew out a gleaming revolver, an open-top Colt .44 with a Navy stock and a long barrel.
Link Colman looked at the gun with interest. Ben Travis had killed Red Grayson with an open-top Colt. At that time, early in 1874, there had not been many .45 Peacemakers available and many men had carried converted Army and Navy Colts and the 1872 open-top Colts, like the one in Farley’s hand. They had been designed for rim-fire cartridges, but many had been altered to fire the more reliable center-fire cartridge. Without a doubt, Farley’s gun had been so altered, for any good gunsmith would do the job for a dollar or two.
Lorna Mason stared at Farley in horror. “Are you crazy?” she cried. “You’ll get us all killed!”
Farley barely glanced at her, then stuck the long-barreled pistol out the window and fired.
One of the riders threw up his arms and fell off his galloping horse.
“He got one!” the drummer yelled excitedly.
“Oh no,” the woman said softly, looking at the gambler. “They’ll think it was—”
The gambler cleared his throat noisily and said, “There’s nothing we can do.”
The two remaining riders began firing angrily at the coach and then spurred even harder toward it.
Colman watched Farley with fascination. Farley kept his clear gray-blue eyes on the oncoming riders and aimed the gun with his hand, by feel and instinct. Yet when he fired, another rider toppled out of the saddle. The third rider, finding himself all alone, suddenly wheeled his horse and spurred away.
“Hot dang!” the driver called. “I never seen sech shootin’! You boys deserve a medal!”
“You boys, hell!” the drummer called back. “It was only—”
Just then the coach gave a jolt and Farley was thrown against the drummer, causing him to leave the sentence unfinished.
“You could have got us all killed!” Lorna Mason said bitterly to Farley.
Farley did not bother to answer. He started to put the revolver back in the carpetbag, then changed his mind and tucked it in his waistband, buttoning his coat over it.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” the drummer asked in amazement. His large eyes were bright with interest and admiration. He had found himself a new hero. “I bet even Ben Travis couldn’t shoot any better than you!”
“I bet he couldn’t either,” Link Colman said, watching Farley.
Chapter 2
The stage reached Cottonwood Creek after dark and the weary passengers filed into the Longhorn Hotel. Link Colman came in last and saw Farley at the desk signing the register. Colman sat down in a chair and lit a long thin cigar. He watched Farley take a key from the clerk, nod his thanks and climb the stairs with his carpetbag.
Colman got up and strolled over to the desk, smoking his cigar. He nodded to the clerk and said, “On the stage I kept thinking I’d seen Farley somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where it was.”
The clerk looked at him in surprise. “I had the same feeling myself. But the name isn’t familiar, so I guess it was someone else I had in mind.”
“Me too, I guess,” Colman said. “I believe I’ll stretch my legs before I eat.”
He strolled outside and started down the street, then stepped into the shadows and went along the alley beside the hotel. He had a feeling Farley would leave by the back door and he wanted to be waiting for him when he came out.
As he stepped around the rear corner of the hotel he almost walked into Farley’s gun. Farley rammed the gun in his belly and reached out with his left hand and lifted Colman’s gun out of the holster. Colman’s gun was also pressed against his belly. Then Farley thrust his own .44 in his waistband, grabbed Colman by the arm, turned him around and shoved him up against the hotel wall. He patted Colman’s pockets, searching for something.
“Where’s the letter?” he asked. “You didn’t have time to mail it.”
“What letter?” Colman asked in surprise.
“You know what letter,” Farley said. He found the letter and slipped it out of the shirt pocket and put it in his own coat pocket.
“How did you know about it?” Colman asked.
“I heard you writing it,” Farley said. “I heard you fold it up and stick it in your pocket. I have a good idea what’s in it, but I want to make sure. In case I’m wrong, I sure am sorry about this.”
As he said it, he brought Colman’s own gun down on the back of his head. Then he bent down and rammed the gun back in Colman’s holster—just in case he was wrong. He did not have time to read the letter right now and it might not tell him what he needed to know anyway.
A few minutes later he was at the livery stable, asking for a horse.
“Did you want to rent one?” the sleepy old hostler asked, rubbing his eyes and peering at Farley in the dark.
“I want to buy one,” Farley said. “The best horse you’ve got.”
“That’ll be the bay gelding with the blaze,” the hostler said. “But the owner told me I’d have to get at least fifty dollars for him.”
“I’ll give you sixty if you’ll throw in a saddle,” Farley said.
“I got a purty good old saddle I guess I can let you have for that,” the hostler said. “I reckon you want the horse now?”
“Yes, as soon as you can saddle him up,” Farley said.
The old hostler quit talking and got busy. After he had led the saddled horse out and collected the money, he asked, “Do I know you, boy?”
“No,” Farley said and stepped into the saddle.
“No, I don’t reckon anyone ever really knew him,” the old hostler muttered as he watched Farley ride out of town, heading south toward the Ramsey ranch.
At the Big R Ranch, Chet Ramsey was in his office, going over his books. Someone came to the door and a frown creased Ramsey’s forehead. He figured it was his wife and he did not have time to talk to her now.
But when he looked up he saw that it was Ben Travis standing at the door, or at least someone who looked a lot like him. If it was not him, then it must be a long lost brother that Ben had never mentioned. Ramsey recalled that the young man had never talked about his folks or much of anything else.
“My God, is it you?” Ramsey asked.
Travis shrugged. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,” he said. “If Sam Grayson doesn’t already know about you, he soon will.”
