Drifter 2 Read online

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Contents

  About the Book

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  More on Jake Henry

  Forced into taking a job he didn’t want, Savage rode into a desert swarming with hostile Yavapai Indians. His mission—to find a psychotic, half-breed killer named Rios. Then Fate stepped in and dealt him a whole new hand. Savage was taken captive a small band of rebels, for whom the Civil War has never ended. Although their leader, the legendary General Jo Shelby, now wants to return to Missouri, some under his command would rather see him dead than betray their cause. Just maybe Savage can get Shelby home in one piece. Before that can happen, however, the desert is wrenched apart by the explosive fury of the Yavapais, who are out for bloody revenge, and Savage realizes he’ll need all of his skill if he’s not to let his bones, alongside those of the general, end up bleaching beneath a merciless sun!

  This one is for Sam and Jacob

  Author’s Note

  While history tells a different story about the great southern general, Joseph Shelby, what follows in the coming pages is all a figment of the author’s imagination and not meant to be construed as true events.

  The other point I’ll make has to do with the settlement of Phoenix. The original settlement was, in fact, started in late 1867 and early 1868. It was officially recognized as a town on May 4, 1868, and the post office established on June 15 of that year. Therefore, the timeline in this story may be somewhat earlier (by a few months) than in real life.

  In writing this story the author has taken fictional license and created (hopefully) an exciting alternate twist to a tale of the man who became a legend.

  Jake Henry

  2016

  One

  ‘You, sir, are a cheat,’ a well-dressed man with a southern accent accused as he lurched to his feet. His icy stare remained fixed on the solidly built man who sat opposite.

  His accused had black hair and wore a low-crowned black hat tipped back on his head. A buckskin jacket covered a union blue shirt and his pants matched the shirt and were tucked into black cavalry boots.

  Savage’s face hardened and he stopped raking the pot towards himself across the battered tabletop. His brown eyes grew hard. ‘And you shouldn’t shoot your mouth off so freely. It’s likely to get you killed.’

  The other players eased their chairs back, the scraping noise on the floorboards almost deafening in the otherwise silent room.

  Ned Tate’s stare never wavered, and the handsome man in his early forties refused to let Savage’s withering glare get to him.

  It was the fourth pot in a row that Savage had won. Which wasn’t much considering he’d lost the eight previous ones between Tate and the other three men in the poker game. This hand, however, was different. This pot was upwards of one hundred dollars and most of it was Tate’s.

  Savage had drifted into Concho Springs way station, Arizona Territory, the day before on a tired sorrel after three days of dodging Apaches.

  Concho Springs sat in the middle of desert country surrounded by giant saguaro cactus, prickly pear, ocotillo, and creosote bush. It was situated on a large spring which was its only water source. It was an oasis in a harsh land.

  While out on the trail, Savage had come across an upturned stage. All of the six-up horse team was gone and the driver, messenger, and passengers were dead. Every one of them had been scalped. The buzzards had done the rest.

  He’d been told that it was the work of Rios and his Apache renegades. They were a small band of outcasts led by a half-breed. They stole everything they required to live and murdered anyone who stood in their way. Even their own kind wanted no part of them.

  ‘Tread softly, Savage,’ a new voice warned. ‘He has a reputation.’

  The man who’d spoken was a cavalry lieutenant by the name of Joel Porter. He was a slim man with dark hair and three days growth of beard on his face. He led a patrol that was using the station as a stopover for the night. While most of his men were outside, both he and his sergeant were inside.

  The lieutenant’s words were true enough. Tate had a reputation as fast with a gun, a killer, a gambler, and a man not to be trifled with. Once on his wrong side, there was no turning back.

  ‘Just go ahead and shoot the cheatin’ son of a bitch, Ned,’ an attractive, dark-haired woman in her late thirties urged Tate.

  Tate nodded. ‘I might just do that Glory darlin’.’

  Gloria Tate was Ned’s wife. It was said that she was as bad as her husband. Rumor had it that she’d knifed a man outside of a saloon in New Mexico one night, just to take back the winnings her husband had lost. It couldn’t be proved, however, and nothing was ever done about it.

  Still seated in his chair, Savage turned his steely gaze upon Gloria. ‘Ma’am if I was you I’d be tryin’ to save my husband’s life instead of tryin’ to get him killed. Now if you ain’t goin’ to do that then the least you can do is to shut your damned mouth.’

  The last words that spilled from his lips were harsh and filled with menace.

  Gloria’s jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide, unused to being spoken to in that manner.

  She looked to her husband.

  ‘Are you goin’ to let him talk to me that way?’ she screeched. ‘Shoot him! Do it now damn it!’

  With the sound of his wife’s cries still ringing in his ears, Tate went for the six-gun on his right thigh. It had only just cleared leather when Savage’s .44 caliber Remington roared from beneath the table.

  The slug punched through the tabletop and buried itself into the gambler’s chest. His mouth hung open with the shock of its sudden impact. Tate remained on his feet however and fought to bring his six-gun up.

  Savage rose, coming to his full height of six-foot-one. With a wisp of gun smoke still rising from the barrel of the Remington he brought it up, cocked the hammer and aimed at Tate.

  ‘I told you your mouth was likely to get you killed,’ he rasped and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet smashed into Tate’s wide-open mouth. On the way in, it shattered his bottom teeth and deflected upwards. It blew out the back of his skull in a crimson spray of brains and bone fragments.

  Tate’s six-gun fell from his lifeless fingers and clattered to the rough floorboards. His corpse followed it with a dull thud.

  ‘Ned!’ Gloria screamed. ‘You murderin’ bastard, you’ve killed him!’

  Seemingly from nowhere, Gloria Tate drew a small knife with a double-edged blade. She raised it above her head and moved swiftly towards Savage. The polished steel glinted as it reflected the dim lantern light within the station. Gloria screamed bloody murder as she made to bring a deathblow down upon her husband’s killer.

  Without a second thought, Savage’s left hand balled into a fist and deftly clipped her on her petite chin when she came within reach. Gloria’s screams ceased immediately and the knife fell from her grasp. Her knees went weak and as she collapsed, Savage caught her up and placed her limp body in the chair he’d been sitting in.

  ‘Why didn’t you put a bullet in the stupid bitch’s head too?’ an older, unkempt prospector, cackled from over at the small, roughly built bar.

  Savage gave him a look of disgust and was about to reply when there was movement at the station’s front door as it swung open. A man in his late thir
ties entered. He was dressed in black, had a muscular build, tanned face, and saddlebags over his shoulder. He took in the scene before him, the dead body on the floor and the rest of the people in the room, before he said in a heavy southern drawl, ‘Hell, did I miss somethin’?’

  ~*~

  His name was Lucifer. The single word title was all he needed as it was a name everyone present knew. Lucifer was a killer for hire. A product of the war whom, like many others, returned home to nothing and made a living any way they could. His cause of his current presence at Concho Springs was anyone’s guess.

  When the half-drunk prospector proudly told what he’d witnessed, Lucifer looked across at Savage and said, ‘Is that right? Seems to me I’ve heard of you Savage. Ex- cavalry captain who killed a heap of fellers that did for your wife.’

  All heads turned to stare at Savage who was now seated at a different table with a mug of coffee in front of him.

  ‘Don’t believe all you hear,’ he advised Lucifer.

  ‘Sounds like good advice.’ Lucifer smiled.

  ‘He’s a damned murderer is what he is,’ the now conscious Gloria snarled.

  ‘I’ll take these for you Mr. Lucifer,’ the station manager Bill Davis offered, reaching for the saddlebags. ‘I’ll put them somewheres out of the way’.

  Lucifer gave the rail-thin manager a cold look and said with menace, ‘If anyone touches my saddlebags I’ll kill them.’

  Davis withdrew his hand as though burned, fear etched on his face. Tension hung heavily in the room and was only broken when Lucifer smiled and said, ‘Just kiddin’. Thank you but I’ll take care of them myself.’

  Davis smiled nervously and walked back to the bar.

  After a few more minutes, Porter and his sergeant left the room to head outside. Meanwhile, Lucifer found himself a table with a watered-down bottle of whiskey. Every now and then he looked up at Savage, sizing him up.

  Savage decided enough was enough and got up from his seat and walked out.

  He stood in the center of the hard-packed yard and looked about.

  The sun had begun to sink and cast an orange hue across the desert. Large rock formations changed color as did the cloudless sky. Later, once the sun was gone, it would cool down and the night air would take on a sharp bite.

  The yard was deserted but he headed around to the rear of the station where the cavalry troop was camped.

  Porter and his solidly built sergeant were in a discussion about posting sentries when Savage showed. The sergeant saluted, then left the two of them to talk in private.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Captain Savage?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Savage is just fine lieutenant,’ Savage told him. ‘I ain’t a troop commander anymore.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Fair enough. So is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could ride along with you fellers tomorrow? You know safety in numbers. What, with the Yavapai stirred up of late as well as that Rios feller thrown into the mix.’

  ‘But we’re only goin’ back to Fort Craig tomorrow,’ Porter pointed out. ‘Is that the way you’re headed?’

  Craig was only another twenty miles to the north and had first been established in 1863 to protect travelers from the Apaches who lived in the Gila River and Salt River Valleys.

  ‘It’ll do,’ Savage answered. ‘I ain’t got nowhere special to be.’

  Porter thought for a moment then nodded. ‘It may be best. When we arrive you can report to the Colonel and tell him about the stage you found.’

  ‘I guess I can do that,’ Savage allowed. ‘But what makes you so sure that it was Rios that hit the stage and not Yavapai?’

  ‘We ran across Rios in that area two days back,’ Porter told him. ‘We chased him for ten miles before we lost him. I’d say he doubled back and waited for the stage. It’s not the first time that it’s happened. Besides, the Yavapai have been stickin’ to the mountains east of here lately and have caused no trouble.’

  ‘That ain’t what I saw the last three days,’ Savage disagreed.

  Suddenly there shouts from inside the way station followed by the sound of a gunshot.

  Two

  Savage and Porter looked at each other and started to run towards the front of the building.

  ‘Sergeant Russell, on me,’ Porter shouted.

  Russell began to follow, collecting another two other troopers along the way. When Savage and Porter burst through the front door, they found Lucifer standing over the body of the prospector, a Colt Navy Model .36 caliber, still in his hand.

  The old man lay on his back with a hole in his chest, a pool of blood starting to form.

  Lucifer looked over at them and said nonchalantly, ‘I gave fair warnin’. He was goin’ through my saddlebags.’

  Savage looked at him in disgust. ‘I hope whatever he saw was worth dyin’ over.’

  ‘I think we need to have a look,’ Porter said aloud.

  Lucifer shook his head. ‘Nope, you don’t.’

  ‘Sergeant Russell,’ Porter snapped.

  The sergeant and the two troopers started forward and Lucifer brought up his six-gun and thumbed back the hammer. They paused and looked questioningly at Porter.

  ‘Just tell them to come ahead if you want them killed soldier boy,’ Lucifer sneered.

  The lieutenant thought briefly then said reluctantly, ‘Stand down, Russell.’

  The three cavalrymen backed off and Lucifer smiled. ‘There, that’s better. Ain’t no one likely to get killed now.’

  He holstered his six-gun and as soon as he did, Savage drew his Remington and thumbed back the hammer. The dry triple-click took everyone by surprise. Lucifer especially.

  ‘Are you aimin’ to use that?’ he asked Savage.

  ‘Only if I have to,’ Savage informed him. ‘The others may have stood down but I ain’t. Now let’s see what is in those saddlebags of yours and we’ll know whether or not it was worth killin’ for. Have a look Sergeant Russell.’

  Russell took the saddlebags and opened one side. He hissed loudly and threw them at Lucifer who only just managed to catch them.

  ‘You murderin’ son of a bitch,’ Russell snarled.

  ‘What did you find, Sergeant?’ Porter asked.

  Russell turned and faced Porter, a look of revulsion on his face.

  ‘The bastard has scalps in them, lieutenant,’ Russell reported. ‘Apache scalps. The son of a bitch is scalp huntin’.’

  ‘There is nothin’ illegal about it,’ Lucifer declared.

  ‘There’s nothing right about it either,’ Porter snapped.

  Savage stood and stared at the killer, and it took a deal of will power not to let the hammer drop on the Remington.

  Instead, he motioned towards the door. ‘Saddle your horse and get the hell out of here. Don’t come back.’

  Lucifer’s eyes turned icy.

  ‘You’re a big man with that six-gun in your fist,’ he hissed.

  ‘And you’ll be a dead one if you don’t get the hell gone,’ Savage snarled. ‘Right now it’s takin’ all I have not to drop you where you stand. Now go!’

  Lucifer saw the look in Savage’s eyes and knew that he was a hair’s breadth away from dying and decided not to push things any further. He picked up the saddlebags and headed towards the door.

  When the door closed, Savage holstered the Remington, looked across at Porter and said, ‘I’d say that is why I’ve been seein’ all them Yavapai the last few days. I reckon they’re lookin’ for that son of a bitch.’

  Porter nodded. ‘I agree.’

  ~*~

  Lucifer was adjusting the saddle on his chestnut when Gloria Tate found him. He was out by the corral in the dark preparing to leave when he heard the soft footfalls come up behind him.

  Without turning he asked, ‘Is there somethin’ you wanted ma’am?’

  ‘I want to hire you,’ Gloria Tate said. ‘I want you to kill Savage for me.’

  ‘No.’
/>   ‘I’ll pay you five hundred dollars. It is all I have.’

  ‘I have a job.

  ‘Killin’ Indians for bounty?’

  ‘It pays.’

  ‘So you won’t do it?’

  ‘No.’

  She watched as he mounted and rode off into the darkness then called after him, ‘Damn you!’

  ~*~

  Twenty mounted troopers sat saddle waiting for the order to move out. Horses stamped at the hard-packed earth and the jingle of metal tack rang out in the still morning air. There remained a faint chill which would be gone as the sun climbed higher over the distant mountains and warmed the desert with its baking heat.

  Savage saddled the sorrel and led the animal over to join the column.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’

  Savage nodded. ‘Yeah. Have you seen our friend up on the ridge this morning?’

  Porter looked to the east and saw the lone figure sitting atop a horse between two large saguaro plants. He sat motionless, staring out across the Concho Springs station at everything that happened.

  ‘Do you think he’s lookin’ for Lucifer?’ Porter asked.

  ‘More than likely,’ Savage said. ‘Then again, he might be scoutin’ the way station.’

  Porter was about to send a couple of troopers out to the ridge but before he could make the order, the Apache was gone.

  ‘Oh well, let’s go then.’

  Five minutes later amid the cacophony of hoof beats, the cavalry patrol plus one rode out of Concho Springs. If Porter had sent the troopers out to the ridge they would’ve found more than one lone Apache. On the backside of the ridge, there were fifty.

  ~*~

  The young trooper’s shrill screams rang out as the razor-sharp blade bit into the flesh of his forehead below the hairline. As it was dragged across from left to right the skin peeled back and left a flood of scarlet to cascade down his face, blinding him as it washed into his eyes.

  Rios smiled viciously, showing yellowed teeth as continued his bloody work. Two of his renegades held the young trooper still, their powerful sun-bronzed arms rippled as their muscles flexed against the struggles.