Drifter 3 Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Dedciation

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Copyright

  About Jake Henry

  More on Piccadilly Publishing

  They warned Savage not to take the short cut through Dead Man’s Gulch. Too many Apaches, they said. But Savage wanted to get to Albuquerque and that was the quickest route. But the warning failed to mention anything about Craig and Bobby Vandal. Father and son. One a cold killer. The other, prepared to do anything for his boy.

  When Savage arrived in the Gulch, the local sheriff had Bobby locked up on a murder charge. Craig Vandal swore his son would never hang, and before long, a deputy’s badge had been pinned to Savage’s chest and he held a smoking hot Winchester in his hands. From there, the trail of dead was bound to lead to Savage.

  One thing was certain, for many years to come, the citizens of Dead Man’s Gulch would remember the man called DRIFTER!

  This one is for Sam and Jacob

  Prologue

  It was called San Vicente. Well, that’s what the locals called it at the time. Its full name was La Ciénega de San Vicente. Which meant the Marsh of St. Vincent. Its history could be traced back to the arrival of the Spaniards.

  In later years, after silver was discovered, the name would change to Silver City. As with many boomtowns, violence soon followed and brought death with it.

  It would become familiar with the names Harvey Whitehill, William Bonney, and ‘Dangerous’ Dan Tucker. It would see Indian attacks and come to know the legend of the Lost Adams Diggings.

  In 1871, it became the county seat for Grant County and in 1881, the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad had its terminus there.

  But this is not a story about La Ciénega de San Vicente or Silver City.

  Nor is it the story of Pinos Altos, a gold town built on Chiricahua land, originally known as Birchville, created as a supply town for miners or a place to get a woman’s companionship.

  A town that also played host to a man who operated a mercantile before heading to West Texas. His name, Roy Bean.

  The Apaches, led by Mangas Coloradas, who along with the great chief, Cochise, banded together and swore to drive the hated white-eyes from the lands that weren’t theirs. They only succeeded in making them more determined to stay.

  No, this story isn’t about any of them. This story is about a town quite similar to those mentioned, further north by ten miles. Founded on the back of a gold strike, it was violent and rugged. Formed by tents and timber structures along a muddy main street.

  Surrounded by Apache lands, the miners not only fought each other, but the Chiricahua too. Raids on the town had killed miners, storekeepers, men and women. They came with the dawn and were gone before the mist had lifted, leaving behind death and destruction. After every episode, the whites would rebuild.

  Eventually, the Apaches were moved on and the mines ran their course until the ground had nothing more to offer. And so, as mining towns do, this one died, leaving nothing but memories.

  Memories of violence, death, and a man called Drifter.

  The town was called, Dead Man’s Gulch.

  One

  When Bobby Vandal strode into the dimly lit, smoke-filled room of the Down and Out saloon, every person there knew that somebody would die this night. When he started drinking, it was not an unusual outcome, and judging by his altered gait, the suggestion might be that he’d already had quite a few.

  The tall, young man bellied up to the rough-built pine bar and slammed his hand down on its top. ‘Give me whiskey, damn it!’

  A livid scar that ran down his right cheek, puckered as he squinted his ice-blue eyes with the command.

  A thin, rat-faced barkeep looked up at Bobby and saw the no-nonsense look on his face and stopped what he was doing. He moved along the bar toward the man, aware of the quiet exodus of customers who wanted nothing to do with Bobby Vandal.

  The barkeep reached under the counter and brought up a two-thirds full bottle and a glass. He placed it on the battered counter-top and looked the scarred hellion in the eyes.

  ‘That’ll be …’ He never finished because Bobby scooped up the bottle and glass and walked away.

  He paused after a few steps and looked around the room. He was sure that there had been more people in the saloon when he walked in, and there seemed to be a distinct lack of females plying their trade. He grinned wickedly and settled his gaze on a poker game near the front window.

  The players dropped their gazes in the hope that he’d pay them and their game, no further attention. Or maybe they’d get lucky and his Pa would appear and take his trouble-making son home to sober up.

  As luck would have it, neither of their hopes were realized that evening and Bobby Vandal headed in the direction of the table where the four scared men sat.

  He stopped beside a rail-thin man with a comb-over and placed his bottle and glass on the tabletop. He put his hand on the card player’s shoulder, making him flinch involuntarily.

  ‘Get up,’ Bobby said in a low, commanding voice.

  Without hesitation, the player leaned forward hurriedly to scoop his winnings and stuff his pockets.

  ‘Leave the money there,’ Bobby ordered.

  The card player looked over his shoulder at Bobby, a pleading expression upon his face.

  ‘Get up and go!’ Bobby commanded again. ‘I won’t tell you a third time.’

  The man moved slowly. He was reluctant to leave upwards of fifty dollars on the table. Then again, he felt the same way about dying. He gave one last wistful look at the money he was forfeiting and walked from the saloon.

  Bobby sat down and pulled the money towards himself. He looked around the table at the remaining three men.

  ‘Any objections?’ he asked.

  As expected, none of them spoke.

  Bobby sat down and held out his hand for the deck of cards. The man seated opposite passed them over and the young killer began to shuffle.

  ‘I must warn you,’ he stated matter-of-factly as he started to deal, ‘I’m a sore loser.’

  Sightless eyes stared at the ceiling as the man lay on his back, a neat hole just above the bridge of his nose, trickling blood. The wall directly behind his position at the game was plastered with a gory mass of bright-red blood, bone chips, and brain matter.

  The last two gamblers at the table stared dumbly at the still smoking six-gun in Bobby Vandal’s right fist.

  ‘I told you I don’t lose good,’ he snarled. ‘He didn’t seem to listen though, did he?’

  The dull orange glow of lanterns hung like a shroud across the barroom. Every customer had backed away from where Bobby Vandal stood, chair tipped on its side. But the two gamblers were trapped. They would go nowhere without the scar-faced killer’s say-so.

  It hadn’t taken long for Bobby to lose patience and kill the man. Four hands had done it. He’d lost every one of them. The dead man had only won one of those but unfortunately, his just happened to be the last one.

  On the first hand, all the players tried to fold but Bobby wouldn’t let them. They were ordered to play the hands they had. Which meant that the deck was stacked against them from the start.

  ‘There was no need to do that Bobby,’ the barkeep called out. ‘Hell, it weren’t even your money you were losin’.’

  ‘Shut your yap, Roy,’ Bobby snarled. ‘Unless you want to rest beside our dead friend here?’

>   The angrier he got, the more the scar on his face stood out against his sun-burnished skin. He was so wrapped up in his latest achievement, that he failed to hear the approach of a man behind him, who said in a menacing tone, ‘Drop the gun Bobby or I’ll blow your spine in half with this sawn-off I’m holdin’.’

  Bobby Vandal stiffened. He thought carefully then said in a loud, clear voice, ‘Back off Charley or I’ll kill you too.’

  Sheriff Charley Halley thumbed the double hammers back on the weapon in his hands. The ratcheting sound seemed almost deafening in the immediate silence.

  ‘Drop it, Bobby.’

  Halley was a middle-aged man with graying hair and a lined, walnut-colored face. He had been the local law for almost twelve months and this was just the next in a line of times he’d butted heads with Bobby Vandal.

  Each time Bobby had killed, he’d claimed self-defense. This time, however, was different. The dead man didn’t have a gun.

  ‘It was self-defense, Charley,’ Bobby said, beginning to sing his familiar tune.

  ‘He don’t have a gun, Bobby,’ Halley pointed out. ‘Claimin’ that ain’t goin’ to save you this time. Now I said drop the gun.’

  Bobby Vandal was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘My Pa won’t stand for it, Charley,’ Bobby vowed.

  Craig Vandal was the most powerful man in Dead Man’s Gulch. He owned the largest gold mine, and was backed by tough guns who ensured that no one got between their boss and what he wanted. He collected taxes from the town’s people as protection money because his hired guns acted as a form of security in times of Indian attack.

  ‘He’ll take this town apart before he lets me swing rope. He’ll kill …’

  Bobby Vandal never finished. Charley Halley stepped forward and the sawn-off came around in a vicious arc, catching the killer in the back of his head with a solid thwack! Bobby’s legs turned to rubber and he collapsed into an untidy heap on the floor of the Down and Out.

  A collective sigh sounded as Halley looked about the stunned but relieved group. He picked out two men and said, ‘Help me get the jumped-up son of a bitch over to the jail. This time he’s goin’ to hang for sure.’

  The Law of averages said that travelling through Apache territory was not a matter of if, but a matter of when you would come across them. The people in Pinos Altos had warned him that if he continued his current heading, he would eventually find trouble with the Chiricahua. They advised him to strike directly east and then north to Socorro. A determined Savage ignored their advice and went his own way.

  That way was the trail to Dead Man’s Gulch but a band of Chiricahua braves were about to have their say on whether he would make it or not.

  Savage sat atop his pinto and looked down at the bodies of two miners who lay beside the shallow creek. Their scalps were gone, exposing a dried bloody mess, thick with large black flies. The clothes had been stripped from their bodies and they were staked out, their limbs secured with rawhide thongs to prevent movement while they were worked on with razor-sharp knives.

  Both men were missing their eyelids, which had been sliced off neatly. One had been poked in both eyes with a burning stick which left empty blackened sockets. The other miner had his genitals removed and stuffed into his mouth and his stomach had been slashed open and his intestines were piled upon his chest.

  Both had died violent, horrible deaths and Savage knew that a similar fate could be his if he wasn’t careful.

  Savage scanned his surroundings with alert brown eyes, taking in the rough camp. A sluice box was situated by the creek and a stained canvas tent had been set up away from the creek bank in the shade of some tall pines.

  The pinto moved nervously and flared its nostrils as the scent of death reached them. Savage patted a reassuring hand on its muscular neck.

  He wasn’t a big man as such, standing 6-foot-1. His skin was tanned but a heavy stubble obscured the lower part of his face and a low-crowned black hat covered his black hair and forehead. A Union issue shirt and a buckskin jacket covered his solid frame. All, he decided, would be replaced when he hit Albuquerque.

  About his waist was a gun belt with loops full of ammunition for his .44 caliber Remington six-gun. In the saddle scabbard was a Winchester rifle, known as the Yellow Boy. It was Winchester’s answer to the Henry rifle and it fired a .44 Henry slug.

  Off to Savage’s left, on the other side of the bubbling creek, a raven took flight with a loud squawk, causing him to take the Yellow Boy from its scabbard. The clack-clack sound of the lever being worked and a round being chambered seemed to echo through the trees.

  Savage rested it across his blue-clad thighs and waited patiently for what would happen next. He had briefly considered turning the pinto around and riding hell-for-leather out of there but instantly dismissed the idea. The Apaches were all around him. Five he thought, maybe six. He decided to wait and see.

  There was a flicker of movement in the shadows of the tall pines on the far side of the creek. Savage let his eyes dart left and right. He picked up more movement as a dark shape flitted from tree to tree.

  The sudden appearance of a Chiricahua beside a tall tree across the creek caused Savage to raise his rifle and sight along the barrel. His finger rested on the trigger but the Indian remained unmoving.

  He was dressed in a faded and stained shirt with the sleeves missing, knee-high moccasins, and a loincloth. About his head was tied a pale bandanna to keep his long black hair away from his face.

  Still, the Apache stood there.

  It was a hesitation that could have cost Savage his life but a sixth sense told him that all was not right. He swiveled in the saddle and squeezed the trigger as a second Chiricahua on his left was nocking an arrow. The Yellow Boy kicked back against Savage’s shoulder and the sound of the shot whiplashed through the surrounding trees.

  The bullet punched into the Indian’s chest knocking him back onto his butt, a stunned expression on his face, the arrow flying harmlessly away. Savage levered another round into the breech of the rifle and shifted his aim.

  The rifle roared again and an Apache with an old Spencer Carbine had his throat torn open by the Winchester’s .44 caliber slug. The brave fell to his knees, his hands reaching up to the ghastly wound, trying to stem the blood flow. He opened his mouth and a flood of crimson liquid cascaded over his chin onto his naked torso. He toppled sideways and died on a bed of thick grass.

  Savage worked the lever of the Winchester one more time but held his fire, rifle in his right hand, finger on the trigger. With his left hand, he took up the pinto’s reins and gave the animal a brutal kick.

  The horse lurched forward and plunged down the bank into the shallow creek, sending up a spray of water as its hoofs ploughed through. Behind him, Savage heard the blast of a rifle and the crack of the bullet as it passed close to him.

  Most people faced with a similar situation would have turned and run. But not Savage.

  The sight of the white man riding towards him was not what the Chiricahua was expecting and before the Indian could react, the pinto was almost upon him.

  The Apache’s eyes grew wide and he hurriedly reached down to draw his knife. Before he could, however, the Yellow Boy discharged no more than a foot from his head.

  The bullet smashed the Chiricahua’s jawbone before deflecting up into his brain. He fell into a jumbled heap of arms and legs. Savage kicked the pinto again, urging it to go faster. Behind him, he could hear shouts as the Apaches called out to each other. Off to his right, another Indian appeared from behind a tree.

  Savage snapped a shot in that direction not expecting to hit anything. He saw bark pieces fly from the tree as his bullet ploughed into the soft wood. The shot made the Apache duck reflexively and Savage rode on into the trees. He placed the Winchester back in its scabbard before circling back around to the trail.

  Once the pinto hit the path, he pointed it towards Dead Man’s Gulch.

  More gunfire sounded behind Savage,
but he urged the horse on. The beast responded to his rider and lengthened its stride. The rutted trail made a left turn between some rocks but the horse negotiated it with ease.

  Farther along, the terrain flattened out and the gunfire behind Savage stopped. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw three Chiricahua warriors giving chase way back along the trail. Inwardly he cursed himself for disregarding the warnings.

  The trail began to climb and ran along a steep-sided ridge with large trees and boulders covering the slopes on each side. Things then went from bad to worse. Coming down the hill towards him was another band of Chiricahua. Maybe six was Savage’s guess.

  He hauled back on the horse’s reins and the animal came to a sliding stop. He turned to look along his backtrail and saw that the others were still in pursuit.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed out loud. ‘Serves you damn right for not listening.’

  His options had just been halved and of his available remaining choices, neither was appealing.

  To his left, the ridge dropped away into a deep ravine. Halfway down, the slope turned into a sheer drop of some thirty feet. On the right, the uneven slope was strewn with trees, deadfalls, and rocks. At the bottom of the descent was a creek.

  With one last look left and right, Savage drove his heels into the pinto’s flanks and sent it over the edge and on a headlong plunge towards the watercourse at the bottom of the slope.

  Leaning back in the saddle, Savage felt every jarring stride as the pinto leapt and slid its way through scree, rocks, and logs on its way towards the creek below.

  At the top of the ridge, on the edge of the trail, the Chiricahua brought their horses to a halt and watched in wonder as the crazy white man careened down the dangerous slope and out of sight.

  Two

  When Savage rode into Dead Man’s Gulch on a spent horse, he found a transitioning town with canvas structures as well as log buildings along the main street with large false-fronts.