Drifter 5 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Dedication Page

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  The Drifter Series

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  The Drifter Cometh!

  ‘They’re All Bad, To A Man!’

  ‘Up That Bloody Mountain!’

  Let the Blood Flow!

  A Toll Paid in Lead!

  The Brotherhood of ‘Tlaloc’

  The Kingdom of Kane

  The Blood-Drenched Corn!

  Longhorns and Blood!

  The trail north was littered with longhorns and blood …

  When Savage arrived in Deadman he made two mistakes. He interfered with Josiah Breen’s plans to steal a fifty-thousand-dollar herd of Longhorns, and then slept with the man’s wife. Both were unforgivable.

  It was enough to make Breen shoot him … twice!

  When Savage finally came to, the herd was gone, along with the dead owner’s daughter.

  Now it was the Drifter’s turn to get good and mad. The first thing he did was assemble a crew of rustlers and misfits to go after Breen and his band of cutthroats. Men who could shoot and weren’t afraid of being shot at.

  As it turns out, getting the cattle back was the easy part. Staying alive until they reached their payday was a whole other story.

  DRIFTER 5: LONGHORNS AND BLOOD

  By Jake Henry

  Copyright © 2017 by Jake Henry

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover figure painted by Ed Martin.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  This one is for Sam and Jacob. And for Ken Jeffrey,

  who just can’t get enough.

  Author’s Note

  In 1866 Richens Lacy Wootton built a toll road over Raton Pass with the help of a tribe of Utes under Chief Conniache. He improved some twenty-seven miles of it and built a tollgate, as well as a double storey house, which acted as a home, a hotel, and saloon. He charged $1.50 per wagon and buggy, 25 cents for a horse and man, and cattle, horses or mules, 5 cents.

  He sold the right of way to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe for the paltry sum of $1in 1879. They had originally offered him a small fortune for it, but he turned it down, instead accepting a pension from them for the rest of his life. He also kept the house.

  He died in 1893.

  Those readers who know, will see the liberties I’ve taken with this part of the story which includes the fictional character who runs the toll road.

  Like the road over Raton Pass, the Goodnight-Loving Trail also existed. It started in Texas and eventually finished in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Along the way it touched places such as Fort Sumner, Pueblo, and Denver. It crossed rivers such as the Pecos, Canadian, and South Platte.

  There was no town called Dobson and no railhead to go with it. Deadman speaks for itself.

  The battles of South Mountain and Antietam were real, but the author has manipulated some events to suit the storyline. And while some events happened, others didn’t, so please remember, before write to tell me I got some things wrong, that this is a work of fiction.

  The Drifter Cometh!

  Savage rode into Deadman, New Mexico, late in the afternoon, on a powerful, red roan. Had he known how prophetic the town’s name was, he might have kept riding. But his horse was tired, much the same as its rider, so he found the livery and put his mount up there for the night.

  ‘Looks like the town lives up to its name,’ the tall, ex-cavalry captain muttered as he stared down at a body which lay on the main street, just off the boardwalk.

  The man had been shot twice in the chest at close range; the tell-tale powder burns on his shirtfront attested to that.

  An average-built man with a stubble-covered face stepped from the saloon that Savage stood outside of. He looked at the man before him who wore Union Blue pants, matching shirt, buckskin coat, and a new gun belt that housed a Remington.

  ‘You’d best move along, stranger. There ain’t nothing to see here.’

  Savage lowered the Yellow Boy from its resting place on his shoulder and stared at the man through brown eyes. He then ran a hand over his stubbled face and said, ‘Undertaker not working today?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you? I told you to keep walking.’

  The Drifter stared into the man’s green eyes and saw someone who was used to being obeyed. He became aware that all the traffic traversing the main street had stopped.

  His gaze came back to the man before him. ‘Looks to me like folks in this town are mighty curious all of a sudden. Is it me or you?’

  The man was confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Are they waiting to see if you’ll kill me or what I aim to do? I mean, you did kill this feller here, didn’t you?’

  The man’s expression changed, became more confident. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘A few things. The first is the wind is blowing toward me and I can smell the powder on you. The other is your hammer-thong is off your six-gun. That tells me you’re still looking for trouble. And third, I can smell the rotgut on you. That’s the only way a gutless son of a bitch like you would get his courage.’

  The man snarled with rage and his hand grasped at his gun. Savage was ready for him and the Yellow Boy came up to rest beneath the would-be killer’s chin before he could clear leather.

  The man froze and a thin sheen of sweat appeared across his brow. His eyes bulged, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

  There was a cold harshness in Savage’s voice when he said, ‘Let it go.’

  The man did as he was ordered.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Milt.’

  ‘What do you do, Milt?’

  ‘I … ahh…’

  ‘He works for me.’

  A second man emerged from the saloon. This one was well dressed in clean attire.

  Savage ran his eyes over him with open suspicion. ‘Who are you?’

  The well-dressed man held a cheroot in his right hand and used it as a pointer to show the Drifter the sign above the batwing doors. It read: Charity Saloon. Josiah Breen, Proprietor.

  ‘So, you’re Breen, huh?’

  A broad, mirthless smile split his face. ‘I am.’

  Breen pointed at the rifle in Savage’s hands. ‘Would you mind … Who might you be?’

  The Drifter lowered the Yellow Boy. ‘Jeff Savage.’

  There was a faint spark of recognition in the man’s eyes at the name. In recent times, whispers had filtered across the south-west of a man with that very name, who traveled alone. They called him ‘Drifter’ because he never stayed in the same place more than a few days. But that wasn’t all. Word also had it that after the war, he’d tracked down and killed the men who’d murdered his wife; every last one of them.

  ‘You have something against that feller on the street?’

  Breen shrugged. ‘Not anymore.’

  Savage nodded. ‘What about the law?’

  Breen and Milt glanced at one another, something unseen passed between them. Breen shrugged and said, ‘What a
bout it?’

  There was a moment of silence as Savage tried to read Breen’s face. Then the saloon owner said, ‘Anyway, I must go back to work. Enjoy your stay.’

  Savage watched them go back inside and turned his gaze to the corpse once more. He frowned. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he stepped down beside the body. He lowered the barrel of the Winchester and pushed the dead man’s jacket lapel aside to reveal more of the shirt. And there it was; the shiny, nickel-plated badge with the word Sheriff stamped on it.

  ‘He weren’t much, but he didn’t deserve this,’ a voice said from Savage’s left.

  The Drifter looked up to see an older man standing there. He was dressed in black and wore glasses. Undertaker no doubt.

  ‘How’s that?’

  The undertaker shrugged. ‘He was a drunk, but he was working on getting sober again. He hadn’t had a drink for nigh on a week. I’m guessing someone didn’t want that.’

  Savage looked back at the saloon. ‘Someone like Breen?’

  The undertaker remained silent.

  ‘I noticed a herd on the outskirts of town when I rode in. Do you know if they’re hiring?’

  ‘You might want to check at the Golden Barrel. Mind you, I don’t like their chances of making it to the railhead.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ever since Breen has been here in town, some herds have disappeared before they’ve gone twenty miles. Those that made it seem to arrive with a different crew driving them.’

  Savage looked at the saloon. ‘And you think Breen is behind it?’

  ‘That and a dozen other things which have happened around here.’

  Savage nodded. ‘I’ll check them out.’

  ‘Still wasting your time.’

  Savage stared at the undertaker, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘The feller that’s boss of the herd is a Reb. Had himself a brigade or some such during the war. He’ll take one look at them duds you’re wearing and likely blow a damned bugle. He only hires Texans for his crew.’

  ‘I guess I’m in luck then.’

  ‘Why?’

  Savage gave him a wry smile. ‘’Cause I’m from Texas.’

  Savage found a room at the Night Shade Hotel. It was a double-storey concern run by an elderly couple. The foyer was well presented with carpet, hardwood counter, glass paneled doors and pictures on the walls. The staircase had a hand-tooled balustrade with round knobs on top of the posts.

  ‘How many nights will you be wanting?’ the thin-faced man asked.

  ‘A couple at least,’ Savage told him. ‘Maybe one or two more.’

  The man nodded. Then his expression changed. ‘You ain’t part of the cow crew, are you? We’ve had cowboys here before and never again.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Not yet, anyway. I figure on going to see their boss.’

  Concern etched the man’s face. ‘Maybe we’d best take it a day at a time. Mind you, I wouldn’t be working for the owner.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Strangest thing. They got this far and the crew up and quit. Just like that. Left the owner and his daughter, along with the ramrod, stranded here. Then they had to go to the trouble of hiring a new crew. I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be here much longer now that they have one, though.’

  ‘I tell you what. I’ll pay for two nights, but if I get me a job, I’ll move out.’

  The man was surprised. ‘Not many folks would offer something like that, stranger. Much obliged.’

  Savage paid for the room and got a key.

  ‘Room number six is along the hall at the top of the stairs. Halfway down on your right. One other thing …two, actually. No alcohol in the rooms and no women.’

  Savage thanked him and headed up the stairs. He found the room and once inside, dropped his saddlebags and rifle on the small, iron-framed bed and walked across to the window.

  Down below things seemed normal. He saw the undertaker had gained some helpers who were carrying the sheriff’s corpse along the street. Across the other side of the dusty thoroughfare, he saw a man leaning against an awning upright outside the barbershop. Every now and then he glanced up at the windows of the hotel.

  ‘Now, what threat am I to you, Josiah Breen?’ Savage murmured.

  A second man crossed the street from almost beneath the window. He talked with the first man and then they both looked directly at Savage’s window. That meant the second man had been at the hotel counter asking questions.

  The Drifter turned away from the window and crossed to the bed where he sat on its edge. The frame squeaked a protest as he tested the mattress. After dropping the saddlebags to the floor, Savage lay down. He needed a bath and a shave. That would wait. He placed the Yellow Boy beside himself within easy reach, then closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  It was dark when Savage awoke. A thin sliver of moonlight filtered through the curtain and shone on the lower half of the bed. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since early morning.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gathered himself for a moment before standing erect. His stiff back protested each movement, but it would loosen up after a while.

  Gathering the Yellow Boy, Savage opened his room door and stepped out into the lamplit hall. He walked downstairs and found the owner still behind the counter.

  ‘Is there a place where I can get something to eat?’

  The man reached into his pocket and took out a silver watch with a small-linked chain attached to it. He nodded. ‘You might have got something here earlier, but seeing as it’s gone past nine, I think the wife might protest mighty fierce. Maybe they could still be serving at the Charity Saloon.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  ‘I guess you could try the Golden Barrel. It’s along the street near the dry-goods store. You might even find the feller there who owns that herd outside of town. His name is Linc Porter.’

  Savage nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  When the Drifter exited the hotel, the first thing he noted was the figure lurking in the shadows across the street. He paused a moment and stared directly at the man to see what he would do.

  Nothing. He just stayed right there.

  Savage turned to his left and walked along the boardwalk until he found the Hide and Horns. He pushed in through the batwing doors and found that the noise he could hear before entering was caused by a large crowd.

  There were men lined up along the bar, plus most of the tables were full. A thick cloud of cigar smoke hung heavily in the room, almost as heavy as the racket caused by the pianist flogging out a melody on an out-of-tune piano.

  Savage crossed the sawdust-covered floor and found a narrow space at the bar. He squeezed in and one of the two barkeeps came up to him and asked, ‘What’ll it be, stranger?’

  ‘I’ll just have a beer.’

  The ’keep nodded and walked back along the bar to pull the beer for the Drifter. When he came back, he placed it on the polished countertop and Savage paid him.

  The dark-haired barkeep nodded at Savage’s rifle and asked with a wry smile, ‘Plan on killing someone with that thing?’

  The Drifter’s face was deadpan when he replied, ‘Only if they ask me damn fool questions.’

  The barkeep shot him a funny look, unsure if he’d caused offense. He made to apologize when Savage cut him off. ‘I’m looking for the feller who owns the herd outside of town. Is he in here? I was told his name is Porter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My business.’

  ‘Stranger, unless you tell me why, then I ain’t telling you anything. You might want to shoot him for all I know.’

  Savage took a sip of his beer and put it back on the counter. ‘I’m looking for a job riding herd.’

  The barkeep stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if what he said was true. Then nodding towards the far left of the room, he said, ‘Over there in the corner. He’s sitting with his daughter and ramrod. Mind you, I don’t like your chan
ces.’

  Savage let the comment go and picked up his beer and finished it. Then he pointed himself towards the table where Porter sat.

  The herd owner stopped talking and looked up at the man before his table. Savage figured him to be in his late fifties. His hair was silver and his face lined.

  Beside him sat a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties, long brown hair, attractive.

  The other man at the table was solidly-built and the Drifter figured him to be around his own age. He had a scar above one eye, and his nose had been broken at least once before. He’d be the muscle, Savage figured.

  The ramrod looked Savage up and down and snapped, ‘What do you want, Blue-belly?’

  ‘War’s over in case you ain’t heard.’

  ‘Not around here.’

  Savage stared at him for a moment longer before shifting his gaze to the older man. ‘Are you Porter?’

  The old man’s gaze was like granite. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘The name’s Savage. Jeff Savage.’

  ‘The question still stands. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for a job.’

  The old man snorted.

  ‘Frig off, Yank,’ the younger man snapped.

  Savage looked at him and said, ‘I’m talking to your boss, not you. You got a mighty big chip on that shoulder, friend. Be careful someone don’t knock it off for you.’

  The man came to his feet, a snarled expression on his face. ‘Why, you son of a bitch. I’ll plant …’

  The hand movements of the Drifter were a blur as he brought the Yellow Boy up, reversed it, and drove the brass butt plate forward so it hit the man between his eyes.

  ‘Sit down,’ Savage snapped.

  He dropped back into his seat, stunned and bleeding from a small cut at the center of a fast-rising lump.

  Suddenly the room was quiet, and a few angry grumbles could be heard as some of the trail hands started to gather. Savage twisted about and turned the rifle on the advancing crowd.