Drifter 1 Read online

  “One other thing, Rube,” Savage continued as he looked to the west and noted how low the sun was in the sky. “We’re not stayin’. Give the men a couple of more hours and then we’ll head out.”

  Hayes nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir. Do you want me to send the scouts back out?”

  Savage nodded. “Yes, but make sure they’ve eaten first.”

  After Hayes had left, Savage looked back to the west. The sinking sun had begun to paint a magnificent artwork of long orange streaks through the sky.

  Somewhere in the Shenandoah was the killer he’d been tasked to find. He just hoped that it wouldn’t be the other way around.

  ~*~

  The column had moved out after dark under the gaze of a silvery moon surrounded by millions of sparkling stars. It was now past midnight and the column made its way along a tree-lined lane, horses hooves echoed in the crisp night air.

  “Where do you think they are?” Hayes asked Savage as he broke the silence between them.

  He was about to answer when a rider loomed out of the night before them. He dragged back on the horse’s reins and it came to a stop across the lane in front of the column. It was Walsh.

  “Report trooper,” Savage said.

  “We found ’em, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re about a mile further up, camped out by a small stream.”

  “Pickets?”

  “Four or five, sir.”

  Savage looked at Hayes. “I thought they’d be farther away than this.”

  “I guess we just got lucky,” Hayes suggested.

  “Or that son of a bitch is so arrogant he doesn’t figure on anyone followin’ him,” Savage added.

  “Don’t matter much either way now we’ve found him.”

  Savage thought for a moment as his mount shuffled uneasily beneath him. He turned his attention back to Walsh and asked, “Is there a way of gettin’ around the camp without bein’ detected?”

  “I think so,” Walsh said hesitantly.

  “You’ve got an hour to make sure,” Savage told him. “Then get back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Walsh whirled his horse about and rode off.

  “What’s on your mind, Captain?” Hayes asked.

  “I figure if we can get around in front of them we can hit them when they move,” Savage explained. “They won’t be expecting us waitin’ for them.”

  “Why not surround their camp and do it that way?” Hayes pointed out.

  “If we did that then we’d have to take care of their pickets,” Savage explained. “It would only take one mistake doing that and the alarm would be raised and we’d lose all sense of surprise.”

  “OK then, I’ll have the men move off the lane and into the trees where we’ll be out of sight.”

  “Have two pickets left here out of sight to watch for Walsh’s return.”

  ~*~

  An hour later, as ordered, Walsh returned with Perry. They’d found a way around and pointed it out on a map spread out by a small fire.

  The column was finally in place just before the first light of dawn emerged like fingers over the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  Twenty men lay amongst the trees on both sides of the lane under the command of Sergeant-Major Ruben Hayes. The remaining thirty, under the command of Savage, were sequestered farther back in the trees. Once the fighting started, they would split into two groups.

  The plan was to hit both front and rear of Carver’s column and hopefully cut off any chance of escape.

  All they needed now was their quarry.

  ~*~

  Carver’s raiders broke camp shortly after dawn and continued to travel in their southerly direction without any suspicion of what lay in wait for them. The lane was bordered on both sides by zigzag rail fences and behind them was a dense stand of trees.

  Carver rode at the head of the column, ramrod erect in the saddle. There was another small town to the southwest and Carver had decided that once they were finished there they would swing back up to Kansas and Missouri.

  With all of the federal troops filtering down through the Shenandoah, it was time to leave.

  Carver hipped in the saddle and shouted, “Sergeant Thomas? To the front.”

  Thomas fell in beside Carver. “What’s up, sir?”

  “Do you feel it?”

  Thomas frowned. “Feel what?”

  “Somethin’s not right,” Carver said. “I can feel it. Pass word back for the men to be ready for anythin’.”

  Thomas eased back on the reins of his horse and started to fall back along the column.

  At that moment, there was a shout and all hell broke loose as the air became filled with a deadly hailstorm of lead.

  ~*~

  On Hayes’s order, the hidden Union troops opened up on the raiders. The first volley created a large hole in the line of riders as men and horses went down under the devastating fusillade.

  High-pitched squeals of wounded horses filled the early morning air along with cries of panic and confusion. Carver barked orders to his men as a second volley rang out and more men and horses fell.

  The hidden Union troops cut the raiders down with methodical precision. A steady rate of fire and reload. It lasted for another two volleys then the raiders gathered themselves and began to return fire at the dismounted cavalry.

  Beside Hayes, a trooper cried out and clutched at his face. A river of blood ran between his splayed fingers. He staggered erect in a daze and was immediately knocked back by a second shot.

  Farther along the line, more cavalrymen started to scream as Rebel gunfire found its mark. Hayes moved steadily along behind his men giving them encouragement to stay the course heedless of the angry hornets that buzzed about his head.

  He paused about two-thirds the way along and dropped to his knee and studied the raiders before him. They had begun to be more organized and it looked as though their leader was preparing to break out of the trap.

  “Come on Savage,” he said through gritted teeth. “Where the hell are you?”

  Hayes raised his own Sharps carbine and sighted down the barrel until the foresight rested on Carver. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

  “Take this you son of a bitch,” he cursed and gently squeezed the trigger.

  Something hard punched into the Sergeant-Major’s left shoulder which threw off his aim at the precise moment the Sharps discharged its .54 caliber round. The shot flew high and wide and missed its intended target by quite a distance.

  Hayes cursed aloud. Not from the pain that burned in his shoulder but from the fact he’d missed Carver. Beside him, another toppled sideways with a bullet to his chest.

  The Sergeant-Major discarded the Sharps and drew his sidearm. He could feel blood start to run down the arm that dangled uselessly at his side.

  Ignoring the pain, he sighted on a raider and squeezed the trigger. Hayes’s target was obscured momentarily by a great plume of gun smoke discharged from the end of his barrel but when it cleared, the only thing he saw was the riderless horse.

  Through the sound of gunfire, he heard the brassy sound of a bugle. He sighed with relief. “About bloody time.”

  The two groups of cavalry came thundering along the lane from both directions, sabers drawn and screaming bloody murder.

  Savage was out in front of the first group, bearing down on the head of the raider column. He held his saber out at arm’s length, cutting edge facing upwards. The two groups hit with an audible thump as the galloping Union cavalry drove into the ranks of raiders.

  Just as his horse was about to make contact with another mount, Savage brought his saber down and right in a backhanded slash that cleaved open a raider’s chest, blood sprayed from the wound.

  The melee was bloody and frantic. At close quarters it was sabers against six-guns and the raiders had expended valuable ammunition in the first furious moments of battle. Now hammers began to fall on empty chambers.

  Savage swung
at a rider pointing a six-gun in his direction. The cavalry blade sheared through flesh and bone and the pistol, complete with a hand attached, dropped to the churned up earth beneath the raider’s horse.

  The man held his stump up in bewilderment, eyes wide as he stared at the blood spurting from the deadly wound. Savage swung the blade again and opened the man’s throat.

  All around him, men fought desperately and as Savage swung his horse about to locate another target, he came face to face with a raider’s .36 caliber Navy Colt.

  Time froze while Savage stared into the black hole of the gun’s barrel. He saw the finger tighten on the trigger and the hammer fall.

  Nothing happened. The Colt was empty.

  Suddenly, one side of the raider’s head exploded outwards spraying blood, bone, and flesh into the air.

  Savage swung about to see Hayes standing with his Colt still level at shoulder height surrounded by a cloud of blue-gray gun smoke. The remaining men with him had emerged from cover and were closing in on the raiders.

  Loud shouting from Savage’s left attracted his attention. He turned his horse and saw the man who wore Confederate pants and the coat of a Union Major.

  “Carver!” Savage shouted, not realizing he’d done so until the killer swung to look in his direction.

  He smiled wickedly as though reveling in the blood and carnage of battle.

  Savage kicked his mount hard to drive it towards him.

  Carver, still smiling, raised his own pistol and aimed at Savage.

  Savage saw the gesture and raised his saber ready for the killing blow. The horse buffeted its way through the scrimmage towards where Carver sat atop his mount. He saw the killer’s thumb ratchet the hammer back and he knew that nothing would save him this time.

  There was a puff of gun smoke and Savage felt the bullet strike him hard in the chest. The slug buried deep and a moment of numbness spread over his body.

  When the pain came, it was deep and burning. It washed over Savage in a wave which caused him to clench his jaw firm and hunch over in the saddle. He looked up and saw Carver smiling at him.

  All around, the battle continued to rage, and the sound echoed hollowly in Savage’s ears. He could feel his strength ebbing fast and grabbed for the pommel of his saddle to prevent the fall he knew was imminent.

  His horse lurched to the side and Savage missed it completely. He began to fall towards the ground and an all-consuming blackness.

  Three

  Texas, spring 1866.

  TEN MEN rode past the battered sign that read Summerton just after noon on a bright sunny day. They were dressed in rags that were left over from the civil war.

  The day was warm without being hot and the riders seemed to sit comfortably in the saddle. Every single one of them wore the stamp of an outlaw.

  These were the last remnants of Carver’s raiders, plus a few extras they’d picked up along the way. Now they had come to Texas.

  John Carver rode at their head. Gone was the Major’s jacket he had worn during their raid in the Shenandoah Valley. It had been replaced by a plain brown coat. About his waist, he wore a dual holster gun belt which housed two Colt army model six-guns. Tucked away in a shoulder holster he had a .36 caliber pocket Navy revolver.

  Behind Carver rode Ringo Thomas, a man who’d been by Carver’s side when they’d been bushwhacked in the Shenandoah. Out of the forty-three men, Carver had had with him that day, only five extricated themselves from the killing field.

  They were Carver, Ringo Thomas, Simon Cooper, Clint Ross, and Buster Jarvis. The others, Duane Brooks, Anderson White, Chase Hunter, Cody, and Donnie Gardener had all joined later.

  The last five men were a ragtag jumble of deserters.

  After the war, they’d continued their outlaw ways, and robbed and murdered their way through the northern states. When it became too hot for them, Carver decided to head for Texas. They rode into Summerton for one last job before going their separate ways.

  Surrounded by hills of limestone and granite rocks, the town of Summerton sat on a small expanse of green. A small spring-fed stream ran to the east of the town and the foothills were covered in cedar scrub.

  Summerton’s population numbered around seven hundred and the Summerton Savings and Loan held all of their money.

  As the outlaws rode along the false-fronted main street in twin columns, the horses hooves kicked up small clouds of dust from the dry earth.

  Every person who saw the group ride past stopped and stared then lowered their gaze and hurried on. There was something about the men that spelled trouble.

  They rode on past the livery and the blacksmith’s shop without hesitation. Further along, they passed the Longhorn saloon and the Summerton hotel.

  Carver gave the sheriff’s office a cursory glance as they passed it then turned his gaze back to the street. Behind him, the last four men of the column dropped out and took up position across the street from the jail. Six men continued forward until they found what they were looking for.

  The Summerton Savings and Loan was a false-fronted building with two large windows and a central door. The sign atop the veranda awning was painted in bold green letters.

  Carver and the five men with him turned their mounts towards the hitching rail out front and eased them to a stop.

  They looped the reins over the cross beam and climbed onto the boardwalk.

  “Hunter, Ross, wait here,” Carver snapped. “Keep an eye on the horses.”

  Without another word, Carver and the other three entered the bank.

  ~*~

  Cletus Stewart, the manager of the Summerton Savings and Loan, looked up when the outlaws entered and frowned. He was curious about the four scruffy men and what they could want with his bank?

  As he stared at one man, a solidly-built man with blond hair and blue eyes, he felt a sense of foreboding build within him.

  The bank’s other customers didn’t take much notice of the four men who had entered the bank. Two were women and the other was a man named Calvin.

  One lady, dressed in a pale-blue dress, was being served by Floyd Walker, the bank teller. The other woman was being served by Stewart while the well-dressed Calvin waited patiently for his turn.

  It wasn’t until Carver drew one of his Colts and crossed swiftly to the counter that they became aware that things inside the bank were about to go awfully wrong.

  He stuck the six-gun under the manager’s nose and snarled, “I’d like to make a withdrawal.”

  The two ladies gasped with shock at the sight of the gun pressed to Stewart’s face. Instinctively, Calvin moved to back away and came up hard against the six-gun of Ringo Thomas.

  “Goin’ somewhere?” the brown haired man whispered harshly.

  Calvin froze instantly and his hands shot skyward.

  “Cody,” Carver snapped, “Get around there and empty that there safe.”

  The safe was a large MacNeale and Urban construction and when Cody tried to open it, the door stayed fast.

  “It’s locked,” he called across to Carver.

  Carver applied pressure to his Colt and said spoke into the manager’s ear, his voice full of menace. “Open it. And don’t try anythin’ fancy or I’ll plug you.”

  Cody walked up behind a wide-eyed Stewart and grabbed him by the collar. He dragged him towards the safe and held his gun on him while the man fumbled with the safe, his hands trembling with terror.

  Meanwhile, the women stood and cowered together in a corner next to Calvin while the fourth outlaw, Duane Brooks, stood guard on them.

  Carver watched as the safe’s heavy door swung open to reveal stacks of notes and sacks of coins. He smiled mirthlessly and said, “Hurry up and empty out one of them sacks and stuff the notes into it.”

  Cody shoved Stewart out of the way hard enough to make him stagger. He grabbed a sack of coins and emptied it onto the floor noisily. Fistfuls of notes soon refilled the empty money sack.

  Carver watched on greedily
. He was so intent on making sure that Cody got all of the paper money from the safe that he had a momentary lapse in concentration and forgot about Walker the teller.

  Using the distraction, Walker slipped his hand under the counter and grasped the butt of the old Colt Dragoon that was hidden there.

  The teller’s intentions became abundantly clear with the loud triple-click of the hammer ratcheting back. Carver snapped his gaze to Walker in time to see the gun barrel rise up from behind the desk.

  Carver reacted with speed and precision to the threat and swung his Colt and squeezed the trigger. The six-gun roared and the slug punched through the teller’s chest and out his back, spraying crimson across the room.

  Ringo Thomas whirled from the window at the sound of the shot.

  “What the hell?” he shouted in time to see Carver shift his aim and point his smoking Colt at Stewart.

  The bank manager threw his hands up as high as he could and screamed, “Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything.”

  “You should have,” Carver snarled and pulled the trigger.

  Thunder filled the room once more and the bank manager’s head snapped back with a neat hole in his forehead. More blood sprayed, this time over Cody who was behind him shoving the last of the money into the sack.

  “I guess we need to be goin’, Major,” Thomas suggested.

  “When I’m ready,” Carver snapped.

  “I’m done, Major,” Cody said and stood up.

  “There’s people startin’ to gather outside,” Thomas warned. “They’ve got guns.”

  Carver nodded and looked at the three trembling forms in the corner.

  “Brooks, shoot the feller and bring the women with us,” Carver ordered. “Maybe them townsfolk might think twice about shootin’ at us with them along.”

  “Wait. No!” Calvin protested fearfully, holding out his hands in a feeble attempt to prevent the inevitable. “Please don’t.”

  Brooks shrugged nonchalantly and squeezed the trigger. Calvin died with a pleading and fearful look on his face and his body slumped to the floor.

  Both women screamed as they were grabbed roughly and propelled towards the door by Thomas and Brooks.