Drifter 5 Read online

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About a hundred dollars.’

  Savage took money from his pocket and passed it to Bannister. ‘If he wants more, pay the ornery son of a bitch in lead.’

  Llano Sam spit on the rocky ground where he and Savage lay atop the low rise. ‘Well, I found them for you. What is it you propose to do now? I figure there are maybe thirty of them down there.’

  ‘What do you think happened to the rest?’

  ‘Who knows? Be thankful they ain’t down there.’

  They had found the site where the Indians had first captured Trent, Mavis, and Peters. They also found the bodies of Wallace and Chris in the hollow, bloated and mottled with the effects of the hot sun, just as the stolen cows were, after being shot to death with arrows.

  They followed the trail to their current position. Along the way, a large group had dropped out.

  Savage explained, ‘The trick will be making them think there are more of us than there really is.’

  ‘One of them boys with us has a bugle in his saddlebags.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I seen him with it.’

  ‘Send him up here.’

  ‘Uh huh. But whatever you decide upon, make it quick. Looks like they’re all about done with that feller on the ground.’

  ‘Tell them to mount up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  A couple of minutes later, the man lay beside Savage. ‘Sam said you got a bugle, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You know it. It’s Jones.’

  ‘Your first name?’

  ‘Bartholomew.’

  Savage winced. ‘Can you play the thing, Jones?’

  ‘Any tune you want me to.’

  ‘Well, when we come boiling over this rise we’ll have the sun at our backs. I want you blowing that bugle of yours like there is no tomorrow. The Comanches need to think that a whole troop of cavalry is charging them.’

  Jones nodded. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Good, let’s get it done.’

  The shot which blew the Comanche’s brains out the back of his head, had come from Savage’s Yellow Boy. As they topped the rise, he reined the roan in when he saw the Indian standing over the man on the ground.

  The rifle came up to his shoulder in one fluid motion and he snapped off a shot. It was more to distract than anything else, but as luck would have it, the slug found a target.

  Hot on the heels of the Winchester’s roar came the sound of the bugle blowing the charge.

  Savage felt a surge of adrenaline. It brought back familiar memories from the Civil War when he’d been a cavalry captain. ‘Up and at them, boys.’

  They thundered down off the rise. A plume of dust from the dry ground was kicked up by the horses’ hooves. There was panic in front of them as the Comanches scrambled for their mounts.

  Gunfire erupted from the hands as they charged at the Indians. They emptied their rifles first and then drew six-guns to use.

  Savage thought he saw a couple of the Indians fall as they mounted and started to urge their horses into a run, away from the “cavalry”.

  ‘They’re running!’ a voice shouted from alongside the Drifter.

  He turned and saw Llano Sam riding hard beside him, six-gun in his fist.

  By the time they reached the vacated camp of the Indians, the Comanches were just bobbing figures, surrounded by a rising dust cloud in the distance.

  Savage and the others dragged their horses to a halt. Still beside him was Sam. ‘I thought you weren’t going to help.’

  ‘I said I wasn’t going to kill them, didn’t say I couldn’t help.’

  Savage came out of the saddle and looked around for Mavis.

  ‘Over here, boss,’ one of the hands called.

  He hurried over and found Mavis huddled down behind a rock. She was trembling and murmuring something incoherent.

  ‘She’s out of her mind,’ the cowboy said.

  ‘You would be too if you’d been through what she has,’ Sam said as he joined them.

  Savage looked at him.

  ‘It was Trent they was working on,’ Sam said quietly.

  The sound of a gunshot jolted Mavis and her eyes grew wide. It seemed to snap her out of the dark place she’d retreated into while everything had been happening.

  She looked at Savage. ‘You! What are you doing here? The Comanches will kill you. You have to RUN!’

  Mavis leapt to her feet and was about to take flight when the Drifter grabbed her.

  ‘Let me go! They’ll kill us next! Let me go!’

  ‘Stop it!’ Savage rapped. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘What?’

  Mavis frantically glanced about her. All she saw were the men who’d ridden with Savage. The Comanches were indeed gone.

  With a powerful sob, Mavis went weak at the knees and started to fall to the ground, overwhelmed by emotion. Before she fell all the way, Savage caught her up and held her to him. He looked around all the rough-looking cowboys with him and settled on Bartholomew.

  ‘Hey, over here.’

  The bugler hurried over to him. ‘Yeah?’

  Savage dumped Mavis into his arms. ‘Get her on your horse. She rides with you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you look less dangerous than the others.’

  Leaving him standing there, Savage walked over to where Trent lay next to the fallen Comanche warrior.

  He grimaced at the sight before him.

  ‘Why do they go and do stuff like that, Savage?’ one of the cowboys asked.

  ‘They’re only doing what was taught them by others,’ the Drifter told him.

  ‘Shit. Who would have taught them to do things like that?’

  ‘When we get to the end of the trail, find yourself a mirror and have a look in it.’

  The cowboy shot him a confused look. ‘What?’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Never mind. Get on your horse. We’re getting out of here.’

  The cowboy pointed at Trent’s corpse. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Exactly. What about him?’

  By the time they were all mounted and ready to ride, the sun was a low-burning ball in the western sky, which had changed the landscape to a coppery-orange color. There was no sign of the Comanches, and Savage hoped it would stay that way. He also hoped that Bannister and the others hadn’t run into any trouble.

  ‘There’s four nighthawks, Mike,’ Hanson’s whisper was low.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Shit yes, I’m sure,’ there was indignance in his voice.

  They had come upon the herd late in the afternoon and waited for the twilight gloom before moving closer. Bannister sent out men to check the herd until they moved in to steal it.

  ‘All right. Four of you take care of the nighthawks. I’ll take the rest and we’ll deal with the crew in camp. And for chrissakes, do it quietly. I don’t want a wild herd of damned Longhorns running over the top of me, all because one of you got careless.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ Hanson said.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Everybody just relax, and things will be okay.’

  Morris turned to see the armed men emerge from the darkness. ‘What are you doing here, Bannister?’

  ‘Feller hired me and the boys to help him get some stolen cows back from a bad bunch of desperadoes.’

  Morris snorted. ‘Ain’t you on the wrong side of this thing?’

  ‘Normally I’d say yes, but we’re being paid right well for this one.’

  ‘So, what now, you kill us?’

  ‘Nope. Call it professional courtesy. I’m going to give you fellers a chance to walk away. After all, they ain’t your cows, are they?’

  A grunt of pain from one of Morris’ trailhands drew their attention. He slumped forward, and a six-gun fell from his hand.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ a man cursed at seeing his friend fall.
r />   ‘Just hold on there,’ Bannister snapped. ‘I’m offering you fellers a way out of this without gunplay.’

  ‘I say we should just kill them all.’

  They looked at Hanson who stood over the fallen man, holding a knife. He grinned at Bannister. ‘Told you I could do it without shooting anyone.’

  Bannister ignored him and said to Morris. ‘I don’t see Trent or Breen anywhere. Or that back-shooter, Milt, for that fact. Where are they?’

  Morris ground his teeth for a moment and then answered. ‘Breen and Milt left just after the stampede we had. Trent went looking for some cows that the Comanches took.’

  ‘Where did Breen go?’

  ‘The South Platte. Where we’re to take the herd.’

  Bannister frowned. ‘Why there? As far as I know there’s nothing there to accommodate cows. Hell, there’s not even a town.’

  ‘Soon will be. Breen has a feller up that way who’s building a town as we speak. Even the railroad has put a spur in for him.’

  Bannister was skeptical. ‘Where would he get the money for that?’

  ‘Stray cows.’

  The penny dropped. ‘He’s the one behind those herds going missing.’

  Morris remained silent.

  ‘If herds start going there instead of Cheyenne, there’ll be trouble.’

  Morris shrugged. ‘He received word that herds will be arriving late this season. The telling factor will be next season. If they head there instead of Cheyenne, the town will be rolling in money.’

  ‘Not only the town,’ said Bannister.

  ‘Yeah, Breen too.’

  ‘Okay, enough. You and your men get on your horses and ride. Tell Breen to expect his first herd soon.’

  Morris was puzzled. ‘You’re taking this herd to Breen’s town?’

  ‘I expect so, once the feller in charge finds out where Breen is.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘So he can kill him. Now get the hell and gone out of here.’

  As the sound of horses retreated into the night, Bannister turned to Hanson. ‘Follow them. Make sure they don’t double back.’

  ‘What are you going to do while I’m doing that?’

  ‘Wait for Savage to turn up.’

  ‘You think he will?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m thinking that Savage is a survivor. He’ll show.’

  Cheyenne Stock Company,

  Cheyenne.

  Barnaby French wasn’t a nice man, as the bug-eyed cattle buyer named Willis learned firsthand while he sat across from him that very evening. The latter had sweat beading his brow and an uncontrollable tremor in his hand.

  ‘You’ll buy all of your cattle from me,’ French told him. ‘I’ll buy them when they arrive and then sell them on to you. As you are new to Cheyenne, I thought we needed to come to an understanding before any confusion could settle in. And don’t worry, the other buyers know how things operate.’

  French’s cold, blue eyes glittered. He’d come to Cheyenne not long after the railroad, looking to make his fortune. Not by choice mind, he’d come from Abilene where after a brush or two with the law, he was forced out. So, he’d followed the railroad west. Now he was back at the top of the heap again and making money.

  Willis nodded. The only thing he was worried about was getting out of the lavishly-furnished office alive. Especially with French’s hired gun, Brit behind him.

  Willis swallowed hard. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Now you can leave.’

  Willis gave a jerky nod and scrambled from his chair. He turned and found Brit blocking his way. The scar-faced killer from Kansas gave him a mirthless smile and then stepped aside.

  Willis dodged around him and hurried to the door. The door slammed when he closed it and Brit looked across at the smiling fat man on the other side of the polished desk.

  ‘That’s the last of them,’ he said.

  French took a thick cigar from his top desk drawer and jammed it between his teeth. ‘You know, there’s only one thing I love more than these cigars. Money, lots of it.’

  Brit nodded. ‘There should be plenty of that this season. Word has it there’s already three herds coming up the trail and Charlie Goodnight is bringing another.’

  French’s face hardened. He could see Goodnight being a problem. As things stood, French was set up as a stock agent. He would buy the cattle as they arrived in Cheyenne, for ten dollars per head less than they were worth, and then he would sell them to the cattle buyers with the ten-dollar markup. Which meant, that on a herd of two-thousand head, he would make a tidy profit of twenty-thousand dollars.

  For the cattlemen, there was no other choice if they wanted to sell their cows. He was the only one the buyers were permitted to buy from. So, they either sold to him or took them elsewhere.

  Goodnight, however, was his own man, and tough. Although, that’s what Brit was for. Persuasion.

  ‘What about Raton Pass?’ French asked as he looked back down at the paperwork scattered across the desk.

  ‘They should be there by now.’

  The stock agent had hired five men to go to Raton Pass and sit on Denver, the man who ran the toll gate on the border of New Mexico and Colorado. Another way he saw to make him money.

  The man he picked for the job? Greg, one-time border raider, full-time bad man.

  ‘Good, good.’

  ‘There is one other problem,’ Brit said.

  French looked up, the orange of the lamp glow reflected off his inflated jowls. ‘What?’

  ‘I overheard some trail-trash talking today about another railhead opening up.’

  French sat up in his seat, his face turned to granite. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl, almost like a bear. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over on the South Platte. They was talking about a town being built, complete with yards and a spur to ship cattle out.’

  The big man’s face turned purple. ‘Why am I only hearing of this now?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  French cursed. ‘Shit. Find out all you can. If it’s true, I want to know.’

  Brit nodded. ‘Sure.’

  After the hired gun left the room, French sat and thought of the ramifications of what the new railhead would mean. Then he saw the guaranteed money slipping out of his grasp.

  There was no way in hell he was going to allow that to happen.

  Ellis Thompson exited the billiard hall and turned left to walk towards the Cattleman’s Hotel where he had a room for the night, before he was due to depart on the west-bound the following morning.

  He wasn’t drunk by any stretch, although his head had begun to buzz. He’d only gone ten or so yards before his passage was blocked by Brit.

  Thompson stared at him in the false light and the cold hand of fear touched him.

  ‘C—can I help you?’ he stammered.

  A wicked smile touched the killer’s lips. ‘I do believe you can. I overheard you talking today about a new town with a railhead being built over on the South Platte. Is that right?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Yes, it is.’

  ‘How do you know about it? Did somebody tell you?’

  Thompson shifted nervously. ‘No. No one told me.’

  ‘Then how do you know about it?’

  ‘I was part of the crew who built the yards. Why?’

  Brit ignored him and asked, ‘Who is it that’s building it all over there?’

  With the questions, the fear began to ebb in Thompson, quickly replaced with impatience. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m asking.’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You worked over there and you say you don’t know?’

  Thompson nodded. ‘Yep.’

  Brit shook his head. ‘And here was me thinking we could do this all civil like. I guess I was wrong.’

  With a blur of movement, his hand streaked across his body and drew his Colt Navy. The dreaded dry, triple-click as the gun hammer was ratcheted back made Thompson jerk to attention.

>   ‘Into the alley,’ Brit ordered him. ‘We’re going to have a talk and you’ll tell me everything you know.’

  Dread washed over Thompson as he did as he was told. He was suddenly overcome by the feeling that he was going to miss the train the next day.

  When Brit entered French’s office, he found him in the company of the big-breasted, blonde-haired wife of the man who owned the dry-goods store across the street. Her name was Greta.

  The stock agent was perched on a seat with his pants down around his ankles. The woman sat on his lap facing the door. She was bouncing up and down with such vigor, her breasts made an audible slapping sound as they crashed against each other. Her eyes were clenched shut and her face was screwed up in a grimace that indicated it wasn't pleasuring, that was for sure.

  She sensed the killer, rather than saw him enter. When her eyes opened and he was there, she screamed and lurched forward off French’s bare lap. The big man’s jaw dropped at the sight of Brit standing there and scrambled to pull his pants up to cover himself.

  The woman was frantic at being found in the compromising position and tried to hide herself and gather her modesty.

  Brit smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ve seen it all before. Although that's a mighty fine chest you got there.’

  Greta screeched and looked for something to throw at Brit before settling on a paperweight that sat on French’s desktop. It sailed harmlessly past him and crashed into the wall.

  ‘Damn it, Brit, don’t you knock?’ the stock agent blustered.

  ‘I did, but I figure you didn’t hear because of Greta’s tits slapping together.’

  ‘Asshole!’ she screeched indignantly.

  French glared at the killer. ‘Shit, Brit, get out and wait!’

  Brit didn’t move.

  ‘Now, damn it!’

  With a wink directed at Greta, Brit turned and left the room.

  It took ten minutes for French to calm the woman down enough for her to leave the office. Once she was gone, Brit went back in. ‘I gather her old man is out of town again.’

  ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ French snapped.