TROUBLE RIDES A FAST HORSE
A Frontier G-Man Novel
Franklin D. Lincoln
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PUBLISHED BY:
Monogram Press
Trouble Rides a Fast Horse- Frontier G-Man No. 4
Copyright © 2013 by Franklin D. Lincoln
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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In memory of Ade Twist
May he have a fast horse in heaven
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CHAPTER ONE
Bad Boys
Lem Fuller leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and stretched his long lanky legs under the battle scarred, but neatly organized desk. He glanced up at the wall clock, listening to its steady tick tock, which seemed to echo in the stillness of the cramped railroad depot office, as the pendulum swung to and fro. Four o'clock.
Lem pulled a silver plated watch from his vest pocket, snapped it open and checked the time. "Right on time," he thought, when he heard the whistle of the approaching southbound train in the distance. His eyes strayed to the picture inside the watch: a younger version of himself, when his now gray mustache had been a dark brown. Next to him in the picture was Martha, his bride on the day the picture was taken. He smiled briefly to himself, thinking of home. The day was almost over for him. He would retreat to his comfortable little house at the edge of town. Martha would be waiting for him with a warm meal. Afterwards, he would sit back in his favorite easy chair and put his feet up.
"Well," he thought as he put the watch back inside his vest, pushed back his chair and stood up. "Better get outside and meet the train."
As Lem stepped out onto the board platform, the late afternoon sun was already descending toward the distant horizon and its bright rays struck Lem's eyes directly, causing him to squint. He turned his head away and looked along the track. The southbound whistle blared again as the train approached. "Looks like no passengers again today," he thought. "Coming too fast ."Better get ready for the mail."
As was usual, if there were no passengers aboard to let off or no one on the platform to board, the southbound would just roar right on through the sleepy little depot of Pine Gap. The mail pouch would be tossed to Lem as the train rolled past.
The pounding of the engine, the clank of the wheels and the rattle of the passing cars on rails, roared in Lem's ears. The sun was blotted out intermittently and flashed between the cars as they rumbled on.
As the baggage car approached, Lem readied himself, saw the baggage door slightly open part way. Lem spread his arms apart, reaching upward to catch the sack. It flew from the passing car. Lem's boney hands snatched at it deftly; the bright sun flashing in his face and eyes as he looked upward into the blinding light. The light was the last thing he saw, feeling nothing, hearing no thundering crash of a six gun as a bullet plowed into the back of his skull, pitching his thin frame to the wooden floor of the platform in a crumpled heap.
Two men wearing bandanas over their faces raced toward the fallen body. The taller, dark haired man pulled the sack free from Lem's stiff gripping fingers. The other man, shorter and stockier, rolled the body over, making sure the depot man was dead. They then ran toward the edge of the platform. Two other men, also wearing bandannas rode around the end of the platform. One was young, a shock of blond hair showing beneath his battered brown Stetson and riding a fine looking sorrel stallion and leading a saddled horse behind him. The other rider also led a saddled horse.
The outlaw with the sack and his partner swung up into the saddles, were respectively handed the reins and all four rode off to the north leaving a cloud of dust behind them, and a still motionless form alone on the platform.
A slight breeze worried Lem Fuller's thin grey hair. His bloody fingers lay stretched outward on the planking. Just out of reach of his lifeless fingers, a silver plated watch had fallen, its cover open. Red speckles of blood dotted the picture of a happy couple from long ago.
Lew Pratt, the wizened old driver of the Elkhorn stage snapped his big black snake whip and cracked it behind the ears of the lead team of his four up. "Giddap!" He commanded around his cud of chewing tobacco, a brown stain of juice dripping from the corner of his mouth into his bushy red and grey streaked beard. It was already near mid-morning and they were behind schedule after resting too long at the last relay station where the station manager's wife had supplied them with ample portions of apple pie. Not having passengers on this trip, they tarried too long with the hospitality.
Stubby Bennett, the guard, leaned his grizzled flabby cheek lazily against his shot gun barrel whose stock rested on the floor of the boot; the rocking of the lurching coach lulling him to sleep. The run always proved to be routine and uneventful and Stubby had given up vigilance many trips ago.
The trail ahead narrowed as it wound around an outcropping of trees to the right, but Lew had made this run many times before and today was no different. He pushed the double teams hard around the bend, not allowing them to slacken in speed, not anticipating the large boulder that now blocked the trail. He didn't see it m time. The horses skidded to a halt, rearing high, struggling and entangling themselves in harness trappings. The stage slewed sharply to the left and the left front wheel snapped. The coach crashed down on the axle, twisting and rolling, toppling Lew from the boot, tumbling him onto the hard pack dirt alongside the trail. Stubby jolted awake, dumfounded as to what was happening, fell over backwards landing on the ground just behind Lew, but not far enough from the crashing coach to avoid being pummeled by the heavy frame of the coach that pinned him down, his back bent backward over a large rock, snapping his spine and sending waves of nauseating pain though out his tortured body.
Lew rolled away from the crash, dust spewing over his frame as the coach barely missed him. "Stubby!" He shouted, realizing his partner's plight, as he tried to recover and rise. The last thing Lew saw was Stubby's eyes, wide with terror and his face contorted in pain. He had not heard the horses of the four horsemen who had ridden up behind him. The lean, dark haired rider, his six-gun in his hand, pulled trigger. Flame belched from the muzzle and Lew fell flat next to Stubby never knowing what had hit him.
From where he lay, Stubby could not see what had happened. A shadow passed over his face and for the first time he could see the burly man who stood over him, grinning through the stubble of his puffy cheeks. The man pointed his pistol within an inch of Stubby's face, the muzzle looming and gaping wide. Shorty closed his eyes tightly, sweat pouring off his pain wracked and terrified face. He didn't even hear the roar of the six gun nor feel the hot burst of muzzle flash as the bullet wasted his face and head. The burly outlaw smiled victoriously to himself and slammed his pistol into the leather holster on his hip.
The lean dark haired man, still on his horse ordered. "C'mon. c'mon. Hurry it up. Get the strongbox and mail pouch and let's get out of here. Kid." He turned toward the young blond haired man aboard
the sorrel. "You and Harve, get down and give Gil a hand."
Within minutes, the outlaws had their booty and rode off, once again leaving death and destruction in their wake.
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CHAPTER TWO
The Bank at Sand Flats
The sleepy little town of Sand Flats was nestled in a wide valley. The mountains on the eastern and western sides were too far away to shade the quiet community from the blazing hot sun that seemed to bake the little village in unbearable heat mid-day during the summer.
The town seemed to close up at noon time, few people on the streets as if everyone had taken shelter. The street was quiet, not even a dog barking Here and there a mutt lay belly down in what feeble shade it could find.
No one seemed to notice the four dust covered riders as they guided their horses casually down the center of the main street and pull up in front of the local bank.
"Should be a piece of cake, Blackie." Gil said to the lean dark haired rider.
"Don't get too sure, Gil. You make mistakes that way." Then said to the other, "Kid, you stay here and hold the horses. You know what to do if we run into trouble." The blond haired rider nodded his understanding.
The three men dismounted and sauntered up onto the wooden boardwalk. The door to the bank opened and man in a black broadcloth suit and black flat crowned Stetson emerged. He stopped suddenly and stared with slate blue eyes at the three men standing in his path.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," He said in a low calm even voice and continued forward as the three hard-case looking men parted to each side allowing him to pass. The man noticed the youth on the sorrel horse and the other three horses at the tie rack, but paid little attention.
Blackie stood for a moment watching the man stride across the dusty street. His dark brows pulled together in thought, trying to remember where he had seen this man before. Then he nodded to his companions and they entered the bank.
It seemed dark inside, compared to the bright sunlight and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust. It was fairly empty inside, almost as empty as the street outside, save for an elderly sun bonneted lady who was turning from the cashier's cage, drawing the strings of her purse together as she hurried to the door to continue with the rest of her business in town. Blackie tipped his hat as she passed by, ignoring him with her nose in the air.
So far, so good. Only the bank manager and a clerk were left there, behind the two barred cages. Harve and Gil separated and strolled to different sides of the room. Harve placed himself next to the front window so he could watch the street. Blackie stepped up to the window that was manned by an elderly rotund figure of a man, whom Blackie assumed to be the manager. He always liked to deal with the man in charge.
"May I help you, sir?" the bank manager asked with an oily practiced tone and a forced smile, showing his white buck teeth.
“Well, yes you can,” Blackie grinned, a playful gleam in his eyes. “I’d like to make a withdrawal. On account, you might say.”
"Account?" The manager lost his smile and looked puzzled. "Do I know you? You say you have an account?"
"Why, yessir," Blackie smiled. The big black muzzle of his pistol appeared and pressed under the banker's chin. "On account I'll blow your head off if you don't give us all the money you got."
The bank clerk in the next cage jerked with a start and started to back away. "Don't move, sonny." Gil's deep voice boomed. His arm outstretched, his big pistol aimed at the young man's head. The hammer clicked to full cock.
"Do..do as he says, Dan," the banker stammered, his neck folds quivering beneath his chin.
"Smart man." Blackie chided. Then to the clerk, "Listen to your boss, boy and maybe you'll live to be an old goat like him. Now bag up the money, boy." He jabbed the muzzle deeper into the banker's neck.
"Get..get it for them," the old man murmured.
"Y..y.. yessir," the clerk stuttered as he nervously started to clean out the drawers and stuff the currency into money sacks.
"Hurry it up!" Gil ordered.
Harve at the window straightened and turned sharply. "Hey, Blackie," he called. "That dude is coming back. Headed this way."
"Oh, no," Blackie groaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling with frustration. "Now I remember where I saw that jasper before. His name is Jack Clayton. Works for the government. He's big trouble."
"What' ll we do, boss?" Harve asked.
"Let him come in. When he passes, you, step in behind him and shoot him in the back." Then to the old man. "Keep your trap shut. You warn Clayton, you're a dead man. Got that?"
The banker swallowed hard, his round eyes bulging, "Y. Yes, I got it."
"Gil," Blackie ordered. "Get the sacks he already filled. We'll take what we got and get out fast after Harve shoots the G-Man.
Gil bounded forward and scooped up three sacks of cash.
"Here he comes," Harve warned.
All went quiet as they waited. Harve pressed his back fiat against the wall next to the door. They could hear approaching boot steps on the plank sidewalk out front. They saw the door knob slowly turn. The latch clicked open and the door started to swing open.
"Mr. Clayton!" The old man shouted. "Lookout!"
Blackie's quick trigger finger squeezed spasmodically. The pistol roared loudly within the confines of the bank and the banker's fat body crashed backwards against the wall, blood splattering on ceiling and floor.
With quick reflex, Clayton flung the door wide open, slamming it into Harve's body where he stood behind the door. At the same time, Jack threw himself to the sidewalk planking, rolling onto his side and drawing his six-gun from the shoulder holster beneath his coat. It was out and spewing flame as Harve stepped out from behind the door, gun in hand. Clayton's first shot plowed into Harve's mid section. His body doubled forward and his pistol fired once, splintering the floor boards beneath him as he fell.
Clayton rolled back to the side of the door, using the jam for cover. He reached his arm around the corner and fired randomly twice. Pistol fire erupted into a hail of bullets, splintering the casing of the doorway as Jack drew back out of the line of fire.
Then the firing ceased, momentarily, and Jack catapulted himself erect, charging through the open doorway and leaping over Harve's fallen body, landing in a crouched stance, his pistol flaming toward the outlaws who were now exiting the back door of the bank. Gil was last man out. Clayton's bullet crashed into the closing door. Gil turned reached through the gap in the doorway and fired back. The slug buzzed past Jack's head like an angry bee. Clayton ducked backward, caught his balance and lunged for the door and flung it open, ready for returning fire, but there was none. The alley behind the bank was empty and dark with shadow. Then he saw the two men emerge into the sunlight of the street.
He should have gone out the front of the bank. He chastised himself. He could have headed them off. But, there was no time for self recrimination. He leaped into the alley and ran full speed toward the street.
He was just entering the street, when he saw the outlaws aboard their horses, hightailing it out of town with the blond haired kid who had been holding the horses. He was too late as he ran to a stop in the middle of the street. He had raised his pistol to fire again, but realizing they were already out of range, he eased the hammer off and let the six gun hang loosely at his side pointed straight down toward the ground. He sighed with regret and defeat as he watched the outlaws ride off victoriously with their loot, once again leaving death and destruction behind.
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CHAPTER THREE
Pursuit
The three outlaws pushed their mounts at full speed across the flat lands beneath the big buttes to the north, then turned east. They had been driving hard for the last three hours. Lather flecked the horses' flanks and rumps and the mounts were beginning to falter with the constant drive.
Midday, they pulled up in the shade of one of the buttes, to let the horses blow. Blackie looked back the way they had come. His dark eyes squinte
d as he strained to make out the faint whisper of a dust cloud far behind. "That damned Jehu is still back there," Blackie groweld, frustration in his voice. "All day, he's been dogging our trail. He must be part Apache. He just keeps on coming."
"Just our ornery bad luck," Gil complained. "He had to be there in that dumpy town. First time we didn't get everything we went after."
"No use crying about it, Gil. We're lucky we got away with our skins. Besides, we got plenty anyhow." He patted the bulging saddle bags behind him. Lucky, I figured out where I saw that jasper before. I seen him one time, down in Laredo. He’s Jack Clayton, a government man. Too bad we didn't stop him. He's not one who ever quits."
"Too bad about Harve, too," the kid interjected.
Blackie glared at him. "He knew the risks. Besides, now it's a three way split."
The kid's face grew grim, realizing Blackie might like a two way or even a one way split. He refrained from saying anything more.
Blackie dismounted, still holding the reins as he continued to look back. "Clayton's going to keep on coming, no matter what. One thing is for sure though, these horses are played out. We've got to rest them or we'll never outrun him."
"He's got to rest his too," the kid said.
"That big black of his has as much stamina as that sorrel you're riding. I wish our horses were as good as your's, kid."
The kid's eyes grew darker and even more suspicious. "Don't go getting any ideas about taking this horse from me, Blackie." He warned.
"Relax, kid," Blackie retorted. "I wasn't suggesting anything like that. Then he added, "But, I'm thinking that instead of trying to out run him, we have it out with him once and for all."
"Meaning, what?" Gil snapped with irritation.
"Meaning we let him catch up to us. There is a pass up ahead. High banks on both sides. Rocks and trees for cover. Two of us on one side, one on the other. When he rides through, we blast him."