by A. W. Hart
Avenging Angels: Wild Bill’s guns
Avenging Angels 8
A.W. Hart
Avenging Angels: Wild Bill’s Guns
Special thanks to G. Wayne Tilman for his contribution to this novel.
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2020 A.W. Hart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
wolfpackpublishing.com
eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-167-1
Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-168-8
Contents
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Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Watch for Avenging Angels: Guns Of Legion (Avenging Angels 9)
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About the Author
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Acknowledgments
Appreciation is extended to editor Paul Bishop
for his great ideas for this novel,
and to Denise Kearns, Becca Payne
and Susan Stecker for being beta readers.
Avenging Angels: Wild Bill’s guns
1
The two riders were back home in Kansas. They rode into Hays City, a new town built for the railroad. It already had a tough reputation, with many bars and Em’s brothel, among other less prominent dens of prurient pleasure.
They rode down a wide, muddy street, their black dog trotting beside them as he had in Colorado and other places. The sound of pistol shots came from a bar on their left.
The two were bounty hunters. If there had been a title “bounty killers,” it would have appropriate for the teenage twins. The taller one had his duster open, despite the wind and cold. His access to the butt-forward .44 Remington revolvers was more important to him than physical comfort.
His shorter twin also wore an open coat and pair of Remingtons. Her hat was pulled down. She had a muffler tied around the neck, obscuring her face. It was hard to tell she was a woman, one known as the “Beautiful Angel of Death” in the news rags and dime novels of the day. With the hat and muffler off and prairie dust washed off, she truly was beautiful, with cornflower blue eyes and long strawberry-blonde hair, now tucked up under her Stetson.
They both scanned from side to side in the encroaching darkness. The buildings lining the street were two-story wood-frames. They were built like prairie-style houses but occupied by various businesses. Most of the businesses had moved here recently after Buffalo Bill Cody’s nearby Rome, Kansas had failed because Hays was picked as a future railroad stop instead.
They stopped at the Perry Hotel and tied the buckskin gelding and black mare to the hitch rail.
The male, Reno Bass, walked into the lobby.
“I need a room for two.”
The clerk said, “We got one left. How long ya want it for?”
“Depends. We are looking for a man name of Wilton Adams. We’ll be in Hays City until we know he isn’t. Then, we’ll move on until we find him. Name ring a bell to you?”
“Yep. Gambles over to Paddy’s Saloon. Down the street on the left. ‘Bout three hundred yards down.”
The bounty hunter took out a Wanted Dead or Alive poster and unfolded it.
“This him?” he asked.
“Favors him. He shaved the beard. Has a mustache and goatee now. But it looks like him for sure,” the clerk said. “You the law?” he asked.
“No, we are the Basses. We are bounty hunters. I’d be obliged if you’d keep our little chat to yourself. Wouldn’t do for Mr. Adams to come here looking for us and start a shoot-out in your hotel.” He looked at the walls and up at the ceiling. The rooms were above.
“Don’t look liked it would stop my .44 too well, huh?” he asked.
“No, I ‘spect not.”
Reno signed the register and gave the man a couple of silver dollars. “Heat in the room? Fireplace or stove?” he asked.
“’Fraid not,” the clerk said.
“How about food? Where’s a place we can eat dinner and get breakfast in the morning?” Reno asked.
“Hays City Café, four doors down.”
“One last question. Where’s a livery stable for our horses?”
“Take a left around the building as you go out the door. There’s a stable back there. Boy who runs it for us lives there, so it’s open. Tip him two bits a day for each horse, and he’ll feed, water, and brush them down and keep them in nice stalls out of the damn blowing wind.”
“Thank you. Appreciate your information,” Reno said and went back out.
A minute later, the two Basses came in carrying their bedrolls, saddlebags, and rifles. They went to the room. Later, Reno came down and took the horses to the stable for the night. The clerk looked up and figured the second one was a brother. They had their black Australian Shepherd, Apache, with them. The clerk started to mention the no-dog policy but thought better of it. The hotel didn’t have many policies anyway.
The other Bass came down the narrow stairs before Reno got back from the stables. Sara touched a gloved hand to her hat to the man behind the desk in greeting. He nodded back, still thinking she was a young boy.
Sara stood at the door, braced against the wind. She had grown up with it. She still hated it. She turned, her hands moving toward her guns as she heard footsteps in the space between the buildings. Reno grinned at her. They went to the Hays Café.
They had been having trail meals and sometimes cold camps for weeks. It was time for a proper meal.
They ordered pork chops and potatoes with collard greens. Rolls and coffee completed their dinner.
There were two Buffalo Soldiers eating across from them.
Reno and Sara finished and pocketed some food for Apache, who was up guarding the room.
Two tough-looking men walked in and scowled at the black cavalrymen.
“You two get up and get out of here.” the uglier one said.
“Now, why would we do that?” the sergeant asked.
“Because you are black.” the man said, his even dumber-looking friend nodding in agreement.
“No, we aren’t,” the black man replied.
“If you ain’t black, what in the living hell are you?”
“Well, personally, I am a sergeant in the United States Army. What are you?”
The man sputtered, and Reno stood. Oh, boy, Sara thought. A sermon is coming.
“Why don’t you two gentlemen turn around and walk out the door? These cavalrymen and I might get mad in a minute, and I believe it might result in you getting hurt. Or killed. Yeah, I’d go with killed, on second thought.”
The man threw his coat back but was looking into the muzzles of two .44s before he touched the butt of his revolver. His eyes got as big as saucers. His friend had not moved.
Reno cocked one Remington. “Need one for the road?” He pointed it between the man’s legs, just below the belt.
The two men backed out of the door. The whole café heard the back one lose bladder control and liquid hit the ground.
“You sound like a cow peeing through a siev
e onto a hot rock on a summer’s day,” Reno called to the man.
Reno sidled back to his table, watching the door Remingtons still in his hands. He twirled the two big revolvers and then seated them in their holsters at the end of the first revolution.
The two cavalrymen saluted him. He nodded back and smiled.
“’Peeing through a sieve onto a flat rock?’” Sara said. “What in hell does that mean? And keep spinning your guns like you just did, and you are going to either walk with a limp or shoot yourself somewhere else and lose interest in going to those girlie shows.”
“Aw, Sara. I only went to one, and I didn’t have time to see anything.
“I don’t want to hear it. Now let’s pay up and locate Wilton Adams before you find some other trouble to get into.”
The two cavalrymen hid their laughter at the transition from gunfighter to henpecked teen within seconds. Until she spoke and they noticed a pair of revolvers had appeared in her hands, both thought she was a boy. They left the café first.
Reno paid, and the two walked down the street toward Paddy’s Bar. It was smoky inside, but pretty bright. Sara thought it prudent to stay outside and watch Reno’s back from the door. She was afraid if she went in, someone would recognize her as a woman. Since she clearly was not a two-gun lady of the evening, she would rather not have somebody try to kick her out since regular women were not allowed. She could have handled anyone who tried, but it would interrupt the mission at hand.
Reno ordered a sarsaparilla and wandered over to the two poker games in progress.
He had never played cards in his life. It was not allowed in their home. His father was a rancher, but also a lay minister in the local Lutheran church. Reno was the most pious of the Bass children. His two brothers were less so, his older sister less than them, and Sara was not pious at all. She even cursed. Despite it, she had been their father’s favorite. Maybe, Reno thought, he looked at her as a conversion project. Now she was his project. And he was not making much progress.
There were farmers and shopkeepers, by their outfits, at one table. Wilton Adams, in a black suit and amazingly ugly purple shirt, was at the other. His fellow players were rough gunmen types. He sat with his back to the wall. Three gunsels stood behind him. Reno knew no professional card shark would let somebody see his hand unless they were totally trustworthy.
The young bounty hunter was a good hand with a gun. He’d killed most of the company of ex-rebels who had murdered his mother, father, and both brothers, and ravaged and murdered his sister and his schoolteacher.
He reckoned he could take Adams. Especially seated, though he probably had a revolver on his knee under the table. He still had to get it above the table and into shooting position, by which time, Reno would be blasting at him.
He was worried about the three behind Adams. They were obviously his men. Reno could take Adams and maybe one, but in all likelihood, the other two would get him. He also did not know who was hidden in the crowd. The odds weren’t good.
He chose to finish his non-alcoholic drink and meet Sara at the door.
“Too risky,” he told her. He shared the odds he had figured. She agreed.
Reno had determined from the clerk that Adams was not staying at the Perry Hotel. Only two other hotels were left. It was too cold and windy to cover both all night. Games like this could go through breakfast, and it was only seven PM by his father’s pocket watch. The watch and the burnt Bible from the house were the only things they had from their pa.
They returned to the hotel, and Reno obtained a sheet of paper and envelope from the night clerk. He addressed it to Mr. Wilton Adams. The note inside said
I saw part of your game tonight and would like to join you instead of the farmers and drummers at the next table. I have $500 dollars in gold coins. I will show it to the hotel clerk to prove good faith. 8:00 PM at Paddy’s. Save me a chair? R. Bass
Reno said, “I am going to take the money out of our cache of gold coins and transfer it to my jacket pocket. Then, I will go to the first hotel and say I have a note for him. If he’s not registered, I will do the same at the other one. Assuming he is, I will make a big production of showing the gold and will leave the letter. I will try to find out from Paddy’s bartender when Adams usually arrives with his gunsels. We will be outside first and take him down before he gets in.”
“How about his three friends?” Sara asked.
“Not sure. If they get in the action, we shoot them too, I guess.”
“Reno. Four to two? Not good odds. And don’t say God’s on our side. God does not back stupidity. How about we hide somewhere and mow them down with our rifles?” Sara suggested.
“We don’t have wanted posters for the other three, so it would be one righteous shoot and three murders. We’d hang in Kansas. We’d hang anywhere for such actions. We need something we don’t have and cannot get,” Reno said.
“What?” she asked.
“A couple more experienced shooters with rifles or scatterguns. Back to plan one,” he said, tearing up the proposed note. “Let’s tough it outside and wait until they come out tired after the game. I will get their attention and tell Adams he’s being taken in on warrants. You’ll take a cover position with your Winchester and open up if they draw?” Reno said.
“If they draw, you say?” Sara asked with exasperation.
“It will be dark on the street, and they will be tired,” Reno replied.
“And we will have been out there freezing our butts off and tired for who knows how long.”
“We need to get a couple of sawed-off shotguns,” Reno said, thinking aloud.
“Well. Finally, some sense comes out of your mouth. How about we check on some shotguns tomorrow and do this tomorrow night? I didn’t see a gun shop riding into town, but there is a general mercantile store called Moses and somebodies.”
“Moses & Bloomfield’s, I believe. We can try. We are too late tonight to start an ill-planned take-down. I wish we had a hotel with some sort of heat. This place is colder than outside is.”
“I checked. The sheets are fair, and the blanket is thin. Good thing we brought our bedrolls in. I say we set up camp on the mattress.” They did, and Apache the warm dog crawled in beside Sara. Without the heavy coat on, her teeth chattered for ten minutes, then she warmed up and began to snore softly. Apache then began.
Just another quiet night in paradise, Reno thought. He draped the small tarp over them and sat looking out the window for a while. He knew they were just slinging meadow muffins against the wall on Adams. He barely met their scourge of God requirements. Adams had killed several people, but they had shot back. Of course, they were shooting because he was robbing them, but he had not murdered families wantonly, raped, or the committed the types of atrocities Pa had charged them with chasing down.
Maybe we ought to just take a pass on this poster and pick a worse person to go after, he thought as he got under as many covers as he could and pulled the tarp up to his ears.
Reno thought he woke up early. Too early for the café to open for coffee, much less breakfast. He looked out the window of the hotel room. The day was strange. There was an almost gold glow. It was overcast, so the yellow or gold was not sunlight. He called his sister over to the window to look.
Sara’s long strawberry blonde hair was in a tangle. Her blue eyes squinted, and she was non-communicative. She walked over, looked out, and grunted something unintelligible.
Then she cleared her throat loudly and asked, “Where in hell are we gonna get coffee? And when?”
He wagged his finger at her like she did to him all the time. “Language, Sara. Language.”
She walked over to the bed, still fully dressed, and climbed back in.
“Call me when you have coffee,” came out from underneath the blankets and tarp. He could barely hear it from under the layers of material, but he got the message. Reno just rolled his eyes.
God love her, he thought, ’cause it’s real hard for the rest
of us to.
He glanced over to be sure her twin revolver rig was hanging on the bedpost and laid the new 1866 Winchester lever action on the floor beside her.
He checked his father’s pocket watch. Almost nine o’clock. Who’d have thought it? There was virtually no activity outside. It was just a strange, ugly day. No particular wind, rain, sleet, but it seemed like nobody wanted to crawl out of the sack this morning.
“Apache, watch Sara. I’ll be back with food and coffee soon.” The dog made a sound, which Reno took to be acknowledgment.
He went downstairs. The clerk was on duty at the desk.
“Odd-looking day out, don’t you think?” Reno asked him.
“Yeah. I’m a bit worried. Before I moved here, I lived in Missouri. Whenever we had these days where the air seemed charged, we always had tornados. They have ‘em here, too. I just have not been here for one. The town is pretty new. I know this hotel and all the other buildings would be flattened.”
“They’re God’s wrath right up close and personal,” Reno said.
“I ain’t sure God is in Hays City, but I think it’s a place he’d be apt to send his wrath through,” the man offered.
“If one comes through, what should I do?” Reno asked.
“Despite your line of work, you seem to be a God-fearing man. I’d say the only thing you could do is look the wind funnel right in the eye and meet your Maker with a prayer on your lips as you die. There ain’t a thing you can do to hide from it.”
“Thanks for your advice. I’ll heed it,” Reno said as he walked out of the door.
