by Arch Gallen
Second Helping
A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland
Second Helping: A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland
Copyright 2012 Arch Gallen
Cover Art by Conceptual Designs, LLC
www.WesternSettlerSaga.com
Email: [email protected]
Sand Hills Sioux – Western Settler Saga I
Santa Fe Bandits – Western Settler Saga II
Coming down the trail toward you soon:
Colorado Gold Heist – Western Settler Saga III
Arizona Payroll Bandits – Western Settler Saga IV
Outlaw Wars – Western Settler Saga V
Madman From Morale – Western Settler Saga VI
Black Powder Justice – Western Settler Saga VII
Free Titles in the Adam Pike, US Marshall Series by Arch Gallen
Second Helping – A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland
Petra – Vengeance from the Past
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilog
Acknowledgements
About Gallen
Chapter 1
Nothing about this looked good. All he’d wanted from up on the ridgeline was a decent meal in trade for doing work around the four-square cabin and maybe straw in the barn for bedding when done. Now, he was hearing a woman needing help he wasn’t willing to give over some trouble he had no wish to know about much less solve. Sidling up under cover of pinion pines through the wash, he’d not seen those four riders approaching and sitting on his line-back dun in shadows of the house, they’d not seen him, either.
It hadn’t always been this way. Essex Dorner had been raised a helping boy by a Pa believing no higher calling came than to aid others. Across their county in western Ohio, Cambridge Dorner earned a name as the helpingest man around the only way possible, by doing for others when called on. Raising his boy alone, he’d taught such and Essex learned no other way of living at least until Lew McDermitt became judge and with his hand-picked sheriff started taking, assembling riches from hard work done by others using any means necessary. Pushing Pa, Judge McDermitt found one unwilling to be pushed and liked it none so took what he wanted by burning their home, killing Pa.
If not for a restless night, they’d have got Essex, too, but the youngster woke to strange noises outside then the smell of smoke. As flames licked under the bedroom door he’d climbed out a window wearing no more than a night shirt, jeans and his boots with rifle in hand then scooted to a hedgerow behind the house before realizing Pa was still inside. With no way back in to save his father, he saw the Judge, Sheriff Ashcroft and a couple others watch through night lit by flames until only embers were left before riding away. Sobbing, shaking from fear and rage until morning, he’d hiked to town and asked for help from those Pa assisted over the years, finding not one willing to buck the Judge or Sheriff.
No help was there for him and no way to challenge McDermitt’s claims of holding a note to the property. Essex knew Pa never borrowed, buying with cash or not at all, but no one would stand behind assertions the boy made that McDermitt’s signatures were faked, even those knowing well Pa’s writing scared to say so. Only one piece of advice was given, to file papers in court which all knew was loco, the same man being accused of murder and fraud sitting as judge with a Sheriff already denying any cause to press charges, ruling the fire and death an accident.
Hearing the lead rider talking to the woman in tones harsher than proper, he edged his horse closer despite himself. Cocking his head, he stared off over miles of prairie, listening.
“Time to admit, Mrs. Loftin, nothing will allow you staying. Woman alone can’t run no ranch and ain’t none coming your way to help.”
Essex frowned, her answer striking a note deep in him.
“Only reason I’m alone, Mr. Lambertson, is your men killed my Pa and husband figuring to take our land after an’ I’m having none of it.”
The man growled back, “Law already said no killing took place and you know it. Whatever cause your men folk had to run off is no business of mine or the law. All we’re wanting is to buy up what little you got and see you off land we’re needing for our herds.”
“Law here means nothing, Mr. Lambertson, that Sheriff no more’n the town drunk ‘til you come along an’ now doing nothing but what you say.” she snapped, her tone menacing, adding, “You’ll buy nothing from me an’ if you’re wanting my land, you best plan to kill me, too.”
A smile crept across Essex’s face, liking much the steel in the woman’s manner, then froze as the rider spoke again.
“Lady, we’re taking this land, you off it or in it we’re caring none. Now set that shotgun down an’ get to packing lest I turn loose my men to do what they’re wanting most before finishing our work.”
“Another step, Mr. Lambertson, an’ whoever takes this land will own your ghost with it.”
Unbidden, Essex found rifle in hand as he slipped from the saddle, back against the cabin wall moving toward the corner. Planning every step to leave them in bright light while staying shadowed himself, he tried to hold back, wanting no part of this ruckus but unable to stop. That night seventeen years before goaded him, all calling themselves friends saying they wanted to help but none willing to act raging as it had every single hour of his life since. He heard Pa teaching, ‘Them claiming to want but doing nothing to make it real ain’t wanting, son, they’re just wishing.’ and knew at this moment he was not wishing, only wanting to stop these men just as none had stopped McDermitt.
Switching the Winchester to his left hand allowing the cabin to be a shield, Essex levered a shell into the chamber, the sound echoing between the men, bringing all eyes on the small part of him visible.
“Mister, talking to a lady as you are is considered poor behavior where I come from. Seems you need to apologize before turning them horses and riding out.” he said quietly, his deep voice carrying well and heard clearly. Heard just as plainly were screams of Pa dying in that fire knotting his gut. Not once in seventeen years had he reached to help anyone without pay for doing so yet had thrust himself into a fight not his own for no gain at all.
He watched the men, eyes tight, without fear. Only a man with something to lose felt fear and Essex had nothing to lose. His clothes were worn and old, his saddle and gear little better, with only his rifle and six-gun showing signs of careful attention befitting a man whose work for a decade was hiring out to guard, hunt or kill other men.
“Mister” the head man answered, “I got no idea who you is but you ain’t welcome at this party. You just lay down that rifle and take yourself out of our business.”
Essex squeezed the trigger, his shot tearing through the man’s hat sending it spinning. A snap of his wrist chambered another round as he replied, “When the lady who owns this spread says I ain’t to be here, I’ll go. ‘Til then, only ones leaving are you boys and you’ll do it right quick or some won’t leave.”
Recognizing hard men, Essex saw no give in them. The talking rider was older than the others by a few years, clean shaven with clothes and gear new and well maintained. Less than six foot by an inch, maybe two, he had a paunch telling of too many good meals with whiskey plenty but was well muscled, not one to take lightly. The three behind him sat shock-still, mostly lean and wiry as ranch men tended to be daggering expressions of raw hatred at him, any one likely as not to risk dying rather than riding away from his challenge.
Across the sun baked
yard, the riders glared at him while the woman stood on her freshly swept porch, shotgun leveled without a quiver. Electric moments passed, any twitch enough to send hails of deadly lead flying until Lambertson leaned back.
“I’ll be stepping down for my hat before leaving.” he said conversationally, his fury kept hidden.
Essex raised the barrel of his gun an inch. “Get off that horse, mister, and you’ll never get on one again. Buying a new hat might be the lesson you need on what price a man might have to pay for acting as you are.”
Eyes widening, Lambertson’s mouth worked soundlessly before he barked, “Let’s go.” turning his mount with a vicious snap of reins. Instantly, the others wheeled, setting their horses to a quick trot as all four rode south leaving a trail of thick dust behind.
A mile down the road, Brad Seward, Lambertson’s most trusted gun, sidled close to the rancher. “Boss, I know that coyote from somewhere.” he said, brow furrowed.
Lambertson slowed his horse. “Cattle drive or some town about?”
The man shook his head, staring at large white clouds scuttering across the sky. “No, back east, ‘fore coming west. Can’t put a saddle on it, Mr. Lambertson, but I will.”
The rancher nodded. “Figure it quick, Brad. I’m wanting his brand.”
Waiting while Lambertson and his men left, Essex stood ready, hoping they’d turn back so allow him reason to shoot while struggling to understand himself. Never, he’d sworn, would he throw his hand to another and had not until now for a ranch that meant nothing to him and a woman likely mean as all others he’d known. Nor would killing these men make up for what was done long ago, Pa’s teaching that pasts can’t be changed being right then and now. Lowering his rifle, sure the men weren’t returning, he stepped out of shadow and looked at the shotgun aimed square on his chest.
“Not to be ungrateful, sir, but you’re needing to explain your being here an’ why you stepped in as you did.” the woman said, her blue eyes cold.
