The Tylers 2

by Neil Hunter

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  A run in with the Retford bunch brought Jacob Tyler nothing but trouble and grief. He found himself running for his life, until his stubborn nature made him turn around and fight back.

  But then he was forced to go on the run again, falsely accused of killing a deputy US Marshal. Only one man could prove his innocence.

  It took a ride close to hell and back to find that man…

  JACOB’S ROAD

  THE TYLERS 2

  By Neil Hunter

  First published by Herbert Jenkins Ltd, under the pseudonym ‘Matt Jordan’ in 1976

  Copyright © 1976 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Cover image © 2013 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Chapter One

  When the smoke had cleared one of them was down on the floor with two bullets in his chest. He was dead. The other one was on one knee by the bar, his hands held tight over the bloody wound in his right thigh. His thighbone was broken, shattered by the heavy .45 caliber bullet, and he was in pain. He needed his leg seeing to, and fast, but he made no move, no sound. He stayed where he was, silent, never taking his eyes off the big man across the saloon, because he knew damn well that if he even coughed out of place he was liable to end up dead too, just like his brother Billy. This time they’d really bucked the odds, and they’d come off on the losing side. Ben Retford hated to admit it, but the stranger had taken them like a couple of greenhorns. The hell of it was, he hadn’t even raised a sweat over it. Maybe that was what made it harder, the way he’d taken them. He’d even let Billy get his gun clear of the leather before he’d drawn. Billy had gone down with two slugs in him, then the stranger had turned on Ben, putting one more slug into Ben’s thigh.

  Ben Retford moved. He raised his head a little, let his body lean hard against the solid base of the bar. He wet his dry lips as he stared hard at the big man with the gun in his hand.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘what do they call you?’

  The big man was silent for a moment. ‘What you askin’ for?’

  ‘I’ve got two more brothers and a father. Us Retfords walk pretty tall around these parts. You can kill me, but you’re a dead man. They’ll get you.’

  ‘They won’t have far to look. I figure to stay over in Pueblo a spell. First off I got a meal to eat, then I aim to find me somewhere to sleep. All they got to do is ask for Jacob Tyler.’

  Ben Retford realised that he was in no danger of being shot. An unarmed man would have no cause to be wary of this Jacob Tyler. He was a big man, capable of sudden violence, but he was no back shooter, no sneak-killer. He would face any challenge fair and square, giving as much as he received. He was the kind of man who scared the hell out of Ben Retford, and he knew now why he and Billy had been taken so easy.

  ‘Anybody round this town able to doctor?’ Tyler put his question to the bartender, a big Mexican with black hair and blacker eyes.

  ‘One or two have knowledge,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Somebody better get him over to one of them before he bleeds to death all over the floor,’ Jacob said, indicating Ben Retford.

  There were five other men in the saloon. None of them moved. Jacob glanced around. The Retfords might have walked tall, he thought, but they didn’t throw much of a shadow. He turned his gaze back on to Ben Retford.

  ‘I walked in here myself,’ Ben said to Jacob. ‘I’ll leave the same way.’

  ‘Your brother figured on doing the same thing.’

  Ben Retford pushed slowly to his feet. He leaned on the bar, sweat on his face. The right leg of his pants was sodden with blood.

  ‘You’ve bought yourself trouble, Tyler,’ he said gently.

  ‘Mister, you pushed it. I came in here for a drink and a meal. You and the kid there figured me for an easy mark. You fancied to push me around, show me how tough the Retfords are. Trouble is, friend, I just got back from three months down in Mexico, running with a bunch so wild they’d eat you for breakfast and pick their teeth with the bones. Now I’m tired and hungry and all I want is to be left alone. You picked the wrong man, Retford, picked the wrong man on the wrong day at the wrong time. Now, I was you I’d get me over to someone who could doctor me right quick, else this saloon is going to become awful messy.’

  Ben Retford turned slowly and made his way out of the saloon. He moved slowly, bent over his shattered leg, his big hands cupped around the bleeding wound as he walked. Blood streaked the sawdust spread on the plank floor, marking his passage from the saloon.

  Jacob Tyler sat down after he’d righted his upturned chair. His glass of beer was still on the table and he picked it up and drank deeply.

  The Mexican came from behind the bar. He took hold of Billy Retford’s arms and dragged the body out of sight behind the corner of the bar and into the storeroom at the rear.

  The beer glass in front of Jacob was empty when the Mexican came back. He ambled over to Jacob and sat down across from him.

  ‘Another beer?’

  ‘Good idea. You haven’t forgotten the meal have you?’

  ‘No. May a stranger pass on a word of advice?’

  Jacob smiled for a moment. ‘Why not.’

  ‘What Ben said is true. The Retfords have much power around Pueblo. They have many more cattle than all the others put together. More land. Many men and guns. Here we have no law. Only the law of the strongest. You understand?’

  ‘I know what you mean, my friend, and I thank you for it. Only don’t worry on my part. I don’t aim to go looking for trouble, but if they bring it to me, I ain’t running. Not until I’ve had that steak you keep promising me.’

  The Mexican got up. He took Jacob’s glass and refilled it, brought it back. He put it down, then paused, studying Jacob closely.

  ‘You did right killing him. They are all bullies. Violent men. But they believe they are above other men. The father, Kyle Retford, was one the first Americans to settle here. He came with very little, but he took land and ran in cattle. He fought everything and everyone in his way. Always he used violence to get what he wanted. It is as much a part of him as his breathing. Even now he still uses violence to get what he wants. Nobody in Pueblo has ever tried to stop him. They dare not. His sons walk in his shadow, and his crew is the roughest in the country.’

  Jacob glanced over the rim of his beer glass. ‘Are you saying I should saddle up and move on?’ he asked gently.

  The Mexican smiled. ‘Would I presume so much? You are a man who knows his own mind. And the ways of the gun are not new to you. Yet you do not seem to be a man who is careless with his life. I think you know what you are doing by staying on.’

  The Mexican vanished into the kitchen behind the bar, leaving Jacob with his beer and his thoughts.

  Sitting back Jacob let his weary body relax. He was tired. The ride up from Mexico had been long and tiring. He’d had his fill of being pushed around while he’d been across the border, and within two days of getting back on to American soil he’d found himself being pushed
again. He hadn’t asked for it, he hadn’t agitated the situation, but now that it had gone beyond words he was determined not to be harried any longer. The hell with the Retfords. If they left him alone it would end there. If they didn’t, then they’d get dusted some, even if they did bring him grief.

  From where he was sitting Jacob had a clear view of the street. There was a thick adobe wall at his back. His rifle was propped up against his table, and his handgun, which he now reloaded, was carried on his right thigh, easily got at, even when he was seated.

  He wondered for a moment just what Ben Retford was doing. It was only a fleeting thought, and he forgot it in the next moment. There were other things on his mind, things that were important to Jacob Tyler.

  In his pocket was a letter, which had chased him for months before it could be delivered. It was from his brother, Brigham, up in Colorado. And it held good news. Brigham’s wife Judith was expecting their first child. Jacob had smiled when he’d read the letter. It hardly seemed long since Brig had been barely old enough to ride a horse, and now there he was, the youngest of them, married, running his own spread, and almost a father. Thing was, though, that Brig had grown up fast. He had changed almost from the moment they had first ridden into the gold camp at Hope, Colorado. A lot had happened to them all. There had been trouble, a lot of trouble, but Jacob and Brig, and Seth, the third Tyler brother, had come through it, though each of them was a changed man. Brig had grown up fast, taking on a lot of responsibility, and handling it well. Seth had put on the badge, becoming Hope’s first lawman, and judging by the letters Jacob had received he was making a name for himself.

  And Jacob himself had saddled up and ridden out, for there was too much he wanted to see, too much he wanted to do before he settled down, if he ever did. Jacob had the urge to keep moving. His roots never took hold, never dug themselves deep. He would stay for a while, but he was soon wanting to move on. Once things got too familiar, too routine and dull, then Jacob was liable to feel the pull of whatever lay beyond the next hill. Jacob never asked himself whether he was wasting his life, he never considered it. He liked his way of life. It suited him, and he was satisfied. He asked for nothing he couldn’t pay for, worked when he needed money. His tastes were simple, and he lacked for nothing, and he knew that whenever he wanted to ride in he would be welcome at Brig’s place, Seth’s too. That was Jacob’s way, and he was well satisfied with it.

  A little later, as he sat eating his steak, he found himself being bothered by thoughts of Ben Retford and his kin.

  It annoyed Jacob that he was letting himself be bothered by these thoughts. But he wasn’t a stupid man, and he reasoned that if the thoughts persisted, then no matter how much he tried to tell himself he was right not to worry, there was something to think on.

  Jacob finished his meal, took up his rifle and walked to the door of the saloon. He stood looking out on to the sun-bleached, dusty street. It was a street like a thousand others, in a thousand sleepy towns scattered across this wide, lonely border country. He raised his eyes, looked beyond the rooftops to the pale sky. In the far distance he could see a range of low mountains, haze-purple in the vast emptiness.

  Pueblo had drawn him because it promised life and some degree of comfort after the hellhole of Revolutionary Mexico. That was all he wanted. But the feeling was growing in him that it was not to be. Jacob moved to one of the seats that stood against the wall beneath the saloon’s veranda roof. He sat down, his rifle across his knees and began to roll himself a smoke. He had a wait ahead of him. After that he wasn’t sure the way things might go. All he did know was that the wait would be restful and the time after would be, to say the least, interesting.

  Chapter Two

  They came in the last hour before dark. Already long shadows lay over the hot land, black, deep shadows against the sun-bright earth.

  There were ten of them. Kyle Retford was in front, a big man, heavy-boned, with powerful arms straining the sleeves of his dusty, stained shirt. He dressed like any forty-a-month-and-found cowhand. His clothing was rough, his hat sweat-frosted and old, his boots scarred and burned. An old army Colt hung at his side and a Henry rifle was in the saddle-boot. Kyle Retford was one of the old lions. A man who had never asked for anything in his lifetime and wouldn’t know how to ask, even if his life depended on it. He was fifty years old, but as hard as Hell frozen over. A man only had to look at him to know that there was no use ever arguing with him, and it was plain to see that he was the kind of man used to getting his own way.

  Close behind Kyle Retford rode Ben Retford. His leg was strapped up, he was in some considerable pain, but he was there because it was expected of him. Kyle would have made that ride if both his legs had been shot off and Ben knew it. If they had little else between them, there was enough loyalty among the Retfords to serve the whole Territory.

  Then there was Vey Retford. He was a dangerous one. He said little, some said he thought even less, but no man would ever say it within earshot. Vey had killed men for reasons so trivial most of them couldn’t even be remembered. It had often been said that he was crazy, but it had never been proved.

  Will Retford was talked about as the kind of man you couldn’t trust with anyone or anything. His needs were strong, always close to the surface, and no woman ever felt at ease while he was around — in the same context, men kept their hands on their wallets when they saw him coming. Will Retford liked to hurt people too. Not with guns though — his weapons were knives and his hands. He’d used both on more than one occasion.

  Six of Kyle Retford’s crew rode with them. They were all hard types, men who were better with guns than they were with cattle. As with all men of his kind, one of Kyle’s problems was keeping the land he had taken. There was always some kind of challenge to meet. It meant running a fighting crew. And Kyle chose only the best. Years ago, when he had first started out he had drawn up the rules of the game. He didn’t realise it, but his initial violence had propagated the world of brutality in which he now existed, and he was only fighting against the products of his own greed and intolerance.

  Kyle reined in. He hunched round and gazed at Ben. ‘You managing?’

  ‘Damn right I am,’ Ben said. ‘I won’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me fall off this horse.’

  ‘Whatever gave you the notion I’d want that to happen?’

  ‘Kyle, you ain’t talkin’ to one of the crew now. This is me, Ben, and I know you. The great Kyle Retford. Pushing it a mite now, but still more man than all the rest of his boys put together.’

  ‘Horseshit, boy, pure horseshit and you know it.’

  Ben smiled, pleased at Kyle’s reaction. He had little enough to smile about right now, and a small victory over Kyle almost made the pain worthwhile. Loyal as he was, Ben sometimes got more than a little tired of Kyle’s overbearing attitude. His father had played the big man role for so long that it now influenced his every word, his every move.

  Ben eyed his father now, waiting to see if Kyle took up the unspoken challenge. But Kyle had something more important on his mind, for he abruptly turned his horse about, facing the bunch of men who rode with him.

  ‘I’ll say this once. You all know I mean it when I say I’ll kill any man who goes against my orders. I want this Tyler feller alive. He’s going to hang, and I want him alive and able to feel that noose when it pulls tight. Let me do the talking. Just be ready to move when I say so.’

  He reined about and moved out, leading his crew across the open flat that lay before the town of Pueblo.

  Jacob saw them as they came across the flat. He didn’t get up, or move at all. He had a clear view of them from where he sat, and they would remain in his range of vision all the way up Pueblo’s main street. It was fairly cool where he sat and he had a thick wall at his back, a loaded and cocked rifle across his knees. His handgun was free in its holster.

  His horse, fed and watered, was saddled and tied at the rear of the saloon, courtesy of the Mexican. Jacob had c
onsidered the way things were liable to develop, and though he didn’t figure to run, it was a possibility that might present itself as the only sane way out.

  Watching them ride slowly up the street Jacob let his thoughts wander. He might talk his way out of this. Then again he might not. Kyle Retford was an unknown quantity, and it was wise to treat such quantities with caution until they showed their true colours.

  He didn’t know what they were expecting. Confronted by a man who was obviously primed and ready for trouble might put them off-stride. Most of the so-called tough gunmen were nothing more than opportunist killers. They only made a play when everything was in their favor. Let the other men have a slight chance, maybe get the upper hand, then the gunman would ease off, biding his time, waiting until things swung his way again. Back shooting was a favourite method employed by the gunhands. Dark rooms and handy rocks provided good cover for them to shoot from. Jacob knew these facts and he used them to his advantage if a delicate-enough situation arose. He was playing a blind hand, he knew, but he had little else up his sleeve at the present.

  Dust lightly misted the air as Kyle Retford’s bunch drew rein. For a few short moments there was silence and an eerie stillness, broken when Kyle eased his bulk in the saddle, turning his gaze on Jacob.

  ‘You anything to do with the Tyler’s up in Colorado?’

  Jacob laid a big hand on his rifle’s stock. ‘The same. Can’t say I ever heard of you before today.’

  ‘You’ll soon hear enough to last you out.’ Kyle leaned forward. ‘You killed my boy, Billy. Put a slug in Ben there, maybe crippled him for life.’

  ‘He showed sense. The other one didn’t know enough to quit.’

  ‘Weren’t no call for killin’. Sure, my boys play rough, but that ain’t no call for killin’.’

  ‘Tell you something, Retford, though you ought to know it. There’s no such thing as playing where guns are concerned. Where I come from a man only takes out his gun when he means to use it. Man draws down on me he’d better be ready to take what comes. Your boys weren’t ready. They figured me for somebody who’d crawl when I heard they were Retfords. Trouble is I never did worry over any man’s name. It’s what he’s liable to do that interests me.’