Stryker's Bounty (A Matt Stryker Western #3)

by Chuck Tyrell

  Reissuing classic fiction from the Yesterday and Today!

  Matt Stryker is a bounty hunter hot on the trail of a man running from justice when he comes across burnt-out stage station. The Ridges & Hale coach lies in ashes and the coach’s passengers are shriveled black charcoal. But stationmaster Dodge Miller was alive. He’d played dead well enough to fool the perpetrators and then drag himself to the outhouse afterward. Molly, Dodge’s wife, may also be alive, as the perpetrators took her with them. Dodge and Molly have often given Stryker of their hospitality and now it’s his turn to pay them back. “Please. Please find my Molly,” Dodge says, and Stryker promises that he will. But the perpetrators also took 250 pounds of gold, and soon half the county is riding in pursuit, including John Walker, the white Pima, and Taklishim, the Apache scout. But when push comes to shove, is Molly Miller more important that 250 pounds of gold.

  STRYKER’S BOUNTY

  STRYKER 3

  By Chuck Tyrell

  Copyright © 2014 by Chuck Tyrell

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2014

  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.

  Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin

  Visit Ed’s site here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Darv and Deon

  The best brothers a man could ask for

  Chapter One

  Lester Dent and his three boys rode up to Miller’s Well a good two days before the stage was due. But then, they had no intention of riding that stage at all. They just wanted its strongbox, and Molly Miller.

  Miller’s Well supplied Ridges and Hale stages with fresh horses and the driver, shotgun, and passengers with alkali-tinged water and Molly Miller’s good cooking. Molly and Dodge Miller operated the station from the time the company set up its run from Globe City to Tucson by way of Camp Grant. At first, the stages came once a week, then the silver strike in Tombstone put two stages a week on the run.

  Molly kept a truck garden year round, watered from Miller’s deep well. Dodge kept a shotgun on a rack and a long-shooting Creedmoor for taking pronghorns, whitetail deer, and sometimes an elk, to put meat on the table at Miller’s Well.

  With the stage not due for two days, Dodge shouldered the Creedmoor and headed up the craggy foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains just south of the stage station. With luck, he’d have fresh meat by nightfall. Molly weeded the garden, the hem of her calico dress brushing the ground as she hoed. A bonnet tied securely under her chin shaded her face from the vicious Arizona sun, but it still got to Molly’s skin enough to raise a rash of freckles that she didn’t like but men thought made her look like a girl. A tiny frown of concentration showed that Molly Miller was dead serious about keeping weeds from stealing precious moisture from her vegetables. In fact, she was so focused on the weeds that she failed to notice until four men reined their tired horses to a stop near the well and hollered, “Hey, missus.”

  Molly’s head came up and she turned to see who called.

  “Hey, missus!”

  “I hear you,” Molly called. “Be right there.” She patted the Pocket Colt in her apron and let the hoe fall between rows of string beans. She lifted her skirts a mite in front and walked quickly out of the garden patch and across the stage road to her home, which doubled as the stage station.

  “Missus.” The same man called.

  “Coming.” Molly rounded the corner of the house. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Awright to water our hosses?”

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  “Bite to eat?”

  “Beans and sourdough,” Molly said. “Two bits a head.”

  “Sounds good.” The man doing the talking put a finger to the brim of his hat. “I’ll be Lester Dent,” he said, “ and these’uns’re muh boys.” He pointed at each as he intoned their names. “Finn, Lee Roy, n’ Wee Willy. Ya’d do good to watch out for Willy. He’s a bit crazy some say.”

  “You’re welcome, gentlemen,” Molly said. “Water your horses. Beans are on the stove and I’ll pop a loaf of sourdough into the oven to warm up.” She turned her back on the horsemen and went into the house.

  Lester looked at his brothers. “Reckon she’s the one?”

  “More’n likely,” Finn said, standing in his stirrups so he could scratch his butt. “Don’t see no other woman around.”

  “Then she’s the one what knows. Water the hosses, Willy. Then come in ‘n’ eat.”

  “How come I gotta do all the work?” The youngster called Wee Willy Dent pouted. He was big, bigger as any of the other Dents, but somehow looked younger, more naïve.

  “Make yerseff useful, boy. Cut out the bitchin’.” Lester Dent swung off his black-legged bay and dropped the reins to the ground. The bay stood obediently ground-tied. Finn and Leroy followed suit. They’d been riding with Lester long enough to know he was always a step ahead of them when it came to planning and getting things done.

  The overgrown boy they called Wee Willy clambered off his three-color paint, dropped the reins to ground-tie it, and fairly stomped over to the well. He took the wooden bucket off its hook and dropped it down the well. Seconds later, a faint splash came, telling Willy that the bucket had hit water and was probably full. The rope ran over a pulley that helped hoist the bucket full of water up out of the well. Willy poured it into the horse trough. It hardly covered an inch of the bottom. “Goldam,” Willy muttered. “I’ll be here all day just pulling up enough water for the damn hosses.”

  Finn threw a comment over his shoulder. “Get a move on, kid, else you’ll miss out on the grub.”

  Willy tossed the bucket back down the well.

  Lester led the rest of the Dents through the door into the main room of the Miller’s Well stage stop.

  “Missus?”

  Molly stuck her head out the kitchen door. “Won’t be more’n a minute or so,” she said. “Sit yourselves down at the table there.”

  “Reckon we might as well eat,” Lester said. He waved the other Dents to places around the big table. “Smells right tasty, missus,” he called.

  Molly’s voice came from the kitchen. “Some says my beans’s good. Ain’t been nobody died of them yet.”

  Lester leered at Finn, then winked at Lee Roy. “We’re a waiting,” he called. “Hungry as we can get.”

  Molly came in with an armload of bowls and spoons. She plonked one down in front of each Dent and one where the one called Wee Willy would sit. “I can load them bowls up with beans soon as you’re ready to eat,” she said.

  “Any time’s fine,” Lester said, drawling out his words. “Say, missus, you heard of a woman called Sharon Sue?”

  Molly’s hand paused for the barest second before she said, “Sharon Sue? Nope. No one here at Miller’s Well but me, and my name’s Molly.” As she disappeared into the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “Why?”

  “Kinda wanted to talk to Sharon Sue,” Lester called.

  Molly came back with a steaming kettle of beans held between two hot pads. She set it on the table, took up the ladle, and began filling the bowls. “Sourdough’ll be good and warmed up,” she said. “Sorry we’ve got no butter for you. Don’t have a milk cow.”

  Lester grabbed a spo
on and dug into the beans. “Damn good,” he said. “Oh, ‘scuse me, missus.”

  Molly grinned. “Glad you like ‘em.” She went again to the kitchen and came back with good warm sourdough bread, sliced an inch thick, piled on a platter, and ready to eat. She put the platter in the middle of the table. “Help yourselves,” she said.

  Finn and Lee Roy reached for the same slice of bread. Finn glared at Lee Roy, who drew back. “Yours,” he said.

  “Damn right,” Finn said. He was soon dipping hot sourdough into the beef and beans Molly had served them. He said nothing, but the speed of his consumption said a great deal about what he thought of the food. The men settled down to serious eating.

  Lester called toward the kitchen. “Any more of them beans left, missus?”

  “Just what’s in the kettle,” she called. “Welcome to it. Might want to leave some for the other one. Wee Willy? That what you called him?”

  “He’ll make do,” Dent said.

  Moments later, Dent showed up in the doorway to the kitchen. “Yer man around?” He leaned on the kitchen door frame, bowl in hand. He said nothing more, but Molly could feel his eyes raking over her body.

  “He’s out hunting,” Molly said. She saw no reason to lie.

  “I’ll be damned. Plumb gone. Looks like we got lots of time, missus.” He shoved off the door frame with a thin shoulder. “Lots of time, cause we’re waiting for the stage to come, we are.”

  “You’ll have to sleep in the hayloft over the stable,” Molly said. Dent’s mere presence left a slimy taste in her mouth. “Want me to bring the rest of the beans in?”

  “Oh, now, I’ll get my own, missus. I’ll just get my own.” He stepped over to the big Royal, brushing by Molly as he went. While Dent seemed to be just going to refill his bowl, Molly felt he brushed her on purpose. With most Western men, Molly was free and open. Respect for women was an unwritten code.

  “Scuse me, missus,” Dent said. He took his time going back to the common room with his bowl of beans. “Two days ‘til the stage comes, I reckon. Lots of time to get well acquainted, I’d say.”

  Molly stayed in the kitchen.

  “More beans, missus?” Finn Dent filled the doorway. Larger than his father, Finn didn’t exude the raw energy of the older Dent, but he had the same pale blue raking eyes.

  “In the pot,” Molly said.

  “I might spill sumpin,” Finn said. “Fill’ut for me?” He held out the bowl.

  Molly shot a glance at the young man. He just stood there, a sly grin on his face, holding the bowl out toward her.

  “Don’t tell me. Another helpless man who can’t do for himself,” Molly said. She reached for the bowl.

  Finn moved it just as her fingers touched the edge.

  “Don’t play games with me, young man,” Molly said, a sharp edge in her voice.

  “You don’t know from games, missus. Mebbe I’ll have to learn you some.”

  “Don’t be impudent. If you want more beans, hand me your bowl. I’ll fill it for you.”

  Finn grinned that sly grin again. “Obliged,” he said.

  Molly had to get right next to him to grasp the bowl. Even then, he persisted in teasing her, giving her a playful pinch under her forearm as she reached across his body. “Hmmm. Real nice,” he said.

  Molly shuddered. It had felt as if Finn Dent’s fingers were covered with a film of grease. Without a word, she dipped beans from the pot to fill the bowl. “Here,” she said, holding the bowl out at arm’s length. “Go eat in the other room.”

  “Thankee, missus.” Finn took the bowl. “Yer most obliging, and that’s almighty good.” He sidled through the doorway, his eyes on Molly the whole time. Even in the common room, he kept looking at Molly until she stepped aside, moving out of his line of sight. “I think missus wants to play games,” she heard him say.

  “Eat’cher beans,” Lester Dent said. “We got time. Plenty of time. Don’t go rushin’ things.”

  “Yes, pa,” Finn said, his voice so subdued Molly could barely hear.

  The Dents ate in relative silence. At least no snippets of conversation filtered from the common room into the kitchen. Molly took another pot with beans soaking in it and poured the water into a bucket. The beans had swollen to twice their dry size and softened up so a couple of hours on the stove would result in another batch of Molly Miller’s good boiled and simmered beans. She placed the pot on the Royal and ladled a quart or so of broth from the stock pot into the bean pot. She didn’t have onions to make the beans more flavorful, but she did have a bit of dried sage, some rosemary, and a few laurel leaves. She put a lid on the bean pot and pulled it to the hot spot on the Royal. After it had boiled for an hour or so, she’d push it back so it could simmer until morning.

  A stage station could run short on lots of things, but never beans and never feed for stock. Miller’s Well had plenty of beans, and Molly knew how to give them something special, so people who came through Miller’s Well would remember them for a long time after.

  “Missus?”

  “Oh!” Molly fairly jumped at Wee Willy Dent’s voice. “You startled me, young man. It’s not good to sneak up on people, you know.”

  “Beans, please, missus, and some bread, if ya’ve got it. And I never snuck. My pa says we gotta walk quiet-like, so he makes me wear moccasins. I clomp in boots. Cain’t help but clomp.” He held out the empty bowl Molly had left at his place at the table. “Beans? ‘N bread?”

  Molly took the bowl and emptied the bean pot into it, but the beans came nowhere near filling the bowl. “Sorry,” she said, and handed him the bowl.

  Wee Willy had to stoop to stand in the doorway. He looked at the half-full bowl and then turned tear-filled eyes to Molly. “I gets hungry most ever’day,” he said. “But pa makes me eat last, after him and Finn and Lee Roy. Ain’t never enough.”

  The big man turned into a little boy right before Molly Miller. He filled the doorway, but still seemed hardly old enough to wear shoes. “Come in here to eat,” she said. “Stand over there and use the cupboard.”

  Wee Willy came in, nearly filling the room. Molly handed him a spoon. “Go ahead and eat the beans, Willy,” she said gently.

  A half loaf of sourdough bread remained in the breadbox, so she swiftly cut a two-inch slice and slathered it with a thick layer of apple butter. “Eat this, too,” she said, and set the bread beside the beans.

  “Wee Willy!”

  “Yeah, pa.”

  “You leave missus alone now, ya hear?”

  Molly went to the doorway. The other three Dents sat with their elbows on the table, empty bowls before them, along with the empty bread plate. “Lester Dent,” she said. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. You hog down beans like you’ll never get another meal, and your youngest hardly gets a full bowl. And you call yourselves a family? Families share and share alike.” She turned her back on them and went back to the stove.

  “Wee Willy, you hear me?”

  Wee Willy swallowed the last of the sourdough. “I’m hearin’ ya, pa.”

  “Get’chor ass back in here with the rest of us. Now.”

  Wee Willy flashed a frightened look at Molly. “Coming, pa,” he said.

  Molly followed Wee Willy as he returned to the common room, and stood watching the Dents as the huge man-child stood in front of his father.

  “Go get a stick, boy.”

  “Aw, pa, I ain’t done nothing.”

  “You shamed the family.”

  Wee Willy marched outside, head hanging and tears leaking from his eyes.

  “Stop yore blubbering, boy!”

  Willy hiccupped. “Y-y-yeah, pa.” He slumped out the door, leaving it open. Lester Dent said nothing about the open door.

  “I’ll take the dishes,” Molly said. No one moved, so she worked around the stolid men, avoiding them as she collected the dirty dishes and tableware.

  The Dents said nothing, but Molly felt their eyes. They seemed to scorch her. In the kitchen, she
put the bowls and spoons in the dishpan so she could wash them at the well and throw the water on her garden later.

  She didn’t realize Wee Willy had returned until she heard the splat of wood on flesh. Willy didn’t cry out, but Molly could tell by the little grunts that came with the smacking sound of whatever stick he’d found was used to beat him for whatever imagined shame he’d brought to the Dent family. The two Dent boys giggled at Wee Willy’s beating, then laughed out loud.

  “Finn. Lee Roy. Shut up. Just shut up,” Lester Dent hissed. Molly decided that if a rattlesnake could talk, it would sound like Lester Dent. She wondered how Wee Willy could accept the kind of beating she heard.

  Thwacks of wood against flesh and little grunts of pain continued. Molly realized she was holding her breath and the lack of air made her dizzy. She sucked great gulps of dry air into her lungs, and still the beating went on.

  Dear God, she prayed, please help that poor simple boy.

  The stick broke. Molly heard it break. She held her breath again.

  “Now Wee Willy. Can you hear me when I speak? Huh?”

  Wee Willy’s answer was hardly more than a whisper. “I hear ya, pa,” he said.

  “We do not bring shame upon our family. Never. Never. Never. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear ya, pa.” The answer was still hardly above a whisper.

  “Good. Now take that poor excuse for a stick—it broke in two—so take it and burn it in the stove.”

  “I hear ya, pa,” Wee Willy said, his voice a little stronger.

  Molly breathed again. She had her back to the door when Wee Willy came in. He said nothing. She didn’t look. He found the handle to the burner lid and Molly heard him grunt as he lifted one of the lids out and stuffed the “stick” into the stove. “There,” he said softly. He put the handle back in its place and retraced his steps to the door.

  Molly turned her head to catch a glimpse of Wee Willy as he entered the common room. She took a huge breath to keep from gasping. How could any father beat his own child like that?

  Lester Dent appeared in the doorway. “Now ya see, missus. Now ya see what happens to them as don’t listen to what I say, don’cha?”