Hunter James Dolin

by Bret Lee Hart

  The captain came back in through the large window with a grin on his face, to see the men in the room with their guns still leveled at one another.

  "Gentlemen please, lower your weapons, I am a lot of things and one of those things is a man of my word."

  Hunter lowered his 44 and picked up his shotgun, handing it to Jeb, who was still seated. "The old man here will oversee this little lootin' party, agreed?"

  The captain nodded to his men, who lowered their rifles.

  Bodie did the same, followed by Birdie.

  Hunter watched as these killers in the room began acting like kids in a candy store. They put their differences aside, opened bottles of whiskey as they divided the loot, drinking and working together. Hunter grabbed a bottle, pulled the cork with his teeth, and chugged like a man who had just decided to jump from the wagon. He then dragged a small table over to Jebidiah and set the bottle on its top.

  "Thank you, Hunter James," said Jeb smiling, before drinking like a man who had never even been near a wagon.

  Hunter picked up the strap of shotgun shells and set them on the table.

  "I'm goin' after Helen and Walt while you keep an eye on them. When that whiskey kicks in, things could change around here."

  "I got yah, gunslinger. Hurry back – my old ass needs a nap."

  Jebidiah saw the corner of Hunter's mouth move upward. It was more like a grin than a smile, which was the most you could get from this man.

  Then the gunslinger was out the door as the early morn was being taken over by the sun beginning to rise from the east.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was late August, or early September – Hunter wasn't sure; he figured maybe September, because of the dryer air and the light rain on the horizon. He had left the big house as the sun was rising behind a partly cloudy day. Down by the shore, he gathered up his clothes and after washing the blood off his body with the cool lake water, he dressed. Hunter looked up to see turkey buzzards circling overhead. They were preparing to feed on the dead bodies that littered the swampy grounds.

  The gunslinger inspected the dead men as he went, a feeling of calmness spreading over him. He actually felt good, 'til dread came over him as Helen entered his mind. He quickly strapped down his guns by tying the rawhide strings on his legs, and took off at a run, inland to where Helen and Walt should be waiting.

  Some of Montgomery's men spotted him at the back of the house heading into the swamp. They were rigging their horses for travel and loading them down with goods. One of the men reached for his rifle on the side of his black Cracker horse. Another gripped him by the wrist, stopping his progress.

  "Leave it alone, Johnny. We got what we need – besides, there's no killin' that one. He's touched by somethin', and I, for one, don't want to find out what that somethin' is."

  Hunter was well out of their rifle range as his continued run brought him to the edge of the woods. He ducked and dodged tree limbs as he entered. A hundred yards through the thicket, he broke into another clearing to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

  Helen dropped it and jumped into his arms, their lips locked in a passionate kiss.

  "Oh, sure," slurred Walt from the base of his tree, "git me shot then steal my gal."

  Hunter broke free from her, looking over her shoulder. "How is he?"

  "He'll live," said Helen. "He's just a little drunk, that's all."

  Hunter walked over to Walt. "Can you travel, old man?"

  "Damn-n-n right..." replied Walt as he got to his feet and pitched forward.

  Hunter caught him, sticking his hands in Walt's armpits, keeping the old man from falling flat on his face.

  "Thankee sir, I mush a' tripped on a somin," said Walt.

  "All right, let's git you on your horse. If I git yah in the saddle, can you stay there?" asked Hunter.

  "Well, hell yeah, thish ain't my firs' rodeo."

  Surprisingly, Walt did better in the saddle than on his own two feet. Hunter suspected the old man had done this many times before.

  Helen was already on her horse, smiling and giggling at the spectacle of these two.

  The gunslinger stroked Zeke's nose. "How you doin', boy? It's been a while." Before he mounted the spotted horse, the Appaloosa whinnied back in seeming agreement.

  "Where's Jeb?" Walt demanded.

  "He's where we're goin'," answered Hunter. "He's probably drunk as you by now."

  Leading them through the brush, Hunter was feeling content, something that he wasn't used to. For a long time, he had not cared if he lived or died; he'd only sought revenge against Richard Montgomery and anyone who rode for him. Hunter was sure this time, all the men who were guilty for Lilith, the young boy Zeke, and Matt's death, were killed by his hand. He cared about life once again – he'd decided Helen would be his woman.

  They arrived at the back of the house in a short time. The sun was two hours high, but completely covered by overcast skies. There was a chance of light rain, caused by a north wind blowing into the swamp for the first time this year.

  Hunter and Walt glanced at the dead bodies with little thought. A flapping noise came from the trees and caught Helen's attention. She turned her head, looking around; to see the branches of the trees loaded with turkey buzzards. Up in the sky there were hundreds more circling the big house. In flight these birds were seen with beauty and grace, but up close their featherless skin-covered heads made Helen uneasy. She maneuvered her black horse past Walt, coming alongside Hunter.

  "We must bury these bodies. It's the Christian thing to do, allowing those birds to tear them to pieces… I…"

  Hunter interrupted her, "There's too many to bury. Besides, I'm not sweatin' over these scoundrels."

  Helen gave him a look.

  Hunter could not understand, but… "Maybe we could burn the bodies. Will that do?"

  A voice interrupted their conversation, "I got a better idea."

  Both Hunter and Helen turned in the direction of the speaker; Hunter doing so with his hand going to the butt of his revolver.

  "Easy, gunslinger," said the captain, coming from around the corner of the big house. "Foller me, I got somethin' to show yah."

  They dismounted. The short ride seemed to sober Walt up and, for the most part, he was able to walk on his own. It seemed his wound was not severe enough to keep a tough old coot like him down for long.

  They entered through the same doorway Hunter had blasted in the night, where they came across more bodies. Walt stepped over one of the dead men with a grunt, holding his wound with the palm of his hand. "Looks like your handy work, gunslinger."

  "They needed a lesson in manners, and I'm not one to put up with rudeness."

  "Back here," called the captain from a first floor room, the sound delivered by a narrow hallway.

  The large main room was dead center of the house. The captain's two men were sliding chairs and a table across the floor to the back wall, just under a painting of none other than Richard Montgomery. The picture had Hunter's full attention until the two men rolled up a fancy looking rug to reveal a large door in the floor.

  As they gathered around, the captain pulled up the hinged wood trapdoor by a rope handle, letting it slam backward with a bang, uncovering the gator pit. The house set on pilings five feet above the water and the banging sound of the door brought the large reptiles to the center, looking for their next meal.

  "These babies right here," said the captain, "will take care of the bodies without the burning smell and no one's got to dig."

  Helen put her hand to her mouth and turned her head at the thought of the gators tearing the dead men to pieces. She walked out of the room into the hallway to gather herself. Helen was a little embarrassed with her reaction, for she considered herself a tough and worldly woman. She was leaning against the wall when Hunter appeared in the doorway.

  "I'm fine," she said.

  "We'll take care of this," said Hunter.

  "You just make sure you put Richard M
ontgomery in first, so there's absolutely nothin' left."

  Hunter smiled at this. "That's my gal – you are my gal, aren't yah?"

  She smiled and touched his hand with hers. "We're gonna' leave this place, are we not?"

  "Anywhere but here. We'll figure that out as we go."

  "I'm gonna' clean myself up and pack my things, all right?" She turned and headed for the stairs.

  "Hey..."

  Helen stopped and looked back to him.

  "Keep that shooter close by, there could still be unfriendlies here 'bouts."

  She pulled her revolver from her belt and made her way up the stairs toward the third floor bedroom.

  Montgomery went first into the pit; it took little time for the hungry gators to devour him and others. The problem was there were too many. The large reptiles could only eat so much, so the rest of the bodies were piled down-wind and burned. It was a dirty and tiring job, but it had to be done, and not one tear was shed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the late afternoon, Hunter and Jebidiah were sharing a bottle and smoking Cuban cigars out on the main dock. They had already washed and eaten from Montgomery's well-stocked kitchen. The gunslinger and the old man were armed and alert.

  The captain had his two number ones on board the ship, plus three stragglers that had slowly appeared from the woods, their hands in the air.

  The engines of the coal-fired steamboat were running as they finished loading the last of the supplies. The captain walked toward Hunter and Jeb while keeping his distance.

  "Well, that's the last of it," announced the captain. "I guess we're done here and will be moving along."

  Hunter noticed one of the captain's men appear with a rag and begin wiping down the Gatlin' gun at the stern of the ship.

  "Do you think you can outdraw me, Captain?" asked Hunter.

  "I've thought a lot about that, gunslinger, and I haven't decided."

  Hunter's steel blue eyes pierced the captain's good one. "If you don't tell that man to back away from that rotator, I'm gonna decide for yah."

  At that moment, Jebidiah cocked his rifle. While they talked, the man had dropped his rag and worked his way around to the back of the big gun, putting himself in a firing position.

  "Thomas," yelled the captain, "leave her be – you can tend to your duties later on."

  Thomas hesitated for a moment, and then he walked into the wheelhouse, out of sight.

  "You greedy some-bitch," exclaimed Jeb. "You got a boat load of gold, and still you want more. You need to just git."

  "Hey," replied the captain, his hands up and backing away toward the steamer, "an old pirate's habit dies hard."

  The captain jumped aboard and unwrapped the last line from the bollard dock piling before shoving off.

  Hunter and Jeb could see the one-eyed pirate grinning at them from the window of the wheelhouse as the steamship sailed away, the sky filling with white smoke from the stacks.

  Hunter heard boots hit the walkout behind him; he turned to see Bodie and the young man heading toward them.

  "Bodie and his boy is a comin'," said Jebidiah.

  Hunter looked at Jeb. "Thanks for your insight."

  "My pleasure."

  "Tell me somethin', Jeb... What's that kid's name?"

  "I-I'm not rightly sure, Bird...or somthin'."

  The two had reached the head of the main dock when a large mouth bass hit the top of the water, scattering a school of shiners in all directions, temporarily diverted everyone's attention to the lake.

  "If you don't think you need us," said Bodie, "we're all packed up and we'll be headin' out."

  Hunter nodded in agreement.

  "What are you gonna' do with this place?" asked Bodie "Burn her down, I expects."

  "I hadn't figured that far ahead, to be honest with yah."

  "Well, I have," interrupted Jeb. "Old Walt in there don't heal as fast as he use-tah, so I figured we'd stay for a while, maybe for good."

  They all shrugged or nodded in agreement.

  Without a word, Bodie and the boy turned and were several steps down the boardwalk, before Hunter spoke, "Thanks Bodie, and you too, Bird."

  They stopped, turned and tipped their hats, then continued on, "Bodie?"

  "Yeah Birdie."

  "Will you call me just Bird from now on? I like that."

  "Sure, kid," replied Bodie with a smile. "I think you've earned it."

  Hunter, Helen, Jebidiah, and Walt ate a proper meal cooked by none other than Chinn Yang, who had been hiding in the house throughout the whole bloody battle.

  The Chinaman asked them for a job.

  After eating his cooking, and being served beer and whiskey by him, Jeb and Walt hastily agreed.

  Following a generous amount of drink for all, Hunter and Helen retired to the third floor. They planned to leave first thing in the morning, but first things first…

  * * * * *

  Several hours passed...

  They held each other, unclothed and sharing a cigar while they discussed their plans, "Where will we go Hunter James?" she wanted to know.

  "Where ever we want," said he. "There's a war goin' on to the north, so south maybe would be best."

  "Whatever you say, Mister Dolin." said Helen as she snuggled up to him while making the purring sound of a cat.

  "Keep that up," said Hunter, "and we'll git along just fine."

  They both slept.

  Hunter James Dolin was the only one to dream; Lilith came to him from the spirit world and kissed him gently. She told the half-breed gunslinger to live his life with this woman and be free for the rest of his days.

  That's exactly what he would do. He would teach this young woman the ways of the gun and turn her into a gunslinger. Who knew what adventures they might find?

  The End (wanna bet?)

  About the Author:

  Bret Lee Hart, a second generation Floridian, has spent the last twenty-five years in Marine construction; he is married and the father of two. His mother’s maiden name is Emerson, as in Ralph Waldo, and on his father’s side, Edgar Allen Poe can be found hanging on the family tree. With this bloodline of writers, and being named after Bret Harte from his western short stories, it was inevitable his imagination would find its way into print.

  The Half-Breed Gunslinger was the first book of this series. Many other adventures are soon to be unleashed from the storyteller's mind in different genres, such as Fantasy and the Paranormal. Be sure to watch for the next in The Half-Breed Gunslinger series.

  Please follow Bret on FaceBook at

  http://www.facebook.com/bretleehart

  Sneak Peek

  Foreword

  The year was 1860. Some of the white men of these times were outlaws who dwelt in the swamps far south of the Carolinas, trying to make a living any way they could. Most of them were out-of-work soldiers, since the surrender and removal of Chief Billy Bowlegs, leader of the Seminole Indian Tribe, which brought the end of the third and last of the Seminole Indian Wars. This left much land for the taking.

  These same men worked as hired gunmen for cattle ranchers, who found themselves in a power struggle over these lands. With the Indian Wars all but over, most of the armies moved north out of Florida, leaving it lawless.

  All but a few hundred Seminoles remained in the southern swamp territories. These Indians, along with other tribes, were intermingled with runaway Negro slaves who would not surrender to the Northern Armies. They retreated deep into the swamps to avoid relocation or death. The swamps in these parts were brutal. Gators, snakes, and insects made their home here.

  There was more open range cattle in Florida than in Texas and all the other states combined. The men who drove these cows were called 'crackers', from the cracks of their whips they used to move the herds. Some were honest men and some were rustlers and murderers, depending on who they rode for.

  With the election of the first Republican President, a congressman named Abraham Lincoln, talk of abol
ishing slavery seemed to be pushing the country toward instability. War between all the states was brewing, making the future of the south uncertain. The only thing for certain around these parts – men lived and died by the gun, taking what they wanted, or they died trying.

  October's dry air temporarily pushed the mosquitoes deep into the marshes that in summertime were said to be thick enough to choke out herds of cattle. It took a special breed of man to live here, and an even harder man to survive.

  Chapter One

  Hunter James Dolin, a man in his prime, half-white, half-Indian, was a gambler by choice and a gunslinger of necessity. He headed south; the massive rains had brought the swamps further inland, but the ridge he traveled was high for this area. There were many different kinds of trees on this trail, great oaks, yellow pine, and Australian pines, as well. The path was fairly narrow and curvy, intertwining between them.

  Now that the wind and rain were dying down and the first signs of daybreak was appearing through the trees, those three outlaws would surely start hunting him again. He felt they were close.

  About ninety miles back and a few days earlier, in the Crackerjack Saloon along the Withlacoochee River, Dolin's ace-high straight flush had beat one of the three outlaws' full house. He won fair and square – two ounces of gold and a just 'broke in' Henry rifle. These days that was more than reason enough to kill a man.

  Hunter had felt the itch in his craw that warned him he had out-stayed his welcome, and knew it was high time for him to leave this place. Without taking his eyes off the men at the poker table, Hunter had gathered up his winnings, while he spoke, "Thank you, Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."

  The man at the table to Hunter's left, the one who just lost his Henry rifle, had stood and replied angrily, "Do you think we're just gonna' let you walk on out of here, half-breed?"

  "Easy, Billy," said a man the others called Jed. He had sat across the rickety wood card table from Hunter. "We're dealing with a man that's awful lucky, or very good – not sure which."