by Neil Hunter
Jim Travis had every penny of his hard-earned savings in Sweetwater's bank. It was his future - but when Luke Parsons and his wild bunch cleaned out the town's bank, Jim's money was part of the haul. With help from the town, Jim rode out to retrieve his money, trailing the Parsons bunch across wild territory. Parsons threw everything he had at the lone rider dogging his heels, yet Jim kept on coming - and forced a final, savage showdown.
TRAVIS
By Neil Hunter
A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 3
First Published by Robert Hale Ltd in 1985, under the pseudonym ‘Richard Wyler’
Copyright © 1985, 2015 by Michael R. Linaker
First Smashwords Edition: April 2016
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.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Dedicated to the memory of Peter Watts. A good and true friend who is still missed by all who were lucky enough to have known him.
Chapter One
It started out as a pretty ordinary day. Midweek. Fairly quiet. One of those days that generally slips by without much happening to break the routine. Sweetwater was one of those towns that had existed long enough to have evolved ritualized patterns. They carried the town from day to day with little to intrude on those patterns.
By mid-morning the initial activity had pretty well slackened off. Sweetwater’s main street was almost deserted. A few horses stood listlessly at the hitch rail outside the town’s single saloon. There were always a few individuals with the inclination to have a drink even at such an early time of the day.
A dry wind was drifting in off the flats that lay to the south of town. There wasn’t much out in that direction except for a wide tract of dry land dotted with scrub oak and cactus. The wind picked up fine, gritty dust as it approached Sweetwater and rattled it against the weathered, unpainted boards of the buildings on the edge of town.
Sugden’s livery was one of those buildings. The owner, Hec Sugden, a grizzled oldster who had been one of the first to put down his marker when Sweetwater was being laid out, stood at the open doors of the rambling stable. Sugden was a man who liked to stand back and watch the world go by. He was an observer of human nature, given more to listening than to talking.
He watched now as six riders moved slowly across the flats, pale wreaths of dust rising from under the hooves of their horses. The dust had long since caked men and animals alike, almost merging them with the pale backdrop of the landscape. As Sugden silently eyed the riders he jammed thick curls of tobacco into the bowl of the charred old pipe he continually smoked. He was lighting the pipe as the riders eased on by the livery, and he caught a glimpse of taut, unshaven faces beneath the brims of travel-stained hats. Puffing out thick clouds of ripe smoke he saw the riders angling up main street to rein in by the saloon.
The six riders dismounted, talking quietly amongst themselves. They took their time. Made no untoward moves.
If anyone had been watching closely he might have become aware of the fact that when the riders dismounted five of them passed the reins of their horses to the sixth man. He remained with his back to the hitch rail.
Two of the riders removed their rifles from the saddle boots, tucking them loosely under their arms, muzzles aimed at the ground. Yet another unhitched a pair of large saddlebags from his horse and draped them over his shoulder.
There were a few moments more of subdued talk before five of the men eased away from the hitch rail, leaving the sixth man to tend the horses. The five wandered along the street. Two of them paused at the window of Meyer’s gunshop and stood looking over the wide display of weapons. After a while Meyer himself appeared in the doorway of the store and began to talk with the men. The conversation lasted for a few minutes as the merits of one gun against another were discussed, and then Meyer, smiling and bobbing his head, vanished back inside the store.
By this time the other three had strolled further uptown. They gave the impression of being nothing more than casual visitors having a look round. They could have been migrants taking a well-earned break from the rigors of the trail.
Ten — maybe fifteen — minutes drifted by. By the end of this time the five men had regrouped. They were standing in a loose bunch just outside Remsberg’s Mercantile. One of them, lighting the thin cigar clenched in his teeth, raised his head to stare over the shoulder of one of his partners. His hard, unflinching gaze was fixed on the building directly across the street. It happened to be Sweetwater’s bank.
~*~
Inside the bank George Asher shifted restlessly on the hard wooden seat, glancing furtively at the clock on the bank wall. A good two hours before he could go for his lunch break. He groaned inwardly. It had been one of those tiresome mornings. Very few customers had come into the bank. And there was little to do in the bank itself. Banks were also expected to be silent, sober places, so casual chatter, even when the place was empty, was frowned upon. So Asher had filled in all the entries in his ledger. Checked and double-checked to be certain everything was correct. He didn’t want Henry Sutton to find any errors. Sutton was the president of the bank. It was his bank. In fact Sutton was the bank. And he insisted on keeping a personal check on the day-to-day running of the place. He was a hard man to work for. He expected total commitment and loyalty from his employees, even though there were only two of them.
Now Asher didn’t mind being worked hard. He was glad to have a job in a place like Sweetwater’s bank. It was giving him experience. He was young and he was ambitious and willing to learn. Sutton himself was away on business until later in the day, and Asher was determined to show that he was capable of being in charge while Sutton was absent. The only trouble was the boredom that sometimes set in during quiet periods. If only there was some kind of diversion ... he felt a momentary rise of excitement, glancing awkwardly along the polished counter where his attention was often focused.
Mary Brewster, an attractive girl in her early twenties — she was the other member of staff — felt Asher’s eyes on her. A warm flush rose to color her cheeks, and she pretended not to be aware of his scrutiny. Inwardly she was pleased. She liked Asher. He was of her own age, a pleasant, likeable young man, and Mary kept wishing he would do more than just peep at her when he wasn’t supposed to be looking. She gave him all the encouragement she could without allowing herself to become too bold. The trouble was it didn’t seem to be enough. He was a shy person, she knew, so she was either going to have to be a lot more patient, or initiate some sort of action herself. But it would have been nice, she thought, if he would ... she almost laughed out loud at her own outrageous thoughts. Her mother would have been shocked to learn what her daughter had been imagining. Mary allowed a faint smile to show. George Asher would have been shocked too. She sighed. Maybe one day he would do something positive. One day.
Glancing up from her position behind the counter Mary looked out through the window. It was one of those ornately decorated affairs with the bank’s name emblazoned across it in fancy gilt lettering. The glass itself was layered with a fine film of dust, deposited there by the soft wind that was blowing in
off the flats beyond town. Through the window Mary could see two men crossing the street. They seemed to be approaching the bank. She sat upright in case they came in. Henry Sutton expected his employees to be alert and ready to serve at all times.
Heavy boots thumped across the boardwalk. The blurred shapes of the two men darkened the glass of the doors. As the doors swung open and the men stepped inside, Mary glanced at Asher. She wasn’t sure why. All she was aware of was a momentary feeling of unease. There was no reasoning behind it. The men were travel-stained and dusty, their clothing rough — but so too were many of the bank’s customers. Cowmen. Cattle buyers. Hunters. They all used Sweetwater’s bank, and few of them ever came in dressed for a social evening.
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ Asher greeted the pair. ‘Can I be of assistance?’
The taller of the two dumped a pair of empty saddlebags on the counter right under Asher’s nose.
‘Fill it, boy, and do it right quick.’
Asher simply stared at him. His face was blank, as if he knew what the man meant but refused to accept it.
‘Do it, boy,’ the man hissed through tight clenched teeth.
The doors opened again and three more men stepped inside. They had the same general appearance as the pair confronting Asher. One of them remained at the doors, closing them firmly. The others took up positions at the window.
The man who had placed the saddlebags in front of Asher deliberately removed the heavy revolver holstered on his hip. He raised the gun until the muzzle was a scant fraction of an inch from Asher’s face. There was a solid, oiled, double-click as the hammer was slowly dogged back.
‘I were you, boy, I’d do it. Right now you are close to having your brains splashed all over the floor. So why don’t you fill those bags with all the paper money in this place’.
‘For God’s sake do it, George. Do what they say,’ Mary yelled suddenly. There was no doubt in her mind that these men would hurt Asher if he didn’t do what they wanted.
Mary’s words had more effect on Asher than the gun thrust in his face. He reached down to yank open his cash drawer. In his haste he jammed the drawer. He glanced up with a despairing expression on his pale face. Beads of sweat caught the light as he moved.
‘The drawer’s stuck. I can’t ... ’ he began.
The man holding the revolver scowled angrily. ‘You son of a bitch!’ he muttered. He swung his left fist across the counter, clouting Asher across the side of the face. The sound of the blow was loud in the silent room. The impact rocked Asher’s head to one side. Blood began to well out of a gash in his cheek. Stumbling away from the counter Asher fell to the floor, groaning softly.
Mary moved toward him. As she did every gun in the room swung round to cover her.
‘Hell, girl, stand still,’ somebody snapped.
‘If you want the money I have to move,’ Mary said defiantly. Inwardly she was terrified; on a practical level she knew that the best thing was to give these men what they wanted so they would leave.
One of the men at the window gave a low chuckle. ‘Can’t argue with the little lady on that.’
The man with the revolver glanced in Mary’s direction. ‘Do it, girl.’
Surprised at her own coolness Mary opened her cash drawer and took out all the banknotes. She stacked them on the counter, then moved to Asher’s drawer. Working calmly she loosened the jammed drawer, then removed the money. She put the money in one of the saddlebag pouches.
The man with the revolver watched as his companion packed the money away. He glanced over Mary’s shoulder at the solid bulk of the massive safe that stood against the wall.
‘Keys?’
Mary nodded. She crouched beside Asher’s stirring form and felt in his coat pocket for the safe key.
‘Hurry up, girl,’ the revolver man urged.
One of the other men chuckled. ‘Leave her be. Maybe she’s found something in there a heap more fun than his keys.’
Ignoring the remark Mary crossed to the safe and used the key to unlock it. She pulled open the thick heavy doors.
‘That’s what we came for,’ a voice said.
‘Hell, yeah!’
The revolver man banged his fist on the counter. ‘We’ll talk later. Right now I want those bags filled.’
Mary took the saddlebags from the counter and began to pack in the neat stacks of banknotes. By the time she had the pouches filled and the flaps buckled George Asher had recovered sufficiently to be able to climb to his feet. He leaned against the counter, his face sickly white and streaked with blood.
‘Rest easy, boy, it ain’t your damn money we’re taking,’ the revolver man said, a grin forming on his unshaven face.
Mary dumped the heavy saddlebags on the counter. Her expression was stony. ‘That’s all the money there is,’ she said evenly.
The revolver man shoved the bulging saddlebags across to his companion. ‘Let’s go.’
The five men left the bank as swiftly and as silently as they had entered, leaving the door wide open. Thin swirls of dust drifted in from the street.
Through the window Mary could see a man leading six horses up to the bank. Thank God, she thought, they’ll be gone in a minute. She felt the tension begin to flow out of her.
And then — for the second time that day — she heard the click-click of a gun being cocked.
She turned, the color draining from her face.
‘No, George!’
Asher ignored her. He raised the counter-flap and ran to the open door. A long-barreled Colt .45 hung from his right fist, taken from its place behind the counter.
‘Let them go, George, please,’ Mary pleaded. She caught hold of his arm at the door. ‘Let them have the money.’
He glanced at her. He looked angry and scared all at the same time, and then, oddly he smiled at her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that.’
He shrugged off her restraining hand and stepped outside, lifting the revolver.
A man yelled.
Another cursed in a long monotone.
The thunderous crash of a gunshot filled the air.
A horse shrilled in alarm.
Then a shattering volley of shots crashed out.
George Asher’s bullet riddled body fell back through the door of the bank, the still-smoking Colt slipping from his fingers. As Asher crumpled to the floor, his lifeblood staining the scuffed boards, all hell broke loose in Sweetwater.
~*~
‘Jesus Christ, hold them damn horses still.’
‘I’m tryin’. You’d be spooked if somebody shot off a gun right next to your ass!’
The revolver man had his own mount under control. Hooking the bulging saddlebags over the saddle he swung up on his horse’s back, snatching up the loose reins. His features were set in a taut snarl of anger.
‘Let’s get the hell out of this damn town.’
Running figures burst out of the saloon down the street. A gun exploded. The bullet whined past the grouped men and shattered the bank’s big window.
Glass flew in all directions.
One of the bank robbers turned in his saddle and loosed off a volley of shots in the direction of the saloon. The hasty shooting resulted in nothing more than structural damage to the saloon’s frontage. But it also had the effect of driving the men on the porch to deeper cover.
‘Let’s go.’ yelled the revolver man. He drove his spurs deep into his horse’s sides, forcing the animal along the street in a wild, headlong gallop, the rest of his bunch following in a straggly line.
A number of guns opened up as the gang thundered up the street. The robbers returned some of the fire. Not one shot hit its intended target. The gunfire from the citizens of Sweetwater was directed at fast-moving horsemen. The robbers themselves were firing at the gallop. Both sides broke a deal of glass and splintered a lot of wood.
As the riders reached the far end of town a single figure appeared, blocking their way. A lean figure with a glittering
badge pinned to his shirt. He stood his ground as the riders thundered toward him, lifting the long-barreled revolver he was carrying.
It was the act of a brave and dedicated man. And it almost got him killed that day.
One of the riders hauled back on his reins, almost bringing his horse to the ground. He swung the rifle he was carrying across his saddle, holding for a moment before he triggered a single shot.
The bullet caught the lawman in the left leg. The impact spun him round and dumped him face down in the dirt. Blood began to soak through the leg of his pants. Aware of his exposed position the man rolled frantically to the side of the street as the approaching riders drove on by him. Coughing against the swirl of dust, and ignoring the surge of raw pain that engulfed his leg, he shoved himself to a sitting position. He lifted his revolver and began firing at the riders. He took his time, knowing the range of his weapon and its particular eccentricities. He had six shots and he used them all. He fired and cocked and fired again. On his fourth shot he was rewarded with the sight of one of the riders jerking sideways and almost leaving his saddle. The man retained his seat, hauling himself upright. There was a sudden blossoming of red on his left thigh, and the man clamped a hand to it, hunching over as he rode on.
When his gun’s hammer fell on an empty chamber the lawman let it sag. He watched the distant riders cut off out over the empty flats beyond town. There was no way anyone was going to catch them now. Those riders would be heading for the foothills and the mountains beyond. If they carried on long enough they’d hit Mexico. If they did that ... well …
The street began to fill with the curious and the angry and the downright pain-in-the-asses. Somebody got round to asking the lawman if he was all right, to which fool question the lawman answered in the most direct and forthright manner possible, which did a great deal to upset some of the womenfolk present, but by that time the lawman was past caring who got upset. His day had been spoiled so he didn’t see why anyone else should go home without getting a taste. He had a feeling this was going to be a long-remembered day in Sweetwater. For one thing he’d recognized a couple of the bank robbers, so at least he knew who had robbed the town. Not that it helped much. A lot of folk were going to be upset when they heard what had happened. The lawman, who was called Sam Tyree, had a feeling that the matter wouldn’t end here. The people of Sweetwater were going to be hollering for some kind of action. It was their money that had been taken from the bank. They were going to want it back. One way and another something would have to be done ...
