Savage Gun (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 13)

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Honey, now it’s really time to fight,’ he said.

  Downstairs Eli Colton threw down his cards and pushed away from the table. ‘Ben’s got the right idea,’ he said. He walked over to the girl he’d attacked on the boardwalk.

  ‘Wondered when you were going to finish that off,’ LeGrand said without looking up from working on his gun.

  ‘Yeah?’ Eli said, reaching out to pull the girl to him.

  Before he could take it any further the saloon door swung open. Wind drove a curtain of cold rain into the place, preceding the sodden figure of Bo Redford.

  ‘Shut that damn door,’ LeGrand said. He studied Redford for a moment. ‘You’re supposed to be on watch, Bo.’

  Bo stood in front of the stove. Steam rose from his wet clothes and he dripped puddles onto the floor. He took off his hat and beat the water out of it.

  ‘I been watching,’ he grumbled.

  ‘So what you doing back here?’

  Bo brushed damp, greasy hair back from his broad face. ‘I seen somebody.’

  The tone of his voice made LeGrand look up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Up on that hill in back of town. A horse and rider.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘I seen him,’ Bo blurted out, as if he was describing some kind of vision.

  ‘You had a bottle out there with you?’ Dunker asked.

  ‘Hell, no.’

  ‘So what’s all the crap about seeing a rider? He something special?’ LeGrand asked, a slight unease forming at the back of his mind.

  ‘He…’ Bo began. He stared into the glowing stove. ‘He was there and then he wasn’t. Just sat on the hill, in the rain. Ain’t no more to it. Ben said to let him know if I saw anybody.’

  ‘Get back out there then,’ LeGrand told him. ‘Keep your eyes open, Bo. You see anything else just give a yell.’

  Redford shuffled back outside the door banging shut after him. There was a steady silence in the saloon.

  ‘Some cowboy on his way home,’ Sam Colton suggested.

  ‘You figure it might be the law?’ Irve Dunker asked, directing his question at LeGrand.

  ‘Could be, though I wouldn’t expect a law man to sit up on top of a hill and let himself be seen.’ LeGrand was silent for a moment. ‘It’ll pay to walk easy and keep our eyes wide open.’

  It was just under a half-hour later when Sam Colton put on his oilskin slicker, picked up his rifle and went to relieve Bo Redford. He was back in five minutes.

  ‘Jesus, don’t say you been seeing things now,’ Eli said.

  Sam shook his head. ‘He’s gone. Morg, he’s gone. Bo’s vanished.’

  LeGrand got up. ‘You sure? You looked for him?’

  ‘Ain’t a sign. I found the place he stood watch. There ain’t a sign of Bo anyplace.’

  ‘Couple of you go with Sam. Tear this damn town apart but find Bo. Else find out why he’s vanished.’ LeGrand sighed and made for the stairs. ‘I’d better let Ben know.’ He knew that Shelby wouldn’t be too pleased at being disturbed but if there was the possibility of trouble it was better to be prepared.

  A damn sight better, LeGrand decided, than being dead.

  Two

  He was a big man, standing well over six feet tall, yet he carried himself lightly, moving soundlessly as he eased down through the heavy brush lining the hills behind Gray’s Creek. He wore a wet, black slicker over his clothing and a battered, wide-brimmed dark hat was pulled low across his sun browned, lean face. A .44-40 lever-action Winchester dangled from his big fist, and beneath the glistening slicker he wore a heavy .45 caliber Colt on his right hip. Matthew Cord was his name.

  Up until a year ago he’d worn the badge of a United States Marshal but then he’d killed a man, a personal kill, first stalking his quarry and then goading him into a gunfight before emptying the six chambers of his Colt into the man’s writhing body. Because of that they had taken his badge away and had thrown him into prison, treating him like some wild animal. And Cord had almost become an animal, casting aside the thin veneer of surface-calm to expose the violent nature he’d held in check for so many years. It hadn’t made his time in prison any easier. It had in fact made it a sight harder. The long months in prison had been less than pleasant and Cord was close to trying for a break when the man named Murdoch had shown up, offering him not only a chance to get out of prison, but also to go back to work.

  A bitter smile touched Matthew Cord’s lips as the memory crossed his mind. He’d been thrown in prison for working outside the law—and now they’d pulled him out of his cell, given him back his guns and were damn well paying him to do it again, with their blessing.

  The buildings of Gray’s Creek lay just ahead of him. Cord moved swiftly along the rear of the rain-soaked stores until he was across the street from the Golden Girl Saloon. The bodies of the town’s Marshal and the two cowboys lay where they’d fallen. The town had retreated into its shell, closing doors and windows against the violent invaders. Matthew Cord didn’t exactly blame them. Ben Shelby and his bunch were the worst kind. Brutal and utterly indifferent to the suffering they caused. They had chalked up a long and bloody list of crimes and Cord knew that there was only one way he was going to tame the Shelby bunch and that was the way of the gun.

  Already one of them was dead. Bo Redford might still be alive if he hadn’t tried to buck a knife at his throat. Cord didn’t regret the man’s death. Redford had pushed his luck too far, not realizing the unrelenting ruthlessness of the man wielding the knife. He had taken his chance and paid the price. By this time Redford’s body would be a couple of miles downstream of the fast-flowing creek.

  He heard voices then and shrank back into the shadows of a stack of boxes. Two men walked by the end of the alley he was in and Cord took note of their faces. Isha Cooley and Sam Colton. Now there, he thought, was a combination. Each man was a bad lot on his own. Put them together and they spelled trouble for anyone unfortunate to get in their way.

  Cord moved on along the back lots until he was at the far end of town. He found himself in the residential area of Gray’s Creek. He chose the nearest house and made for the back door, found it unlocked and went inside. He found himself in a small kitchen. There was a pot of coffee bubbling on the stove. The smell of it tugged at his stomach, making him realize he hadn’t eaten for awhile. He found a cup and filled it, spooning in some sugar. Cord drained the cup. As he put it down he sensed someone was watching him. He turned and saw a dark-haired woman in her fifties standing in the doorway that led to the front of the house. She looked nervous, but unafraid.

  ‘Helped myself, ma’am,’ Cord said. ‘Nice coffee. Mind if I have some more?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ the woman asked tartly.

  Matthew Cord smiled bleakly. ‘Yes, ma’am. You can tell me to go to hell and to get out of your house. I’ll do it as soon as you give me the answers to a couple of questions.’

  ‘If it’s money you’re after we have very little in the house.’

  Cord picked up his second cup of coffee. ‘We’d better get something straight, ma’am. I’m not one of Ben Shelby’s bunch. Fact is, ma’am, I’m here to get rid of them.’

  ‘You a lawman?’

  ‘Some folk might argue the point, ma’am.’

  The woman turned away from the door. ‘Come this way,’ she said.

  Cord followed her through to the front room. A fire blazed in the open hearth and a gray haired man stood gazing into the flames.

  ‘George,’ the woman said.

  The man turned. He was tall, his tanned face lined with age. He looked directly at Cord.

  ‘Are you all right, Ann?’

  The woman nodded. ‘This man has some questions he wants to ask, George.’

  ‘There are some I’d like to ask myself.’

  ‘The name’s Cord. I’m here because I’ve drawn the job of doing something about Shelby and his bunch.’ Cord crossed over to the front window and eased back the curtain. ‘If I�
�m right in saying Shelby’s got hostages in that saloon, can you tell me how many he’s got and who are they?’

  ‘They have four young women. Jim Rook will be there too. He’s the bartender in the Golden Girl. It was early when they went in there so there wouldn’t have been many customers. There were two hands from the Slanting-Y spread but Shelby’s bunch gunned them down in the street. That was just after they killed Will Beal. He was the town’s part-time marshal.’

  ‘And if he’d been a full-time marshal he’d of known better than to try and take the Shelby bunch while they were all together.’

  ‘Will Beal was a good man.’ The old man’s tone was icy.

  ‘Maybe. But now he’s dead and it doesn’t mean a damn thing.’

  Cord put down his rifle and peeled off his slicker.

  ‘What sort of access is there to the saloon? Apart from the front door.’

  The old man thought for a moment. ‘There’s a small door in back that leads into the storeroom at the rear. Then there’s a flight of stairs up to the top floor. Runs up the side of the building.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’d be obliged if I could leave this here a while.’

  The woman nodded. She took the slicker and vanished back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Stay off the street,’ Cord said to the old man.

  ‘We have. I’m ashamed to say that the whole town has stayed off the street. We let Will Beal die for us and we’ve done nothing. We closed our doors and hid ourselves from what was going on out there. Not much of a town you came to save, Mr. Cord.’

  Cord, his hand on the door-catch, glanced over his shoulder. ‘You got it wrong, friend. I’m here for Ben Shelby and his bunch. Not to save Gray’s Creek.’

  Stepping outside Cord closed the door behind him. He squared his shoulders against the hard-driving rain, feeling it soak through the cloth of his shirt. He moved off up the street. Underfoot the ground was inches deep in mud that clung to his boots and stained the bottom of his pants.

  As he drew level with the first of the commercial buildings he caught a glimmer of movement in the adjoining alley. Cord turned, lifting the Winchester. He saw a broad-shouldered figure running out of the alley and he recognized Sam Colton. There was a crash of gunfire as Colton swung up the gun he carried. Somewhere behind Cord a window shattered as Colton’s bullet struck it. Another kicked up a geyser of mud inches from Cord’s left boot.

  ‘Hey!’ Colton yelled. ‘Over here. I got him.’

  But then Cord’s Winchester crackled, spitting a gout of flame and smoke into the rain. Sam Colton’s body jerked under the impact of the heavy bullets, his shirt front suddenly blossoming in a patch of bright blood. He twisted about, slamming face first into the side of the building. Hunched over he tried to raise his gun again but Cord drove two more shots at him. Colton gave a short grunt as the bullets ripped a bloody hole in his side. He slid down the wall of the building and fell face down in the mud of the dirty alley.

  Cord ran for the far side of the street. He’d exposed himself now. Ben Shelby would know he was around and it was possible that they might come looking for him. Cord was angry. He hadn’t wanted to show his hand so soon. Shelby and his bunch would be alerted, ready for him. It would make things that much more difficult.

  He thought about the four hostages. He’d lost any chance of getting them clear of the saloon now. Shelby would use those four women to the limit, shielding himself and his bunch. Cord had hoped to be able to keep the action in Gray’s Creek but he had a feeling now that Shelby might consider a break, taking the hostages with him.

  As he watched he saw two figures dart out of the shadows along the boardwalk and dart into the saloon. Shelby was drawing his men back. Cord would have given a lot to know what they were talking about. He moved along his side of the street until he was directly across from the saloon. He eased into the open doorway of a store, his eyes scanning the shadowed windows of the Golden Girl.

  He had a short wait. The saloon door burst open and figures moved out onto the boardwalk. First came the four hostages. Close behind the outlaws. Each of the women had a gun at her head. Matthew Cord watched in silent fury, knowing there was nothing he could do. Ben Shelby had effectively tied his hands.

  ‘Wherever you are. Whoever you are. You better listen.’ Ben Shelby’s voice reached out across the rain swept street. ‘One wrong move and these girls die. I even smell a gun pointing at us and I’ll put a bullet into every one of these pretty heads. You listen and take heed, ‘cause I ain’t just talking to hear my own voice.’

  Cord watched them mount up. The four young women were put onto the horses of the dead outlaws and the animals that had belonged to the two dead cowboys. Shelby and his men mounted up too and the nine riders moved up the street.

  Feeling completely helpless, Matthew Cord watched them go. He didn’t move until they were out of sight. Then he crossed the street and went into the saloon. It was empty except for the body of the bartender. He lay just inside the door in a spreading pool of dark blood. Someone had efficiently cut his throat. Cord went outside again. He walked by the cold body of Gray’s Creek’s part-time marshal, Will Beal and the bullet-riddled bodies of the two cowboys. Ben Shelby and his bunch hadn’t been in Gray’s Creek for very long but they’d done enough to keep the town remembering their visit for a long time. A damn long time.

  Cord walked back down the street. He collected his slicker and made his way to where he’d left his horse. He mounted up and rode out of Gray’s Creek without seeing or being seen by the majority of the population. Not that he particularly wanted to see them. In many ways they deserved what had happened to them. Running scared and locking their doors wasn’t liable to frighten away men like Ben Shelby. Cord shrugged off the thought. It wasn’t his problem. Gray’s Creek could run its own life. He was after Ben Shelby’s bunch. And one way or another he would complete that assignment.

  Three

  Cord picked up the outlaws’ trail on the far side of town and fell in behind the distant riders. They were well ahead of him but Cord didn’t worry. The four hostages and the bad weather would slow Shelby’s pace considerably.

  He rode slowly, letting his horse make the pace. He had time to think as he rode and his thoughts drifted insistently back over the happenings of the past months. There were episodes of his life he wanted to forget but no matter how often he tried to wipe them out they came drifting back, bad memories of a black time.

  Up to eight months back Matthew Cord had been a United States Marshal. He’d worked as a lawman for most of his adult life, first as a deputy in a small Texas town, graduating up to marshal, then a spell as a county sheriff. He did two years as a Texas Ranger and then pinned on the badge of U.S. Marshal. That was for five long years. Cord had lost count of the miles he had travelled, the places he had visited. But he never forgot the men he went after, the killers and the thieves, the brutal animals who caused pain and suffering wherever they went. They were the substance of his dreams and the reality of his waking hours. Yet they also became his nightmare—day and night.

  Over a period of time Matthew Cord had become aware of a certain easing of the hard line shown by the courts to the fugitives brought in to stand trial. The realization filtered through slowly, but it did get through, and Cord found he was fast becoming disenchanted. He and men like him risked their lives to bring in wanted men—they lived hard lives and obeyed the basic laws of survival. But for what? Matthew Cord began to ask that question. He asked it of himself and he asked his superiors. He didn’t like the answers he received. To Cord it was a simple matter—too many men were breaking the law and getting away with it. As civilization moved West the do-gooders and the reformers came too. The hard justice of the frontier was having its sharp edges blunted. From the men over him Cord got the message: there had been too much violence, too much rough justice and the word was ease off; law enforcers were getting a bad reputation; some critics likened them to the outlaws and killers they went up against.


  Matthew Cord could hardly believe what he was hearing. The reformers wanted to pull the teeth of the law and turn it into a shadow of its former self. But who, Cord argued, would draw the teeth of the lawbreakers? He found himself in perpetual conflict with his superiors. He could not—would not—change his ways. Cord had been dealing with law-breakers for too long. He knew them and he knew their ways. And he knew damn well that as with most reformers, the ones who wanted to weaken the strength of the law enforcers knew very little about the subject they were bleating about. They had decided there was a cause and they were bound and determined to enforce their restrictions.

  Cord put up with the situation for as long as he could. Until his patience ran out. Until he’d had enough of seeing the prisoners he’d brought in getting off with light sentences that would have them outside prison walls again within a short time.

  He tolerated the situation until the day his longtime friend Bern Halbred was killed. Halbred had been a lawman virtually all his adult life. A steady, dependable, hickory-tough man who had decided to bend before the wind of change. At sixty years of age it must have taken some doing—but Bern Halbred tried. All it brought him was a bellyful of lead from the gun of a sadistic gunman named Chantry. Though Chantry ran, Matthew Cord went after him and brought him in. He let his temper get the better of him—and Chantry’s lawyer made much of the fact that his client had been brought in badly beaten. Chantry had a smart lawyer, one not above using every trick in the book. By the time he’d finished, Cord and even the late Bern Halbred were the ones being tried, made to look like brutal killers themselves. The jury, much read on the rising wave of reform, took it to heart, and to Cord’s disgust Chantry got off, walking out of court a free man, while Matthew Cord received a severe reprimand from the judge.