Troubleshooter

by Alan David

  Troubleshooter

  Alan David

  © Alan David 1979

  Alan David has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1979 by Magread Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David

  Chapter One

  Blood and dust masked Chet Manning’s face as he slid out of his saddle on the Texas side of the Rio Grande and turned to peer at the six drab-uniformed Rurales who had halted on the river’s edge in Mexico. He dropped to his knees and buried his bruised face in the cool water, gulping and spluttering thirstily. Water trickled down his dark blue shirt as he sat back on his haunches, his right hand instinctively close to the fancy, pearl-handled .45 single action Army Model Colt holstered on his right hip.

  But the Rurales were already moving away, no doubt intending to return to the scene of the gunfight where Manning had finally come up with Squint Delmont’s gang of train robbers. They would have seen Delmont and three of his men stretched out like crowbait in the sun, and the tracks of those who escaped when the fight had been interrupted by their arrival. They probably, assumed that he was a lawman, and Manning smiled grimly as he arose and swung into his saddle, for he was the chief troubleshooter for a district of the South and West Railroad Company.

  He looked older than twenty-six. His tough way of living had honed him to a razor-like sharpness. He lived on his nerves, and survived because his instincts and reactions were hair-triggered. His brown eyes were slitted, alert like an animal’s, and the lips of his taut mouth were compressed, his jawline bunched with muscle from the habit of clenching his teeth as if continually expecting the smash of a slug in the guts. His hollow cheeks emphasised his nose, a bony ridge dominating lean, tanned features, and he looked an out and out badman.

  There was a bullet-burn across his left forearm. The sleeve had been ripped by the slug, and the wound hurt like hell. His pants had a thin white stripe in their black material, but he was covered from Stetson to boots with clinging grey dust, like gunpowder.

  Patting the bulging money bags which he had recovered from the gang that robbed the railroad three days earlier, Manning looked towards the north-east, where El Paso lay behind distant ridges that were blurred by dust and haze. Grit crunched between his teeth and grains of sand stung his eyes as he fingered the bad bruises on his face. His left eye was almost closed, the brow swollen and cut, and his vision was slightly distorted by the massive swelling on the left cheek bone where Delmont had pistol-whipped him. He had made the near-fatal mistake of falling into the hands of the gang, then managed to grab a gun. But the Rurales showed up before he could finish the job and he knew his troubles were not over because these badmen never gave up. They were like vultures and the Railroad was a carcass ready for picking.

  With the river at his back, he rode north and east for El Paso, where he could clean up before hitting a saloon to cut the dust from his insides and have a good time with one of the girls. Despite his tension and weariness he was ready for some hell-raising before he telegraphed Buffalo Junction to report the success of his assignment. His immediate boss, Asa Blaine, the Division Superintendent based at Buffalo Junction, was a stickler for duty, but Manning, with characteristic obstinacy, had no intention of reporting immediately.

  He rode steadily through the wild, desolate terrain of this south-western part of Texas. It seemed that the white-hot sun would draw the very sap out of him. Summer was a never-ending nightmare of drought and sandstorms that seared every living thing, but what he detested most was the raw hostility of the country. It seemed that Nature did not intend that white men should inhabit these arid regions where even the Apaches found it hard to exist.

  Raising dust, he followed the harsh contours of the bleak country. There were rocks, cactus and mesquite in this seemingly barren land, and the only moving creatures were buzzards flapping lazily in the burnished sky. The silence was oppressive, brooding, and only the click of hooves and the creaking of his saddle leather disturbed the desolation.

  He held the reins in his left hand, from time to time reaching out unconsciously with his right to wipe away the thin film of dust which kept settling upon the butt of his saddle gun. The Winchester carbine, which had a twenty-inch barrel, was a highly accurate lever-action repeater holding fifteen 44 - 40 calibre centre-fire cartridges.

  The sorrel veered to the right, following the easiest route across the hazardous terrain, and when they topped a rise and Manning saw El Paso in the distance he sighed heavily. But he did not relax his guard and his spine was as straight as a gun barrel despite the growing weariness which threatened to erode his habitual alertness.

  He reached the town and made for the bank to hand over the money bags, obtaining a receipt for twenty-six thousand dollars. Then he considered himself to be off duty, and left the squat adobe building determined to hole up in a saloon until his needs and desires had been satisfied. But when he reached the street he found the county sheriff standing by the sorrel.

  ‘Howdy, Chet’ Sheriff Trask was a big man with rugged features. ‘I got word to trot you over to the telegraph soon as you showed up. Blaine says it’s urgent. Did you nail Delmont? Saw you brung in some money bags so I figured you must have tangled with him.’

  Manning cursed under his breath. If Blaine wanted him urgently then there had to be more big trouble somewhere. He clenched his teeth as he accompanied the sheriff along the street to telegraph a report to Buffalo Junction.

  ‘Send that,’ he instructed the operator, ‘and bring the reply to Harper’s saloon.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink and take care of your horse for you,’ Trask said as they walked to the saloon. ‘Delmont and his boys made life hell for me.’

  ‘You can forget about Delmont, but some of his gang got away when the Rurales showed up.’

  ‘You’re lucky them Greasers didn’t lay ahold of you.’

  Manning chuckled. They entered the saloon and he drank three foaming schooners of beer before the grit was swilled out of his mouth and throat. He was just contemplating which of the girls he would have for the night when the telegraph operator appeared at his shoulder, holding a flimsy.

  ‘Your reply,’ the man said.

  ‘Thanks. Have yourself a drink.’ Manning narrowed his eyes and cursed when he read the summons to return immediately to Buffalo Junction on the evening freight from El Paso. But he realised that something had to be burning for Blaine to be on the hop like a wet hen. He glanced regretfully at the girls around the bar, then checked the time. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said to the operator. ‘Have my horse and gear put aboard the six-fifteen, will you? I’ll be there on time but I need to clean up and get some rest before I leave. I’m tuckered out.’

  ‘If you’re figuring on doing what I think you are then I’ll have to bring a cart to get you to the depot,’ the operator said, shaking his greying head. ‘At your age you think you can eat it, Chet, and at my age you’ll wish you had.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Manning chuckled harshly. ‘You got any idea what Blaine is het up about?’

  ‘Nope. He ain’t hardly likely to shout it
all over the country, is he? But you know him well enough to do like he says when he starts hollering.’

  Manning nodded. ‘You’re wasting my time now,’ he rasped, paying for the drinks. Leaning closer to the bartender, he spoke in an undertone. ‘I want that tall blonde on the end, Hank. Send her up to my room in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘It’ll set you back five dollars,’ the tender said, and Manning dropped several coins into the man’s fleshy palm.

  He went up to the room he always used when in El Paso, and the blonde was knocking at the door before he had finished cleaning up. She entered carrying a full bottle of rye and two glasses, then lounged across the bed to await his pleasure. Manning cursed Blaine under his breath, but knew better than to miss that freight. Yet he had only two hours before the train left and there was a lot of tension and screwed-up fear in his mind which had to be erased.

  ‘Pour the drinks,’ he advised her. ‘And ain’t it too durned hot for clothes indoors? Let’s get comfortable. I’ve got to be on that freight in .a couple of hours so don’t waste time.’

  She nodded and arose from the bed as he drank some whisky. His eyes were hooded, his mind still caught up in the horrors of the past hours. She put her arms gently around his neck and smiled demurely, then closed her eyes and tilted her face. He drained the glass, threw it across the room, then seized her, allowing his imprisoned passions to surge unchecked. She gasped as he took her in a bear hug, and he stifled .the sound with his demanding mouth, groaning as he closed his eyes. For long moments they swayed together, and Manning felt his alertness seeping away, the shrouds of inner fear and tension peeling back in his mind to reveal that small, shapeless entity which was the real Chet Manning, the ordinary man behind the barriers and defences erected by his violent way of life and the necessities for survival.

  He released her, breathing heavily. She smiled and began to slip the straps of the dress from her slender shoulders. He caught his breath, then sighed heavily in satisfaction at the sight of her smooth flesh. She was wearing nothing under the dress, and when he saw her rose-tipped nipples he was convulsed into action and hastily discarded his own sweat-stained shirt and pants. His eyes were fixed on her like a stalking cougar watching its prey. She held out her slim white arms, shimmying her hips temptingly, and the thin cotton dress slid down over her belly to whisper tantalisingly across her rounded thighs until it lay at her ankles. She stepped daintily out of it, thrusting her body towards him, pouting a little and fluttering her eyelids. Her arms snaked around his neck and his hands began to explore her soft flesh. He buried his face into the hollow of her shoulder, swaying towards the bed, breathing deeply of her woman’s scent; a mixture of perspiration and intangible perfume.

  They fell on the bed and he was blind to his surroundings as he shed the harsh manner with which he faced every day. He shrugged it off like a snake sloughing its skin, hurling himself on her as if this was the last moment of his life.

  Manning plunged unhesitatingly into a timeless world of desire, experiencing the luxury of losing control. The torture of everyday life seemed to pale in consequence.

  He had known from the moment of taking over his father’s job that a man could absorb only a limited degree of pressure. There had to be an outlet somewhere, like a safety valve on a locomotive, and his release lay in the arms of a woman — any woman. All the hunting, fighting and killing was tolerable if he could come back to a haven of privacy and unburden himself in a woman’s arms.

  He shuddered convulsively through a powerful climax, climbing to the apex of satisfaction. Sweat poured from him as he shivered and finally lapsed into exhaustion, lying inert on her naked flesh, vulnerable now, but aware somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had gained new strength.

  The girl sighed and stirred beneath him and he eased to one side, muttering as he closed his eyes. ‘See that I’m up in time to catch the evening freight, will you? I got to sleep now.’

  She nodded, encircling him with maternal arms, and Manning loosed his hold on consciousness, aware that now he could return to duty like any other piece of railroad equipment which had been repaired .

  He was at the depot just before the freight pulled out. The telegraph operator was waiting uneasily, another flimsy in his hand, and hurried forward when Manning appeared.

  ‘I thought you weren’t gonna make it,’ he commented. ‘You cut it mighty fine.’

  ‘I’m here.’ Manning wanted to get aboard and sleep through the five-hour trip to Buffalo Junction. ‘You took care of my horse?’

  ‘Yep. Here’s another message from Blaine. He wants you to leave the train outside Buffalo Junction and meet him on the quiet at his house. Sounds like something is doing.’

  ‘There’s always something doing.’ Manning went along to the locomotive. He called to the engineer. ‘Howdy, One-Eye. You know you’ve got to drop me outside Buffalo Junction?’

  ‘I got my orders already,’ One-Eye Ward replied, grinning. ‘Soon’s you’re aboard we’ll start rolling. You riding in the cab with us?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Manning chuckled as he shook his head. ‘I’m gonna pound my ear in one of them bunks in the crummy while you rattle the tracks.’

  ‘Looks like you had yourself one helluva time. Heard you nailed Delmont. Sure will be easier on us not having to worry about him anymore.’

  ‘There’s always someone ready to step into his boots. Give me a quiet trip. No problems, huh?’ Manning turned and walked back to the caboose.

  The engineer grinned, wiping his hands with an oily rag. ‘We always got problems,’ he muttered, throwing a questioning glance at the grimy fireman, who nodded in agreement.

  Even the best locomotives were unreliable and sometimes blew up for no apparent reason. Weighing thirty-five tons, they rarely managed to exceed thirty-five miles an hour, and, apart from the failings of the locomotives, the couplings on the cars were so primitive that trains had a nasty tendency to break into two or three sections before suddenly toppling off the rails. Each car had to be braked individually by hand brakes that could be manipulated only by means of iron wheels located on the roof, and a train generally had two ‘brakies’ who rode on top in all weathers. When the engineer whistled for brakes one brakie would start from the front end and the other from the rear, working towards each other, car by car. Hand brakes were slow to take hold, and on a downgrade they often let slack pile up unevenly along the length of the train with the inevitable result of a separation and disaster.

  Manning reached the big, eight-wheel caboose, known among Railroaders as a crummy. It was painted red outside and green inside. There were four bunks, a row of lockers either side for supplies and seating, a stove, a table, and a desk for the conductor. He dropped wearily on to one of the bunks and slept soundly until a hand touched his shoulder to awaken him to darkness. They were about to stop outside Buffalo Junction.

  Manning’s face was sore, but he relished the pain as he unloaded his horse from the freight car then rode into the darkened town. He kept off Main Street and reined in at the back of the District Superintendent’s house, which was opposite the depot. A lantern burned in a downstairs room and Manning entered the house quietly, his mind immediately changing its line of thought. He pictured the pretty face of Netta Blaine, Asa’s niece, who had recently arrived from the East to live with her kin, and a grin pulled at his lips. Now if he could find an opportunity to spend some time with Netta!

  He squashed the thought ruthlessly. Whatever his shortcomings, and he admitted to many, Manning was strictly a Railroad man with a strong sense of duty, unswerving loyalty and an overwhelming hatred for all enemies of the Company. His father had been a Railroader until he was killed trying to foil a hold-up. Railroading was a way of life and Company men were a breed apart from lesser mortals. They lived dangerously, yet scorned all other livelihoods, for Railroading was the great adventure of the age. When most true Railroaders saw their first train — smoke and cinders belching from a diamond-sha
ped stack; sound of the locomotive whistle and steamy cough of exhaust — their hearts told them what to do for the rest of their lives. Manning was no exception. There was steam in his blood. He sighed heavily as he rapped on the door of Blaine’s study, and a board creaked under his boots as he entered the room.

  Netta Blaine, dressing furtively in her bedroom overhead, paused when she heard the board creak and almost changed her mind about sneaking out. But she had struggled with her conscience all day and won the battle. Having made the decision to check the nocturnal activities of her cousin, Willard Blaine, nothing could now reverse it, although she was aware of the risks involved and the consequences if she were discovered.

  Bunching her calico skirts in one hand, she tiptoed to the window and slid over the sill, allowing her weight to ease on to the roof of the lean-to. She caught her breath as the sun-warped boards gave a little, but, with the agility of youth, she slithered over the side of the roof and dropped lightly to the dusty ground. For a moment she paused, then edged her way through the dense shadows to slip away in the direction of the back lots. Her pulses quickened with excitement, but now she was apprehensive. She was on her way to check out the suspicions which had arisen in her mind after hearing a snatch of conversation between Willard and a tough-looking stranger. Something was going to happen in the barn at midnight.

  She bit her lip as she peered into the gloom. Guilt made her feel uneasy, but she was already in the grip of a strange, unsettling emotion which had steadily increased its intensity through the nights of early summer. Now she could not sleep well. She had no idea what caused her unrest, but whenever she saw Chet Manning these days her instincts became confused.

  Yet her problem had another facet. There was trouble brewing for the Railroad and she was forced by circumstance to suspect her own cousin of being involved. She could only hope it was not so for she had come to love her aunt and uncle, and the Railroad was Uncle Asa’s whole life.