by Alan David
Both men started in shock. One was in the act of rolling a cigarette, and he dropped the makings and started his hand instinctively towards his holstered sixgun.
‘Try and pull it so I can shoot you in the gut,’ Manning said, and all movement ceased. ‘That’s better. Just get your hands up and stand still.’
‘Who in hell are you?’ One of them demanded.
‘The Railroad troubleshooter you’re talking about.’ Manning grinned and went forward. ‘Sure was interesting listening to you. I figured Yaro had made this place his hideout, and it’s nice to know that I’m right about something.’
‘You better light out of here fast,’ the other man said. ‘Yaro is due back any time, and he’s got twenty men with him.’
‘I like a crowd. Turn around, both of you.’ He waited until they had obeyed, then lowered his rifle and drew his pistol. He put the rifle down and moved in to disarm both men, throwing their guns across the barn and searching them for knives. ‘That’s better. Snakes are poisonous until their fangs are drawn. Now let’s get on with that chat you was having. I know most of it, but you can tell me how many men are holed up in the house. There sure ain’t half the gang around, judging by the mounts gone from the corral.’
‘You ain’t getting nothing out of me,’ one of them rasped.
‘A tough galoot, huh?’ Manning struck at the back of the man’s head with the long barrel of his Colt. There was a smothered gasp and the man crashed to the floor. The other threw a startled glance at Manning, who grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s a real tough world. Now are you gonna tell me what I wanta know?’
‘There are four men in the house, including Trig Forbes.’
‘Who’s Forbes?’
‘He’s second in command after Yaro.’
‘I’ll go talk with him in a minute. But you were saying something about the dough that’s hidden here. I assume you mean the gold stolen from the Railroad a couple of days ago. Where is it?’
‘Telling you is more than my life is worth,’ came the reluctant reply. ‘Yaro would have my guts.’
‘And you figure that I won’t?’ Manning chuckled harshly. ‘Mister, I ain’t the law. I work for the Railroad and I spend almost every day of my life dealing with scum like you. I guess you know my reputation, huh? I heard you two talking about me. Okay, so start talking some more or you’ll be ready for burying by the time Yaro and the rest of them come back.’
‘You don’t stand a chance, coming in here alone.’
‘Who said I’m alone? Don’t jump to conclusions. It could cost you your life. Now what about that dough? Where is it hidden?’
The man did not reply, and Manning walked around him, staying out of reach. He looked the man in the eyes, unblinking, his face harsh.
‘Fifty Railroaders were killed in that raid on the camp,’ he said softly, ‘and about sixty were wounded. I heard you say you was in on that raid. What do you figure is gonna happen to you when I take you back to Buffalo Junction? There’s only a town marshal, and those Railroaders are mighty het up about that bad business.’
‘Okay, so you got me cold,’ the man responded. ‘I’ll do a deal with you. I’ll tell you where that dough is buried if you’ll let me ride out of here.’
‘I might do that if I can clean up this place before Yaro gets back with the rest of the bunch. You tell me where the gold is and I’ll consider your future.’
‘There’s a disused well back of the house. It’s buried in there. We’ve been guarding it.’
‘You didn’t do a very good job,’ Manning remarked. ‘Okay, so tie up your pard here and leave him quiet, then you and me will go look at the gold to make sure it’s there.’
‘There are four men in the house and they’ll spot you,’ came the sharp protest.
‘If they do it’ll be too bad for you.’ Manning spoke carelessly. ‘You’ll be the first one to stop lead if I draw trouble. There are no two ways about that.’
The man bound his unconscious pard. Manning checked the work and was satisfied that the prisoner could not escape. He nodded and ushered the man ahead of him.
‘Move casual and perhaps no one in the house will suspect me,’ he said.
They left the barn by the rear door and walked around to the back of the house. Manning peered through a kitchen window, saw that the kitchen was empty, and motioned for his prisoner to lead the way to the well. He remained alert as the man removed a wooden cover from the well, and then grinned as the man stepped back.
‘You figure I’m going down?’ he asked. ‘That’s your job. Use the rope there to tie on one of the boxes. I’ll haul it up and check the contents.’
The man looked as if he wanted to argue, but the gun in Manning’s hand was a powerful deterrent. He looked around, saw no signs of help, then shrugged his shoulders and unwound the rope on the roller. He descended into the well. Manning moved forward and peered down inside, grunting when he discovered that it was at least twenty feet deep, with sheer, smooth sides. The man scraped the sandy bottom and unearthed some boxes which Manning recognised. He tied the rope around one of them. Manning holstered his gun and hauled the box up to the surface, dragging it out of sight behind the well. When he forced the lid he saw gold and was satisfied. He peered down the well and chuckled.
‘Okay, I believe you,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going into the house to deal with the others, and if I hear one squawk out’ve you I’ll come back and kill you. Got that?’
‘Hey, you can’t leave me in here!’ the man protested in scared tones, and Manning moved away quickly, hurrying to the rear of the house.
There were four men inside, he reminded himself, as he entered the kitchen. Closing the back door, he crossed the big room and let himself into the passage which gave access to the stairs and the ground floor rooms. The front door and the porch were ahead of him and he paused and listened intently. Sounds were coming from a half-open door on the left, and he cocked his gun and went forward silently.
When he looked into the big living room he saw three men lounging there, drinking whisky. Two were playing cards at the table and the third was stretched out on the sofa, his spurred boots digging into the dusty upholstery. They all looked up at his entrance, and two of them grinned until they realised that he was a stranger.
‘Say, what the hell!’ one of them demanded.
The man on the sofa threw himself sideways to the floor while reaching for his gun, and Manning flipped his muzzle around and triggered the big weapon. The blast of the shot seemed to shake the house and the bullet ploughed into the man’s chest. Manning’s ears protested at the noise and gun-smoke rasped in his throat. The other two men were moving, and he slid to the right, his back to the wall, as they overturned the thick table and tried to dive behind it.
He thumbed a shot at the rump of the slowest, hitting him and sending him twisting away from the table with a thin scream of agony cutting through the detonation of the shot. The other man reared up, showing head and shoulders as he dragged his gun and lifted it to bear upon Manning, who was still moving. But Manning paused and thrust his shoulders against the wall, cocking his Colt and squeezing the trigger while looking down the muzzle of his adversary’s gun. The weapons exploded simultaneously, and Manning jerked under the impact of a heavy bullet which smacked into his right shoulder and spun him around. He did not see the effect of his own shot, and his face scraped against the wall as he fell heavily to the floor. Burning pain blossomed through his shoulder, arm and chest, and he gritted his teeth as he hit the floor with a thump. The half-healed bruises and cuts on his face suffered from their contact with the wall, but he twisted and looked for his gun, half blinded by drifting gunsmoke.
His right hand was strengthless, and when he tried to reach out for the butt of his sixgun he discovered that his fingers would not co-operate. Looking around to size up the situation, he scrabbled for the weapon with his left hand. His father had always insisted, during Manning’s long and arduous training
in the earlier years, that he learn to use a gun with his left hand, and, although he could shoot well enough left-handed, he was not the same man as when he used his natural hand.
But his third shot had struck the third man between the eyes, and Manning gazed in some surprise at the bloody shambles of the big room. The trio were out of action. One was dead with a bullet between the eyes, and the back of his head had been lifted off by the exit of the big .45 slug. The man on the couch was now draped across it, his gun on the floor and his hands limp, while blood dribbled from his mouth and nose. His eyes were open and glazing. The third man was lying on his stomach, writhing in agony, blood spilling from his backside, and he was screeching in a hoarse voice.
Manning pushed himself into a sitting position, yawning to clear his ears of gun thunder. His right shoulder was leaking blood profusely, and he glanced anxiously at it, afraid that his lung might have been clipped, but the bullet hole itself, in the centre of a swiftly spreading stain, seemed high enough, almost touching the collar bone. He was thankful despite the excruciating pain which flared from the wound.
Mindful that there was another man in the house, and probably with Glory Harpe, Manning forced himself to his feet and leaned against the wall, smearing blood across it as he reeled sideways. He staggered forward, gun held in his left hand, and peered at the wounded man, who was making no attempt to touch his still-holstered revolver. Manning bent and slammed the barrel of his Colt against the man’s head, then holstered his gun and took the man’s. He cocked the weapon and turned to the door, his ears still protesting at the powerful detonations that had shaken the room.
A man’s cautious voice was calling from upstairs, and Manning leaned against a doorpost, facing the stairs.
‘Billy, Al, are you there? Burke, what in hell is going on?’
Manning tried to get a glimpse of the man but there was no sign of him. He stuck the spare sixgun into his waistband and leaned to the left, trying to hold his right shoulder stiff as he untied his neckerchief and stuffed it inside his shirt to staunch the bleeding. But it did not seem to work, and, when he looked at the wall behind him he saw thick blood smeared there. Relief touched his mind, for that meant the bullet had emerged from the shoulder blade. It was a clean wound.
‘You up there,’ he rasped, fighting a disconcerting spell of giddiness. ‘Trig Forbes, ain’t it? I’m Chet Manning, chief troubleshooter for S & W. If you’ve got any sense you’ll come on down with your hands empty. This is the only chance you’ll get to surrender.’
‘Go to hell!’ came the harsh reply. ‘If you want me, come and get me.’
Manning’s ears were throbbing, and he yawned in an effort to clear them. He canted his head, certain that he could hear approaching hoofbeats, and watched the stairs carefully as he lurched towards the front door. There was a window beside the door and he glanced outside, frowning when he saw two riders coming in fast across the yard. He recognised Ben Yaro immediately and grinned despite his pain. He waited until both riders were well within sixgun range then jerked open the door and eased out to the porch, moving to the right to put his back to the wall.
‘What in hell was that shooting?’ Yaro called, leaning forward to peer hard at Manning and apparently taking him for one of his own men.
‘Railroad is here, cleaning up,’ Manning replied, blinking as dizziness clouded his vision. His strength was fading and he braced himself as he brought his Colt into the aim.
Yaro and Brannigan separated immediately, going left and right. Manning watched Yaro intently, saw the gang boss draw his gun, and started shooting, cursing his awkwardness with the left hand. He clipped Yam’s hat brim with his first shot, causing the man to duck and put his first shot into the dust ten yards in front of his cavorting horse. Manning clenched his teeth and fired again. Yaro reeled backwards, his gun flying from his hand as his horse reared and threw him headlong.
A bullet thudded into the wall at Manning’s side, missing him by a scant inch. He turned his head tiredly, wishing it was all over. The gun in his hand was growing heavier, and he had to set his teeth into his bottom lip as he summoned up the last of his strength to bring the weapon to bear. He fired and the gun hammered raucously. Instinct guided his hand and aim, and he saw Brannigan rein up sharply, twist as if to look at his back trail, then slide sideways and fall into the dust of the yard. The gun echoes fled slowly across the range.
Mindful of Forbes in the house, Manning tried to turn and face the door, but his legs suddenly lost their strength and he pitched sideways, hitting the porch hard and losing his gun. He could hear his own breathing, hoarse and ragged, as he fumbled for the weapon. But there was a noise like thunder in the background, which grew louder with each passing moment. He frowned, still trying for his gun, but his mind was wandering a little under the stress of the wound and the action. He lifted his head, for someone was coming down the stairs in the house. He saw his gun and reached for it, but was unable to grasp it. Then his attention was attracted by the thunder, and when he looked across the yard he saw a bunch of riders coming in through the gateway. He clenched his teeth. Yaro’s gang was arriving. He was done for. But he would go out fighting.
Sweat poured down his face as he twisted and got his hand to the gun. A movement inside the house attracted his eyes and he gritted his teeth to make the superhuman effort needed to lift the weapon. But his strength was gone and the revolver felt as if it were nailed to the floor. He slumped back, filled with defiance but unable to fight on. A big man slowly appeared in the doorway, gun in hand, and he lifted the weapon to point the big black muzzle at Manning. It was like a nightmare, and Manning prayed for one last ounce of strength. But many voices were shouting in the background and the man looked up at the newcomers. The next instant blackness swooped down upon Manning and snatched away his senses .
The next thing he knew, Manning was trying to focus his eyes upon a shadow that hung just over him. He was lying on his back in a sea of pain, his thoughts moving sluggishly, piecing together the last tense moments of action. Slowly the shadow took on faint colours — black, white and blue. He blinked and shook his head, his vision clicking on like a light, and he found himself looking into Netta’s concerned face. Her dark-circled blue eyes were filled with worry, her lovely face strained and taut. She gazed at him for a moment, then turned her head to speak to someone beyond his sight.
‘He’s awake at last!’ she said fervently.
Two more faces appeared, both showing concern, and Manning smiled tightly at Asa and Aunt Polly. The woman reached out a gentle hand and smoothed his black hair back from his damp forehead.
‘How you feeling, son?’ she asked softly, and there was a sombre atmosphere about her. She was dressed in black for Willard.
‘Am I still alive?’ he asked hoarsely. His throat was dry, his lips skinned by fever. His gaze flickered to Asa’s harsh countenance. ‘What happened? Yaro’s bunch rode in on me just as some punk was about to ventilate me on the porch.’
‘That wasn’t Yaro’s bunch,’ Asa said grimly. ‘That was me and some of the boys. I don’t know how you did it, Chet, but we cleaned up real good and got all the gold back. You killed Yaro and most of the others at the ranch. We got that feller Forbes in jail, and the hombre you left down the well.’
‘Don’t talk to him now,’ Aunt Polly interrupted. ‘He’s weak. He needs plenty of rest and good food. You know what the Doc said.’
‘He’s a Railroader,’ Asa retorted. ‘He won’t rest until he knows what happened. We cleaned up, Chet, but that was three days ago. Things are moving again. We’re laying track although Ike Mozee won’t be on his feet for some time. But we’re making up the lost time. Hurry up and get back on your feet, son. The only thing that matters is the Railroad. We can’t rest until the last iron rail is laid, and we’re still in with a chance to make Apache Pass before Western Pacific.’
Asa was still talking about the future when Aunt Polly shooed him out of the room, and Netta bent over Man
ning, her eyes gentle and sad.
‘Don’t worry about anything but getting better,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all you’ve got to do. You’ve proved to them that you are still the best, Chet, and I can’t wait for you to get well.’
‘Are you gonna be my nurse while I mend up?’ he demanded.
‘Of course. You’re the hero around here and we’ve got to look after you.’
‘I can’t wait to get back to work,’ he mused, relaxing. ‘But I’ll take my time getting better if you’re gonna nurse me, and you’ll know when I am better.’
‘How’s that?’ Her eyes shone as she stroked his forehead.
‘You’ll be in here with me instead of out there looking down,’ he retorted, and closed his eyes wearily.
‘Don’t talk,’ she soothed. ‘You need to rest.’
‘Sure thing. There’s always tomorrow.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Say, what happened to Glory Harpe?’
‘That saloongirl? Uncle Asa said she was out at Ryker’s ranch, but she promised to leave the territory so they let her go. Is she important to you, Chet?’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the only one who’s important. I’m glad she’s gone.’ He lapsed into silence and soon began to snore, and Netta sat beside him and held his hand.
She wanted more than anything to have him for her own, and knew that time was on her side. He had said that he could not be tied down on account of his job. But he would need ,someone to nurse him through sickness and bullet wounds, and she would remain near him. He was her man whether he liked it or not.
If you enjoyed reading Troubleshooter, you might also be interested in Both Feet in Hell by Alan David, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David
Chapter One
THE night was not dark, for the eastern horizon was stained with a dull living red. Smoke blotted out the stars and formed an uncertain ceiling over the countryside. The sky was filled with unseen menace as invisible flights of bombers droned overhead. There was the sullen thunder of distant guns. The night breathed with vibrant force.
