Death In Helltown

by John Legg

  Disappointed, they all moved off, and Sassy came over.

  “Told you there’s be a time,” he said.

  ** ** ** ** **

  The next morning, Bloodworth saddled his horse and mounted up. Sassy came out of her little shack, wrapped in nothing but a thin blanket. Bloodworth leaned over and ran a finger across her lips and smiled. She returned the smile. Then he sat up straight.

  “You’ll come back again, won’t you?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “You sure?”

  “I ain’t lied to you so far, have I?” He touched the brim of his hat and rode off, heading west.

  THE END

  A Sample Chapter from Blood Trail by John Legg

  Travis VanHorn sat on the low hill overlooking the small cabin in the shank of the afternoon. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small cigar and fired it up with a match scraped across his denim pants, and puffed, blowing out small clouds of bluish smoke.

  VanHorn was a young man, just twenty-one, but he had none of the slackness or gawkiness of youth left in him. His face was round and boyish, splattered with freckles, open and seemingly friendly. One would have taken him for what he had been not so long ago—a farm boy—until one looked into the flat, deadly blue eyes. A mop of slightly long, wavy, faintly carrot-colored hair peeked out from under the battered mouse-brown Stetson pulled low. A bit of stubble, of the same color, speckled the lower half of his face.

  He was dressed simply, with plain blue denim pants tucked into calf-high black boots and a collarless shirt with pale green stripes breaking up the white. A bandanna encircled his neck, the pointed end of it cocked a little to the left on his chest.

  VanHorn was not a big man, though he gave the impression of it. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow, his arms lined with long, powerful muscles. His hands were big and split from dangerous work.

  Those who could not see the hardness on his young face might have taken him lightly, until they saw his armament. VanHorn wore two 1858 .44-caliber Remington Army revolvers, one

  on the front of each hip, butt facing the opposite hand. The sight of the two heavy revolvers sometimes gave people pause, usually long enough to look into the hard eyes and figure that the young man wearing the pistols also knew how to use them.

  VanHorn had been gone just short of three years. He had come a long way in that time, both in miles and in temperament. He had left a naive boy and returned a hard man. Despite all that, he was still a bit reluctant to ride down to the farmhouse at the bottom of the gentle roll of land that passed for a hill here in central Kansas. Part of it was that he was afraid—a very unusual feeling for him these days—about what he would find at his farmstead. It had been so long since he saw Callie that he did not know what kind of reception he would receive.

  He had felt that way for the past hundred miles or thereabout, so had stopped a couple of hours ago at the Steer’s Head Saloon in Cottonwood Crossing. To his surprise, several people recognized him.

  As the bartender had slapped a foamy beer down in front of him, one of those who recognized him ambled to the bar and stopped a few feet from VanHorn.

  “Never thought we’d see you back, Percy,” the man said, emphasizing the name. Cliff Predamonte had always been a hulking bully, but much of his bulk had turned to fat in the three years VanHorn had been gone.

  VanHorn shrugged. He gritted his teeth, too, out of Predamonte’s sight. He wanted to punch the fat man in the face for calling him Percy. Just as much as he disliiked the name, he disliked liked Predamonte, partly because he had suffered the man’s bullying. But VanHorn was no longer afraid of him.

  “Been lots of changes, Percy,” Predamonte goaded, a smirk on his face. There was even more derision in the man’s voice when he mentioned the name. VanHorn’s full name was Percival Travis VanHorn. He had always hated the name Percival, and had given up using it. He had no desire to have anyone tag him with it again.

  Predamonte slid up the bar until he was standing next to VanHorn. The other men in the saloon quieted, eagerly paying attention to the exchange. None of them liked Predamonte either, and they hoped this former farm boy with the look of a hard case about him now would take the bully down a couple of pegs.

  “I expect there has,” VanHorn offered noncommittally.

  “You heard any of ’em?” Predamonte’s voice held a touch of sarcasm, or maybe ridicule, annoying VanHorn.

  “Just rode in. Ain't heard nothin’ but you flappin’ that big, fat hole of yours.” VanHorn stared straight ahead, seemingly indifferent. But he watched Predamonte closely in the mirror on the back bar.

  “Gotten cocky since you left, have you, Percy?” Predamonte growled. He was not used to being taken so lightly. Most men backed off as soon as Predamonte closed in on them.

  VanHorn shrugged again. He was annoyed, both at himself for not having the courage to ride straight out to the cabin, and now at Predamonte for bothering him.

  “Goddammit, Percy, I’m talkin’ to you!” Predamonte snapped. Angry fire blazed in his bloodshot eyes.

  “No you ain’t,” VanHorn said calmly. He glanced at Predamonte for the first time. He showed none of his annoyance. “You’re talkin’ at me, and you ain't sayin’ a damn thing.” He paused. “Folks call me Travis these days, at least the ones who don’t call me Mister VanHorn.” He turned his face forward again and picked up his beer.

  “Shit,” Predamonte muttered, as he stewed. His choler increased as he heard a few scattered chuckles work their way around the room. Such things had never happened before. It baffled him.

  “Well,” he said, voice growing angrier, “was you to pay attention to me, I might say somethin’ you’d want to hear, Percy.” His news would, he figured, humilated VanHorn, make him small in everyone’s eyes.

  “You said something I’d want to hear, I’d most likely listen to you,” VanHorn said simply.

  Predamonte’s drink-blotched face flushed. It was, he decided, time to put this bastard in his place, the way he had some years ago. “Why, you goddamn young punk,” he snapped. “I’m of a good mind to whup your ass and then walk off without tellin’ you anything.” He figured that would pique VanHorn’s interest, and then he could provide his information with a gloat.

  VanHorn straightened and turned to face Predamonte. “The fires of hell’d die out from the cold before you could whup my ass,” VanHorn said quietly. “And I doubt you got anything to say that I’d want to hear.” He paused a moment. “But if you do, spill it so we can both go on about our business.”

  A small wave of chuckles washed across the room. The men had never seen Predamonte belittled like this.

  “Why you smart-mouth little son of a bitch,” Predamonte snarled. He suddenly swung at VanHorn.

  The young man moved back a step, and the meaty fist whistled through the air, inches from his chin. “Missed,” he said with just a touch of a smile.

  “Damn you.” Predamonte lumbered two steps forward, throwing a heavy fist at VanHorn, and then another.

  VanHorn darted his head out of the way, as he moved smoothly backward a few steps at a time. Then his boot heel caught on the rim of a spittoon. The brass canister went over, putting VanHorn somewhat off balance. His foot came down in the brown slop that spilled onto the wood floor, and he slipped. He didn’t go down, since he managed to slap his left arm on the bar and keep himself mostly upright.

  Still, he was in no position to defend himself. Predamonte stormed in and launched a big fist at him again. VanHorn ducked most of it, but the blow was still staggering as it ricocheted off his forehead. He fell, landing on his buttocks just beyond the pool of old tobacco juice and spit.

  Predamonte laughed in victory as he grabbed VanHorn by the shirtfront and yanked. VanHorn allowed himself to be pulled up. But as Predamonte released his shirt and reached out his long, flabby arms to grab him in a bear hug, VanHorn snapped his hands forward and latched onto Predamonte’s wrists.

  Predamonte curse
d and sweated as he tried to free his arms. His fleshy face turned red. He had expected to grab VanHorn and squash him into submission. With his bulk and strength, he had done so to more than one man. It had never failed him. But he had not counted on the power in VanHorn’s young body, and now he began to fear that he was overmatched.

  The thought gave him a little more impetus to try to get loose, to trap VanHorn between his body and the bar. He would teach this young punk a lesson or two.

  His extra efforts produced no more satisfactory results than his earlier ones. He was even beginning to feel his arms shake with overexertion.

  Then suddenly he was free. It took him by surprise. Then VanHorn hammered him twice in the face with callused fists.

  Predamonte groaned involuntarily, both from the sharp pain and the unexpectedness of the blows.

  VanHorn almost smiled at Predamonte’s consternation. It never ceased to amaze him how people could be so taken in by his boyish, freckled face, often taking him too lightly. He pounded Predamonte twice more, rather satisfied as his fists connected with bone and flesh. But his face betrayed none of his gratification.

  He stopped his assault and looked at Predamonte a moment. The big man was stunned and was weaving a little. Still, he could be dangerous enough, given half a chance, which VanHorn was not about to do. Besides, VanHorn had no pity for Predamonte. The man was insufferable even on his best days.

  The saloon was silent, though VanHorn knew at least some of the men had placed a few wagers as soon as the fracas had deepened. He didn't care. Without a word, he smashed a fist into Predamonte’s gut. Predamonte’s breath whistled out and he doubled over.

  With a bland look, VanHorn grabbed a handful of thick, sweating neck. Using his vicelike grip, VanHorn lifted Predamonte’s head a little. He moved a step or two forward, jerked Predamonte’s head up some more, and then slammed the man’s face onto the rounded edge of the bar.

  Predamonte moaned once weakly and slumped to the floor as VanHorn released him. Placing one foot on the somewhat flabby, silent form, VanHorn leaned forward onto the bar. He hoisted his beer and moved it fractionally toward the bartender, in a mock salute. Then he drained the glass.

  When he had done that, VanHorn said, “Give me a pitcher of water.”

  The bartender nodded and went to fetch it. While the bar man did that, VanHorn bent, grabbed Predamonte’s shoulder and rolled him over onto his back.

  The bartender handed the pitcher to VanHorn, who stepped back, and then dashed the liquid on Predamonte’s face.

  Predamonte sputtered and spit; he moaned. But he came slowly awake. He lay there, dazed, pain pulsing through his face, head and ribs.

  VanHorn knelt next to him. “You had something to tell me,” he said quietly but roughly. It was not a question.

  “No.” It was more of a groan than a word. He was frightened now, and afraid to say anything.

  VanHorn reached behind hims and pulled out the Arkansas toothpick from the sheath at the small of his back, where it usually rested with the hilt canted toward his right side. He placed the pointed tip of the knife on Predamonte’s stomach, just over the bellybutton. “It might take a little effort to whittle through all that lard, boy,” VanHorn said evenly, exaggerating Predamonte’s girth, “but I suppose I’ll get to something vital in there after a spell.”

  “No,” Predamonte moaned again.

  “Then spill your guts”—he pushed the knife ever so gently—“or I’ll spill ’em for you.”

  “I... I...” Predamonte was beginning to get his breath back, but the pain in his face was remained piercing. Still, he did not want to give up anything to this young man.

  “Can’t talk?”

  “No.” It was a little stronger this time.

  “You were full of talk before, pard,” VanHorn said calmly.

  “Hurt, Perc... Travis.”

  “I can wait a spell,” VanHorn said evenly. “But not too long,” he added in warning. He rocked back on his heels a little to wait, but he did not move the knife.

  Predamonte licked his lips. For the first time in his life, he was truly scared. He had no doubts now that VanHorn would kill him. It was a fright to realize that he had made a terrible mistake in treating this deadly, determined man like the young, awkward boy he had been the last time they had seen each other.

  The room had gone silent, the men unsure. They disliked Predamonte greatly and did not mind seeing him humiliated. None of them was about to try to help Predamonte, but they were also not sure they wanted to see him gutted. They waited, afraid yet with a touch of interest and almost satisfaction.

  “I don't want to say anything now,” he offered, voice betraying fear. He was damned if he did, damned it he didn’t. The news he had for VanHorn was not good, and that was likely to anger the young man even further. But if he didn’t say anything, he would die.

  VanHorn prodded him again with the knife. “You’re tryin’ my patience, boy,” he said. “Time to speak up.”

  Several of them men sitting at the tables, mumbled and all headed for door. They did not want to be around when Predamonte told VanHorn.

  Predamonte nodded, worry and fright mingling with the pain in his eyes. “Callie’s married someone else,” he croaked. He shivered with a new burst of fear when he saw the dark look that creased VanHorn’s face.

  Without a word, VanHorn stood, slid the knife away, and left.

  As he mounted his horse, VanHorn didn’t know what to think about what he had just heard, but he knew he had to find out, no matter how painful it might be.

  Order your copy of Blood Trail now.

  About the Author

  John Legg has published more than 55 novels, all on Old West themes. Blood of the Scalphunter, is his latest novel in the field of his main interest — the Rocky Mountain Fur Trade. He first wrote of the fur trade in Cheyenne Lance, his initial work.

  Cheyenne Lance and Medicine Wagon were published while Legg was acquiring a B.A. in Communications and an M.S. in Journalism. Legg has continued his journalism career, and is a copy editor with The New York Times News Service.

  Since his first two books, Legg has, under his own name, entertained the Western audience with many more tales of man’s fight for independence on the Western frontier. In addition, he has had published several historical novels set in the Old West. Among those are War at Bent’s Fort and Blood at Fort Bridger.

  In addition, Legg has, under pseudonyms, contributed to the Ramseys, a series that was published by Berkley, and was the sole author of the eight books in the Saddle Tramp series for HarperPaperbacks. He also was the sole author of Wildgun, an eight-book adult Western series from Berkley/Jove. He also has published numerous articles and a nonfiction book — Shinin’ Trails: A Possibles Bag of Fur Trade History— on the subject,

  He is member of Western Fictioneers.

  In addition, he operates JL TextWorks, an editing/critiquing service.

  Discover more great titles by John Legg and Wolfpack Publishing, here.

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  A Sample Chapter from Blood Trail by John Legg

  About the Author

 

 

 
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