by Joe Slade
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
CONTENTS
About DAYS OF EVIL
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
About the Author
Copyright
More on Piccadilly Publishing
Kidnapped at the age of sixteen, Maggie has survived the fickle temper of notorious outlaw Mad Dog Frank O’Bannen for seven years. Now he is dead and she is about to find out that there are worse ways to live and die than as the wife of a wanted man.
Frank had prepared her as best he could for what would follow and when she leaves her prison in the hills she has the blood of three men on her hands and knows the feel of hot lead. Soon her hard-won freedom is in doubt and she finds herself pursued by Frank’s old partner, a man with a vicious reputation and more than one score to settle.
Maggie has Frank’s gun, her keen wits and new friends to help her, but will they be enough to save her from the brutality of a maniac bent on revenge?
One
‘I hope you rot in hell.’
Maggie O’Bannen threw the buckled spade down on the grave. Water had run inside her oversized slicker and now that her exertions were over, she hugged herself for warmth. It had taken her all night and half the morning to dig the man-sized hole and drag the body in to it. Sometime after dawn it had started to rain, the cold unrelenting downpour freezing her to the bone until she was numb in mind and body.
Several times her feet had slipped beneath her, almost toppling her in on top of the corpse. Undeterred, she had picked herself up, cursing and shoveling until the job was done. Now, she fell to her knees and clasped her torn and blistered hands before her, breathing hard as the tumult of emotion that had driven her to dig hour after hour sought another outlet. Tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the rain as it continued its relentless assault, but she refused to cry. She didn’t know if she had loved him, just that her heart ached with loss.
‘All your planning didn’t prepare me for this,’ she mumbled.
She shook herself and shifted her thoughts to what she would carve on the small cross lying on the ground nearby. Still undecided, she reached beneath the slicker and lifted her thin skirt to reach for the knife sheathed and tied against her thigh. She stopped short of pulling it out when across the yard a door opened.
She looked towards the cabin, feeling herself stiffen as she eyed Walt McLean. Of all the O’Bannen gang members, he was the one she feared the most. Short, swarthy and dressed only in long johns and a pair of boots, with his belt gun slung over one shoulder, his dark gaze met hers as he scratched and stretched before pulling out his pecker to take a pee.
‘You done?’ he shouted, adjusting his stance as the flow splattered between his feet. ‘Me and the boys are hungry.’
Her jaw crackled as she clenched her teeth against the contempt she felt for the man who, even before Frank’s body was cold, had claimed top seat at the table. His arrogance hadn’t surprised her. This past long year, as Frank grew weaker, his body succumbing to the ravages of consumption, Walt McLean had made no secret of his impatience for the outlaw leader to move on and meet his Maker.
‘I gave you ’til morning to bury that old bastard and it’s getting light now. Get your ass in here and make us some breakfast, you hear me?’
Her stomach heaved and her heart pounded as she accepted that the time for action was upon her. Burying Frank had bought her a few hours to steel herself for what was to come but done little to quell the doubts that had manifested in her nightmares these past weeks. She slid the knife back into its sheath and clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.
Breathing deeply, she reminded herself that Frank had prepared her for this day. She was ready. She had to be. Again she gripped the knife, drawing it slowly from its hiding place. She wouldn’t fail.
‘I hear you,’ she called back, her tone sounding oddly flat.
Turning her head aside, she pressed a kiss to her fingertips then brushed them lightly over the grave as she shoved to her feet. Frank O’Bannon had been a hard man, twenty-five years older than she, an outlaw and one of the worst. He had robbed without conscience and killed without mercy, taking whatever he wanted. She herself was proof of that, but it didn’t change the fact that she would miss him.
Walt stood in the doorway watching her like a hungry wolf as she walked towards the cabin she had called home for over seven years. Built from rough logs with a sod roof and shuttered glassless windows, it wasn’t much but it had a small porch and the floor had been boarded over. Inside, she could hear the rest of the outlaw quartet moving around, stamping into their boots as they crawled from their blankets. Their presence irked her even more than usual.
As she approached, Walt rubbed his groin and leered. ‘I hope you ain’t tired after all that digging.’
His meaning was clear enough as he massaged his manhood, but he was a man wont to enjoy the sound of his own voice.
‘I’m the boss now, and you belong to me. As soon as you’ve fed me and the boys, you and me are going to get intimately acquainted.’
She was too weary to hide the sneer of disgust that the thought of his touch had on her.
His hand shot out, his broken fingernails digging into her skin as he grabbed her by the throat. The knife fell from her grasp, landing with a dull thud as he slammed her against the wall. Despite being the same height and build, he lifted her almost clear of the floor so that she danced on tiptoes.
‘You might want to be a mite nicer to me.’ He thrust his free hand up inside the slicker, tearing at her shirt until his grasping fingers found her cold breast. ‘I can make your life a living hell, or send you to hell, it makes no never mind to me.’
To prove his point, he squeezed and scratched the soft flesh, plucking at the nipple with sharp nails, all the while watching her reaction. It acted like a match to a fuse and she exploded in a frenzied struggle that only seemed to excite him more as his grip tightened around her throat and she started to choke.
Stay calm, Maggie. You know what to do.
Frank’s voice sounded close, as though he was whispering in her ear. Used to following his orders, she stopped struggling and went limp.
By some miracle, Walt’s grip loosened enough for her to suck air into her lungs, restoring clarity to her oxygen-starved brain. She hadn’t expected his attack to come so soon, but it made no difference. She lifted her knee and aimed for his groin. It was a feeble attempt that failed to inflict any damage but it unnerved him.
‘Bitch!’ He lashed out with the back of his hand, his knuckles jarring against her teeth. ‘You just signed your own death warrant.’
Time was running out. She fell to her knees, scrabbling to find the knife with one hand while she tried to fend Walt off with the other. Just as her fingers closed around the blade, Walt grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. The knife fell away, slicing her fingertips.
She cried out in pain and frustration.
‘Ain’t nobody coming to save you,’ Walt said, slamming her down.
Her head jarred against the edge of the porch and for a few seconds she teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. The weight of hi
s body on top of her brought her back to full awareness in an instant. She turned her head away, as he tried to kiss her, and raked her nails across his face.
He grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms behind her head. ‘Do that again and I’ll cut your fingers off, do you hear me?’
She didn’t doubt that he would follow through on his threat but by now she was beyond reason. Trapped beneath him there was little she could do as his weight squeezed the air from her lungs and denied her muscles the energy to fight. When he lowered his head again she spat in his face, turning away quickly as she anticipated his reprisal.
Just then, she saw movement: someone standing in the doorway.
Tall.
Blonde.
It was Rick Talbot, the newest and youngest member of the gang.
‘Help me!’ she implored as Walt straddled her and started to grope for the hem of her skirt.
Talbot didn’t move. His expression was one of indecision as his gaze flitted between Maggie and his new boss.
‘Get back inside,’ Walt ordered. ‘This ain’t no peep show.’
Maggie had thought Rick Talbot was attractive when he first arrived. In his early twenties with wavy blonde hair, broad shoulders and a smile that would break a thousand hearts, he had seemed different from the others. He spoke gentler and prayed before he ate. He extended her courtesy none of the others did. At night as she had lain awake beside Frank, listening to his labored breathing and knowing his end was near, she had imagined what it would be like to be Rick Talbot’s woman.
‘Please help me,’ she sobbed, as Walt lifted her skirt.
Talbot’s Adam’s apple bobbed uncertainly. ‘Y-you shouldn’t be treating her that way.’
‘You want to do something about it, boy?’ Walt challenged.
Maggie saw Talbot’s hand move towards his waist, but he was unarmed. The fading bruises around his eyes and nose from a beating a week earlier had already proved he was no match for Walt in a fistfight. She saw clearly the defeat in his eyes before he turned away.
The door closing behind him sounded like a death knell.
Walt laughed. ‘Guess you thought he’d be the one between your legs after Mad Dog died. Well, it might still happen. Maybe he’ll take a turn later when the others are finished with you. Although once Bull gets here, I doubt there’ll be much of you left to go around.’
Bull Braddock. Frank’s partner in the old days. He hadn’t told her much about him, just that he was a natural killer and Walt’s uncle.
She fought harder, punching, scratching and biting, but she was no match for Walt’s strength. His hand moved between her thighs, parting her unwilling flesh and making way for him to slide between her legs.
Use the knife, Maggie.
Frank’s voice filled her head, the sound of reason. As Walt fumbled with his hardness, her hand searched for the weapon.
‘Promise me you won’t stop fighting,’ Walt said.
Her hand brushed the knife with its narrow five-inch blade, double-edged and razor sharp. Frank had taken it off a Kentucky gambler who had unwisely pulled it from his boot while Frank was relieving him of two thousand dollars. The man’s blood had still been evident on the blade when Frank had given it to her. Now, as her hand clamped around the smooth rosewood handle, she knew that like the gambler she only had one chance.
Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted the blade and plunged it into Walt’s back.
Two
Walt’s body went rigid as the pain registered. The lust that had burned like a fever in his eyes seconds before turned quickly to shock then anger.
He struggled to sit up. ‘What the h-hell …?’
Maggie could feel blood spilling over the guard of the knife.
Quickly, Maggie. Again.
Frank’s voice mirrored her own sense of urgency as Walt twisted and groped for the source of his pain. Whatever it took, she couldn’t let him get the knife but already she was starting to lose her hold as blood slicked her fingers. She tightened her grip, fighting for possession as Walt’s rage dulled his agony.
She wouldn’t give in. Couldn’t.
Maggie had learned a long time ago that hatred could be a strong motivator. And she hated Walt McLean. Not just for what he had been about to do to her. For what he had done to Frank. There was no doubt in her mind now that Walt McLean had finished off Mad Dog O’Bannen in the most cowardly way.
Still the knife refused to budge and her fingers were losing cohesion as Walt’s blood spilled more freely. His hand wrapped around her wrist but his strength was ebbing and so was hers. With a surge of desperation, she yanked and suddenly the knife was free.
Walt shrieked as the blade’s extraction ignited a new level of agony. ‘Bitch! What did you do to me?’
‘Nothing more than you intended for me.’ She gripped the knife in both hands and plunged it into his chest. ‘Now die, you bastard.’
There was no time to enjoy the look that froze his face into a grotesque mask of disbelief. Walt McLean was a dead man. His body was already collapsing as the strength drained from him with every last beat of his ruptured heart. Her concern now was how the other men would react. Most likely they would slit her throat there and then given the chance.
Without pausing to catch her breath, she pushed him aside and wriggled free. His body landed with a soft thud and mud splattered her bare legs as she seized his fallen gun and scurried clear. Staying on her knees, she gripped the pistol between her hands and aimed towards the door of the cabin no more than ten feet away.
Coming from inside, she could hear raised voices. Nothing distinct but she had the feeling that the men were arguing. Probably over her and who would take his turn next. Despite, or perhaps in spite of the direness of her situation, she chuckled. They would make their decision, come strutting out to claim their reward and she would pick them off like fish in a barrel.
Something crashed inside. A chair falling maybe. Then a softer thud. Several. It sounded like a scuffle had broken out with punches being exchanged. Frank had always said Walt and his friends were like children, unruly without discipline.
The door started to open but slammed shut before she could see what was happening. A few angry words reached her over the steady patter of rain. She was sure now that they were fighting.
Her hands started to shake more violently.
Hold your nerve, Maggie, Frank’s disembodied voice cautioned.
She adjusted her grip on the old .45, shook the rain out of her eyes and shuffled to ease the pressure on her knees.
‘Fish in a barrel,’ she whispered.
The sound of a gunshot startled her and made her wonder for a split second if she had fired it. But Walt’s gun was still firmly in her grasp and there was no ache from the recoil. She swallowed hard, trying to subdue the fear that clawed its way from her guts to her racing heart and into her throat, almost choking her.
The cabin door swung open, leather hinges creaking to heighten the suspense. Maggie held her nerve. Frank had taught her to shoot at cans. Against a stationery target she could hit four out of five most times but a moving target would require more accuracy—maximum concentration.
The first man out was Clem Jones, a filthy, unkempt ex muleskinner who never seemed able to shake off the stench. He staggered, blood streaming through his fingers where they clawed at his chest. He saw the new danger and his eyes widened with surprise before another bullet tore into his stomach.
Maggie knocked back the hammer with the heel of her hand and fired again, lower this time as his body sunk on weakened legs. The bullet missed, instead tearing splinters from the porch. Panic washed over her but she had practiced rapid firing time and again and the action came without any thought. Her third bullet hit him in the face, shattering his nose and taking out the back of his head in a spray of splintered bone and pulped brain.
Behind him, Sonny Bomer felt the heat of the same bullet as it skimmed his leg. Older and more experienced, a veteran of the w
ar, staring down the barrel of a gun hardly seemed to faze him. Instinctively, he reached for his belt gun, turning his body as he fired.
Maggie’s shot missed. Sonny’s didn’t. The .38 caliber slug hit her in the shoulder. For a couple of seconds, she didn’t realize. She tried to draw back the hammer for another shot but the gun slipped from her grasp as a strange tingling numbed her hand. It hit her then. Excruciating pain. Burning through her like the red-hot tip of a branding iron. She started to sway, sure she was dying as hot blood poured down her back and her strength drained away.
Before she could fall, Sonny grabbed her by the hair and lifted her chin with the muzzle of his gun so that she could see his cold and impassive face.
‘You killed a couple of good men tonight, girl. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you but …’ He stroked her cheek with the cold steel. ‘Hey, I’ve never understood women.’
She tried to stay focused on what he was saying but all she could think about was the blood. Hot and flowing. And the inevitability. For seven years she had lived with the promise of death never more than a day away. I’ll kill you tomorrow, Frank used to say. As the years had gone by, Frank’s bedtime warning had turned in to a habit, but she had never stopped believing it. For some reason, she was glad it wasn’t him that would finally pull the trigger.
The click, click, click of the hammer being drawn back sounded loud near her ear. A countdown to death.
‘Close your eyes,’ Sonny ordered. ‘It’ll be easier that way.’
She ignored him and swallowed hard, desperate to say one last thing. ‘Killing … should never b-be easy.’
For a second, he contemplated her words then his brow furrowed. He seemed angry as he stepped back a few paces and leveled the gun towards her.
‘I meant dying,’ he said, roughly.
Weakened by loss of blood and without his hand to support her, she started to sway. She wondered how much time had passed since her encounter with Walt McLean. It had been mid morning. Now she was struggling to make out Sonny’s features through semi-darkness. Yet there was Frank, standing right behind him.
