Deadly Is the Night
Page 1
Howdy to my fans and friends!
Well, here we are at book number ten in the Chet Byrnes series. I get to visit with many folks with that newfangled invention called email, and I should have a new web page—another newfangled invention—up at www.dustyrichards.com. (And what does that gosh-darned WWW stand for anyway?)
My Facebook page is another place where you can keep track of my personal appearances and book signings, and all future releases. I like email and Facebook a lot, but nowadays my phone hardly ever rings. That’s progress, I reckon.
The Byrnes Family Ranch series can be found on audio from Recorded Books, if that’s your pleasure. They sure do make for nice gifts.
Horses, dust, cactus spines, rattlesnakes, and bawling cattle—welcome to the American frontier. The good men who fought the outlaws were a tough breed. They prayed and lived during turbulent times amid hardships few modern folk could ever imagine. They are our history—even in fiction—and are part of why we have America today. People like Chet Byrnes made it a better place to live, breathe, and raise our kids.
So swing onto the saddle and hope that horse don’t buck you off. Until the next adventure, thanks for visiting with Chet Byrnes and his boys, and I sure hope you enjoy the ride.
Dusty Richards
Springdale, Arkansas
February 2016
Read all the adventures in the Byrnes Family Ranch Saga . . .
DEADLY IS THE NIGHT
PRAY FOR THE DEAD
ARIZONA TERRITORY
A GOOD DAY TO KILL
AMBUSH VALLEY
BROTHERS IN BLOOD
BLOOD ON THE VERDE RIVER
BETWEEN HELL AND TEXAS
TEXAS BLOOD FEUD
DUSTY RICHARDS
DEADLY IS THE NIGHT
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 Dusty Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3667-7
First electronic edition: October 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3668-4
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3668-0
PROLOGUE
Ortega Morales reined up his powerful bay horse and studied the distant desert horizon for a dust cloud. The stout gelding under him was hot and sweaty, but he still had lots of strength if he called on him for more effort. The afternoon heat waves warped the cactus mesquite scene clear down into Mexico. He reached through his field glasses, hoping to see a trace of the rustlers, when the two teen boys with him slid to a halt beside him. The pair, Ronaldo Maguey and Filipe Sanchez, were tough enough boys and knew how to use the pistols they wore—still they were not pistoleros. He would have felt better with more experienced men, but they were all he had and would have to do. There was no time to go back to the ranch for more help to take on these rustlers.
At a water hole, earlier that morning, they had found fresh tracks of two dozen, or more, cattle being rounded up and then driven south. The horse tracks indicated as many as six or more riders herded them and bound for the border. His boss, JD Byrnes, said to let those people who lived down there have a few beef, but he didn’t want rustlers to take a single one.
When Ortega would cull the mustangs on that end of the ranch, he drove many of the culls to the Lady of the Church village for the people to slaughter and have to eat. He knew it would be a friendly place, but there were no allies there armed and ready to help him arrest the thieves. These rustlers would all be tough hombres and there was no time to send for help. The job of handling them rested on his shoulders. He must catch and hang the thieves and then take charge of the cattle and return them to the ranch.
His plan sounded easy enough, but after several years of riding with Chet Byrnes as a deputy U.S. marshal, he learned these situations never turned out either easy or simple. He and his two men rode farther south and finally heard the cattle bawling in the distance. He held up his hand for them to halt.
“Sounds like they’ve stopped at the Lady of the Church village.”
The boys nodded. Looking grim-faced, he made sure they all understood the situation. “Boys, taking on these bandits might be tough and there’s only three of us. You guys will be in the cross fire if they choose to fight. If I can get the drop on them, it will be over, but I will need backup if that does not work. When we get closer I’ll give you my plan.”
“Ortega, me and Filipe are ready to do anything you need for us to do.”
“Fine. We can take them.”
Ortega booted the bay on until they were on the crest and could see the dust made by the cattle milling in the pens. Being herded together with other cattle not known to them upset the social order of who was boss. That would be a good distraction for Ortega and his men’s arrival.
Through the glasses he could see a half dozen sweaty horses hipshot at the rack in front of the cantina. Then he spotted one horse hitched down in the grove of huge cottonwood trees by the cattle in the corral.
“They left one guy with the cattle. We need him hog tied and gagged.”
Ronaldo dismounted. “We can come along down there like two guys going to town. Get him tied and gagged, then you can bring our horses off the hill. There’s no windows in that old cantina. They won’t see you coming down if you go east a little.”
“I’ll wait till you get him bound up and do that. Good plan.”
* * *
Ortega checked the loads in his pistol. They were a while getting down there but he finally saw them coming through the grove. They were horsing around like boys do in a push and shove on their way to town. They came up close to the man and Ronaldo cracked him over the head with his gun butt. The man’s knees buckled and the boys had him down, tied, and gagged when Ortega pushed his horse off the east side of the hill leading the othe
r two. Good work. They would do for help.
Their horses were soon secured in an empty corral. He gave them his orders. “I am going in those front doors gun drawn and tell them hands up. I will probably have to shoot at least one to enforce my order. Ronaldo, you go around back. Don’t shoot anyone unarmed, but if anyone with a gun in hand comes out, shoot him down. Savvy? And you need to take some cover in case they shoot at you.”
“I will have it covered.”
“They don’t deserve a blink of your eye. Shoot them. Filipe, you come in after me. There will be lots of gun smoke in there, but shoot anyone still armed and left standing.”
“I’m ready.”
“So am I.”
“Let’s do it.”
Ronaldo headed around for the back door. Filipe trailed him, coming up beside the solid front of the building staying out of their line of sight. With a nod to his partner, Ortega went through the batwing doors and shouted, “Hands high or die.”
One of the men standing at the bar went for his gun and Ortega nailed him. Next he swiveled, cocked his gun, and shot the short one trying to get up from a table and draw at the same time. Then Ortega took a bullet in his left leg and that toppled him to the floor. Filipe shot two other men who were rushing over to shoot Ortega. His belly on the littered dirt floor, Ortega saw one of them headed for the open back door. He aimed the pistol and shot at him, but Ronaldo cut him down from outside in the open space.
Filipe was there on his knees with a smoking Colt in his fist. “How bad are you hit?”
Ortega managed to sit up and shake his head. The pain in his leg was real sharp. “I think we’ve got them.”
“Yes, sir.”
He could see the boy was shaking hard. He wanted to reassure him the fight was over. “Filipe, I’d cross any river with you they had.”
“Oh, I’ll stop shaking after a while, Ortega. I’ve never been in a gun fight before.”
“He all right?” Ronaldo demanded of his buddy.
“No, he’s shot.”
“There ain’t a one of ’em left, boss.”
“There’s one with the cattle—” Ortega managed to say.
“Yes. What about him?”
“Hang him before you leave here and then take the cattle back up into the ranch.”
Ronaldo swallowed hard. “We will. The bartender sent for the doc. We can do the rest. I’ll go find a buckboard to get you back to the ranch. What can I pay him?”
Ortega dug in his pocket and came out with some bills for him. “Whatever he asks. Filipe, get me some tequila to drink. This leg hurts bad.”
When the doc and some help arrived, they laid Ortega across two tables, cut off his pants leg, and the doc removed the slug and gave it to him for a prize. The physician poured alcohol into the wound that set him on fire. Bandaged up, the doc straightened and said, “Keep the bandage clean. Don’t walk on it a lot till it heals.”
Ortega couldn’t believe the man’s lack of any concern. Why, his leg was still bleeding through the bandage, the pain was much worse, and his doctor just went over to the bar, downed a shot of something, thanked the barkeep, and left.
Ronaldo was back. “This man says he can get you back to the ranch. I paid him twenty dollars. His name is Diego. We made you a bed. Can we carry you out there and send you home?”
“Sure, but first, get me two bottles of tequila. I will need them to stand the pain and the ride.” By then, because of the pain, his vision was groggy and he had no energy left.
He knew he had to leave immediately. If he stayed any longer in Mexico, and those men’s leader found out where he was, killers would be sent to get him. At the ranch he would have his wife Maria and a lot of protection. He’d much rather have JD worry about him than the boys, though they had damn sure earned their pay that day. His men had done one helluva job. He was deeply proud of them.
Some of the men now in the cantina remembered him. They carefully carried him to the conveyance and laid him on the bedding. Crossing themselves, they wished him well. He thanked them.
His vision swirled, but going past the pens, Ortega saw that the last rustler swung on a rope in the cottonwood grove. His eyes closed, he prepared for a long rough ride that would jar his pain-filled leg. There were only tracks that made for a road northward, and Diego wasted little time pushing for there. If the man didn’t wreck, they’d be back at the main ranch by dawn.
His driver stopped routinely to check on him, give him a drink of water or tequila. Ortega finally figured out as day shifted to night, the man was real concerned about him dying on the way.
Each time the man stopped he asked, “Are you still breathing good?” and then gave him a drink. It was almost funny. If he had not been so pain stricken he’d have laughed. And at each stop Ortega would tell him he was and the man would store the bottle not to break, climb aboard, and drive on. The many stars were a blanket over his head when he periodically woke up by being rolled around on the rough road they were driving on. But Diego made good time despite the darkness, trusting his horses. In the predawn light, over the rattling rig’s sounds, Ortega could hear windmills pumping water. He figured they were almost at the ranch when the dogs began barking. They were there.
A sentry shouted, “Who are you?”
“My name is Diego. I have your man Ortega and he has been shot.”
“Mother of God. Is he alive?”
“Si.”
At that point Ortega fainted. Next he knew his wife Maria had climbed on the buckboard, kissing him and begging him to talk to her.
“I—am fine—now—you are here.”
“Oh, thank God. It is your leg?”
“He took the bullet out down there.”
“Where are the boys?”
“They are fine. They sent me home. They are bringing the cattle the rustlers stole back to the ranch.”
“Good God. You all right?” His boss JD climbed on the buckboard bed with them. “What happened?”
“Rustlers took about thirty head of cattle at the last waterhole—we found tracks—”
“For heaven’s sake, JD, carry him into the house. The poor man must have ridden from Mexico in that rig. Put him on our bed. Here, Maria, I’ll help you down.” It was JD’s wife Bonnie so concerned for his care. The lovely blond lady had taken charge.
He was lifted by a half dozen men, carried inside through the concerned crowd, and set on their large bed.
“Have you eaten?” Bonnie demanded.
“No, but tequila helps the pain.”
“Get him some and a glass, Juanita. We’ll fix him some food while you two talk. Everyone except JD and Maria out. Let the poor man get some rest. JD will tell you all about it once he hears the whole story.”
“You recognize any of them?” JD asked.
“No. Thanks to the two boys that were with me, they are all dead. But I knew if their boss got word that I was a patient down there he’d send killers after me. I couldn’t have defended myself. I knew I had to leave fast. Ronaldo and Filipe arranged it with Diego.”
“You did the right thing. Can you tell me anything more?”
“I can. We caught up with them at the Lady of the Church village. They’d penned the cattle and six of them went to the cantina. We saw they left one man to guard the cattle.
“Those boys slipped down there into the grove of cottonwoods, hit him over the head, and gagged him. They really are great boys.” He took a break to squeeze his leg.
“I thought if I busted in the cantina with my gun like Chet did a time or two, they’d give up—and I’d have the drop on them. Didn’t work. One of them shot me in the leg while I gunned down two. Filipe shot two or three more and Ronaldo got one going out the back door.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.” JD shook his head at the actions his man had taken to get control.
Ortega shrugged the comment off. “After the snooty doctor took out the bullet, doused it with alcohol, and bandaged it, he said not to walk on it
and left. Ronaldo found the wagon man. Diego did a great job getting here last night and not turning over. I owe him more money.”
“I’ll do that. I think he’s eating now.”
Ortega forced a smile. “I think he was afraid I’d die before he could get me here and didn’t want my death on his hands.”
JD was laughing as Bonnie delivered Ortega’s tray of food.
Then JD turned to Maria who had been sitting quietly the whole time the story was being told. “You can feed him. We will leave you two alone. I must go tell the people the story.”
Ortega groaned in pain.
“Bonnie has some laudanum. After you eat I will get the bottle. You have some and you will be able to sleep after that,” his wife promised him.
“That might be the best idea. That rattling ride last night didn’t help me much, but I’ll recover quick now I am here.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “I worried all night knowing something bad had happened.”
“It was a real long ride. I may be out when the boys return, but you wake me and tell me. I think they are fine, but I want to know they are all right so I can stop worrying.”
She agreed. “Now eat.”
The laudanum made him sleep for the next three days. He would waken long enough to eat and empty his bladder and bowels. The boys returned unscathed and they were treated as the heroes of Diablo. The ranch had a fiesta and fandango for them.
Maria changed Ortega’s bandages every other day and told him he was healing. But when not drugged with the laudanum, he still fretted. Who had sent those rustlers? His name? Maybe later he would know. When he was better he would worry about the man in charge of the rustlers.