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Sam Spur was in trouble—gun-trouble, law-trouble, bandit-trouble … and finally, the worst trouble of all—woman-trouble.
Right at the start he was in a mess and he thought matters couldn’t be worse. But he was wrong. They could be a lot worse. The beautiful girl he didn’t want to marry could be kidnapped, a priceless shipment of gold could be stolen, Spur could find himself out-gunned and in mortal danger. His partners, Cusie Ben and the Cimarron Kid, had their own share of trouble—the Kid shot up; Ben left horseless in desert country. It all ended violently on the Mexican border in a shoot-out with the most vicious organizer of crime in the Arizona Territory.
SPUR 8: GUN
By Cy James
First published by Mayflower Books in 1971
Copyright © 1971, 2016 by P. C. Watts
First Smashwords Edition: June 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
Chapter One
The Cimarron Kid wasn’t noted for his brilliance of wit any more than he was for his imagination. He was, as Sam Spur knew, little more than a half-converted killer. Just the same, he knew what was eating Spur. He could feel the tension in the air.
He and Sam were drinking their beers out in front of the Golden Nugget saloon on Main Street in the town of Sunset, Arizona Territory. It was evening, but the heat of the day still held. The beer was lukewarm, the insects buzzed relentless and lived upon their blood, the dust that had been kicked up during the day by wheels and hoofs still seemed to be on the air, teasing their nostrils. Nothing much seemed right with the world.
Spur could think of no more miserable place to be miserable in than Sunset. A couple of stores, the same number of houses, repeat the number again for the saloons and throw in a blacksmith’s shop and a bank and there you just about had it. That was the Anglo part of town. On the far side of what passed for a creek, but was in reality little more than a dried ditch with a pathetic trickle of water in the bottom, there existed the Mexicans. Part of Mex-town had dribbled across the creek and among the soft colors of the adobes there were the bright lights of the cantina.
Spur looked across at the cantina and thought of Juanita.
He was thinking of her too much lately and he shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. She was thinking of him. He knew it. He cursed when he thought about it. He had gotten himself in a fix. It was out of character and his rage was turned on himself. Everything was against his liaison with the Mexican girl. First of all, she was a Mexican girl. His folks back in Texas would frown on such a marriage. Second, there was Netta Manson.
The mere thought of her name froze the sweat on his flesh. It was a great big laugh. The terrible Sam Spur afraid of a woman.
Afraid? He was petrified.
He owed Netta so much, more than any man ever owed any woman. He owed his very life. It had been her who had helped him escape from the ranch on the Cimarron Strip when the bounty hunters were after him. That had been two years back. He and Cusie Ben, the Negro outlaw, had headed west into Arizona, one jump ahead of the law. After a tough year of dodging posses and lawmen they had managed to obtain a pardon along with the Cimarron Kid. Spur had been hired by the Territory as a deputy marshal. The federal commission had established him as an upholder of the law; he had hunted down some dangerous men, broken up a couple of powerful criminal organizations. One such mission had brought him to the township of Sunset. He had brought the Kid and Ben in to aid him as special deputies.
Ben, unable to stay in a town for long, had headed back into the hills to hunt wild horses. Spur reckoned it wouldn’t be long before the Kid followed him.
A couple of weeks before, Spur received a letter from Netta saying that she had sold the ranch and cattle and was heading west to marry him. They had been too long apart and if they didn’t make the decision their relationship would be spoiled forever. Spur knew that it should have been him that went to her. He had promised. But he had held back. It wasn’t that Netta was anything but desirable. She was not only acutely desirable physically, she was a fine girl in every way. He knew she would make a good loyal wife. She knew the west and its ways. Ranch life wouldn’t be strange to her. She would fit in around here well. It was ...
It was Juanita. He had to face up to that. He not only wanted the Mexican girl, but she wanted him. And she was determined to get him.
My God, he thought desperately, I’ve a mind to ride out of here, not tell a soul where I’m headed and never come back.
But that wouldn’t get him away from himself and he reckoned it was himself he hated right now.
‘Boy, you’re spooked.’
Spur looked at the Kid. The boy was a sitting target ready to receive his rage.
‘Say it,’ Spur snarled. ‘Spill the right words and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.’
‘One day,’ the Kid said, ‘you’ll go too far, Spur. I’m holdin’ back because I owe you.’
‘Forget what you owe me, sonny,’ Spur said nastily. ‘A slice of action’d sit pretty well on me right now.’
‘I won’t take advantage of you.’
‘Buffalo shit,’ said Spur. ‘You know I’ll clear leather before you get up steam to draw your gun.’
The Kid took his feet down from the hitching-rail and stood up.
‘You’re on your lonesome,’ he said. ‘You just went too far. I hope them two women tear you apart. I’m through. You jest try callin’ me in to help you out when you’re in trouble. I allus come a-runnin’ because I know you ain’t nothin’ without my gun.’
‘Come a-runnin’?’ Spur said. ‘Hell, the only reason you come is because you’re scared outa your pants of Ben.’
The Kid spat in disgust and walked into the saloon.
Spur rose to his feet, walked down the single street of the town and reached the creek over which the new bridge leading to the Mexican town had lately been built. Here he stood and smoked while he watched the water flowing softly by him. Over this bridge tomorrow would come the stage and Netta Manson would be on board.
What the hell was he going to do?
What the hell would any man do with two beautiful women after him? Some men might think the situation was wonderful, but he wanted out.
He could hear the soft sound of a guitar coming from the cantina. Juanita was down there now. His instinct was to go to her, but he fought it. He had to settle matters with Netta before he went near the Mexican girl again.
He walked back into town to take a look at the hastily erected calaboose that held the former sheriff of the county and his deputies, men accused of wholesale murder. He was holding them there until the judge arrived. Spur was uneasy about them. The whole town was uneasy. Spur had wanted to transfer them to Crewsville where there was a fairly strong jail, but the Crewsville men were playing this close to their chests and didn’t want any part of it. Wayne Gaylor, the ex-sheriff, had many criminal connections in the territory. Gaylor meant trouble and Crewsville had enough of its own. Any road, the marshal there argued, where would they find enough armed men to get Gaylor and his cohorts safely across country
.
So Spur watched the jail, ostensibly aided by the Kid and a local man called Smith Safer—a hell of a name, Spur thought. Safer was there now, sitting outside the makeshift jail, rifle across his thighs. Spur didn’t know what use he would be if trouble came.
Charlie Doolittle came down the street. A tall lank man, who had saved Spur from getting hanged by the same imprisoned sheriff not a month before. Doolittle was no dashing hero, nor did he look like one with his lugubrious eyes and drooping mustache, but he was a man to be reckoned with and Spur liked and trusted him. Charlie owned the only freighting business in town and was a man of some substance, for he carried supplies on his ox-wagons out of Sunset to all outlying districts, supplying the ranches and the mines in the hills. It was common belief that he was out of his wits over Lydia Carson, the blonde daughter of Mangan Carson, the trader and owner of the general store in town.
Charlie threw a glance at the calaboose and said:
‘You couldn’t keep a mouse in there, Sam. Jesus, if only you could ship them bastards outa here then I could breathe easy.’
Spur grunted.
‘Maybe I could get some sleep. How long can a man sleep with one eye open?’
Doolittle cleared his throat.
‘Stage comes in tomorrow.’
That was a stupid remark. Everybody in town knew the stage arrived tomorrow.
‘Yeah,’ said Spur, edgy.
‘Talk is you’re expectin’ somebody.’
The Kid had leaked off at the mouth again. He’d strangle the little varmint before he was done.
‘So I’m expectin’ somebody,’ Spur said. ‘Is there a law against me expectin’ somebody?’
‘No offense,’ said Charlie.
‘Offense taken,’ said Spur.
‘If there’s anythin’ I can do, Sam.’
‘Nothin’, Charlie.’
Charlie meant well.
‘Drink?’
‘Not right now, thanks.’
Charlie lifted a hand and sauntered toward the saloon. Spur scowled, kicked at the dust and walked over to Safer and told him to go get himself some rest. Safer rose with a sigh and angled across the street.
Spur sat.
The place was quiet. His instinct was playing hell with him. He knew that something was going to happen.
From inside the calaboose, Wayne Gaylor called: ‘That you outside there, Spur?’
‘Yeah,’ said Spur.
‘Bring me some cool water,’ said the ex-sheriff, ‘this stuff is warm.’
‘One more word outa you,’ Spur said, ‘an’ I come in there an’ kick your teeth in.’
Silence followed. Spur didn’t feel any better.
The light breeze rolled some tumbleweed down the street. That was what Spur felt like, a piece of tumbleweed helpless before a light breath of wind.
Chapter Two
Cusie Ben stopped his horse and looked over the scene before him. It was good to be away from town, away from the machinations of men. The Negro belonged to the wild places of the world. He liked best to roam the hills alone, finding his peace at the solitary campfire and his strength from the hills themselves.
The world marked him down as a violent man, men had been known to refer to him as ‘that ornery nigger’. That didn’t worry Ben too much. His job was survival in a hostile world. And he survived. He did so because he knew the wild places, because he was fast with the old Colt at his hip. Mostly he survived because he trusted few men.
He was among the pines, listening to the light breeze from the north singing softly in them. He was high above the westering trail. He could see its thin ribbon winding east and west from his eyrie, cutting through the sage and the brush, disappearing into the sun-baked rocks. A heat haze hung over the land like a fairy mist.
The stagecoach, when he saw it, seemed to float on a cloud of dust, distorted by the heat that shimmered across the face of the land. The horses were ghost-horses and the sounds of the stage and the horses were distinct from the moving object, as if they were cut off from it. Ben’s mind at once switched to Spur. Netta Manson would be on that stage, heading for Sunset and Spur. And she was Spur’s nemesis. They had spoken little on the subject. Ben knew and admired Netta, she was a fine woman and would make a man like Spur a good wife. But Ben had eyes and he knew Spur’s feelings for the Mexican girl, Juanita Morales. She too was a fine woman. Ben didn’t make any choice between the two girls. That was up to Spur. Whatever he did, Ben was on his side. And so it had been always since they first met on the owl-hoot trail.
Ben was tied to Spur because he had saved the whiteman’s life.
The vehicle was almost below him when he heard the faint pop of the gun. At once Chad Leevitch plied his whips to his trotting horses. They hit their collars as one animal.
A series of pops came up to the watching man.
One of the leaders went down.
Ben straightened up and the horse started under him.
The stage slurred across the road, struck a boulder side on. Ben could hear the impact from where he was.
Ben reacted instinctively. He touched the wiry animal under him sharply with the quirt. The horse, half Spanish horse, half-mustang, jumped forward and hit the slope in front of him, going down it with stiff forelegs, its hind legs bunched.
Ben saw Chad pitch from the driver’s seat. A light puff of dust came up as he hit the ground.
The steep slope was covered and the little horse was racing down the sloping shoulder of the hill. Ben reached down and pulled the old repeating carbine from his saddleboot. There were men down there coming out of the rocks, some mounted, some on foot. He knew they hadn’t spotted him.
The nearest stage door swung open and a man jumped out. Ben could read terror in every line of the man’s body. He crossed the trail and reached the rocks below Ben, started through them. A rider broke around the stage, heading after him. The fellow’s scream reached Ben on the hill above the sound of the horse’s hoofs. The sound of the gun was a sharp crack now. Two shots and the man tripped on his own feet and went down.
Ben reached the first jumble of rocks halfway down the hillside. The pony came to a sliding halt and Ben was piling out of the saddle already, levering the Spencer. As he threw himself down in the cover of the rocks, he could hear the cries of the men below. Suddenly, through them came the scream of a woman. It was prolonged, then it stopped abruptly.
Netta Manson, Ben thought.
There were men around the rear of the stage, tearing the canvas cover back, heaving the strongbox down onto the trail.
‘One of you sure is daid,’ Ben said out loud and sighted on the nearest man.
When he fired, the man lurched back against the rear of the stage and fell to the ground. He kicked and lay still. From where he was, Ben could feel the consternation and panic below him. For a moment, the men were still as if petrified by what had happened. Then they moved, jumping behind the vehicle. Ben held his fire, thinking of the girl.
He crouched, his rifle held ready, hoping for the chance of a shot that wouldn’t endanger her.
The wounded leader of the stage team was kicking its life out. The other horses were in a tangle, caught in the traces, one of them completely spooked.
A horseman dashed suddenly out from behind the coach, going away into the rocks beyond the trail from Ben. The Negro fired and missed. The man spurred his horse savagely and disappeared from view.
Ben jacked a new round into the breech and waited. Somehow he had to separate those men down there from the stage and the girl. But they knew that while they were near the girl they were comparatively safe. Ben wanted a really bright idea, but one didn’t come.
He saw a slight movement beyond the stage in the rocks and guessed that a man had worked his way backward under cover of the vehicle. So there was a safe rifle looking at him now. If he could cut that man down maybe the others would beg their way out of the situation. That way Ben could dicker for the girl.
He saw a f
lutter of cloth and knew that it was a woman’s skirts. One of the men was walking backward from the stage, holding the girl in front of him. His horse walked alongside. Ben swore. The man had done the sensible thing and Ben was hogtied. The man climbed into the open and Ben could see that he was holding a gun to the girl’s head. Even at that distance, the Negro could see that the girl was Netta. He watched helplessly as men rode and walked away from the stage. He doubted the men would shoot the girl, but he dare not take a chance.
Feeling more helpless than he had ever done in his life before, he watched the men disappear. He counted six of them. They had one dead man behind.
Ben stayed where he was, thinking.
The situation was a nasty one.
Chad Leevitch might still be alive. He was made of rawhide and he’d been shot more than once before and lived. The immediate necessity was to go down there and help him. But the bandits had left the strongbox on the trail and they wouldn’t be feeling too good about that. Ben didn’t doubt that they were covering the stage from the rocks right that minute.
He decided quickly, because he had to act quickly if Chad were still alive and needed help. To hell with the strongbox. All the gold in the world wasn’t worth a man’s life, especially when it was the life of a man like Chad who had run this stage even when the Apaches were raising Cain around here a few years back.
He glanced over the land below him, taking note of all the cover it offered him, planning his moves, knowing that he would be risking his life in the next few minutes. He swallowed hard and got a grip on himself. If a man had to go, he told himself, he had to go.
He rose to his feet and took two quick strides to his pony, drove the carbine home in its scabbard and turned the horse. It was running as he vaulted into the saddle. When his butt hit leather it was flat out along the side of the hill going north. No shots came. If they were still there, they would think he was lighting a shuck. A hundred yards from the spot where he had mounted, he reached brush and turned downhill. The brush covered him for maybe fifty yards and then he was nearing the open trail. If they were up there in the rocks, they would now be aware of what he intended.
Gun (A Spur Western Book 8) Page 1
