The Gunfighter's Pursuit (Ride Hard Book 2)

by Zoe Blake

  Jed boosted Emma up onto his saddle, before taking the reins. Walking the horse around, he made his way back home on foot, leading the horse.

  “You are going to love, Wickenburg, Miss Glendolene,” he prattled on. “Oh boy! Folks are going to be real excited the school teacher is finally here.”

  Emma closed her eyes and allowed the gentle swaying of the horse and rise and fall of Jed’s talking to soothe her like a bubbling creek.

  So she would pretend to be this Glendolene Rimmel for a few days.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Willow Brier, Arizona Territory - Same day

  Jackson Horn turned his horse to the north and headed out. His friend Mason was no longer in danger. It was time to leave.

  As a gun-for-hire, he went where the money was good and the whiskey and women better. There was a cattle baron who needed to roust some rustlers. There was also a man in Wickenburg who needed the crew robbing the Black Canyon Stagecoach line taken care of in exchange for some information Horn wanted.

  Horn had a reputation for relentless pursuit. Once on the hunt, nothing deterred him.

  He always captured his prey.

  Chapter 1

  Wickenburg, Arizona Territory - Three months later

  Emma had now fully embraced her new life as Glendolene Rimmel, prairie school teacher.

  When she arrived several months ago, she had planned on imposing on their hospitality for only a few nights. Then she would make some excuse and head out of town, preferably not on a stagecoach.

  Then, well…things changed.

  They were all so warm and welcoming. Jed’s mother, Alice, gave her a big hug and immediately hustled her into a hot bath and a warm bed. When Alice gave her ill-fitting gown an odd look, Emma explained it away by saying it wasn’t actually her gown. She said another woman on the stagecoach must have taken her bag by mistake so she was left with the other woman’s luggage. It was close to the truth.

  The next morning, Emma awoke to learn Alice had laundered and altered her gown that night. The thoughtful gesture brought tears to Emma’s eyes.

  Later that day, she was taken on a tour of the town. It was a cozy, homesteader town not one of those booming gold mining towns. It just had the essentials; a saloon, a brothel, a general store and a church…in that order. There were also several quaint shops, including a dressmaker’s, as well as a tiny post-office that also doubled as the newspaper office. Everywhere they went she was greeted with such heartfelt enthusiasm. Turns out the town had been without a school teacher for close to eight months since the last one up and got married.

  Life was hard on the plains, especially for the homesteaders. There was endless work to be done on their farms which required the help of even their children during planting and harvest season, but that didn’t mean they didn’t understand the importance of an education. They still wanted their children to learn to read and write and do their sums.

  Emma was brought to the abandoned cottage about a mile outside of the center of town which was to be both her residence and the school room. It was common for school rooms to be makeshift shacks or even the pews of the town church. Often the school teacher boarded with the families of the children, moving from house to house every few months. Although some towns just took advantage of abandoned homes in the vicinity, a common sight on the plains. Given her current predicament, Emma was grateful the town had supplied a private space for their school teacher. It would give her time alone to think and grieve.

  The cottage was charming. The women of the town had worked together to get it ready. They had sewn curtains out of old calico dresses. The faded floral pattern lending a feminine touch to the old clapboard building. The largest room was converted into the school room. It had several old church pews as benches for the students, a crate with a handful of books and one tattered map of the world. The only other room would serve as her living space. It had a small fireplace for cooking and heat. A tiny table with two spindle chairs. A hope chest for her personal things and a rather large rope bed with an inviting quilt placed lovingly on top. Emma smiled when she saw the small chipped cup given pride of place on the mantle with a handful of half-wilted wild marigolds.

  “The children wanted to do their part in making you feel welcome,” said Alice with a warm smile.

  “It is all so very charming,” whispered Emma.

  “Well, we wanted you to feel welcome, Glendolene, so that you would want to stay with us. We’re not much of a town, but the people are hard-working and god-fearing,” enthused Alice.

  “Please…please call me Emma,” said Emma hesitantly and then in a rush, “Glendolene was my mother’s name so everyone called me by my middle name, Emma.” She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks, the lies were coming easier now. Oh god, she was going straight to hell!

  “Emma it is! Now don’t you go worrying your head about learning to cook over a fire. We know you are a fancy girl from the East who probably don’t know nothing about it, so you are to dine with the different families around the county till I can teach you proper,” offered Alice as she clapped her hands with excitement. “Now I’m going to leave you to get settled in. Jed will be by to fetch you in the buckboard, like he should have done yesterday, for dinner at our home.”

  Poor Jed, he was so happy to tell his Momma the school teacher had finally arrived he didn’t expect the knock to the back of his head and a scolding for heading out to the station on horseback instead of a more proper wagon.

  “Thank you, Alice,” said Emma shyly.

  The moment the door closed behind her, Emma threw herself onto the quilted bed and had a proper cry.

  When she met the kids and the rest of the parents, all eager for her to start teaching, Emma decided to try and stay. She was still nervous about getting caught for her role in the stagecoach robbery but with each day that passed, she became more at ease.

  That is until he came to town.

  Horn could feel a few suspicious glances tossed his way as he led his horse down the dirt path which passed for a main street in this small, backwater town. It could be the ominous black he wore from boot to hat. Could be they recognized him. His reputation tended to proceed him. Could be the town just didn’t like strangers.

  Or...it could be the dead man slung over the horse he was leading.

  Horn alighted in front of a ramshackle, clapboard building. A large, rough-hewn plank with the word Jail painted in white-wash was hammered over the small doorway. Wrapping the reins from both horses around the hitching post, Horn sauntered through the door.

  His eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior after the bright glare of outside, Horn saw a gangling youth with his muddy boots propped up on the desk. His chair tipped precariously back, hat over his eyes. The sound of light snoring mingling with the buzzing of insects in the small, airless chamber.

  Walking with a silent tread, in two steps Horn was towering over the foolish boy. Sweeping out his right foot, he knocked the back legs of the chair, sending it and the youth crashing to the dirt floor.

  Looking like a befuddled newborn colt trying to rise, the youth was all limbs and howls as he scrambled upright.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, mister?” he shouted, frantically pulling on a Colt strapped to his side that was at least twenty years old.

  “That Colt clears your holster, you won’t see another Sunday, boy,” warned Horn soft and low. Horn stood a few paces away, legs spread, thumbs resting on his gun belt. He looked relaxed, almost bored. A keener look would see the set jaw, the tension across his shoulders and the sharp, determined look in his eye. The youth was obviously an idiot to let a man steal a march on him like this but that was just the problem. Even an idiot could shoot a gun and Horn would not hesitate to put one between his eyes if threatened.

  The youth cowed but still belligerently mumbled, “I’m a deputy for chrissake. It ain’t right.”

  “Where is Sheriff Doolin?” demanded Horn.


  “He’s out checking livestock brands and collecting the taxes over at the Bar 10 ranch. He left me in charge. I’m Deputy Barnaby,” answered the youth as he squared his shoulders trying to measure up to Horn’s over-sized frame. He failed.

  Horn looked past Barnaby to the various scraps of paper pierced onto ragged nails strewn over the far wall. Reading the short descriptions of each wanted criminal, Horn tore the page off the wall matching the description of the man he had tossed over a saddle outside. Hoyt Barnett, wanted for cattle rustling and murder, $400 cash reward.

  Tossing the paper to Barnaby, he groused, “Man’s outside. I’m here for my money.”

  Barnaby’s eyes lit up as he scrambled to grab a pair of wrist manacles and the large iron key for the jail. Clearly eager to secure his first prisoner, he was halfway across the room before he heard Horn’s rebuke.

  “You won’t be needin’ those.”

  Sheriff Doolin took that moment to stroll through the door. Laughing as he placed his dusty hat on a hook by the door, “Well, you’re not known to bring ‘em in on the hoof, Horn.”

  For the first time since entering the jail, Horn cracked a smile, reaching out his hand, he asked warmly, “How the hell are you, Doolin?”

  “Oh, gettin’ by. Gettin’ by,” tossed off Doolin as he crossed to pick up his chair, sending an annoyed glance in Barnaby’s direction before slowly lowering his old bones into it.

  “I see you crossed paths with Barnett.”

  “You could say that,” answered Horn, noncommittally.

  Sheriff Doolin spit a dark wad of chewed tobacco onto the dusty floor. “Nasty fucker. Give you much of a fight?”

  Horn’s only response was a raised eyebrow.

  “Can I go get the prisoner?” broke in an excited Barnaby as the jail keys jangled expectantly in his hand.

  The Sheriff and Horn shared an amused look. “What you can do is run by Doc’s and tell him we got a fresh one. Then go to Moody’s Furniture Shop and tell ‘em I need a pine box,” ordered an impatient Sheriff Doolin.

  Kicking the dirt in disappointment, Barnaby stomped off.

  “They are getting younger and stupider every year,” said Doolin with a shake of his head as he cranked the knob on an ancient safe tucked under the desk.

  “None of that wildcat paperback shit or Spanish coins. I’ll take it in double eagles,” commanded Horn.

  Wiping a bead of sweat off his upper lip, Doolin cast him an annoyed look before counting out nineteen gold coins into a small, leather bag.

  “You’re missing one.”

  “Aren’t you going to pay for the pine box and to have a few words said over him by a Holy Joe?” complained Doolin.

  Horn’s only response was another raised eyebrow.

  With an audible grumble, Doolin dropped the last coin into the bag before tossing it at Horn.

  Tipping the rim of his black Stetson, Horn quipped, “Pleasure doing business with you, Doolin. You can keep Barnett’s horse as consolation.”

  “That old nag wouldn’t be worth the cost to get him to the glue man!” grumbled Doolin. “How long you in town?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Horn liked Doolin. Unlike most sheriffs, he wasn’t a drunkard or wastrel. That didn’t mean he was going to tell the man his life story. It was no one’s goddamn business to know he just finished up a job for Cash Mechum over at the Bar H. No one’s business that Barnett was not the first man he killed this week alone. Horn didn’t have the slightest prick of conscience over it neither. He was a gunfighter. It was his job to roust out cattle rustlers, criminals and anyone else someone paid him to get rid of. One that paid very well. After tracking them down, he always gave them fair warning. They had one day to clear the hell out or face the consequences. It wasn’t his fault some men were ignorant enough to think they could best him.

  And men like Barnett? Well, criminals like him were for sport. It kept Horn’s skills sharp and helped build his reputation. A man’s notoriety for being a quick gun with an even quicker temper went a long way out here on the practically lawless prairie.

  “Tight lipped as always. War changed a lot of things. Some it didn’t,” chuckled Doolin. “You needn't bother. Cash has already been through town bragging how you cleared out that nest of thieves for him. He’s pleased as pie. Figures no one will mess with his ranch for a good long while knowing he’s willing to hire Jackson Horn to come take care of the problem.”

  “I suppose.” Horn shrugged. Not really caring either way. He had coin in his pocket and an itch to scratch. It had been weeks since he had felt the soft skin of a woman’s thighs pressed against his own. He needed a shave, a bottle and a woman…not necessarily in that order.

  Chapter 2

  Emma walked into the General Store, clutching her shopping list. Having borrowed the buckboard wagon from Alice so she could load up on some essentials. She had been warned by the parents that with November approaching, the weather would become temperamental. They told her stories of flash storms with snow as high as your chin holing everyone up in their cabins for weeks. Emma wasn’t sure she believed them. This was Arizona! It was hot and dry. There were cacti and tumbleweeds for heaven’s sake! They were probably just having a bit of fun with the easterner. All the same, she thought it prudent to pick up some extra flour, sugar and other foodstuffs. Not that it was going to do her much good, thought Emma with a self-depreciating smirk. She had yet to master the skill of cooking. The best she could muster at this point was a barely passable biscuit and a watery egg.

  “Hello, Miss Emma!” said a small voice, cheerily.

  “Hello, Mary Sue! How are your sums coming along?” Emma greeted the sweet girl happily. She was one of her more enthusiastic students.

  “I can already multiply up to five times five,” Mary Sue boasted.

  “I’m very proud of you. Now it looks like your mother needs help with that bolt of cloth,” said Emma as she gestured to Mary Sue’s mom.

  Emma’s parents had been comfortable enough to send her to a nice school in Philadelphia. She even had a few months of finishing school…before she got kicked out for refusing to learn how to needlepoint. So as fickle fate would have it, Emma was actually naturally suited to teaching. She loved helping her students learn new things. Loved watching their imaginations grow as they took on new lessons, new challenges.

  Emma headed over to the shelves stocked high with various cans, sacks filled with dry goods and dried fruit. As she was selecting the items from the list Alice had prepared for her, she could overhear two of the older girls’ conversation. They were both seventeen years of age so they were no longer in the school room. They were needed at home to help their mothers and hopefully start planning marriage.

  “I heard he has killed at least one hundred men,” said the first girl, with ghoulish eagerness.

  “I heard he has a sweetheart in every town from here to the Mississippi. I’ve already seen him. He’s terribly handsome in that dangerous sort of way,” said the second, a dreamy look in her eyes.

  Not to be out-done, the first offered, “Well did you hear why he is in town?”

  “Yes,” said the second smugly. “He’s a gunfighter working for the Bar H.”

  “Humph, wrong! Abie Pratt’s beau, Cyril, is friends with Herman Mechum and he says, Herman says, his daddy says, he’s done with that job,” prattled the first with a knowing smirk. “He’s a lawman working for the Black Canyon stage line now. Chasing down a couple of no good robbers.”

  Emma knocked over a small stack of condensed milk. Both girls turned at the commotion.

  Her cheeks aflame, Emma bent to quickly re-stack the cans. Walking on unsteady feet to the counter, she motioned for Mr. Godsey, the proprietor. “Could you please send a boy to Alice’s house to tell Jed to come get the buckboard? I…I decided I don’t need it after all,” Emma said with agitation.

  “What about your list?” objected Mr. Godsey, but it was too late, Emma was already out the door.
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  Looking anxiously about her, Emma quickly crossed the street, careless of the mud and muck, barely bothering to raise her skirts. Pulling on the rim of her bonnet, making sure it concealed her face as much as possible, she swiftly made her way down the rough-hewn, boarded sidewalk toward the post office, which also doubled as the only newsprint office in town. All the old news broadsheets were pasted up on the outside wall. Emma had made a habit over the last few months to seemingly casually peruse the sheets whenever she was in town. They usually contained news of the latest criminals wanted for various nefarious deeds and whether they had been jailed, hanged or were still on the loose. Each time she half expected to see her name and likeness emblazoned on the piece of parchment. Emma Fairfax, murderess!

  Emma anxiously scanned all the sheets. Her eyes barely registering the print, searching for the words Emma, Black Canyon or Clayton. She moved on to scan the rough, pencil drawing pictures which accompanied each story.

  “See anyone you know?” asked a dark voice from just over her shoulder.

  Startled, Emma swung around. All she could see was a broad chest covered in black linsey-woolsey with polished wood buttons. She didn’t dare look further.

  The silence stretched.

  Jackson Horn was a patient man. He was not unaccustomed to tracking his quarry for days at a time, whether it be a deer…or a man. Right now, he had his eyes set on decidedly more feminine prey.

  He had noticed her the moment she rode into town, perched on that dilapidated buckboard being pulled by an animal that had more in common with a donkey than a horse.

  As she alighted, he was pleased to see she adopted the more informal mode of dress favored by many women in the small towns out West. Not taking up with those ridiculous hoop skirts, bustles and crinolines that hid a woman’s figure from a man. Dressed in a simple pale blue muslin dress, Horn would guess by the sweet way her bottom bounced and sashayed under that skirt she was only wearing one maybe two petticoats at the most. He watched as she strolled into the General Store. Wanting to get a look at her face, he decided to wait outside and bide his time. Rolling a cigarette with some cut up cornshucks as he leaned against the barber shop’s outer wall, Horn’s thoughts lingered on finding out just how many petticoats she had on and what it would take to get under them.