by Neil Hunter
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
No matter the odds, U.S. Marshal Alvin LeRoy always completed his assignments. That’s why they sent him after the Reno bunch. LeRoy was single-minded once he was on the trail. He wouldn’t back down and had a fearsome reputation for always finishing what he started.
His pursuit took him across southwest Texas, where he faced up to bushwhackers and the aftermath of a massacre as he relentlessly tracked down and dealt with the baddest bunch he had come across in quite a while.
Following a trail of deception and danger, he eventually ended up in New York. Here he faced the menacing top man of the crime syndicate who was behind the whole affair, and didn’t stop until there wasn’t a man left standing.
LeROY, U.S. MARSHAL 1
By Neil Hunter
Copyright © 2017 by Neil Hunter
First Smashwords Edition: May 2017
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: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Liam Yarborough slouched from the cabin, looping his suspenders over his beefy shoulders as he made his slow way to the pump. Working the squeaking handle he encouraged a gush of water and ducked his head under, gasping as the chill water sluiced down through his thick hair. He caught some of the water in his free hand and sucked it up into his mouth. Scraping his hand through his hair he shook his head, spraying water like a dog emerging from a pool. When he figured he’d done enough cleansing he let go the pump handle and straightened up and took a long, slow look around. Not that there was much to see. Just a few scrubby trees, scatterings of thorny brush and grass that had turned brown under the constant heat. To the far south the hazy peaks of low hills, not high enough to be called mountains, broke the horizon.
There was a lean to next to the cabin and a corral holding a single horse. The cabin itself was unusually large, a build of logs with a sod roof. A crooked chimney poked up through the roof, smoke curling in lazy spirals into the hot air. The windows were simply square cut holes, fitted with shutters on the inside.
The previous owners of the cabin were long gone. A family wiped out by a roving band of Quahadi Comanche making a final sweep of the Texas territory. At the time the Comanche were on their last foray, their numbers heavily reduced by long years fighting the whites who were aided by the military. Whatever the hostiles hoped to achieve it was a pyrrhic victory and shortly after the Comanche had been chased, hunted down and finally taken captive by the army.
The cabin stood empty for a number of years until it had been taken over by the current occupants, one of them being Liam Yarborough. He was a member of the outlaw bunch, led by Jack Reno, and would have been with them now if he hadn’t been recovering from a couple of cracked ribs that made riding unbearable. Yarborough had taken Reno’s advice to remain at the isolated cabin while his injury repaired itself. He didn’t favor the idea but even he had to admit his condition would have held the rest of the bunch back. So he consoled himself with knowing there was a substantial supply of whisky and food stored at the hideout. The bunch had been gone for close on three days and Yarborough was starting to become restless, bored with his own company and even becoming indifferent to the cache of bottled whisky on hand.
Liquor had its drawbacks. Mainly it gave him a headache, lingering even after a restless night’s sleep. Yarborough figured dousing himself under the pump might ease the unpleasant sensation, so he did just that. The shock of the cold water drove away the fog of sleep but failed to lessen the dull ache inside his skull.
Yarborough rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. He hadn’t taken a razor to it for some time. He was considering whether to shave when he sensed movement behind him and turned to see a black clad figure, mounted and cradling a rifle across his saddle. The rider had eased quietly into view from behind the cabin, coming around the edge of the corral. It came as a shock to Yarborough as he realized the rider had come up unheard and unseen. He took a long look at the newcomer, certain he should know him, and when recognition did come Yarborough dropped a hand to his side before he remembered he wasn’t wearing his gun.
‘Sonofabitch,’ he said.
In all of the square miles of nothing the mounted man had found Yarborough. He had ridden up to the cabin and caught Yarborough without a gun to defend himself. Yarborough called himself all kinds of a fool, his gaze flicking back and forth as he searched for a way out.
The cabin door was ten feet away. Not a distance under normal circumstances, but right now it could mean the difference between life or death. Yarborough realized that and also that getting to the cabin offered a possible chance. Slim as it was Yarborough had to take it.
He saw the Winchester rifle laid across the rider’s saddle. Not pointed at him but close enough.
The difference between life and death.
A chance.
Thin, but at least a chance.
Yarborough took it…
~*~
…the moment Yarborough broke for the cabin, US Marshal Alvin LeRoy dropped his hand to the Winchester and lifted it. Fast as LeRoy was Yarborough gained the advantage, twisting his body round and aiming for the cabin door. The thought crossed his mind that he should have fired the moment he laid eyes on the outlaw. It was simply a thought, quickly forgotten because he hadn’t open fire, so it didn’t matter.
LeRoy heeled his horse into motion, bringing it around the corner of the corral, his gaze on Yarborough’s moving figure. The Winchester snapping into position. The shot was loud in the empty silence. The .44-40 lead slug took a long splinter out of the door frame as Yarborough went through, his shoulder slamming against the post as he vanished from sight. Then Yarborough was out of sight. It had been simply a warning shot, not a killing one.
LeRoy swung out of the saddle, pushing his horse to the side. He worked the Winchester’s lever and put a fresh cartridge into the breech, moving around the corner of the corral, aware he had lost the advantage for the moment. It didn’t put him off his stride. LeRoy was committed to whatever action it took and wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted.
He flattened himself against the wall, the door to his right. He could hear frantic sounds coming from inside the cabin. That would be Yarborough searching for a way out. There was only one. Through the door. The cabin didn’t possess any addition door or windows save for the ones at the front. The man had no other means of escape. He could stay where he was but LeRoy was not going anywhere.
The thought crossed his mind that Yarborough’s partners might show up at any time. If they did the Marshal would deal with that when it happened. He would handle matters as they occurred, as he always did…and today was no different…
~*~
With a strong-boned, not unhandsome face, his upper lip holding a thick, dark mustache, LeRoy stood a shade under six-feet tall, his good shoulders and torso above a lifelong rider’s waist and hip leanness. He was dressed in black pants and shirt, with a black vest that held his US Marshal’s burnished badge. A wide brimmed black hat and his black leather rider’s boots, normally well-shined, held a patina of dust from his long ride, as did all his clothing. In addition to his rifle LeRoy wore a .45 caliber Colt’s Peacemaker holstered on his right hip. I
n addition a recently added second Colt was fixed to his gunbelt, left side, butt forward. A backup weapon that gave him extra firepower. In a separate leather scabbard on his horse’s right side sat a cut-down Parker Brothers, side-by-side double barrel 12 gauge shotgun. It might have only had a short range, but the presence of the weapon in his hands was a sure way of curbing most men’s violent tendencies. The concentrated effects of its twin barrels, throwing out a deadly burst of lead shot with tremendous power, was a crowd stopper. LeRoy had seen the results the Parker produced and they were not pleasant.
When it came to using his firearms Alvin LeRoy gained an advantage over his opponents. He never hesitated once a situation reached the critical point. His commitment was absolute. He understood the need to take his shot before the man facing him. If he paused he allowed the other man to make his move and once that was decided his own life was at risk. LeRoy would never allow that to happen.
Over the years his reputation as a dedicated lawman had been bolstered by that very fact. His record spoke for itself. He was strong-willed and totally honest in his dealings with those who broke the law. The country was young and there was a wildness about the frontier that was seized on by the men who rode the outlaw trails. They saw bountiful advantages in those territories where the law was spread thin. Where there were riches in existence there were those who saw the opportunities to take from the weaker. These men, driven by greed, with a low moral attitudes, used the gun to enrich their own lives. By violence. By killing, they took what they wanted and shrugged off any kind of responsibility.
Alvin LeRoy had worn a badge from a relatively young age, moving from deputy sheriff to fulltime lawman, and his growing reputation as a force for upholding the law had brought the offer to join the US Marshal Service. LeRoy never looked back. Pinning on the badge was the best move he could have made and over the intervening years the name LeRoy became synonymous with the profession. Some called him overly strict in his dealings with lawbreakers, a criticism that LeRoy simply ignored. He worked by the book and viewed those who brushed aside the law in order to further their greedy ambitions as a blight on honest people. His job was to pursue lawbreakers and bring them to justice. Killers who gunned down the innocent, however that was interpreted, had stepped beyond the bounds of civilized existence and had no one to blame but themselves when it came to a reckoning.
LeRoy was no avenging angel. Where mistakes were made and realized he was the first to step back and offer an apology. There was, albeit grudgingly given, respect for LeRoy. Even those he stood up against would admit he never pushed himself over the limits of his authority. It could be a gray area, knowing when to stay his hand in any given situation, though LeRoy understood there were those individuals who would take advantage of any hesitation on the part of a lawman.
Liam Yarborough was the kind who would do just that. He was imbued with an animal cunning when it came to survival and was never slow to make the most of a situation. Facing LeRoy he knew the lawman was not the kind to gun down an unarmed man. Hard as he was LeRoy lived by a set of rules and though they sometimes forced him to hold back, he would stay his hand if he considered they would compromise him.
Yarborough had considered LeRoy’s position. The Marshal had his man under his gun – yet that man was carrying no weapon and Yarborough played on that fact. LeRoy had never fired on an unarmed man, so Yarborough took a gamble that paid off. LeRoy’s shot had been a warning, a chance the outlaw might pull up short and raise his hands in surrender. Yarborough didn’t so LeRoy was left without his man for the moment. Liam Yarborough knew that was not going to last. He was briefly out of LeRoy’s sight, but a long way from being free and clear. The lawman was still outside. Yarborough was left with no way out except the front door of the cabin and the moment he held a weapon in his hands all bets were off.
He became a legitimate target. LeRoy’s next would be no warning shot. He would fire with deadly intent.
~*~
Yarborough was fast becoming angry. Without warning his peaceful situation had been turned around. Boring as it had been Yarborough would have welcomed its return. Wincing against the surge of agony from his damaged ribs Yarborough reached for his handgun, snatching it from the holster where his gun rig lay on the roughhewn table he checked the load. Five in the cylinder. He picked up a spare cartridge from the ones scattered on the table and loaded the empty chamber, then pushed the revolver behind his belt. Then he reached for the .44 caliber Henry repeater lying nearby. He knew it was fully loaded because he had spent time cleaning and reloading the rifle before he had gone outside. Despite his confining situation he felt better holding the rifle in his hands and let his rising anger spur him on.
‘I know who you are, LeRoy, and it don’t scare me none. You been dogging our trail for too damn long,’ he said. His voice carried beyond the door of the cabin. ‘Hear me lawdog, I ain’t afeared of you. You want me you come right ahead ‘cause I got my rifle ready to blow you seven ways to hell.’
LeRoy allowed a tight smile to edge his lips.
Well thanks for that piece of news.
‘Yarborough, it’s not about to get any easier,’ LeRoy said. ‘You got no way out ’cept through this door and I can wait. Sooner or later we got to settle this.’
‘You got papers on me?’
‘A bunch. And for the rest. No easy way to say this, Yarborough. Time’s running out for Jack Reno and his bunch. You boys pushed the score pretty high. Day’s coming you got to pay. Figure it out, boy, you might as well turn in your guns and take what’s due to you.’
‘Due? All I figure is a rope around my neck.’
‘I can guarantee that. No chance of jail time for what you fellers done.’
‘Then why should I throw down my guns and step outside?’
The hard sound of a shot broke the stillness. The slug pounded the earth yards away. LeRoy stepped away from the doorway, the feeling Yarborough was about to do something taking shape. More shots, each as loud as the previous one. He picked up a rush of sound. Yarborough making his break for freedom.
The man’s bulk emerged from the shadowed doorway, his motion a blur as he cleared the frame, rifle swinging left to right, flame and smoke erupting from the muzzle. He was yelling, almost screaming, as if the noise would unnerve LeRoy. Yarborough’s wild rush took him clear of the cabin, dust rising from beneath his boots.
‘Put the gun down, Yarborough,’ LeRoy said, his own weapon trained on the outlaw. ‘Last chance.’
Yarborough came to a sudden stop, motionless for a couple of breaths, before he twisted around and faced the lawman. Sweat coated his face, a wildness in his eyes as he stared at LeRoy.
‘The hell with you, lawdog, no man’s going to put a noose around my neck…’
The Henry’s long barrel came round, black muzzle searching.
LeRoy touched the Winchester’s trigger. He felt the rifle jerk in his hands as a spear of flamed showed. The 44-40 slug hit Yarborough in the chest. He pulled back on the Henry’s light trigger and sent a slug that burned the air close to LeRoy’s cheek. The Winchester cracked a second time and this slug hit an inch from the first, directly over Yarborough’s heart. He fell back, mouth forming a soundless cry as he toppled and hit the ground on his back, the Henry jolted from his grasp as he landed.
LeRoy stood over the body, shaking his head. Yarborough had made his choice to go out fighting. Most likely because he had seen no other way. The prospect of dying on the end of a rope was no alternative. He picked up the Henry and set it aside, then eased the walnut-handled 1875 Model Remington from Yarborough’s belt. The single action .45 caliber pistol looked to be in prime condition, the metal clean and holding a slight sheen of oil.
He made his way inside the cabin. The stale smell of sweat mingled with the tang of fried food as he stepped through the door. From what he could see Yarborough and his companions were far from ideal tenants. The cabin’s single room was strewn with clothing and scraps of saddlery. A co
llection of whisky bottles, some empty, other still holding liquid covered the table. Stubbed out cigarettes and cigars were littering the hard packed dirt floor. LeRoy saw the empty gun rig Yarborough had left behind. Among the detritus left on the table were boxes of cartridges for rifles and pistols.
The smell of coffee teased LeRoy’s nostrils and he crossed to the pot-bellied stove that threw heat into the cabin. A coffee pot bubbled gently on the top. He located a tin mug and decided it was clean enough, filling it with coffee. He took sips of the hot brew as he wandered the room, not exactly sure what he was looking for.
He noticed a map tacked to one wall and took a long look at it, studying the pencil marks that had been made, and when he turned from the map LeRoy had a smile on his face.
It wasn’t much.
But it was a start.
~*~
Smoke from the burning cabin rose behind LeRoy as he set his horse on the southern trail. He had moved Yarborough’s body inside, covering it with a blanket before dousing it and the cabin floor with the coal oil he had located. There was no way he could take Yarborough with him, or take the time to bury him, so he decided to give the man a cremation. Before setting the fire LeRoy had freed the single horse in the corral and watched it break into a gallop once it was clear. The map pinned to the wall was removed and folded away into a pocket of his shirt. He took the Remington pistol and a couple of boxes of ammunition from the table and packed these in his saddlebags. Additional weapons and ammunition were not to be passed over lightly, though he left the Henry rifle leaning against the outside wall. The weapon was not one LeRoy favored. He preferred his Winchester. Outside, after setting the oil alight he filled both his canteens with fresh water from the pump, mounted his horse and rode away.
He didn’t look back until he had covered a quarter mile or so. By this time the cabin was fully ablaze and LeRoy could hear the sharp crackle of ammunition detonating from the heat.
