Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
This epic new Storm story tells of the relentless feud between two cattle kings and their survival against Indians, rogue gunmen, prospectors ... and the love of two men for Kate Storm. Packed with more charge than a herd of stampeding steers, here is a western adventure that thunders with risk and violence.
BATTLE FURY
STORM FAMILY 8
By Matt Chisholm
First published in the U.K. in 1973 by Mayflower Books
Copyright © 1973, 2014 by Matt Chisholm
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: October 2014
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.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
Chapter One
In the cow business Ed Brack was considered about the biggest man in three states. But that fact didn’t seem to bring him much satisfaction. So he drank.
He was drinking now, sitting in his office in Broken Spur, thinking bitter thoughts. They were a habit of his and had been for three-four years now. Ever since the Storms had come into the country and stolen his winter range. That it was officially public domain did not affect the issue. He had put his cows on it for one winter and in his book that made it his.
He thought too about his son, Riley.
The boy was a traitor.
He had gone over to the Storms, drawn, as Ed knew full well, by that luscious elder Storm daughter. His own son rode for the Lazy S Brand and drew Storm wages. It was more than a man could bear. So Ed Brack drank.
When he drank, he brooded, but he never did so for long. Pretty soon he must take some action or he’d bust out all over. He’d teach those goddam Storms—by God, he’d teach ’em so they never forgot.
He smashed one thick fist down on the desk so bottle and glass leapt and he stood up. Sitting down, on a chair or on a horse, Ed Brack was impressive, a Napoleon of a man, a man born to rule other men, to fashion destiny to his will. A man who made things happen. Standing, he looked like a man with a head too big for his body and ambition too big for his character.
He strode out onto the stoop, clapping his hat on his head as he went
There was a horse-breaker working a string in the corral.
‘You,’ Brack bellowed. ‘Gimme a horse.’
If you worked for Brack, you obeyed him. If you didn’t obey him, you didn’t work for him. As simple as that.
The horse came, a fine sorrel gelding. Brack knew cows and he knew horses. Maybe his one real passion in life was horses. If there was an ounce of love in his body for any living creature, it was for a horse. He didn’t see the man who held the animal for him, he saw nothing more than the horse, snatched the lines from the man’s hand and mounted. That wasn’t too easy—his legs were short. Once in the saddle, he was home. He looked right. Better than right.
The rage was riding him now and he vented that rage with the iron at his heels. The rowels hit the horse and the animal jumped. Before he was out of the yard, the sorrel was at a flat run.
The horse-breaker pushed his hat to the back of his head, scratched his forehead and said: ‘He’s sure aimin’ to kill that horse.’
He ran the animal at break-neck speed down the valley, oblivious of his surroundings until that truth dawned on him also. Men he might ruin without a qualm, but a horse—never. He reined the animal in till it slowed to a brisk trot. Breast and flanks were flecked with lather; it lay like melting snow on the man’s boots.
They climbed the saddle that would take him down into the Three Creeks country under the burning sun and at the top, Brack halted to allow the horse to blow. He knew the men would think him crazy riding down into Storm country alone, but Brack was canny with men. If he rode into Three Creeks with guns at his back that would mean a fight. Alone, he was safe. The Storms were soft in some ways. The thought made him snicker derisively to himself. Then the snigger died. If the Storms were soft, how the Hell did they keep knocking the tar out of him. Over the several ranches he owned over the western states, were an army of men he could call on. He had a fortune in money at his back. Yet those sonsabitches came out tops every time they clashed. Still, like the man said, he who laughs last...
He rode down off the saddle, down onto the lush pasture of the Three Creeks Valley. The grass came belly-high to his horse and the sight and sound of it as the sorrel’s neat hoofs brushed through it embittered his thoughts again.
He promised himself—he’d get his son back, then he’d hit the Storms with all he had. And he had plenty. He just had to find a legal way of doing it. Law was coming into this country and the freedom of men like himself was being trimmed small. But he would find a way. If you hit a man hard enough, fast enough and secretly enough, there wasn’t much the law could do about it. He’d think on it and he’d bet his bottom dollar if he worked on it hard enough, he’d come up with something.
The Storms had become an obsession with him. It was like a sickness and the only way to cure himself was to drive the Storms off the face of the earth. Goddam Texas poor white trash...
As he crossed the broad flat of the valley, he had time to think about that trash. The Storms weren’t a family—they were a tribe. They had scattered out and prospered. They had homesteaded claims on the creeksides, checker-boarded the land and enclosed good pasture with their claims. They had settled both sides of the wide valley. Will Storm, the head of the tribe, held the west in the big house with his wife, two daughters, a son and the hired hands. Clay Storm held the east, living tight and snug in a smaller house with his wife Sarah and their small son. The younger Storm boy, Jody, sided him. To the west of Three Creeks, Mart Storm, ex-gunman, younger brother of Will held good range and God help the man who encroached on it. To the south were friends of the Storms. It seemed like to Ed Brack they held the whole country, except Broken Spur, through kinship and friendship. It made a man sick to the stomach to think about it.
There must be a way, he thought, and I’ll find it.
He came in sight of the house, saw the smoke drifting lazily from the stone chimney. He’d bet, now he’d worked himself up for a fight, that old fool Will Storm was out on the range.
But he was wrong.
Will Storm was sitting outside his barn, whittling, smoking his pipe and looking like a man who didn’t have a considerable number of cows to fret over. In fact, like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.
Martha Storm, his wife, was at the washtub, sunbonnet on her head and her still handsome face damp with the sweat of her labors. Will Storm was contemplating a small but powerful looking dun horse tied up to a hitching post. It was a good horse and Ed Brack would liked to have owned it. He never saw a good horse he didn’t want to own. It was an affront to him to see a horse like that in the possession of another man. Besides, he was uncommonly partial to a dun horse. He believed, without knowing the reason why, that dun horses had more bottom than most. Maybe he was right. Who knows?
He stopped his own fine sorrel and looked down at his enemy.
His enemy looked up at him steadily and said: ‘Howdy, Brack.’
‘Storm.’
It looked something like a truce. Ed Brack didn’t mind that at all. A truce to him was a time for marshalling your forces to hit the enemy unexpectedly.
‘Mind if I step down?’ he asked.
‘Please yourself,’ Will said. ‘It’s a free country.’ The tone was neutral, but it indicated to Brack that the truce wasn’t total.
He stepped down and ground-hitched the sorrel. The dun swung around and went for him savagely with his teeth. When he backed up hastily, the dun turned on the sorrel. The gelding screamed and backed up too. The dun came to the end of its tie-rope and stopped.
Brack shouted: ‘You want to do something about that fool horse, Storm. Jesus, he could of taken a lump outa my arm. I reckon you knew he’d do that.’
‘His nature,’ Will said imperturbably. ‘When a crittur’s ornery, Brack, there ain’t much you can do about it.’
‘Isn’t,’ said Martha Storm.
‘There isn’t much you can do about it,’ Will said obediently.
Brack stayed clear of the dun, dragged off his hat and said: ‘Howdy, Mrs. Storm, ma’am.’ He’d play this the way he had planned it.
Will puffed on his pipe, Martha just stretched her back from her bending and looked at Brack through her thick lashes. Will went on whittling.
‘What you come here for, Brack?’ he demanded. ‘Spit it out.’
‘See here,’ Brack said, trying to gentle a voice that had never been gentle from the day he was whelped. ‘I just rode over in a spirit of neighborliness. I wanted to talk. Is there anything wrong in wanting to talk to a neighbor?’
Will raised his eyes from his whittling.
‘You want to talk with me or at me, Brack?’ he asked.
‘Now, see here ... aw, Hell …’
‘Language in front of a lady.’
‘Storm, I come here to talk about my son. You have any objection to that?’
‘No objection. Go ahead. Riley’s a good boy. Top-hand. Knows the business, Brack. He’ll take over your empire without no trouble when you’re kicking up the daisies.’
Brack made a gentle choking noise, got a grip on himself and said: ‘I’m plumb proud to hear that. You’re dead right. He’s a good boy. That’s what I came to talk to you about. I was wrong. I got off on the wrong foot with the kid. I talked outa turn. I admit it. Storm, I want that boy back.’
Will said: ‘Why talk to me about it, man? I ain’t the boy’s keeper?’
‘Ain’t?’ said Martha.
‘I just pay the boy his wages. Talk to him. He wants his time, he’s free to go.’
‘He’s mad at me,’ Brack said. ‘You know that, Storm. You have influence with Riley. A word from you would kinda help.’
‘Sure, I’ll have a word. I’ll say: ‘Rile, your old man wants you back. If that’s what you want, you go.’
Ed Brack looked a little baffled for a moment, then he said: ‘Couldn’t you maybe put it a mite stronger than that. A father has some rights. You’re one yourself. Pitch it stronger, Storm.’ There was a curious and unnatural mildness in the man’s voice. Will wasn’t fooled. He’d experienced Brack too many times, felt the keen edge of his violence. The man was a ruthless pirate. Riley must have inherited his gentleness and good nature from his mother.
Will said: ‘Pitch it yourself, Brack. The boy’s comin’ right now.’
It was only then that Brack became aware that a rider had burst from the timber on the far side of the two creeks that flowed on this side of the valley and was now splashing his way through the first of them. He saw that it was his son, Riley, and he knew, from the way the boy urged his mount forward that he had not yet seen his father. Riley wouldn’t be in a hurry if his old man was at the end of the ride. He didn’t see Ed till he had hit and come through the second creek and had brought his dripping bay pony up onto dry land.
Now he saw Ed and the three watching people could see him hesitate. Will went back to his whittling. Ed stared hard at the approaching boy and the big blue vein stood out on his forehead. Will didn’t miss the fact and he wondered with a sort of quiet horror that a man could feel that way about his own son and a fine boy like Riley into the bargain.
Riley halted and tied his horse at the hitching rail at the front of the house. He walked slowly toward the two older men, stopped and looked at his father with a mixture of trepidation and dislike.
‘Hello, dad,’ he said.
‘Son.’
Brack said: ‘You rode in like a bat outa hell. You know better’n to ride a horse that way in this heat.’
Riley was a well-made young man in his early twenties, compact and hardened by hours in the saddle in all weathers. He must have inherited his looks from his mother as well as his nature. His face wasn’t the kind that drive women wild, but it was good enough and it was starting to show character. The veneer he had gained at his eastern college had worn pretty thin since he had ridden for the Storms. At a glance, he was now a man who had herded cows and fought the elements from an early age. His clothes were the rough worn garments of a range-rider, his eyes had the far-away look that men who gazed long distances gained.
‘Mr. Storm,’ he said, ignoring his father, ‘I found this up by Mile Rock.’
He held out something in his right hand.
Will and Ed fixed their eyes on the object.
Ed Brack experienced a sudden pang of excitement. Christ, he thought, it’s gold. Anger hit him at once. This was Storm luck—to find gold on their land.
Will reached out a hand and took the lump of rock. As the sun hit it, it glinted. He turned it and looked up at Riley.
‘What do you reckon that is, boy?’ he asked.
‘Gold, Mr. Storm. I reckon it can’t be anything but gold.’
‘Wa-al, you’re in for a disappointment. That ain’t gold, not real gold. That’s fool’s gold.’
Ed Brack’s first thought was: He’s lying. He’s saying that because I’m here. Will must have known what his thoughts were. He tossed the nugget to Brack and the rancher inspected it. His disappointment was deep when he inspected it closely and saw that Will had told the truth.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Trust a kid to be taken in by that stuff.’
Riley’s face reflected his acute disappointment.
‘That’s the story of my life,’ he said. ‘You’re sure, Mr. Storm?’
‘Sure as sure,’ Will told him. Ed tossed the rock back to his son and his phlegmatic laugh was nasty. Will went on: ‘Your daddy came to talk to you, Rile. He wants you to quit here an’ go back home.’
Riley looked at his father.
‘We’ve been over this too many times,’ he said. ‘I like it fine here and I’m staying.’
Brack looked his most pathetic. It was a good try, but the result was no more than a grimace that looked like distaste.
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ he said. ‘Storm here has given you some experience in the cow business. He says you’re a top-hand. I could use you, son. It won’t be many years before I’ll be wanting you to take over all my outfits.’
‘The answer’s still ‘no’.’
‘Are you crazy or something? Any other young fellow would jump at the chance.’
‘When I run an outfit, it’ll be my own started with my own money.’
‘Where’ll you get that kinda money on a waddy’s wage?’
‘He’s doin’ pretty well,’ Storm put in. ‘Savin’ his money. Runnin’ a few cows in with mine. Many a man started that way and grew big. You know that, Brack.’
‘Son,’ said Brack, ‘I’m asking you.’
‘And the answer’s the same—no.’
‘I reckon I shan’t ask again. You don’t come back with me, you don’t ever come back. Not if you come on your knees, begging. You get that into your head.’ The words were still mild and un-Bracklike.
‘You’re wasting your breath, dad.’
‘All right,’ Brack said. ‘So be it. You’re going to be real sorry. Yessir, you aren’t going to be more sorry than in your whole life. I promise you that.’
He walked to his horse, pulled himself into the saddle with his usual curse be
cause of the difficulty of the act and, without another word or a glance at either of them, he rode away. He didn’t look back, but rode along the edge of the nearest creek and headed into timber. Lifting his horse to a trot, he rode between the trees, ducking low in the saddle to avoid the low branches and finally, after some thirty minutes of riding, came to a break in the trees where the creek turned shallow and ran over and among a great scattering of rock. Here he stopped and contemplated the beautiful and peaceful scene. But the beauty and the peace meant nothing to him. Only the idea that came to him meant anything.
The heavy expression on his face was lifted. His eyes brightened and he smiled. A great idea had come to him. It was the best idea he had ever had in his life and he couldn’t make out why he hadn’t thought of it before. It was so simple. So final. And it would finish the Storms.
He rode on through the shallows, crossed the second creek and put his horse up the steep slope beyond. When he was on the crest of the ridge from which he could see both Three Creeks and Broken Spur, he had thought his way through the whole plan. The beauty of it was, he told himself, that neither he nor one of his men would have to fire a shot. Not a finger could be pointed at him. The Storms would be cleared from the country without anybody knowing that Brack had anything to do with it. He rode home a happy and contented man.
Chapter Two
Brack was a man who liked to move into action quickly after an idea had come to him. Now he felt a greater impatience than usual. He couldn’t wait to see his plan come to fruition.
The following morning, he lay abed. He liked to do his thinking in bed. Loo, his Chinee, had brought him coffee in bed and Brack noticed with satisfaction that the cook had laced the drink liberally with whiskey. Propped up against the pillows, sipping, he thought.
It was early and he could hear Mike Summers, his new foreman, bawling out the men down in the yard. Horses moved around, men coughed on the cold dawn air.
First, Brack thought, he needed a man. A certain kind of man. This country was pretty short on men and those who were here were scattered all over on ranches, searching lonely creeks for gold, hunting in the hills, trading, generally trying to find something, for the most part, that they were unable to find in the urban east. Further north were the mines and Denver. Up there were men a-plenty. Around here if you wished to socialize, you went to Andy Grebb’s. This was what was called for some reason which Brack could never discover, a road ranch. That could mean a number of different things, but Grebb’s was a place where you could enjoy conversation with your fellow men, get blind drunk if you wished, get yourself into a brawl or have a woman.
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