by Adam Brady
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
It was drought country. The land was little more than dust, the cattle slowly but surely dying on the hoof. For most of the ranchers in those parts, it had been a year-long disaster. But for local businessman Harp McPhee, it was a situation he aimed to exploit for all it was worth.
Knowing the drought couldn’t last forever, McPhee aimed to buy the land and the stock at rock-bottom prices, and he brought in a bunch of hired gunnies to back him against any opposition.
The situation seemed hopeless. And yet banker Finch Rogan had an idea that his old friend, Buck Halliday, might successfully challenge McPhee and his army of gunslingers.
Halliday didn’t want trouble. But the settling of trouble was how he made his living. So he tied down his .44 and came to deliver redemption to the town of the same name.
HALLIDAY 2: FURY OF THE .44
By Adam Brady
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2020 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: March 2020
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
Chapter One – Looking For Redemption
Buck Halliday tallied up his problems as he rode across the heat-seared, barren country.
He had come through three dust storms in the last five days and was no longer sure if the trail he was following was the shortest route—or even the right route—to Redemption.
His weary horse was weakening with each step it took. He had enough water left for the noon stop. After that, both horse and rider would go thirsty. They were already going hungry. Any scrap of vegetation which might have nourished a horse had frizzled up and blown away weeks ago. Halliday had swallowed his last shaving of jerky that morning. It seemed like that had been hours ago, and so it was, although the horse had carried him no more than ten miles since sunup.
Even so, he decided that he could handle most things that this day in the desert was likely to throw at him. It was just that tomorrow was another story ... although tomorrow might bring a cactus with some juice in it, or even a waterhole.
Hell, why stop at that? Maybe tomorrow would be the day he would stumble on a running creek full of clear, sweet water and fish with a mind to jump right into the skillet.
He let the sorrel select its own way across a long, gradual slope covered in loose gravel while he walked an hour, rode an hour, with only the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs and the jingle of the bridle to break the silence.
He was so accustomed to seeing and hearing nothing in the crushing desert silence that it took awhile for him to register that he was seeing buzzards. Another one circled and swooped, and then he could hear it grunting and hissing.
When he came closer, he saw that there were about a dozen of them, fighting over the carcass of a dead steer. The devil birds did not leave their prize until Halliday picked up a rock and threw it, and even then, they immediately settled again.
The significance of the dead steer was not lost on him. Not long ago, that critter had been lost and alone without water—and now it was a banquet for buzzards.
He led the horse until the buzzards were out of his sight and hearing, and then a little further he spotted a dry wash and figured the eroded bank might provide a little shade.
He unsaddled the horse and wet his bandanna to moisten the sorrel’s mouth. Then he wet his own lips and tongue and tightly stoppered the canteen that had just a few drops left.
“Well, hoss,” he said, “I’m gonna do my damnedest to sleep until that sun starts to go down. If you’re smart, you’ll try to do the same.”
As he’d hoped, the bank of the dry wash protected him from the sun if he crawled in close. The ground was as hot as a griddle, though, so he got the saddle blanket and lay down on that.
He was somewhere between torpor and consciousness when his mind registered the distant echo of a gunshot.
He stood up slowly and looked around, shook out the blanket and saddled the horse. He could not see anything until he climbed into the saddle and rode to the top of the bank. There it was—a suspended cloud of dust ... and another gunshot.
Halliday nursed the sorrel into a fast walk and headed straight for the dust cloud.
Before long, the country fell away in front of him, and down below stood a shabby little settlement. It wasn’t much, but if there were people, there had to be water and food.
He counted three shacks with chimneys and a lean-to before he understood what it was all about. The cattle pens and the railroad siding had to be the reason for the shacks—why else would anyone elect to live on this ragged edge of hell?
Could this be Redemption?
Halliday grinned at the double meaning. The dust was coming from the cattle pens, although it was so thick down there that he could scarcely see the milling beasts that were raising it.
None of that explained the gunfire though, he reminded himself as he came slowly down toward the pens. Seven days of heat and dust, thirst and hunger, he wondered just what Redemption would bring ...
Now he could see the men—five cowpokes on the outside between him and the pens, four towners eating dust inside the pens. On the siding beyond them, a thin wisp of white smoke drifted occasionally from the smokestack of a freight train.
Halliday drew rein at a decent distance and waited for the men to check him out.
The man in the middle of the bunch outside the pens was short, bearded and aged. He was also scowling and holding a gun. The four who stood around him had their empty hands hovering significantly at their sides.
Halliday removed his hat and swept his hand through his black, curly hair. He returned the old man’s stare and bobbed his head in a greeting that was not returned. Then his eyes swept across the four men in the pen.
His attention settled on the tallest of the quartet, a lean man with a double gun rig, a black town suit and dark eyes which stared back at Halliday from under the brim of a black hat. The bearded old man turned slightly to get a better look at the intruder, and then he snapped;
“Who the hell’re you?”
“A man looking for Redemption,” Halliday told him.
“You ain’t anythin’ to do with them?” the old man questioned as he pointed with his gun at the four men in the pens.
“Nope,” Halliday said. “Just lookin’ for Redemption, like I said. This it?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and then he said;
“Perdition’s more like what we got here, mister. Redemption’s over thataway.”
Using his gun as a pointer again, he indicated the country across the siding.
Halliday nodded.
“Far?”
“Half a day, mebbe,” the man muttered. “Now get on your way, since you ain’t got no business here with any of us.”
The man in black was leaning on the rails of the pen now, looking completely at ease. His three companions seemed less sure of themselves from the way they shuffled around and whispered among themselves.
“I’ll have to get some water from the tank first,” Halliday said, and he slowly turned his horse in that direction.
He heard the old man curse, and then somebody walking behind him. When h
e looked over his shoulder, he saw one of the old man’s cowhands stepping along in his footsteps with a six-gun in his hand.
Halliday continued on to the tank and came out of the saddle, showing no interest in what was going on behind him.
He pulled down the chute and filled the trough, filling his canteen from the gushing stream at the same time. He stood back to let the sorrel drink its fill, and then he leaned down to splash water over his face, neck and shoulders.
The cowhand was still standing a few feet behind him, just watching.
“Looks like trouble down there,” Halliday said finally.
There was no answer, and from the look of him, the haggard cowhand was just too tired to speak. He jumped and turned around when he heard the old man’s voice down near the pens.
“That was warnin’ shots before, Rudder,” the old man was saying. “Iffen you know what’s good for you, you’ll blame well keep your distance. Better still, get on back to McPhee and tell him he ain’t tyin’ up no cattle cars in this territory. I got some important business to settle with them gents you’re crowdin’ over there, and I ain’t takin’ sass from you or anybody else.”
Halliday saw a smile cross the face of the lean man in black, but the three men near him looked increasingly worried. The cowhand hitched at his gun rig and said quietly;
“It’s legal, Mahoney, and I just want to show you the paper that says so. Harp McPhee booked all them boxcars months ago. You can do any kind of deal you want with these gents here, just so long as they understand that nothin’ goes onto that train unless it’s wearin’ McPhee’s brand.” He paused to let that sink in, and then he said, “McPhee’s price is five dollars a head.”
Halliday dipped his bandanna in the trough and then tied it loosely around his neck. The cowhand sent to watch him shifted back a pace and said;
“You ready now?”
Halliday shrugged and slowly inspected his horse, lifting one hoof at a time to check for stones.
“Come on, damn you!” the cowhand grated. “You ain’t so deaf you can’t hear what’s goin’ on down there. I got to get back.”
“You can go,” Halliday told him. “It won’t bother me none.”
The cowhand licked his lips as he looked toward the pens and then back at Halliday.
“No, you go ahead,” he said wearily. “The last thing we need around here is somebody we don’t know and can’t trust. Just get on your hoss and ride, and everything’ll be fine.”
“Everything is fine right now,” Halliday said lazily as he put his foot in the stirrup.
He meant it. The water had made all the difference. It didn’t hurt, either, to know that he was only a half a day away from his destination.
He could just about see himself riding into the town after sundown in the cool of the evening. First he would see to the sorrel then have a long glass of beer, then he would follow it up with a shot of whiskey and a big, juicy steak.
The cowhand went back three steps now.
“Dammit, mister, I don’t know why you have to be so ornery,” he said.
“What’s so ornery about wantin’ to water a tired horse?” Halliday asked mildly.
The cowhand shook his head and brought up his gun. Whatever might have come of the move was suspended by a fresh commotion down at the pens. The old man’s voice was raised in anger now as he said;
“You keep the hell outta this, Rudder! I come to talk to them buyers, not some shiftless gunpacker. If McPhee has somethin’ to say to me, he better say it hisself and not send no messenger boy ...”
“The price is five dollars a head, Mahoney,” Rudder said again. “Take it or leave it—it’s all the same to me.”
Mahoney hurled a curse across the short space between them.
“Five dollars?” the old man snorted. “Why don’t you git on back to playin’ nursemaid to Harp McPhee, where you belong?”
Halliday saw the old man take a step forward, his gun held down at his side. Mahoney had taken only two steps when Rudder’s hand swooped down in a move so smooth and fast it was hard to follow—a move that ended in gunfire and sent Mahoney’s gun spinning out of his hand.
The cowhand ran toward the pens.
Halliday drew and fired just once. His bullet tore across the open space and shot the gun out of Rudder’s hand.
“Now you two are even,” he called.
Rudder cursed and flexed his bloodied fingers, then his left hand dropped to the butt of his second gun.
“Don’t try it, mister!” Halliday warned him.
Rudder’s face twisted in anger as he fixed his dark eyes on Halliday.
Mahoney spun around in surprise and when he saw the smoke coiling from Halliday’s gun, he asked;
“What’d you do that for, stranger?”
“We know each other,” Halliday said, jerking his chin at Rudder. “You just go about your business while we catch up on the news.”
Rudder’s attention was fixed completely on Halliday now. It was clear that he was trying to recall where their paths had crossed.
“The Rio Basin,” Halliday told him, “about this time last year. I was ridin’ for the Callinan outfit.”
Rudder’s expression changed from anger to sneering contempt when he growled;
“Name?”
“Halliday.”
Without taking his eyes off the gunman, Halliday then addressed Mahoney;
“Well, mister, are you gonna sell some cattle or not?”
Mahoney studied him suspiciously for a moment, and then turned his attention to the three cattle buyers, who were walking back to their tethered horses.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” the old man roared.
The three men dropped their shoulders and exchanged worried looks. Finally, the one with the round, red face turned to face Mahoney.
“We come out here to buy cattle,” he said. “It ain’t our fault we can’t do it, so don’t you go hollerin’ at us. This country’s dried up so bad there ain’t a scrap of anything left for ’em to eat. If they can’t get on that train, they’ll starve. What kind of fools’d buy cattle just to watch ’em starve?”
“I’ll see you get boxcars,” Mahoney said grimly as he walked toward them on his stumpy legs.
The three men whispered among themselves and looked nervously at Rudder. His cold stare in response was all it took to send them on their way.
Mahoney cursed and went after them, grabbing the red-faced man by the shoulder when he caught up to them.
“I told you it’s all legal, Mahoney,” Rudder drawled. “Harp McPhee has first call on any cattle cars that go out of here. If you don’t like his terms, you’ll just have to drive them cattle of yours somewhere else.”
Mahoney spun to face him.
“Can’t do that, and you damn well know it, Rudder! There’s no water between here and Toe Springs, and maybe none even at the springs by the time we’d get there. I’m not gonna stand by and watch my herd die, and I’m damned if I’m gonna be railroaded into sellin’ for five dollars a head. Now keep quiet while I try to talk some sense into these poor spineless fools.”
The round-faced man had squirmed out of Mahoney’s grip, and now he grabbed his horse and got it between himself and the irate rancher.
Halliday sat patiently, never taking his eyes off Rudder. He remembered him as a man who skated along the edges of the law, a man who was also good with a gun.
Rudder always had somebody to back his play back at the Rio Basin, so there was no telling how he would act on his own.
“Let’s just let Mahoney talk to the buyers, Rudder,” he said. “It’s no business of ours.”
“Like hell—!” Rudder exploded.
“And none of that,” Halliday cut in. “It’s been a hard day.”
He seemed to be lounging in the saddle without a care in the world, but Mahoney’s cowhands could see that he was about as relaxed as a trap set to spring.
Mahoney gave Halliday another puzz
led look, but then he nodded in gratitude and turned back to face the buyer.
“Buckley, you said at my place that those cattle were as good as any you’d seen all month, considerin’ the drought. So are you gonna let that feller change your mind just because he’s got hisself a showy gun rig?”
Buckley wiped sweat from his red face and shifted nervously in the saddle.
“Nobody’s scared, Mahoney,” he said unconvincingly. “It’s just that we got no use for cattle if we can’t ship ’em out. Without them cars, we just can’t do business. Can’t you see that for yourself?”
“All I see is a man so scared he’s shakin’ in his shoes!” Mahoney snapped.
“Not scared,” Buckley insisted, “sensible. I’m sure sorry, but ... well, maybe next year.”
“Git!” Rudder said suddenly, and Buckley jumped as though he had been shot.
Halliday worked his horse a little closer to Rudder, and said, “I told you to keep out of it, mister.”
“And I’m sayin’ the same thing to you, Halliday. Mind your own damn business. The man I work for has all the boxcars in these parts booked and paid for.”
“The price he’s offerin’ for that man’s herd just plain stinks,” Halliday said. “This whole business stinks.”
“Then I suggest you get your nose upwind,” Rudder growled.
Halliday’s mouth tightened. He looked curiously at Mahoney, and saw that the old man had run out of bluff and bluster. Now he just looked worried.
The three buyers were slowly moving away.
Mahoney’s expression changed, and he swung about to confront Rudder again, and asked;
“What sense is there in keepin’ this train standin’ idle on the sidin’?”
“You know why,” Rudder smirked. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to sell to Mr. McPhee, like it or not.”
Halliday saw Mahoney’s shoulders droop. Losing most of a year’s profits undoubtedly would be a terrible blow, but it almost seemed that this was something worse.
Halliday felt sorry for whatever the old man was forced to endure, but he was acutely aware that this was not his fight. He did not like Rudder, but he did not know Mahoney. Settling himself in the saddle, he began to back the sorrel away.
