Day of the Hired Gun, page 1
part #6 of A Black Horse Western Series
Day of the Hired Gun
Hired gunfighter Cole Jardine has decided to call time on his dangerous profession when he receives a mysterious job offer from the Colorado town of Red Mesa. All set to ignore it, his partner Waco Santee suddenly arrives back at their cabin in Wyoming to announce that the army are hot on their heels. With minutes to spare, flight across the border is their only option. The pair succeed in evading pursuit and then head their separate ways.
But nothing is ever that simple. A bushwhacker attempts to remove Cole but fails. Arriving in Red Mesa, he is then challenged to a shoot-out by rancher Ed Clifford who claims the gunslinger has been hired by an unscrupulous crook who wants to steal his land. Which faction will the hired gun support? And how will he react when his old partner turns up backing the opposing side in the dispute?
By the same author
Dead Man Walking
Two for Texas
Divided Loyalties
Return of the Gunfighter
Dynamite Daze
Apache Rifles
Duel at Del Notre
Outlaw Queen
When Lightning Strikes
Praise be to Silver
A Necktie for Gifford
Navajo Sunrise
Shotgun Charade
Blackjacks of Nevada
Derby John’s Alibi
Long Ride to Purgatory
No Way Back
Revenge Burns Deep
Bad Deal in Buckskin
Send for the BAD guy!
Cross of Iron
Writing as Dale Graham
High Plains Vendetta
Dance with the Devil
Nugget!
Montezuma’s Legacy
Death Rides Alone
Gambler’s Dawn
Vengeance at Bittersweet
Justice for Crockett
Bluecoat Renegade
Gunsmoke over New Mexico
Montaine’s Revenge
Black Gold
Backshooter!
Bitter Trail
The Reckless Gun
Snake Eyes
Sundown over the Sierras
Wyoming Blood Feud
Hangman’s Reach
Lonely is the Hunter
Wichita Town Tamer
Reluctant Tin Star
Day of the Hired Gun
Ethan Flagg
ROBERT HALE
© Ethan Flagg 2017
First published in Great Britain 2017
ISBN 978-0-7198-2400-5
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of Ethan Flagg to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In the early days of the American West, the term ‘wild’ was a fair reflection of frontier territories where law and order was in its infancy. Those officers appointed to administer justice had to oversee large areas which often proved impossible to cover effectively. Especially after the Civil War, many combatants released from service found it difficult to settle down. Numerous ruthless gangs evolved, all eager to take advantage of the free rein offered.
To combat their depredations, vigilance committees were formed by citizens desperate for stability. Punishment of apprehended felons was accordingly often swift and brutal, such action being sanctioned by kangaroo courts. The carrying out of these on-the-spot responses was intended to send a clear message to those intent on causing mayhem.
The gap between anarchy and vigilante law was filled by skilled manipulators in the deadly art of triggernometry. These hired gunslingers considered themselves a cut above the vigilante groups formed to bring order to territory where no official law existed. Reputations were earned by undertaking paid work where the use of firearms was deemed essential. Unlike bounty hunters who used their shooting skill to bring in wanted felons for a prescribed reward, the hired gunman generally worked for a set fee. Men of wealth seeking to protect their own private interests had little trouble in hiring such mercenaries.
As a group, hired gunmen worked as much within the law as outside it, carrying out a pre-arranged job before disappearing into the wild blue yonder from whence they had emerged. Many had already pursued careers as bandits or lawmen, often both. Few had any qualms about working on either side of the legal divide. So long as the pay was right, they would accept any task considered within their capabilities.
There was no shortage of employers willing to pay large sums to hard-boiled jaspers who displayed no compunction in using their six shooters to achieve a satisfactory conclusion. Overland stage companies hired freelance guards to prevent harassment from road agents. The railroads likewise took on private detectives to combat the depredations of train robbers such as the Reno Brothers and James Gang. So-called ‘railroad inspectors’ were given carte blanche to protect the companies’ interests where the regular law enforcement agencies proved inadequate.
Many hired gunmen worked for the large cattle spreads ranging from Texas to Montana. Their job was to beat off the encroachment of the dreaded sheepherders and homesteaders. The former were accused of destroying valuable grazing land while the latter encouraged the use of barbed wire to section off the much-revered open range. Most common though, was the problem caused by cattle thieves. Regular cowboys refused to challenge the rustler gangs, asserting they were not paid to fight, but to manage beef on the hoof.
Wealthy landowners accordingly often employed hard-nosed mercenaries who were given official titles such as ‘cattle detectives’ or ‘stock inspectors’. Friction between cowboys and shootists was inevitable and often led to fights. When rustlers were caught, a necktie party was the usual method of encouraging other such villains to think twice before embarking on their larcenous activities. Should the hired operatives be apprehended by official lawmen, they could always rely on employers to get them off the hook by means of bribery or the machinations of shifty and equally well-paid lawyers. But these cases were the exception.
Most of these men preferred to remain nameless, flitting about like wraiths on the wind. One month here, another there. As such they were well nigh impossible to pin down by the established law enforcement authorities. And therein lay their success. They operated not so much in defiance of the law as beyond its reach. Most abhorred any form of notoriety, leaving little personal trace of their deadly labours.
Yet some were so successful at their work, a reputation was impossible to avoid. Names were passed down the grapevine when a reliable gun hand was required. Men like these could command the highest fees, literally naming their own price. There was also the added bonus of securing bounties when wanted outlaws were apprehended. Their names shone bright in contrast to the grey anonymity of the average hired gun.
Such a man was Cole Jardine. . . .
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
CHAPTER ONE
Sudden Departure
For the third time in as many minutes, the granite-hard face of Cole Jardine perused the letter he had picked up in Rock Springs that morning. The message was brisk and to the point – Well paid job in Red Mesa, Colorado. Bring your guns. It was signed ‘Kez Randle’. No mention of what the job entailed. Cole frowned. His craggy features puckered up in disdain. He and his partner, Waco Santee, were doing well in Wyoming. They had signed up to organize a threatened takeover bid of the cattle outfit run by wealthy landowner Mason Treherne.
The altercation between Treherne’s Triple X brand and the Rising Sun had escalated into a full-blown range war. Each of the opposing factions wanted to be top dog in the Sweetwater Valley and neither was willing to compromise. Not that Cole and his buddy were complaining. As long as the generous fees kept being paid into their bank accounts, they would continue to back the winning side. And that was the Triple X.
The last couple of days had seen a lull in the violence. Cole had welcomed the opportunity to enjoy some fun in the county seat at Rock Springs. His pard had taken a shine to one of the girls working in the Flaming Gorge saloon. Waco had promised to be back in time for a noon meeting with Treherne to discuss future tactics.
Once again, Cole looked at the message. Known throughout the western territories as Kingpin, he had earned the nickname on account of the pledge stated on his business card to ‘Go anywhere! Do anything!’ The slogan, written across the leading royal chess piece, was not quite a
true claim, however. Cole would only take on jobs of which he approved. He was one of the few hired guns who could honestly claim to have scruples.
The number of desperadoes to have fallen victim to his deadly accuracy with a six-shooter was now well into double figures. According to the straight-faced mercenary, every last one of the critters had warranted their abrupt departure from this mortal coil.
In the current situation, he was backing Mason Treherne due to a belief that he was in the right. Jake Logan of the Rising Sun had been rustling his stock. A particularly fierce confrontation had taken place with Logan’s own hired gunnies led by a rival called Black Matt Sangster the previous week. Waco had accounted for two of Sangster’s men with his Henry repeater. The others were now being held for trial in the Rock Springs jailhouse. But the gang leader himself had managed to slip the net.
Sipping his coffee Cole replayed the chase that had followed when the black-hearted gunman realized he had met his match in Cole Jardine. But Sangster was not about to surrender without a fight. ‘You’ll never take me alive, Kingpin,’ he called out from behind some boulders where he was the last man standing.
‘I don’t need to, buster,’ Cole replied. ‘You’re worth a cool thousand, dead or alive. Reckon though I’d prefer taking you in slung over a saddle.’
The next thing he heard was the pounding of hoofs as Black Matt made his bid for freedom. Cole was not slow in following. In and out of the rocky enclaves the chase went, finally terminating in a box canyon. Black Matt cursed aloud knowing he had made a big mistake. Too late for regrets now.
He ditched his cayuse, scuttling up the loose scree to hide amidst the plethora of craggy recesses. A cliff face soared high above where the hired gunman finished up. So steep was this end of the box canyon even a mountain goat would have balked at making the climb.
And there he made his stand, pumping out a couple of bullets that brought down Cole’s horse. Leaping off the fallen roan, the pursuer scrambled behind some rocks. Numerous shots were exchanged with little effect on either party. A neutral stand-off had unwittingly been occasioned, a war of attrition with neither man likely to gain the ascendancy. Nobody was going anywhere fast.
Being a guy not noted for his patience, Cole was eager to get this over with in double-quick time. Accordingly he resorted to an old decoy trick to which no level-headed gunslinger would ever have succumbed. His hat was laid on a rock with the Winchester poking out of a notch. Then he crawled across to his left silently willing the fugitive to holler out the inevitable shout of exhilaration. But would the varmint fall for such an old chestnut recreated in numerous dime Western tales?
Three shots rang out, the sharp reports bouncing off the bare rock walls. ‘Got the bastard,’ came the gleeful cry of triumph. Sangster clearly didn’t read novels. Moments later, the gunman appeared, stealthily wending his way down to where he expected to find the corpse of his adversary. Shock was written across the grizzled countenance when the awful truth dawned. ‘Never figured a smart jasper like you would fall for that old trick,’ Cole dispassionately remarked, holding his gun steady while covering the outlaw. ‘Make it easy for us both and drop the gun, Matt.’
Sangster snarled as he slowly dropped his gun back into the holster. ‘I’ve always had a hankering to take over as Kingpin of the hired guns. How about you proving the great Cole Jardine still has what it takes?’
It was a clear challenge that Cole’s pride demanded he accept. All the same, he kept a hawkish eye on his opponent while settling into position. It looked as though for once, Black Matt Sangster was going play by the rules.
The two men faced each other. It was Cole who suggested the way forward, or not as the case may be for one of them. He pointed to an eagle floating on the thermals overhead. The bird was clearly looking for its dinner. ‘Soon as that guy hooks up his prey we start to shooting. Agreed?’ Sangster nodded as both men avidly followed the bird’s hunting instincts.
Minutes passed. Then suddenly the bird dropped. Down, down, down it fell, its talons latching onto a desert rat. And that’s when all hell broke loose in that remote canyon. The yammer of black powder shells tore bloody holes in the tense silence. Half a dozen shots were fired before Matt Sangster staggered back, a hand clutching at the fatal wound in his chest. Cole did not escape unhurt. But it was only a flesh wound in the leg.
A satisfied half smile lingered on Cole’s face as he finished his coffee and hooked out a pocket watch. Time was getting on. Waco should have been here by now. That guy couldn’t keep his hands off the dames. But Cole wasn’t worried. His pard was always solidly dependable. He would be along in time for the meeting.
Although only two in number, Kingpin Jardine and his buddy had proved their worth to the rancher. The sixth sense possessed by the hired gunfighter with regard to countering opposition tactics was second to none. Treherne had not quibbled at the high fee demanded. You want the best, you pay for it. And such had proved to be the case with the removal of the infamous Black Matt.
Jake Logan had not taken kindly to the beating. A couple of line cabins had been burnt to the ground. Luckily they were empty at the time. A Texan through and through, the irate rancher had threatened to bring in a bunch of what he called ‘real’ gunslingers from the Brazos country. Things were really hotting up in the Sweetwater Basin. The current period of strained respite felt like the calm before the storm.
Now in his mid thirties, Cole knew that he was well past his prime in this line of work. Sure he was still the Kingpin, but the life of a hired gunman rarely passed beyond the thirty mark. It was definitely a young man’s game. He was on borrowed time, and knew it. Sooner or later, a bullet was going to find its way into his hide and stay there. After this current job was over, he promised himself to settle down and buy that ranch he had always wanted. Perhaps even find himself a wife to keep him warm at night.
With that thought in mind, Cole was about to toss the recent message into the fireplace when the door of the line cabin burst open. In the flash of a rattler’s strike, the nickel-plated Colt .45 jumped into his hand. No loss of reflexes could be detected when the chips were down. At the same time he threw himself behind a solid oak chest. Nevertheless, he could well do without such a strain on his ticker which was belting out a frenetic drum roll.
It eased back to a steady thud on recognizing the bulky silhouette of his pard standing in the open doorway. ‘Goldarn it, Waco!’ the Kingpin robustly berated his pal while scrambling to his feet. ‘You trying to give me a heart attack?’
Santee ignored the protest. ‘Grab your gear, pal, and let’s get out of here double quick.’ His earnest command laced with a raw measure of alarm saw the burly Santee quickly assembling his own meagre possessions. Before Cole could express any enquires about this sudden announcement, Waco poured out the reason for his panic-stricken haste. ‘The governor is so all-fired up about this range war, he’s called in the army to squash it. And guess who they have in their sights?’
It was clear from his buddy’s rapid-fire elucidation that the bluecoats were hot on his heels. ‘How much time do we have?’ Cole snapped out, lurching to his feet.
‘They’ll be here in ten minutes at most. So we need to hit the trail pronto.’
No more time was wasted on futile chinwagging. Men in their line of work travelled light of necessity for just such an eventuality as this. In five minutes, they were in the saddle and heading south. Cole’s intention was to lose their pursuers in the foothills of the Divide.
And they were only just in time. A plume of dust heralded the imminent arrival of the cavalry. They could even hear the heavy pounding of hoof beats indicating a large force was in pursuit. Spurs dug deep as the two riders urged their horses to the gallop. It was essential to reach the distant pine and aspen trees for the cover they afforded. Five miles of open plain had to be crossed before they could hope to evade their pursuers.
Halfway to the distant line of trees marking the start of higher ground, it was clear that the boys in blue were gaining. Cole shouted out, his voice straining to override the ear-crunching thud of shod hoofs. ‘We’ll never outrun these guys at this pace.’
