The Land of Lost Dreams, page 1
The Land of Lost Dreams
The Redemption Trail, Volume 3
Scott Connor
Published by Culbin Press, 2022.
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.
First published in 2013 by Robert Hale Limited
Copyright © 2013, 2022 by Scott Connor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prolog
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
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Further Reading: High Noon in Snake Ridge
Also By Scott Connor
Prolog
Corrigan O’Kelley considered Dawson Breen over the mountain of chips. The other two players had folded, but they had stayed for the showdown, as had most of the customers in the Bonanza House’s private gaming room.
As he had done before when he’d bluffed, Corrigan tapped two fingers on the table. Although, as Dawson was the owner of the Bonanza House, the most opulent gaming house in Eureka, he doubted he’d be so naïve as to let that tactic concern him.
They were playing five-card stud with two cards placed face down and three cards lying face up. On the table both men had two kings exposed with Corrigan having an accompanying ace and Dawson a nine.
Dawson had bet with confidence from the start, suggesting his first card in the hole was another nine. He had also monitored Corrigan’s reactions closely and had surely judged it unlikely he had received another ace. Accordingly, Dawson pushed all his chips into the center of the table.
“Shall we end this?” he asked.
“This is the right hand to end the night,” Corrigan said.
He shoved his chips into the pile, letting sixteen thousand dollars ride on the hand. Dawson sat back and calmly locked his hands behind his head. Behind him the customers edged back and forth.
As he’d probably bet more on this one hand than he’d wagered on every other hand of poker he’d played in his entire life, Corrigan struggled to maintain his confident demeanor. So, to calm himself, he turned to the milling people.
His attention was drawn to one man, who stood at the bar with his hat drawn down low, nursing a whiskey. Corrigan wasn’t sure why this man had intrigued him until he realized that he was the only man here who was ignoring the game. but then, as if the man had picked up on Corrigan’s interest, he put his glass down.
Then he wove through the throng to stand at Dawson’s shoulder with his legs planted well apart and his face hidden in the shadow cast by his hat. Guns weren’t allowed in the Bonanza House, but this man slipped his hand beneath his jacket with the practiced ease of a hired gun.
The faint rustle of cloth and the shuffling of feet as the customers edged away from this man made Dawson smile. Then he leaned forward and, as he had made the last raise, turned over his first hole card to reveal the nine of diamonds.
Then Dawson flipped over his second card. Dawson’s eyes widened slightly with a look of triumph that told Corrigan everything he needed to know about the card, but he still confirmed his opponent did have a third nine.
“Full house, nines over kings,” Dawson said. “Only two aces can beat my hand and I don’t reckon you’ve got them.”
Corrigan turned over his first hole card revealing the ace of spades, making Dawson’s right eye twitch while the hired gun edged forward for a short pace. Then Corrigan flicked over his second card.
Chapter One
The Pioneer saloon was the cheapest and dirtiest saloon in the two-bit frontier town of Pearl Forks. For a man who, six months ago, had bet sixteen thousand dollars on the turn of a card in the finest gaming house in Eureka, falling this far was hard to accept.
Corrigan O’Kelley still headed inside with a smile on his lips and fifty dollars in his pocket. Within the hour he’d doubled his stake in a poker game with two inebriated ranchers and a shifty-eyed mercantile owner, Brett Johnson.
After another hour, the betting became serious until he and Brett locked horns over what would surely be the last game of the session. While Corrigan sipped his whiskey, Brett leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together.
As Corrigan had done six months ago, they were playing five-card stud with two down and three up. Corrigan had three diamonds displayed while Brett had a run. Brett’s lively gaze gave the impression he had a straight, which would win if Corrigan were bluffing about having a flush.
The trouble was, Corrigan was bluffing. Then again, he had won several bluffs that evening and his palms itched with a desire to try his luck again. The betting was with Corrigan and he bided his time, letting his opponent sweat and perhaps reveal more about himself.
“Come on,” Brett grumbled. “You’ll wear the cards out, staring at them like that.”
“Patience, my good friend,” Corrigan said. “I’ll take your money in my own time.”
The eliminated players chuckled while Corrigan fingered his bills and wondered whether he should risk resolving all his problems with this one hand. Anticipation widened Brett’s eyes, but then approaching footfalls sounded and Corrigan turned.
A newcomer was crossing the saloon. He was trail dirty and his jaw was set in a purposeful manner.
“Are you Corrigan O’Kelley?” he asked without preamble.
“Another delay!” Brett said with an exasperated sigh before Corrigan could decide whether to reply. “This has to be the longest hand of poker I’ve ever played.”
Corrigan raised a hand to the newcomer and then shuffled forward to draw his belly up to the wood. The action hid the motion of him slipping a hand beneath the table.
“You want to hear my bet then, do you?” Corrigan said lightly.
Brett winced before he nodded. “Only for the last ten minutes.”
Corrigan smiled while he listened to the newcomer walk around the table until he moved into his eye-line. The man’s shadow crept across the table, making Brett turn and gesture at him to wait until they’d finished.
The man’s face reddened, his intervention seemingly not playing out in the way he’d expected. Then he whirled his hand to his six-shooter. Even before the gun had cleared leather, Corrigan pulled the trigger of his already drawn gun and blasted lead up through the table, slicing into the man’s torso and making him drop.
The man landed on his chest. He strained his arms as he tried to raise himself, but he failed and he flopped down to lie still. Corrigan confirmed that nobody else looked as if they were about to take exception to him. Then, with his free hand, he shoved everything he owned into the center of the table, just as he had done on that ill-fated evening six months ago, albeit with a vastly higher stake.
“Can you match this?” he asked.
For almost a minute Brett faced the dead man before with a visible wrench he turned away. He rubbed his jaw nervously while the customers confirmed the gunman’s fate. Corrigan sat back in his chair and holstered his gun. Then he tapped his fingertips together mimicking Brett’s posture for the last few minutes as he reinforced his confidence.
“A dead man on the floor and everything you own on the table,” Brett said with a gulp, as if he’d decided to fold. “If ever I’ve met a man who doesn’t bluff, it’d be you.”
Corrigan conceded his compliment with a nod. Then, with Brett saying nothing more, he moved to draw the pot back.
“I’m obliged,” he said.
His fingers were brushing the money when Brett shook his head. Then Brett pushed everything he had into the center of the table and bellied up to the table in a mimic of Corrigan’s earlier movement.
“The only problem is, I don’t bluff either,” he said with a confident smile.
Corrigan couldn’t help but groan.
“I’ve checked out your story,” Sheriff McSween said. “Everyone says that man came looking for trouble, that he drew first and that he gave you no choice but to defend yourself.”
“I’m obliged,” Corrigan said with a relieved sigh. “So can I go?”
“You can leave the law office.” McSween pointed to the door and then jerked his finger to the side to indicate the route along the main drag. “Then keep on going and don’t look back, even when you’ve left my town far behind.”
“But I’ve got no money, no horse, no nothing except for the clothes I’m wearing.”
“You’ve got a good pair of boots. They’ll cope with a few days afoot.” The sheriff slapped Corrigan’s Peacemaker onto his desk. “As you’ve still got your gun, men like you will survive.”
“I can always hope,” Corrigan said, turning away.
While strapping on his holster, he headed to the door and he was moving to walk outside when McSween coughed, halting him.
“Despite
Corrigan turned and the sheriff had raised his eyebrows. Although his expression said that a name might make him soften his stance, Corrigan shrugged.
“I don’t know it, but I’ve narrowed it down to five or six possibilities.”
Corrigan smiled, but his attempt at levity only made the sheriff scowl.
“You’ve got until sundown.” McSween sat down and leaned back in his chair. “If I don’t have to run you out of town myself, when those other four or five come looking for you, I won’t tell them which way you went.”
Corrigan tipped his hat and then left the office. The sun was high and he judged that he had five hours to leave town. As he didn’t want to walk in the searing heat of the afternoon, he went in search of an alternative.
He couldn’t find anybody who was planning to leave town today, although he did find Gary White, the merchant who had taken pity on him and given him a ride to town. Unfortunately, Gary reminded Corrigan that he still owed him the ten dollars he’d borrowed to make a fresh start in a new town.
Corrigan promised to repay him tomorrow and moved on. He’d used up most of the allotted time to McSween’s deadline when he started wishing he’d taken the early walk instead. He was being followed.
He had thought he wouldn’t encounter saloon owner Denver Fetterman as, during his three days in town, Denver hadn’t ventured out of the Long Trail. Corrigan walked briskly, keeping to the populated parts of town as he picked his moment to run.
Denver made no effort to move closer, an observation that delighted Corrigan until he discovered the reason why. Chuck Cartwright, Denver’s stalwart debt collector, was walking toward him, effectively trapping him.
So Corrigan made a quick left into an alleyway that led only to a door twenty yards on. He broke into a run, skidded to a halt by the door and shook it, but the door was bolted on the inside and, when he turned, Denver and Chuck were leaning nonchalantly against the corners of the alleyway.
“There’s nowhere to run,” Denver called.
Corrigan gave the door one last rattle. Then he walked to a point halfway down the alleyway where he stopped.
“I can’t repay you yet,” he said. “I have no money.”
“I’d heard that earlier you were betting heavily in the Pioneer saloon.”
Corrigan settled his stance. “Then you’ll also have heard I lost heavily, and that I had some trouble.”
Denver smiled. “I’d already gathered you were a man who made enemies quickly, which is why I want my two hundred dollars back now.”
“Two hundred!” Corrigan shook his head. “I only borrowed fifty.”
Denver smirked. “I hate complicated calculations, so my interest terms are simple. You borrowed fifty dollars so the next day you owed me that money plus another fifty dollars. The next day—”
“I understand, but the thing is, I operate a simple system, too, as the dead man in the Pioneer saloon found out.”
Corrigan slapped a hand against his holster, making both men scramble away and out of his sight. He waited for the men to show themselves, but when a minute passed without them reappearing, he checked he couldn’t climb out of the alleyway.
Then, walking at a steady pace until he reached the end of the alleyway, he edged forward cautiously, expecting deception. When it came, it was decisive. Chuck and Denver had both pressed themselves flat to the wall.
So, when he took a step out of the alleyway, Chuck leaped forward. Chuck hammered two bunched hands on the back of his neck, making him fold over, while in a coordinated move Denver kicked his feet from under him, depositing him on his chest. Then Chuck grabbed the back of his collar and hurled him back into the alleyway.
“As we’re exchanging threats,” Denver said when Corrigan came to a halt lying on his side, “I often have to explain to men like you the consequences of failing to repay debts. Unfortunately, Chuck usually has to tear them apart before they understand.”
Corrigan stood up. “Come sunup I’ll have your two hundred dollars.”
“I’m obliged, but make sure it’s before sunup, because the moment the sun rises, you’ll owe me two hundred and fifty dollars.” Denver waggled a finger at him. “Don’t leave town. If Chuck has to come looking for you, that’ll only annoy him.”
Then, with smirks on their faces, the two men backed out of the alleyway. This time Corrigan took his time in leaving. He batted the dust from his chest and knees and then shuffled to the corner.
He confirmed that Denver and Chuck had gone, but that observation didn’t cheer him. Across the main drag, the sun was dipping down from view behind the buildings. Sundown would come in an hour.
Chapter Two
Sundown found Corrigan complying with both Denver Fetterman’s and Sheriff McSween’s orders. He had left town, but as he didn’t relish the thought of walking through the night, he’d taken refuge behind the huge boulder that sat beside the town sign.
A group of ten covered wagons was drawing up outside town. They formed a line a quarter of a mile away, a distance that was far enough away to suggest they liked their privacy. Two men headed into town and they emerged shortly afterward laden down with supplies.
The bustle that followed let Corrigan confirm that the wagon train had several families inside and that they weren’t planning to move on today. When their campfire was brighter than the twilight redness on the horizon, Corrigan made his cautious way closer.
He’d noted that the fifth wagon along the line was the least occupied. Only a man and his son, presumably, of about sixteen used it. This gave him hope that he might be able to sneak inside and then, if the owners slept outside tonight, remain undiscovered on the back of the wagon tomorrow until he’d gained some distance from town.
The firelight cast a glow on the ground for around a hundred yards; those around the fire busied themselves, intent on preparing a meal. Corrigan still skirted beyond the circle of light until he could move into the shadow of the first wagon.
Then he hurried on to reach the back of the wagon where, in short bursts, he ran from wagon to wagon, pausing at each one. He was preparing to run for the fourth time when grit crunched nearby. He froze, but a voice still spoke up.
“What are you doing there, mister?”
Corrigan put on a wide smile and then turned to find that a fresh-faced young man of around sixteen had discovered him. He reckoned he was probably the kid who used the wagon he was planning to sneak into.
“You folks looked like you might be friendly, so I thought I’d introduce myself,” Corrigan said lightly.
“By sneaking around in the dark behind our wagons?”
Corrigan rubbed his jaw and, as he struggled to find an appropriate reply, a rangy man with a stern expression that the deep wrinkles said might be a permanent scowl came closer to stand at the kid’s shoulder.
“What’s the problem here, Gabriel?” he asked.
“I found this sneak thief, Pa. He was planning mischief.”
The man patted Gabriel’s back and then moved into a defensive position between his son and Corrigan.
“I told Virgil we were wrong not to post guards. Towns like Pearl Forks are full of sneak thieves and good-for-nothing varmints. I’m pleased my son has more sense than our leader.”
When making the last comment he’d raised his voice and, figuring it hadn’t been made for his ears, Corrigan didn’t retort. Sure enough, a few moments later an authoritative-looking man with a trim beard joined them. He faced Corrigan, displaying less distrust than the other two had so Corrigan addressed his reply to him.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you folks,” he said. “I’d gathered in town that you weren’t interested in mixing with the townsfolk, so I didn’t know what kind of reception I’d get.”
“We avoid trouble, but we’re friendly with anyone who’s friendly with us,” Virgil said. “So don’t let Jeremiah’s attitude make you think ill of us. Now, what do you want?”
While Jeremiah muttered something to himself, Corrigan took a deep breath and then provided the explanation he’d worked out earlier in case he was discovered.
