Shoot-Out!, page 1
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The gun was the Colt Single Action Army model of 1873. It was the first handgun to utilize brass-jacketed cartridges – six of them. And fired them fast. It was the gun that became known as The Peacemaker. And any fool could use it. This peacemaker was the gun that would tame the West. And McLain knew he had to be the first to own it … and why he had to find the man who stole his … The alternative was death.
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PEACEMAKER 9: SHOOT-OUT!
© William S. Brady 1984
This electronic edition published June 2024
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.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series editor: Mike Stotter
Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books
For Geoffrey Boothroyd, with thanks.
Prologue
Times change.
Once the valley had been the domain of the buffalo and the deer, a lush grazing place sheltered by the hills that ranged to north and west, watered by the tributary of the San Antonio that now gave the valley its name: the Rio Verde valley. The Comanche had come there in pursuit of the herds and claimed the rich land for their own. For a long time they had held it, defying the conquistadores who had trekked up from the south in their constant search for land and wealth and legends. The Spaniards had built a fortified mission in the valley. The Comanche had destroyed it. The Spaniards had rebuilt, stronger, adding walls and defenses that held off the Indians. And then the white men from the north had come to the valley: Texas had bought its independence with blood, and the valley had become a part of America.
The white men had fought amongst themselves, brother against brother, in the War Between The States. A garrison had been established from the ruins of the old Spanish mission, and when the Civil War ended it had remained, a lonely outpost on the edge of the Frontier. The ending of the War had brought men westwards, men who had learned to fight, to die if necessary for what they held to be their own. And a town had begun to grow.
Slowly, at first, for the War had given much of the land back to the Comanche, and they, too, fought bitterly for their territory. But the garrison was there and the valley was rich and dreams could be made real through sweat and blood and toil. The town was still growing. It boasted a saloon with rooms now. And a general store; a smithy; a barber shop that was also a dentist’s or a funeral parlor, depending on the immediate demands of the situation. There was a livery stable that held horses for the stage line linking the town with the outside world. There was a brothel, and there was talk of a bank opening there.
The inhabitants called the place Garrison, after the Army post.
John T. McLain had come to the valley when there was nothing more than the outpost and a sutler’s. It was the end of a long road that started when he had seen his wife die under the guns of Kansas Redlegs and he had quit his farm to fight for vengeance and the Southern cause with the Missouri guerrillas. He had ridden with Bloody Bill Anderson and Butcher Harvey, and when the War had ended there had been nothing left for him in Missouri, save dead dreams. A man called Josey Wales had said, ‘Go to Texas,’ and McLain had gone. And found a new dream. None of it, McLain guessed, was very much different to any other frontier settlement. Just one more town springing up from the wilderness. Except there was one essential difference: this was his town. His home. He didn’t care about the others, and that made Garrison special.
It had been Alice Docherty – Patterson, she was then – who had first dreamed of seeing a town grow in the valley. Now, married again to Shawn Docherty, when he was finally mustered out of the cavalry, she ran the Garrison saloon. McLain had stayed: he had nowhere else to go. Then Abe Kintyre had come with a wagon loaded with trade goods, and stayed to open the store that carried the legend,
Abraham Kintyre – Purveyor of the Finest.
Angus MacKay had opened the barber shop-cum-dentist’s surgery-cum-funeral parlor. A grizzled, gentle-mannered Scandinavian with a name so full of unfamiliar sounds he was known simply as Swede, started the smithy. One-Eye Peters opened the livery stable, and when Tevis Stark pushed his stage line through from San Antonio to Brownsville, One-Eye had become depot manager.
To the north, Randall French had carved out a ranch whose cattle bore the French Seven brand. Janey Page had arrived, widowed by the Comanche, and become the closest Garrison had to a schoolteacher, which made her little enough money she found a living as a seamstress. And Belle Hannett had come there, buying out the Mexican called Gomez and transforming his bare-basics cathouse into the place now called the Maison Belle.
McLain had fed himself with hunting and scouting. He had teamed mules and worked as a bouncer in the Garrison saloon. He was a big, even-tempered man, good with fists or guns. The people of Garrison trusted and respected him: he was a natural choice for marshal.
Times change. The Missouri guerrilla fighter became a lawman. He wore a star pinned to his shirt and had an office with bars on the windows and two cells inside, a sign outside that announced:
Jail. Marshal – John T. McLain.
He belonged somewhere again.
And with belonging came responsibility and danger. The territory was filling up, Alice’s dream had become a reality. The Frontier remained lawless, a place where a peace officer could be a target. That was why McLain wanted the gun. It was a time of change and the gun was going to be a vital factor in that change: the men who wore it would carry an advantage.
The gun was the Colt Single Action Army model of 1873. It was the first handgun to utilize brass-jacketed cartridges. It was the gun that became known as The Peacemaker.
John T. McLain wanted the gun ...
Chapter One
SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN a narrow band through the gap in the green-patterned curtains. It shone on the freshly-sanded planks of the floor, transforming the pale wood to a rich, golden color, highlighting the patterns of the rugs scattered over the timber. Where it struck the newly painted walls, the white was dazzling, cut through with pinpoint sparks of brilliance as the light reflected off the polished brass of the massive bed. The early morning air smelled of new-cut wood and paint and putty; and a lingering memory of perfume.
Then a fresh odor intruded: coffee. McLain sat up, running a hand through his thick brown hair as the sheets fell away from his muscular torso. He yawned as the door opened and Belle Hannett stepped into the room with a tray balanced on her hands. Her dark red hair hung loose about a face that looked good without any help from her usual cosmetics. She was wearing a dressing-gown that carelessly showed her cleavage.
She smiled as she set the tray down on the bed and asked teasingly, ‘You bored already?’
McLain’s yawn became a smile. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Good.’ Belle went on smiling as she slipped the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. ‘Move over.’
McLain made space, lifting the tray as the woman pushed the rumpled sheets aside and climbed in. She settled the covers over her long legs, but made no attempt to hide her full breasts, the dark pink nipples erect, drawing the man’s attention. Belle saw the direction of his gaze and laughed.
‘You best eat first, John T.’
McLain nodded, enjoying the warm, smooth feel of her skin as she reached across to position the tray and pour coffee. There was a pot and two matching china cups, all white glaze and delicate flower designs; a plate piled with two eggs fried sunny side up, two thick slices of bacon, and a mess of fried potatoes. He realized how hungry he was and began to eat as Belle nibbled daintily on a biscuit.
‘I like a man with an appetite,’ she murmured.
‘I noticed.’ He wiped grease from his chin with a white cotton napkin. ‘You’re a good cook. You got any other talents you ain’t shown me yet?’
‘Plenty.’ Again her rich laughter filled the room. ‘But I’ll take my time.’
‘Suits me.’ McLain swallowed bacon, washing it down with hot, strong coffee. ‘You take all the time you want.’
Belle wiped her fingers and traced a line over the hard muscle of his upper arm. ‘Tell me something … what made up your mind?’
‘About you?’ McLain smeared egg yolk on a biscuit and set the tray aside, grinning. ‘I guess you just chased me down. You’re a hard woman to resist.’
‘Seriously.’ There was still easy laughter in her voice, but also a genuine curiosity. ‘I want to know.’
McLain sipped coffee and shrugged. ‘I guess it was when I brought Christina Ryan back. That, an’ the way you look.’
‘Janey’s a good-looking woman, too.’ Belle refused to be put off. ‘And she offered Christina a place. So did Alice, come to that.’
‘You were the only
‘Maybe no one else had the money.’ Belle tossed a long strand of auburn hair clear of her face. ‘I did. And Tevis Stark helped.’
‘Tevis offered a free ride to San Antone. That’s something, but it’s still a long way from Pennsylvania.’
‘Poor kid.’ The full lips turned down in pity for a moment. ‘After what she went through, I figgered she could use a helping hand.’
‘It cost you,’ McLain said.
‘Only money.’ The lips turned up again in a smile. ‘Easy come, easy go. And it was a good investment.’
‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Got me you,’ Belle chuckled. ‘Didn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ McLain put his cup on the table beside the bed. ‘It did that. You reckon I’m worth it?’
‘Like I said,’ Belle turned on the pillows, hand stroking his chest, moving slowly beneath the sheets, ‘it was a good investment.’
McLain grunted, easing an arm about her shoulders, the other touching her body. ‘I’m glad you made it.’
‘Honey,’ Belle whispered, the words muffled against his mouth, ‘I’m glad we made it.
It was later in the day than was his usual custom before McLain emerged from the Maison Belle. He paused on the sidewalk, studying the frontage of the cathouse with a reflective smile on his face. A fresh coat of paint had transformed the old Gomez place, the woodwork now a sparkling white with bright red around the door, windows and gables. The sign nailed above the porch was red, too, with the name in big, curlicued white letters. The additional rooms Belle had had built on were at the rear, only the chimney of the kitchen visible from Main Street, trailing a streamer of smoke across the blue, cloud-scudded sky. Idly, he wondered where the money had come from. It wasn’t important: what counted was how things were now. And so far as John T. McLain was concerned, things were just fine.
He turned away, heading for the squat, square building that housed the Marshal’s Office. He opened the locked door and stepped into the small room. There was a plank floor raised a foot or so off the ground on cross timbers set deep into the adobe walls. Either side of the heavy door there were barred windows with solid shutters that bolted in place from the inside. A potbellied stove stood cold in one corner, flanked by a desk and a single chair. Halfway across, the room was divided by a row of floor-to-ceiling bars with two locking doors that gave access to the cells. Each cell held a bunk and a barred window. There was a tow-headed cowboy from the French Seven rubbing pensively at his head in the right-hand cell.
McLain grinned as he fetched the keys from his desk. ‘You hurtin’, Tobe?’
‘Feels like a mule’s kickin’,’ the cowboy acknowledged. ‘I ain’t sure from which side.’
‘You tied one on.’ McLain swung the door open, beckoning the man. ‘I had to lay a pistol on your skull.’
Tobe grinned ruefully. ‘I do much damage, Marshal?’
‘Mostly to Will Sanders. I caught you before you started in on the saloon.’
‘Hell!’ Tobe shook his head, then regretted the movement. ‘Is Will all right?’
‘Reckon his head’ll be sore as yours.’ McLain kicked the door closed, the clang of the bars hitting the metal frame, prompting the cowboy to wince. ‘Randall sent him home on the buckboard. He also settled your fine. Said he’d dock it out o’ your pay.’
Tobe nodded. ‘I’m free to go?’
‘Sure,’ McLain grinned. ‘Go get some coffee, then get the hell back to work.’
‘Right.’ The cowboy headed for the door. ‘Thanks, Marshal.’
McLain watched him go, then sat down behind the desk. There were some dodgers fresh in from the Federal Office in San Antonio that he wanted to study. It wasn’t that likely, but maybe one of the wanted men would come through Garrison and he wanted to recognize the face if it did show. He began to leaf through the patchily-printed notices.
They were of thick paper, gray and grainy, the lettering blotchy and the drawn faces unlikely to bear too much resemblance to the men who owned them. The first offered one hundred dollars for a known cattle thief named as Whistling Bob Wilson. The face matched a dozen McLain could think of. The second was more impressive: the artist’s impression depicted a man with broad cheeks and close-set eyes, a line indicating a scar running diagonally from the bridge of the broken nose to the angle of the jaw. The face belonged to a murderer and horse thief known as Indian Joe Calhoun who was worth three hundred dollars dead or alive. The next two were so blurred the features meant nothing. One boasted a two-hundred-dollar reward for a confidence trickster selling shares in a nonexistent silver mine; the other, fifty dollars for a cowboy who had put a .36-caliber ball in his boss’s leg when the rancher found him running off a seed bull. There was a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bonus for anyone who could find the bull. The final dodger was for a bank robber, rustler, horse thief and murderer called Powder Jack Mahoney who had a burn covering most of his left cheek. He was worth five hundred dollars alive and two hundred dead. A penciled note explained the difference was due to the fact that Powder Jack had lifted eight hundred dollars from a bank in Valverde but didn’t seem to have the money on him when a posse chased him out of Granada, which was his last known location. The Valverde bank would like him taken alive if possible so that he could tell folks where the money was hidden. McLain grinned: life was cheap, money was worth more.
Then he stopped grinning as Frank Donnely appeared in the doorway.
The cavalry captain seemed nervous, one hand fidgeting with the sand-colored riding gauntlets tucked under his immaculately polished belt. His boots gleamed like oil and his neatly-pressed uniform was as parade-ground smart as ever. Scissors had recently been taken to his black mustache and his brushed hair gave off a faint odor of pomade. He paused, his usual confidence absent.
‘Frank?’ McLain felt an automatic coldness towards the officer that was only slightly eased by his general good humor. ‘What can I do for you?’
Donnely stepped inside the office and closed the door. McLain reminded himself yet again to organize a second chair as the captain removed his blue cavalry hat and stood with unusual awkwardness before the desk. McLain pushed the dodgers aside and gestured at the bare wood. Donnely smiled tightly and settled on the corner.
‘I need to talk to you, McLain.’
‘Go ahead.’ McLain shrugged, wondering what it was had robbed Donnely of his composure. Whatever, it was amusing to see the man at a loss for words. ‘This official?’
‘Partly.’ Donnely stroked his mustache. ‘Partly personal.’
McLain waited. Donnely glanced at the big map tacked on the adobe wall. Then back at the Missouri man.
‘You’ve been sleeping with Belle since you got back from Mexico.’
McLain waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, he said, ‘So? I don’t figger that’s your business.’
‘It’s not,’ said Donnely quickly. ‘At least, it’s not and it is.’
‘It’s kinda early for riddles, Frank.’ McLain found himself enjoying the situation: the captain’s discomfort was a pleasant change from his customary arrogance. ‘You want to put this in plain words?’
‘I think we should.’ Donnely took refuge in formality. ‘I think we need to clarify our respective situations with regard to our personal involvements.’
‘I said plain words,’ McLain urged, suppressing a smile as the officer’s face reddened.
‘I’m talking about Janey.’
‘You had me fooled,’ the brown-haired man murmured. ‘Forget the military academy language an’ say it so I can understand.’
Donnely coughed. Then: ‘May I presume you are no longer a rival?’
McLain found it impossible to hold down his smile any longer. ‘You may presume,’ he agreed, parodying Donnely’s tone. ‘Hell! Belle’s all the woman I can handle. You want to chase Janey? I wish you both luck.’
Something like relief showed on Donnely’s face, mingled with surprise. McLain watched him, suddenly realizing that this was the first time he had spoken openly of his relationship with Belle. Realizing, too, that it had to be a relationship the town was talking about. For long enough, it had been a more-or-less unspoken assumption that he and Janey Page would wind up together; unless Frank Donnely beat him to it. Then Belle had come on the scene and confused the issue. Hell! if he hadn’t felt so damned confused, he’d never have gone off on that hunting trip that had brought him to the man pegged out on the ground by the Nokoni and had sent him down into Mexico after the man’s captured daughter. Like he’d told Belle, it had been her response to Christina Ryan’s plight that finally had persuaded him she was the one. And gave Garrison a fresh subject of gossip.
