Cheyenne Cowboy Read online
Cheyenne Cowboy
Gat Hammer is a young cowboy who has decided to use his savings to buy himself a ranch as the cattle drive arrives in Dodge City. Having earned a big bonus, he deposits his wages in the town bank for safe-keeping. As the rest of his fellow wranglers paint Dodge red, Hammer rents a room in the Deluxe hotel, totally unaware of the fact that outlaw Emmett Holt and his gang are in town to rob the bank.
Wealthy lawyer Mason Dwire has planned and hired the Holt gang to make them all rich. It seems that nothing can stop the merciless bank robbers until young Hammer realizes that his savings have also been stolen. The Cheyenne cowboy gets riled and when his trail boss pal is gunned down in the shadows, he rides into action with guns blazing.
By the same author
Scattergun Smith
Cheyenne Cowboy
Max Gunn
ROBERT HALE
© Max Gunn 2017
First published in Great Britain 2017
ISBN 978-0-7198-2210-0
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 Max Gunn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Dedicated to my father Denis
Vaya con Dios
PROLOGUE
A fiery glow spilled from the massive locomotive’s smoke stack and lit up the night sky. It was an eerie sight as the massive locomotive forged on along the train tracks toward the railhead at Dodge City. Crimson sparks, like angry fireflies, pumped up into the darkness as clouds of black smoke billowed from its stack. The driver continued to look out from the train cab as his engineer shovelled coal and tossed lengths of wood into the open-jawed monster to feed its insatiable appetite.
A haunting sound hung over the vast land as the long caravan snaked on toward its destination. The mighty train relentlessly continued on for the distant Dodge City to load its empty cars with the steers that filled the famed railhead’s stock pens.
Behind the powerful engine a string of empty cattle cars screeched in the darkness as their wheels spat sparks and argued with the iron rails they were travelling along. Yet the last car was far from empty like all of the rest. This one had been commandeered by six ruthless individuals and their mounts who patiently waited for the hard-working locomotive to take them to their ultimate destination.
Red-hot sparks floated from the smoke stack into the crisp evening air whilst its brilliantly painted cowcatcher beneath the beam of its headlight ensured nothing would derail its charging bulk as it forged on toward the dimly lit watering station twenty miles east of the famed Dodge City.
Watering stations were essential for the locomotives in the searing heat of the desert plains. Their high towers filled with water pumped up from deep wells drew the precious liquid up so that it could be then fed into the bellies of the thirsty trains that travelled its tracks.
The station was similar to almost all its contemporaries and boasted a high tower topped by a huge water tower next to a windmill. Down at its base a small wooden structure housed the stationmaster and his telegraph key. Beside the tracks, countless poles stretched in both directions enabling men to communicate with one another regardless of the distance between them.
The car at the tail of the train was bathed in darkness and the familiar scent of nervous animals. The six horses and their hard-bitten riders were being carried in seclusion toward the prosperous settlement for a reason which only their leader knew.
Outlaw Emmett Holt was one of a rare breed of deadly men who plied their unforgiving trade in the ever-expanding West. For although his name was widely known throughout the states and territories, his actual likeness had never been either drawn or photographed.
Apart from those who hired or worked with him, nobody recognized his face when it bore down upon them. By then it was usually too late.
Holt liked it that way.
The five men who were travelling to Dodge City with Holt had no idea what they had been hired to do and yet they did not doubt that it would be profitable. Each of the men had total faith in Emmett Holt and knew that he would never accept any job if it were beyond their capabilities.
Holt had the ability to instil both loyalty and fear into those who rode with him. Few who had ever questioned his judgement ever lived long enough to boast about it and they all knew that simple fact. If you rode with Holt, you did what he said or suffered the consequences.
The sound of the locomotive cutting its way through the eerie landscape grew louder as it entered the canyon and reduced the distance between itself and the starlit water tower.
Only the howling of coyotes presented any rivalry to the clattering iron horse but even they could not compete with its train whistle.
The night air resounded sharply as the driver pulled on its cord several times to signal to the stationmaster of their imminent arrival. The driver and engineer leaned out from either side of the cab at the lantern light they were approaching. Moths were being plucked out of the air by bats as they encircled the glowing lights.
Brakes screeched as the locomotive slowed.
The haunting sound of the howling whistle alerted more than the ears of the stationmaster though. It also told Holt that they were nearing the place where he intended to disembark.
‘Here we are, boys,’ Holt said before scrambling to his feet and brushing the hay from his pants. ‘By my figuring we’re right on time.’
There were no disagreements.
The five other men rose from where they had been sitting on the floor of the car and moved to their mounts. Holt strode away from his men to the tall door and carefully slid it sideways. The lethal outlaw peered out of the sixteen-inch gap and grinned widely.
‘Get the horses ready,’ he grunted as his eyes focused on the fast-approaching station. ‘When the train stops, we’ll get these nags off this bone rattler.’
The station lights seemed brighter in the darkness of the canyon. Holt observed the engineer drop down from the cab, cross the tracks and start to climb the ladder up to where he could swing the water shoot over the engine. The train came to a shuddering halt, which vibrated along the numerous empty cars to where Holt and his men waited and watched.
‘This is where we get off, boys,’ Emmett Holt drawled without looking away from the water tower and the small wooden structure below it.
Bart Gibbs walked gingerly across the carriage floor until he was at Holt’s shoulder. He squinted through the small gap and nodded in agreement.
‘Where the hell are we, Emmett?’ he wondered.
‘Twenty miles east of Dodge, Bart,’ Holt simply answered.
‘How come we ain’t travelling into town?’ Gibbs scratched his chin.
Holt glanced at his underling. ‘Because if we did that we’d be seen arriving by at least fifty hombres in the stockyard. I intend us riding in there just after sunrise. There ain’t a whole lotta folks awake at that time of day, boy. Savvy?’
Gibbs gave a fearful nod. ‘I savvy.’
Holt turned, gripped the door and slid it wide open. ‘C’mon, boys. Get the horses down out of here while them critters are quenching this train’s thirst.’
The cool night air washed over the six men as they carefully led their mounts to the edge of the open cattle car and encouraged them to jump down.
Holt jumped to the ground and watched as his underlings continued to persuade their horses down from the car. Within less than a minute all six of their horses were on the ground beside the car.
The order had barely left his lips when the well-seasoned leader of the notorious gang moved away from the horses. He squinted hard at the train crew as they worked. Holt then glanced upward at the glistening telegraph wires that stretched from one pole to another as they went from the small building set beside the water tower in both directions.
‘What you looking at, Emmett?’ Gibbs piped up as he dropped his saddle fender and patted his horse’s neck.
‘Them wires,’ Holt replied. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit off its tip and spat it at the dark sand. Nothing ever escaped his knowing eyes as they observed everything that most men would not even notice. ‘I’ll have to do something about them.’
He struck a match across his belt buckle and cupped its flame to the end of the long black weed. As smoke billowed from his mouth, Gibbs moved to his side.
‘What you gonna do, Emmett?’ he asked.
The lethal leader of the small troop grunted as he silently tossed the match at the sand. Without uttering a word he pointed at the small building and then back at the wires that led to and from it.
Gibbs rubbed his whiskers. ‘What about the telegraph wires? I don’t savvy.’
Holt watched as the train whistle hooted and the powerful engine’s wheels rotated on the steel tracks. Slowly the large iron horse began to move away from the water tower. Within seconds it had gathered speed and was disappearing into the black night.
‘Folks talk on them wires, Bart,’ Holt explained. ‘Words travel faster than the fastest horse can gallop. We don’t want anyone back in Dodge to go telling the rest of the territory what we just done, now do we?’
‘I reckon not.’ Gibbs shrugged. ‘But we ain’t done nothing yet.’
Emmett Holt rolled his eyes and inhaled on his cigar deeply. He glanced at Gibbs. ‘Don’t go fretting, Bart. I’ll do the thinking for all of us.’
Holt pulled the cigar from his lips and exhaled a line of smoke at the sand. He pushed his wide-brimmed Stetson back on to the crown of his head and glanced at the rest of his men.
‘Before we head on down to Dodge I’ve got a job to do,’ he drawled venomously.
They each looked at Holt as the hardened outlaw checked both his six-shooters in turn. None of them dared to ask what he intended to do because they already knew. Holt was staring at the small wooden structure with an evil grin etched into his features. He resembled a ravenous wolf eying its next prey.
‘This shouldn’t take too long,’ Holt growled as he started toward the station building. The sound of his spurs chillingly echoed off the small building with the telegraph wires leading to and from its starlit features.
The outlaws held tightly on to the long leathers of their horses and watched as the deadly Holt advanced to the small structure and stepped up on to its boardwalk. The sound of creaking filled the barren surroundings as the outlaw leader moved to the small window. Lantern light from within the building washed over the lethal killer as his right hand dropped down to his holster and drew the long-barrelled weapon out. His thumb pulled back on its hammer until it clicked into position. Holt glanced at his small audience and grinned again.
‘This’ll be easy,’ he sneered.
None of his gang uttered a word. They did not dare to for they each knew that Holt would not hesitate to turn his guns on them if they doubted his word. Holt smiled coldly through a cloud of smoke as his teeth gripped the long cigar.
Jim Dante, Slim Jones, Bud Collins, Bart Gibbs and Wes Harper watched as Holt turned the doorknob and hastily entered the station. He held his primed Colt at hip level and aimed its nickel-plated barrel at the tiny seated figure.
‘Don’t go moving, old timer,’ Holt snarled.
The small man sat beside a desk with his hand poised above a telegraph key turned his swivel chair and looked up into the unshaven face of the outlaw.
‘What do you want?’ he gulped in shock before noticing the gun aimed straight at him. His lower lip began to shake as he vainly attempted to speak again.
Holt aimed his six-shooter at the head of the seated man and then squeezed his trigger. The small interior of the structure shook as a white flash spewed from the .45 and tore through his target’s skull.
A plume of sickening gore exploded from the hideous wound and plastered the wall in molten brain. Holt watched as it slowly slid down the wall behind the stricken man.
Holt blew the smoke from his gun barrel and grinned.
What was left of the stationmaster’s head toppled off the chair with the rest of his body and landed at his executor’s feet. Without a hint of emotion the deadly gunman holstered his smoking weapon and focused on the wall behind the telegraph key. Lumps of gore were slowly rolling down to the floor.
‘That’s not much of a brain, old timer,’ he grinned before turning and walking back out into the cool night air. His eyes glanced at the faces of his followers as he holstered his still smoking gun.
He accepted his long leathers from Jones and swiftly stepped into his stirrup. Holt mounted the horse and gathered in his reins as his fellow killers followed his lead and also mounted.
‘That was short and sweet, Emmett,’ Gibbs said as he sat astride his muscular horse. ‘Now what?’
Holt pointed at the telegraph wires. ‘Shoot them down, boys. Shoot the whole bunch of them down.’
The five other mounted men drew their six-guns and aimed them skyward. The sound was deafening as the riders unleashed their guns’ fury at the wires leading out of the small structure.
Within a matter of only seconds the telegraph wires had been severed and fell on to the sand. They dangled in the frosty starlight and swayed upon the ground. A satisfied smirk crossed Holt’s face.
‘Good. Now we can ride on to Dodge and get on with the job we’ve bin hired to do,’ Holt said as Gibbs returned his cigar. ‘With the wires cut there ain’t no way that they’ll be able to inform any of the surrounding towns about us. Nobody can talk to anybody now.’
‘That means Dodge City is isolated,’ Bud Collins grinned.
‘Damn right.’ Holt nodded as he patted the neck of his horse. ‘And by the time they fix them wires we’ll be long gone.’
The five riders drew level with their leader and looked at the merciless horseman. None of them spoke as Holt stood in his stirrups and pointed down the rail tracks.
‘Let’s ride, boys,’ Holt spat before whipping the shoulders of his mount. The startled animal jolted into action. Within seconds the rest of his gang were in hot pursuit. ‘Now we can do what we’ve bin paid to do.’
The canyon walls echoed with the thundering sound of the horses’ hoofs as all six of their mounts raced beside the tracks. Emmett Holt had eliminated the possibility of Dodge City communicating with the outside world. Now the sprawling settlement was at the mercy of the six riders but like so many of their breed, they never showed anyone or anything mercy.
CHAPTER ONE
His name was Gat Hammer but most knew him simply as the Cheyenne cowboy. Hammer had earned the respect of most of his fellow wranglers over the years for his prowess and skill in handling all four-legged animals. As his nickname implied Hammer hailed from Cheyenne and since childhood had worked hard at being the best he could be.
The trail drive he had worked as scout and lead wrangler for the previous three months had just filled the stock pens at the Dodge City railhead with five thousand white-faced steers. It had grown dark in the sprawling town before the wranglers and crew had been paid off but the glowing lantern lights made Dodge seem even more inviting.
Hammer had been paid his wages plus a handsome bonus for expertly doing his job better than anyone else. Yet the allure of Dodge held no interest for the cowboy for this was the tenth time he had visited the famed town.
For most cowboys as young as the twenty-two-year-old this was a time to get liquo
red up and finally let your hair down, but not for Hammer. The youngster, who most considered at least a decade older than he actually was, had decided upon a far more sober way to spend his first night of relative freedom.
The Cheyenne cowboy did not want to chase the many working females who flocked to and filled the bars closest to the rail tracks, nor did he want to drink himself senseless either. He had other plans. Caked in trail dust, both horse and master headed slowly away from the activity of the stock pens and he guided his mount toward the heart of Dodge City. The haunting sound of a locomotive whistle filled the evening air behind him as Hammer continued on into the heart of the large town.
He crossed the wide main street and pulled his highly trained cutting horse to a halt outside the best of the settlement’s hotels.
Hammer glanced up at the board above the porch. The Deluxe Hotel was every bit as classy as its name implied. This would be the first time that the cowboy had ever chosen to stay within its fancy walls.
He could hear the rest of the trail hands whooping as they thundered past him on their way to the many saloons. He shook his head and sighed. He had done that too many times himself but not tonight.
For Hammer, the thought of a hot bath and a clean bed far outweighed anything else the prosperous Dodge City had to offer. He raised himself up and off his high-shouldered mount and rested beside the handsome animal.
‘Easy, Flame,’ he said to the white-faced chestnut stallion as he stepped toward the long hitching rail. He looped his long leathers over the pole and then secured them with a slip knot. ‘I’ll make sure you get rubbed down and well fed before I sink my aching bones into that tub.’
The stallion snorted as its master pulled his saddlebags free and placed them over his wide shoulder. He patted the horse and climbed the three steps up to the freshly painted front door of the hotel. Hammer reached down to the brass doorknob and entered.
Cheyenne Cowboy