Jefferson's Saddle Read online

  Jefferson’s Saddle

  It is meant to be a day of celebration in Mortimer, Texas, but everything changes when Charlie Jefferson arrives in town. Left for dead after a brutal ambush and robbery, Charlie is intent on finding the man who did this to him.

  En route to Mortimer from the wastelands where he was left to perish, Charlie stumbles upon a dying Texas Ranger. Unwittingly, he is drawn into a plot involving the town’s council.

  By showing mercy, Charlie becomes part of the plot, whether it ties in with his plans or not. Charlie’s mission in Mortimer is no longer personal. The fate of the whole town rests with him.

  By the same author

  The Hanging of Charlie Darke

  The Drummond Brand

  In the High Bitterroots

  Return to Tatanka Crossing

  A Storm in Montana

  Longhorn Justice

  Medicine Feather

  Arkansas Bushwhackers

  Jefferson’s Saddle

  Will DuRey

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will DuRey 2015

  First published in Great Britain 2015

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2405-0

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will DuRey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pistol in hand, the man stepped out from behind the bush. He was dust-covered, like a man who had spent several hours on the trail, and the redness of his face confirmed that he had been a long time in the sun. He was a thickset man in well-worn range clothes. The fabric of his stained grey Stetson had been softened by exposure to too many storms and its brim now drooped where it should have formed channels to drain away rainwater. The pocket of his blue shirt was ripped and his black trousers were tucked into scuffed brown boots. He had thick eyebrows over small, dark eyes, and when he spoke his thick lips seemed to curl in a habitual sneer, forming his features into a testament of cruelty.

  ‘If you make me shoot again I’ll blast you clean out of the saddle.’

  The voice was rough and the words heavy with threat, but heeding them wasn’t Charlie Jefferson first priority. The unexpected first shot had seared his upper left arm which, in addition to inducing a yell of pain, threw a spurt of dark blood into the air and, under him, the combined noises of his shout and the nearby gunshot caused the young horse to skitter, so that it twisted and hopped as it struggled to escape the restraint that Charlie was trying to impose. A shortened rein caused the red gelding to rear high, almost unseating Charlie, but when once more it had all four feet on the ground it accepted his control although not without a series of snuffles and nervous shivers.

  The ambusher spoke again. ‘Get down,’ he ordered, jiggling his gun to emphasize the command. ‘I’m taking your horse.’

  Although reluctant to dismount, Charlie paused for only a second. The perils for a stranger cast afoot in this barren territory were obvious but the alternative was sure death. The hammer on the gunman’s pistol was pulled fully back and the scowl on his face made it clear that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger to get what he wanted. But, Charlie figured, if killing him had been the gunman’s main intention then he would already have done so, so he swung his leg over the horse’s back and stepped down, wincing slightly as he gripped the saddle horn.

  The man stepped forward, grabbed the gelding’s lead rein with his left hand, looped it around his wrist, then pulled the horse towards him. At the same time he motioned with his pistol for Charlie to move further away. When they were about twenty feet apart, he issued another command.

  ‘Carefully,’ he told Charlie, ‘unfasten your gunbelt.’

  Devoid of any feasible alternative, Charlie obeyed. Under the gunman’s guidance, he unbuckled the belt with his left hand, the discomfort of the wound ensuring his inability to make any quick, threatening movement. He held the belt by the buckle and when told to do so, threw it to the ground at his captor’s feet.

  Holding the pistol steady, its barrel pointed unwaveringly at Charlie’s chest, the gunman bent his knees and gathered up the belt and holstered weapon. His dark eyes were fixed on Charlie, dull but watchful, almost as though he was the one being threatened and not the one with the advantage. Then, unexpectedly, he tossed away the pistol he was holding and began removing Charlie’s Colt from its holster.

  In that moment, Charlie knew he was about to be killed. The glint of murder flashed in the man’s eyes. It was instantly clear to Charlie that the only reason he was not already dead was because the shot that had wounded him had been the man’s last bullet. A glance at the man’s waist confirmed that the loops of his cartridge belt were empty. Automatically, Charlie prepared to launch himself at his assailant, every muscle in his body tightened, but in the same instant that his instinct dictated an attack, his brain told him he had no hope of success. By the time he had covered the ground between them, the gun would be clear of leather and on this occasion the man would not fail to kill him.

  Then fate took an unexpected hand. So anxious had the man been to replace his empty weapon with Charlie’s loaded Colt that he had discarded it with a snarl of contempt. It looped over his shoulder and struck the rump of the red gelding whose lead rein was still wrapped around his left wrist. The nervy animal snorted and reared, swinging in front of the gunman, jerking him off balance and forming a barricade between him and Charlie. The man cursed as he staggered then yelled at the horse in the hope that it would remain still long enough for him to get a shot at Charlie Jefferson, but by the time a chance offered itself Charlie had disappeared.

  Charlie Jefferson wasn’t a coward but nor was he reckless with his life. He knew that the current mêlée caused by the skittered horse presented him with an opportunity to attack his ambusher, but the chances of success were not in his favour. While he remained an open target, his adversary needed only a moment to drill him with a bullet from his own gun. He would never regain possession of his horse and gun if he was dead. Instantly, he dashed towards the high boulders that edged the trail. Diving behind the nearest he found himself rolling into a long, narrow gully that seemed to run almost parallel with the road he had been following. At a stooped run, almost on hands and knees, he hurried along, hoping his manoeuvre would confuse the other man and that, unobserved, he would get behind him.

  To his left Charlie could hear the sound of the man’s struggle to control the still anxious animal. He paused a moment before raising his head above the edge of the gully. He was dismayed to find that his strategy had not rewarded him with any advantage. He had got himself into a position behind his enemy but the gap between them was, if anything, greater and the possibility of successfully rushing the man was even more remote.

  The man had one foot in a stirrup, and although he still held the Colt in his hand Charlie had the impression he was content enough to have captured the horse, which provided the means for him to escape from this isolated place. With a string of angry words he swung into the saddle, the red gelding turning in its own length as he did so. As it turned the man caught sight of Charlie and instinctively threw a shot in his direction. A chunk of stone flew off a nearby boulder, causing Charlie to seek refuge again.

  Keeping low, Charlie scrabbled along the gully expecting more bullets to be fired in his direction, but nothing came. The sound of hoofbeats reached him but they were not coming closer. When he risked another look, man and horse were a quarter of a mile away and very quickly extending that distance. Charlie stood and, gripped by a cold anger, he watched until they had disappeared from sight. He found the discarded, empty weapon and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. He vowed to himself that it would be loaded when he caught up with the man who had robbed him and left him afoot on the vast prairie.

  Unless the wound he’d received became infected and poisoned his system, Charlie knew that it was not fatal. Using his teeth and right hand he managed to wrap his neckerchief around his upper left arm and tie it tight in an attempt to stanch the loss of blood. Then he surveyed the Texas territory in which he had been marooned. It spread around him like an endless, flat carpet, but that was an illusion. This was an area of sudden troughs and surprising ridges, scrubland that was little better than a desert of dust and stones adorned here and there with scattered tufts of tough grass and tall cacti. Until the end of the war scrawny cattle had roamed free here, and Charlie remembered that, three years earlier, he and the Willis brothers had hoped to raise money by chasing some of those beasts down to the Arkansas timberland where beefsteaks were as rare as gold nuggets. But the brothers had been killed by a band of Southern bushwhackers who were still fighting the war three months after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. Those killings led to Charlie becoming a government agent and working secretly to destroy Rebel gangs in Arkansas, Missouri and Texas.

  The danger involved in that work and the success he had achieved had earned him several bounties, enough money to fulfil the promise he’d made to Ruth Prescott the day he’d left his Wyoming home to fight in the war. Still little more than a youth, he and Ruth’s brother, Amos, had headed east to enlist in the Union army, firm in the belief that the fighting would not last mo
re than a few weeks. Seven years had passed since that day, years that had taken Amos’s life and altered Charlie in many ways, but he remained true to his pledge to return to the valley of the Tatanka. There he would marry Ruth and build a ranch where they would raise the best beef cattle in the territory.

  The bounty money he’d earned was in the form of four government indemnity bonds, and he’d hidden those bonds under the cloth lining of his saddle. It was an old, uncomfortable saddle, too unattractive for anyone to show interest in it or attempt to steal it. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for his horse, although if he’d been mounted on a jackass this day his unknown assailant would have taken it. So, despite the circumstances in which he found himself, Charlie’s sole purpose as he set off across the inhospitable terrain was to regain his horse and money.

  The three years he’d spent in the Union army meant that he was no stranger to walking. He’d marched for hundreds of miles so the task before him wasn’t immediately daunting, but he soon realized that high-heeled riding boots were unsuitable footwear for the journey. More than once he stumbled when he trod on loose rocks but all he could do was curse at his clumsiness and press on. The sun was high over his left shoulder, hot on his back despite his calico shirt. He scanned all around as he walked; he knew that since the war determined men had proclaimed ownership of vast tracts of this land and had seared their brand on every maverick they caught. Perhaps one of those men would be in this vicinity.

  From the crest of each high point Charlie could see the swath cut by the red gelding’s flight, but in the unchanging landscape it was difficult to assess how much ground he’d covered; he guessed it had been more than five miles. Then he became aware of the birds in the sky. Vultures were circling and swooping. At the top of the next rise he paused and studied them. About half a mile away several were gathered on the ground, feasting on a large, black form. Charlie guessed it was the thief’s horse. The trail he was following led in that direction but he could see where, beyond the carcass, it swerved away to the left, which meant he could bypass the feeding scavengers and find the tracks again further south. He didn’t like vultures and he didn’t want to attract their attention. The thought of having them following him didn’t sit easily in his mind.

  An hour later, footsore, dry-mouthed and damp with sweat, Charlie found himself on the lip of a deeper trough, a gulch through which, to his delight, ran a narrow stream. It was shallow, barely sufficient to cover the stones on the bed, but Charlie was able to refresh himself before resting awhile in the shade provided by the sheer, high bank. When he continued his trek he followed the course of the stream, figuring that as water was essential to support life it would be the surest way of finding a settlement.

  The smell of smoke reached him less than an hour later. As he rounded a bend in the gulch he saw a low wooden building with a metal stovepipe sticking out of the roof. The smoke he could smell was climbing out of it into the sky. Beyond that first structure were two ramshackle outbuildings and at the side a dozen horses grazed within a well-constructed corral. Charlie blew out his cheeks with relief. If he could strike a quick bargain with the owner of those horses he might eat up a bit more of the thief’s trail before nightfall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Young Dave Champion caught sight of the movement along the gulch and thought it would be one of the white-tailed deer that sometimes drank there. He shifted his position on the top rail of the corral so that his back was wedged against the gatepost, then he blew once more into the high-pitched whistle, stopping and replaying a sequence when he made a mistake. When his gaze returned to the distant figure along the gulch he took the whistle from his lips and dropped to the ground. After one more look to confirm what he’d seen he hurried across to the house.

  ‘Pa,’ he said, ‘someone’s coming.’ When that announcement didn’t get a response he added, ‘On foot.’

  A few moments late, his father emerged from the building and side by side they observed the approaching stranger. Without comment they watched as the man made a detour to the corral, and they exchanged only swift looks of curiosity when the dust-covered pilgrim stepped on to the bottom rail to get a good look at the animals in the enclosure. When that inspection was concluded, they waited motionless until the man stood before them.

  ‘My horse was stolen,’ Charlie Jefferson said, ‘a big red gelding. Have you seen it?’

  ‘You’re the first person we’ve seen today,’ Dave’s father told him. ‘When were you robbed?’

  ‘Four, perhaps five hours ago.’ Charlie looked over his shoulder. ‘Must have covered fifteen miles,’ he announced, ‘perhaps more.’

  ‘Better come inside,’ Mr Champion said, ‘I’ll take a look at that arm and fix you some food.’

  ‘I just want a horse and ammunition,’ Charlie stated, ‘and I’ll pick up his trail again while there’s still some daylight.’

  The man indicated Charlie’s left sleeve. ‘You won’t get anywhere if you don’t get some repairs.’

  Charlie knew the man was talking sense, was offering the sort of advice he would give to someone else in similar circumstances, but he was anxious to pursue his assailant. Not only had the man robbed him of his horse, weapons and money but without warning he had tried to kill him, then had left him to perish on the prairie. Charlie would not let those actions go unpunished.

  But for now Mr Champion was ushering Charlie into the low building and telling his son to heat some water with which to bathe the wound. There was little fresh blood now but, once the dried blood had been washed away, the open wound looked like a livid knife gash, as though some Shylock had begun taking his pound of flesh an ounce at a time. Champion packed the wound with a handful of flour before tying a patch of clean linen over it. On the battlefield Charlie had known medics use gunpowder in similar fashion to stanch blood loss. Sometimes it worked but sometimes it simply delayed the need for stitches.

  Over a meal of stew and coffee, the man introduced himself as John Champion, superintendent of this relay station along the San Antonio - Santa Fe mail line. He and his son had lived out here for two years. It struck Charlie that this was an isolated spot for the lad, who was probably no more than fourteen years old, and he wasn’t surprised when, after bringing him one of his father’s shirts, young Davie loitered close at hand as though the presence of another human who wasn’t just stepping out of a coach for a mug of coffee, was an exciting event.

  Charlie gave an account of the ambush, describing the place where it happened and a description of his attacker. John Champion named the spot as Cleary’s Canyon, but could offer no information that might identity the bushwhacker. In response to Charlie’s query, he told him that Mortimer was the nearest settlement west of the relay station, a journey of twenty miles.

  ‘It isn’t much of a place,’ John said. ‘A gathering of old buildings that look like they’ll collapse when the next tornado blows through, but the town councillors are determined to develop the place and make it an important town in Texas.’

  ‘If my horse’s tracks lead there, I’ll find it,’ declared Charlie. The tone of his voice left John Champion in no doubt that Charlie Jefferson was determined to seek vengeance. ‘How much do you want for one of your horses?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘They aren’t mine to sell,’ John Champion told him. ‘There’s a stage through here tomorrow that’ll take you to Mortimer. The driver will let you sit up top with him for free.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘That’s no good. I don’t know for sure that the man I’m after was making for Mortimer. I need to pick up his trail tonight.’ He explained how he’d quit following the tracks when he’d found the gulch, figuring he was more likely to find a settlement by following the water course than by wandering aimlessly across the prairie.

  John Champion acknowledged the wisdom of that course of action; staying near water provided a better chance of survival, and Charlie’s reaching this relay station had proved it, but he didn’t agree that it was necessary to go hell for leather in pursuit of his assailant. If the tracks Charlie Jefferson had followed were heading west then his quarry’s destination was almost certainly Mortimer; there was no other town for fifty miles around.