Reuben's Revenge Read online

  Holding the rifle hip high, Reuben started to walk towards the hidden bushwhacker, ready to shoot if the need arose. He figured the distance was still over two hundred yards to where he’d seen the reflected flashes, still too far to be certain of a hit, let alone a fatal one.

  Slowly but surely, Reuben walked forwards expecting a shot to head his way at any moment. The silence was ominous, almost deafening. Who the hell was trying to kill him, and why?

  No shots came.

  He was around one hundred fifty yards away now and Reuben knew for sure that if he saw his quarry he could hit it.

  Crouching slightly to present a smaller target of himself, he thought he heard movement. Reuben stopped. Ears straining to catch the slightest noise.

  Ahead, a patch of tall grass with cactus fighting for space would be a good hiding place for the bushwhacker.

  And so it proved.

  From behind a giant Saguaro, a figure appeared, rifle aimed.

  Reuben didn’t hesitate. Firing from the hip, he loosed two quick shots. Both found their target as the man was thrown backwards into the tall grass.

  Cocking the Winchester once more, Reuben kicked his way through the grass and stood staring at the body of yet another man he had never seen before. The man wasn’t dead – yet.

  Reuben could see that one slug had gut shot him, the other high up near the right shoulder. The bushwhacker’s eyes were glazed. Blood seeped from one corner of his mouth and his trail coat was soaked.

  ‘Why’d you try to kill me, man?’ Reuben asked, bending low.

  The man spit blood, but didn’t answer. His left hand was searching the ground in a futile attempt to find his rifle.

  ‘Ain’t no use you groping around, fella. You’re as good as dead,’ Reuben said without emotion.

  The man coughed, wincing in pain as more blood spewed from his mouth. His breath was coming in short pants until they slowed and finally stopped.

  ‘Damn you to hell, fella!’ Reuben almost shouted. For the third time in a little over twenty-four hours, Reuben was searching a dead man’s pockets for any clue as to his identity. Once again, there was nothing. It certainly wasn’t Clarke or Adams, of that he was certain.

  ‘Guess I’ll never know the who or the why now,’ Reuben said, then whistled for his horse.

  The animal stopped grazing and raised its head, looking in Reuben’s direction. It seemed to sigh, not liking the interruption, and began to walk lazily towards Reuben. There was no way it was going to rush.

  As soon as he saw it move, Reuben knew the animal was sulking, so he whistled again.

  The horse totally ignored him and continued to walk, taking its own sweet time.

  ‘Ornery cuss,’ Reuben mouthed and started to head towards the horse, in boots that were not made for walking.

  Chapter Four

  Frank and Jesse James were playing poker with Jim and Bob Younger, Clell Miller and Charlie Pitts at an inn three miles outside Northfield. The inn was a popular haunt as it was at the junction of two trails; one north-south, the other east-west, so a lot of trading was done there.

  The James gang had already gone through one bottle of imported whisky – not for them the cheap rotgut that could take the varnish off furniture! But Frank and Jesse would not let the gang get drunk and maybe shoot their mouths off or, worse, their guns.

  The idea was not to draw attention to themselves, and although Charlie Pitts complained bitterly, one look from Jesse and he shut up. He’d seen that look before.

  ‘How long you reckon afore Cole and Bill get here?’ Clell asked, lighting a cigar.

  ‘Reckon it’ll be sunset at the earliest,’ Frank surmised. ‘As long as they don’t cause no suspicion.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope Bill was right about the First National, I’ll sure be a tad ruffled if it all comes to nought!’ Jesse said, sipping the last of his whisky. ‘We need the cash, then maybe, we can head south for the winter, get out of this cold. Maybe as far as Californy, I hear it’s pretty warm in those parts.’

  ‘We’ve known Bill for a while now, I respect his judgement,’ Frank said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Jesse added. ‘If Bill is satisfied with the set-up, we’ll move in. If not, well, I’ll worry about that when and if it happens.’

  Frank stood and walked to the bar, Charlie Pitts licked his lips, thinking another bottle was coming.

  ‘Coffee, lots of it,’ Frank ordered and returned to his seat.

  Charlie Pitts was a disappointed man.

  Reuben grabbed the reins of his horse and hauled himself aboard.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ he said to his horse. ‘As if I ain’t had enough trouble today without you sulking out on me.’

  The horse merely snorted. If Reuben didn’t know better, he would have thought it was a snort of contempt! In fact, the more he thought about it the more he was convinced that was exactly what it was.

  ‘You’re too damn smart for your own good, boy,’ he said, and rubbed the animal’s neck. Pulling on the reins, he wheeled the horse around and set off for Northfield. ‘Let’s see if we can have an uninterrupted journey for a change.’

  Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks he said, ‘About time you had a good gallop, boy. Get some of that feistiness outa your system.’

  The warmth of the late afternoon sun made a pleasant change from the previous few days of strong winds and rain. There was still a chill in the air and, pretty soon, Reuben knew the snow would start, heralding winter’s arrival. Travel would be all but impossible except for the seasoned trappers, the hard men of the West. It would take an earthquake or hurricane to stop them.

  After thirty minutes of hard riding, Reuben slowed his horse down to a canter. He reckoned he’d covered a good ten to fifteen uneventful miles – at least no one had taken a shot at him. Reuben smiled, relieved, but he didn’t let his guard down. He still checked his back trail and scanned the territory, looking for any sign that might spell trouble.

  It was late afternoon, and to the west the sun was sinking ever lower and the temperature began to fall dramatically. The breeze started to gust into a wind and tumbleweed began to roll, forever searching for a place to rest and germinate again.

  In a matter of minutes, the sun disappeared behind the distant horizon and darkness fell. Although there was a full moon, the black clouds scudding across the sky almost obliterated any light it might have shed.

  Reuben let the horse have its head, trusting it to be sure-footed. The last thing he needed was a lame horse.

  Reuben realized he wouldn’t reach Northfield tonight, so instead steered to Rochester, about fifty miles south of Northfield; if he left at first light, he’d reach Northfield by mid-morning easily.

  Tired, hungry and cold, even his horse seemed to brighten up, snorting and flicking his head, he appeared to prance across the plain.

  ‘You can smell it, can’t you, boy,’ Reuben said, patting the animal’s neck.

  The horse snorted again, nodding his head up and down in answer.

  Without being prompted, the horse picked up its pace. Not quite a full-on gallop, but not far off.

  ‘Easy, boy. Better to get there safely, then you can have all the barley and water you want.’

  Chisholm reached the outskirts of Rochester at six o’clock in the evening. The town’s street lights didn’t start for another two hundred or so yards, so he assumed this part of town was the lower end.

  The assorted shacks were unkempt, with no yards, back or front, rubbish scattered everywhere. It looked that no one cared about anything.

  Reaching the start of the street lights, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

  There was no trash littering the main drag, it even looked as if the street had been raked smooth. The houses were neat and tidy with small, white, picket-fenced yards to the front and rear. The boardwalks outside the various businesses were spotless. The contrast was amazing.

  Up ahead, Reuben could hear the tinkling of a piano from one of
the saloons and the soft, melodious voice of what, Reuben thought, must be an angel singing.

  He couldn’t help but smile and felt a surge of peacefulness pass through him for the first time since. . . .

  He tried hard not to think back to the time he’d lost his wife, and imagined her raped and murdered. Reuben shook his head as if to dispel the thoughts that were building up in his head.

  But he couldn’t stop them.

  He rode on till he found the livery. The old-timer in charge looked up from the newspaper he was reading as Reuben dismounted.

  ‘Howdy, stranger,’ the old man said.

  ‘Howdy to you, too,’ Reuben replied. ‘Needs a rub down and some food and water for the night. You got room?’

  The old-timer took in Reuben’s appearance, noting the low-slung side iron on his right thigh set for a cross draw, the steely, blue eyes set either side of an aquiline nose over a firm, square jaw and the muscular frame of a man who could sure take care of himself – with fists or gunplay.

  ‘Just the one night?’ the ostler asked.

  ‘Yep, heading out at first light,’ Reuben replied.

  ‘Heading north?’

  ‘You seem mighty interested in my arrangements, old-timer,’ Reuben said.

  ‘Nah, just conversation, I’m naturally nosey.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘Sam. And yours?’

  ‘Reuben.’

  ‘Well, Reuben, I’ll take real good care of your hoss, he’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug. It’ll be two dollars for the stall, grooming and feed.’

  Reuben gave the old man three dollars. ‘You take extra care of him, OK?’

  ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, Reuben.’

  ‘Recommend a rooming-house?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘Sure. Three blocks down, first on the left. Mrs Brown’ll take care of ya, and her cooking’s the finest you’ll ever taste.’

  ‘’Preciate it, see you at first light.’ Reuben tipped his Stetson and grabbed his saddlebags and headed off.

  Being a bounty hunter, Reuben didn’t spend much time in towns. All he ever did was bring fugitives in, leave his bank details, and leave. He found that he had an aversion to too many people being around.

  The night air was cool, a fresh breeze was blowing off the prairie to the south and it felt bracing after the mugginess of the day. What he needed now was a shave, haircut and bath, followed by a bellyful of food and then, maybe a few beers.

  The red, white and blue barber’s pole beckoned, and Reuben entered.

  ‘Howdy, mister,’ the barber put down the paper he was reading. ‘What’ll it be? But by the look of you, you need the full treatment,’ he said and laughed.

  ‘Sure do, and a hot tub,’ Reuben replied, taking off his Stetson and placing his saddlebags on the floor by the barber chair.

  His hair cut and face shaved, he looked and felt like a new man.

  ‘Now to get outta these trail-dust clothes,’ Reuben said as the barber showed him the back of his head in a small, hand-held mirror.

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  Reuben studied the reflection and nodded: ‘Sure looks fine to me,’ he said.

  ‘Tub’ll be ten minutes, there’s a newspaper there while you wait.’ The barber went into a back room.

  Reuben picked up the paper, the Post-Bulletin, and flicked through the four pages. His attention was caught by a small article on the front page.

  Unconfirmed reports are coming in. Eyewitnesses say they saw the James-Younger gang heading north, probably heading towards Northfield.

  As mentioned, these reports are not confirmed but the Post-Bulletin will keep you informed.

  And that was it. A short six lines, concerning the most notorious gang in America. Even the millinery store had more words describing its winter sale! Reuben flicked through the pages again in case he’d missed something, but there was no further news of any interest.

  ‘Tub’s ready,’ the barber called out, and Reuben grabbed his saddlebags, eager to get washed and changed, his stomach rumbling in protest with the need for some grub and a cool beer or two.

  Reuben luxuriated in the tub for a tad longer than he needed, but felt his muscles relax in the warm water and he sure smelled a lot better!

  Drying himself off, he changed into clean clothes – throwing his trail-dusty clothes away; he’d buy more later. Feeling like a new man, he paid the barber, grabbed his saddlebags and headed to Mrs Brown’s boarding-house.

  She was a small, plump woman, mid-fifties, Reuben guessed, but she had a twinkle in her large, brown eyes and he could tell she’d been a beauty when she was younger.

  ‘Howdy, ma’am, was told by Sam you might have a room available,’ Reuben said.

  She eyed him from top to toe before answering the tall, dark-haired stranger. He seemed to pass muster, as she smiled sweetly, showing white, even teeth and the sparkle in her eyes seemed to grow brighter.

  ‘Sure have, mister,’ she replied, opening the door wider to let him in.

  As he passed, she straightened her dress and patted her hair and said: ‘I’m Mrs Brown, but you can call me Molly.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Molly. I’m Reuben Chisholm, please call me Reuben.’

  ‘Are you staying long?’ she enquired.

  ‘One night, maybe two at the most,’ Reuben replied.

  The look of disappointment on Molly’s face was far too obvious. She pulled her smile back and became more businesslike.

  ‘Room’s two dollars a night, includes supper, and I got fresh beef, taters, greens, gravy and biscuits, if’n you’re a mind to it.’

  ‘Ma’am – Molly, that sounds like a fine feast, I ain’t eaten in a while,’ Reuben said and removed his Stetson.

  ‘I’ll show you your room, supper’ll be ready in thirty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be right ready,’ Reuben said with a grin.

  Reuben entered the small but comfortable-looking room.

  To his left was a large window that looked out over Main Street. Immediately in front of him was the bed with an eiderdown and two large pillows.

  ‘Sure beats sleeping rough,’ Reuben said aloud as he hung his saddlebags on the bed post and surveyed the rest of the room.

  A chest of drawers stood against the far wall and a pitcher, bowl, towel – even a bar of soap – was arranged neatly on top.

  Reuben’s sense of well-being was rudely shaken as the large glass window exploded, sending shards of jagged glass all over the room. Instinctively, Reuben dropped to the floor, his Colt already drawn.

  He heard the dull thud as the slug punched a hole in the far wall.

  Molly burst into the room: ‘What on earth. . . .’ but she stopped speaking as she saw the shattered window and Reuben lying prone on the floor.

  ‘Get back,’ Reuben shouted, ‘there’s a shooter out there.’

  Molly ducked back out of the room but stood in the doorway.

  Another shot thudded into the far wall, narrowly missing the pitcher and bowl.

  ‘I’m going for the sheriff,’ Molly said.

  ‘Wait, is there another room that faces Main?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘Across the hall here,’ Molly replied.

  ‘I’m gonna see if I can get a bead on the shooter,’ Reuben said, and began to edge backwards towards the door.

  ‘Leave by the back door,’ Reuben said, ‘don’t want you shot by mistake.’

  Reuben watched Molly until she reached the end of the hallway and descended the stairs. He then quietly opened the door to the room opposite his and took a step inside.

  Another large window stood to his right, the room was a mirror image of his own. Keeping low, he walked to the side of the window and took a quick look at Main Street.

  It was, as he expected, deserted. He could see movement in one of the stores opposite the boarding-house, but Reuben knew, from the angle the bullets had entered his room, that the shooter was on a rooftop somewhere. He wasn’t shootin
g up into the room but level with it.

  The question was, where was he now? It was answered as another shot was fired into Reuben’s room.

  Reuben caught sight of a hat and a rifle for the briefest of moments, but at least it gave him something to aim at. Slowly, he raised the window, just six inches, and rested the barrel of the Colt on the windowsill.

  Reuben aimed for the façade just below where he’d seen the hat, knowing that the slug would easily penetrate the thin clapboard. His right index finger caressed the trigger slowly, feeling the tension in the mechanism until the hammer fell and the slug erupted from the muzzle.

  The explosion from the gun was highlighted by the silence of the street and, as the black powder smoke cleared, Reuben heard a yelp of pain from across the street.

  As Reuben stood, he felt a sharp prod in his back. ‘Hold it right there, mister,’ a voice ordered. ‘Lose that weapon and raise ’em high,’ the voice went on.

  ‘You got it all wrong, Sheriff—’ Reuben began.

  ‘I ain’t no sheriff,’ the voice came, gruff and thick. Reuben could feel the hatred emanating from the man behind him.

  ‘Then who the hell are you?’ Reuben demanded.

  ‘All in good time,’ the man replied.

  That was the last thing Reuben heard. The last thing he felt was a sharp blow to the back of his head. Then blackness engulfed him.

  Chapter Five

  Opening one eye, all Reuben could see was darkness. His head thundered, and he winced at the pain. He soon discovered his hands and feet were bound tightly and it was almost impossible to move.

  Who the hell were these people? He knew there must be more than one as they’d carted his body from the rooming-house to wherever he was now.

  And what happened to the sheriff?

  Dragging himself back to consciousness, Reuben turned onto his side. It took him a few minutes to remember what had happened. He tried to stand, but his hands and feet were becoming numb as the tight ropes slowed the blood flow.