Hellraiser! Read online

  Hellraiser!

  After his last indiscretion, Bass sends Josh Ford to Texas. Let him be someone else’s headache for a while. The marshal there is an old friend and welcomes the badge-toting hellraiser with open arms and a whole wagonload of trouble.

  Then word comes that Bass is missing and Ford swears he’ll walk through the fires of Hell itself to find out what has happened to his father.

  In the end, he does just that. Shoulder to shoulder with a marshal called Willis and a fast gun named Laramie Davis.

  By the same author

  Valley of Thunder

  Even Marshals Hang!

  The Man Who Burned Hell!

  Writing as B.S. Dunn

  Fury at Bent Fork

  Brolin

  Brothers of the Gun

  Writing as Brent Towns

  Lightning Strike!

  The Other Madden

  Hellraiser!

  Sam Clancy

  ROBERT HALE

  © Sam Clancy 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2917-8

  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 Sam Clancy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This one is for Sam and Jacob,

  and the old feller,

  Michael Hickmotte Towns

  Prologue

  ‘Howdy, Mr Kemp,’ the storekeeper said to a tall, grey-haired man in a black suit. ‘Sure is a nice morning, ain’t it?’

  Oliver Kemp stopped and smiled at the man speaking to him, standing there with the straw broom he was using to sweep down the boardwalk out front of his dry goods store. ‘Why yes, it is, Mr Green. Yes, it is.’

  Beside Kemp stood another man, one who was younger, broader, and had a dark beard. Lacey Harper was Kemp’s hired help, though technically, gunman was a more accurate job description for him. Being a wealthy man, Kemp believed that he needed one.

  ‘Not long until the mayoral elections, Mr Kemp. Are you still going to run against Tobias?’

  The smile never left Kemp’s face. ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  ‘That’ll be good. You’ll get my vote, for sure.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Green,’ Kemp said, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a shiny, silver pocket-watch. He opened it, studied the time and said, ‘Well, Mr Green, I must be off. Breakfast awaits.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Kemp. I’ll be seeing you later?’

  ‘For our chess game?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll see you at half-two.’

  ‘I’ll see you then. I look forward to it.’

  The two men kept on. They walked past the bank, the jail, the telegraph office, saddlery, and two saloons until they reached the edge of town where the main street branched. One angled off to the right, which would take whoever travelled it, to the next town. The other continued straight up a hill towards a large, two-storey, white mansion: Kemp’s home.

  Showing no sign of exertion, they walked up the steep rise and through an archway of flowering wisteria in the centre of the white picket fence, along a path, up a sturdy set of steps, and across a broad veranda to a large oak door.

  After entering the foyer, they removed their hats and hung them on a stand beside a wide staircase that curved grandly to the second floor. It resembled a New York hotel more than a home.

  From a door to their right, a thin-faced man in a black suit emerged. He stopped in front of Kemp and said, ‘Welcome home, sir. Can I get you anything?’

  Kemp shook his head and gave his coat to the man. ‘No, thank you, Tennison. How is our visitor? I hope you’ve looked after him this morning.’

  Tennison’s face dropped. ‘I’m afraid he’s been quite uncooperative this morning, sir.’

  ‘Hmm, I’ll go and have a word with him. See if I can change his mood. That will be all, Tennison.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  After the butler had disappeared, Kemp turned to Harper. ‘Let’s go and see what the problem is this time.’

  They crossed the foyer and stopped at a solid timber door. Harper opened it and Kemp entered, making his way down the stairs into a dark cavern, dimly lit by a single lamp. When the house on the hill was built, the subterranean room had been excavated, then lined with rock. It gave off a cold, unwelcome feeling.

  They stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared across the gloomy room. ‘What seems to be the problem today? The rats eating your food?’

  A chained man snarled. ‘Let me loose, you damned son of a bitch and I’ll damned well eat you.’

  ‘Oh, dear, we have woken up in a bad mood this morning.’

  The man’s greying hair was messy and unkempt, his face showing weeks of growth the same colour as the mustache. His clothes were filthy, and he stank of unwashed body, the smell surpassed only by the rank stench of the bucket of excrement in the corner.

  The man lurched forward, dragging the thick chain with him until it snapped taut. ‘Damn you to hell, Kemp. You know what I’m looking at? Huh, do you?’

  Kemp sighed. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘A dead man. You hear me? A dead man. When my son finds out, he’ll hunt me down and fill you with so much lead it’ll take ten men to carry your pine box!’

  Kemp smiled. ‘Oh, I hope so, Marshal. I truly hope so. You see, Josh Ford will be an integral part of my plan.’

  Part 1

  Kill One Dent, Kill Them All!

  Chapter 1

  Ford hated Texas. Not the state itself, that was OK. But the fact that it was overrun with so many outlaws from both sides of the border. Desperados who killed for money or just for the hell of it.

  Since being banished to the Lone Star State for his last indiscretion in a small town known as Hell, Ford had locked up or killed no fewer than seven wanted felons. And that was just in the space of three weeks. His temporary boss at the time didn’t mind, though. United States Marshal Walton Grimes thought Ford was the best thing that had happened to Texas since joining the Union.

  The black-clad deputy now rode into the small town of Crofton, on the trail of Manuel Ortega. It was rumoured that the Mexican fast-gun was here after he’d killed a wealthy rancher further east near San Antonio two months earlier.

  United States Deputy Marshal Josh Ford usually stomped around Montana, Colorado or Wyoming bringing lawbreakers to book. Up there he was well known as a hard, do-what-it-takes peace officer. Down here in Texas they quickly learned how he operated.

  He stood a touch over six feet tall and was solidly built. He had dark hair, and a week’s growth of stubble adorned his face.

  The mean-tempered blue roan that Ford rode sent up small puffs of fine Texas dust with every step as it walked along the main street. Even the deputy’s clothes were covered in the stuff. At his right thigh was a Colt Peacemaker .45. In the saddle scabbard was a Winchester .45-.70, another weapon he was quite proficient with.

  The stree
t was busy with the afternoon rush of townsfolk going about their last-minute business. The hot Texas sun lost some of its heat as it sank lower in the western sky, shadows lengthening as it went.

  The roan snorted, and Ford said in a quiet voice, ‘I see him.’

  To their right, out the front of a false-fronted building with the word ‘Bo’s’ emblazoned on it, was a scruffy man dressed in worn range clothes, twin six-guns in a double gun-rig, and high leather boots.

  Ford racked his brain until he recalled a name. Henry Bolton. ‘The Bolt’, or ‘Lightning Bolt’ as he liked to call himself. He was a tenth-rate hired gun out of Colorado, with paper on his head. The deputy made a mental note to look up Bolton after he’d dealt with Ortega.

  The roan continued past a small mercantile, a saddlery, a lands office, and a dozen other businesses that lined the street. Ford also noted the three large, false-fronted saloons. One was named the Prairie Rose, another the Desert Springs, and the third was called simply Gutshot.

  A grim smile came to Ford’s face: ‘Nice!’

  It was not until Ford had ridden another twenty yards along the street that he understood why Grimes had sent him. The town was a nest of rattlers. For in that twenty yards he saw another three outlaws and two more gunmen.

  Ford shook his head as he realized that his task seemed almost insurmountable, and considered what it entailed. ‘That cunning old goat knew what he was doing. Now a feller knows why he was smiling like a cat who ate the chicken when I rode out.’

  A hot wind blew along the street, kicking up dust as it went. The roan snorted again, this time in protest as the grit hit its face.

  Ford nodded. ‘Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got more dust inside my shirt than I have on the outside.’

  A little further along the street, Ford found the jail. It was a small, false-fronted affair with plank walls and a large front window, which enabled the local sheriff to see outside from his desk. With the roan tied at the hitch rail, Ford stomped up the steps and swatted dust from his clothes. He crossed the uneven plank boardwalk and entered the office through a timber door.

  Ford found the local sheriff at his desk with his feet up on its scarred surface. Unsure at first, his instincts told him that the man was asleep.

  He was right. The man snorted and then squirmed to make himself more comfortable in his chair. Ford raised his Winchester and brought the butt down firmly on the desktop. The noise startled the slumbering man and brought him lurching to his feet.

  ‘Glory be. What on earth?’

  ‘Are you what passes for law in this town?’

  The sheriff blinked to clear his blurred vision. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘The name’s Ford, Deputy United States Marshal. Who are you?’

  ‘Fletcher. Sheriff Ike Fletcher.’

  ‘Not one for doing your job, are you?’

  Fletcher frowned. ‘Huh?’

  ‘When I rode into Crofton, I saw four wanted men and two hired guns. Add to that the supposed fact that Manuel Ortega is in town. So tell me, what is it you actually do around here?’

  Fletcher just stared at him.

  Ford’s voice hardened. ‘Let me ask you this. Why are you still sheriff if you can’t do your job?’

  Again there was only a stunned silence.

  Finally, Ford ran out of patience. ‘Take off the badge.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, take off the blasted badge. Are you hard of hearing?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘ ’Cause you just retired.’

  ‘Mr Bartlett. . . .’ Fletcher stopped and then said, ‘You can’t do this. You got no right.’

  Ford pointed the Winchester at the centre of Fletcher’s face and thumbed back the hammer. ‘This gives me all the right I need. Now take off the God-damned badge.’

  Fletcher hesitated a moment before removing the badge, and threw it on to the desk top with a clunk. He then gave Ford a cold look. ‘Mr Bartlett won’t like this.’

  Ford shot him a cold smile. ‘You tell Mr Bartlett that if he has a problem, to come and see me. Now, get out of my sight.’

  Ford watched him go, and then looked around the jail. On the far wall he saw a gun-rack with a cut-down shotgun and two Winchesters. On a peg near a door that led out the back were the keys to the cells.

  It wasn’t long before Ford had a visit from the man named Bartlett. He was a round man in a suit and a put-upon disposition. When he entered the jail he looked Ford up and down and snapped, ‘Who do you think you are, coming in and taking over?’

  Ford sighed. ‘I take it that you’re Bartlett?’

  Bartlett nodded. ‘I am. And this is my town. There is law here already. We don’t need you.’

  Ford was about to speak when another man entered the jail. He wore dark pants with silver trims, a red shirt and a large sombrero. His face was a walnut-brown colour and sported a large black moustache. It had to be Manuel Ortega.

  ‘I wasn’t sent here to be no local law. I came here with a job to do. It just so happens that when I arrived I saw how lacking law actually was.’

  ‘Then you do your job and ride on.’

  ‘I aim to do just that. After I do what needs to be done.’

  Bartlett nodded. ‘Good. I believe we understand each other.’

  Ford ran his gaze over Ortega. The gunfighter had a presence about him, sure, but it wasn’t anything the deputy marshal hadn’t seen before. The Mexican noticed and smiled coldly at him.

  ‘We’ll be going then.’

  ‘You can. But your man, Ortega there, ain’t going anywhere.’

  The gunfighter was suddenly poised. ‘What you say, gringo?’

  ‘I said you ain’t going nowhere. Are you deaf?’

  Bartlett moved to calm the situation. ‘Whoa, Marshal. I don’t think you realize what you’re doing.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m arresting a cold-blooded killer.’

  Ortega’s hand formed a claw above his gun butt. ‘You really want to go down this path, gringo lawman?’

  Ford’s gaze turned to stone. ‘I tell you what, Mex, I’ll give you to the count of three to get rid of that fancy gun-rig around your waist. If you fail to do so, then I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

  Ortega smiled again and looked at Bartlett.

  ‘Don’t look at him. I’m the feller who’s going to kill you.’

  The Mexican’s eyes grew devoid of emotion as he stared back at Ford. The corner of his mouth flickered up and then he snarled as he went for his gun, ‘You are the one who will die!’

  Ford’s Peacemaker came free of his holster in one fluid motion. The hammer was back and ready to fire by the time it was level. He squeezed the trigger and the Colt bucked in his fist. The slug punched into Ortega’s chest, slamming his body against the wall behind him. His six-gun hadn’t even cleared leather.

  The Peacemaker swivelled to cover Bartlett, who stood there, stunned. ‘Did you say you were leaving?’

  Bartlett turned his troubled gaze towards the deputy and nodded jerkily. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

  ‘Don’t push me, Bartlett. You won’t win.’

  After the shaken man left, Ford looked down at the dead Mexican. Well, that was one down. But there were more. And before he was finished, there was bound to be trouble.

  A noise in the doorway made him raise the unholstered Peacemaker. Flinching reflexively, a black-clad man with a tall top hat stepped back and put his hands up.

  Ford placed the six-gun back in his holster: ‘Sorry.’

  The expression on the man’s wrinkled face eased. ‘My name is Jubal. I’m the undertaker.’

  Ford nodded. ‘Ford, United States Deputy Marshal.’

  Jubal indicated the body on the floor. ‘Could you give me a hand to carry him to my place of work?’

  But Ford had turned away and was taking down a sawn-off shotgun from the rack on the wall. He checked to see that it was loaded before walking back across to
the desk, where he found some spare shells. When he turned around, he looked at the undertaker and said, ‘Sorry, I’m going to be busy.’

  Ford cursed as he looked along the deserted main street. OK, almost deserted. Beneath his shirt sleeve he could feel blood flowing down his left arm to his fingertips; from there it dripped into the thirsty grey dust at his feet.

  In his right hand was the Peacemaker, a thin line of gun smoke rising from its barrel. By his estimation, there should still be two more rounds in it. More than he needed to kill Henry Bolton.

  A moan drew his attention. Twenty feet in front of him, hunched over on his knees, was Bartlett. Ford had shot the fat man through his ample gut when he’d produced a hideout gun and tried to shoot him.

  Further along the street was one of the outlaws he’d seen when he arrived. The man lay dead next to a horse trough, his chest a mess of bloody rags from the charge of buckshot.

  Another was bent double over a hitch rail, his six-gun at his feet where it had fallen. The third was dead in the mouth of an alleyway where he’d tried to bushwhack Ford.

  The gunmen, except for Bolton, were different. They’d come after him hard and fast. None of that bushwhack horseshit, just a straight-up, good old-fashioned frontal assault. Not that it had done them any good.

  They’d died within ten feet of one another, .45 caliber slugs buried in their chests.

  That left Bolton. He was the one who’d shot Ford. The dirty yellow skunk came out of the Gutshot Saloon behind Ford and tried to ambush him. Which was how the deputy found himself bleeding and angry. Then the gunman had disappeared back into the saloon.

  Ford shook his head. ‘Bolton! Get the hell out here, you coward!’

  A high-pitched voice filtered outside. ‘Why don’t you come and get me, Marshal?’

  Ford’s arm throbbed. Minute by minute his anger grew faster than a rattlesnake with its tail stomped on.