Killers kingdom, p.1
Killer's Kingdom, page 1
Killer’s Kingdom
The outlaw King Lesley has set up his lawless kingdom in the San Christobal Mountains and from there has been plundering the countryside around Henly Springs for two years. Finally the townspeople pressure their local sheriff into leading a posse against the outlaws but they are ambushed by Lesley’s men and a massacre ensues.
But is salvation at hand when Marshal Rod Delroy arrives in town with the mission of rescuing any survivors? The issue is complicated by the intervention of Mort Wolfe, a man driven by his desire for revenge against Lesley.
Now Rod must face many dangers before the outlaw threat is removed and the citizens of Henly Springs can live in peace again.
By the same author
Outlaw Vengeance
Warbonnet Creek
Red Rock Crossing
Killer’s Kingdom
Greg Mitchell
ROBERT HALE
© Greg Mitchell 2007
First published in Great Britain 2007
ISBN 978-0-7198-2366-4
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 Greg Mitchell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
CHAPTER ONE
He lay on the flat rock, his buckskin shirt and tanned features almost blending in with the colour of the stone. Only his dark eyes, slitted against the sun’s glare, moved. The morning light was spreading its brilliance across the red, mesquite-dotted plain revealing the distant roofs of the town with its smoking chimneys as early risers prepared breakfast. The dust cloud midway between his vantage point and the settlement told Yaqui George all he needed to know. The signal sent from their man in town had been correct. The posse was coming after King Lesley again.
It was more than two years since Lesley had established himself in the canyons of the nearby San Christobal mountains and plundered the surrounding countryside when the fancy took him. Now it seemed that the citizens of Henly Springs were making a concerted effort to rid the district of its greatest plague.
However, the decision to leave the town at dawn was fatally flawed even if Sheriff Joe Henderson did not know it. King Lesley already knew that intruders were coming into his domain. The surprise upon which so much depended was non-existent.
Though he was too far from the posse to be seen, Yaqui left nothing to chance, slipping quietly from his observation post and hurrying back to a pony tethered among the rocks. Vaulting on its back he rode hard for where his boss was waiting.
Kingston James Lesley, despite his imposing name and self-bestowed title, was an insignificant little man wearing a pair of pearl-handled Colts that looked almost too big for him. He had a scruffy, tawny-coloured beard, small beady eyes that always seemed half shut against the sun’s glare, and dusty clothes But he was a great success at his chosen trade, that of bandit, extortionist and killer. He had also gathered around him a crew of hard-bitten men eager to share in the proceeds of his many crimes. They were assembled that morning, heavily armed and ready.
Ned Curtis, his right-hand man, eased his long frame away from the rock upon which he had been leaning and pointed up the canyon at the approaching rider. ‘Here comes Yaqui, and he’s in a hurry.’
With little regard for his horse’s mouth, the half-breed yanked it to a sliding stop before his leader. ‘They’re coming, King,’ he called. ‘Could be twenty or so – I reckon they’ll be here in about half an hour at the most.’
Lesley waved an arm at his assembled men. ‘Get to your places – and nobody shoots till I do. We have to chew this posse up real good.’
In a few minutes not a man could be seen but they were there and waiting.
To the watchers it seemed like ages before the first rider came into the canyon. Harry Campbell had been an army scout in the recent wars against the Sioux. He rode 200 yards ahead of the posse, his unease increasing with every step his pony took. Tracks of men and horses were plain and they were fresh. To a certain degree they were to be expected as the canyon was the main entrance to the area that Lesley claimed, but Campbell felt that some of those who had made the tracks were very close. He rounded a bend in the canyon and, when he was temporarily out of sight of the others, the attack came.
A figure camouflaged with small branches reared out of concealment in some low brush swinging a long piece of ironwood as it came. Alert as he was, the ageing scout’s reflexes were no longer equal to the task. The improvised club connected solidly with his head and swept him out of the saddle. No sooner had he hit the ground than another man emerged from hiding, stabbing repeatedly with a long Bowie knife while the original assailant caught the startled horse, threw off his camouflage, donned the scout’s hat and now bloodstained coat, and jumped into the saddle. He spurred it away from the scene while his companion dragged the body behind some rocks.
When Joe Henderson came around the corner, he saw that the horseman was further ahead than he had expected but all seemed to be well. The sheriff turned to the middle-aged man riding beside him. ‘Harry don’t seem to be too worried.’
Those were the last words that Henderson ever spoke.
King Lesley fired from concealment and put a rifle bullet right between his eyes. The posse was now in the trap and the outlaws closed it. Rapid, close-range fire poured in from three sides. The surprise was complete and its effect devastating. Men were smashed from saddles, horses reared over and fell backwards or collapsed as though their legs had been swept from under them. A few tried to fire back at the puffs of gunsmoke spurting from among the rocks but most wheeled their mounts and fled back the way they had come. The slaughter was unrelenting. Some threw up their arms and fell from their mounts, others slipped off quietly almost as if they had fallen asleep. Wounded men clung to saddle horns as they fled with all thoughts of fighting gone. Now only survival counted.
A few men on foot ran after those fortunate enough to remain mounted although another couple of horses crashed down before the survivors managed to get around the bend in the canyon.
‘Stop shooting,’ Lesley bellowed. ‘Leave enough to take the message back to the others.’
Rod Delroy halted his bay horse, Duke, and his pack mule in front of the sheriff’s office in the main street of Henly Springs. He dismounted, hitched the bay to the rail and knocked on the door. Nobody answered it. Puzzled, he looked about and saw people peering at him cautiously from doorways. It was then he realized that the town was strangely quiet.
A small rotund man in a grocer’s white apron walked out from a nearby store. ‘The sheriff’s not here, mister. He could be away for a couple of days. Do you need to see him urgent ?’
‘I was supposed to meet him here today. I’m Rod Delroy, a US Marshal.’
The little man put out a hand. ‘I’m Nathan Wilde. I guess you could say I’m the head of the town council.’ As Jeff shook hands, the grocer said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m not sure. Joe said he’d meet me here today.’
‘Sheriff Henderson took a posse out this morning. They were going after King Lesley. We’ve had enough of him and his bandits. The council hired Harry Campbell yesterday to scout for the posse. Do you know him?’
Delroy nodded. ‘Harry and I scouted together with General Crook. That was before I got a marshal’s job. I was sent here by my boss to look into the hold-up of a mail contractor and to see if King Lesley had a hand in it. The sheriff knew I was coming. I thought he would have waited.’
‘Maybe he would have, but yesterday the town council told him to get off his tail and do something about Lesley if he wanted to keep his job. We had hired a good scout for him and with plenty of volunteers he had no excuse for delaying. Some of the best men in town are riding with him today.’
Delroy was well acquainted with Harry Campbell and the man had been a good scout, but age was catching up with him and, as his ability slipped, he was living on his reputation.
The marshal knew that he could do little until Henderson’s return, so, after getting directions to the town’s only hotel and the livery stable, he set out to arrange accommodation for himself and his animals. He had barely walked fifty yards when there was the clatter of hoofs at the end of the street.
A riderless horse came cantering down the street with eyes rolling fearfully and lathered with sweat. It slowed its pace when it saw the other horse and trotted up to Delroy’s mount. Half a broken rein still swung from the bit on one side and the other seemed to be gone completely. The lawman spoke quietly to the animal and it allowed him to catch it by the bridle. The blanket had slipped halfway from under the saddle but enough of it showed to reveal a l
An elderly woman appeared at the door of a bakery, saw the horse and gasped in a horrified voice, ‘That’s Edgar Bowman’s horse. He went out with the posse this morning.’
‘Looks like they might have struck trouble,’ Delroy said. ‘How many were in the posse?’
By now a crowd was starting to gather. ‘There were eighteen of them,’ a townsman said in a worried voice. ‘They were more than a match for Lesley’s gang.’
‘I sure hope so,’ Delroy told him, ‘because I’m going out there to find out. I’ll need a few volunteers.’
CHAPTER TWO
People were still flocking around Delroy when another riderless horse trotted into town. This one had a bullet wound in its neck. There could be no doubt: the posse had struck serious trouble.
‘We’ll need a wagon,’ Delroy told the assembly. ‘There are sure to be wounded men. Can anyone loan one?’
Ike Kopper, the livery-stable proprietor volunteered to provide a wagon and team and hurried off to organize it. He also undertook to recruit a few more men, although he doubted he could get helpers of a similar quality to the posse members.
‘Is there a doctor here?’
‘Not now,’ a middle-aged woman announced. ‘King Lesley’s men killed him two weeks ago.’
‘I’ll go.’ A soft female voice came from the back of the crowd. People turned and made way for a beautiful girl with long dark hair who was making her way between them. Despite her obvious femininity and youth there was something commanding about her presence. ‘I’m Rose Allen,’ she announced. ‘My father was the doctor. I often helped him. I might be able to help. I’ll get my father’s bag and ride in the wagon with Mr Kopper.’
‘That might not be a good idea, miss,’ the marshal told her. ‘There could be trouble out where the posse went.’
A determined look came to her striking blue eyes. ‘If there is, I’ll be needed all the more. The quicker wounded men get attention, the better are their chances of survival.’
She was right and the lawman raised no further objections.
Now comes the hard bit, Delroy told himself. He looked around. ‘I need a few men with horses and guns. I believe Mr Kopper is rounding up a few but we need all we can get.’
A sharp-faced young woman snapped disdainfully, ‘Why would you need them? All our best men, horses and guns went out with the posse. By now they’ll have settled King Lesley’s hash. There might be some wounded, but Lesley’s thieving polecats will be on the run.’
The lawman was in no mood for diplomacy. ‘Lady, did it ever occur to you that your posse might have lost this fight?’
There were murmurs of disbelief and looks of doubt crossed a few faces. Until then many had not considered the possibility that their posse could have failed in its mission.
‘Can somebody look after these horses?’ Delroy asked. ‘That black one has a wound that needs looking at.’
An extremely worried, plump little woman came forward and took the broken rein of the first animal. ‘This is my husband’s horse,’ she said, as she fought back tears. ‘I’ll take him. Please God, Edgar will need him again.’
An elderly man who walked with a stick claimed the black horse. ‘I’ll look after him and try to patch him up. I know his owner. He’ll be looking for him later.’
Let’s hope he does, Delroy said to himself.
Another citizen volunteered to take the pack mule to the sheriff’s corral and place the pack inside the office. Wilde, the storekeeper, had a spare set of keys.
The wagon came clattering up with Rose Allen, her face shielded by a wide-brimmed hat, on the seat beside the driver. A boy in his mid-teens rode beside it on a mule, clutching a single-shot Rettlington carbine. An elderly farming type rode behind him on a workhorse. He had a double-barrelled shotgun. Another middle-aged rider had an ancient Colt Dragoon revolver stuck in his belt and an old Civil War rifled musket across his saddle, A young man, who later proved to be a bank clerk, sat awkwardly on a borrowed horse with the butt of a small revolver showing under his open coat.
The most promising volunteer was a lean young man in the clothes of a cowhand. He was well mounted, had a Winchester repeater in a leather loop on his saddle horn, and looked as though he could use the stag-horn-butted Colt on his hip. He introduced himself as Frank Crowley. He explained that he had intended to join the posse but had overslept because of a heavy night in the saloon. His bloodshot eyes and the careful way he moved indicated that he was still suffering the alcoholic after effects.
The last volunteer was a down-at-heel young man sadly in need of both a shave and a haircut. He gave his name as Morton Wolfe and explained that he had been picking up a few days work at the stable. He had a six-shooter and bestrode a long-backed roan borrowed from his employer.
‘I’d hate to be relying on that shaky no-account,’ a voice from the crowd proclaimed.
Wolfe pretended that he had not heard, but the marshal came to his defence. ‘I’m pleased to have any man with enough guts to volunteer.’ He looked in the general direction of the speaker. ‘Perhaps some others might like to come along instead of bad-mouthing those who are prepared to help.’
There were no more adverse comments.
Duke had already covered many miles that day, but Delroy knew that, tired as he was, he was still better than any replacement he was likely to get in Henly Springs. The lawman mounted and turned his horse’s head toward the wall of mountains on the western horizon. As he did so, he saw a puff of white smoke appear from the chimney of the small restaurant opposite. Someone was preparing lunch, he told himself and suddenly remembered how hungry he was. But such things would have to wait.
Trying hard to conceal his anxiety, Delroy led his relief force out of town. Unlike the majority of the townspeople he was not expecting a happy outcome. He eased his horse back and came in beside Wolfe. ‘You don’t seem to have a lot of friends in Henly Springs,’ he observed. ‘Is there something I don’t know about?’
Wolfe’s face twisted in a humourless smile. ‘A lot of folks back there think I’m a drunk because my hands shake sometimes. I have to do odd jobs to make a bit of money. But I don’t drink, because I can’t afford to. I’m not here today because of any loyalty to this town; King Lesley is behind my troubles. Two years ago I had a wife and a ranch. Lesley murdered my wife, almost killed me and destroyed the ranch. What he left the banks took when I could not pay my mortgage. Since then I have devoted the few resources I have left to fighting that murdering sonofabitch any way that I can. Sheriff Henderson’s posse did not want me because the folks around Henly Springs see me as a no-account drifter. Only Kopper loaned me a horse, or I wouldn’t be with you now.’
‘I think you are very lucky you did not go with Henderson’s posse.’
Three miles from town they found the first sign of a posse member. What looked like an untidy bundle of clothing on the trail turned out to be a dead man. He had been shot in several places.
Fred Hyles, the boy on the mule, went pale as he saw his first dead man. Marvin Dexter, the bank clerk also lost his usual ruddy complexion. Herman Veile, the Civil War veteran, looked down at the corpse casually. ‘That’s Edgar Bowman. Looks like his luck ran out.’
Delroy remembered the riderless horse and the worried lady back in town.
Rose climbed down from the wagon and confirmed that the man was dead. ‘Will someone help me get him into the wagon?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, Miss Allen,’ Delroy replied. ‘We need to concentrate on finding any living ones now. We can pick him up on the way back. There could be wounded men up ahead of us.’
A mile further on they sighted the distant figure of a man on foot. He was staggering when they first saw him and flopped to a sitting position on the ground as they approached. When they reached him, he was in a sorry state, exhausted, shocked and badly affected by the heat.
Rose hurried to him with a canteen of water and held it to the man’s parched lips. She knew him. ‘Mr Woodford,’ she asked, ‘where are the others?’
