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    Dust and Bullets
    Dust and Bullets
    Dust and Bullets
    Ebook133 pages2 hours

    Dust and Bullets

    By Vance Tillman

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Dan Fogarty is falsely accused of the murder of his partner, Ben Arrowsmith. He escapes arrest and heads for cactus country to join his old Navajo friend, Ahiga. Dan suspects that the notorious outlaw, the Ocotillo Kid, is responsible for his partner's death, but when he and Ahiga set out to prove it, they find that things are not as straightforward as they imagined. Is the whole affair some kind of set up? What is the relationship between the Ocotillo Kid and local magnate Wes Baxter? The questions multiply as Dan makes himself a target to draw out the killer, but not till the final confrontation with the Ocotillo Kid and his gang are they finally answered.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Hale Fiction
    Release dateApr 1, 2017
    ISBN9780719822988
    Dust and Bullets

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      Book preview

      Dust and Bullets - Vance Tillman

      Chapter One

      Dan Fogarty was standing at the bar of the Hungry Loop saloon when he heard the batwings creak and the heavy thud of boots. He raised his glass but before he had time to take a drink he felt the muzzle of a gun in his back.

      ‘Don’t try anythin’,’ a voice snarled. ‘Just untie your gunbelt and hand it to my deputy.’ Fogarty didn’t argue the point. ‘OK, now start walkin’.’

      ‘Where are we goin’?’ Fogarty said.

      ‘To the jailhouse.’

      Fogarty looked into the faces of the marshal and his deputy. The marshal’s features were lined and his hair was grey; the deputy looked like a tenderfoot. ‘Are you goin’ to tell me what this is all about?’ he asked.

      ‘I think you know what it’s about,’ the marshal replied.

      ‘Not unless you got some kinda law sayin’ a man ain’t allowed a drink,’ Fogarty countered.

      The marshal looked him in the eye. ‘Don’t play games,’ he said. ‘You know as well as I that you murdered your partner, Ben Arrowsmith, and took his share of the gold you found up in the hills.’

      Fogarty felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. ‘Ben,’ he muttered. ‘Murdered? I don’t understand.’

      ‘You don’t fool me,’ the marshal said. ‘I’ve seen the body. And what’s more, I got a witness.’

      Fogarty was trying to come to terms with what the marshal was telling him. ‘Where’s the body?’ he managed to say.

      ‘Where you killed him; we buried him by the Senita River.’

      The shock Fogarty felt lasted for only a moment. Before he made to step away from the bar he was already figuring his next move. He certainly had no intention of going to jail, especially now he knew what he was being accused of. Once behind bars, he would have no chance of proving his innocence. With a shrug, he moved away from the bar and walked slowly through the room. He was aware of eyes watching him but he didn’t look to either right or left. All his attention was concentrated on what he would do when he reached those batwing doors. He had taken good note of the layout of the town when he rode in and he knew there was an alley immediately to the left of the saloon. It led to some stores and a livery stable, behind which there were woods. He calculated times and distances, all the while moving at as slow a pace as he could. Outside, over the batwings, he could see that it was growing dark.

      He was almost at the batwings when he suddenly sprang forward, hurling himself through them. They swung back, catching the marshal a glancing blow. As he dashed into the alleyway a gun exploded behind him and a bullet smacked into the corner stanchion of the saloon. He began to zigzag. A further shot rang out, but it was even darker in the alley than it was in the main street and he wasn’t an easy target. In a few seconds he had reached the end of the alley. Without looking or slackening his pace, he made for the open door of the livery stable. He heard a shout and the whinny of a horse and glanced up to see a wagon looming over him. He stumbled and almost went under the front wheels, but regained his balance and carried on.

      Another shot boomed and the horse reared. The wagon swerved, blocking the roadway. Fogarty was already through the wide-open doors of the livery stable. The ostler stood in his way but he brushed the startled man aside and ran on through the back entrance. Outside there was a corral with some horses. Without pausing he vaulted the rail. For a moment he considered leaping on the back of one of the horses but thought better of it. Instead, he sprang over the rail at the other side. It was only a short distance to the trees and he had reached their shelter before a fresh burst of gunfire told him the marshal must have disentangled himself from the obstruction caused by the wagon. It didn’t concern him. The trees protected him and he was confident of being able to outmanoeuvre both the marshal and his deputy. He also had an odd feeling that the marshal was holding something back, that he could have shot him if he had really wanted to. Or maybe it was his deputy who had fired the shots. He carried on running and didn’t stop till he was well clear of the town. Night had descended. He had escaped, but he knew he would have to go back for his horse.

      The marshal was no fool. Once Fogarty had made it to the woods he knew there was no chance of catching him. His deputy was keen to carry on the chase, but the marshal shook his head.

      ‘Leave it for now,’ he said. ‘He won’t get far away without guns or a horse. If it proves necessary, we’ll get up a posse in the morning.’

      They turned away and walked back to the marshal’s office. The air inside was stale with heat and the smell of tobacco. The deputy was still carrying Fogarty’s gunbelt and he hung it over a nail on the wall.

      ‘He can’t cause too much trouble without his guns,’ he said.

      ‘You can go now, Somersby,’ the marshal said.

      ‘Isn’t there somethin’ we should be doin’?’

      ‘All in good time. Like I say, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to catch up with Fogarty tomorrow.’

      Somersby was hesitant but finally moved towards the door. ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ he said.

      ‘Sure thing. Be prepared to do some ridin’.’

      When the door had closed the marshal sat down at his desk and opened a drawer. He had other things to worry about. He drew out a poster and looked at it closely. Wanted: Dead or Alive. The man’s name was Ike Goffin, but he was better known as the Ocotillo Kid. It seemed he was on the loose again with a bunch of real hardcases gathered round him. How long would it be before he and his gang showed up in Hackberry? The marshal’s deputy, Somersby, was a novice. If trouble brewed, real trouble, how would he shape up?

      The marshal could ask the same question of himself. The town had been relatively peaceful for a long time. Maybe he had grown rusty. Maybe he wasn’t the man he used to be. In the old days it had been him alone. Now he had someone else to worry about: his niece, Cora Siddons, was due later in the week on the stage from Dry Fork. Suddenly restless, he got to his feet and peered out of the grimy window. The blackness was relieved by pools of light spilling from the buildings. Leaving the Wanted poster on his desk, he turned down the lamp and stepped out into the night, locking the door behind him.

      Fogarty wasn’t too concerned about being recognized when he slipped back into Hackberry. There was still more than an hour before dawn and the streets were dark and deserted. Getting his horse was the easy part. He had left it, not at the main livery stable, but at a smaller one near the edge of town. Retrieving his weapons was more difficult. He considered breaking into the gun store, but he had a liking for his own familiar .44 Frontier model Colts. They would be at the marshal’s office. As he made his way there, slipping like a ghost through the inky black shadows, he suddenly flinched as something moved in front of him. A dark shape sprang out from under his feet, but he realized it was only a cat.

      He arrived outside the door of the marshal’s office and gave it a tug. Of course, it was locked. He had no alternative but to break in. What did it matter anyway? He was already a wanted man on a charge of murder. Taking a stone from his pocket, he hurled it through the window. In a matter of seconds he had climbed through.

      He took a quick glance around. A shaft of moonlight fell on the wall and he saw his gunbelt where the deputy had hung it. As he crossed the room he stumbled against the table where the marshal had left the poster. He stopped for a moment, rubbing his thigh. His eye fell on the poster and he held it up to the light. He could dimly make out the features of the man it depicted, together with the larger lettering. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him but for some reason he folded it over and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he took down his gunbelt and strapped it round his waist. He made his way back to the window and peered outside. Nothing was stirring; no one had heard the sound of breaking glass.

      He hoisted himself up, clambered over the window ledge and dropped down onto the boardwalk. Swiftly he made his way to the back of the livery stables where he knew he would find his horse, a bay roan, in an outside corral. His luck was in. He had thought he would have to break into the building itself to retrieve his saddle, but there was another one hanging draped across the top bar of the corral fence. He strapped it to the horse and then led the animal out into the narrow street beyond, where he stepped into the leather and rode off into the darkness.

      He carried on riding through the rest of the night and didn’t stop till around midday when he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and Hackberry to feel safe. The marshal would realize what had happened as soon as he got back to his office. It was unlikely that he would waste time searching for him in the immediate environs of town, but it would take him a little time to get up a posse and Dan Fogarty was confident of being able to stay ahead of it. One man could travel a lot quicker than a bunch of riders. He stopped beside a brook and took out the makings. All the time he had been riding his thoughts had been churning over and he was grateful for the rest.

      What was clear was

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