Shot to hell, p.1
Shot to Hell, page 1
Shot to Hell
Scott Connor
Published by Culbin Press, 2022.
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First published in 2014 by Robert Hale Limited
Copyright © 2014, 2022 by Scott Connor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
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Chapter One
“Is that you, Jarrett?” the bartender Chester Frey asked.
“It sure is,” Jarrett Wade said. “Then again, I haven’t been in Russell Gulch in years.”
“It’s been many years.” Chester regarded Jarrett, taking in his paunch, stooped posture and sparse hair. “Many, many years.”
Jarrett smiled. “We’re all getting older, but I’m hoping you still see and hear as much as you ever did.”
Chester poured Jarrett a whiskey. “Who are you looking for this time? I hear that the Jackson brothers were in town last week, and Buck Smythe was seen over in Frost Creek last month.”
Jarrett picked up the whiskey and took a long gulp.
“Neither of those.”
“Then you must be after Barney McCloud. I hear that—”
Jarrett raised a hand, silencing Chester. “It’s none of those men. I’m looking for a young man called Saul Cox.”
Chester shrugged. “I’ve not heard about him. What did he do?”
“He ran away from home and his pa wants him back.”
Chester laughed and searched Jarrett’s eyes as he waited for the punch line to what was clearly a joke, but Jarrett met his gaze.
“I don’t know nothing about no runaway.”
“Then what about any young men you haven’t seen before looking for work?”
Chester frowned. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really are looking for a runaway boy.”
“I have to take any work I can these days.”
Jarrett’s comment made Chester nod. “I heard someone say the very same thing yesterday. This lanky kid offered to paint old Bill Cartwright’s stable. I’d never seen him before.”
“That sounds like a good place to start.” Jarrett swirled his whiskey. “It’ll be good to see Bill again.”
“Bill died four years ago.”
With a wince Jarrett pushed his glass away and headed outside. At the end of the main drag was the stable, which as promised was in need of a lick of paint. Five surly-looking kids were idling around outside.
As he approached, they turned to him with lively interest, but before he could question them he noticed the young man that interested him. He was standing at the side of the building, painting the wall in a deep-red color using long strokes that would probably finish the job within the day.
“You’d be Saul Cox?” Jarrett said, positioning himself behind him.
The young man flinched with a telltale sign that no matter what he might claim now, Jarrett had found his quarry.
“You’ve got the wrong man, and I’ve got a job to do,” Saul said without turning around.
“So have I.”
Saul continued painting using determined strokes while turning his head to either side as he clearly judged in which direction he’d flee. Jarrett decided he’d run to the right and head around the back of the stable.
Sure enough, when Saul reached the bottom of his stroke, he dropped the brush and hurried away, but he ran to the left. Jarrett sighed and set off after him. At the front of the stable Saul scattered the kids, making them hurry him on his way with catcalls.
When Jarrett reached them he barged the nearest kid aside, which knocked him into two others and upended all three. The other two young men turned around to face him.
“What did you do that for?” one of the kids demanded, blocking Jarrett’s path.
“Move aside, kid,” Jarrett grunted.
“Why should I, old-timer?”
Jarrett waved a dismissive hand at him and moved to follow Saul, who was checking behind him as he scurried away. Jarrett managed two paces before one of the kids leaped on his back while another one charged him from the side.
Jarrett ignored the onslaught and he kept moving forward with one of his assailants trying to tug him backward and another one trying to push him over. When the rest of the kids joined in the assault he went clattering down on his knees before pitching forward all his length.
With whoops of delight the young men pinned him down. Jarrett struggled to get his breath back until, with a grunt of anger, he slapped both hands down on the ground. As he forced himself to get back on his feet, punches and kicks rained down on him from all sides.
Then a jarring kick to the chin sent him back down on his chest. The kids must have realized that they’d knocked the fight out of him as they stopped hitting him.
“See if the old-timer has any money,” one of them said.
Hands rifled through his pockets until a cry of triumph sounded. Jarrett uttered a rueful snarl as he had only a few dollars on him, otherwise he wouldn’t be chasing runaways. Then raised voices sounded, as someone noticed his predicament.
Footfalls pattered as his assailants scampered away. Jarrett raised his head as their forms receded. With shame bowing his back he stood up, swaying until he got his balance. By this time his assailants were slipping away into town, so he dismissed any thoughts of chasing after them and turned to his rescuer to find that his quarry Saul Cox had returned.
“Are you all right?” Saul asked. “I never wanted anything like that to happen. I don’t who they are, but they’ve been loitering around all morning making fun of me for working.”
“There are young folks like that in every town, but I’m grateful there’s someone like you here,” Jarrett said. He flashed a smile before firming his expression. “That’s not going to stop me taking you back to your pa.”
Saul set his hands on his hips in irritation, and then backed away for a pace. He was the only one who had come to Jarrett’s aid and with Jarrett still wincing after his beating, Saul’s pensive smile suggested he was thinking about running, but with a sigh he raised his hands.
“I never thought he’d care enough to send someone after me.” He firmed his jaw. “I guess this proves I can’t sort out my problems by running away from them.”
“That’s mighty sensible of you.” Jarrett rubbed his sore back and flexed his bruised legs with a groan. “I didn’t want to chase you down and make you suffer any more.”
“What do you want, Marshal?” Quentin Stone said.
The other poker players in the back room of the Horseshoe saloon paid great attention to their cards, but Quentin didn’t follow their lead as he leaned back in his chair to face the lawmen.
“It’s not you, for once,” Marshal Ernest Montague said. “I’m looking for Denby Grinnell.”
“What’s he done this time?”
“He made trouble in my town.”
Quentin sneered. “We’ve not seen him. So you can go and do York Stevenson’s bidding somewhere else.”
As Ernest glowered at Quentin another one of the players, Doc Cavanaugh, spoke up.
“We’ve not seen him, Ernest, but he’s got no friends over here,” he said.
Ernest moved forward, meaning to question everyone some more after Quentin’s impudent jibe, but then the doctor’s exact words registered. He turned to Deputy Hill, who confirmed with a nod that he’d had the same thought: that Cavanaugh had helped them without letting the others know what he’d done.
Hill still moved forward to stand behind Cavanaugh’s chair. Then, with a sudden lunge, he tipped the chair backward.
“I’m obliged for your help,” Hill said.
Then he released his hold of the chair, letting Cavanaugh topple over on to his back and sending his cards flying away. Cavanaugh floundered on the floor, but, without further comment, Ernest joined Hill in heading outside.
Last night Denby Grinnell, a frequent resident of Hamilton’s jailhouse, had been seen sneaking out of a window of the Stevenson hotel. This morning Lambert Stevenson reported that several customers claimed they’d had money and other valuables stolen from their rooms.
Denby hadn’t been at home and, after asking around without success, the lawmen had resorted to the simple process of systematically working their way down one side of Hamilton’s main drag. Nobody had come across him and Ernest didn’t detect that anyone cared enough about Denby’s fate to lie to protect him.
This observation, along with Doc Cavanaugh’s comment, suggested Denby was lying low on the other side of the main drag: and Hamilton’s troubles usually emanated from one establishment there.
< br /> With Hill at his shoulder Ernest headed across the main drag and into the Wild Horse saloon. He walked straight for the stairs at the side of the saloon room and had reached the top before anyone noticed him.
Gerald Gough, the owner, hurried out from behind the bar, but by then Ernest was heading down the corridor. Ernest kicked open the first door. Finding the room empty he moved on to the second, where Hill took over the duties and pushed open the door.
This one was occupied, but not by Denby, so, with cries of consternation and alarm chasing them down the corridor they proceeded to the next room. Two rooms later, they found Denby. He was standing by the window and facing the door with trepidation while holding himself in a position where he could clamber outside quickly.
“You should have climbed out the window while you still could,” Ernest said. “Just like you did in the Stevenson hotel yesterday.”
“I never stole nothing in that place yesterday,” Denby said.
“Except you know something was stolen, you know it was stolen from the Stevenson hotel and you were seen slipping out of the window.” Ernest advanced a long pace. “Then you went into hiding.”
“Of course I did. The last time something went missing you blamed me.” Denby set his hands on his hips with increased confidence as Gerald arrived in the doorway. “I never did nothing that time either.”
With Denby turning to Gerald for support, Gerald stepped into the room.
“You heard Denby,” Gerald said. “He had nothing to do with this robbery, if there even was one. I wouldn’t have given him a room otherwise.”
Ernest snorted. “Except, whether he’s guilty or not, you helped Denby go into hiding and that isn’t the most sensible thing you’ve ever done. Standing in the way of the law will be even worse.”
“I’ve never stood in the way of the law. I don’t need to.” Gerald sneered. “I pay you enough not to stand in my way.”
“We’re old friends, Gerald, and we do have an understanding, but when your behavior affects decent folks like Lambert Stevenson, that understanding ends.”
“I never knew you cared about Lambert. I thought you only did what his brother York told you to do.”
With Gerald being the second man to make that insult tonight, Ernest couldn’t keep his anger in check. He advanced on Gerald with a snarl. Gerald stood his ground as he weighed up the situation, but the determined look in Ernest’s eye made him turn to Denby and shrug. Without any more complaints he backed away into the corridor.
“It looks as if you’ll have to throw me in a cell,” Denby said, as Hill closed the door and stood guard. “That won’t help you get back whatever was stolen, because I haven’t got it. I don’t even know what was stolen.”
Ernest didn’t know this either, as Lambert had been vague about the items that had been taken, presumably because the victims had been vague, too, as they sought to profit from the unfortunate incident.
“For once I agree with you. Last time, throwing you in a cell didn’t help nothing.” Ernest walked across the room and then considered his right hand as he bunched it. “Perhaps this time I should try a different method.”
Denby gave a resigned sigh, lowering his head and making Ernest smile at Hill in triumph. Unfortunately, Denby’s apparent capitulation had been only a bluff. He twisted around, slapped a hand on the windowsill and moved to clamber out of the window.
Hill scrambled for his gun and a moment later a gunshot tore out, echoing in the small room, making Denby straighten while raising a hand to clutch his back. Denby groaned pitifully and met Ernest’s gaze with a pained look that registered an emotion, perhaps disappointment.
Then he toppled forward through the window. A few moments later a thud sounded. Ernest turned to Hill, who slipped his gun back in its holster.
“He looked like he was going for a concealed weapon,” Hill said.
“I didn’t see that.” Ernest rocked his head from side to side. “But he was clearly trying to escape.”
Hill shrugged. “You’re the boss. Take your pick.”
Ernest frowned. Then he moved on to the window and leaned out. Denby was lying on his back. He wasn’t moving while people gravitated toward him and others turned to the window with concern.
“Perhaps we’ll go for him doing both,” Ernest said.
Hill joined him at the window and chuckled. “Either way, it doesn’t look as if we’ll get any answers out of him now.”
Behind them the door flew open and Gerald came storming in. He had numerous customers in tow and their presence bolstered his confidence as he stood with his feet placed wide apart in a defiant stance.
“Denby was no threat to nobody,” Gerald said. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”
Ernest shrugged and smiled at everyone. “I prefer to think that this was another successful conclusion to an investigation.”
Chapter Two
“Independence seems a mighty fine town,” Jarrett said when they approached Saul’s farm. “I can’t see why you’d want to run away to a two-bit place like Russell Gulch.”
“I wasn’t running away from a place,” Saul said. “It was a person.”
On the journey back to Independence Jarrett hadn’t asked for an explanation of why he’d had to track Saul down, treating him as he would a fugitive from justice. But over the last few hours his young companion had become increasingly agitated, so Jarret had shown an interest in his predicament to find out whether he might cause him a problem before he reached Independence.
“Your pa looked concerned about you, otherwise he wouldn’t have paid me fifty dollars to find you.”
“Fifty dollars! That old varmint Brett hasn’t got fifty dollars.”
“You shouldn’t talk about your father that way.”
“Brett’s not my father.” Saul smiled at Jarrett until he nodded and then continued. “My mother married him when I was young, but she died last year and since then his temper and drinking have gotten out of hand. I had to get away.”
“What happened to your real father?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who he was.” Saul shrugged. “Or at least I didn’t until last month, and that’s what tipped him over the edge.”
“Go on.”
“I found some letters in my mother’s belongings. They were from this man and the things he wrote. . . .” Saul sighed. “They made me think he could be my father, so I decided to go and find him. I figured getting some work and some money first would help, but I never got to finish what I started.”
Saul sneered at Jarrett, who rode on for a while so he could choose his next words carefully.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, come the fall.”
“Then you’re old enough to make your way in the world, but it’ll be hard. While you’re working on you pa’s farm, you’re learning valuable skills and you’re getting stronger. So take every opportunity to learn and to save any money you can get your hands on. Then choose your time to leave and you’ll get away no matter who Brett sends after you. And you’ll be able to earn a living when you get there.”
Saul relaxed and offered him a grateful smile. “That’s good advice.”
“So do you have a place to start looking?”
“Yeah. The letters were from a man called Ernest Montague.”
Jarrett raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Marshal Ernest Montague from Hamilton?”
Ernest smiled. “I’d asked around and someone told me he was a lawman, although he wasn’t when he wrote to my mother.”
Jarrett turned in the saddle to face Saul. “I knew Ernest some years back and I can’t say that you look like him. On the other hand, when I knew him Ernest was the kind of man who’d go back and help someone, even if that man was chasing him.”
Saul licked his lips, but he couldn’t avoid a massive grin breaking out.
“How did you know him?”
“I’m a bounty hunter. . . .” Jarrett sighed. “I used to be a bounty hunter. Ernest was protecting Tyrone Hendrick’s stockyard when I brought in the Orlando Pyle gang.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“You would have been a lot younger when I shot them to hell.”
“And you’ve not seen Ernest since?”
Jarrett rode on for a while, wondering whether to explain about the event that had caused his own demise. As in a few more minutes he’d be parting company with Saul, he shook his head.
