Dry Gulch

By Don DeWolfe

"A western saga of adventure and romance. A time when men were men, and hats were worn on your head"
Dry Gulch is a western parody about a former gunslinger who rides into a town that is controlled by the local cattle baron, and threatened by the local Indians. At the centre of the town is Miss Kitty, who runs the saloon and brothel. Dan makes it his mission to save the day, however he can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don DeWolfe
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465882134

Don DeWolfe

I like to say there are 2 types of people on the ice- hockey players, and people who play hockey. Writing is like that too. I've been writing all my life, with varying degrees of intensity and success. Partially I do it because I have to. Partially I do it because telling people I'm an accountant brings on sudden fits of uncontrolled narcolepsy. In the past, I only shared my writing with a few friends and family. Since most of them are still talking to me, I've decided to widen my audience to the rest of the world. Plus, being a published author just sounds cool.

Book preview

Dry Gulch

By Don DeWolfe

Copyright 2011 Don DeWolfe

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you`re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter 1

A Western Saga of Adventure and Romance

It was a time when men were men, and hats were worn on your head.

His hat was a jet black Stetson, its narrow brim casting his piercing blue eyes in mysterious shadow.

He sat tall on his horse - a magnificent white Arabian stallion he called Mule - on the outskirts of the town. It was the same rag-tag collection of tumble down shacks he had seen a dozen times before. But compared to sleeping on the ground and talking to Mule, it looked pretty good.

Well Mule, let's try our luck.

They shuffled into town and stopped in front of the grandest structure on Main Street, the C'mon On Inn. Cute, he thought. Hitching Mule to the rail he said, Wait here, now.

Mule gave him a look of contempt and ignored him.

Damn snooty horse, he thought, and went inside.

Immediately he noticed this was no bucket of blood. Vases of wild flowers stood on each table; neatly lettered signs advertised everything from hot baths to English sippin' whiskey; and the prettiest barmaid he'd ever laid eyes on was working on some sort of ledger.

Barmaid - whiskey! he demanded. He hated whiskey but didn't want to get off on the wrong foot in a new town.

The woman, built with enough curves to last a man a lifetime, ignored him.

He was going to call out again when a gnome with a game leg gimped behind the bar and said, Call me Gimpy. What'll it be, Partner?

He nodded at the woman. Your barmaid hard of hearin'?

Gimpy smiled. She ain't no barmaid friend. That's Miss Kitty and she owns the C'mon.

His interest sparked like the ricochet of a .45 slug off of a high ferris content rock. It took mucho woman to run a drinking establishment in the West. Maybe he had found the answer to his lonely nights.

Gimme what she's drinking - in a dirty glass.

The cold tea tasted like Mule's piss - don't ask how he knew - but pride made him toss it down. Then Gimpy asked if he wanted sugar and lemon like Miss Kitty.

Gimpy didn't know how close he came to eating lead.

Clearing his throat the stranger declared, I sure could use a bath.

Miss Kitty looked up from her ledger. Their eyes met. You sure could, she agreed.

His heart was pounding like a herd of buffalo making for the open range. Her grey-blue eyes held promises of things that a man only thought about on the coldest nights of winter, when if you were gonna freeze to death, you might as well go out smiling.

Mebbe you would like to join me? he suggested, boldness having never failed him before.

Mebbe not, she replied.

She nodded to the barkeep. Gimpy, run the man a bath - and give him a refill, she grinned impishly, on the house.

He nursed another damn cold tea staring at the back of her neck. He wanted to make a good impression but there were no drunken gunslingers for him to face down or Indian tribes to decimate in the saloon. What to do?

Gimpy thumped down the stairs. She's ready, he wheezed.

Reluctantly he headed up the stairs. Halfway up she called to him, Bet you would like to have your back scrubbed?

Bet I would! he agreed, his smile brighter than a kerosene lantern.

I'll have Gimpy get a long handled brush, she giggled.

He started shuffling up the stairs, his spirits lower than a boot hill grave.

But maybe I'll bring it up myself, she whispered.

* * * * *

At the back of the saloon slouched a hard whip of a man who's hat matched his eyes matched his soul - the black of the bottom of a coal mine on a moonless night in winter.

That stranger's workin' a staked claim, he thought, and needs to be taught a lesson.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

A Western Saga of Romance and Adventure

Kitty watched the tall stranger mount the stairs, his wide shoulders firm and straight even though she had slammed him with enough verbal blows to cripple a weaker man.

She liked the direct open gaze of his ice cold blue eyes; the purposefulness in his manner; his work-hardened and callused hands; the slight bow to his legs from many hours in a saddle.

Who was this stranger and what had brought him to Dry Gulch? The two Colts riding his hips like baby possums were well worn but meticulously cared for. He didn't look like a gunslinger, but he didn't look like a man that took much back talk either.

She returned to her ledgers. The numbers had been looking good: profits on rooms, meals, baths and entertainment were all better than they had ever been. But her whiskey numbers were dragging them down like a dinosaur in a tar pit. And as every saloon owner knows, it's the margin on drinks that makes or breaks you.

But what could she do? Indians, bandits, accidents and bad weather all seemed to be conspiring against her as shipment after shipment of whiskey failed to make it from the East. Her last shipment was a month overdue, and she had even hired Wells Fargo to watch over it. The whiskey she had left - even diluted more than her usual three-to-one - was fast running out. And the only outside sources she found - wagon trains and the like - wanted a fortune, in gold, for what small amounts they had. She sighed.

Her gaze slipped to the now empty stairwell and her mind galloped down a canyon she hadn't been in for a while. Would he be the one?

It had been ten years since she arrived in Dry Gulch with nothing more than a mitre box, a crosscut saw and a will of iron - determined to forge a place of her own where the strong survived and the weak became two crossed sticks jammed in the dirt.

Ten lonely years.

She had taken the occasional bronc out for a ride. But in the service business you quickly get your fill of the rough side of men: the posturing and drinking; the fondness for cards and soft flesh; the scratching and belching; and worse than anything else, the endless discussions about horses and which breed was best.

Maybe this stranger would be different.

But would he stay? Would he stay once he found out the water supply was poisoned? For ten years the Sow Belly Spring had run clear and sweet. Now the pigs wouldn't drink it. And that wasn't the only poison in the town.

A scraping chair caught her attention and her fine features were covered in shadow as Black Jack Slade loomed over her.

Well Kitty, I reckon' the breeze that blew that tumbleweed in best blow him back out agin'.

For Christ's sake Jack, she snarled, speak English. Save that cowhand crap for the tourists.

I keep forgetting. You've been here as long as I have. Slade let fly at the spittoon - and missed. With a resigned sigh, Gimpy headed over with a rag. Miss Kitty was a demon for cleanliness.

Slade jerked his head towards the stairs. See them guns. Pure trouble, Kitty. A man like that drifts into a town, causes trouble and moves on. No staying power.

Oh, I don't know Jack, Kitty responded, her eyes on his. I'd bet he has more staying power than some around here.

Slade coloured. He shot a glance to see if Gimpy had heard - and whether or not he'd have to kill him. In the West, a man's reputation was everything.

I tell you Kitty, he's trouble. And if you get hooked up with him, his eyes turned black and mean, you'll find trouble too. He stomped out of the saloon.

What d'you think, Miss Kitty? queried Gimpy, his chin jutted towards the door.

I don't know for sure, Gimpy. But I know things in Dry Gulch are never going to be the same.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

A Western Saga of Adventure and Romance

The tall stranger drifted down the stairs looking slightly embarrassed and smelling like roses. He hoped Miss Kitty didn't mind sharing her soap.

He angled over to the bar and caught Gimpy's eye.

Gimpy, I'm so sick and tired of eating beans cooked over a campfire that Army chow is starting to look good. Tell me that this fine establishment serves food as well as drink.

This fine establishment serves food as well as drink.

Thank the Lord. What have you got?

Beans. Cooked over the fire out back.

The stranger's right hand twitched involuntarily and his eyes looked like a cold wind blowing through a graveyard. With an effort he relaxed.

That's twice, he said.

Huh?

Nothing. Bring me some chicken and taters and home-made biscuits. And don't dawdle unnecessarily.

Gimpy had a smart ass reply, but wisely, suppressed it. He made record time to the kitchen to place the order. In a minute he was back.

Tell me stranger, what do they call you? he asked.

Well, so far, they call me stranger. But my name's Dan.

Gimpy jumped back as if he opened a cupboard and seen a rattler staring at him.

That wouldn't be Two-Gun Dan McQuade, fastest pistol this side of the Rio Grande who rides a white stallion and has changed more thieving renegade Injuns into used moccasins than Carter has little pills, would it?

Nope. Just Dan.

Dan ambled over to a table and had a seat, peering about for Miss Kitty. While he was in the tub he had come up with a couple quick witted responses to her verbal barbs. But he couldn't