Trail of Vengeance

By Amanda Brenner

The boy was just fifteen.  The posse hesitated, but not for long, before whipping the horse out from under him; then they watched him swing with the others.  When Charlie Cross learned of his kid brother's lynching, he set out to even the score.  This time his gun would not go to the highest bidder—this time it was personal. 

56,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Brenner
• Release date: Feb 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781465959546

Amanda Brenner

Amanda Brenner is a native Midwesterner who has traveled extensively throughout the United States and now lives quietly with her husband and an assortment of wildlife visitors to their urban home.  Her interest in writing began at an early age when westerns were popular attractions at the local theater.  It seemed only natural that her first novel, Trail of Vengeance, should be in that genre.  After finishing a second western, Shadow of the Rope, she began to explore a new direction and completed three contemporary mysteries involving private investigator Sid Langdon, a self-doubting magnet for offbeat clients and hapless scenarios, the latest being The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue.  Amanda enjoys learning from the books she reads, a characteristic reflected in the research she includes in her own works. Thank you for your time.  

Book preview

To my husband, Al, with love and gratitude.

Chapter 1

The morning sun, orange and ominous and rising slowly like a menacing omen, was beginning to clear the rim, making its way down the opposing wall of the canyon.  The predawn chill promised to give way to another scorcher.  Crouching low and unobserved among the pines dotting the steep hillside, Lem Stimson scouted the scene below.  Well, I’ll be...!  There they are!  Right where that detective fella said they’d be!  Don’t look like they’re fixin’ to move out any time soon neither.

The canyon was small and formed a natural corral.  A narrow trail zigged and zagged into a meadow a quarter mile from the entrance, forcing anyone approaching to do so single file.  Cattle milled about a makeshift pen of weathered logs.  Probably sixty head, I reckon.  He counted six figures on the canyon floor between himself and the cattle.  Two were standing near the herd; one of them was testing the saddle on a tethered horse.  The other men huddled low around a smoking campfire, no one making any move to rekindle it.  Lem watched as one figure finally rose to douse the smoking remnants—the signal to break camp.  They had been unconcerned about the fire giving away their presence in the canyon, assured that both its glow and its rising column of ash would dissipate well before clearing the steep walls that encircled the herd.  They had been right—until now.  But they had remained unaware of the shadow that had dogged their movements over the past month, for the man had been clever; but then, it was his business to be clever and he was very good at it.  As usual, he had managed to remain silent and unseen until there was no doubt he had found what he had been hired to find—no doubt at all. 

Figuring he had seen all he had to, Lem carefully made his way through the protective cover of the pines to his waiting horse.  Untying the reins he had looped over the branch of a supple Ponderosa sapling; he spurred the animal toward the cottonwood grove where the others waited impatiently for word.  They’re there, all right, boys, he announced as he swung down from his still moving mount, just like the detective fella said they’d be.  Cattle, too.  I figure close to sixty head.  Not for long, though.  Just doused their fire; I’d say they was fixin’ to cut out right soon.  Didn’t see no guard neither.

The group was on foot, their horses tied nearby.  Slim Silverton spoke first.  This is it, boys.  If anyone wants to clear out, now’s the time.  No one moved.  They had all lost cattle and men to the rustlers in the canyon ahead or knew of a neighbor who did, and now they were mad–mad enough to fight back.  Silverton looked over at his friends and neighbors, all of whom were now watching him, waiting for his signal.  Good men, all of them, he thought.  And some might die today.  But there was no going back, not now, and they all knew it.  Before the day was out, they would finish what they had come to do.  All right, then, he commanded, mount up and let’s ride!

Fanning out toward their waiting horses, some checked their rifles before swinging up into their saddles.  When all were ready, at Slim’s signal they moved as one toward the canyon entrance and dismounted.  The winding trail had so far muffled the sound of their approach.  Lem motioned a few of the boys to follow him through the canyon entrance, blocking that escape.  Without a word, the others clambered up the slopes overlooking the meadow and took what cover they could find among rocks and tree trunks dotting the hillside.  Once in position above the camp overlooking their quarry, they waited.

Unaware of the posse stealthily positioned above them in the surrounding hills, the men on the floor of the canyon gathered their gear and saddled their horses.  The reluctant guard they’d posted had scampered down and joined them for grub, oblivious to the predawn gathering in the grove a few miles away, confident that their activities had remained unobserved in the rocky landscape just below the Wyoming border.  Silverton was on the south rim.  He watched the others slip into position.  Now he, too, waited for the signal they had agreed upon.  Then it came.

YOU’RE SURROUNDED!  DROP YOUR GUNS!

Lem Stimson’s voice echoed sharply in the cool morning air.  At the sound of the shouted command, the men on the floor of the canyon started, then dove for what cover they could find.  There wasn’t much.  Prone on the grass with pistols and rifles drawn, they looked up toward the sound of the shouted order, searching the hills for a target.

I SAID DROP ‘EM—NOW!

Lead exploded toward the sound of Lem’s voice, answered by a scream of pain.  A rifle shot had ricocheted off a boulder and hit Ben Tolliver’s man in the neck.  The knowledge that one of their own had been hit set off a blaze of answering fire.  The small herd in the makeshift corral panicked; they stampeded against the ramshackle barrier that formed their boundary and broke out, lowing loudly as they scattered.  Terrified horses screamed, struggled, and pulled wildly at their tethers; those that freed themselves ran blindly to escape as rifles cracked and pistols pinged for several minutes.

At the first lull in the barrage of gunfire, a shout went up, THAT’S ENOUGH.  HOLD YOUR FIRE!  This time the command came from Gus Hawkes, whose spread had suffered the major share of losses among the local ranchers and whose brand Jessup had confirmed on the penned cattle.  A few straggler shots followed; then all was quiet.  When the smoke cleared, Lem ventured out, his rifle reloaded, primed and ready.  He scampered down the hillside, sliding as he went, and approached the figures that now lay motionless on the canyon floor.  Two were face up, trampled by the cattle.  Another lay face down across his rifle, a pool of blood welling up around his head.

Lem heard a low moan.  He stopped, his eyes searching for the source of the sound.  Then another, coming from his left.  A hint of movement to his right.  A minute later, he called out, THREE DEAD!  THREE STILL KICKIN’!

One by one, the men on the hillsides and at the entrance left their cover and took stock of their casualties.  The High Timber spread lost a man; others counted a few wounded.  Several hands rounded up the horses they found grazing at the far end of the canyon, where they had run until they could go no further.  They rejoined Lem and the others gathered at the encampment.  One of the rustlers was shot up pretty bad, another had a bullet crease alongside his head.  The third, a boy really, was surprisingly unhurt; he had hit the ground with the rest and remained paralyzed with fear and confusion until Lem’s announcement; it was the boy’s tentative movement that had caught Lem’s eye.

What’ll we do with the others? a rider from the Bar M wanted to know.

Leave ‘em for the wolves, Silverton told him.

Three of the horses were brought up and the surviving thieves, their hands now tied behind them, were put on board.  With captives in hand, the posse slowly made its way out of the canyon.  Waiting mounts were collected and the group somberly returned to the grove of cottonwood trees where they had assembled earlier.  In silence, assent understood, a tree deemed suitable for the group’s purpose, also understood, was selected and three closely spaced ropes were slung over a branch a tall man on a tall mount would have barely cleared.  The still mounted thieves were positioned under the branch with a rough noose secured around each man’s neck.  The posse, once more on foot, had gathered around the skittish horses as they stomped and snorted uneasily beneath the chosen limb.  Some of the group positioned themselves behind the animals, hats or switches ready; the rest stood expectantly eying their dazed prisoners.  The sun, now free of the canyon’s containment, spread its searing rays uncomfortably over the backs of those assembled.  The palpable tension was wearing through the patience of those who expected to reap either justice or vengeance from their morning’s work.  They were ready.  Who would give the signal?

Hold on!  Hawkes called out, We’d better get their names for the sheriff!

The group froze.  It was not the command they had expected while holding their breaths in anticipation of the signal that would end the distasteful reason for their gathering.  Names?

All right, but it don’t matter none unless, of course, there’s a reward, Lazy Y called back, and addressed the thief nearest him, The men we left back there.  Who were they?  The man, who had been tall and moved easy and liked his poker with a whiskey chaser, slumped over the saddle, his head down.  His shirt was soaked with blood that bubbled up from deep wounds in his back; the noose around his neck was the only thing keeping him upright.  Eyes glazed and uncomprehending, he said nothing.

Lazy Y went to the next man.  What about you?  Anything to say?  The thief with the head wound remained silent, but spat contemptuously in reply.

Not exactly talkative, Gus.  Lazy Y reported.

Gus Hawkes decided to try the boy.  What’s your name, son?

Davey, the boy whispered.  Then, motioning to the man next to him, hardly older than himself, he said, This here’s Lonnie Merkson.  The other one’s Tyler.

Davey, Gus said quietly, what’s your last name, son?

Cro..., the boy started, than caught himself.  Rutherford, sir.  Davey Rutherford.

How old are you, Davey?

Fifteen, sir.

The boy was scared, real scared.  His eyes wildly scanned the faces looking up at him.  He found no mercy in their return gaze.

Please, mister, don’t do this...it ain’t right...can’t be, the one called Davey pleaded.  Next to him, Lonnie Merkson, back shot and dying from his wounds but still conscious, gasped out, Let the kid go.  This was our show.  We done it all.  We done the killin’.

Slim Silverton and Gus Hawkes exchanged glances.  Before they could say anything, Ben Tolliver, seeing the exchange and aware of the thoughts behind it, called out, Anything you boys want to say before we skedaddle them horses?

The one named Tyler sneered and spat again.  Lonnie Merkson slumped against the rope around his neck.  Davey Rutherford thought of the brother he hadn’t seen since he was a kid.  Hadn’t even heard from him in a spell.  Don’t rightly know if he’s still alive.  No, no use telling Charlie nothin’.

Come on, Ben.  Get on with it.  The voice came from the rear of the group.

Hold on, Ben, Gus said suddenly.  Let’s take the boy back.  Ain’t decent to swing a fifteen year old.

I know how you feel, Gus.  I been thinkin’ the same, admitted Tolliver.  What do we gain hanging a kid?

Hold on, now, you two, it was Jake Bender’s voice.  His daughter, Annie, had lost her man in a raid on their ranch.  If he’s old enough to ride with thieves, he’s old enough to swing with ‘em.  A murmur of agreement rose around them.

Gus Hawkes looked up at the contorted face of the boy before him.  Sorry, son, he said, and turned away.

Ben Tolliver used his hat to whack the horse nearest him.  The animal bolted out from under the weight on its back, leaving Lonnie Merkson kicking the air behind it.  Lem Stimson hit the second one, and watched the thief called Tyler sway above him.  Tyler’s neck was broken when his horse reared, then fell to its knees.  Scrambling up, the panicked animal sent the lifeless form above it swinging into the still struggling figure of Lonnie Merkson.

Sweet Jesus...No!  Davey Rutherford cried out as Jake Bender lashed the horse beneath him.

A High Timber hand turned away and was sick.  The others watched the swinging ropes in silence until all movement stopped.  Ben Tolliver’s booming voice was strangely subdued when it broke the stillness of that sunny summer morning, That’s it, boys, he said.  Let’s go home.

TWO WEEKS LATER....

The letter had lain in a drawer awaiting his arrival at the Lewiston Hotel in Dodge, a hotel which served as his home base, where those in need of his skills could reach him.  It was his only mail that early September evening when Charlie Cross rode in after his latest ‘assignment,’ a little boundary dispute down New Mexico way.  As usual, the matter had been negotiated with his particular brand of persuasion.  His employer got his money’s worth, Cross collected his fee, and the incident was closed.  He headed home.

Now he was looking forward to a bath and a good meal, later perhaps a few drinks over a little poker; and so he was irritated to find a letter waiting for him when he registered at the desk for his usual room, the one he reserved with a monthly stipend to assure its availability as well as the forwarding address its presence provided. 

He figured he knew what the waiting message would be, for he only received one kind; but just now he needed a break.  He’d had enough killing...for a while. 

This time, however, the return address intrigued him:  Sheriff William A. Tate, Town of Lodestar, Colorado.

Colorado?  The name made him uneasy as he slowly tore the end off the envelope and withdrew the letter inside.  It had been dated two months before.  The reason for his unease was confirmed when he read the sheriff’s message.

So, his mother was dead.  His stepfather, too.  An accident, the letter said in precisely penciled script, something about a road washed away after a storm.  The sheriff wanted him to come to Lodestar to settle their affairs and see to his brother, Davey.  Sheriff Tate and his wife would care for the boy until Cross arrived.

Bad news, sir?  Anything I can do?  A youthful voice intruded on his thoughts. 

Cross looked up to find concern in the eyes of the young desk clerk, a slight sandy haired boy surely no older than Davey.  Carefully folding the letter and returning it to its envelope, he placed both in a pocket of his soft well-tanned leather vest before answering.  No, it’s nothing, he said finally.  I’d like my key.  And send up some dinner—anything will do—coffee, and a double whiskey.  And see to my horse, will you?  He’s the black outside.

Yes, sir.  I surely will.  Don’t you worry none, the clerk assured him, gratefully pocketing the silver dollar Cross had tossed him.

Alone in the room that had been held empty in anticipation of his arrival whenever it came—the corner one on the second floor, next to the back stairs and the hotel’s only other exit—Cross locked the door.  Retrieving the envelope from his vest pocket, he once again examined the sheriff’s message.  This was something he’d never expected, never considered.  And why should he?  From his mother’s infrequent letters, she had never mentioned health problems for either herself or the man she married after his father’s death, a point he was sure she would have mentioned as they had little else to fill their sporadic exchanges, and so he knew an early death on that account was an unlikely prospect.  But an accident?  How, for God’s sake? 

Reading between the lines of his mother’s letters, he pictured Lodestar as a quiet little out-of-the-way town where nothing ever happened.  How could they die, both of them, when Davey was yet hardly a man?  No, an accident was something he had never counted on, and now it had happened.  At first he wondered that the sheriff had even been able to find him, until he reasoned that of course the man probably went through the house afterward looking for someone to contact and had found his address among his mother’s papers, perhaps along with some of his own rare letters to her; he was sure she had most likely kept every one; she was like that.  But the sheriff would have found no clue to his present life, Cross was certain, for he had taken pains to tell his mother nothing of his real occupation; as far as she was concerned he was a cattle broker, a profession that would easily explain some reference he might make to the travel that inevitably accompanied any correspondence awaiting him in a numbered slot behind the hotel desk. 

He was standing at the window, deep in thought,