Stryker 4: Stryker's Posse

By Chuck Tyrell

Cahill Bowman and his Shadow Box Gang invade Silverton, Nevada, and make away with some sixty pounds of gold from the McQueen Mine’s bullion room and take Marshal Walter Nation’s daughter Elly along for insurance when they leave. But before they ride out, they nail Walt Nation to the wall and slit his belly open, just to leave a message. Young Matt Stryker, deputy marshal of Silverton, must ride at the head of a posse made up of a black Seminole Indian, a woman stage driver, the town drunk, a former captain in the Union Army, a kid who’s looking to make a name as a gunfighter, and a dude that don’t know which end of a horse to ride. The Shadow Box Gang rides on, raping and killing as they go. Will Stryker’s posse be enough to bring them in?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310490095

Chuck Tyrell

Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author, uses the pen name of Chuck Tyrell for his Western novels. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only 19 miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since, including a 4th place in the World Annual Report competition, a 2nd place in the JAXA Naoko Yamazaki Commemorative Haiku competition, the first-place Agave Award in the 2010 Oaxaca International Literature Competition, and the 2011 Global eBook Award in western fiction. Raised on a ranch, Whipple brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, Whipple main-tains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction. Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, Asian American Journalists Association, and Tauranga Writers Inc.

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Cahill Bowman and his Shadow Box Gang invade Silverton, Nevada, and make away with some sixty pounds of gold from the McQueen Mine’s bullion room and take Marshal Walter Nation’s daughter Elly along for insurance when they leave. But before they ride out, they nail Walt Nation to the wall and slit his belly open, just to leave a message. Young Matt Stryker, deputy marshal of Silverton, must ride at the head of a posse made up of a black Seminole Indian, a woman stage driver, the town drunk, a former captain in the Union Army, a kid who’s looking to make a name as a gunfighter, and a dude that don’t know which end of a horse to ride. The Shadow Box Gang rides on, raping and killing as they go. Will Stryker’s posse be enough to bring them in?

STRYKER’S POSSE

STRYKER 4

By Chuck Tyrell

Copyright © 2014 by Chuck Tyrell

Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: September 2014

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.

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 reader.

Cover © 2014 by Ed Martin Visit Ed here

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

Chapter One – The Sack of Silverton

The Shadow Box Gang took over Silverton on a bright day in March. They rode in easy, guns out of sight beneath the tails of Mackinaw coats, rifles in their saddle scabbards, not even a single Bowie in plain sight. Just a rag-tag bunch of riders that happened to be together, or so it appeared.

Silverton started growing when the McQueen Mine began producing silver like a good mine should. When Lyle McQueen struck that heavy vein of silver, the town had only six buildings and a few tents, but within three months, the number of buildings grew to almost a hundred. Bucktooth Alice brought her girls in. McQueen hired Welshmen and Irishmen and Limeys to dig for silver. Chinese appeared out of nowhere to run laundries, eateries where a man could get a meal for a dime, and an opium den. This far north of the border, Mexicans were few, but Francisco Valencia still opened a place called Cantamar, and young brown girls twirled to show off their slim legs to lusty cowboys and vaqueros who worked at the Bar B Bar or the Rocking S. Some were just drifters that stopped to wet their whistles.

But the Shadow Box Gang chose Jesse Clark’s place on Bullion Road where all seven men tied their horses to the hitching rail with slipknots that would come free at a jerk if they had to beat it out of town. That was not Cahill Bowman’s intention. He came to make Walt Nation wish he’d never been born; came to make him pay for all the jail time Bowman’d spent in Yuma.

Jesse Clark’s place served two purposes in Silverton. Its restaurant had white tablecloths and good food whenever the makings were available. Of course there was always beef and beans and sourdough bread. Its little barroom gave gentlemen a place to relax and have a whiskey and a cigar while the womenfolk and children, if any, chattered away in the eating room. When the Shadow Box Gang walked in, there were two men and a bartender in the barroom and one family in the restaurant.

Bowman stepped through the front door and walked three steps toward the bar. Six Shadow Box men followed and spread out against the wall back of Bowman, who drew his six-gun and shot the two men at the bar. Don’t reach for the sawed-off, he said to the bartender. Instead, you might want to bring me Elly Nation. You do that and you just might live.

Flapjack Kranz and Big Ed Grainer went into the restaurant before the family could collect their senses and leave. Flapjack waved a converted Colt Navy at them. Just set right there and you might live to tell the tale. Try and be brave and you sure as hell won’t live.

The family froze. We’re just passing through, the man said. Please don’t mix us up in local problems.

Flapjack laughed. You’re plenty mixed up, you surely are. He raised his voice. Maggie Brown. You in there?

A matronly woman hesitantly put her head out the door leading to the kitchen. Yes?

You Maggie Brown?

She nodded.

Come on in and sit down with the mister and missus and their tit suckers.

I’ve got dishes to wash, she said. Ain’t no one else here.

I reckon you’re a liar, Maggie Brown. Where’s the Frenchy cook?

Maggie’s eyes went wide. She sputtered. F…f…frenchy c…c…cook. Umm, we don’t have one of those. Besides, Gerard, our regular cook, has gone out to choose vegetables for the supper meal.

Well then, Maggie m’dear, just come on in and sit down with your customers. Flapjack waved his big Navy Colt toward the family. Maggie marched across the room and sat herself down in a chair not far from them.

Flapjack Kranz raised his voice. All clear in here, Bow. Mommy and Daddy and two tit-suckin’ kids, plus Maggie Brown. Ain’t no one else in here.

Good, Bowman said. Rastus?

Yo.

You and Geebee grab them dead ones and dump ’em in the street, couldja?

Gotcha, boss.

Rastus Smythe and G. B. "Geebee Mills each dragged a dead drinker from the bar at Jesse Clark’s place and rolled them off the porch to lie in a jumbled heap at the foot of the steps leading up to it.

Some men’re killing people over to Jesse Clark’s Place. Just killing ’em. Phil Stone, the bartender Cahill Bowman sent after Walt Nation’s daughter, could barely pant out his message to Miss Higgenbothem, the schoolmarm. They’ll stop killing if I can get Elly Nation over to Jesse Clark’s fast.

Phillip, you know good and well that you cannot just take a child by the hand and lead her to a killer.

The whites showed around Phil Stone’s eyes. He shook his head. Oh yes I can, Miss Higgy Piggy. I can. And I will. He marched into the school’s single room and grabbed Elly Nation by the arm. You come with me, girl, he growled, jerking her out of her seat and dragging her toward the door.

Elly fought him. My daddy’s marshal, she hollered. He’s gonna lock you up. You can’t take me away, you can’t.

Phil Stone cuffed her on the ear. "Shut up. Come along.

Elly went limp.

Stone just threw her over his shoulder like he would a keg of beer, and strode back toward Jesse Clark’s Place.

My daddy’s the marshal, she cried. You’d better put me down, dirty Phil Stone. You’d just better.

Stone said nothing.

Elly kicked her legs, and pounded Stone’s back with her fists. He didn’t even break stride. To Elly, it was like pounding on a rock wall.

Daddy, Elly screamed. Daddy!"

Holler all you want, girl. All I gotta do is get you to Jesse Clark’s Place and I’ll be outta trouble. Don’t matter at all if you holler.

When he got to the steps leading to the porch, he sidestepped the bodies in the road and quick timed up and into Jesse Clark’s. He burst through the door and put Elly on the floor. Here’s Walt Nation’s kid, he said, and Cahill Bowman shot him between the eyes.

Get him outta here, Rastus, Geebee, Bowman said. Dump him on the others.

Rastus and Geebee took an arm and a leg each, hauled Phil Stone out the door and tossed him atop the two dead drinkers.

Bowman grinned at Elly Nation, who stood like a stone, shock showing in her wide-eyed stare. Thank you for coming to see us, Elly. You’re just what we needed right now. Would you like some sarsaparilla?

Elly shook her head.

All right then, if you’d please come with me into Jesse’s restaurant, we’ll get you a comfortable place to sit and wait. Bowman held out his hand. Come along now.

My daddy’s the marshal, mister, Elly said in a tiny voice.

Bowman’s grin turned into a wicker smile. Yes, he is, Elly. Yes, he is. And I’m quite sure we’ll see him come in here before long. Now, let’s go and find you a place to sit. Bowman reached for Elly’s hand, but she put her hands behind her back.

Don’t be silly, girl. Come along.

With no alternative, Elly followed Bowman into the restaurant.

Sir? Are you the man in charge? The question came from the father of the family of four who cowered in their seats under the guns of Flapjack and Big Ed.

You could say that. Sometimes we all get together when something big comes along.

Well, sir, we’re just passing through Silverton. Just waiting for the stage to come, so we can get . . .

Mister. This town is mine … ours. We’re taking it for all it’s got. And I reckon we could start with you. Flapjack. Big Ed. You all see what the gentleman’s got that’s worth anything.

Flapjack waved his Navy at the man. Over by the wall, he said. Now.

Look, mister, we’re just traveling through. Going to Saint Johns in Arizona.

Flapjack stepped closer and smashed the Navy into the side of the family man’s head. The man mewled. Didn’t ask who you was or what you was doing, asshole, Flapjack said. Get up against the wall like I said.

The man stood on wobbly legs.

Against the wall.

The man stumbled over to the wall.

"Face it.

He turned and stood face to the wall.

Hands on the wall. Step back. Spread your legs. Keep your hands on the wall, dammit.

The man did what Flapjack told him to.

You keep your gun on him, Big Ed. Flapjack began patting the man, looking for valuables. Whatever he found, he tossed on the nearest table. A tintype. A