Blood Justice

By Chaz Mann

Frank Travers is on the run from the law in the second installment of the Frank Travers Series. With bounty hunters on his trail, Frank and his dog, Whiplash, make their way to St. Louis, Missouri. While there, Frank befriends the Swanson family, who are on their way to Manhattan, Kansas, to claim an inherited cattle ranch. Frank decides to accompany the Swanson clan to their destination and accepts an offer to work at their ranch. A range war between the Swansons and their neighbors threatens to become a bloody affair. But things are not as they seem. Someone is hiding behind the scenes and manipulating events. Frank and his boyhood friend, Tucker Gates, along with the help of an old scout and tracker, take on the task of finding the unknown puppetmaster and exposing the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaz Mann
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310942471

Chaz Mann

Chaz Mann has worked in the real estate, manufacturing, oil refining, retail, and insurance industries. He is an avid reader of multiple genres. He has earned an A.S. in Business and Industrial Management as well as a B.S. in Speech Communication. He currently resides in Fort Worth, Texas, with his lovely wife of many years, Marie.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

March 1, 1867

Outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri

Easy, Whiplash, Frank Travers whispered while stroking the long neck of the adult male German shepherd. The dog stood twenty-six inches at the withers and weighed eighty-five pounds, all solid muscle. His brown eyes, reflecting intelligence and self-assuredness, penetrated the night as two intruders crept toward Frank's blanket and saddle. Each of the men held a six-shooter pointed in the direction of the form beneath the blanket.

Most women considered Frank, who stood at five foot nine inches and one hundred fifty pounds, quite good looking. At twenty-seven years of age he sported deep blue eyes, a strong jaw, and long, coal black hair. His well-muscled and deeply tanned body reflected years of exposure behind a plow. In spite of the carnage he'd witnessed during his years in the Civil War, he was usually good natured and smiled easily; but not tonight.

Stars crowded an inky black sky. Cumulus clouds floated by, intermittently blocking out the diminishing brightness of a half moon. A cool breeze drifted through and around the old oak trees; their green, serrated leaves quivered in the night. The sounds of small animals foraging for their morning meal could be heard in the eerie darkness while the fresh aroma of a new day charged the air.

But the dusty, trail bitten men who approached Frank's camp site did not care about the sights and sounds of the night nor for the promise of a new day. Their interest lay centered only on the bounty on Frank's head. Both men had the look of hard cases; cruel, rough, and evil men. Their bulky forms slowly approached the shape underneath the tan blanket.

Frank knew who they were. He'd seen enough of their type in the past two years: bounty hunters. In Frank's opinion, man hunters were cowards of the worse sort. They embraced neither courage nor morals and would dry gulch a man or woman for the right price, and not give it a second thought. The reward on Frank's head, in his opinion, was more than enough reason for these hunters to fill a man full of lead while he slept.

The bounty hunters edged closer and closer to the sleeping form, careful to avoid any sound that may alert their target. They were acutely aware of the possibility that the form may awaken suddenly with a six-gun in his hand, spewing hot lead in their direction.

They fully extended their arms and prepared to fire.

Frank had been a high-line rider, avoiding any sign of a sheriff or posse for the past two years since leaving City Point, Virginia, in the summer of '65. He'd traveled nearly six hundred miles in that time with no real destination in mind waiting for a pardon for his supposed crimes from the Governor of Virginia. He periodically sent telegrams to his best friend in City Point, Tucker Gates, whom Frank considered a kindred spirit, and a brave and honorable man who would do anything for his friend. But so far, no word had come out of the Governor's office.

Frank and his much-loved dog, Whiplash, whom he received from a dying friend, traveled the country side by side. Frank tried as best he could to avoid large towns and the lawmen who occupied them. In the eyes of the law, Frank was considered a wanted criminal, charged with the murder of a deputy, breaking out of jail, and helping a felon escape from a jail wagon on her way to a federal prison. What the law dogs didn't know was that Frank considered himself wholly justified in his actions and every crime he committed. Nor did they have any notion of a possible pardon for the outlaw. So the wanted dodgers, announcing Frank's bounty, were posted in sheriff offices across the land, but how far west they extended was an unknown. So to play it safe, Frank tried his best to avoid Johnny law wherever he traveled.

The bounty hunters took careful aim and opened fire. Red hot flames lanced from the barrel of their shootin' irons again and again throwing lead into the prone figure lying on the rough ground. When the shooting stopped, the hunters were confident their rounds had found their mark; confident the bounty would be theirs; confident they would enjoy a night to be remembered with tasty food, lascivious women, and plenty of good, strong whiskey.

What they didn't expect were the muzzle flashes erupting from beside a large oak tree, ten feet north of the blanket and saddle. Hot lead exploded from Frank's Colt Army .44, slamming into their bodies, shattering bone, ripping sinew, and turning their hearts to mush. Each man dropped to his knees, a look of total surprise and devastation on his face. Both bounty hunters, as if orchestrated by an unknown entity, toppled forward in unison and crashed into the hard-packed earth.

Frank rose from his hiding position, Whiplash at his side, and slowly walked toward the dead men. He regretted having to kill them, but he had learned since being on the run that if you did not stop these men dead in their tracks, they would come back again and again until they buried lead deep into his chest.

Frank knelt down on one knee and stroked the dog's long neck and back. Good boy. Thanks for the warning. I don't know what I'd do without you. Whiplash barked twice, as if fully understanding Frank's love and appreciation.

Frank rose and looked at his trusty companion, Do you think we should bury these gun- wolves or let the animals have them? Again, as if understanding his master's words, the dog growled deep into his throat. Okay, Frank said, That settles it. Let the animals have a feast on these no-accounts. They have it coming.

As Frank started walking away, he turned and looked at the dead men once again and reconsidered. In his opinion, these men did not deserve a decent burial. But the thought of wild animals gnawing at their bodies didn't sit well with him. Besides, he thought, these men probably have decent, law abiding kin who would appreciate at least a half-assed burial; no matter how evil they were.

Frank rifled through the pockets of the dead men. He discovered a folded sheet of paper in the back pocket of one of the bounty hunters. He unfolded the paper. Inside it read: Wanted Dead or Alive, Frank Travers, for numerous crimes including murder. Reward of $1000. Frank wondered how long these two trackers were on his trail, and where they had picked up the wanted dodger. He thought he was relatively safe this far west, but now he would have to reconsider that assumption.

After burying the man hunters, Frank located their horses, then removed and searched their saddlebags. He found nothing of interest. Then he removed the bit, bridle, and saddle from each animal and smacked them on their rumps. He watched the horses dart into the night, wondering where they would finally end up.

He saddled up his strong, deep-chested bay; its brown body coat glimmered in the early dawn, its black mane, tail, and legs reflecting the false dawn. He gigged his horse into an easy trot and headed into St. Louis.

CHAPTER TWO

When Frank entered the city of St. Louis a few hours later, he noticed the city was built primarily on bluffs and terraces that rose 100-200 feet above the western banks of the Mississippi River, south of the Missouri-Mississippi confluence. Much of the fertile area consisted of gently rolling prairies with low hills and broad, shallow valleys.

He couldn't help but be impressed with the looks St. Louis. The streets were lined with businesses of all sort, including a bank, hotels, restaurants, mercantile stores, to name a few, and, of course, the ubiquitous saloons that seemed to crop up like wildflowers in populated areas. Townsfolk crowded the streets like ants on a disturbed ant hill, heading into a multitude of different directions.

Frank found a nearby livery stable. Hey, pardner, he said amicably, stepping down from the saddle. The hostler, working at the anvil, turned toward Frank. The man bore the looks of a typical blacksmith; strong bulky arms, glistening skin, and beads of sweat raining from his hot brow. He dipped a red hot horseshoe into a bucket of filthy water with a hard sizzle and pop, and then removed it as steam rose from the shoe.

He turned toward Frank with a smile on his face. Yes, sir, what can I do for you?

I need my horse rubbed down and grained, Frank said cordially.

No problem. The cost is four bits a night. How long will you be staying in St. Lou?

I'm not really sure, maybe a week, maybe a month. Depends on what St. Louis has to offer,

That's fine by me, sir. You're welcome to stable your horse as long as you'd like.

Frank looked out the window toward the town center. Where do I find a hotel that allows dogs?

The hostler scratched his head. Well, sir, there's the Lindell Hotel, but it's pricy and I'm not really sure if they allow hounds. He looked down at Whiplash and said, That's a mighty fine lookin' animal, sir. Whiplash barked his approval as the man stroked his neck.

The hostler continued. There's a boardin' house at the end of town called Alice's. It's a mite older than the other hotels, but the place is clean and they serve good, hot meals in large portions. And I'm sure they'd accept dogs.

I'm obliged, Frank said, shaking the man's hand. Frank generally tried his best to avoid populated areas, but St. Louis was a major gateway to parts west and he was headed in that general direction. He consoled himself with the thought that he would be one man among thousands and could easily go unnoticed.

As Frank recalled, St. Louis was acquired from France by the United States under President Thomas Jefferson in 1803, as part of the Louisiana Purchase. Missouri became a state in 1820, and St. Louis was incorporated as a city in the latter part of 1822.

Frank remembered reading in newspapers back east that the streets of St. Louis were flooded with immigrants from many countries, including Germany, Bohemia, Italy, and Ireland. And that the population in St. Louis had grown from fewer than 20,000 in 1840, to close to 80,000 in 1850, to just over 160,000 by 1860.

The men and women of the city were adorned in a multiple of fashions. Some of the women were gaily dressed while others wore threadbare clothes. Some of the men wore expensive suits, but most were dressed casually in nondescript clothing. Some men wore parts of Confederate uniforms, though the Civil War barely touched St. Louis.

Frank remembered during his Civil War days that the area saw only a few skirmishes with Union forces. Notably, what became known as the Camp Jackson Affair, occurred in May of 1861, when the Union army cleared a Confederate encampment outside the city. But the war significantly damaged the St. Louis commerce, especially after the Confederacy blockaded the Mississippi River, shutting off St. Louis' connection to the eastern markets.

But the town certainly prospered now. No question about that, Frank thought.

He and Whiplash strolled down the weathered boardwalk taking in the sights and sounds. Horsemen hurried along the wide street as well as wagons of all shapes and sizes. Clouds of dust coursed through the air, sometimes obscuring the view ahead, but no one seemed to mind. The townspeople were apparently lost in their own world as they scurried about town.

Frank suddenly heard a growling sound and glanced down at Whiplash. Then he realized the growling was coming from his own stomach. Time to grab some grub, he thought. He didn't have any trouble finding Alice's boarding house. The hostler was right; the ramshackle frame building that served as a restaurant and hotel had certainly seen better days. But in Frank's experience, the older establishments created a warm, home town feeling, and treated people like old friends. The newer ones seemed pretentious and self-serving.

Frank entered the restaurant section of the hotel and walked straight back to the kitchen. No one seemed to mind. He approached a rotund figure, obviously the cook, and said with a smile on his face, The names Frank and this here's Whiplash. Would you mind feeding my dog some of your left over victuals? I'd be glad to pay you the price of a meal.

The cook's face broke into a huge smile. No problem, friend. The cook bent over and stroked Whiplash's back and neck. He reminds me a lot of my old hound, Dynasty. Sadness drifted across his timeworn face. The cook continued, My dog passed away not too long ago. He paused while rubbing his rough hand under Whiplash's chin, and then added, I'd be more than happy to feed your dog, and don't worry about money. I'll be feeding him food that would normally be thrown out anyway.

Thank you for your kindness, Frank said appreciatively.

Thirty minutes later, Frank sat back in his chair rubbing his stomach. The hostler was right again. The food was indeed mouthwatering, and in large portions. Whiplash, after finishing his meal, sat next to Frank, contented.

Just as they were about to leave, the cook rushed over with a large, grease stained package in his hand. He handed the bundle to Frank. This is for Whiplash, he said, a warm smile spreading across his face, just in case he gets hungry later. The cook knelt down and rubbed the dog's muzzle, his eyes glistened with the thought of his recently departed dog. Whiplash had certainly made a friend today.

Frank walked over to the hotel section and paid for a room on the second floor. He stowed his gear in the room and then decided to take a walk around town. Whiplash decided to join him.

The sun lit the sky with a golden brilliance as clouds of cotton balls lazily drifted across the calm blue sky. Frank studied the street left and then right, deciding which direction he wanted to head in. Which way do you want to go, Whiplash? The dog turned his muzzle left and started walking. Frank followed, with a smile on his face. Man, did he love that dog.

Frank and his hound were walking along the boardwalk when he heard a loud ruckus across the street outside a mercantile store. He decided to see what was going on. His eyes surveyed the scene. A gentleman in his early sixties with dark brown eyes and long grayish hair had stopped loading a buckboard. He stood arguing with three obviously drunken men dressed in range riding work clothes. Next to the older gentleman stood a slim, attractive woman in her early forties with soft blue eyes, a heart shaped face, and long blonde hair. She stood just over five feet tall. The wife, Frank figured. Two frightened children, a boy and a girl in their early teens, stood next to the wife.

. . . what are you going to do, old man? Ike Pickett said, a condescending smile on his unshaven face, Take on all of us. He laughed then tilted his head forward and spat on the older man's dusty, worn boots.

Jedediah Swanson stood a little over six feet tall with a thin but muscular frame. His long narrow face reddened as he stepped toward Ike Pickett.

Jed, don't, pleaded his wife, Emma. Her children huddled next to her.

"Yea, Jed, mocked Jesse Pickett, Ike's younger brother, Don't."

Then the third drunk, Jack Fisher, said disapprovingly, What's an old thing like you doin' married to a pretty young thing like this? he pointed toward the wife. Were the shelves all bare when she went lookin' for a husband? All three men broke out in riotous laughter.

Please, just leave us alone, begged the wife.

Emma, let me handle this, her husband said firmly, his large hands balled into a tight fist.

You're not going to handle anything, old man. Ike Pickett said as he pushed the husband hard in the chest, nearly toppling him over.

Frank kept telling himself, stay out of this, it's not your fight. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself.

But some internal drive inside Frank drove him on as he strode across the street toward the altercation. He stopped not far from the arguing men. Whiplash growled.

Don't do this. Just walk away, an inner voice scolded him. But he couldn't just walk away, no matter the risk. The husband and wife reminded him of Ben and Sarah Mills. Although not his biological parents, he considered them his real parents. They had accepted a young Frank into their home with open arms when his biological parents wanted nothing to do with him except use and abuse him as if he were a workhorse. The Mills', though childless, took him in and treated him with a deep and abiding love that Frank could not find words for. They made Frank the man he was today.

Ben died two years ago, murdered by greedy and arrogant men who tried to frame Sarah for his death. Frank, after breaking out of a jail cell with help from his best friend, Tucker Gates, had freed Sarah from a jail wagon on her way to a federal prison. Then, with the assistance of Tucker Gates and others, would prove her innocence. But in the end Frank ended up a wanted man with a price on his head.

Hey, fellas, Frank said easily. Let me buy you all a drink at the saloon.

Who the hell are you and why would you buy us a drink? Ike Pickett, a tall, strong, and heavily built man, said skeptically.

Frank answered evenly, Let's just say I'm new in town and looking to make some friends.

Bull! What are you up to? I'd say you were tryin' to interfere with our, he nodded toward the other two drunks, little party here.

Frank's patience wore thin. Look! I offered to buy you a drink. But I won't stand by and watch you bother these folks.

Oh, you won't, huh? Ike Pickett said with a sinister smile on his face. His two drunken companions watched in amusement.

Whiplash approached Ike Pickett, a vicious growl emanating from his throat.

Jesse Pickett, a slim, good looking man with shoulder length hair, spoke up. Keep that mutt away from my brother or he dies where he stands. His hand rested on the butt of a Colt hanging low on his hip.

Frank said sternly, his temper rising. That would be a big mistake on your part, probably the last mistake of your worthless life.

I've a mind to kill you where you stand, pilgrim, chimed in Jack Fisher, a tall slim man. His hand gripped tightly on his pearl handler revolver.

Like I said, that would be a big mistake, Frank said flatly, staring the man dead in his eyes.

Everyone remained silent, unconsciously holding their breath.

Jack Fisher removed his hand from his six-gun.

Aw, we were just havin' some fun, chuckled Jack Fisher. He turned toward the married couple as if to say something, and then suddenly spun around, his shooting iron in his hand, raising it toward Frank's chest.

Before Fisher could fully raise his weapon, Frank's Colt .44 flew out of its holster like greased lightning. He fired two quick rounds into the drunk's chest.

Frank then turned in the direction of Ike and Jesse Pickett, not trusting them to wage a fair fight.

Ike Pickett reached for his gun.

Frank thumbed back the trigger on his Colt.

Whiplash, knowing his master was in a quandary, leapt toward Jesse Pickett and buried his teeth deep into the man's left leg.

Hold it right there, boomed a loud, coarse voice. Frank and Ike Pickett spun in the direction of the voice.

The town sheriff stood six feet away, a double-barreled shotgun held tightly in both hands.

Damnation! A deep voice inside Frank said, I told you to walk away.

CHAPTER THREE

I need both of you men to sheath your weapons, Sheriff Gator Stone said in a commanding voice, and then added, real easy like, or you'll be sorry you didn't.

Frank and the eldest Pickett brother pouched their irons. Jesse Pickett clutched his bleeding leg.

Sheriff Stone said, Now what's going on here?

Emma Swanson spoke up first. These men here, pointing toward the Pickett brothers and the dead man, started giving my husband a considerable amount of grief for no good reason at all. She added, And this kind gentleman, pointing at Frank, stepped in to help us.

Ike Pickett barked, I don't know what she's talkin' about, Sheriff. We were just mindin' our own business when this hombre started shootin' and ...

Shut your lying trap, cowboy! I watched everything from across the street. Stone said with scorn. His shotgun now pointed straight at Ike Pickett.

Ike and Jesse looked at each other then back at the sheriff.

You're both damned lucky I don't throw your ornery asses in jail right now. Sheriff Stone said with an edge to his voice. He paused. Now get out of here and don't cause any more problems in my town or both of you will spend an ample amount of time decorating my jail cell."

What about my leg, Sheriff? That damn dog nearly tore it off, complained Jesse Pickett.

The sheriff eyes zeroed in on Jesse Pickett's leg wound, and said, Aw, stop the whining. I suggest you pay a visit to the doc. He paused, and then added, Now go, both of you, before I lose my temper.

Ike Pickett threw Frank a vicious look, and then he and his younger brother headed toward the closest drinking establishment. They glanced back one last time toward their dead companion.

The sheriff stared at Frank, his eyes softened. Like I told those two, he pointed at the diminishing forms of the Pickett brothers, I watched everything from across the street. There won't be any charges filed against you. It was clearly a case of self-defense.

Before Frank could say anything, Jed Swanson spoke. Thank you, Sheriff. I'm mighty obliged for your help.

It's what I'm paid to do. You folks be careful. St. Louis is a rough town with more than its share of hard cases.

We will, Sheriff, Emma Swanson said with relief in her voice.

The sheriff took in Frank's easy manner. You're sure fast with a gun, pardner. The sheriff looked Frank up and down with a quizzical expression on his face. He glanced down at Frank's Colt Army .44, and then added, Do I know you from somewhere?

I'm new in town, Sheriff. Just passing through and not looking for any trouble. Frank said in a friendly tone.

Sheriff Stone replied, That's good. I don't need any more problems. Then he added, as if in explanation, My jail's full. That's the only reason those varmints, referring to the Pickett brothers, aren't occupying a jail cell right now.

Stone turned and started walking away, then stopped and turned back. You wouldn't know anything about two dead bounty hunters outside of town, would you?

Afraid not, Sheriff, Frank said easily.

You say you're new in town? You sure look familiar.

You must have me confused with someone else, Sheriff. He went on, in a conversational tone, Like I said, I'm new to these parts.

The sheriff nodded his head, stroked his whiskered chin, turned, and headed toward the undertaker's office.

To the milling crowd gathered around the buckboard, the law