Pistolero Justice (A Piccadilly Publishing Western: Book 1)

By Patrick E. Andrews

Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza is the mixed-blood son of a Scot-American father and a Mexican mother. He is an adventurer who speaks two languages and can back up anything he says in either one with his sixgun. He is hired by a desperate Arizona rancher to rescue his niece from the Mexican bandit El Demonio. At first it seems a routine job of finding the bandido then ransoming the beautiful captive. But El Demonio has sold the young woman to traffickers of human beings. Now bringing her back will become a hunt-and-escape adventure challenging Raul's courageous determination and his gunfighting skills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Dec 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311547828

Patrick E. Andrews

Patrick E. Andrews was born in Oklahoma in 1936 into a family of pioneers who participated in its growth from the Indian Territory and Oklahoma Territory to statehood. His father's family were homesteaders and his mother's cattle ranchers. Consequently, he is among the last generation of American writers who had contacts with those people from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Patrick's wife Julie says he both speaks and writes with an Oklahoma accent. He is an ex-paratrooper, having served in the 82nd Airborne Division in the active army and the 12th Special Forces Group in the army reserves. Patrick began his writing career after leaving the army. He and his better half presently reside in southern California. He has a son Bill, who is an ex-paratrooper and a probation officer, and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza is the mixed-blood son of a Scot-American father and a Mexican mother. He is an adventurer who speaks two languages and can back up anything he says in either one with his sixgun. He is hired by a desperate Arizona rancher to rescue his niece from the Mexican bandit El Demonio. At first it seems a routine job of finding the bandido then ransoming the beautiful captive. But El Demonio has sold the young woman to traffickers of human beings. Now bringing her back will become a hunt-and-escape adventure challenging Raul's courageous determination and his gunfighting skills.

PISTOLERO JUSTICE

By Patrick E. Andrews

A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 1

Copyright © 2015 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

First Smashwords Edition: December 2015

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. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Our cover features Ready for Hire, painted by Don Stivers.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~*~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

This book is dedicated to the memory of grandfather

Jack Terral

A Cowboy in the Choctaw Nation

Chapter One

Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza allowed his horse to slowly amble along the trail leading through the desert scrub growth. He had sighted the reflection off the gun barrel moments before and now moved warily along to a point where the sandy track dipped into a grove of heavy manzanita. When he figured he was out of sight of the ambusher, he slid from the saddle, pulling his Winchester carbine clear of its boot.

Raul moved in a silent, rapid pace and circled to the other side of the thick vegetation, coming out behind the gunman. Don’t make a move, he calmly ordered. Any dumb tricks on your part will lessen your chances of living to a ripe old age.

Huh? The figure turned around showing himself to be a teenage boy. Oh, howdy, mister. From where I seen you I figgered you was a Mezkin.

Raul growled, You crazy kid!

Well, you’re dressed like one, ain’t you?

You could’ve been killed, you know that? Raul snapped.

How come you’re dressed like a Mezkin, mister? the boy asked, taking special note of Raul’s sombrero, charro jacket and trousers along with high-priced boots of the same style.

It suits me, Raul said. Where’s your folks?

Down at the house, the boy said, pointing to the southwest.

Do they know you’re out trying to drygulch passing strangers?

The kid laughed. Aw, I’m really hunting jackrabbits. I seen you and like I said; I thought you was a Mezkin, so I figgered I’d best shoot you. Looks like a mistake on my part though.

Wait here a minute, Raul ordered. He walked into the manzanita grove, and came back with his horse. Hop on up behind me, he said. And then tell me how come you’re so determined to kill Mexicans.

We had trouble with some a while back, the kid said, holding out his hand to be pulled up into the saddle. Hey, what’s your name, mister? Mine is Freddie Slattery and my pa owns this ranch we’re on. Are you gonna work for him?

Raul was surprised. Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a good chance I may be employed by your father. I presume he’s F.T. Slattery, right?

Right, Freddie answered. I’m really named after him, but I hate to be called Junior. It makes folks think I’m still a kid.

I don’t know why they’d do that, Raul replied with a grin.

Can this horse run, mister? He looks like a pretty good ’un to me. Is he a cowpony?

I’ll tell you something if you promise not to shoot him, Raul said. He’s a Mexican horse.

I didn’t know there was such a thing. I just figgered Mezkins stole horses whenever they needed one.

"You people must have had a lot of trouble with Mexicans," Raul mused.

After a few minutes of riding, the ranch’s buildings came into view. They were typical of that part of Arizona, consisting of a main house, bunkhouse, storage buildings and other structures to serve the operation. All were constructed of adobe, and the profitability of the place was evidenced by tile roofs other than thatch that most smaller and poorer ranches had to use to cover their buildings. Raul could also see a shallow but wide creek winding through a narrow expanse of bluestem grass. The vegetation provided excellent grazing for cattle.

Raul and Freddie arrived in the main yard just as a woman stepped from the house to drape a throw rug over a hitching post. Raul brought his horse to a halt. She was typical of the women who had spent their lives in ranching country surviving everything from Indian raids and severe weather to childbirth without medical assistance. Any girlish softness she had once had was now chipped away from years of sun, wind and plain hard work. She was tough and flinty, the lines around her eyes and mouth so deep it appeared they might be painful.

Freddie leaped to the ground. Hi, Ma. I thought this feller was a Mezkin and I was fixing to shoot him.

She looked from her boy to Raul. Her uneasiness was apparent, but there wasn’t a hint of fear in her hard gaze.

Raul showed her a smile. How d’you do, ma’am. My name is Mackenzie. I have an appointment with Mr. F.T. Slattery about a job.

She looked somewhat relieved. Are you a friend of Donnelly’s?

We’re not exactly friends, just acquaintances. Donnelly said that Mr. Slattery might have a job for me…something special.

Could be, she said, turning her attention back to her rug. How come you’re dressed in Mezkin clothes?

It suits me, ma’am.

I guess some folks’ll wear anything, she said. We got a coupla hands working for us that prefer ’Pache moccasins to reg’lar boots.

It’s just a matter of taste and convenience, ma’am.

You might as well get down off that horse and come in the kitchen for some coffee. I’m expecting my husband back any time now.

Thank you kindly, Raul said, swinging out of the saddle. He looped the reins over the hitching rail, making sure he didn’t disturb the woman’s rug. He gave her a polite nod and walked across the small porch to the door.

The interior of the kitchen was cool and well arranged, its cookware kept in order on hooks along the wall. A Mexican maid, young and rather pretty, turned from her work at the stove and eyed him inquisitively. Raul’s handsome face held something special for her, not altogether romantic, but almost like she recognized a kinsman. His skin was no darker than any other suntanned gringo, and his eyes were blue. But the deep black hair, high cheek bones and sharp nose had the cast of a mestizo. The contrasting features blended well, and the girl felt a blush creeping across her face.

He addressed her in fluent Spanish telling her that the lady of the house had invited him to have some coffee. He spoke politely, using por favor — please.

"Si, señor," the girl answered, getting him a cup of the brew.

Raul took a chair at the table, and sipped the hot liquid, enjoying the silent company of the girl as she went back to her chores.

~*~

A half hour passed before F.T. Slattery walked into the kitchen. He nodded to Raul. You’re Mackenzie? Come with me, he said. Raul got up and followed him to a small office just off the living room.

If ranch life had been rough on Mrs. Slattery, its effect had the opposite effort on her husband. Hard outdoor work had sculpted him into a leathery toughness of physical strength and mental alertness. F.T. Slattery was broad-shouldered and moved with the self-assuredness demonstrated by ranchers who had overcome the myriad of challenges in establishing a successful cattle operation. The eagerness and enthusiasm of his youth had waned but very little in the man.

Raul settled into a chair and took an offered cigar. He decided to let Slattery lead the conversation. The man lit his own stogie after sitting down at the desk. You was recommended to me by a friend of mine in Tucson. Name of Jeff Donnelly.

Yeah. I spoke to him, Raul acknowledged, lighting his own smoke.

He also tells me you do special jobs even if they’re on the risky side.

Yeah. I’ve had pretty good luck in that line of work.

Good, Slattery said. Donnelly also says you got a reputation with a gun, and have been known to hire it out now and again.

Sure, Raul replied. If I like the job offer. But I’m not a paid assassin.

Fair enough, Slattery allowed. By the way, is there any particular reason why you dress like a Mezkin?

It suits me.

Do you speak Mezkin?

That I do, Raul answered.

Some or a lot?

I speak it fluently, Mr. Slattery.

That means you can say anything in it that you want to, right?

Raul stifled a grin. Yeah. That’s right.

It’s damned chattering, Slattery complained. Now wonder them greasers chose it.

I never could understand why they passed up English myself, Raul remarked caustically.

"Plain English, by God! Why would anyone want to speak anything else? It’s the best. That’s why it’s called plain English."

Raul began to be irritated by the man’s ignorance. Donnelly informs me your niece had been kidnapped and you want me to get her back for you.

Yeah, Slattery replied. The girl is eighteen-years-old. She’s my brother’s daughter from back in Denver. Her name is Loretta Slattery and she was on her way to visit us for a spell when her stage was bushwhacked by Mezkins about twenty miles east of Applegate.

Raul understood. She was carried off to Mexico, eh?

"Yeah, she sure as hell was. And I’m willing to pay to get her back. And by that I mean unharmed. Get my meaning?"

I presume you’re saying without any man having his way with her.

That’s exactly what I want.

Well, I hate to tell you this, Mr. Slattery, but it’s a sure fact that’s already happened. That’s the least of the problem.

Slattery exploded. "The least of the problem! You expect me to sit here calmly while a bunch of greasy Mezkins been violating one of my womenfolk?"

I’m sorry if I seem so unconcerned, Mr. Slattery, but what has happened has already happened and it will continue as long as she remains alive. That’s what’s important. Is she alive?

God! You don’t suppose she’d kill herself, Slattery wondered, now facing the reality of the situation.

And how do you know it was Mexicans?

There was a survivor, Slattery explained. A drummer who got shot, but managed to crawl away into the brush. They found him when the sheriff took a posse to look for the stage after it never showed up. The drummer said it was Mezkins, and the one that seemed to be the leader had a face that looked like it’d been whipped with barbed wire.

Demonio, Raul stated.

What’s that?

"There’s a gang of bandidos led by a fellow called El Demonio. His name means ‘The Demon’ in English. He’s got a stronghold in the Escondido Mountains over the border."

Slattery gave Raul a disapproving look. It sounds to me like you know this beat-up son of a bitch.

Yeah. I know him. My family own a large ranch in Sonora south of the border. We have an agreement with Demonio. If he leaves us alone, we won’t go after him.

You folks must have a really big ranch.

That’s right, Raul said. "And that means a large crew of vaqueros. That’s Spanish for ‘cowboys’."

What’s the chance of getting my niece back?

Demonio will ransom her, no doubt about that, Raul said. As long as he can get what he could from a trafficker. So, I figure it’ll probably cost you between one to five thousand dollars.

I’ll pay it, Slattery said.

We’ll offer five hundred at first.

Godamn it! I don’t want to bargain with my niece’s life. I’ll just pay the thousand and be done with it.

If you offer a thousand right off the bat, he’ll jack it up to ten thousand, Raul cautioned him. Maybe even more. Let me handle this, Mr. Slattery.

Speaking of you, Slattery said, just how much are your services gonna cost me?

Raul thought a moment. I tell you what. After I bring the girl back, you pay me what you think it’s worth.

That don’t sound real smart on your part.

I’m wealthy, Raul stated. I don’t need the money.

Yeah, Slattery said. That’s what Donnelly told me. But this is gonna be done right. We’ll draw us up a contract, Mackenzie. I don’t like leaving these matters hanging loose. I want us to agree on a set price and sign a paper on it.

If you insist, Raul agreed. Let’s say five hundred for me, plus expenses and the amount under five thousand dollars for the ransom.

Done! Slattery declared. He pulled out a pad of paper from the desk drawer. I’ll write out two copies. One for each of us.

Businesslike, Raul remarked, walking over to join him.

That’s the way to run things, Slattery remarked as he began writing.

The rancher’s thick fingers laboriously set the pen to scratching across the paper. The agreement was terse and straight to the point. There were no here to’s or where as’s or other such words in F.T. Slattery’s vocabulary. When it was finished, Raul signed under the rancher’s signature and took his own copy.

"I’ll file this