Ghost Bullet Range

By Johnston McCulley

They trailed Phil Banniton at sunset.... They trailed him at sunset through the streets of Dodge City, through the gambling dens and flashy dance halls.... They trailed him through the cattle country to Shantyville and Sirloin City — waiting in ambush with guns primed along the lonely mountain passes.... They trailed him the long way to Texas .... down every stretch of the Old Chisolm Trail —

But still he spurred steadily south, a young giant of a man, heedless of the enemy at hand—his single-minded purpose, a final showdown with the enemy that lay waiting ahead—at the Diamond W ranch! The Circle Box ranch owner decided to purchase his competitor, the Diamond W ranch—or destroy it! He didn’t bargain on Phil Banniton's loyalty or rage.

Johnston McCulley, renowned creator of Zorro, delivers a fast-paced tale of Old West justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Aug 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370648559

Johnston McCulley

Johnston McCulley (1883-1958) was an American novelist and short story writer. Born and raised in Illinois, McCulley began his career with The Police Gazette as a police reporter. During World War I, he served as a public affairs author for the United States Army. After the war, he began writing stories for such pulp magazines as Argosy and All-Story Weekly. His novel The Curse of Capistrano, serialized in 1919, marked the first appearance in print of his beloved character Zorro, a masked vigilante fighting on behalf of California’s Chicano and indigenous populations. Spawning countless adaptations for film and television, Zorro made McCulley’s name as a leading popular fiction writer of the early twentieth century.

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Ghost Bullet Range

by Johnston McCulley

Published by Bold Venture Press

www.boldventurepress.com

Cover design: Rich Harvey

Bold Venture Press • First edition December 2015

Originally published in West, September 1942.

Ghost Bullet Range Copyright 1942 Johnston McCulley. All Rights Reserved.

This book is available in print for $9.95 at most online retailers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Ghost Bullet Range

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

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Chapter 1

Prone on the sandy earth, Phil Banniton watched amber jets of flame pierce the black curtains of the night, and heard bullets whine viciously over his head.

The unexpected attack upon him had come with startling suddenness. At a moment when there had been no thought of peril in his mind, death had tried to reach Banniton from snarling muzzles which belched flame and smoke and singing lead.

From positions not more than a hundred feet away, two men were making Phil Banniton a target for their guns. The first shot had almost nicked his left ear. Striding along with the light of the distant campfire behind him, he had made a good target.

But his assailants had been guilty of one grievous error; they had failed to get Banniton at the first shot. And now Phil Banniton’s own six-gun was out of its holster. He was watching those amber jets of flame which punctuated the darkness like flaring exclamation points.

His eyes were narrowed and blazing, and his lips formed a thin straight line of rage. He had been in gun battles often before, had taken an equal chance with an enemy. But this sneak attempt to take his life, this cowardly attack from the darkness without warning, made Phil Banniton a man with a deadly purpose—to take life himself.

Suddenly his gun barked and flamed as he pumped four shots in a quick space of time, two in the direction of each of his unknown foes. An instant later, Phil Banniton was at least twenty feet away to a new position, prone on the ground again and working swiftly to reload his six-gun. One of his enemies fired wildly at the spot where he had been. The other’s gun did not blaze.

Got the skunk, Banniton muttered.

The glare from the distant campfire was not directly behind Banniton now to reveal his position. But the sky glow from the light of Dodge City was behind the men gunning for him.

Banniton saw the shadow of a hat and head appear suddenly against the sky glow, and snapped a shot. Hat and head dropped immediately, and from the manner in which they dropped Banniton knew the battle was over.

He waited a moment, then rose cautiously, crouched, and went forward slowly on tiptoe, his boots making funnel-shaped tracks in the yielding sandy earth. Nor did he make his advance in a straight line. He circled widely and came in from one side, and the slight sounds he made by his progress were drowned by the hiss of the rushing Kansas prairie wind.

He glanced back toward the distant campfire. The herd hands there had been howling a song of the range when the shooting had started. Guns held ready for instant use they were running toward Banniton now, shouting to learn whether he was concerned in the fray. He howled back at them, but the rushing wind whipped the words from his throat, and dispelled them into nothingness.

Banniton crouched beside a heap of dry brush and tumble-weeds and peered into the inky depths of the night’s blackness, straining his eyes. Finally he made out a dark splotch on the ground in a streak of faint light which came from the campfire, and started moving toward it carefully. Some distance beyond the first was a second dark splotch on the ground.

Banniton hurried to the nearest dark splotch, his gun held ready, as the herd hands came charging on toward him, and found a man who would never indulge in gunplay again. Banniton lifted the body by the shoulders and held the face toward the faint light. He did not know the victim.

Groans were coming from where the second dark splotch sprawled on the ground. Alert for trouble and wary for a trap, Banniton went forward, ready to thumb the hammer of his six-gun and send a bullet crashing if a wrong move was made.

He found a man mortally wounded, but still conscious. A gun was on the ground a few feet beyond his reach. Banniton kicked it farther away.

Hey, Phil! Phil! one of the herd hands was shouting raucously. Where are yuh, hombre? Yuh in a ruckus? Hey, Phil! Answer!

Over this way! Banniton shouted in reply. It’s all right. Come runnin’!

As the herd hands rushed up to him, Banniton got his arm beneath the wounded man’s shoulders and lifted him. He, too, was a stranger to Banniton.

What happened, Phil? a herd hand demanded.

Two hombres tried to drygulch me, and I got ’em.

The wounded man muttered, Yeah … yuh got me … Banniton.

Know who I am, do you? Banniton asked. You saw me gettin’ paid off, maybe?

Banniton thought that was the reason for the attack on him. He had received his pay from the herd owner. A good trail boss like Phil Banniton drew down important money at the end of a long drive along the Chisholm Trail. The ordinary herd hands had accumulated wages coming, too. They were potential victims for men who would kill to rob. Certain men who hung around Dodge City made it their business to watch for the payoff and get the money through trickery or violence.

You’re goin’ to cash in your chips pronto, hombre, Banniton told the wounded man. Bein’ a cowardly, ambushin’ houn’ dog, you had it comin’ to you, and I ain’t got any regrets ’cause I gunned you. A skunk who’d try to drygulch a man at night, shoot him down ’thout any warnin’—

I ain’t … complainin’ any, the dying man said. We tried to get yuh … and didn’t. Did yuh get … Tod, too?

If Tod was the other hombre grunnin’ for me, he’s beat you to hell by a few minutes, Banniton replied. But you won’t be far behind him.

Don’t think … it’s ended. Banniton. We didn’t get yuh … but somebody else will.

Yeah, maybe, some day, Banniton agreed. That’s something to be expected. Have you got any word you want me to pass along to anybody? You’d better speak up quickly, if you have.

Sid will … learn of it … I reckon, the man on the ground muttered.

Who’s Sid? Banniton questioned.

Sid … Boyle.

So that’s it! Banniton exclaimed, as the herd hands began muttering angrily among themselves. You were tryin’ to get me for Sid Boyle, were you? Then this wasn’t just a little gunplay to shoot me and rob me of my wages. You were tryin’ to blast me to blazes to please Sid Boyle?

That’s it, the dying man admitted.

So you’re nothin’ but an ornery hired murderer! I hope you spent your wages in advance. Hard money will melt where you’re goin’ to be mighty soon. When I meet up with Sid Boyle again, maybe I’ll pay him off for you.

Yuh got … two of us … but there’s another, the man on the ground warned. He’ll get yuh … and square this for Tod and me.

Thanks for the warnin’, Banniton said.

The wounded man started to say something more, but choked suddenly. His head rolled to one side.

Banniton stretched the body out upon the ground. Then he stood and braced his fists against his hips as the herd hands gathered closer around him.

You can put away your hardware, cowboys, Banniton directed. The battle’s over for the time bein’. See that the dead men are taken care of.

I’ll tell the town marshal, Phil, one of the herd hands offered.

Yeah, do that. And tell him that I’ll be at the Drover’s Hotel, if he wants to see me about this. And some of your hombres better keep your eyes peeled and the sand out of your ears—’specially them as were playin’ poker in Sid Boyle’s place in Shantyville and were pulled out of the game by me. You heard what this hombre said. Another of Boyle’s gunmen is around here somewhere.

We’ll be watchin’, Phil, one said.

Where are you goin’ now, Phil? another of the men wanted to know.

Why, I’m goin’ where I started out to go, Banniton told him. This little ruckus ain’t changed my plans any. I’ve rented me a room at the hotel, and put my pony in the corral behind the public stable. I’m goin’ to take a soakin’ hot bath, crawl between real sheets, and sleep late in the mornin’. Then I aim to have me a vacation.

That vacation will jest about wreck Dodge City, maybe, one of the men remarked.

Maybe so, Banniton admitted, grinning.

If Sid Boyle’s cowardly bushwackers are on yore trail yuh’d better take one of us along with yuh to keep awake while yuh sleep, another man suggested.

You boys are still workin’ for this outfit, and will be until the herd’s shipped, Banniton reminded them. "You tend to your job, like I’ve learned you. I can still take care of myself, I reckon. Be seein’ you in town later. Buenas noches!"

He grinned at them again, hitched up his overalls and strode away briskly into the night, his keen eyes watching the shadows ahead. In the distance the lights of Dodge City beckoned. Banniton saw them, and quickened his stride.

Chapter 2

Like hell with the lid off and a forced draft fanning the flames, Dodge City started in at sunset the following day to have another wild night.

But Phil Banniton was several jumps ahead of the town, for he had started at noon.

His responsibility as trail boss for the large cattle outfit was at an end. He had brought a herd of more than two thousand wild Texas longhorns along the western arm of the Chisholm Trail to Dodge, fighting weather and thieves, finding water and bedding grounds, preventing straggling, handling beef critters and men.

Now Banniton had been paid off and was his own man again. No heavy chains of duty kept his feet on the ground and retarded his speed. He could rise and soar through a holiday, blow off steam. For Banniton never indulged in weaknesses while he had a herd in his charge. Now he would make up for lost time.

He had slept soundly for more than twelve hours, had shaved, and put on new and rather ornate raiment. At noon he had taken a quick drink in Dodge City’s largest saloon and gambling hall and had walked across the big room to drop into a vacant chair at the no-limit poker table.

At sunset, Banniton was in the same chair and still handling the cards. Heaps of poker chips were stacked on the table in front of him, and the table was surrounded three-deep by excited men who were watching the heavy play.

She’s up another twenty, gents, Banniton announced. If any of you misguided hombres who think you know how to play poker are aimin’ to have revenge on me, yuh’d better be startin’ pronto. It’s sundown, and I want to prowl around some and see the sights. I’m fresh off the long trail, and I’ve got some catchin’ up to do.

He sprawled lazily in his chair—more than six feet of lithe, hard-muscled body topped with a thatch of unruly red hair. Phil Banniton had lived every moment of his twenty-eight years. If he happened to die young—which was a good bet, considering his present mode of existence—he would still be far ahead of the game.

Are yuh aimin’ to hurry right back to Texas, Banniton? one of the other players asked.

Phil Banniton’s reply to that was prompt and emphatic. No, sir! When I go back to Texas it’ll only be to nurse another bunch of beef critters up this way, so I ain’t in no hurry. I’m right sick and tired of beef critters for the time bein’.

Those around the table laughed. Then some man standing behind Banniton’s chair spoke: Yuh’re wrong, Banniton. Yuh’re goin’ back to Texas pronto!

That voice cut like steel. It seemed to be threatening, menacing. Those around the table stopped laughing, jerked up their heads and eyed the unknown speaker in amazement. It was not considered conducive to long life to dispute Phil Banniton’s word and order him around. Banniton’s reaction to the stranger’s remark was awaited with keen interest and a certain amount of nervousness.

Banniton’s grin faded and died. His eyes narrowed and gleamed strangely. He straightened his body slowly in the chair and drew his feet up beneath it. And his right hand slid slowly down toward his holster.

Banniton could not see the man who had spoken, for the speaker kept behind him. Nor had he recognized the voice, though there had been something a shade familiar about it. As far as Banniton knew, he had no serious enemy in Dodge City—unless Sid Boyle had trailed him there or the third of Boyle’s gunmen was now at his back.

Banniton had clashed with Sid Boyle at one of the shanty towns along the trail, where human vultures gathered to prey on passing herd hands.

He had informed Boyle that written promises to pay out of wages coming would not be honored by him, as far as his herd hands were concerned, and that Boyle was only wasting his time if he fleeced them at poker beyond the limits of the cash money in their pockets.

There had been a hot argument, which had ended with Banniton jabbing the muzzle of a gun into Boyle’s stomach and taking Boyle’s gun away. Then Banniton had left Boyle’s tent-house with his herd hands, and with Boyle’s threats of vengeance ringing in his ears.

It was possible that Sid Boyle had traveled up to Dodge City with his hired killers and was the man standing behind Banniton’s chair now. Or it might be the third hired killer mentioned the night before by the drygulcher Banniton had