Bad Men Go To Hell

By Tony Masero

Courage or cowardice can happen in the briefest moment of time.
In the split second that Tag Donovan takes to face down the killer Scart Benjamin, events are set in motion that are bound to change the rest of his young life.
It all begins with a bank raid that goes horrendously wrong and leaves a town destroyed and a heap of bodies lying in the street.
Sergeant Bayou Tarfay, a hardened Cajun Texas Ranger has a hand in protecting the survivors but soon he and his Ranger partner Cornpone are forced to go rogue. The partners take on board a mixed bag of doubtful associates and head into the badlands of Apacheria. Their intention is not only a forbidden rescue mission but also to bring to justice Scart and his gang whose minds are set on a wagonload of army gold.
Trouble is, a whole parcel of Chokonen Apache stands in the Rangers way and they have the same idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Masero
• Release date: Nov 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370534050

Tony Masero

It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

Book preview

BAD MEN GO TO HELL

Tony Masero

Courage or cowardice can happen in the briefest moment of time.

In the split second that Tag Donovan takes to face down the killer Scart Benjamin, events are set in motion that are bound to change the rest of his young life.

It all begins with a bank raid that goes horrendously wrong and leaves a town destroyed and a heap of bodies lying in the street.

Sergeant Bayou Tarfay, a hardened Cajun Texas Ranger has a hand in protecting the survivors but soon he and his Ranger partner Cornpone are forced to go rogue. The partners take on board a mixed bag of doubtful associates and head into the badlands of Apacheria. Their intention is not only a forbidden rescue mission but also to bring to justice Scart and his gang whose minds are set on a wagonload of army gold.

Trouble is, a whole parcel of Chokonen Apache stands in the Rangers way and they have the same idea.

Cover Illustration: Tony Masero

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.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Tony Masero 2016

Chapter One

On the day of the raid, Scart Benjamin rode into the small town of Tamaloosa in Bose Clark County at around midday; he was riding at the head of a company of six men that trailed behind him in a formless company. The band travelled in a casual strung-out line, each of them with the look of drifters seeking work at one of the local ranches. Those with a keener eye might have noted that they were a group of hard-bitten mean-faced characters unavoidably wearing the marks of his profession. Most were ex-Confederate soldiers lost and directionless in the confusion following the war. With little work and no money they had taken to the outlaw road easily, it came as no hardship to them and was the kind of life they had practiced often enough whilst riding as irregulars for the South.

Scart had earned himself some infamy by having paper posted on him in three States, so proving without a doubt that he was a hardened criminal. Murder was written large at top of his reward poster, quickly followed by robbery and rustling.

A tall, wide-shouldered lean figure with a slight stoop, he sported a gaunt unshaven and jutting chin under cold blue eyes that glistened with steady points of light from within the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. Generally, Scart was a cool customer, not given to rages or anger but when it came down to it he never hesitated. Of an indeterminate nature and inclination his moods were variable, he could shoot down a virgin nun if she looked at him the wrong way or put a month’s money in a beggar’s cup just as easily. There was no telling. Whatever the vagaries of his temperament, at heart he was a cold killer and demonstrated no remorse after a murderous event but would casually light a cigar or go take a drink without the least show of emotion.

When he and the gang arrived in town it was on an overheated day in Bose Clark County. The sun beat down harsh and unrelenting like flails on a threshing floor, as it tends to do most of the summer months in this dry and dusty land that constitutes much of southern Texas. You could fry bacon on a flat rock it was that hot and the unforgiving temperature felt as if a hammer were beating on an anvil. Nobody could go out bareheaded in such a heat, the thermometer on the telegraph office wall was registering a hundred and three degrees in the shade and that was enough to keep most folks indoors and every cur dog scurrying for cover under the boardwalks.

Whilst Scart and his men ambled in casually from the northwest under the simmering heat, a lone buckboard came into town from the south.

Ellie Donovan would rather not have travelled at that time of day but it was something of an emergency. She needed to pay off the bank quickly before they foreclosed on her and the release of her late husband’s war pension had newly arrived and she had to make the swift payment as they were already way behind on their installments. So taking her thirteen-year-old son Tag and fourteen-year-old daughter Eloise she had packed them both in the buckboard and made the eight-mile journey into town through the abysmal temperature.

Their destination in the town was an end-of-row solid looking adobe brick building standing on a street corner, the large front window with its gold lettering spelling out ‘Gilbert and Parks Loan Bank’ lay under a covering porch and the one side window around the corner was uncovered and looked out over the open approach to the town.

Tamaloosa was not much of a place; it had started out as a rest-over watering hole for herders on the Shawnee Trail heading for Dallas and the Red River crossing. Not many drovers came through now though preferring the Chisholm Trail up to the railroad at Ellsworth and Abilene and little remained of any glory the place might have had in its heyday. Empty and boarded up gaming houses and storefronts peopled the Main Street running through town and a general air of destitution hung over the place. The bank was a throwback to those earlier days and was now on the verge of closure itself unless by some miracle new investment could be brought into the town and surrounding homesteads.

Despite this, it was busy in the bank by the time Ellie got there. A lot of people wanted to settle their affairs before the bank closed its doors for lunch. Cecil Parks, the portly president of the bank, was very particular about that. He liked his three-square a day and was not about to miss his meal on any account. So it was a given that on the hour the bank’s doors would be closed until Parks had completed his meal.

Well, on a normal day that is. Today would be different.

The only bank teller working inside was a beanpole thin, harassed looking man with gartered shirtsleeves and a green eye shade who was called Jonas Willow, and he was dealing with the queue of people waiting on attendance as fast as he could. He sat behind a barred cage window and his nervous fingers held a slight tremble as he counted out coins and notes with the adroitness of long practice.

It was hot in the room with the press of people and what with the sunlight streaming in through the large uncovered side-window Jonas sweated, his face shining with the stress and heat. He knew he had to finish the queue and close up before lunch or Mr. Parks would give him a taste of merry hell.

Ellie’s fair headed boy, Tag, fretted impatiently as he waited behind his ma, amusing himself by teasing his elder sister, much to her dismay. His mother frowned at him when Eloise squeaked in complaint as Tag surreptitiously pulled at the tail of her long blonde hair.

‘Cut that out, Tag,’ she said sternly and heads turned in the otherwise mausoleum silence of the bank.

The man standing before Ellie in the queue turned to face her.

‘He’s a right dandy little fella alright,’ smiled Caleb Thorn, a horse trader and owner of the town’s livery stables who was about to bring in a month’s takings to deposit. Mostly coin, he held the cash in an old flour sack that hung heavy in his hand.

Caleb was a stocky, round-shouldered man with bad teeth who held some interest in Ellie since her widowhood and was always trying to ingratiate himself with her. Ellie though held no particular liking for the man and only nodded politely in reply.

Tag counted off the people in front of them. There were eight in the queue including his ma and yet Mr. Willow, the clerk, seemed to be taking forever about it. There was something effeminate about the man, Tag had noticed. He always appeared to take great pleasure and spend an inordinate amount of time talking with the elderly ladies that came before him. Everybody had to wait in line whilst he discussed at length the weather, various female ailments and general gossip whilst dealing with the women. But then, the boy recognized, he had always been kindly towards Tag and often gave him a sugar stick from the jar they kept on the counter. The prospect of which was the only reason Tag restrained himself and kept in check at his mother’s command.

Tag was a pugnacious and errant child much given to disobedience and going his own wild way since his father had gone off to fight with the army. With no firm disciplinary hand and with his mother often distracted by her workload, Tag had been allowed to run free for much of his young life and had yet to learn the boundaries he could not rightfully cross.

His mother, Ellie Donovan was a fine looking woman who had married young. She was in her twenty-ninth year, fair haired and slender, although she now held a strained look about her since her man’s passing. It was only her hands that let her natural beauty down, yet it should be understood that she was not alone in this. Most homesteading women had red-raw and calloused skin on their hands after all the hard work necessary to maintain a farm in this tough country. After news of her husband’s death at Little Round Top whilst fighting with Hood’s Brigade, the maintenance and care of the place had fallen on Ellie’s shoulders, that and the upbringing of her two youngsters. It was a heavy load to carry and already it was beginning to add to her looks by giving her a few years more than she had.

When Scart Benjamin entered behind her, it was with a window-rattling slamming back of the half-glassed double front doors. Everybody looked around at the clatter.

‘Afternoon, folks,’ said Scart, with a tip of his hat. ‘We come to rob your bank.’

There was a collective gasp and people took a step back as the rest of Scart’s gang pushed their way in behind him. His right-hand man, a rugged and good-looking fellow called Jed Crome, stood alongside Scart with a double barrel twelve-gauge in his hand.

Crome pursed his lips, ‘Nobody move,’ he ordered in a quiet voice. ‘Gentlemen, will you lay your firearms on the floor?’

The thump of a few weapons was audible as the directive was complied with.

‘Okay, you!’ said Scart, pointing his .45 at Jonas Willow behind the counter. ‘You know what to do. Start packing it in and make it fast.’

‘Y…. Yes, sir,’ stuttered Jonas and he twitched his fingers in a flustered manner before he dived for the cash drawer.

‘Don’t panic,’ Scart chastised him with a cold reserve. ‘Do it easy and nobody gets hurt. Boys,’ he said, glancing at those alongside him. ‘Go help the rest of these people take some of the weight off.’

The two brothers Lew and Callum Mack grinned and taking off their hats went around the bank occupants with their upturned hats held out like sides-men at a church service taking up a collection. Watches, rings, wallets, Mr. Thorn’s takings and Ellie’s purse with her payment money all joined the pool.

‘I need that real bad, sir,’ she pleaded in a soft tone. ‘They aim to take our home we don’t pay up.’

Scart gave her a sidelong glance. ‘Take care of your kids, lady and keep quiet.’ He turned away back to Willows behind the counter. The teller was packing canvas money sacks as fast as he could.

‘Where’s the key to that?’ Scart asked, pointing at the heavy steel cabinet at back of the counter.

‘Er, Mister Parks has them.’

‘Where’s he at?’

Cecil Parks raised his head nervously, his chubby pink palms lifted to his shoulders as he rose from behind his desk. ‘I…. I am Parks,’ he admitted in a tentative manner.

‘Well, go open it,’ ordered Scart.

‘There’s nothing of financial interest in there, I assure you,’ confided Parks, nervous but obviously only too pleased to help. ‘Just our account records, deeds, bills of sale and so on.’

‘Open it!’

As Parks moved awkwardly around behind the counter he was interrupted by the sudden sound of a pistol shot from outside. The loud bang was followed by the squeal and dash of panicked horses. The few women inside the bank screamed and people dived to the floor as the front window collapsed in a waterfall of broken glass.

Caleb Thorn threw his arms around Ellie and the two youngsters and pulled them down below the level of the remaining window.

‘They got Del and run off the horses,’ called one of the Callum brothers, peering over the broken window frame.

There was no panic amongst the robbers, they pushed the townsfolk aside and hunkered down below the wall under the large windows and faced the street on the two sides. Scart sniffed in annoyance and scuttled over to take a peek. He could see the member of the gang they had left outside holding the horses; he was lying in a sprawled heap, one arm crooked under his chin as if he were asleep. He looked quite peaceful and if it hadn’t been for the dark splash of crimson thrown out from his mid-section anyone would have thought him resting or lying down drunk in the street.

‘He’s a goner,’ observed Jed Crome, kneeling alongside Scart.

‘Who we got out there, you reckon?’ asked Scart.

Before Crome could answer a loud voice came from across the street.

‘Inside the bank,’ the voice called. ‘This is Sergeant Bayou Tarfay of the Texas Rangers. We got you ringed, you want to come out with your hands raised we can make this easy.’

‘Bayou Tarfay, what the hell kind of name is that?’ growled Scart.

‘I heard of him,’ said Crome. ‘He’s a Cajun, one of them French bodies from out of Louisiana.’

‘What in darnation is he doing here in Texas?’

‘I don’t know. He popped up a few years back, so I heard. Got a name for himself as a regular tough hombre though.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Scart with a frown.

‘You coming out?’ called Tarfay.

The road outside was wide. It had been built for the passage of oxen-drawn freight wagons and herded cattle so the buildings that Tarfay and his company hid behind were some hundred yards away across the dusty street.

Tarfay had twenty men with him in his company of Rangers and he had scattered them as best he could along the street and around back in the open country at the rear of the bank. He had his sharpshooters situated there and nobody would get out that way unless they wanted a fifty-cal slug in the brain. All the town buildings were single story and flat-roofed tin so he had no height to use. It was to be a fight at street level.

Bayou Tarfay at this time was a thirty-eight year old man. Hawk-featured with straight black hair that shone like seal skin and hung curling to his shoulders as if it were molten tar. He sported an equally dark mustache on his tanned skin and it ran down alongside his mouth with a stub of beard under his lower lip. Of a cool character, physically thick bodied, narrow hipped and afraid of nothing.

The Ranger’s origins were Acadiana, from a small place called Loreauville in Louisiana and he still held a trace of a French accent when he spoke. The folks there had moved down from the north during the troubles with the British a century before. They had settled in the swampland, lived hard, done some intermarrying with the Indians and forged their own unique way of life across the years. Most of them still spoke only French and had remained a proud and independent people, a tendency that had ingrained itself in Tarfay’s nature.

Scart raised his eyes level with the window frame. ‘You hear me, Tarfay?’ he called. ‘We got people in here. They ain’t doing too well, so here’s the deal. You let us ride out of here or a lot of innocent folks is going to get hurt.’

‘We ain’t going nowhere and hostages won’t help you,’ Tarfay called back quickly. ‘This is the law speaking and you ain’t about to barter with the Texas Rangers.’

Crome raised an ironic eyebrow, ‘Damn it, he’s right, you