Blazing Bullets in Deadwood Gulch: Honey Beaulieu - Man Hunter, #3

By Jacquie Rogers

Honey Beaulieu, the heroine you always wanted to be!

Wanted: Sean Chaney aka The Badger Claw Kid, $400, Last seen in Deadwood Gulch

She's Flummoxed 

But first, she has to take care of a town urchin who shot her in the butt with a slingshot!  Does she have to spend her last nickel to buy a building for Emma’s sewing shop?  Who stole Louie Lewie’s nuts?

She’s Fired Up

Nothing gets Honey down--not pesky ghosts, not the despicable Badger Claw Kid, not Al Swearengen and his hired muscle, and not even a catastrophic town fire.  But can she capture Boyce McNitt, who eluded her in her last adventure?  And can she get Sam’s folks to safety?

She's Fearless

When Sean Chaney persists on robbing folks and putting his badger claw marks on them besides, she sets out to bring him in... and collect the bounty

Deadwood Gulch is in flames but Deputy U.S. Marshal Sam Lancaster’s hotter!
    
Don't miss the third installment of Honey Beaulieu - Man Hunter.  Buy it today!

Subscribe to the Pickle Barrel Gazette at jacquierogers.com

Other books by Jacquie Rogers

Honey Beaulieu - Man Hunter series
Hot Work in Fry Pan Gulch
Sidetracked in Silver City

Romance
Hearts of Owyhee series
Much Ado About Madams
Much Ado About Marshals
Much Ado About Miners
Much Ado About Mavericks
Much Ado About Mustangs

Idaho Fairytale Bride (Rocky Mountain Romances series #2)
Mercy: Bride of Idaho (American Mail-Order Bride series #43)
Mail Order Tangle (with Caroline Clemmons)
Sleight of Heart

Fantasy Western Romance
Have Wand Will Travel
Willow, Wish For Me

• Language: English
• Publisher: Camp Rogers Press
• Release date: Jul 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386421276

Book preview

Blazing Bullets in Deadwood Gulch

Honey Beaulieu – Man Hunter #3

by Jacquie Rogers

Chapter 1

Our Secret

September, 1879

Fry Pan Gulch, Wyoming Territory

I rode Pickles down Main Street toward Flynn Confectionery.  My donkey, Sassy, had trotted off somewhere as usual.  She came and went as the mood struck her—a free spirit.

She ain’t a spirit yet, Honey Beaulieu.  Give her a few years.  That was Roscoe speaking. 

Make yourself visible, you ornery ghost.

Too much effort today.  You’re working me too hard.

Ghosts don’t get tired.

Makin’ wind tires me something fierce.  He was talking about the big blow he made when I was nearly done in by McNitt’s gang back in the Winnemucca area.

Then quit eating beans.

You’re hard on me, Honey Beaulieu.  But I sure could go for a piece of Tex’s peach pie right about now.

Ghosts don’t eat pie.  And anyhow, you picked me—I sure as hell didn’t pick you.  I patted the mule’s neck.  Pickles was gentle as a kitten if I bribed him with a bread and butter pickle, but ornery as a scalded bobcat if he didn’t get his treat.  Occasionally, he didn’t mind a honey bun, but most generally, it was a bread and butter pickle or nothing.  I best supply up on pickles. 

You ought to get a decent horse, like my Luther.

He’s only got three legs and one eye.  You can keep him.  Besides, a live person can’t ride a ghost horse.  Plus, I have a fondness for this here contrary critter.

At least you don’t have to feed me a pickle to make me be good.

Roscoe, the only good thing about you is you don't eat too much.  I nodded at some folks coming down the street toward us.  Now hush up, for they’ll think I’m talking to myself.

The ghost chuckled and then I didn’t know if he stayed beside me or not.  He fancied himself as my helper, but he generally helped when I didn’t need it, and when I did, well, let’s just say he had other things to do.

I reckon there ain’t no woman ever had more freedom than me—too scrawny to be a whore, and bein’s that Mama ran the Tasty Chicken Emporium, too tainted to be respectable.  So I could do whatever I damn well pleased, and I damn well wanted to hunt down that scoundrel Boyce McNitt and collect the five-hundred-dollar bounty on him.

With all that freedom, you’d think I’d have had time for a poker game.  Nope.  At least I did get a good night’s sleep in my own bed, but had to get up bright and early—all right, it was early, but I wasn’t too dang bright.  I had business to attend to in Fry Pan Gulch, though, with the most important being Emma. 

Shangle, Fry Pan Gulch’s surly carpenter, had informed Emma he needed his storehouse so she had to pick up and go.  It ain’t that easy for a woman in the family way, especially a sixteen-year-old little gal with no husband, so I wasn’t too happy with the old buzzard.  I could’ve forced his hand to let her stay, but her life was tough enough without him yapping at her heels.  No, it was best to find her another place for her sewing shop. 

Mama—she owned the Tasty Chicken Emporium, home of the finest whiskey, women, and poker in Wyoming Territory—knew everything about everyone within fifty miles.  She told me Emma’s best bet would be to buy the building that Flynn Confectionery moved from.  Their business had grown out of the old place so they’d built a new, bigger and fancier shop. 

Honey! a man called.  You have a pie on your ass.

I twisted in the saddle and looked back.  Wheat waved at me and grinned.  He was a burly blacksmith and generally not much for talking.  We’d been friends since he moved to Fry Pan Gulch on account of he ate supper with us at the Tasty Chicken most days, and then a few months back, I moved into the loft of his livery.  And last month, Emma moved in with me.

Howdy, Wheat, I hollered as I reined Pickles to a stop.  What’s this about pie?

He pointed at my donkey wearing her pink calico bonnet.  She trotted past him and headed straight for me.  Tex sent you a welcome-home present.

Sassy had a package strapped to her neck.  And when she got to me, she licked peach pie from her muzzle whiskers.

Looks like Sassy got hers first.

Mrs. Adams saw you ride by and thought you might’ve skipped breakfast.

No one could resist Tex’s peach pie.  Still mounted, I reached down and untied the package, my mouth watering the whole time.  Oh, it smelled so good! 

She’s right.  I scarfed down half, then savored the last half.

I didn’t see you leave this morning.  Where you headed?

To the Flynns’ new shop.  I reckon Emma needs their old building for her sewing business what with Shangle being such a crabby ass and all.

Sassy brayed and tossed her head.

Sorry about that, Sassy.  She didn’t cotton to foul words that disgraced her donkeyhood.  Then the pathetic beast glowered at me so I gave her my last bite of peach pie to make nice.  Damn donkey.

Now Pickles will feel left out.  Wheat winked as he pulled a cookie out of his pocket and fed it to my mule.  Best I get back to work.  I have a lot of shoeing to get done and stalls to muck.  Nolan can’t stop by and help these days on account of he’s building Wakum’s new gunshop.

About time Wakum got a real building.  A tent ain’t no place for a gunshop, and winter’s coming on us fast.  I nudged Pickles to a walk.  See you, Wheat.

A few minutes later, I swung off Pickles but didn’t bother to tie the reins to the hitching post in front of the Flynns’ new store since the danged mule would just untie it anyway.  You could at least stick around for a few minutes, I said as he and Sassy trotted off.  Looked as though I was afoot until he decided to come find me.  Good thing Fry Pan Gulch wasn’t too big.

The smell of sweetness wafted through the door as I went in and my mouth watered.  Big Al carried a kettle of candy, likely taffy, to the left side of the display case.  He was a big, happy fellow—husky from hauling big pots of candy around—and just sarcastic enough to deal with his wife, Myrtle.

She stood behind the case and, no surprise, made him move the kettle to the right side.  Myrtle was a tall, skinny dour sort, and when she smiled, it seemed like more of a grimace.  But her grouchiness was all a front, for she’d given me candy on the sly for years.  Our secret, she’d say.  I’d nod and stash it so’s no one could see, then run to my room and eat it.

Howdy, Honey.  The wife and me was expecting you.

I come to buy your old building for Emma’s sewing shop.

So I heard, Myrtle said.  Six hundred.  We still have a few things in there but we can have them out by the end of the week.  Emma can move in anytime, though, for everything’s in the storeroom.  The front is all clear.

I ain’t got six hundred.  How about four hundred?

And so it went.  After we tossed numbers back and forth some, they finally sold it to me for five hundred, with Emma displaying candy samples in her sewing shop, and the Flynns giving her one bag of candy for herself each week.

Fair enough.  I’ll go talk to Emma and see if she’ll agree, for she’ll have to pay part of it herself.  Like I said, I ain’t got that much money.

We shook hands and I started for the door, when Myrtle said, Honey, you forgot something.  She handed me a piece of taffy.  Our secret.  I grinned and stashed it in my vest pocket.  Thanks.

On the way from Flynn Confectionery to the Tasty Chicken Emporium, I stopped by the marshal’s office.  Wakum sat at the marshal’s desk with firearm parts and ammunition strung from hell to breakfast.  He was polishing a pistol cylinder and didn’t rush hisself to greet me.

Finally, he looked up at me.  Good to see you, Honey.  He put down the cylinder he’d been working on, stood, and poured me a cup of coffee without asking if I wanted any—which I did.  Me and Nolan Radison are sharing the lawdogging duties these days.  The citizens plumb run Fripp out of town, and Mayor Tench ain’t hired a new marshal yet.

You or Nolan gonna take the job?

Hell, no.  Neither one of us is that stupid.  He handed me the cup.  Set yourself down.

Glad to hear it.  I’d hate to have to do without our only gunsmith.  I thumbed through the wanted posters on his desk.  I need to look at these, if you don’t mind.

Nope, I don’t mind at all, but I thought you was going after McNitt.

You never know when things ain’t gonna pan out.  Might find another owlhoot who hangs out in the Dakotas somewhere. 

Don’t rush yourself—study ’em up good.  We ain’t got nothing but time in this stinkhole.  I knew he was joshin’ about the town bein’ a stinkhole, for he had lots of friends here.

I like Fry Pan Gulch.  I started flipping through a second stack.  Winnemucca’s hotter than hell, and Silver City is built on a damn mountain—you could bust a lung just climbing from one saloon to the next.

Folks is nice here, all right, he said.  Gets too blasted cold in the winter, though.

One poster caught my eye.  Here’s one—Sean Chaney, the Badger Claw Kid.  He’s worth four hundred bucks for train robbery and another two hundred for horsethieving.  That ain’t bad money. 

He’s damn lucky that some vigilante hasn’t caught up with him and hanged him already.  Folks don’t have much patience for horsethieves.  Wakum took the poster from me and studied it.  Ornery looking hombre.  You watch your scrawny ass.

My donkey stuck her head in the door and brayed.  I’d named her Sassafras but that didn’t last but about five minutes before I started calling her Sassy.  She took to me when I rescued her from that slimy turd, Ed Roxbury, or whatever the hell name he went by.

He didn’t mean it like that, Sassy.  Now stay out of here.  You’re fine on the boardwalk.  Besides, Pickles needs the company.  To Wakum, I said, I always watch my scrawny ass.  She gets upset when I don’t.

I took the poster, folded it, and stuffed it in my pocket.  Then I commenced to some serious coffee drinking.

Did you get a good deal on the building? Wakum asked.

The Flynns done drove a hard bargain and to be honest, it plumb tuckered me out.  I sighed.  After I get them paid, I’ll barely have enough money left to stake my trip to Deadwood Gulch, and even then, only if Emma ponies up.  This time I had to catch Boyce McNitt or else go broke, but I didn’t tell Wakum that.

After a second cup of coffee, I stood.  Best get on with business.

I walked to Emma’s shop, for Pickles was nowhere to be found.  Emma gave me a big hug and showed me a few of the garments she was making for her customers. 

After the niceties, I told her what I’d done and said, If you use the money Sam’s giving you for his bounties, we can buy the old Flynn building.  I made the deal already.

Sure.  She squealed and put her hand over her mouth.  You’d be proud of me, Honey.  I made over ten dollars on my sewing while you was gone, so that’s plenty for groceries and I don’t need nothing else.

Emma would spring along about next March.  She wasn’t showing yet, though.  Somehow or another, I ended up making sure she had a place to stay and food to eat.  Bein’s Emma was a damn good seamstress, I’d rented her a little place from crabby old Mr. Shangle, who owned the carpenter shop.  But that didn’t work out and anyhow she needed a bigger place, which is why I dickered with the Flynns for the building they’d vacated.

I turned sideways, for that was the only way to get to the door what with all the material and geegaws she’d managed to collect while I was gone to Silver City.  Emma had packed that little shop plumb full.  All the material, yarn, needles, dressforms, and whatnot looked to be more than Sassy and Pickles wanted to haul.  How the little gal got so dang much stuff in such a short time, I’ll never know, but I had a sneakin’ hunch Mama had something to do with it.

I’ll see if Wheat has a wagon and team available to rent.  He said he likely would.

Outside, I fed Pickles his pickle, mounted up, and headed for the livery.  Just as I rounded the corner, a sharp pain stabbed my butt.

Chapter 2

John, Just Like The Rest

Some lowdown owlhoot shot me in the ass.  My ass.  Pickles ambled along as if nothing had happened and I was grateful that he hadn’t been hit, but my butt hurt so bad I had to rub it—right there in public. 

I looked around and spotted a guilty-looking barefoot boy in ragged overalls standing stiff as a flagpole at the side of the street.  His mouth gaped open and he held a slingshot, which he whipped behind his back the moment we made eye contact.  I swung off Pickles and made for him in a huff.

His mouth was still open and he hadn’t moved a muscle when I planted my feet in front of him, my hands on my gunbelt.

I’m taking you in, you little scoundrel.  I snatched the slingshot from him.

The boy’s eyes widened and he gulped some air.  You’re Honey Beaulieu, ain’t you?

I am that, and with a sore ass, which ain’t never good.  Now, you come with me.

Where are we going?

To the marshal’s office.  Now get a move on before I make your butt hurt as much as mine does.  My guess was that I’d end up with a big purple bruise the size of a man’s heart.  Which reminded me of Sam Lancaster, Deputy U.S. Marshal.  Which pissed me off on account of I didn’t want to think about him.  He’d ridden on the train with me all the way from Winnemucca to Fry Pan Gulch, where I got off, and then I expect he’d gone on to his home in Cheyenne.

Fry Pan Gulch ain’t got a marshal.  The boy balked and I urged him on by his ear.  Ow! he squawked, but he came.  Pickles followed, and when the boy faltered, the mule put his head down and nudged him ahead.

Wakum’s tending the place.  He’ll throw your ornery butt in jail for sure.

A big tear welled in the boy’s eye but he dashed it away with a defiant swipe of his forearm.  I can’t go to jail, for my ma depends on me to bring home two bits a week from sweeping Shangle’s shop.

Damn and double damn.  I hate it when they tug at my heart.  You should’ve thought of that afore you aimed your slingshot at me.

But it’s the first time I ever hit anything!  I’m practicing because Ma needs me to hunt birds.  She wanted to buy me a rifle but we can’t afford it.

Good dang thing, else I’d have lead in my backside right now.

Once we got to the marshal’s office, I marched the boy past Wakum, who was still at the desk working on the pistol, on back to the cells. 

Go on in.  I’ve got to talk to Wakum.  After he walked into the cell, I gave the door a good shove.  The clang brought another tear to the kid’s eye, but he didn’t cry.  He didn’t need to know that he wasn’t locked in.

What’s going on here? Wakum said.  He’d followed us back.

I brung this here criminal in to collect the bounty.

Bounty?  Just what sort of dirty deed did he do?

Shot me in the ass with his slingshot.  I tossed the weapon to him.  Said it was the first target he ever hit.  And I don’t even have a big butt.

Well, hell, that oughtta be worth a dollar, don’t you s’pose?

I reckon. 

Wakum’s lip twitched and I could tell he was having a hard time not bustin’ out laughing.  Best I wire Marshal Lancaster in Cheyenne and see what he wants me to do with this here hard case.

No!  The boy grabbed the bars.  I told Ma I’d come back with a grouse for supper, else my sisters won’t have nothing to eat except yesterday’s bread.

What’s your name? I asked.

Myles Cavanaugh.

You gonna go shooting folks with that slingshot again?

No, ma’am.  He shook his head about six times.  No, I won’t.  Not ever again.

Then I’ll tell you what, Myles.  I got me some business to take care of, but after that, I’ll take you out for some target practice, and we might even get your sisters some supper while we’re at it.  But you have to cross your heart that you won’t ever aim that thing at a person again.  In fact, you can’t even shoot it in town.  Promise?

He crossed his heart.  I promise.

I opened the cell door.  Hightail it to the livery and tell Wheat that Honey Beaulieu hired you to muck stalls.  The boy looked a mite underfed