Texas Trails 2: Texican Blood Fight

By Patrick E. Andrews

In the time the hardworking Barlow boys tended their south Texas spread, there’d been no rustlin’ trouble. So, when Morgan got word of his old Mel buddy’s funeral, he saddled up, leaving his brother Sam to mind their herd for a spell while he paid his respects. ’Course, he never reckoned on the likes of Zach Medford and his gang of blood-thirsty gunmen riding across the Mex border to kill his kin and steal his cattle.
Revenge burning in his guts, Morgan tracked the varmints day and night by the trail of blood they left clear down to Mexico. Taking up with a sharp-shootin’ gal name of Anna lee and Marcel Pain, a rawhide tough Cajun trapper both with their own bitter debts to settle with Medford,
Barlow cornered the outlaws in their own stinking hideout. With bullets flying fast and furious under the hot desert sun, the final showdown leaves the Texican trio standing tall and the hardcases facedown and done for!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463076019

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

In the time the hardworking Barlow boys tended their south Texas spread, there’d been no rustlin’ trouble. So, when Morgan got word of his old Mel buddy’s funeral, he saddled np, leaving his brother Sam to mind their herd for a spell while he paid his respects. ’Course, he never reckoned on the likes of Zach Medford and his gang of blood-thirsty gunmen riding across the Mex border to kill his kin and steal his cattle.

Revenge burning in his guts, Morgan tracked the varmints day and night by the trail of blood they left clear down to Mexico. Taking up with a sharp-shootin’ gal name of Anna lee and Marcel Pain, a rawhide tough Cajun trapper both with their own bitter debts to settle with Medford,

Barlow cornered the outlaws in their own stinking hideout. With bullets flying fast and furious under the hot desert sun, the final showdown leaves the Texican trio standing tall and the hardcases facedown and done for!

Table of Contents

Dedication

Copyright

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

About the Author

TEXAS TRAILS BOOK 2

TEXICAN BLOOD FIGHT

By Patrick E. Andrews

First published by Zebra Books in 1992

Copyright © 1992, 2018 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

First Edition: August 2018

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.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

This book is dedicated to Sondra McAdam,

A Texas Lady

Prologue

Zach Medford leaned nonchalantly against the hitching rail in front of the ranch house. He idly shifted a blade of grass from one corner of his mouth to the other. He seemed more like a casual visitor to the small spread than like someone who had just murdered its owner.

Hey, Zach! Dan Fenton’s voice floated across from the corral.

Zach frowned. His hawkish face with its large hook nose took on an even more sinister expression. He rubbed at the dirty blond mustache that drooped along the corners of his mouth. I don’t want a lot o’ talking, Dan. There’s work that’s got to be did.

I just thought you’d like to know there ain’t no other horses around here, Fenton remarked as he rode up. They wasn’t much around here, that’s for sure. Only twenty-five head o’ cattle.

I already seen ’em when I rode up here, Zach said.

Kind o’ slim pickings on this job, ain’t they? Fenton said with a complaining tone in his voice.

You dumb bastard, Zach said softly.

Twenty-five head ain’t much, Fenton said defensively.

Zach pointed to the dead rancher sprawled out in the middle of the yard. He thought they was.

Then he’s the dumb bastard, Fenton said. Nope, Zach disagreed. You’re it on account o’ you ain’t got the sense to recognize good breeding stock when you see ’em. Them’s prime longhorns that’s been took care of. No inbreeding or disease. Can’t you tell that?

I never said I was a goddamned cowboy, Fenton said. I steal cows, I don’t herd ’em.

If you’re gonna make a living rustling cattle, you ought to find out something about ’em, Zach said. He pointed out toward the range. That herd is small on account o’ this feller was planning on building up a bigger and better one with ’em afore he jumped straight into running ’em to market.

Fenton laughed. Then maybe we should’ve come back later after things was built up. We’d got more for our trouble.

We can turn a pretty profit on them cattle, don’t you fret, Zach said. Some rich ranchero down in Chihuahua would like ’em, or maybe a cattle broker. Now get on out there with the boys and start ’em moving toward Mexico. I’ll be with you directly.

Sure, Zach. Fenton pulled on the reins and kicked his horse into a canter as he rode out of the ranch yard.

Zach turned and went into the small cabin used as a house. There were three rooms in it. Two held beds, showing that someone—the lucky one—hadn’t been at home when he and his gang swept onto the place. Zach spat on the floor and spoke aloud:

I wish there’d been a woman around here.

He went back outside and untied his horse from the rack, swinging easily up into the saddle. As he rode out, he pulled his Colt and pumped three more bullets into the corpse. He chuckled. This just wasn’t your day, was it, turd head?

The bawling of the small herd sounded in the distance as the rest of the gang began the drive south.

One

The sun was warm and pleasant on the Texas prairie southwest of the Pecos River on that particular spring day of 1868. The rider traveling through the wide, grassy desolation felt as if he were completely separated from his fellow humans, and he liked it that way. The horseman was slim but muscular, six-feet tall with a short-cropped dark brown beard that was flecked with gray even though its owner had not quite reached his thirtieth year. His steel gray eyes had a coldness about them that generally warded off any stranger’s attempts at striking up a friendship or even a conversation.

Morgan Barlow never did stand or ride ramrod stiff, but even his normal slouch in the saddle was intensified. The poor posture was not only from fatigue, but from a feeling of despair. He fought it as best he could, but the mood persisted, intermingled with shocks of angry disappointment. Even the pleasure of the new season’s weather did nothing to soothe his foul mood.

It’s hard to bury an old pal and that was just the sad task Morgan was returning from. What made this funeral particularly bitter was that the deceased had come through four long years of fighting the Yanks up in the Shenandoah until he caught a bullet in the lung toward the end of the war. Somehow, even after a brutal stay in an understaffed and ill-equipped army hospital, the wounded Reb managed to hang on until he got home. But pneumonia settled in and he finally succumbed, wiping away any hope of building a new life.

Morgan had his own bad memories of the war. Those bothered him while he was awake, while the nightmares disturbed what little sleep he could get. The fighting he experienced had been bitter and bloody most of the time, with the men on both sides standing among the piled bodies of their dead friends exchanging shots with the enemy while waiting for the orders either to mount a charge or to receive one from the equally desperate and frightened men on the other side. The action was sure to cause even more casualties, with the result that the battlefield would be littered with the dead when the fighting’s outcome was decided.

When the war came to an end, Sergeant Morgan Barlow of the Texas Volunteer Cavalry was fighting as an infantryman after his unit’s horses had finally all been lost. The reluctant foot soldier was shod in tattered, worn shoes that seemed ready to disintegrate at any moment. The rest of his attire was a pair of civilian trousers, a tattered gray army jacket, and a beat-up hat with the brim torn loose on one side. That final order to cease fire found him with no more than two rounds of powder and ball left and a half pocket of parched corn to eat.

But Morgan’s burden under defeat was more than hunger and exhaustion. He marched out of Virginia and back to Texas a stone-cold killer, without mercy or pity, always with a pent-up fury just below the surface waiting for something to light it off like a fused artillery shell.

The worst of it, to Morgan’s way of thinking, was that he’d come out of the war a damned sight worse than when he first went into it. No matter how bad a situation was, a man should always be able to better himself from it somehow. That wasn’t the case with the ex-Rebel Sergeant. He always figured that was one hell of a shame, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to control the violent emotions, no matter how hard he tried.

When the march home ended, he teamed up with his younger brother Sam who hadn’t been old enough to follow after Bobby Lee in the Army of Northern Virginia. Using prewar contacts and some debts owed him, he and Sam got together a small breeding herd and set up an operation on a little ranch in the southwest part of the state. Having twenty-five head of prime longhorns to build a herd from, meant a real chance at succeeding on a range that had been neglected during the war.

The brothers had moved far out onto the prairie to start the operation, and Morgan liked the isolation. It kept him from other people where he was sure to get into trouble or turmoil of some sort, and the hard work helped him to think about something else besides the war. With some luck and time, he might even settle back into being a humanized man again.

But that simmering fury remained just under the surface of his being, threatening to erupt at the slightest cause. Morgan Barlow knew he would never be a whole man until he drove it from him, casting it out as if it were a loathsome sickness.

The former Rebel continued his journey, hoping that nearing the ranch would ease the tension he felt. But instead of feeling an increased calmness, Morgan was more agitated. Suddenly he felt a premonition of some kind. He kicked his spurs cruelly into the side of his horse.

Go on now! he yelled out.

The animal broke into a gallop, feeling the excitement as it sped up and enjoyed the run in the sunshine. Hooves pounded the ground until the traveler finally topped a rise. Morgan reined in and surveyed the scene before him.

The herd should have been there, grazing on the lush grass that kept it as close at hand as if that part of Texas had been fenced in. There was nothing but empty prairie. Morgan instinctively glanced in the direction of the house even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it over the knoll that was situated between it and the open range.

Now the feeling of angry dread intensified. Once again the spurs dug into horseflesh and both animal and man sped across the open country.

Morgan could see the corpse as he came down the other side of the knoll. It was a depressingly familiar sight. The position of the body, with the arms curled nearly into a hugging position as it lay on its back with the knees slightly bent told him the dead person hadn’t given up the ghost recently. When he reached the corpse, he swung out of the saddle and stepped down beside him.

It was Sam. Younger brother Sam. Swollen, blackish blue, decaying, and stinking to high heaven. From Morgan’s war experience, he knew his brother’s body had been lying in the sun for at least three days. The dried blood on his clothing and the massive head wound was black and covered with flies that buzzed around the corpse.

Oh, Bud! Morgan exclaimed in grief using the nickname he’d always called the younger brother. Oh, Bud! Any anger he felt was quickly overwhelmed by grief. Look at you laying out here under the hot sun. He felt confused and disoriented. Oh, Bud, I got to bury you.

Almost in a daze he led the horse to the hitching rail in front of the house and looped the reins around it. Morgan walked to the bunkhouse they’d built for the day when he and Sam would be hiring some hands to help run the place. In the meantime, they used the building for storage. He retrieved a shovel and came back outside.

He’d never given any thought to where he or Sam might be buried someday. Now he had to make a choice. Glancing around, Morgan saw the right place. He walked up a ways where a lone pecan tree stood. Morgan tossed his hat to the ground, then immediately began digging the grave.

He worked hard and unceasingly until the six-by-three foot wide and six foot deep excavation was finished. The next chore was to go to the house to get a blanket for the burial. When he went through the front door he stopped. A glob of spit, left there by one of the murdering sons of bitches, lay in the middle of the floor. Morgan felt the flames of killer-hatred kindle deep in his soul. After taking a deep breath, he got the blanket and went out to where Sam’s corpse lay.

Burying the dead after a battle, whether the conflict ended with a victory or defeat, was one of his bitterest memories. Now, gingerly rolling Sam’s putrid remains into the blanket that had lain on his bunk made all that seem like absolutely nothing. This was kin, flesh of his flesh, little Bud, the small fellow who’d followed him around as a kid and who’d been happy beyond description when Morgan invited him to join him in a ranching operation.

Ignoring the smell, Morgan carried the corpse over to the grave. When he reached it, he lay Sam down, then slid himself into the open hole. Gently, he took the remains and pulled them in with him, laying his brother out in the narrow confinement.

After getting out, Morgan gazed down at his blanket-wrapped brother. I sure never done you no favors asking you to go in with me did I, Bud?

A mockingbird flitted up into the tree and landed. It suddenly emitted an imitation of a meadowlark, then settled down to preen its feathers. Morgan looked up at it.

A man’s death don’t mean nothing to nature, he said to his dead kinsman. That mockingbird ain’t even got enough sense to know what death is. All he knows is to fly away when things don’t look right. Maybe that’s a lesson we should learn, but I’ll be damned if it’d take. You ain’t the onliest one that’s died, Bud. I reckon I did too just now. I can’t let this go by. The bastards took the herd, so that means there’s a trail to follow. Prob’ly on down in Mexico somewheres—

Morgan stopped speaking as grief settled in with one terrible grab on his soul. He thought for a moment he was going to weep, but he fought it hard and gained control.

—like I was saying, Bud. I can’t let this go by. It’s gonna mean a showdown and I got no more of a chance against a gang o’ rustlers than you did. Ain’t it a hell of a note though? All we wanted to do was have a little spread, live in peace, and let the rest o’ the world go to hell. But all the wrong and the bad just came riding in anyhow and tore ever’thing up for us. Goddamn ’em!

The last oath was loud, startling the mockingbird so much that it took to flight in a whir of wings.

Hell, maybe it’d been better if I’d been did in back at Manassas or Antietam or Gettysburg. At least you wouldn’t be laying in that hole right now. He took the shovel in his hands. I never took to religion, Bud, so I won’t even try to give you a prayer. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it anyhow. All I can say is goodbye. If there’s a hereafter, I’ll see you then. If not—well, so long, Bud. He threw in the first shovelful of dirt. I was fonder’n you than most men are of their brothers.

The filling-in took twenty minutes. Morgan kept stamping down the earth, then adding more until he was almost able to get all the dirt back in. Morgan thought about a headboard, but decided against it. They never lasted long anyhow, and once a man was dead, what was left had no need for a lot of worrying and care. Anybody