Ozark Vengeance Trail

By Doyle Frederick Riggs

They raped and murdered his mother and sister. Then they viciously killed his father and seriously wounded his Uncle Milo. Finally, believing all to be dead, the killers burned down the cabin with the bodies inside, but...they had missed one.

Young Jonathan Doyle returning from a hunting trip with some Indian friends finds his home burned to the ground, the charred bodies of his family in the ashes. The heinous murders would have gone unsolved except for one thing: his Uncle Milo, though seriously wounded, had escaped the inferno and survived to tell the tale. Jonathan Doyle swears revenge, citing "an eye for an eye" as his ultimate goal.

Thus begins a trail of vengeance as a distraught young man begins the search that will last for years; destined be one of the most dangerous ever attempted in the bloody history of western lore: filled with danger and heartbreak for a nineteen year old boy intent on delivering his brand of "Ozark Mountain Justice" on the killers; A quest known simply as: the "Ozark Vengeance Trail".

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452079011

Doyle Frederick Riggs

Doyle Frederick Riggs has been writing since 1988, beginning as a business writer, writing for well-known magazines such as  Income Opportunities, Salesman and others. His favorite books (and writers) have always been Westerns and when switching to fiction, the logical choice was Westerns. He has written three and is nearing completion on his fourth. This book, Ozark Vengeance Trail is the first, featuring the pioneer family named Doyle, a tough, Ozark mountain clan, slow to anger but once riled, a deadly adversary.   Mr. Riggs, was born and raised in Arkansas, where much of the book takes place. He now lives with his wife, Nancy, in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

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OZARK VENGEANCE TRAIL

DOYLE FREDERICK RIGGS

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2010 Doyle Frederick Riggs. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/14/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7899-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7900-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7901-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914216

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

PROLOGUE

It had been a long, hot dusty trip for the large herd from Beeville and the trip wasn’t close to being half over. After a particularly hard and grueling day, the cattle had finally been bedded down for the night. Several tired men sat around cross-legged, eating their long awaited evening meal. The weary cowhands were gratefully sitting on something other than a saddle, kidding each other and talking over the day’s events. It was a typical calm, moonless night with the hint of a slight southwestern breeze which helped to cool down the parched landscape, at least for the night. The morrow would bring back the intense heat and misery for the cattle and the then soon to be dusty cowboys. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, the work was finished. A lone chuckwagon stood in the background surrounded by the dry mesquite bushes that populated this central part of Texas and a fire blazed cheerily in front of the men. A big kettle containing beans and beef hung on sturdy metal spits. The pot was now more than half empty, attesting to the hearty appetite of the cowhands. A cook was busily puttering around in the background. Spare horses moved about in a makeshift corral directly behind and within sight of the chuckwagon.

Bob Hayden, trailboss, a tall husky man with deep lines on his forehead and under his eyes was good naturedly ribbing one of the cowhands about the Texas wind.

Gripe, gripe, gripe! Why, Hell’s Bells, you’d fuss if you knowed you was goin’ to be shot with a brand new rifle, Harley! Anyway, you think this wind is bad? Hah! Just wait ‘till you get a shot of them hot windy Kansas plains, and you’ll think this was a picnic in a cool southern breeze compared to…

Hayden stopped speaking in mid-sentence as an alien night sound reached his ears. The other men stopped all movement as each listened, intently, to the slow approach of a horse somewhere near camp. As the men sat frozen, straining to hear, the sound became clearer with each passing moment. It was indeed the sound of a horse, a very emaciated horse, judging from the slow, measured steps. Usually with a horse there was a rider and this being the hard country this was, chances were never taken. One man eased his rifle within easy reach and another loosed the thong on his pistol. The others shifted positions to allow their shooting hand a bit more freedom. Every man wore a pistol. Two men carefully eased themselves deeper into the shadows. All were men of experience and in a wild land such as this, to expect the unexpected was sometimes the difference between living and dying. Even so, prepared as they had made themselves for possible visitors, friendly or hostile, they still involuntarily jumped at the closeness from which a tired voice broke the silence of the night.

Hello, the campfire, the voice said. One rider alone an’ friendly. All right to come in?

The men looked at one another. Bob Hayden glanced quickly toward the men in the shadows to see both with drawn weapons. One nodded and the trailboss peered into the darkness and spoke.

If you’re friendly, come in slow, hands in sight and welcome.

The men strained to see movement as they looked into the dark. The creak of saddle leather suggested someone was dismounting. Moments later a lone buckskin figure emerged from the night, hands held high above his head. He carefully looked over all faces around the campfire, taking grim note of the men in the shadows. In turn, the cowhands were presented with a most unusual sight.

It was readily apparent the man had ridden long and hard. A film of dust covered him, head to boot, and he had the well known look of a man long without rest. He stood about six feet tall and had the initial look of a range rider. Closer examination would belie those first impressions. His clothing hinted that this man was not the usual range hand. His buckskin shirt was a type worn in recent times by trappers and buffalo hunters but now was unusual to see on the range. The faded pants were thin of seat, suggesting long amounts of time spent in the saddle. The clothing, worn though it was, had been unremittingly cared for. Rips and small tears in both shirt and pants had been carefully stitched up, some places more than once. An old battered black hat hid most of his too-long blonde hair. He wore scuffed and scarred boots that hadn’t seen polish in months. The heels were worn and he wore no spurs. Noticeable as all this, the object that commanded attention was his gunbelt. It once had been black, but in places the dye had worn off, revealing bare leather underneath, strikingly white in contrast. Bullet loops occupied the entirety, each containing a gleaming shell. The Colt had a scarred handle of black, rendering it almost invisible in the black holster. The men noted that the rig was worn low…very low, and tied down. On his left side was a large knife, in it’s own sheath, and on it’s own separate belt. This certainly was no cowhand.

Again noting the two men in shadows with drawn pistols, the stranger carefully lowered his hands and turned to the trailboss.

Sorry if I startled you. Been travelin’ all day an’ crossed your trail a couple’a hours back. Since you was goin’ my way, I just followed along, figurin’ you’d be stoppin’ soon. Finally heard the cattle millin’ an’ settlin’ in so thought I’d head in to your camp. Thought a cup of coffee might taste good if you can spare it. The man spoke with a strong voice, belying the weariness that was obvious in his every movement.

We ain’t ever turned no hungry man away from a Bar-T campfire. Pull up a seat, Bob said. Coffee an’ food too, if you want, an’ welcome to it.

The man nodded slightly. Reckon I could eat somethin’ an’ thanks. He looked back into the darkness from where he had come. If you could spare a bait of grain for my horse, I’ll gladly pay,

Bob looked at one of his men. Hal, you’ve finished eatin’. Look after this man’s horse would you? Then he turned back to the newcomer as a tall lanky cowboy rose and left the campfire. Set an’ eat, friend. I said this man’s outfit never turned away no rider or horse in need. An’ forget about payin’. I reckon we all been where you are at some time or other. You can wash up at the chuckwagon. Towel on the shelf over the wheel.

Obliged an’ thanks, the newcomer said again as he started toward the wagon. He walked with a slight but pronounced limp, favoring his right leg, somewhat.

The men glanced at each other, saying nothing. One took off his hat and unconsciously scratched his head. In a land of strange things, this newcomer was a strange man indeed.

Moments later, the stranger returned to the fire where the cook already had a hot plate of beef and beans waiting for him. A couple of large biscuits were stacked, one on the other, on the plate as well. A steaming cup of coffee was next to the plate. The stranger took up the food and began to eat with the slowness of a man long without food. He ate carefully, slowly chewing his food, with occasional sips from the hot coffee. The other men said nothing to him in respect for his hunger as they finished their own supper. Conversation began again but was discernibly constrained.

As each of the men finished, several built smokes and started talking again about the day’s events.

After a while, Hal returned. He spoke to the stranger in a decidedly friendly tone.

Say Mister, that’s a grand hoss you got there. Not many around that big. He’s shore frazzled, too. Been travelin’ far?

The newcomer had just finished his supper and was working on a second cup of coffee. He looked up and spoke easily.

Left Lone Pine early yesterday mornin’.

The men all looked at each other incredulously but Hal wasn’t fazed at all. He looked at the stranger with new respect, as he nodded thoughtfully. "Say, but you have traveled. Lone Pine to here in two days! I’m tellin’ you though, with that hoss, I don’t doubt it one dam’ bit! That hoss is shore tuckered at that, though. Goin’ far?"

Oklahoma Territory, the stranger said slowly. Lookin’ for someone.

It was significant that no one said anything else. The tall cowpuncher sat back down with the others. Long moments passed before Bob stood and broke the uneasy silence.

Jeb, you an’ Harley relieve the boys on night duty so they can come in for their supper. Long night for them an’ a longer day tomorrow for all of us. I’m ‘bout ready to call it a day.

He looked at the stranger.

You’re welcome to stay if you want, mister. Not too safe to travel without moonlight. Easy to step in a hole an out here an’ without a hoss, it’s sure death. Injuns too, but they ain’t too anxious at night. A man can see you need rest an’ obviously so does your hoss. We’ll be up an movin’ by daybreak. We only got a few more weeks to deliver this herd. You, maybe lookin’ to hire on? Ireckon we could shore use you.

Obliged, the stranger said again. No thanks to the job but I’ll take you up on stayin’ the night, he said as he stood. I reckon I’ll bed down a little ways off. I sure ‘preciate the hospitality.

With a slight nod, he looked at the cowboys. G’night, men.

He strode to his saddle, where Hal had placed it and effortlessly picking it up and moved away from the campfire. The men heard him leading his horse away into the night.

Minutes later, certain he was out of earshot, the cowhands, with a cowboy’s curious nature, began speculation on who the young rider was.

Wal, now, Hal began. Did you yahoots see how he looked us over? I felt like one of them bugs under one of them telescopes! An’ say! I’m tellin’ you, you fellers oughter see that hoss! That’s a big hoss, I mean to say. Big an’ black. Pretty!

I wonder who he is? Shore ain’t the run of the mill cowhand, said another of the men.

Wal, it ain’t nobody’s business if he didn’t want to tell it, said Bob. He sat back down, his vow to turn in for the night all but forgotten. All the same, though, it is a bit curious. He don’t walk like no cowhand. Got a limp but he’s got the long stride of a woodsman. Didn’t hear him ‘till he come out of the dark like a dang ghost!

Say, did any of you fellers see that hoss? asked Hal again.

A short puncher looked up irritably. Hal, for gawd’s sakes, you’d worry the horns off’n a billy goat! His hoss! His hoss! Good Grief, man, you was the one that tended him. What about the hoss anyway? An’ by the way, you stringbean, it ain’t telescope. It’s called a microscope.

Yeah, wal, telescope, microscope, what the hell? You know what I mean, anyways. But say, Shorty, that really is some hoss! He must stand better’n eighteen hands an’ he’s black as the ace of spades. He’s a beaut, I’m here to tell you. An’ when that feller said he come from the Mex border in two days, why I dam’ shore believe it! That’s a hell of a hoss he’s ridin’. Hal paused to remove his hat, running his hand through his salt and pepper hair. Curiouser an curiouser, I’d say!

Wal, it’s some interestin’ ‘bout his gun, too. D’ja see how he wore it? Mused Shorty. Right natural like, almost like it was a part of him. Ain’t a dozen men in Texas wears a gun that a way. What about it, Mert? What you make of it?

The cowboy called Mert, the oldest puncher there, was poking the fire thoughtfully with a stick.

"Huh! I reckon I noticed. An’ somethin’ else I noticed was that there Arkansas toothpick[1]. Did any of you see it? An it ain’t for show, neither. Handle’s chipped a mite an’ the sheath’s all scarred up. Mert paused to collect his thoughts. There ain’t that many men still wear a belt knife these days, ‘specially since the buffs ‘bout all been cleaned out. I know them boys up in the mountains north of here wear belt knives so he could be one of them, I reckon. They wear the buckskins, too, but I never seen one that had his gunbelt tied down that-a-way. As Hal just said, curiouser an’ curiouser."

The calm of the night was broken as the night crew came in for their supper. Conversation was suspended while the men took their plates and sat down to eat. As they settled in, the talk again continued about the young stranger. The night crew listened quietly as the speculation began again.

I still am almighty struck by the garb he wore, Mert continued. He ain’t your run of the mill cowboy. There just ain’t that many around that still wear buckskin but he don’t talk like no Texan I ever met. Give more reason to think he’s a mountain man or was at some time or ‘nother.

Mert continued thoughtfully poking the fire. The other men waited patiently. Mert was recognized as a man of experience. I agree ‘bout his bein’ a woodsman. Moved too quiet-like for a puncher. Like I said, prob’ly one of them mountain men out’n the hills north of here.

Gradually the talk drifted to one of the cowboy’s favorite campfire topics of known gunmen. Each man seemed to have a story to contribute.

I seen King Collinger once, Shorty said. "He was ridin’ along the Rio Grande an’ he musta had a hunnerd riders with him. I was a’campin’ ‘crost the river on the Mex side an’ once I seen who it was, I laid low, I guarantee! Took ‘em near an hour to get by where I was holed up.

Saw him one time my own self, Hal put in. He’s one of the bad ones. I hear he killed more men than Clay Allison…just not as well known. He always did have him a big gang, that’s for shore. Men just seemed to be drawed to him. Some men are natural leaders, I guess. Never seen him in action but I tell you just what I have seen…John Wesley Hardin, hisself! Saw him in Waco just last winter. He killed a man he thought was cheatin’ at cards. It happened so fast we didn’t have no time to even look for cover. Hardin just looked at the man, said ‘You’re cheatin’’ an then just pulled an’ fired from a sittin’ position. It was over ‘fore anybody knowed what come off.

Yeah, lots of stories ‘bout him. He’s poison, all right. Bob added. Hardin once killed a man for snorin’ too loud, I heard one feller say. People say he’s insane. He just goes off his rocker sometimes an’ starts up shootin’. No warnin’ at all! Even rattlesnakes warn ‘fore they strike.

Mert spoke again, not wanting to be upstaged.

I ain’t never seen Hardin but my brother was in a saloon when Black Jack Thompson come in once. He was lookin’ for a particular feller an’ as it happened, my brother just happened to be standin’ at the bar, right by him! Mert stopped talking and resumed poking the fire.

Wal, Mert, finish it up, said Shorty edgily.

Yeah. Wal, Thompson, he just looked at my brother an’ said ‘You’re keepin’ time with a dead man. Best you move aside an’ be quick about it!’ My brother didn’t just fall off no turnip cart an’ he knowed who Thompson was an’ shore moved right fast. Then Thompson called on that feller to draw, which he done. Thompson got two bullets in him an’ the other feller only got one shot off, it goin’ wild, killin’ a greaser. Then Thompson turned an’ walked out of the place, mounted, an’ rode on out of town. Nobody never knowed what that was all about!

There’s a kid makin’ a name for hisself in El Paso, said Bob. Calls hisself Kid Collins or somethin’ like that an’ from what I hear, he’s fast. Troublemaker…already killed four men. Tryin’ to be famous, I reckon. Them kind never lasts, though. They have their own way for awhile but eventually they all buck up ag’in a real gunman like Hardin or Newsome, or mebbe Jonathan Doyle. Then it’s over for the bigmouths, just like that!

Shorty shifted his position before speaking.

Kid Collins, huh? Seems like I heard somethin’ about him. Shorty paused, scratching his chin whiskers. Kid Collins. Yeah, think I have. There’s always a troublemaker around, an’ you’re right about not livin’ too long in the real world of guns an’ gunfighters. They come an’ go. Sooner or later they all make the same mistake of callin’ out the wrong man…someone that ain’t lookin’ to prove somethin’ an’ ain’t scared of ‘em. Now, I’ll tell you somethin’ else…Them’s the really dangerous ones. Hickok was like that. He was kind of feminine-like in his manner but was certainly all man! He never tried to brag or tell ever’body how great he was with a gun. Never had to…most folk knowed an’ stayed the hell away from him. Hardin talked a mite but he could dam’ shore back it up. He wasn’t crossed too much, neither.

There was a pause in the conversation, finally broken by a tall, lean cowboy that had just ridden in with the night crew.

Say, Bob, that outlaw, you mentioned, Newsome, I know somethin’ about but what was that last name you said? Dole, I think you said? Never heard of him. Who’s he?

Not Dole…Doyle…Joe. Jonathan Doyle, said Bob. An’ I don’t know much about him ‘cept he’s supposed to be hell on wheels with a gun.

Shorty snapped his fingers and turned to the tall puncher, Hal.

Hal, didn’t I hear you say somethin’ ‘bout Doyle awhile back?

Hal looked over his coffee cup. "Yeah, but I don’t know nothin’ much about him personal-like ‘cept he ain’t no ordinary gunfighter…outlaw neither, for that matter. Anyhow, some feller back in Cactus City was talkin’ ‘bout him. He’s from