Crackshot: Troubled Waters: Crackshot, #2

By Eve A. Olsen

May 10th, 1869 marked the momentous day when the  Central Pacific Railroad and the Union Pacific Railroad joined in Promontory, Utah and became the Transcontinental Railway. No longer was the West a hazardous and costly journey made only by the most adventurous or the most desperate. With first class train cars to take them  there, the wealthy began to migrate as well, starting what was called the "Nobility Ranches" and belief in their "Manifest Destiny" to be fulfilled. Crackshot is a story of one such ranch and the bold men and women who created it. 

In Troubled Waters, the second volume of the trilogy,  it seems things could not go better for the Crackshot partners, bred in the bone westerner Harry Clemens and the high society Virginians, Morgan and Justin Ashworth.  Horses are trained and sold at profit, herds increase and the ranch crew is top notch. Their hard work truly pays off.  When tragedy strikes the partners are required to show their true mettle. Evil luck seems to follow them.  Will perseverance and love be enough to pull them through? From established working ranches, high class brothels and society parties this Wild West adventure continues

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eve A. Olsen
• Release date: Jul 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386494812

Eve A. Olsen

Eve A. Olsen has lived in both Europe and all over the USA including Colorado and California before settling on her horse farm in Ocala, Florida 25 years ago. After modeling in London, she then worked in Hollywood as an entertainment reporter writing a syndicated column for almost 200 papers nationwide for several years. Her adventures in nature, whether riding a hundred miles along the Outlaw Trail in Wyoming, or boating on Florida's natural waterways are strong influences on her work, as well as the many dogs and horses she has raised, trained and lived with. 

Book preview

Troubled Waters

CHAPTER ONE

Crackshot Ranch

Garfield County, Colorado

August, 1881

The Henry rifle’s walnut stock felt smooth against Slade’s cheek. He sighted once more  down the long barrel, his target a gnarled pinon tree, three hundred yards away down a sheer shale slope and on the other side of the main road that led to Crackshot headquarters. As the crew had been busy in other parts of the ranch the last few days, he’d had a chance to perfect his range from the rocky outcropping in which he was hidden.

Today, with fortune on his side, would be the day that two-bit, carrot-topped cowpuncher met his maker. Slade laid the Henry carefully down beside him. It was time to put a stop to all this waiting about. Slade had killed a half dozen men over the years but  he’d never hunted a man with the Devil’s own luck like this Harry Clemens had. For the last few months the hired gun had concealed himself in the hills a couple miles from the ranch buildings. Remaining out of sight had not been difficult as the  outfit at Crackshot had not been expecting any trouble. He’d had his opportunities to try to ambush the freckled Westerner and come up short each time. That damn Clemens had more lives than a cat, Slade thought sourly.

The rock slide he’d started a month ago, which was the first time he’d been able to catch Harry alone, had been a miserable failure. The boulders had inconceivably divided in their path of destruction leaving the cowboy and his steed  untouched. Just like in those stories Slade’s Mama had told him about, that feller Moses splitting the Red Sea. If Slade was a God-fearing man, he would have believed Harry was being protected by divine intervention. As he wasn’t, he’d set up another trap for the redhead, several weeks later.

Harry had been  directing the logging up in the hills, which was providing the lumber for the new ranch house they were building for that fancy Virginian couple. Slade had crept in at night, and weakened the links in one of the chains that held the huge trees, just above Harry’s regular position. The least shifting of the massive Blue Spruce would have caused the tampered with metal to snap, crushing the cowboy below. It would have worked a charm if it wasn’t for that mountain-sized nigrah that worked for the Ashworths. From his covert vantage point, the hired gun watched Amos spy the weakened link  and tell Harry to come away from there. As a new chain was being wrapped around the trunk, the one Slade had worked on broke causing no damage to man or property.

The killer was wild with frustration. This had sounded like a straightforward job when he’d taken it. Now, he’d been camping out for three months. Slade had gone into the town of Rifle only to resupply and stayed only briefly not wanting to become too familiar. He’d frozen his tail off in the high country nights with nothing to show for it but an extensive knowledge of the goings-on of  Crackshot’s inhabitants.

The Ashworths rarely went to town. Like most rich folks, they never stirred outside fore eight or so, the lady usually a few minutes after her husband. She wore men's clothing most days. A regular enough occurrence for a woman out here doing a man’s job. The surprising thing to Slade was that a piece that looked like that, and an obviously doted upon one, (Hell, her husband rarely let go of her hand) would want to work at all. And work they did. All day, schooling a group of young horses they’d picked up a couple weeks after their arrival. The southern wench was a helluva a bronc rider. She rode her full share of the raw ones and didn’t pull up short. Her husband was a dude, though Slade admitted grudgingly that he could ride, always clean in a crisp white shirt.  (Morgan preferred Justin in white. As she did almost all the shopping he’d not much else in his wardrobe.) In the afternoons they exercised four of the fanciest stallions, Slade had ever the pleasure to see. The chestnut one would even bow to the lady, quite a trick that. 

Clemens always rode with the hands, who seemed the usual breed, maybe a mite better quality than some. The rancher worked long hours, and made a couple of drives, since he’d arrived. Once bringing in the herd of young horses from the ranch next door  and another time two hundred head of beef cattle. Slade had followed him down to Grand Junction that time.

It had been hard to get close in at the ranch because of that part-cougar Comanche Jim,  who prowled around, as if he was on guard duty at any given hour. Slade had seen the scarred man in a fight before and wanted no part of him. He wasn’t being paid to tangle with that hell-cat and he didn’t want to mess with that nigrah black smith either. Slade had seen the man lift a wagon by himself to replace a wheel. One of those four horse, hardwood wagons normally took three men or two strong ones to lift. The man was built like a goddamned ox.

The two other women who served the Ashworths, Slade dismissed as unimportant. He knew the blonde cook was taken to strolling by herself in the woods after the midday meal, never with company. The plump black woman may have been the busiest person he’d ever seen in his entire life. He couldn’t recall seeing her sit and do nothing ever. Even enjoying the midday sun she’d be sewing or doing laundry.

Yep, during these aggravating few months staring through the telescope, Slade had learned more than he’d ever thought or wanted to about the Crackshot outfit, including the reason for its name. He’d been watching, concealed behind a pile of boulders one day as the three partners, out turkey hunting, flushed a flock of the dark-brown birds. Six birds fell out of the sky, one for each shot. Somehow, it didn’t seem surprising that this particular lady hunted, nor that she was a fine shot.

Slade hoped his aim would be as true when he fired at Clemans. That task was still to be completed. For two weeks he’d stayed in this spot, waiting for Harry to ride by on his own. If the hired gun  couldn’t make it an accident at least he could make sure there were no witnesses. Maybe today would finally be the day. Slade was more than ready to head back to Denver. A whiskey, a broad and a bed in that order. Damn, that son-of-a-bitchin’ cowboy had to be by hisself sometime, Slade thought.

Since morning, he’d seen Comanche head out at first light. The hired hands followed in a bunch shortly after. The Ashworths had loped out several hours later only to return within the hour, to collect another set of horses to take back out. This was their usual routine, working their way through the barn. When the Virginians had been gone with their third group for a good half hour, Slade was finally afforded the opportunity he’d waited so patiently for. Despite the light gray Stetson that hid the man’s blazing hair, Slade knew it was Clemens. The rancher was aboard a big blood bay, trotting along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Slade cradled the high caliber rifle, with one eye squinted, aiming down the sights. When his quarry was several lengths from the pinon tree, Slade took a deep breath and steadied his position.

There he is now,  Slade  counted to three then gently squeezed the trigger. The bullet’s sharp retort rang out harshly in the quiet mountain valley. Disconcertingly, the cowboy turned his head in Slade’s direction, then slapped spurs to the bay. Kee-rist, he’d missed! He couldn’t believe it. He was sure he’d had Clemens dead-to-rights, and fired another round at the fleeing man.  This time  the gunman was luckier and he saw Clemens recoil from the hit, and he and the bay horse went down. Harry scrambled behind the prone animal and dusted off a shot in Slade's general direction, then dove rolling in behind a fallen tree, not wanting his good horse Joe killed. The dead tree provided cover though not much as he’d like. Joe took off at a gallop, the bullets flying  by were more than his instincts would stand for. Slade’s third shot missed and in frustration he pelted the log with a barrage of bullets. Hell, with all the shooting, somebody would be bound to head back and investigate. Then he’d be the hunted rather than the hunter. Clemens was being no tenderfoot and kept well out of sight. Furious at the lost opportunity, Slade took aim once more and methodically fired along the top edge of the dead tree watching the chips of bark erupt  but there was no movement from his  quarry below and he paused to study the situation.

The thunder of  hooves interrupted his thoughts. The Ashworths were coming at a gallop, rifles in hand. (They always took them. It required a lot of meat to feed the hungry crew and all members of the outfit were expected to do their share. Even Morgan was teased about shirking her duties after the crew had found out what a good shot she was.) Slade decided to call it day. Hearing bullets whistling overhead, (Damn, the dude was better than he’d figured!) the gunman scrambled over the narrow ridge top. They couldn’t make any time chasing him up the steep mountain so he hurried only a bit to collect his horse from where he’d been tethered in a small clearing. Slade heard a few more shots ricochet off the rocks behind him, but he was unconcerned by them. His getaway was well planned. The man-killer was just furious the job hadn’t been completed and Clemens was now aware he was being hunted. An accident would be nigh impossible to arrange now.

Kicking his fast-running, corn-fed buckskin into a ground eating lope, he flew along the sage brush dotted ravine. He’d better get his tail into Glenwood and wire Billingsley. Slade had a feeling the banker would not be real happy with the way things had worked out, and he had a few questions to ask that fat banker himself.

Justin fired a few final shots at the spot  where the man with the rifle had disappeared. Morgan and he were on their way back to the ranch for their midday meal when they’d heard the roar of gunfire. He’d shouted for her to stay where she was. A command she disregarded and they galloped the horses back towards the ranch, passing Harry’s horse, who was wild-eyed  and lathered running in the opposite direction. A riderless horse was always a serious matter in the West, and they spurred their mounts to greater speed. As they came around the curve of the mountain, Justin spotted Harry, prone, tucked in behind a rotted log. Shots pulverized  the wood and the cowboy had his arms over his head. There was a splotch of bright red on Harry’s shoulder and another on his leg. Spotting where the bullets came from, Justin began firing shots from his Winchester ‘73 as fast as he could lever them. The assailant dusted a few bullets back at Justin, then bolted out of sight before the Virginian was able to pinpoint his range. Justin let off a few more rounds to discourage the man from returning as Morgan raced her horse over to check on Harry. To their vast relief, their partner  rolled over and sat up to look at them. A pain-filled grin creased his face.

I should smile, I’m so glad to see you all.

My God. Are you alright? Morgan gasped, seeing the spreading red stain that covered his right sleeve.

Just went through the fleshy part. I was lucky I guess. When he started blasting that sad excuse for a log I was hiding behind, I was beginning to think that it might be time to settle with my maker, but the cavalry rode up just in time. Damn dry-gulcher! Did you get a chance to see him?

Justin had just ridden over, knowing pursuit was hopeless up the precipitous incline. The pale eyed man shook his head sadly. Sorry Harry, he was too far away. All I can say for sure is he was wearing dark clothes.

Wal, that could describe half the cowboys on this range.  Hellsfire, from where he shot from, he wasn’t planning on giving no even breaks. The yellow-livered bastard didn’t have the nerve for a fair fight. The red head was getting worked up, adrenaline from the close shave fed his anger. Morgan tried to soothe the irate man as she wrapped a bandage around the wound. The bullet had passed clean through the shoulder muscle. There was another burn across the top of his thigh where a bullet had grazed him  and his face and forearms were imbedded with splinters from the last gun volley.

We need to get you home immediately. Morgan stated in a no nonsense tone. She’d learned that men could do the most extraordinary things at a time like this, and Harry was in no condition to leap on a horse and gallop off in hot pursuit.

Justin was poking about the general vicinity and had come upon the pinon tree Slade had used for target practice. It was peppered with bullet holes, some of which looked as though they’d been there sometime, but for how long he wasn’t positive. You’re right that he’d been planning this Harry. He called out. This tree must have a dozen rifle  shots  in it. Looks like he’s been practicing for awhile. We need Comanch to come take a look at this. He’ll be able to tell us more.

I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us volumes worth.  Morgan interrupted with some asperity. The blood upset her, as did the fact that someone had tried to murder Harry. But right at this moment, we need to get this hard-headed cowboy back to the ranch where we can clean up his injuries. Do not get up. She ordered Harry, with a sternness in her tone that reminded Justin of his own mother, Sarah, when dealing with addle-minded help. Justin, you will fetch that poor excuse for a horse of Harry’s. Harry, you will not budge an inch until Justin returns.

Harry tried to argue regarding the value of his horse to no avail. Morgan simply said, she had no use for an animal that wasn’t even smart enough to head home when it was in trouble.  In truth, once over it’s fright, the horse had turned around. Justin found it making its way slowly, grazing as it walked, back to the ranch. Harry no longer debated with Morgan on Joe’s merits. The blood loss had weakened him considerably, and his freckles stood out alarmingly on his white face. The two wounds, while not necessarily life-threatening,  bled profusely, and the shoulder wound needed binding up soon.

He was just able to mount his horse, and make the ride back to the ranch house before blacking out. Amos helped Justin carry him through the stone cabin, which as Morgan had wished was now the kitchen for the main house, and into the spacious living room, settling him on the couch. Harry lived alone in one of the log cabins, not needing more space for just himself. On more thorough inspection, the leg wound was more serious  than they’d first thought. A deep furrow ran across the muscle. It would be weeks before he could walk around without reopening the groove.

Emily had been her efficient self, linens were ripped for use as bandages, and a poultice concocted that her Mama said was death on infections. It was Inga who had been the surprise. The usually unemotional woman was wringing her hands, and looked heartily relieved when Justin suggested she put some water on to boil.  The Ashworths had no time to ponder this strange occurrence as they were the most experienced in healing matters. That they had only doctored horses was not an issue. It was twenty-five miles into Rifle and even then there was no telling that the doctor would be there or be sober enough to come.

The Westerner’s hardy constitution had stood him in good stead and he came to as they were finishing the bandaging. No one noticed Inga’s smile, as she hovered in the background, when his eyes opened.  It was gone almost as soon as it appeared. Her reserved facade was once again firmly in place as she sat before him plucking out the splinters embedded in his craggy face and arms.

Comanche had ridden in not long after at a flat out run. He leapt off his scrawny pinto, rifle in hand, and looked about wildly. Then calmed upon seeing Morgan’s face in the doorway. She motioned for him to come in. He dropped  the pinto’s reins and strode rapidly over to the main house, entering the kitchen. The Missus surely looked a bit pale round the gills, the foreman thought.

Wal, I reckoned the ranch was being ambushed for sure. With all that racket, I figured the entire Ute tribe was after us. So I lit a shuck and rode over fast as I could. You folks all right? Comanche asked. He’d been worried the whole ride over that there had been a massacre. He’d seen the like before and it was with tremendous relief that he saw Miz Ashworth hale and hearty and the buildings in one piece.

Morgan told him to follow her into the living room where Harry had been made comfortable on the long sofa. The Indian-fighter took quick note of the bandages, and also the fact his old saddle partner looked a long way from death’s door, and said with disgust.