Trouble On All Sides

By W. J. Humphrey

When Ben Wright's grandfather starts forgetting things, Ben realizes it's his responsibility to make sure the Double Bar W ranch in the small town of Little Black Water runs smoothly. But sweeping in from the western part of the territory, like a swarm of locusts through a wheat field, is an outlaw gang run by ex-con Runt Shelby. Intent on terrorizing the area, they loot towns, rob stagecoaches, and rustle cattle. And they're heading straight toward Little Black Water. Ben must quickly become a man, or he will lose everyone and everything dear to him: his sister, his grandfather, and the Double Bar W ranch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543950342

Book preview

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Chapter 1

Sure would be good if you could always tell an owlhoot by the way he looked. (Since many outlaws did their work at night, they would signal each other when they were in position by a sound similar to an owl hooting. People started referring to men on the wrong side of the law as owlhoots.) Most of them were big, ugly, or scary-looking. When you saw one, you could skedaddle in the opposite direction. Then, there’s Runt Shelby. Five-foot-three and a hundred- twenty pounds soaking wet, he looked like your average teenaged boy. Even had the smile of an innocent kid who wouldn’t harm a fly, not the twenty-seven-year-old who’d been on the wrong side of the law since age eleven.

His ma had run off with a drummer when Runt was nine, choosing not to take him along. For the next two years, his pa, drunk a good part of the time, would always find some reason to beat him. Finally, Runt had had enough. He came in one day after working his butt off in the field. His pa grabbed him and began punching and kicking him, because he should have had more done. At least in his pa’s mind. Runt grabbed the double-barrel shotgun and pulled back both hammers. The clicks made his pa turn around and face him just in time to see Runt fire both barrels. The two loads of double-ought buckshot slammed into the man, almost cutting him in two, then throwing what was left against the wall. The kick of the gun sent Runt in the opposite direction.

Runt spent the night in the cabin, eating some salt pork and hardtack. Then he polished off half of a bottle of rotgut. He slept soundly in the old man’s bed, not on the floor as he had always been made to do. He spent a couple more days in the cabin, but didn’t drink any more whiskey. Not after the headache he’d had the next day after his drinking. He found a little money in a crock jar on the mantel above the fireplace. It was time to leave. He made a hackamore and put it on the plow mule. Runt poured the rest of the whiskey – two full bottles – on the floor and lit a match. The cabin caught fire quickly. Soon it and the old man’s body would be nothing but ashes. He mounted the mule and rode south, away from the town. When the townspeople came, they would just think that both of them were killed in the fire.

He rode the mule for two days, always leaving the trail when he saw someone approaching. With the hardtack wafers, salt pork, and jerked beef gone, Runt needed food. Coming to a town, he stopped at the livery and sold the mule. He had had enough riding that bag of bones bareback to last him the rest of his life. The money wouldn’t go far, but it would get him some food, a change of clothes, and a bath. Normally, he didn’t care about baths, but he knew he really stunk.

At night, he stood outside one of the saloons as men came into town. He saw a lone rider and watched as the man stepped down from his horse and looped the reins around a hitching rail. He walked up to the man.

You want somethin’, boy?

Watch your horse whilest you’re inside? Make sure nobody steals it from you? Been a lot’a that goin’ on ‘round here.

The man flipped Runt two bits. Better do a good job.

After the man walked inside the saloon, Runt watched from the window as he sidled up to a young woman. Within a couple of minutes, they headed upstairs. Runt knew a little about what men and women did together. He had peeked in on his old man as he and some drunk woman did things. Looked like a couple of dogs in heat. Runt figured those two would be busy for a while.

The street was still deserted. Runt loosed the horse from the rail and led her to the cross street. After getting the horse to stand next to the boardwalk, he stepped up onto the planks. Reaching up to grab the saddle, he pulled himself onto the horse. It took several kicks for Runt to get the horse moving, but only at a slow walk. He slapped the horse on the rump, and she charged forward at a gallop. After several minutes, Runt was able to rein her back to a slower gait. This was the first of many horses Runt would steal – some for his personal use, but most to be sold. Never stole a nag, only good horses with plenty of spirit and able to go a long distance.

He didn’t just steal horses; he rustled cattle and stole sheep. He also broke into houses, ransacking and stealing whatever he wanted to, but always when nobody was home. His downfall came when he started holding up stores and stagecoaches. That’s when he was caught, tried, and sent to prison.

Sixteen years had passed since he’d killed his pa, and Runt was still on the wrong side of the law. Just released from prison, he walked along the trail. He had had to listen to that warden’s talk about going straight. Same speech another warden had given him six years ago, when he got out of prison the first time. Runt had learned his lesson; he couldn’t expect to pull robberies by himself and get away with it. He needed a partner, or a gang. But first he needed guns and a horse.

Up ahead, he saw a man on the side of the trail, a little taller than him and skinny. Runt picked up a rock and walked into the woods. Directly behind his prey, Runt came out of the woods and tapped him on the shoulder. As the man turned around, Runt slammed the rock into the man’s temple. He fell to the ground, only stunned. Dropping the rock, Runt was on top of him. He placed both hands around the man’s throat and squeezed until life left him.

Runt dragged the body into the woods and then searched his victim, finding over fifty dollars. Going back to the man’s camp, just a bedroll on the ground, he finished the man’s ham and biscuits. After checking all of the man’s belongings, he didn’t find any kind of weapon. No gun. No knife. Well, if a man traveled the trail like that, he got just what he deserved. Dead!

The man’s horse was tied to a small tree right at the edge of the woods. Slowly, Runt approached the big buckskin gelding. He spoke softly as he walked toward the animal. "Easy, big feller. Not gonna hurt you. You’re my horse, now. Just relax." That was a trick he’d learned from his horse-stealing days; speak softly and most times the horse wouldn’t get excited and try to bolt. Getting within arm’s length, he began to stroke the buckskin’s neck. He rubbed the horse’s head between his eyes and nostrils. The horse nickered, and Runt knew he could now mount the big boy.

He draped the reins over the saddle, grabbed the saddle horn, and pulled himself up onto the horse. He estimated that the horse measured close to sixteen hands from its withers to the ground. Runt nudged the buckskin forward, turning him to the right as they came to the trail. He flapped his legs to the horse’s sides and urged him into a canter. Wanting to see what the horse could do, Runt heeled him into a gallop. After about fifteen minutes, he reined his steed into a fast walk.

When he came to a town, he would buy a gun belt and holster, a six-shooter or two, probably used, and some ammunition. Then came the most important task, finding a partner or two. After that, he would get down to business – robbing, rustling, and anything else he wanted to do.

Chapter 2

Ben Wright definitely had his appetite back. For breakfast, three eggs over easy, four slices of bacon, a bowl of grits, and three biscuits smothered in redeye gravy. It had been over six weeks since that coward had shot him from behind. His left arm and side were both practically healed. Two weeks ago, he and Joaquin Sanchez had ridden the buckboard into town, and Ben had bought the new gun belt and holster he had been wanting. Joaquin had shown him how to wear the gun belt, with the holster low, the butt of the pistol near his right hand, below his waist. The quickest way to draw, no wasted motion or time. At home he had been practicing his draw and twirling the pistol. All of that with the gun empty.

Today, he would make his first trip into town to the supply store. He went to the gun cabinet and strapped on his gun belt. He looked at the cylinder: Five live rounds. As always, the safety chamber was empty.

Hey, Sis! Goin’ into town. Wanna come along? You can see Johnny while they’re loadin’ the supplies.

Ben, you know how I feel about you wearing a gun. Guess I’ll just stay at home.

I’m wearin’ the gun! Please go with me, Sis. There’s somethin’ we gotta talk about. Rather do it away from the ranch.

Ben hitched the two Percheron draft horses to the wagon. They were both bigger than Desperado, each measuring eighteen hands from the withers. He liked driving the team, and he liked those big horses. One day not too long after coming to the ranch, Ben and his friend, Kwahu, had ridden the horses bareback around several fields until Mr. Colby, the foreman, had caught them and chewed them out. The next time they rode those horses, the boys made sure he was nowhere around.

Ben and Charity sat on the wagon seat and Ben put the reins to the horses. He had taught her how to drive the buckboard. Now he asked if she would like to try the wagon.

Some other time, Ben. What did you want to talk about, you and Belle?

Ben’s face turned a bright crimson. Me and Belle ain’t done nothin’ but kiss. Just a few times. We done told Mr. and Mrs. Driscoll we won’t do nothin’ that ain’t proper.

Well, what’s your problem? Charity asked.

Worried about Grandfather. He’s havin’ dizzy spells and forgetin’ stuff. Other day we’s in the study and I had to remind him what he wanted to show me about the ranch’s paperwork.

Have you said anything to Mr. Colby or anyone else?

You’re my big sister, Ben said. Didn’t know who else to talk to. What do you think?

Charity reached over and squeezed his arm. Thank you for telling me. When did you first notice this?

About two weeks ago. Didn’t think much about it ‘til it kept on happenin’.

Let’s both watch him, she said. "If it happens again, you have to tell Mr. Colby."

Ben reined the wagon to a halt and gave Charity the reins. She grudgingly took them and began to drive the wagon. Ben told her he would take the reins back before they got into town.

Chapter 3

Fiona Sullivan, the name she was using now, had been a teacher most of her adult life. That was her official occupation, but she made most of her money by nefarious means. Usually, she would invite a man into her bed, and after a time would threaten to tell his wife of his philandering. Unless he gave her a tidy sum to keep quiet. The last time, in Abilene, the man refused, even confessed to his wife, who had forgiven him. In her younger days, she would target a single man, marry him, and kill him – usually by poison. Now she was traveling west, using blackmail to make most of her money.

She was sure she could find a man in this new town, preferably single or a widower. Surely one of her students here would have a father or grandfather who was searching for a wife. Maybe he just didn’t know that yet. She could be very friendly, very persuasive. If he were rich enough, she might take the money and live out her days in San Francisco. Or, she might revert to her old ways, kill her new husband and – at least for a time – live in his house.

Fiona stepped off the stagecoach. One of the men from the stage line brought her two valises and set them on the boardwalk. The town looked like Abilene, only smaller. After asking directions to the hotel, she picked up her luggage and began walking the two blocks. Straight ahead, you can’t miss it, the man had said.

She stepped off the boardwalk, walked across the dusty cross street, and up the step to the next boardwalk. The first building on this block was the Wild Dog Saloon. As she approached the bat-wing doors, a man staggered out. He stepped in front of her, blocking her. Another man walked out of the saloon and stood behind her.

Pardon me, sir. Please allow me to pass, she said.

The man didn’t move. Ain’t you purty? Take you inside and buy you a drink. You’n sit on my lap. C’mon.

"I’m not interested. Leave me alone!"

A couple of women and three or four old men stood and watched, not offering to help her. Won’t anybody do something? Fiona cried out.

A wagon pulled by two horses had stopped beside the boardwalk. Someone had stepped down, started to the back of the wagon, and then turned. A boy, couldn’t be over fourteen, less than five and a half feet tall and skinny. A lock of reddish-brown hair peeked out from his Stetson. He wore a gun belt, the holster low and tied down on his right thigh.

Why don’t you just let the lady go on her way? he said in a voice that cracked, just beginning to change.

Mind your own business, boy, the drunk in front said.

When I see a lady bein’ bothered by two horse’s bee-hinds, I make it my business. Now leave her alone! A vein on the side of the boy’s neck was throbbing.

The other man said, Look. ‘Ere’s one for me, too. We don’t have to share. And she’s younger.

A girl a couple of years older than the boy had walked up beside him. She was only an inch or so taller than the boy, had strawberry blonde hair and a very nice figure.

Get behind me, Sis, the boy muttered. The girl stepped back.

Turning to the men, the boy said, "You two are gonna walk back into that saloon and crawl back into the bottle you come out of. Or we’re gonna have more’n words. And since you was talkin’ about my sister, I’ll start with you. He pointed at the man in the back. Unless you gonna keep hidin’ behind a woman. Yellow-belly."

The man staggered up in front of Fiona and said, What’re you gonna do now?

The boy walked up to the man, stopping about two feet in front of him. The boy drew his pistol with speed that amazed Fiona. He lashed out, the pistol barrel slamming into the man’s temple. The drunk went down like he had been hit with an axe handle, blood streaming from his wound. The boy turned to the other man. Your turn. Or you can walk away.

What’s goin’ on here? A man in his twenties and wearing a badge walked up, his belly hanging over his belt, jiggling with every step. His right hand was resting on the butt of his pistol. He held out his left hand. Gimme that gun, you little whelp.

Ben didn’t do anything wrong, the girl said. "He just did what is your job. Helping a lady in trouble."

Yeah, the boy agreed. But you was too busy settin’ in the office with your feet propped up on the desk and stuffin’ your face with pie and cake to do your job. So I done it!

You think because your grandpa has that big ranch you can do whatever you want to and get away with it, the deputy said. I’m here to tell you, you can’t. Takin’ you to jail.

For what?

For hittin’ that man with your gun. Move!

"C’mon, Harley, the boy said. Just take these drunks in – and leave me alone!"

"You’ll show me respect, boy. I’m Deputy Thomas."

You want to talk about families? Fine! the girl said. Only reason you’re a deputy is because your father – the judge – made the marshal hire you after Johnny decided he would go into some other type of work.

Yeah, the boy declared. You’re ‘bout as good a deputy as your brother is a fighter. And I done whupped that horse’s bee-hind twice. Might do it again.

Okay, that’s enough. An older man, also wearing a badge, had walked up during the argument. Ben, what have you got yourself into now? And put that gun in your holster!

Sir, Fiona said to the older lawman, these two men accosted me, put their hands on me, and tried to force me to go with them into that den of iniquity. Nobody would help me except for this boy. He deserves congratulations, not being bullied by that oaf! She pointed at the deputy.

As the two lawmen began taking the drunks to the jail, the one who had been hit tried to pull away. He turned and said, This ain’t over, boy. I don’t forget. I get even!

The boy turned, facing the man. His feet were shoulder-width apart, and his right hand was inches from his pistol. "Well,