When the Bullets Fall (The Texas Riders Western #5) (A Western Frontier Fiction): The Texas Riders, #5

By Joseph Powell

These outlaws think they can get away with murder.

They're wrong.

Ernest Welles' life has taken many turns, but none so jarring as the one that landed him at the Little C Ranch.

Everything changed in the flash of a gunshot muzzle that left two men dead and a bandit on the loose.

Ernest is used to fighting for justice.

He doesn't let outlaws get away.

He punishes them.

And he always wins.

But he's never met an outlaw like Ulysses Hill before.

Ulysses was born with a streak of pure evil.

He likes women.

He likes money.

And … he'll take them any way he can get them. Even by force.

When a rancher's daughter, Clementine Hart, catches Ulysses' eye, Ernest can either turn a blind eye or help the rancher and his family take down the most powerful criminal of their time.

Ernest has never backed away from a challenge, and he's not prepared to start now.

Just because Ulysses thinks he owns the law doesn't mean he's immune to it.

It just means Ernest will have to work twice as hard to fight for justice.

But can Ernest beat a devil in sheep's clothing, or has he finally met his match?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Powell
• Release date: Feb 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393809272

Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell is the author of Last Stand at Rock Springs.  He is a classic western writer and his stories always happened at the real place with a fictional eye. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and two children.

Book preview

prologue

* * *

En Route to Whiteridge,

Texas 1871

Ernest Welles removed his hat and ran the sleeve of his arm over his brow, soaking up the sweat before it could sting his eyes. Strands of dusty brown hair were already matted to his forehead. He pushed them away with his hand and prayed for a cool breeze to enter the carriage before he melted.

The middle-aged man seated next to him frowned, clearly disapproving of Ernest’s sweat, but Ernest did not care. Texas’ summer heat was hotter than heck right now. The dried-up trees surrounding their carriage agreed with him, even if the man beside him didn’t.

Ernest doubted anyone who sat as stiff and proper as this man would ever acknowledge such a thing as his own sweat, even though it was beading up on his forehead as much as it was Ernest’s.

Ernest returned the hat to his head and smiled at the young twins sitting across from him. The boys, no more than six or seven, looked at their mother, who nodded slightly, and then returned his smile.

Their father’s frown deepened. He looked at Ernest with suspicion. What did you say your name was?

Ernest rolled his broad shoulders back and allowed the light from outside to highlight the fine woven fabric of the suit he was wearing. "It’s Ernest Welles. Judge Ernest Welles."

The man’s eyes widened. Judge?

Just like that, the man’s tone shifted from suspicion to delight. His shoulders sank into a relaxed posture, and the frown on his face relaxed along with them. A quick smile formed on his lips.

Ernest did not feel the least bit guilty about declaring himself a judge even though he had not yet taken the oath. It was only a matter of hours now, and then the title would officially be his.

Had he taken his horse instead of this carriage, he’d have arrived twice as fast and already own the title. But his legs were bothering him to no end these last few days. The summer rains always did that. The carriage afforded him the opportunity to stretch his legs every now and again. Not much, but enough that it helped to keep the pain at bay. At least it was not raining now.

The middle-aged man was saying something to him. Ernest forced his attention off himself and onto the man’s words. Are you a hanging judge? You’re not one of those who lets criminals off with a fine, are you?

The woman leaned forward and gently touched her husband’s hand. George, let him be. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to talk?

Ernest smiled thankfully at her.

George ignored them both. Nonsense, Gertrude. He doesn’t mind, do you? I only want to know whether the man I’m riding with is a fool. You can’t always tell that kind of thing just by looks. If you could, I’d have pegged him for a fool the moment he got in the carriage with us.

Gertrude sighed and gave Ernest an apologetic look.

Ernest was saved from a response by a sudden bang and a jerk of the carriage. He and the family of four suddenly shifted to the left as the wheels turned abruptly. The children cried out, and George pounded angrily against the door.

What the heck are you doing? George yelled at the driver, but there was no response.

The carriage sped up, and its wheels began to shimmy. The children started to cry, and Gertrude’s face paled. Even George began to look rather white.

What is it? Gertrude asked. What’s happening?

Our driver’s lost his darned mind, George said. Probably drunk.

Ernest leaned out the window and looked around. His heart sped up along with the horses as his eyes landed on a group of six or seven men riding after them with guns drawn and empty saddlebags ready to fill.

Bandits, he muttered.

George and Gertrude simultaneously snapped toward him.

Wh-What? Gertrude began to shake. The children put their arms around each other, their faces growing red and pinched.

The men were riding up on them fast. Their greedy eyes and guns told Ernest all he needed to know—they were going to get what they wanted any way they could.

Do you have a gun? Ernest asked George, pulling his Remington from his side holster where he always kept it.

The Remington was an 1858 army issue .44 caliber black powder revolver with a solid frame and elegant design despite the rugged feel it left in his hands. It was the most reliable gun he’d ever owned and the most beautiful.

The solid walnut handle shined almost as much as the gold and nickel his gun was plated with. Intricate engravings ran over the eight-inch barrel, catching the envious eye of every man who saw it.

George stared at Ernest’s gun with his mouth open and shook his head. The carriage jerked to the right, as if the horses were in control now instead of the driver.

Ernest leaned his head back out the window and saw the driver slumped over in his seat, his head lolling absently. The horses’ reins had dropped from his hands, and at the next jerk, he toppled over completely.

Ernest didn’t have to see the driver’s face or the blood oozing out of him to know he was dead. A single bullet had taken his life and put theirs in jeopardy.

The bandits were closing in on them now. Ernest could see their faces if he squinted.

The one in the lead had a dark bushy mustache that twitched when Ernest caught his eye. Everything about him was dark, from his hair to his boots. Even his skin was a deep golden tan.

The man riding behind him was almost the opposite—bright blond with blue eyes that would have been angelic if not for the menacing stare coming off him right now. He turned his head slightly and shouted something to the mustached man, calling him Silas, but that was all Ernest could make out.

Ernest pointed his gun at Silas, but he dropped back before Ernest could fire. The man behind him was not so smart. He rode closer to Ernest instead of farther away.

We just want your money and your women, the blond man said.

Ernest pulled the trigger on his Remington and watched his blue eyes widen as a bullet entered his chest. He fell off his horse and hit the ground. His horse bucked up, scared, and trampled any remaining life out of him.

Silas fired from a few feet back and missed. Ernest ducked his head into the carriage. Get down! he shouted to the family, who immediately did as he told them.

Silas’ next bullet went straight between the carriage horses, spooking them even more than they already were. They whinnied and bucked and started running at a lightning pace.

When they jerked to the right, Ernest felt them leave the path they’d been on altogether. The wheels rolled over something big, probably a rock, and the back of the carriage came off the ground.

The back end tipped to the right as the horses tried to go left, and the entire carriage overturned in a matter of seconds. Ernest’s head just missed hitting the ground, but George was not so lucky.

The man’s head struck the side of the carriage at an odd angle and bounced off only to hit it once more when the carriage went over another rock. The horses were crying out now, terrified as they tried to stand and get away, dragging the carriage up on its side with them.

Gertrude’s head was bleeding, but the children seemed more frightened than hurt. They were shaking their father, begging him to wake up. But Ernest did not think the man would be waking any time soon. His neck was at an improper angle, the kind that no man could survive.

He had no time to comfort the children or check their mother, who was groaning and starting to reach for them even as a river of red ran down her temple.

Ernest forced his legs to move despite the pain that seared through them and crawled out the open carriage door, which was facing the sky, his first thought not the men chasing them but the horses.

He had to cut them free before they dragged the carriage any farther and caught someone under it. The children’s legs would snap like a twig if that happened, and with the windows all broken out, it was bound to.

One of the horses was bleeding but nothing appeared broken. Ernest looked around for the men and saw they were only yards behind them. He climbed over the carriage as it moved across the ground and reached for the knife in his back pocket.

It was a bowie knife with a mother-of-pearl pommel carved in the large well-defined shape of an eagle's head. There was an engraved sterling silver crossguard and wide silver barrel at the base. His friend Rex Wallace had made a gift of it just before Ernest had left Cedar Summit, wishing him well on his journey.

The silver blade sliced easily through the horses’ ropes and they ran off, grateful to be free of the carriage’s heavy weight.

In the distance, he saw two men riding toward him fast. One was roughly fifty, give or take a few years, with a scruffy beard and wide chest. The other looked similar but much younger, his beard not quite so scruffy and his chest a bit wider. Their eyes were the same deep brown with flecks of gold. Father and son?

It didn’t matter. They had their guns ready to fire.

Ernest jumped off the carriage and turned to face them. The men were almost on him now.

But the bullet that came from the father’s gun was not aimed at Ernest. Take cover! the man shouted as he fired over Ernest’s head toward the men behind him.

Ernest felt a bullet whiz past his left shoulder and turned to see Silas shooting at him. He ducked, using the carriage as cover. The second bullet struck the wheel that was still spinning near his head, missing him but coming close enough that the sound of it left Ernest’s ears ringing.

The father and son team split up, the father going left, the son going right. Ernest heard the father shouting to his son. Benjamin, don’t stop shooting until they’re all dead.

Benjamin nodded. Silas’ men came at all three of them with guns blazing. Benjamin sent a bullet into the stomach of one of them, causing him to shriek like a little girl as he fell off his horse and bled out.

Ernest fired and struck another man in the leg. That fella let out a string of curse words. Ernest fired again and sent him to the ground where he stopped his cursing along with his breathing.

Gertrude’s head poked out of the carriage door as she attempted to climb out.

No, stay inside! Ernest shouted, but she either did not hear or was too scared to make sense of his words.

Silas fired two bullets right into her skull. She fell forward as chunks of her head blew off and blood poured out of her. Ernest heard the children scream and watched with horror as they attempted to climb over their mother’s lifeless body.

He looked around and saw Benjamin’s father riding toward the children, realizing the danger they were in.

Ernest covered the man as he pulled the first boy out and onto his horse’s saddle. The second boy moved so fast that if Ernest had blinked, he’d have missed him. Benjamin’s father rode with the boys toward a patch of trees and disappeared.

A bullet blew off a chunk of the carriage, and Ernest turned to see a man with red hair firing straight at him. Ernest got him in the chest with two bullets dead center. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he fell to his knees. He wavered there a moment before falling over altogether.

The bandits’ numbers were dwindling fast. Benjamin let out a triumphant cry as the gunshots came to a stop, but he was too soon. He never even saw Silas come up behind him, gun drawn.

Ernest saw him though, and he fired fast with perfect aim. But his gun clicked empty. He stared at it in horror then ran forward, trying to put himself between Silas and Benjamin, shouting out a warning.

Benjamin cocked his head to the side but didn’t have time to turn around.

Silas’ bullet struck Benjamin in the back and ripped a hole through his chest. Ernest watched Benjamin look down with surprise as red filled his shirt before he fell off his horse and twitched a few times before lying dead at its feet.

Silas smiled wickedly at Ernest, aiming his gun at his head. A bullet sailed out of nowhere from behind Ernest though and collided with Silas’ gun, knocking it from his hand. Silas let out an angry cry.

Benjamin’s father was riding fast, his face painted red with fury. Ernest hated to have to tell him his son was dead, but from the look on his face, he suspected the man already knew.

Silas glared at Ernest. You haven’t won. I’ll kill you and everyone you ever loved. Then he took off like a coward before Benjamin’s dad could fire again.

The elder man stopped his horse beside his boy instead of going after Silas, needing to make sure Benjamin was really gone. If there was even a sliver of hope, Ernest was certain the man would take it. But there was none.

Smoke choked the air, stinging Ernest’s lungs as well as his eyes. He went to Benjamin’s cold and limp body, where his father was already kneeling.

I’m sorry, Ernest said.

The elder looked at him. My son is gone, but it’s not you who has to be sorry. I saw you try to save him.

He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. His cheeks were stained with tears.

Ernest hesitated then said, If you want help getting your boy and those two children back somewhere, I’m glad to help.

The man nodded. I’m Gage Hart, and as far as I’m concerned, what’s mine is yours. Come on. I don’t live far. He started back to his horse. Ernest followed.

* * *

chapter  0 1 ✪

* * *

Ernest went into the breakfast room of the large farmhouse where Gage was already seated with a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. His face was stoic, as it had been yesterday when they’d buried his son.

Ernest knew his aloof expression was an act. He’d ridden out with Gage onto the fields of the Little C Ranch and seen the man’s face break into hard lines that not even the strongest of men could disguise.

Pain and hatred lived deep inside the man and would no doubt remain there the rest of his life. But Gage was strong, and he wanted to be even stronger for his remaining family.

Morning, Gage said as Ernest took a seat opposite him.

Morning.

Gage’s eldest daughter, Clementine, was at the stove. She turned when he came in, her long blond hair hanging halfway down her back in soft waves that Ernest rather enjoyed looking at. Her body was slim but curvy, and her eyes were a tender blue much like her mother’s.

She was twenty-four and worked hard on her father’s ranch, helping her mother cook for two dozen ranch hands and ensuring the cows were milked and the chickens looked after.

From what he’d heard from the other ranch hands, Gage had the nicest ranch in Widow’s Peak, and the prettiest daughter. Despite spending her days in the sun, Clementine’s skin was soft and silky. Not the leathery skin her father and eldest brother both shared.

Good morning, Clementine, Ernest said.

She glared at him and flipped some eggs haphazardly onto his plate before slamming it onto the table.

Thank you, he said.

She turned her back to him. Hatred rolled off her in thick waves that attempted to penetrate Ernest’s skin.

Clementine hadn’t said it out loud, but he was certain she blamed him for her brother’s death. If Gage and Benjamin hadn’t happened across Ernest’s carriage that fateful day, her brother would still be alive.

She hadn’t found it in her heart to blame the surviving twins or their dead parents, so she blamed him. It was probably easier than blaming Silas. Ernest was right here in front of her, after all, Silas wasn’t.

Gage gave her a disapproving look. Clementine, the plates will break if you handle them that way.

Yes, Father, she said, still facing the wall.

She made up a plate for herself then took it into the other room to eat with the ranch hands.

When she was gone, Gage let out a heavy sigh. She’s just upset about her brother. They were rather close. It will pass.

Ernest doubted her pain would pass any more than Gage’s but chose not to argue with the man about it. He ate his food in silence, asking only where Gage’s wife and youngest daughter were.

They had eaten early and gone out to pick apples in the orchard. It was Wilma Hart’s way of getting her youngest daughter’s mind off recent events. Gage’s eldest son, Thaddeus, was back on his own ranch, attending to his own family.

When both plates were clean, Gage took his to the sink and set it down. He turned to Ernest. You hear anything from that courthouse of yours yet?

Ernest shook his head. It’s too soon. My letter has probably only just reached them.

Though Whiteridge was not far, the mail out here moved at a snail’s pace. He’d written as soon as he’d arrived at the Little C Ranch and informed the other judges he would not be arriving to take his place for at least a fortnight.

The idea of leaving Silas out there to roam free and kill whoever he liked baited him into staying, and Gage was more than happy to offer up a bed and a few meals along with the promise of taking him down. Gage cleared his throat.

Ernest looked up. Something on your mind? Is it about Silas? Gage knew where the man lived. They were supposed to go after him today and bring him in to the sheriff.

Gage nodded. There’s a few things I haven’t told you about Silas Ford. Mostly... there ain’t no way of getting to him without getting killed.

Ernest’s hand curled into a fist at his side. What are you saying? He’s protected?

Gage nodded. Ernest gritted his teeth against each other.

Why were the worst of men always protected by those with money and power?

Who’s protecting him? he asked.

Same man who’s protecting all the scum in Widow’s Peak, Ulysses Hill. Silas works for him. Hell, he and those men who ran your carriage down were only out there on Ulysses’ orders.

Men like the ones Gage was describing didn’t deserve to breathe. The fist his hand was making grew tighter.

He wants money? Ernest asked.

Money, land, whatever he can get. He’s been pushing out every rancher in Widow’s Peak for the last six months. There’s only a handful of us left. For now, he’s spared us, but it’s only a matter of time before we’re pushed out, too.

Why spare you at all?

Men like Ulysses Hill didn’t have a conscience, so it couldn’t be that weighing on his shoulders. Maybe it had something to do with the sheriff.

Sheriff Tucker seemed like an all right man, more or less. He’d taken those two orphaned kids and sent ‘em off to their family, but he hadn’t struck Ernest as a man with much backbone in him.

When they’d told him what had happened, he’d nodded and expressed his sympathies, but he’d said nothing about getting the man responsible for killing Benjamin or the twins’ parents.

Gage’s face turned red. His mouth pressed tightly together and turned his lips white. It was an odd contrast. There was something Gage wasn’t telling him.

Ernest folded his arms across his chest. What are you hiding?

Nothing, Gage said, his voice hoarse. Everyone in town already knows the truth about me, so there’s nothing to hide. He sighed deeply. Ulysses is my nephew, the son of my sister who died many years ago now.

The air left Ernest’s lungs fast. Nephew? The evil ogre of a man Gage was describing, the one who was responsible for the death of Gage’s youngest boy, was his own flesh and blood?

How did Gage stand it? It must have made him ill just to think on it.

Blood began to pulse deep inside Ernest’s veins. His heart thumped hard, and his head felt like it was about to crack open from the pain that had suddenly surfaced.

Even worse were his knees. There was no rain in the sky today but the fight from two days ago had left his whole body aching. And this news only seemed to make them worse.

If no one’s gonna fight Ulysses or his men, I’ll do it myself. Ernest pushed his seat back so hard his chair fell over. Gage’s mouth parted slightly, and his face paled. Ernest turned away from him.

You go after him alone, and you’re gonna die, Gage said to his back.

Ernest paused. There are things worse than death. I’ll take my chances. He got one step closer to the doorway when Gage found the right words to make him stop.

Silas doesn’t lie. You said he threatened the people you love. You go up against him and lose, and he’ll hunt down everyone you ever cared about and slaughter them. I’ve seen him do it before to the families in this town.

Ernest drew in several deep breaths. He wasn’t married. He’d almost been once, but that was a lifetime ago now. But he had friends who were like brothers to him, and they all had families he was privileged to call his own even though it wasn’t by blood.

I won’t let him get away with what he did.

Gage’s hardened voice came back to him. My son is dead because of Ulysses and his men. You think I don’t want to see them dead, too? But getting ourselves killed in the process won’t make things better.

The breath Ernest expelled was long and heavy. It stank of defeat, a taste he had never cared for. But maybe Gage was right. If things in