The Sheriff’s Guns (The Texas Riders Western #13) (A Western Frontier Fiction): The Texas Riders, #13

By Joseph Powell

As a boy, Sheriff Timothy Dean lost his parents to the hands of a vicious outlaw.

Buckley Snider murdered his mother and father right in front of him.

Timothy swore he'd avenge their deaths and make Texas safer by putting Buckley behind bars or a bullet through his head.

Whichever came first.

Now Timothy's grown, but Buckley's still at large.

His gang is terrorizing nearby towns, and Timothy has vowed to put a stop to it.

He'll fight evil and seek justice, but killing the devil is a difficult task.

Especially when Timothy meets his childhood sweetheart.

Ashley Gates ran away from home when she was 12, leaving Timothy to mourn his parents alone.

He never knew why she left, but now is his chance to find out.

Until Buckley makes that impossible.

Buckley has his own ideas about what to do with Ashley, and he's looking forward to the slow, agonizing torture he's planning to impose on her.

Unless Timothy stops him.

Can Timothy find justice before it's too late?

Should he give up now while he's still got his life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Powell
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393038863

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

* * *

Spring, 1866, Slim Hollow, Texas

Ashley Gates pulled the trigger of the Colt Navy revolver Timothy Dean had just handed her and missed her target by a mile. The empty can of beans remained on the fence where Timothy had placed it just a few minutes before, but she did not let her poor shooting get her down.

If anything, Ashley felt better than she had since her father had died two years ago. She liked the way the trigger felt under her finger and loved the vibrations the gun had sent running up her arm when she pulled down on it and the bullet left the chamber.

Don’t worry, you’ll get it, Timothy said, encouraging her. Want to try again?

She nodded and readied the gun, taking her time aiming. This time, when she pulled the trigger, the bullet nicked the can and sent it flying off the fence at an angle. It hit the dirt in the empty field just outside of town. Timothy laughed and clapped her on the back.

You did it, he said. Toldja you’d get it. His grin was infectious, the grin of a fourteen-year-old boy on the verge of becoming a man but still caught in the footsteps of childhood.

Ashley returned his smile. Timothy was two years older than her, but he’d never treated her like it. He’d always treated her like she was his best pal. She hoped nothing ever changed that.

He was about the only friend she had left in Slim Hollow. Her mother had seen to that. Since her father’s death, Matilda Gates had gone from loving mother to beggar to town drunk to...

Ashley pushed that last thought away. She didn’t like to think about what her mother did with those men she took home.

If she pretended hard enough, she could convince herself that her mother was really tutoring them like she said she was. After all, her mother had been a schoolteacher before marrying her father, so it made sense she would tutor men. Alone. In her bedroom.

She thanked God every night that Timothy knew nothing of her mother’s true occupation. She could never have faced him again if he had. If anyone in town suspected the truth, they pitied her mother enough not to gossip about it. Ashley was grateful for their silence and hoped it always remained that way.

Ashley shuddered, and Timothy put one arm around her shoulder in a half hug. Try again? he asked.

She nodded, then took another look at the sky. Her mother had sent her out of the house early this morning and told her to be home by five to get dinner ready. The noon sun had gone down in the sky long ago and the light was softening. It had to be close to five now.

Actually, I’d better go. I’ve got to start supper, she said, reluctant to leave Timothy.

She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her boot and hung her head. She hated going home each night, especially when her mother was too drunk to walk and Ashley had to put her to bed, pretending she didn’t notice the already messy sheets.

Timothy frowned and placed one hand on either of her shoulders. Look at me, he said.

She tipped her head back and lifted her eyes to his, raising an eyebrow. What?

"You’re my best friend. If anything ever happens at home and you need to get away from your mom, you come and see me, okay? My parents like you, and they’ll help you. I’ll help you."

She pulled quickly away. What could happen? she asked, afraid he’d guessed her secret. Perhaps rumors of her mother’s profession had spread after all.

But then he shook his head. I just mean if her drinking gets to be too much.

Relief washed over her. Everyone knew about her mother’s drinking. It was embarrassing but not nearly so bad as the other thing. And it was nothing new.

I’ll be fine, she said. See you tomorrow.

Timothy hesitated then nodded, and they went their separate ways. They lived in opposite directions from each other.

Heading home was never easy for Ashley. The bank had run her and her mother out of the small house they’d shared with her father about a year after his death. They’d fallen behind in payments and never been able to catch up.

They’d stayed in a boardinghouse for a while, until Matilda Gates’ drinking had begun to cause problems and they’d been asked to leave. Now they were staying in a ratty old hotel that was as cheap as the whiskey Ashley’s mother drank every night.

Ashley opened the door to their room without pressing her ear to it first, which was a mistake. If she’d taken a listen, she’d have realized her mother wasn’t alone.

A tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair had his back to her. He towered over her half-naked mother, who was curled on the floor at the foot of the bed with her knees to her chest. Her nose was bleeding.

The room was dirty and smelled of stale tobacco and whiskey. It was sparsely furnished, just a bed, a dresser, and a small writing desk with a lamp.

Ashley stepped into the room without thinking and shut the door behind her. Mama? Are you okay? The blood dripped out of her mother’s nose and over her lips.

I’m okay, baby, her mother said. You go back outside for a bit. I’m not done tutoring yet. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked at the man, who turned to face Ashley now.

Ashley’s heart stopped. The man in their room was Buckley Snider. She’d have recognized him anywhere; his face was all over the newspapers.

What had yesterday’s headline read? Youngest Outlaw in Texas is Also the Most Dangerous. He was twenty now, but he’d killed his first man when he was only fourteen, and he hadn’t stopped killing since. Somehow, he was always one step ahead of the law.

Ashley’s mom tugged hard on the hem of his pants, drawing his attention back to her. I want my money, she said, standing up on wobbly legs now. Her nose had stopped bleeding. You had your fun, now you owe me.

Buckley sneered at her and pushed her off him, turning away from her. I’m not paying for some forty-year-old drunk’s bed. He reached for the jacket hanging off the back of the dusty desk chair and pulled it on.

Ashley’s mother clawed at him, desperate. But you owe me. I did everything you wanted. I need money for food, for this room. I’ve got a daughter to care for. Her eyes turned to Ashley as if just remembering she was there. I told you to go outside, didn’t I? she snapped.

Ashley took a step back but did not leave the room. She was worried about her mom and didn’t want to leave her alone with this man.

Buckley’s eyes narrowed at her. You’re a pretty girl. How old are you?

Ashley did not answer him.

She’s twelve, her mother said.

Buckley nodded, thinking. His eyes moved up and down her body, and Ashley felt cold. He turned back to her mother. All right. Give me your daughter for an hour, and I’ll pay you what you want.

Asley’s knees trembled. Her mother’s face turned white. My daughter? she said, already shaking her head. No, I couldn’t... not for so little.

For a second, Ashley thought she’d misheard.

How much would it take? Buckley asked.

Her mother picked up the whiskey bottle and drank straight from it, not even bothering with a glass. Five dollars.

Buckley laughed. Too much. I’ll give you two.

Three, her mother said. And only a half-hour, not a whole one. For that, you pay the five.

Buckley looked at Ashley again. All right, a half-hour, he said and pulled three dollars out of his wallet. He laid them on the bed and her mother grabbed them before he could change his mind.

He started for Ashley, who was standing with her back pressed against the door, frozen. Had her mother just sold her like a common whore?

His hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her forward. Ashley tried to jerk away but he was too strong. He looked at her mother. Are you going to stay and watch? he asked.

No. Her mother quickly started pulling some clothes on.

Mama, Ashley said, pleading. I don’t want to do this.

Her mother paused but did not look at her. I’m sorry, she said and then started for the door.

Ashley couldn’t believe it. Buckley was already leering at her, tugging at her skirts and trying to lift them as he simultaneously pushed her toward the bed. She struggled against him and finally stomped as hard as she could on Buckley’s foot, digging the heel of her boot into his toes.

He cried out and let go of her wrists. Ashley jumped away from him and ran right into her mother, who fell over. Ashley did not give her a second glance as she ran out of the room and fled the hotel.

* * *

Buckley Snider was not about to let a little girl get the best of him. He stepped over Matilda Gates, who was still lying on the floor. Don’t hurt her, she cried out, and Buckley kicked her in the stomach. She shut up after that, and he ran out the door.

The girl was already across the street and moving fast. Help! she cried out, looking behind her as he came after her.

Her eyes were big and blue and scared, just like he liked them. Blond, curly hair flew out behind her as she tried to run from him. If she thought she could get away, she was kidding herself.

A man and his wife were passing by on one of the walkways. Slim Hollow was a small, poor town, and its walkways were narrow and broken, though still better than its roads, which were covered in holes. The couple stopped and stared after the girl.

Ashley? asked the woman. What is it? Then she seemed to notice Buckley chasing after her and her eyes widened.

Mrs. Dean, please, help me, Ashley said, still running.

Mrs. Dean was far from twelve. If Buckley had to guess, he’d have thought she was closer to forty, but she hadn’t lost her looks the way Ashley’s mother had. This woman took care of herself. It showed in her soft, milky skin and hourglass figure.

His eyes followed Ashley, who disappeared into the alley behind the barbershop, then returned to the pretty woman who was staring at him with her mouth open. She would do just as well as Ashley, and she’d be far less trouble.

Buckley grabbed hold of Mrs. Dean’s wrist and pulled her toward him. She cried out, and her husband jumped forward. Let her go, he said, pushing Buckley hard in the chest.

Buckley let go of the woman long enough to draw his .44 caliber Colt Walker revolver. He fired two bullets in rapid succession right into Mr. Dean’s stomach. His wife let out a terrified scream as her husband staggered back and fell down. Blood was already soaking his shirt, but he was still breathing.

His wife ran to him and kneeled down beside him. The townspeople who’d been going about their business paused and looked on, but they were all too scared to do anything to stop him.

Mrs. Dean was crying now. Buckley grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back up. She screamed and clawed at his face.

He hit her in the mouth with his fist, and her lip began to bleed. The townspeople looked on, uncertain what they should do. Buckley pulled the woman toward an alley. It would do just as well as a bedroom.

A bullet whizzed past his ear without warning. Buckley turned, still holding the woman by her hair, and saw a boy of thirteen or fourteen with a Colt Navy revolver pointed at him. Let my mother go, the boy shouted.

Buckley laughed out loud, throwing his head back. Of all the men and women standing and watching the scene, this boy was the only one with guts enough to stand up to him. Buckley could admire that about him. Too bad he had to kill the boy.

Timothy, run, the boy’s mother shouted.

But Timothy did not run. Instead, he took one nervous step closer and pulled the trigger again. Buckley jumped out of the way of the bullet aimed for his head, letting go of the woman in the process. She turned and fled, running toward her son. Buckley shot her twice in the back.

He could not see her face as the bullet entered her, but he imagined her eyes going wide and her skin going white. She fell flat on her stomach.

No! Timothy shouted and ran to her. He rolled her over, and Buckley could see she wasn’t breathing.

The kid turned to him, fury on his face, and fired three shots. One of them scraped Buckley’s cheek, but the others were not even close to hitting him.

The boy might’ve been a good shot when he could focus but focusing with his mother’s lifeless body at his feet was next to impossible. Buckley would be doing Timothy a favor by killing him and putting him out of his misery.

Buckley fired a shot back at the kid, who rolled to the side and missed the bullet by an inch. The townspeople scattered now, and Timothy returned his fire. The bullet sailed over Buckley’s head, and when the kid pulled his trigger again, it clicked empty. The boy’s face went white.

Timothy glared at him. I swear that one day I’ll kill you for what you’ve done here. His voice sounded older than his years.

Buckley shrugged. Maybe in another lifetime, kid, he said and aimed his gun at the boy’s head.

No! a man cried out. Timothy’s father sat up. The bullets in his gut hadn’t killed him, only slowed him down. He started crawling toward his son.

Buckley admired the man’s courage, but it didn’t stop him from firing on him. He put a bullet right into the man’s head, sending the back of his skull flying off in small chunks. When he turned back to finish the man’s son, he was gone.

Buckley scanned the shopfronts and alleyway entrances for Timothy but didn’t see him anywhere. He could look for him, but the sheriff was no doubt on his way, and Buckley didn’t feel like wasting any more bullets. He grabbed the first horse he saw, climbed on its back, and left Slim Hollow.

* * *

chapter  0 1 ✪

* * *

Eight years later...

Timothy Dean arrived in Clear Water, Texas in the middle of the afternoon. He’d meant to arrive by mid-morning but had gotten sidetracked en route from Blackgate when he’d come across a wagon with a broken wheel.

It had taken him and the driver a couple of hours to repair it, the woman and her six-year-old daughter looking around them with worried eyes the whole time. What if bandits rob us, Mom? the girl had asked.

The woman had smiled at her child. Don’t worry. Bandits never come around here. It’s the safest place on Earth. The child’s fears had eased, but if she’d looked closer at her mother’s face, she’d have known in a second her mother was lying.

The stretch of dry, rolling Texas land between Blackgate and Clear Water wasn’t exactly known for its safe travel, though he supposed there were a lot worse places to break down. Idleford and Cinderbrook both came to mind. Those hole-in-the-wall towns were a bit farther south though.

Once he and the driver finished with the wheel, the woman and her daughter had seemed less worried. Timothy had wished them both a safe journey and resumed his own.

Now in Clear Water, Timothy stopped his horse outside the sheriff’s station, dusting off his clothes as best he could, but his hands were as dirty as the rest of him. At least that woman and her daughter were back on their way again.

He wondered if he ought to look for the barbershop. A clean shave and combed hair would make him look more presentable but then that might only make the mess on his clothes stand out all the more. He shrugged and rolled his shoulders back, stepping into the station.

Mayor Rudolph Irving was already inside. He turned as the door shut and greeted Timothy with a friendly smile that reached all the way to his brown eyes.

The smile lasted only a moment as he gave Timothy a once over, the corners of his lips frowning ever so slightly. But then the smile returned and he walked toward Timothy with an outstretched hand.

Timothy shook it. Good to see you again, Mayor Irving.

He’d only met the man once before, when he’d come to Blackgate to talk to Timothy about taking over as sheriff. He was big in the middle, and the beginnings of gray hair dotted the brown still growing out of his scalp. He smiled a lot and was made all the more likable for it.

And you, said the mayor. We were starting to get worried. I expected you some time ago. The mayor dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief, wiping away his sweat.

Timothy removed his hat and pulled a handkerchief of his own. It was a hot day, and the Texas heat was doing its best to make every man, woman, and child swelter under its gaze.

Clear Water was a small town. There weren’t a lot of places to cool down. No rivers or oceans. Not here. The closest was a narrow stream that he’d crossed on his way in. A few kids had been playing in it, splashing around. They’d looked at him for only a second, more interested in the water than him.

From the east end of town where he’d entered by, up to the center of town where the sheriff’s station was, he’d passed a couple of handfuls of shopfronts. The gun shop, blacksmith, and the general store had looked in good enough repair, but the rest of the stores had looked a little rundown, which was putting it nicely.

The haberdashery’s front window had a big crack running in a jagged scar from one corner to the other at a diagonal; the bakery’s window was boarded up though a sign on the door said open, and the smells of freshly baked bread wafted out when it opened and closed.

The haberdashery’s window was fine, but the hats on display were far from it. Hats styled from five years ago sat upfront on the shelves collecting dust, and he had the feeling if he’d inquired after something more modern, he’d have been met with a dazed look by the proprietor and a scratch of the head.

Modern? Here? This is Clear Water.

About the only store he’d seen that looked up-to-date was a little dress shop with a dark green awning out front and a welcome sign hanging on its door. The dresses in the window had looked of high quality, and he suspected the owner of the shop was well-trained in her craft.

The sheriff’s station also seemed right enough. The door had squeaked loudly as Timothy went through it, but otherwise, the wooden structure seemed solid. There was no paint on the walls, just solid wood splintered here and there but nothing too bad.

Two desks sat in the middle of the single room, a third desk sat against the sidewall. Two jail cells lined the back of the room.

There was no jailhouse in Clear Water. The town wasn’t big enough for one. That suited him okay though. He hadn’t had one as a deputy in Blackgate, either.

Standing behind the mayor was a tall man about Timothy’s own age. He had brown hair and brown eyes and was glaring at Timothy as if he were one of the outlaws in the posters tacked to the back wall. The mayor introduced him as Wyatt Hardin, Timothy’s new head deputy.

Nice to meet you, Timothy said, shaking Wyatt’s hand.

Wyatt’s glare only deepened. You too, I guess.

Mayor Irving shot Wyatt a look, but Wyatt ignored it. Do you always arrive to your first day as sheriff dressed like a beggar?

The mayor shook his head. Wyatt, we talked about this. You said you could handle yourself.

Wyatt looked at the mayor and shrugged. It was just a question. His eyes returned to Timothy, waiting for an answer.

I stopped to help fix a broken wheel on a wagon carrying a mother and her child, Timothy said.

Wyatt’s jaw tightened, but the mayor looked vindicated. I thought as much, said Mayor Irving, turning Timothy toward two more men, both who looked barely old enough to grow whiskers. This is Joe and Homer Morin, Clear Water’s youngest deputies.

Youngest and best, Joe said, shaking his hand. Anyway, I figure we’re in good company, seeing as how you’re the youngest sheriff Clear Water’s ever had.

Wyatt scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t say what was on his mind, but it was easy to figure out. Wyatt didn’t like Timothy. Maybe later Timothy could figure out why.

For now, he shook hands all around and learned that Homer was the younger of the two brothers by a year. He was also the shorter of them, not quite catching up to Joe’s six feet. Homer was maybe five-ten, if that.

The Morins were nineteen and eighteen to Timothy’s newly turned twenty-three. And it was his first time as sheriff. Up until now, Timothy had only served as head deputy. Mayor Irving had taken a bit of a chance on him, and Timothy swore to himself he wouldn’t let the man down.

Joe and Homer both seemed all right, ready and willing to accept him as their new sheriff. Wyatt was another matter. Timothy assumed it had something to do with the last sheriff. Maybe the two of them had been especially close.

It was only natural, in that case, for Wyatt to feel a certain amount of resentment at Timothy’s taking over. By all accounts, Clear Water’s last sheriff had been a good man. If typhoid hadn’t taken his life, he’d still have the job.

I’m not here to fill anyone’s shoes. Your last sheriff left shoes too big to fill, anyway, Timothy told his