EL Paso Run

By Robert Reynolds

A creator of pulp novels follows a lead to the wild west border town of El Paso where he encounters Henry Putnam, the last surviving person with knowledge to a long-past killing. The story unfolds through Henry’s recollections leading up to the fateful event. Truth and lies flourish within the tale and only Henry Putnam knows the truth; but how much of it is he willing to share? In the image of classic old-time Westerns, El Paso Run brings an excitement of the Old West: rough and tumble cowboys, provocative dancehall girls, deadly shootings, and wild chases abound in this thrill-a-minute western tale. This exhilarating yarn will keep you flipping pages faster than wasteland winds sweep across the Chihuahua Desert. Saddle up and get ready for a wild ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716293207

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

EL

PASO

RUN

Robert Reynolds

This is a work of fiction.  Characters, places and events are strictly the imagination of the writer.  Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

Copyright: 2020

ISBN:  978-1-716-35160-0

EL PASO RUN

PART ONE

Prologue

A child killin’?  You don’t say.

As cold-blooded a killing as a soul could imagine.

It ain’t something I know about and I pride myself on knowing what goes on.  Along this side of the river, at least.

Perhaps I didn’t make myself entirely clear.  This was an occurrence a great many years ago. It was some silliness over a foreign woman.  Jealousy and murder of a defenseless child.  I have my notes.  The man brandished a small, leather-bound notebook the way a gunman might display his weapon. 

The old man leaned back in thought.

Yes, there was such a thing a good long time ago.  But it ain’t quite how you say it.  After these many years I ain’t so sure I remember it all.  Not precisely, that is.

If you would be so kind, I’d like to hear it the best you recall, Mr…?

Putnam.  Henry O. Putnam, after my daddy. Well, the middle part’s after him, but I don’t use it.  When I was a little one, Mama, may she rest in peace, said one Owen Putnam in the family was plenty for her to keep track of.

Flies were thick as carpet in the shade of the livery barn where Henry Putnam slumped idly in his rocking chair, watching the day slide by.  The chair was older than he was and its woven wicker seat had been replaced multiple times. The seat was frayed again and it sunk under his weight, looking as if he might fall through.  The chair was in need of repair again, but he could not stand the thought of being without it while Vernon Spears did the reweaving.  Something buzzed and he moved his bare hand slightly, sending half a dozen black flies into chaotic motion.

Forgive me, I have it in my notes.  Morgan Fels thumbed through his notebook, but finally gave up and took down the old man’s name again.  Fels had arrived on the morning train heading west.  He had but the remaining hours of this day to locate and interview Henry Putnam and catch the 5:17 headed back east—a few hours to capture the sad, short tale of a cold-blooded killer who only Henry knew, and then be on his way.

Henry, you say?

That’s correct.  Owen Putnam operated this very stable for a good many years.  A very well-respected man, my daddy was.  Why is it again that you come to me, Mr. Fels?

Folks have a curiosity about life west of the Mississippi River—cowhands and savages, you know. Easterners have heard tales, read tales about desperados and lawmen.  Men like Wild Bill, Heck Thomas and Kit Carson fascinate my readers, sir.  The most nefarious outlaws and duty-bound lawmen have all been written about, but that has not quenched the thirst of my faithful readers.

I don’t know a hoot about any of them fellows.

Well, no sir, but you may know the ghastly story of a spiteful killer.

S’posing I do.  What makes you think I want to talk about it? Henry Putnam’s demeanor turned cool. He glanced sharply at the younger man. What pray tell out of all living folks caused you to seek me out?

You seem to be the last survivor who knew the man question… Who knew that murderous killer.  At least you’re the only one I know of. You do recollect a Mr. Peter Hulender? Fels thumbed through his notes again double-checking the name.

If you mean Pate Hollander, well of course I do, but I guarantee you he was no killer.  Not the kind you’re speaking of. Outside of my daddy… and well, that Mexican girl, I probably knew him best of anyone around here.  We were perty close and he was as fine a man as anyone.

The old man lit a cheroot and leaned back. Old Henry was as weathered as the wooden sign that on this day hung limp over the livery.  The match flared with a sizzle; hot as the sun passing overhead scorching the daylight out of anyone fool enough to be out working in it. 

I never should have started with these, but you know, boys was all smoking or chawing, and I just sort of fell into it. Seems a might more hygienic than chawing.  A long gray cloud escaped his nostrils, like a locomotive leaving the depot.  Fels wrinkled his nose and waved the thick smoke away. 

Mr. Hollander, you say?  Hmm… He scribbled a correction.  Mr. Hollander was some years older than you, I believe.

That don’t mean folks can’t be close.

I didn’t mean to imply…

Henry Putnam took a deep breath.  The cheroot’s ash flared up glowing a deep red, as if the sun was falling into their midst.  The tip of the ash fell off; scattering fiery sparks at their feet.  Fels jerked his foot away lest the little fires singe his trousers.  Henry went on as if nothing had happened.

Son, you’re asking me about something that happened by a good long time ago.  If you want a story you best know that recollections ain’t always what they’re made out to be.

Yes, sir, I am aware that stories do have a way of changing, but you seem to have been closest to all of it. 

And you seem to be looking for a coldblooded killing and it weren’t quite that way.

What way was it, sir?  I’ve heard bits and pieces and they seem to lead that way.

The young man, Morgan Fels a fine pulp novelist indeed, looking for a scoop that was a good many decades older than he was, scribbled a few quick lines in his notebook. He’d heard snippets of the West Texas tale, but they were an assortment of handed down accounts, rather than eyewitness. Then someone had mentioned the old man’s role and it seemed worth following up on. 

An old man named Putnam might shine some light on it, the source had said.  If you can track him down, you might get to the bottom of it.  Last that I heard Putnam was in Texas—as far west as a fellow can go and still be in that abominable place.

Follow up on it, Fels’ boss had directed.  But don’t dally.  Take the rails, locate this Putnam chap and get the makings of his story.  Write it up on the train and have the draft ready for editing when you return.   I have faith that Mr. Risher will polish it into a rip-roaring tale of great substance... and generous sales. Be on your way, now! Before the train had clattered to a complete stop Fels had leapt off into the dust and begun asking directions to the livery.

So what is it again you want to know about all of this?  He took another drag on his cheroot and gave a little sniffle to clear away the desert dust.

Mr. Phineas Dalrymple, a prosperous newsman back east employs my services.  You may have heard of him.

Well, I wouldn’t go so far as…

And you needn’t, for I find it a waste of my time. Henry Putnam, slumped comfortably in his wooden rocker, rocked back and forth like he didn’t have a care in the world, let alone a care about his time.  His good years were long past.  They could be counted in the wrinkles in his face like rings on the trunk of a bur oak.  He was almost asleep, the result of a hot afternoon and the comfort of his rocker.

I’m certainly of no mind to waste your time, sir, Morgan Fels said, trying to keep his composure.  But my loyal readers clamor for stimulating…  yarns, as you folks call them. There is an immense, ah, interest by gentlemen of prominence in happenings of the old west.

And your kind see us as curiosities?

Why of course not!  I, sir, would never insinuate.., the flustered Easterner stammered.  The chair rocked back and forth uttering little creaks with its movement.  Old Henry jokingly referred to the tiny noises as his bones crying out in complaint. 

Don’t get all ruffled, now.  It don’t matter to me one way or ‘nother what folks I don’t know thinks about me.  I s’pose you come a far way and it ain’t right to deny a fellow a simple request.  My poor dear mother didn’t bring me up that way.  Go ahead, Mr. Fels, Henry sighed.  I’m listenin’.

Yes, well…  Mr. Dalrymple got wind of Mr. Pete… Uh, Mr. Pate Hollander’s story and it seemed like a good tale for his periodical; a no-good murdering outlaw killing decent folks along the Mexico border.  Western tales are all the rage back in Baltimore.

Just who do you think was a murderin’ outlaw? Henry Putnam stared into space like he really wasn’t paying much attention, but he was.

Why, Pate Hollander, of course.  He viciously assassinated a child in front of dozens of others and hightailed it into the mountains killing innocent folks along the way. Morgan Fels checked his scribbling’s again.  When that sorrowful cad Mr. Hollander decided he hadn’t murdered enough good folks, he came riding back to kill more, but he got slain himself.

That’s a story you got, all right, but ain’t none of it true.

Do you know the truth, Mr. Putnam?  Can you tell me?   

Henry Putnam looked down at his withered old hands, hands that had mended leather and roped horses, flung hay bales about and smoked a good share of cheroots.  His hands held blisters, scars and callouses and his fingers didn’t quite line up the way they should.  They told their own story in their own awkward way.  Henry inhaled deeply on his smoke, dropped it on the ground and rubbed the toe of his boot on it until it was out. 

He gave a little sniffle.  Now where was I?

Chapter 1

A solitary rider slumped wearily; for his back ached a great deal from riding all that long distance.  Every now and then a whiff of seared leather wafted to his nostrils from black scorch marks on the saddle reminding him of that night. Lately, everything reminded him of that night.

No matter how far he had ridden it was not far enough to safely put the matter behind.  He’d had thoughts of turning back, but for what?  He was a thief of the most serious order, so he rode on, aches and all.

The young man’s shaggy brown hair, which was the color of his sweat soaked hat, which was the color of his mare, which was the color of the desert, fluttered softly in the recurrent breeze.  The young man’s face, which was exposed beneath the hat’s wide brim, was burnt red and then a deep umber from days beneath the sun, almost as if his face were made of leather.

His horse, a pretty mare, plodded steadily along, one repetitious hoof beat following another on the hard, barren earth. The scorched soil seemed to sizzle. It was the hottest, driest piece of ground he’d ever traveled upon—and it seemed endless.

He took up his canteen and sipped barely a mouthful, swished it around and then swallowed, feeling it all the way down into his belly.  He dribbled a little more of the warm water into his palm and reached forward so the mare could slurp at it with her long, dry tongue.  He was thankful for a brief shower that had popped up the day before and being able to capture enough rainwater to refill the canteen, but he didn’t know how much longer he must ride so he apportioned it in small amounts.  He gazed into the distance looking for any cluster of green that might foretell a stream or a spring, but there was nothing but the sad brown of the desert.

Now and then he glanced back as if checking for followers, but he was a long way from anywhere.  He’d been looking over his shoulder for the past several days, not knowing who might be behind or what might lie ahead.  He could see across the barren earth and there was no movement behind and there had been none since he’d fled his home many days before. He did not expect anyone to be following, but he was learning the importance of being aware. No one would expect him to cross this arid land.   Few at his age were that foolish. 

The earth rolled ahead in simple rises and falls, dusty brown and barren except for an occasional scrub tree or scraggly knee-high bush.  The land was plain, bleak, uninviting.  Purple mountains rose softly and faded far away, insignificant swellings in the terrain.  They were not tall mountains, but they were taller than any he had seen in his life. 

Ride ‘til you see mountains, his friend Jimmy Lee had told him.  And then ride beyond.  It’s a very long way, Pate. Longer than any distance you could imagine. 

I’ve been to Goliad, Pate Hollander had said.  Well, almost.

Then you ain’t been nowhere.

Shortly after that it had happened and he’d been on the run ever since, following narrow trails and wagon ruts, animal tracks and footpaths.  In some places there were no trails and he cut across miles of unfenced acres of tall grass, and rolling hills thick with oaks, deviating his course to throw off anyone who might try to follow. 

And then the hills fell away and the earth became dry, arid, and endless.

Chapter 2

Unbeknownst to young Pate Hollander conditions in Dobbs Parrish had turned ugly.  It hadn’t taken Clayton Joubert long to figure out who had burned down his shed, his outhouse, and quite importantly stole the man’s mare.

Folks had seen the orange glow in the sky and come in droves to help put out the fire.  The men queued up in a line from the well passing buckets from one to the next to be tossed on the fire.  But, they got there too late to do much good. The shed had already come down in a smoldering pile of ash and timber.  The outhouse came down shortly after, even burning up the crude bench for the two-holer.  Joubert would have some temporary adjustments to make. 

You should know better than to smoke in the privy, Ben Weems said as he ambled about surveying the damage; keeping upwind of the smoldering outhouse, of course.

It ain’t me that had nothing to do with it, Joubert huffed, kicking at the still glowing embers.  It was that Hollander boy that done it.

No need to go jumping to conclusions, Weems said.

I seen him plain as day when them flames was high. He set my outbuildings afire and stole my horse.  Would’a kilt me if I’da been asleep and it spread to the house.  It don’t get much lower than that.

Folks don’t look kindly on horse thiefs, Claude Marsh mused.  Killers, too, I s’pose.

That new mare of yours? Weems asked.  Is that the one that got stole?

That’s the one.

You bought him from that boy’s drunk daddy, as I recall.

You could say that, Joubert said, recalling it now as a fair business transaction and not a simple act of exploitation during the latter’s drunk. Acquired the animal fair and square, I did.

His daddy put him up to it.  I’d bet a hundert dollar on that, I would, Marsh said. He’s pretty much of a no account.

I’ll have my day of reckonin’ with that boy and his daddy.  You can bet that I will, Joubert continued to fume.  He kicked at a coal and sent it flying into a clump of tall grass where it caught fire and flared up.  Someone will make amends.

You’d better cool down, Clayton, before you burn something else down, Ben Weems said. He didn’t have much tolerance for Clayton, who always seemed at odds over someone or something.  Sure, he had good reason to be angry over this, but there was no guarantee Clayton wasn’t the cause of it all. 

As the flames burned down to cinder, folks began leaving.  There wasn’t much more they could do once they were sure the fire was out and couldn’t spread no further.  A couple fellows took up shovels and began scooping the remains of the buildings into the cavity where the outhouse had stood. 

It’s the least I can do for you, Lester Walling said, but inside, he was getting a kick out of Joubert’s dilemma.  It wasn’t the first time Clayton Joubert had encountered bad luck over one of his shady dealings. Walling knew of how the man had acquired the mare the Hollander boy had reclaimed and he had no sympathy for the older man.  Still, burning down a man’s outbuildings was a stretch too far. 

Smoke still curled from the smoldering embers, soft wisps of gray, when Clayton Joubert’s nephews, Bertram and Willis showed up. 

If this ain’t a sorry mess, Willis said.

Terrible sorry, Bertram said.

This wood’s like a tinderbox, Uncle Clay, Willis said.  You’re lucky as sin your whole place didn’t go up and then where’d you be?

Well, it didn’t go up and I am here, Clayton said disgustedly.  His sister’s boys could be a pain at times and he didn’t need their idle banter at a time when he needed to think.  They weren’t much for coming around to help, only to hinder. 

Why would someone want to burn down an outhouse? Willis said.  That don’t make no sense.  I can see burnin’ a barn.  Maybe even burnin’ a house, but an outhouse don’t seem worth the time.

I wouldn’t waste time on an outhouse, Bertram agreed.  Bertram agreed to most anything, seldom having a pure thought of his own. 

Stole a horse, too.  A fine one, Clayton said. 

That one you took off that drunk fellow? Willis said.

I heard… Bertram began.

No one wants to hear what you heard, Willis said.  He was a tad wiser than his brother and knew better when to keep his mouth shut. 

She was mine, fair and square, Clayton repeated, as if trying to convince himself.  Stole her right out of the corral as brazen as could be.

Did you tell the sheriff, Uncle Clay?

Clayton spat.

He ain’t worth my time tellin’.  If I expect justice, it’ll be me that gets it.

Bertram walked around the pit kicking dirt onto the wisps of smoke, trying to stamp them out.  When one went out, the smoke would rise from another spot. It seemed to amuse him a great deal. 

I heard tell it was the Hollander kid, Willis said.

Do you know that boy?

I do when I see him, Willis said.  Kid or no kid, I’d have my way with him.  Papa says no Joubert ever let something like this go by unaccounted for. 

He’s right, Uncle Clay, Bertram agreed.  He’d made a complete circle of the ruins and was starting back around. 

I’ve a feeling his old man put him up to it.  You boys are welcome to come along.

It was coming up on midday when they reached the Hollander place.  It had become run down after Missus Hollander had gone to her maker.

Hollander!  You come on out now, Clayton Joubert ordered. He’d brought along an old axe handle, just in case. We got some talkin’ to do.  There ain’t no use in hiding.

No reply was forthcoming, so Bertram picked up a stone and lobbed it against the side of the house.  The projectile struck the side of the building with a clap and bounced away into the weeds.

That’ll get ‘em, Uncle Clay! 

But it didn’t rouse anyone and the house remained silent within. 

Want another one? Bertram said.  He stooped to pick up another stone. Right there through that winder.

That’s enough, boy, Clayton said.  He ambled around the house checking the barn and a shed that wasn’t more than a cobbled together lean-to.  When he returned he said, My mare ain’t here.

That boy’s a horse thief, Uncle Clay.  We’ll string him up when we ketch him.  You got a right, Bertram said.  He was all for stringing up folks, tarring and dragging, although he’d never seen any such thing carried out.  Most likely, he’d run from a fair fistfight. 

I’m goin’ in, Willis said.

If you’re going in, I’m going in, Bertram said.  He was not about to be denied being in on any action that might take place.

The Jouberts drew their weapons before entering, except for Bertram who was still armed with a rock. 

William Hollander was passed out on an unkempt, filthy cot, a bottle of cheap liquor lying on its side in a puddle on the floor.  Clayton and the boys shook him, but he would not awaken. 

Get yourself up or I’ll drag you of that bed, Willis threatened.

Get up! Bertram echoed, but Hollander did not move.      He sure ain’t no good to me now, a disappointed Clayton said.

That boy of his is friends with Jimmy Lee Sprague, Bertram said. It was the first intelligent thing he’d said. 

Them Spragues is east a’ town?  Let’s go see him.

Jimmy Lee was cutting up kindling when they came upon him.  He had yet to hear what had happened at Clayton Joubert’s place the night before.

That don’t sound like Pate, Jimmy Lee said, striking his hatchet into the wood block he was chopping on.  He’s as gentle a boy as they come.

I ain’t in no mood to bicker with a kid, Clayton scowled.  If I say he done it, he done it.  I saw him with my own blessed eyes.  He’s lucky he don’t have a hind end full of buckshot.  The two boys had cornered Jimmy Lee just in case he decided to run.

If you think I know anything about it, I don’t, Jimmy Lee said. Last I saw of Pate Hollander was three, maybe four days ago and if he was planning something, he sure didn’t let on to me.

Honeybees were buzzing around a patch of clover blossoms.  Bertram had stepped too close and they had come up to swirl around his head.  One alit on the side of his face.  Its hum was loud enough for the boy to think the bee was inside his ear. He swatted the insect trapping it in his ear cavity and now didn’t know what to do. 

Stop fidgeting, boy, Clayton said sharply.  Bertram nervously let the buzzing continue, expecting to feel the sharp poke of its stinger at any moment. He moved his hand and the bee flew away.

Jimmy Lee knows more than he’s letting on, Uncle Clay, Willis said. 

He knows more, Bertram echoed.  The boys each had one of Jimmy Lee’s arms so he couldn’t run.  Bertram was trying to twist it behind Jimmy Lee’s back, but Jimmy was fighting it. Willis was holding tight, but wasn’t applying much pressure.  The two of them were bigger and stronger than Jimmy Lee and there was no need for excessive force.

Where is that boy is that stole my horse, Clayton Joubert demanded.  He was coming to the end of his rope, seething. Where is my mare?

Jimmy Lee was scared, what with the three of them ganging up on him.  He said quite loudly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Joubert!  Leave me alone. Willis and Bertram gripped him tighter. 

What are you doing with my boy? Mr. Sprague shouted as he came running from his house with a Colt .45 in hand.  He stopped twenty-feet shy of Clayton Joubert and leveled the gun at him.  Let my boy go or your uncle will feel the consequences. 

The Joubert nephews let loose and backed away.

I ain’t got a quarrel with your boy, Clayton said, but his pal stole my horse and I need to get it back.

I don’t know nothing about it, Jimmy Lee said.

There it is, Clayton.  There’s your answer.  If you got a problem with someone I suggest you take it up with him.  If I hear tell of any of you boys touching my son, I’ll clean your clock and there won’t be any asking why.  I hope I made myself understood because I’m in no mood to say it again.

Clayton went off grumbling, but he knew better than to push Mr. Sprague. They had had it out before and Clayton had no mind to go through that again.

What do we do now, Uncle Clay? Willis said.  They rode on without Clayton saying a word. 

There was no sign of Pate Hollander when they rode through town. Some of the townsfolk recognized Clayton and his nephews.  They might have been concerned for his loss, but outside of his saloon pals, he wasn’t close to any of them. In fact, what had happened last night was past and folks had moved on with their own lives. To others who had heard about the fire, Clayton Joubert was merely a name they couldn’t put a face to. 

I s’pose that does it ‘till that Hollander boy shows, Uncle Clay, Willis said.  He’d been excited when they had started out ready for revenge, but now he was worn-out and a little worried about that revolver being leveled at them.  The spark had gone out of him just as it had with the outhouse timbers. 

Are we goin’ back to Ma’s, Willis? Bertram asked. He’d had enough, too. 

If Uncle Clay don’t need us no more.

No, I don’t need you.  We wasted a day and accomplished nothing.  Ain’t no point in me keeping you boys no longer. Come by tomorrow.  I’ll need your help puttin’ up a new shed.

And a privy, Bertram chimed in.

That, too.  You boys get on home and tell your mama brother Clayton gives his best.

The boys angled off onto a dirt path that led toward the woods at the edge of town.  Clayton rode on, stopping further along the dusty street and dismounting.

Give me a bag of them square cut nails.  The good ones, Horace.  The General Store carried most anything a body could use. 

I heard about your building’s going up, Clayton, Horace said as he scooped nails from a wooden keg into a paper bag.  This gonna be enough?

It’ll get me started, but I’ll need to get by the mill. Can’t build a privy without lumber.

No, sir, I don’t believe you can, Horace said.  He was good at making small talk.  Not as good as Burt over at the haircutters, but good enough.

Clayton continued to look around.

What else can I get you?

A bottle of liquor.  No, make it a couple ‘a bottles, Horace.  That cheap one’ll do fine.  And I’d take a box of them shotgun shells, Clayton said, pointing at the boxes of 16-gauge behind the counter. 

Varmints?

You might say that.

It’s a wild country, all right.  You after anything in particular?

Coyotes.  Hogs. Clayton thought better of being truthful about what he was actually hunting.  That sort of thing.

Wildlife certainly can be pests, Horace said, tallying up Joubert’s bill. There you go, sir. 

At the edge of town, which wasn’t far, Clayton Joubert turned off and skirted a field and then cut across several acres of woods, making direct for William Hollander’s place.  Anger smoldered deep in his soul. 

Hollander was still in a stupor so Clayton pulled up a chair and sat down.  It was almost midnight before William Hollander began to come around.  When he opened his eyes, Clayton Joubert was all but a blur.

Bring me a dipper of water, Pate.  I cain’t barely swallow. William Hollander made a vague motion toward an empty urn.  But the image before him did not move.

Did you hear me, boy?  Fetch me water.  He started to rise up, but Clayton Joubert’s boot pushed him down.  Hollander had neither the will nor the strength to fight back. 

It ain’t water you need now, Clayton said.  He had opened a liquor bottle long before and was sipping slowly letting his anger build. His shotgun was propped against the wall nearby.

Who are you? Where’s my kid?  Pate!  Pate!

There ain’t no Pate here, William Hollander.  Fact is I’d like to know the whereabouts of that boy, myself.

If he ain’t here, I surely don’t know, Hollander muttered.  His head felt like a rock had fallen on