Nigel’S Redemption

By Xlibris US

It was what nearly every retiring gunfighter wanted. Nigel lived his life as a gun-for-hire and was tired. He longed to ride off into the sunset free of his past sins. But Nigel was wanted for murder from a job gone wrong. On his travels to seek this elusive redemption, he settles in the small, quiet town of Crowseye nestled far away from the cares of the world. But Nigel soon finds out that hiding from his past is a difficult thing to do when youre a gunfighter. Confronted with the arrival of two outlaws seeking their own form of retribution, Nigel learns the dark secrets of the many new faces in his life and pieces a history of this quiet town together. With one last chance to clear his name and find peace, Nigel formulates a plan to save himself and others in the town. But redemption does not come easily. Not without a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499011296

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T he smoke rose from the barrel of Nigel’s gun. A short barrel Peacemaker .45 was gripped in his right hand that now pointed down towards the ground. Nigel stood there looking down at Marshal Jake Terri who lay helplessly with his back on the cold, hard ground. The Marshal lacked the strength to hold the blood oozing from the three bullet holes in his chest. Jake was still breathing as he looked up at Nigel. What a mistake it had been to pick this back alley behind the General Store. It was away from the center of town where the showdown would draw less attention. They didn’t want attention. They didn’t want to endanger the citizens of Diamondback. It proved to be a sacrifice.

Nigel continued his helpless stare wishing he had a solution. His horse, a fine chestnut appaloosa, stood waiting in the late afternoon haze not aware of anything that took place here. But Nigel was aware of what had happened. He felt guilty standing over the dying man as he looked into the eyes of his partner.

Those eyes just gave the blank look up towards the sky as so many eyes of dying men do. What was he thinking as he lay there, knowing he had failed in this attempt at justice. He fought for the strength to speak but could force only a gasp. The eyes began to relax more now that the pain from the shots began to fade. Nigel had seen this death much too often in his life. Each time before, though, it wasn’t a trusted friend he watched lose consciousness forever. The Marshal tried to keep his focus. He tried to stay alive just long enough to grant Nigel forgiveness. There was nothing Nigel could have done differently. Forgiveness would please Nigel. Forgiveness would ease the pain of losing his trusted friend. Forgiveness would allow Nigel to continue with his profession. But forgiveness from a dying man, with all the good it could do, would not save Nigel from the law.

William Gregory turned the corner to see Nigel standing over the Marshal. Nigel still held the gun in his hand, posed in remorse against the dimming summer evening sky. William must have heard the shots, three in succession followed by a fourth. Knowing the man approached, Nigel turned with his gun ready in his fist.

Nigel, Gregory shouted recognizing the gunslinger.

Nigel kept silent but held his gun tightly aimed at the unarmed witness. His senses were alert. They had to be in his profession. Thoughts of the events flashed through his mind, racing and dancing in sequence trying to piece together the next course of action. He wanted to look away to find an answer, or just to give himself time to formulate a plan to flee from the scene. But he knew better than to turn his back just yet. He was careful. That’s why Nigel Coleman was the best gun-for-hire in the west. That’s why Nigel was hired for this job. That’s why he was still alive.

Deputy Bob Jones arrived shortly after Gregory. Bob Jones was still a rookie on the force, but had seen enough action in Diamondback to feel like a seasoned veteran. He wore the star proudly on his grey and weathered vest and had good character and judgment. Jones took a moment to view the still scene. He saw what seemingly transpired here this late afternoon. It wasn’t hard to figure. A US Marshal lay shot on the ground with a dusted gunslinger still holding the weapon in his hand, desperate to flee. Bob Jones did not need to hear the story, but listened as William Gregory explained.

That’s Nigel Coleman, spoke Gregory. He just shot a US Marshall.

Nigel took one last look down at Marshall Terri. He kept the gun locked on Gregory knowing he’d lose his advantage otherwise. It gave him time to lessen his focus on the witnesses. The Deputy would act responsible giving Nigel the comfort to know there would not be a quick draw from him. A quick draw was never a match for a steady aimed Colt in the hands of a professional.

The life was draining fast from Terri as he managed to raise his head slightly. His eyes fought to focus on Nigel. You’d better run, he moaned to Nigel with a hoarse whisper, or they’ll hang you for sure. He rested his head and then closed his eyes to remain that way forever.

The Marshall was right. William Gregory would testify against him. There was swift justice in this county and the Judge would surely need to hang someone for the murder of a US Marshall. Nigel Coleman was a shootist with a reputation that spread throughout his years. It didn’t fare well for him. There were only two men who could clear his name and they weren’t coming back. Nigel had to run and find them. The Marshal was dead. In this profession, you learn to live with facts like that. There would be time to mourn later. Jake Terri would understand that. The old Marshal would tell him the same if he’d still had the breath left in him. There would be no guilt. He looked back at Gregory wanting to find a safe way to retreat. He had the advantage here with the gun still pointed directly at Gregory’s midsection.

Hold it right there, Nigel, the Deputy commanded. We don’t want any trouble here. He calmly moved his hand to his holstered revolver and remained there steady and in position. Bob Jones wanted to show he had control of the situation. He wore his hat too far above his forehead and couldn’t wear his belt tight enough around his sagging trousers. Yet somehow, he remained a fixture of fine justice. Jones was a good kid. Let’s all do the right thing now, he suggested without the slightest tremble in his voice. He was in control.

Nigel just waited and watched the movement of the young Deputy Jones. But he couldn’t wait much longer. He held his position with his Peacemaker now positioned and pointed at the holster of the young Deputy, daring the lawman to make his move. Nigel knew not to create sudden motion. He was dexterous and adroit in his profession, qualities that all the great gunslingers possessed. He stood with his back straight and head up with his eyes peering cleverly out from under the faded tan Stetson. The slight sinister grin added to the ornery perception to accentuate his will and intention for gunplay. If the Deputy were to make a move, Nigel would not back down.

Deputy Jones started to raise the gun. The moment of truth was upon him. Nigel could not afford to allow Jones to position himself in an equal confrontation. The battle for Nigel would have been lost. He was surely to be blamed for the death of Jake Terri, but at least there was a fighting chance to clear his name. Killing Deputy Marshal Bob Jones with William Gregory standing witness certainly wasn’t Nigel’s idea of a clean escape. There was no other alternative.

The sun was beginning its decent far off across the plains casting a foreboding shadow in the back alley. The late afternoon air was dry and still giving little chance for the dust from the ground to circle above and around Nigel’s boots. Nigel’s horse was waiting and ready for his master to leap upon his back to execute the escape. The moment was primed like the quiet reflection of a grandiose masterpiece. And just for a moment, it seemed time had stopped just long enough for Nigel to take action. He took aim and shot the gun out of Jones’ hand. Nigel had the gift of precision accuracy. His calculated risk took account that Jones was only ten feet away from him and a stationary target. Nigel was careful with his shot knowing he had enough margin for error for him to take that risk. He was good. He was very good.

William Gregory could only look at Jones with a petrified horror, unbelieving that the man was shot. He watched the pistol leave the Deputy’s hand and drop to the ground leaving him unable to react rationally. Gregory was never a man to withstand such violence. It was a wonder that he’d survived so long in Diamondback. He was no danger to Nigel.

Jones must have known the bullet was meant for the weapon. A skilled gunslinger wouldn’t miss a shot like that. Even though the bullet missed him, he shook his hand from the searing pain the shot caused him.

Once Nigel was free from the danger of retaliation, he holstered his weapon. He gave the Deputy one last stare hoping he didn’t injure the kid much. Bob Jones deserved better than that. But it wasn’t for Nigel to comfort him now. Confident in his actions, he mounted his horse and rode off towards the horizon leaving the Deputy holding his hand in pain and William Gregory dazed and confused.

Don’t you worry, Gregory said, now noticing the Deputy was not fatally wounded. I will track him down, Jonesy. He looked towards the west as Nigel vanished over the horizon. I will track him down.

CHAPTER 2

N igel set camp in the rocks of Corrigan’s Cove. Corrigan’s Cove was a discreet hiding place for many bandits on the run from the law. It was rumored that many US law officers knew of this place but were never interested in taking the treacherous journey through the rocks into a possible ambush. The trick was that no man could survive the heat of summer or the cold of winter without a good supply of water. The nearest watering hole was either in a nearby town or a few days ride through the brush and field on your way towards Denver. The officers of the law would sit patiently until the bandits emerged to continue their trek or search for water. In any event, Nigel was sure he could camp for the night without the worry of the Diamondback posse sneaking up on him.

He was hoping Corrigan’s Cove was quiet tonight. The men he was looking for rode east, so there was no chance of seeing them here. He would catch up with them at a later time, although it had to be a priority. He stopped thinking about Marshal Jake Terri’s death. One thing Nigel knew to survive was not to dwell on the past. It happened. In the west, men die. He was as much a part of that as any man.

Nigel kept the fire low, not wanting to give away that he was here. The only reason he made the fire was to make the coffee. He wasn’t a man who had to drink it, but he liked the taste. It calmed his nerves, and tonight he needed that. He had to think. He also had to rest. Think and rest.

He wasn’t very hungry, which was a surprise to him. Usually, a warm night with a low fire meant cooking whatever he had packed for his ride. He rode light knowing that there was always another town. Most of his meals were eaten in the comfort of a saloon bar when he was working. It was better that way for a man who killed for money. A man makes few contacts when alone in the dark on the cold, hard ground of the plains. But that’s where he found himself for tonight. Hungry or not, he felt alone. His horse gave little companionship tonight. Yes, he thought. At least he had a good meal and a peaceful sleep tonight. His faithful old appaloosa was just about the only friend he had left in this world. He’d better treat him right.

He looked up at the clear night sky. So many stars. He never wondered about the sky. He never thought about other worldly things like heaven. He just enjoyed the scenery. Couldn’t a man just look up one night and enjoy the scenery without hearing someone talk about awe and wonder? Do you ever wonder? people would ask. Naw! he’d say. I ain’t got time to wonder.

The smoke of the fire died just above the rim of the valley. It was short enough to hide his existence. He did a final check on his old faithful friend and laid down comfortably on his bedroll. Somehow, he had to get some sleep. There was a long day ahead of him. Somehow, he had to figure that the law would be against him. It gave him little time to think about what he had to do. But whatever it was, there was no reason to let it ruin a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would bring the start of his challenge. Tomorrow would begin his search for fair justice. Tomorrow would bring him hope. After all, there was no greater power than the hope of tomorrow.

As the fire began to fade, so did his consciousness. And then it was dark.

The following morning came quick. Nigel awoke early, just as the sunlight had begun to give color to the lifeless horizon. He took care in cleaning his camp. No one knew where he had retreated after the death of the US Marshall. He didn’t want to leave a trace. Once morning broke, they would surely bring a posse. Perhaps they would search Corrigan’s Cove. He would not give them the pleasure of finding evidence.

After clearing away the final traces of debris, he mounted his appaloosa and looked to the west. There was tale of a small town just quiet enough to hide him for a day. A day was all he needed to gather his thoughts and begin his pursuit of justice.

A few hours ride put him on a small trail heading north. The small town ahead whispered of serenity, inviting him into its tranquility. Dawn was just now breaking over the barren plains. Nigel’s rise early from his camp didn’t seem to affect him this morning. After all, camp was a usual night spot lately where sleep came tough with a rock for a pillow and serenading coyotes in a distance. A lonely life was the life of a gunfighter.

He saw the town in front of him and felt relief at the expectations of having a good meal to eat and a bed to sleep in tonight. The plan was to book a room at the local Hotel, be a good citizen and search for information regarding the death of the US Marshal. He would leave quietly the following morning to resume his search for justice. To keep suspicion away from him he tucked his shotgun under the shawl. Although he still had the look of a shootist, perhaps this town was small enough for him to fit in. How much trouble can a man find in such a small town?

Crowseye, according to the welcome sign, boasted a population of 126. Far to Nigel’s left was a train station with the rails running east to west. The station was a simple building with a wood porch for receiving passengers. It was a small token of what the town had to offer. The road into town seemed to stem from the train station and travel several miles north to run into the main street. Nigel turned towards the north and followed that path past the welcome sign now with the station to his back. To the right of him he could see the skeleton of a house that was just being built along a secondary road that seemed to have several modest houses lined on both sides. It was too early in the morning for work to be started today, but for sure he’d hear the pounding of a hammer not more than a few hours from now. In front of him was the main street with the Outpost Saloon on the east side and a Trading Post on the west side to greet the newcomers. Beyond that, a collection of buildings and establishments lined the three block commercial pathway.

The town didn’t seem to be busy although perhaps it was because dawn had just peeked its welcoming head above the horizon. There was some signs of the morning coming to life as Nigel kept an even pace crossing the barrier of great plains to midwestern town. He felt the pleasurable release from the scent of boomtown civilization.

A well-groomed stagecoach was making its way towards him. The driver was dressed in a white shirt mostly covered by a black leather vest. The vest matched evenly with his black, well brushed trousers and dusted boots. The only item missing was the neckwear. He paid no attention to Nigel as he wielded the one-horse carriage to a stop outside a barber shop on the west side of Third and Main. Third street was the first perpendicular street when entering the town from this direction which gave Nigel the impression the town’s beginnings started to the north of him and stretched towards the train station as the town grew the need for such transportation. A jolly, old man dressed in a pinstriped suit and sporting a fashionable top hat appeared from the door of the now stationary vehicle. He spoke something to the driver as he waved his cane to make his point.

’Morning, Mr. Mayor, spoke the barber as he received him from the shop door. Bright and early as usual, I see.

Yes, yes, replied the Mayor walking without the help of the cane. His round belly jiggled as he paced himself still with his pleasant demeanor. His short, blond mustache ended with needle points and the stubble on his chin was barely noticeable which made Nigel curious about his appointment. The driver, patiently waiting without the slightest impression of intolerance, now watched Nigel amble into town.

Nigel heard tale of this small town of Crowseye. It was heavily believed that Crowseye remained quiet for two reasons: One, the outlaws saw no benefits in plundering what little the town had to offer and Two, the Town Marshal was rumored to have quite a nasty disposition. Nigel felt the eyes of the driver penetrating his thoughts. He just continued to look straight, sitting tall and stern in the saddle passing by with caution. He headed towards Second Street.

On the west side of Second and Main was the Town Marshal’s office followed by the First Bank of Crowseye positioned so conveniently safe. The town boasted a marshal and one deputy to keep peace and order. In this small dust-blown collection of buildings and shops there was no need for any more than what was provided. The Town Marshal, just putting the final touches on his hat to start the morning, peered out the window of his office to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. He gave a sigh as if the sight of the stranger brought on unquenchable stress. Indeed, this might be the start of a bad day. He put his hand on his Colt, something that gave him comfort in times of uncertainty. It was a nervous habit of his that he picked up in his youth. With guns, you had to always be prepared to use them. And in his position, he had to show any antagonist that he was prepared to use his. He hadn’t much need of his Peacemaker while keeping law and order in his town. No one wanted a fight on their hands. It wasn’t that the marshal was a quick draw. In fact, he never learned the art. But if you weren’t prepared to shoot him down, God have mercy on your soul. No citizen of Crowseye wanted to make Marshal Rufus T. James angry. Now that stranger that had just come to town didn’t know any better. That’s what made the marshal angry. Oh yes. Marshal Rufus T. James was not happy. Rufus was known for his bad temper, which made many citizens fear him. There was never an occasion for Rufus to actually pull the trigger on anyone while he was Marshal and he would do so only when absolutely necessary. But the story was a well known one told by witnesses who considered themselves lucky that Rufus was there. He was quite an imposing figure and just a look at him would be enough to intimidate any small time outlaw. They knew of the Marshal’s temper. He did not like strangers. One dirty stranger comes to town and the next thing you know all hell’s breaking loose, he would say. Not that it ever happened in Crowseye, but in the west the potential of some men was enough to believe that it could. Unless it does, he’d wait until his deputy came to work later in the morning to confront the stranger. But confront him he must. You have to let these strangers know who is the law in this town, he would always preach. Otherwise, a man like that would think he’s free to run amuck with his arrogant gun. Not in my town. Not while Rufus T. James is marshal.

Rufus was enough by himself to keep law and order in Crowseye. The county seat, which was Diamondback, held the Sheriff’s office and Judicial system, but with Rufus’ brand of law and order, there was never a need to call upon their services. Only when the tax money was due did the marshal have contact with Diamondback. Rufus was appointed town marshal because he was a brutal man with a nasty disposition. The town was too young and small to have one any different.

He continued to stare out the window with his hand on his Colt. His eyes followed the stranger’s ride towards the Stagecoach Hotel. He remembered he had business to attend across the street at Barlay’s. Old man Henderson left his shirt at the poker table again last night and was afraid to go home to his wife. That meant he was still drinking this morning. He stood there contemplating his job. He turned to look at the jail cell knowing one lawbreaker was already occupying the single bed. He shook his head. What was this town coming to?

He looked back out the window to find the stranger still making his way. He waited. And as he waited, his hand rested on the butt of his Colt.

Nigel didn’t see the stare through the window. He had his eye on the last building on the east side of the block. The Stagecoach Hotel was a three