Death to the Six-Gun Gorilla

By Frank Fronash

Out across the wasteland of the Jornada Basin, the Six-Gun Gorilla battles Apaches, U.S. Marshals and a whole damn Cavalry troop in his quest to kill the Tall Man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Fronash
• Release date: Oct 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005969462

Frank Fronash

There isn't a whole lot to tell about me. I'm retired now and write full time. Love the Old West and Western films and all that. Love the Weird West too, if you happen to know what that is. If you don't, well, then read one of my books.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Fronash

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the established consent or written permission of the copyright holder.

DEATH TO THE SIX-GUN GORILLA

Killing men is my specialty.

Tom Horn

Chapter 1: Despair & Damnation

Tutt Strawhan stumble-swore his way off the coach wreck to his horse and from there, on into the desert.

He angled himself toward the Royal Road, or tried to. His arm was chewed up, blood like glue down his side. He was thirsty, his head ached and no matter how much he turned, he couldn’t make out if the demon was on his trace.

He’d slept in the saddle then and dreamt of grand promise on the horizon. The demon came for him often, appearing at his ear, black mouth open to swallow his head. He fell twice coming awake and the second time stayed where he was.

Next morning the horse hadn’t wandered far and they set out again. He couldn’t see the road anymore. He’d gotten turned southeast, by his reckon. The sun had been up and wrung him out where he lay. He’d leaked out every pore, down his back and into the crack of his ass. He’d pissed himself, too.

Another bolt of pain shot up the side of his neck. His shoulder was a polished rock, the arm like timber. He tried digging out some of the shot with his penknife, ‘til he dropped it. Got two of the little balls but there was another couple still in. Chewed him up nice, that demon did.

He creaked in the saddle, tugging his brim down for the sun. He had them pointed west again, maybe a bit south, too. Road had to be there somewhere.

Once he hit it, another what, fifty miles to the border? Had to be something before then. Some station or somewhat. Maybe even troops from over in Selden. Somethin’ had to give. Little rest and he could be on his way.

Sam Sanome. Samolay. He nodded. Sanomay.

He couldn’t quite fathom what the exact plan had been – Vasquez’s brother owned San Salome, or part of it. He was making some local play with the Federales or banditos or maybe some other burg down there. Either to march across the border or just expand his own piece, who fuckin’ knew.

Straw wasn’t one for politics, himself. All he knew was anytime his crew brought cash, they had a place to hole up. More they brought, longer they could stay. The old man’s gold, they’d have been set for life. Whole fuckin’ empire down there, Vicente had. No more Marshals, no more shitty bank jobs, none o’ that.

Straw had never been down there more than a few weeks. Once the cash was gone, they had to follow it or Vincente would have his way. Bad way, too. Late at night all manner o’ shit came to a man’s ears from them dungeons.

He shivered and wiped his face. It was cold and his hand shook. The sun kept at it.

Sal Sanome, he muttered. Samonalay.

Valdez could stay down there long as he liked, and often did. Him and his brother, plotting it up. When he’d caught up to Straw this last time, it was with that new plan. Vicente needed real cash for some scheme, worth five times what it used to be. It was five thousand minimum for a month. Now, they’d get five months on the same. Bank netted thirty grand and between his five man crew, that was six months a piece. Food, women and wine, for half a year.

So they’d done the bank and shoulda just kept-to. Hit the border and that was that.

But there was no way to reasonably ignore that old man’s gold. A whole mountain of it, who wouldn’t make the play?

Who fuckin’ wouldn’t?! Straw shouted.

He leaned down to stare his mount in the eye. Its head drooped, hooves barely scraping.

"Fuckin’ right y’would."

Just a little something for his tribute, that was all he needed, now. Something to get him in the door and he’d kiss Vincente’s feet. He’d have to tell the man his brother was dead but shit, that wasn’t on him. His own crew was gone, too.

I’ll fight, shit, Straw said, his own head lolling.

He smacked his lips and tried to swallow.

Wouldn’t go. His tongue was huge, like a wad of cloth. Desert wasn’t having it today. No visitors.

The horse thocked across the flat, snorting dust and shaking its mane o’ flies.

If he could scrape up some cash between here and there, he didn’t see a problem. Hell, he’d just tell the man where they’d left the fuckin’ hoard.

Had to still be there, probably all over the place after that fire. One bag o’ that, shee-it, Vincente woulda killed his brother hisself.

If Straw brought some cash with, that’d be the play. Yer brother’s done, but it was a good cause. We found gold. Whole mess up in Copper Drop. Here’s cash for a few days o’ rest, then I’ll lead you right on. Right to it, right fuckin’ to it!

He nodded and barked out a laugh and looked around suddenly. Shadows out there, up ahead. Six or eight and he drew his iron.

’Paches, huh?

Or the demon had friends.

He caught his breath and tried to let it out slow. No, demon was behind, not ahead. ‘Less he’d turned himself back north. He get turned around?

You fuckin’ turn us around?! he screamed at the horse. It wheezed and began to sway beneath him. Straw jammed the barrel back of its head.

"That what you fuckin’ did?!"

The shadows tightened up, came together in a long line and he heard ‘hyah!’ in the distance and the crack of leather.

That was it, then. Demon done reached down to Hell and pulled up minions.

Minions!

Straw clapped the horse on the skull with his piece, whack! whack! and screamed, trying to pull the reins the other way.

Fuckin’ turn! he shouted. Turn us back!

The horse whinnied and thrashed its head for another whack, then Straw was pulling the trigger, blasting its brains out on the sand and following it down.

He grunted and rolled and tried to come up but the gun was gone. He tore his hat off looking and kicked up scuffs of dust around the carcass.

Fucker!

The shadows rode for him under a swirl of dust and lashing rain, lightning crackling out of fat, growling clouds. The demon grew huge beneath ‘em, stalking over the horizon.

That black mouth opened wide.

"Please! I’m fuckin’ sorry I swear to Christ I didn’t mean it!"

Straw screamed as it closed around him, teeth big as boulders smashing down. He burst like a sack and squirmed with a scream. He felt himself explode in a warm mouthful of blood and gasped as he was swallowed down to darkness.

"Pleeeeeeeeease!"

Chapter 2: Adrift in the Desert

O’Shea had Charity at a good trot before the sun got too high. It felt around nine in the morning with at least ten miles behind them, but already the ape could feel how the day would go. Another hour or two and they’d need shelter until late afternoon. Charity for water as well and O’Shea to eat. Stopping to pull up thistles and scrub wasn’t doing it.

The gorilla stared out from under his broad, pancake hat, wide shoulders shifting in the dusty frock coat. His hands and legs were bandaged with strips from fine, silk shirts, bloodspots dried through. Bandoliers across his chest, holsters in his armpits. Guns at his hips too, bullets glinting in their slots.

He kept a half mile outside the Royal Road, running its last seventy miles to the Mexican border. The ape had looked often at the