Guns of Circle 8

By Jeff Cochran and Paul Durst

A good old-fashioned shootout caps this rip-roaring western adventure! By Paul Durst (1921-1986), the author of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479419616

Book preview

GUNS OF CIRCLE 8

JEFF COCHRAN

Table of Contents

GUNS OF CIRCLE 8

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1954.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

CHAPTER ONE

The rider paused on the crest of the ridge and looked about him to get his bearings. It had been a long time, and even as he looked the half strange landmarks began to fade in the gathering twilight. Presently his eye caught the yellow glow of lamplight in the deep shadows of the cottonwoods along the creek. Then he remembered. He eased the dun forward, down the dry wash, and up on the flat beyond. As the clip-clop of hoofbeats echoed through the deepening darkness, the throbbing of the frogs by the creek grew quiet. Someone heard the horseman approaching and a figure came out on the porch of the house up ahead. The rider stopped short at the gate and let the reins fall to the ground.

Who’s there? The challenge came from the man on the porch.

The rider didn’t answer. The night was quiet now, broken only by the squeak of the gate on rusty hinges and the crunch of gravel under his boots as he walked toward the porch. Somewhere down by the corrals a horse whinnied. The rider stopped when he reached the yellow rectangle of light that fell on the gravel walk, waiting for the recognition he knew would come. He watched the man’s face, and even against the light he could see the rapid change of expression.

Condo! Is that you, Billy Condo? The question was neither friendly nor unfriendly. Just uncertain.

The rider took a step forward. That’s right, Jason. I’m back. His lean face had a jaundiced look in the yellow light. The man on the porch came down the steps and Condo noticed the rifle in the crook of his arm.

Jason Thornhill came close and peered intently at this man who had ridden out of the night. For a long time their eyes met, unwavering. Billy Condo waited for Jason to speak, and when the words came at last they were about what he had expected they would be.

You got your damn nerve, comin’ back here. Jason made no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Billy choked down the anger that rose inside him. His voice was calm when he answered. I belong here, Jase. Texas is my home. I’ve come back, that’s all.

You’re not wanted here, Condo. Texas is overrun with bluebellies and carpetbaggers as it is. You’d better go back to the North, Condo., Back to the side you fought for. We don’t want traitors here.

Billy Condo stiffened, and for an instant his right hand brushed the butt of the pistol at his side. There were some people, he said with equal bitterness, who felt Texas should hold to the Union. Sam Houston was one. Tell me he’s not a Texan. His face, relaxed suddenly and he moved his hand away from the gun with a sigh. The war’s fought and done, Jason. I’m no carpetbagger. I’ve come back to my own country. I fought on the side I believed in. There are things being done here that ain’t just right—I’ll not deny that. But squabblin’ amongst ourselves won’t put that right. Bearin’ grudges won’t get Texas goin’ again.

A lot of people won’t find it easy to forget you wore a blue uniform, Condo.

And you’ll do your damnedest to see they don’t forget, won’t you, Jase?

The rifle in Jason’s hands moved ever so slightly; then he checked himself. I said we got no room for traitors here.

For a second time Billy’s hand touched his pistol butt—but again he relaxed. I didn’t come here to argue, Jase, he said evenly. I feel I’ve got as much right on my side as you have, but arguin’ won’t settle that. Maybe it’ll take time to heal over what’s happened, but it will heal, if you give it a chance. For my part, I’m willin’ to overlook a lot of things—includin’ a lot you said just now. We’ve all got to live together, Jase, and the sooner we forget what’s happened the better it’ll be.

A shadow filled the doorway and both men looked to the door. A woman’s voice came querulously, Jase! Who’s out there with you? She hugged the linen wrapper close about her, peering down at the men on the walk. Her voice gave a little gasp, Billy—Billy Condo! She took a hesitant step forward.

Jason shifted the rifle in the crook of his arm. Billy was just about to leave, Mary, he said, looking pointedly at Condo.

Billy felt a strange pulsing within him at the sight of her standing there, her hair like a golden halo in the light behind her. He saw her eyes search his anxiously. Billy swept off his hat and started to step forward. Then he felt the barrel of Jason’s rifle pressing firmly along his chest, barring the way. He met Jason’s eye as the man repeated. Billy was just leavin’.

Maybe, Billy said quietly. That’s for Mary to decide.

A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of Jason’s mouth. It could almost have been a sneer. Condo, you might as well know now—you gave up a lot of things when you put on that Yankee soldier suit. One of them was the respect of decent people.

Billy’s hands crushed the rolled brim of the hat they held till the knuckles went white. He turned his face to look up at the girl. I’ll let Mary speak for herself.

Mary Thornhill glanced briefly at her brother Jason, then lowered her eyes. I—I guess Jason’s right, Billy. You—you fought against your own people.

Slowly, like a man who found himself living a bad dream, Billy Condo replaced his hat on his head, pulling it firmly down. He turned his eyes to look at Jason, dropped his gaze to the rifle across his chest. Then he turned away and went slowly down the path, the measured tread of his boots on the gravel the only sound in the stillness. The gate closed behind him with a rusty screech. There was a squeak of leather and rigging as he swung aboard the dun. As he turned away toward where the early-rising moon had begun to pale the night to the east, the frogs took up their chorus again. But there came a new sound. A sound so faint he thought at first he might have imagined it. It was a quiet sound, but like no other. The sound of a woman crying softly.

He rode on across the flat and out of the trees without looking back.

* * * *

Billy made camp that night on a grassy knoll beside the creek. For a long time he lay uneasily in his blankets, unable to sleep. In the huge canopy of night overhead, the stars had paled in the silver brilliance of the moon. He stirred restlessly and sat up, gazing out across the rolling, sage-sprinkled hills that lay quiet and unmoving as far as the eye could see. Down by the creek the dun stood sleeping, head bowed, like a weathered piece of sculpture in the moonlight.

It was a peaceful scene. One he had dreamed of many times in the past six years. There had been times—at Antietam, at Gettysburg, at Chickamauga—that he had closed his eyes and had seen just such nights as these. He had lived and breathed and prayed for the time when the war would be over, when the Union would be secure and he would come back home. Back to the Panhandle country where he had been raised. Here his mother and father had found peace and happiness in their declining years. Here in a land they had helped to wrest from the untamed wilderness. They had lived to see others follow them before they died, and they had left Billy with the proud feeling of heritage—the feeling that here was his country, a country his people had helped to make.

Looking back now, he was glad, in a way, that they had died when they did. At least they were spared the heartbreak of seeing the country torn apart by war, with neighbor against neighbor. And of seeing the great herds of longhorn cattle wandering and going wild because the markets and ports of the South had been closed by war. They had been spared the sight of death and desolation stalking through the land which for them had held such promise.

Already Billy had tasted the bitter disappointment of his return. He had seen it in a hundred small towns and villages along the long trail from Virginia—the lawless, wild carnage that had grown out of the disorder and chaos that followed the war. Here was none of the peace and security he had hoped would spring automatically from the salvation of the Union. And he began to realize, still bitterly, that his dream was a long way in the future.

What had happened when he’d ridden up to the Thornhill place at dusk had confirmed what he’d already begun to feel—he was an unwelcome stranger in his own land. Worse, he was looked upon as a traitor.

He heaved a sigh and lay down again, pulling the blanket closer around him to ward off the chill night air. What had pained him most, he realized now, was the hurt, uncertain look in Mary’s eyes when she had seen who he was. He tried to remember what it had been like, six long years ago. But it was so far away now. All that was something that belonged in a world that was lost—and he felt the despair heavy inside him at the thought that that world would never be again.

* * * *

Dawn was a pale grey streak above the eastern hills when Billy awoke to the bellowing of cattle and the raucous shouts of riders. He was instantly awake, and a grim smile crossed his face as he found himself automatically buckling the heavy gun belt around his waist—it had come to be his first move each morning. Gun first, then boots, then wash. He pulled on his boots and stood up just as the first of the straggling herd came around the base of the knoll, their long horns clacking against each other as they pushed impatiently for the water.

The two riders came last, sitting quietly and looking about them as the cattle drank their fill. One of them caught sight of Billy and signaled the other, who stared and then rode toward him at a walk up the knoll. Billy looked him over as he came close. He was an older man, with a heavy grey mustache, and he had the weather-wrinkled and suntanned face of a man who had spent many years in the saddle.

The old man drew rein and nodded to Billy, glancing around first at the camp. Seemingly satisfied that this was no night-riding, day-camping fugitive he’d found, the man spoke.

Travelin’ through?

Billy shook his head. This is home country to me. I was raised here in the Panhandle.

What’s your name, son?

Billy felt himself stiffen. That was the worst of it, he began to realize now. People would turn their backs on him when they heard his name. But he’d never been ashamed of the name before. It would take time, he knew, to make them see that no matter what had happened they were all in the same boat now. They all had to get along the best they could.

Billy Condo, Billy told him. Then he waited. The old man shook his head.

Can’t say I’ve ever heard the name before. Reckon you’ve been away in the war.

Billy only nodded.

The older man went on. I’m Thad Harper. Moved up here from Dallas three years back. Got too civilized down there. Reckon you been gone a long time or I’d know your name.

Six years, Billy told him. He let that sink in, wondering what was coming next. But then it occurred to him that Thad Harper would take it for granted Billy had fought for the Confederacy. And Billy saw no need to tell the man any different. It might sound like he was apologizing for what he’d believed in. That was something he could never do.

Old Thad turned to look at the cattle by the creek. They had drunk their fill and the other rider was already beginning to haze them across toward the flat beyond. The old man turned back to Billy.

It’s a job for a man to keep track of his cattle nowadays. Been short of help all through the war. He looked hopefully at Billy. Could still use an extra hand or two, in case you make up your mind you’d like to stay around.

Billy hadn’t expected an offer of a job. So far he’d given it little thought. But sooner or later he’d have to settle down. It was a long road that lay ahead and he’d have to begin someplace. Now that a job was offered he saw no reason to refuse.

Can’t promise much pay with the cattle markets so slim. Fifteen a month and beans, Thad Harper went on.

Should he tell? Wouldn’t this man like to know Billy had fought for the Union army? Or, again, would that sound like an apology for something? Still, if he didn’t say anything—if he should keep quiet and let Harper find out on his own—mightn’t it look like he’d tried to hide it?

Would it always be like this? Would he be forever wondering whether he should tell people he’d fought for the North? Had the war burned so deeply into people’s souls that they’d forgotten how to accept a man for what he was, regardless of what he’d believed in?

No. No, by God, he wouldn’t compromise. He’d fought for what he felt was right. Now that the war was past he’d show them that the way for Texas to live and grow and prosper was to work together, to forget what had happened, and to bury petty hatred. They’d have to take him for what he was.

Looks like you’ve just hired a hand, Mr. Harper, Billy smiled. They shook hands and the old man said he’d be back after Billy’d had time to break camp.

By the time Billy heard the sounds of hoofs coming back he had the dun saddled and bridled and was letting him drink from the creek. He looked across the dun’s back expecting to see Thad Harper. But it came to him suddenly that he’d heard more than one horse. Just then there came a splashing up the creek aways and he saw three riders cross the stream and turn toward him. The half-smile left Billy’s face as he recognized Jason Thornhill in the lead. The other two men were strangers.

The three of them drew rein when they came alongside. Billy stood looking them over, waiting for Thornhill to speak. He didn’t care for the looks of Jason’s riders. Their eyes were flat and cold and their faces looked as if they’d never smiled in their lives. Only Jason smiled. And Billy knew a friendly smile when he saw one. Jason’s wasn’t.

Breakin’ camp? Jason asked.

Billy nodded. That’s right, he said evenly.

Reckon you’ll be leavin’ the country, then, Jason said the smile twisting a corner of his mouth a little.

Billy set his jaw. I wouldn’t say that, he said quietly. He noticed the look that passed among them.

The sound of hoofs splatting against the rocks in the creek bed caused them to turn their heads. Thad Harper crossed toward them, nodding to Jason and his men as he rode up.

Howdy, Harper, Jason said.

Harper only nodded again and looked down at Billy. Ready, Condo?

All set, Billy told him and swung into the saddle.

Hold on there, Harper, Jason snapped. Where you aim to take this man?

Old Thad’s mustache bristled and his blue-grey eyes snapped as he glared at Jason. Seems to me, Thornhill, that that ain’t none of your goddam business.

Billy sensed that Harper and Jason Thornhill weren’t on the best of terms. The thought amused him—to think that he had unwittingly fallen into a job with somebody Jason didn’t like.

Maybe it is my business, Jason shot at the old man. If you’ve hired this man to ride for you, then I know damn well it is!

Billy kept quiet, waiting. And an uneasy feeling began to grow inside him. He knew, now, what was coming next.

I can’t see that who I hire is any business of yours, Old Thad snapped.

Jason turned to Billy and his mouth curled in a sneer. "Tell him, Condo. Tell Harper about how you left Texas to fight for the