Masked Rider #7: Iron Horse Gunsmoke

By Donald Bayne Hobart

A full-length Masked Rider novel with the original illustrations!
IRON HORSE GUNSMOKE by DONALD BAYNE HOBART
Above the constant din of steel upon steel as shining rails make their way across the Cow Country, grim vengeance and cunning treachery sound another note — a clarion call for the Colts and courage of Wayne Morgan!
PLUS:
THAT BOND OF COURAGE by GEORGE H. MICHENER
Joe Buller and Phil Scraggs, sodbusters, trade lead pizen and cuss words with a whang-leather cattle baron!
ROARING VERDICT by TOM GUNN
Sheriff Grayson does a little judge and jury work for the good of the law!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Mar 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005428228

Book preview

Masked Rider #7

Iron Horse Gunsmoke

Donald Bayne Hobart

Bold Venture Press

Copyright info

MASKED RIDER WESTERN #7

TM & © 2022 Bold Venture Press. All Rights Reserved.

Rich Harvey, Editor & Designer

Cover illustrations: George Rozen

Masked Rider Western, July 1938

Iron Horse Gunsmoke by Donald Bayne Hobart; illustrated by .

Copyright © 1938 Better Publications, Inc.

Roaring Verdict by Tom Gunn; illustrated by .

Copyright © 1938 Better Publications, Inc.

That Bond of Courage by George H. Michener; illustrated by .

Copyright © 1938 Better Publications, Inc.

USA price $3.99; available in print $12.95

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher. The stories in this volume are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), places or events is coincidental.

www.boldventurepress.com

Contents

Copyright

Iron Horse Gunsmoke

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

That Bond of Courage

Roaring Verdict

About the author

More from Bold Venture Press

Iron Horse Gunsmoke

By Donald Bayne Hobart

Above the constant din of steel upon steel as shining rails make their way across the Cow Country, grim vengeance and cunning treachery sound another note — a clarion call for the Colts and courage of Wayne Morgan!

CHAPTER I

"Rustlers!"

THROUGHOUT the Lonely Mesa country the owners and waddies of the big spreads were growing more and more conscious of one insistent and alien sound. They heard it when they were busy at their daily tasks and it still pounded on their ringing ears when they slept.

At first it had been just a faint noise drifting across the rippling sage on the wings of the wind—the dim far-off clinking of steel against steel. Then it had grown louder and louder as it continued through the days and far into the nights.

To the cattlemen of the vast expanse of rangeland, the sound had become an insidious omen of hate, just as were the deep clouds of smoke that continuously smudged the blue sky to the north. The constant hammering of steel and the billowing smoke clouds meant only one thing—the coming of the railroad.

There to the north the little C. & W. railroad construction forces toiled day and night through heat and rain and dust advancing the line farther into the cattle country.

From the first the railroad work crews had showed an unnecessarily hostile attitude toward the ranch owners and the cowhands of the Lonely Mesa region. They possessed a great contempt for men who spent most of their life in a saddle.

Land grants from the Government gave the railroad men a right of way across the free range of the cattle barons and made the C. & W. crews independent. It mattered little to them that the progress of the miles of shining steel ruined good grazing ground, and at times divided some of the ranches so that it would be necessary for the cattle to cross the railroad tracks in order to reach water.

Already there had been trouble between the cattlemen and the railroaders. At first both factions had been guilty of petty sabotage, but each incident fanned the fires of hate in the hearts of the ranchers and the construction crews. So now, at any moment, serious trouble was expected to break out in Lonely Mesa.

Then one quiet Spring night the smoldering fire burst into flame. For days the waddies of the big spreads had been busy combing the brush and canyons, driving in cattle for the Spring roundup. About three miles to the south of the C. & W. right of way, two nighthawks of the Bar O outfit sat carelessly in their saddles. One of the riders sang in a clear tenor voice as he slowly circled the herd.

Oh, bury me not, on the lone prairie—

Hoofs thundered in the darkness and gun flashes pierced in the night as a band of grim-faced riders galloped suddenly out of the brush. The Night-hawk’s song broke off in a ghastly gurgle as a bullet caught him in the throat. He clawed for his gun and died with it half-drawn from the holster.

Rustlers! shouted the other night herder, They got Bill, damn ’em! He ducked low as a bullet grazed his shoulder and sent a searing stab of pain running through his left arm. I gotta git help! he muttered as all about him the bawling frightened cattle milled.

T

HE waddy lashed his horse as he tried to fight his way through the herd. He knew it would be useless for him to try and fight the men who had attacked them. He had to reach the ranch, and arouse the rest of the Bar O outfit and get them to trail the rustlers.

The waddy’s gun roared and bucked in his hand while he lashed his mount with the blood-soaked left. His horse was running free, reins hanging on his neck. From behind the cowboy came the booming of heavy guns. There was the sickening sound of bullets boring into flesh and for the second time within a space of a few moments a dead man rode for the Bar O spread.

The waddy’s frightened horse became frenzied as it sensed that death was in the saddle. It bucked and sun-fished until it threw the limp figure out of the kak and then it made a wild dash for the home corral.

Meanwhile the rustlers were busy driving off the milling, bawling herd. Their leader, a tall man on a rangy hammerhead roan issued gruff commands as he rode with the rest.

Come on, boys, git them steers movin’! Rattle yore hocks! We got to git out of here, pronto. Some of them Bar O waddies might‘ve heard them shots. Git movin’, I say!

They drove the cattle south toward the rocky terrain of the foothills and on over a hogback to the yawning mouth of the canyon beyond. They lost no time, this hard-eyed, salty bunch who knew how to whip a trail herd into line.

A new moon crept out from beyond a cloud and cast its pale light down upon the scene. The moving cattle and horsemen cast weird-shaped shadows on the huge boulders scattered about the entrance of the deep-throated ravine.

Look, Chief! called one of the men who was riding point ahead of the herd with the leader of the band. That ain’t our shadow!

Clearly outlined on the hard rock surface at the left side of the canyon entrance was the shadow of a tall man on a horse. He wore a sweeping sombrero and apparently a cloak of some sort hung about his shoulders. The shadow of horse and rider was motionless and sent a chill of apprehension through the riders.

Somebody up on top of that cliff! snarled the leader of the rustlers, fumbling for the carbine in his saddle sheath. I’ll give him a dose of lead!

As he spoke the shadow vanished. There was something eerie and ghostlike about the disappearing horseman. The chief of the rustlers glanced at his companion, eyes glittering in the moonlight, fingers tightening about the short-barreled rifle in his hands.

It’s him! shrieked the other man. I seen him once before down in the Panhandle country!

Seen who? snapped the leader impatiently, his gaze sweeping the rocky crags above them as they rode on into the canyon.

The Masked Rider! There was a note of hysteria in, the other man’s voice. I don’t like it, Chief. If that jasper is around this part of the country it may mean—!

What the devil are yuh talkin’ about? demanded the chief, an anxious note in his voice. Who is this Masked Rider anyway?

Yuh’ll see, Chief! The other outlaw urged his mount forward, conscious of the clacking of steer’s horns as they bumped together, and the shouts of the rest of the men as they drove the herd on through the narrow ravine. Trouble—that’s what that black-coated hombre means!

Scared by a shadow! snarled the leader. He lifted the carbine and fired as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black clad figure that was peering over the edge of a big rock at the top of the cliff. That will teach him—

F

ROM above the six-guns in the hands of the Masked Rider flamed and roared. The leader’s rifle clattered to the ground and he slumped forward in the saddle, a bullet in his heart.

The heavy Colt of the other outlaw boomed, but he wasted no time in accurate shooting as he spurred his horse to a gallop. He was heading for the far end of the ravine with all possible speed. Behind him came the cracking of the guns of the men who rode with the stolen herd as they tried to get the marksman high up on the cliff.

The leader’s feet slid free of the stirrups as his horse jogged along, then slowly the limp body began to sag to the left, to finally drop to the ground and disappear beneath the sharp hoofs of the cattle.

From above came a second blast of gunfire. The roaring of the guns echoed and re-echoed through the narrow canyon and proved too much for the nervous, tired herd. Soon they began to move swifter and swifter as the stampede began. The rustlers were firing blindly, trying to pick off their assailant as they chased after the herd, but he had again vanished into the shadows.

The roar and clatter grew fainter as the herd plunged through the ravine with the rustlers in pursuit. To them the stolen cattle were more important than was the man who had taken their leader. In addition they were not sure that he was alone and the vital thing was to get away. Sounds faded into the distance until at last the pale moonlight shone down on the deep, quiet shadows of the arroyo.

Finally there was the chatter of a horse’s hoofs striking against hard rock and once again the shadow of a tall rider appeared on the wall of the canyon. High up on the cliff-top a magnificent black stallion halted at a gentle tug on the reins. For a moment horse and rider seemed like a statue carved in black marble.

Keen blue eyes gazed through the holes cut in the domino mask that hid the upper part of the horseman’s face, and was half-hidden by the inky shadow of his black sombrero. The moonlight played on the strong mouth and firm taut chin, then lost itself in the dark cloak that he wore slung from his shoulders.

Faint reflections were cast by the blue steel of the heavy Colts that he had thrust back into the holsters. As he sat easily in his saddle he might have been an artist’s conception of the finest of that legendary brotherhood known as the wanderers of the owlhoot trail. This was that famous Robin-Hood outlaw the Masked Rider, whose name had been feared throughout all of the wild rugged range country from Arizona to Mexico.

This black-clad figure had been the subject of many arguments around chuck-wagon fires, in the bunkhouses and in the saloons of the little cow-towns. The stories about him were many, some true and some distorted, but always of a fighting fury who battled to aid the down-trodden and the oppressed, even though he himself was an outlaw.

Though still young his past was a sealed book. Not even Blue Hawk, the Yaqui Indian who was his friend and constant companion knew the real name of the Masked Rider. Neither was there anyone who knew what had caused him to become a Robin Hood outlaw, but there were many who breathed a sigh of thankfulness because the Masked Rider had come to their aid when their need was greatest.

He was young and strong, with a keen brain, and a good education. But there were times when he assumed the character of Wayne Morgan, a wandering cowpoke. He made a convincing cowhand, for there had been many occasions when he had proved he could be a top-hand on any spread, and a bronc buster as well.

A

S he sat there on the cliff top he was conscious of a flare of light off to the north and the faint sound of steel chinking against steel.

Reckon that must be the railroad job, he murmured. Working in their own way to bind all of this vast country together with links of steel. The cattlemen have their side of the story of course, but all the same the railroad means a heap to the West and I’m for it.

It had been rumors of trouble between the railroad and the ranchmen that had brought him riding into the Lonely Mesa country. As always he had come with the hope in his heart that he might find some way to bring peace to the warring factions, for it was the destiny of the Masked Rider to battle for such causes.

Wonder just where those rustlers fit into all this trouble I’ve heard about? he said as he leaned forward and patted the stallion’s neck. What do yuh think, Midnight? The black horse turned his head and playfully tried to nip the outlaw’s hand. So that’s the way yuh feel about it, huh!

From the north there suddenly came a dull boom and for a moment the sky blossomed red.

The Masked Rider wheeled Midnight. He realized that what he had just seen meant some sort of an explosion on the railroad job, the Masked Rider wanted to get to the scene of that dull, booming thud to learn what had happened.

The black stallion’s hoofs clattered as the Masked Rider guided him back from the edge of the cliff and along a steep trail that rushed down into the foothills. When they reached the rolling country below the tall outlaw urged his horse into a mile-eating gallop.

Let’s get goin’, Midnight, he said as he rode. There’s trouble ‘round here and we’re goin’ to see what we can do to fix it!

CHAPTER II

Railroadin’

AT the C. & W. construction job, men cursed as they milled about on a quarter of a mile of track that had been blown up by carefully planted charges of dynamite. The faces of the crews who had gathered to determine the extent of the damage loomed weirdly in the glow of flares and lanterns.

How bad is it, Judd? demanded Superintendent Jim Pallen, the absolute boss of the railroad construction, as he spied the red-headed giant of a foreman examining a gaping hole in the roadbed. Anybody see who did it?

This is the hell of a mess, Boss! Must have planted the dynamite when nobody was looking. Joe Judd shook his massive head. Looks to me like it will throw us back a couple of days on the job. His eyes glittered and he unconsciously clinched his hamlike hands. Wish I had some of them cattlemen around here now. I’d make ‘em sorry they ever started anythin’ like this!

You think the cattlemen did this? There was a frown on Pallen’s strong face. He was a big man, over six feet in height, but he seemed small in comparison to the massive bulk of the foreman. I can’t believe you’re right, Joe. Perry Outram, resents the railroad. Since he is the owner of the big Bar O ranch, he thinks that all this is his property—and so do the other ranchers, but Outram is their leader and he keeps them stirred up. Still I doubt that they would go so far as to blow up our tracks.

Why not? asked Judd. Ain’t they tried to cause us trouble before?

Yes, but nothing like this. If they keep on, we’ll have the government soldiers to protect us on these land grants.

Maybe! Judd shrugged his huge shoulders, a scowl on his face. But you just let me and my crews go after them cattle nurses and there won’t be nobody left around here that will bother us!

"And have the Government down on