Death is a Gunfighter: The McKay Family Saga, #5

By J.C. Graves

When Civil War veteran, James McKay, returns home after the cattle drive and an epic battle with a prehistoric bear, he discovers that his beloved wife, Peggy, had just died of a heart condition, a few months after giving birth to their son. In his despair, he rides away with no particular destination in mind. Not long after, he comes upon a small wagon train under attack by a Cheyenne raiding party. He rescues a thirteen-year-old boy from a burning wagon, who seems to be in the middle of events, and becomes embroiled in a robbery with a half million dollars at stake. All events eventually lead to a small town on the Santa Fe Trail. From there the bullets fly and the story takes an unexpected turn. As James tries to ride home, he finds himself in one gunfight after another, and people learn to fear him. Because he is Death, and he is the Gunfighter. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Summit Bay Press, Olympia WA
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201402785

J.C. Graves

I would describe myself as a lifelong learner. From my earliest memories, I have been filled with an insatiable curiosity about what things are, how and why they work, and the nuances of relationships. Because of that, my interests are wide and varied. I love to write and always have a book going. In this way, I am able to share—in story form—much of what I have discovered about the world.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

JACOB LOVED EASTERN Missouri in late summer. On the long, slow uphill grade through the forested hills, the Union Pacific train slowed to only ten miles per hour, working furiously. The five bandits easily jumped aboard. Jacob Tennyson waited to pull the car lynch pin until the grade leveled out and they were in the long right turn, the nearness of the forest hiding their presence from those in the cars ahead. Once he released the couplers, the Wells Fargo baggage car slowed, unnoticed, and the train pulled away. Too easy.

Albers grinned at his brother and climbed to the roof. At the back of the car, Winston gave him a thumbs up, and he turned back to Jacob, giving the ready sign—thumbs up. Jacob nodded. With the dynamite in position, they lit the fuses and crawled down the front and back ladders to wait. One minute later, a terrific explosion tore two gaping holes in the roof.

Smoke poured out. One guard was down. The other was up on his hands and knees, coughing and shaking his head. From the roof, Albers shot him in the back and put a bullet into the other to make sure he stayed down. They dropped inside and opened the door, throwing out both guards. Sunlight brightened the inside.

Cody Pender packed dynamite under the small safe, and Mark Saunders stuffed his larger package under the bigger safe. They climbed up the rope ladder to the roof and waited. One minute later, the explosions bounced them a foot in the air and the robbers grinned like schoolboys.

Jacob jumped down first. What happened! he shouted. Why didn’t it open?

The small safe was split, the door ajar, but the large safe stood firm with only flash burns along the front.

Albers leaned over the safe, running his hands along the burned area. Jacob, the little safe is a Sargent and Greenleaf like you said, but this big one, it’s that new Joseph L. Hall.

How had he missed that? How much in the small safe?

Pender finished stuffing the saddlebags. Looks like $20,000—new gold double eagles, like you said.

Jacob groaned. Together, both safes held $200,000 in double eagle gold coins fresh from the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia. Ten thousand coins—736 pounds divided over six horses. Heavy but doable. Like riding double. And easier to move than a wagon, which would be restricted in travel and easily tracked.

He didn’t have more dynamite. An old Sargent safe would have split in two with that load of dynamite, but this new Hall seemed unfazed. He wanted to kick something. Their haul had gone from $200,000 to $20,000 in a few seconds. Wells Fargo must have switched the safe out in the last day or two. He would have to visit the retired Wells Fargo agent, Mr. Gibson, and straighten out their communication problem.

Can we push the safe out of the car? Winston asked.

Jacob spun on him. It weighs over a thousand pounds!

Winston ducked his head as if slapped; Jacob was in a dangerous mood.

Jacob pulled out his watch, shaking his head. Damnation! We’re out of time.

Because most of the blast had been forced downward, the large safe suddenly dropped through the dynamite-damaged floor. The car slammed to a halt, throwing the bandits forward. Jacob dropped through the hole in the floor to look at the safe, but it remained as solid as ever. How much dynamite was needed to open a Hall safe? It might be the dynamite would open the safe but blow the car to pieces, and him with it. Maybe he should employ a safe cracker next time—and there would be a next time.

Hey, look what I found! Saunders shouted. He pulled a large black box out of the wood stove.

Jacob climbed back into the car. Open it up, hurry.

Saunders put the box on the floor and shot the lock. Albers knelt and opened the lid. Just a bunch of paper.

Jacob knelt by the box and took out a sheet. Bearer bonds! Mother Luck is shinin’ down on us today.

They worth anythin’? Albers asked doubtfully. They didn’t look like regular paper money.

Jacob picked up the pile and leafed through it. "Oh. Oh my. One hundred. Two hundred. Uh. What? Five hundred—five hundred thousand dollars, boys. Five hundred thousand dollars."

No one spoke—stunned by the large number. They would have been happy with $5,000.

Jacob looked over at Saunders. Why in the world did you check that pot belly stove?

Saunders smiled. My grandma uses that trick. She has two stoves: one for heatin’ the cabin and another for her money box. Keeps her savin’s in the box under the ashes. When I saw this railroad potbelly coal stove, I just had to look and see if the ashes hid a surprise.

Uh, Jacob, how do bearer bonds work? Albers asked.

Just like money, brother. Exactly like money. Anyone can cash ‘em out.

Pender stood at the door. MacDonald’s here.

Jefferson MacDonald rode up with the horses and they jumped down.

Wait until you hear what we found! Pender shouted. We’re rich!

Jacob Tennyson was a planner. He prided himself on the intricate details and multiple contingency plans. When he learned of the gold shipment, he went into action. At forty years old, he figured he was in his prime. Tall, thin, calculating. His dark brown eyes were narrow and deep, as if looking out of a cave, squinting with more than a hint of the cruelty in his heart. His cheeks were sallow, naturally sunken, with black, drooping mustaches peppered with gray. He had a way of holding his head, so his long, pointed nose stuck up a little, giving him a haughty, arrogant look—as it should.

At one time, he had a proper job. He ran a general store with his father and absolutely hated it. After his father died of cholera when he was sixteen, he hated it even more. His mother had died the year before of a cancer, and his younger brother, Albers, had gone to live with Aunt Norma. He knew his aunt didn’t care about the store any more than him, but she enjoyed the little money he sent her each month.

He was just eighteen when he found the stagecoach broken down four miles from town. Old man Shaw and his ailing stupid son, Bo, riding shotgun—without a weapon. Jacob thought they were a pitiful lot. He jumped off the wagon to provide aid to a seriously lame horse. Plan was, he would lend them one of his and head home with the lame one in tow. No problem.

But he soon learned they were secretly carrying the mine payroll. The stupid son talked too much. Unfortunately, Bo knew Jacob and trusted him.

Jacob’s decision was instantaneous and his actions abrupt. He walked back to his wagon, took his new five-shot Colt Paterson revolver out of the box under the buckboard seat and promptly shot them both. The payroll fit nicely under a rock, then he loaded the bodies into his wagon and drove back to town. To be on the safe side, he reloaded the two empty chambers in the pistol, and on the way shot a rabbit, in case anyone asked about his pistol’s condition. But no one asked probing questions. No one suggested he had anything to do with anything. Wasn’t he the respected shop keeper, like his father before him? People believed he was minding his own business and came upon the tragic state of affairs. If anything, he was a Good Samaritan, lending assistance after a horrible robbery. If anyone suspected, they didn’t mention it.

As the poet said, Jacob believed patience was a fair virtue. Patience and planning. So one year later, he put the store up for sale. After two months, an enterprising and eager young man and his new wife purchased it at full price. He departed town, and on the way dug up the payroll. Simple. Perfect.

Since then, he had specialized in robbing banks—ten in twenty years. In his planning, he left nothing to chance. Because of that, banks feared him. For one thing, they were not really sure who he was. The excitement of the detailed planning and the act of theft filled him with great happiness. A temporary happiness, it was true, but happiness just the same. The planning, the theft, the chase, eluding pursuers made it all worth it. Recently, after twenty-two years, he had admitted only to himself that the excitement had worn off, and he needed something different, something new, a thrill.

When he learned of the gold shipment three months before, he began planning. Train robberies were the new rage. If the banks feared him, he knew the railroads would be terrified. He had always worked alone, but for the first time, he hired men to help, friends of Albers and Winston. With $520,000, he might take a break from this stressful occupation, maybe head out to Denver or Sacramento. He chuckled. Yes, he might even open another general store and settle down for a spell. Judith would like that—she could run it. At twenty-five, she was fifteen years his junior. She did not know what he did for a living, but enjoyed the wealth he showered on her from time to time. Their two girls were five and three. She doted on them, denying them nothing. He didn’t care. He loved Judith in his own way, although no one would describe him as a family man or romantic.

CHAPTER TWO

JAMES HAD BEEN RIDING for weeks. He hadn’t shaved or done anything about his appearance; he didn’t care. What was the use? He thought the pain of loss would lessen over time, but it lingered like a festering wound, refusing to heal. My life ended, he thought, with Peggy’s death. Like the preacher said, And the two shall be one—that was us—James McKay and Margaret Wilcox. He had known Peg since they were toddlers. And somehow, even back then, they knew they would marry. Some folks call that puppy love, childhood fantasy or infatuation, or some such, but they just always knew. They each rebuffed others who wanted to court or sought their hand. Although they did not speak about it or make plans, it was an understanding between them, something presumed, and for them, sacred.

At one point during the war, after he was shot in the shoulder, she nursed him back to health. Whatever had been unspoken before became more tangible, real, living. He just needed to speak the words. They were young—eighteen. But people married young in the Appalachians. It seemed right. All his friends, and even his younger brother, married after the war.

The war. Most days, his mind shied away from that difficult time of his life. The war was brutal, especially for the McKay family. Based only on suspicion of being bushwhackers or harboring them, a cavalry patrol shot their family and burned alive in the barn any who remained alive. Although Uncle Billy had been training the boys in marksmanship, they had no intention of killing anyone; it was purely for self-defense. After the massacre, they became the McKay Rangers, defending the Asheville, North Carolina area from Union soldiers, bandits, and even Confederate troops raiding or causing harm. Their uncanny and deadly marksmanship, and ability to disappear into the landscape, kept most Union and Confederate troops out of the area. Those who ignored the warnings soon lost their leaders, usually officers.

After the South’s surrender, the rangers needed a time of peace and recovery, but the Union Army had its own plans on that front. Because of their uncanny skill at long distance shooting—especially at Union officers, bushwhackers were to be apprehended and hung, even though the war was over. And the bounty stayed in effect. What followed was a desperate run to Texas, followed by a dramatic confrontation in the New Braunfels general store. That ended well. No bloodshed, although he had been sure it would end that way. Mighty, mighty close, that was.

They acquired land, and ranch life suited them. He enjoyed the days of riding and roping, gathering the wild longhorns for the drive to Denver. Peg made the hacienda into their home, created a garden, and grew larger as their son became a reality. For him, life could not be better. His joy was complete and profound. Love, hard work, and an unlimited future, like that vast Texas sky.

But now. Now, he felt hollowed out. An old dead lightning-struck oak. A shadow of his former self. What the future held, he had no idea. A future without Peg made little sense; he couldn’t comprehend it. He felt numb, unfeeling, adrift. So he rode where Blackie took him. If the ears twitched left, then left they went. Blackie followed his own path and James followed him. A pretty simple life.

Until he saw the smoke.

BOGGS SAT IN THE BARBER chair, flipping through the paper, a pipe wedged between his yellowed teeth. Ah, listen to this. Wells Fargo agency reports a train robbery. A whopping $520,000 in bearer bonds and gold was stolen by a band of robbers, yet to be named. They don’t know who exactly they are. Both guards killed.

Killed the guards? the barber, Elbert, said, clipping the hair around Bogg’s neck.

That’s what it says. He reread the article.

You know, I wonder again if it was Tennyson.

Boggs looked at the speaker in the chair by the door, pursing his lips in thought. Does sound like him, doesn’t it? Only he works alone.

Jacob’s attention to detail. Maybe for robbin’ trains, he hired a crew.

Walter Pigglesworth, whom everyone called Piggy, huffed. Yep. When we ran with him, he was so picky about every cotton-pickin’ thing, it drove me crazy.

The speaker by the door said, They—got—away—with—520,000—dollars. He said each word slowly for emphasis.

Boggs looked up from the paper. What’re you suggestin’, boss? That we rob Jacob?

Doesn’t he have family in Lawrence, Kansas?

Elbert kept clipping and said, A grandfather, crippled brother, some cousins, uh, and two aunts, I think. His Uncle Wayne rode with us in the Marmaduke Missouri raidin’ a few years back. Got himself shot by a gambler on a river boat earlier this year—Easter Sunday.

After a long pause, the boss said, I’ll bet you even money he’s headin’ west. He can’t go anywhere else with that much money.

Elbert paused, scissors and comb hovering. You all should leave Tennyson alone. Why don’t you go rob your own train? Since the Reno brothers robbed the Ohio and Mississippi, it’s all the rage now.

The boss crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair and relit his pipe. Maybe. It’s more risky now than banks, I’m thinkin’. And if you rob Wells Fargo and they get on your scent, it’s hard to throw ‘em off. Persistent like, they are.

Boggs put the paper down. Are you plannin’ what I think you’re plannin’? We can’t leave now with Oliver and the cousins gettin’ out of the Saint Louis jail in four days.

Yeah, I’ve got an idea. Look, I’m goin’ to ride ahead by myself. If I find anythin’, I’ll send telegraphs to the office in Kansas City on the west side, the Lawrence office, and Fort Riley.

Boggs puffed on his pipe, then took it out of his mouth. Well, be careful. We’ll be along lickety-split.

WELLS FARGO PAID HIM good. And they should; he produced results. In the last two years, he had solved everything they threw at him—six stage coach robberies, two bank robberies and a train robbery. But this new train robbery was a tough one. He had carefully asked around, trying to get information without scaring informers off.

He started in Saint Louis. After two weeks, young Miss Mabel Johnston of the Coach and Arms hotel and saloon provided the key information.

She heard things. She knew things. She paid attention. Mable could sing the feathers off a goose, but afterwards she socialized with the patrons, encouraging drink purchases and loosening tongues. She had learned that most men liked to brag, especially if a pretty young lady leaned in, hanging on every word. Many business men talked as if she were invisible, and she had quietly amassed an impressive fortune of her own.

Three years before, he had gone out with her briefly and knew her likes and dislikes. Late one evening, she whispered something in his ear. If you follow the Boggs gang, you might find the train robbers you seek.

He studied her face. If I figure this out, I’ll swing by and we’ll share the reward.

She smiled knowingly. You’d better, if you know what’s good for you.

He was standing outside Murphy’s Emporium when the Boggs gang rode into Lawrence, Kansas and dismounted in front of the Lonesome Trail saloon across the street. Before entering, he lingered outside, memorizing the horses and tack. The gang sat at a