Bounty Hunter Nate Landry: Major Issues

By Mark L Redmond

Nate Landry earns his living by hunting outlaws. When Anna Thomas tries to hire him to deliver a ransom to the outlaws who killed her husband and kidnapped her son, Nate politely declines her job offer. Then he discovers the identity of the outlaws. One of them, an old acquaintance from the Civil War, is the worst cold-blooded killer Nate has ev

• Language: English
• Publisher: author
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986233345

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I

f you ride north from Tucson in the general direction of Phoenix, you’ll find a little town called Florence. If you ride west from Florence for another six miles, you’ll cross a creek and find a cabin snuggled against the butte. Although I spend most of my time in the saddle, riding all over the Arizona Territory, whenever I say, Honey, I’m home, I’m standing outside the door of that cabin. I live alone; but from time to time, someone else needs a dry spot for the night and spreads his blanket on the cabin floor. Since I don’t fancy being shot, I like to warn people before I walk in on them. Besides, hearing those words as I come through the door always gives me a warm feeling—even when I know I’m only talking to myself.

Toward the end of February in 1877, I had been chasing a couple of desperadoes up near Phoenix. They weren’t wanted for hanging offenses, so they had chosen going to the prison at Yuma over dying. I had delivered them to the town marshal in Phoenix and then waited in town until the bank in Prescott approved the reward. I had been away from my cabin for nearly a month when I pushed the door open and gave my familiar, friendly greeting. Startled wouldn’t be a strong enough word for what I felt when I stepped into my cabin. This time Honey was home too.

She sat on one of the three chairs that are usually scooted up to the table that serves me for both eating and working. She had turned the chair to face the door; and since I was standing in the doorway, she was facing me. She was also pointing a gun at me.

Don’t move! she said.

I won’t, I said. While I was not moving, I studied the lady. She wore a pale blue shirt and a dark blue riding skirt. Her small, black boots reached almost to her knees; and the brim of a black hat, suspended from a cord around her neck, peeked over her shoulders from behind her. Her beautiful but expressionless face was sprinkled generously with freckles and surrounded by the brightest red hair I had ever seen. The revolver looked like an old .36 caliber sheriff’s model cap-and-ball, made in the South with some less expensive brass parts. The brass might not last as long as the steel parts used in the North, but this revolver looked to be clean and in working order. The .36 didn’t have the stopping power of my .45, but it could easily kill me at this range.

Could I move just enough to put my saddle down? I asked.

What makes you think you’re staying? she asked.

I live here, I said. Slowly I lowered my saddle to the floor.

I have only your word for that, she said. Can you prove that this is your cabin?

Yes, Ma’am, I said. I gave her my most charming smile. She basked in the charm for a full minute before she spoke.

Well? she asked. She was still basking.

Well, what? I asked. I was still smiling.

Go ahead, she said.

Why? I asked. I already know it’s my cabin.

"Prove it to me," she said.

Didn’t you hear me say, ‘Honey, I’m home’? I asked.

She cocked the revolver, a strange action for one who was basking.

What kind of proof do you want? I asked.

Tell me where something is that only you know about, she said.

You mean a secret? I whispered.

Yes, she said.

But we just met, I said. I don’t even know your name. I couldn’t—

Her .36 caliber ball splintered the floorboard between my feet. With a ringing in my ears and the smell of burned powder in my nostrils, I started over.

Pleased to meet you, Ma’am, I said. I have a scar on my back, high on my left shoulder. It’s from when I got shot when I was just a boy. My brother Amos and I were—

A secret about this cabin, she said. Tell me where something is hidden that only the owner would know about.

Oh, I see, I said. You mean something like the Remington .41 caliber derringer strapped to the bottom of your chair.

Gracefully she rose from the chair and then knelt beside it. I noticed that as she groped the bottom of the chair with her left hand, she kept her pale green eyes and her gun trained on me. I was impressed, especially since she was able to perform these tasks while still basking in my smile. She retrieved the gun from its hiding place and glanced at it.

My name is Anna Thomas, Mr. Landry, she said. I apologize for spoiling your homecoming. She lowered her revolver, slid the derringer back into the leather strap, and stood beside the chair. Please, come in. I have made some coffee. I need your help.

I’m obliged, I said. I poured each of us a cup of steaming coffee. You haven’t spoiled my homecoming; and from what I’ve seen of you so far, Ma’am, if you need my help or anyone else’s, you must have some big problem.

I do, she said. She took a sip of coffee and then set her cup on the table. My seven-year-old son was kidnapped from our ranch near Phoenix. The people who took him want $5000, delivered to the last relay station before Tucson on the road from Phoenix. The money is to be delivered by Sunday at noon—that’s only three days. If the money isn’t delivered, or if anyone attempts to rescue him— she stared into her cup.

The boy dies, I said. Do you have the money?

Yes, she said. Virgil Hampton, who owns the bank, is—was one of David’s close friends. He gave me—loaned me the five thousand dollars.

What do you want from me? I asked.

I want you to bring back my son, unharmed—

Excuse the interruption, Ma’am, I said. I know you came a long way to find me. I don’t know how many days you’ve been waiting here for me—

Four, she said. If you hadn’t shown by tomorrow, I’d have gone alone.

But, I said, I’m not the man you want for delivering a ransom. I’m a—

I know what you are, Mr. Landry, she said. I wasn’t finished. After you have safely returned my son, I want you to hunt these men down and either kill them or bring them in to be hanged.

Ma’am, I said, I reckon you must be afraid, worried, and angry; but I don’t think there’s a judge in the territory who would hang a man for stealing a kid as long as no harm came to—

My husband tried to stop the men who took Daniel, and they shot him down. He died the next day. Her green eyes were looking through me rather than at me. I saw hurt in them, but I saw determination as well.

"There are lawmen