Down From the Mountains - The High Plains Gunman

By Voyle A Glover

By the age of 18, Kyle Elliot was fighting the Plains Indians, especially the more fierce warriors who'd ever ridden across the broad plains of Texas, the legendary and ruthless Comanche. He'd ridden with Captain John Coffee Hays in the Texas Rangers and learned to fight in ways most men never understood. "Captain Jack" had taught him and the men who'd ridden with him, skills with weapons, tactics, fighting effectively from a horse at full gallop, tracking and surviving in the desert and mountains. The Captain had been an endless well of knowledge and experience. They'd tracked the Comanche to their homes, raided them, fought them on their own terrain, and won. They'd done the same with the Lipon Apache. These men did what the Army couldn't do. They did what no other fighting force would manage to do for decades.

 

Now Elliot is headed to a sleepy little town to take up the job as marshal, hoping he can avoid the problems in his last job, which involved having to kill several men and getting into the middle of a range war. He'd accepted the marshal's  job with little hesitation after getting assurances that it was quiet and peaceful.  But, Kyle Elliot would quickly learn that he'd need all the skills and toughness he'd acquired as a Texas Ranger in order to survive.

He wanted to leave on day one. He stuck around because of a smile from a beautiful woman.

                                                                         *******
Voyle Glover, a retired attorney who grew up in Arizona, has roamed the state, ridden many old outlaw trails, camped in the desert and mountains there, and often details scenes where he's camped or ridden. Of his westerns, Glover says, "My favorite author was Louis L'Amour, the Dean of Western Fiction. If you liked his stories, you'll like mine. Loved his style. Adopted his style in some respects. He'd always said to 'just tell a good story.' That's what I've done here. It's a good western fiction story."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brevia Publishing Co
• Release date: Jan 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9798215907078

Voyle A Glover

About the Author Voyle Glover has spent most of his years practicing law. His early years were spent in Arizona where he learned to love all things Western. His love of the Old West and the many stories about the outlaws, settlers, Indians and pioneers captured his imagination. In the ‘70’s, Glover wrote his first western story and it was published in Far West, a western fiction publication that was located in California. He went on to have several more of his short stories, and two novellas published by Far West. Law School interrupted his writing career and it has only been in the last few of years that he’s been “back in the saddle” writing westerns. His favorite western fiction author was Louis L’Amour, whom he calls “The Dean of Western Fiction.” Glover admits that L’Amour has influenced his writing more than any other writer. He insists on writing his stories and adhering to the traditions of L’Amour, to wit, a strong, rugged and self-reliant hero, with historically accurate settings, and characters that jump right off the pages of the history of the Old West and into his stories. Glover says of L’Amour: “There is no writer of western fiction to match Louis L’Amour. He’s the only western fiction writer whose books I’ll read more than once.” He tells of the time soon after he’d written his first western, when he wrote a letter to L’Amour asking his advice about agents. L’Amour actually replied to him in a typed letter, replete with a few typos. He congratulated Glover on getting his first story published in the premier issue of Far West, a California publication, then noted that they’d be sharing that issue. L’Amour was featured on the cover page and Glover also found himself listed on the cover page, right beneath his all-time favourite western author. He says of that moment: “I was shocked that he actually took the time to reply, but wow, what an honor to be on the cover page with the Dean of Western Fiction, Louis L’Amour.”

Book preview

OTHER EXCITING

WESTERN FICTION BOOKS

BY VOYLE GLOVER

Texas Past

The Mountain Man

The Cowhand

The Causey Trail

Arizona Territory: Wrath of a Man

Buffalo Brown’s Hunt

The Wrong Man

Kemp

The Hanging of Clayton Biscuit Wilson

Trist: Desert Warrior

CHAPTER 1

Icame down off the mountain full of trail weariness.  My head kept bobbing up and down against my chest as I nodded off.  A man who lives in the saddle enough years learns to sleep like that, with his head bobbing in rhythm with the horse.  It's a kind of sleep that lets you rest while you're still alert. 

For instance, I came down a dry wash a few years back like that and without giving any conscious thought, I came off my horse likkity-split.  What had moved me was a hesitation in my horse and a different feel to his walk and a jerk of his ears. I've piled off a few times since then and learned later it wasn't no more than him shying at a small animal or a snake that crossed his path, but that one time, I hit the ground rolling and a bullet split the air where I'd been.

The mountains where I’d lived for a time seemed like a dream, now. I’d enjoyed the cool mountain breezes, loved sitting on the edge of a rim overlooking the blue-green valley below, and came to look forward to watching the wisps of grey smoke that crept into the morning sky down below. I knew there was life down there—people—and I’d missed that, but I loved being alone, too, especially after my last scrape.

I never enjoyed shooting people, and the last gunfight I’d been in had nearly been my last. Weary of the infighting with the town business leaders, and tired of having to explain why I’m a sudden kind of man when it comes to people who are trying to kill me, I just up and left. I’d tossed the badge on the scarred oak desk, scribbled a note that said Gone to the mountains. Won’t be back. Kyles Eliot.

Now, here I was headed back to civilization. I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. Not sure they were ready for me, either. I’d play it close to my vest until I saw which way the wind blew on this one.

My lazy thoughts vanished suddenly. I opened my eyes as I felt the slope suddenly steepen. The trail narrowed some and a little later it leveled out and widened.  I could see the blue green of the valley spread below and a few miles in the distance, blue smoke drifted up over the trees in a couple different spots.  That would be Walkerton.

I didn't recall it being much in the way of a town, being mostly log cabins, a few pine slab houses, one saloon that served also as a hotel, restaurant and church on Sundays, a jail located on the edge of town and a livery across the street from the jail.  I'd been there four years ago, just passing through.  Now, I was returning by invitation.

They had some growing pains, it seemed, had some color running nearby, and needed a Marshal.  Since I was known to them, and they knew I had rode in Texas with Captain Jack Hays and the Rangers, they'd sent after me.  Way I figured, I couldn't do worse since the job I left had nearly got me killed, and had only paid thirty and keep.  They was offering sixty and keep, plus all my costs, plus an extra horse, a rifle, two shotguns, one hound and a stray cat.  Any fines collected, I got to split with the town, after my wage was cared for.  It sounded like a good deal to me. 

I grew up hard and I reckon most of my younger days were spent fighting one kid or another, since my daddy carried me around with him from job to job.  My ma died when I was a yonker.  Daddy had been a rancher down in Texas, by way of the hills of Kentucky.  When ma died, he kind of give up on the ranch. Something went out of him and he took to gambling. 

Now and then, he'd leave me with my Grandpa on my Pa's side. Once, he left me with my Grandpa a year, then one day he showed up in the yard just like he'd been gone on a weekend hunting trip, picked me up with hardly a word, and after that, he drifted all over the western part of the country, and in the south some.  He'd drop me in the corner of a saloon and pick me up long after I'd fallen asleep there on the floor.  I got to be friends with more saloon dogs than I can count.  To this day, I'm partial to dogs, especially if they're saloon dogs.  Rested my head on many a dog as a kid.

As I got older, I took a lot of insults from the local kids in towns where we'd stop.  I was tall and lean and tended to walk and talk a lot bolder than I should have.  But, when a boy's fought half his life and even tussled with grown men a time or two, it tends to give a boy a different outlook on things.  I didn't walk around trouble in them days.  I didn't shove no man, but I let it be known that I was not walking around anyone.  It got me in a lot of fights that were needless, but it gave me some satisfaction because I learned that I was good in a fight.  I learned that I could take pain better than most could.  I also learned that there was always someone out there who was better. 

I suppose it was the first time when I got beat real bad that I really give some thought about my life.  I was sixteen, had never lost but one fight, and that loss was the first fight I ever had, and now I had lost another one, this one real bad.  The kid who beat me was a year older and had me by fifty pounds and three inches.  He'd said a word to me and I'd given one back, and it started that quick.  I had three hard punches into him before he'd set, and I could tell he was hurt.  But, that boy had something I didn't have.  He had some learning about fighting that I had never come on yet.  He boxed me. 

I swung a round house at him and he jabbed me twice on the mouth and started a gusher.  Then, I came in real hard, but he stepped back and let me have one on the chin, then a real slammer in the gut.  It put me down.  I kept getting up, and I'd give one good lick, but I’d  take half a dozen for it, and pretty soon the room kept moving on me. I was having trouble seeing a target, what with the blood in my eyes and the swelling in my one eye.

That fight didn't last no more than a few minutes, but it seemed forever at the time.  Never forgot it.  It took me a few years, but I finally found a man who taught me to fight like that.  He was a big man, with a wide face and muscles that looked like ropes across his arms and back.  He was mining when I come across him, but most of his days he'd spent laying track for the Union Pacific.  He was the hardest-hittin' man that ever laid a fist against my face. 

I first saw Jay Gister in a saloon down near Waco, Texas.  He was facing three cowboys and a drunk injun with his fists raised just like that kid I fought. They lit into him all at the same time. He ducked some wild punches, stepped back and then leaned into a right cross that took out the injun and the man behind him. That injun went down like a hamstrung deer.  Then, he took on the other three and I watched the prettiest fight I ever did see.  He'd jump back, punch quick, leap forward and hammer another one, then dance around and slam another one.  He was fast and  when he hit, everyone groaned with sympathy on account of we could tell from the sound that it had to hurt when it landed.  Them three went down in less than two minutes.

Gister and me hung together for maybe a year after that.  He really was delighted to have a sparring partner.  He banged me up pretty bad in the beginning, but after I learned some moves, I got to where I gave as good as I got.  One day, he loaded his gear and said he was going back east to get back in the fight game.  I never heard from him again, but I'll never forget him.  He was the best I ever met.

I had a pretty good idea about what kind of troubles I'd have on this job.  I'd been with the law twice before.  Bad thing about being a Marshal was the politics.  I purely hated politics, but some of it got necessary, I reckon.  The town paid me through money it got from the business men, mostly, plus fines and such.  My experience was that for every nickel one of them high rollers gave towards my wages they wanted to own three feet of me.  I'll tolerate some of that, but I got limits. 

I had hopes most of my troubles would be rowdy cow hands and town drunks.  I knew I'd get in a few shooting situations, but mostly, they usually turned out to be some fool drunk shooting at the moon.  If things turned out to be even close to the way things got out of hand in Riebald, Texas, I knew I'd be leaving this job, quick.  That town had got some cattlemen, sheep men, and town's people all mixed up together in a range war. 

I'd get the lid on and someone would blow it off.  I got shot at four times from ambush, had three gunfights in the streets with rougher elements of one side or the other, and got into a couple tussles.  I'll carry a bald spot on the back of my head to my grave on account of a whiskey bottle.  The man that put me down with that bottle ain't around any more.  I looked him up later and he decided to make a fight of it. I wasn’t looking to hurt him, but wanted to tell him I had no hard feelings. He must have thought otherwise, because he jerked his gun soon as he saw me.

I'd left after the cattlemen started bringing in some hired guns.  I just couldn't see facing that kind of fight for forty and found.  It wasn't that I didn't feel up to them long riders.  I been using a hand gun and a rifle since I was a yonker. Grandpa Elliot  taught me how to shuck a gun. He was an old timer who'd ridden trails most men never saw and trapped waters that ran red with trapper's blood now and then.  He'd got himself scrapped up bad once by a hungry-mean lobo wolf and had swore afterwards that if he'd been able to get his pistol out of his belt faster, he'd have dropped that lobo before he got within five feet. 

After that, Grandpa Elliot had rigged himself up a leather pocket that fit him at the belly, slanted across so the handle of his gun rested close to his right side in front. I used to watch him snatch that old Navy Colt of his out of that pocket when I was a kid.  He had a funny way of moving his shoulders, but I never seen the like