Hell Job In Kansas: Western

By Neal Chadwick

Hell Job In Kansas: Western

By Neal Chadwick

 

The size of this book is equivalent to 114 paperback pages.

 

"Here they come - those damned bluecoats!" pressed Jeffrey Bridger between his teeth. Along with more than two dozen gunmen, he lurked in the rocky slopes, looking down into the long, winding gorge. A detachment of U.S. Army cavalrymen rode along there....

Thrilling Western by successful author Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker) from the time after the American Civil War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BEKKERpublishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215312285

Book preview

Hell Job In Kansas: Western

By Neal Chadwick

The size of this book is equivalent to 114 paperback pages.

Here they come - those damned bluecoats! pressed Jeffrey Bridger between his teeth. Along with more than two dozen gunmen, he lurked in the rocky slopes, looking down into the long, winding gorge. A detachment of U.S. Army cavalrymen rode along there....

Thrilling Western by successful author Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker) from the time after the American Civil War.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress Book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, ALFREDBOOKS, UKSAK E-Books and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of Alfred Bekker

© by Author

COVER WERNER ÖCKL

Neal Chadwick is a pseudonym of Alfred Bekker

© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

[e-mail]

Chapter 1

Here they come - those damned bluecoats! pressed Jeffrey Bridger between his teeth. Along with more than two dozen gunmen, he lurked in the rocky slopes, looking down into the long, winding gorge. A detachment of U.S. Army cavalrymen rode along there. It was apparently on its way from Garden City to Liberal in extreme southwestern Kansas, just a few miles from Indian Territory. Bridger aimed the Winchester at the detachment commander. From his uniform, he held the rank of captain. A cold smile showed on Bridger's face.

Those Yankees are going to bitterly regret following us this far! muttered one of the other men. What are you waiting for, Jeff? Let's shoot them like rabbits!

*

The guy who said that was holding a revolver in his left hand. His right arm was missing. The sleeve of his jacket, made of stained drill, hung limp.

We're still waiting, Leslie! determined Bridger. Not until we have a chance to take out this whole squad at once do we go!

The one-armed Leslie contorted his face.

You're the boss, Jeff!

Bridger bared his teeth like a predator. Don't forget that, Leslie!

How could I! the one-armed man replied with a slight sneer in his voice.

Almost a full year had passed since the end of the Civil War. Months in which the followers of the guerrilla leader William C. Quantrill, operating on behalf of the Confederates, had been forced into hiding. To the four winds Quantrill's people had scattered. The brothers Frank and Jesse James as well as Jeffrey Bridger. Quantrill himself had already been shot by bluecoats in June 1865. Only 28 years had passed for the notorious guerrilla leader who had become known for the savage depredations of the band he led. Quantrill's horsemen had particularly raged in the border region of Kansas and Missouri. Hardly a town there had not been infested by Quantrill's men. Up to four hundred horsemen had been under his command. Bandits, who had pursued their cruel business with the approval and support of the Confederate States of America.

In the meantime, however, their protecting power had fallen. Union troops had occupied Kansas, which was split between opponents and supporters of slavery. Quantrill's gang had therefore split into several smaller groups, which now continued their bloody handiwork on their own. Even without the facade of any political idea.

Men who had learned nothing but to kill and rob.

Some of them were driven by pure hatred of the North. Most were driven by pure greed for money and the prospect of rich booty.

Bridger's index finger tightened around the pricker of the Sharps rifle.

A shot rang out, echoing between the slopes.

For Bridger's pack, the signal to attack.

*

Captain John Reilly led the squad of U.S. cavalrymen. The tall officer let his gray eyes roam over the steep slopes.

So far, he hadn't spotted anything suspicious. But Reilly was aware of the fact that he and his squad were in enemy territory, so to speak.

Although Kansas had since been occupied by Union troops and Quantrill had been shot, battle-hardened gangs still roamed the land. Gangs that consisted of former Quantrill fighters whose irregular fighters had scattered.

Many of them gravitated to far southwestern Kansas.

The proximity to the Indian territory attracted them. The territory of the so-called civilized Indian nations had its own jurisdiction. But it did not apply to whites. For them, the vast Oklahoma territory was an almost lawless place. No wonder it attracted bandits from neighboring states like moths to a flame.

The former Quantrill fighters could therefore use this area as a convenient and safe retreat.

However, many of the local law enforcement officers had no interest at all in going after former Quantrill people, as they secretly sympathized with them.

The war had ended, but the rift that ran through the Kansas population was far from being mended. There were still numerous Southern sympathizers who covered for bandits like the James brothers or Jeffrey Bridger.

On their way toward Oklahoma, Captain John Reilly and his men had passed through Dodge City and Garden City. Many residents had welcomed them with open arms. But there were also people who met the bluecoats with suspicion. Reilly assumed that news of the cavalry division's arrival had long since preceded his men.

A hell of a job lay ahead for Reilly and his men.

South of Garden City, Jeffrey Bridger's gang was supposed to be hiding out. They had pulled off a few successful bank robberies before disappearing into the backwoods of Kansas.

Success had brought an influx to Bridger's gang. Common criminals were among them, as well as former members of the Confederate Army who were under the illusion that the Southern cause was not lost after all.

Captain Reilly's mission was to break up Bridger and his gang. If possible, the leaders were to be brought to justice.

Riding beside Reilly was Lieutenant Ben McCall, a blond man in his mid-thirties with bright blue, alert eyes. McCall guided the reins of his bay horse with his left. His right rested on the Army holster on his belt.

I wouldn't be surprised if Bridger's people were lurking around here somewhere, sir, Ben McCall muttered. The lieutenant squinted against the low sun.

This is Bridger's land, the captain stated. But we're here to take it away from him!

Aye, sir! nodded Ben McCall. I don't have to tell you that it would actually take a lot more people to do that!

Reilly laughed hoarsely.

Nobody asks about that, the commander replied.

The neighing of a horse caused both men to spin around in their saddles.

Corporal Ray Taggert's horse shied.

The dark-haired man managed with difficulty to get the horse back under control. Taggert bent over and grabbed the animal's nostrils. It calmed down.

The department held.

What's going on? shouted John Reilly.

The corporal straightened up in the saddle. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

I don't know sir, maybe an insect stung my brown.

At that moment, a shot crashed down from the bluffs. The bullet whistled past Captain Reilly's head by a hair's breadth. It missed him by barely a finger's breadth. Reilly pulled the Colt from the Army holster. The horse spooked and stood on its hind legs, neighing.

More shots whistled around the bluecoats' ears.

Shooting was now going on everywhere from the slopes. At least from twenty pipes, Reilly estimated.

The first soldier was taken out of the saddle before he had drawn his saddle gun. A second, who had just pulled the Sharps repeater from the Scubbard and loaded it through, took a hit to the head. A jolt went through the cavalryman's body. He was jerked backward. A foot caught in the stirrup. The horse broke sideways, dragging the dead man behind it.

Lieutenant Ben McCall and Corporal Ray Taggert had pulled their long-barreled .44 caliber Army Colts from their holsters and were firing back. The attackers, however, seemed to be coming from all sides. Captain Reilly's squad had been ambushed.

There was virtually no coverage.

Within moments, half a dozen soldiers were dead and lying in their blood.

Reilly knew immediately that the only thing left to do was to prevent the worst from happening.

Forward! he roared.

At this, he also fired his Colt.

He aimed at a bush behind which he had seen muzzle flashes moments before.

A hoarse death cry mingled with the sounds of gunfire.

The bluecoats dashed forward.