Return to Sundown Valley

By Cole Shelton

Luke Dawson and his Navajo Indian sidekick, Honani, both Union soldiers, have ridden home from the Civil War. Each man yearns to return to a normal life but while they rode away to the War, things changed in Sundown Valley. Instead of peace in the valley, they face Dallas Zimmer who's consumed by greed and has a bunch of killers at his disposal. He's even claimed Luke's woman. Faced with murder, corruption and injustice, Luke rides through hostile Apache Country to face Zimmer and his gang in a final showdown. But are the odds too great?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Sep 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780719830242

Cole Shelton

Roger Norris-Green was born in Brighton, UK, and emigrated with his parents to Australia when he was a schoolboy. Since leaving school, he has written 137 published westerns under 6 pen names plus 2 under his own name. Some of his westerns have received 'Best Western of the Month' awards. Roger lives with his wife Elaine in Moonta Bay, South Australia. Although retired, he is still writing. Last Chance Saloon, written specially for Black Horse Westerns, is his 140th western.

Book preview

Return to Sundown Valley

Luke Dawson and his Navajo Indian sidekick, Honani, both Union soldiers, have ridden home from the Civil War. Each man yearns to return to a normal life but while they rode away to the War, things changed in Sundown Valley. Instead of peace in the valley, they face Dallas Zimmer who’s consumed by greed and has a bunch of killers at his disposal. He’s even claimed Luke’s woman. Faced with murder, corruption and injustice, Luke rides through hostile Apache Country to face Zimmer and his gang in a final showdown. But are the odds too great?

By the same author

Last Chance Saloon

Return to Sundown Valley

Cole Shelton

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ROBERT HALE

© Cole Shelton 2019

First published in Great Britain 2019

ISBN 978-0-7198-3024-2

The Crowood Press

The Stable Block

Crowood Lane

Ramsbury

Marlborough

Wiltshire SN8 2HR

www.bhwesterns.com

Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

The right of Cole Shelton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

CHAPTER ONE

It was close to sundown when the sudden snarl of gunfire broke the silence of dusk and echoed over the canyon country.

Two riders, weary from their long, two-thousand-mile trek across rolling plains and mountain ranges, first by stagecoach and then in the saddle, reined their horses sharply as a second gunshot blasted from the far side of the next ridge.

Luke Dawson, dark-haired, lean and tall, let his right hand drop and rest on the scarred Peacemaker six-shooter nestling in its leather holster. His companion, a bronze-faced Navajo Indian, Lance Corporal Honani, took the precaution of lifting his Springfield army rifle from its saddle scabbard.

For a long moment they both simply sat saddle, listening as the whispering westerly wind carried the gunshot echoes away over the distant rims.

This sound of gunfire was far from welcome. Just over three months ago, the booming thunder of pistols, rifles and cannons had finally fallen silent when two generals, Ulysses S. Grant for the Union and Robert E. Lee for the Confederate Army, signed the official ceasefire in the Appomattox Courthouse, ending the bitter Civil War that had divided America. Like many other battle-weary soldiers slowly making their way home from the fields of conflict, Luke and Honani didn’t relish hearing gunfire. It brought back dark, haunting memories of war, like sudden death, cries of the wounded and dying, burying bullet-riddled comrades in shallow, unmarked graves.

‘Could be a hunter,’ Honani suggested hopefully.

They had seen wild deer in wilderness mountain country and lately in the deeper canyons of Utah, especially where the Snake River twisted and turned before spilling into Lake Sandpiper. Two weeks ago Luke had stalked and shot a mottled stag in a shadowy, log-filled clearing, providing fresh meat for them both for a whole week.

‘Maybe,’ Luke Dawson said, but he wasn’t convinced.

Then, just as the gunfire echoes faded into silence, a frantic woman’s scream pierced the twilight like a razor-sharp knife.

That decided it for the riders. First Luke, then his Navajo sidekick, prodded their horses into a quick trot, building swiftly into a fast lope as they climbed the westward trail to the sharp crest of the next ridge. Both their horses had been bought a month ago when the westbound stage left them in Denver, Colorado. Within the hour, the two Union soldiers had visited saleyards behind the town’s blacksmith. Luke settled for a bay gelding the salesman said was named Buck. He’d had to tame Buck because the animal had a mind of his own. Honani chose a smaller horse, a shaggy brown pony not unlike the one he owned in Sundown Valley, where his people had lived for countless centuries.

Another high-pitched, terrified scream greeted them as they topped the golden-tipped ridge and momentarily halted their horses.

Below them, less than fifty paces away, was a motionless Wells Fargo stagecoach with four wide-eyed horses still in harness. A bloodstained man hung lifelessly over the driving seat. Two masked riders held a passenger at gunpoint. This hapless man was dressed in a Confederate soldier’s uniform, wooden crutches under his armpits, staring down the barrels of two Colt revolvers. Behind the stagecoach was an old tin-roofed wooden way station, its front door yawning wide open, creaking in the rising wind coming down from the distant mountains.

And it was from inside this way station that the woman’s desperate screams rose again, only to be stifled.

‘No! For pity’s sake, no!’ the soldier pleaded hoarsely with the two mounted outlaws. He moaned, ‘She’s my wife, we’re just married—’

‘Don’t worry, soldier-boy,’ the tallest bandit chuckled, his voice muffled under the bandana that masked the lower part of his face. ‘She’ll enjoy it once he gets started.’

The other outlaw sneered at the greycoat soldier, ‘Look at it this way. You’re just a useless cripple and you can’t give a fine-looking woman like her what she needs.’

‘You lousy bastards!’ the soldier croaked.

‘Button your lip,’ the tall outlaw warned ominously.

‘Yeah, shut up, Johnny Reb, or we’ll plug you here and now and keep your woman for ourselves,’ the other warned.

Luke and Honani exchanged swift glances. No words were needed. They’d been through Hell together for three and a half years and the last thing they wanted right now was a confrontation. However, the sight of this helpless man on crutches – albeit a Confederate soldier – weeping like a kid, and the sounds of a violent struggle punctuated by more terrified screams inside the way station gave them no choice.

They slid noiselessly from their horses.

Luke lifted his Colt from its leather and the Navajo checked his long rifle. The outlaws were so absorbed in their cruel mocking of the Confederate soldier, and making lewd remarks about what was about to happen to his wife, that they didn’t even hear the soft tread of boots coming up behind them. Nor did they see the glint of hope light up the soldier’s eyes as he glimpsed the two men approaching.

‘Drop your guns or we’ll blast you to Hell.’

Luke’s command froze the bandits to their saddles.

The tallest outlaw, who’d been about to taunt the crippled soldier again, turned his head slowly and looked straight down the naked barrel of Luke’s six-shooter, which had been pointing square at the centre of his back. He switched his glance to the Indian whose Springfield rifle was raised and ready, aimed straight between the other outlaw’s shoulders. There was no way either of them could turn in their saddles and fire their own guns before having their spines shattered.

‘Do like he says, Abe,’ the tall outlaw muttered.

The tall outlaw then tossed his gun into the dust. His stumpy companion reluctantly did the same as another choking scream and the sounds of a violent scuffle came from inside the way station. There was a light-grey horse standing alongside the two mounted riders, so Luke figured there was just one outlaw inside with the woman.

‘Please . . . please . . . help my wife,’ the Confederate soldier pleaded as the sound of deep, desperate sobbing floated from the way station.

‘Keep these sidewinders covered, Honani,’ Luke said. He added, ‘If they even look like making a move, shoot to kill.’

‘This I will do with pleasure,’ the Indian said resolutely.

Luke strode past the bandits and stagecoach, then barged through the door.

That’s when he saw the way station owner, a balding old man with a long grey beard, sprawled motionless over his office desk, blood soaking through the dime novel he’d been reading. There was a bullet hole between his eyes.

Luke pushed through the ransacked office into a narrow passageway leading to five small rooms. It was where stagecoach passengers could sleep for the night while horses were rested. He heard a grunt, then the sounds of material being ripped and what sounded like fists pummelling flesh.

The door of the first room was ajar.

Luke pushed it open wide and saw a big, bulky man who had a struggling woman pinned to the mattress on a narrow bunk bed. Mouthing obscenities, he was ignoring her flowing tears and desperate pleas, his huge knees rammed into her belly as he shredded her dress.

‘Get off her,’ Luke commanded from the doorway.

With his huge knees still digging into his prey’s quivering stomach, the outlaw turned sharply and saw Luke standing with his gun levelled.

‘You heard me! I said get off her!’ Luke repeated coldly.

‘Keep your shirt on, mister,’ the outlaw said softly. He figured this stranger in the Union uniform must have been resting up in one of the rooms. There was no way he could have sneaked past his two fellow outlaws. After all, he’d just left them right outside the way station front door. He smirked, ‘Look, you can have your turn, too . . . after me, of course.’

Luke pulled his trigger. Thunder rocked the way station and a bullet burned like a fiery poker into the flabby flesh of the outlaw’s right buttock. Yelping in excruciating pain and hot fury, the outlaw clawed for his own holstered gun. He dragged the Colt .45 clear from its holster, but Luke’s next bullet blasted him clean off the bunk. He lurched sideways into a small wooden cupboard, splintering the door from its hinges. Bleeding through his ribcage, he crashed back against the log wall. He was dead before he pitched headfirst to the floor.

The soldier’s wife, who was much younger than her man, clutched the torn remains of her floral dress to her trembling body, although the shredded pieces of material barely covered her.

‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! The filthy swine was about to—’ Breasts heaving tumultuously, she broke into a bout of uncontrolled sobbing. She was still weeping as she blurted out, ‘My husband . . . Is he—?’

‘He’s alive and well, ma’am,’ Luke put her mind at rest as he sheathed his gun. ‘My saddle pard has the two other hold-up men at gunpoint.’

‘Praise God,’ she said fervently.

‘I’m needed outside, ma’am,’ Luke said. ‘I suggest you hunt around and see if the way station owner has spare clothes stashed away here. Mightn’t exactly fit you but they’ll be better than nothing.’

‘Mister, I have clothes,’ the woman told him quickly. ‘They’re in my luggage, the brown case strapped to the stagecoach roof. My husband and I were on the way home from our honeymoon when the stagecoach was held up, you see. The bandits were staked out here in the way station waiting for us.’

‘There’s a bed blanket in there,’ Luke Dawson said, indicating the smashed cupboard. ‘Wrap it around yourself so you’re decent.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said gratefully.

‘Meanwhile, I’ll fetch your case.’

As Luke turned to leave, she said fervently, ‘My man fought for the Confederacy, and by the uniform you’re wearing you’re a Union soldier, but I’m sure beholden to you, mister.’

‘War’s over, ma’am,’ he reminded her.

‘Yes, thank God,’ she agreed.

Luke headed back through the way station office to the open door.

While Luke was inside, Honani had ordered the outlaws to dismount and now they stood unmasked, hands in the air, with their backs flat against the way station wall. The Confederate soldier had reached up and grabbed the dead stage driver’s gun and now he leaned on his crutches right next to the Union lance corporal, blue and grey uniforms side by side together.

Luke gave the bandits a cursory