Trail of Lead

By Mike Deane

When bandit Charlie Weston robs a bank in Baxter Springs he is on dangerous ground. Marshal Pete Baker is the lawman in town and he will not let Weston get away easily. He sets out to bring the bank robber to justice, starting a manhunt that will stretch all the way west along the emigrant trail. And end in a bloody showdown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780719829154

Mike Deane

Librarian by day, western writer by night, Micheal O' Flaherty lives in Co. Cork with his wife and three daughters. He has had one western, Drive to Redemption, previously published by Robert Hale in 2011.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

April 24, 1868. Kansas

Pete Baker and Joe Flaherty stalked down Main Street, Baxter Springs. Pete was on edge and Joe had finally given up trying to calm him. ‘He’s going to get rid of us,’ Pete muttered. ‘I’m sure of it. He has his own man lined up, that son of a—’

‘He can’t do that,’ Joe interrupted. ‘You’ve done a great job as marshal.’

‘Thanks.’ Pete glanced at his friend. ‘And you’ve been a great deputy. But I don’t think that counts for much with Mayor Dell.’

Joe didn’t challenge Pete this time; he knew that there was no point. What Pete said could be true. He’d been marshal for two years now and he was doing as good a job as anyone could in a town as wild as Baxter Springs. But, he realised, if the mayor wanted to bring in his own man, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

The job didn’t mean as much to Joe, Pete knew. Joe was a Texan and could always ride back down the trail to the family ranch if necessary, whereas he, on the other hand, had made his life in Baxter Springs. He had Dorothy, a beautiful and loving wife, and three-month-old Tom. Being marshal helped support his family; it was an important source of income. His only source of income, in fact.

They strode along the wooden boardwalk until they reached the town hall and walked straight in. They were beckoned into the mayor’s office. He offered them seats, smiling his nauseatingly obsequious smile at them as they entered. Mayor Dell sat behind an imposing oak desk which, Pete knew from his few dealings with him, Dell thought gave him an air of separation from the stream of commoners he dealt with on a daily basis. Pete felt like running around that desk and planting a fist in Dell’s face. ‘Welcome, men.’ Dell’s large bushy moustache moved up and down as he spoke.

Pete was very much his own man and it was this trait that he knew caused Dell most frustration. He didn’t feel the need to fill the mayor in on every little detail of his work. He simply believed that it was none of his business, just as he hadn’t burdened the previous mayor with the minutiae of the job either. Pete would never make a politician, he knew that for sure, but he now realised that he might have to temper his stubbornness or it could cost him his job.

‘You’re probably wondering why I called you here,’ Dell said.

‘Let’s not drag this out any longer than necessary,’ Pete replied. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joe cast a worried glance in his direction.

‘What do you mean, Marshal?’ Dell’s voice was as sweet as molasses.

‘Stop fooling around and get to the point, Mayor.’ Pete was unable to play the game that he was sure Dell wanted him to play. The very injustice of the situation: the imminent removal of his job, his livelihood, his means of survival depending on the whim of a man like Dell was almost too much to bear. He wanted to get this over with quickly.

Dell arched an eyebrow and beckoned with his hand for Pete to continue with what he had to say.

‘You’re firing us, aren’t you?’

His words hung over the room like a pall. Everything was now out in the open. He’d said what was on his mind. Joe shifted in his chair and shuffled his feet nervously, his hard-soled boots scraping the floorboards. Dell wore a smirk on his face.

‘Come on, Joe,’ Pete said, ‘I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.’

He got to his feet. Joe, too, stood, but Dell halted them before they could make for the door. ‘Not so fast, boys. I didn’t give you permission to leave.’

Pete felt his temper flare. He was about to tell Dell where he could shove his permission when he felt Joe’s hand on his shoulder. He eyed his deputy’s face and saw his look of concern. Concern that he might say or do something that might have serious consequences. Even more serious than the loss of gainful employment. He would hold his tongue, for now at least. Whatever he felt about losing his job, spending a night, or two, in jail was not part of his plan.

‘I didn’t call you here to fire you,’ Dell said, unable to hide the smugness in his voice, ‘although after that little performance I might change my mind.’

Pete stared dead into the eyes of the mayor until Dell looked away.

‘I know this is a tough town to control,’ Dell said. ‘Cattlemen bring money but also trouble. But the bottom line is that we need the cattle business. We’d be broke without it.’

Dell spoke the truth. Pete was the one who had to deal with the violent, drunk and randy cowboys and the chaos they brought with them each time a herd was driven to the town railheads. The saloons, hotels, brothels, whores, stores; all were dependent on the cowboys and their money.

‘I don’t know why you thought I was going to fire you,’ Dell added. ‘I think you’re doing a good job.’

Something in Dell’s voice prevented Pete from believing him completely.

‘But . . .’ Pete uttered. He left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

‘Exactly,’ Dell replied. ‘But . . .’ He let the word hang there for a moment before continuing. ‘We need to get more money in taxes,’ he said, speaking quickly to hide the quaver in his voice. ‘I was thinking of bringing someone in to help you. Someone the businesses couldn’t say no to.’

Pete let Dell’s words settle like stones dropping to the bottom of the riverbed. Collecting fines and taxes was his least favourite part of the job, so any help in that regard would be welcome. If that was what Dell truly had in mind.

‘Who were you thinking of?’ Pete asked.

‘Evan Taylor.’

‘Evan Taylor? You sure?’ Pete’s reasoned tone of voice hid his incredulity at Dell’s suggestion. Taylor was a thug and a gunsmith. During the previous cattle season, Taylor had raised some hell in the town, beat up a couple of whores and shot up Carley’s General Store. In the end Pete and Joe gave him the option of either leaving Baxter Springs for good or spending some time in the town jail. Wisely, Taylor chose the first option. But now he was back, and with the mayor’s blessing, it seemed.

‘I’m not sure I could bear the sight of that thug wearing a shield,’ Pete said.

‘Well, I think he could do a good job for us and . . .’ Dell raised his hand to stop Pete from interrupting, ‘. . . ultimately, the money collected from businesses goes to pay your salary. Just think about that, Pete.’

Dell didn’t need to elaborate any further; it was clear to Pete what he was getting at.

‘This has already been decided, hasn’t it?’

Dell was silent.

‘If I don’t agree to this, Taylor will take over as marshal anyway.’

Dell didn’t respond.

‘Well?’ Pete asked forcefully. He leaned forward in his chair, narrowing the distance between them.

‘Now, Pete,’ Dell said in a faltering voice, ‘the reason I brought you here was so we could talk about this.’

‘And if I say no?’

The mayor took his time, trying desperately to regain his composure. Finally, he said, ‘You have a wife, Pete. And a baby. . . .’

‘I see,’ Pete replied. ‘So that’s the way it’s going to be.’ He sat back in his chair. He burned inside with frustration and anger. He loved being marshal of Baxter Springs and drew great satisfaction from trying to manage the town as best he could. He’d become part of the community and that had given him a sense of worth. And, most importantly, he earned a good living for himself and his family. And that had to be the foremost concern in his mind. Ultimately, he couldn’t afford to put that living in undue jeopardy.

‘Joe stays as my deputy, all right?’ was all he said, trying to hide the defeat in his voice.

‘I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement.’ Dell rose and reached his hand across the table. It remained hanging in the air, untouched, as Pete and Joe walked out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

Five men rode toward the outskirts of town. Charlie Weston drew his overcoat tighter around him and pulled his hat down lower over his eyes. The four men with him did the same. It wasn’t cold, or wet; they weren’t dressed in these heavy coats with high collars for any other reason than to conceal their identities and the weapons they carried.

Weston chewed on an unlit thick cigar, tense but not nervous. He’d been through this many times before over the last few years, although not with this band. He found it more and more difficult to find reliable and loyal gunmen. If all went well, this would be the last time he’d have to draw his Colt in anger. He was eager for it all to end. He found it harder to keep going now. The lifespan of an outlaw was only so long, and he felt that his luck might be coming to an end. That was one reason why this job was so important. He had plans, and this payout should allow him to make them real. The town was quiet as they rode along the street. The five men passed unnoticed; if anybody saw them, they’d be mistaken for cowmen or drovers.

Weston reined in outside the bank. The men dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail. Not a word passed between them; they knew their roles. Two men fanned out and covered the approaches to the clapboard building. The other two followed Weston.

He fought to control his breathing as he approached the front door. His nerve endings tingled with excitement. He did not feel any fear. What had he left to fear, anyway? He had nothing to lose, nobody waiting for him. He just had to look after himself, and this was his way of doing just that.

Weston pushed open the front door and entered the bank, closely followed by one of his men, a grizzled old outlaw named Stewart. The other man stayed outside to make sure that nobody else followed them in. There were just two staff, a clerk and a cashier, sitting behind a wooden counter. Weston didn’t go to the desk but stopped and warmed his hands at the stove placed just inside the door. Instead, he watched Stewart approach the clerk.

‘Can you change this for me, friend?’ Stewart growled as he slid a ten-dollar bill across the polished counter. The clerk reached for the bill but stopped midway as the steel barrel of Stewart’s revolver pressed against his temple. The cashier leaped to his feet to help his colleague, instinct trumping restraint.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ snarled Weston from behind his cigar. The cashier was halted by the sound of the hammer of Weston’s gun being drawn back. ‘I said stop, feller. Or I will blast your head off.’

The tone of Weston’s voice left the cashier in no doubt that he meant what he said.

‘Let’s not waste any time,’ Weston said forcefully. His men outside would keep watch but there was always the danger that a curious lawman would show up and note the muffled figures outside the town’s only bank and grow suspicious. He had to expedite matters and, from experience, he knew that brutality was often the best way of shocking people into action.

The two bank staff stared at him,