Comanchero Trail

By Jack Dakota

When Dean Kittredge is taken on as a hired gun by the Rafter W, the owner's wilful granddaughter, Miss Trashy, is only the first of his worries. He soon finds himself up against the notorious El Serpiente and his gang of Comanchero gunmen. Jensen Crudace, the sinister land and cattle agent, is intent on using the Comancheros to gain control of the territory. Together, Kittredge and ranch foreman Tad Sherman are involved in a desperate quest to track El Serpiente to his hidden base in the heart of a distant mesa. Will they succeed in stopping the ruthless gunmen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Apr 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780719823084

Book preview

Chapter One

Dean Kittredge stepped out of leather, tied his buckskin to the hitching post outside the Black Hat saloon and glanced up and down the main street of town. He was about to step up to the boardwalk when his attention was drawn to a wagon which appeared round a corner and drew up at the general store. The driver climbed down and offered his hand to a lady who had her back to Kittredge. When she alighted she turned in his direction and for a moment their eyes met. In that instant Kittredege knew he wasn’t travelling any further. The herd could make it to Abilene without his assistance.

He continued to watch as the young woman turned aside and made her way inside the store. The driver turned on his heel and came down the street towards Kittredge. He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty. He walked past Kittredge without so much as a glance and clattered through the batwings into the saloon. With a last lingering glance in the direction of the general store, Kittredge followed him inside. The air was thick with smoke and there were a large number of people, despite the time of day. A roulette table was spinning in the centre of the room and several games of faro seemed to be taking place at the tables. A piano stood in the corner but there was no sign of the piano player. Kittredge’s eyes swept the room before picking out the man he was looking for standing at the bar. Kittredge moved forward.

‘What’s it to be?’ the barman asked.

‘Sarsaparilla,’ Kittredge replied.

The barman looked him up and down.

‘What was that?’ he said.

‘A sarsaparilla.’

A couple of men standing next to Kittredge turned their heads.

‘Sorry. Plumb out of sarsaparilla,’ the barman said.

The two men laughed. ‘Give him a glass of milk,’ one of them quipped.

The barman grinned. ‘Glass of milk OK?’ he asked.

‘I’d prefer sarsaparilla.’

A glass came scudding down the bar, slopping whiskey over the side. Kittredge’s gaze flicked to the mirror over the bar to see where it had come from. A pair of dull eyes met his.

‘Drink it!’ one of the men next to him said.

‘I asked for sarsaparilla.’

The man’s hand reached out and took the glass. He thrust it under Kittredge’s chin.

‘What’s wrong with Valley Tan?’ he said.

The barman glanced at him. ‘Steady, Red,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll be givin’ the place a bad reputation.’

‘Drink it,’ the man repeated to Kittredge.

Kittredge took the glass from the man’s hand. He made to raise it to his mouth and then spilled it on the floor.

‘You drink it.’

The man flushed and stepped forward. As he did so another voice spoke.

‘Give him a sarsaparilla.’

The barman turned his head. Kittredge was observing events in the mirror. The man who had spoken was the man who had driven the wagon with the young lady. The barman hesitated for just a moment.

‘Sure would like to, Mr Sherman,’ he said, ‘but I’m fresh out.’

‘Go and get some from the grocery store,’ Sherman said.

The barman’s glance fell upon the man he had called Red. In that instant Kittredge saw the man’s hand drop to his gunbelt. In the flicker of an eye his gun was in his hand but Kittredge’s draw was faster. Kittredge’s Colt spat lead and the man winced as his gun went flying from his grasp. His companion’s gun was in his hand but a shot from Sherman slammed him in the shoulder and sent him reeling against the bar. Out of the corner of his eye Kittredge had seen the man down the bar go for his gun and, swivelling round to face him, he loosed off a second shot just as the man’s own gun barked. The shot flew over Kittredge’s head and went ricocheting round the saloon. Kittredge’s bullet hit the man in the chest and he went down, blood spurting and soaking into the sawdust. Together, Kittredge and Sherman faced the men who were gathered at the bar but no one else seemed inclined to join in.

‘Somebody get a doctor,’ Sherman said.

The whole incident had happened so quickly that most of the customers seated at the tables had barely registered it. A man near the door sprang to his feet and made for the batwings. Sherman had the two nearest gunmen covered; neither of them was badly hurt. Kittredge bent over the gunman who had been shot in the chest. He was losing a lot of blood but it seemed likely he would survive if the doctor arrived quickly. It wasn’t long till the doctor did so, in the company of the marshal.

‘Sherman,’ the marshal said. ‘I didn’t figure you’d get caught up in somethin’ like this.’

‘It was self-defence,’ Sherman said. ‘Ask anybody.’

‘I might need to talk to you later,’ the marshal said. He turned to Kittredge. ‘I know where to find Sherman,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

Kittredge hesitated, not sure how to reply. He had intended only a brief visit to Arrowhead to eat and pay a trip to the barber shop. He suddenly thought of the girl. Before he could say anything, Sherman answered for him.

‘He’s stayin’ at the Rafter W.’

‘I’ll be stoppin’ by,’ the marshal said.

Sherman turned away and started to walk. For a moment Kittredge remained standing at the bar, then he followed. When they were out in the street Sherman turned to him.

‘Get some sarsaparilla, then follow behind that wagon.’

Kittredge walked away but didn’t go to the grocery store. Instead he went to the barber shop. In case there was any chance of coming into contact with the girl he wanted to look a little less begrimed and saddle-worn. He wondered what the relationship was between the girl and Sherman.

‘That fella Sherman don’t say a lot,’ he reflected.

When he got up from the barber’s chair he felt a whole lot better.

‘Which way to the Rafter W?’ he asked.

The barber did not immediately reply and Kittredge had to repeat the question.

‘A few miles out of town,’ the barber replied. ‘Follow the trail north till you come to a cut-off. The Rafter W is signed further down.’

Kittredge thanked the barber and stepped to the door. It opened in his face and a couple of bewhiskered men brushed by him. Outside, their horses were tied to the hitchrack and he glanced at their brands: Spanish Bit. He returned to the Black Hat saloon where his horse was still tethered, climbed into the saddle and swung off down the main street. The town soon petered out in a jumble of old shacks and adobes. Glancing down, he could see lines in the dust left by carriage wheels.

That’s probably Sherman and the girl, he thought.

He was still reflecting on what the relationship might be between them when something made him draw his horse to a halt. He listened carefully. After a few moments his ears detected the faint clatter of horses’ hoofs. He looked around for cover. A little way ahead, situated just off the trail, was a clump of prickly pear mixed with mesquite with a small hill back of it. He rode into it and waited. A considerable time seemed to pass and he was beginning to wonder whether he had been wrong. Then a voice from behind him made him realize he had not been wrong but careless.

‘Put your hands up. We got you covered.’

Whoever it was must have circled round. That meant they had been deliberately seeking him. From what he had heard of their horses, he reckoned there were at least two. No, probably just two. He remembered the two hombres who had pushed by him coming out of the barber shop. He needed to know where the other one was situated.

‘Sure. Just take it easy.’

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ another voice called. ‘And drop your gunbelt.’

Kittredge had a fair idea of where the two men were placed behind him. Maybe he was calculating this all wrong but that was a chance he had to take. As he slowly reached down for his gunbelt he dug his spurs into the buckskin’s flanks. The horse jerked forward and Kittredge flung himself sideways and low as a rifle cracked and a bullet went flying over his head. Kittredge was leaning out at a sharp angle. As he held the reins in one hand he reached for his Colt with the other and fired back at the puff of smoke rising from the hillside. The man back there with the rifle had been a little slow in taking cover and Kittredge’s bullet shattered his skull as though it was a pumpkin. Even for Kittredge it was a lucky shot. There was a succession of booms from the other man’s rifle but the buckskin was galloping at pace and Kittredge knew he had nothing to worry about.

With some difficulty he hauled himself upright in the saddle and let the horse have its head before bringing it to a halt. He thought about going back and looking for the other man but decided against it. He remained still for a while, listening for any sounds of pursuit, but there was none. He reckoned the second bushwhacker had had enough. His action had taken them by surprise. The gunman was probably high-tailing it back to town. Kittredge had been negligent in allowing them the element of surprise but they had been more careless. They had given him an option and he had taken it.

Once he was satisfied that no one was on his back trail, Kittredge rode on. It was getting late in the afternoon and the sun was low. He was beginning to think he must have gone wrong somewhere when he arrived at the cut-off. As if to confirm that he was on the right track, the wagon seemed to have turned at this point. He left the main trail and kept riding. There were a few cattle on the range with their ears cut in a distinctive jingle bob. Presently he came to the signpost which carried the symbol for the Rafter W.

Seems pretty clear, Kittredge thought to himself.

For the first time he began to have doubts about the wisdom of coming out here. What did he know of Sherman or the Rafter W? Then he thought of the girl and carried on riding.

As Tad Sherman drove the wagon into the yard of the Rafter W, the door to the ranch house opened and the owner of the ranch appeared on the veranda. Sherman drew the wagon to a halt, dropped to the ground and walked round to assist his passenger alight. As she took his hand she gave him a quick glance.

‘Thank you, Mr Sherman. I’m much obliged.’

Sherman nodded and touched the brim of his hat. The girl flounced up to the veranda and kissed her grandfather.

‘You and Sherman were gone a long time,’ he remarked. ‘I was startin’ to get worried.’

‘There’s really no need, and besides I’m sure Mr Sherman is more than capable of handling any little eventualities.’

‘Maybe so.’

She moved past him into the house. Sherman was handing over the wagon to one of the ranch hands. When the girl had gone he turned to her grandfather.

‘Mr Waggoner,’ he said. ‘Could I have a word?’

The ranch owner nodded. ‘Sure. Come inside.’

When they were seated he handed his foreman a glass of whiskey.

‘So. You