Deputy Dalton: The Dalton Series, #3

By Ed Law

As a wanted man, Dalton never expected to find himself working as a lawman. But that's just what happens when he rides into Green Creek and the alcoholic Sheriff Holstein press-gangs him into becoming his deputy.

 

Dalton has no choice but to accept the assignment and soon discovers that the whole town has turned against the sheriff. And if that isn't bad enough, Sharky Bigelow's spree of cattle rustling is reopening an old vendetta and shattering the town's peace with a wave of lawlessness.

 

To bring peace to Green Creek, Dalton must restore faith in the law. But can he succeed with nobody to trust but himself? Will the deadly aim of his six-shooter be enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Culbin Press
• Release date: May 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215627396

Book preview

Chapter One

Please don’t hit me, Whitman!

This plea made Dalton stop on the boardwalk outside Jake’s hardware store. He had just purchased enough provisions to last a month, and he hefted the heavy saddlebag on to his right shoulder. In front of the sheriff’s office, four green-coated men surrounded a sprawling old-timer.

You’re littering up the town again, Holstein, the tallest of the men, Whitman, said as the other men nudged each other, gibbering taunts and pointing at their victim.

On his knees, Holstein cringed, his tattered clothing flapping around him, his hands pressed together as he beseeched the men to desist from their tormenting, but Whitman kicked him squarely in the back, knocking him flat on his face. The circle of men threw back their heads and guffawed in delight at Holstein’s plight.

Several other people were going about their business in Green Creek, but unlike Dalton, these people were studiously ignoring this incident as they scurried past. The door of the sheriff’s office was closed and Dalton reckoned that from the amount of noise the tormentors were making, the sheriff couldn’t be in town.

On shaking arms, Holstein pushed himself up from the ground and levered himself to a standing stoop. Whitman swaggered in a pace and kicked his legs from under him, slamming him to the ground again.

As another round of laughter sounded, Dalton sighed. He shuffled the saddlebag on to his left shoulder and walked toward the group. Whitman loomed over Holstein with his boot raised, ready to kick him again when he moved to rise, but with a wave of nodding, the other men indicated to him that Dalton was approaching.

Whitman lowered his foot, turned and placed his hands on his hips. An arrogant sneer spread across his swarthy face as behind him the other men also turned to Dalton.

Can I help you, stranger? he said.

What’s he done? Dalton asked, swinging to a halt.

Whitman snorted. What’s that matter to you?

I just wanted to talk to him. If it needs four men to take down one old-timer, I reckon that man must be someone special.

Whitman leaned to the side to spit on the ground.

Stay away, stranger.

Dalton set his feet wide apart. I’m just passing through, but I’ve got the time to let you know the name’s Dalton.

Just Dalton?

Just Dalton. So now I’m not a stranger no more.

I guess you’re not, but this still isn’t your battle.

Whitman and the other three men all sneered, while Holstein had a hint of moisture in his rheumy eyes. With the barest of movements, Dalton shook his head. He lowered his head and slowly turned, but then swung back, ripping the saddlebag from his shoulder and swinging it in an arc that slammed into Whitman’s guts.

A great explosion of air blasted from him as he folded over the bag and dropped to his knees. Dalton took two long paces to stand beside Holstein.

I reckon this is my battle, he said, raising his fists.

In a ripple of movement the other men raised their fists and advanced on Dalton. The first man swung a long right hook at Dalton’s face, but Dalton ducked the blow. When he came up, he delivered a sharp uppercut to the man’s chin that snapped his head back and a round-armed slug that wheeled him to the ground.

Even before he’d hit the ground, Dalton was turning on his heel and ducking, avoiding a blow from behind that whistled over his head and swung his assailant around. Dalton helped the man on his way with a firm kick to the rump that piled him into the ground, but the last man standing grabbed Dalton from behind and tightened his arms around him in a rib-crunching bear hug.

Dalton planted his feet wide apart and bent double to lift the man from the ground. Then he dropped to one knee to hurl him over his right shoulder. The man somersaulted before landing flat on his back.

Dalton rose to his feet, his fists raised, waiting for the first man to stand up. The green-coats were deliberately slow in rising and, when they did come up, they grouped and advanced as one.

Dalton backed away two paces to give himself time to regain his breath. Then they came, fists raised and with a sureness in their gait that said they’d make Dalton pay for having bettered them.

Unable to fight them one at a time, Dalton had no choice but to flail his fists wildly, hoping to get in as many blows as possible before they brought him down. Five times his fists connected with solid flesh, but for every blow he delivered, he received at least twice as many.

Then a pulverizing punch crunched into his right ear, spinning him to the ground and he was down on all fours. He shook his head, trying to free the ringing from his ears, but although he couldn’t, he moved to rise.

A firm kick on the back plowed his face into the dirt and another kick to the side sent him reeling. He rolled more than he needed to, hoping to roll clear of his assailants, but he only slammed into another boot.

Then the kicks came fast and heavy. Dalton could do nothing but seek self-preservation and roll into a ball. When the kicks stopped Dalton stayed balled up and cracked open an eye.

The green-coated men were all standing with their backs to him and facing an imposing gentleman, who stood on the boardwalk, shaking his head. His back was straight and he stood with one leg set to the side as he fingered his trim white mustache.

Leave him, he said with quiet authority.

He was interfering, Whitman said.

He’s a stranger. He doesn’t know how I run my town.

Whitman set his hands on his hips, snorting his breath through his nostrils, but then nodded and batted the dust from his green coat.

Have you learned your lesson, Dalton?

Whitman raised his eyebrows, giving Dalton a chance to back down, but Dalton just rolled to his knees and spat to the side.

I’ve got nothing to learn from the likes of you, he said.

The two men shared eye contact. Then Whitman picked up Dalton’s saddlebag and hurled it at Dalton’s chest, but Dalton caught it at arm’s length.

Like Montgomery said, you don’t know nothing about Green Creek, Whitman said. So leave town before I teach you a real lesson.

Whitman turned on his heel and, with the authoritative newcomer, Montgomery, headed away from Dalton. One by one the other men muttered their contempt for Dalton, and then peeled away and followed them, each man giving Holstein a wide berth.

When the men headed into the Red Horn saloon, Dalton prodded his ribs and arms, finding that aside from a general battered feeling, he’d come out of his beating in a better state than he’d feared. With a grateful smile that was more gap than teeth, Holstein held out a shaking hand and pulled Dalton to his feet.

I’m obliged, he said. I don’t know how I can show my gratitude.

There’s no need. I just gave them someone else to beat on. Dalton tipped his hat and hefted the saddlebag back on his shoulder. I’ll wish you luck in avoiding them.

Holstein shuffled to the side to stand before Dalton.

Even for a man who’s just passing through, you must have the time for me to stand you a drink.

Dalton shook his head. You need to get yourself some sense. If you go in the saloon, those men will start beating on you again, and I won’t be here to rescue you.

I’ve got me some whiskey over there.

Holstein pointed to a battered bag which lay on the boardwalk outside the sheriff’s office, and gave an encouraging grin.

Dalton shrugged. I guess I can stay in town for another few minutes.

With Holstein shuffling along in the lead, Dalton walked across the main drag and sat on the side of the boardwalk. Holstein rummaged in the bag and removed a quarter-full whiskey bottle.

He licked his lips as he passed the bottle to Dalton. Dalton nodded his thanks. He uncorked the bottle and took a swig of whiskey.

Are you going to tell me why those green-coated men were tormenting you?

Holstein snorted and rubbed a now still hand over his grizzled features and down through his matted beard.

I don’t reckon Montgomery Green’s men need a reason for anything they do.

I haven’t heard of Montgomery Green, but it doesn’t matter who he is. Dalton handed the bottle to Holstein. His men can’t treat anyone like that.

They can. Holstein swirled the bottle. He raised it to his lips, but then lowered it and wiped his eyes with his other hand. There isn’t much use me telling you my woes.

"Perhaps there isn’t, but if I see a lawman I’ll tell him what happened here and he might be able to stop them beating on