Vengeance Trail (The Lawmen Western #4)

By J.B. Dancer

There was a wagonload of gold sitting deep behind the Confederate lines, and a war brewing up between North and South. Lee Fisher had to get the gold out and bring it back to the Union. Men died in the taking, and Fisher ran with a pack of cut-throat rebels on his heels. It was a long chase that ended with the gold back in rebel hands and corpses littering the streets of Natchez. But gold makes men greedy and the rebels followed the lure halfway to Mexico. They hadn’t counted on Fisher coming after them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215864609

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There was a wagonload of gold sitting deep behind the Confederate lines, and a war brewing up between North and South. Lee Fisher had to get the gold out and bring it back to the Union. Men died in the taking, and Fisher ran with a pack of cut-throat rebels on his heels. It was a long chase that ended with the gold back in rebel hands and corpses littering the streets of Natchez. But gold makes men greedy and the rebels followed the lure halfway to Mexico. They hadn’t counted on Fisher coming after them.

THE LAWMEN 4: VENGEANCE TRAIL

By J. B. Dancer

Copyright © J. B. Dancer 1978, 2024

This electronic edition published January 2024

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Series Editor: Mike Stotter

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

Chapter One

THE RIVER WAS wide and sluggish, banded on both sides by soft, swampy ground and stands of cottonwood and scrub oak. The man on the bay horse took his time checking the ground, and it was only after he had pulled a ragged map from his saddlebags and checked the directions marked there that he walked the bay down to the water and tested the bottom. Then, satisfied, he turned the horse and rode back the way he had come.

He halted atop the spine of a small ridge and waved his hat high above his head. Off in the distance a small group of riders shouted a reply and came forwards. They moved slowly because the wagon they escorted was heavy, slow-moving, and they were reluctant to let it go behind. They moved with military precision: two men tailing the wagon, two flanking, one leading. The sixth urged the four-horse team on with shouts and a nine-foot bullwhip. The man on the ridge watched them for a while, then looked up at the sky.

He was a big man, beard stubble covering lean cheeks and fleshy lips. His eyes were pale blue and very cold, despite the sweat trickling down his face. His hair was dark and thick, but his skin was pale, unused to the Texas sun, and red with burn. He rubbed absently at a blister beside his mouth, grimacing at the sudden sting of pain. He spat on his fingers and touched the moisture to the blister, lifting up in his stirrups as he sought to ease the numb aching of his thighs and buttocks. He settled back into the saddle and adjusted the hang of his gun belt. It was a plain, brown leather belt, the flapped holster canted forwards over his left hip, the flap buttoned down to protect the Colt’s Navy model revolver from the dust. He was dressed in a mixture of grey and blue and black, part military, part civilian. His hat was short-brimmed and decorated with a cord of plaited gold thread, there was a lighter patch on the grey at the front where a badge had been removed. The grey of his hat matched the color of his tunic, a loose-fitting jacket unbuttoned in the heat to expose a grubby undervest of bright red and a patch of curling, black chest hair. He wore broadcloth pants that looked new, the blue material tucked into knee-high leather boots. Like his gun belt and saddle, the boots were oiled and well-tended, as though he cared little for clothes, but much for the necessities. The thin white line of a recent scar showed down his left cheek. It ran from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth, tugging both features slightly out of true so that his face had a lopsided slant that seemed to emphasize the ugliness of his gaze.

He settled his hat back on his head and tugged the chinstrap down against the warm wind blowing up from the south. Then he hauled a spyglass clear of the container strapped to his saddle and put it to his right eye. Slowly, taking care, he scanned the horizon.

The country was wide and flat and empty. Off to the north, almost hidden behind the haze, was a range of low hills. To the south there was nothing but emptiness, fading away into the distance and the invisible ocean. Eastwards the land got greener, not much, but enough to emphasize the arid bleakness of his position.

There was no sign of pursuit.

He folded the telescope and shoved it back inside the container. Instinctively, his hand went on to stroke the stock of the rifle in the scabbard buckled alongside the saddle. It was a .54 caliber Reid, a weapon of enormous power further enhanced by the modifications he had made. He grinned at the memories the smooth, wood stock brought back. The gun had been a gift from his father, a prize granted him for his prowess in a shooting match. He had waited two years before taking it to the Tallassee Armory in Alabama, where the barrel was replaced, transforming the carbine to a rifle with a range of close on a mile and pin-point accuracy. Since then it had served him well.

He had carried the gun at Martinsburg, Carrick’s Ford, and Manassas. Again at Wilson’s Creek. All through that bloody, confused summer of 1861, the year of decision.

It had been a good year for Nathan Cheever. A year when the South stood up and made her voice heard. A year when the men of the South threw off the Yankee chains and taught the Unionists a lesson. Manassas had done that. Bull Run, they called it—after the blood-stained creek that ran through the battlefield—but that was Yankee obstinacy; the place was Manassas and the Confederate States of America had whupped the Northerners real good. Taught them a lesson they’d long remember.

Movement lower down the slope brought Cheever’s attention back to full focus and he settled his gaze on the wagon.

The horses were having trouble dragging the weight up the rise and Thorne, accompanied by Wilson, had come in to drop a rope over the foreposts and help drag the thing up the ridge.

Cheever waited until they reached the top, then pointed a thumb back over his shoulder.

We’ll camp this side an’ cross in the morning. I guess we can all use the rest.

Goddam right we can! Thorne was a gangling man with angry eyes and a tongue near as sharp to react as his gun hand. My ass feels like a skinned hide. We been ridin’ five days now, Nathan. We hafta to be in front of him.

Yeah. Cheever felt torn between irritation and amusement. Only that’s all we know: he’s behind us.

Jesus! Thad Wilson stood up over his saddle and massaged his buttocks. He’s only one man! Why not lay up for him? We could park the wagon down there in the trees an’ set an ambush. If he’s followin’, he’ll come on in. Then we hit him.

Cheever shook his head. No. It ain’t worth it. You seen what he can do. He could get in amongst us an’ lift the wagon, maybe kill some of us. We’ll post guards on the wagon an’ more on the ridge. Move on come mornin’.

Thorne and Wilson opened their mouths to protest, but Rob Holdstock cut in first. He was older than any of his companions, a grizzled man with a full, black beard tumbling down around his face and bright, black eyes sparking from behind gold-framed spectacles.

Nathan’s right, he said loudly. We can’t afford to take no chances. I don’t know who the hell that man is, but I know he’s after us. An’ he ain’t gonna stop. You saw what happened at Natchez an’ you saw what happened to Davey an’ Tobe. I say we keep goin’.

The two younger men closed their mouths and looked thoughtful. The reminder squashed their vehemence with the flat, cold finality of truth…

Louisiana … The bayous … the warm, green country of tall trees and Spanish moss … a green place, a Southern place …

They had got the wagon over a stream, floating it on rafters of hard-cut timber, a trunk lashed on either side. The team was swum over first, then they set up drag lines and two men had forded the stream to join Cheever on the far bank. Davey Duggan was on the wagon. Handling the lines.

The shot had come out of nowhere, a booming roll of sound that echoed off the trees and scattered a flight of partridges through the foliage. Davey stood up in the seat with his mouth and eyes wide open. His arms hung out to either side and a big red patch spread across the front of his shirt. He lifted clear of the wagon like a man on strings and pitched face-down into the green-slimed water as the bullet thudded against the far bank.

The others had fired blind through the trees, shattering branches and scaring birds. But the hidden gun had stayed silent and when Cheever, McQueen and Bronson scouted back all they found was a spent cartridge from a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo gun and a trail that disappeared into the swamplands.

By then Davey Duggan was floating away towards the Gulf with alligators sliding out to feast on the unexpected meal.

The next killing came as they crossed the Sabine River into Texas. The wagon bogged down in a salt wash and Cheever split the men up into two groups: one to drag and one to shove.

Tobe Evans was pushing the off-side rear wheel up from the salt when the dull roar of the Sharps sounded again. Tobe screamed once and spun clear of the wheel with his skull gaping open. Blood ran down his face and he went down on his knees. The Sharps boomed again. The front of Tobe’s face exploded over the salt. The crystals got very red as Tobe hurled forwards and lay still.

Again, there was no sign of the hidden marksman …

Let’s go. Cheever barked the order in an attempt to snap his men out of their abrupt gloom. We’ll fort up by the river. Country’s empty as far back as I can see an’ we’ll post flankers in case he’s still behind us.

Holdstock swung his bullwhip across the backs of the team and started them up towards the river. Thorne and Wilson went down alongside and Cheever waited for the other three to ride up and join him. When they arrived he explained the arrangements. McQueen and Bronson nodded and rode on down to the river. Coburn hung back.

What’s the trouble? said Cheever. Coburn shrugged. Don’t rightly know, Nathan. I … thought I saw dust behind us earlier on. Like there was a single rider on our trail. I ain’t sure: maybe it’s nuthin’. Maybe it’s him.

Wait on up here, said Cheever. I’ll get the wagon bedded down an’ come back. If you see anythin’ come tell me.

Coburn nodded and eased his horse over the ridge. Cheever followed him, but while the big, dark man went on down the far slope towards the river, Coburn reined in a few yards down. He dismounted and ground-hitched his animal. Then he slipped a Spencer carbine from the saddle boot and ran back up the slope. Ten feet from the spine he dropped to the ground and crawled forwards and to the side, angling off for a low stand of mulberry that afforded a little overhanging cover. He found a place where the bushes separated enough to give him clear view and stretched out, waiting.

Holdstock took the wagon down into the trees and found a place where the grass was firm. He broke the team loose and removed the harness, wrapping heavy leather straps around the forefeet of each horse. Thorne, Wilson, McQueen and Bronson unsaddled and set up a tether line. Cheever called for Holdstock to strip his mount down as he went over to the wagon. He checked the ropes holding the canvas tight against the bulky outlines of the cargo and smiled, patting the angular shapes with something approaching affection.

Then he turned away and began to shout orders.

Bronson and McQueen were detailed to collect wood for a fire; Holdstock to begin a meal. Wilson and Thorne went off through the trees to establish a perimeter guard. Cheever cleaned his rifle and thought.

The sun faded down behind the trees and mosquitoes came out buzzing from the soft ground. Holdstock wandered round, plucking leaves that he tossed onto the fire so that it smoked and drove the hungry insects away. He produced a big pot and several chunks of meat wrapped in cheesecloth. He carved pieces from the joints and dropped them in the pot along with water and vegetables. The pot began to sizzle.

Holdstock pulled a wad of chewing tobacco from his dirty, grey tunic and cut a wad. He chewed for a while, watching Cheever from under the peak of his dirty kepi.

Cheever ignored the stare.

We gotta do somethin’ about him. Holdstock punctuated his sentence with a spit. Ain’t no way to ignore it.

Christ! I know that. Cheever looked up from his rifle, his eyes angry. But what?

Depends where we’re headed, said Holdstock quietly; chewing. "An’ what we’re plannin’ to do