The Bounty

By Holly Bargo

Emmet Hallelujah Jones, a renowned bounty hunter and gunslinger, sets off after another lucrative bounty. This time, it's personal.

 

A just but focused man, Emmet will do anything to catch this bounty, even if it means gunning down a few other memorable names in the process. However, as he tracks down the bounty, he finds something unexpected. He's introduced to a peace he has never known, a peace he has always yearned for, but which has always been out of his reach because of who and what he has made himself to be. Now, with new choices before him, he must decide what he values most.

Will Emmet hang up his guns and turn over a new leaf? Will he claim that bounty? What will become of this self-made man?

 

Justice. Vengeance. Redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 0-0-8 Studios
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989675418

Book preview

Holly Bargo

The Bounty

First published by 0-0-8 Studios L.L.C. 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Holly Bargo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Holly Bargo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is part of a personal collection intended to be shared with a willing audience. A willing audience is defined as an individual, or group of individuals, who has purchased, rented, read, and/or reviewed any versioning or copy of this book, whether physical, digital, or other. Views, illustrations, opinions, and other aspects are not intended to malign or offend any religion, ethnic group, age group, gender/gender identity, club, organization, company, or individual(s). Therefore, while this author and agency assert rights toward the work, they do not hold any obligation to monitor or correct any insult or offense taken at these levels.

First edition

ISBN: 979-8-9896754-1-8

Typesetting by Reedsy

Advisor: Michael Lopez

Cover art by Nimle

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.

-James 1:12

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

0-0-8 Studios

About the Author

Also by Holly Bargo

Chapter 1

I need bullets.

Emmet Hallelujah Jones spoke the words aloud just to hear his own voice. It was true: he did truly need bullets. He didn’t mind the solitude of his life, because most people were idiots and idiots liked to congregate. They clustered. But he couldn’t buy bullets from the sun and wind, so he was forced to wander into town where he would no doubt be accosted by idiots who believed the penny dreadfuls they read.

Too bad I just can’t shoot ’em.

The sheriff of the last town he’d ridden out of hadn’t taken kindly to his preferred method of dissuading idiot townsfolk from bothering him, even after he’d accepted one fool’s challenge to a duel … and won, fair and square.

As he rode the trail—calling the dirt track his trusty steed followed a road gave it far too much credit—to Dalewell—and what kind of stupid name was that?—he listened to the soughing of the constant prairie breeze, the steady, muted clop of hooves, the creak of leather, and the jingling of the horse’s bit and his own spurs. Those sounds soothed him. He understood them.

Whatcha think, Arrow? he said.

The horse’s ears twitched back toward them then forward again, the gelding ever alert to danger. The distinctive piebald had an uncanny sense for detecting oncoming trouble.

We got an agreement, don’t we, buddy? Emmet said, paying close attention to the horse’s ears. A horse said a lot with its ears if you knew how to listen. I take care of you and you take care of me. Simple, huh?

Arrow did not reply beyond the swish of his tail.

Emmet lapsed again into silence, relaxing into the rhythmic sway of the horse’s long stride. He absently noted a few farmhouses in the distance, the prelude to Dalewell just a few miles ahead. Those next few miles passed peacefully, except for the gnawing hunger in his belly and the anxiety he concealed beneath an inscrutable expression that showed nothing more than faint hostility.

Eyes turned toward the distinctive piebald gelding as he entered town. Arrow seemed to enjoy the attention, perhaps taking it for admiration. He arched his neck and pranced.

Steady, Emmet muttered. This ain’t a parade.

Arrow exhaled and remained on alert. The weight of his two revolvers dragged at Emmet’s hips. Carrying two guns was expensive—and heavy— but wearing just one firearm made him feel lopsided. He glanced at the butt of the Sharps Model 1853 sporting rifle slung from the pommel of his saddle. He mentally counted his ammunition. There was one slug left in the rifle. Each revolver had four bullets. That might be enough to get him out of trouble once, but not twice.

He spied the town’s mercantile and rode Arrow to the hitching post. The horse seemed grateful to stop for a rest. After dismounting, Emmet made sure to loop the reins loosely over the rail, allowing enough slack for Arrow to get a good, long drink from the trough.

At least the water doesn’t look scummy.

He dug into a saddle bag and pulled out a small leather pouch filled with coins, payment for his last bounty hunting gig. He stuffed the pouch down the front pocket of his pants and headed into the store, roweled spurs jingling with every step. He blinked at the change from brilliant afternoon sunshine to the store’s dim interior.

Hello, may I help you? a man behind the counter inquired.

You got ammunition? Emmet asked, getting right to business as he glanced around at the stocked shelves, barrels, and bins.

All kinds, the clerk replied. What gauge do you need?

I got two Colt .45 Army revolvers and a Sharp’s 1853 breech loading rifle, Emmet replied. I need two hundred rounds for the revolvers and fifty for the rifle.

That’s a lot of ammo, the clerk remarked.

Emmet turned his pale blue stare on him and said, I got a long ways to travel.

The clerk shrugged and reached for the boxes of ammunition, asking, You need anything else, mister?

Can you recommend a place where I can get overnight lodging, a hot meal, and a bath and shave?

The clerk pursed his lips before answering. You want some female companionship for the night?

Just sleep.

Ah. He set the boxes of ammunition on the countertop and tallied the price. Emmet dug out his pouch and fished out the coins. The clerk thanked him and said, Y’all can get a soft bed and a hot meal at Miss Adelaide’s. She runs a boarding house—big white house with yellow shutters. You can’t miss it. The barber is across the street. And the Chinook Saloon’s got a bathhouse behind. The proprietor has the whores help with the washin’, so you might want to change your mind about just sleeping tonight.

Emmet nodded and muttered his thanks. He opened one of the boxes of bullets and loaded the empty slots in each revolver with deft efficiency. Holstering the guns, he carried the rest of his purchase outside where some lanky adolescent boys had gathered around his horse.

Hey, mister, that horse looks like the pictures of Arrow, one of the boys said as Emmet stashed his ammunition in a saddlebag. You know, from the penny dreadfuls. I got the latest issue written by Horace T. Gorsuch, the official biographer of Emmet Hallelujah Jones!

The boy flipped the well worn pamphlet in his hand to a favorite page where a detailed woodcut image of Arrow had been printed. He held it up.

See, your horse even has the same brand on his flank!

I know, Emmet said and wished Horace T. Gorsuch to perdition. The so-called journalist wrote lies, exaggerated, overly dramatic lies.

The boy’s eyes widened. "Hey, are you Emmet Jones, the gunslinger?"

The boy’s friends elbowed one another, eager to make a hero’s acquaintance.

Emmet squinted his eyes, piercing the boy with his pale blue stare. He snorted and took Arrow’s reins in hand, then swung his leg over the saddle and settled onto the horse’s back. Arrow sighed.

Git back, kids.

The boys did not move.

Are you, mister? Are you Emmet Jones, the gunslinger? another boy with curly red hair and freckles asked.

If I am, then impeding my way ain’t the smartest decision you’ve made, he replied as one hand hovered over the hilt of a revolver.

The boys scrambled backward.

Emmet touched the brim of his hat and nudged the horse onward. He decided to head first to the saloon for a bath. His mama had been a stickler for cleanliness, a habit he’d never outgrown. He saw a livery and veered toward that first. Arrow could use a meal and a rest as much as he could.

Ho there! he called out as he approached the large, open doors. He dismounted and peered into the dusty interior and called out again, Ho there!

Howdy, mister, you new in town? a middle aged man asked as he pushed a wheelbarrow from a stall. He set the wheelbarrow down and wiped his palms on his pants. With a quick glance at the tall piebald standing near the stranger, he assessed the situation and said, Board’s two bits per day. You horse’ll get all the hay he can eat, a scoop of oats morning and evening, and fresh water.

Thanks, Emmet replied.

The proprietor led the way to an empty stall. Emmet noted the fresh straw strewn over the floor and approved. This is a good place to rest, buddy.

The horse exhaled loudly.

Good lookin’ animal ya got there, mister. Distinctive.

Makes him hard to steal and easy to recognize, Emmet replied as he loosened the cinch. After pulling off the saddle and bridle, He picked up a handful of the fresh straw and began to rub Arrow with it.

You’re a man who takes good care of his horse, the proprietor commented with approval. I like that. Payment’s up front.

Emmet paused what he was doing to pay for two days’ worth of board. When he finished seeing to Arrow’s needs, he settled his tack over a rail and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder. The rifle he slung over the other shoulder. He headed to the saloon next door.

Well, howdy, mister! a woman wearing cheap, brightly colored satin greeted him. You look like a man in need of rest and recreation.

I’m lookin’ for a bath is all.

The woman’s painted lips stretched in a smile that revealed more than one missing tooth. Well, come with me, sugar. I’ll get your lather up!

Emmet grunted and followed her. She led him through the common room where men gambled, conversed, and drank. In one corner, a man played piano. Poorly. Along one wall a bartender served beer and whisky. The smoke from myriad cigars hung heavily in the air and mixed with the everpresent dust of the prairie.

The whore led him to a building behind the saloon and handed him off to a young woman, a girl not more than fourteen or fifteen years old, with pretty brown eyes and blonde hair. She wore little more than a corset, chemise, stockings, and garter belt.

Right this way, mister, the young woman beckoned with a sultry smile as she gestured to a freestanding bathtub. If you’re modest, you can step behind the screen to undress.

Emmet wasn’t modest. He took the most care in removing his gunbelt and hanging it out of the way of splashing water. He hung the rifle with his revolvers.

Y’all got a laundry here? he asked as he pulled off his shirt.

Laundry’s two doors down, the whore replied. I’ll have someone take your things over there. What’s the name?

Jones. Emmet Jones. He pulled off one boot.

Her eyes widened. Well, I’ll be! I never thought to tend a bona fide hero!

Emmet grunted. He pulled off the other boot.

You gonna have a gunfight in town, Mr. Jones?

Don’t plan on it. He pulled off his socks.

She looked disappointed, then rallied. Well, I’m gonna treat you real nice!

He turned his weary gaze on her, a girl too young to be doing what she was doing. I just want a bath and my clothes laundered, miss.

She giggled. Miss? Oh, I’m no fancy lady. Y’all just call me Brigit.

Brigit, I want a bath and my clothes cleaned. That’s all, nothing more. He shoved down his trousers and stepped free of the fabric. The stench of his own ripe flesh revolted him.

"I can make sure you feel real welcome to Dalewell."

He sighed. I need to wash.

Oh, I do like a cleanly man.

He stepped into the tub and sank into the tepid water. He grimaced. Brigit fetched a kettle of steaming water and poured it into the tub. Emmet sighed with pleasure as the hot water swirled and mixed with the tepid water. Brigit poured kettle after kettle, alternating hot water with tepid to keep the bathwater’s temperature comfortably warm. Emmet did not allow himself to soak for long before he began scrubbing himself.

Here, I’ll get your back, she offered.

He leaned forward to let her apply a scrub brush to his back. It felt good. He leaned forward and allowed her to wash his hair. He groaned with pleasure as her fingers massaged his scalp. She rinsed his head and he finished scrubbing the rest of his body, making sure to scour between his toes. Brigit reached into the water to clean his genitals, but he batted her hand away. She pouted, denied the opportunity to earn an extra coin. When he finished, she poured cool water over his freshly scrubbed hide to rinse him off. That felt good, too. Refreshing.

I’ll dry you off, she offered.

He took the length of linen from her hand and said, I can do that myself.

But—

He glared at her. She pouted at him again.

Emmet retrieved his one clean change of clothing from his saddlebag and dressed. After donning his dusty boots, he retrieved his pouch and tipped the girl for her efforts.

Tell ’em I gave it to you good. He rolled his shoulders, feeling better than he had before the bath, but still weary and hungry.

Her eyes widened and she grinned.

Now, when can I pick up my clean laundry?

It should be ready tomorrow afternoon. You gonna pick ’em up here?

Have ’em delivered to Miss Adelaide’s boarding house. I’ll be taking a room there.

The whore nodded. Will do, Mr. Jones.

He belted his gunbelt and slung his saddlebags and rifle over his shoulders. Thanks.

A few minutes later he stood outside the barber shop door. A bell above the door chimed as he entered. The barber looked up from his current customer and said, I’ll be right with you, mister.

Take your time, Emmet replied and sat in the waiting area.

The barber efficiently finished with that client, took payment, and looked at his new customer with a welcoming smile. Busy day today. What’ll you have, mister?

I need a shave.

The barber snapped the cloth he draped over his customers. Bits of hair and globules of shaving foam flew through the air. Have a seat!

Emmet lay his belongings on the floor near the barber’s chair and seated himself. As the protective cloth was draped over him, the barber asked, Now how much of that beard are you wanting to keep? Or maybe just the mustache. A full mustache is very fashionable right now.

Shave it all.

Sure thing, mister. The barber whisked up a creamy foam and began to spread it over Emmet’s cheeks, chin, and throat. Then he picked up his straight edge razor and stropped the blade’s keen edge. Emmet held still.

Them girls at the saloon do give a good scrubbing, the barber commented with a sly grin. You get a chance with the new girl? Pretty thing with blonde hair and a tight little twat. He chuckled and licked his lips as he drew the blade along Emmet’s cheek. She’s a natural blonde, too.

She’s a bit young for the job, Emmet murmured, trying not to move his jaw or his lips.

They’re better when they’re young.

Emmet grunted.

"The wife thinks I’m playing cards with the boys Wednesday nights, but that ain’t the half of it. Why I’d want her dried out hole when I can tup that juicy little whore’s, I don’t