Clay Barton - Dirty Work

By John J. Law

I've rode all over the plains and frontiers of this great land of ours doing what other men might consider gruesome work. I'm sure Ma and Pa would agree, but I also believe that it's necessary work. Sometimes, a man's got to get his hands dirty, and by dirty, I don't just mean going into the pen and getting in the mud with the hogs. I mean really down and dirty.
The name's Clay Barton, and I'm a Bounty Hunter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223518549

Book preview

Prologue: A Long Way from Kansas.  

I was born and raised in Kansas, and my momma wanted me to be a lawyer. She always detested how the funny papers depicted varmints like Jesse James or Billy the Kid to be heroes for the common man. She and my Pa always said that a man's got to learn to work for things the right way. They always believed in doing the right thing and standing by it. Earning your keep the lawful and righteous way. Well, as I grew older I swayed just a little from that path that they set for me. Yep, as I grew older, I realized sometimes, a man's got to get his hands dirty just to get the job done. I'm sure Ma and Pa would never agree to my choice of work, but I guess, that's just the way it goes. They've both long gone on to a better place, God bless 'em, and I'm a long way from Kansas now.

I've rode all over the plains and frontiers of this great land of ours doing what other men might consider gruesome work. I'm sure Ma and Pa would agree, but I also believe that it's necessary work. Like I said earlier, sometimes, a man's got to get his hands dirty, and by dirty, I don't just mean going into the pen and getting in the mud with the hogs. I mean really down and dirty. 

The name's Clay Barton, and I'm a bounty hunter. I've rode all around these parts chasing down men that the law couldn't find. Sometimes it was tough, sometimes it was surprisingly simple. Whatever the case however, it was always dirty work. Killing a man is not something for the squeamish, or weak of heart, no matter how rotten or lawless that man may be.

I had rode a long way before making my way to the Indian Territories. The ‘Dead Line’ lay before me. I had crossed the Missouri, Kansas, and Texas track. I was roughly more than 80 miles from the nearest town, and I knew that I had now taken my life in my own hands. In my line of work, this was something I had always done, and so far my life was still mine.

Fort Smith was the last bastion of civilization in these badlands, and I knew that I might as well have been riding into the gates of hell itself. Well, I was riding into hell again, I had gotten used to the heat by now.  

This wasn't the first time that I rode into the dead line, and it finally showed. I followed one of the many trails into Indian Territory, and a small item of notice got my attention. It was a small card tacked onto a particularly tall tree. The tree had no leaves but had particularly strong branches. The branches were sturdy enough for a particularly gruesome purpose.

I looked up and saw a man hanging from one of the branches.