Preacher Rides Again - A Bounty In Flagstaff

By Thomas 'DOC' Savage

A bounty hunter must be tough to handle the bandits he's hired to capture. But this time Preacher has been well-paid to bring back a sixteen-year-old boy. And the boy wants to go with him.  So does the boy's beautiful mother. The trip back to Tucson is uneventful, but trouble rides their backtrail. Blood will be spilled, and Preacher will have to face a gunman who may be as fast as he is. Sometimes, the simplest jobs can turn out to be downright deadly!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224309832

Thomas 'DOC' Savage

Thomas Savage is a non-denominational minister who has pastored churches in Florida, New York and Arizona. He writes Christian-themed adventure stories in his 'spare time'. Before entering the ministry he worked at a wide variety of occupations, from short-order cook to factory worker to hunting and fishing guide. This wealth of experience allows him to create stories that are fast-paced and exciting, and characters that are believable and identifiable. The vast majority of those stories are family friendly, (except for 'One Man's Odyssey', which deals with adult themes). The plots are all new and unique. He currently lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife and their four-legged 'grand puppies'. He is the Pastor of Amphitheater Bible Church, the "Friendliest Church in Tucson"

Book preview

AUTHOR’S NOTE

If you are looking for a purely accurate story, historically, then I’m afraid you will have to keep looking. I’ve taken a few liberties. But, if you are looking for a lively yarn, read on. Enjoy!

——Doc——

CHAPTER ONE

A naked man rose from a stone-lined pool on the Sabino Creek. He was neither very tall nor very short. He was just a man. His muscular chest was crisscrossed with thin white scars. Just below his left shoulder blade was a puckered, round scar that spoke of near tragedy.

His long, black hair was caught up at the nape of his neck with a leather strap. He quickly dried off with a thick, brown towel and stepped into his clothes: black jeans, black shirt, and black vest. Sitting on a large rock, he pushed his feet into custom made black boots before strapping on his black gun belt.

In the time when most men preferred a Colt or Remington revolver, this man’s holster held a Belgium-made .36 caliber black powder pistol. It was loaded with pre-measured paper cartridges and conical bullets. A pouch on the opposite side of the gun belt held two more pre-loaded cylinders that could be changed in just seconds.

That was important, as this man in black made his living with that revolver. He was fast. Very fast. And he lived very well. He was called Preacher, but most folks didn’t know if that was his name or his occupation.

He walked the few paces to where a neat stone cabin stood close against the granite cliffs of a small box canyon just off the much larger Sabino Canyon. There, he found a small man, just over five feet tall with legs that were bent at angles God never intended.

The little man’s name was Budge, and he had once been Tucson’s town drunk. But Preacher had rescued him, cleaned him up, and made him useful. Budge felt he owed everything to Preacher. Together, with a long-legged Mustang named Jim and a huge Irish Wolfhound named Dog, they composed a comfortable and efficient family.

Preacher is a man hunter – and a good one. He regularly collected more than enough bounties to live as well as he cared to. Budge was a first rate cook and an excellent carpenter.

Budge had expanded Preacher’s stone cabin to include a wood framed apartment in the back and a tack room on the side. He had replaced a saguaro-rib ramada over the cabin’s door with a wide, covered porch with a wood deck. He had crafted two rocking chairs to complete the porch. And, he had moved the ramada and used it to cover a stone fireplace with a stove top and oven.

Budge was waiting under that ramada with a steaming cup of coffee for Preacher. The air was redolent with the smell of biscuits baking in the oven.

Mornin’, Preacher, Budge said as he handed over the coffee. What’s in the works for today?

G’mornin’, Budge. Thanks. You know, I don’t think I need to do a dang thing today. I reckon I’ll just hang around here and bother you.

Won’t bother me none a’tall. I gotta run inta town fer some supplies. I’ll stop by the Sheriff’s office to see iffen there’s any new wanted dodgers come in. Gotta keep you busy afore you all run t’ fat, just lollin’ about and all.

Yeah, that’s just like you to not allow a body to rest and recover. Do you need any cash?

Inside the stone cabin was a cleverly concealed compartment that held a small fortune in gold coins. Preacher’s comfortable lifestyle didn’t require much of the bounty money he collected, so he had most of it squirreled away in that compartment. Only he and Budge knew it was there.

Naw, I still got a good bit of the last batch ya gave me.

Budge turned to pull a tray of steaming hot, golden biscuits from the oven. He placed two on a plate, added a couple eggs and a thick slab of bacon, and handed the plate to Preacher before fixing a similar one for himself.

The two men sat at a small table and ate in companionable silence. While Preacher mopped up the last of his eggs with a piece of biscuit, Budge refilled both of their coffee cups. As he turned to set the pot back on the stove, a small covey of Gamble’s Quail hurried across between the cabin and the ramada. There was a male and female along with half a dozen small, yellow puffballs following them.

This little box canyon teemed with wildlife. Neither man did anything to bother them and often left food out for them. Not so often as to tame them. Just enough so the critters knew they had nothing to fear from the men.

While both men were watching the quail scurry past, a voice calling out from the road shattered the stillness.

Hello the house! Kin I come up thar?

Preacher turned to see a very fat man mounted on a sway-backed roan. From the man’s girth, it was easy to see why the horse was so misshapen. Preacher recognized the man as one he’d seen around Tucson from time to time.

Shuck off that gun belt and hang it over your saddle horn, and then, shore, c’mon up and state your piece. But don’t make any real sudden moves. Dog gits a mite edgy ‘round folks he don’t know.

Sure, sure! I’ll do that. I’m doin’ it, see there? Now, here I come. So saying, he raked Spanish spurs across the roan’s side to convince it to move.

The fat man rode the short distance to where Preacher and Budge sat watching him approach. Unnoticed, Preacher slipped the hammer thong off his pistol and made sure it slid easy in the holster.

Reaching the ramada, the fat man grunted as he swung his right leg over the horse’s back and stepped down on short legs. The poor roan sagged and blew out its breath, relieved to be rid of that burden. The man just dropped the reins on the ground. That horse was not going anywhere until it was forced to.

Preacher’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like to see any animal mistreated. The fat man moved to where Preacher waited. For a man so expansive of size, Preacher noted the man’s feet were tiny, almost child sized.

My name’s, uh, name’s Thomas. Loyal Thomas. I own the bar off the parlor in the Occidental Hotel, back there in Tucson. I, uh, need a, uh, I mean...say the coffee smells good. Kin I git a swallow?

Yup. Coffee’s always free. Not much else is. You was about to state yer business.

Thomas accepted the cup from Budge and quickly swallowed some of the hot, black liquid. Oh, my! I say now. That there is mighty fine coffee. Mighty fine. You make it yerself?

"Budge just smiled. He knew he made the best coffee in all of Arizona Territory. He didn’t need this man’s endorsement.

Preacher’s gaze was level. You were saying?

Saying. Oh, yeah, I uh, need to hire someone to hunt down a man for me. Find him, that is. Find him and bring him back here.

Why? This guy owe you money or sumthin’? I need to know why I’m hunting someone. And I don’t come cheap.

Yeah, I heard that. I know. And I’m prepared to pay you well. The man I want hunted is my, uh, my son. My own son. I’ll pay.

The fat man seemed to have forgotten Preacher’s advice as he spun, almost gracefully on those tiny feet, and stepped over to his horse. Dog’s massive head rose from the ground. The big Wolfhound was still recovering from a near fatal gunshot wound a month or so ago. But he was still more than capable of tearing this fat slug apart if his friend and master wanted him to.

But Thomas just reached into a saddle bag and came out with a leather sack. A heavy sack. Preacher eased his pistol back into his holster. He’d had the weapon halfway drawn before the fat man had completed his spin.

Thomas came back to where the two men sat and dropped the heavy sack on the table between them. That there’s two thousand in hundred-dollar gold pieces. I’ll have two more when you bring my son back.

Preacher was intrigued now and gave the fat man his full attention. A family matter might be easy. And the sack in front of him held twice as much as he usually charged for a simple retrieval.

Your son? Why are you huntin’ your son?

Because I love him. He’s a frail boy, always been sickly. His mother took him away. Nigh onto three years ago, and I had no idea where they went. Now I hear, from a reliable source, that she has him up there in Flagstaff. He’d be sixteen now and maybe close to six feet tall. Last I saw, he was thin. Thin enough you could almost use him for a whip. Bring him back here, and iffen that ain’t enough, I might could scrape together a bit more.

Naw, the money’s alright. But I’d need to have some way of knowing the boy. What’s he look like? And the mother, what’s her story?

Thomas made to spin around again, but Preacher stopped him with a shout. You better move slow and easy, mister. Dog’s edgy, like I said. Slowly now, show me what you got.

Slow, sure. I forgot. Thomas used exaggeratedly slow moves as he went back to his saddle bags and brought out an oilskin wrapped bundle. He moved carefully back to the table and opened the parcel. Inside were photographs. Tintypes.

He spread them out in front of Preacher. This here’s my boy, a few months before she took off with him. He’d be some older and a bit taller by now, but that’s him. And that’s her.

The photos showed a thin, pale boy about the same height as the woman beside him. And that woman was gorgeous! A stunningly beautiful woman. An image flashed unbidden through his mind of this lovely woman and this fat toad together. It wasn’t a pleasant image.

That’s your wife, huh? That what you’re saying?

Yeah, I know what yer thinkin’, Thomas said. But I weren’t always this fat. All this happened recent like, after she took m’boy. Run off with a drummer, they did. An’ I had no idea where they went. He was a rounder, peddling snake oil and such. But a good-lookin’ varmint. She fell fer him, and they took off while I was outta town. Now I got good information they’re in Flagstaff. Jist go git him and bring m’boy back. I’ll pay whatever you want.

Why me? I don’t work cheap, and there’s a heap of men that’d go up there and git your kid for you.

"Well, it’s because...uh, well, that drummer is also a gunslick. He’s powerful fast with a gun. Kilt a man down in Benson a while fore he got here. But there was witnesses to say it was a fair fight. He’s fast, and it’s said around town that you’re the fastest gun in the west. So, will ya go fetch my boy fer me?