Jericho And The Coral Creek Adventure: Jericho

By Paul Lawless

Nathan Jericho and Marcus Amos, two men wanted for bank robbery, set out to find their comrades. Their search leads them to what they thought was the sleepy little town of Coral Creek. The two quickly learn that looks can be deceiving.

Nathan and Marcus discover that the citizens within Coral Creek are being held captive by a ruthless gang of outlaws, ruled by terror and threats. One man within the town tells Nathan and Marcus of the murders of their two friends. When Nathan and Marcus get themselves set for revenge, they got more than they bargained for.

Badly beaten by Clay Hardin and his gang, Nathan and Marcus are left for dead. With the help of three kindly citizens they escape and are nursed back to health. Two of the men who had helped them were killed for their assistance. Nathan and Marcus left town only to return to exact their vengeance on the gang responsible.

To their disbelief, not only was Clay Hardin and his men forced to reckon once more with Nathan Jericho and Marcus Amos, but they found themselves in a bloody battle with the very townsfolk whom they had terrorized. At the end of the battle, Nathan, Marcus and the citizens of Coral Creek were free to live their lives in peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pale Horse Publications
• Release date: May 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224677917

Paul Lawless

Paul Lawless was born in Liverpool, England in 1958. He spends a lot of time volunteering for charities in Liverpool. He's a lover of animals, reading, writing novels and poems. He's also member of an Unitarian Church in Liverpool which takes up a lot of his time.

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JERICHO

&

THE CORAL CREEK ADVENTURE

––––––––

PAUL LAWLESS

Copyright © 2018 by Paul Lawless

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copywritten material.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by Pale Horse Publications.

For information contact: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover design by Pale Horse Publications

Edited by Ann Mealler

Published by Pale Horse Publications

January 2022

10987654321

CHAPTER ONE

Coral Creek

The sun was kissing down its hot breath, the heat formulating sweat. Some of the sweat was covering the green and red grass. A grey and white rabbit was running in the grass when suddenly, something was somersaulting out of the clear, blue sky and hurried to stick its sharp claws into the rabbit. There were tiny drops of blood drifting out of several wounds on the rabbit’s body. The rabbit was still breathing as the something carried it upwards and was waiting for its callous death.

Two men were sitting on horses, one of them allowing his eyes to spy on the callous dead as if it was some kind of duty. Marcus Amos, atop a baked brown and red horse, leaned to the left. He was six feet, wearing Union Army trousers and a brown cotton shirt. At thirty-six, he had long dark hair that stretched down to his shoulders. His eyes were dark blue and disconcerting, his face more or less handsome, sporting a thin brown mustache with spots of grey invading it. Marcus’ demeanor was irksomely towards a body like a priest struggling with his calling. Around his waist he wore a brown belt holding a Smith and Wesson that rested inside a silver holster. Marcus carried a Winchester rifle in a grey saddle boot, strapped to the brown saddle upon which he sat. The matching brown saddle bag waited on his horse like an old friend. 

Holding the reins in one hand, Marcus Amos could feel the hot brown and red of the horseflesh beneath him. He pulled up his grey canteen and shook it, then took a drink.

Nathan Jericho placed his hand on the top of his grey and white deer-stalker hat. His light, intelligent blue eyes watching the rabbit once again with a sadness that haunted him. He pulled the hat from his short brown hair, with spots of invading grey, and held the hat in his left hand against his athletic chest with the confidence of a brave soldier who had seen many battles and holds the reins in his right hand.

Jericho wished the something would drop the rabbit. He calculated if he should pull his red dragon-covered Navy from the brown holster it’s housed in. This gun was his proudest entity. Or, maybe he should drag up his Winchester that waited in the brown rifle boot, walked through his thoughts like a weak question. He imagined firing his Navy to rescue the rabbit and smiled at the idea of a bullet entering the something. His eyes could not see the rabbit any longer and he lowered them in sadness. He hoped death came swiftly for the rabbit.

Jericho sat a grey saddle, with a brown and battered saddle bag behind him, a gift from a dead comrade. As he turned his body towards Marcus, he could feel the soft black cotton shirt against his skin. He watched his riding companion put his canteen back. Jericho put his hat back on his head and rubbed his left leg out of frustration. His legs were dressed in French Army trousers, his feet nestled inside brown boots that were covered with a painting of a red dragon.

Nathan and Marcus rode their horses out of the green and red grass. They could see the main street of Coral Creek in front of them. Nathan took his red dragon-covered gun from its holster. As the human flesh of his hand tasted the metal flesh of the gun, he opened the chamber of the gun with his right hand. Jericho took one bullet out of the chamber, with a sad thought of death, and blew on the bullet. He continued this ritual with all six bullets before he closed the chamber.

Marcus watched the brown dust, the grey and red hard mud, and bits of parched yellow grass covering the ground of the main street. He opened his saddle bag and searched inside. A smile crossed his face as he pulled out his battered Bible. He thought briefly about his Bible before pressing it against his chest like a dear, old, colleague.

The two men rode down the main street of Coral Creek, passing building after building on both sides of the street with total disinterest, until they heard the noise coming out of the Atwood Saloon. They heard someone say, Excuse me, and permitted their eyes and ears to be entertained. 

Suddenly, three men came through the red doors of the saloon like overactive children. They moved to the middle of the street as the sun seemed to deliberately target them with its hot breath. One of the men, Waco, was tall, thirty, wearing red trousers, a blue shirt and brown boots. A black Bowler slept on his red hair. A Colt 45 rested inside a silver holster at his side, and his hands were locked onto another man.

The second man was forty, thin, dressed in brown trousers, yellow shirt and black boots. A brown Stetson rests upon his brown hair. He tried desperately to escape his captor, but there was no escape. A third man, named Frenchie, punched the trapped man viciously in the stomach. Frenchie was dressed in brown trousers, a red shirt, and grey boots, with a brown Stetson perched upon his brown hair. A Smith and Wesson slept inside its brown holster on his hip.

The man holding the captive spoke in a mocking manner. Frenchie, how about you holding Harry Field while I beat on him a bit?

Frenchie grabbed hold of Harry Field by the hair on his head with cruelness and viciousness. He pulled the man’s head upwards and swung his fist into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the captive’s nose and lips. Frenchie looked at the blood and giggled.

How do you like that, Harry Field? Frenchie asked. I’ve told you so many times that when Waco and I walk into any saloon in this town that it is time for you to leave that saloon. It seems to me and Waco that you’re pretty slow on understanding instructions. Or, is it that you simply don’t care about our feelings? Now, that’s, well, that’s insulting. Now, I’m going to beat you some more and then Waco is going to beat on you some. Oh, we’re not trying to be deliberately unsociable, Frenchie continued, No, indeed not. It’s just that we are very worried about you not getting or understanding the message. Now, shall we start the beating, or do you need a rest first just to catch your breath?

Four more men came out of the Atwood Saloon. They stood by the doors, watching the three men in the street, their faces showing raw tension. Directly across the street, two men came out of the Rose Rock Café and stop. They watched the blood escaping from Harry Fields’ nose and lips, and wished they had the courage to interfere in the dangerous situation.

Waco released his captive and Harry Field collapsed to his knees. Harry raised his hands upward, in the act of begging. Waco laughed and said, Now, will you look at that dog performing circus tricks? Did I ever tell you, Frenchie, that when I was a child, my mother took me to a circus once?

Frenchie moved to stand behind Harry. Waco stood in front of the man. Frenchie asked in a calm and happy voice, Did you have candy and get to see the clowns? I always dreamed of going to the circus when I was a child. A circus used to come every summer and stay for six weeks in this field just outside of West View, New Mexico. But, my mother, a blood-strict Christian, would always say that a circus was the work of Satan, and Satan was trying to corrupt me. So, maybe tonight, after a game of cards and some whiskey and beer, you can tell me some more about the circus, Waco.

Three men came walking along the boardwalk and stopped outside the saloon. One of the men was wearing a silver Sheriff’s badge on his green shirt. The three joined the four already congregated outside the doors of the saloon, watching Frenchie and Waco. They all hoped that Harry Fields was not going to be beaten to death.

Waco looked at Frenchie then grabbed hold of Harry’s hair, yanking back with raw, calculated viciousness. I can’t recall much about the circus, he tells Frenchie. To tell the truth, the only memory of the circus that is very dark and terrifying, like a nightmare from an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Frenchie bent two of Harry’s fingers back viciously to cause the man more pain. Waco swung his right fist several times into Harry Field’s face, causing more blood to flow and one of the man’s eyes to close.

Nathan and Marcus stopped their horses and slipped off, leading them to the hitching rail outside the Atwood Saloon as they continued to watch the bloody scene in the street. They strolled up the steps and onto the boardwalk. Nathan reached for the sheriff’s badge, wondering when the man would stop the beating.

Waco readied to swing his left fist into the barely conscious Harry Field, and Nathan shouted in a commanding voice, That’s enough! You’re going to murder him!

Waco turned his head with deliberate slowness, spying Nathan and Marcus. Did you hear that, Sheriff Bull? he asked in a scornful tone. Some caring citizen, some do-goodie liberal, is sticking their nose into my personal business. Now, Sheriff, what are you going to do about that, because I’m just too busy now to care. With that, he swung his left fist into Harry’s face with even more force and callousness.

The sheriff turned to face Nathan and Marcus and said in an uneasy voice, Listen here. This is personal business so I order you to keep out of it unless you wish to spend some time in jail.

Jericho parked his eyes on the silver badge and answered, This is not personal business to the law, so, Sheriff, I suggest you put a stop to this or I will. And if you attempt to stop me, then you best be pulling a gun out. Is that clear, Sheriff?

Waco thought about swinging his left fist into Harry’s face, then looked at Jericho. Oh, Sheriff Bull has got no bravery inside him, he said. Now, may I continue with my entertainment, because this is such a dull, boring, truly useless and soulless town, Coral Creek.

Nathan Jericho strolled down the stepped and up to Frenchie and Waco. Frenchie removed his hands from Harry, who slipped to his knees. The poor man looked to the sky as tears run down his face to marry with the blood there, and he silently wished the stranger luck with Frenchie and Waco.

The two brutes turned to Nathan, Waco spitting in the street.

What we going to do with this liberal interfering no-gooder, Frenchie, now that our dear Sheriff is allowing strangers to ride into our town and stick their nose into our personal business? Waco asked his partner. 

Jericho faced the two men. Mr. Frenchie and Mr. Waco, simply unbuckle your belts, turn and walk away, he told them.

Frenchie watched Nathan’s eyes, seeing the danger and courage in them. There was a tiny amount of misgiving in his stomach and mind, knowing the stranger was not going to back down. Knowing he could not allow the man to show that he and his partner, Waco, had some weakness, Frenchie spoke in a loud and boastful voice. Now, I’ve finished my entertainment for the day, and I’m going to the Atwood Saloon. Me and Waco are going to drink some whiskey and beer. I suspect, Mister, that you will not still be in this town when I step back out later, or I will have to seriously consider overindulging on my entertainment.

Frenchie and Waco turned to take one last look at Harry Field’s closed eyes. Nice job, Waco said mockingly, Now let’s get that whiskey and beer. I can hear them calling us. The two turned from Harry, giggling insanely, and strolled past Nathan as if he did not exist. When they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the saloon, they pulled their guns from their holsters. 

Nathan, in spite of having his back to the two men, senses they are pulling their guns. He swiftly sent his left hand down to his waiting gun and turned at in the same swift motion. When he was turned to face Frenchie and Waco, he was holding the gun and realized the two men were facing him, with their own guns drawn. 

Nathan fired a bullet that crashed into the gun hand of Frenchie. The gun jumped out of the man’s hand and landed on the ground. Frenchie screamed and grabbed his injured hand. Nathan fired a second bullet, which goes straight into Waco’s gun hand. The man’s gun fell to the ground as he shrieked and begged for the pain to go away, with a tiny tear running down his face.

Marcus Amos strolled over to Nathan and said, I was going to interfere in your enjoyment, but, well...

Jericho, while putting his gun slowly back into his holster, replied, You could pick up their guns.

Nathan and Marcus walked up the step in front of the saloon and stopped in front Sheriff Bull. Marcus handed the guns to the lawman before entering the saloon. The sheriff looked down at the guns. Knowing Clay Hardin, friend of the two bullies, would come to seek revenge, the lawman decided it was best for him to be out of sight. He turned and headed to the jail then stopped and threw the guns into the middle of the street, letting them land at the feet of the two bullies. 

Waco and Frenchie bent down to retrieve their guns with their uninjured hands and walked to their horses tied before the Rose Rock Café. The men who had been standing in front of the café when the ruckus began wanted desperately to laugh at the pair, but wouldn’t for fear that they would receive the same treatment as poor Harry Fields. Slipping into the café, they didn’t stand around to watch as Waco and Frenchie mounted their horses and rode slowly past the Atwood Saloon. 

Anger boiled within the minds of the two men, and raw pain beat their injured hands. Waco spat on the ground as they passed the saloon, then kicked his horse. A slow rain started to fall as the two speed out of town toward Doc Langford’s office.

Nathan and Marcus walked into the saloon and up to the bar, sidestepping the red tables and ancient blue chairs darted untidily around the saloon. The odor of beer and whiskey mingled with lemon soap, cigars and washed dishes. As the two leaned against the bar, hoping for service, they noticed there was no one there to serve them. 

The glasses on the counter held various amounts of whiskey and beer. There were six men standing by the doors, eyeing Nathan and Marcus with uncertainty. One of the men, thinly built sported a large grey trilby hat was staring intensely at a fat, bald man, then said, Higgins, you best get back behind the counter and start serving those two men, unless you want to be shot like Frenchie and Waco.

The bartender, Higgins, stared at the thinner man, then poked his middle finger into the man’s chest. Now listen here, Wilson, he said, You’re coming to the bar with me, and if I’m going to get shot, then so are you. And that goes for the rest of you. Now, let’s get to the bar and do some drinking. We got something to celebrate, for now.

The six men walked back to the bar with great caution and trepidation. When they reached the bar, Higgins escaped the group to stand behind the counter. The fat man picked up a half empty glass of beer and drained it, smacking the empty glass on to counter while trying not to look at Nathan and Marcus. 

The man called Wilson stood next to Jericho and said, That was some shooting. I never figured anyone could outdraw Frenchie or Waco, except for Clay Hardin, or maybe Virgil King. Then again, I don’t figure even Clay or Virgil could outdraw Frenchie and Waco at the same time.

Nathan ignored the man and looked at Higgins. How about two beers, in two clear glasses? he asked the bartender in a neutral tone.

Higgins turned away from Nathan and plucked two clean glasses off a shelf, then placed them on the counter. Bending over behind the bar, he retrieved two bottles of beer. After pouring the beer into the glasses, he replaced the empty bottles beneath the counter. Enjoy your beer, gents. It’s the best you will drink in any town in the West.

Nathan Jericho picked up his glass of beer. We’re looking for two friends. Perhaps you men have seen them? They arrived in town about three days ago, he said in a friendly voice.

Higgins reached beneath the counter and brought out a white cloth. He picked up the glass he’d drained and began to clean it vigorously. 

What’s the name of your two friends? Wilson asked, watching the bartender with curiosity. 

Higgins dropped the glass, breaking it on the floor behind the counter. In an angry tone he hissed, Wilson, I wish you would stop talking just for once. No more questions! I’m sure these men would just like to drink their beers without you pestering them.

Jericho took a drink of his beer before placing it back on the counter. Robert Brass and Zack Holiday, he said to Wilson.

The four men who had been in the saloon moved slowly away from the bar. Higgins watched them, not wanting to be left alone with the two strangers. Fellas, the bartender said to the four, I was just about to pour you all a glass of whiskey. There’s no reason for you to leave now. The four stopped in the middle of the saloon and looked expectantly. And, it’s on me, Higgins added.

George, Colt and Hector slowly moved on toward the doors, their heads bent low, not wanting to look at Nathan and Marcus. Before walking out, the one called Colt said, I’ll go to Doc Langford’s office and check on Harry.

Dillion, the man who had asked the two strangers the names of their friends, stayed rooted in place. He couldn’t move, and allowed his eyes to remain on the floor. The sound of the doors closing made him jump. Slowly he walked back to the bar, where the two strangers make a spot for him between them. He took off his hat and placed in on the counter, only to pick it back up and hold it to his chest. 

Higgins pushed a nearly empty glass of beer towards Dillion. Here, finish your beer off, the bartender said. Now drink up, because you’re making me uncomfortable with that bloody nervousness crawling all over you like some second-rate ghost story.

Dillion placed his hat back onto the counter and finished his