Hunter Malone: A Western

By Terence Newnes

Taken captive by the Comanche at the age of five, Hank Malone grew up learning their ways, their skills, and their code. Rescued at ten and raised by settlers on the M Bar ranch, he is a man between two worlds: more Comanche in spirit, yet bound by loyalty to his new family.

As a buffalo hunter and expert tracker, Hank - now known as Hunter - becomes a feared man, and his speed with a gun is legendary. But his story is more than just blood and bullets: after saving a rancher’s daughter from an Apache raid, he finds love and dreams of a future beyond gunfights.

Soon, Hunter has to face one final battle: an all-out war against a ruthless outlaw horde determined to burn Silverville to the ground. But can a man forged in war ever truly leave it behind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 24, 2025

Book preview

Chapter

One

It was pure blind luck that he found the gold. He had heard about the silver strikes in the territory of Nevada, and he had decided to head over there and try his luck. He had drifted through the Territory of New Mexico, cut through a part of what would soon be the Territory of Arizona, and was headed into Nevada by crossing the Mojave Desert. It was hot as hell, and he rode slowly to conserve his horse’s strength, although he rode a grulla mustang that was born to the desert. But he had a long ride ahead of him, and one never knew when a sudden burst of speed would be needed. He had brought sufficient water with him, but he wasn’t really worried even if he ran short because he had been here before and knew where to find water if needed. He was a man at peace with the desert. His name was Hank Malone, but they called him Hunter Malone because of his skill in tracking and hunting—both animals and men. He stood 6 feet 4 inches in his socks, and he was broad-shouldered and muscular. He had a broad, clean-shaven face, which now showed a good amount of stubble, and gray-green eyes that would turn a cold green when he was angry. He was deeply tanned by his life outdoors, and even his blond hair was whitened from long exposure to the sun and the elements.

He was riding to go around a mesa to get into the shade it offered so that he and his horse could rest for some time when suddenly the sun glinted off something high up the mesa. Immediately, Hunter went off his horse on the side away from the mesa. With his horse as a shield, he scanned the area of the mesa from where the flash of light had come. He had instantly assumed that the flash was the sunlight striking a rifle barrel, but as he now scanned the area, he could see nothing. He knew that that didn’t really mean much, because if an Apache didn’t want to be seen, then you just wouldn’t see him. After waiting for some time, he carefully urged his horse backwards and walked alongside so that he was still shielded from the mesa. Again, there was a brief flash of light, and Hunter stopped and stared at the spot. He slowly moved forwards and backwards and was rewarded by another flash, and this time he stopped dead in his tracks, and the flash of light held. He contemplated the situation and finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a gun barrel—or at least that it wasn’t a gun barrel held by an Apache; it was too steady for that and had to be something immovable. Now, that thought led Hunter to contemplate further—was it the sun striking off some shale or quartz…or maybe silver?

Deciding to investigate, he mounted and slowly rode his horse around the mesa, looking for a way to the top. But as far as he could see, there was no place that a man could even try climbing up. It was on his second circuit of the mesa that he spotted the entrance, which at first glance did not seem to be more than a cleft in the wall. Hunter rode forward, and as he neared the wall, he saw that the cleft was actually an opening into the mesa and was wide enough and high enough for a horse and rider to pass through. So he passed through and found himself in a vast cave.

Leaving his horse in the cave and taking a burlap sack from his saddlebags, he went back out and erased his tracks that led to the cleft. The faint marks left by the sack were already disappearing as there was a good wind blowing. There was no real reason for him to do this, but Hunter was a careful man, and this was second nature to him. Entering the cave again, he struck a match, looked around, and saw evidence that this was a place where people had lived and worked a long time ago. On a shelf that had been hacked into the wall, he found some candles. He lit one and stuck it in a place that had a lot of old melted wax. That gave the cave a surprising amount of illumination, as there was a flat, smooth slab of quartz placed to act as a reflector of the candlelight.

He saw some old Spanish armor and swords, and in a corner lay a skeleton on a bed that had long ago turned to just rags and dust. He lit another candle, and moving forward, he spotted a primitive stairway cut into the soil and rock that went high up the inside of the mesa. He had ground-hitched his horse by simply dropping the reins to the ground, and the well-trained horse stood fast. He began climbing the primitive stairway cautiously and soon found that it had been cut carefully into the wall of the mesa and had been strengthened by slabs of stone. It took him all of five minutes to reach the top, and he then found himself in another, smaller cave.

Here, too, he saw signs of habitation and work, and looking at some piled-up ore, he realized that this was a gold strike and not a silver strike. The mouth of this cave was small, and bending down, he peered out and could see the desert far below. Just at the mouth of the cave were two small sacks filled with gold. The sacks had deteriorated with time and the elements, and one had split open. A chunk of gold had rolled to the very edge of the cave opening, and that was what had reflected the sunlight. He examined the piled-up discarded ore and the gold and found that this was almost free gold. The quartz was crumbly, and all that the old Spanish men would have needed was a hammer to break up the quartz. Using the candle to light his way, he examined the entire cave and came to the conclusion that what the Spanish men had found was just one vein of free gold. It was a freak find, but it had happened before and probably would happen again.

Since the gold was still here, he figured that the men had left one man on guard and had gone for supplies or help and had never returned—which he knew wasn’t really surprising with Apaches around. He climbed down the stairway and came up again with a small burlap sack. He cleaned the gold as best he could and loaded it into the sack. Hefting the sack, he reckoned he had about ten pounds in weight.

He was crouching at the mouth of the cave and looking out when he saw the Indians. Slowly, he drew further back and watched them. He realized that they were studying his tracks and trying to work out what he had been doing moving forward and backwards. One of them suddenly looked up at the mesa, but Hunter did not move, as he knew that they could not see him. He saw them arguing amongst themselves, and he knew that they were puzzled by his tracks that just went right around the mesa and then disappeared.

After a long time, the Indians moved on, and Hunter picked up the sack of gold and went back down to his horse. He tied the mouth of the sack with a rawhide strip and hung it from his saddle. He peered around the edge of the cleft but saw no Indians. Going outside, he moved cautiously around the mesa with his early-model Henry repeating rifle loaded and ready in his hands, but there was no sign of the Indians. He studied their tracks and saw that they went straight ahead and disappeared into the distance. He mounted his horse and rode away in the opposite direction.

The Apache who had looked up at the mesa had done so because he had instinctively felt someone watching him. They had ridden away, but after a while the Apache stopped and turned back. After a short argument, the rest of the group turned back with him, and they returned to the mesa where they found Hunter’s tracks heading for the border.

Hunter had gone maybe five miles when he looked back and saw the Apaches riding hard toward him. He increased his speed from a walk to a canter and began scanning the area ahead, looking for someplace to hole up and fight it out. The Apaches were getting dangerously close, and so, turning in the saddle, he drew his rifle and began shooting at them. He didn’t really aim, as all he wanted to do was slow them down until he found a suitable place to fort up. When he saw a butte full of tumbled rocks and saguaro cactus, he broke into a gallop and raced his horse towards it. Swinging down from the saddle, he led his horse into the rocks and left him ground-hitched behind a huge pile of boulders, where neither arrow nor bullet would hit him. He knew the danger of being left afoot in the desert.

Then he climbed up further and hunkered down behind a boulder, waiting for the Apaches to come within range of his Henry. When the Apaches were still about 300 yards away, he started to lay down a rapid fire, his hand a blur as he worked the lever. The Apaches had never come across a repeating rifle like the Henry, and he wanted to show them the firepower that he had. His was an early model Henry repeater that would officially come out only after another year, and such firepower was unknown to the Indians at the time.

Although he was concentrating more on firing rapidly than on accuracy, within a minute he had managed to down three, graze at least three more, and he was sure that many bullets had come too close for comfort for the others. The Apaches were in the open with no cover, and they didn’t seem to like the odds. There were twelve Apaches, and the rest picked up the ones that had fallen and scattered. He sent a few more fast shots after them to confuse them even more. The Apaches must have figured that such accurate shooting and such firepower wasn’t worth facing for killing just a single man, because they rode away and did not come back.

Hunter waited for another hour to be sure that the Apaches were not coming back, and then he led his horse out of the rocks. Mounting up, he rode for Nevada.

Chapter

Two

Hunter was born in Texas in 1834 to William and Molly Malone. His parents had moved into Texas along with a group of settlers in search of a new life. Texas was then a part of Mexico, but the settlers usually did not face any problems from the government, and they thrived on the land.

These were frontier people, pioneers always in search of new lands to build a new life. They were a tough and hardy people because only the tough could survive in a new land that was full of danger and hardships. They were a breed of people who depended only on themselves and learned the art of survival—usually the hard way. They built their own houses, raised their own crops, made their own food, bred their own cattle, and they fought their own battles.

They were always willing to help out a neighbor, only sometimes the nearest neighbor would be many miles away, so help was never at hand when needed. Then there was the ever-present threat of an Indian raid. They built their houses and tilled their land with a gun always handy in case of an attack. By the time Hank was two years old, Texas had become independent and was no longer under Mexican rule.

When the Malone homestead was attacked, Hank was five years old. He was a sturdy youngster who would help his father in the field and his mother around the house. The Comanche attacked at break of dawn, and in a matter of minutes, Hank’s parents lay dead—although his father shot dead two Indians, and his mother shot one and then knifed another before dying.

When his mother fell dead, Hank grabbed up the knife and charged the Indian who had killed her. The Comanche picked him up by the scruff of his neck and took the knife away, but Hank still struggled and tried to kick the Comanche in the face. The Indian had a curious look on his face because Hank never screamed, nor did he cry, but fought silently.

One could never predict what an Indian would or would not do. They would kill defenseless women and children without a second thought during a raid, but at the same time they respected courage, and at times, would not scalp a man who had fought bravely against them. The Comanche, who was a great warrior in his tribe and whose name meant he who kills silently, was impressed with the fighting spirit of the young boy, and so he spared his life and instead took him to his camp, where Hank grew up with the other Comanche children.

He was treated as one of their own and was never ill-treated or harmed in any way. The years passed, and Hank became more Comanche in the way he lived and thought, although his skin and his eyes always reminded him that he was different. Along with the other children, Hank was taught to hunt and track and learn the skills of survival.

He proved to be adept at tracking and hunting, and he took to the bow and arrow as one born to it. At the age of eight, he stalked and brought down his first buck with his bow and arrow, and he who kills silently was proud of him, presenting him with a hunting knife and teaching him how to use it to fight.

When Hank was ten years old, the Comanche camp was attacked by settlers in retaliation for the killing of two settler families. Hank was playing with the other children, and the women were preparing food. Most of the braves were away on a raid, and only a handful of warriors were in camp with the women, children, and a few elders. Suddenly, the thunder of galloping horses was heard, and the warriors rushed to pick up their weapons. A group of around thirty men charged the camp, firing their guns as they rode. Some of them set fire to the tepees, and the Comanche scattered as, for once, they were taken completely by surprise. Many of the braves died in that first charge and then the remaining Comanche warriors regrouped and fought a rearguard action to allow the women and children to escape.

Hank