Trailing the Money Gun: A Classic Western Adventure Novel

By Katelyn Rae

With the murder of six innocent men in Texas, the hunt for the money gun who murdered them is fierce. But when forces from Fort Griffin fail, can a mere three men track down the killer and his men without paying the highest price? Their lives…

Wyatt Zane Brody, former doctor turned professional gambler, swore off care for his fellowman when he put away his doctor's bag. That's why amusement, not concern for the families who suffered, drove him to chase down a killer. That, and a dislike of hired guns—skill and honor replaced with cowardly bullets in the back.

He assumed it'd be easy, money guns generally being foolish men… yet as the murderer proves himself cunning, and two other men join Brody on the hunt, nothing comes easy. Not keeping the hard exterior he's come to believe. Not tracking down a killer. Yet, most of all, finding a way to stay alive.

Will Brody and his newfound comrades manage to track down the killer? Or will they find their own eternal reward?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katelyn Rae
• Release date: Oct 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798231410378

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​COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2024 Katelyn Rae All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ASIN (eBook): B0DDWXQBN6

ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9872418-6-8

Cover design by: Katelyn Rae

​DEDICATION

To God who gave me the courage and ability to write;

to my mother whose editing expertise

and patience have helped me

in more ways than I can say; and to my family,

past and present, who helped inspire this tale.

​PREFACE

Hello and thank you for reading Trailing the Money Gun.

I wanted to share a few of the reasons I chose to write this story, and of the special importance of one character’s name to me—if you haven’t read the story yet, you’ll meet him soon.

First and foremost, you might wonder why I’m writing a western. Well, ranching, though playing a small role in my life personally, has been a part of my family’s lives. Most of my first nine years were spent on the family ranch before we moved away, and I got to see the hard work and tenacity it takes to do that sort of labor! I saw the cows branded; arms shoulder deep in places most people don’t want to go; I saw blood and cow pies and the sweat of brows. Fences mended. Bales shifted. It wasn’t easy work—except for me, not being big enough to manage much—but it's work I’ve always admired. Add to that that my family’s ranch was in area of the US that can reach -40F in winter—which makes tending livestock an uphill battle—and I think few could argue against the toughness of it.

Yet, it wasn’t just my parents who had a ranch... though largely retired by the time I was born, two of my great-grandparents also ranched—after a long career as a logger. They were known as Dee and Vivian, Dee being a nickname he went by for more years than I know... and it is they, but especially him, whom I thought of when writing this book.

Dee was a tall, strapping man, even in his eighties and nineties when I had the pleasure of knowing him. He wore his white cowboy hat and brown cowboy boots just about everywhere, and his laughter was contagious. Deep, resonating, melodic, and a little booming, but in a way that felt comfortable and home-like—to me it was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.

If you’ve read the book, you’ll recognize the nickname, Dee, that one of the characters has—if not you’ll get to meet him soon. He’s far from a real portrayal of my great-grandfather, but he shares many characteristics. His humor and a teasing nature for a start, his tenacity and good heart, his openness and artlessness... as his great-granddaughter I am biased, but he was quite a man.

The character possessing his name had to be a man of decent character and humor, but I did let him have his own characteristics. I hope you enjoy him and all the characters found in Trailing the Money Gun, and I’d like to say a special thank you for riding down the trail a ways.

Sincerely,

Katelyn Rae

​CHAPTER 1

​June 11, 1879

Dust raising as he dismounted his buckskin mare, Brody glanced toward the midday sun, the filthy air almost sparkling like gold.

Admirably and amusingly ironic, he smirked at his private joke before coughing from its source. Texas dust obviously did not agree with him—riverboat gambling along the Mississippi River or in his home state of Georgia, his lungs preferred that, even if boredom might kill a man. Amusement, that was why he had chased this particular money gun for over a day now, right? That and the fact that murdering for money had no flair... and bushwhacking, which money guns were so well-known for, also proved such men’s greed, cowardice, and obvious lack of equal parts imagination and skill.

There were good reasons and bad ones to kill. The reasons money guns killed almost always sided with the bad ones.

Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Brody observed the unobstructed hoofprints of the Money Gun’s mount. The first day had not been half as easy, the man zigzagging through rocky ground, creeks, and exchanging his horse for another. Brody had always had a knack for tracking, though he had a late introduction to the art, but even he had been delayed hours in his pursuit because of the well-executed maneuvers. Today, however, it felt easy. No tricks. No need to puzzle out his quarry’s next move. And that worried him. As foolish as money guns usually were, this one could hardly be considered a fool—not after yesterday’s trickeries and evading cavalry from Fort Griffin. No. The man had brains. So why leave such an obvious trail now?

Heaving a sigh, Brody eyed his horse. Another eight hours in the saddle if he wanted to gain the time he’d lost the day before. This called for whiskey!

Pulling his flask from pocket to lips, the smooth, wet burn fighting the dust and bringing a renewed drive to his pursuit, Brody gave the bottle a gentle shake. One day, if he indulged as was his want. Two or three, if he rationed the precious liquid. Cursing under his breath, he closed his flask, returning it to his pocket. At least two days to find and kill that lowlife... he’d have to ration.

Shifting his silver-grey frock coat’s tails back, Brody drew himself into the saddle again, directing his mount toward the Money Gun’s trail. Would the six murdered men rest easier with the filth’s death, he wondered, pushing his horse into a steady trot.

If they don’t, I will, he muttered, dust billowing from around his horse’s hooves. I know I will.

​CHAPTER 2

​June 12, 1879

Thundering hooves. .. one horse, at a full gallop from the southeast.

Pulling the reins, Brody let out a curse. He had almost run out of whiskey, had yet to overtake the murderer, and now he’d be delayed. Few used this rough trail, and those who did were often outlaws. Thanks to his deep love of faro and gambling in general, he’d made a surprising number of outlaw friends—or the nearest he ever came to making friends—but he’d also made many enemies.

Shifting his coattails back in one smooth motion, Brody stretched his fingers as he watched the trail behind him. Chances were any man riding along this trail at that moment had connections to the Money Gun; though fast with a gun, Brody would take no chances.

Eyes narrowing as the rider came up a small incline and around a large outcrop of switchgrass that hid everything from the oncoming roan’s withers down, Brody worked to find the rider’s hands through the grass.

Right finger twitching as the man rode nearer, Brody shouted, Close enough! Brow raising as he watched the man pull his reins in slowly, smirking as he did.

How’s that?

State your business, Brody instructed. Or draw and die, dependin’ on where your preference lies. I’m open to either.

Chuckling, the man lifted his hands slightly, I ain’t in a mind to die... I doubt you are either; I’d hate to kill you in a fair fight—I’d be obliged to bury you... and I don’t have the time.

Is that so? I don’t know if I’d take the time to bury you; nothin' personal, I’m lacking time myself. That skunk’s got to die.

Skunk? That money gun, Samuel B. Garding? You after him?

Adjusting his reins at the dancing of his mare, Brody took in the drawling, cowboy staring intently at him. That man didn’t have the look of an outlaw, but his fiery gaze could lead even an honest man to ill ends. Still, if he hated the Money Gun enough, having another ‘honest’ gun on the trail could be helpful—practical at least. No need to trust the man on sight though.

Focused half on his gun and half on the man sitting near him, Brody frowned as he pressed the man, seeking to prove or disprove his assumptions. I never heard the man’s name, but if you’re speaking of the murderer of six men in and around Fort Griffin, Texas, then yes... I am trailing the man. Have been for near three days. My question is, are you after him; if so, to help or hinder him?

I’ve been on the trail almost as long. And to answer your question, neither. I aim to kill him! Revenge is my choice.

Dangerous. Men bent on revenge were always dangerous. Volatile and determined.

Useful, however. Useful.

Swinging down, Brody walked his horse toward the man who sat stiffly in his saddle, hand pulsing toward his gun. Coming up beside him, Brody reached out his hand, Name’s Brody, Wyatt Zane Brody.

Extending his own hand hesitantly, he drawled, Thomas Hank Holt; most call me Tex.

Well then, Tex, Brody answered, smiling as he nodded toward the trail left by Garding, We’d better get goin’, or he’ll grow his lead.

​CHAPTER 3

​June 13,1879

Sweet grass mingled with hot, humid air and the harsh, almost frantic sound of several hundred frogs tucked within an unseen creek or puddle. Garding’s trail led onward, unchanging and brazen—so stark a change from the first day that Brody’s fear of the trail being left intentionally felt truer with each hoofprint.

That Money Gun had suckered them in, and neither Brody nor Tex would easily give up.

Been ridin’ least eleven hours today and you’ve never said why you’re after Garding, Tex noted, head pointed toward the setting sun, though Brody felt eyes cutting toward him.

Equal parts chatty and solitary, Brody had always shied from inquisitive men; on the one side, he did not want to tempt his lips into being too personal, on the other, he wanted to be left alone. Least for a time.

You never told me yours either, so we’re both suffering from the same deplorable lack of loquaciousness, Brody countered in an easy air. With my supply of whiskey nearly drained, I find myself in no mood to change—should you still be around when my supply has increased, I may choose to give my reasoning. Not before.

Giving his horse his head, Tex turned back in the saddle, a wide grin forming. Reasonable enough. Reasonable enough. Tell me then, sir, do you promise to tell me if I am able to find you some whiskey?

IF you do, then yes, Brody answered tersely, his lack of whiskey following one final drink in the front of his mind. How he’d manage his pursuit of the Money Gun on water he couldn’t be sure.

I’ll wait to tell you mine ‘till then. I could use a drop of whiskey myself.

And in the meantime, they could enjoy silence Brody hoped, his more solitary nature victorious. Hopefully, they’d overtake the Money Gun that night? No chance really, though one could pray—if God listened to sinners like him.

WORKING TO FIND A COMFORTABLE side to sleep on, Brody moved his head up and down on his saddle, the hard surface far less obliging than the night before. Above him, stars and a recently waning moon lit the trees and grasses eerily as the wind caused their shadowy forms to dance to its hum. Huffing as he turned toward the sky, Brody stilled, fingers slowly closing on his pistol as his horse nickered. In one motion he sat upright, gun cocked and aimed at their intruder, half a smirk forming as Tex finally did the same.

Slow and indifferent, the man at the end of Brody’s barrel raised his hands. What ails you, gentlemen? Hate company that bad?

Brody’s brow lifted, at least the man might prove amusing. If he’d been asleep when the man had snuck in, that would have been a different matter altogether.

Motioning with his gun, Brody ordered, Remove your guns, nice and slow. No, he barked as the man’s hands went directly toward his guns. Belt. That’s right. Toss it to him, then you can come sit down...

Don’t mind if I do, he noted, grinning as he sat between Tex and Brody.

What are we going to do with him? Tex questioned, tilting his head as he studied the unwelcome guest.

Do with him? Why, ask him some questions... then, if we don’t like his answers, we can always engage him in fair gunplay. It might be interesting to find out if he’s any good with a gun—he obviously isn’t skilled in the art of slyness, not where his feet are concerned in any case.

True enough, tonight it seems, the man stated, grinning as he inclined his head in Tex’s direction, though this one could sleep through a stampede.

Why you, Tex began, fists clenching as he went to stand before shaking his head and sitting back down with a chuckle. He ain’t wrong. Turning toward their guest he questioned, What brings you out to the backwaters of Texas?

In one way, a man. Or rather, two. Reaching toward his vest, he paused as two guns pointed at him, Mind if I get a drink of whiskey?

Jerking a thumb toward Brody, Tex smirked, Only if you share a little with Brody here.

Of course. Hand me that tin and I’ll let him have a swallow.

If I hadn’t finished the last of mine, Brody noted, gun lowering as he accepted the whiskey, I’d refuse and nullify our agreement, but as it stands...

Shoulders easing as the smooth burn of whiskey met his throat and warmed his lungs, Brody smiled. Now then. If you would be so kind as to clarify your statement and provide your name, we can keep things on friendly terms.

Nodding, their guest enjoyed one quick swig of his whiskey before replying, Name’s quite boring, but here you go: Howard Eugene Simmons. ‘Bout as dull a name as you can get. I’ve been working in Kansas, along the border near Indian Territory, as foreman for the Bar-D.

It fit, Brody considered, eyeing the man. If he were feeling poetic, he might even say that the man gave off the odor of cattle, even at several feet away.

Well, ‘Dee,’ Tex said, obviously amused. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Dee,’ do you? You said yourself your name’s dull. What brings you out Texas way?

Dee? Simmons asked, head tilting as he again ignored the question of his purpose.

You said yourself that you were foreman for the Bar-D...

I see, Dee laughed. Certainly ain’t boring. I needed a good nickname; Simms seemed as close as people got. Looking between them, he added, To answer your question. I’m on, or getting on, the trail of a killer. I was at Fort Elliott, visiting the camp commander—a friend of my boss—before I’d head down to Fort Griffin to buy some breedin’ stock to add to our herd up north.

Rubbing his ear, Dee added, Me and Ben—one of the cattle hands I brought—sat visitin’ with him when some soldier ran in, sayin’ how a telegram came from Fort Griffin. Six men murdered the day before and cavalry and a rogue posse after the murderer—and in the list of murdered men, I heard my friend’s name, Thomas Randell. I asked Ben to finish buyin’ and movin’ the bulls and the commander offered to send a message via their telegraph to my boss, so I’d not get in trouble for runnin’ off.

Anyhow, Dee continued, I left afore the sun went down. Other day I ran into the posse, they’d lost the killer and were arguing about if the cavalry had been right to head down Mexico way. One man mentioned how the killer often stayed nearer Arizona Territory and might go that way—rest argued he’d go to Mexico in hopes of losing ‘em, like the soldiers thought. Kicking the dirt with a frown he remarked, I decided I’d head the way they didn’t, see if I could catch him—figured, if the soldiers found him, justice’d be done anyway, and if I found ‘em, I could hand him over to the law. Either way, Thomas and the other murdered men would be honored... their murderer sentenced by a judge.

Justice, Tex snarled, justice is what good men die for; it’s what’s the reward of the just in this life or the next. Garding is a killer, plain and simple, and the only justice he’s going to get is a bullet! Mine, if I can help it.

Eyes narrowing, Dee shifted toward Brody, And you? What are you for, justice or revenge?

Neither, Brody supplied, eyes dark as he stared at Tex. They’d made a deal; he might as well get it over with. It may be argued otherwise, however, I’d give my preference to another category. I don’t know Tex’s reasons for wanting revenge yet, but I for one haven’t lost anyone I even know, let alone like, to this murdering skunk. Still, I am of the opinion that in terms of outlaws, money guns are of the lowest form. They murder for pay. Often bushwhacking. And generally lack moral courage and any skill—not to mention intelligence. Of all the reasons for killing—and there are many—I find this one repulsive, even immoral—though I am not in a position to cast the proverbial first stone. My inclination regarding this particular killer is either ending it quickly in a fair draw, or toying with him until he’s unable to distinguish up or down... culminating in a shootout. Should be amusing in any case. And amusement is at least half the reason I’m after Garding...

Half smiling, Dee lifted his hat and scratched his head, Fair enough. Might not agree, but I’m more in favor of your reasoning than Tex’s... Turning toward Tex, he amended, That could change if he’d like to make his clearer.

I have an agreement with Brody, elsewise I’d be tempted to whip you with my fists. As it stands... he frowned, glaring at Dee. I aim to keep my word and give my full reasonin’. Though, he stilled, a grin forming, that doesn’t mean we won’t scrap later.

If you insist, Dee noted with a playful smirk. Pointing his flask in Brody’s direction and filling the proffered tin