Retribution

By Allan Hardin

An action packed western written in the tradition of old school storytellers like Louis Lamour, Zane Gray, and Luke Short. The story follows Virgil Dunn, a southerner who fought for the north in the American Civil War, as he seeks retribution for the massacre of his unit after the war had ended.

Virgil's quest brings him into the middle of a range war between a mining consortium and a large cattle ranch.

The tale has good guys, bad guys, and a motley collection of colorful characters that are neither good nor bad, all playing their parts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228831136

Allan Hardin

Allan Hardin is a Canadian author who lives high in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, in a small hamlet called Cadomin, with his life-long partner, Linda. Allan spends his time in paradise writing westerns, fishing for trout, drinking fine whiskey, and telling tall tales.

Book preview

ebook_cover.jpg

Retribution

Copyright © 2020 by Allan Hardin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-2991-1 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-3113-6 (eBook)

Dedicated to the people of Cadomin

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Most of the shrapnel from the close-range shotgun blast caught the surprised patron of Larson’s Saloon & Card Palace in the sternum, right between the clavicles, leaving a fist-sized hole just below his throat. The mortally wounded man desperately clamped his hands over his shredded flesh. With panicked eyes bulging and voluminous spurts of blood gushing through his fingers, he tried valiantly to speak as he slumped to his knees, but the nails and nickels that Charlie Cranston had used to load the shells for his double barrel, 10-gauge shotgun were meant to cause considerable damage whenever Charlie pointed the long gun in the general direction of his target, closed his eyes, and pulled both triggers, simultaneously.

Charlie Cranston was the town’s Sheriff, and his policy was to shoot first and ask questions later. He was a short, chubby man, whose short growth of salt and pepper whiskers made it look like he hadn’t washed in a week, and his food and sweat stained cotton shirt smelled like it. The man at the bar had been warned twice about the "No Weapons in Town" ordinance, but he wouldn’t comply. In fact, when Charlie had approached him the second time, the drifter told him to go to hell and spat on his boots. Charlie had turned, stomped out of the Saloon, and returned at once with the 10-gauge shotgun and his deputies in tow.

"Now, that was uncalled for!"

At the far end of the bar, away from the shooting, a man, who was working on his second shot of Mescal, responded to the remark, The matter is of no concern to me.

Sheriff Cranston slowly and deliberately surveyed the interior of the saloon; his eyes stopping momentarily on each man. Directly behind him were Conrad and Henry Mueller, two brothers of the not-so-bright persuasion, whom Cranston used as deputies when the occasion warranted it. "Deputy" was using the term loosely when it came to the Mueller brothers. Cranston brought them along as a show of strength in numbers whenever he knew he was going to confront a lawbreaker. Hans Mueller, the brothers’ father, ran a successful local freight line. He needed the boys to ready the three wagons for the day’s run, which consisted mainly of hitching up the teams of horses and making sure the cargo was secure. Hans didn’t trust either of his sons to drive the wagons, so he hired drivers, which left Conrad and Henry the rest of the day to do as they pleased. Their only responsibility was to unload any wagon that arrived during the day and to make sure the horses were groomed and fed.

To Cranston’s left was a middle-aged man, Samuel (Sam) Stanfield, who was playing solitaire at one of a half dozen tables. When he felt Cranston’s eyes on him, he looked up and made eye contact with the Sheriff. Stanfield stared into Cranston’s eyes for a moment, shook his head as if in admonishment, and went back to his card game. There was no one on Cranston’s right. It was too early in the afternoon for anyone to be at the Keno or Roulette tables. Bill Cameron, the bartender, was just rising to his feet when Cranston’s gaze came back to the bar. Bill had seen this scenario before, and whenever he saw Cranston enter with the scatter gun, he knew exactly what was coming next, so he would quickly duck down behind the solid oak bar before the shooting started.

Cranston acknowledged his presence, and then his eyes shifted to the man drinking the Mescal. You! Drifter! What’s your name? What are you doing in Gila Springs? he demanded. Mescal Drinker didn’t answer Cranston. He turned slightly in the Sheriff’s direction, and after a quick glance, he turned back to the bar and continued nursing his drink, completely ignoring the portly policeman.

Charlie Cranston took a quick glance back at the Mueller brothers and wiped his food stained beard with the back of his sleeve. Anyone who claimed they knew Charlie was aware that this was a nervous habit he displayed when he was anxious or unsure of himself. Charlie’s mind was racing. He didn’t know if the man at the bar was a threat or not. The Mueller brothers didn’t have the capacity to think for themselves, but to their credit, they followed orders to the letter and without question. Charlie wanted them both to come forward and flank him on either side, but if he spoke and directed the brothers to do so, it would alert the stranger. He decided to signal with a "come-forward" wave of his hand and hope the brothers could figure it out.

Charlie spoke again, I ain’t gonna ask you again, Mister. Who are you and what’s your business in my town?

The man at the bar set his drink down and turned ever so slowly to face Charlie Cranston and the Mueller brothers, who had taken the hint and had moved up on either side of the Sheriff, Conrad on his right and Henry on his left. The stranger had a solidly built, well-muscled frame. He was hatless, as he had set his weather-beaten Stetson on the bar while he drank. He sported a three day growth of auburn whiskers that matched the color of his hair. His blue-grey eyes scrutinized Cranston and the Muellers. With his left hand he pulled his coat to one side and revealed the butt end of a well-oiled, nickel plated, top-break, Schoefield .44 revolver, sticking out of a holster attached to the same thick leather belt that held up the man’s trousers. The pistol was on the left side, almost parallel to the man’s belt buckle, with the butt angled up just enough to keep it from falling out of the holster. On his right hip, in a buckskin scabbard, hung an eight-inch bowie knife. The stranger’s right hand went up to within a few inches of the pistol, as he said, "My name is none of your business. My business, right now, is to have another drink or two. Now, leave me be!"

Bill the Bartender’s eyes went wide, and he stammered, Oh, my God, Charlie! I know him! I know him! He’s — that bounty hunter— Virgil — Virgil, — uh, Virgil Dunn. That’s it! Virgil Dunn! They say he’s crazy, Charlie. Bill realized what he had said, and he looked at the stranger with fear in his eyes.

The man they thought was Dunn ignored them all and took another sip of his drink. Charlie, sounding a little more confident, said, I don’t give a damn who this pile of horseshit is, Bill. Turning his attention back to Dunn, he said, Mister, I asked you a question, and I want a goddamn answer!

Dunn turned again. He, once more, pulled back the left side of his coat and raised his right arm. He didn’t say anything. He just stared deep into Cranston’s eyes. A voice behind Dunn urged, "Go ahead, Virgil. Shoot ‘im. Shoot the fat son-of-a-bitch."

Dunn answered, Keep quiet! I will handle this.

Not seeing anyone near Dunn, Cranston asked Who in hell are you talking to?

Dunn stared at the Sheriff for several heart beats before he changed the subject by saying, I did not see you reload that scatter gun. He glanced at the Mueller brothers and stated with conviction, If either one of you saddle sores so as much as twitches, you will be dead men.

Neither of the Mueller brothers was going to do anything without explicit directions from the Sheriff. Charlie, holding an empty shotgun, was certainly not about to make any foolish moves. His preservation instincts told him that while Bill might not be correct in his identification of the man before him, there was something about the fellow that suggested caution was the order of the day. He turned abruptly and pushing his way through the Muellers, he stomped out of the saloon with Conrad and Henry in close pursuit.

The stranger turned and slowly walked the three steps back to the bar, picked up his shot glass, downed the rest of the contents. and asked Bill for a bottle. He picked up a set of fancy leather saddle bags and threw them over his left shoulder. With his left hand around the neck of the bottle, he asked, How much for the Mescal?

On the house, replied Bill, expecting a gesture of gratitude.

For what seemed an eternity, Dunn stood holding the bottle of Mescal with his left hand, while his right hand was near his holstered pistol. His eyes were locked on the bartender’s face. His scowl softened to where it appeared he was almost smiling, and he said, Well, thank you for that, Bill, but you are not going to stay in business long if you keep giving your liquor away. He set the glass and bottle down and reaching inside his vest pocket with his left hand, he pulled out a silver dollar and threw it on the bar. At no time did his right hand ever leave the proximity of the holstered pistol. Picking up both the bottle and the shot glass with his left hand, he turned and walked to a table next to the one Sam Stanfield occupied. Sliding out a chair that faced the doors of the saloon, he set the saddle bags down on one side of the table, and then set the bottle and glass in place. Before sitting down, he took out the Schoefield and set it next to the bottle.

Neither Stanfield nor Dunn said a word for the longest time. Stanfield would turn a card or two and place it on a row or on the discard pile, and because he was facing Dunn, he would occasionally lift his eyes, glance at him, and after a short glimpse he would go back to his game, while Dunn sipped on his Mescal and glanced around the interior of the saloon as if he was looking for something or someone. Stanfield looked up from his cards and surveyed Dunn for a moment before speaking, That tub of guts won’t be back. Cranston is a back shooter, and he and his two hillbillies are out there waiting behind some rain barrel or alley entrance, and when you walk by, they will step out behind you and — well, you know the rest.

I assumed something like that. I have encountered it several times before, replied Dunn.

Without looking up, Stanfield added, You sure got ole Charlie rattled. He damn near pissed his pants when Bill told him you were this Dunn fella. What makes you so scary?

What if I tell you it is none of your business? countered Dunn.

Suit yourself. Just makin’ conversation, is all.

After a short pause, Dunn said, Yes, the barkeep is correct. I am Virgil Dunn. Stanfield didn’t introduce himself. He continued with his game of solitaire as if the conversation was over. Dunn watched Stanfield for a moment, then asked, Would you care for a game of draw poker?

Sam Stanfield looked up and asked, You’re not going to shoot me if you lose, are you? I’m a pretty good poker player.

Dunn didn’t respond immediately. He stared at Stanfield, and with a hint of a smile on his face, he said, Now, that is the kind of remark that can get someone killed.

Stanfield set the dog-eared deck of cards down on the table, took hold of his coat lapels (one in each hand), and rocked back in his chair, lifting the front legs a couple of inches off the floor.

"Don’t let him talk to you like that Virgil."

Keep quiet! Virgil responded, somewhat annoyed.

Stanfield had to force himself to hide the questioning look on his face. As he looked around the room trying to find the person Dunn was talking to, he set his chair back on the floor, and removing his hands from his coat lapels, he set them flat on the table.

Dunn holstered the Schoefield, picked up the saddle bags, his bottle and the empty shot glass and moved to Stanfield’s table. He followed the same routine as he had at the other table. He set the saddle bags down, then the bottle and glass with his left hand, and lastly the pistol, before sitting. Are we going to play cards, or not? he asked.

Stanfield, still somewhat apprehensive after Dunn’s outburst, picked up the deck of cards, and then he suddenly remembered that they had nothing to use as chips. Bill, he called out, could we have them poker matches, please?

Bill almost sprinted to the table with a large mason jar full of match sticks that the patrons used for betting. Stanfield took the jar from Bill and emptied the contents in the middle of the table. He handed the empty jar back to the bartender, and using both hands, he divided the pile of match sticks into two equal but smaller stacks, shoving one pile in Dunn’s direction and the other in front of himself.

What kinda stakes are we playin’ for? inquired Stanfield.

Let us keep it friendly, a penny a stick. That way you won’t lose your shirt, and I won’t have to kill you if you win too much, replied Dunn, trying to look serious.

Stanfield swallowed hard, but when he saw the smile on Dunn’s face, he relaxed and laughed nervously. He picked up the deck of cards and handed them to Dunn, who, in turn, gestured with a wave of his fingers that Stanfield should deal. Stanfield shuffled the cards three times, cut the deck himself, and dealt out five cards apiece. Dunn took one quick glance at his hand and discarded three cards, keeping a pair of fours. Stanfield, on the other hand, deliberately took his time, as he rearranged the cards in his hand one at a time. He held a pair of nines and a pair of sevens with a five as the odd card. As he was rearranging his cards for the second time, he asked, What line of work did you say you were in, Mr. Dunn?

I did not say. I will open with ten, was Dunn’s terse reply, as he grabbed a small handful of match sticks and dropped them in the middle of the table.

Stanfield thought that Dunn had put a lot more than ten match sticks in the pot, but he didn’t bring the matter up as he slowly and methodically counted out his ten sticks and pushed them forward. As he began to rearrange his cards once more, he asked, So, what do you do for a living?

Dunn responded with, I have tried to give it a name, but I guess you could say I am an opportunist. If a money-making occasion that interests me presents itself, I will pursue it.

After a lengthy pause, Stanfield asked, I may have such an opportunity for you. What will it cost me?

I would have to know what the job entailed, replied Dunn.

Their conversation was interrupted by a very tall, thin, gaunt-looking man, wearing a black top-hat and a weather-beaten tuxedo that was three sizes too small for him, judging by the fact the sleeves stopped halfway down his forearm. At first, the man had stuck his head through the saloon door, just far enough to have a quick look around, and then after a short pause he entered, followed by two short, stocky gents, wearing overalls that looked like they had never seen soap and water. Without speaking or even glancing around, the three of them hustled to the corpse of the drifter, picked the body up and scurried out of the saloon as quickly as they could, struggling with the weight of their cadaverous cargo, dropping it a couple of times. As soon as they were out the door, Bill, carrying a damp mop, started to wipe up the blood, but it was already coagulated and too thick for the mop to handle easily. He went behind the bar and quickly emerged with a pail of water, which he promptly threw on the large pool of blood. Using the string mop, he mixed the water and blood, swishing the crimson liquid around until the mop was saturated. He wrung out the mop by hand into the pail and repeated the entire process.

Dunn and Stanfield seemed to be captivated by Bill’s cleaning routine, neither one of them paying much attention to the card game. Stanfield brought the focus back to the cards when he asked, How many? Dunn took three cards.

I’ll take just the one, said Stanfield, as he discarded a card and dealt another one to himself. As he picked up his hand and rearranged the cards to include the newly acquired ace of spades, he was distracted by the entrance of seven men. Once they were all in the room, one of the men took three steps forward while the other six formed a semi-circle around him with everyone facing the interior of the establishment.

Dunn’s right hand inched closer to the Schoefield as he scrutinized the newcomers. The first thing that stood out for Dunn was that they were all dressed alike: cream-colored cotton shirts adorned with a black ribbon bowtie, black trousers, polished black boots, dark grey, knee-length dusters, topped off with slouch hats that matched the dusters in color. The man in the middle seemed unarmed, but his six companions each sported a short, double barrel, 12-guage shotgun.

Once he surveyed the interior of the saloon, the man in the middle turned towards Stanfield’s table and advanced until he stood only two paces away. His six cohorts came forward as well, reforming the semicircle behind him.

"Oooohh, this don’t look good, Virgil!"

Dunn said nothing. This was not the time to start an argument with someone that only he could hear.

Stanfield spoke up, What can I do for you, McRae?

"Virgil! Virgil! It’s ‘im! That’s Captain Max McRae! Goddamn butcher! See that scar below his left eye," the voice roared in Dunn’s ear. As he studied McRae’s face, he could feel a wave of energy swelling up from deep within. He could feel the unmitigated anger and pure hatred escalating, but there was also an element of joy. No, not joy so much; more like a feeling of contentment when a long and arduous task has come to completion, or a seemingly endless journey has concluded.

McRae interrupted Dunn’s procession of emotions when he remarked, You’re taking a big chance, Sam, coming into town all alone.

Before either Stanfield or McRae could say anything more, Dunn, without a hint of his emotional state, interjected by saying, He is not alone.

McRae turned his attention to Dunn, turning his head slightly as he stared at Dunn for a few seconds before speaking. Do I know you, Mister?

Dunn smiled slightly and replied, I doubt if you would remember me, but I sure know you, Captain. Dunn had sworn fifteen years ago that he would never forget that face: the pockmarked cheeks, the big handle-bar mustache, the big, black, bushy eyebrows covering eyes that were such a dark shade of brown that they appeared to be black. The right brow hung far lower than the left one, almost covering the right eye: the result of a bullet crease that when it had healed had shrunk the skin and pulled the brow down, almost covering the eye.

McRae didn’t recognize the man who had befriended Sam, but there was a nagging familiarity about him that caused McRae some discomfort. Changing the subject, he uttered a threat. Touch that pistol and you are a dead man!

Dunn paused before answering, If I touch my pistol you are the dead man and that goes for at least one or two of your friends, there.

Bill Cameron saw an opportunity to get in good with McRae and company. He rushed over and pointing to Dunn he said, Mr. McRae, this fella here is Virgil Dunn. You know — the bounty killer! Some folks say he’s greased lightning. There ain’t nobody faster.

McRae looked back at Dunn and asked, Is that true?

Dunn didn’t answer. Ignoring McRae, he picked up a hand full of match sticks and placed them in the pot. I’ll raise twenty five, he said to Stanfield.

Stanfield didn’t move right away. It was as if he was calculating what his next move should be. After a few uneasy seconds, he glanced at McRae, and then without making eye contact with Dunn, he meticulously counted out twenty five match sticks and countered with a raise of twenty five more.

McRae saw red. He took a step forward, fully intending to stick his nose right in Stanfield’s face before saying what he had come to say. Going forward, for weeks to come, Stanfield would run what had just occurred over and over in his mind. He had never in his forty three years of living seen anything like it. When Bill the bartender had mentioned greased lightning, he didn’t do it proper justice. In the blink of an eye, Dunn picked up the Schoefield and stood up to meet the oncoming McRae, at the same time kicking his chair in the direction of McRae’s men. That fraction of a second, when they looked down at the flying furniture, was enough to give Dunn the edge he needed. In one swift motion, he swung the pistol, catching the oncoming McRae across the bridge of his nose. Blinded by the blow, McRae stumbled forwarded into Dunn’s waiting arms. Dunn took a half step to the side, and using McRae’s own momentum, Dunn spun the oncoming man around so that he ended up behind him. With his left arm, he put a choke hold on McRae, while at the same time, using his right arm, he shoved the barrel of his pistol into the corner of McRae’s right eye. He shouted to McRae’s men, Drop the shotguns, boys, or I will blow the top of his head off!

Five of McRae’s cohorts began to lower their weapons and were in the process of bending down to lay them on the floor, but the sixth man, who was on Dunn’s right side, began to bring his shotgun to bear. Dunn moved his pistol ever so slightly away from McRae’s face and pulled the trigger, the bullet catching the sixth man in the middle of his forehead. As he toppled over, his shotgun went off, blasting a sizeable hole in Bill’s floorboards. The muzzle flash from Dunn’s pistol scorched McRae’s cheek just below his right eye, and he yelped in pain. Do not make me kill you! Dunn warned the other five men, as he shoved the pistol barrel back under McRae’s eye.

After a momentary pause, the remaining five men gently laid their shotguns on the floor and stood back up. Dunn released his hold on McRae and gave him a shove in the direction of his henchmen. McRae immediately turned in Dunn’s direction and uttered through clenched teeth, You’re a dead man!

It took every bit of self-control for Dunn not to pull the trigger. Instead, he took a deep breath and remarked without emotion, You thought so once before, and then he added, Leave the shotguns and be on your way, gentlemen.

Sam Stanfield interjected, Watch him! He carries a Pepperbox Derringer in his vest pocket.

That is alright, Sam. I do not believe the Captain is dumb enough or brave enough to try anything, replied Dunn.

McRae stared at Dunn for the longest time, trying to remember where he might have met this man before. Unable to recall, he let out a huff of air, grunted, and stomped out of the saloon, using long