Killer Silver (Jubal Cade Western #4)

By Charles R. Pike

The killing trail winds on for Jubal Cade, trained doctor and deadly sharpshooter. The hunt for the scar-faced man who killed his wife takes him through Laredo, to the Mexican mountains where Roberto Blanco and his gang of marauders have their hideout. Word is that Blanco’s chief henchman is El Cicatriz—‘the scar-faced one’. A man who enjoys cold-blooded murder.
Can it be that the long quest for vengeance is nearly over for the fastest doctor in the West?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215084250

Charles R. Pike

Terry Harknnett and Angus Ian Wells were British writers of genre fiction, who wrote under the name of Charles R. Pike (Jubal Cade).

Book preview

Chapter One

THE CONCORDE STAGE bucked and rolled its way across the arid desert landscape of Southern Texas, a roiling dust cloud marking its passage towards Laredo. Inside, jackets abandoned and shirts unbuttoned against the heat, three men lolled back in sweaty silence. The fourth passenger, a woman in her mid-forties, averted her eyes carefully from the spectacle—clearly distasteful to her—of her fellow travelers. They were obviously not gentlemen with such disgusting manners and would have received scant welcome in her family’s Episcopalian Church on Broad Street back home in Des Moines.

Seeking to break the oppressive silence Jubal Cade showed his broken front teeth in a boyish grin.

‘Back in San Antonio,’ he remarked to no one in particular, ‘the stage agent told me this wagon had the smoothest springs in the West. It springs to mind they’re almighty rough on the passengers.’

The only reply was a grunt from the bearded man on Jubal’s left. His mane of dark hair was matted with perspiration, which also plastered his grubby white shirt to his broad chest. Around his waist, slung crossways for a side draw, was a black leather holster containing a long-barreled Cavalry Colt, its smooth wooden butt evidence of considerable usage. For most of the journey he had slept, awaking once in a while to take a slug from the whiskey bottles in the pocket of his black frock coat oblivious to the disapproval of the female passenger.

On the other bench, facing Jubal, sat a young cowboy dressed in faded Levi’s and sun-bleached shirt that had once been blue. Like the swarthy man he carried a gun on his left hip, a standard store-bought Colt Peacemaker that looked as though it had been used more to hammer nails than fire bullets. He was returning, he had volunteered earlier, from a trail drive north to Abilene to his folks’ ranch on the Rio Grande about thirty miles out from Laredo. His name, he had said, was Billy Laughlin.

The big dark man was called McDonald and the mention of his name had elicited a look of respect from the young cow-poke.

It had provoked a comment from the woman, too.

‘I should have thought,’ she announced severely, ‘that a man in your position might have set a better example than acting like a whiskey drummer.’

‘Ma’am,’ McDonald had replied with a grin, ‘a man takes his pleasure where he finds it. An’ right now I’m carrying mine in my pocket.’

She had spoken little after that beyond mentioning that her husband was a Major James, commander of a cavalry squadron stationed in Laredo on border patrol. The river, she had announced knowingly, was a dangerous place much favored by Apache raiding parties and Mexican bandits heading north to the richer pickings of the United States. It was obvious that she was not entirely happy with the thought of returning from a family visit in Des Moines to the dust and heat of Laredo, far down on the southern heel of Texas.

Jubal gave up on his attempt at conversation and turned to look out at the seemingly unending vista of mesquite, dry earth and low sand ridges. He wondered idly if the stage would reach Laredo on schedule or whether, as was usually the case, it would come in late. He noted the sun drifting down towards the rim of the desert, throwing long shadows from the bluffs.

But his keen eyes missed one part of the landscape.

Hidden from casual view in the shade of the ridge overlooking the stage coach’s passage a solitary horseman sat his mount. He wore a breach-clout and beaded moccasins with fox tails dangling from the heels. Down the left side of his flat, dark face ran a broad band of black paint; plaited into his shoulder-length black hair were two eagle feathers, tipped in red. He was a Comanche.

His gaze was fixed on the stage and as it drew level with his position he lifted the stone-tipped lance in his right hand high above his head.

From a sand hollow up ahead of the Concorde came an answering signal. There, equally well-hidden, ten more riders waited impassively. They carried an assortment of weapons ranging from lances, bows and tomahawks to a couple of ancient single-shot Henry carbines. They were uniformly painted and carried eagle feathers in their dark hair. Their leader, a big broad-shouldered buck with a stripe of red matching the black band on his face, heeled his pony up to the edge of the hollow on sight of the signal. He grunted to himself as he watched the stage’s approach. Then, with a guttural shout, he whipped his pony up over the rim towards the coach. Behind him the other nine braves galloped forward, shrill war yells splitting the still desert air.

The stage driver cursed volubly as he spotted the screaming riders and hurled a volley of pebbles at the pounding six-horse team. Beside him the guard thumbed back the hammers of the big two-barreled Remington shotgun clasped in his hands and yelled back at the passengers.

‘Injuns! Comin’ up fast. Better get yore head down, ma’am.’

‘Oh God!’ Mrs. James screamed, ‘Indians. Oh God help us!’

The big dark man turned briefly towards her as his Colt swung smoothly out of its holster.

‘Ma’am,’ he snarled, ‘I think we’re on our own, so don’t look for too much help. An’ you better get yore head down like the man says.’

He glanced at Jubal as the terrified woman threw herself to the floor of the swaying coach.

‘You, too, stranger,’ he grunted, contempt showing on his face as he eyed the smaller man’s gunless waist. ‘If you don’t carry a gun stay outta my way.’

Jubal grinned tightly, little humor showing on his face. He slid the lever-action Spencer, converted from carbine to rifle, from beneath his seat and pumped a shell into the breech.

‘Friend,’ he remarked as the screaming braves hurtled closer, ‘I got a gun and I’m planning to use it. You be careful not to get in my way.’

The stage had little chance. The Comanches were coming in on a collision course and arrows were already whistling past the lead horses of the team. One thudded into the shoulder of the driver, yanking his left hand from the reins. The pressure slackened and the team swung to the right as the guard’s shotgun boomed a hail of lead into the face of the nearest Indian. He flew backwards off his pony as his head exploded in a deluge of blood and bone. Beside him another brave hauled his pony aside, only to find himself in the direct path of the stage team.

The lead pair smashed into the lighter built mustang, the guide pole slung between them knocking its forelegs from under it in a welter of tumbling horseflesh.

The rider was hurled high into the air, his trajectory carrying him directly across the path of the guard’s line of sight. Instinctively the man triggered his shotgun, blasting a wave of 10-gauge shot into the flying Comanche.

The Indian was thrown through the air by the raw power of the Remington’s discharge, his body transformed into a bloody bundle of torn flesh and splintered bone that fell soggily on to the sand.

His pony squealed as the hooves of the stage horses drummed a tattoo across its broken rib-cage, the coach itself jumping madly as the wheels crushed the shattered carcass.

‘Hell, Sam, keep ’em movin’,’ gasped the guard, hurriedly thumbing fresh cartridges into the scattergun.

‘What in the hell do you think I’m doin’?’ rasped back the sweating driver, using his good arm to lash the pounding team to even greater efforts.

The arrow still protruded from his shoulder, although the flow of blood was drying, and he was able to use that arm to control the madly running team.

Inside the Concorde, Jubal sighted coolly on a rider swinging close, bow notched to put an arrow into the coach. He squeezed the trigger gently and smiled mirthlessly as the Comanche’s chest disintegrated in a great fountain of blood. The bow fell from the Indian’s lifeless fingers but somehow he stayed on his pony, careening wildly past the stage with a look of shock and disbelief on his painted face. The pony galloped madly on as the corpse on its back slid sideways to crash on to the sand in the path of another brave.

The second warrior hauled his mount violently to one side. But he was too slow to avoid the falling body.

The pony’s hooves thudded down into yielding flesh, splintering bone and pulping sinew. Its hooves tangled in the jutting bones and it reared up in a desperate effort to free itself from the macabre trap.

The delay gave Billy the time he needed to level and fire. His bullet took the Indian between the shoulder blades, crashed off his spine and blasted a gaping hole in his abdomen. He grunted, his fingers loosening on the rope bridle, and the bucking mustang hurled him clear.

Jubal sighted coolly on another target, but the bouncing coach threw his aim and the Spencer’s bullet hit the Comanche’s pony, bringing it down in a billowing dust cloud. The Indian, with the natural skill of his horse soldier tribe, swung easily astride a riderless mount, bow still clutched in his hand, arrow strung and ready for firing. Before Jubal could re-sight and fire again he was gone into the roiling dust storm of the skirmish.

Arrows and bullets smashed remorselessly into the Concorde as it plunged on towards Laredo. The Comanches swept past, hurtling through the storm of lead thrown out by the defenders. But it was a one-sided fight. The leading warrior put an arrow into the flank of the second horse in line, slowing its frantic rush and causing it to drag on the traces.

Over the thunder of gunfire Jubal heard McDonald bellowing.

‘The leader. Get the big one with the red paint!’

‘Hell,’ Billy gasped in reply, ‘I’m happy to get any of ’em.’

He and McDonald were triggering their Colts as fast as they could. Most of the shots went wide, but the flying lead did something to deter the raiding party from riding too close in.

On the other side of the stage Jubal had his Spencer resting on the window ledge, sighting down the barrel at a screaming brave he suddenly recognized as the Comanche McDonald meant. He squeezed the trigger and grunted in sheer animal satisfaction at the splash of red that blossomed on the Indian’s chest, tossing him sideways off his pony. Jubal levered another shell into the breech and snapped off a shot at a brave coming in to count coup.

The bullet tore through the Comanche’s war shield smashing his arm and hurling his coup stick off to one side. Yelling like a madman, the Indian snatched a tomahawk from his belt and hurled himself off his pony straight at the stage. Somehow he managed to gain a purchase on the window frame with his shattered arm while the other swung the hatchet in a vicious arc at Jubal’s head. Pure reflex saved Jubal. He leant back and rammed the muzzle of the Spencer into the Indian’s face, pulping his nose and knocking him loose from his precarious hold. The brave yelled once as the rear wheel of the heavy coach ran across his spine, killing him instantly.

On the floor of the rocking Concorde, Mrs. James screamed, her hands clawing frantically at her head as though to pluck the sound of gunfire and war whoops from her ears.

Above, the driver screamed high and thin as a carbine bullet took him in the stomach. He doubled over, pitching off the bucking seat on to the sand. The reins were twisted around his good wrist and the galloping team carried his body along beside the coach, bouncing limply like a rag doll, leaving a long crimson trail on the sand. The guard swore steadily, fired his shotgun into the stomach of a brave trying to swing aboard the stage and reached over to cut the reins free from the driver’s lifeless grip, seizing the shortened leathers himself.

Arrows thwacked solidly into the body of the wooden coach and Billy gasped as one hit his ribs, glancing sideways off the bone to hang in the muscle of his belly. Groaning, he doubled over to join Mrs. James on the floor of the coach, numb fingers plucking at the feathered shaft sticking out of his blood-stained shirt.

McDonald glanced at the moaning boy and picked up his gun. Two-handed, he fired directly into the face of a brave levelling one of the Henrys. The Indian screamed once before his head erupted under the impact of two .45 caliber bullets and flew backwards off his pony.

Then a Comanche planted three arrows, one after the other, in the neck and ribs of the team leader. The horse went down snorting blood. Its running mate was dragged down alongside and the following horses piled into them, swinging the stage violently sideways as it bore down on the tumbling mass of horseflesh. The Concorde pitched, rose giddily in the air and crashed down on its side, the force of its impact hurling the defenders around the inside of the coach and raising a huge dust cloud that obscured the tumbling vehicle behind a temporarily protective screen.

Mrs. James screamed as Billy landed on top of her, wincing as the fall twisted the arrow stuck in his side. He yelled as the frantic woman’s clutching fingers drove the shaft deeper into the wound and blindly lashed out against the pain. His fingers clutched at her petticoats, ripping them to expose white underwear that was quickly splashed with blood. This fresh outrage brought an even louder scream from the hysterical woman who began to pummel the senseless boy.

Jubal cursed as sand and blood spattered into his face. He twisted around and backhanded the screaming woman.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he grunted as he elbowed her aside, ‘but if you can’t keep calm, keep quiet.’

McDonald had somehow managed to keep his position at the window and was still firing at the screaming Indians. Jubal levered himself up to join the big man as the three remaining braves, intent now on avenging their dead, wheeled their ponies towards the fallen Concorde. He sighted quickly and squeezed off a shot. It went wide of the target but served to head the charging Comanches off to one side out of rifle range. Jubal risked the brief respite to stick his head higher out of the door to spot the guard. The man had been thrown clear of the tumbling stage but had managed to retain his grip on the shotgun. Now he