Bounty Hunter Nate Landry: Dust Devil

By Mark L Redmond

Book three in the series finds Nate and Wolf pursuing a gang of outlaws who helped themselves to $20,000 from the bank in Florence, Arizona Territory, and then disappeared. Although the bounty hunters have plenty of experience at tracking down outlaws, the gang's cunning leader manages to stay one step ahead of them. The chase leads them from Fl

• Language: English
• Publisher: author
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986233383

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BOUNTY HUNTER NATE LANDRY

DUST DEVIL

Book Three in the

BOUNTY HUNTER NATE LANDRY

Series

Mark L. Redmond

Copyright © 2023 by Mark L. Redmond

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Design and Interior Formatting by 100 Covers

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Thank you for reading!

Other Books by Mark L. Redmond

CHAPTER 1

I pushed open the batwing doors, walked into the half-empty saloon, and sauntered to the bar. The barkeep smiled and gave me a nod.

What’ll you have, Pardner? he asked.

Beer, I replied, and some of that grub.

I smiled at him. He looked more like an undertaker than a barkeep. He was a couple of inches taller than my six-foot stature and probably 25-30 pounds lighter. His black hair was slicked back and parted in the middle. His nose looked like a beak.

As he slid my beer toward me, he nodded at a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of pickled eggs at the end of the bar.

Help yourself, and have a seat, he said.

I’m obliged for the food, I said, but I’ve been in the saddle for the past few days. Will I be in your way if I stand here while I eat?

The barkeep chuckled. You won’t be in my way if you stay on that side of the bar. If you come back here, I’ll hand you an apron and give you a job.

I walked to the end of the bar, took an empty plate from a stack, and put two sandwiches and an egg on it. Experience had taught me to slide the plate along the smooth surface of the bar instead of carrying it back to where the barkeep had placed my beer. The egg was much less likely to roll off the plate when the plate stayed level.

I had eaten the egg and half of a sandwich when I finished my beer. I glanced at the barkeep and saw him heading toward me with a smile and a second beer. I thanked him and continued to eat.

Although I stood with my back to the room, the mirror that covered a large portion of the wall behind the bar allowed me to examine the other folks in the room as I ate. I didn’t see anyone who fit the description on the wanted posters I carried in one of my saddlebags.

Four days ago, I had ridden away from Phoenix, where I had spent three weeks recovering from a bullet wound on the side of my head. Wolf had left two weeks earlier to visit a lady I reckoned he might one day marry. When I felt well enough to travel, I had ridden southeast toward Florence, watching along the way for outlaws. Since I didn’t see anyone in the saloon who looked as if he had a price on his head, I was trying to decide whether to stay in Florence for the night or ride another hour or so down the trail that led to my cabin.

I was finishing my second sandwich when five or six horses thundered past the saloon. The riders crouched low in their saddles; and as they disappeared in a cloud of dust, gunfire erupted from somewhere down the street in the direction from which they had come. I drank the last of my beer, slapped two bits on the bar, and started toward the door.

Just before I reached the batwings, they flew open; and I found myself facing a small, wiry, brown-skinned man, wearing a badge and a six-shooter. He glanced at me, stepped around me, and spoke to the other men in the saloon.

Somebody just robbed the bank! he said. I need men for a posse.

The marshal was a foot shorter than I am, so when I turned around, I could see over his head. Most of the men sat, looking at the floor. Three men, who had been sitting at the same table, pushed their chairs back and stood.

We’ll ride with you, Juan, one of them said.

I’m obliged, the marshal said. I need five or six more men.

Nobody looked at him or spoke.

They took your money! he said. You don’t want to try to get it back?

We have families, Juan. Whoever had spoken hadn’t moved or looked at the marshal.

Let’s ride, he said. He shook his head. They ain’t going to sit along the road and wait for us. As he turned to leave, I stepped between him and the batwings.

I’ll ride with you, Marshal, I said.

Starting with my boots and working his way up to my face, he looked me over.

Why would you do that? he asked. You’re a stranger.

It seems like the right thing to do, I said.

I’m obliged for your help, he said. Let’s ride!

I had tied Mac’s reins to the hitching rail in front of the saloon. I tightened the saddle girth and mounted him. Patting his neck, I said, Let’s catch some outlaws, Pardner!

Wolf and I agreed that riding with a posse was usually a bad idea. As I sat in the saddle for the next quarter of an hour, waiting for the other four riders, I remembered one of the reasons we felt the way we did.

The marshal showed up a few minutes before the other three men did. He stopped his horse beside Mac and extended his right hand toward me.

I’m Juan Lopez, he said.

Nate Landry, I replied. I shook his hand. You have any idea who we’re after?

Not a clue, he said. As the other posse members stopped their horses beside him, the marshal looked at them. Amigos? he asked. They shook their heads.

Ned said all five bandits kept their faces covered, and only one of them spoke. This report came from the man nearest the marshal. The marshal turned toward me.

Ned is the owner of the bank, he said. Well, Gents, let’s go get our money back.

As we rode out of town, we held our horses to a walk until we had passed the last buildings. I reckon the marshal was protecting both children and grown folks who stepped into the street without checking for oncoming horses or wagons. He spurred his horse to a gallop as soon as we had left town.

Mac kept pace with the marshal’s horse. I had decided to ride with the marshal at the front of the posse so we could communicate easily. I also wanted to be able to read the trail signs before the rest of the men had ridden over them. I didn’t know if any of the other men could follow a trail or not, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Less than half a mile outside town, we slowed our horses to a walk. The dirt on the road was packed too hard to show any tracks. The marshal and I rode on opposite sides, watching for signs that someone had left the road.

It seems as if the bank robbers are getting farther ahead of us while we’re lollygagging like this, Juan. One of the posse men had caught up until he rode beside the marshal. He was a tall, thin, clean-shaven man with neatly trimmed blond hair. He wore a black derby hat that looked new. His shirt and pants also looked new, and his boots had been polished recently. He sat ramrod straight in his saddle.

Well, Mr. Baylor, the marshal said, I don’t reckon these hombres stayed on this road too long unless they’re stupid. He removed his hat and his bandana, wiped the sweat from his face, neck, and head, and replaced his hat. Holding his bandana by one corner, he let the breeze begin to dry it.

Why not? Baylor asked. I’d stay on the road.

When the marshal glanced at me, I shrugged my shoulders. I reckon you would, I said.

Baylor turned in his saddle to glare at me. What’s that supposed to mean? he asked. I wasn’t talking to you anyway. He turned back to the marshal.

The nearest town is more than twenty-five miles away, the marshal said, even though it’s only a wide spot in the road with a trading post and three cabins. If these hombres follow the road to that town, they’ll have to ride hard to stay ahead of us. Besides, five riders coming into a town on tired horses would draw too much attention.

The other two posse members had ridden forward so they could hear the conversation. The one closer to the marshal spoke.

So, you reckon these owl hoots left the road, and you and— he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

Nate Jackson, I said. I didn’t mind letting Juan know who I was, but I reckoned it wouldn’t hurt if the others thought I was just a drifter. Bounty hunters aren’t always welcomed by townsfolk.

Dan Peirce, he said. He touched the brim of his brown Stetson, smiled, and turned back to the marshal. So, you and Nate are watching for the place where they turned off. He removed his hat and wiped his bald head with his bandana. After replacing his hat, he tied the bandana around his neck. That makes all kinds of sense.

Baylor muttered something as we rode forward, but nobody paid attention to him. We had ridden less than a mile when I spotted the first tracks leaving the road. I dismounted and crouched to examine them more closely.

How many riders? asked the marshal.

One, I said. These hombres are smart. They’ll be harder to catch if they split up.

If you’ll follow this trail, Amigo, he said, we’ll follow the road to find the other places where they turned off. He brushed a fly away from his face. Is that acceptable to you?

I swung into my saddle. It is, I said. When I reach the end of this trail or figure out where it’s headed, I’ll catch up with you.

"Vaya con Dios," said the marshal.

You too, I said. I nudged Mac with my heels, and he headed into the brush.

As I rode over the rolling ground, weaving through brush and rocks, I could see that whoever I was following had made no attempt to cover his tracks. I reckoned he must not have expected anyone to come after him.

He underestimated us, Mac, I said. That should make our job a mite easier.

Experience has taught me that arrogant outlaws are often easier to capture because they believe they’re a lot smarter than the people chasing them. That kind of thinking usually leads them to make careless mistakes, and those mistakes get them caught.

About half a mile off the road, I reined Mac to a halt and dismounted. The tracks told me an interesting story. Early that morning, probably before sunrise, someone had hidden a horse and buggy in the brush. The rider I was following had stepped down from his horse and climbed into the buggy. Then, with his horse tied to the back of the rig, he had driven off in the same direction, headed away from the road.

I looked at Mac and shrugged my shoulders. Doesn’t make much sense to me either Pardner, I said. I patted his neck and then swung into the saddle. Let’s see what this hombre is up to.

Following the tracks left by the buggy was easy. The driver had made a gradual turn that led back to the road less than a mile from where the rider had left it. Since we had been looking for fresh tracks from single horses leaving the