When a Good Man Comes to Town

By Andrew Jaggard

‘When a Good Man Comes to Town’ is a rip-roaring ride through the Wild West of old-time Wyoming. Packed full of gunslinging action, this thrilling novel is a fast-paced, highly atmospheric tale of a good man trying to save the day. A nameless bounty hunter takes a step into the unknown when he accepts a job to help right an emotional wrong. Haunted by past loss, and only used to tracking scum and villainy, he is shocked when this adventure sees him finding love with a woman who is more than his match. Together they must face their demons and defeat an evil plot that could have terrible ramifications for all the people of the Cowboy State.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839786570

Book preview

When a Good Man Comes to Town

When a Good Man Comes to Town

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2023

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839786-57-0

Copyright © Andrew Jaggard 2023

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and cover design by Michelle Emerson michelleemerson.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A

When a Good Man Comes to Town

Andrew Jaggard

Contents

1

2

3

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16

1

H

e sighed, running his hands wearily over his temples. They were grimy, covered in dirt and grease, but it hardly mattered to him. His whole body was covered in dirt and grease. All he was doing now was moving it about.

He scrutinised the scrap of paper once more. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting this time, above and beyond the last fifty times he had looked at it, but perhaps that last rub of dirt and grease had supercharged his eyesight. Who on earth drew these things? He supposed it wasn’t as if you could get a wanted criminal to sit still for a formal portrait, but this rubbish may as well have been drawn by his horse.

Perhaps days of tracking, days of hiding, days of waiting, had left him a little on edge, but he really wasn’t 100 percent sure he would know which of the grizzled, angry looking men he had been viewing from afar he would actually need to look for when the time came. He figured he would just have to keep on shooting, and pick through the bodies after. Maybe he could find a wagon and take them all back. The sheriff could then pick the right one himself.

He took a swig from a bottle in his satchel, steeling himself with the amber liquid. The taste was foul, and he screwed up his nose and squinted accusingly at the label. Guarma Rum.

‘Where the hell is Guarma?’ he muttered. ‘Sounds made up.’

That’s what you get for buying cheap, he told himself. But he would still drink it. It wasn’t so bad that he would waste alcohol. It would take an awful lot for that to happen.

Before he could take another swig though, his focus was diverted away from his drink and back to the clearing he should have been faithfully watching.

A horseman rode up the trampled path, sliding out of the saddle before reaching the cabin sitting a short way from the trees on the far side of the small break in the forest. The horseman gave a cursory glance to the surroundings, but seemed unconcerned and quickly hefted the saddlebag and headed calmly through the door. A small amount of activity could be heard as the arrival was greeted by his companions, but it soon died down below the level that could be gleaned by anyone who happened to be waiting in the tree-line at the edge of the opening.

He had held his breath for the entire time the horseman had been in view. The sigh that greeted the closing of the cabin door held more than a touch of relief, but anyone who heard it would also sense that it hinted at nerves for what was to come. He had finally got to the point he had hoped for these past few days. The entire Oso gang should now be within those four walls; together for the first time since they completed their mad-dash flight from Pinedale. It was now or never.

He checked his weapons. The long-stock .44 Model 1837; the two Peacemakers; the knives strapped throughout for good measure. They were all in good order. All ready to be (hopefully not) used. He glanced once more at the useless picture of his quarry and crumpled it into his pocket.

The only way to determine who he was after would be to go down and ask.

He walked purposefully from the trees and crossed to the cabin. He knocked on the door.

It took a second or two for the silhouette in the doorway to materialise into a discernible human, and both men blinked at each other while the interior of the cabin sharpened to him. He glanced very quickly behind the man sent to greet him, then fixed a smile and cleared his throat.

‘Howdy friend. I’m looking for Oso Rivas.’

The other man, tall, solid, and dangerous in the doorway, growled.

‘Never heard of him,’ was the muttered reply. But the eyes darted slightly to the right, towards the main body of the cabin, betraying unease.

‘Oh, well isn’t that a shame,’ he sighed. He shifted his weight slightly as if to seem dejected, but instead caught another look at the rest of the cabin. He could make out three other figures at a large table slightly to his left. He presumed one of them must be Oso.

‘Should you happen to meet Oso Rivas though,’ he said, now addressing the shadows over the man’s shoulder, ‘you should mention that I am looking for him. I need to speak to him about the robbery of the Pinedale Stage, 10 days ago. It would appear, from these papers,’ he paused, half drawing some documents from a pocket, ‘that he is wanted in connection with this crime. There is rather a large bounty on returning him to Pinedale, in fact.’

There was a low, rumbling laugh from the table, and the two men at the door turned to see where it came from. Sat in front of a far window, even harder to see than the man in the doorway, was a behemoth of a man wrapped in a cloak. He continued laughing, somehow making a joyous noise sound hard and sinister.

‘I’m afraid there ain’t nothing to talk about, boy,’ the behemoth spat. ‘You won’t be seeing that bounty. You won’t even be seeing tomorrow’s sun.’ He nodded towards the man next to him at the table. ‘Kill that grub.’

The gun fired, flash illuminating the dark of the cabin. It was followed almost instantly by the sound of the bullet clanging into the copper pan hanging next to the doorway, a good foot from the head of the intended target.

There was a moment of almost farcical stillness, as the clang of the pan continued to reverberate. It was as if no one could quite gauge what had happened, and thus what was now about to happen. It was a beat that he used to his advantage.

Getting the jump on the man in from of him, he brought his knee up, catching the target off guard, and causing the man to lose composure and crumple forwards. Then, in one, fluid motion he swung the rifle from his shoulder like a club, slamming it down to crumple hat and shatter skull.

He darted forward, out of the doorway and into the gloom. He fired his rifle and dived towards the relative safety of the staircase, directly ahead of him. His shot was wild, unaimed, and lucky. It hit a seated gang member just as he was drawing his gun, sending a plume of blood and brain-matter over the surface of the table.

He dropped the rifle as his shoulder hit the foot of the stairs, his momentum nearly checked, but carrying him just far enough to avoid more bullets exploding the world around him. He struggled with the holster at his leg, desperately trying to retrieve a pistol as footsteps thumped down the stairs, bringing another enemy into play. In a panic he swung a hand through the railing and grabbed at the ankle of this unknown threat, nearly dislocating his wrist in the effort.

The man descending the stairs tumbled, falling into a heap by the body of the erstwhile doorman. Among the confusion he scrambled to his feet, finally freeing his left pistol, and firing callously into the tangle of limbs to silence the new arrival.

He swung round, continuing to fire. But nothing found its mark, and instead he found himself advanced upon. At least it was Wild-shot, the poor marksman who started off this whole charade.

Wild-shot hadn’t yet found his eye and sent a bullet harmlessly by his shoulder. But he wasn’t safe yet. Wild-shot’s next effort belied the name and hit its mark. The bounty hunter grunted in pain as the stinging heat coursed through his arm and a puff of blood briefly surrounded him. He dropped his gun. Wild-shot grinned.

The smile was snatched away though as he swept up his right arm and fired his second pistol. Two quick rounds caught Wild-shot in the chest and threw him backwards, ending the duel and sending the cabin back into silence.

Oso Rivas was gone.

He glanced around the cabin, exasperated that his quarry seemed to be missing. Oso couldn’t have got past him, and yet was gone. And then he noticed the window again, glass broken and perfect for an escape. He scooped his fallen weapons and charged back through the door.

He blinked the sun out of his eyes and lost a few precious moments getting his bearings. If Oso Rivas had taken a horse, he would have an advantage that would make it tough, possibly impossible, to capture him. But the horse at the front of the cabin was still there, blissfully unaware of the madness and gently working through a hay net pinned against the far wall. Rivas had obviously panicked and headed straight for the perceived safety of the tree line. The woods may be his friend, but they wouldn’t be his ultimate saviour.

He steeled himself, taking a few extra seconds to check his wound, and more importantly, his guns. Rivas couldn’t get that far without a horse, and in the wood an unloaded weapon may be the difference between a bullet in the skull of your bounty, and one in yours.

He sprinted across the clearing, away from the carnage of the cabin, and dived into the trees.

The dappled shade was cool; a welcome relief after the hot sun, the stuffy cabin, and the frantic gunfight. There was also an unnatural quiet, somewhat unnerving. It took the wind out of his sails, his half-crazed run suddenly checked.

He tried to calm himlf and get his heart rate to settle, knowing that all he would be able to hear otherwise would be the thump, thump, thump in his ears. Perhaps time was on his side, he thought, and he didn’t have to rush. There was quiet, and quiet could be his friend. There was no far off rustle in the trees, no thud footsteps to betray a position. There was nothing.

That must mean that Rivas wasn’t trying to flee. The great and terrible Oso Rivas was trying to hide. Rivas must have been spooked with what had happened in the cabin, and was hoping to avoid any sort of further confrontation with this particular enemy. It meant that he had the advantage again, and he could treat this as a cat-and-mouse game. Hunter versus the hunted.

He hefted his rifle, smiled, and pulled the trigger. The crack reverberated, scaring birds, sending them soaring up into the tranquil blue sky. He had plenty of ammunition, so did the same again, firing randomly deeper into the wood. He may as well sow a little confusion. If he could get Rivas to break cover, to move to another hiding spot in the face of the unusual gunfire, it would make life an awful lot easier.

He went a little further in, firing the occasional shot around to continue his scaring attempts. He began to saunter a little, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Rivas broke cover and would be finally captured. After days of toil, he could almost taste the bounty.

He skirted a pile of leaves and raised the rifle once more. He didn’t spot the slight movement in amongst the mound as he passed.

The pile disintegrated as Rivas burst forth from it, desperately grabbing at legs and boots as he threw himself upwards. The rifle spun and slid across the floor as the bounty hunter tumbled under the weight of Rivas’ attack. The cockiness he had been displaying moments before was gone as he struggled to hold on to his flailing weapon.

The two thumped into the ground, Rivas with the advantage, trying to force his hands around the younger man’s throat. He resisted, bringing boot to crotch as he tried to keep Rivas’ powerful fingers from crushing his windpipe.

Rivas shied away from another wild kick and momentarily loosened his grip, giving the bounty hunter a second to roll towards the fallen rifle.

He stretched forward, trying with all his might to grasp the stock of the gun. He almost succeeded. But just as his fingers started to find purchase, he was struck with a blinding, searing pain.

Rivas had made a ferocious swipe and slashed his knife across the younger man’s leg. Rivas, now trying to press home his gain, stabbed down with immense strength to try and skewer his opponent, but was slightly too slow. The bounty hunter kicked up his injured leg, ignoring the pain it caused and catching Rivas in the wrist. The knife was knocked clear and he brought his other boot round to slam into the side of Rivas’ head.

The pain must have been phenomenal, yet somehow Rivas held firm, going on the attack once more and diving forward. Two brutal punches softened up his target before he once again tried to throttle the air from the interloper’s lungs.

The bounty hunter gasped for breath, reeling from the ferocity of the punches and the immense strength of the grip at his throat. He thrashed, finding nothing in himself to fight back as the drowning sensation flooded his system. With his last vestige of strength, he slapped his arms together, banging them against Rivas’ ears. It didn’t do much, but gave his enemy enough pause for him to rake his fingers into eyes; clawing and hooking deep into them.

Rivas reared up; agony etched across his face. The bounty hunter followed up with a swiped punch, then another, and another. Each drove his enemy back that little bit further, giving him a little bit more time to gulp in the air he needed to stop his head from swimming.

A final punch sent Rivas backwards and off him, and he finally had the momentum to dive onto his near-forgotten rifle. In one move, he rotated round, a small but triumphant smile catching his lips.

The rifle was loaded and pointed directly at Rivas’ chest.

He slowly brought himself to his knees, then his feet, always keeping the gun pointed squarely at his fallen adversary. Rivas remained calm, but his face had changed, suddenly some fire had gone. He pivoted from fighter to negotiator, pleading with the victor for better terms.

‘You’re a mighty fine fighter, boy. I’ll give you that. I could use a man like you. If we settle our differences here, you can come work for me. You’ll make more money than you would know what to do with. Certainly more than that so-called bounty you travelled