The Complete Western Legends Omnibus

By Scott Siegel

Two full-length novels from Scott Siegel: Read about how Cort Lacey faces down a land-grabber and his army of gunfighters in Rider in the Rain. Matt Howard was a man who always met trouble head-on. Men would die in vast numbers before he was through - but why? Find out in Gunfire and Flame.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224370474

Book preview

Rider in the Rain

In loving memory of my mother.

Chapter One

JOHN BELL, AS was his custom, stopped at the Mustang Saloon for a drink before taking that long ride back to the Five Fingers. He came in out of the hot sun, limping through the bat-wing doors, only to find that more than half of the Mustang’s customers were hands from the Double C. It was easy to tell. They were the ones with coins jingling in their pockets. An honest cow-puncher couldn’t afford getting drunk as often as the Double C riders did.

John couldn’t help but think of the change in the Double C—and with it, the valley—since Howard Cliffords died. It was a change that could only be measured by the gulf between what is best in man and what is a good deal less than best. Howard originally owned the entire valley, but had opened it up to people looking for a fresh start. Cliffords made money, but on the whole, he had been generous and helpful to the poorest of the poor, who saw in his valley a chance to build a future. Now Howard was gone, and his kid brother, William, was running the Double C. William Cliffords was nothing like his older brother ...

A tumbler of rye awaited John at the bar as he said hello to the few friendly faces he could find scattered among the new, rough-looking Cliffords bunch.

He put his lame leg up on the bar-rail, took off his hat, and wiped his brow. There was a strange tension in the air. It made him uneasy. A man gets a sense for trouble living in a rough country, and John had felt it when he walked in the door. The looks on the faces of his friends deepened that feeling. And the voice that bellowed, John Bell, I hear you used to be real good with a gun before you got yourself crippled! confirmed his worst fears.

He motioned to the bartender for another drink. Usually he had only one, but he didn’t want to turn around. No trouble, he promised himself. It was a difficult promise to keep.

A large, meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him away from the bar. He half-stumbled as he tried to place his left leg firmly on the saloon floor. As he spun around, he caught sight of William Cliffords smiling wickedly in the doorway of the Mustang Saloon.

John Bell heard that same bellowing voice say something about his courage, but he didn’t listen. He was concentrating on finding a way out of this. The loudmouth bucking for a fight was a stranger. Maybe John could beat him at slapping leather and maybe he couldn’t. He didn’t want to find out.

What troubled him most was that he didn’t know why he was being goaded into a fight—at least he didn’t know until he caught the eye of a neighbor who had a small ranch across the valley. That man was looking up to him, hoping he had the sand in his gut and the speed in his hands to stop whatever William Cliffords might be planning.

John Bell was a modest man. It wasn’t until that hopeful look from his friend that he realized he was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had. Get rid of him and start harassing these peaceful folks and that most would get the fear in them and they would leave.

William Cliffords, with all the money, land, and cattle his brother, Howard, left him, was trying to grab for more. And John Bell was the first obstacle. Yes, John was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had, and he wasn’t much. Twelve years ago, before his leg was blasted out of shape, he would have had a better than even chance. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He just stood there and listened to his name being cursed and didn’t move. I won’t fight. I won’t, he repeated to himself, trying to close his mind to the epithets being hurled his way.

Then he heard his wife’s name come slithering out of the foul-minded cowboy’s mouth. John never had a chance. He was provoked, yet, was the second of the two to get his gun clear of leather. A bullet ripped into his throat. His eyes bulged out in a stare that saw nothing as blood gushed out of his neck and life poured out of his body. John Bell toppled over and was dead when he hit the floor.

When a man is killed before a large gathering of people, somehow, despite the wide open spaces of the west—the deserts, mountains, and Indian country—despite all this and more, somehow, the news travels. Maybe a disillusioned ranch-hand, a fearful drummer, or just a wanderer had been in the Mustang Saloon that day and saw the incident for what it was: murder.

So this fellow, sick with the sight of greed or scared at the sight for a man acting worse than an animal, makes a point of drifting. Maybe the next stop is a mining town or a boomtown with the railroad coming through. This drifter, with the evil he’s seen still in his mind’s eye, tells the dirty tale. Those he tells it to, tell it to others. Some of these folks go to other mining towns, boomtowns, or cow towns and repeat the story.

There was a lame cowboy, they’d say, who didn’t fight no matter what dirt-eating names were shoved into his craw by a hired gun ... until the paid killer bad-mouthed the cripple’s wife. And then the poor bastard was shot down.

And so the story would spread. From Wyoming to the Dakotas to Texas ... to everyplace men get their backs up when an honest man dies for no good reason. And maybe, just maybe, a drifter, who heard the story from a bartender, who heard it from a drummer, who heard it from a railroad man, will repeat what he’s heard to a man who makes a difference.

Chapter Two

THE WORST OF the storm was over. The thunder and lightning had stopped over an hour before, but a cold rain continued to fall steadily over the water-soaked ground and the lone rider heading toward Cliffordsville.

He had been riding a long time. Exhaustion could be easily detected in the dun’s lowered head and in its rider’s slouch in the saddle. Keeping warm and dry were given up long before. Trying to fight nature’s bitter elements was more tiring than just taking the chill of wind and rain down the back of the neck.

Cort Lacey was silent astride the rider. No cursing at the rainclouds overhead, no self-reproach for leaving the abandoned cabin he had slept in the night before. It didn’t matter to him if it rained all day or all week. The only thing that mattered was getting to Cliffordsville.

Tired, wet, and very much alone, Lacey slowly closed the gap between himself and his destination. What’s going to happen when I get there? It was a thought that often crossed his mind. Probably nobody would take much notice of a cowboy drifting into town. There were precious few people in the valley who could recognize him. Precious few. And what would they think of him now?

The constant rhythm of the rain and his horse’s slow but steady pace, allowed Cort Lacey’s wearied mind to return to a time over twelve years before. He was a kid growing into a man, and his friends had a slap on the back for him, a sincere smile, and a loyalty, now remembered, that warmed his chilled and wind-blown soul. They were good people, he thought to himself, and they still are ... it’s me that’s been in the whirlwind.

He remembered how it was when Thaddeus Clark took his brother Sam aside one day in the bunkhouse. Cort was young and his brother stood up for the both of them.

I’ve got an idea, Thaddeus had said, "of how my family, you and your brother Cort, the Sloans, John Bell and Rusty Howell can get out of working wages and set up a place of our own.

"I’ve been getting good money as foreman. I know you’ve been putting money away, Sam, and so have the others. Each of us has a dream of having our own spread someday. How many times have you ridden drag on a drive and been choking on dust but takin’ no notice of it ’cause you’re lost in a daydream of branding your own cattle?

"Sure, we’ve all had the same hopes but where does it get us? I’ve been saving since my daughter Clare was born and still ain’t got enough saved to get a ranch off the ground. I’m telling you, no matter what you and your brother save, you’ll be as old as me before you have the makin’s of a decent stake ... and sure, that goes for Steve Sloan, John, and Rusty, too.

Look, I like those fellows. They’re hard-working honest men. And I like you and your brother. What I’m suggesting is this—that the group of us throw in together. We each go in for a fifth of the cost of buying the land, cattle, supplies, everything, including the work. Especially the work. Nobody’s gonna get rich, but we’ll be our own bosses on our own ranch running our own cattle. We’re all friends so it’d be kinda like a lot of brothers and their married kin—well, like a family, Sam, building up a ranch. I don’t know what we’d call it but, goddamit, I think it’s a hell of an idea! You willing to take a chance?

Thaddeus Clark’s rugged features had softened as he spoke. There was more in his eyes than the hope of drawing in a fifth man with some money in the bank.

Sam, no doubt, saw in Clark’s eyes just what Steve Sloan and his wife Linda did, and just what John Bell and Rusty Howell had ... a man giving up the hope of a personal cattle empire that he had carried over twenty years—giving it up and asking his closest friends to do likewise so that they might have something more than a dream. It would be a place in the here and now where they could lean on each other, help each other, and mostly, stay together.

It was a lot for a man like Thaddeus Clark to admit out loud that he liked you. And to a man, they all liked and respected him. When all the talking was done, no one hesitated. Sam, like the others, was proud to count himself a friend of Thaddeus Clark.

Later that night, handshakes sealed the five-way bargain. After a couple of drinks in celebration, someone came up with the idea of naming their future ranch the Five Fingers. A shout of approval went up and they drank to the name and to themselves.

Five months later, however, Thaddeus Clark was still foreman of the Cross-Key outfit and trail-bossing a cattle drive pointing for the railhead. Plans for their new ranch had been discussed and made and then rediscussed and then re-made. There was never any real anger when someone’s ideas were voted down, but frustration was growing because they just weren’t getting anywhere.

It was Thaddeus Clark’s wife, Cassie, who finally put her finger on why everyone was disagreeing. The simplicity of it embarrassed the men folk because they had been fools to overlook the obvious. How could they possibly decide how much cattle to buy the first year, or how big the barn should be, and so many other things, when each of them had a different idea of what the lay of the land would be?

It was on this cattle drive, three and a half weeks out of the Cross-Key, that all the disagreements ended. Rusty Howell, whose job was to scout ahead for the drive, and, off the record, do a little land prospecting for the Five Fingers group, came galloping toward a point where Thaddeus Clark was talking to a drover.

Old Rusty rode like a bullet shot out of a Sharps buffalo gun. Most of the cowpunchers pulled rifles out of their saddle scabbards, figuring that Rusty was being chased by the Comanch’. Thaddeus Clark, Sam and Cort Lacey, John Bell, and Steve Sloan, however, were standing up in their stirrups, eyes straining well beyond the point where their friend was now riding. They were trying to see a stretch of land where their new home and new lives would be. They were mostly optimists by nature and so they hoped for the good word. But if Old Rusty was bringing news of a war party of Comanche, they would be quick to react, for by nature they were also hard western men—bred to fight like the devil.

As he drew closer to Thaddeus, the trail boss could see a wide, laughing grin on the scout’s face. Even before Rusty pulled his gray to a stop, Thaddeus Clark had motioned for the Five Fingers riders to join him at point. With wide-eyed faces and a lot of happy hollering that perplexed some of the other drovers, they all put spurs to their mounts and came up to Thaddeus and Rusty to hear the news.

Bunched together ahead of the herd, they made quite a sight. First quiet, then laughing, and then, just as suddenly, quiet again.

Thaddeus had been the first to speak. He asked what all of them were wanting to know. Well, you redheaded old mule, why the hell you come ridin’ in here like a norther with a grin as wide as a canyon?

Rusty looked innocent-like at all of them and everyone just started in to whooping it up. They were sure he had found something.

When they settled down, Rusty took out the makings and started in to fashioning a quirly. No one moved. Everyone was waiting with growing impatience for Rusty to let the cat out of the bag. Finally, it was Cort Lacey, the least patient of the group, who said, Dammit Rusty, a joke’s a joke, we gotta know what you saw!

The leathery old scout was a little miffed at the youngster snapping at him, but the news was too good to let something like that sour the moment. He lit up his cigarette, cleared his throat, and simply said, I think I found us a home.

Then came a flood of questions.

How far? both Cort and John asked simultaneously.

Rusty, looking more at John than at Cort, replied instantly. Just about sixteen miles as best as I can figure. Over the northwest and over those hills a piece.

What about the land? Thaddeus asked, practically holding his breath.

Rusty looked right into the foreman’s eyes and held his glance for a long moment before getting off his horse. The grass was sparse so it took no time at all for him to clear enough out of the way and to begin making a map in the dirt. By the time he had put his finger to the ground to draw the first defining line, the other five men were hunkered down beside him.

Is there enough water for a big herd? Steve blurted out.

Does anyone own the land you’ve seen? Did you find out how much it will cost us? Sam questioned.

Yeah, and is there a town nearby? We’ll need supplies, John added.

What about other ranchers? Do we have a lot of neighbors? Cort asked on the heels of all the other questions.

Old Rusty didn’t answer their rapid-fire queries. He didn’t even look up. He just continued making lines on the ground ’til the shape of a valley, grazing land, and symbols for water were written into the earth. And finally, after smiling up at Thaddeus, who had asked long moments before—What about the land? Rusty told them everything he knew ...

It’s a large valley, he began, pointing down at his little masterpiece, with lots of good rich grass almost everywhere. The best land for cattle is in the northeastern quarter of the valley and in the southwest because of the way the mountains will shield the sun in the summer and cut down on the wind in the winter. And then there’s the water. Lots of fast running cold creeks. Most of them are in the southwest, but there’s plenty of water for a good-size herd in the northeast quarter too. He stopped and looked up at Sam. ... your question about whether or not the land is owned—the fact is, the entire valley is all bought up, but we can buy us a real nice layout ...

Steve, John, and Cort had figured on moving in on unclaimed land, and they became uneasy at this news. Being youngest, they were more easily troubled by life’s complications and so they started to get restless. Cort even said something about how they had all better get back to the herd pretty soon.

Realizing for the first time that he might not convince them all that this was an ideal spot for the Five Fingers, Rusty turned to Thaddeus and Sam for help.

Sam, surprised by his kid brother’s sudden lack of interest and very much interested himself, needed little prodding. Looking at Cort, he said sternly, I think Rusty has more to say. You gonna listen?

Sure, Sam, Cort said quietly but fiercely, only I kinda thought we’d be starting out fresh somewhere, not move into a valley where everybody knows everybody and we’re the outsiders; where we’d be buying a stretch of land from some poor duster who couldn’t feed himself let alone his cattle.

Old Rusty burst out laughing. You got it all wrong kid. You let me finish saying my piece and you’ll be riding out of here in front of us all, heading toward that valley like heat lightning.

Everyone jumped at Rusty’s sudden laughter, and then a new intensity gripped them. I guess I kinda misled you folks, Rusty apologized. "When I said all the land was bought up, I didn’t mean we was Johnny-come-latelies. It happens that whole valley is owned by just one man ... a Mr. Howard Cliffords by name, and a downright sociable feller too.

"It seems this here Mr. Cliffords has been getting pretty tired of looking at his kid brother, Willy, and the rest of his crew. Figures he has more valley than he’d ever need, so he’s willing to sell some of it to hardworking serious folks.

He’ll help set up a regular town too. Gonna call it Cliffordsville. I guess he’s got his rights. Anyway, he says it’ll be a small town. He’ll make sure of that. Got to keep it small, he says, so that cattle will always be the main business of the valley. I guess that’s okay with us, huh? he grinned.

Did he say what pieces of land he’d sell? Is it the rich land or is he just unloading the scrub? Steve asked.

Well, Rusty began, a man would be a fool to sell his best land, and Howard Cliffords is no fool. He’s holding on to most of the southwest part of the valley. He did say he would sell some small tracts of land along the rim of his property so he’d have some neighbors to jaw with, but there’s nothing there big enough for a five family outfit like ours.

Rusty stopped for a moment to be sure no one missed what he would say next. But that northeastern quarter I was telling you about—he’s willing to part with that.

They all smiled broadly at each other.

Then Thaddeus Clark finally spoke up. Soberly he asked, How much does he want?

Thaddeus, it’s hard to believe but that there feller just ain’t a greedy so-and-so. To his mind, he’s got enough money but not enough neighbors, so he’s sellin’ for practically nothin’ more than buffalo chips. Believe me, all of you, we’d have to look real long and real hard to do any better than this.

Three and a half months later, Thaddeus Clark and his family were in the lead Conestoga rolling on to land that would henceforth be known as the Five Fingers Ranch. Clare, Thaddeus’ sixteen-year-old daughter, drove the Clark’s team as her father looked on proudly. He had saved since she was born. Now Clare and his younger son, Mark, would have a home.

It had cost the new ranchers a good deal more than buffalo chips. Still it had been an excellent buy. After purchasing a large part of the northeastern quarter of the valley, they had enough money left over to buy stock and supplies. And they still had six strong backs—backs that had never strained so hard in their entire lives.

From before dawn ’til after dark, they cleared land that stood at the back wall of Broken Rock Canyon. It was a fine location for their home. The house would be unusually large, with enough room for everyone and space put aside for expansion. It would be set upon a rise and have a commanding view of their box canyon, all the way down to the mouth, some two hundred yards away.

There was a spring nearby. Beyond the spring, growing all the way up to the rim of the canyon, was a large stand of pine trees, a source of more wood than they’d ever need. Deep within this small forest, a clearing, soft with pine needles, offered a cool refuge from their hot summer’s work.

Pine Needle Clearing, however, had to compete with the beauty and mystery of the entire canyon, with its unusual broken and fallen rocks, left from an ancient ice age. These rocks, forlorn, except for the company of brightly colored flowers and bushes growing between them along the base of the canyon walls, filled all who gazed at them with an inescapable sense of time. One couldn’t help but feel God’s deliberate, creative plan at work. He had taken a long time to create this place, but now, to the Five Fingers people, it was finished. At least when the barn, corral, and house were put up it would be.

A home for the animals came first. After the corral and barn were built, work began on the house. They bought cattle from Howard Cliffords and added it to the stock previously purchased from their old ranch, the Cross-Key. In no time at all, the Five Fingers had the look and feel of prosperity about it.

The first winter came upon them, but it was mild. That helped the young stock to survive. But winter also brought an unexpected trouble to the new ranch.

Young Clare Clark was turning into a woman. Cort Lacey and John Bell were noticing the change. Just a short time before, she was an adolescent rag-doll. Now, however, she was on the threshold of womanhood. And she looked the part; sharp green eyes, long dark hair, a face that was warm and appealing as well as being quite pretty, and a slim and supple body to match the face. She was attracting a lot of attention and rightly so.

At first, the rivalry between Cort and John was a friendly affair. They were both young, John at twenty and Cort just short of nineteen, so neither of them were thinking too seriously of love and marriage. Round about February, though, things began to change.

In the beginning Clare had been flirting with Cort as much as he with her, but now it was different. She seemed to take a real interest in what he was saying. Before he knew it, he was telling her things closest to his soul. Things he never even told his brother ... about how he missed his parents, not even knowing his mother; about how he really loved his brother, but needed to get out from under those stern, watchful eyes and be his own man; about how he was secretly practicing with a handgun and improving his fast-draw and aim all the time ...

There had never been a woman to give him such close attention. She filled an emptiness in his life he had forgotten was even there. The problem was, John Bell felt pretty much the same way. He had a family somewhere back in Illinois, but out west, where he’d been the last six years of his life, he had no one.

Clare was an innocent, unaware of the trouble she was causing between the two men who courted her. She liked them both and liked the fact both seemed to care for her, but beyond that she understood little of what a woman could do to a man.

Quarrels erupted between the two over things that just a month before they had laughed about together. The friction was a thing to be felt, and finally, something had to be done about it. Sam spoke to his younger brother, while Thaddeus took up the subject with John. John, a calmer, more self-assured man, thanks to the years he had been out on his own, saw the good sense in Thaddeus’ man-to-man talk. Cort, on the other hand, was infuriated by his brother’s meddling.

All’s fair in love and war, they say, don’t they? demanded Cort. They don’t say nothin’ about big brother telling little brother what to do and maybe losing my girl do they?

I’m just sayin’ fightin’ over a girl ain’t the manly way to go about winnin’ her, Sam said patiently.

I’m in love with Clare and that ain’t no boyish sentiment. I’m a man with a man’s feelings and I won’t let nobody tell me how to get my girl. Nobody!

Sam could see that Cort was one step away from fighting. He sized up his brother and had to admit that the kid might be able to take him. Cort was narrow but muscular, and his shoulders were broad. While not very tall, he was big enough to throw his weight around if he chose to. Sam was never one to back off from a fight, but what good would it do here? Cort was his only kin and he didn’t want him for an enemy. So big brother just shrugged and said, I hope you don’t do anyone any harm, boy, yourself included.

Spring came early. It worked its wonders not only in the blooming bushes and warm air, but also on young Clare. Affection began turning to love. Love for John Bell.

It was a bitter pill to swallow and, finally, Cort would not swallow it. His meanness grew as Clare spent more time with John and less with him.

Clare came to see what she was doing to Cort and tried to heal the wound she had unintentionally created. She took a walk with him down by the spring, alongside the edge of the canyon wall. Cort, she whispered, I like you an awful lot but ... well, I feel differently about John. Please understand. Looking up at him, she smiled in an embarrassed sort of way and Cort just loved her all the more.

Gently, he touched her arm with his hand and said, No, I don’t understand. I think, Clare, if you just give me time, you’ll begin to see John’s not right for you ... that I could be your man ... Clare ... But she was walking away with tears in her eyes. Tears for Cort, who she knew would never understand.

From the other side of the corral, John saw Clare crying. He also saw Cort’s outstretched arm, the arm that had so tenderly touched Clare just a moment before. To John it looked as if Cort might have struck her. The way Cort had been acting anything was possible. Incensed at the thought of Lacey putting a hand on his woman, he raced toward the spring and confronted him.

If you touched that girl I’ll pistol-whip your damn face into a bloody pulp!

Cort’s loneliness was matched by his fury. To accuse him of hitting Clare was as wrong as accusing him of not loving her. All his frustration and pent-up anger was unleashed at that instant. He yelled something unintelligible at John as he leaped upon him. Trading punches to the head and body, they scuffled until John landed a wicked blow to Cort’s temple that jarred him, sending him sprawling.

John waited for Cort to rise. Cort, dazed, came to his feet slowly. He seethed with an uncontrollable anger down deep in his gut. As he brushed some blood from his split lower lip, his hand came down and touched his gun. A thought entered his mind so quickly and completely that it blocked out everything else. He unhooked the thong that held his six-gun in place and screamed, Go for it, you coward! Let’s see what you’re really made of!

John, never expecting gunplay, but not one to shy away from a fight, had, at Cort’s challenge, unhooked the thong of his holster.

Rusty and Steve had heard sounds of the fight, but still had seventy-five yards to cover to reach it. They drew up when they saw what kind of fight it had become. A brawl between Bell and Lacey had been expected for a long time. Bringing shooting irons into it, though, that just wasn’t right. Given John Bell’s reputation with a gun, they feared for young Lacey’s life. They needn’t have bothered.

Cort was woozy from the blow to the head and his thinking was not clear. To his everlasting shame, he drew on John Bell. John, reaching for his side-piece at virtually the same instant, never got the gun out of his holster. Never before had he seen such speed. He was sure his life had ended as he looked down the muzzle of Cort’s .44. It was all incredibly fast but, just the same, he was sure he saw something akin to sudden horror on Cort’s face as the six-gun’s barrel fell down and away, blasting lead into John Bell’s left knee.

Rusty and Steve ran straight up to John Bell lying in his own blood. A moment later, when they looked up for Cort, he was gone. All they heard was the faint echo of the gun’s report off the walls of the canyon.

How cold it became. The memory of the hope he shared a dozen years ago at first warmed his soul. But his own cruel conscience smothered the fire of his good feelings and released the smoke that Cort Lacey saw as his life. The steady, cold rain and gusting winds swirled across the plains to whip and blind both horse and rider alike. It was quite a storm Cort Lacey rode through that night. The elements created a landscape of despair and doom through which this lone rider could occasionally be glimpsed. Was he part of the landscape or a shaper of the scene? Slicker tight about the neck and hat pulled down hard across the face, Cort Lacey couldn’t have told you. He was an enigma even to himself. Perhaps most to himself.

The night wore on. Each plodding, muddy step brought Cliffordsville just that much closer. Memories, never far enough away to let a man get a good night’s sleep, had been flooding into Lacey’s tired and tortured mind There was no keeping them back. For, in fact, it was the memories that drove Lacey day after day, night after night; driving him towards his brother, Sam, Thaddeus Clark and his brood, the Sloans, old Rusty Howell, to the girl he once loved, Clare, and to the memory of the man Clare