Brodie 3: Man Eater: Brodie, #3

By Tony Masero

A call from an old comrade sends Brodie down a terrifying path of danger and death.

Women are suffering gruesome deaths and locals are frightened that an awesome beast is walking the hills. Brodie is set to track down the origins. He is to discover that there is more than myth attached to the terror. Something else lies behind the ghastly mystery and involves a hidden secret that survives from the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Masero
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224824717

Tony Masero

It's not such a big step from pictures to writing. And that's how it started out for me. I've illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books. A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there. As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content. Having such a visual background, mostly it's a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that's why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a 'Western movie, fast paced and full of action.' I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

Book preview

Chapter One

North of the Texas Panhandle and west of Indian Territory there was a thin piece of land known as the Ochefey Strip. It was a margin left over after the annexation in 1845 and designated as public land – this was deemed an un-appropriated patch remaining from the time of Spanish grants and deeds of ownership. Stuck between New Mexico, the Territory, Texas and Colorado it was generally a wild and empty place with no order and occupied by runaways, thieves, villains and general good-for-nothings. There was only one Stagecoach Company that dared make the run through it and that was the National Overland. It ran from Dodge City down through the strip on its way over the Potter-Bacon cattle trail and stopped finally at the Megs Dewlight depot west of Red River.

Brodie Middenhoff was riding shotgun on the National Overland stage passing through this dangerous strip and had taken on the job as a paid means of setting off after the infamous Preacher Riggs whom he knew was in the area.

It was a dusty and bumpy ride and they were into their second day on the designated route. Beside Brodie sat the whipman, ‘Loaded’ Lomax, a skinny bag of bones but an old hand at driving the six-team rig on the Concord. An ageing man, with a whole lot of bald skull but only a thin parchment skin that covered his tanned and wrinkled features. To compensate he wore an excessively hairy mustache that reached right across his cadaver-like looks. He was way past the age for this kind of run but the company could find nobody else willing to take the risk and it fell to outsiders like Loaded and Brodie to take on the challenge.

‘Oh-oh,’ bitched Loaded, jerking his unshaven chin down the trail ahead. ‘Lookee here.’

Brodie looked up to see five horsemen on the trail but not riding in a file like casual horsemen or cattlemen but spread across the width of the road in a challenging manner.

‘Them’s road agents, dang it, it always happens along here,’ complained Loaded, starting to drag on the reins.

‘What are you doing?’ frowned Brodie.

‘Ain’t worth it,’ growled Loaded. ‘We’ll just let ‘em take what they want and we get out alive.’

‘The hell we will,’ said Brodie, snapping the double barrels of the Purdey shut.

‘Look, Brodie, I been riding this road a lot longer than you. You see them five scavengers there well there’s probably another five hidden in the brush. We’d never make it through.’

‘Whip up them horses and get your boot off the brake,’ ordered Brodie grimly. ‘We’ll go right through them.’

‘They’ll cut us down.’

‘Do it, man. They’ll be expecting you to stop if that’s your fashion, let’s give them a surprise for a change.’

‘They don’t pay me enough for this,’ moaned Loaded but he lifted his foot from the brake. ‘It’s on your head, Reb.’

With a loud yell he branched out his long whip, snapping it over the heads of the team and urging them to pick up the pace.

‘What is it?’ called a voice from below and Brodie leaned over to see one of their male passengers with his head out of the coach window.

‘Get back inside,’ ordered Brodie. ‘We got some trouble up ahead.’

‘Don’t you stop, Guard. I got some precious papers to deliver at Megs.’

‘Not my plan, sir,’ called Brodie, over the rising sound of the accelerating coach. ‘But you and the others keep your heads down unless you’re carrying.’

‘We are armed, both of us have pistols.’

‘Then use them come the time.’

They were carrying three passengers, one of them a woman in her middle years on her way to her daughter’s farm along the Brazos. The two men were business partners, well dressed and probably holding enough cash for a cattle deal.

The gang ahead was becoming suspicious as the stagecoach did not appear to be slowing down and they twisted their horses with anticipation. Brodie watched as they slid rifles from their saddle holsters and he knew they intended to make a fight of it. On the bouncing drive seat he was aware there was little chance of his hitting anything except by luck but at least the scattergun spread its shot wide.

The leader of the men ahead, a boorish bearded looking rogue in a torn shirt and flopping hat, raised his pistol in the air and fired a warning shot skywards.

‘I don’t know about this, Brodie,’ said Loaded with a tremble in his voice. ‘I’m a mite too old for all the excitement.’

‘Give it over,’ grinned Brodie. ‘This’ll give you another ten years. Besides what have you got to lose, you ain’t getting any pension.’

‘I’ll be losing out on a quiet life that’s for sure. Oh, how I wish they’d given me some tame lardass to fill your seat.’

The team was pounding hard and the stagecoach fair leapt over the trail, bumping and weaving its heavy ton weight as it ran. Despite his earlier timidity, a remembered thrill suddenly took hold of the old driver and he bellowed invectives at the team as he leaned over the reins.

‘Come on you sad looking nags, bust a gut and run for your sorry lives.’

The gang was nearing now and Brodie could see their expressions changing as they realized that the stage barreling towards them had no intention of stopping. They began firing, their bullets zipping close by and banging the air as they went.

Brodie held his fire, waiting until they arrived in a range suitable for the shotgun. As the stage crashed into the scattering outlaws Brodie picked his shot and let both barrels rip into one screaming rider knocking him flying from the saddle. Firing was coming from the passengers and flaming clouds of gun smoke flew in the dust of their trail as the wild ride continued.

Brodie was ejecting his shells and reloading from the sack at his feet when he glanced up to see one of the outlaws had leapt across onto the team leaders. He was clinging on and attempting to pull savagely on the reins trapped in the horse’s mouths.

Loaded rose to his feet and still holding the reins in his left hand brought the long whip over in a swoop that lashed into the attacker. The cracking tail circled the man around the face and brought a cry of pain from him. Loaded jerked the whip, tugging hard and twisting the man’s head sideways. The rider overbalanced on the racing horse and with a cry slid away to drop down between the animals. The stage leapt a few feet into the air as with an unpleasant crunch the coach wheels bounced over his body.

‘Goldurn it!’ grinned Loaded, his aged face alight with excitement. ‘Don’t that beat all.’

They were through but the three remaining outlaws weren’t about to give it up and they followed after, firing as they came. Brodie laid aside the shotgun now and took up his Winchester resting in the well of the seat. He clambered up over the seat and lay out full length on the bucking roof of the coach. Stretching out, he cranked a bullet under the hammer and with a brief pause for aim he fired.

One of the following outlaws tumbled, thrown from the saddle as if an invisible loop of rope had caught him and pulled him away. Without hesitation Brodie levered in another round and steadied himself for his next shot.

The leery looking leader was close behind, his bearded face taut and lips drawn back with bared teeth showing. His loose brimmed hat was flared up by the passage of the wind and Brodie’s next shot plugged the brim and tore the hat from his head. At that the bandit leader’s expression changed as he realized he was heading up against a trained rifleman and the outlaw quickly swerved his pony aside. His partner followed and Brodie smiled grimly as he saw both men leave off and rein in their mounts.

Brodie scrabbled back down to his seat and said, ‘Okay, Loaded, they’re done we can slow it now.’

‘They finished?’ asked the driver looking over his shoulder. ‘Dang it! I was just getting to enjoy things.’

A call came from the passenger, ‘Well done, you fellows, we drove them off.’

‘We surely did,’ agreed Brodie.

Megs Dewlight had been a flamboyant prostitute who, by means of her obvious attributes and liberality, had convinced a group of miners to allow her to join their consortium. In honor of their shared rights to both lady and mine the miners had named their claim after Megs. When the gold petered out and both Megs and the miners moved on all that was left behind was the name. Arriving later on the scene, the stagecoach station had thus been named also.

Brodie tossed down the leather haversack containing mail to the station keeper as Loaded drew the stagecoach to a halt.

‘This is it, folks,’ he called. ‘Hope you enjoyed your trip and will travel again with National.’ He winked at Brodie, ‘They allus tell me to say that.’

Brodie handed him the shotgun and climbed down, ‘Well, that’s me done. Thanks for the ride, old timer.’

‘You finishing here, Brodie?’

‘Yep, I quit.’

‘Damn it, Brodie. Who’s going to ride back with me now?’

‘Aw, you’ll find someone.’

‘Hell, man! I have to ride through the Strip again and those damned bandits will be waiting for me.’

‘Maybe but you won’t be carrying anything worth taking this time.’

‘I guess not,’ Loaded nodded doubtfully, scratching his three-day growth. ‘What about your pay?’

‘I’ll be back just have to get meself a pony.’

The passengers were dithering outside the office as they collected their baggage and the businessmen insisted on shaking hands with both Brodie and driver for a job well done.

Brodie turned away and was about to head for a livery stable when the station keeper called after him.

‘Hey, I hear you called Brodie?’ he said. ‘Your name Brodie Middenhoff?’

‘That’s me.’

The station keeper had the flap of the mail haversack laid back and was thumbing through the few envelopes inside, ‘Got a letter here for you. Pvt. Brodie Middenhoff, late of the 1st Georgia Sharpshooters, it says here. Courtesy of Thighbone, but that’s crossed over and then a whole lot of place names written in. I guess this letter’s been chasing you all over.’

Brodie tipped back the peak of his worn Confederate kepi and stared for a moment at the yellowing and stained paper with neat cursive penmanship trailing across it. He stroked fingers through his red beard and eased a thumbnail under the flap and ripped the paper back.

‘Dear Brodie, I need your help. Sorry to trouble you, partner, but I don’t got call on nobody else. If you can get here, I would be real obliged.’

His old comrade, the one-time mountain man and one-legged fellow sharpshooter - Sam Tender, had signed it.

Brodie hung his head and silently cursed, once again his chase after Preacher Riggs was about to be set aside temporarily. There was no contest really, Brodie owed Sam his life and besides that he had been a good friend during the war. There was no way he could not answer the call.

Turning to Loaded, he caught the driver’s eye, ‘Hey, old man. Looks like I’ll be sitting next to you on the way back after all.’

‘That so,’ grinned a pleased Loaded. ‘Where you heading.’

‘East to see an old friend.’

Chapter Two

Brodie found his friend’s house situated along a pleasant valley where a creek ran around a crooked corner to open out into a level area set back from the stream. There was lush growth all around the steep sided valley, trees and green brush grew all along the creek banks and strong wind was kept at bay by the angle of the stone walls. There was a silence in the valley, a pleasant and restful lack of noise. Some birdcall and the occasional low of cattle kept in a corral to one side of the house but mostly there was an inherent stillness disturbed only by the ripple of water over the riverbed gravel.

Built from clapboard and logs the rambling structure appeared to have been created by some cosmic hand that attempted architecture in an organic manner. Sheds, corrals and outhouses merged into one central structure larger than the rest and roofed by a great raft of wooden shingles. It all seemed to have risen naturally formed from the earth and in no way out of place amidst the grass and wild flowers growing underneath the willow trees along the creek.

A lone figure sat on the porch with one leg raised on a chair in front and watched him as Brodie approached.

‘There he goes!’ bellowed Sam Tender, so loudly that his voice echoed from the valley walls and frightened the birds into flight.

It was something like twenty years since Brodie had last seen Sam and then he had been lying on a surgeon’s bed in the aid center outside Atlanta with his leg torn off by a cannon ball.

‘You look better than the last time I seen you,’ Brodie replied, remembering the pale figure and the missing space under the bedclothes.

Sam brought his peg leg down from where it rested on the other seat and stomped it on the wooden porch floor.

‘Come and sit, brother Brodie.’

‘How are you, Sam?’ asked Brodie as he dismounted and tied his reins to the porch post. Spreading his arms wide Sam enclosed Brodie in a bear-like hug.

‘Well, you sure took your time getting here.’

Brodie saw how age had worked on his friend, his once great frame was now bowed at the broad shoulders and white streaks ran through his beard. There was darkness under the eyes and the weather worn face had more wrinkles that Brodie remembered when they fought alongside each other as part of the 1st Georgia Sharpshooters.

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ Brodie excused himself. ‘I moved around a lot.’

A young woman appeared at the door to the house and shyly leaned against the doorjamb with her cheek resting against one hand as she studied Brodie. She was around seventeen years old and a pretty creature with soft brown hair that curled around her face and over her neck. Her dress was a simple ochre affair with a round white collar and narrow