Prophet's Rest Read online

  Prophets Rest

  By

  A.C. Croom

  Eternal Press

  A division of Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.eternalpress.biz

  Prophets Rest

  by A.C. Croom

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-429-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-430-7

  Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

  Edited by: Isaac Milner

  Copyedited by: Rose Vera Stepney

  Copyright 2011 A.C. Croom

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to:

  The Western way of life.

  Though frayed around the edges;

  is still alive and well.

  Prologue

  Billy ‘Gunner’ Farren took a puff of harsh smoke into his lungs from the Mexican cigarillo clamped between his teeth, adding to the hazy dimness of the room. Traders Cut Station was well known for the wild abandon of poker games that started with a shot of whiskey and usually ended with one or more shot or beaten senseless as the night progressed. Always cautious, he held his cards close to the vest and played his hand more conservatively than the men he faced.

  “Riker, you’re a fool. That bet was twice the pot; you’re bluffing! I call ya.” Garrett Gentry shoved his silver out onto the table.

  “Fold. You boys are gettin’ a little crazy with the bets, ain’t you?” Fred Zimmer stated. He tossed his cards on the table.

  “I’ll call,” Shorty Hobbs said simply.

  The game was five-card stud and three of the ‘up’ cards had been dealt. Amos Riker, in addition to his hole card, showed eight of hearts, nine of hearts, and ace of hearts. Gentry had a pair of tens showing with a king kicker. Shorty Hobbs sat facing the ace of diamonds, king of spades and queen of clubs.

  Gunner Farren looked over his up cards. He had a six of clubs, six of hearts and jack of diamonds. His hole card was a jack of spades. Chewing the butt of his cigarillo, he weighed his chances. There was almost one hundred dollars in the pot already, with another one fifty bet. A bead of sweat broke out on his brow, so deep was his concentration.

  “You gonna play or not?” Riker asked impatiently.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna play, asshole. You rush me like that and I’m gonna play my fist upside your head.”

  Gunner shrugged his shoulders. If he bet and won, he’d be set for a while. If he lost, he would just keep an eye on the game and bushwhack the winner later. He grinned and pushed his money onto the table.

  “Call!”

  Shorty dealt the last card to each remaining player. Amos Riker drew the deuce of hearts. Gentry drew the three of diamonds. Shorty dealt himself the ten of spades and Gunner the ace of clubs.

  “Your bet, Amos,” Shorty declared.

  Amos Riker didn’t waste any time. He pushed the remainder of his money out in front of him.

  “Two hundred and forty-five dollars.”

  “Mister Gentry?” Shorty asked.

  “You’re two forty-five and fifty more.”

  “You son of a bitch, you see that I can’t call that raise. You’re buying the pot!”

  “Pretty much, Amos. Let this be a lesson; if you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta be ready to bite.” Gentry broke into gales of laughter.

  Shorty glanced down at the meager amount he had remaining in front of him and made a decision. He pulled a leather pouch from his coat pocket and dropped it on the table.

  “Call and raise three thousand.”

  Silence fell among those playing. The pouch was nearly two inches in diameter and four long. All eyes fell on the bag as it thumped on the table.

  Gunner bit hard on his cigarillo and the chewed end popped off in his mouth. He spat the soggy leaf on the floor.

  “Goddamn bunch of fools.” He slammed his cards onto the table. “Fold.”

  “Three thousand to you, Mister Gentry.” Shorty smiled.

  “Well, Hobbs, you got me. I fold. I would like to see your hole card if I may. I’d lose all kind of sleep wondering if I folded to a bluff.”

  “Sure thing, Mister Gentry.” Shorty flipped over the ten, gathered his winnings and went into the common room of the saloon that doubled as a dining salon.

  * * * *

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Riker swears that what he told me is true. Folks around town can back him up. Hobbs and a couple other farmers have been comin’ up with pokes like that for years. It’s a sure bet they have to be minin’ somewhere in that valley, but nobody can find out where. Prolly got a stash somewhere close by they houses,” Fred Zimmer insisted.

  “Then it’s time we pay us a visit to that valley. Round up the boys. Let’s go have us a look see.” Gunner Farren was smiling as he mounted for the ride back to the rough camp outside the small settlement.

  Chapter One

  “Where is that girl? Damn her eyes, one day she is going to get herself in trouble out there hunting alone like she does.”

  “John, settle down! She’ll be back by nightfall, I’m sure.” Maryanne Hill smiled at her husband’s discomfort. “By the way, Shannon hasn’t been a “girl” for a very long time and she’s not hunting alone today. You just try to remember who taught her everything she knows.”

  A smile came upon the face of the concerned father. He was never shy about admitting how proud of his daughter he was. She had taken to the life they led like a duck to water.

  “She can hunt and track with the best men I’ve ever known. Hell, she can fight better than most of them, too. Annie? How long has it been since we thought of having another kid?” he asked impulsively.

  “Why, John Hill, you’re in your sixties, and I’m not far from it, you randy old goat, don’t you ever get enough? You know damn well how long it’s been. A person would think you never got any at all the way you act sometimes.” Giggling, she took his hand and led him towards the curtained bedroom of their cabin.

  A thump just outside the door and a pair of feet stomping to rid embedded snow announced the arrival of their daughter.

  “Well, so much for that idea.” John Hill slapped his wife on the butt and turned toward the door. “You just hold that thought.”

  Maryanne beat her husband to the door and opened it on her fur-clad daughter. Dressed for winter, only the cut of the fur jacket and pants made it possible to tell whether the figure was male or female. Slowly, as she removed layer upon layer of leather and wool, a tall, well-endowed figure appeared. Definitely all female!

  “Papa, I saw some tracks up on the ridge that don’t belong; two, maybe three riders at least.”

  “Where, Shannon?”

  “About two miles east.”

  “Ute?”

  “I don’t think so, Papa. Shadow Fox and his people won’t migrate until the snow begins to melt. Someone on shod
horses has been scouting up there. It has a good view of the valley.”

  “I know the place you’re talking about,” he replied. “You go on and get warm and have something to eat. I have to feed the stock. I can’t do anything tonight, but I’ll go over to Traders Cut tomorrow and see what’s up. I’ll stop by the Baker spread, too. Maybe Red knows of new settlers that are roaming the mountain looking for a homestead. Not likely in winter, but it’s worth asking.” He donned his own winter gear and left the two women talking about the events of the day.

  * * * *

  Life in the valley had been peaceful, with few of the outlaw bands that plagued the west after the war ever venturing into the mountains. Of those that made a foray into the northern-most areas of Colorado, only a few lasted long enough to face death from the Ute justice system, the end of a rope, or the smoking firearms of others of their ilk; most fell victim to the dangers inherent in the Rocky Mountains. In this isolated and dangerous world, organized bands of brutal renegades were few and far between.

  The last trader to brave the minimal trails and mountain passes with his goods, and journey to the Hill homestead, told of the growing congestion of the lowlands. He told of the vast stretches of empty prairie that had become battlegrounds for farmers and ranchers eastward to Dodge City, Kansas and South into New Mexico and Western Texas. The roving bands of rustlers, bandits, and common thieves were a constant threat in the deadly environs of Dodge City, and kept federal marshals and bounty hunters busy throughout the states and territories west of the Mississippi River.

  Colorado had been a state for more than nine years. John Hill and his family, along with longtime friends and fellow settlers in the valley, enjoyed being left alone to wrest a living out of the land at their own pace. They avoided the turmoil of the rest of a state that was now being depopulated of the once uncountable herds of buffalo to feed railroad workers, settlers and the coffers of leather merchants back east. The range wars of Kansas, Missouri, New Mexico and Arizona had little or no effect on their secluded enclave on the sleepy mountain.

  * * * *

  Two days later, three men left Traders Cut and set out for the location young Shannon indicated. All were seasoned hunters and trackers. John Hill trusted the two men at his side without question. At his point, leading the way to the improvised campsite was Frank (Red) Baker, born and raised in the backwoods of Alabama. It was said he could track a mouse up a cliff face and be at the top when the mouse got there.

  Close behind, crawling along the thawing ground came Pedington, Shorty Hobbs, always first in a fight. A street smart New Yorker nobody ever fought a second time. Shorty was known to carry a multitude of very sharp objects on his person. Though, at six foot four and almost two hundred ninety pounds he rarely needed more than his wits or his fists.

  Following behind the two was John Hill. Sweeping his vision side to side, Hill caught a glimpse of Red and Shorty belly down and motioning for him to come in low. Easing his body down into a crouch, he moved up to their position, going down on a crumbly, dirty snowdrift beside them.

  A slight rise hid them from view of what seemed to be a cold camp. There were two sloppily built lean-to shelters that would hold up to two men each. Opposite the camp, almost invisible, a man wrapped in what seemed to be an off-white remnant of an old bed sheet was using a small brass telescope to watch the valley floor and lake beyond. Without a word, Red moved left on a tangent that would offer cover to intercept and eliminate the lookout. John reached out and caught his boot. Motioning to the closest lean-to, he used hand signals to indicate that the group were to be taken alive if possible.

  Pulling him close, John put his lips to the man’s ear and whispered that they would take the group in silence, both shelters at the same time. The lookout would be last. Each man slowly snaked his way to a different position. Red would take out the camouflaged observer; alive hopefully.

  Ten minutes later two unconscious men were tied to a tree while a fire was started.

  “John, they’re coming around, you want I should put ‘em back to sleep?” Red asked with a wicked grin on his face while checking the edge on a medium-sized hunting knife.

  “No, I don’t want you to put them back to sleep. They are going to tell us why they are here and how many others they represent.” He looked over at the bound men. “Aren’t you, boys?”

  “Screw yourself, asshole. We ain’t sayin’ squat to you or nobody else,” one of the men spat out along with a measure of blood from his split lips.

  “Oh, I think you will. You see, we are going to take your fine boots off and just let you sit there until you get frostbite on your toes. Then, we are going to bring you over to the fire and let you warm up until the pain is noticeable. We have all the time in the world to wait for either of you to tell us whatever we want to know.”

  Shorty rose to his full height and approached the men. The talker immediately started kicking at him, to no avail. Shorty caught the man’s kicking foot in his massive hands and placed his own heavily booted foot on the other leg. Quickly, he pulled the boot free of the unwashed foot it covered.

  Tossing the footwear toward the fire, he reversed his hold and in a matter of seconds had the other boot lying beside the first. Ignoring the obscenities leveled at him, Shorty moved toward the silent man.

  “Wait!” the previously silent man pleaded. “I’ll tell ya what all ya want ta know. I know all about frostbite and don’t want no part of losing toes or nuthin’ else.”

  “You son of a bitch, shut tha hell up. Blaine, so help me, if’n I get loose, I’m a gonna beat the crap out of you,” the talker threatened.

  “Shorty, bring Mister Blaine over here to the fire. I think he wants to tell us something,” John ordered.

  “Right. Get up, you! You heard the boss. Here’s a chance to save your toes and you best not screw it up.”

  * * * *

  Riding his bay stallion past the remains of a fire-gutted building, Captain Tucker Prophet of the Texas Rangers was not in a good mood. Throughout the fall and winter, his efforts to catch up to Billy, Gunner Farren and his gang of marauding cutthroats proved to be a game of cat and mouse. The bandit always managed to stay one step ahead of pursuit and capture. Four months earlier, the Ranger rode away from the bloody aftermath of an attack and robbery on the Butterfield Stage carrying payroll for the railroad workers in Ector County, Texas. Captain Prophet vowed to bring the men responsible back dead or alive.

  He rode, reviewing his chances of finding his quarry now that spring was approaching. The endless days and nights of the chase, passing moot testimony to the ruthlessness of the outlaw along the winding trail and in towns along the way, were slowly eating away at his thoughts and making him question his motives for continuing to do everything legally and leading the three men with him. Not a day passed when he didn’t ponder the thought of giving up his badge and going it alone.

  Every building in the ghost town they were wintering in was in ruins after passing through twenty-five years of neglect during and after the Indian wars that swept Kansas and Colorado. Reining in by a still hot forge, the tall Ranger dismounted and led his horse into the partially restored stable which over the preceding two weeks had become his winter home. Looking up at clouds rolling in from the mountains, he could feel the impending snow in his very bones. He turned and entered his quarters.

  “Damn thaw is going to be late.” He thought.

  After he entered and stood looking at a map of the trail followed through three states chasing Gunner Farren; a knock at his door distracted him. “Come!” he invited.

  “Cap’n, that idiot Campbell is at it again. He’s got Hampton so riled at Tims that I knows they gonna be trouble. You should have let me do for that bastard last time. He keeps startin’ fights between those boys and then sits back and watches,” Deputy Ranger Lou McCarty reported.

  “Dam
n. No, I should have sent him back to Jasper; shackled, under arrest for interfering with an investigation. Well, water under the bridge, let’s get over there and see what we can salvage this time,” Prophet said and led the way to the makeshift bunkhouse they set up in the undamaged portion of a hay barn at the edge of the deserted town.

  Lou could sense the exasperation by the tone of his fellow Ranger’s voice and followed closely. The men of Jasper Junction that formed this posse had all agreed to ride along only for the dollar a day it paid, and the agreement that the Texas Rangers would be in charge. Unfortunately, they were as dangerous to each other as they would be to any outlaw band they might come across. Lou imagined that Tucker Prophet was at or near a breaking point.

  The two men entered the building and looked around. They saw chaos everywhere. All of the men located there had separated into groups representing the brands they rode for. On one side of the sleeping quarters were cowboys from the Crooked Bar ranch; on the other, riders of the Patterson Five. Only this mission to capture a common threat could have placed these nine men in close proximity to each other.

  Sitting alone just inside, near a cast iron ‘pot belly’ stove, that was the only heat source for the room, was Bob Campbell. He was intently watching the fight he had started between the opposing ranch hands. With a half empty bottle of rye whiskey at his side, it was clear that he had intentionally set the two men at each other’s throats. His laugh was piercing every time one or the other of the combatants landed a punch.

  As the captain walked past, headed for the brawl near the cast iron stove, blazing in the center of the building, he pulled a Colt Peacemaker from its holster. He turned back, walked up to Campbell, stopped and placed the end of the barrel in his face. He took the whisky bottle and flung it crashing against the nearest wall.

  “You have ten minutes to gather your things and find another place to bed down. After that I’ll have you manacled and placed under arrest for the return to Jasper. Get up and get out, now!”