The Sheriff's Guns (The Texas Riders Western #13) (A Western Frontier Fiction) Read online

  JOSEPH

  POWELL

  the sheriff’s guns

  .............................................

  THE TEXAS RIDERS WESTERN

  .............................................

  A WESTERN FRONTIER FICTION

  .............................................

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2020 by Joseph Powell

  All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic form or mechanical means without written permission from the author. The re-sale and distribution of this or any part therein of this work is a violation of U.S. and international copyright law.

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  For more information about the author:

  [email protected]

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Notice

  Joseph’s Mailing List

  prologue

  chapter 0 1 ✪

  chapter 0 2 ✪

  chapter 0 3 ✪

  chapter 0 4 ✪

  chapter 0 5 ✪

  chapter 0 6 ✪

  chapter 0 7 ✪

  chapter 0 8 ✪

  chapter 0 9 ✪

  chapter 1 0 ✪

  chapter 1 1 ✪

  chapter 1 2 ✪

  chapter 1 3 ✪

  chapter 1 4 ✪

  chapter 1 5 ✪

  chapter 1 6 ✪

  chapter 1 7 ✪

  chapter 1 8 ✪

  chapter 1 9 ✪

  chapter 2 0 ✪

  chapter 2 1 ✪

  chapter 2 2 ✪

  chapter 2 3 ✪

  chapter 2 4 ✪

  chapter 2 5 ✪

  chapter 2 6 ✪

  chapter 2 7 ✪

  chapter 2 8 ✪

  chapter 2 9 ✪

  chapter 3 0 ✪

  chapter 3 1 ✪

  chapter 3 2 ✪

  chapter 3 3 ✪

  chapter 3 4 ✪

  chapter 3 5 ✪

  chapter 3 6 ✪

  chapter 3 7 ✪

  chapter 3 8 ✪

  chapter 3 9 ✪

  chapter 4 0 ✪

  chapter 4 1 ✪

  chapter 4 2 ✪

  chapter 4 3 ✪

  chapter 4 4 ✪

  chapter 4 5 ✪

  epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Order of Books . Book Catalog

  Joseph’s Mailing List

  Copyright Notice and Publisher Notes

  prologue

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  Spring, 1866, Slim Hollow, Texas

  Ashley Gates pulled the trigger of the Colt Navy revolver Timothy Dean had just handed her and missed her target by a mile. The empty can of beans remained on the fence where Timothy had placed it just a few minutes before, but she did not let her poor shooting get her down.

  If anything, Ashley felt better than she had since her father had died two years ago. She liked the way the trigger felt under her finger and loved the vibrations the gun had sent running up her arm when she pulled down on it and the bullet left the chamber.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get it,” Timothy said, encouraging her. “Want to try again?”

  She nodded and readied the gun, taking her time aiming. This time, when she pulled the trigger, the bullet nicked the can and sent it flying off the fence at an angle. It hit the dirt in the empty field just outside of town. Timothy laughed and clapped her on the back.

  “You did it,” he said. “Toldja you’d get it.” His grin was infectious, the grin of a fourteen-year-old boy on the verge of becoming a man but still caught in the footsteps of childhood.

  Ashley returned his smile. Timothy was two years older than her, but he’d never treated her like it. He’d always treated her like she was his best pal. She hoped nothing ever changed that.

  He was about the only friend she had left in Slim Hollow. Her mother had seen to that. Since her father’s death, Matilda Gates had gone from loving mother to beggar to town drunk to...

  Ashley pushed that last thought away. She didn’t like to think about what her mother did with those men she took home.

  If she pretended hard enough, she could convince herself that her mother was really tutoring them like she said she was. After all, her mother had been a schoolteacher before marrying her father, so it made sense she would tutor men. Alone. In her bedroom.

  She thanked God every night that Timothy knew nothing of her mother’s true occupation. She could never have faced him again if he had. If anyone in town suspected the truth, they pitied her mother enough not to gossip about it. Ashley was grateful for their silence and hoped it always remained that way.

  Ashley shuddered, and Timothy put one arm around her shoulder in a half hug. “Try again?” he asked.

  She nodded, then took another look at the sky. Her mother had sent her out of the house early this morning and told her to be home by five to get dinner ready. The noon sun had gone down in the sky long ago and the light was softening. It had to be close to five now.

  “Actually, I’d better go. I’ve got to start supper,” she said, reluctant to leave Timothy.

  She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her boot and hung her head. She hated going home each night, especially when her mother was too drunk to walk and Ashley had to put her to bed, pretending she didn’t notice the already messy sheets.

  Timothy frowned and placed one hand on either of her shoulders. “Look at me,” he said.

  She tipped her head back and lifted her eyes to his, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

  “You’re my best friend. If anything ever happens at home and you need to get away from your mom, you come and see me, okay? My parents like you, and they’ll help you. I’ll help you.”

  She pulled quickly away. “What could happen?” she asked, afraid he’d guessed her secret. Perhaps rumors of her mother’s profession had spread after all.

  But then he shook his head. “I just mean if her drinking gets to be too much.”

  Relief washed over her. Everyone knew about her mother’s drinking. It was embarrassing but not nearly so bad as the other thing. And it was nothing new.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Timothy hesitated then nodded, and they went their separate ways. They lived in opposite directions from each other.

  Heading home was never easy for Ashley. The bank had run her and her mother out of the small house they’d shared with her father about a year after his death. They’d fallen behind in payments and never been able to catch up.

  They’d stayed in a boardinghouse for a while, until Matilda Gates’ drinking had begun to cause problems and they’d been asked to leave. Now they were staying in a ratty old hotel that was as cheap as the whiskey Ashley’s mother drank every night.

  Ashley opened the door to their room without pressing her ear to it first, which was a mistake. If she’d taken a listen, she’d have realized her mother wasn’t alone.

  A tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair had his back to her. He towered over her half-naked mother, who was curled on the floor at the foot of the bed with her knees to her chest. Her nose was bleeding.

  The room was dirty and smelled of stale tobacco and whiskey. It was sparsely furnished, just a bed, a dresser, and a small writing desk with a lamp.

  Ashley stepped into the room without thinking and shut the door behind her. “Mama? Are you okay?” The blood dripped out of her mother’s nose and over her lips.

/>   “I’m okay, baby,” her mother said. “You go back outside for a bit. I’m not done tutoring yet.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked at the man, who turned to face Ashley now.

  Ashley’s heart stopped. The man in their room was Buckley Snider. She’d have recognized him anywhere; his face was all over the newspapers.

  What had yesterday’s headline read? Youngest Outlaw in Texas is Also the Most Dangerous. He was twenty now, but he’d killed his first man when he was only fourteen, and he hadn’t stopped killing since. Somehow, he was always one step ahead of the law.

  Ashley’s mom tugged hard on the hem of his pants, drawing his attention back to her. “I want my money,” she said, standing up on wobbly legs now. Her nose had stopped bleeding. “You had your fun, now you owe me.”

  Buckley sneered at her and pushed her off him, turning away from her. “I’m not paying for some forty-year-old drunk’s bed.” He reached for the jacket hanging off the back of the dusty desk chair and pulled it on.

  Ashley’s mother clawed at him, desperate. “But you owe me. I did everything you wanted. I need money for food, for this room. I’ve got a daughter to care for.” Her eyes turned to Ashley as if just remembering she was there. “I told you to go outside, didn’t I?” she snapped.

  Ashley took a step back but did not leave the room. She was worried about her mom and didn’t want to leave her alone with this man.

  Buckley’s eyes narrowed at her. “You’re a pretty girl. How old are you?”

  Ashley did not answer him.

  “She’s twelve,” her mother said.

  Buckley nodded, thinking. His eyes moved up and down her body, and Ashley felt cold. He turned back to her mother. “All right. Give me your daughter for an hour, and I’ll pay you what you want.”

  Asley’s knees trembled. Her mother’s face turned white. “My daughter?” she said, already shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t... not for so little.”

  For a second, Ashley thought she’d misheard.

  “How much would it take?” Buckley asked.

  Her mother picked up the whiskey bottle and drank straight from it, not even bothering with a glass. “Five dollars.”

  Buckley laughed. “Too much. I’ll give you two.”

  “Three,” her mother said. “And only a half-hour, not a whole one. For that, you pay the five.”

  Buckley looked at Ashley again. “All right, a half-hour,” he said and pulled three dollars out of his wallet. He laid them on the bed and her mother grabbed them before he could change his mind.

  He started for Ashley, who was standing with her back pressed against the door, frozen. Had her mother just sold her like a common whore?

  His hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her forward. Ashley tried to jerk away but he was too strong. He looked at her mother. “Are you going to stay and watch?” he asked.

  “No.” Her mother quickly started pulling some clothes on.

  “Mama,” Ashley said, pleading. “I don’t want to do this.”

  Her mother paused but did not look at her. “I’m sorry,” she said and then started for the door.

  Ashley couldn’t believe it. Buckley was already leering at her, tugging at her skirts and trying to lift them as he simultaneously pushed her toward the bed. She struggled against him and finally stomped as hard as she could on Buckley’s foot, digging the heel of her boot into his toes.

  He cried out and let go of her wrists. Ashley jumped away from him and ran right into her mother, who fell over. Ashley did not give her a second glance as she ran out of the room and fled the hotel.

  * * *

  Buckley Snider was not about to let a little girl get the best of him. He stepped over Matilda Gates, who was still lying on the floor. “Don’t hurt her,” she cried out, and Buckley kicked her in the stomach. She shut up after that, and he ran out the door.

  The girl was already across the street and moving fast. “Help!” she cried out, looking behind her as he came after her.

  Her eyes were big and blue and scared, just like he liked them. Blond, curly hair flew out behind her as she tried to run from him. If she thought she could get away, she was kidding herself.

  A man and his wife were passing by on one of the walkways. Slim Hollow was a small, poor town, and its walkways were narrow and broken, though still better than its roads, which were covered in holes. The couple stopped and stared after the girl.

  “Ashley?” asked the woman. “What is it?” Then she seemed to notice Buckley chasing after her and her eyes widened.

  “Mrs. Dean, please, help me,” Ashley said, still running.

  Mrs. Dean was far from twelve. If Buckley had to guess, he’d have thought she was closer to forty, but she hadn’t lost her looks the way Ashley’s mother had. This woman took care of herself. It showed in her soft, milky skin and hourglass figure.

  His eyes followed Ashley, who disappeared into the alley behind the barbershop, then returned to the pretty woman who was staring at him with her mouth open. She would do just as well as Ashley, and she’d be far less trouble.

  Buckley grabbed hold of Mrs. Dean’s wrist and pulled her toward him. She cried out, and her husband jumped forward. “Let her go,” he said, pushing Buckley hard in the chest.

  Buckley let go of the woman long enough to draw his .44 caliber Colt Walker revolver. He fired two bullets in rapid succession right into Mr. Dean’s stomach. His wife let out a terrified scream as her husband staggered back and fell down. Blood was already soaking his shirt, but he was still breathing.

  His wife ran to him and kneeled down beside him. The townspeople who’d been going about their business paused and looked on, but they were all too scared to do anything to stop him.

  Mrs. Dean was crying now. Buckley grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back up. She screamed and clawed at his face.

  He hit her in the mouth with his fist, and her lip began to bleed. The townspeople looked on, uncertain what they should do. Buckley pulled the woman toward an alley. It would do just as well as a bedroom.

  A bullet whizzed past his ear without warning. Buckley turned, still holding the woman by her hair, and saw a boy of thirteen or fourteen with a Colt Navy revolver pointed at him. “Let my mother go,” the boy shouted.

  Buckley laughed out loud, throwing his head back. Of all the men and women standing and watching the scene, this boy was the only one with guts enough to stand up to him. Buckley could admire that about him. Too bad he had to kill the boy.

  “Timothy, run,” the boy’s mother shouted.

  But Timothy did not run. Instead, he took one nervous step closer and pulled the trigger again. Buckley jumped out of the way of the bullet aimed for his head, letting go of the woman in the process. She turned and fled, running toward her son. Buckley shot her twice in the back.

  He could not see her face as the bullet entered her, but he imagined her eyes going wide and her skin going white. She fell flat on her stomach.

  “No!” Timothy shouted and ran to her. He rolled her over, and Buckley could see she wasn’t breathing.

  The kid turned to him, fury on his face, and fired three shots. One of them scraped Buckley’s cheek, but the others were not even close to hitting him.

  The boy might’ve been a good shot when he could focus but focusing with his mother’s lifeless body at his feet was next to impossible. Buckley would be doing Timothy a favor by killing him and putting him out of his misery.

  Buckley fired a shot back at the kid, who rolled to the side and missed the bullet by an inch. The townspeople scattered now, and Timothy returned his fire. The bullet sailed over Buckley’s head, and when the kid pulled his trigger again, it clicked empty. The boy’s face went white.

  Timothy glared at him. “I swear that one day I’ll kill you for what you’ve done here.” His voice sounded older than his years.

  Buckley shrugged. “Maybe in another lifetime, kid,” he said and aimed his gun at the boy’s head.

 
“No!” a man cried out. Timothy’s father sat up. The bullets in his gut hadn’t killed him, only slowed him down. He started crawling toward his son.

  Buckley admired the man’s courage, but it didn’t stop him from firing on him. He put a bullet right into the man’s head, sending the back of his skull flying off in small chunks. When he turned back to finish the man’s son, he was gone.

  Buckley scanned the shopfronts and alleyway entrances for Timothy but didn’t see him anywhere. He could look for him, but the sheriff was no doubt on his way, and Buckley didn’t feel like wasting any more bullets. He grabbed the first horse he saw, climbed on its back, and left Slim Hollow.

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  chapter 0 1 ✪

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  Eight years later...

  Timothy Dean arrived in Clear Water, Texas in the middle of the afternoon. He’d meant to arrive by mid-morning but had gotten sidetracked en route from Blackgate when he’d come across a wagon with a broken wheel.

  It had taken him and the driver a couple of hours to repair it, the woman and her six-year-old daughter looking around them with worried eyes the whole time. “What if bandits rob us, Mom?” the girl had asked.

  The woman had smiled at her child. “Don’t worry. Bandits never come around here. It’s the safest place on Earth.” The child’s fears had eased, but if she’d looked closer at her mother’s face, she’d have known in a second her mother was lying.

  The stretch of dry, rolling Texas land between Blackgate and Clear Water wasn’t exactly known for its safe travel, though he supposed there were a lot worse places to break down. Idleford and Cinderbrook both came to mind. Those hole-in-the-wall towns were a bit farther south though.

  Once he and the driver finished with the wheel, the woman and her daughter had seemed less worried. Timothy had wished them both a safe journey and resumed his own.

  Now in Clear Water, Timothy stopped his horse outside the sheriff’s station, dusting off his clothes as best he could, but his hands were as dirty as the rest of him. At least that woman and her daughter were back on their way again.

  He wondered if he ought to look for the barbershop. A clean shave and combed hair would make him look more presentable but then that might only make the mess on his clothes stand out all the more. He shrugged and rolled his shoulders back, stepping into the station.