Uncertain Hand

Uncertain Hand

David H. Garrett

Published by David Garrett at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 David H. Garrett

Chapter 1

Reb McConnehey’s face registered none of the excitement he now felt as he peered over his cards at the faces of the four dangerous men who just strode through the saloon door. Indeed his luck was finally turning, and not just because of the full house he held in his hand. At twenty-eight, Reb had spent half his life developing his poker face. And it was times like this that it was truly an asset.

Lean and blond, his boyish looks often aided him in both his vocation and his avocation. Gambling was the latter; bounty hunting was the former. Gamblers often mistook him for a novice, and bad men took him for a kid.

Reb tossed in a $20.00 gold piece. See your five and raise you fifteen.

He studied the desperados as they found a table near the back wall. Indeed Lady Luck was with him tonight. The bounties on the four outlaws totaled more than $1000 – five hundred on Bob Barger, two-fifty a piece on Rob Reese and Ted Foley, and one hundred Tom Smelley. Of course, collecting the bounties without backup was no cinch. The smart thing to do would be to find the local lawmen and enlist their aid. That would mean sharing the reward, assuming the local law would have the fortitude and experience to make the arrest. Anyway one approached it, it would probably be a messy situation. Barger was a cold blooded killer and the rest of the crew were just as mean. Taking them alive would be difficult if possible at all, and a lot of innocent blood could be spilled in the process.

Two of the three other players at the table folded, and the other, Slim Carter, bumped the pot another five dollars. Reb tossed in five and showed his cards. His Jacks over fours won. He raked in his loot, excused himself, and walked to the bar. He ordered a beer and took a couple of sips, watching the four badmen from the corner of his eye.

His attention shifted when a minute or two later the door opened and a dark haired stranger walked in. He was not a big man – about five seven or eight, Reb judged – but there was something imposing in his demeanor. He wore an ankle length over coat and rough tanned boots with worn steel spurs. There was a cartridge belt visible through the front of the coat, but Reb could not see what was holstered beneath. His brown eyes were alert, showing no sign of fatigue. He appeared to be just another cowboy in for a drink after a day’s work, but somehow Reb suspected there was more to him than met the eye.

The lean stranger bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, which he sipped gingerly in the same manner as Reb. Reb nodded imperceptibly to no one. Bounty hunter, he thought. Or law man. Probably trailed the Barger bunch here to Dawson. Reb scanned the crowd and looked through the dusty front window. No sign of backup. Surely he didn’t plan on taking them alone. Uh-oh. Trouble.

Rob Reese was staring intently at the stranger at the bar. He leaned over and whispered something to Barger who turned his gaze toward the bar too. The stranger was taking the scene in with the aid of the mirror behind the bar. He put his money on the bar and turned and started to walk casually toward the front door.

Hey, you! In the coat. You doggin’ us, boy? Barger barked.

The stranger turned slowly, set his beer on the bar, and responded. You talking to me? I just stopped in to cut the dust. Been a long ride. Thought I’d have a beer or three and play some poker before turning in.

I saw you back in Spring Hill this morning, Reese offered. I think you’re following us around.

Texas is a big place. Room for us all.

Reb unlatched the leather loop from the hammer of his LeMat revolver. The massive old cap and ball revolver was a Civil War relic passed down to him by his Daddy who had served as an officer in the Confederate Army. What it lacked in speed of reloading it made up for in sheer fire power. Its oversized cylinder held nine .42 caliber lead balls. In place of a metal retaining pin found holding most cylinders in place, it had another barrel with an 18 gauge bore. The extra barrel held a load of buckshot. The old gun wouldn’t fit into a conventional holster, so he had one made special. A leather clad spring clip wrapped the cylinder while a small leather cup held the tip of the barrel. When the hammer strap was disengaged, it could be slipped out remarkably quick.

The four outlaws stood up and started spreading out across the room. Reb noticed that the stranger’s right hand was now in his coat pocket. Reb hated to think he was depending on some puny pocket pistol to get him out the developing mess.

I think you’d be better off if you just got back on your horse and rode out of town, Reese said.

I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ll just finish my beer and then I think I’ll turn in.

Barger chimed in now. No, I think you’d better leave.

By now, people were sensing the approaching fire storm and moving out of the way. A few managed to slip through the front and side doors. There was still no sign of any backup for the stranger.

Reb weighed his options. He could move to a safer place to stand and watch the stranger die. He could side with the stranger on principle. The men were vicious killers, and the stranger was obviously outgunned. He could pull his gun and initiate an arrest. Perhaps he and the stranger could agree to share the loot. Or he could end up fighting the stranger for having interfered with his bounty.

The question was suddenly answered for him. As if reading his mind, the stranger turned and spoke.

You’re Reb McConnehey, aren’t you? the stranger said facing him now.

How’d you know that? he asked.

Never mind that, he shrugged. I figure you and I are after the same thing. Just wanted you to know that I have no problems with sharing.

There was a rapid movement from the Barger’s direction and a glint of steel flashed as he pulled a double action Colt revolver from its holster. There as a flurry of motion from the other three as well.

Reb drew his LeMat, thumbing back the hammer and letting go with the shotgun barrel. The number two buckshot splattered the chest of Rob Reese who had by now drawn his Remington .45. Reb heard the roar of a shot come from his right and saw Barger go down with a hole in his chest. He caught a glimpse of a barrel sticking out from the stranger’s over coat. Reb thumbed the LeMat again and flipped the lever on the hammer to change barrels. A .42 caliber ball caught Smelley in the belly, and the falling man fired round in Reb’s direction. A second ball from the LeMat found its home in Smelley’s face, spraying blood and gray matter out the back of his head.

The stranger fired two more quick rounds taking down Ted Foley just as a forty-four slug from his Foley’s Colt Pacemaker whizzed by his left ear. The whole exchange took less than ten seconds.

The normally noisy room was silent now, shrouded in dense gray smoke from the burnt gunpowder. People who had dived under tables and behind the bar began to rise and look around.

Man! Slim Carter exclaimed. What the dickens was all that about?

Better go get the law. And fetch a doctor. Somebody may still be alive, Reb said. But I doubt it.

Reb holstered his weapon. The stranger now held his gun by the forestock in his left hand. He pulled his right hand from his pocket, pushed back his coat, and holstered the weapon. Reb looked at the gun in awe. His Rebel officer’s gun often brought stares and comments, but the stranger’s gun was definitely a conversation piece in and of itself. It was a cut-down Colt Lightning pump action rifle. The stock had been cut off to little more than a stub. The barrel and tubular magazine had been shortened to a mere twelve inches. The little pump action gun’s capacity had been reduced from eleven .44-40 rounds to seven, including the one in the chamber. Apparently, the coat pocket had been cut out to allow the stranger to access the gun beneath the coat.

You know my name. So who are you? And how do you know me?

By now several men had gathered over the fallen men. A quick examination found that Rob Reese was still breathing. The buckshot had peppered his chest, and he was bleeding badly.

Name is Holt. John D. Holt. My friends call me John. I was in Abilene when you brought in Bill Mixon. Saw you leaving the Constable’s office as I was coming in. He gave me the scoop on you. Said you were a capable lad. Seems he was right.

One of the saloon girls was using a bar towel to soak up Reese’s blood. The front door opened and three men, badges on their chests and guns in their hand came through. The elder of the three, a stocky man with graying hair and a bushy mustache spoke. What happened here?

Holt pulled two folded Wanted posters from his shirt pocket and handed them to the man who was obviously the Sheriff and said, That one over there is Bob Barger – wanted for murder and robbery out of Fannin County. Bloody one there that’s still breathing is Rob Reese, his partner. Also wanted for armed robbery. I believe the other two are Tom Foley and Bill Smelley. All wanted dead or alive.

Looks like y’all prefer dead, a red headed skinny deputy chimed in.

Gave us no choice in the matter. They drew down on us. We would have preferred to do it peaceful.

That’s right, Reb added. they were gunnin’ for Holt, here. If I had’nt stepped in, they’d have killed him sure.

Their tellin’ the truth, Burt, Slim Carter spoke up. I never seen nothin’ like it. That bunch pulled their guns, and these two took ‘em down before you could blink an eye.

A man in a black suit carrying a black leather bag entered the room and started working on Reese. He looked up at Sheriff Burton Lovitt and gave a slight head shake.

So you two are partners? the Sheriff asked.

Uh! Well – I uh, Holt began.

Well, let’s just say we collaborated on this one, Sheriff, Reb finished.

Holt nodded.

Rob Reese lived just long enough to be moved to the doctor’s office before bleeding out. Sheriff Burton Lovitt and his two deputies disarmed Reb and Holt and escorted them to the Sheriff’s office for questioning. Several witnesses, including the bartender and Slim Carter confirmed their account. Descriptions and papers found on the bodies made preliminary identification of the bodies easy enough, but Lovitt said it would be up to the local judge to make a final ruling on the justification of the shooting and the identities of the bodies, but he foresaw no problems. They would have to wait a couple of days to collect their bounties. They should stay in town till then.

The crowd had thinned out at the saloon after the shooting. Reb and Holt found a table and had a drink together before retiring for the night.

That’s some gun you got there, John. A Colt Lightning rifle – err pistol – uh. Why a cut-down rifle? Why not a regular six gun?

I had an accident a few years back. While I was in the Army. I got my thumb broke and it healed stiff. I can cock a single action revolver, but not very fast. With a shell in the chamber, I can cock the Lightning okay for a first shot, and the pump action makes it easy to get off additional rounds in a hurry.

I heard tell of a fellow in our business that carries a cut-down Winchester. What was his name?

Randall, John said. Josh Randall. Carries a ’76 in .45-70. Doesn’t hold many rounds, but when he hits someone they go down and don’t get up.

I guess. Forty-five seventy is a belly buster all right. Makes sense with your Lightning, though, stiff thumb and all.

Why you packing that cap and ball monster? John asked.

Reb grinned. Well, it takes all day to load it, but nine slugs and a load of buckshot can go a long way to even the odds. Besides, my Dad left it and an old iron frame Henry to me when he died. Between the two of ‘em you can shoot all week without reloading.

John nodded. How’d you get into this business?

I had to work on the farm till Pa died. Ma died a few months later, so I sold the place and took a job as deputy in Clark County Tennessee. Got the notion to wander and served as a lawman in various towns and counties around the country for about seven years. Ended up in Dodge for a while and served as a Deputy Marshal for two years. Decided if I wanted to travel and be my own boss, I needed a change of jobs. Bounty hunting seemed the way to go, so I been at it almost two years now. Keeps food on the table, and I work when I want and how I want. How about you?

Followed in my Daddy’s footsteps when I was seventeen and joined the Army. Went to West Point. My father had gone there before the war. Switched sides when the war came along, being a native Texan. Still had the respect of his Union peers and General Sheridan put in a word for me with Point. Anyway, after fifteen years in the cavalry, I retired. I didn’t see eye to eye with government policy toward the Indians. I had spent a lot of years tracking red men. Wasn’t much of a transition to tracking outlaws.

Reb stroked his chin. Where to from here?

Abilene. I got a line on a good one out there. Might could use some help. You interested?

I don’t know. I generally work alone.

A big pay off. Four, maybe five thousand. And that’s just the one’s I’ve seen paper on. They are likely to be hanging with other people of value.

That much, huh. Sounds kind of dangerous to me. Tell me more.

There had been a slight delay in the pay off on the bounties. It was now Friday and the sheriff said it would be 9:00 A.M. Monday before the authorization could be wired and money drawn from the bank to cover the debt. With the extra time on their hands, Reb managed to talk John into a hunting trip.

John had just as soon get his meat at the Dawson Cafe and didn't cotton much to killing for sport. But it would be a diversion, and he had to admit that he did like the sandy haired youth who'd proven his mettle in the saloon showdown.

They headed out of town on Friday about two hours before sundown and set up camp just before dark at a narrow creek about five miles west of town. They built a fire, warmed some beans, and chewed on some jerky as they warmed to its