Hell Bound: A Peyton Bonner Novel, #1

G.R. Williamson

Other Books by G.R. Williamson

The Texas Pistoleers: Ben Thompson & King Fisher

Frontier Gambling

Willis Newton – The Last Texas Outlaw

John King Fisher – King of the Nueces Strip

Notorious Gamblers of the Old West

T-Head Dead – A Jesse Ramos Mystery

Hell Bound

G. R. Williamson

Indian Head Publishing

Copyright © 2018 G.R. Williamson

All rights reserved. First published April, 2018

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyrights reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN-13: 978-1976344787

ISBN-10: 1976344786

Library of Congress Control Number:

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919232

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

Front and Back Cover Design

By

Indian Head Publishing

Notice – Work of Fiction

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to the tortured souls that traveled the gamblers' circuit in the American West. Only a few died wealthy and respectable, most died destitute and penniless.

Some of the most notable gamblers were: Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Bat Masterson, Luke Short, and Ben Thompson.

But, it was Wild Bill Hickock that gained the distinction of being the most remembered gambler when he was shot by Broken Nose Jack McCoy in the No.10 Saloon in Deadwood. He was playing poker and was reputed to have been holding aces and eights when he met his demise.

Legend turned that into the dead man’s hand.

Prologue

Marion County, Texas – 1868

TURNING OFF THE MARSHALL Road, the teenage boy headed his team down the lane that led to his family farm. Then to his left a searing flash exploded, quickly followed by the deafening sharp, loud crack of thunder that sounded like the very earth itself was splitting open. Shaken by the blast, the boy braced himself and kept a firm grip on the team. As the rain started biting into his face, he set the horses into a full gallop racing to the barn, a mile in the distance.

He had first noticed the roiling clouds as he left the outskirts of Jefferson—black and definitely ugly. Now, with lightning flashing all around him, he knew the barn was his only safe shelter.

With hooves flying, the horses passed the bois d'arc stump to their left; he knew that he was less than a quarter of a mile away from the safety of the barn. Lord, protect me!

Another brilliant flash lit up the lane ahead of him and he could make out the vague shape of the buildings. Hold on, just a little longer—just a little longer!

It was all he could do to keep the horses from bolting with each clap of thunder, but he kept a tight rein and soon they were passing the fence around the house. He headed the team right, toward the barn. Wait, were there horses in front of the house?

He did not have time to look back; the barn was coming up fast. Relieved at finding the doors open, the boy grabbed the reins and pulled hard as they raced inside. As the team came to a halt, he jumped down from the buckboard and tied the horses to a rail.

Turning back toward the house, he waited for another flash of light to illuminate the yard. Within seconds, he could clearly see three horses tied up near the gate. Who's that at the house?

It was then that he heard the first of the women screaming—horrible, terrifying. Mama... Sissy? No Lord!  Then he clearly heard a gunshot followed by more screaming. Without hesitation, he groped his way through the dark barn to the cupboard where his dad kept his ten-gauge shotgun. Yanking the door open, he pulled out the gun and quickly broke open the double-barrel action.

Reaching for the shelf above him, he found the box of shells for the gun. He slammed two cartridges into the barrels and brought the action up on the gun.  More screams and another gunshot. He frantically grabbed a handful of shells and shoved them in his coat pocket.

Bolting through the doorway of the barn, the boy faced the full force of the blinding rain as he raced to the house.  Approaching the horses, a flash of light revealed the distinctive brand of the Texas State Police on each flank. The sight made the boy's stomach churn, these were the brutal Reconstruction regulators that answered to no one except the federally appointed governor. Since Jefferson had been a major commercial hub during the Civil War, the police force demanded total submission from the people of Marion County. Though a few were honorable men, most were former Kansas Jayhawkers and ex-slaves hell-bent on revenge.

The image of a mutilated neighbor flashed through the boy's mind. He had been brutally whipped and then hung from a tree in his yard as a warning to others. His only offense had been challenging the authority of the regulators.

Now these men were inside of his house.

Pushing through the front gate, the boy quietly made his way up the porch steps where he spotted a dark shape beneath a window. Bending down, he saw it was the lifeless body of his dog. Butch! Why would anyone...? He stood up, cocked both hammers on the shotgun, slowly turned the doorknob, stood back, and kicked in the door.

Inside, he saw his father propped up against the leg of the dinner table. A large bullet hole replaced his right eye while the left was wide open as if he was grotesquely staring at his son. His large bible lay at his side, open with the pages aflutter and splattered with blood.

Behind the dinner table stood a fat man with a shock of red hair and muttonchops. He was downing the last of the Christmas brandy. As he turned and stared at the boy, he seemed confused with what he saw, but pulled a long-barreled Colt from his belt.

Before he could level the pistol on the boy, the shotgun exploded and blew off the top of the man's left shoulder. Twisting sideways, he slammed against the wall in a bloody splatter and crumpled to the floor behind the table.

In the next instant, a tall black man with a long beard appeared in the doorway of his parent's dimly lit bedroom.  He carried a bloody knife in one hand and a necklace in the other.

Without hesitating, the boy swung his gun on the man and pulled the rear trigger. The blast caught the man in his midsection and sent him sprawling back into the bedroom.

The boy took a quick glimpse into the bedroom and saw his mother lying in a blood-soaked bed. Her throat had been slit and her mouth was agape. A wave of nausea swept over the boy, but he steadied himself and stepped back into the hall. At that moment, even though his ears were wildly ringing from the roar of the shotgun, he heard an incoherent muttering coming from his sister's room.

He broke the action on the shotgun, ejecting the smoking shells, and reloaded both barrels. He brought the barrels up and automatically cocked both hammers before he reached the open doorway to his sister's room.

Inside, he saw a small bald black man muttering something as he stood behind his sister's bed. Her nude body lay on her side, facing the door. Blood was trickling down her head from a bullet hole just above the bridge of her nose. The black man continued his stuttering yammer while trying to pull up his pants with one hand and leveling a small pistol with the other.

The boy brought the shotgun around to the man and dropped the hammer down on the left barrel of the ten-gauge. The blast tore through the back edge of his sister's bed and took out the window behind. A split second before, the man had ducked down behind the bed, still jabbering.

Patiently waiting, the boy kept his gun trained on the bed and took a step into the room. Suddenly, from the end of the bed, the man jumped up and fired a shot at the boy. The bullet tore through the top of the shoulder of the boy's heavy coat; he did not know if he had been hit, but it did not matter, he pulled the trigger on the right barrel.

The man's head exploded into a crimson cloud of blood, brain, and skull fragments; the decapitated body pitched back and landed on the jagged remains of the window. Nearly deaf from the shotgun blasts, it was then that the boy realized that the storm was still raging outside. The rain poured over the bloody remains of the man, creating a dark red puddle that flowed out from under the bed.

The nausea returned as he stood looking at the macabre scene; he pushed back against the doorframe and then into the hall, still fighting the nausea. Then, glancing down the hall to the dining room, he saw the table move sideways, but the ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear anything.

Leaning against the wall, he broke open the shotgun, but when he dug in his coat pocket there was only a single cartridge left. Without thinking, he shoved it into the right barrel and cocked both hammers.

A few steps later he was standing in the dining room where he found the redheaded man wedged up against the wall. Though blood was pouring from what remained of his left arm, he had reached his dragoon with his other hand. Bringing the pistol up; he desperately tried to level it on the boy. Instinctively the boy pulled the front trigger.

Click!

A broken grin broke across the wounded man's face. Misfire, boy. Pity. The boy could not hear his words, nor the roar of the Colt, only the smoke boiling out the front of the pistol. The shot missed and shattered the mirror on the hall tree to his left.

Realizing he had fired the wrong barrel, he slid his finger to the rear trigger—and tugged. The cannonade caught the man in his upper torso and huge belly, essentially eviscerating him in a bloody smudge against the wall.

Then in a fit of rage, the boy stepped forward and starting beating the man's head with the shotgun. After hitting him twice, he hesitated for a moment and realized the man's skull was crushed. Pitching the shotgun aside, he bent forward and threw up.

Finally, after the dry heaves stopped, he fell back into a chair and blankly stared at the carnage that lay before him. Dear Lord, forgive me! But why?

Everything that meant anything to the boy was suddenly gone—forever. He focused on his father's body. Why Lord? He was a man of the scriptures. Why? He turned his head toward the hall and suddenly burst into tears. Mama and Sissy. Why Lord? He rocked back in his chair, wailing.

When he regained control and stared at his boots to avoid the scene in front of him. The regulators had murdered his family and now he had murdered them. But it would not end here, there would be others coming after him and when they did find him, they would hang him.

The roar in his ears clouded his thoughts, but finally it came to him. He had to get away. He had to get to Jefferson where he could board a riverboat headed for New Orleans. He might make it if he could only get to New Orleans.

He looked up from his chair and focused on his mother's bread making cabinet. He stepped around the debris and opened the flour bin on the cabinet. Lifting out the metal bin, he reached in for a small tin box. Inside were some papers and two gold double eagle coins. Stuffing the coins in his pants pocket, he turned his attention to the can of coal oil setting beside the cabinet.

Removing the cap to the can, the boy walked down the hall, doused each of the dead men, and then poured a line of coal oil down the hall to the dining room. He splashed the liquid over the redheaded man and poured the rest onto the floor. As he did, he spotted his dad's watch and chain lying on the table. He grabbed the watch and then went to the lamp on the fireplace mantle.

Hurling the lamp into the puddle on the floor, the room was immediately engulfed in flames. He watched the fire race up the legs of the dead regulator and quickly swallow up the man's body. Satisfied with what he saw, he walked out onto the front porch, pulled his hat down tightly on his head and ran out into the heavy rain.

Untying the horses in front of the house, he swung up on top of a sturdy looking roan. Then, glancing at the barn, he remembered the horses and rode to free them from the wagon. Returning to the saddle, he looked at the house that was now engulfed in flames; and set his heels into the horse, heading toward the Marshall Road.

Later, as he neared Jefferson, he left the horse in a dense thicket and entered the city on foot. The road eventually became a city street and he headed for the brightly lit business section. Fortunately, the rain was now just a constant drizzle, but there were very few people on the streets.

At Austin Street, he turned right, went to the next corner, turned right again and then ducked into a woodshed owned by the livery stable. He found an empty spot on the back wall, and, after removing his rain sodden coat, sat down with his knees drawn to chest. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on his escape plan.

In the morning, he would buy a new suit of clothes and book passage on the Bessie Warren that he knew was leaving for Shreveport at nine. He would use a false name and once he was in Shreveport he would use a different name to book passage on a separate river boat headed for New Orleans. After that, he did not have a plan.

Then, it suddenly came to him. His eyes fluttered open and he mouthed the words without speaking: Fear not, for I am with you always. That was it—that was why the regulators killed his family! It was the title of his dad's last sermon where he read from the book of Samuel, describing the torment of the Israelites in their struggle with the ruthless Philistines. He compared the Israelites' plight to that faced by their community under the oppressive control of the Reconstruction Regulators.

That was it! They had slaughtered the Methodist minister and his family to stop the sermons! Damn them all to hell!

After a few moments, he pulled out his dad's watch and, using a pocket knife, removed the picture of his family from the back of the cover. Then he slit the picture into shreds, blew the pieces into the darkness and returned the watch to his pocket. Like the picture, his family no longer existed.

He returned his gaze to the building across the street and stared at the large sign painted on the side of the building. It was a large green circle with a picture of a mean-eyed dominecker rooster in the center. Above the rooster were the words: Poultry, Grain & Plantation Supplies. The words below the rooster read, Peyton Bonner, Proprietor.

The boy closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

Then Death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. This is the second death, the lake of fire. And if anyone's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.

Revelation 20:14,15

CHAPTER ONE

Peyton Bonner jerked in his seat; the train took on a shuddering rattle as it slowed down. He had been dozing for the last hour and he bent forward in his seat to loosen his stiff neck. When he looked up, he spotted the red bearded conductor, Homer Hanna, making his way toward him. Peyton considered the Irishman his good friend.

Fort Worth, Mr. Bonner, we're coming up on Fort Worth.

Peyton watched as the conductor made his way through the empty seats in front of him. The few passengers that were in his car were seated behind him and when he stood up, he noticed that they were watching his every move. He stretched and removed the wool blanket that had covered his shoulders. When he adjusted the twin shoulder holsters that carried his short-barreled Smith and Wesson pistols, he heard the passengers behind him start murmuring. They’re watching the dangerous saloon killer. They’re either afraid of me or they want to be able to tell their friends every detail of how I look—what it was like to have traveled with a killer.

As the conductor approached him, he smiled and handed him the blanket.

Thanks, Homer, it helped.

At six feet even, Homer Hanna was the same height as Peyton, but in contrast to Peyton’s slender frame, he was heavier and barrel-chested. Sporting the ever-present Irish grin, he took the blanket, It’s been a long trip, but we’ll soon be pulling into the ‘Paris of the Plains.’ That's what the city calls itself—trying to be more cosmopolitan. He lowered his voice, Personally, I think it's still stockyards, saloons and whore houses, no matter what you call it.

Peyton smiled at the Irishman, Sorta sounds like someone saying a skunk smells like lilacs, doesn't it? They both chuckled, Even so, it'll sure be good to finally have a decent bed. Known as the best faro player to ever travel the West, his reputation had come with a price—constant moving, chasing the money flow in the wild Kansas cattle towns or mining boom towns. Along the way, he had killed six men—all who were trying to kill him. It had been fifteen years and now he was back in Texas.

Slipping on his black frock coat, Peyton adjusted his hat and asked, Homer, you know a good barber in Fort Worth? I could really stand a decent shave and haircut. He ran his fingers over his dark auburn mustache.

Yeah, there’s an Italian over on fifth street. A real jolly fellow named, Alphonse De Luca. He runs a six-chair shop—all Italians and damn good cutters.

He’ll be the first on my list tomorrow. Tonight, it’s a bath and a bed. Peyton looked at