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    The Slaughterers
    The Slaughterers
    The Slaughterers
    Ebook80 pages1 hour

    The Slaughterers

    By Robert Jeschonek

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A gang of vicious scalpers roams the Arizona territory in the Old West, slaughtering town after town. Only one man stands in their way: a sword-wielding Arabian knight named Badr al-Medina. To stop the scalpers' killing spree, Badr makes a stand at the next town in their path, Oasis...only to find the place hip-deep in corruption that could turn his fight into a suicide mission. But surprising new allies give Badr fresh hope, as he unleashes the power of his Damascus steel sword, his six-shooter revolvers, and his fiery faith in an all-out war in the blood-soaked streets of Oasis. Don't miss this story by award-winning writer Robert Jeschonek, a master of action-packed Westerns that really pack a punch.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Jeschonek
    Release dateNov 18, 2018
    ISBN9781311409911
    The Slaughterers

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      Book preview

      The Slaughterers - Robert Jeschonek

      The Slaughterers

      The Slaughterers

      A Western Tale

      Robert Jeschonek

      Pie Press

      THE SLAUGHTERERS

      Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

      http://bobscribe.com/

      Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin

      www.benbaldwin.co.uk

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved by the author.

      Published by Busted Books

      411 Chancellor Street

      Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

      www.piepresspublishing.com

      Contents

      Also by Robert Jeschonek

      The Slaughterers

      About the Author

      Special Preview: The Masked Family

      Also by Robert Jeschonek

      Crimes in the Key of Murder

      Death by Polka

      Six Crime Stories Volume One

      The First Detect-Eve

      The Masked Family

      The Other Waiter

      Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?

      The Slaughterers

      As a faint smile played over his lips, the man in the white headdress reached back and took hold of the leather-wrapped handle behind his head. His sword sang as he slid it from its scabbard on his back and swept it around, the curved blade gleaming in the midday sunlight.

      Now then. His voice was deep and steady, unbroken as a desert horizon at sunset. Who among you has heard of Damascus steel?

      The ragtag trio of thugs gaped at him. The barrels of their tarnished six-shooters never wavered, though; all three stayed fixed on the man with the sword who was standing between them and the girl.

      I ain't heard a' that, said the thug in the middle, who was fatter and filthier than the other two and did most of the talking. But I'll bet it ain't no match for good, old-fashioned lead. Sneering, he wagged the gun he was pointing.

      You will lose that bet. The swordsman kept smiling as he waved the sword, which he called Sahar, meaning dawn. He was keenly aware of all the players in the scene. The girl he was defending, a beautiful young blonde in a blue and white dress, stood behind him. Though the swordsman was a stranger who'd arrived in the town of Oasis just a few minutes ago, he hadn't hesitated to intervene when he'd spotted the thugs pawing at her.

      Thirty feet away stood the swordsman's only traveling companion--his horse. The white-coated steed--a fine Arabian named Reeh al-Qiyamah, or wind--lapped from a watering trough in front of the general store.

      If anyone else was nearby, the swordsman could see or hear no trace of them. If there were townspeople, they were hidden away from the action.

      The defense of the woman was up to him. Damascus steel is the finest steel ever created, he said. A blade fashioned from it can do such damage as you have never imagined.

      Good ta know, said the middle thug. I got plans for that knife.

      The sword-wielder's headdress fluttered in the hot Arizona wind. A double band of black cord held the white scarf in place around his temples and above his ears.

      Has it occurred to you gentlemen, he said calmly, "that this 'knife' might have plans for you?"

      Hand it over now. The fat thug sneered and wagged his gun. Or we'll take it from ya later.

      An' then we'll take Meg Haines there, said one of the other thugs, a wild-eyed young man whose shaggy hair and beard were somehow shaded deep green. Just like we planned on afore you showed up.

      Don't worry, Meggy, said the fat one. We'll take good care a' ya'.

      Go to Hell. Meg snarled the words. Just wait till my brothers get a hold of you.

      I'm outta patience when it comes to them boys, said the fat one. We'll kill 'em just the same, an' use this napkin-wearin' sissy-boy's knife to cut 'em into steaks for the pigs. He roared with laughter at his joke.

      The swordsman bowed his head. There is no god except Allah, he said softly, and Muhammad is his messenger.

      What th' hell? Another thug, a gangly beanpole with leprous skin, grimaced. What's this 'Allah' stuff he's goin' on about?

      When the swordsman looked up, he was smiling sweetly. He is my rock and my protector, he said. And I am his sword.

      With that, he suddenly leaped forward. Before the thugs could squeeze off a single shot, he swung Sahar in a flashing arc that knocked the guns from their hands...one, two, three.

      Still smiling, he brought the blade back across, slashing at the thugs' arms. The fat one and the beanpole both cried out as their gun arms spouted bright red blood above the elbow. The green-haired one lunged toward the swordsman and caught the edge of the sword in his rib cage for his trouble.

      Wrenching it free, the swordsman saw the first two bandits scramble for their guns. He reacted by slicing Sahar across the beanpole's back, then spun around to whack the fat one's head with the flat of the blade.

      Howling and clutching at his wound, the beanpole toppled. The fat thug yelped and staggered but stayed on his feet, still heading for his gun in the dirt.

      A quick slash through the pit of his left knee was enough to end that. He went down hard like a sack of flour, thudding on his huge belly in the baking sand. The guns were out of reach, at least.

      That left the green-bearded one to deal with...but not for long. He dropped to his knees and got his hands on his gun, jerking it around. He

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