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    Wildfire
    Wildfire
    Wildfire
    Ebook186 pages3 hours

    Wildfire

    By Tony Masero

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    About this ebook

    Dakota Territory 1876
    Denver Wildfire is a hard man whose looks may not amount to much but he’s smart, literate and ex-military.... and he has a plan.
    He rides with the Mexican, a good man with a long match and short fuse, and the kid, a wild card who can drive a six-team like the devil himself. All three are intent on stepping into a lucrative honeypot left by friction between the Sioux and the US army after the massacre at Little Big Horn.
    A deadline is set and Denver must make his move, the scheme only complicated by the advent of another man’s fine looking wife. Her passion has turned Denver’s head and it’s a matter of setting his complicated plan in motion without this new distraction, the military and the Indians getting in the way.
    The prize is a fortune; the price is in bullets and blood.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTony Masero
    Release dateDec 13, 2018
    ISBN9780463468500
    Wildfire
    Author

    Tony Masero

    It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

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      Book preview

      Wildfire - Tony Masero

      WILDFIRE

      Tony Masero

      Dakota Territory 1876

      Denver Wildfire is a hard man whose looks may not amount to much but he’s smart, literate and ex-military.... and he has a plan.

      He rides with the Mexican, a good man with a long match and short fuse, and the kid, a wild card who can drive a six-team like the devil himself. All three are intent on stepping into a lucrative honeypot left by friction between the Sioux and the US army after the massacre at Little Big Horn.

      A deadline is set and Denver must make his move, the scheme only complicated by the advent of another man’s fine looking wife. Her passion has turned Denver’s head and it’s a matter of setting his complicated plan in motion without this new distraction, the military and the Indians getting in the way.

      The prize is a fortune; the price is in bullets and blood.

      Cover Illustration: Tony Masero

      A Hand Painted Western

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or

      transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

      including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

      retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except

      in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

      Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All names, characters,

      places, and events other than historical are the work of the

      author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real person, places,

      or events is coincidental.

      Copyright 2012 Tony Masero

      Smashwords Edition

      Chapter One

      Boyd Tredeuce whipped up the sweating four-mule team and ran the buckboard at a wild pace along the track through the dense forest of spruce and lodgepole pine. Braking, he slewed the wheels savagely across the trail, leaving a long gouge on the soft earth behind. The mules baulked at the sudden slowing but Boyd urged them on again, steering the buckboard from side to side of the track, snapping off low lying branches and swerving into the bushes alongside.

      He had chosen the wagon well. A solidly build and serviceable nine-foot long rack bed with side board slats, made from tough red oak and hickory with iron-tired wheels that could take the severe testing he was giving the vehicle. Even with the three heavy sacks of sand aboard, the buckboard leapt and skittered along the rough path, flying up over exposed roots and crashing down unmercifully with the unforgiving pace Boyd was setting.

      With a loud cry and a snap of the reins, he drove the beasts on, standing up from his seat on the high risers he bellowed at the mules, his voice echoing through the empty woods as he cracked the long whip above their heads. They climbed a slight rise at full race and Boyd pulled the buckboard over to scatter a pile of stones and sideswipe a roadside boulder, scouring a sheen of sparks that left a harsh scar on the stone.

      A sparkle of excitement lit his narrowed eyes as he lashed up the team and the wildness of the run thrilled him. Even for one so young Boyd knew very well what he was doing and was in control of the situation, he had been in the driving seat many times before. Still though, with the pounding hooves and the wind blowing strong in his face the dangerous speed was almost aphrodisiac.

      Boyd was a slender, clean-shaven man, slight in build with pale, almost gaunt facial features and long fair hair that splayed out behind him and played over his back. His hat, torn free by the wind bounced wildly by its leather strap on his shoulders as he cracked the whip above the mules’ lathered backs and urged them on. Twenty-two years old and expert as either muleskinner or bull-driver, both skills he had learnt during his term of enlistment with the army three years before, he handled the buckboard as a well as an ancient charioteer might have at a Roman circus. The experience had stood him in good stead, as since leaving the military he had used this natural ability whilst being a box driver for the Butterfield Stage Line and was one of the most able men at the reins of a six-horse team that the line had yet discovered.

      The buckboard lurched into a long downhill run and Boyd confidently let the mules have their way, allowing the wagon to fishtail in a skidding slide down the track as he hauled on the brake handle and locked the rear wheels. A small stream lay across the bottom of the hill and Boyd let go the brake handle and ran into it at full speed, nearly catapulting himself from the seat as they smashed into the dip. Water sprayed and Boyd noticed with satisfaction that deep tracks that were cut into the muddy banks as they reared up the opposite side.

      He ran on for another mile until breaking free of the pine trees and coming into an area of open grassland, only then did he pull the team to a halt. Looking back at his tracks with approval he allowed the mules to rest for a while before turning away from the trail and taking off across country towards the gully where he knew Denver would be waiting on him.

      Darkness was arriving fast in the early February dusk and Boyd pulled up once more to light and hang a couple of oil lamps from each of the sideboards, the better to see his way.

      It was full dark by the time he reached the gully. It was a deep-sided, broad-based run-off that ran down from the high hills and was a flash-flood channel when the rains came. It was dry now and as Boyd drew up at the shadowy lip he could see the dark outline of Denver moving about below in the bed of the gully.

      A column of flame leapt up suddenly from the metal bucket at the tall man’s feet and Denver stepped back sharply, away from the fierce fire. The light lit him from underneath and Boyd could see the unmoving features frown as they stared into the flames. Denver heard the mules whicker and he looked up to see Boyd watching him. He nodded in greeting before kneeling down for a brief moment at a second bucket and then stepping away quickly.

      There was a roar and a blinding burst of light that rose in a flaring explosion twice head height high into the night air. The flames were savage and continued for several seconds before; with a nod of approval Denver snuffed them out with handfuls of dust. Denver kicked over the smoking buckets and made his way across to the gully wall.

      He was not a handsome man. His craggy face sported a mustache that drooped either side of his tight lips and bore a broken nose swollen and veined by too much time with a bottle of sipping whisky. His dark hair was winged with white over the ears and a thin scar ran down from the corner of his left eye. The rest of his face was tracked with lines that spoke of his long years of hard travelling. Despite the general ugliness, the brutish features held an unmoving rock solid stability about them indicating determination and drive. Physically he fared better, his body was lean and broad shouldered and in good condition and at a rapid pace, he scaled the crumbling walls, bringing himself up still breathing easily to stand alongside the buckboard.

      How’d it go? he asked Boyd.

      Fine.

      How far?

      About ten, fifteen miles. I left off after the forest.

      Should do it, said Denver climbing up alongside Boyd on the riser seat.

      He sat erect and silent as they waited. Boyd thought he still bore the mark of officer about him with his stoic demeanor, all the cold and efficient air of regular military order that had carved out Denver Wildfire’s character. At thirty-five, he was the oldest of them and although many years behind him now, the stamp of West Point and his period of service as a Federal army captain was still ingrained in every action.

      A dour faced man, his expression often difficult to read, he sat with his hat brim pulled low and looked off into the darkness, sitting without movement, as still and as patient as a stone.

      Where is he? asked Boyd, who fidgeted beside him, eager to be getting on.

      Denver tugged at his watch chain and pulled out the timepiece lodged in his vest pocket. Snapping open the lid, he tilted the face towards one of the lamps.

      Any time now.

      As he spoke there was a low boom of noise in the silence of the night and a muted glow that momentarily lit the darkness.

      That it? asked Boyd.

      Wait.

      Two seconds later, a louder explosion followed the first and they saw a flash of light off in the distance.

      There, said Denver confidently. He’s done.

      We can go?

      Denver nodded and Boyd geed up the mules.

      Would have been better in daylight, observed Boyd. It’ll be difficult to find him now.

      Too many folks about in the daytime, answered Denver. And don’t worry about Raoul, he’ll find us if need be.

      You known him long? asked Boyd as he cautiously steered the buckboard through the shadows.

      Since the war.

      Oh, yeah. Who were you with?

      Down south along the border with Cecilio Balerio and his raiders. There were about a hundred and twenty of us based in Wild Horse Desert country. We hit those Rebs when and where we pleased, he added the latter with some sense of satisfaction.

      Boy! I wish I’d been old enough for that one, complained Boyd, his boot tapping impatiently on the footrest in front.

      Denver watched the boot-toe beating out the nervous rhythm and looked across at the pale face. You okay? he asked quietly.

      Boyd turned quickly. Yeah, sure. Why’d you ask?

      Oh, I don’t know, Denver answered easily. You look a little tense, is all.

      No, Boyd laughed. I’m fine. Guess I got a little excited, that was a hell of a fine ride back there.

      Denver nodded noncommittally but he still watched Boyd’s jittery foot-tattoo from the corner of his eye.

      Where is that damned Mex? complained Boyd. Where the hell’s he got to?

      He’ll be here, Denver said calmly. Just keep moving.

      The lamplight picked out sudden movement in the darkness and Boyd straightened sharply in his seat and tugging on the reins went for the pistol at his waist, he had it half drawn before Denver could lay a restraining hand on his arm.

      I told you he’d be here, he said. It’s Raoul.

      The Mexican grinned, appearing silently from the darkness. His teeth flashed in the dim light and he nodded his sombrero-covered head in recognition. He carried a small wooden crate with rope handles and moving around to the back of the buckboard he placed it carefully into the back.

      What d’you think? asked Denver.

      The second one, I think, the Mexican answered. Raoul Malandre was a robust looking fellow, with a body tending towards chubby but he had a pleasant round face with a ready smile. There were lines there, the same as marked Denver’s face and they spoke of the years and close calls the two had experienced together.

      When the box was aboard, Raoul eased himself up using the wheel hub and lowered himself into the buckboard bed.

      Right, he sighed. Let’s go home. I’m ready for some shuteye.

      ‘Home" was a deserted sawmill, deep in the woods. Loggers had used it initially when Fort Column had first been constructed but since then the place had remained unused for years. It had become rundown and was gradually returning to the forest that surrounded it. Vines grew through the broken windows and weeds spread in profusion across the bare earth yard out front where Boyd pulled up.

      I’ll see to the mules, he said, tying off the reins around the brake handle. You fellows get some coffee going.

      Raoul unloaded his crate from the back and Denver eased himself down, unfolding his long body with elastic ease. They had made the one remaining office hut their camp and although the thin plank walls inside had dried out and left spaces between for the forest to intrude, it was still in better shape than the main sawmill structure itself, which had a collapsed roof and broken doors. The two went over to the building as Boyd unfastened harness and began to lead the mules across to the decaying mill to stable them for the night.

      How was your end? asked Raoul, once they were inside.

      Good, nodded Denver, taking off his Stetson and running fingers through his hair. There was a broad slash of gray winging up over his ears on each side of the dark head of hair and his jawline was in need of a shave. It’ll work.

      You know, said Raoul, storing his box away carefully. All those years I seen you with your nose in a book. I never thought it would pay off like this.

      Denver knelt before the rusty pot-bellied stove and set a match to some kindling inside. A thin smile creased his lips. "Grace is given of God, but knowledge is born in the market," he said, quoting Arthur Clough, the little recognized but eminently pragmatic poet, knowing full well that his erudition was lost on the illiterate Mexican. Still, he considered there was a prophetic air to the phrase and it pleased him.

      Raoul shrugged, lifted the glass chimney on a lamp and lit the wick allowing their shadows to loom across the walls of broken boards and swaying cobwebs. "Si senor, well then maybe there is something to this reading thing after all."

      Denver had filled the

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