Gunsmoke Serenade Read online

  The Gunsmoke Serenade

  While passing through Cherrywood Crossing, US Marshal Maxfield Knight is confronted by a gang of hired guns who tell him to ride the other way, or be shot down. With no choice but to ride into the high country, Knight soon learns he is being hunted by a man named Silas Manchester, but why, he has no idea. Determined to survive this dangerous game that he’s been forced to play, Knight is destined to become the hunter rather than the hunted.

  Aided by a mountain man named Lacroix, Knight decides to bring the fight to Manchester and get answers. Meanwhile, Knight’s partner, Deputy US Marshal Cole Tibbs, sets out looking for his missing friend. Tibbs will discover that he, like his friend, has also become part of a dangerous game that turns into a serenade of violence.

  By the same author

  Trail of the Burned Man

  Wind Rider

  Showdown at Snakebite Creek Coffin for an Outlaw

  The Gunsmoke Serenade.indd 218/02/2016 11:27

  The Gunsmoke Serenade

  Thomas McNulty

  © Thomas McNulty 2016

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2122-6

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.crowood.com

  This e-book first published in 2016

  Robert Hale is an imprint of

  The Crowood Press

  The right of Thomas McNulty to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This book is dedicated to

  My beautiful wife Jan

  With all my love

  ONE

  The day after they hanged Cal Randal three strangers rode into town on black horses. That they were gunfighters was not in question, but it remained to be discovered if they were bounty hunters or outlaws. When Maxfield Knight saw them he was exiting the Springwater Saloon after a tumbler of whiskey had burned away the dust in his throat. He paused, pulled a thin cigar from his vest pocket, struck a wooden match on his trousers and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke into the dazzling sunlit street as the riders tethered their horses to a hitching post near the hotel. That his life was about to change was unknown to him, but his innate senses struck a warning that caused him to pause and study the three men for a span of perhaps two minutes.

  Drifters and hired gunmen. They had Winchester rifles in their saddle boots and their horses were anything but fresh. Both men dressed plainly enough – brown trousers, checkered wool shirts, leather vests cut short above the gunbelt, the hard walnut grip of their Colts scarred with age, black Stetsons that shadowed their unshaven snarls – and the trail dust powdered them like a disease.

  It may have been something in their look when the three of them made eye contact that sent a warning signal to Knight’s brain. It may have been the cold dark look a killer brings with him when he’s sighted his prey that made Knight pause and stare back at them. Then the eye contact was broken and the two men paid him no further attention.

  But there had been something…

  After they tethered their horses to a hitching rail and pulled their Winchesters from the saddleboots they ambled into the Constitution Hotel, where undoubtedly they would ask for a bath. Men on the trail hankered after a soiled dove for company and enough whiskey to dull the pain of their saddle sores, but no dove would dance with a man that smelled as bad as a mangy dog.

  Knight continued on his way to the sheriff’s office, where he found Luke Dobbs with his boots on his desk and reading a newspaper.

  ‘There’s coffee on the stove,’ Dobbs said without looking up.

  Knight took a tin cup from the table near the stove and poured himself a strong cup of Arbuckle’s coffee. He took the chair opposite the desk.

  ‘Three gunmen just rode into town,’ Knight said.

  ‘If they don’t start anything I won’t kill them.’

  ‘Could be they’re friends of Cal Randal.’

  ‘Could be. Is Cole Tibbs still in town?’

  ‘Nope, he went fishing after getting that telegram from his girl down in Raven Flats. She’s a pretty thing named Jamie Hart.’

  ‘They’re all pretty when they’re young.’

  ‘Hell if they are,’ Knight said, ‘that girl slinging hash over at Tenney’s Restaurant looks to be half buffalo.’

  Dobbs laughed. ‘It’s more like she’s half moose, and an old moose at that.’

  Knight chuckled softly. ‘You get any new Wanted dodgers?’

  ‘The west is secure,’ Dobbs intoned. He still hadn’t looked up from his newspaper. ‘Buffalo Bill made the west safe for us all. I read it right here in this newspaper not a month ago.’

  Knight snorted derisively. ‘Old Bill has found himself a way to line his purse with coins, hasn’t he? I do admire that old coot.’

  ‘He got out before he ended up like Hickok.’

  ‘So the west is secure,’ Knight said sarcastically as he finished his coffee, ‘except someone forgot to tell those three gunmen that just rode into town.’

  ‘Don’t stir up any trouble,’ Dobbs said.

  But Knight had quietly set his cup down and was out the door. The day was warm and the sky a fragile blue. The town of Cherrywood Crossing was a tranquil place but Knight remembered a day all those years past when it hadn’t been so tranquil. Coming back with Cal Randal had been something his job as a US marshal required. If not for that he never would have come, but Knight set his personal feelings aside and did his job.

  Cal Randal had robbed a bank in Cherrywood Crossing a year before, been caught and sentenced to hang because a bank guard had been killed. Knight and Deputy US Marshal Cole Tibbs had caught up with Cal Randal at old man Saberhagen’s farm and brought him back to town. Circuit Court Judge Augustus Fitzsimmons had sentenced Randal to hang and finally they did just that. Knight and Tibbs had supervised the hanging and observed the burial. Cal Randal was in Boot Hill and Maxfield Knight was between assignments.

  Hell, I should ride out now, Knight thought to himself. Sheriff Dobbs doesn’t need any help from me.

  Knight was no stranger to Colorado. He passed through Colorado several times a year, but seldom did he ride into Cherrywood Crossing. With whiskey in his belly and nothing much to do except wait for Tibbs he decided to take the ride that he’d been avoiding, but as his mind pondered the thought he found ways to postpone that ride.

  Tibbs had gone fishing at the creek south of town. Knight considered joining him but then changed his mind. He returned to the Springwater Saloon, where he had another whiskey. Fifteen minutes later he joined three cowpunchers for a friendly, low stakes game of poker. They made a point of ribbing him about playing an honest game. They were good-natured cowboys and seemed to enjoy having a US marshal sit in with them.

  ‘Now don’t you pull any aces out from under that tin star,’ one man said, grinning.

  ‘Hell, I’m too old to pull anything like that on you boys.’

  A low stakes poker game helped pass the afternoon. Looking back on it later he couldn’t quite recall the names of his poker companions – maybe Bob, maybe John, maybe Andy – affable farmers. And maybe it was that extra glass of dark whiskey that contributed to a temporary feeling of peace. He won a few hands and lost more. But Knight was fine with losing a few dollars. Sometime later he thought he might ride out and find Tibbs at the creek. Maybe tomorrow. A day in the sun fishing a fast-running creek seemed about right.

  At four o’clock that afternoon the three gunmen ambled into the Springwater Saloon. They sat high on wooden stools at the bar, their spurs jangling cl
umsily against the mahogany counter. One of the men bumped a spittoon and sent it rolling across the dusty floor.

  It was the way their eyes pretended to casually mark his location that bothered him. They had left their Winchesters elsewhere, probably up in their rooms, but gunmen like these relied just as much on their Peacemakers. All three of them glanced at him as they seated themselves. It was as if they were of one mind, and Knight felt an intuitive alarm that he could never put into words.

  He digested the fact that these three drifters were interested in him. He continued to play poker, his back wisely to the wall. He had instinctively chosen his seat carefully. From his position he had a direct line at the men, and they, in turn, watched him in the expansive mirror behind the bar.

  They drank beer, and slowly. They appeared to be in no hurry. The barman paid no more attention to them than any other patrons. Knight counted the customers. The three drifters, his three poker companions, a soiled dove and a fat man drinking whiskey near the batwing doors. And the barman. It was a slow afternoon at the Springwater Saloon.

  A fly buzzed past. Outside the street gave up the occasional sound of hoof beats or a wagon clattering along. When the cards were being shuffled Knight dropped his right hand down to his holster and gently plucked the leather thong from the hammer. He wanted his gun free.

  He lost the next two hands. He was no longer concentrating on the cards. The game was a pretence as he studied his options. They had no clear view with his three poker buddies on each side. But if someone pulled a gun everyone would clear the table right quick. Knight didn’t know how fast they were but that didn’t bother him. He would kill all three quickly. What he wanted to know was why. Who were they?

  None of the men looked familiar. They were young, mid-twenties, angry young men without education looking to make a name for themselves with a gun. But why were they after him? He supposed it was possible they were kin to someone he had killed. Maxfield Knight had lost track of how many men he had killed.

  One of the men said to the barkeep, ‘You got an outhouse?’

  ‘Out back.’

  The man got up, gave Knight a long look. Their eyes met and Knight held the man’s stare. He held it and the man flinched, broke eye contact, and went out the rear door. When he returned a few minutes later he avoided looking at Knight.

  Got him, Knight thought. He’ll be the first to draw.

  Then the man quickly finished his beer. He smacked his lips. He ordered another beer.

  He’s working up the courage now.

  The other two hadn’t finished their first beer yet. They both glanced over at Knight. They were all being open about it now, give him a look, fearless, size him up before they make their move.

  Damn fool boys!

  The man that was half through his second beer slid off the stool. He clenched his fist and opened his fist nervously.

  ‘You boys set your cards down and get out of the line of fire,’ Knight said softly.

  At first his three companions seemed confused, but then they sensed what was about to happen. The drifter had come up near the table, his hand just inches from his holstered gun. The table cleared with a rush of squeaking chair legs, jangled spurs and Stetsons slapped hurriedly back on to their heads.

  ‘I hear you’re as fast as Hank Benteen,’ the man said.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  That gave him pause. He seemed confused. He wasn’t expecting the marshal to ask questions. Knight stood up and said, ‘Do you really want to die today? Now tell me who sent you?’

  The man looked back at his two friends. They scooted from their stools and fanned out, but far behind their brazen friend.

  ‘I said I hear you’re as fast as Hank Benteen,’ The man repeated. ‘I don’t think you’re that fast.’

  ‘Don’t do it, kid. I killed my first man before you were born and I don’t suffer from poor eyesight like Wild Bill.’

  The man groped for his gun, pulled it from its holster, but all too slowly.

  With a blur of speed Knight’s gun came up, hammer back, his finger curling on the trigger, and the barrel roared with flame and smoke. The thunderous detonation shook the room. The man slumped, a red flower blossoming on his shirt, his gun falling from his already twitching fingers. His lips pulled back as his eyes rolled to whites, a thin line of blood splaying from his tongue as he tried to talk. Knight’s gun roared twice more as the man’s lifeless body slammed to the floor. The other two men, caught foolishly in a game they could never win, seemed resigned to their fate as they nervously yanked their guns free. One man went down as a bullet turned his forehead into a pile of red cabbage; the other took a shot in the chest. He yowled in agony and fell writhing to the floor.

  ‘Damn you fools!’ Knight spat.

  Knight approached cautiously. The third assailant was still alive, although just barely. He coughed foamy blood. The bullet had gone through his lungs. The man – more of a kid, Knight thought – looked pathetic. His hat was crushed under his head and his gunbelt was too loose. It had pulled up over his belt haphazardly, strung across his belly.

  ‘Get … get … a … doctor …’ the kid wheezed.

  ‘No, you’re going to die, kid,’ Knight said without sympathy, ‘now tell me who hired you?’

  ‘Silas … Manchester …’

  ‘Silas Manchester? Who the hell is that?’

  But the kid was gone. Knight cursed and holstered his gun.

  ‘Get the undertaker,’ he said to the barman. ‘I’ll tell the sheriff.’

  Knight pushed through the batwings and paused on the boardwalk. He pulled out his gun, punched out the spent shells and replaced them with fresh cartridges. He holstered the gun, his eyes sweeping up and down the street.

  Sheriff Dobbs had moved his feet off the desktop and had tossed the newspaper aside. He was drinking a cup of coffee and cleaning his sawed-off shotgun with a cotton towel. Knight told him what happened.

  ‘And you never heard of Silas Manchester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You killed all three after they pulled first?’

  ‘Go ask the barkeep and those card players.’

  ‘Hell, I believe you.’

  ‘You can—’

  ‘Sure, I know my job. I can send a few telegrams, see who this Silas Manchester is, if he’s anybody.’

  ‘He’s someone that wants to kill me,’ Knight said.

  ‘And they found out you’re not easy to kill. This Silas Manchester would have known that, you have a reputation, so they were testing you.’

  ‘That’s the way I figured it, too.’

  ‘Send three cowpunchers desperate for money, tell them something like you’re old and slow on the draw.’

  ‘Pay them well and offer more.’

  ‘Let’s go see what we can learn.’

  Knight followed Dobbs to the Bull’s Head Rooming House, where the desk clerk gave Sheriff Dobbs three keys for their rooms after stating they had paid in silver coins. In each room they found a Winchester rifle and their saddlebags. In each saddlebag they found one hundred dollars in silver coins. They went downstairs and sheriff Dobbs studied the registration book. The names meant nothing, they were three strangers that had taken a fool’s errand and died for it. Their names only meant they would have something to paint on their crosses in Boot Hill.

  ‘We’ll put ’em on display,’ Dobbs said, ‘give ’em a two-day showing. Then we’ll bury ’em.’

  The undertaker had it done before sunset. They placed the three bodies in pine coffins and propped them outside the undertaker’s office. They set torches out and lit oil lamps, which swung from a hook under the awning. Dobbs wanted any night riders coming into town to see the results of their folly. If Silas Manchester were nearby or had any other men nearby they would certainly learn about the killings soon enough.

  Knight had a room at the Continental Hotel on the second floor. It was the better hotel in town but when he entered his room he wasn’t thinking about th
e comfort of a soft mattress and feathered pillow. He tossed his hat on the bed-post and unbuckled his gunbelt. He tossed the gunbelt on to the bed but kept the Colt in his hand. He sat on the bed and checked the cartridges even though he knew he had just changed them.

  He got up and turned down the oil lamp. He turned the wick so low only a faint glow emanated from the lamp, barely enough to light the room. Knight let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He waited until the sky was completely black and then he extinguished the lamp. With his eyes adjusted to the gloom he rose and pulled the curtains aside. The street was dark but for the yellow glow of light spilling from the saloons. Down on his left the torches near the coffins sent shadows cavorting across the pallid features of the dead. The night breeze tugged at the torch flames and the fire danced like an angry demon. The dead men stared into an abyss, their gray skin and sightless eyes reflecting the torches that appeared to gyrate with an unholy ecstasy.

  Thirty minutes later two figures on horseback cantered into view and paused to stare at the coffins. Knight couldn’t make out their faces. They had their backs to him and, even if they had turned in his direction, their dark Stetsons were pulled low on their brows. But they took a long hard look and then eased away, the slow thump of hoof beats fading down the street.

  Knight strapped on his gunbelt, took his Stetson from the bed-post and went downstairs. Outside the hotel he glanced up the street but the riders had melted into the darkness. No matter. They wouldn’t be difficult to find.

  Silas Manchester was paying good money to start this, and it no longer mattered to Knight who Silas Manchester was or what he wanted. His immediate interest was to fight. Knight had worn a gun a long time and a man that wears a gun has to learn how to use it without hesitation. Knight was such a man, and he made no excuses for the men he had killed.

  He strolled down the boardwalk, his senses alert. At the far end of the street was a saloon called Cattleman’s Saloon. He had avoided it because of its reputation for watered down whiskey. But it was here that he found two horses tethered to a hitching rail.