Brolin (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 14)

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Piccadilly Publishing Westerns Series

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  The gunfighter known as Brolin was thought to have been dead for the past ten years. That was until Red Mike Stall and his outlaws hijacked the westbound train and attempted to murder everyone on board. Stall recognized Brolin from the old days and left him to burn in the abandoned church with the other passengers.

  He should have shot Brolin then and there because the gunfighter managed to escape and now is dogging the bloody trail Stall has left in his wake.

  With the help of Emmett King, a greenhorn storeowner who lost his son to a stray bullet from the outlaws, the pair eventually catch up to Stall in the town of Miller’s Crossing.

  In a final bloody showdown, can a dead man win the day? Or will a killer continue his murderous rampage across the high country?

  And what is the secret Brolin is hiding?

  This one is for Sam and Jacob

  Prologue

  Ellsworth Trail, 1875

  Brolin shifted in the saddle and the leather creaked. Something about this job made him feel uneasy.

  Out on the grassy plain, amid the moonlit darkness, a coyote yipped. Brolin’s horse shifted nervously. Cows lowed, protesting against the animal’s presence.

  He patted the horse gently on its muscular neck.

  ‘Easy boy,’ he whispered.

  ‘The men are ready, Brolin,’ Mike Stall told the gunfighter in a low voice. ‘Just say the word and we’ll hit the herd and start it runnin’.’

  Brolin nodded. ‘Just remember, when they take off, turn ’em away from the camp. Morgan said he just wanted ’em scattered so he could arrive at Ellsworth first and get top price. He don’t want anyone gettin’ killed.’

  Morgan had hired Brolin to oversee the cattle drive he was making to Ellsworth. Even though he was a gun for hire, Brolin was a damn good ramrod. He’d made the trip three times over the past four years and his herds had made it through every time with minimal loss. And they always arrived at the railhead first.

  This year he was working for Cyrus Morgan’s Circle M and the drive had been troubled from the start. They’d set out with 2,000 head of longhorns and a fifteen-man crew.

  After just two days on the trail they lost their first man. He was gored in the leg, which severed his femoral artery, and he died from blood loss soon after. The second man drowned in the Red River crossing and a further two were lost to outlaws in the Nations.

  The scattering of the herd and the ensuing gun battle had cost them a week. The trailing drives were by this time catching up.

  Rumor had it that this was to be the last year for Ellsworth. Up to this point it had been the place to take the Texas cattle after the enforcement of the quarantine border. Abilene was then closed to all Texas herds from 1872. The seemingly imminent closure of this trail head meant that if Morgan arrived first with his herd he would be able to nominate his own price.

  After they’d left the Chisholm between the Salt Fork of the Arkansas and Pond Creek they struck more trouble at the Arkansas River crossing at Ellinwood. Heavy rains further upstream had caused the river to rise and it remained impassable for a further three days.

  Then word arrived that the herd belonging to Bart Williamson out of Fort Worth was only a day behind and closing fast. There were still thirty miles for the Circle M herd to cover.

  It was Mike Stall’s idea to scatter the Williamson herd. Brolin had protested at first but Morgan had told them to go ahead and do it anyway. Now, with a handful of riders hidden away in a stand of trees, the time had come to stampede the herd.

  Williamson’s herd was 3,500 head, so their recovery would take sufficient time to allow the Circle M crew to get into Ellsworth first. Brolin had thought about quitting then and there but he knew that his presence would serve to keep Stall in line and prevent things from getting out of hand.

  ‘Move ’em out, Stall.’

  ‘Let’s go, boys!’ Stall yelled loudly and spurred his mount forward.

  Five men, including Brolin, burst from the trees, firing six-guns into the air. Cattle bawled as they started to panic and mill about, confused. A naturally skittish breed, it didn’t take a lot to set the longhorns running.

  Brolin cursed as the stampeding herd made straight for the Williamson crew’s night camp.

  ‘Turn ’em!’ he cried out above the thunder of rumbling hoofs. ‘Turn the damn herd!’

  None of his crew could hear his voice above the roiling, bawling mass of beef. Brolin spurred his mount savagely and drove it after the leaders of the unstoppable tide. Ahead, in the pale glow of the moonlight, he could make out a rider working frantically to turn the herd away from the Williamson’s camp.

  After watching the man briefly, it became evident to Brolin that there was no attempt to turn them; rather, the rider was encouraging them to run on. It had become an out-of-control lethal force that could plough through anything in its path.

  ‘Damn it!’ Brolin shouted across the mêlée and he forced his horse to go faster.

  He managed to gain ground quickly on the leaders and the rider. In the dull silvery glow he could finally identify the man. It was Mike Stall.

  As he drew level with him he shouted:

  ‘Damn you, Stall! Turn the herd.’

  Stall glanced over and snarled, ‘Get the hell away from me, Brolin!’

  ‘Turn the damn herd! You’ll kill ’em all.’

  Stall laughed. The sound was crazy, even maniacal; it turned Brolin’s blood to ice water. The man had no intention of turning the mass of longhorns.

  As he raced along Brolin drew his six-gun and fired at the leaders, willing them to turn. He fired more shots until his pistol clicked on an empty chamber.

  Above the thunder of hoofs, he heard Stall’s vicious yell, ‘Damn you Brolin! Damn you to hell!’

  Brolin looked across at the wild-eyed Stall, who was matching pace beside him. The look of hatred and rage on the man’s face clearly showed his intentions as he brought up his gun and shot Brolin down low in the side.

  Brolin grunted audibly as the wind was knocked from him. He felt the bullet tear through flesh but he felt no pain. He slipped sideways in the saddle with the impact. The saddle horn was just out of his grasp, his six-gun slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground.

  He hit the earth hard, his head connecting with a stone that protruded from the ground. With his senses reeling the gunfighter tried to rise but failed. His head spun, blurred figures swirled in front of his eyes and, just before he blacked out, Brolin thought he heard the screams of dying men.

  ~*~

  ‘Did you find him?’ Stall asked the skinny cowboy.

  The man shook his head. ‘Nope, not a sign.’

  Stall hipped in the saddle. Leather creaked with his movement. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the morning sun as he looked across the open country before him. The landscape was seemingly empty: nothing moved.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’ Stall muttered in a low voice.

  One

>   Northern Pacific Railroad Western Montana. 1885

  Red Mike Stall was the meanest son of a bitch ever to walk on two legs. Or so it was said. Most of his men would agree, even if they were themselves outlaws of substantial notoriety like their leader.

  From stage hold-ups, bank jobs and cattle rustling, if it happened in Montana the best bet was that Stall and his bunch were likely responsible. They were not limited to Montana, though; they had prices on their heads in Wyoming, Idaho and North and South Dakota.

  The bounty for all seven men was upwards of $10,000. Some had tried to collect the cash on the famed outlaws, but all had failed.

  Mike Stall was a well worn thirty-eight years of age, and thickset like a ponderosa pine. His blue eyes and fair-skinned face went typically with the bright-red hair that gave him his name, Red Mike. He wore a black low-crowned hat over his unruly mane.

  Denim jeans clad long legs that contributed to his six-foot-two height, and a dark-blue shirt was worn under a thick jacket, done up to keep out the cold. The chilled high-country winter would soon be upon them. Around his narrow hips he wore a double gun rig, which contained two Colt .45s. Stall rode a tough black gelding he’d stolen the previous year from a ranch over in Idaho.

  The outlaws on their mounts sat motionless atop a tree-lined ridge and looked out over a winding, roiling mass of white water known as Elk River. It snaked through a wide gorge topped with a wide variety of tree species, among them Douglas fir and ponderosas most of which stood 200 feet high in this part of the pristine wilderness.

  There were also lodgepole pines, red cedar with its aromatic scent and spruce trees of varying heights.

  Beside the river ran the outlaw’s target. The Northern Pacific Railroad tracks followed the course of the Elk River and went on through Fremont gorge.

  On the opposite riverbank the escarpment rose steeply, presenting a wall of scarred granite.

  ‘Damn, it’s cold!’ moaned Jack Murphy as he drew his fur-lined jacket tighter around himself. ‘When is the train meant to be comin’ through, anyway?’

  Murphy was thirty-one and had come to Montana by way of Kansas, where a posse with a rope had hounded him out of the state. He was five-ten tall, of average build, with light-colored hair and brown eyes.

  Stall looked up at the towering mountains and noted that their peaks were becoming shrouded in cloud. Snow comin’, he thought to himself.

  ‘Soon,’ he said in reply to Murphy. ‘Now shut up and stop gripin’.’

  The outlaw bit his lip and looked across at the young man called Kansas.

  Kansas was twenty-six and, despite his name, he hailed from Colorado. He was a fast-gun who stood five-eleven with a slim build. Blond hair was tucked under a brown Stetson adorned with a silver hatband, which shaded his pale-blue eyes. He favored a nickel-plated Colt and rode a buckskin horse with a black mane and tail.

  Like the other outlaws, he was rugged up against the cold weather.

  ‘He’s right, Mike,’ Kansas allowed. ‘It’s gettin’ damn cold settin’ here on this ridge.’

  ‘Don’t you start whinin’ too,’ the outlaw leader snapped. He looked along the line of riders. ‘What about you lot? Care to have a cry?’

  The other men, Blaine, John Ross and Wallace, ignored the barb and kept their eyes fixed on the rail line below. Blaine, at thirty-five, was the oldest of the remaining outlaws, second only to Stall. He was six feet tall and solidly built with dark hair and eyes.

  Stall’s steely gaze settled on Wallace who sat atop a sturdy chestnut horse.

  ‘You know what you have to do, Wallace?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, make sure you’re there.’

  Wallace’s mission was to take the horses once the others were on the train, make contact with the seventh outlaw, West, then ride and meet up with the train at High Point.

  High Point was a ghost town at the end of a rail spur, nestled in a draw between two ridgelines. It was the product of a silver boom and had sprung up virtually overnight. After the silver had played out the town’s inhabitants had moved on, leaving behind them buildings, mines, equipment and the rail spur that had been used to freight the ore out.

  The train’s whistle was a plaintive sound as it echoed throughout the gorge. The outlaws turned their attention to their left. The large white plume was highly visible as the train worked its way along the shiny rails of the main line. Foaming white water of Elk River rushed alongside, racing against the slow progress of the iron horse.

  ‘There’s our signal boys,’ Stall informed them. ‘Let’s go. Wallace, you make sure you’re there with West. You don’t show for any reason, you’d best be dead. ‘Cause if you ain’t, you’ll be wishin’ you were.’

  ‘Don’t you worry none, Mike,’ Wallace reassured the outlaw boss. ‘We’ll be there.’

  Stall dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. It moved on to the narrow trail, which wound down the ridge, passed between immense trees and eventually came out near a large rock-slide, where they could hide until the train had passed. After which, they would ride hard to catch up with the rearmost van and climb aboard.

  The outlaws let their horses pick their own way along the narrow path. In some sections it sheered away vertically a hundred feet to where jagged rocks sprang from the earth. Twenty minutes later the six of them reached the bottom in plenty of time. The train always travelled slowly through this section of track, as rockslides were commonplace and had caused more than one derailment in past years.

  Hence it was the perfect place for the Stall gang to hitch a ride.

  A stand of fir trees beside the rockslide provided excellent cover for the six outlaws, who stayed mounted and tucked their horses in behind the displaced rocks. Then they waited.

  ~*~

  Smith sat quietly in his seat and watched the high-country scenery slide silently past as the train puffed slowly through the gorge. He too noticed the cloud around the high peaks and had the same thought as Mike Stall. Snow was coming to the high country.

  He felt his seat jerk slightly. The high pitch of a small girl’s giggle came from behind him then the sharp, ‘be careful,’ of her brother’s warning followed.

  ‘Children, behave,’ their father chided them. Then to Smith, ‘I’m sorry, mister; it’s their first time on a train. They’re just excited.’

  Smith nodded and turned back to face the window. He heard the man say:

  ‘If I have to speak to you again I’ll separate you.’

  ‘Sure, Pa,’ they replied in unison.

  Smith was a man fast approaching middle age at forty-three, but his six-foot-one, thinly built frame still was strong and fit. His suit concealed a body made of whipcord muscle that rippled every time he made a movement.

  His hair was black and his brown eyes were set in a weathered face. Instead of wearing a gun like most men out West, Smith wore only a tailored suit, hand-tooled boots and a string tie.

  The train rolled on further through the deep gorge, pulling three green-painted passenger cars, a plain stock car and an express car. The locomotive had been built by Richard Norris & Son out of Philadelphia. Made larger than its predecessor with the addition of an added couple of axles and a larger boiler, it could cover longer distances faster.

  As the train rounded a curve in the track that allowed for the sweeping river bend, the sun sat at just the right angle to cast the passenger car’s shadow out over the jumbled mass of rocks at the river’s edge.

  Smith frowned, then sat upright in his seat. He stared hard at the shadow below, blinked his eyes then looked again. Two people were moving along the roof of the car in which he was seated. That could only mean one thing.

  He was about to lurch to his feet when the rear door of the passenger car crashed open. Smith swung his head round to see what was going on. Coming through the opening were two armed men.

  Loud cries of alarm erupted as the passengers realized what was happening.

  ‘All right, folks. Jus
t remain seated and everythin’ will be just fine,’ the first man in through the door warned.

  A large middle-aged man dressed in a pinstriped suit stood up. Smith guessed he was from a larger city back East, like St Louis or even further away.

  ‘I must protest, sir …’ the man started.

  The outlaw leader swiveled one of the twin Colts he had clutched in his fists and put a bullet in the man’s ample belly. The thunderous noise filled the car with an almost deafening sound. This time screams and shouts rang out through the cordite-filled air of the carriage.

  ‘Keep it down!’ the outlaw yelled loudly. ‘I said if you all remain seated everythin’ would be just fine. Obviously, the man was deaf. Do we have any others on board who are hard of hearin’?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Good.’

  Moans of pain came from the wounded man, who had curled into a fetal position against a woman who, Smith guessed, was his wife. She cried softly and tried to help her husband who was dying before her eyes.

  The smell of burnt gunpowder slowly permeated the air.

  ‘Sir?’ came an almost timid voice from halfway along the passenger car.

  Stall shifted his gaze and pointed his Colt in the direction of the voice.

  ‘What?

  ‘I … I’m a doctor, sir. I would like to see if I can help the gentleman in any way.’

  Stall thought for a moment, then he shifted his aim and shot the man again.

  ‘There, now he don’t need your help, so shut up.’

  The two outlaws walked along the aisle until they drew level with Smith’s seat. Stall stopped and looked at him, stared for a time and said:

  ‘Do I know you, stranger?’

  Smith looked him in the eye and answered, ‘Nope.’

  Stall eyed him suspiciously for a moment. ‘I’m sure I know you.’

  Smith remained silent.

  Stall shrugged and the pair moved on, but once at the front of the carriage the outlaw leader paused and said;