Black Wind Pass Read online

  BLACK WIND PASS

  BLACK WIND PASS

  RUSTY DAVIS

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  Copyright © 2017 by Rusty Davis

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Davis, Rusty, author.

  Title: Black wind pass / Rusty Davis.

  Description: First Edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc., 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016037254 (print) | LCCN 2016042134 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832889 (hardback) | ISBN 1432832883 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432834593 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834592 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832841 (ebook) | ISBN 1432832840 (ebook)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3459-3 eISBN-10: 1-43283459-2

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Western stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A9755 B58 2017 (print) | LCC PS3604.A9755 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016037254

  First Edition. First Printing: January 2017

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3459-3 ISBN-10: 1-43283459-2

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  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

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  BLACK WIND PASS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dimness had long since cloaked much of the land behind him to the east as Carrick rode his tired gray stallion through the rocky narrow path of Black Wind Pass. Below stretched a vision that had never left his mind, one that had been scoured into his memory. It had flitted about amid the carnage of Shiloh, the despair of Andersonville, and the rot of that Texas jail where he paid the price of revenge. He had almost wondered, at times, if it was a delusion. Others had them when the mind was teetering on the brink of lunacy or beyond the reach of the world. He had come close. Too close.

  Now, it was real. The Buffalo Horn Valley of what was now called Wyoming Territory lay before him. If he had a home range in this world, something he increasingly doubted even as he doggedly approached it with more resignation than joy, this was it. This past day, he’d almost turned away. He wasn’t sure if there was anyone he wanted to see; or who would want to see him. People always changed; usually for the worse. Not the land—the hills and the streams. They were eternal. If the trip was a fool’s errand in every other respect, at least he could see the land one last time.

  He’d been squinting for an hour as the sun lingered on the horizon, crow’s-feet of grit and weather radiating out from red-shot eyes. Now the sun slid beneath the distant hills and he could see. Buffalo Horn Creek was a wavy line reflecting the lighter sky against the growing darkness. He looked into the dusky shadows. There! Half a day away, a bit of white peeked out from behind trees planted by a small boy who was bigger than they were. The trees seemed to have all but swallowed the house they surrounded. Everything changes. Crazy Uncle Charlie Wilson’s cabin, built here at the pass, was still standing, though, as defiant of its projected and dire fate as Charlie was of every rule in the book, a trait he helped pass along to his nephew.

  The old house was too distant a ride for tonight. He wanted to see everything in the full light of day. He rode down the hill to Lincoln Springs, a place he remembered as little more than a crossroads that hadn’t sprouted either much of a name or a population. The ramshackle town had grown considerably in his absence, judging by its number of brightly lit saloons. Ten years was a long time. The last letter came in early 1862. It talked of disease. After that, nothing. Even though most soldiers pretty well worked out what that meant, nothing was ever certain. He’d find out who was left tomorrow. When he stayed with Sherman after the rest of the unit went home to fight Indians, he lost any touch with the territory and any news from home, unless it was some Indian raid gory enough to make the Eastern newspapers. He sent one letter after he got out of Andersonville. Nothing ever came back to the hospital. After he got out, there were other things that needed doing. He had done them. He bore the scars to prove it. Now he was back. Maybe some things would be the same. Most likely not. If there was some other place to go, he’d have gone there, but when he imagined leaving the life he had been leading behind, this was the only place in his mind.

  Lincoln Springs was unconcerned with his arrival. Another lone, dusty tramp slipping through shadows on an early summer night was hardly anything unusual. The fact that his gun was the only clean part of him was not remarkable. In Wyoming in 1871, no one looked too closely at another man’s gun, let alone the man as a whole. As for names, they were flighty things that mattered less and less the farther West a man rode. A man might have as many as he could remember.

  Everett Morrisson was the name written on the window as the proprietor of the saloon, which had a crooked, creaking wooden sign reading “Saloon.” The name meant nothing. Maybe his would mean the same. Then again, Texas range gossip spread everywhere the longhorn cattle went. Some people might not remember the past the way he did. No reason to find out. The cautious lived longer than the bold, or so the wise old men who cackled by general store cracker barrels in every two-bit town always told him.

  He tied the horse. Stretched. Flexed the gun hand by instinct. For a moment he waited outside the open doorway, sensing what was on the other side. No danger on the wind, only noise. He looked around as he entered the place. He’d seen a hundred like it on the trail north from Texas and the one west from Kansas. Same smells—mud, unwashed men and stale tobacco smoke. There was almost enough room for the tables it held and a space to drink at the bar. A row of chandeliers battled the smoke to give the place light. They barely did better than a draw. It was crowded and noisy. Hot, too. There was beer and whiskey. The beer was cheaper. He looked for familiar faces. None. He expected to feel regret, but experienced only relief.

  The doors opened wide; pushed hard. Three weathered riders stalked in. Flinty faces caught the light of the oil lamps. Their eyes sent unanswered challenges as they sauntered to the bar, heads high as if they owned every man in the place. Ripples of silent resentment filled the room as raucous talk turned to muted murmurs. “Whiskey,” said one man, whose sense of command showed he was the lead wolf of the pack. His scarred face and leathery skin bespoke a rough and tumble past. He slapped his gloves on the bar as he took inventory of the saloon and its denizens. His glance settled on Carrick. It stayed. He frowned. Never a good reaction, even if it was a common one.

  “New up here, cowboy?” he called out roughly, as though Carrick owed him an answer.

  “What’s it to you?” Caution was like gold and good intentions. Never lasted very long.

  Red flushed the weathered face, making the rider b
racing Carrick look purple. He gave the floorboards a long look as he gripped the wood of the bar. His head turned to focus on the stranger. He spoke with anger and menace. “You know who you’re bracin’, tramp?”

  “Nope.” Carrick was past thought. This was instinct. Feral. A Texas judge told him he was a born and natural killer. He’d seen it as plain common sense. Attacking whatever was going to attack sooner or later came natural. At least he didn’t spit on floors.

  The rider was talking. He touched his chest, gestured at the men with him. “Jeff Crowley. Brothers Gordon and Dan’l. We ride for Double J.”

  The brand meant nothing. Irritation was rising along with the unreasoning anger when anyone decided his business was theirs. “What of it?”

  “Double J owns most of this range, tramp. We keep the peace for Double J. When we ask, you answer. So, now that you know your place, what’s your name and what’s your business?”

  “Private and personal.”

  Crowley slapped the bar hard with one open palm. Echoes lingered in the now-silent saloon. “Don’t know your name, your face, or how you took the wrong trail here, but you better leave, now. Not the place for your kind.”

  “Nope.” He made a small sip last a long time before the glass returned to the wood of the bar. “Rode all day. Not ridin’ all night.”

  Crowley stared at the defiant loudmouth. There was always one. A lesson had to be taught. Stomp one fool hard, ten other fools get the message. He motioned with his head. The two burly men with him moved towards Carrick. Their boots crunched the dirt on the floor, breaking the silence to the counterpoint of jangling spurs. They stopped and stood a few feet away, arms folded. The wordless threat of being dragged out in ignominious disgrace was clear to every man in the place.

  Carrick again sipped the watery beer. Its foamy surface rippled from the long exhale of breath. Probably ought to get this done, he told himself. Eyebrows lifted, he affected to notice the two men for the first time. “Why, lookee here.” He grinned in their faces. “You boys waitin’ for your dancin’ partners?”

  As the crowd guffawed, delighted to see a fool stand up to the bullies they were afraid to tackle, one Crowley rushed in and swung blindly. The beer glass was solid enough that the sound of it hitting the man’s head made the crowd cringe. As he slid to the floor in a shower of thin beer and thicker blood, the second brother stopped his charge. His hand went down to his belt.

  “Don’t!” called Carrick, whose hand had already been to his. “Been a long day, boys.” His hands drummed the gun butt. “Never was much on manners when folks try to push me. Unless you want to make this personal, it ends right here. Got nothin’ ’gainst you or your outfit. Don’t like bein’ pushed. I’m gonna walk away, and this ends. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” A wasted speech. Their eyes gave it away. It wasn’t over. His eyes went from one Crowley to the other. Which one would go first? He needed to know. He took a sideways step away from the bar, watching both men. One step. Two steps. About ten more to the door and he could maybe say he kept his promise to himself of not doing any more stupid things because they felt good at the time.

  The leader surprised him by drawing first. His shot went wide. Carrick’s didn’t. Gunshots mingled with the sound of the saloon’s front window shattering. The leader slid to the floor with a bullet at the base of his throat.

  The last Crowley was game but slow. Carrick tried to hit an arm but missed. The brother’s shot nipped Carrick’s hat. So much for mercy. Carrick’s next bullet took the man in the chest. He collapsed in a moaning heap.

  Carrick kept the gun in his hand as he surveyed the customers. Most dove for the floor when the shooting started. Now they peered from around toppled tables. “Didn’t mean that to end that way, folks. They pushed a mite too hard. Somebody know how to tend a man? Don’t think they’re all dead yet. That second fella what got shot might live.”

  The bartender sent a kid out running. Nobody else moved. The men must not have had many friends. Carrick sat at a corner table. Nobody talked to him. He didn’t have friends, either. Place had to have law. Law always has questions. He’d wait around and answer them rather than have somebody on his trail following him.

  Within minutes, a big man walked in, star on his worn jacket. He seemed to pay no attention to the bodies beyond a quick glance. Maybe this had grown into that kind of town. A gray-haired round man bustled in and went to them.

  The man with the star loomed over Carrick. Carrick took inventory. The man was as large as a mountain, but it was a mountain with one very large paunch that hung over a belt and a gun belt. Two bloodshot eyes trying to blink themselves awake said he knew his way around the saloons. The gun he wore looked more like an ornament than a weapon. He looked like a man who was worn and weary—called away from a home he would rather be in and forced to hear a tale he had heard far too many times before. The lawman inspected. Didn’t look pleased.

  “Dan Hill, sheriff here. Tell me.”

  Hill was old enough that Carrick should have remembered him, but the face was another unknown. Carrick thought about saying howdy first in case the man had been a family friend; decided against it. If an outfit named Double J owned the range, maybe more had changed than he thought. Anyhow, he couldn’t remember who exactly was and wasn’t friends with his old spread. Not a time to find out. Hill might not have even lived here back then; lots of folks had come West since the war. Hill seemed like he’d been here forever, though, but he didn’t seem to react to Carrick’s name much, if at all.

  In a flat tone, Carrick told the tale in its bald simplicity, not really caring enough to make it anything more than the way it was. Way too familiar a story. He’d seen it a thousand times. Done it a few, too. Sworn off doing it again, but that wasn’t his fault. The sheriff nodded when the spare recitation was completed. “Stay here.” He walked among the tables, talking to this one and that one. In a few minutes, he was back, looming over Carrick with resignation and irritation.

  “They pushed hard. You pushed back harder. Not something I recommend as a habit but the law has no beef with you. Not sayin’ others will feel the same. Double J steps wide and fancy here.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You must be new to Wyoming.”

  “Didn’t say that, but I only rode into Wyoming Territory a few days ago.” It was the way Army folks taught a man to lie. It was the truth, even if it was not the way things really were.

  Hill seemed to chew on the response a minute before asking, “Passing through?”

  “Not sure.”

  Hill’s face seemed to sag. “Might want to, son. Double J’s not gonna hire you, and that leaves only the little spreads that only hire at roundup—them and Lazy F. Lazy F and Double J don’t quite see eye to eye, but I don’t see Lazy F having much longer to hold its land unless they get back that railroad contract Jackson Jones took away from them. Not sure Francis Oliver takes to men who brace Double J in the open like that. Not really his style. Think you better ride on, son. Lots of ranches off to the east and the south, there, where the railroad runs.”

  “I’ll think on that advice, sheriff. I will that.”

  The sheriff sighed with a patience born from years of trying to enforce the law in a place where young men had to have liquor and had to have guns—a combination that never failed to result in death. The man opposite didn’t quite fit the mold of the drifters who came through on a wild high spree that ended in the growing cemetery, but hard cases looking for easy touches came in all shapes and sizes.

  “Sheriff?”

  The sheriff waited, feet turned to go. The stranger was not going to take the advice. That meant for Dan Hill that the longer they talked, the more chance there was someone would tell Jackson Jones that the sheriff he put in office to make the town what Jackson Jones wanted it to be was friends with a man who had wiped the floor with the Crowley boys. That would not be good for his next election in a few months. He had already classified this man as trouble and want
ed nothing more than to be as far from him as possible. Instead, he had to put his hands on the table and lean down to catch the lazy voice of the stranger.

  “Sorry ’bout that fella on the floor there,” Carrick said, gesturing and craning his neck up at Hill. “Man wanted to be loyal to his brothers. Wanted to wing him. He shot a mite too straight for it to go any other way. First one didn’t give me any chance; that second one I wish I could have done different. Not so broke up I wish it was me there, but I didn’t come here for trouble with anybody, Sheriff.”

  Dan Hill nodded. Killers said all sorts of things afterward. Most were still excited. They babbled. This one was cold and calm, as if somebody else had done the shooting and fighting. The calm itself made him think of a big cat he once saw in the hills watching a group of hunters—dangerous by the very fact of existing; confident nothing could hurt him.

  “Crowleys got kin, son. They got friends. If you stay around, Gordon—the only one you didn’t kill—is gonna heal. He and them are gonna find you if Double J don’t find you first. I’m the only law there is in the valley. I only try to civilize this town so that it is safe for drunks, women, and kids. This land being what it is, men gettin’ even for their kin bein’ killed is nothin’ any law anywhere is gonna stop.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Sheriff. Finding a man isn’t the same as killing him.”

  Shaking his head at the stubbornness of one more man who was refusing to see the difference between right and foolishness, Dan Hill pushed himself away from the table. “There’s a cell at the jail where you can spend the night if you need a place that’s safe. Jed Owens runs the stable. If you want to stay there with the horses, tell him I told you it was all right.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “Thank me by clearing out, son. Man gets old he starts becoming tired of burying the young.”

  “It does tire a soul to do that, Sheriff,” Carrick said with a wistful voice born of experience. “It does do that indeed.”