Halliday 13, p.1
Halliday 13, page 1
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Halliday rode out of a dust storm and straight into trouble. It began with a boy tied to a corral post, a man hanging from a tree, a back-shooter who figured to claim Halliday’s scalp and a lawman with a real bad attitude.
From there things only got worse …
Jay Denton figured to take over the entire territory and didn’t care who had to die in the process. Men, women, kids … everyone was fair game – until, for the sake of a young widow, Halliday decided to buy into it and stop him dead in his tracks.
That was as good as a declaration of war. But there was just one problem. The widow never reckoned on all the blood and death that would come when hell finally broke loose.
HALLIDAY 13: DON’T SEND A DUDE
By Adam Brady
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2021 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Electronic Edition: January 2022
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
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Chapter One – The Hanging Party
BUCK HALLIDAY FIGURED he’d give religion a try if hell was hotter than it was on the trail that afternoon. Head bowed against the incessant drive of the plains grit and dust, and with visibility limited to fifty yards, it came as a tremendous relief to him when a fence line materialized out of all the confusion.
Drawing his trail-weary sorrel to a halt, he tipped his hat back from his weather-beaten brow and surveyed the desolate scene before him. The fence turned out to be one side of a time-warped corral which looked as if a stampeding herd had trampled it. Beyond the corral lay a ramshackle barn with a lopsided roof, and further back were the blurred shapes of low-roofed buildings.
After four weeks in the saddle, finally, a town!
Short on food and already two days without water, he didn’t give a damn what town it was. He’d put a stake together driving cattle with the most miserable bunch of cowpokes any drifter had ever thrown in with. He now meant to dip into that stake with considerable gusto.
After stabling the sorrel, he’d first take a bath, then head for the nearest saloon, buy himself a bottle and order the biggest steak in the house. And maybe, if his luck held, there’d be a friendly woman close by.
A grin spread across his face, bringing with it a measure of youthfulness that contrasted with the rawboned features and hard-muscled body. He scrubbed his face with his bandanna, made a futile attempt to dust down his shirt and Levi’s, and moved on into the buffeting wind. He was prepared to let the devil call the shots and to hell with the consequences.
“You there! Mister!”
Halliday looked to his right. The dust was so thick he could see no more than a dozen yards beyond the rickety fence.
“Here, damn you! You blind or somethin’?”
The voice was so high-pitched Halliday figured it belonged to a girl or a youth, even though it was tinged with anxiety. He heeled his sorrel across to the corral until he made out a short, slim figure tied to one of the rails.
It was a boy, clad in tattered shirt and brush-torn britches. He was hatless, with windblown hair forming a tousled frame around a freckled and dust-caked face.
Halliday relaxed back in the saddle. “Well now, how come somebody so small can make so much noise?”
“Wouldn’t you if you was tied here without water an’ damn near chokin’ to death on so much dust?”
“Guess I probably would. How come you’re trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
“Cut me loose and I’ll tell you,” the youth said sharply.
“You been caught stealin’?” Halliday asked, making no effort to dismount. “Or maybe you ain’t cut the wood or brought in the milkers. Or did you go fishin’ instead of goin’ to school?”
“I don’t go to school,” the boy growled. “Ain’t got the time. Weren’t nobody I got to answer to tied me up, neither. It was stinkin’ polecats who knocked me down and took my pa off.”
“Polecats?” Halliday asked casually.
“That and worse. Now you goin’ to just sit there or are you gonna set me free so I can go save my pa?”
“From what?” Halliday asked.
The youth rolled his eyes in exasperation. “From gettin’ hanged. What else? Don’t you know nothin’ about what’s been goin’ on in these parts?”
Halliday slipped easily from the saddle and spent a considerable time testing the youth’s patience by hitching the sorrel to a rail. That done, he leaned against the rail and looked calmly at the boy.
“Start from the beginning,” he said patiently.
Again the boy rolled his eyes, then spat out a torrent of words. “Pa and me came into town looking for Cavanagh. It don’t matter why we done that. We cornered him on the other side of the yard, and when Cavanagh went for his gun, pa and me gunned him down.”
“You shot a man?” Halliday asked.
The boy’s jaw jutted out defiantly. “We sure did. He went down buckin’ and hollerin’ like the coward he was. Then them polecats rushed us, tied me up and dragged pa off.”
“To hang him?”
“That’s what I told you. No judge and no jury. Not in this town, mister. So how about it, eh? Cut me free.”
Halliday looked up the dusty track but could see no more than he had from the saddle. Yet the ominous quiet of the town suggested there was something afoot.
“Why’d you shoot that feller, boy?”
“’Cause he asked for it. Come onto our place makin’ threats, and when pa told him to git, he went all right, but came back later and set our barn alight.” The boy’s mouth tightened as his eyes misted over. “Bessie, that’s our dog, had just had a litter in that barn and no way was she gonna leave her pups.” A tear formed in the boy’s right eye and he swallowed a huge lump in his throat. “She got burned up and so did her pups ... all seven of ’em.”
Halliday slipped through the rail and untied the boy. As soon as he was free, the boy made to duck under the rail and run. Halliday’s hand fell on his shoulder and held him there.
“If you’re lyin’ to me, boy, I’ll find you sooner or later and give you the flogging you deserve,” he said.
The boy’s tear-stained face looked up at him, then he shouted angrily;
“I’d lie about Bessie bein’ burned alive, mister? What do you take me for, huh?”
Halliday’s grip loosened. “Come on then. We’ll look into things together from here.”
“Like hell we will!” the boy shouted, and was off before Halliday could get another grip on his shoulder. “If I wait for you to make up your mind, they’ll have pa hanged and buried.”
Halliday yanked his reins free of the rail and swung back into the saddle, sending the sorrel racing after the boy. But by the time he reached the end of the track and the dusty street stretched out before him, the boy had vanished.
Halliday let the horse pick its way along the street, taking in the stores and business houses as he went. Random Creek looked like living up to the description he’d been given—old, dying, and not worth the trouble.
When he reached the end of the street, Halliday looked out across a stretch of barren, empty country. Empty that was, except for a hill with a solitary tall tree atop its flat crown. Seeing a crowd gathered around that tree, Halliday sent his horse racing up the slope.
Halfway up the rise, he caught sight of the youth charging into the middle of a group of wildly yelling men.
Halliday kept his tired sorrel racing, but as he closed on the mob, several rifles turned on him. He reined-in hard and jumped from the saddle. When two men stepped forward to challenge him, blotting out his sight of the struggling youngster, Halliday shouldered them aside and knocked a third man out of his way.
Knowing the danger of drawing a gun against an irate mob like this, Halliday sensibly left his gun in its holster. He figured it would be better to talk.
The boy thought otherwise.
Jumping to his feet, he stared in horror at the limply hanging figure of his father and then charged at a man on his left and grabbed his rifle. He backed off, face twisted with hatred and with tears streaming down his face as he leveled the rifle on the now silent crowd.
Halliday was about to tell him to cool it when a shot came from the back of the crowd. The boy was knocked backward off his feet, the hatred in his face replaced by pain. The rifle dropped from his hands as he staggered into the shadow thrown by the hanged man.
As the echo of the gunshot died away, the onlookers stared in disbelief. Halliday started to walk to the boy, but changed his mind and heeled around to glare at the men closest to him. One backed off shaking his head, all color gone from his face. Another lowered his rifle to the ground and stared at his feet. A third sadly shook his head.
“He was just a boy,” Halliday said.
The silence seemed to deepen even more then. When a burly-bodied man pushed through the fringes of the mob, the people parted to let him through.
Halliday’s eyes traveled to the newcomer, took in the badge on his shirt front and moved up to the puffed, flabby features of a man who hadn’t known hard work for a long time, if ever.
“Boy or not, he knew how to use a rifle,” the newcomer said. “He was a killer ... just like his pa.”
“That his pa?” Halliday said, pointing to the dead man.
“Sure is, and he got what he deserved,” the lawman said. “Jake Birch killed Rudy Cavanagh and his brat there, Nathan, helped him do it. They’re better off dead, both of ’em. Mebbe this town can get back to normal now.”
Halliday was aware that few in the crowd supported their lawman. In those who gave nods and grunts of approval, Halliday noticed many similarities—drink-bloated faces, beefy bodies, scruffy clothes. He figured that this was a town divided, and that the lawman and his bullies held the upper hand.
“Whoever shot down that boy deserves to be locked up,” he said.
“He had a gun,” the lawman snarled, “and God knows he was goin’ to use it. So I’ll hear no more from you ... whoever you are.”
“The name’s Halliday ... Buck Halliday.”
“Was it you who set the kid free causing him to get shot?” the lawman asked angrily.
“It was,” Halliday admitted. “I did it because I have no time for a lawman who allows a boy to be hog-tied while a lynch mob hangs his father.”
The lawman’s face reddened as his anger mounted. He took a step toward Halliday, hand on gun butt. But a groan told Halliday the boy was still alive. Halliday turned slowly, and as he did, the lawman’s hand dropped on his shoulder. Halliday angrily flicked the hand off.
“Don’t do that ... ever!” Halliday said tightly.
The lawman’s face twitched, but the bitterness in his features died a little as uncertainty rose into his pale blue eyes.
Halliday took the pressure off by stepping to Nathan Birch’s side.
The boy’s eyes flickered open as Halliday knelt at his side and lifted his head off the ground. The bullet had blasted away a sizeable portion of his chest and it surprised Halliday that he was still hanging on.
Then the boy’s hand reached for him and Halliday took the skinny fingers and gave them a reassuring squeeze.
“My sister ... Larraine ... she’s comin’. I wrote to ...”
“When’s she due?” Halliday asked.
The boy coughed up blood and his body shuddered. When the spasm stopped, he shook his head.
“Pa’s place ... one day it was going to be mine ... nobody can drive ...”
The strength died in his fingers and his arm slipped to the ground. Halliday lowered the boy’s head, looked briefly at the dangling body in the tree then very slowly came to his feet. The lawman stepped closer, his composure regained. He said;
“You got things to answer for, Halliday, and as sheriff of this county, I’m goin’ to see you do. You best come with me.”
“I’m going no place with anybody here, Sheriff,” Halliday told him, and eased the lawman aside.
The sheriff shook his head, gave an indifferent shrug, then swung a huge fist at Halliday’s head.
The blow landed, and the force of the unexpected blow made Halliday’s knees buckle. The lawman let out a grunt and swung again, but Halliday ducked the second blow, then came up driving a straight left at the lawman’s heart. The blow found its mark and another grunt came from the lawman, pain this time, as he rocked back on his heels.
“That was a loco thing to try,” Halliday said quietly.
“You’re interferin’ in somethin’ that ain’t no concern of yours,” the lawman coughed. “I’ll see you suffer for that.”
“So why don’t you start?”
For an instant, the lawman hesitated as he sized Halliday up. What he saw didn’t overly impress him. A grin spread across his thick-lipped mouth and he said;
“Why don’t I?”
“Bring him down to size, Lem,” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Put him in his place,” another added.
The lawman nodded slowly without looking at either of the speakers. But Halliday noticed one of them, a lean man stroking a thin, black mustache, who was dressed better than anyone else present.
“Just us two?” Halliday asked the lawman, stalling for time while the ringing in his head died away and his vision returned to normal.
“Don’t need anybody to help me whip a dude like you, Halliday,” the lawman said, and moved in.
Halliday stood his ground, remembering that somebody had coldly shot down an innocent kid. He couldn’t believe he would be allowed to freely walk away, whatever the outcome.
The lawman stepped in, throwing punches. Halliday ducked a right, then clipped the lawman twice on the jaw with two straight lefts, stopping him in his tracks. He followed up with a right that exploded on the point of the lawman’s nose. Bone broke and blood spurted. Halliday slammed his fist into the lawman’s sizeable belly and the man’s legs buckled.
“Jeez!” somebody in the crowd whispered.
“Damn you, Pritchard,” another called out, “you’ve always talked tough enough. Why don’t you take the bastard?”
Halliday circled to the lawman’s left and feinted with a right. The lawman’s quick response told Halliday that he had already recovered. He felt that despite his lack of fitness, his opponent was not a man to take lightly. Halliday had never meant to do that, but knew that the sooner he took this big man out, the better.
The lawman’s foot lashed out at Halliday’s groin, the toe just grazing his thigh. Then the lawman lunged in, huge arms flailing. But this tactic was no more successful than his clumsy kick. Halliday ducked under the groping arms and bounced a rock-hard right off the lawman’s jaw. Pritchard’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his mouth sagged, blood from his broken nose filling it.
Not a man in the crowd spoke as Halliday moved away and watched the lawman reel, first one way, then the other. Finally, he planted his feet apart, and although he continued to sway and his eyes were still glazed, he remained on his feet.
“I go where I like. Okay by you?”
Pritchard looked for him but his vision was so blurry he was unable to pinpoint his exact position.
“Like hell you do,” came a snarl from the crowd.
Hard on the words came the sound of a gun hammer being cocked.
Halliday dropped into a crouch and turned at the same time, drawing his gun in one seemingly effortless action. He saw a man directly behind Nathan’s body, standing tall, a gun in his hand. Halliday fired and his bullet knocked the gun from the man’s hand. The man’s howl was still echoing when another shot sounded, a bullet coming within an inch of Halliday’s neck.
Halliday then saw a lean man with a smoking gun in his hand. This time his aim was lethal. His bullet slammed home, tearing half the man’s neck away. While the crowd stood in shocked silence, Halliday quickly grabbed the man with the bloodied wrist. Pushing his gun-loaded fist into the man’s belly, he held him in front of him as a shield.
Pritchard was clutching his jaw and staring blankly at Halliday while the others backed away. Halliday dragged his prisoner toward his sorrel and held him against the horse’s side while he climbed into the saddle.
He figured the information on Random Creek was right.
“Maybe Jake Birch deserved to be hanged ... that’s not for me to say. What I do know is that this kind of justice isn’t legal. Your sheriff should’ve known that and done something about it.”
Halliday pushed his prisoner away and held his gun on the well-dressed man with the mustache, whose scowl was blacker than the inside of a prairie dog’s burrow.
“I’d suggest you bury your dead and leave me be.”
With that, he kicked the sorrel into a run, making a beeline for the thickest section of the crowd. As the men panicked and bounced off each other in their attempt to get out of his way, he rode through them and down the rise toward the town.
The hanging tree was no more than five hundred yards from the main street, but after all the excitement, he figured he’d have five to ten minutes to get himself settled. If he ran, which he was loath to do, he doubted his sorrel could carry him for more than an hour. What he needed was some food, plenty of whiskey and a good night’s sleep.
