Gunslinger 02, p.1
Gunslinger 02, page 1
part #2 of Gunslinger Series
The Home of
Great Western Fiction!
John Ryker was a gunsmith. One of the best in the West. But now circumstances had forced him to become a bounty hunter too. And his gun-skill made him the most lethal one-man slaughter-force around.
Emiliano Muerta didn’t know just how deadly Ryker was when he arrogantly ordered him to create the fanciest handgun ever made just to satisfy Muerta’s vanity. And when Muerta tried to welch on the deal, he didn’t know the savage and violent price Ryker would make him pay for his treachery...
GUNSLINGER 2: THE GOLDEN GUN
By Charles C. Garrett
Copyright © Charles C. Garrett 1978, 2022
This electronic edition published October 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 / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books
For a good writer and a good friend –
Rob Holdstock
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While trying to create an exciting ‘Western’ novel, I have attempted in equal measure to make it as authentic as possible. The men who used the weapons commonly associated with the Old West of popular legend were not, in terms of appearance and attitude at least, quite the lean-limbed heroes of modem cinema fame.
Drawing a gun and firing it is considerably less casual than most films suggest. Guns are heavy. And dangerous.
Few towns could offer the passer-by a bed. At least not in a hotel. A leather-sprung couch in the dirty back-room of a saloon or cantina, maybe. But not comfort.
Comfort was something most westerners lived without.
They lived without it as a natural part of their lives, just as they lived with the gun in the same natural—casual—acceptance.
For the technical information in this novel I should like to thank:
Geoffrey Boothroyd, for his excellent work The Handgun.
James E. Serven, editor of The Collecting Of Guns.
The Petersen Publishing Company and their hardworking editors for Guns Of The Gunfighters.
Bruce Catton for The Penguin Book Of The American Civil War and all his others.
David Lavender for The Penguin Book Of The American West.
Dudley Pope for Guns.
Time-Life Books of New York, for The Gunfighters and all of that superb collection.
Lewis Winant for Firearms Curiosa.
And everyone else who helped, by word or deed.
All these books proved invaluable to the research involved in this novel. I hope that I have not wasted the valuable efforts of those people who helped me.
I am grateful to them, anyway, for the pleasure of learning they gave me.
Charles C. Garrett.
Phoenix, Arizona.
1977.
CHAPTER ONE
JOHN W. RYKER heard the pony a good quarter mile out from his camp. More precisely, he heard the wheezing of the animal’s rider before he caught the steady rattle of hooves on hard stone. The exact sound that warned him was unimportant as the exact moment that he slipped away from the fire, fading into the surrounding rocks with the practiced ease of a natural hunter. He left his own black stallion cropping grass near his saddle blanket, coat, and what remained of his supplies. The echoes told him he had time enough to gather his things together if he needed. If there was more than one rider. If they were hostile.
He carried five ready-mades for the big .50 caliber Sharps, along with the heavy lead balls, in the left-hand pocket of his brocade vest. The right-hand pocket held ten loads for the Navy Colt holstered snug against his thigh. And the two Remington derringers hidden in his right boot and tight at the small of his back were both loaded with a full charge and the vicious .41 caliber slugs.
He was fully-armed and he had time enough to check the rider.
Kill him if necessary and go back to re-load. He wondered if it would come to that.
He moved fast through the high country looking down on the tiny Arizona town of Settlement, using the shadows thrown by the tall rocks to cover his passage. He had picked the campsite with infinite care, choosing a place that might be approached by a single trail, the only way out a desperate ride over broken shale and hidden ravines demanding intimate knowledge of the country and a greater trust in a man’s horse.
He found cover beneath the overhang of a gigantic boulder, resting the barrel of the Sharps on a smaller rock as he sighted down-trail, easing back the hammer with a barely audible click.
The rider came into sight. A big man mounted on a horse almost too small to take his bulk. A wide-brimmed Stetson shaded his features from the fierce afternoon sun, and he mopped the folds of his heavy jaw with a scarlet bandanna. His belt gun was shifted around to behind his right hip so that the folds of excess flesh spilling over the belt wouldn’t interfere with his draw. As he came closer, Ryker could make out the dark stainings of sweat that discolored his faded shirt from waist to lower chest.
The man halted with a sigh, raising his arms to let air in to the blackened pits of his shirt. He slid his Stetson off his balding skull and mopped at the liquid sheening his face.
‘Ryker! You up there?’
The tall, dark-haired man let one finger curl gently around the trigger of the Sharps. The foresight was settled rock-steady between the angle of the vee-notch rearsight. And the slightest pressure would blast a .50 ball straight through the chest of the rider, fat, muscle and bone.
‘Dammit Ryker! You gonna answer?’
The fat man lifted his buttocks from the saddle. The sucking sound he made was clear in the still air. He settled his hat back on his head, twisting around to study the empty landscape. He transferred the bandanna from his right to left hand, and let the right drift lazily down to his hip, where it could reach the butt of the Navy Colt fast.
But not so fast as Ryker could lift him from the saddle with the massive fire-power of the Sharps.
‘Nolan!’ The younger man enjoyed the look of surprise. ‘You want to stay sheriff of Tucson, you’d best take more care.’
‘Damn yore eyes,’ spluttered Sheriff Nolan. ‘I come up here to do you a favor an’ you scare the bejesus outta me.’
‘Aint my eyes need damning,’ grinned Ryker, ‘but more like yours. I could have taken you easy as a Thanksgiving turkey.’
‘Yeah,’ Nolan grunted, easing himself gratefully from his horse. ‘I know you’re a surefire pistoleer. That’s how come I busted my ass ridin’ up here. Might be I could help you bury yore paw1.’
‘Coffee’s brewin’ up ahead,’ grinned Ryker. ‘You want some?’
‘If it ain’t too far.’ Nolan winced as he settled his bulk on the ground, reaching round to massage his buttocks. ‘It’s gonna take a deal of tellin’.’
Ryker cradled the Sharps in his right arm, taking the reins of Nolan’s horse in his left hand. Habit kept his forefinger on the trigger and his thumb on the hammer: that way he could use the buffalo gun faster.
They went back up the trail, winding through the rocks with Nolan complaining every step of the way. Ryker took it easily, as though he was long accustomed to walking the steep trails of Arizona. He wore black pants tucked into high leather boots; a white shirt—grubby after time in the wilderness—covered by a fancy brocade vest. His long, black hair was shaded by a flat-brim Stetson, unremarkable but for the silver dollar set into the sweat-band. It was neatly holed dead to center. Ryker had put the hole there himself, at a range of eight hundred yards. He was proud of that.
‘Shit,’ Nolan complained, ‘how come you stay so goddam cool? Sun’s fit to burst a man’s eyes, but you walk on like you got a St Louis icepack round you.’
‘Maybe it’s a clean conscience?’ Ryker asked. ‘There’s a stream up higher. You want to take a bath? Or coffee?’
‘Coffee,’ grunted Nolan, ‘less you got anythin’ stronger.’
Ryker shrugged, shaking his head. He wasn’t a drinking man at the best of times. Liquor was fine in the right place. At the right time. The heat of a Southwest noon wasn’t the right time. Especially not when men with guns might be looking for you.
‘So what brought you up here?’ he asked.
‘A way to bury yore paw,’ said Nolan.
Jaime Morros hit the Valverde bank at exactly three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. The bank was just opening then, and the customers were few. The two guards were sleepy after the noonday siesta and a big New Mexican lunch. Jaime Morros walked in with a Colt Dragoon cocked and aimed. He used the gun on one teller and both guards. On the way out—with three thousand dollars in the sack slung over his shoulder—he used the gun again. Once on a passing cowboy who got in his way. And twice on two women who screamed as the cowboy’s blood splattered over their faces.
Morros rode on to Fort Craig where he killed a bar-keep who told him he was too drunk to stand up. Then he disappeared.
Reports had it that a cripple backed him. They differed in their descriptions, because some claimed the side-kick was hunch-backed, others that he favored one leg that twisted around the knee. No one was sure which knee.
‘So why ride up to tell me?’ Ryker asked. ‘You think I’m a bounty hunter?’
Nolan took a long, slow swallow of coffee, swilled the liquid around his pendulous cheeks. And nodded.
‘You’re a natural, son. You got four things goin’ for you. One is what you know about guns. You’re the best maker this side o’ Sam Colt. Two surely must be the way you use them. Three is the fact you want to bury yore old man—need the money to do it with. Four is the fact you like it.’
‘Like hell!’ Ryker spat coffee in disgust. ‘I killed some people, sure. But they deserved killing. Two of them were the bastards who murdered my paw; the others, you put me on to. Don’t tell me I like it.’
‘You didn’t?’ Nolan queried. ‘When you gunned those renegades up in Desolation you didn’t feel warm about it? You gonna tell me that?’
Ryker shook his head, staring into the murky dregs at the bottom of his cup. They offered no real answer.
‘No,’ he mumbled.
‘No?’ asked the fat sheriff. ‘No little nubblin’ feeling of satisfaction? No pleasurable feelin’ when you saw those well-placed shots tuck in home an’ that bright blood spill out?’
‘No!’ Ryker was close to shouting it, but he fought his voice down to a controllable level. ‘That was money. I needed it. It wasn’t enjoyment.’
Nolan aligned his eyebrows with his hat brim and poured more coffee.
‘As you say, son. Let me tell you about ole Jaime.’
After Fort Craig, Jaime Morros rode on to Fort Bowie. Coming down out of New Mexico into the Arizona Territory he broke his journey long enough to stop a Butterfield coach and grab the strongbox. Doing it, he killed the driver, guard and two passengers. One was left alive, though badly wounded, to describe the bandit. Bandits. Morros was a tall, handsome, mustached Mexican. His companion was a blond and stunted cripple who carried a cut-off scatter-gun and held the horses.
Jaime Morros had killed eleven people. Enough to put a nine-hundred dollar reward on his corpse.
‘So why me?’ Ryker asked. T)o you think I’ll take off for Mexico or wherever in pursuit?’
‘Yeah,’ said Nolan, ‘I do. You got it in you. You need the money to bury yore paw where he wanted. Shift him from that nowhere place to wherever he fancied. You sure as hell can’t do it with Goldburgh’s mortgage on the place, so what you want is free money. Nine hundred should do it. All you gotta do is find him.’
‘And kill him,’ added Ryker.
‘Sure. An’ kill him,’ said Nolan. ‘Way you been playin’ that shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s up to you. All I tried was to give you a chance to make it.’
‘You rode up here to tell me?’ Ryker’s voice was suspicious. His recent life had made him that way. Once—it felt like a lifetime away—he would have taken Nolan’s word on face value. ‘Why? What’s in it for you?’
The fat man sighed, helped himself to more coffee, and glanced around the camp.
‘You got any food? I got kinda hungry haulin’ my ass up here.’
The younger man let his frown fade into a smile. He reached over to his saddlebags and withdrew a can of beef, tossing it over to Nolan. By the time he found a spoon in his pack the sheriff had a wide-bladed clasp knife sunk deep in the can. He levered one end free and sank the spoon into the fatty-looking meat, downing several mouthfuls and belching appreciatively before speaking again.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted, retrieving a morsel from the front of his shirt, ‘I come up in person to tell you. Can’t rightly say why, though. Maybe I feel sorry for you.’
‘Don’t.’ Ryker’s voice was flat, the beginnings of anger icing his words. ‘I don’t need sympathy.’
‘Don’t be so goddam tetchy,’ grunted Nolan. ‘You lost yore store an’ yore home through no fault of your’n. I got no more likin’ fer sway-bellied bankers than you, an’ Goldburgh ain’t exactly what I’d call a friend. I know you need money to bury yore paw an’ I’d like to see you do it. Be one in the eye on Goldburgh.’
Ryker shrugged his agreement, sharing Nolan’s dislike of the pompous banker who had foreclosed on the mortgage his father had secretly taken on both places. Burning them down had been an act of protest that satisfied him for a short while, but the banker had still hit back by seizing the first bounty money Ryker had earned. That left the banker one move ahead. And Ryker penniless. And his father still in the miserable little cemetery down there in Settlement. Nolan’s idea began to appeal.
‘That’s what’s in it fer me,’ continued Nolan, unperturbed. ‘Call it a favor to a friend, if you like. As to the why. Nine hundred dollars buys a real handsome coffin.’
‘I’m not a bounty hunter,’ muttered Ryker.
‘An’ you ain’t exactly a wealthy tourist either,’ grinned Nolan. ‘Or maybe you’re campin’ up here fer the pure pleasure of livin’ in the wild?’
He gestured at the camp, letting his gaze wander mockingly back to Ryker’s tanned face.
‘Hell, son, whyn’t you hold yore temper a while an’ hear me out? If the idea don’t Appeal when I’m done, then there’s no reason you can’t tell me no, an’ I ride back to Tucson. It ain’t gonna hurt you to lissen. What d’you say?’
Almost reluctantly, Ryker nodded. ‘Sure. Go ahead.’
Nolan tossed the empty can aside, patted his belly, belched loudly, and went on.
‘Morros used to run with Emiliano Muerta. You ever hear o’ him? No? Well, Muerta is Spanish fer death, an’ if ever a name fit a man, that one fits Emiliano. Morros is a killer, but Muerta’s worse. Got ideas way above his station, an’ that’s in one o’ the nastier pits of hell.
‘I heard about him durin’ the war. I was too fat to fight, so they told me when the recruitin’ officer came round. An’ lawmen was still needed out here. So I stayed on in Tucson. Whole lot of good ole boys joined up, though. Mite slimmer’n me, I guess. Enough, anyway to leave the territory pretty well empty of workin’ men. Which is the kinda set-up Muerta likes.
‘I got word from the Federales that this Mexican outlaw was out on the prod down Sonora way. They weren’t overly concerned about a bunch of yanquis killin’ one another off an’ I guess they figgered that drivin’ their troublemakers up north wouldn’t make too much notice with a Civil War goin’ on. Anyway, Muerta took to raidin’ over the border. He come up from Sonora an’ hit a little place called Jamesville with around thirty men. You heard o’ Jamesville? Unlikely that you did, mostly on account of it not existin’ anymore. Muerta killed it. Shot down fifty people and burned the place to the ground.
‘I got up as good a posse as I could an’ went to take a look. Wasn’t too much left to look at. I guess the buzzards an’ the coyotes are as partial to roast meat as they are to fresh. Anyway, I chased him over the border an’ lost him. Couldn’t wait around in Mexico, so we headed back. Muerta did the same. He took the Butterfield fer over twenty thousand, killed more citizens than we know, an’ used Mexico like a damn’ fort.
‘Word has it he figgered to build himself some kinda empire. Bandit stronghold, with ready access to Chihuahua an’ America both. Heard even that he raided into California.
‘Of course, he’s been quieter since the War finished an’ the Army got the patrols goin’ again, but Morros rode with him, an’ I reckon he’ll go back.’
‘To where?’ Ryker asked, interested in spite of himself. ‘They had an old hide-out,’ said Nolan. ‘I could never find it because the Mexes are a damn’ close-mouthed bunch. Frightened, too, I reckon. But I heard it was located in a big canyon in Sonora, some place south of a town called Espiritos.’
Jaime Morros enjoyed his entry into the town. People knew him here, and they stood aside when he passed. It was a good feeling. A feeling made even better by the solid weight of gold coins rubbing against his knees from the two leather pouches strung over his big Sonoran saddle.
Five thousand dollars American in total. It had been a fruitful visit to los Estados Unidos. Better still, knowing that the yanquis would not dare pursue him into Mexico.
