White apache, p.1
White Apache, page 1
part #3 of Gunslinger Series
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Western Fiction!
John Ryker was just about the best all-round gunfighter in the West. An ace gunsmith he was also rattler-fast on the draw. His gun-skill made him the most lethal one-man slaughter force in a violent land.
So when Ryker got involved with a Gatling gun—one of the first machine-guns that were going to change the nature of warfare out of all recognition—it was a fair be that a lot of lead was going to fly. And a lot of Ryker’s enemies were going to get dosed with death. In fact, it was more than a fair bet. It was a surefire certainty …
GUNSLINGER 3: WHITE APACHE
By Charles C. Garrett
First published by Sphere Books Ltd in 1978
Copyright © Charles C. Garrett 1978, 2022
This electronic edition published February 2023
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
This is for Nick Austin
whose childhood memories of Newbolt’s bloodied desert sands inspired this book.
With thanks for his continued help and enthusiasm.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Chapter One
RYKER LICKED HIS lips, tasting the salt bitter on his tongue.
It must have been close to a hundred and twenty in the shade.
Not that there was any shade in that part of the Arizona Territory in the summer of ’sixty-six.
The baking brass sun glowed directly over his head, so that his shadow was no bigger than his body. He reached out with his left hand and touched the sand that lay in the blackness cast by his head and shoulders. Experimentally, feeling it with the delicate tips of his fingers. Finding that the tiny shards of splintered stone were still hot to the touch.
Ryker sighed, laying the heavy rifle on the sand in front of him, wiping sweat from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Runnels of perspiration furrowing through the dust on either side of his nose. It was the waiting that grated on his nerves. Once his fingers tightened on the light trigger of the Sharps, then it would all be fine.
He tugged the brim of his black hat lower over his forehead, shading his eyes and squinting across the roasting land, unbroken except for the dotted shapes of the saguaro cactuses. Twisted and gaunt.
He noticed something glinting and shining across the desert, about a hundred paces ahead of him, and he stared at it. It didn’t move and he shook his head slightly. Then the silvery light did move and he grinned to himself as he realized what it was.
It wasn’t often that Jack Ryker smiled like that. There were those around the South-west who would swear that he was born looking grim and he’d sure as hell die the same damned way. But they were wrong. Ryker did smile. Every time he thought that anything was funny. But it was true to say that Jack Ryker wasn’t easily amused.
This time he was smiling at himself. For not recognizing that the dancing light was simply the sun reflecting off the silver dollar that ornamented the black band on his hat. A shining coin, marred only by a hole drilled clean through the middle of it.
A hole that was just about the shape and size of a fifty caliber bullet. Ryker had plugged the hole through the dollar himself with the same Sharps buffalo gun that he was now holding. Shot it out at eight hundred good paces.
Not many folks really believed that you could reach that sort of accuracy at that range, even with the magical power of the Sharps. But they didn’t query it to Ryker’s face.
And the coin was a good advert for a man who dealt with guns.
And dealt with death.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He drew several slow deep breaths, steadying himself. It was a long shot in this sort of light, even from the comfortable prone position that he had been able to select for himself, lying flat in the soft sand, resting the end of the long barrel on a small boulder.
Again he stared out, estimating the distance that he would have to fire. Making it around five hundred yards. Whenever the Sharps was mentioned among men who knew about guns, there was always the talk of the “rainbow” trajectory of the powerful gun. And repeated tales of the legendary distance that the gun would shoot with accuracy.
In the hands of the right man.
Jack Ryker knew very well that he was one of the right men.
He shuffled his feet, making sure that he was well-braced. The heat on his boots was becoming almost painful, and he hissed through his teeth in anger at the waiting. He moved his right leg again, feeling the pressure of the holster built into the boot, holding one of the pair of derringer pistols that he carried concealed about him.
Both Remington twin-barrel pistols. Over-and-under guns, firing the massive forty-one caliber slug. The one in his boot and the other nestling snugly in the small of his back, hidden by the long black coat.
Seen from above, Ryker would have appeared to be all black. A splash of midnight against the bright yellow of the afternoon landscape. The gleam of silver in the crown of his hat. Apart from that, all black from the top of his head to the toes of his polished black leather boots.
From the side you might catch a glimpse of the gold and red of a brocaded silk waistcoat. Ryker’s only personal affectation when it came to clothing.
John W. Ryker was a man whose trade was guns. He knew more about them than any man he’d ever met. How they were made. How they worked. How good they were. Which were the best pistols and rifles. The best ammunition for each weapon.
Up to a year or so back, he’d never fired a gun in anger.
Now he was also an expert in the effect that a gun had on a man.
And on a woman.
His old life had ended at the same moment, to a fraction of a second, as that of President Lincoln.1
Death had entered his life. There had been other personal tragedies. His beloved Emmylou Harknett, burned in the blazing ruins of her home in Richmond, Virginia. Then his mother, struck down by a fever as the family trekked westwards towards their own promised land. A land where the only promise that was kept was one of dying and grief.
Now she lay buried out in the far desert where she had died. And over the last few months John Ryker had been doing what he could to avenge the murder of his father, and to pay off the debts that had been left. It would have taken him a year of crucifyingly hard work as a gunsmith to earn the money. Particularly in the tiny township of Settlement, north of Tucson, where Doctor Angus Ryker had lived with his only child and his memories and the bottles of whiskey.
Ryker had found that he had another skill. He was good at killing, and that was a high-price skill in the Arizona Territory. There was always someone who wanted a job done. A bounty paid for a man brought in. Dead or alive, the tattered flyers said, pinned to every tree. Most law officers didn’t much care which way it went.
Now the debts were cleared, and his pa’s body rested in the dry earth alongside that of his mother. Where he’d wanted to be.
Now Ryker was a free man. He owed nothing to any man. He had no home. And no friends.
He had a black stallion, Nero. One change of clothes.
One Sharps rifle. Two derringers. One Navy Colt. His tools.
And fifty-three dollars.
All that was left from collecting the bounty paid on the gang of the Mexican bandit, Emiliano Muerta, the scourge of the border lands.2
A sound behind him jerked his mind from the past back to the heat and tension of the present.
At last!
He knew that he was ready. The bullet was waiting. The hammer had been thumbed back. His right hand reached forwards and took up the double-pressure trigger. Moved it until it was only a fraction of an inch away from the moment of the shot.
He knew as well what he would be shooting. And what the rewards were for hitting. And what the price would be if he missed.
Like most great shots, John Ryker did not close one eye when he aimed, preferring to keep both open. The stock of the long gun was rock-steady against his shoulder, and his left elbow a firm base to support the Sharps.
Any second now.
Shaded as he was there wasn’t any need to put the dab of spittle on the foresight to make it stand out more clearly.
The moments dragged by, while he waited.
Waited.
Blanking his mind out to the vital importance o f the shot. Not moving. Unblinking as a rattler about to strike at its victim.
His ears heard the shot and started to carry the sound to his brain. But by a reflex chemistry that he didn’t even know was happening, Ryker was already squeezing the trigger.
Chapter Two
THE WALNUT STOCK kicked back like a galled mule, and the boom of the heavy gun crashed about his ears like the surf in a Monterey storm. Ryker’s nose wrinkled at the familiar and bitter smell of the black powder smoke.
He laid the gun down in the hot sand and waved a hand to clear away the thick cloud that enveloped him, blinking as it stung his eyes. From under the shadowed brim of the black hat, he saw that his aim had been true, and he could relax knowing that he had won through again.
The large wine bottle perched in the sand a quarter mile away had been shattered.
‘Great shooting, Mr. Ryker.’
‘Good shooting. Not great shooting, Mr. Peterson. Great shooting would just have taken out the cork.’
The little man standing behind him, holding the smoking Colt, grinned nervously, not sure, whether Ryker was joking or not.
‘Who else is there left to shoot?’ asked the man in black, rising easily to his feet in a single fluid movement, holding the warm gun in his right hand.
‘Two, Mr. Ryker. There’s the breed, Natchez, and there’s the young lady. Miss Turner.’
Away behind Peterson, Ryker heard a ripple of applause from the watching crowd, as a young boy among the sand hills waved a red flag on a stick to confirm his hit on the large bottle.
He didn’t really like shooting competitions. They were fine for folks who kept their guns mounted on their walls, all duded up and polished. But for a man whose life depended on a gun as a working tool, weighing down his hip, then they were false as a whore’s smile.
But they paid. The local storekeeper in the small town of Agua Verde, a long shot from the Mexican border, had put up a good stake for the contest, to try and bring folks to the town. Edgar Peterson, that was the name on the gaudy and smudged bills that Ryker had seen as he rode southwards from the sorry task of finally laying his father to rest alongside his mother.
A grand prize of two hundred and fifty dollars, American, will be paid to the winner of a superior contest open to all shootists and marksmen in the Arizona Territory, to be held in the thriving settlement of Agua Verde, under the auspices of the owner and sole proprietor of the general store, Edgar Peterson.
Starting from one hundred paces, all are welcome to enter with long guns or pistols of any caliber or design.
No Indians or nigras.
Agua Verde, July 27th, 1866.’
And there had been a note added in the bottom in a garish red ink that had caught Ryker’s eye and confirmed his interest in the event.
As an extra attraction, there will be a demonstration of the famous gun of Doctor Richard Jordan Gatling.
This quick-firing miracle of the modem age has been used with great devastation in the conflict that has just ended.
Military and private buyers are all invited to attend.
In some ways that part interested John Ryker even more than the money. He’d heard of the Gatling gun, and had even seen one during the Civil War, but he had never had the experience of firing one himself. Had never even seen one actually being fired at all, and welcomed this opportunity. Of course he’d read all he could about this new development in firearms, but doubted most of the extravagant claims being made for the multi-barreled weapon.
‘Would you mind making way for the next man to the mark, Mr. Ryker?’
Peterson was sweating like a scalded pig, mopping his brow with a green bandana with blue spots on it. He was delighted that things were going so well for his venture. The poster had brought better than twenty men, and the one woman, to Agua Verde, most of them aiming to try and win that prize. But there was also a small contingent from the nearest Cavalry fort, eager to watch the demonstration of the Gatling, which stood hidden under a grey canvas cover in the shadow of the nearby building.
Ryker nodded and moved out of the way, letting the small figure of the half-breed, Natchez, take his place. He’d never met any of the other contestants before, though some of them had clearly shot against each other in the past, travelling around wherever these contests were held. None of them had won through beyond four hundred paces.
Now there was just the breed, with his long black hair tied back with a scarf that looked suspiciously as if it might once have bound up the hair of a white woman. They said that Natchez was the son of a Mescalero warrior and a white woman. There was even talk that Natchez had ridden in the Civil War on the side of the North, lending his skills to the legendary Thorn’s Raiders3, but Ryker figured that was probably a lie.
The target was put up again, and the slight figure wriggled down in the sand, sending up a cloud of red dust that settled back over him so that the man almost vanished. It was uncanny to see it happen, and Ryker opened his eyes at it.
There was always something to learn, and even at the age of twenty-four John Ryker had already learned a lot.
‘Natchez to shoot. Bottle at five hundred paces. Using a fifty-eight caliber Lindner.’
Ryker had never seen a Lindner rifle. Made in New York, they were as rare out West as a buzzard in a punchbowl. The gun was taller than Natchez, with a smooth bore barrel to take the monstrous bullet. The barrel alone was better than three feet long, and the breed had cut down the walnut stock to accommodate it to his reach.
The boy ran away in the distance, waving the flag to show all was ready. Ryker watched him, then furrowed his brows, seeing movement in a draw away to the left. He shaded his eyes, then turned to Peterson, who had the hammer back on his Colt, ready to fire the signal for the breed to shoot.
‘You got some non-paying spectators, Peterson,’ he said, pointing to the arroyo, where he could now make out a half dozen men sitting quietly on horses.
‘Where? Damn it to perdition! I can’t see a damned thing with these new eye-glasses.’
‘I make them out as Apaches.’
Without moving, Natchez spoke from the ground, where his visibility must have been worse than the two white men. ‘They are Mescalero warriors. Eight of them.’
‘You had trouble with them round here?’ Ryker asked the storekeeper.
The fat man shook his head. ‘No. I heard there was trouble between two tribes, but I don’t know nothing about that. Long as they keep where they belong, then I don’t give one sweet damn.’
‘The Mescalero are fighting with one of the tribes of the Chiricahua. They have tried to get the great warrior Cuchillo Oro4 to aid them, but he will not lend himself to such an affair.’
‘Old Golden Knife!’ exclaimed Ryker. The whole of the South-west knew of the lone Apache, and his feud against the white race in general, and against the pony-soldier, Pinner, in particular. ‘I’d take it well to meet Mr. Oro.’ Natchez sniffed. ‘You will not, Ryker. If you did then you would be a dead man, for Cuchillo Oro is the greatest of all fighting men of the deserts and the mountains.’
Ryker said nothing.
‘I guess they’re just watching,’ said Peterson, still mopping at his balding head.
‘They will have come to see the Gatling. They have heard of such weapons, and they will wish to see it for themselves. But I do not think that you need to worry, storekeeper. When the bear fights the lion, he has no concern with the coyote.’
‘And when the talkin’ goes on, then I get damned tired of the waitin’,’ said Ryker, leaning the stock of the Sharps on the ground.
‘Yeah, let’s get the show on the road,’ said Peterson, looking down at the breed. ‘You ready, Natchez?’
‘I am ready.’
Ryker watched him as he again readied the immensely long gun. The Lindner had a hinged breech block that lifted by turning a section in front of the rear mounting. Like many rifles of that type, it was fired by a percussion cap lock.
From what he’d heard of the Lindner, Ryker guessed that it would have the distance, but with a bullet of that caliber, even the tiniest imperfection would lose you the vital accuracy.
