Latigo 1, p.1
Latigo 1, page 1
part #1 of Latigo Series
The Home of Great Western Fiction
Son of a trapper and an Indian princess, Latigo vowed he would never again draw blood after the carnage of the Civil War. Then he returned to find his home a smoldering ruin and his folks forever silenced, murdered by a ruthless railroad tycoon and his hired guns. That was the day Latigo hit the trail to vengeance, the day his guns came roaring back to life … the day a legend was born in the Montana hills …
LATIGO 1: TRACKDOWN
By Dean Owen
Based on LATIGO, the cartoon strip by Stan Lynde.
First published by Fawcett Popular Library in 1981
Copyright © 1981, 2023 by Dean Owen
This electronic edition published March 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
Editor: Ben Bridges
Published by Arrangement with the Golden West Literary Agency.
Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
About the Author
Chapter One
DEVASTATION, SEEN THROUGH the drizzly haze of an April daybreak, presented Sergeant Burley Quint with a dilemma.
“Why couldn’t they have left a tree?” he bellowed, his great neck swelling. “Just one goddamn tree!”
This roar of displeasure dried the mouths of his troopers. Because he was known to backhand the nearest face within reach when enraged, they edged their horses away from his dun.
In the furious cannonade of the previous late afternoon, before cavalry clashed, attacking guns had ripped to shreds what had been a pleasant slope of trees. What Union guns had failed to destroy was leveled by the cannon of retreating Confederates.
Corporal Jeff Crowder, a slender veteran with graying beard, gestured at stumps and shattered tree limbs.
“Not a tree that’ll take the weight of a man, Burley,” Crowder told the sergeant. He was one of the few not overawed by the giant Quint. “Hell, why not turn the poor bastard loose.”
Quint was outraged. “Me give up a chance to hang a lootenant? You know how I feel about them. Every damn one ...” Quint glanced at his men to note any reaction to his expression of such hatred, but they had learned to show no interest in anything he might say. They were looking at the battlefield, deserted save for their small outfit and the prisoner. Lumps of dead among ruptured cannon and overturned supply wagons attracted vultures.
Crowder argued quietly with Quint, then shrugged off the attempt as futile. He knew that Quint’s hatred of all officers, blue or gray, would soon claim another life on this bloodied strip of land.
Crowder turned to their prisoner, erect on a weary battle horse. “Sorry, it’s gotta be this way Reb.”
“Ah thank you for taking mah part, Corporal,” Duke Sateen said in his soft drawl. Damned if he’d show fear to these troopers who had blundered onto him, just as the opposing forces had blundered into each other yesterday. “May ah say again, that ah am not a spy.”
“You won’t be sayin’ it for long,” Quint interrupted. He absently fashioned a noose while glaring at the denuded landscape.
“Ah am Duke Sateen of Colonel Mosby’s command and as a prisoner of war have certain rights ...”
“Mosby left you behind to spy on us!” Quint’s yellow-brown eyes were shot with triumph. “You got no rights!”
“As you can see, Sergeant, mah horse has a saber slash on the foreleg. Ah did not wish to press him in such condition, so ah hid out all night ...”
“You bein’ with Mosby is enough for me.” Quint glowered. “You bastards always chewin’ away at Grant’s coattails.”
“And one time we nearly got coat and all,” Sateen reminded, but no one was listening. His cynical smile deepened in memory of a day at Warrenton Junction when they had been pursuing Union cavalry across the railroad tracks. And at a time when General Grant’s train was due to arrive from Washington. Had they arrived five minutes earlier, the general would have been their prisoner. And Lincoln, hard pressed to fill the gap, might have chosen a lesser man as replacement. A most certain advantage for the battling South. But Grant as usual had his luck.
Sateen, in the tattered uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer, sat his saddle with apparent indifference, though his hands were bound behind his back. His handsome, cynical features were darkened by a down swept mustache and a beard that was usually neatly trimmed. Lately he’d been without scissors.
His mounted captors couldn’t understand the smile he managed to keep in place. With the exception of Quint and his corporal, they were youngsters, mud-splattered from spring rains that had helped cleanse the air of the stench of yesterday’s battle.
They rode a quarter of a mile trying to find a tree. A house burned to the ground, a flattened barn, but no suitable hanging tree.
How ominously quiet, Duke Sateen thought, looking up at the sky. His eardrums still throbbed from the sounds of yesterday’s battle, the spit and roar of cannon, yellow-red muzzle flash, hiss and whine of big shells, men whimpering in mortal agony. Most hideous were the sounds of downed war horses. Sateen’s mount had suffered only slightly, but the wound had led to his capture.
After the Union forces had swept on in pursuit, Sateen hid himself and the lame horse in a deep gully. Not hidden too well as it turned out.
Quint reined in and took out his frustration on the troopers. He bellowed and they kept out of his way. A broken nose among recruits in Sergeant Quint’s outfit was common as chiggers.
Even when passive, Quint’s broad features were flushed. Now they were scarlet. His face was rectangular, mostly jaw, scant forehead. He was built on the grand proportions of a solid oak cabinet that could crash through flooring if tipped over.
“Corporal Crowder, go find us a goddamn tree!” Quint roared. “That’s an order!”
Crowder knuckled his graying beard, judged Quint’s fiery mood, then decided to risk one final appeal for leniency. “You oughta see Cap’n Cantrell before you go ahead with this, Burley.”
Quint showed large teeth. “Mebby the Rebs shot off his head yesterday,” he said in a low, tense voice. Mention of the captain worsened Quint’s mood. A captain soon to be promoted to major, according to rumor. Hell, no wonder the war dragged on, if the army was fool enough to make an officer out of a man whose mother was a squaw.
While Crowder rode ahead to look for a tree, the prisoner spoke.
“Ah think you should listen to me, Sergeant,” but Quint ignored him. Sateen drew a deep sigh. He had hoped that by daybreak the blue bellies would be gone in pursuit of the enemy. Most were. It was ironical that this ragtag remnant of cavalry had flushed him out. Sateen believed in luck. This day he’d drawn no aces. Eleven enlisted men, one corporal and a sergeant added up to thirteen. Unlucky thirteen.
“Me belly’s rumblin’, Sarge,” spoke up one of the gaunt young cavalrymen. “Let’s shoot him an’ be done with it.”
“You don’t shoot a spy. You hang him.”
“We ain’t had no breakfast ...”
“After we hang him, we’ll forage,” Quint muttered, glaring at a battlefield now ominously stilled. Nothing moved but Crowder in the distance. Quint’s dun grunted under its load of two hundred and forty pounds.
A faint shout reached them.
“Crowder’s found us a tree limb,” said one of the troopers jubilantly. “Now we can get the job done an’ eat.”
Lashings cut deeper into the prisoner’s wrists now that his limping horse was pushed to a fast walk. He thought irrelevantly of the blood from his wrists staining what had once been an immaculate butternut tunic. Sateen cocked an eye at the lone tree that was to be the site of his execution. All the limbs but one had been shot away. In the faint light of the overcast morning, it looked like a beckoning one-armed woman.
Quint reined in at the base of the tree. “What the hell’s so funny, Lootenant?”
“Had ah the power, Sergeant, ah would prefer charges against the artilleryman who failed to shoot away that remaining tree limb.”
“We’d have found another one for you,” Quint said, his good humor partially restored. He tossed the rope over the limb, the noose dangling.
“How long’s it take to hang a man, Sarge?” the complaining young trooper asked anxiously.
“I hope this ’un takes a little longer. I ain’t never hung a lootenant before. It’ll be a pleasure.”
The young trooper was interested in food. “Reckon soon’s it’s over with we kin find us some aigs?”
“Rebs likely cleaned the country of eggs,” Quint said.
“Our country, Sergeant,” Sateen reminded.
“Then sing Dixie when I lift your boot heels four feet off the ground.” Quint dropped the noose over Sateen’s neck and jerked it tight. A nervous titter broke from some of the young throats. Other troopers were pale. It was one thing to get used to seeing a man reduced to bloodied bits by the terrible shrapnel, or run through with saber or bayonet. But the deliberate killing they were about to witness chilled their empty stomachs.
One of them retched. Quint seemed amused.
Corporal Crowder gently massaged his beard while he addressed Sateen. “You’re takin’ all this mighty calm.”
“Last night ah held a pat hand. This mawnin’ it appears ah didn’t have the right cards after all.”
“You a card player?”
“Some.”
“I like a game,” Quint chimed in amiably.
“Ah’ll make a bargain with you, Sergeant.”
“Bargain for what?” Quint demanded suspiciously.
“We cut for high card. Your neck or mine.”
More nervous laughter dribbled from the young cavalrymen. There was some knee slapping.
Crowder winced at the bad joke. “Lieutenant, I wish you’d yell or scream. Or wet your britches like some of ’em do. Instead, you sit there with that damnable smile on your face.”
“Mah luck ran out. Simple as that.”
Quint was suddenly all business. “I’m s’posed to asked if you got any last words.”
“Take care of mah horse, if you will. He’s a good one. That wound will heal in a week or so.”
Sateen turned his face to the sky. Clouds had thickened so that even a final view of the sun was to be denied. To take his mind off the jolting drop from the back of his horse, he thought of the women he had known. Their scented images reeled through his mind. He felt again their warm limbs, heard their laughter. He remembered the rustle of impatient Melinda’s petticoats as she scampered up the staircase ahead of him to open the bedroom door. Dorene’s mouth, Ellen’s slim and elegant legs. The wonderment in his young eyes when first he beheld the naked loveliness of a woman. What was her name? He had forgotten.
A pity.
Sergeant Quint said jovially, “You know any prayers, Reb, you best make it quick. You got about five seconds to live.”
Sateen’s bearded lips curled. “Ah’ve nothin’ against the Almighty if such there be. But ah’d find it tedious prayin’ to a deity who created Yankee scum like you.”
“That’s the last insult you’ll be throwin’, Reb! Corporal, when I give the word, swat his hoss.”
Crowder nodded. “A good drop will snap his neck. Reckon he deserves that much ... to go quick ...”
“Sergeant!” An authoritative shout cut through the stillness. Men twisted in their saddles to look around. “Hold up there, Sergeant!” The same voice, nearer now.
“That goddamn Cantrell!” Quint raged, but softly.
A tall, dark man wearing the blue of a Union cavalry captain, galloped toward them. Quint snapped a hand to his pistol, but Crowder hissed a warning. “Don’t be a fool, Burley. Shoot him an’ you’ll be the next to hang!”
Cole Cantrell spurred toward them over a rise of ruined ground, and reined in. A glowering Quint was the last man to salute.
Captain Cantrell jerked a thumb at the condemned. “What are you up to, Sergeant? Who is this man?”
Quint choked down his anger. “One of Mosby’s murderin’ devils. We was about to make a good rebel outa him.” Quint, at attention in the saddle, forced a smile. Despite their recent strained relationship, the captain might unbend enough to appreciate battlefield humor.
Cole Cantrell’s mouth hardened. “We execute no prisoners in my command.”
Quint was silent.
Captain Cantrell was staring at the prisoner. “When you seemed about to die, you actually smiled.”
“Thinkin’ of somethin’ pleasant, ah was, Captain. A lady.”
A livid Quint obeyed Cantrell’s order to remove the noose from the prisoner’s neck. Cole saw blood on the wrists. “Who tied this man?” he demanded.
“I done it.” Quint failed to keep the snarl out of his voice.
“It isn’t a time to neglect military courtesy, Sergeant. Will you repeat what you just said ... and properly?”
“I done it ... sir.” A muscle twitched in Quint’s cheek.
“No need to tie a man as if you were trussing a hog for the butcher,” Cole snapped. Then he steadied his frayed nerves. Yesterday’s battle had erupted suddenly. It was much worse than those that are planned.
Sateen spoke. “Ah am grateful for your timely arrival, Captain. Ah had no real wish to be hanged.”
“An understandable reluctance,” Cole agreed. “You did serve with Mosby?”
“Ah had that honor, Captain.”
“If the dead could speak, they wouldn’t consider it an honor. Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Gaylord Sateen ...”
“Calls himself Duke,” Corporal Crowder put in.
“A nickname,” Sateen explained. Cole nodded. He had his own, Latigo, from boyhood.
“Feelings against Mosby’s raiders run high here in Sixth Corps,” Cole said.
“We have been troublesome,” Sateen admitted, smiling.
“A little more than troublesome.”
“Ah hold no ill feelings. Yankee blue bellies are merely men, after all, just like us. And mankind in general must surely be one of the Almighty’s greatest failures.”
Cole almost laughed. After four years of carnage the ex-Mosby raider just might be right.
Cole looked at the sergeant and made up his mind to see that the man was transferred. This wasn’t their first run-in. Let some other company have the blessing of Quint’s meaty fists, Cole thought sourly. He outlined in crisp tones what he wanted done.
“He’s your prisoner, Sergeant,” Cole finished. “A live prisoner. Do I make myself clear?”
“That you do, Cap’n. Anything else ... sir?”
Cole made him repeat the orders so there would be no misunderstanding. He glanced again at the prisoner, then rode away.
Yesterday afternoon had been explosive. Most of the night he had been with pursuing cavalry. Shortly before dawn he doubled back. He was expected at field headquarters.
During the night the clouds spilled rain. There were some who claimed God drew a curtain because He was sickened by the sight of such earthly madness as had taken place yesterday in a stretch of spring woods. Cole was heartily sick of it himself.
Some claimed it would soon end, the madness. But he wondered if stubborn pride would allow such luxury within his lifetime ...
When the captain had ridden away, one of the young troopers let out a whoop of joy. “Mebby now we can fill our bellies!”
They rode slowly back the way they had come. Corporal Crowder swung in beside Sateen. “Glad your neck wasn’t stretched, Lieutenant.”
“Ah share the sentiments.” Sateen looked around at the captain who was just dipping from sight in a hollow where all that remained of farm structures was a privy. “Ah never want to forget your captain,” Sateen said. “May ah ask details?”
Crowder lowered his voice so that Quint, riding stiffly in the lead, couldn’t overhear. “Cap’n Cole Cantrell. Half-Irish, half-Indian. An’ all man.”
“Ah certainly can attest to that, Corporal.”
“One of the best officers Phil Sheridan has. It’s on account of men like him that you Rebs are losin’ this war.”
“Ah can say nothing against the man who quite literally yanked me from the clutches of the hangman. But ah believe that your havin’ more men, money an’ supplies is by far the greater factor.”
