Tough Justice Read online

  Tough Justice

  Burt Lowell has been living as a recluse in an abandoned ghost town but someone puts a price on his head, and he wants to find out who, and why.

  Confronted by a gang of gunslicks, the trail leads to Rickard, a scheming ranch owner, but there is a more sinister figure behind him, the elusive railroad boss, Mossman. Riding for the rival Long Rail brand, Lowell sets off on a trail drive to Shoshone Flats where Mossman has opened a branch line. But where is he? The search for the truth becomes a quest for revenge. Somewhere down the tracks Lowell must find and confront Mossman on his own ground if he is to arrive at a final resolution.

  By the same author

  Pack Rat

  Coyote Falls

  Shotgun Messenger

  Guns of Wrath

  Six-Gun Nemesis

  North to Montana

  Back from Boot Hill

  Tough Justice

  Colin Bainbridge

  ROBERT HALE

  © Colin Bainbridge 2014

  First published in Great Britain 2014

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2314-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Colin Bainbridge to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  Abbot Mossman wasn’t the sort of man to spend any time in town, although he was reputed to own a good part of Shoshone Flats. He had certainly acquired the railroad line and stood to make a lot of money shipping cattle. He was known to be a recluse. Nobody knew for certain where he lived or even what he looked like. Rumours circulated about him but he was elusive and escaped definition. So it would have come as something of a shock to the telegraph operator if he had known that the tall, stooping figure with the lank white hair who entered his office was none other than Mossman himself. This fact alone indicated the importance Mossman attached to the message he sent, addressed to Ludwig Rickard, business man and rancher in the town of Granton. It read simply: Deal with Burt Lowell.

  When he had finished, Mossman walked out of the telegraph office and began to make his way towards the railroad station. He felt he could rely on Rickard to carry out his barely coded instruction. It was a minor matter but it needed to be dealt with quickly. He had thought Lowell was dead, burned to ashes in the fire he had started – the fire which had burned down a whole section of Buckhorn and set the seal on his plans for the stagecoach route. Only one other person knew about that: the lawyer, Dinsdale. There was nothing to fear from him, however, because he had been actively involved in the whole plot. It was all a long time ago; the whole affair was virtually forgotten. Then word had reached him that Lowell was still around and living, after a fashion, in the ruins of Buckhorn which was nothing now but a ghost town. Although Lowell represented a slim threat to his growing empire, he wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Lowell had to die, and this time for good.

  Burt Lowell opened his eyes and looked out from the balcony of the dilapidated hotel on the empty street below him. He had fallen asleep in his cane chair. It was still dark but he needed to get on the trail early if he was to collect his supplies and be back in Buckhorn by nightfall. Getting to his feet, he descended the outside staircase and entered the bar through the broken batwings. He brewed some coffee and then made his way towards the livery stable where he kept his horse. He whispered gently to it as he led it outside and hitched it to an old buckboard. Climbing up to the driver’s seat, he took the reins.

  At his prompting the horse stepped forward and the wagon began to move down the deserted street. On either side the frail clapboard buildings leaned together at odd angles, like old women at the pump, forming an indeterminate, almost immaterial mass in the pale moonlight. Some parts seemed to shimmer with a strange, pellucid light while other parts were plunged in deep velvet blackness. Shutters hung from broken, empty windows and the dilapidated wooden sidewalk was splintered and full of gaping holes. The dust lay ankle-deep, muffling the sound of his horse’s hoofs and the wagon wheels. As he rode through the burned out district where he had once lived, he fancied he could still detect the acrid smell of smoke and ash. As he left the ghost town behind, the cool night air carried the tangy scent of pine.

  He rode on as dawn broke and the day advanced towards noon. The sun beat down and he took a couple of halts to rest and water the horse, but otherwise he didn’t stop till he reached Granton. It had formerly been quite a small settlement, like many others, with the usual assemblage of false-fronted frame buildings, until the arrival of Mossman’s stage line. Now there was a bustle about it. Buckhorn’s loss had been Granton’s gain. Maybe he had been wrong to fight Mossman. After all, did it really matter whether Granton or Buckhorn had the business? As marshal of Buckhorn, he had felt it part of his duty to take on Mossman, but it had been like fighting a spectre. Mossman’s subtle influence was all pervasive. There were plenty of stories about his dubious business dealings but it was impossible to pin anything on him. Mossman was too powerful. The whole matter had been finally settled when a portion of Buckhorn was destroyed in a raging conflagration. It had taken the fire to finally settle the matter.

  Outside the grocery store he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rack. He glanced up and down the street. It was unusually quiet but that suited him. As he entered the store, a bell jangled and after a moment the proprietor appeared. He peered at Lowell for a few moments before recognizing him.

  ‘Why, it’s you, Lowell,’ he said. ‘We don’t get to see you very often.’

  ‘Hello,’ Lowell said. ‘Nope, I guess not. I just stopped by to pick up a few things.’

  ‘ “Stopped by”? Hell, I’d hardly call it that. Don’t you ever think. . . ?’

  He didn’t continue but instead glanced through the window. Lowell, detecting something in his manner, turned round and looked too. Three men were crossing the street. They stopped for a moment and one of them examined Lowell’s buckboard.

  ‘They look like some of Rickard’s men,’ the storekeeper said.

  Lowell was expecting them to come into the store but instead they turned and began to walk away. Lowell exchanged glances with the store man.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

  Suddenly he sprang to the door and, flinging it open, dashed into the street. The men had moved a little way but one of them turned at his appearance.

  ‘You boys lookin’ for somebody?’ Lowell shouted.

  The response was instantaneous as all three men reached for their guns. Lowell had the advantage, however. They were turning and the sun was behind him. Their shots flew high and wide but Lowell’s return fire was accurate. Two of them went down and the third began to run. Lowell was about to set off after him when he heard someone yell:

  ‘Look out!’

  At the same moment, shots rang out behind him and he felt a searing pain as a bullet tore into his shoulder. He turned to see two men advancing on him, their guns spitting lead. As he threw himself down he heard another shot and one of the men fell to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man standing on the boardwalk just in the lee of a shop awning, a smoking gun in his hand.

  ‘Quick, get into the buckboard!’ the man shouted.

  Lowell’s hand squeezed the trigger of his .44 and as the second man crumpled, he got to his feet and, running to the buckboard, threw himself inside. The man had already taken the driver’s seat and with a flick of the reins he
quickly had the wagon in motion. As it gathered speed and began to rumble down the street, Lowell observed that several more gunmen had appeared. Some of them were running after the buckboard but a shot from his six-gun soon brought them to a halt. The buckboard clattered on, raising a cloud of dust which helped to screen them from further fire. He looked ahead and saw a figure coming from that direction.

  ‘The marshal!’ the driver shouted. ‘We can do without more complications!’

  They were approaching a junction and as he turned the wagon into it, the wheels on the near side left the ground and they almost overturned. The buckboard came down with a bump which shook every bone in Lowell’s body. They carried on at breakneck speed, passing the last faded buildings as they left the town behind them. The driver didn’t let up but carried on at dizzying speed. Lowell was being jolted and bounced as he tried desperately to hold on to the sides of the buckboard. They kept on going till at last the driver slowed, but he still carried on for a while before finally drawing the horse to a halt. It stood in the traces, sweating and steaming, its mouth and nose lathered. The man leaned over.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been hit but I don’t think it’s serious.’

  The man climbed down from the driver’s seat. ‘Low-down varmints,’ he said. ‘I saw what happened. Here, let me take a look.’

  With some difficulty, Lowell unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it back. He felt blood running down his back.

  ‘You’ve taken one just under the shoulder blade,’ the man said. ‘It’s quite bad but I don’t think anything’s broken. We need to do somethin’ to stop the bleedin’.’

  So saying, he ripped off his neckerchief and placed it firmly against the wound, using Lowell’s bandana to help keep it in place.

  ‘The bullet wants removin’,’ he said. When he had finished, he stood up and looked around him.

  ‘We’ve still a ways to go but I figure we’re safe from pursuit.’

  ‘I got to thank you for this,’ Lowell said. ‘If you hadn’t have stepped in, I figure I’d be dead now.’

  The other man shrugged. ‘I don’t like back-shooters. Let’s just say I helped even the odds a little.’ He looked more closely at Lowell.

  ‘Say,’ he said, ‘I know it ain’t none of my business, but ain’t you the feller lives by himself in that old ghost town?’

  ‘Yes, that’d be me.’

  ‘Lowell, ain’t it? I’ve heard your name once or twice around town. Well, I’m Eliot. You might know the name. I’m Jordan Fuller Eliot. I’m related to the Fullers of Nelson County.’

  The man’s words caught Lowell by surprise and he took a moment or two to collect his thoughts.

  ‘You know Bark Fuller?’ he eventually replied. ‘He used to run a spread called the Flying Six.’

  ‘He runs one called the Long Rail now. It ain’t long since he took it over. It’s still a new country to him. I’m a kind of distant cousin. I ride for the Long Rail.’

  ‘You’re related to Bark Fuller!’ Lowell exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be.’

  ‘Like I say, kind of distant.’

  ‘Me and Bark rode together one time. How is the old coot?’

  ‘He’s kinda findin’ his feet but he’s fine. He’ll make a go of the Long Rail.’ He stopped and looked around. Lowell had the feeling he was holding something back. Was the Long Rail in some kind of difficulty?

  ‘I guess we’d better carry on,’ he continued. ‘Question is, where to?’

  ‘It’s a fair way to Buckhorn. I can take over now.’ Lowell made to get up but sank back in pain.

  ‘Whoa!’ Eliot said. ‘Try and take it easy. You’re in no state to be doin’ anythin’. You need a doc. Besides, you’re forgettin’ somethin’. I left my horse behind.’ He thought for a moment.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The answer is starin’ us in the face. You can come with me back to the Long Rail.’

  ‘Bark Fuller’s spread?’

  ‘Sure. I expect he’d be glad to see you again. It ain’t too far. I’m surprised you and Bark ain’t run into each other. You’d have time to recover and if those gunslicks are still gunnin’ for you, they’d never think of lookin’ for you there.’

  Lowell felt a certain reluctance to involve Eliot any further but a moment’s reflection suggested that it might be the best answer. He didn’t have a lot of choice.

  ‘OK,’ he said. The pain in his back was steadily increasing and he was beginning to feel faint. His head felt misty. With a grim determination he managed to pull himself together.

  ‘Take a look under the seat’, he said. ‘You’ll find a bottle of whiskey.’

  Eliot chuckled. ‘You figure it’ll still be in one piece?’ He rummaged about for a moment before coming up with it intact. He handed it to Lowell who took a few swigs and passed it back. Eliot did the same.

  ‘Keep takin’ a pull,’ he said. ‘Give me a shout if things get bad. The buckboard ain’t too comfortable.’

  With a last glance about him, he climbed into the driver’s seat and they continued on their way.

  Lowell lay back, trying to concentrate his thoughts. It was pretty clear that he had been the target of a concerted attack on his life. It was only by dint of luck and the intervention of the stranger that he had survived. Who would want him dead? He couldn’t make any sense of it. Presently he began to nod off to the rhythm of the wagon wheels. He dozed fitfully till a jolt of the buckboard brought him fully awake again. Some time had obviously elapsed because night had fallen.

  ‘Not much further,’ he heard Eliot shout. ‘This is Long Rail range.’

  Lowell was feeling a bit better and made an effort to observe his surroundings. It was clearly a decent spread. Cattle were standing in bunches and even in the dark they looked sleek.

  ‘Soon be time for the roundup,’ Eliot remarked.

  During the course of the ride he had kept talking to Lowell, even though he knew he was probably asleep.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve gotten over that wound, I reckon you could have a job if you wanted it. A man of your experience would come in mighty useful. You’ve worked for Bark before.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Lowell replied, ‘before he ever acquired the Long Rail. Anyway, I expect Bark will have all the men he needs.’

  The buckboard lumbered on. Even though it was night, swarms of flies hung about them and were attracted by Lowell’s wound. Eliot had suggested changing the makeshift bandage but he had waved him away. He had succeeded in at least staunching the flow of blood and Lowell didn’t want to risk opening it up again.

  A mist seemed to be gathering at the edges of his vision when he heard Eliot say, ‘Look, we’ve arrived. There’s the ranch-house.’

  He raised his sagging head. A little way ahead stood an impressive two storey building backed by some outbuildings and a couple of corrals. A shade tree stood in one corner of the yard. As the buckboard drove into the yard, the door of the building opened and a couple of figures appeared.

  ‘Jordan, is that you?’ the first man remarked.

  ‘Hello, Bark,’ Eliot said. ‘I’ve got someone with me. You might remember him. It’s an old friend of yours: Burt Lowell.’

  ‘Burt Lowell! Well, I’ll be. . . .’

  ‘He’s been shot. He needs assistance. Help me get him down.’

  Bark and the man with him sprang to the buckboard and helped lift him out.

  ‘We’ll take him straight inside and put him in the spare room,’ Bark said to Eliot.

  The three men made light work of carrying Lowell through the main lounge of the ranch-house and into a room behind. As gently as they could they lifted him on to a bunk. Lowell looked up, seeking his old friend, but the mist before his eyes had grown into a cloud which enveloped him. He couldn’t tell before he finally lapsed into unconsciousness whether the face which suddenly hovered before him was the face of a woman or an angel or whether the whole thing was an illusion.


  The face which presented itself when he awoke was certainly not the countenance of either a woman or an angel. It wore a close brown beard flecked with grey and had a distinctive long, reddened and somewhat bulbous nose. Above the right temple was a deep scar. It seemed somehow familiar. Struggling with a memory, Lowell attempted to sit up but didn’t get very far as a sharp pain in his shoulder region made him sink back again.

  ‘Take it easy,’ the man said. ‘You don’t want to go rushin’ things and risk a set-back when you’ve got this far.’

  Lowell turned his head to take in something of his surroundings. A window was open and a refreshing breeze blew into the room. On one wall hung a large framed print of a hunting scene. Something about it held his attention.

  ‘You like the picture?’ the man said. ‘It’s called Woodcock Shooting.’

  ‘It looks a mite different to buffalo huntin’,’ Lowell responded.

  Fuller grinned. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Oh, nothin’ to do with me. I ain’t picked up any more culture since the last time we met. Nope. If this old place has anythin’ to recommend it, it’s down to Lorna.’

  ‘Lorna?’ Lowell said.

  ‘My niece.’

  Again, Lowell struggled to remember. ‘So I wasn’t imaginin’ it. I thought I saw a woman’s face.’

  ‘Yup. That would be Lorna. I can tell you; you’ve got a lot to thank her for. Since the doc dug that bullet out of you, she’s spent a lot of time helpin’ to pull you through. And Eliot too.’ Suddenly the man’s face broke into a grin.

  ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I sure didn’t expect to see you again. At least not like this. Don’t you recognize me? I’m your old partner, Bark Fuller. I can’t have changed that much.’ He fingered the scar on his brow. ‘Don’t think I had this last time. Horse kick. Almost did for me.’

  His words had the effect of loosening something in Lowell. Suddenly he no longer felt strange or confused. The reality of his situation flooded in and it was with a huge sense of relief that he recognized his old friend.