Death came calling, p.1
Death Came Calling, page 1
Death Came Calling
Sheriff Ray Cairney is sure something untoward is going on in Bristow and that Curtis Waring – bank manager and town council leader – is behind it.
The arrival of two gunslingers and the subsequent turn of events convince Cairney his hunch was right – but how to prove it? The men involved are rich and powerful and he is just one man. That, however, won’t stop the sheriff.
The murder of an entire family gives Cairney the evidence he will need to bring justice to Bristow, but it will be a long, hard journey.
By the same author
Stolen Fortunes
Money Thicker Than Blood
Death Came Calling
as Will Black
Avenger from Hell
Tombstone Scarlet
The Legend of Broken Saddle
Death Comes Easy
as Del R. Doyle
Showdown at Ghost Creek
Blood at Ghost Creek
Rustler’s at Ghost Creek
Ghost Creek Renegades
as D.D. Lang
Woebegone
Last Stop Liberty
Death Storm
Burnout!
Deadly Venom
Blood Money
as Ben Ray
Yellow Streak
Gunslingers
The Plains Killers
A Rolling Stone
Badge of Office
Black Smith
as Jay D. West
Sharper
Sharper: Avenging Gun
Angel of Death: Sharper
Sharper’s Revenge
Hell Riders
Sharper’s Quest
Death Came Calling
Adam Smith
© Adam Smith 2016
First published in Great Britain 2016
ISBN 978-0-7198-2114-1
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
This e-book first published in 2016
Robert Hale is an imprint of
The Crowood Press
The right of Adam Smith to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
To Ray Wright and Paul Cairney, Both sorely missed.
CHAPTER ONE
Sheriff Ray Cairney was growing increasingly dissatisfied with the way the town was going.
The newly-formed town council was led by the most influential man Bristow could muster, Curtis Waring. He was also the banker and someone you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of, if you valued your business or homestead.
The whole town just reeked of corruption. Not that Ray could put his finger on anything specific – yet.
Taxes were being raised almost monthly because, the town council said Bristow needed to expand and attract investors.
Curtis had heard a rumour emanating in Tucson, that the railroad was planning a spur that would link Bristow to the major cattle markets – as well as Tucson and neighbouring towns.
Land prices would soar if word got out, and Curtis Waring was going to make sure it didn’t.
Council meetings were being held in camera, and the sheriff was not invited, no matter how hard he pushed.
The town council consisted of only four people: Curtis Waring, the banker, as chairman; Ambrose Lowe, rancher; Clint Jenkins, rancher; and Will Lancaster, saloon and hotel owner. All were sworn to secrecy.
Try as he might, Ray couldn’t get any information from any of the council members, and this was making him angry. Very angry.
Ray wondered how he was supposed to do his job if he didn’t know what was going on.
His anger turned to deep concern when he saw two strangers ride into town.
Under normal circumstances, Ray would have approached the strangers and asked their business, but on this occasion he had a bad feeling about them.
Both were dressed in black with low slung holsters tied to their thighs by leather thongs; a dead giveaway that they were gunnies to be sure.
The two rode to the Silver Dollar saloon, dismounted, tied their mounts to the hitch rail and entered.
Sure would like to be a fly on the wall right now, Ray thought as he ambled across the street towards the saloon.
He didn’t enter; he walked slowly past looking through each of the six small windows, three set either side of the batwings which gave him a good view of the interior.
The strangers were at the far end of the bar and, as Ray reached the last window, he saw Will Lancaster coming out of his private office and heading towards the two men.
Ray turned and walked back past the saloon. As he did, he saw Lancaster shake the hands of the two men and usher them into his office.
Well, well, Ray thought. What the hell’s going on? Why has Lancaster sent for two hard cases?
Ray walked back across the street and rolled himself a cigarette. There was a rocking chair outside the general store which was opposite the saloon. He sat down and lit up, waiting to see what, if anything, developed.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Swampy, the general dogsbody of the saloon, came running through the batwings and headed uptown.
Just as he finished his smoke, Curtis Waring appeared and walked straight into the saloon.
No sooner had Waring gone in than Clint Jenkins arrived, quickly followed by Ambrose Lowe.
Swampy was the last to arrive and he seemed out of breath as he ambled along the sidewalk.
So it’s not just Lancaster, Ray thought, the town council have hired them – or are trying to!
Ray’s brain was buzzing. Something was going down, of that he was certain. But what? He’d get no help from the town council – that was for sure!
For the life of him, Sheriff Ray Cairney could think of no reason for gunslingers to be in Bristow.
Apart for the usual drunken brawls on Saturday nights, there’d been no gunplay for as long as Ray could remember. No robberies. No land disputes that he was aware of. Nothing. Bristow was a most peaceful – and safe – place to live.
Thirty minutes after the town council members had entered the Silver Dollar, they began to leave. One at a time at five minute intervals.
Obviously, they didn’t want to raise suspicion, Ray thought. But what were they hatching?
Ray decided he’d get himself a beer, and maybe buy one for Swampy, too.
‘’Evenin’, Sheriff. What’ll it be?’ the barkeep asked.
‘Beer, Charlie. Make it two,’ Ray said.
‘Comin’ up, Sheriff.’
Swampy was doing what he always did: collecting glasses and, if he was lucky, draining the dregs of whatever was in the glass.
‘Beer here for you, Swampy,’ the sheriff called out.
Swampy’s face lit up like a baby that has found some candy.
Ray took the beers from the bar top and walked to a secluded table. He didn’t want his conversation overheard by the barman who was a renowned gossip.
Ray sat at a table and watched Swampy shuffle across to join him. Already Swampy was licking his lips in anticipation of a fresh beer.
He flopped into a chair and, thanking the sheriff, without looking at him, Swampy stared at the beer.
‘Go ahead, Swampy, it’s yours,’ Ray said, a slight grin on his face.
Without taking his eyes off the beer pot, Swampy picked the glass up and drank. He drank in one go until the glass was empty.
Ray signalled the barkeep for another beer. ‘Busy day today, Swampy?’
‘No more’n usual,’ Swampy replied. ‘Appreciate the beer, Sheriff.’
‘Saw you scooting down the street earlier.’
‘Yeah, had to get some fellas to meet up with Mr Lancaster,’ Swampy replied, all the time looking at the barkeep, waiting for his beer.
‘Saw two fellas arrive earlier,’ Ray said, trying not to make it obvious he was fishing.
Swampy’s second beer arrived but, before he could pick it up, Ray put his hand over the glass.
‘Know who they are?’
‘Nope. But they sure look like mean critters to me,’ Swampy said, never taking his eyes off the glass of beer.
‘Tell you what,’ Ray said, ’you hear anythin’, an’ I mean anythin’, you let me know. There’ll be beer as a reward.’
Swampy’s face lit up. ‘Sure, Sheriff, I’ll do that!’
Ray took his hand off the beer glass and instantly, Swampy picked it up in case the sheriff changed his mind.
Ray drank half his beer and stood up. ‘Don’t forget now. You hear anything, no matter how small, you tell me, OK?’
‘I won’t forget, Sheriff, and mighty thanks for the beers.’
Ray left the saloon and headed back to his office.
CHAPTER TWO
The conversation between the sheriff and Swampy hadn’t gone unnoticed.
By chance, Will Lancaster came out of his office to check on the takings, but he stopped in the doorway, looking at the sheriff and Swampy.
He didn’t like what he saw, not one bit.
He couldn’t hear what was being said but no one ever bought Swampy a drink. No one. The sheriff was obviously fishing for information about the two strangers.
Lancaster backed into his office and closed the door.
‘We may have a problem,’ he said.
The two strangers, Chad and Burt Slim, brothers, showed
‘The sheriff has been nosing around. Just seen him buying drinks for Swampy. That can mean only one thing: he’s bribing Swampy for information.’
Lancaster paused, looking from one man to the other. The brothers looked once at each other before Chad asked, ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Well, I don’t think killing the sheriff is a good idea, that would bring the county marshal here and he’d start sniffing around.’
‘So it’s Swampy then,’ Burt said. ‘We’ll settle this after dark. You send him on an errand at ten o’clock.’
Lancaster mopped his brow. This was more than he’d bargained for in going in with Waring, Jenkins and Lowe, but it was too late to pull out now. Besides, the lure of the expected profits to be made when Waring started to foreclose on the homesteads and ranches in the path the railroad was likely to take was too great to ignore.
At five before ten that same evening, Will Lancaster sent for Swampy.
‘Go check my buggy, will you? I think I left a saddle bag in it. It’s at the rear of the livery.’ Lancaster said all this without once looking into the eyes of Swampy.
Despite the old man being an alcoholic, dirty and smelly, Lancaster had always had a soft spot for him and what he was about to cause grated. But he knew it had to be done.
‘Sure thing, Mr Lancaster, sir. Be right back.’
Swampy left the office and Lancaster took a deep breath before going to the drinks cabinet and taking out a bottle of fine French brandy. He settled back behind his desk, opened the bottle and poured a more than generous amount into a crystal brandy glass.
He sat for several minutes, swirling the amber liquid around the glass, his mind in a turmoil of guilt.
He took a mouthful of brandy, put the glass down and lit a cigar. Somehow, the combination of brandy and a cigar soothed him – that and the thought of riches to come. Slowly, he was able to dismiss Swampy from his mind, and justify what was about to happen.
Cold blooded murder.
There were several street lanterns along Main Street, but none at all down the various side alleys. Swampy reached the livery stable, which was deserted at this time of night, and turned into the alley that led to the corral at the rear.
Chad and Burt Slim had already positioned themselves in the dark alley. One to the left and one to the right.
As Swampy reached their position, Burt called out, ‘Hey, Swampy, where you off to?’
As Swampy turned towards the sound of the voice, one he did not recognize, Chad came up behind him and before Swampy could react, a Bowie knife sliced through his throat, almost ear to ear.
For seconds, Swampy felt nothing as blood spurted from his neck, then realization dawned in his befuddled brain as his legs gave way and he sagged, rather than fell, to the ground, both hands gripping his throat in a futile effort to staunch the flow of blood.
He then fell forwards, hitting the dirt face down. For a few moments his legs twitched as blood gurgled from his throat.
Then he stopped moving.
Chad stepped forward and wiped the blade of the Bowie on Swampy’s back, and returned it to its sheath. They dragged Swampy’s body to the side of the alley. Then both men headed back to the saloon.
They entered at the rear so as not to be seen and went straight to Lancaster’s office. They walked in without knocking, making Lancaster jump, spilling brandy on his blotter.
The Slim brothers did not utter a word, but Chad, seeing the brandy, picked it up and drank straight from the bottle then passed it to Burt, who did the same.
‘Is it … have you…?’
‘You’ll need a new dogsbody,’ was all he got in response to his almost unasked question.
Lancaster drained his glass, his hands visibly shaking.
‘You got our rooms ready?’ Burt asked.
‘What? Oh, er, yes. Numbers 1 and 2, top of the stairs on the left facing Main Street. Keys are in the doors.’ Lancaster was breathing heavily at the thought of the now dead Swampy. ‘What did you do with, er, you know.…’ he added.
‘Left him in the alley,’ Chad said.
‘Oh.’ Lancaster poured another brandy and gulped it down. It didn’t completely alleviate his deep feeling of guilt, but it did deaden it somewhat.
The Slim brothers left the room without saying a word.
Lancaster flopped back in his chair and put his head in his hands.
At 7 a.m. every morning, Sheriff Ray Cairney began his morning rounds – being a creature of habit, you could set your watch by him.
He often varied the route, but he made sure he checked the doors of every store – including the saloon. The last place he always checked was the livery. Old Sam would already be there with the coffee brewing and they’d do their usual ritual of a coffee, cigarette and a chat.
‘Morning, Sam.’
‘Morning, Sheriff. Coffee?’ Sam asked.
‘You need to ask?’ Ray replied, smiling.
‘Coming right up.’
Ray sat on a barrel and took his makings out. The first cigarette of the day was always the best, it was downhill thereafter.
‘You get a look at them two strangers that came into town yesterday?’ Ray asked, licking his cigarette paper.
‘Sure did. Mean looking dudes too, if’n you ask me,’ Sam replied, bringing over two tin mugs of Arbuckle’s finest.
‘Recognize ’em?’
‘Nope. They ain’t never been here afore. They plain scared the cahoolies outta me. Eyes like black stones.’
‘They say anything?’
‘Asked how much for feed and groom for a week. I told ’em, added a bit on, and they handed over the money saying, “You better take care of ’em good”, and left.’
After a moment’s pause, Ray asked, ‘Notice anythin’ about them?’
‘Well, apart from their low-slung Colts and a Bowie knife and two of the latest Winchester repeaters, they looked as if they’d ridden in hell – and won!’ Sam took a sip of his coffee, before lighting his pipe.
Puffing out a cloud of blue smoke, Sam coughed, spat and added, ‘Two of the deadliest hombres I ever did see.’
Ray was silent. He drained his coffee and stomped out his cigarette butt.
‘Well, think I’ll take another look round. See you tomorrow, Sam.’
‘Take care, Sheriff. Coffee’ll be ready.’ Sam did what passed for a grin and gave a brief wave.
Outside, the air was still refreshingly cool. Ray knew as the day wore on the temperature would rise and by mid-afternoon, the heat would be stifling.
For Ray, this was the best part of the day. Cool breeze, and only a handful of people about, getting their stores ready for whatever the day might bring.
So content was Ray that he almost didn’t see the pile of rags piled on the right side of the alley.
He sighed deeply; one of his pet hates was people dumping their trash anywhere they felt like it. As he neared the pile, he suddenly saw it was not rags, but a man.
‘Jeez!’ was all Ray could say. He knelt down beside the body and turned it over. ‘Swampy! Dear God!’
He looked at the distorted features of the old man and a tear crept unbidden from one eye.
In a blinding flash, the sheriff realized that he’d been killed for talking to him the previous night. Could be no other reason. The old man, if not universally liked, was nevertheless a character, and had no enemies that Ray could think of. He was just a harmless old man.
Ray got himself together and reviewed the events of yesterday: two hard cases ride in, go straight to the saloon. Swampy comes running out to fetch Waring, Jenkins and Lowe, and they all turn up within ten minutes.
After a short meeting, which Ray knew the hard cases were a part of, they all went their ways – except the gunnies.
Coincidence? Ray didn’t think so.
At the end of the alley, at Main Street, one or two people had stopped. They were soon joined by half a dozen more.
‘He dead, Sheriff?’ one of them called out.
‘Yeah. He’s dead. Throat cut. Someone get the undertaker, pronto.’ Ray was still crouching over the body, one hand on the old man’s shoulder.
‘Who is it?’ another voice called.
Ray didn’t answer straightaway. Then, after taking a deep breath, he didn’t want his voice to sound as shaky as he felt, he said, ‘It’s ol’ Swampy.’
There was a collective murmur of both surprise and shock. ‘Who the hell would want to kill ol’ Swampy? He never did no one no harm, sure he was smelly an’ always on the cadge but …’ The man stopped, sighed and shook his head.
