THE RECURRING BANDIT
by:
Greg Moran
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Greg Moran at Smashwords
The Recurring Bandit
Copyright © 2011 by Greg Moran
Contact Information: gmoran37@yahoo.com
Cover Images: http://members.memlane.com/gromboug/
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Also by Greg Moran:
The Golden Skeleton
Pirate Isle
THE RECURRING BANDIT
by:
Greg Moran
Chapter 1
A light breeze blew through the parched desert landscape, bringing with it the sound of a single gunshot. The report made Sheriff John Ryder sit up straight in his saddle. His lips twitched slightly beneath a thick, blond mustache. He exchanged a glance with Damon Peters, his deputy. But before either could utter a word, several more shots sounded.
“Sounds like trouble,” Peters remarked casually.
Ryder nodded, his gaze sweeping the dry, flat countryside from beneath the brim of his stetson. “We’d best go check it out,” he said.
With that, the two lawmen dug their heels into the sides of their mounts and were off. They flew across the desert at great speed in the direction from which the gunshots had come, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. It was not long before they spotted the raised gravel bed, atop which sat the newly laid southwestern line. Sunlight glinted off of the twin rails.
They fell in alongside the tracks, following them east for a time. After a few miles, Peters pointed ahead.
Ryder nodded. He saw it too. Just visible on the horizon was the silhouette of a locomotive stopped on the tracks. A string of passenger cars could be seen behind it, curving around to the right.
At that moment, several more gunshots echoed loudly across the desert.
“Must be a robbery,” Ryder guessed. “We best hurry ‘fore they get away.”
“I wonder if it’s Gun Slingin’ Garrett an’ his gang,” Peters mused aloud.
As they approached the locomotive, Ryder wondered the same thing.
He’d first heard of William “Gun Slingin’” Garrett about a year ago. The rumor was that he’d been born and raised somewhere in the east and had run afoul of the law there. In order to get away from his legal troubles, he came out west. Within a short time, he’d started committing thefts to support himself. It was not long before he’d moved up to more serious crimes.
Over the past few months, Garrett had gotten a gang together and had robbed several trains. He’d gotten away each time with a large amount of loot, leaving behind a number of dead bodies. He’d quickly become one of the most wanted men in New Mexico. His picture hung in nearly every Sheriff’s office in the state, including Ryder’s.
“If it is Garrett,” thought Ryder. “He ain’t gettin’ away this time!”
An eerie quiet settled over the desert as the lawmen neared the train. Instinctively, they drew their weapons and reined to a halt. Ryder’s keen eyes took in the scene. Lying across the tracks, several yards in front of the locomotive was a dead cow. Its carcass emitted a putrid odor, made all the worse by the intense heat. That must have been how the robbers had gotten the train to stop.
Unfortunately, the cow was not the only casualty visible. Lying on the ground beside the massive engine was the engineer. The sand around his head was stained a dark red. Clutched in his lifeless hands was a rifle. Another body could be seen hanging out of the engine’s side window. Most likely the fireman.
“You take one side and I’ll take t’other,” Ryder quietly instructed his deputy.
Peters nodded, spurred his mount into motion, and began riding along the length of the train.
Ryder, meanwhile, crossed the tracks in front of the locomotive and rode along the opposite side. He kept his eyes open and his weapon at the ready the entire time. Experience told him that one or more of the robbers may still be around. Watching. Waiting to ambush him.
But after encountering two more bodies sprawled alongside the tracks, he reached the end of the train without incident. It was here that he met up with Peters.
“Whattaya think? Should we check inside?” Peters asked.
Ryder nodded and the two dismounted. After tying their horses to a railing, they climbed aboard, and entered the train through an open doorway at the rear of the caboose. They kept their firearms drawn and ready.
The caboose proved to be empty with the exception of a body sprawled across the floor. The conductor. A bullet wound decorated his back. Ryder and Peters exchanged a look. How many more bodies would they find?
They quickly passed through the caboose and emerged onto a small platform, which separated it from the rearmost Pullman car. Then, ever so cautiously, they entered. The interior of the Pullman car was composed of rows of benches on either side, separated by a narrow aisle. Above the seats were several large luggage racks. A quick survey of the car proved it to be in disarray. Luggage, papers, and other items were scattered all about. Also present was another body sprawled across the seats.
The same was true of the next four cars.
But upon entering the sixth car, they encountered a much different scene. This car was packed with passengers, all of whom were cowering on the floor, in the aisle, and beneath the seats. Cries of alarm erupted from the crowd upon the entrance of Ryder and his deputy.
“They’ve come back!” an elderly woman yelled.
“Don’t kill us!” begged a mother clutching a young child. “We’ve given you all we have!”
Ryder holstered his weapon and gestured for Peters to do the same. “Everyone calm down!” he urged the frightened crowd. “We’re lawmen, here to help.” He pointed to a tin star affixed to his leather vest. “What happened?”
“We were robbed!” a young man declared angrily. “By a gang o’ thieves!”
Ryder nodded. “Anyone get a look at the bandits?”
For a moment the crowd erupted into conversation, calling out varied descriptions of the men, while arguing over details such as hair color and the like.
But then, one voice rang out above the rest. It was the elderly woman who had first cried out upon their entrance. “It was Gun Slingin’ Garrett who robbed us! I know it because I saw his picture in the newspaper a few days ago!”
Ryder exchanged a glance with Peters. It seemed as if their suspicions had proven true. “How many were with him?”
The answers varied anywhere from three to six.
“Which way did they go?” Ryder next asked.
On this the crowd unanimously agreed. The bandits had gone north in the direction of the mountains.
After urging the crowd to stay put and remain calm, the sheriff and his deputy hopped aboard their mounts and took off in pursuit of the fugitives.
They’d endured nearly an hour of hard riding before Ryder’s keen eyes finally caught sight of Garrett and his gang a few miles ahead. Their path was marked by a cloud of dust, which hung in the air like a beacon. By this time, the fleeing bandits were only a couple of miles from the base of the mountains.
“We have to catch ‘em before they get into the mountains!” Peters remarked excitedly. “With all them canyons, rifts, an’ valleys in there, we’ll lose ‘em sure!”
Ryder nodded. He knew his young deputy was right. Tracking the men among the mountains would be next to impossible. But would they be able to catch them in time? Ryder had his doubts.
As the sun began to sink below the horizon, the sheriff and his deputy continued to give chase. They pushed their mounts for all they were worth. Fortunately, having been acclimated to desert life, the horses were able to go great distances without having to stop for water.
Before long they had closed the gap to only about two miles. Unfortunately, however, the bandits were now less than a mile from the mountains. It would take a miracle for Ryder and Peters to catch up to them in time.
Luck was with them, however. Just before entering the mountains, the bandits decided to stop for a rest. Evidently, their horses were not as hardy as the sheriff’s or his deputy’s. This unexpected event allowed Ryder and Peters to quickly close the distance. When they came within a half mile of Garrett and his gang, they reined to a halt.
“How do ya wanna handle this?” Peters asked, wiping the dust from his face.
“I think we should try an’ catch ‘em off guard,” Ryder replied, eyeing the setting sun. “Sneak up on ‘em.”
Peters nodded in approval.
The lawmen quickly dismounted and surveyed the terrain for the best route to take. To their north, the ground fell slightly. They circled around, using large boulders and clumps of tall saguaro cactuses to shield them from the bandits’ view.
When they were only a hundred yards or so away, they stopped. From here, they could see the bandits huddled around a watering hole, their horses drinking thirstily. There were six of them in all. Among them, the tall figure of Gun Slingin’ Garrett could be distinguished!
Exchanging a determined glance, the sheriff and his deputy climbed onto their mounts and drew their weapons. This was it. In a flash, they were off at a gallop!
They’d made it about thirty yards or so, before they were spotted by their quarry. Upon seeing the two lawmen, the bandits leapt up in a frenzy.
“Don’t move!” Ryder cried, firing his weapon into the air. “Yer all under arrest!”
Garrett and his gang would not be taken so easily, however. They quickly mounted their horses and took off for the mountains, firing their guns as they rode.
Ryder and Peters returned fire as they gave chase. Almost immediately, one of Ryder’s shots managed to hit a member of Garrett’s gang in the shoulder. The man tumbled off his horse and hit the ground hard.
“Nice shot!” Peters exclaimed, as he reloaded his revolver and fired off another shot. This time, he was the one with the crack aim. His shot struck one of Garrett’s men in the back. Like his compatriot, he tumbled out of his saddle and onto the hard-packed earth.
Bullets continued to whistle back and forth across the desert as the chase continued. Before long, three more of Garrett’s men bit the dust. All that was left now was Garrett and one of his gang. By this time, Ryder and Peters were only about forty yards from the two surviving bandits and closing. The path leading into the mountains was about a hundred yards away. It was going to be close.
But then the unthinkable happened. A bullet from Garrett himself struck Peters in the neck! The deputy clapped his hand over the wound and kept riding. Blood poured out from between his fingers, leaving a trail in the dirt. His strength quickly began to ebb. After about a minute, he could hold on no longer. As the last bit of life left his body, he slipped sideways off his horse.
Ryder watched in horror as his young deputy hit the ground, tumbled a few times and came to rest on his back. He lay still.
At this point, Ryder knew he had a choice to make. He could stop and tend to Peters with the hope of saving him, or he could continue on and try to catch Garrett before he made it into the mountains. To most this would be a difficult decision. Not for John Ryder though. As a sheriff he had a sworn duty. And that was to catch men like William Garrett and make them pay for their crimes. Besides, there was little he could do for Peters anyway. In fact, the deputy was probably already dead.
Ryder pushed his mount harder than ever. He quickly managed to close the distance to only twenty five yards. The mountains loomed up ahead, closer than ever. In another minute or so, Garrett and his compatriot would be able to lose themselves within. It was now or never.
Sensing that this would be his last opportunity, Ryder tightened his grip on the reins, raised his weapon, and took aim. As bullets whistled closely by, he squeezed the trigger. The round missed Garrett himself, but managed to strike his horse in the leg. The animal let out a whinny and went tumbling down. Garrett was sent flying and landed roughly nearby!
Before the bandit could get himself up, Ryder was standing over him, weapon aimed at the man’s head. “Yer under arrest,” he said.
Chapter 2
Six months later…
With a blast of its whistle and a screech of its brakes, the hulking, black Baldwin steam engine rolled to a stop alongside the empty, wooden platform. A sharp hiss of steam erupted from several pressure valves attached to the pistons that powered the massive drive wheels.
Almost immediately, passengers began trickling from the long string of Pullman cars that were coupled behind the powerful engine. Among the small group of businessmen and travelers was Professor Carl Garrett, a short, squat, unassuming man dressed in a three-piece suit. He stepped onto the platform, instantly feeling the hot, dry air of the great American west, which was in sharp contrast to the cooler, more humid climate of his home town of Boston.
Struggling with an oversized trunk, he slowly made his way across the platform and through the small, stuffy train station. Upon exiting the station, he found himself alongside of a long, flat, dirt road, which stretched off into the distance in either direction. A faded wooden sign informed travelers that Redrock City lay nine miles down the road to the right, while Cactus Gulch lay half a mile to the left.
“A half a mile!” Carl exclaimed in disgust. “I’ll never make it! Whoever heard of putting a train station so far from the nearest town anyway?”
Already sweating profusely from the heat, Carl grudgingly started off down the road, lugging his trunk along with him.
As he trudged through the parched landscape, he briefly thought about what had brought him, a well-respected scientist, such a long distance away from his comfortable apartment, and more importantly, his well-stocked lab, to such a place.
The answer was actually quite simple: his brother. He’d received a letter from his wayward brother a few months ago begging for his help. At the time, he’d been diligently working on a very important experiment. In fact, he’d just discovered a breakthrough that had the potential to make his experiment a success. It had come the very same day upon which he received the letter. As a result of this breakthrough, he’d found himself with the peculiar means to assist his brother. Means that were presently tucked away in his trunk.
A short while later Carl reached the top of a small rise. Looking down, he saw his destination: a small town nestled in a valley surrounded by desolate, rolling hills. “It’s certainly not Boston,” he muttered, already missing the noisy, bustling city in which he’d grown up.
Cactus Gulch was a typical western town complete with wide, dirt streets lined with faded, wooden structures. The town boasted a population of only about eleven hundred people due to the fact that it was somewhat out of the way. Many of them could be seen sauntering up and down the streets on horseback or on foot, going about their business.
Carl trudged down the main street in search of the nearest hotel, being careful to avoid the many piles of horse manure that littered the ground. He was parched, sweating, and exhausted. As he went along, he passed the local bank, a blacksmith shop, a livery, a grocer, and several taverns, but no hotel. When he felt on the verge of passing out from the heat, he approached a young woman for directions.
“Hotel?” she questioned. “We ain’t got no hotel.”
Carl felt a surge of disappointment. “No hotel?” he repeated. “Why not?”
The woman scratched her head. “Ain’t got much need for one ‘round here. Don’ get too many visitors.”
It made sense, Carl was forced to admit. A hotel in these parts probably wouldn’t get much business. “Then where am I supposed to stay while I’m here?” he asked.
“Ya could try ol’ Mrs. Jameson. She sometimes takes in boarders. Her house is right ‘round the corner.” She pointed the way.
Grumbling to himself, Carl turned and left. He found Mrs. Jameson’s house with no trouble and stepped onto the old, sagging porch. Still grumbling, he knocked on the door. A moment later, it swung open, revealing a frail, elderly woman with snow-white hair.
“Yes?” she asked, peering at him through a pair of thick glasses.
“Are you Mrs. Jameson?” he inquired.
The woman nodded. “That’s me.”
“My name is Professor Carl Garrett,” he continued. “And I’m looking for somewhere to stay. I heard you take in boarders on occasion.”
Mrs. Jameson took a moment to look the professor over, appraising him. “I do take boarders once in a while,” she finally said. “For a price. How long you plannin’ on stayin’?”
“A few weeks,” Carl answered. “And I’ll pay whatever you want. All I require is a private room with my own entrance.”
The old woman took one last look at her prospective boarder and then swung open the door, ushering him inside. “I’ll show you where you’ll be stayin’,” she said, leading the way down a hallway and up a steep flight of stairs. At the top of the steps was a door, which she unlocked and eased open. “Here it is,” she said, motioning him to follow.
Upon stepping through the doorway, Carl took a quick survey of the small apartment. It consisted of two large rooms connected by a short hallway. The first room, in which he was presently standing, served as a living area. It was furnished with two overstuffed chairs, a server, and a large, round table. Three of the four walls were covered with stained and peeling wallpaper, while the fourth was dominated by a large fireplace.
The other room proved to be a bedroom as evidenced by the large four-poster bed that filled it. Also contained within were a night table atop which sat a lantern and an old, battered wardrobe. The walls in this room mirrored those of the other, in that they were covered with wallpaper that had seen better days.
After looking the place over, Carl wasn’t thrilled, but he doubted his ability to find a more suitable place to stay in this forsaken town. “This’ll do,” he said to the old woman.
Mrs. Jameson nodded. “There’s an outhouse in back,” she informed him. “An’ you can use the rear stairs for your comin’s and goin’s.” She showed him a door down a short hallway just off the bedroom. “Leads right out to the back porch.”