Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15) Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  TWO QUICK DRAWS IN A BLAZING SIX-GUN WAR

  It was a vicious robbery, if there ever was one. A bunch of scummy gunsels had ambushed a Northwest and Canadian Railroad car, and left a pile of bodies in their wake. Detective Jim Bigelow figured it had to be Milo Paxton’s Gang; no other pack of pistoleros was so downright mean – or so dang slippery-footed. The Pinkerton man needed a pair of crack frontiersmen to capture the outlaws – or kill ’em – and bring back the loot. So he hired two hell-raisin’ whippersnappers names of Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid ...

  Lefty was a U.S. cavalryman’s son and the Kid was half-injun, yet they were closer than natural brothers. Together, they’d set out to find adventure. But hunting down twelve of the meanest men in the west not only put Lefty and the Kid on the deadly trail of hidden treasure, but plunged them into a six-gun war that’d leave gunsmoke and splattered blood on every one-horse town and mining camp from Kansas clear to Colorado!

  COLORADO CROSSFIRE

  By Patrick E. Andrews

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 15

  First Published by Zebra Books in 1989

  Copyright © 1989, 2017 by 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashwords Edition: April 2017

  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. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Dedicated to the Memory of Gui-Pah-Go

  And The Ten Medicine Bundles

  Prologue

  The two riders plodding down Helena’s main street were dog-tired and they looked it. Even a casual observer’s quick glance could have surmised that long weeks in the saddle had preceded their arrival in town.

  The pair’s clothing was dusty, smoke-stained, crusty with dried perspiration, and worn down to the final threads in elbows and knees. Their shoulders slumped and they looked at the world through red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes.

  One was tall and lean with dirty, straw-colored hair that sprouted through a couple of holes in his sugar-loaf sombrero. Angular and long in the face, he was just the opposite of his partner. The man who rode beside him was short, stocky, and muscular. The black braids he sported gave ample evidence of his Indian ancestry as did his darker skin.

  The tall one, an Irish-American named Lefty McNally, spoke out of the side of his mouth to the other. “Well, I just hope you’re satisfied, that’s all.”

  “Sure I am,” the Kiowa Kid replied. “We got money in our pockets, ain’t we?”

  “Hell, yes! Where were we gonna spend it out there chasing the Sioux around the countryside with that damn colonel on our butts ever’ minute of the day?” Lefty spat. “Go a-scouting for the army, you said. Some fine idea that was.”

  “All I can say is that we got money in our pockets,” Kiowa remarked.

  “You already said that.”

  “And that don’t mean nothing to you?” Kiowa asked. “Most o’ the time we ain’t got two coppers to rub together.”

  Lefty was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll allow how that ain’t a bad thing.” He frowned anew. “But what about all we put up with, huh? That was a pretty miserable life alright. We got wet when it rained, froze when it was cold, and blowed crazy when the wind kicked up. And that damn grub we ate was Godawful.”

  “It was good,” Kiowa insisted.

  Lefty pulled his horse to a stop and stared incredulously at his friend. “You call army salt pork and hardtack good!”

  “Sure.” Kiowa kept on riding.

  “Well, remind me to watch my saddle the next time you get hungry,” Lefty said. He kicked his horse’s flanks to catch up. “You’ll be gnawing on it next if you liked that chow they gave us.”

  “Will you simmer down?” Kiowa said. “That six months working as army scouts was just what we needed. We didn’t have no chance to get into trouble and—”

  “—and we got money in our pockets,” Lefty said. “But let me tell you something, old friend. If I was so damn crazy about the army I’d list in it like my pa.”

  “We got a grubstake,” Kiowa said satisfied. “Now we can settle in and wait for something good to come along without having to starve to death. I was thinking we might even do some prospecting. If we got lucky, the next time we come riding into some town, it just might be as a pair of real rich fellers.”

  “I ain’t thinking about that right now,” Lefty said. “All I want is to take a bath, have a drink, and get me a saloon gal for about an hour of fun.”

  Kiowa grinned. “Sure.”

  “There ain’t no sense in going farther,” Lefty said wheeling toward the hitching post in front of a saloon.

  “I thought you wanted a bath first,” Kiowa said.

  “I need to cut that dust and gravel in my throat before I do anything. I can’t hardly breath,” Lefty said. “C’mon. Let’s get a slug o’ rye whiskey or corn whiskey or whatever whiskey.”

  “Well, that might not be too bad an idea at that,” Kiowa said following him.

  They both dismounted. After tying their horses, the pair stepped up on the boardwalk and went through the batwing doors. Giving the other patrons only cursory glances, the weary travelers made straight to the bar. The other drinkers there looked at them for a few moments, then turned back to their own activity.

  “Whiskey,” Lefty ordered. “Two glasses and leave the bottle.”

  “I thought we was only going to have one drink,” Kiowa said.

  “As long as we’re here, we might’s well really treat ourselves,” Lefty said. “Then we’ll take a bath and come back for some purty gal.”

  Kiowa looked around. “I’ll allow how there is purty gals in here.”

  Lefty shrugged. “I don’t know. After all the time we been out chasin’ Sioux, any gal prob’ly looks purty to us.”

  The barkeep, a surly fat man in need of having the beard on his jowls trimmed down to a respectable stubble, remained leaning against the shelf holding his liquor supply. “We don’t serve Injuns,” he announced. “It’s the goddamned law and I’m in agreement with it.”

  Lefty jerked a thumb toward Kiowa beside him. “He’s half an Injun.”

  The barkeep sneered. “So I’ll only give him half a glass.”

  Lefty’s Irish temper flared. Without thinking about the consequences, he grabbed a bottle from a drinker next to him and hurled it at the bartender. The man whose whiskey container had been taken also acted out of instinct. He h
it Lefty so hard the young man staggered sideways into Kiowa. Both crashed into the other patrons, and all tumbled to the floor in a writhing, cussing, snarling mass.

  The bartender, ax handle in hand, leaped over the bar and took a swing at Lefty who was on the floor. The Irish-American managed to duck the heavy instrument, and it struck the floor beside him. Kiowa, who had managed to get into a crouching position, dived at the barkeep’s legs, knocking him down.

  The others involved in the fracas had now begun to punch and kick as they fought to get to their feet. Within moments everyone in the saloon was involved in the brawl.

  From that moment on, things got even worse.

  One

  Jim Bigelow winced as Mr. Edmond Terwilliger’s bellowing voice roared out at him from across the man’s desk.

  “What in the hell am I paying you people for?” Terwilliger thundered, his face reddening with emotion. “That goddamned Paxton gang is acting like the Northwest and Canadian Railroad is a delivery service for them.”

  Bigelow tried to bring a calmer atmosphere into the office by keeping his manner cool. “Believe me, Mr. Terwilliger, there ain’t nobody in the whole detective force that’s not just as concerned as you are about this situation.”

  “You and those men of yours had goddamned well better be!” Terwilliger roared. He was a portly man with large mutton chop sideburns and a shiny bald head that glistened with tiny beads of perspiration. “The stockholders aren’t going to keep me on as president of this railroad unless it shows a profit. Having our shipments delayed and looted on a weekly basis does not keep us in the black.” He growled under his breath as he angrily fished a cigar out of the box in front of him. “And neither does throwing good money after bad. And that’s exactly what we’re doing in paying you and your staff. And you can count on one thing. I guarantee that you and those detectives of yours will go before I do, Bigelow!”

  Terwilliger’s office reflected his personality. It was spacious and over furnished with heavy velvet drapes with thick fringes. Several ornate overstuffed chairs and a large sofa dominated the room as did his huge mahogany desk.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Terwilliger,” Bigelow said. He was a thin, intense man with a hawk nose and serious eyes. Wind burned and rangy, he obviously spent most of his time outdoors, but there was a controlled quietness about him. “And you’re wrong if you think we’re not concerned. Our professional reputations here are as much at stake as yours is. I got plenty of experience in this line o’ work. Let me point out to you that the problem faced by the NW&C Railroad is a particularly difficult one because of the countryside we’re operating in. The mountains make it easy for train bandits to make getaways. And it’s hard to trail them up into the high country, too.”

  “Then what the hell do you expect us to do? Give it up? Sell out? Cave in?” Terwilliger asked as he angrily puffed on the expensive cigar. “We worked too damned long and hard to do that. It took seven years of back break and heartache to get this far. Now that the last of the track is laid, it looks like we’ve lost after all. Is that what you think, Bigelow?”

  “Of course not, sir,” Bigelow said.

  “Can’t you at least stay with the damn trains and defend them?” the railroad president asked.

  “The Paxton gang is big, sir,” Bigelow pointed out. “Even if we resisted to the death, they’d still be able to pull off the robberies.”

  “So there’s nothing to be done, hey?”

  “Yes, sir. There is something. I’ve given the matter some long and serious thought and I’ve come up with a solution.”

  Now Terwilliger began to calm down. He had faith in the railroad detective. Bigelow had been there since the beginning, fighting Indians, rivals, and even the weather that had ranged from frigid blizzards to strength-sapping heat. But now it seemed the situation had gotten completely out of hand. “Very well, Bigelow. What’s your idea for bringing this situation to a satisfying and permanent close?”

  “Milo Paxton and his boys head for the high country and split up. They stay up there in that wilderness ’til they decide it’s time to pull another job.”

  “We know that,” Terwilliger said. “But nobody’s been able to find the rascals because they’re spread out all over the mountains. That sonofabitch has seen to that. Paxton’s a clever bastard and as oily as the main rod on a locomotive.”

  “Yes, sir. But there’s two fellows I know that can do what several posses have failed to do,” Jim Bigelow said. “And that’s to track Paxton and his bandits to their favorite haunts.”

  Terwilliger made an angry gesture by pointing his cigar straight at Bigelow’s face. “Why hasn’t this idea occurred to you before?”

  “It takes time to figure things out, Mr. Terwilliger. Things are complicated in a new territory.” He adopted an accusing tone. “And we never stay in one place long enough to really get to know it.”

  “We’re situated permanendy now,” Terwilliger said. “And all the facts are in.” Another thought came to his mind. “If the outlaws are hoarding the loot, do you suppose these fellows could also retrieve our funds?”

  “These boys can not only recover the money,” Bigelow said confidently, “but they can also bring back any surviving gang members.”

  “Seems like a big order for only two men,” Terwilliger said as a doubtful tone crept back into his voice.

  “Like I said, Paxton’s boys spread out between jobs,” Bigelow said. “They won’t have to take ’em on all at once. Just one and two at a time. Anyhow, to get ’em you have to know where to find ’em. Them boys I’m talking about know ever’ inch o’ that country.” He leaned forward. “There ain’t nobody better to get for the job, Mr. Terwilliger. And they’ve worked for us before.”

  “What? When?”

  “A coupla years back,” Bigelow said. “They hired on as hunters for the work crews to keep ’em supplied with fresh meat. Then they helped us out when the Colorado Shortline sent hired guns out to stop us.”

  Terwilliger puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for a few moments, staring through the cloud of smoke at the railroad detective. “It still seems like a hell of a long shot. We’ve sent some pretty big groups of armed men out to bring in Milo Paxton and his boys.”

  “This is the kind of job where two damn good men are better’n a whole herd of ordinary gunmen. Remember, the two I’m talking about are expert trackers and know the mountains,” Bigelow said. “And they’re dogged enough to stay at the job ’til it’s done, mean enough to do what killing is necessary, and honest enough to bring back all the money they find.”

  Terwilliger finally displayed a smile, but it was sarcastic. “But are they dumb enough to do it cheap?” Now Bigelow grinned. “Yeah.”

  Terwilliger laughed. “By God, Bigelow! We might just hire ’em. Who are they?”

  “Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid,” Bigelow said. “I don’t rightly know where they are at the moment, but I’m sure I can send a few telegrams around ’til I find out.”

  ‘Well, Bigelow,” Terwilliger said. ‘You’re finally making sense. Tell me more about these pals o’ yours.” He pushed the box of cigars across the desk. “Enjoy a good smoke.”

  Jim Bigelow helped himself to one, then began talking about the two young men known as Lefty and the Kiowa Kid.

  A dozen years before Terwilliger and Bigelow were having their conversation in the railroad president’s office, an event of historic significance had occurred at the army post of Fort Sill in Indian Territory.

  The great Kiowa Indian tribe, along with their Comanche brethren, gave up the brave fight and decided to travel the “White Man’s Road.” Those magnificent warriors, forced to bow to their inevitable fate, were moved onto a reservation between the Washita and Red Rivers in the vicinity of Anadarko.

  The Kiowas were characteristic of the plains Indians. Nomadic and without agriculture, they’d lived for generations in tepees, spending their time following the buffalo herds while carrying on th
eir traditions as warriors and hunters. Their final glory in that violent culture peaked after they acquired horses from the Spanish. It was as savage mounted troopers they had carried on their last fight against overwhelming odds. It broke their hearts but not their deep pride.

  There was also a strongly spiritual side to the Kiowa people. They fervently and deeply believed that they had a supernatural power which manifested itself in dreams and visions. Part of their religion was based on “Ten Medicine Bundles.” Their faith said these totems protected and guided them.

  The bundles consisted of items of animal, vegetable, or mineral origin that had appeared in the dreams or visions of respected warriors. If the medicine man deemed the occurrence of a truly spiritual and holy significance, the item dreamed of was placed in one of the ten bundles. Although any tribal member could have a bundle—or a smaller medicine bag to hang around his neck—those particular ten were specifically holy and were used in conjunction with the annual Sun Dance.

  That most holy of ceremonies was conducted after a period of fasting and self-purification endured by adult Kiowa males who desired to experience the dreams and visions considered necessary to guide the tribe. After the cleansing liturgy, those participating in the dance would do so around a sacred post until they fell into a trance. It was considered the highest of honors to have proven oneself holy enough to successfully perform the ritual.

  The names of some of the most fervent practitioners of the Sun Dance still live in the history of the Kiowa people: Gui-Pah-Go (Lone Wolf), Set-Tain-Te (White Bear), Zepko-Ette (Big Bow), Gui-Tain (Young Wolfs Heart), and Tay-Nay-Angopte (Eagle Striking With Talons).

  But even this deeply spiritual side of their makeup failed to save the Kiowas from the crushing inroads of civilization. Herded into the confines of a reservation, they came under the close scrutiny of Indian agents and the United States Army.

  One of the soldiers assigned to administer to the subdued Native Americans was Post Commissary Sergeant Terrence McNally. This professional soldier resided at Fort Sill with his wife Katy and their five children. The middle and most feisty of the children, was a twelve-year-old boy named Liam Norvall. With such a fancy Irish appellation, it was easy to see why he would prefer to be known by his nickname of “Lefty.” His father called him that because he was the only southpaw among the kids.