Ballard and McCall 3

  He rode in as an innocent man – until they branded him a killer. Then they hounded him until he had nowhere left to run…

  But they made one mistake. They didn’t kill Jess McCall when they had the chance, and when he got mad enough he decided it was time to turn the game around…

  The big Texan had been beaten and shot at and called murderer. Now he was going to his pursuers the error of their ways. Now McCall was on a hunt of his own…

  COLORADO BLOOD HUNT

  BALLARD and McCALL 3:

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2016 by Neil Hunter

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2016

  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.

  Chapter One

  Jess McCall hung onto the single thought lodged stubbornly in his mind. At least they ain’t killed you yet, son. And while he was still able to breathe he figured he had a chance. So thin as to be transparent, but a chance. His body was aching from being dragged behind a horse and his clothes were starting to shred. There was a egg-sized lump on the back of his skull where the one of his captors had whacked him with his pistol, blood streaking his face from being hit and one idiot was still cackling like an old woman as he went on about how he was considering stringing McCall up and making sure he was dead before they hauled him into town.

  McCall’s forward motion stopped. He cracked one eye and looked around. From where he lay he could see the three horses belonging to the men who had brought him down and dragged him.

  He tried to make sense of the whole damned thing. It wasn’t easy. Bouncing and rolling on the end of that rope had shaken his senses until coherent thought was difficult. He forced himself to concentrate, ignoring the pain and fought to recall how it had all started…

  Then it came back to him.

  The burning man.

  That was where it started.

  A screaming, writhing human form thrashing around on the ground in front of McCall. One minute he had been moving through the Colorado high country, minding his own business as he headed through the timbered slopes, admitting that it was a nice place for a quiet ride. A good day, with the sun slanting through the timber. The air fresh and clean. The brush was thick and green. He could see why anyone would settle here. It was big, spacious, and quiet.

  That was until the burning man erupted from the brush just ahead of McCall. He was on fire from head to foot, his body enveloped in flame that ate at his flesh and clothing. For a moment McCall was frozen at the sight as the figure stumbled and crashed to the ground, rolling and squirming as he tried vainly to extinguish the fire. The sound coming from his throat was unnerving. It didn’t even sound human. A sound of pure terror ripped from the man’s very being.

  Snapping out of the moment McCall dropped from his horse and yanked at his blanket roll, freeing it from the strings holding it together. He shook it out, moving towards the burning man. He wasn’t even sure if he could do any good but he also knew he had to do something.

  He had barely reached the man when he sensed he wasn’t alone any longer. A quick glance and he saw three riders. They came boiling out of the brush, the leader a youngish man with a wild grin on his face. The ones behind him hard looking as they crowded the lead rider.

  ‘Mister, he don’t need that blanket,’ the man said, his grin widening. ‘Seems to me he’s warm enough.’ He burst into laughter, the sound high and shrill.

  McCall ignored him and swung his blanket, ready to drop it over the man on the ground.

  ‘I said leave him.’ The young man waved a hand at one of his partners. ‘Buck, convince him.’

  The one called Buck had already reached for the rope on his saddle. He uncoiled it with a practiced wrist and formed a loop. He pushed his horse forward, swinging the rawhide rope in McCall’s direction. McCall saw the loop dropping towards him and pulled back, letting go the blanket. He was too late. The loop dropped over his shoulders and tightened as the man called Buck snubbed his rope around his saddle horn and gigged his horse back. McCall felt the loop tighten, pinning his arms to his side. He lost his balance and went down, landing hard enough to knock his breath from his body.

  McCall felt himself being dragged forward, unable to even reach for his holstered Colt. The rope was kept taut and he knew he wasn’t going to free it anytime soon.

  ‘Get this hombre on his feet.’

  The third rider dismounted and stepped over McCall. He was a big man, wide shouldered, hair down around his collar and a straggling mustache adorning his upper lip. His expression was sullen as he kicked the Texan in his ribs. He reached down and pulled McCall’s Colt from its holster, tucking it behind his belt. Then he took hold of McCall’s shoulder and hauled him upright. No mean feat because McCall was six foot six and solid built.

  ‘All yours, Perry,’ the man said.

  Perry had stepped down, a long barreled Henry rifle in his hand. He was still grinning as he faced McCall.

  ‘Well, boys, looks like we got our killer here,’ said. ‘Caught in the act. Standing over poor Sturdevant and watching him burn.’

  ‘You know that’s a damn lie,’ McCall said, understanding what was happening here.

  ‘Three against one,’ Perry said. ‘That’s the way it is, boy.’

  The roper, Meers, leaned forward to spit tobacco juice. ‘Way I see it, Mister Culhane, why there we were riding peaceful like and we come across this feller attacking poor old Sturdevant. Lucky we showed up when we did.’

  ‘You see that too, Flag?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘There you go,’ Perry said. ‘We got you, mister, and that’s how it’ll go when we haul your carcass to town.’

  ‘Son, you got to get me there first.’

  ‘Roped. No gun. Seems to me things aren’t going your way.’

  The hell they aren’t, McCall decided, and without another thought he hauled off and kicked Perry hard between the legs. There was considerable force in the kick. Perry let out a high squeal, stumbling back. He dropped his rifle, both hands to his groin as he sank to his knees in pure agony.

  The moment he delivered the blow McCall knew he was about to pay for it, so he derived all the satisfaction he could from seeing Perry in real pain.

  Behind him, Flag snatched his pistol from its holster and used it to club the back of McCall’s skull, driving him down. Dazed by the solid blow McCall decided not to offer any more resistance. Even so that failed to prevent Perry, staggering upright, bunching his fists and punching McCall in the face a couple of times. Blood welled from split lips, spilling down McCall’s chin. He felt more coming from a gash in his cheek and from one over his left eye.

  Well, son, you at least got in one good shot.

  Knowing that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable.

  McCall wasn’t aware of falling face down. Everything got hazy then. When he cleared his mind as much as he could he realized he had his writs roped and he was being dragged along behind one of the horses and managed to wonder if the day could get any worse.

  Unfortunately for McCall it could and it did.

  Chapter Two

  Perry Culhane.

 
McCall would remember that name even if everything else got lost. He lay still, watching as they dismounted and stood together, having some kind of discussion. It was obvious Culhane was top dog. He acted and spoke like he was used to being in charge and the two others, Meers and Flag, were subordinates. Despite his uncomfortable condition McCall at least enjoyed seeing that Culhane was still suffering from the kick he had administered. The man moved slowly, slightly hunched over, and that at least brought a little sunshine into McCall’s otherwise bad day.

  Flag broke out stuff from his possibles sack. While he did this Meers gathered wood for a cook fire. It appeared they were in no hurry to keep moving. Culhane took out a tobacco pouch and rolled himself a quirley. Lit it with a burning twig from the cook fire and leaned his back against a tree.

  McCall picked up the sound of fast moving water and when he slowly turned his head he saw a wide creek behind the trees where Culhane was standing. He kept that in mind. He was searching for a possible escape route. When his chance came – when not if – McCall would take it. It made sense to him. He had no intention of sitting back and allowing his fate to be decided by someone else. Especially by the three fellers who had him momentarily at a disadvantage.

  Jess McCall was not the kind to meekly sit back and simply bemoan his bad luck. He didn’t have that kind of outlook. Which meant this Texas boy would find a way to get himself out this mess and bring misfortune to the simple sons who were figuring they had it all worked out. They would learn the error of their ways soon enough. McCall had been looking out for himself since his teenage years. That was the way it was on the Texas frontier. It was not a place for the tender hearted, or shrinking violets. A man had to stand on his own two feet and smite the other feller before he got himself smitten. Easy going in most circumstances Jess McCall could change quickly, and when that happened a Texas twister had nothing on Mrs. McCall’s boy.

  So while he studied the situation and worked on his escape McCall stayed quiet and still, not wanting to warn Perry Culhane and company what was going to come down on them when he made his move.

  In time Flag cooked a meal. McCall admitted the smell of frying bacon and hot coffee was tempting, though he doubted his hosts were going to offer him any. He watched as they helped themselves and hunkered down around the fire.

  If you’re going to do something, son, now is the time.

  He had been gradually working on the rope around his wrists. The rawhide had chafed his skin, making it bleed and if anything that helped. The blood softened the rawhide. Not by much yet enough for McCall to work at it. When the taut loops around his wrists suddenly slackened McCall stilled his actions. He glanced at the three men around the cook fire and picked up their talk.

  ~*~

  ‘…that damn Indian girl,’ Flag said harshly. ‘Her running off like she done. What if she talks to someone?’

  ‘Who?’ That was Perry himself. ‘Way out here who the hell is she goin’ to find? A squaw. And I hit her pretty hard. She ain’t in no condition to stay on her feet long.’

  ‘Ain’t as if we got time to go searching for her,’ Meers said. ‘Not in these hills. She could be anywhere.’

  ‘With a piece of luck she’ll fall off some drop and break her neck,’ Perry said.

  ‘Easy to say,’ Flag said. ‘What if she don’t? What if she shows up in town?’

  ‘On foot? All that way and hurtin’ the way she is? Ty, we got the only feller who saw us with Sturdevant and once we drag him to town and tell our story he ain’t going to have much luck on his side.’

  ‘I’m not so damn sure,’ Flag grumbled.

  ‘Jesus, you’re like some old woman. Look, ain’t no one in town to stand up against me.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We got the one who done it. We point the finger he’s got no chance.’

  ~*~

  While this discussion was going on McCall worked on his tied wrists, and after a few minutes, stretching the loops until he was able to slip his hands free he checked to see his captors were still relaxed as they talked over how they were going to drag him to town. He coiled the rope around him again in case one of them decided to take a look in his direction. He could feel the circulation returning to his hands, realizing he needed that to complete before he made any moves.

  The trio were obviously in no great hurry to carry on with their ride. McCall hoped that situation lasted. He took stock. Their three horses were tethered to a handy tree, with his own mount alongside. Making a run for his horse was not a sensible option. Even if he reached his mount he had to loosen the reins before he could get into the saddle and ride off. Even the slowest gun hand would have the time to get off a shot during that time.

  The creek was the best chance he had. If he could get into the water the flow would carry him away at a pretty fast rate. The idea sounded fine. The trouble was he had no idea what conditions he might find once he was in that water. Hidden rocks. Rapids. McCall dismissed the negative thoughts. Anything was better than remaining in the hands of the three miserable honchos who were bound and determined to put the blame for the death of the man called Sturdevant onto Jess McCall .

  He wondered briefly how it was a man’s luck could change so damned quickly. From a peaceable ride minding his own business, to being trussed up and dragged by men he hadn’t known existed with the promise of even more misery being piled on him. McCall didn’t spend too much on that. It had happened so all he needed to concentrate on was getting himself out this jam and to hell with anyone who got hurt in the process.

  His chance came when Meers stood and turned to go to the horses, where he opened a saddlebag and began rooting around for something. It took him away from the others, most likely only for a short time, but that was all McCall needed. As he tensed, ready to push to his feet, McCall saw Perry Culhane stand too, stretching his lean body to ease out the kinks from sitting. The man had his back to McCall. So McCall came to his own feet, pushing hard and broke into a run, ignoring the protest from his battered body.

  He covered the distance fast and came up behind the still seated Flag just as the man sensed McCall’s presence. Flag started to come upright, snatching for the pistol on his right hip, a yell forming on his lips. McCall hit him full on, the Texan’s weight slamming into Flag. The impact spun Flag off his feet and he fell face down across the cook fire, his yell turning into a scream of pain as he squirmed and wriggled, pawing at the burning embers searing into his flesh. McCall kept right on moving, his big right fist swinging as he came face-to-face with Perry Culhane. It thumped Culhane across the jaw, jerking his head around in a blur. Culhane fell back, stunned, blood forming on his lips. He stumbled to his knees. McCall paused for a fraction, snatching Culhane’s pistol from his holster, then kept moving, through the stand of trees that edged the bank of the creek.

  McCall caught a glimpse of the choppy brown water an instant before he went over the bank and into the creek. He sank immediately, managing to close his mouth before the icy water closed over his head and he felt the fierce grip of the current as it grabbed him and dragged him along. McCall didn’t fight the pull of the water. He let it take him. He managed to get his head clear and keep a grip on the pistol he had taken from Culhane.

  It seemed an age before McCall picked up the sound of shots. A couple came close, slapping the water only feet away. Then the creek took a wide turn and he was out of sight. McCall was rolled and turned, his body held in the grip of the water. More than once his head went under and he had to be certain to keep his mouth closed each time it happened.

  He felt the flow of the water increase. Moving faster. It became overpowering and now he was struggling to keep his head above the surface. It didn’t take him long to figure out why. The churning water started to show white foam as it bounded ahead of him and McCall heard a deep roaring sound. He understood what that meant.

  Rapids.

  The creek was dropping over a fall.

  He made an abortive attempt to swim to the side. It was
pointless. The strength of the fast flowing water was too much for him and before he knew it he was flung over the drop. He was lost in the mass of water. Was turned over and twisted from side to side. Gasping for air he hit the bottom of the fall and by some miracle his head broke the surface as the water carried him forward. McCall greedily sucked in precious air. As he was swept away from the fall the flow of the creek lessened and McCall found he was able to reach the bank. It was hard to drag himself out of the water where he lay on the slight incline.

  He had no idea how long he lay stretched out on the creek bank, the warm sun on his back. McCall became aware of something in his right hand and when he managed to turn his aching head he saw he was still clutching the Colt he had snatched from Perry Culhane’s holster.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered. ‘You were like to drown but you didn’t let go that damn smoke wagon.’ He managed slow chuckle. ‘Always look after the important things in life.’

  It penetrated McCall’s brain that Culhane and his partners might be searching for him. So laying around on the ground might not be the wisest way to see out the day. He pulled himself into a sitting position, which reminded him how much abuse he had already suffered. He figured Culhane might be aggrieved to a degree because McCall had managed to break away. The thing was just how much Culhane might be angry. McCall didn’t know him all that well, but from their short time together he decided Perry Culhane was the kind who would hold a grudge. It was plain to see the man liked his own willful way and would not be inclined to back off. Not especially when there was a witness to something he and his partners had done.

  ‘Hell, Jess,’ he said, ‘I thought it was going to be a nice day.’

  He stood, arching his aching body. Searching for a way to go that would take him away from Culhane and company. Choosing his path McCall set off, shaking the Colt in his hand to shed the water that had got inside. He worked out the .45 caliber bullets and wondered how badly they might have been soaked during his trip down the creek. The same went for the shells in his own belt loops. His curiosity got the better of him and he inspected Parry Culhane’s weapon. It was a nice piece of ordnance. Nickel-plated with ivory grips. Each grip had the letters P and C engraved on them. McCall wondered if it was a working gun, or simply one for show. He couldn’t see Culhane as a skilled gun. But he could be wrong. Maybe he was doing the man an injustice. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy doing that if the chance showed up.