The Hunter (Reuben Cole Westerns Book 2)

Book summary

The second book in this western series by Stuart G. Yates explores the early years of Reuben Cole, a young ex-army scout renowned for his tracking skills. Determined to uphold justice, Reuben relentlessly hunts down lawbreakers in the Old West, becoming a feared figure among those who dare to challenge the peace and order of the frontier.

Excerpt from The Hunter (Reuben Cole Westerns Book 2)

Chapter 1

The Mid-West, 1875.

On that final morning, Charlie, as he did most days, dug through one of the several vegetable patches which punctuated the fields around the sides of the family home. Soon, if these latest crops proved as successful as the last, he would begin to expand cultivation into entire fields. He’d brought with him the plough he’d always planned on using in his smallholding back in Kansas. The prospect of hitching it to a team of strong horses and cutting furrows in this good earth was at long last a very real one. Closing his eyes, he paused in his toil and allowed himself a moment to dream a little, relishing the thought of establishing a fine working farm. Already the wheat was doing well and soon there would be potatoes and any number of Brassicaceae. His was not a labour of love, but one born out of necessity – without these crops there would be no food for his family to eat. Failure meant they would all die. This land, sprawling untouched and uncultivated, had to be tamed if it was to give up its undoubted treasures. Life in Kansas proved restrictive, with increasing bureaucracy hampering opportunities to truly thrive. The opportunities out west were continuing to attract those willing and able to put in the effort to succeed. So, determined to fulfil his aspirations, Charlie packed up his wagon and headed west, with his wife Julia, their two sons and fourteen-year-old daughter. It was a journey they should have made years before but, now that they were here, the future looked bright. All he would need to do was continue his labours until completed and the fields made ready. So, with muscles already screaming, he sank the spade deep into the soil and turned it before dropping to his knees to attack the weeds with a short-handled fork.

From inside one of the log cabin’s two newly built rooms, still smelling sweetly of freshly hewn timber, the sound of his wife singing drifted across to him. He smiled. Back in Kansas, she had sung in the church choir, and he knew how much she missed her time there. But she had always been supportive of his ambitions, her quiet strength bolstering him whenever he floundered in self-doubt.

On the far side of the wheat field, his two sons were busy erecting the fencing which separated their land from the endless plains beyond. Half a dozen years previously the constant fear of attacks by marauding Comanches meant that such endeavours would not be possible. Now, safely interned in their reservations, the Lords of the Southern Plains no longer posed a threat. Recently news filtered through that Apaches continued to fight against government forces down in southern Texas, but everyone felt assured that within a short time even they would be safely penned in. Murmurings of continuing problems in the far north made little impression on those settling on the land bordering New Mexico. Perhaps it should.

The fork hit something hard and unyielding so Charlie returned to using the spade, easing the blade underneath a stubborn rock and levering it from the soil’s embrace. He took a moment to drag his arm across his brow but did not allow his exhaustion to dampen his spirits. Soon the whole family would be working on the harvest, bringing to an end their first successful year of farming. As if to underline the good fortune with which they were all blessed, daughter Amber came drifting by, beaming broadly. “Morning, Papa,” she said, her voice as pretty as she herself. Charlie grinned his response and returned to using the fork on his assault of the weeds.

Amber went over to the well and carefully lowered the pail into the dark depths. From inside the log cabin the sound of Mary, his wife, singing at the top of her voice made this day something beyond special.

A distant noise, more of a squawk than a human voice, caused Charlie to raise his head. Frowning, he thought he saw movement on the horizon. Dust, the first indication of riders. He hauled himself to his feet, blowing out his breath loudly. Constant bending and straightening were taking its toll on his joints, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect family life. He focused in again on the smudge of brown billowing in the distance. Definitely horses. Who could they be? He’d heard rumours of disquiet amongst some of the Indians on the reservations, a yearning to return to the great days of the past, when the Comanches roamed this land before being forcibly ejected. Surely the days of senseless violence were now gone, buried along with the many hundreds, if not thousands who had lost their lives on both sides? Disquiet was leading to outbreaks of fighting in the north as the discovery of gold meant many more white folks would be encroaching upon Indian territory. He gave up a little prayer of thanks that he’d brought his family to the relative calm of New Mexico. Establishing a small-holding back east had given him enough skills and knowledge to turn his hand to full-blown farming and it looked, finally, as if things were turning his way.

“Pa, Pa, for God’s sake, get inside!”

The two riders were now fully in view. They weren’t Indians but his two sons, riding as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at their heels, beating their horse’s flanks with their hats, both boys red-faced, grimacing. “Pa, get the Winchesters!”

Charlie couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. He stood and watched, slightly bemused, as the boys brought their stampeding mounts to a grinding halt, hurling themselves from their mounts before they fully stopped, and racing into the cabin. He heard his wife shout, “Boys, take off those filthy boots, I don’t want—”

“Pa?”

Charlie turned towards the sound of his daughter’s voice. She sounded afraid and he looked at her standing beside the well, the pitcher full, water slopping over the brim. She was staring open-mouthed at something beyond his shoulder. As he went to follow her gaze, an arrow struck her in the throat and she fell in silence, a look of abject horror on her pretty face. He knew she was dead before she hit the ground, but this knowledge didn’t help galvanise him into action. Instead, he stood rooted, unable to react. He heard the thundering of approaching hooves, could taste the acrid tang of horse sweat at the back of his throat, but his limbs failed to respond. Realising outsiders were invading his land, hell-bent on destroying everything he held dear, he somehow managed to tear his gaze from the nightmare before his eyes and noticed the semi-naked warrior leaping from his still running horse, to smash into him. Flaying about beneath the frighteningly powerful Indian, Charlie did his best to ward off a strike from a flashing hatchet. But even as he squirmed and gripped his attacker’s wrist, a burst of fire erupted in his side. The Indian whooped in triumph, spittle drooling from his mad, grimacing mouth, brandishing the knife which dripped blood. Charlie’s blood.

From somewhere, rough, strong hands were gripping him by the shoulders, dragging him across the ground. He heard a gunshot, screams. His wife’s screams. Cries and groans of pain.

Those who held him pulled him into the interior and he saw, through a mist of pain, his handsome, strong sons being disembowelled, his wife pawed and slapped, bleating warriors filling his once beautiful home, their nakedness an abomination to his eyes.

They hauled him to his feet and forced him to watch. At some point within the horrors enacted around him, he lost consciousness, only to be punched awake again, grinning faces looming close, hot blades slicing through his flesh. Dear God would it never end as those monsters danced and yelped amongst the blood.

Long afterwards, the white hunters despatched those few warriors who dawdled behind their comrades. Cougan paid for the intervention with his life and they buried him along with the others. Sterling Roose said some words but Reuben Cole, who stood in the yard and peered in the direction of the fleeing Comanches who raced away with Charlie’s stolen horses, barely heard a word of it. “I’ll do to them what they did to these poor folks,” he said through gritted teeth and rolling tears. His partner Roose sucked in a breath. “We’ll need to report back to the troop,” he said, voice distant, all of the strength wrested from it.

“You go,” said Cole, reloading his rifle. “Tell the Lieutenant what happened here and get a squad to scout in a wide arc, warning other homesteaders what could happen. In the meantime, I’ll head ‘em off. Catch me up as best you can.”

Cole went to move away but Roose held him back by the arm. “You can’t take them alone, Reuben. For pity’s sake…”

Cole levelled his gaze upon his companion. “You bet your sweet life I can, Sterling.”

With that, he strode back the way he had come, untethered his horse, and mounted up.

Roose watched his friend leave and knew that for those fleeing warriors all the furies of Hell would soon be visited upon them. He’d seen it before and knew all too well what Reuben Cole was capable of.

As he stood, his eyes never leaving Cole’s slowly diminshing form, he remembered the first time it had happened and a shudder ran through him as the memories stirred around in his mind. Having seen it before, he thanked God he would not be a witness to what Cole would do when he caught up with those Comanche raiders.

Chapter 2

Some years earlier

Hyram Clay was a big man, slow to anger, but also slow in reactions. The first punch cracked into his jaw despite it being well telegraphed, and he staggered backwards, impressed by the weight of the blow and the size of the black man moving in closer towards him.

“I’ll not stand your insulting anymore,” said Cougan, flexing his shoulders, slamming a right fist into Clay’s ribs. The big man’s breath rushed out from his mouth and the left cross put him down on the floor where he sat on his backside, staring in dazed disbelief at the blood dripping in between the cracks in the wooden boards.

“Darn it, he sure is something,” said Sterling Roose from where he sat, long legs stretched out under the card table. The two men opposite, cards held close to their faces, barely muttered a reply. Around ten or so dollars was spread out across the tabletop before them and neither man was willing to take the chance of any of it going walkabout.

“That Clay had it coming,” continued Roose, almost to himself now. “A more arrogant, self-serving individual I have yet to meet.”

“Cougan’s an ignorant bastard,” said one of the card-players unexpectedly, thumbing through his hand. “I would prefer it if he were the one spitting teeth.”

“Me too,” said his companion, frowning at his own hand. “I’ll see your fifty-cents and raise it another fifty.”

“Shoot,” hissed Roose, glancing down to the empty space next to his elbow. All of his money was gone and a quick glance at his card-hand confirmed he would have been looking at a tasty win if he had the means to cover his opponent’s bet. He threw down his cards. “I’m out.”

“Shame,” said the man opposite, grinning as his partner covered the stake and laid down his cards. “A pair of sixes.”

Giggling, the other spread out his own hand and beamed. “Two pairs.” Roose groaned inwardly. He could have beaten either hand. He looked up to see Cougan taking Clay by the throat, lifting him to his feet. A thrust of his bull-neck and his forehead connected with Clay’s nose, the audible snap of bone sending a tremour through Roose’s scrotum. Clay screamed and Cougan slammed in a swinging left hook and it was all over, Clay crumpling in an unconscious, bloodied heap on the barroom floor.

A hand pressed down on Roose’s shoulder, causing him to jump in alarm. His hand was already reaching for the Colt Cavalry at his waist when he saw who it was and immediately relaxed.

Reuben Cole settled down in the chair next to his friend. “You’re tense.”

“Just been watching Cougan take that ape Clay apart, so I was a bit preoccupied.”

Nodding, Cole stared at the large black man who, having felled Clay, was now busily rummaging through the man’s pockets. “Seems like it was something of a grudge.”

“Both of ‘em are mean.”

“And dangerous.” Cole cast a caustic eye over the two card players opposite. “Sterling, Captain Phelps wants to talk to us about some rustling going on close to the border. Army horses. He’s not impressed and wants the perpetrators brought in and hanged publicly in the fort parade ground.”

“Should make a great spread for Harper’s Weekly.”

“Interestingly, I think he’s planning on just that very thing.”

“Full of laughs is our Captain Phelps.”

“He’s full of stomach acid and a vicious razor-rash across his neck. He therefore ain’t in the best of spirits.”

The two of them left the bar, noting Cougan moving across to the counter to order a large whisky with the money extracted from Clay’s breast pocket. No doubt more trouble would soon follow.

Kicking the dust off their boots, the two scouts mounted the steps to the captain’s office, nodding to the guard outside. The young private stiffened, twisted his body and gave a light rap on the door. A gruff voice from within invited his visitors inside.

It was a large, well-ordered office, smelling of oak and cigar smoke. The oak came from a broad desk and several cabinets arranged against the walls. The tobacco aroma wafted from the fat cigar Captain Phelps chomped on as he bent over a large map spread out in front of him. He wore a well-creased grey shirt, uniform trousers held up by wide braces. On his chair, hanging from one arm, was his army jacket. As the two scouts moved closer and brought their heels together, he scrutinised them under his heavy brows. A big man, rumour had it he had once fought the heavyweight prizefighter Tom Allen. His broken nose and heavily scarred face gave the story some considerable weight.

“Gentleman,” said the captain, waving them closer, “we have a situation and we need to get it sorted as soon as is physically possible.”

The two scouts moved up to flank the broad-shouldered officer. The map covered the northern part of New Mexico and its border with Colorado.

“Beyond Willow Springs,” continued Phelps, “is a half-abandoned trading post, one of many along the old Santa Fe trail. It was recently converted to a water station for the railroad. Just over a week ago, a locomotive pulled in to top up its boiler. Coupled to it were three U.S. army carriages, with around thirty or so horses being brought down from Denver. There was a small detail of soldiers guarding the cargo as nobody thought anyone would dare hijack it.”

“But someone did,” said Cole.

“There were six guards. Four were shot and killed, a fifth wounded. The sixth, a weassly private by the name of Parrott managed to get away and raised the alarm. He made his way here and got himself patched up. It’s a miracle he did what he did or we may not have known about the theft for weeks.”

“Was he badly hurt?”

Phelps shrugged. “Don’t know and I don’t care. It’s the horse-thieves the government want, Cole.”

“What about the train driver?”

Phelps blew out a thick bloom of smoke and straightened out his back, his gaze settling on Roose. “They shot him too, together with the stoker, and the brakeman.”

Frowning, Roose looked down at the map. “Indians?”

“I doubt it. The reservations have not reported any breakouts.” Phelps clamped his teeth down on the cigar and looped both thumbs through his braces. “These are a bunch of ruthless individuals who have run off with Army horses, with a view to selling ‘em. We believe they’re running them down to the Mexican border.”

“To sell them to the Mexicans?” Roose shot a glance towards Cole. “Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? What could thirty horses bring? Two hundreds dollars a head, if they is thoroughbreds.”

“Oh, they’re more than that Roose,” said Phelps. “They is breeding stock. Stallions. What you have here is the basis for a regiment of the best-damned cavalry mounts this part of the world has ever seen.”

Roose whistled. “No wonder the Army want ‘em back.”

“They want ‘em back, but they want the men who did this even more. You’re to bring ‘em in, alive, for a hanging here at the fort.”

“Hold on,” said Cole slowly. “They is clearly no bunch of amateurs and they must have had some inside information to have known the train was full of prime breeding stock.”

“Indeed,” said Phelps.

“So how many men are we talking about.”

“Our witness said there was at least ten of ‘em.”

“Ten. Killers.”

“Seems that way.”

“And you want us to go up against ten, armed and very capable desperadoes?”

“Can’t think of anyone else who’d succeed in such an endeavour, Cole.”

“Well that’s mighty gracious of you Captain, but how in Hell do you expect us to bring ten such individuals in alive?”

“I’m giving you six good men, Cole. All you need do is pick up their trail and hunt ‘em down.”

“I see…” Cole thought for a moment. “So, this survivor, the one named Parrott, he knew which way they went?”

“Roughly.”

“You don’t suspect him of being the insider, Captain? I mean, it sounds incredibly fortuitous that he should survive, knows how many there were and which way they went.”

“God’s good mercy, Cole. That’s what it is.”

The interview over, Cole and Roose stumbled outside into the blinding sunlight. Squinting towards one another, both of them blew out long sighs. Cole was the first to speak.

“Did you believe a single word of that hogwash?”

“I’m not sure what to believe, Cole. The captain, He’s…” He shook his head, eyes downcast as if he were reluctant to meet Cole’s frosty gaze. “You’ve known him longer than most.”

“At a distance, Sterling. I’ve never broken bread with him, nor never felt the urge to do so.”

“Why not?”

“Rumour has it he was with one of them renegade squadrons that ran wild with Anderson over in Kansas during the War. I heard him talking about Jesse James once, how he’d met him, became something of a friend. Makes me wonder if a man like that could ever turn his hand to legal matters.”

“So, you knew him, back in the War?”

“Let’s just say, I learnt some things, most of ‘em unsavoury. After the War, I know he joined the army somehow managing to keep his past something of a secret. But he has a big mouth and has been known, during periods of drunkeness, to spout off about Anderson and James. When I was with Terrell hunting down those bushwackers, I never did come across him. That was later.”

“Jeez, Cole, you think he’s involed in something illegal … like stealing horses, for example?” Rubbing his chin, Roose lost himself in thought for a moment. “Maybe it was him who put Parrot up to it?”

“Who knows. All I know is, orders is orders and as long as we are in the employ of the United States Army, that is what we do.”

“Yeah, but can we trust him?”

“Trust ain’t got much to do with it, Sterling.” He blew out a long breath. “If we can pick up the horse-thieves’ trail, and the men we have riding with us are good, then we might just—”

“Cole, regardless of who comes with us, It’s a suicide mission.”

True. Putting aside what you just said, if Parrot, this so-called insider, gave the thieves information, He’sbound to know who the thieves are. We catch up with him, we”ll know who we’re going up against.”

“They was probably provided with all kinds of securities, like a small army of Federales waiting to give them a helping hand.”

“Federales won’t cross the border.”

“True enough, but how are we to stop them horse-thieves before they cross the Rio Grande?”

“By talking to the man who gave them the information in the first place.” He sniggered. “We don’t have to be geniuses to work out who it was.”

“I think You’re right – It’s Parrott, the surviving soldier. I thought that when Phelps first mentioned him, but how could a lowly soldier have that sort of information? And even if he did, how could he be sophisticated enough to brew up such a plan in the first place?”

“I believe you’re right, Sterling, but, as I said, I also believe he will be able to point us in the right direction, so let’s pay the doc a visit and see how bad Parrot’s wounds were.”