The Bounty Killers

by Paul Lederer

Overview

On the run from a bounty hunter, a bank robber searches for mercy

Billy Gillis waits on the street as his cousin Pearly robs the bank. Fresh out of Yuma prison, Pearly has not killed anyone since his release, but with each robbery the cousins pull, the former jailbird inches closer to murder. Young Billy thought he wanted an outlaw’s life, but after a few weeks on the run with his cousin, he feels panic creeping in. At twenty years old, he is too young to die.

A gun fires inside the bank, and Pearly races out—money in his hand and a dead man on the floor behind him. On the run from a murder charge, Billy and the gang ride like mad. Pursuing them is Big Jack Corrigan, a bloodthirsty bounty hunter who puts the dead in dead or alive. After his first taste of outlaw life, Billy Gillis wants to go straight. But Big Jack Corrigan might not give him the chance.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781480487871
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	05/27/2014
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	156
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known for Tecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.

Read an Excerpt

The Bounty Killers

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By Paul Lederer

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2007 Owen G. Irons
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8787-1

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CHAPTER 1

It wasn't much of a bank as banks go. Adobe bricks supported a flat plank roof. The front door was thick, but hardly intimidating. A good mule kick would have brought the whole structure down. The problem, of course, was the steel safe inside. Even that troubled the robbers only a little.

In a few minutes the bank manager would be arriving. He would open the safe for them. There is little a man won't do to co-operate when he has the muzzle of a Colt revolver nudging the back of his head.

The three men waited. It was cool in the inky shadows of morning. Seen by any passerby, Charley Stoddard would have seemed almost indifferent to the proceedings. The lanky robber sat against the night-chilled earth, his bony knees thrust up. The thin man had a bit of straw between his lips. He held the reins to his long-legged gray horse loosely with one hand and traced meaningless figures in the sandy soil with the other. His hat was tugged low, his demeanor deceptive. He was not indifferent, only vastly patient.

Billy Gillis offered a far different impression. The youngest of the three men by far, he was perspiring in the cool of morning. Each passing rider or wagon, no matter how innocuous, caused fear to surge through his body. He had hung his battered Stetson on the pommel of his dun horse's saddle and now and then ran his stubby fingers through his curly dark hair like a man in extreme agitation. This was far from being the twenty-year-old's first crime, but it was the most daring and brazen he had attempted.

The leader of the group was Pearly Gillis, Billy's much older cousin. Pearly had already robbed three banks across western New Mexico since his release from Yuma prison where he had done seven years for manslaughter, avoiding the noose only because his jury had been unable to decide who had drawn first in the brawl at Casa Grande. Pearly had not since killed anyone to Billy's knowledge, but in the deep-set eyes of the hawk-faced man one could always see the devil dancing.

Just now Pearly Gillis stood at the head of the alley studying the length of Adobe Falls's main street, its clutter of ill-built stores, saloons and stables, as coolly as if he were waiting to meet a friend, not like someone who was preparing to rob a bank.

'I think this is our man,' Pearly told the others without turning his head.

Charley Stoddard was to his feet as quickly as a cat, shifting the twin holsters he wore to a more purposeful angle. Billy's heart, which had been racing before, now rose to a triphammer rhythm. He watched his cousin with commingled dread and admiration. Pearly had no nerves at all, it had been said. The longer they rode together, the nearer Billy came to believing it. Strongly put together, sun-darkened and cool, Pearly was everything Billy wished to emulate. Yet he hadn't the 'stuff' his cousin possessed. Billy regretted having fallen in with Pearly now, but now it was too late.

'It's him,' Pearly said coldly, taking the reins to his leggy Appaloosa from Stoddard without glancing at him. Pearly Gillis's focus was on the slightly rotund man in a blue pin-striped suit, town shoes and derby hat making his way toward the front of the bank, fishing out his key chain from his trousers-pocket.

'We'll walk the horses over,' Pearly said, reminding them of their plan. 'Billy, you hold them outside. This won't take long.'

Moving through the pooled shadows of early morning, Billy glanced up at the raw, jumbled form of the lower Rocky Mountain slopes thrusting into the bright blue skies beyond the outskirts of Adobe Falls. His fear deepened with each step he took as they crossed the dusty street, Pearly timing their advance to coincide with the manager's arrival at the bank's green door. Pearly showed no fear, no anxiety of any sort. Maybe his long years on the run, in prison, in myriad gunfights had inured him to such trivial concerns. Pearly had told Bill that he expected to meet his Maker in a hail of gunfire one day. Maybe that sort of fatalism steels a man.

Billy did not want to go down like that. At twenty he expected to live for ever. Pearly had chatted up a few of the local residents in a barrelhead saloon and had become convinced that the town marshal, a man named Pollack, was not daring by nature, and would be unlikely to pursue any criminal beyond his jurisdiction. The county sheriff was located far away in Santa Fe. By the time he was even advised of the robbery, the Gillises and Charley Stoddard would have made Texas or perhaps Mexico, their saddle-bags filled with stolen gold.

The round man with the keys to the bank glanced up once from under the brim of his derby, apparently saw nothing to make him wary as Pearly approached him along the boardwalk, inserted the key into the bank's door and turned the knob. Billy saw Pearly thrust his boot into the door's opening, saw him hiss something into the banker's ear and saw him prod the little man with the barrel of his Colt Peacemaker.

Pearly Gillis's movements were abrupt but smooth. The banker saw Pearly's boot holding the door open, felt the rough jab of the pistol in his ribs, heard the bandit's coolly spoken threat, 'Open up or die here', and complied. The little man drew up enough courage from his internal resources as they entered the bank to splutter:

'What's this all about?' but he already knew.

'Open the safe,' Pearly ordered in his controlled voice.

'I will not!' the banker said despite the threat of the blue-steel Colt in the gunman's hand. Pearly slammed his fist into the banker's face, sending the pudgy little man reeling back against the wall.

'I don't have the time to play with you,' Pearly Gillis said with true menace. The muzzle of his revolver lowered slightly. 'I'll shoot your kneecap off, and if that doesn't convince you, I'll shoot the other one. You've five seconds to decide how you want this to go.'

The banker was not a coward, neither was he a fool. He knew that Pearly meant what he was saying. The dark, Apache features of the bandit made that clear. The prospect of spending the rest of his years as a cripple made the decision for him. Shakily the banker made his way to the green safe with its flourishes of gold curlicues.

Outside Charley Stoddard lounged against the wall near the bank's door. The green shade on the windows remained down, the CLOSED sign was still displayed. A local man, a sodbuster from the look of him, glanced at his watch, at the bank, shook his head and walked away.

Young Billy Gillis watched the mute-play with surging anxiety. He tried to calm the horses who seemed to sense his unease. He looked to the skies where a rising sun colored the spectacular mountain range with deep violet and crimson. Adobe Falls was awakening now. A shopkeeper was sweeping his section of the boardwalk opposite. A few cowboys, tired but happy with their previous night's celebration, straggled down the street on their ponies.

The gunshot from within the bank creased the silence of the early morning and Billy's head jerked around to see Pearly dashing from the bank, saddle-bags in his hand. Pearly tossed the pouches and their contents to Charley Stoddard who, once ignited, moved like a wind-driven brushfire.

There was no wasted motion as the lanky gunman caught the saddle-bags, secured them and swung into leather.

Billy moaned inwardly and shoved a shaky boot into his stirrup. Then, together, the three robbers spurred their mounts down the dusty gray street of Adobe Falls and out into the open country beyond, followed by three or four shots from some alert citizen's Winchester. None of these bullets came near to tagging them and within minutes they were out on to the broad red-rock country, riding free. By the time any townspeople could awake, rub their eyes, rush to their horses and saddle them, the outlaws would be lost in the vastness of the New Mexico desert.

'What happened, then?' Charley Stoddard asked Pearly as the three outlaws slowed their ponies, not wanting to run them into the ground.

'Little bastard had a pistol inside the safe,' Pearly answered.

Charley only nodded knowingly. Young Billy Gillis began to feel guilty, sick and doomed. Bank robbery was bad enough, but Pearly now had them on the run for murder.

An hour later the sun was still low and faintly colored as they crossed the vast expanse of sandy desert, littered here and there with black volcanic rock. The mesas to the north were a low line of dark land galleons looming against the crystal sky. Foothills lay ahead, desolate and stark, touched with the green of growth only at their lowest reaches. Billy glanced back constantly and although he saw nothing, no one, his anxiety continued to ride with him.

'Aren't we go to turn south?' he asked.

Pearly shook his head. Now trail-dusty, streaked with perspiration, his face was grim. 'No, Billy. We're bound for Arizona Territory.'

'But I thought …'

Pearly laughed harshly. 'I just spread the word around that I was bound for Texas to throw off any of those rubes who might consider looking for us after they heard about the bank robbery. Remember that, Billy,' Pearly said, fixing his dark eyes on his cousin's. 'Don't tell anyone the truth if you want to survive. A few lies can buy you miles – and years.'

They rode on in silence, their horses now settled into a walk as noon came and went. Although Billy knew that they could not ride the animals hard and long out on the empty desert, still his heart fought against this logic with spurring fear. He wanted to ride fast and hard, as far from Adobe Falls as his dun could carry him.

'I guess we should lay up at the springs for awhile,' the laconic Charley Stoddard commented after they had traveled another few miles. 'The horses can use some rest. There's no other water until we reach Camden Creek.'

Pearly Gillis only nodded. That had been his intention all along. Lay up at Bullhead Springs, unsaddle the horses, let them drink their fill and wait until the desert sun had lowered its head in the west. The flat landscape behind them would afford them plenty of warning if anyone was attempting to track them. That now seemed a remote possibility. Even had a posse been assembled and organized, most men quickly grew tired of a long, probably pointless trek into the wilderness. Their wrath would cool quickly as the miles passed.

The bandits were now entering the narrow pass carved into the Bullhead over the eons by the flowing river, and the shadows of the monumental bluffs fell across the dusty men and weary horses. Charley Stoddard knew the area well and he led the way as they zigzagged through the gray willow trees to find the silver rill snaking its way across the sandy bottom. Higher up on the walls of the canyon, red-blooming monkey flowers grew, and atop the ridge a shaggy lone pine stood sentinel.

They swung down wearily, unsaddled their ponies and drank from the cool stream. Then, settling into the shade cast by a tangle of thorny mesquite, where red ants filed their erratic way toward their colony and swarms of gnats bothered their eyes and nostrils, they rested. Billy sat with his knees drawn up, arms looped around them. His expression was pensive, gloomy even as Pearly and Charley Stoddard counted out the money they had taken from the bank. The paper money was arranged in thick, banded blocks and errant sunbeams glittered off the shimmering stacks of gold coins.

'Cheer up, why don't you!' Pearly said to his young cousin, slapping him on the shoulder. 'You're free and rich now. Nobody's going to find our trail, no one's going to track us down. We're in the clear, Billy.'

'What's the bounty?' Big Jack Corrigan wanted to know. He was seated in the green-leather chair opposite Marshal Kent Pollack in the latter's office in the Adobe Falls, New Mexico, courthouse.

Pollack lifted lazy eyes to those of the thick-chested bounty hunter. He was not fond of Corrigan, but he had his uses. No regular lawman was inclined to, nor could be expected to chase down outlaws across the thousands of square miles of southwest desert, leaving their own communities without law enforcement. Men like Jack Corrigan recognized no such boundaries, geographical or moral. A successful bounty hunter – those who did not get killed in their pursuits – could make twenty times more a year than a local marshal if he found his man. It was enough incentive for many to attempt it; only a few had the raw nerve and skills to survive. Big Jack Corrigan was one such man.

'There's a share of the stolen money, of course,' Pollack said. 'You'd have to ask the bank what they're offering.'

'I was asking about the bounty,' Jack Corrigan said in his usual bluff way. 'You never know if you're going to recover the money.' Pollack's mouth tightened; he had never liked Corrigan's manner. Maybe that was not important.

'Five hundred for Pearly Gillis,' the town marshal said. 'A dozen men recognized him.' He passed the wanted poster across his desk. 'You know Pearly?'

Corrigan nodded, tugging at his ear with broken-knuckled fingers.

'Slim Charley Stoddard is riding with him,' Pollack continued. 'Five hundred for Charley as well.'

'There were three of them.'

'Yes, well, all we know of the other man is that he's a kid, maybe still in his teens. Someone heard him called "Billy" in a saloon a few nights ago. He just held the horses for the robbers, but that doesn't matter in the eyes of the law, as you know – he was involved in the robbery and murder as well. The bank has posted a two-hundred dollar reward for him.'

'Twelve hundred for the bunch,' Corrigan said as he fingered his broken teeth.

'That's right.' In the days when the going pay for a ranch hand was a dollar a day, this was a considerable amount of money. The object of the game was to catch the outlaws as quickly as possible, freeing the bounty hunter for his next task. This particular bounty, however, did not promise to come easy. Pearly Gillis was no fool. He had been marauding in the territories for years; Charley Stoddard was a disgraced army scout who knew every inch of New Mexico and Arizona Territories.

Jack Corrigan rose abruptly and positioned his faded gray hat, which he had not bothered to remove for the interview. He had already made up his mind to accept the job. There was only one question left to ask as he tucked the arrest warrants into his leather vest's inner pocket.

'Dead or alive, is it then?' he asked.

Marshal Pollack nodded his affirmative. 'It was murder, Jack.'

Ken Wingate was waiting outside the marshal's office, his hat tugged low as he studied the streets of Adobe Falls. There was little to divert his attention, a hay wagon, a few barefoot kids with fishing poles racing through the town. A Mexican who looked to weigh at least 300 pounds was pushing a small cart laden with tamales and decorated with all sorts of shiny bangles.

The door opened beside him and Big Jack Corrigan emerged, looking satisfied. The two men walked uptown, leading their horses. Ken waited for Corrigan to start a conversation, but that wasn't the taciturn bounty hunter's way, as Wingate knew. There was a well in the center of town surrounded by lacy mesquite trees. A few women in striped skirts were drawing water there with their ollas. Corrigan angled that way, wanting their mounts well-watered.

'Well,' Ken Wingate said finally as the horses dipped their muzzles into the wooden trough beside the well, 'how does it figure, Jack?'

'Twelve hundred for the gang,' Big Jack told the sly little man. He wristed sweat from his forehead and leaned back against the hitching rail there.

'Not bad,' Ken said appreciatively. 'Four hundred apiece.'

'You're forgetting my son,' Corrigan said. Wingate had not forgotten the young splinter of a kid who, he had initially assumed, given time to ponder the reality of this lifestyle, would pull out. 'That makes four of us. Tabor gets his share – the same as you and Skaggs.'

'Hell, Jack,' Wingate objected, 'the kid's never even been on a bounty before. He's liable to be more trouble than he's worth! What if he can't bring up the nerve when it's time? You, me, Luke Skaggs, we know we can count on each other when the shooting starts, but the kid …'

'I said he's my son,' Corrigan said in that familiar stone-cold tone which meant that his mind was made up and this was the way things were going to be. 'He'll stand in a fight. It's in his blood.'

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Bounty Killers by Paul Lederer. Copyright © 2007 Owen G. Irons. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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