California Killing

Table of Contents

Credits

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

For H.P.T.

who ate breakfast “in the next town down the trail.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hollywood has created many myths

About the old west. The Town With

No Name in this Western is a myth.

Chapter One

T
HE
sun-baked California earth drank thirstily from the million pricks of storm rain that needled out of a low sky which was the color of twilight, even-though the time was not yet noon. At some points the trail through the valley was crossed by fat running washes as water sought escape from the hills and at others it dipped into near-morasses of mud. But the stage driver kept the team racing ahead at full gallop as he peered through the murk. Beside him the guard maintained a constant surveillance of the surrounding country, the barrel of his shotgun following the direction of his frightened gaze as he searched for something he hoped not to see.

There was a third man atop the rattling, swaying stage and the manner in which he rode, clinging frantically to the baggage straps and holding himself stiff so that he took the full impact of every jolt, showed he was not in his element. Dressed like the others, in a black slicker and hat held on by a chin lace, he wore the same brand of fear. But it was the dangers inherent in the headlong dash of the stage rather than any potential threat from beyond the curtain of the downpour which sparked the glint in his eyes and pulled his mouth into the line of grimace.

"You guys fearful lightning's goin' to strike you or something?" he yelled as the guard peered back down the trail for the tenth time in under half a minute. The scar-faced guard bared his teeth in a snarl as he cocked both hammers of the double-barreled shotgun and then jerked his hat brim lower on his forehead. "We're in the valley, Judd." His reedy voice was whipped away by the slipstream and lost in the hiss of teeming rain.

The trail took a curve around a grotesque cluster of saguaro and the driver had to whip even more speed from the snorting team. Judd watched in horror as the spinning wheels spewed up mud and the stage canted over the lip of a sharp incline with an expanse of shattered boulders at the bottom. But then the rims found adhesion and came out of the side-slip to gain forward momentum.

"Hood's valley?"

"That's what local folk call it," the guard yelled, unmoved by the close call as he continued to survey the terrain all around. Now another pair of eyes became watchful as Judd stared ahead, then to left and right, finally back down the muddy trail where the storm obliterated all sign of the stage's passing moments after it had gone. He was a short, stockily-built man of middle years with the burnished skin and gnarled hands of a manual worker. While one of those roughened hands continued to retain its strong grip on the baggage strap, the other reached beneath the slicker and curled around the butt of a double-action Remington holstered at his left hip.

"How far to the waystation?" he shouted.

The guard was leaning forward, concentrating on a point where the trail dipped and then rose to enter the narrow mouth of a gully. He didn't turn around as he answered. "Scheduled an hour from here. J.T.'s aiming to clip fifteen minutes off the run."

"There's ten dollars in it if he picks up twenty minutes," a man growled from inside the stage.

"Waystation ain't no Fort Laramie, the guard muttered. But the driver was encouraged by the pledge and cracked the whip across the backs of the straining team to send them, plunging at a terrified dash into the gully.

The sheer walls of rack on either side threw back and magnified the hoofbeats and creaks of the stage's progress: but the sharp crack of the rifle shot had a crystal clarity that for a stretched moment appeared to deaden all other sound. Then, as the guard spun in his seat, tossed his shotgun high in the air and fell sideways, corkscrewing to the sodden earth, his scream of agony had a frail tone against the background tumult. Judd began to draw the Remington, then let it rest in its holster. He saw the gaping hole where the guard's nose had been and in the next instant was blinded by the liquid warmth of the dead man's blood splashing into his eyes. Revulsion overcame him and he scrubbed frantically at his eyes with the heel of his hand, unable to concern himself with the implications of the sudden violence as he strove to overcome his horror at its touch.

The driver blinked, rain from his eyes and emitted a strangled gasp as he hauled on the brake, spotting the barrier of felled cactus stacked across the trail. The team, conditioned over many miles to haul their burden at the limit of their strength, took long seconds to adjust to the new demand. But the drag of locked wheels pulled them out of the gallop and the steady check of the reins finally bought them to a snorting, lathered standstill.

Six men, hatless and aiming rifles from the shoulder position, rose in unison from behind the prickly barricade, unmindful of the rain that plastered their hair across their brows and their shirts to their thick torsos. The driver began to raise his arms in surrender. Judd peered around him and drew in his breath. His left hand moved beneath his slicker.

"You got about one chance in a thousand, mister," a voice taunted, heavy with threat in the wet silence. "And I'm takin' side bets."

Judd snapped a glance to his left and saw two men approaching the stage with rifles aimed, one at him, the other at the window.

"Gamblin's a sin," another voice called, and there was a snort of laughter.

Judd looked to his right in time to see two more hold-up men close in. He clawed his hands into the air.

"Murder's a worse one," the driver hurled, turning to face the men on the left, one of whom was dressed in a stained frock-coat with brass buttons.

"You criticizing me, mister?" the frock-coated man demanded. He was not tall, but he was broad and appeared to have no neck so that his bald head, creased like old leather, with features which were dominated by protruding eyes, seemed to teeter at the center of his broad shoulders.

"You didn't have to blast Gus," the slack-faced driver insisted.

The aim of the frock-coated man's Spencer swung from Judd to the driver, whose raised hands began to tremble.

"You know who I am, mister?"

"You're Sam Hood. Gus was my partner. You didn't have to blast him."

"I don't know who you are, mister."

"Edson."

"Guy who used to ride the Pony Express?"

"What's it to you?" The driver continued to quake, but he kept his voice firm.

Hood nodded. "You and the other guy were real good partners?"

"The best."

"Best partners should be together," Hood said evenly and squeezed the trigger.

The driver screamed, taking the .54 caliber bullet in his bulbous stomach. As his body pitched out of the seat, blood erupting from the wound, Hood fired again and a bullet in the head killed the man before he hit the ground.

"Anybody else reckon to tell me how to pull a stickup?" he asked conversationally. He glanced first up at Judd and then into the stage. He drew only silence for reply and bobbed his head in satisfaction.

"Don't seem to be no women aboard, Sam," one of the men on the far side of the stage said, his voice a complaining whine.

Hood sighed and ran a splayed hand across his naked dome, as if straightening the long-gone hair.

"Maybe' there's compensation," he drawled. "If there ain't, somebody's in trouble. Let's move. Damn weather's playing hell with my rheumatics. Shoo 'em out from your side, Dayton. Any argument, give 'em a boost."