Death In Helltown
Authors: John Legg
Death in Helltown
by
John Legg
© Copyright 2016 John Legg
48 Rock Creek Road.
Clinton, Montana 59825
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-391-6
A Sample Chapter from Blood Trail by John Legg
Harlan Bloodworth rose and slipped smoothly back out of the circle of firelight when he heard horses coming. He eased the .44 Remington out of the cross draw holster but did not cock it.
Three horsemen edged up to the small camp and stopped. “Hallo the camp,” one said.
“Howdy,” Bloodworth said from the shadows.
“Can we set by your fire and mayhap get some vittles?
”
“Got none to spare.”
“Some coffee at the least?” An annoyed tone had crept into the voice.
“‘Fraid not.”
“Ain’t mighty neighborly,” the man said, voice now hard.
“Reckon not. But that’s the way things are.” He took stock of the speaker, the only one he could see somewhat clearly. He was a big man, though he was going to seed. He wore a battered, high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. A city coat stretched across wide shoulders. His face was florid and fleshy.
“Now, I suggest you boys ride on,” Bloodworth said.
“I don’t believe we will.” The two other men began easing their horses to the speaker’s left and right, putting a little distance between them.
To Bloodworth, it meant they were not just innocent travelers. He cocked the Remington.
And he suddenly pitched forward onto his face as a bullet punched into his upper back. “Damn,” he muttered as pain radiated out from the bullet wound and blood seeped through his shirt from the exit wound. He was still conscious, but barely, as men gathered around him.
“See if he’s got any money on him,” the original speaker said.
Someone rolled Bloodworth over on his back and rifled through his pockets. “Just a few greenbacks and a bit of coins.”
“Look through the rest of his things.” The man dismounted, Bloodworth could hear, and was soon pouring himself coffee. “He was right about one thing, boys—there ain’t much in the way of vittles or coffee.” He slurped some of the latter, then said, “Give over the money, Dougie.”
“C’mon, boss, I found it.” Dougie’s voice sounded injured.
“Just give it over. He got a gun?”
“A Winchester in a saddle scabbard,” another man said. “And two pistols—a real nice Remington .44 and a belly gun. Looks like a cut-down Colt. Same caliber.”
“Hand ’em over.”
From where he lay, half-conscious, Bloodworth tried to focus on the man in the firelight. It was obvious he was the leader, and Bloodworth wanted to fix the man in his mind for later—if he lived, he would find the man.
“Hell of a fine piece,” the boss man said, looking over the Remington. “This ain’t no cowpuncher’s pistol. This here belongs to a man killer.”
“You want we should go and finished him off, boss?” one asked.
“Let him lie there and bleed to death. Ain’t worth wastin’ another bullet on him when the first one’ll do. And if not, the coyotes or wolves’ll get him. Saddle up his horse and let’s get goin’. We can be in Dodge before long.”
** ** ** **
Bloodworth woke, or at least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem at all real to him that a woman would be bending over him, speaking to him. He could not quite understand what she was saying. Then a man loomed into view, and the woman spoke to him. The next thing Bloodworth knew, he was being lifted by the man and was placed in the back of a small carriage. Then the blackness came over him again.
** ** ** ** **
Bloodworth swam up from unconsciousness slowly, but eventually became aware that he was in a soft bed in a comfortable room. He rotated his head gingerly. To his left was an overstuffed chair and behind it, on the wall covered with flocked wallpaper was a picture of a grassy meadow and a bright blue lake. Left of the picture was a door, closed now. Straight ahead of him was a bureau and next to it his pants hung on a hook. His boots were on the floor beneath them. To his right was a window framed by lacy curtains. Through it he could see blue sky. Near on his right was a chair that matched the other and next to the bed, against the wall was a small table on which sat a pitcher, basin and a towel.
“Reckon I’m gone over the divide,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Ain’t no other way I’d wake up in such a place.”
He tried to push himself up, ready to test his theory. But a moan involuntarily slipped out of his lips as pain tore through his shoulder, both front and back. Beads of sweat appeared unbidden on his forehead, and he sank back into the plush pillow. “Damn,” he mumbled, breathing heavily. “Reckon I ain’t in heaven, but it can’t be hell neither.”
The pain began to ease, and he let himself drift off to sleep. When he opened his eyes next, a woman’s voice said, “So you’re awake finally.”
He turned his head left. A woman rose from the chair. She was tall and would be considered handsome rather than beautiful. Bloodworth figured her to be about forty. She was well clad in an elegant gray dress with some kind of fancy needlework trim. Her hair—russet though touched with a flecking of gray, was done up in some sort of bun.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like hell, to be blunt, ma’am,” Bloodworth croaked.
The woman smiled. She walked around the bed and poured some water from the pitcher into a glass. She held his head a little up from the pillow and allowed him to drink, then set his head back down.
“Better,” Bloodworth said.
“Good.” She set the glass on the table.
“How long have I been here?”
“A bit over a week.”
Bloodworth grunted. “How’d I get here?”
“My man put you in our buggy and we drove you here.”
“How…?”
“We were driving along and George saw your fire. We didn’t see a horse or anyone around, so we stopped. Then we spotted you lying there. When we realized you’d been shot, so brought you back to town here.”
“Why?”
“You needed help,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You always pick up wounded strays and bring them home?” Bloodworth was confused. She seemed like a fine lady, one with some wealth and, he assumed, position. And likely a prominent man for a husband.
She smiled. “Not every day. But on occasion. Well, this was the first time, really. But we could tell you had been shot in the back, which doesn’t sit well with me. Even if you deserved to be shot—and I have no idea whether that is true—your would-be assassin should have done so from the front.”
Bloodworth nodded, sending a jolt of pain through him, but he conquered it right off. “And what does your husband think of it?”
“I am a widow.”
“I’m sorry,” Bloodworth said haltingly. “I didn’t know. I just figured…”
“You couldn’t know, of course.”
“My apologies nonetheless.”
“Thank you, Mr. …?”
“Bloodworth. Harlan Bloodworth. And you?”
“Edith Wickline.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“And I yours.” Edith smiled. “I know you must be wondering how you are faring. Well, Doctor Shelby says you’ll recover just fine, though it might take some time before you are truly back to your old self.”
“Good to hear,” Bloodworth said honestly.
“Do you think you could eat?”
“I might could a little.”
Edith nodded and left the room. She returned soon, followed by a broad-shouldered man and an attractive young woman carrying a tray on which sat a steaming bowl.
Much to Bloodworth’s chagrin, he had to be partially held up by the man—Edith’s servant, George; Bloodworth learned later that his last name was Smalley—while the maid, Hope, spooned rich, thick broth into his mouth. He didn’t eat much, but what he had felt good going down. And then he fell asleep again.
This time Hope was sitting there when he woke up. She smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get something and be back directly.”
“Don’t bring George with you.”
Hope’s eyes widened, but there was a flicker of pleasure in them that surprised Bloodworth.
“I’ll manage to sit up by myself,” Bloodworth said firmly.
Hope nodded, seeming to understand. While she was gone, Bloodworth struggled to sit up, back against the bed’s headboard. It took tremendous effort, and left him white-faced and sweating. He was glad, though, that he was settled by the time Hope returned.
Afterward, Edith entered the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Some.”
“Are you up to a visit from the marshal?”
Bloodworth considered saying no, falling back on his weakness from his wound, but he knew he would have to face the lawman sooner or later, so he figured he might as well get it over with. “Reckon I can see him,” he finally allowed.
Edith left and moments later, a man wearing a tin star on his collarless, striped shirt entered the room. He was thin and not very tall, but he was wiry and had an air of confidence and fearlessness about him.
“I’m Marshal Redmon. You’re Harlan Bloodworth?”
Bloodworth raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Redmon almost smiled. He learned back against the door. “What happened, Mr. Bloodworth?”
“I was settin’ by my fire a few miles outside of town, mindin’ my own business when some fellers come up and asked to join me. I didn’t have much to offer so told them to move on. Next thing I know, I’m back shot by somebody. That’s the last I remember till I woke up here.”
“So you never saw who shot you?”
“Nope.”
“You know who it was come along and asked to share your fire?”
“Never saw ’em before.”
“Think you’d recognize ’em if you saw ’em again?” the Marshal asked.
Bloodworth hesitated, wondering how much he should say. He fully intended to hunt down the men who had done this to him. He didn’t want the law getting involved. “One of ‘em, maybe,” he finally said. “But I ain’t sure. It was mighty dark and my fire was small. We didn’t spend a lot of time chattin’.”
Redmon glared at him, and Bloodworth knew the Marshal was pretty certain that Bloodworth was lying, or at least not telling all the truth. “Well, if you do see any of ’em, I’d be obliged if you was to let me know. I’ll arrest ’em and make sure they stand trial. I don’t want no vigilantes in my town.”
“I’ll keep that to mind, Marshal.”
Redmon continued to stare at him for some seconds, then turned and left.