Trouble Rides a Fast Horse--A Frontier G-Man Novel Read online

  A tall, thin man in a long black coat and top hat stood in the basket. A broad grin spread over his clean shaven pinched face. Clayton assumed this must be Professor Deke.

  Jack could hear the eloquence of the distinguished looking elderly man in a gray swallow tail coat standing at the podium in the center of the gazebo as he rode by, reining the big black behind the standing crowd and watching quietly from his perch aboard the big stallion.

  Periodically, the crowd would roar with approval or applaud with agreement. Jack, patted Regret on his sleek ebony neck and listened.

  "In a moment, ladies and gentlemen," the speaker spoke in slow deliberate eloquence. "I shall introduce to you, Matt McCall, the engineer in charge of the irrigation project. He will give you a full report on the progress of his study." He pointed toward a tall middle aged man, in work clothes, sitting with two other finely dressed elders behind him.

  Jack's keen eyes, roamed the crowd methodically, noting everything and everybody. Only one person in the crowd attracted his attention. A young blond haired man of medium height and slight build stood off to the side at the rear of the crowd. He was staring in Jack's direction, thumbs hooked in the cartridge belt of his low slung holster on his right hip.

  Jack wished he had paid more attention when he had first run into the four bandits at Sand Flats. He couldn't remember what the young blond haired bandit had looked like, but he certainly was of the same build, age, and coloring as the man before him.

  "Thank you, Mister Mayor," Clayton heard the man in work attire say as he stepped up to the podium. There was applause and the man started to speak, but Jack was not paying attention. The blond kid was swaggering toward him, a cocky smirk on his face. Jack leaned back in his saddle, stiffened and braced himself for trouble.

  The young man continued his approach, slowly, steadily, deliberately. The G-Man readied, watching every move with intensity. The kid stopped directly in front of Jack and Regret. He smiled wryly, his feet spread shoulder distance apart, his thumbs still hooked in his pistol belt. He just stood there a moment looking straight ahead at horse and rider. Jack remained silent. Then the kid spoke. "That's quite a cayuse, you've got there, Mister," the boy said casually with admiration in his voice. Jack relaxed a bit. "Yessir, that's the finest black stallion I ever seen. You entering him in the race?"

  "Race?" Jack quizzed.

  "Yeah," the kid said . "You are here for the race, aren't you?" His tone was pleasant and not at all threatening. "If I had a horse like that, I'd be in it. There's a hundred dollars prize. Cost you twenty to enter though."

  "Afraid not son," Jack answered. "I'm just passing through. Saw all the excitement and was curious. So I just stopped to watch a bit."

  "Too bad," the kid said. "I'd bet you'd win. Say that's not a bad idea," the kid added. "I would bet on you. Split the winnings with you. We'll get good odds, everyone will be betting on Marci Matson's big sorrel."

  "Sorrel?" Jack thought. "Matson?" That was Matson range he had been ordered off of. Was that Marci Matson with the rifle?

  'This Marci Matson," Jack asked. "Do you know her?"

  "No, sir," the kid answered. "But every body's talking about her and her horse. They say he's the fastest horse around here. But that horse of yours looks like he could give it a good run."

  "Well, kid," Jack said, the applause of the crowd and the rhetoric of the speaker, only background noise. "This old boy is my friend. I take good care of him. I don't run him or push him when it's not necessary."

  The boy shook his head. "Sure wish you'd change your mind."

  The crowd roared again and then was drowned out by the roar of gunfire and the thunder of hooves. The kid spun around on his heels. "What the....?" he started. Clayton jerked his head up with a startle to see the trio of riders spurring their mounts at a full gallop through town and firing their pistols into the air, just to make noise.

  Regret stamped and snorted, chomping at his bit, kicking up turf and dust. Clayton pulled back on the reins to restrain him.

  The crowd screamed and started to run in all directions, pulling their children with them or gathering them up in their arms, to avoid the onslaught of the impending riders as they forced themselves into the throng of spectators.

  The rider in the lead guided his mount to the gazebo and actually tried to force it onto the platform. The dignitaries on stage fell back toward the back railing, trying to escape the assault.

  Such wanton behavior and recklessness without regard for human safety could not be let go unchecked, Jack would have thought if he had taken the time to think. He merely reacted. Lessening the restraint he had place on the big black, Clayton let him catapult forward, just missing the kid that darted out of his way just in time, at the same time snaking his lariat from the saddle, twirling it twice and letting it fly.

  It caught the rider at the gazebo, looping over the man's broad shoulder and pulling tight as Regret dug his hoofs into the ground as a trained cow pony would after its rider roped a calf. The rider fell over backwards out of the saddle and landed with a thud on his broad back, grunting with surprise as the wind was knocked out of him.

  The rider behind him reacted quickly and spun his horse around to see Clayton, but too late. Jack had already dropped the lariat to the ground, wheeled Regret and plunged into the rider. Jack slipped his boot free of one stirrup and kicked the man in the kidney, pushing him out of the saddle onto the ground.

  "Look out!" The warning rang in Jack's ears, followed by two gunshots so close together they almost sounded as one. He wheeled the big stallion again toward the crash. The bee like sound of a buzzing bullet whipped past him, close to the cheek.

  As he pulled Regret under control, he could see the third rider sitting on the ground, clutching his right shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers, his fallen pistol lying in the grass beside him. The young blond haired man who had shouted the warning to Jack, stood over the man. His pistol was pointed inches from the man s face, smoke wisping from the warm barrel.

  Thanks, Kid," Jack said, nudging Regret close beside him. If this was the kid he had been trailing, why would he have sided with him and prevent the man on the ground from shooting him in the back?

  "Couldn't let him shoot you," the kid grinned. "Lucky, I was in time."

  “Yes. Lucky,” Jack thought to himself. This kid is fast, quick thinker and good with a gun. Not a man to cross.

  The fleeing crowd, realizing that the disturbance was already over, was starting to drift back, curiously watching the aftermath. The two men, Jack had grounded were flailing about in the grass, trying to get up. A stocky middle aged man with a star on his vest was pulling the roped man to his feet and two other townsmen were attending the other man. The Mayor and the three men from the gazebo were hurrying across the grass toward Jack. The Mayor was gushing with an oily smile.

  "Thank you, thank you, stranger." His pudgy arm outstretched as he waddled forward.

  Jack swung out of the saddle, got his footing and reached out to grasp the oncoming paw, which shook his enthusiastically.

  "It's a good thing you stepped in when you did, Mister. It all happened so fast we didn't know what to do. The whole town is in your debt, sir." Then he added with gush, "Please tell us who you are, my good man."

  "The name's Clayton. Jack Clayton. Just passing through. Stopped to watch awhile. When I saw the ruckus, I just sort of horned in."

  "Well, it's a good thing you did," the Mayor repeated.

  "I didn't do it all myself," Jack said modestly. "This young man, here, saved my bacon. He kept that one," he pointed to the man on the ground, who was now being lifted to his feet by a citizen deputy. "From shooting me in the back."

  "And who are you, son?" the Mayor asked, turning to the kid, offering his hand, which the young man conspicuously didn't take. The mayor pulled his hand back, rubbed his fingers together and let it drop to his side. "I don't believe, I've seen you around here before, either." He prompted an answer to his ori
ginal question.

  "Andy Fane," The kid said. "Heard about the competitions. Thought I might take a crack at some prize money." Jack noted the name, although it was not familiar to him. The kid was probably alright, he decided.

  "Good for you, boy. Hope you have luck." The Mayor chuckled. Then turning to Clayton. "Please excuse my manners, Mister Clayton. I'm afraid I didn't introduce myself properly. "I am Simon Kane, the Mayor of Promise. These gentlemen with me," he waved his arm as if presenting them. "Are Matt McCall," Jack already knew his face, although it appeared more cold up close and the man stared at him with a questioning keenness of interest. He reached out and shook the man's bony hand. "Abner Blodgett, President of our local bank," the mayor continued. Blodgett was a little plump, and graying at the temples, but^appeared congenial. "And Rod Blake. He owns the Rafter B and is president of the local cattlemen's association."

  Blake stepped forward and offered his hand. He was a tall, angular man and moved with the air of confidence and authority. A bushy gray mustache, spread across his narrow face.

  "Those men work for Hank Beldon," Blake explained. "The one you roped is Rafe Carver. The other two are Pete Tanner and Herb Sharpton. Sharpton is the one your young friend here, winged.

  "Who is this Beldon, you spoke of." Jack asked. The Matson girl had accused Clayton of being one of his gunmen.

  "He's the biggest rancher in the area," Blake explained. "He's been dead set against this irrigation project. Doesn't belong to the cattlemen's association, even though he does have the biggest spread around."

  "I did notice the range around here is a little dry. What's he got against the irrigation project. Water is good for everyone." Jack said.

  "That's the problem," Blake said. "He's got water, but he doesn't want anyone else to have any."

  "Where is he getting his water?" Jack asked.

  "The head waters of Deer River are on Beldon's Diamond B spread. He's dammed it up and lets only enough water through that we can afford to pay for. Between the lack of water and the rustling that's been going on here, we've all lost cattle, especially me." Blake continued.

  "And Beldon's herd has been growing. It would be easy for him to turn a Rafter B into a Diamond B," Abner Blodgett interjected.

  "Now Abner," Blake chastised. "We don't know that Beldon's into rustling and I won't accuse any man without proof."

  "You're too kind, Rod," the banker whined. "Just the same, I know what I know."

  Blake ignored him. "We decided that with irrigation, we could bring our water in from Lake Doria and Beldon could just sit on his infernal dam."

  "Are you aware," Jack said. "That it's illegal to dam up the river. You can have the government force him to open it up."

  "We've asked the government for help, but none has been forthcoming, so we decided to rely on ourselves." Blake said.

  As a government agent, Jack knew he could ride up to Beldon's dam and have it opened up, but that was not what he was here for. Besides, he never liked to reveal his identity as a government man unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps, when he wrapped up his current business, he could request to be sent back here or at least have another agent dispatched. He hated to turn away from trouble when he saw it and he could see trouble brewing that could be erupting into a full scale range war here.

  "Well, I guess you know what you are doing," Jack added with disinterest, which Matt McCall seemed to notice with a hint of skepticism hiding behind his forced smile. "Good luck to you with the project. Nice meeting you, gentlemen," He started to turn toward Regret.

  "You're not staying for the competitions?" the mayor asked. "There is prize money to be earned. Besides, the entrance fees go into the irrigation fund. We've already told you what a good cause it is. We've raised nearly twenty thousand dollars already."

  "And I'm keeping it in my bank," Blodgett added proudly.

  Jack couldn't help but notice a hint of sudden interest cross Andy Fane's young face.

  "Well maybe I will stick around for a little while anyways." Clayton mused. "I'll just wander around and see what might interest me."

  "Fine. Fine." Kane gushed. "Again, let us thank you."

  "No need, gentlemen. Good day." Jack tipped the brim of his black range hat, turned on his heel and pulled the reins, turning Regret's head and urging him to follow him across the field toward the picket lines.

  He was thinking about the town's problems, about the man he was seeking and about Andy Fane and the irrigation fund money, as he strode across the field.

  Suddenly, his reverie was interrupted as the roar of wagon wheels and the pounding of hooves. Then it was upon him. He jumped back a step, pulling Regret with him, as a team of horses, pulling a buckboard whizzed past him. The startled black horse, reared and snorted, stamping a small circle in the dirt as Jack tried to restrain him.

  The buckboard had rushed by him, as if he wasn't even there. "What th....?" Clayton oathed in surprise. Then as he regained his bearings, he recognized the reckless driver.

  Blond, curly hair flew straight back from her head in the rush of moving air created by the fast ride. The driver was the same girl who had driven him off the Matson range earlier that day. But now she was wearing a man's red and blue plaid cotton shirt and jeans. She still wore the same pistol belt about her trim waist. A brown range style hat hung, by a strap, down her lithe back. Beside her on the bench of the buckboard was an elderly lady hanging tightly to the seat rails to maintain her balance as she swayed with the slewing wagon.. A large black Sombrero covered most of her graying, short cropped hair and was tied in place by a strap cinched beneath her sagging chin. The years had added pounds to the lady, filling out her large white blouse and brown divided riding skirt. A magnificent sorrel stallion, tied behind the rig, trotted easily behind the speeding wagon.

  This must be Marci Matson, Clayton thought. And this must be the horse Andy Fane had told him she would be racing. Jack knew this was a fast horse for he had been trailing it for the better part of two days. He was positive this was the same horse that the blond haired young rider had ridden. He looked down at his feet and saw the same star marked horseshoe prints that he had been following. Again, Jack wished, he had paid more attention in Sand Flats. Could it be possible that the kid he had been pursuing was in fact a girl? Marci Matson?

  Whether the girl had recognized Clayton and deliberately tried to run him down, Jack did not know or perhaps she was just arrogant and reckless. Probably the latter, but quite possibly, both.

  The girl had parked the buckboard in the area next to the picket lines and had hopped off the seat and was loosening the sorrel's tether by the time Jack reached the buckboard. The elderly lady was climbing down from the seat.

  "Let me help you, ma'am," Jack said in a low, pleasant drawl and reaching up toward the woman."

  She threw him a scornful glance and waved a hand toward him with annoyance. "I'm not so old, young man, that I need a young whipper-snapper to help me." She swung herself around to step down from the wagon, pushing her plump round rump into his face.

  Jack stepped back a pace, a little chagrined and absent mindedly touched the brim of his hat. "My Apologies, ma'am," he muttered.

  The woman turned, threw Clayton a scornful glance and pushed by him. "Hmmph," She grunted.

  "You don't take a hint very easy, do you Mister?" Marci Matson said leading the sorrel next to him. "I told you once before today. We don't like Beldon gun-hawks around here." Her free right hand moved close to the pistol butt in its holster on her left side in a cross draw position.

  "I told you before, Miss," Jack said, a bit of a plea in his tone. "I am not one of this man, Beldon's, men."

  "You can believe that ma'am," A voice from behind said. Andy Fane stepped forward. "This man just treed three of Beldon's men and sent them packing off to jail."

  Marci let her eyes stray slightly away from Clayton and saw the lanky cowboy step forward. He was smiling broadly in a roguish sort of way, and Marci could not help
but notice the man's clean cut appearance and confident, if not somewhat cocky air. She tried to keep her eyes cold and hard, but behind them was a sense of soft admiration for the young stranger. Then she flashed her dark eyes back to Clayton. Her hand relaxed a little from the gun butt.

  "He's right ma'am," Jack drawled. "I did have a run in with those boys. This fellow here," he indicated Andy. "Is Andy Fane. Saved me from one of them, by putting a slug into the man's shoulder. My name is Jack Clayton. I'm just passing through. I don't know what is going on here, but it sure looks to me like you have good cause to be on the prod for this Beldon, whoever he is. I assure you I have never met the man."

  "Well, now is your chance, young man," the older woman said. "Here he comes now, with Sheriff Hackett and his top gun Burl Ryker. That's his young whelp on the appaloosa." Jack noticed a softening change in Marci's eyes as she glanced at the approaching riders.

  She seemed to wince at the elder lady's remark about the younger Beldon.

  The four riders reined up in front of them. "Kate, Marci," the tall, lean man on a fine looking bay acknowledged. He looked very distinguished and dressed rather handsomely in frock coat, striped pants and shiny high stove pipe military boots. His eyes were flinty gray and matched the handle bar mustache beneath his hawk like nose and the shock of hair that appeared beneath his Cavalry hat.

  To Beldon's right, astride a rangy dun, was the plump man with the sheriff’s star, that Jack had seen earlier gathering up Beldon's hellions. And next to him was a big grubby, rough looking man. Dark stubble covered his round jowly cheeks and his clothes were dirty and slovenly. A large black handled Colt .44 rested on his right thigh, a little forward for quick access. His dark eyes were strange, piercing but blank. To his right, a dark haired young man atop a magnificent looking appaloosa stallion, sat uneasily in the saddle. His blue eyes fixed, somewhat wistfully on Marci Matson. She averted her eyes and tried to conceal her interest, but Clayton noticed it and so did Andy Fane.