Wild justice, p.1
Wild Justice, page 1
Wild Justice
When five men, led by notorious killer Ernest Jones, flee from a posse, they cause untold havoc and destruction. After killing a farmer and ravishing his daughter Gwendolyn, they flee. The ordeal has left Gwendolyn with a thirst for vengeance and, concealing her gender, she rides out in hot pursuit. Finding a job with Sheriff Humphrey Quigley, Gwendolyn is persuaded to infiltrate the Jones gang in order to deliver them to the sheriff and to the gallows.
But violence and death dog every step as Gwendolyn fights to survive among the brutal outlaws, whose motto is shoot first and fast. Can she keep her identity secret long enough to bring these thugs to justice?
By the same author
Caleb Blood
Wild Justice
P. McCormac
ROBERT HALE
© P. McCormac 2012
First published in Great Britain 2012
ISBN 978-0-7198-2375-6
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
This e-book first published in 2017
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of P. McCormac to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Chapter 1
‘Pa, someone’s coming.’
Gwendolyn pushed back her hair and shaded her eyes as she peered out past the corral. She observed the dust cloud in the distance as riders spurred towards their homestead. From the amount of dirt kicked up she surmised there were at least half a dozen of them.
Percival Caruthers heard his daughter calling and paused in his work. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was a hot day as was every day once summer began. The naked sun burned remorselessly as father and daughter laboured on the smallholding, each at their separate tasks; he trimming the hoofs of his ancient mule, while Gwendolyn washed and chopped vegetables for the evening meal.
Gwendolyn was working by the well. She had propped a board on the sod wall of the well and diced up the turnip and jerky for the pot. She could feel the sweat breaking on her body and damp patches showed on her armpits and on the small of her back. When she was satisfied with the broth she would take the heavy iron pot inside the house and place it on the stove where it would slowly cook. The resulting glutinous mess would be dished up with fresh-baked sourdough bread.
Percival Caruthers came and stood beside his daughter and looked out at the dust cloud. He was a lean man, not old but aged by the hard life eking a living from his smallholding. His grey hair was long and hung untidily around his ears and neck.
The Caruthers had so few visitors the activity out on the prairie was a source of curiosity. So they stood together, father and daughter, and watched the dust thrown up by the horsemen approaching their humble dwelling not knowing that this day their lives would be changed forever.
On they came, five men pulling up their tired mounts in a cloud of dust. The men looked weary, worn-out and travel-stained and not showing much friendliness. They sat their horses by the corral and looked over at the pair in the yard. Hard to tell if they were glad to arrive or just too fatigued to summon the energy for a greeting.
‘Howdy, fellas,’ Percival Caruthers called out. ‘You need water; we got a good well. Just help yourselves.’
There was no reply but the riders dismounted and one by one hitched their mounts to the top rail of the corral. As they stepped across to enter the yard and approach the couple waiting to meet them they were slapping at clothing sending small puffs of dust floating into the still, hot air.
Percival Caruthers had a small niggle of unease as the men approached. The strangers had dour unsmiling faces but the most disturbing thing about the gang was the amount of hardware they were toting on their persons. Without exception all had six-guns strapped on their hips and some had bandoleers of ammunition slung across their chests.
Gwendolyn was intrigued at the sight of so many men suddenly appearing out of the blue and descending on their lonely farm. Visitors were rare. The occasional drummer or wagons on the way through to a new life further west was about the extent of new faces seen around the smallholding. So the sudden influx of five strangers was a mild excitement for the young girl.
Gwendolyn had just turned eighteen and still had the body of a youngster not long out of puberty. Hard work and poor fare had kept her body slim and boyish so she had still not developed the breasts and hips of women in a less straitened way of life.
So exacting was the work she had been doing almost from when she could toddle as she helped her mother at the various tasks a frontier woman must accomplish that Gwendolyn’s body was as wiry and strong as any boy of similar age. She stood with all the innocence of an adolescent girl and watched with interest as the five rough-looking strangers approached.
‘You alone here?’
The man that spoke was the oldest of the group; his skin leathery and wrinkled with a slash for a mouth. The voice was coarse and roughened as of a man who had smoked his way through countless sacks of Bull Durham.
‘Why, yeah,’ Caruthers answered. ‘There’s just the two of us. We ain’t got much but you’re sure welcome to share what we got.’
There was a slight quiver in Caruthers’ voice as he began to feel the first twinges of unease. Indeed there was something intimidating about the behaviour of the five men. There was no greeting and other than that question from the older man while his companions maintained a brooding silence staring sullenly at the farmer and his daughter.
‘Mike, look inside.’
A heavily built man with a broad face adorned with a partial beard on his chin and upper lip broke from the group and stalked across to the house. As he approached the open front door he pulled a pistol before disappearing inside.
‘What’s all this about, fella?’ As he spoke Caruthers stepped forward a pace so his daughter was behind him as if wanting to place himself between her and these strangers who were making the air cold with unspoken menace in spite of the hot sun. ‘We ain’t got nothing worth stealing if that’s what you’re after.’
The old man’s eyes slid past the dirt farmer towards the girl standing behind him.
‘My men have been riding hard. We ain’t stopped riding for three days. I guess we’re entitled to a break afore we have to set off again.’
‘Mister, you’re welcome to water but beyond that there’s nothing here for you or your men. As soon as you’ve watered up I want you to ride on.’
‘The place is empty like he says.’
The burly man was standing in the doorway still holding his pistol awaiting further instructions.
‘Ernest, that young filly looks ready for breaking.’
‘Yeah, I reckon she’s got enough sauce in her for all of us.’
‘OK, I’ll keep watch. But I think we lost that posse long days back. Take her in the house.’
They were talking amongst themselves without regard as to whether the girl or her father might have any objection to their actions; as if the girl was an inanimate object with no say-so in the matter.
‘Yippee!’
They surged forward, their erstwhile tiredness forgotten. Like a startled animal or bird frightened at the sudden onrush, Gwendolyn instinctively stepped back, her eyes wide with panic as she saw in the eyes of these rough newcomers an expression that frightened her.
‘Damnit to hell. . . .’ Percival Caruthers raised his arms and his voice. ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?’
A shot rang out and the farmer staggered back clutching his bloodied chest.
‘Pa!’
Gwendolyn screamed as she saw her father stagger back and lean drunkenly against the well. She jumped forward to assist him but a pair of brawny arms wrapped around her, halting her forward movement. Rough bristles chaffed her neck as the man’s face nuzzled her.
‘It’s all right, honey; just you come in the house with us.’
Without a backward glance or a twinge of conscience at the devastation they had visited upon the little family these brutal men mounted up and filed out of the yard to continue their journey.
For long moments nothing stirred in that yard or house. The sun beat down on the man sprawled in the dirt, his shirt dark with blood. Inside the house the young woman lay on the floor barely conscious. Then the flickering of awareness began to seep through the dark mists that blotted out the pain and humiliation of her ordeal. Life guttered back into that ravaged body at first in stuttering sparks of pain and undertones of terror.
‘Noooo . . .’ the sound sighed from her ruined lips, but consciousness like a great beast lurking with opened maw awakened and the world of pain and nightmare cruelly bared itself to that delicate creature so brutally abused.
‘Pa . . .’ she called feebly as memory returned along with the agony. ‘Pa. . . .’
Even as the pain grew along with her awareness she knew her father’s need was greater, for she had witnessed the callous action as the leader of the bandits gunned him down.
Gwendolyn struggled to her feet, donned her torn shirt and pulled on her pants to cover her ravaged body. She staggered to the door and lent against the frame peering out into the yard fearing what she would see. A moan of anguish broke from her as she saw the bloodied form of her father stretched upon the dirt.
‘Oh, Pa . . .’ she whispered hoarsely then stoppe d.
Percival Caruthers looked like a dead man and watching over him was another presence in the yard. A vile and sinister shape perched atop the well.
Chapter 2
The head of the vulture turned and beady eyes regarded this new creature smelling of blood that had appeared in the doorway. Even as Gwendolyn watched, a shadow glided across the yard and another bloated shape landed near the body of the farmer.
‘Get away,’ Gwendolyn called hoarsely.
The huge birds of death gazed back at the girl, sensing her weakness and marking her for their next meal. There was an almost silent movement and a third evil bird flew into the yard. Gwendolyn looked round for a weapon. The only thing she could see was the broom she used for sweeping the floor of their little house.
She picked it up and in her weakened state it felt heavy and unwieldy in her hands. Holding the broom before her she ventured out to do battle with the vile birds.
‘Shoo,’ she called and waved the broom.
The carrion eaters shifted uneasily. Reluctantly the evil trio retreated before the girl. And then their bravado evaporated as Gwendolyn found her voice.
‘Go away! There is nothing for you here!’
And they went, flapping awkwardly with their huge wings, glaring balefully till they were airborne. Discarding her impromptu weapon Gwendolyn dropped to her knees beside the outstretched the body of her father.
‘Pa, Pa, I’m so sorry.’
Ignoring the blood on his shirt she put her arms around him and wept bitterly. Great sobs racked her body and she sobbed for herself, and for the terrible thing that had happened to her father. And in the midst of her grief there was a faint whisper from the man. Gwendolyn grew still.
‘Pa.’ She put her hands on his cheeks and gazed Ernestly into his face. ‘Pa.’ There came again a faint sigh and Gwendolyn placed her ear against his bloody chest and discerned the faint heartbeat. ‘Oh thank God, you’re alive.’
Gwendolyn knew the first thing she had to do was to get her father into the shade of the well. The girl was of slender build but this belied a strength she had built up from the hard work she had to do on the smallholding. Chopping wood, carrying heavy pails of water, hoeing vegetables and ploughing the fields had endowed her with strength far beyond her town-bred sisters. Even so, weakened by the cruel ordeal at the hands of the outlaws she found it no easy task to drag her father the few yards into shelter.
‘Pa, don’t die on me. I’m going to make you well again.’
She went back to the cabin and brought blankets and cotton cloths and tried to make her father comfortable. Then she began the harrowing task of unfastening his blood-drenched shirt exposing the wound in his chest. Steeling herself against the sight of the blood she drew a pail of water and began the arduous task of cleansing the wound. But first she carried water inside and set it to heat on the stove.
Tenderly she washed his upper body and while she toiled she talked to her injured parent.
‘Pa, I hope I’m not hurting you. I’m being as gentle as I can.’
Gwendolyn worked steadily, trying to ignore her own hurts as she laboured over her father. Gently she swabbed away the bloodstains from around the wound, a small dark and sinister hole in her father’s chest.
‘Just you hold on there, Pa. You’re going to be fine. You know I can’t run this farm on my own. We’ll have to plough the fields soon for planting the wheat.’
Gwendolyn placed clean pads across the wound and sat back on her heels, regarding her work.
‘Pa, I’ve got to get you turned so as I can see if that bullet has gone through and patch you up some on your back.’
It was harrowing work to get her father on his side. She cut the shirt away to save the distress of trying to remove the garment from the unconscious man. To her consternation she could see no evidence of an exit wound. She sat there staring at the bared skin and then noticed a small protrusion with dark bruising around it. Reaching out she gently probed the lump with her finger. The swelling was hard with no give in it.
‘Pa, I think I’ve found the bullet. It ain’t gone through but I think it’s there just under the skin. I reckon I’ll have to cut it out.’
As Gwendolyn walked across the yard to the house her legs trembled beneath her. She tried to ignore her own injuries. Inside the house she had to resist the temptation to go in the bedroom and crawl under the covers and never have to come out again.
Kettles of water were steaming on the stove and she filled a basin and dropped in a thin sharp knife. For a moment a wave of weakness almost overwhelmed her and she had to rest her hands on the table to stay upright.
‘Gwendolyn, Pa needs you,’ she whispered. ‘He’s lying out there with a bullet in him and you got to be strong and dig it out.’
Back outside again Gwendolyn set the steaming basin on the ground and knelt. For a moment as she contemplated what she had to do, she closed her eyes and a wave of faintness swept through her.
‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I can do this.’
She raised her eyes to the incandescent sky with that remorseless sun.
‘Dear God, if you are up there, help me do this. I can’t do it on my own. I need your help.’
Chapter 3
Darkness had fallen on the little homestead. Faint yellow light seeped out from the humble house made of sods that had been dug from the prairie by Percival Caruthers and his wife, Lorna, who had assisted him at the tough labouring involved in building a home in what was a wilderness. Lorna had been with child when they finished the house. Her daughter was born in that lonely place but Lorna had only five years of motherhood to enjoy before succumbing to illness one severe winter when the cold bit hard and killed humans as well as animals.
Inside the cabin Gwendolyn stood naked beside a tub of water from which rose faint wisps of steam. Ignoring the pain of the wounds inflicted on her delicate skin she scoured her body causing the bites and abrasions to bleed freely, as if by this sacrifice of blood it would make her clean again. If this was her intention it did not succeed for she was filled with loathing and hatred – loathing for herself and hatred for the men who had abused her and shot her father.
Gwendolyn, the innocent youngster who had so patiently worked beside her father was dead. She had been buried by a gang of outlaws who had swept through her peaceful life, shot her father and obliterated her youth and innocence. She felt she was dirtied and would never be clean again as she scoured the old Gwendolyn away and in its place a new version emerged. Where before there had been tenderness now there was emptiness; where before there was trust now there was wariness and underlying was a need for vengeance.
Once she was dressed in clean clothing she took the old rifle from the pegs above the door. She was familiar with the gun for Percival had showed her how to clean and load and fire it. Even so, on the occasions he had taken his daughter with him on his hunting trips she had never been able to bring herself to shoot the animals they stalked. Now she held the rifle and it had become a killing thing in her hands. She was sure in her mind she would be able to kill. Today’s events had destroyed all her former inhibitions. Gathering blankets from the bed she walked out to the well where her wounded father was lying.
‘Pa, I’m here. I’m going to look after you.’
She settled down near him, resting her back against the well, the rifle propped beside her and the sharp knife she had used earlier to cut the bullet from her father jammed in a crack within easy reach. If marauders were to descend again upon their homestead Gwendolyn Caruthers was not going to be caught unprepared.
Now she was set to spend the night beside her wounded father to protect him from predators. The image of the vultures with their cruel beaks waiting to drop on the helpless man was one she remembered with horror. The terrible experiences of the day pressed upon her and she felt tears well up.
‘Pa,’ she whimpered, ‘why did those men do those things to us? We never harmed no one.’
The night closed down, drawing a star-studded canvas across the sky. Night creatures crept from their burrows. The hunters were out stalking their next meal. Coyotes barked and somewhere out in the distance a wolf howled to be answered from afar.
