Badlanders - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Robbins has been a writer for more than 25 years, publishing under a variety of pseudonyms. He has written more than a dozen successful titles in the Ralph Compton series, including Fatal Justice and Bullet for a Bad Man.

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WELCOME TO THE BADLANDS.

Also by David Robbins

SIGNET

1

A pale moon had just risen into the darkening sky when the three men rode into Whiskey Flats.

The single dusty street was flanked by a couple of log cabins, several shacks, and the only building that showed any light. A crudely painted sign announced it was the Three Aces. Under it was the claim that DRINKS ARE CHEAP and under that the news that the saloon boasted THE ONLY DOXIE BETWEEN HERE AND UTAH. Several horses were tied at the hitch rail, and a cat was licking itself under the overhang.

The three riders drew rein and looked at the sign.

“Gentlemen, I believe we’ve found civilization at last,” declared the shortest, grinning. He had a florid face and wide whiskers, and wore a bowler, a suit, and Hessian boots. “Which one of you wants to go first with the doxie?”

The other two were as different from the short man as the pale moon was from the sun. Both were big and broad-shouldered. Both had the weathered aspect of men who spent a lot of time outdoors. And both wore six-shooters, while the man in the bowler did not. There their similarities ended.

“I reckon I’ll pass,” said the one with curly sandy hair. He had brown eyes and a jaw like an anvil. A Stetson that had seen a lot of use crowned his head. His clothes were those of a typical cowhand and had seen as much use as his hat. His revolver was an over-the-counter Colt, as plain as the man himself.

A savvy onlooker wouldn’t peg the last rider as a cowboy, although he did work cattle. His hair was long and straight and black as pitch. His eyes were a startling blue. His hat was black, his shirt the same, his pants gray. A savvy onlooker would also notice that there was nothing plain about his six-gun. A nickel-plated Colt with pearl grips, it nestled high and slightly forward on his right hip. His right hand was never far from his holster.

The man in the bowler chuckled. “How can you let an opportunity like this go by?” he teased the sandy-haired man. “A doxie, by heaven.”

“You’re plumb amusin’, Mr. Wells,” the sandy-haired cowboy said in a tone that suggested Wells wasn’t.

“And you, Mr. Bonner, are much too serious,” Wells said. “You need to learn to see the humor in things.”

“Do I, now?”

“Indeed.” Wells motioned expansively at the saloon and the cabins and shacks and the benighted wilds beyond. “Think of where we are. In the middle of the Badlands. Hundreds of miles from anywhere, and we find an outpost of humanity advertising the wares of a wanton woman as if she were the Holy Grail of life.”

“How you talk, Mr. Wells.”

Wells laughed. “I’m a cynic, I’m afraid. Which is why the incongruities of life delight me so.”

“The what?”

“Never mind, Neal.” Wells dismounted with the awkward form of someone not accustomed to going about on horseback. Looping the reins, he smacked at his clothes, raising puffs of dust.

Neal Bonner alighted with the fluid ease of a true horseman. Glancing at their black-haired companion with the pearl-handled Colt, he said, “Are you fixin’ to stay out here and admire the stars or would you care to join us?”

The black-haired man’s thin lips quirked, and he swung down. His movements had a pantherish quality, with no wasted movement. He was down, his reins tied off, and his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, all seemingly in the same motion.

Wells had finished smacking and turned. “Let me do the talking. That’s why they sent me, after all. But interject where you feel necessary.” He glanced at the black-haired man. “As for you. Mr. Jericho, you hardly ever speak anyway, so that won’t be an issue with you.”

“No mister,” Jericho said.

About to go in, Wells paused. “Sorry?”

“It’s just ‘Jericho.’ I told you before.”

“And you think I’m peculiar?” Wells said to Neal. Chuckling, he strode to the batwings.

Neal grinned at Jericho. “Easterners.”

“For a rooster, he’s tolerable,” Jericho said.

Inside the saloon, everyone had stopped what they were doing to stare at Wells. At the bar were two older men in grimy clothes with the blurry eyes of heavy drinkers. They smiled in a friendly manner.

There was nothing friendly about the four poker players at a corner table. They bore the stamp of hard cases, their flinty eyes regarding the newcomer with predatory interest.

Wells stepped to where a balding bartender was stacking shot glasses into a pyramid. “How do you do, sir? My name is Franklyn Wells. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The bartender was carefully aligning a glass and didn’t look up. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll fetch you a drink in a minute.”

“It’s not liquor I’m interested in so much as information,” Wells said. “You see, I represent the Portland Whaling Consortium, and I’m—”

Raising his head above the glasses, the bartender arched an eyebrow. “Whalin’, did I hear you say?”

“Yes, you did,” Wells confirmed. “And I—”

“You mean those big fish that those fellers on ships harpoon for their oil and whatnot?”

“Well, actually, they’re mammals,” Franklyn Wells said. “But yes, and you see—”

The barman raised his voice so the men at the table and the bar would be sure to hear. “If it’s whales you’re after, we have plenty over at Bear Creek. Just the other day I saw one swimmin’ in the shallows.”

The two old men cackled and several of the hard cases playing poker smirked.

The one who didn’t pushed back his chair and approached. As thin as a broomstick, he had a hooked nose and wore a Remington rigged for a cross draw. His store-bought clothes hadn’t been washed since he bought them and his teeth were as yellow as sunflowers. “What do we have here?”

“Didn’t you hear him, Dyson?” the barman said. “He’s one of them whalers.”

“No, actually, I’m not,” Wells said. “I represent the Portland Whaling Consortium. “They are whalers. Or, rather, they were. The whaling trade has about died off, as I’m sure you’re aware, thanks to kerosene. However, some of the former captains of some of those whaling vessels are looking to invest their considerable capital. The consortium is in the process of establishing the Badlands Land and Cattle Company to take advantage of the coming boom.”

“Will you listen to you?” Dyson said. “You sure love to jabber.” His hand darted out, and he snatched the bowler.

“Here, now. What are you doing?”

“I’m about to have me some fun,” Dyson said. Tossing the bowler to the floor, he placed his hand on his Remington. “Let’s see how many times I can make it skip.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Wells said. “It cost me a pretty penny.”

“What’s to stop me?” Dyson taunted.

“How about me?” Neal had entered unnoticed and stood just inside the batwings. Ignoring the men at the table and the bar, he strode over, picked up the bowler, and jammed it onto Wells’s head. “You lost your hat.”

Dyson took a step back and tensed as if he expected Neal to...