Big Win Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  You can’t take it with you…. But you can damned well try!

  It’s a sentiment offered to Joe Alberplas, a simple cowhand who is content to keep to his own affairs then one night discovers that there is a sight more to life than punching cows.

  It is more than an unexpected surprise and demands some radical adjustment.

  With word of Joe’s shift in fortune the balance tips and a grim journey begins as Joe has to learn to live by the gun instead of the lariat.

  Events take a turn that leads the cowboy in pursuit of his new prospects. Along the way he runs up against the trickiest and most devious scam artist in the West and his gang of underlings who would think little of burying Joe six feet under. The trail leads to a booming silver-mining town where Joe must confront a demon of disguise and choose between a woman’s love or follow the path of a killer if he is ever to claim what is rightfully his.

  BIG WIN

  Formerly published as THE BIGGEST WINNER IN THE WEST

  By Tony Masero

  Copyright © 2014, 2016 by Tony Masero

  First Kindle Edition: November 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the author.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  One

  The small cow town of Strayways stood on the Wyoming-Idaho border just east of the Teton Range and it was enjoying a normal peaceful Friday night when the lone stranger arrived.

  It was an isolated township surrounded by big open countryside with not too many people about, the country being given over mostly to cows, horses and the folks that run them, so pretty much all of the time it was quiet and those that lived there kept their heads down and worked hard.

  The Tetons were always present as a jagged barrier to the west and they dominated the sweep of the plains approaching the small town. The French, when they arrived way back, called the mountains ‘les trois tétons’, which means ‘the three nipples’ in their lingo, and there’s no telling why, as most folks reckon two’s enough. The Tetons look like any other regular mountain range, both pretty and ruggedly pointy to be sure but in no way emulating the soft curves of any female bosom. Guess those Frenchmen, had some kind of idealistic view on things.

  So when the stranger rode in on that night in 1879, he came into a regular backwoods township with only a chill wind blowing down off the mountains for company. No fuss, no bother, the town just minding its particular way of doing things. He dropped his animal off at the livery before walking in a purposeful way along the dark Main Street heading for the one show of light still present in town.

  The scene at the Wexford No. 3 Saloon was somewhat restrained on the night in question. A social arranged by the Episcopalian Chapel was promised for the following evening and the most of the ranch hands were saving themselves for the dance. There were only a few pretty looking ladies in the locality and this would be the one chance the cowboys would have to get up close and wrap their arm around a warm young woman hot from the dancing, and maybe even steal a furtive kiss without getting shot at by an irate and overprotective parent.

  The boys who were present in the saloon that night had come in from the range for a quiet Friday-night drink at the end of a working day and of the three major cattle stations in the neighborhood there were some hands present from the Jayrain spread, the Lazy River ranch and the Aimes Double-Ought. They were a dusty and sweat-stained bunch, most of them still in leather chaps and work shirts. Hardly anybody was armed as none were expecting to find or make any trouble. Most of them were too damned tired for that anyway.

  They were either grouped at the stand-up, elbow-high bar or playing a few hands of cards at the back tables. The Wexford No. 3 was not an overly large or decorative place, no more than a fair-sized rectangular bare room really, the ceiling was brown-stained and low and the bar fashioned from boxwood pine planks that had aged to a mellow yellow. Old railroad ties floor-boarded underfoot and oil lamps were stationed on the walls and what with the gentle haze of tobacco smoke and low mumble of conversation, the place held a cozy and comfortable male atmosphere.

  Cole Wexford, who ran the place, it being the third drinking house he had started up as he worked his way over from the east, never did get around to oiling the swing doors and it was their tentative squeak that naturally turned attention to the person entering.

  That was when the place suddenly went silent.

  The apparition standing in the doorway was not large, in fact a small person, some way under five feet tall. He had deeply red hair and bushy sideburns. A rotund, red-cheeked, and out-of-doors kind of face and on his head he wore a black bonnet with a powder-puff red bobble on top. The most eye-catching part of his attire though was the green patterned skirt he wore and that raised a few eyebrows, as all could see by the exposed hairy knees over the thick woolen socks that this was, indeed a man.

  He carried a large carpetbag by his side and stood quite unconcerned at the attention he was receiving from the rough cowhands. More it was in fact that he displayed an indifferent air of self-assurance, as he stood alone in the doorway.

  ‘And what in the Sam Hill are you?’ bawled one of the card playing Jayrain crew with a splutter of laughter. This was an unpleasantly bombastic fellow called Will Lowenthrop, not averse to saying what was on his mind in a jeering manner. Most bunkhouses owned one and Lowenthrop was of the bullyboy variety that many of the Jayrain boys suffered but could well do without.

  ‘I’m looking for a Mister Joseph Alberplas, is he in this establishment?’

  His accent was a brogue marked by rolling ‘r’s’ and blunt abbreviations that at first made him difficult to understand.

  Joe, who was standing at the bar with two of his buddies from the Double-Ought, turned at sound of his name.

  ‘What the devil is this?’ whispered the blocky figure of Brad Dexter, the friend standing at Joe’s elbow.

  Joe Alberplas, who was at this time, a tall, not unhandsome lean cowhand coming into his twenty-second year, and was generally considered a calm and likeable fellow popular with the rest of the men on the ranch, took it all coolly. He eyed the stranger with as much surprise as the others but showed none of it.

  ‘That would be me,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Aye, indeed you can, sir,’ said the fellow, crossing the room and holding out his hand in greeting. ‘My name is Alistair Maclean and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, might I have a few words in private, do you think?’

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Joe.

  ‘It’s a confidential matter, sir, best discussed apart,
I believe.’

  ‘This your new lady partner for the dance tomorrow, Joe?’ called the rowdy Jayrain cowhand.

  Joe shrugged, partly in ignorance and partly because he felt no desire to get into a bantering dialogue with Lowenthrop.

  ‘Say your piece, mister,’ Brad advised the newcomer in a cautious tone.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to do that,’ answered Maclean boldly. ‘And you, sir,’ he said, turning to the Jayrain cowboy. ‘If you are referring to my clothing, this is a kilt, sir. It bears the colors of my clan, of which I am rightly proud. The MacLean’s have worn the kilt in Scotland for centuries and it marks us out boldly as men amongst men.’

  ‘Looks like a damned girly skirt to me,’ grumbled Lowenthrop.

  ‘Often a misunderstanding, I fear,’ breathed Maclean calmly

  ‘What you want to do, Joe?’ pressed Brad, obviously concerned that the Scot might mean some harm to his friend.

  ‘You want us to turf this fellow out on his ear?’ added Lemon Dire, a tall and slender man and Joe’s other companion.

  ‘No need, boys,’ said Joe. ‘You can say what you’ve got to say here, Mister Maclean. These are my friends, we don’t have no secrets.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ affirmed Maclean. ‘You see, this is a family matter, concerning your elder brother.’

  ‘Wes?’ started Joe. ‘I ain’t seen him in a coon’s age, nor have any desire to. What’s the fool been up to?’

  ‘I fear to tell you, the gentleman has sadly passed on to a higher authority.’

  ‘Wes is dead? Is that what you’re saying?’

  There had never been any love lost between the two brothers, it was nothing in particular, just that the two had never got on or seen eye-to-eye on anything. As children they had gone their separate ways and when both their parents had passed they had naturally separated and had no contact since their early teen years. If he did think about it at all, which was almost never, it was to consider that maybe he or his brother had been left on the doorstep as a babe by strangers as they held so little in common.

  ‘I really think we should discuss this in private. Here,’ said Maclean, setting down his carpetbag and fumbling in his jacket pocket before pulling out a wallet. ‘My card.’

  He pressed the neatly printed business card into Joe’s hand and Joe, who had never seen such a thing before, read,

  ‘Alistair M. Maclean. Attorney at Law. Gilcudy and MacPherson Law Offices. Head Office: 941 17th Street, Denver, Colorado. All legal matters attended to.’

  Joe studied the card for a moment, and then handed it back.

  ‘No, sir. That is for you to keep,’ advised Maclean, with a brief smile as he pushed the offering away.

  ‘Okay,’ Joe said, levering himself from the bar and putting the card into his vest pocket. ‘Let’s go over back, there’s a spare table there.’

  ‘You alright about this, Joe?’ asked Lemon.

  ‘Sure, no problem. Set them up, boys, I’ll be back shortly,’ then as an afterthought he added. ‘You want a drink, Mister Maclean.’

  Before he could answer, a loud call came from the room.

  ‘He’ll be wanting fizzy pop or sarsaparilla, Joe. Best get out the milk straws, bartender,’ laughed Lowenthrop, who was obviously set on stirring things up.

  Ignoring the cowhand, Maclean declined and followed Joe over towards the empty table. As Maclean passed the Jayrain man he set down his carpetbag on the floor and leaning forward he looked the fellow straight in the eye. ‘I observe you are a man of small interest,’ he said coldly. ‘But I should warn you that I take some umbrage at your petty asides. Even I, who is not often disturbed by such foolishness, can be irritated by the buzzing of a tiresome fly.’

  Lowenthrop, being the big blustering fellow he was, arched an eyebrow, ‘The hell you say, you calling me a fly, you damned dwarf?’

  ‘As you will,’ said Maclean.

  In an instant, the Scot bent, as if to retrieve his bag but instead drew a needle sharp dagger that had been secreted in his thick woolen stocking top. This was the famed ‘black knife’, the Sgian-dubh, traditionally carried by most Scots in their hose. In the flash of an eye the pointed tip was placed deep into the right hand nostril of the cowboy. Just deep enough to let him know it was there and short enough to do no more than barber some nasal hair. ‘It would be better, sir,’ warned Maclean icily. ‘If you held your tongue and kept your nose where it belongs before you lose it altogether.’

  The cowboy bolted backwards in his chair but Maclean went after him, holding the knife ready. ‘You wish to make more of it?’ asked Maclean, with the blade’s tip held firmly under the man’s chin.

  One look at his rock steady features and the hard intent in his blue eyes turned Lowenthrop off instantly.

  ‘T’weren’t no more than a joke,’ the ruffled cowboy complained.

  ‘Well then, lets leave it that you just have a very poor sense of humor, shall we?’

  Lowenthrop harrumphed and as quick as it had come, the dagger disappeared from view.

  As Maclean followed Joe to his seat, the cowboy muttered behind his back, ‘Damn foreigner, can’t even take a joke. I ask you.’

  Joe approved of the Scotchman’s steady behavior and smiled as he nodded to the seat opposite.

  ‘Don’t mind the fellow, Mister Maclean. He’s just the pushy sort but don’t mean no real harm.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mister Alberplas, not to worry at all,’ he fumbled in his voluminous bag and brought out a folder, some sheets of paper and a travelling pen and inkpot and spread them on the beer stained table. ‘Now then,’ he sighed, with a brief tight little smile. ‘Shall we to business?’

  Joe nodded patiently, not expecting anything much from the coming conversation other than a bill for the burial.

  ‘How’d he die?’ he asked.

  ‘Natural causes,’ said Maclean with a following sad inclination of the head. ‘Natural causes, so I am told.’

  ‘You don’t say, old Wes was no more than three year my senior. Kinda early to pass on.’

  ‘A flux of the brain, the coroner’s office advised us. Can come to us all, Mister Alberplas. At any time.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Joe. ‘Still, mighty early to make a parting.’

  ‘So, you are mister Joseph William Alberplas the brother of Wesley John Alberplas?’ asked Maclean, referring to his papers.

  ‘I am, though I don’t often use the middle part.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mister Alberplas but we are dealing with the bequest of a large sum of money and I must be totally assured of your identity.’

  ‘A large sum?’ Joe asked, somewhat bemused.

  ‘Indeed. A very large sum,’ the Scot stressed.

  ‘How much?’ frowned Joe.

  ‘First things first, Mister Alberplas. All in good time. Now then, I am required to complete the required papers for verification of identity and proper legal application. Is that alright?’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe nodded, somewhat nonplussed that his estranged brother could amount to anything more than a paupers grave.

  Maclean began to scribble on a set of comprehensive forms that held pages of blank spaces needing completion; he began with date and place of birth. Full names of parents and death dates. A complete history of residence and movements since his childhood, including schooling and places of work. It was an exhaustive questionnaire of research and took a good half hour to complete as Maclean studiously filled in every point religiously with a small and careful scriveners hand.

  ‘There,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘That’s all done. Will you please sign on the line there?’ Joe complied, penning his name in a scrawl.

  Shuffling fresh papers, Maclean went on. ‘Thank you. Now then, were you aware at all, Mister Alberplas, that your brother had come into some money, I wonder?’

  ‘No, sir. Like I say, I ain’t had nothing to do with him for many a year.’

  ‘Well, I have to tell you that your brother
was a substantial winner on the lottery. ‘The Biggest Winner in the West Lottery’ to be exact, you have heard of it perhaps?’

  ‘Sure, who hasn’t?’

  ‘As you probably are also aware it is one of the most prestigious registered lotteries running in the country at present. Founded way back in 1612 by the Virginia Company of London in the old Colonial days but running successfully ever since. Anyway, some four years ago your brother procured a winning ticket and collected 250,000 dollars in winnings.’

  ‘Phew!’ breathed Joe. ‘Who’d have ever thought old Wes could pull off something like that?’

  ‘I don’t know but he did. And….’ Maclean stressed. ‘It did not end there.’

  ‘It didn’t?’

  ‘No, sir, it did not. Your brother went on to very wisely invest his winnings. His successful portfolio includes a large quantity of shares in copper and silver mines and various railroad companies, which, as I’m sure you’ll be aware, have done extremely well.’

  Joe nodded dumbly.

  ‘The sum total of your brother’s estate, Mister Alberplas, now reads in the region of over a million dollars and by rights you will receive that full amount as you are his only remaining relative as far as we can discover.’

  ‘Damn me!’ gasped Joe. ‘A million!’

  ‘That’s correct and once this has been presented to the court for approval you shall receive the said sum in due course.’

  ‘H… how long?’ stumbled Joe.

  ‘Usually a month or so for the matter to be processed. But I suggest we proceed in this manner; within the month our Mister Calhoun, Gilcudy and MacPherson’s local representative will present himself to you here. All being well, I shall ask you to accompany him to our offices in Denver where we shall finalize the matter and make payment of liquid assets in either a promissory note or a bank can be arranged for deposit in your name, the share transference can be made at that time also. Whichever you decide.’

  ‘I…. yes….’ Joe was too stunned to take it all in and his mind whirled at the prospect.

  ‘Take your time, Mister Alberplas. I understand it’s a wee bit difficult to suddenly comprehend that you are a millionaire. I’m afraid, for better or worse, your life will change enormously from now on.’