The Pursued Read online

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  1890 – Wyoming

  Some old friends may die hard and with all of them now separated by time, money and bad memories it’s a hard trail to track.

  It’s been over thirty years since Powers Brent has last seen them but he answers the call anyway. Promising to make good the bad they did he must re-acquaint himself with his old companions, wherever they are and whatever they’ve become.

  But someone out there is on a killing spree.

  Could it be punishment for former sins or payback for a crime not committed?

  Killers wait in the sidelines and after Powers has found all his old friends he still has to face yet more vengeful and unknown shadows from the past.

  THE PURSUED

  By Tony Masero

  First published by Solstice Publishing in 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Tony Masero

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: August 2014

  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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  Powers dreamed.

  The same damned recurring dream.He was dressed in his dirty Union blues again and still carrying the old Springfield rifle. The bayonet was bloody and there was fire all around him and the stench of death strong in his nostrils.

  Everything moved fast. Too fast. But it was exciting! The fire raced in his young blood and pounded in his head. Oh, such a thrill, almost as if a Fourth of July firework had been launched in his chest and burst in his brain. The feeling brought forgiveness to him for everything.

  Ghostlike, the old farmer came toward him, waving both hands desperately and pointing but Powers ignored the gestures and just watched the bullet strike. A shockwave of dust spread wide across the front of the man’s worn overalls before he dropped and lay still.

  At first, a glimmer of pity ran through Powers but it was rapidly suppressed. He’d seen so many fall, torn and mangled by shell and shot. Why should this man deserve any pity? He was not a comrade, nor even a brother in arms. What did he know of the frantic charges they had made across open fields that screamed with volley fire and the rip of case-shot? All the farmer knew was the plow and the soft security of a fireside pipe.

  A new scene flashed through the dream.

  His sleeping eardrums were pierced as he heard the screaming, high pitched and terrible. A warbling of disbelief that rose to a frantic pleading.

  He remembered smiling. Smiling! How could he do that?

  It was the proud woman he saw, at first bustling with aggressive anger but then collapsing into disbelief as the men wrenched her young daughter away. The mother dropped to her knees and begged plaintively until one of the soldiers hit the side of her head with a rifle butt. The stunned woman gaped silently in anguish and terror as the clothes were torn from her body and they spread-eagled her on the bare boards beside her daughter.

  One of the others covered her quickly. Pale blue pants and leather braces rode loose around his thighs as he pumped rapidly. For a moment in the dream, the mother stared back into Powers’s watching face with an almost whimsical look of sorrow. Then her sad eyes were lost from view behind the looming shoulders of her thrusting rider.

  When they had all finished, their lust satiated, he watched as one of the men slit the throats of the two women.

  There was fire all around him now. He was buried in fire. Figures flitted among the flames, demonic shadows that blurred into the burning roar and ran away laughing. A mad, crazy laughter, expanded in volume by the jars of liquor they had gorged on, until the noise became a long continuous bellow in his head.

  They could destroy. The god of war allowed them. It was a perverse freedom that opened the devil’s door and gave them entry into Hell. A drug so potent, he never wanted it to end.

  Breaking. Smashing. Killing.It did not matter. None of these possessions or people were his and he would never pass this way again. All he had in his heart was wild violence and the justification of a righteous war to give him the energy for all his rapacious lust.

  But then he saw the children … and the apples … They seemed to issue radiance … a sparkling gleam that spun and filled the room with its golden light, like the brightness of a rising sun ….

  Breathless, he awoke sharply. His chest heaved and he panted as if he’d been running down the grassy slopes of the steep hill toward the farm again. Sweat beaded his brow and he wiped it away restlessly with his palm.

  God! Would it never leave him?

  Chapter One

  Powers Brent settled into his usual cubicle in Minnie Cote’s eating-house with all the comfortable sense of belonging that these regular visits brought him when he came into town. He nodded politely at the other elderly male customers late breakfasting as he took off his hat and laid it on the seat next to him. Powers was a man just into his fifty-second year this past month and he thanked God he was still fit and able, unlike some of those he shared the dining room with this morning.

  Running the Diamond and a Half was a demanding task and left little time for illness or distraction. That was mostly why he enjoyed this time at Minnie’s; it was his one brief oasis of relaxation in an otherwise hectic life.

  He knew the other diners saw a burly, thickset and broad shouldered man, clean-shaven with crisp gray hair kept cropped tight to his skull. A genial, tanned face that looked as if it had seen some rough times. A broken nose and thickened eyebrows spoke of a brush with bare-knuckle fisticuffs for a while.For town visits he favored a gray slouch hat, silk ribbon tie and drape jacket over a pressed white shirt — but however he dressed, he always wore the old .44 Schofield strapped to his waist under the coat. Some habits died hard.

  Even though he had no intention of reading it, he laid a month-old Wyoming Farmer newspaper on the table in front of him. The closely packed columns of gossip held little interest for him. It was just a useful barrier behind which he could retreat when the townsfolk came calling. Mostly, they showed respect for the wealthy cattle baron and tried to visit with him when he was in town. It was nice to be respected in the community, but Powers cherished his privacy more. He preferred to think things through at such times and not be bothered by the social chitchat of his neighbors.

  Minnie arrived with his coffee. She didn’t need to ask; it was understood that he would automatically need a full cup, strong and sweet.

  She was a widowed lady and therefore dressed in black with her dark curly hair fastened up in a topknot. She was a pretty woman and still young enough to create a following, despite her volatile and sometimes uncomfortably forthright personality. Those of her customers who were enamored of her noted the constant attention she paid Powers and had to admit it was obvious she’d set her cap for him. They remained hopeful, however as they also observed that — to date — Powers had shown not the slightest desire to reciprocate.

  He was a loner, and rumor had it that his isolationist attitude arose out of an almost regal position necessitated by the solitary control he kept over his vast spread. He had an empire that covered fifteen thousand acres and often ran beef herds of over one hundred thousand up to the railhead.

  Powers had
it in mind to extend his domain by the eventual addition of a railhead with its own packinghouses and ice plants, but that was a dream as yet unfulfilled.

  “Morning, Powers,” said Minnie, laying the thick china cup and saucer down before him. “How goes the world?”

  He looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Round and round, as usual. And what have you got to say for yourself this fine day, Minnie?”

  “It is a fine day, isn’t it?” She sighed contentedly and looked – rather vacantly, he thought – through the full size plate glass window onto the front street of Fellows Crossing.

  Powers recognized that she saw nothing there, yet saw everything, for little changed outside the window day to day. It was a bright day, true enough, with midmorning sunlight angling down from a clear blue cloudless sky. A flatbed wagon stood outside Carver’s Store as the clerk loaded it with boxed supplies. The wagon's patient team of mules hung their heads and defecated onto the street with unwarranted regularity. Josh Linneker, the blacksmith, shaped a horseshoe with ringing tones under the split cane roof of his smoky smithy. A group of three ladies chirped together, birdlike on the sidewalk under their parasols and a lone cowboy dusty from the trail rode in slowly.

  Minnie grunted. “Here’s somebody new.”

  Powers folded his unread paper. He watched the cowboy as the young fellow pulled up, tipped his curly brimmed black hat and spoke to the chatting ladies. It was obvious from his gestures that the young man was asking for directions. Receiving no success, the cowboy moved on and stopped at the blacksmith’s, asking again.

  A cold shiver trickled down Powers’s spine. He knew somehow that the boy was coming for him. It was a definite sensation. A warning signal learned in the many tight spots he had endured over the years and one not to be ignored.

  Powers checked him over, looking for some sign of recognition by which he might identify the young man. The boy wore nothing unusual; a dirty deer hide vest over a panel-fronted red shirt and loose black neckerchief; well worked brown leather batwing chaps and denim pants with a pair of Mexican silver roundel spurs hanging from worn, down-at-the-heel boots.He was young, somewhere between eighteen and twenty, with brown hair under his hat and an open and round face with a mustache that cut alongside both sides of his mouth and ran Mex-style down to his jaw-line. He looked innocent enough, except for the holstered short-barreled Colt in the gun-belt around his belly. It was an old gun, the bone grip yellowed with use and age. An inheritance, Powers guessed. An inheritance from an older owner, and he wondered if it was that owner who might have had complaint against him. After all, a man did not build a ranch like the Diamond and a Half without making some enemies.

  Josh Linneker pointed over toward Minnie’s and the boy thanked the blacksmith with a tip of his hat. He tied off his pony to the street hitching post before walking casually over to the eating-house.

  “You thinking about my breakfast?” Powers asked Minnie, who still gazed dreamily into the street. It was a tactical question, asked for her security. He thought it best that she be moved away from him just now.

  “Oh, Lord!” she jumped. “I’m sorry, Powers. I was miles away. Sure, you want the usual?”

  “That’d be best.” He smiled up at her.

  “Right away,” she promised, hurrying off.

  Powers watched the young man draw near, heard the jingle bobs on his spurs as he stepped up and his boots thudded on the wooden boardwalk outside. The boy opened the glass- paneled door, and rang the little cowbell Minnie kept fixed above the jamb. Powers slid the Schofield from its holster and lay the weapon across his lap under the table. He kept his hand on the pistol and eased back the hammer so it was ready — cocked and a bullet under the pin.

  The young man took his hat off and looked around the room. “Morning, folks,” he said. “I’m looking for a Mister Powers Brent. He here?”

  Powers opened and raised his newssheet one-handed and, with the pistol hidden from view, lifted the gun into the fold. “That would be me,” he said.

  The cowboy strode over, his blue eyes fixed on Powers. “I have something for you, Mister Brent.” He reached his right hand quickly up toward the yellowed pistol butt. Powers dropped the newspaper and the boy saw the black hole in the gray-blue barrel of the Schofield pointing directly up at him.

  “Whoa!” he cried nervously, raising his hands. “Steady there, mister, it ain’t nothing like that.”

  Powers was immediately conscious of singular noises in the room. Chairs scraping back as heads turned nervously, the clatter of cutlery as utensils were dropped. Minnie’s gasp at sight of his gun. Powers was surprised at how sharp his reactions were and, obscurely, he was pleased by his response. “What is it, what do you want?”

  “I have a message for you. Young lady in Hopewell gave it to me to pass on to you. It’s here in my vest.” With his eyes, he asked if he might reach for it and Powers nodded, keeping the gun trained on him. “Go ahead,” he said. “Long as that's all I see when your hand comes out.”The boy found an inside pocket to the vest and pulled out a folded and crumpled envelope. “She said you’d want to know.” He passed it over.

  Powers nodded and laid the pistol heavily on the table and took the envelope, holding it between middle and index fingers. “I don’t know what this is about but I’m obliged to you for your trouble, son. Sorry about that…” He nodded at the Schofield. “Just careful, is all. You want breakfast or anything?”

  The cowboy shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but no, I already ate. One thing, though. Blacksmith said you’re a rancher. I’m out of employment at the moment and could use some trail work if you’ve got anything.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Sorry, Mister Brent. Yeah, it’s Lee Stoffer.”

  “Okay, Lee, you worked cattle before?”

  “Sure have, sir. With Castelo Rodrigues’ vaqueros down on the Double T out of New Mexico. Ran line for the Swing River Ranch too, did that for nigh on a twelve-month.”

  Powers gave a nod of satisfaction. “Ride on up north out of here, find the Diamond and a Half spread. The top hand is a man called Demas Bright, tell him I sent you. He’ll find you something.”

  “Thank you, sir. Mister Brent, I’m right grateful.”

  Powers watched the young man’s back as he walked away toward his pony.

  He frowned, his fingers playing with the envelope, turning it this way and that. He felt instinctively that he held bad news.

  “What was that about, Powers?” asked Minnie, coming up quickly and looking down uncomfortably at the pistol where it still lay on the table.

  “Just a boy playing at mailman,” said Powers as he lifted the gun, eased the hammer down, and dropped it into his holster.

  She looked at him as if about to ask more but obviously thought better of it and returned to her kitchen without another word. Powers turned to the rest of the customers in the room. “It’s okay, boys. Everything’s fine.”

  He held back from opening the envelope a moment longer. It was small, maybe three inches by two and had been white originally but was grubby and creased from being in the cowboy’s pocket. The flap was well sealed, stuck down to the very limits of the envelope. A woman’s hand had written his name in tiny script on the front: Powers Brent Esq.

  Brusquely, he ripped the end off and tipped out the single sheet.

  Dear Sir, he read. You will not know me but are well acquainted with my father, a friend and old comrade of yours. My papa, Mister Glenn Dobbs, late corporal in the United States infantry, lies gravely ill, even to death, I fear. He is now a patient in the Bohne Sanatorium, Hopewell where he is laid low by the consumptive disease and where the doctors advise his days are indeed numbered few. He begs you come, sir. It is his greatest wish to see you before he passes. He asks that if you will remember him kindly from times past and the times you spent together in friendship, he will be forever grateful. It is my greatest hope that you will attend with all speed, yours most sincerely, Pearl Alicia Dobbs (Mis
s)

  It was well written with spelling and grammar correct and Powers was impressed that old Glenn could have managed to beget such an erudite child. He closed the letter, slowly refolding it along the creases over and again as he thought about the contents.

  Minnie stood at his elbow, a full plate in her hand. Eggs, bacon and biscuits. “You still hungry?”

  He looked up at her. “Sure,” he said. “Set awhile, Minnie. Set with me while I eat.”

  A doubtful frown crinkled her brow but she laid the plate before him and took the seat opposite in the cubicle. “What is it, Powers?” she asked.

  He pushed the letter toward her with his knife-point. “Take a look.”

  Dutifully, she opened it and read the contents. When she was done, she looked at him again. “You were close?”

  He nodded, his mouth full of bacon. “Good friends,” he managed. “Best friends.”

  “So, what’s your problem?”

  Powers shrugged and swallowed, “Should I go see him? It must be nigh on twenty-five years since we rode together. Don’t know how we can have anything to say to each other now.”

  Minnie cocked her head to one side. “He’s dying, Powers. It's a last request from a good friend. Least thing you could do for him would be to do as he asks, that's what I reckon.”

  “You think so? Most of my boys are away on the biggest drive of the year. I should be at the ranch really.”

  “I don’t think so. If you have a big drive on, then you know there’s a lot less to do around that ranch of yours, so don’t make out you’ll be missed; you won’t be missed at all.”

  He shook his head. “All right, you’re right. It won’t take long. I’ll go. Hopewell’s not too far away. Couple of days’ ride.”

  He noticed her watching him as he sipped his coffee, his eyes meeting hers over the rim of the cup. Hers were deep brown and full of liquid invitation but all he could offer in his was the early frost of a gray winter’s morning. There was a cool, impenetrable distance in him that precluded her from any entrance into his life and her frustration showed plainly on her pretty face. With an exasperated snort, she got up swiftly and retreated to her kitchen. The sound of pots being banged about, more loudly than usual, signaled her mood.