Hard Road to Holford Read online

  Hard Road to Holford

  The stagecoach run from Muddy Creek to Holford should have been an easy one. But since one of the passengers is being hunted by a Mexican revolutionary colonel who was swindled in an arms deal, things are unlikely to be that simple. . . .

  Forced to abandon their coach, the travellers must experience many dangers before they reach their destination . . . and even then their safety is by no means guaranteed.

  By the same author

  Outlaw Vengeance

  Warbonnet Creek

  Red Rock Crossing

  Killer’s Kingdom

  Range Rustlers

  Track Down the Devil

  Comanche Country

  The Raiders

  Murdering Wells

  Hard Road to Holford

  Greg Mitchell

  ROBERT HALE

  © Greg Mitchell 2010

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2369-5

  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 Greg Mitchell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Are you trying to kill us all?’ Amos Risdon demanded.

  The object of his wrath, a young stable hand standing nervously nearby was unsure of the crime he had committed but knew he was about to be told. The Rutherford Stage Coach Company’s senior driver was known throughout the organization for his irascible behaviour early in the morning.

  With a face as grim as the knocker on a morgue door, he asked again: ‘Do you want to kill a whole coachload of people?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he stabbed an accusing finger at the rein buckled to the nearside leader’s bit. ‘The loose end of this rein fastening has not been put through the bottom part of the buckle. It can work loose. I’ve seen it happen. Damn lucky I always check. That jackass in the office should be careful about who he hires. If I find this sort of sloppy work again, sonny, I’ll see to it that you’re out of a job. Now hold this horse till I tell you to let him go.’

  Mumbling to himself, his weather-beaten face still flushed with anger, the driver continued checking the rein buckles on his team’s bits. He was obsessive about that small detail. Once, after a team change, a rein had not been fastened properly and he had partially lost control of a very spirited pair of leaders. By sheer good luck the coach was not wrecked but from that day, twenty years ago, the coach driver trusted nobody and had always personally checked every rein buckle.

  He paused in his task to see the new shotgun guard hurrying towards him. Unthinkingly he shook his head and scowled. He still did not know what to make of Chris Unwire. They had only done one previous trip together and a couple of vocal clashes proved that the young guard certainly had a mind of his own. The frown deepened when Amos saw what his companion on the box was carrying. What was the Rutherford Stage Line coming to?

  Chris Unwin was as green as grass when it came to the coaching business. Not long from a border ranch, in Risdon’s mind he lacked a few of the social graces that people seemed to expect from company employees. He was smart though, and would soon learn if his somewhat unconventional ways did not get him fired first.

  Today was an example. As a guard he was expected to wear a six-shooter and carry a double-barrelled, 12-gauge shotgun, but lugging a Winchester carbine as well as the scattergun, he looked as though he was expecting a small war.

  The driver completed his check, left the stable hands to hold the leaders and strolled back to where Unwin was stowing the carbine under his seat. ‘What’s all this about, young fella? I thought this company only supplied shotguns and I’m not real sure they would approve unauthorized firearms. What’s the idea of the Winchester?’

  Chris appeared to care little about the disapproval showing plainly on the older man’s face. Deliberately he waited a second or two before replying, ‘It’s a bit of extra insurance I decided to bring along. Hasn’t Hank told you yet?’

  Hank was the company agent in the Muddy Creek office. He and the driver shared a mutual dislike of each other and conversed as little as possible. Rumour had it that they had fallen out years ago over the affections of the same woman, but the lady in question solved the problem by marrying someone else and moving away.

  ‘If that fat little jackass had told me I wouldn’t need to be asking you,’ Amos replied. He glared in the direction of the office and grumbled, ‘I’m in charge here and Hank should be telling me if trouble’s expected.’

  ‘He told me that there was a scare all along the border, something about Mexican bandits.’

  Amos snorted. ‘Hank should know better. This coach won’t be worth robbing today. We don’t have a big load of well-heeled customers and won’t be carrying a strongbox until the run back from Holford. Given the way Hank flaps his mouth, the smarter road agents and even dumb Mex bandits would already know that. So let me in on the secret. What in the hell else is going on around here?’

  ‘According to Hank, the army’s been called out. There’s a report that a big band of Mexicans has been chased over our border by government troops and they might try to resupply themselves by raiding ranches and robbing folks. But that ain’t all. There’s some Apache raiders also came out of the Sierra Madres. If reports are right, things could get mighty hot around here and there’s little help to be had out on the road. Company rules or not, I’m bringing along a rifle in case we strike trouble.’

  ‘Don’t you reckon we have enough artillery?’

  ‘A rifle might come in handy. The main problem with revolvers and shotguns is that they let any hold-up men get too close to the coach. That makes it easy to bring down a few horses and wreck it.’

  The older man looked hard at the new guard. ‘How many hold-ups have you ever been in, sonny?’

  ‘Er – none but I’ve fought Indians and Mexican rustlers.’

  ‘I’ve been stuck up twice and both times the hold-up men hid close to the road in easy shotgun range. Once they even shot the guard off the box. Make sure it don’t happen to you. If trouble comes it will be close at hand and that shotgun will do a better job than a rifle. But don’t go getting all heroic. If a bandit has you dead to rights, don’t make a fight of it and risk lives to protect money. And if you get shot, try not to bleed all over the coach. Blood’s hard to clean off.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Chris replied casually. ‘But rules or no rules, I’m taking this rifle. The horses won’t notice the weight of an extra gun and I’ll feel happier to have it handy if things go real bad.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Amos hissed ‘We don’t want to scare the passengers. Let’s get up on the box. Hank’s about to load them aboard.’

  The first passenger from the office was a pale, thin man wearing an expensive suit. He was in his late thirties with narrow hunched shoulders, and a worried, shifty look on a thin face dominated by a large beak of a nose and a pair of wire-framed spectacles. His main intention seemed to be to get aboard the coach as quickly as possible.

  ‘Just our goldarned luck,’ the driver said quietly. ‘That’s Larry Wilmot, claims he’s a businessman but he’s mostly into land speculation and a lot of deals that aren’t as legal as they could be. He’s a miserable sonofabitch who would skin a flea for its hide and then go looking for a market for the bones.’

  ‘Our luck ain’t all bad,’ Chris said. ‘Do you know
the little honey coming next?’

  The driver’s usually solemn face relaxed as the pretty young girl with the brown hair and blue eyes looked up and smiled. ‘It’s a lovely day, Mr Risdon. Are you feeling well?’

  ‘Sure am, Miss Fletcher.’ Amos tipped his hat, allowed his face to break into a rare smile before saying softly to Chris, ‘Don’t get any ideas about that one. Most of the single fellas in town want to marry her and there’s a few married ones who would consider murder, divorce, or even bigamy if they thought they could win her.’

  The third passenger was an untidy individual with unkempt fair hair sticking out from beneath a battered, sweat-stained hat. His large soup-strainer moustache was tobacco-stained and it was several days since his chin had encountered a razor.

  Amos allowed himself a little chuckle. ‘That’s Horace Weldon. It ain’t too often he has the coach fare. I doubt that anyone around here would call him an upstanding citizen but there’s lots worse about. He ain’t too bad but some of our more respectable people think he’s a blot on the landscape and sometimes he is. Folks who know him say he’d rob a bank but give away half if he thought someone needed the money more. Horace has seen the inside of a jail a time or two and he does not have a lot of respect for authority. He used to work in the buffalo camps but now does odd jobs and takes a great delight in annoying supposedly respectable people like Wilmot. My guess is that he must have fallen foul of the sheriff and is getting out of town until things cool down a bit. This could be a real interesting trip with that pair together.’

  Another woman appeared, a small, stylishly dressed lady in her early forties. She too knew Amos and gave him a friendly wave before climbing into the coach.

  The driver flashed his version of a welcoming smile. ‘That’s Maggie Cooper. She’s a widow, has a shop in town but visits her sister in Colorado about once a year when the weather is warm. She’s a real nice lady.’

  The last passenger was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired, young man with a neatly trimmed beard that almost hid a scar on his right cheek He was dressed in range clothes, and a cartridge belt and holstered gun showed under his rumpled brown coat.

  ‘Don’t know that one but he’s a hard-looking critter,’ Amos muttered. ‘The name on the passenger list is John Jones. Sounds a bit suspicious to me but he could call himself George Washington as long as he has a ticket and behaves himself.’

  Hank, the short, rotund company agent slammed the door behind Jones and called up to the driver. ‘They’re all aboard.’

  Amos glared briefly at his old rival, took a firm grip on the reins and released the brake as the six-horse team started pawing impatiently and tossing their heads. ‘Let ’em go,’ he called to the men holding the leaders.

  The eager horses jumped into their collars and the coach rocked slightly on its leather springs as it rolled forward.

  On a hotel balcony overlooking the street, a man out of sight from those below waved his hat.

  Out of the town, on a high ridge, two unshaven, travel-stained riders wearing Mexican sombreros were looking back towards the town. Both wore guns with the air of those who knew how to use them and their good horses seemed out of place with their poor clothing. The one watching through field glasses said to the other, ‘That’s the signal. He’s on the coach. Colonel Dwyer will want to know. Let us get moving.’

  They turned their horses’ heads to the north and spurred away. The coach was moving at a good rate so they had to ride faster still but had greater ability to take rough short cuts. Dwyer liked to plan well in advance and the sooner the word reached him the sooner he could set his trap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Conversation started to grow among the passengers as the miles rolled away beneath the coach’s wheels. Wilmot started the words flowing with a burst of exaggerated courtesy toward the ladies, enquiring whether they were comfortable and could he help them in any way. They politely assured him that all was well and thanked him for his concern. Secretly though, Wilmot’s false concern for their welfare grated on them. Both knew Horace Weldon only by repute but, unlike Wilmot, did not seem perturbed by his presence. He seemed to be remembering long-forgotten politeness and obviously was on his best behaviour.

  Jones said enough to be polite but preferred to stay out of the small talk, speaking only when he was specifically addressed. He looked like a man with much on his mind and seemed more intent on studying the scenery.

  Miss Fletcher revealed that her first name was Ellen and suggested that a first-name basis would make things less formal among the travellers. Weldon heartily agreed, although Wilmot would have preferred a slightly more formal atmosphere. He was at ease with the ladies but felt that Weldon and Jones were not his social equals.

  Ellen saw Weldon fumble in his pockets, then he saw she was watching and, with a guilty expression, pulled his hand away.

  ‘If you feel like smoking, Horace, I don’t mind,’ the girl said with a smile. She turned to the other woman. ‘What about you, Maggie?’

  The other laughed. ‘I know what these men are like with their tobacco. Feel free to smoke if you like, otherwise you will all be nervous wrecks and snarling at each other by the end of this journey.’

  Horace produced a plug of chewing tobacco. ‘I don’t smoke, I chew. There won’t be any smoke to annoy you ladies, and I’ll make sure I’m real careful when I spit out of the window.’

  ‘That’s a disgusting habit,’ Wilmot said sharply. ‘You shouldn’t even mention it around respectable ladies.’

  Horace was unrepentant. ‘I don’t see why not. I knew a saloon girl in Fort Worth used to chew. She was a real lady but could spit as far and as straight as most men. Yes sir, Judy was some girl.’

  ‘I don’t think these ladies are interested in your sordid relationships.’

  ‘Hell – sorry ladies – she weren’t no relation of mine.’

  Wilmot assumed a haughty tone. ‘Please consider the sensitivities of your fellow passengers, Horace. I hope that you won’t regale us with stories of your more dubious exploits for the rest of the journey.’

  Weldon just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s only one exploit I’m specially proud of, Larry my friend. I once threw a stuck-up jackass right off a coach.’

  Wilmot understood the implied threat in the casual comment and fell silent. He too had heard of Weldon’s chequered past.

  In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, Maggie changed the subject. ‘Has anyone heard anything about those Mexican rebels who are supposed to have invaded us?’

  Jones broke his silence and answered: ‘I doubt it’s an invasion. I had a ranch in Mexico for a while. The country has been in turmoil for years and every second bandit leader calls himself a general, or at least a colonel and, given the chance tries to take over the whole district. The Federales are inclined to be a bit ruthless with rebels and if any have come over our border it will be just to escape the army. They might steal the odd cow to eat or possibly take a horse or two, but then they’ll get back across the Rio Grande as soon as possible. They don’t want to add to their troubles by taking on our troops as well.’

  ‘I was in Mexico recently.’ Wilmot could not stay silent for long. ‘I was looking into establishing hotels in Vera Cruz and Mexico City, but decided that the situation was too volatile for safe investment.’ He neglected to mention that the Mexicans were not interested in the small amounts of money he was prepared to put up. Nor were they convinced that he was an honest man. Fast-talking entrepreneurs from all sources had, in their quest for easy money, descended on the strife-torn nation seeking to ex-ploit legal loopholes and inexperienced or corrupt government administrators. But the Mexicans were becoming wiser and some enterprising ‘businessmen’ were currently residing in old Spanish dungeons in Mexico City. Wilmot had decided that money-making, even if slightly harder, was safer north of the border.

  The coach rolled into the next change station, where the passengers were allowed to alight and stretch their legs
while the teams were being changed.

  Amos questioned Elmer Parry, the station operator, about the supposed Mexican invasion but the man had heard nothing. Nor had he heard of any Apache raiders, and he reacted nervously to the notion that they could be at large. These shadowy raiders could leave a broad swath of destruction behind them and only their victims would see them.

  ‘So you ain’t seen or heard anything to worry about?’ Amos asked again. If trouble was about he wanted to know of it.

  Parry wrinkled his forehead, thought for a while, then said, ‘It could be nothing, but we saw two riders pass here about a quarter-hour before you arrived. They gave us a wide berth, which was unusual. I don’t know what they were up to but they were riding hard and in no mood to socialize. My eyes are not that good these days but, going by their hats, they might have been Mexicans. If I was you I’d keep an eye open in case they try to hold you up along the way.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Much obliged, Elmer. Now I’ll get these folks back on board.’

  As the passengers climbed into the coach, the driver quietly told Chris, ‘We might need to keep a sharp eye out. Those fellas Elmer saw were riding hard for a reason. Maybe I’m just old and suspicious but I think it could concern us.’

  Miguel Dwyer was as comfortable as he could be seated on a blanket on soft grass with his back against the wool lining of a saddle, but the pain from his bandaged head prevented any real rest. He was young for a rebel leader; only in his late twenties, a handsome, charismatic figure with the right mixture of intelligence and daring that attracted men to his cause. As a leader he cared for the welfare of his men where he could. But his concern was not totally altruistic, for he knew that without them he was powerless. Some of those with him were newcomers to his cause, though a dependable few had worked for him on his ranch in more peaceful times. These few would obey him without question. Right or wrong, they would follow any of their young leader’s orders. They needed no reason to rob or murder. Dwyer justified all his actions with a warped form of patriotic zeal. The good of the republic came before all else. If that coincided with his own advantages he felt obliged to pursue both aims at once.