The Raiders

  The Raiders

  A raid on a money shipment in the town of Appsley leaves a sheriff and a guard dead and another man wounded.

  Lawman Pete Hewitt is sent to keep order until the town council elects another sheriff. A chance discovery convinces Hewitt that someone in town could also be involved in the raid and a storekeeper’s murder confirms his suspicions though most believe the events to be unrelated.

  Problems escalate when Hewitt antagonizes a gunman called The Count and when it looks as if he can unmask the villains his life is in great danger. Can he survive long enough to run the law-breakers to ground?

  By the same author

  Outlaw Vengeance

  Warbonnet Creek

  Red Rock Crossing

  Killer's Kingdom

  Range Rustlers

  Track Down the Devil

  Comanche Country

  The Raiders

  GREG MITCHELL

  ROBERT HALE

  © Greg Mitchell 2009

  First published in Great Britain 2009

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2365-7

  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

  George Mawson glanced at his watch and took his shotgun from the rack above his bunk. The breech was open and the brass ends of two cartridges showed in the twin barrels. He snapped the weapon closed and cradled it the crook of his elbow. It was time to start earning his money. A tall, angular man in his mid-forties, his face was heavily lined and tanned like old leather. But riding shotgun, exposed to the elements on the box of a stagecoach did that to people. He would be guarding a strongbox today on the ninety-mile run from Appsley to the bank at Carter Springs. It had been held overnight in the Appsley branch of the bank. He did not know how much money was involved but knew it was enough to tempt some of the bandits who periodically plagued the coach road.

  Mawson had always considered himself lucky that the coaches he guarded had never been robbed, but many who knew him attributed that to the reputation he had earned with a gun during his early career as a law officer. He was a man, too, who made his own luck by careful preparation and today was no exception. He knew that the Colt .44 on his right hip was fully loaded and that both barrels of his twelve-gauge gun were charged with heavy buckshot.

  Jamming his battered brown hat on his already greying hair, he walked out through the coach line office to where the Concord coach, with six impatient matched bays, was waiting. Alf Greer was already on the box seat handling the reins as a couple of stablemen held the heads of the leaders. He could see that the few passengers had taken their places. It was still early in the morning and no early risers had yet showed themselves on the streets of the little cattle town. Though it was a scene he had experienced many times, Mawson remained alert.

  ‘Box’s coming,’ the driver announced.

  The guard stepped around the back of the coach to see a worried bank employee walking towards them carrying a small but heavy box and Ross Anderson, the town sheriff, walking beside him with a Winchester carbine cradled in his arms.

  ‘Howdy George,’ the sheriff greeted. ‘You have a good day for a ride. Let’s hope that the road agents stay away so you can enjoy it.’

  Mawson was about to reply, then momentarily froze with shock. A horseman with a bandanna over his face came spurring out of a nearby alley with a gun in his hand. The realization of what was unfolding shocked the guard back into action. Even as he shouted a warning to his companions and threw the shotgun to his shoulder he saw other riders following. Working now on instinct he cocked both hammers and swung the twin muzzles of his gun towards the leading rider.

  ‘Let ’em have it, Ross!’ he called to the sheriff and loosed both barrels at his target.

  The shotgun seemed to explode. A sheet of red flame flashed from one side of the gun, pieces of metal smashed into his face and with ringing ears, he dropped the weapon and staggered, half-blinded and shocked, his face a mask of blood. His right hand did not seem to be working properly and his movements as he reached for his revolver were slow and strangely clumsy. The nearest rider fired two close-range shots into him and the guard’s world went dark. It is doubtful that he heard the shots that cut down the sheriff.

  In seconds all was confusion, horses galloping about kicking up dust, guns firing, noise, death and chaos taking control.

  The unarmed stable hands let the leaders go as they fled seeking cover. Freed of restraint and panicked by the shooting, the coach team bolted, dragging screaming passengers and trailing a plume of dust behind them. The severely wounded bank employee was in no position to resist when a rider leaned down, snatched the handle of the strongbox, pulled it to the saddle in front of him and galloped out of town.

  In less than a minute the main street of Appsley had been transformed into something resembling a battlefield. A haze of powder smoke mixed with the dust kicked up by the coach hung in the air and three men lay bleeding into the dirt on the street.

  Deputy Sheriff Pete Hewitt studied the buildings as he rode down Appsley’s main street. His blaze-faced sorrel, recently purchased from a cattle ranch, did not like towns and snorted nervously as it saw people coming and going from doors, glinting window glass and odd pieces of paper being blown about in the light wind. ‘Get used to this, Cactus,’ he said to the horse. ‘You’re working for the law now.’ Mulligan, his brown packmule strolled along behind. He was more familiar with towns.

  Few people took much notice of Hewitt because horsemen in the streets were a daily occurrence and there was little about the young man to attract attention. He was of average height and build, with dark-brown hair, and was dressed like a cowhand although his clothes were a bit cleaner and his brown boots had been recently polished. Only those who looked closely would have noticed that the Colt .44 on his right hip had received more attention than range men usually gave their guns.

  Hewitt soon found the place he sought. It was the office of John Grey, the town’s only lawyer and elected mayor. He dismounted, hitched his animals to the rail and entered the building. A middle-aged woman wearing glasses looked up from her desk as he entered. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m Pete Hewitt from the county sheriff’s office. I was sent over here to help out until you people can get yourselves a new sheriff. I was told to see Mr Grey.’

  ‘He won’t be long, Mr Hewitt. Would you care to take a seat?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’ll wait here by the door where I can keep an eye on my horse. He’s not used to towns and I don’t want him to break my bridle or pull your hitching rack down.’

  ‘Horses,’ the lady said and frowned. ‘Sometimes I think they are more trouble than they’re worth.’ Then she smiled and extended a hand. ‘I’m Veronica Cook. We will probably see a lot of each other while you are here. I look after some of Mr Grey’s office work. He has a client with him at present. You keep an eye on that mad beast and I’ll call you as soon as Mr Grey is free.’

  Cactus relaxed a little when he saw his master standing in the doorway but Hewitt saw a couple of ladies in dresses approaching with parasols. The horse had not seen any of these and would be sure to take fright. He quickly unhitched his reins and held them as the ladies went by. Cactus snorted and raised his head but was not too alarmed. His owner patted his neck. ‘You’re goin
g well, Cactus. There’s nothing wrong with being a bit wary of women but they rarely eat horses. Most of them are tame.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said a soft female voice behind him.

  He turned to see a pretty girl who had just left the lawyer’s office. Laughter sparkled in her bright blue eyes and a smile was on her lips. Her neat yellow dress set her figure off superbly and her glossy brown hair showed beneath a stylish bonnet. Against the drabness of the town the girl stood out like some exotic decoration.

  ‘John Grey asked me to tell you that he can see you now,’ the girl said with a smile. ‘You really shouldn’t be frightening that poor horse about women.’ She reached out gently and stroked the animal’s white blaze. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Cactus seemed to agree and relaxed completely.

  The same could not be said for his owner. Hewitt was flustered, trying to tip his hat and fasten his reins again at the same time. ‘Thanks,’ he managed to stammer as the vision seemed to glide away along the boardwalk.

  Grey was a large man of about fifty and his expensive brown suit would not have looked out of place in a more affluent city. The gold watch chain across his middle seemed as if it was a safety measure to restrain a stomach that threatened to break out of his waistcoat.

  His manner was smooth and courteous, if anything a little too smooth for the deputy’s liking. He was more accustomed to less-refined characters who spoke their minds.

  ‘It was a terrible business,’ the lawyer said gravely as he explained the situation. ‘We lost as good a sheriff as any town could have, the stageline lost a very good man and young Tom Ford from the bank was wounded – a really bad business all round.’

  ‘Any idea who did it?’

  Grey shook his head. ‘There’s no shortage of bad men in the hills around here. Those raiders could have been any of them.’

  ‘How did they know about the money shipments?’

  ‘It was no great secret. Any observant person who lived here for a while would soon learn that these shipments occur regularly. Bank employees and stage company people all knew and I suppose it was inevitable that word would soon reach the wrong ears.’

  ‘I’ll ask around while I’m here and see what I can find out. If that gang hit the town once, they can do it again. Next time it could be the bank.’

  Grey sat back in his chair and fiddled absently with a paper knife. ‘I’m not sure there’s a lot one man can do, but we expect you to try. Your main job here, though, is to keep the peace until we can get ourselves a new sheriff. We have a nice orderly town here and we want to attract more business, but people won’t invest in some hell-raising cow town.’

  Grey told Hewitt that he could stay at the sheriff’s office and have his meals at the hotel. The town would pay for those. There was a corral with stables and a supply of fodder for his animals behind the office. A man would come in once a week to clean the premises. He was welcome to use any weapons or ammunition left in the office should the need arise. There were no set working hours as long as he stayed alert and stopped trouble before it got started.

  ‘I’d better get settled in then,’ the deputy said as he rose to his feet. Then as an afterthought he asked, ‘Who was that lady who was here before me?’

  Grey chuckled. ‘Why did I think you would ask this question? That’s Sue Macgregor. Her family owns the general store. She’s some looker and a nice person with it. Half the single men in town want to marry her. You’re welcome to join the queue.’

  Hewitt put on his hat. ‘I think I’ll have to leave her to the others.’

  The lawyer pushed back his chair and produced a bunch of keys from a desk drawer. ‘Here are the keys to the sheriff’s office. It’s about a hundred yards down the road on the left. Welcome to Appsley.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hewitt did not take long to settle in, and as soon as he had cared for his animals he made a beeline for the stage company office. To his surprise he recognized the manager.

  John Wilcox was the same worried-looking man who had worked in the railroad booking office at Hadleys Bridge where Pete had first worked as a deputy. He was only a couple of years older than Hewitt but was taller, thinner and more stooped, looking ten years older than his thirty years.

  ‘So you’re working for a slower means of transport these days,’ the deputy said with a smile.

  Wilcox smiled and extended a hand. ‘Pete Hewitt. I didn’t expect to see you over here. Have you come to solve our crime problem?’

  The deputy shook his head. ‘I think it will take a smarter man than me but I will find out as much as I can about the killings here while the witnesses still remember. Have you got time to come outside and show me where it all happened?’

  ‘Sure, but I can only show you where people were killed. I was inside when the raid started.’

  They went outside and Wilcox showed where the shot men had fallen. He also pointed out the alley from which the riders had emerged. He added that the coach driver, an important eyewitness, was out of town and would be returning the following day.

  As Hewitt stepped from the boardwalk he noticed something metal on the ground. Bending to retrieve it, he saw something else shining just under the edge of the boardwalk. He picked up both pieces; a blackened, jagged piece of metal and a distorted circular piece of brass.

  Wilcox glanced at them. ‘Looks like bits of George Mawson’s shotgun. It blew up in his face. It was a company gun with Damascus barrels. Sounds like the whole shebang just gave way.’

  Hewitt nodded. He was aware that Damascus steel barrels, once fashionable, were now known to have too many flaws in their construction and could not withstand high pressures. ‘Was Mawson loading his own cartridges?’

  ‘No. The company supplied them. I still have the box and a few cartridges in my office. They are just the usual factory-loaded ones.’

  The piece of steel was certainly from a Damascus barrel and bore a pattern left by the forming process. The brass disc turned out to be the base of a shotgun cartridge and a piece of shredded green cardboard was all that remained of the shell that normally would have been attached. Hewitt glanced at it. ‘This doesn’t look like the usual twelve-gauge cartridge base.’

  ‘He might have been supplying some of his own cartridges but that bit of brass could have already been there and have nothing to do with the killings.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It would be more tarnished if that was the case. What happened to the rest of Mawson’s gun?’

  Wilcox shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know for sure. I remember seeing it. It was a total wreck. But if you don’t mind me saying so, that old gun won’t help you find out who committed this crime.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ the deputy said as he transferred the two pieces of metal to his vest pocket. ‘Is that wounded bank clerk well enough to have visitors?’

  ‘Probably. He’s recuperating at home. He lives in the street behind this one. I’ll tell you how to find the house.’

  ‘Just one more thing. With such an important money shipment, why wasn’t the bank manager with the strongbox?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wilcox admitted. ‘You’ll have to ask him that yourself. Dave Basset’s not the sweetest character in town but he might be a bit more civil to you than he is to the rest of us.’

  Hewitt followed Wilcox’s directions to the house of Tom Ford, the young bank clerk who had been wounded in the robbery. He found him propped up in bed with a very anxious mother hovering about him. His left shoulder was covered in bandages and he still looked pale and a little shocked. The deputy introduced himself and apologized for disturbing him.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be much help to you,’ the clerk said. ‘It all happened so quickly. Horses came tearing out of the alley, shooting started and George’s gun seemed to explode. I saw the sheriff go down and tried to run for cover but a bullet hit me from behind and sent me flying.’

  Hewitt frowned. ‘Men shooting from galloping horses with six-gun
s usually don’t shoot that well. Are you sure that they shot you?’

  ‘Who else could it have been? I was a bit puzzled though. The doctor said that the bullet went in the back of my shoulder and came out the front. The last thing I remember was seeing a rider coming at me but I could have turned away to run. That’s what I was intending to do when I found that the gun was caught in my pocket. It was all over in seconds.’

  ‘Did you see anything unusual about the raiders?’

  ‘Not really. There was no time to see details.’

  ‘Where was your boss while all this was happening? I thought he would have been overseeing such an important cash shipment.’

  ‘Mr Basset is retiring soon and he is gradually pushing more work on to me in case I have to look after things before a new manager is appointed.’

  ‘Thanks for the help. I’ll pay a call on Basset now. If you think of anything unusual or just remember something else that might be important, will you let me know?’

  ‘I sure will,’ Ford assured him.

  Hewitt’s next stop was the bank. A clerk ushered him into an office where a thin, middle-aged man was seated at a desk with a pile of papers on one side and a couple of ledgers on the other. There was no greeting in the narrow, hatchet face with its pale-blue eyes. When the deputy introduced himself the banker’s handshake was limp and formal.

  ‘I would have thought,’ Basset began, ‘that you would be out after those killers. You won’t find them here in town.’

  ‘Who knows where I’ll find them? There’s no point in chasing around the countryside until I know what to look for. It helps to know who you are chasing. I am interviewing witnesses and it would be helpful if I could hear your version of what you saw that day.’

  ‘I didn’t see much. I was inside the bank when I heard an explosion and shooting. I looked through the window and saw three riders charging at the coach. Mawson was down. I saw the sheriff spin around and fall. Young Ford dropped the strongbox, he seemed to be reaching for the bank pistol he had in his pocket. A bandit rode at him firing and suddenly he was on the ground. Around that time the coach team bolted. I saw one of the raiders snatch the strongbox off the ground and the three of them galloped out of town.’