Pursuers Unto Death

Pursuers Unto Death

To Kill A Man, Book Two

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2017 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, 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 storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

1

An uncovered wagon trundled across the rutted plain, two outriders accompanying it. Inside half a dozen Asian men, bare-headed, dressed in rough, dark work clothes. One sat slightly detached from the rest, taking in the passing countryside, lost in thought. The others were locked in conversation with each other, the occasional guffaw breaking out to shatter the silence of the surroundings.

Late afternoon and the sun blazed down. Bent over the reins, the driver wore a wide-brimmed straw sombrero, chewing tobacco as he stared at the ground, twisting his head every now and then to send a stream of dark brown spit into the air.

We'll take a rest amongst that outcrop, said one of the outriders, pointing a leather-gloved finger towards a group of towering rocks some fifty or so paces off to the left.

Do we have to? said the driver, sounding annoyed. I'd rather get this damn journey over with.

If I don't rest soon, I'm gonna fall off this horse and break my neck, returned the rider. I need a break.

Oh, so it's for your benefit, not theirs?

I couldn't give a fig for them, murdering yellow bastards that they are, said the rider.

Shoot, put in the other rider, I'm half-starved, too. Let's hold up for an hour or so.

An hour? squawked the driver. Shit, Benson, that's way too long. We stop for thirty minutes and that's it.

Benson sighed and shot a glance to his companion, who shrugged and said, All right. Thirty minutes. Make for the shade, Tawny. Meanwhile, me and Benson will cover this group of bastards.

Dismounting, the two riders urged the Asian men out of the wagon, gesturing to them with their Winchesters to sit in the shade provided by a cluster of nearby rocks. They clambered out, jumping into the dirt, stretching their limbs. The laconic one offered his manacled wrists to Benson, who sniggered, You gotta be joking. After what you done? Move your slimy ass over there, boy, and don't test my patience.

Watch that one, said Tawny, stretching out his back. Story goes, he is the one who killed the railroad boss. With one blow, they said.

Shoot, said Benson, regarding the slight man standing before him. He don't look no stronger than a weak-kneed schoolboy!

Well, he is, so keep your distance.

With that, Benson took a step back, worked the lever of his Winchester and waggled it towards where the others were shuffling. Move your ass, or I'll blow a hole in you bigger than a sand-bucket.

Shrugging, the slightly-built man averted his eyes and moved across to where his companions were flopping down onto the ground, all of them groaning or sighing. Some of them leaned towards the slight one and asked him questions, which he did not answer. Instead, he carried on staring into the distance, his flat face bereft of expression.

Tawny took the wagon to an area of deep shade. Having attached feeding bags to the two horses, he sauntered across to where the two outriders now sat and threw down a jute bag filled with hard-tack and biscuits. Make what you can of that, boys. It's all we have until we get to the fort.

Benson prodded around inside, selected a largish piece of dried-up meat and crammed it into his mouth. You not eating, Henkell?

The other outrider turned down the corners of his mouth. I just need to rest, that's all. I'll eat when I deliver this lot into the care of the U.S. government.

That'll be about another four hours, I shouldn't wonder, said Tawny, sitting down next to them. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with his gloved hand. It's hellish hot. I reckon we will make it there by nightfall. I don't want to linger here, boys. There is Injuns about.

Injuns are piss in the wind, said Benson. All them stories you hear, they is just meant to stop more settlers moving West.

You wouldn't say that if you'd seen what they can do, said Tawny. I've seen it. Scalpings, rape, torture. Them Comanches, they is the worst, and they is ranging right across these parts nowadays, all the way down to the Mexican border.

Well, if we see 'em, we shoot the bastards, said Henkell, reaching for a water canteen. Pulling out the stopper, he raised it to his lips and took a long, deep drink.

What about them? said Benson, pointing to the group of Asian men. What is it they done?

Got into a fight with some Irish, said Tawny, considering the group. Something about pay, or some such. Seems they took umbrage over them getting less than the Irish.

Irish get paid less than nothing.

Exactly. So them Chinamen, they got to having a beef and a fight broke out. That's when the boss came over and the surly one, Tawny pointed to the slightly-built silent man sitting crossed-legged now, still staring into the distance, he hit the boss. Only once. Killed him outright.

Jeez… Henkell shook his head. It don't seem possible.

When others came up, the little guy fought them, too. It took six of them to beat him to the dirt, using pick-axe handles so the story goes. He put at least four of 'em in the ground.

Dead?

Tawny grunted. Every single one.

Benson paused in the act of popping another strip of beef-jerky into his mouth. He killed four men with just his hands?

"Five, including the boss. And the boss was worth a lot of money, friend. A lot of money. His brother came across from New York City and wanted that Oriental strung up there and then. But some lawman by the name of Hendershot stepped in and said it would be better if they went over to Fort Union and stood trial. Said it would send out a message to all them other heathens who are coming over to help build the railroads."

I don't understand why they don't use good, solid white folk, said Henkell. We don't need those fucking Irish, nor them piggy-tailed little shits taking all the jobs.

Hell, Henkell, they work for less than two dollars a week. You know anyone who would work for that? Tawny spat a trail of tobacco juice into the dirt. The railroad will cut costs anyways they can. All they is interested in is profits, so they can sit on their fat asses and drink their fancy wines.

Excepting for this particular boss, said Benson with a grin, munching down his beef.

Damned right, said Tawny, his eyes never leaving the slight Asian man. I sure would have liked to have seen him do what he did.

Killing, you mean?

Nodding, Tawny pulled out a wet wad of chewing tobacco from a leather bag and cut off a hunk with a knife. Anyways, they is heading for the hangman's noose, and all we have to do is make sure they get there on time. He chomped through the piece of tobacco, eyes closing in delight, cheeks bulging, a trail of juice running from the corner of his mouth.

The first clue they had of the Indians' approach was when an arrow slammed into the chest of one of the Chinese. In a sudden burst of panic, the others leaped up, trying to flap their arms and scurry away, neither movement possible due to the manacles restricting both hands and feet.

Get down, you idiots! barked Tawny, already breaking cover, working the lever of his rifle, scanning the tops of the rocks for any sign of the attackers. Both Benson and Henkell were also running in a half-crouch, looking to where they believed the archer had loosed off the arrow. Meanwhile, the stricken Chinaman floundered in the dirt, desperate to pull out the protruding dart, but not able to gain enough leverage. Another arrow hit him in the throat and he died among the screams of terror erupting from his companions.

From that point, it was as if the world had been turned upside down, mayhem replacing the stillness, the whooping of the warriors sending a chill through everyone present. Appearing out of the air like phantoms, one moment there, the next disappearing, the warriors moved with almost hypnotic grace, flitting from rock to rock, space to space, hatchets raised, their blood-curdling cries freezing their quarry with fear.

Henkell responded too late, swinging around his Winchester, firing wildly. None of his bullets hit their intended