Redding's Fandango: A Sheriff Sol Redding Western Adventure #1: Sixgun Drifter, #1

Chapter 1

Colorado, 1875

W ATCH OUT, RED—Jake’s hurtin’.

Sol Redding stood in his stirrups and squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun. The herd of longhorns lumbered ahead of him, filling the air with clamor and dust.

His horse snorted, and Sol shook his head. That damn fool kid. Where is he? Did he fall again?

His partner Abe Bowman sighed. "I told you it was a risk sendin’ the boy out on his own. He ain’t ready."

Yeah, well, he’s all we had. How’s he lookin’?

The sky was a faultless blue, and a gentle breeze ruffled what remained of the dry patchy scrub carpeting the shrublands. The whitecaps of the Sangre de Christo range were still a couple of days over the horizon to the northwest. An eagle soared far overhead, well clear of the commotion below.

Sol leaned over and spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground, startling a longhorn and sending the beast skipping away, seeking the safety of the herd. His wind-scoured black duster, well-worn boots and iron-gray stubble spoke of endless days in the saddle. Yet the shining pistol holstered at his belt matched the piercing glint in his eyes.

Abe shrugged and took a puff on the Kentucky cheroot clenched between his teeth. Can’t tell, Red. He’s all hunched over.

Sol grinned. One gets you five that useless jughead threw him again. I told him that horse was no good.

His partner’s tone sharpened. This ain’t the time for foolin’. Look, he’s headin’ this way.

Sol spotted Billy’s horse through the dust. The youth hunched over in his saddle, arms wrapped around his belly, his reins dangling free. His Stetson fell from his head and disappeared under the hooves of a cow and her calf.

Abe grunted. That damn fool kid will spook the herd if he ain’t careful.

Stampede. Sol shuddered at the thought. He glanced at the sky and touched his hat for luck. Don’t joke, Abe. That’s all we need.

He nudged his dun mare forward and cantered towards Billy. Quit foolin’, kid, he bawled. Get back out there on the flank or you’ll be ridin’ drag again, gettin’ a belly full of dust. Chilli Joe can’t cover that flank on his own.

Billy grinned and sat up straight. Sorry, Red. He suddenly swayed in his saddle, fumbled for his reins, then toppled from his saddle. His head made a hollow thump when it struck the ground.

Thunderation, Billy. Sol dug his spurs in and galloped to Billy’s side. He leaped from his saddle and held his whiskey flask to the youth's lips.

Here kid, drink.

Billy smirked and pulled open his shirt. Blood leaked from a bullet hole punched through his stomach. Pain flashed across the youth's face, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood.

Sol dropped the flask and grabbed the kid’s hand. The heck? Billy, what happened?

Billy gritted his teeth and arched his back, pain written across his face. His fingers squeezed Sol’s hand and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Sol leaned in closer. Billy, talk to me. Who did this?

The youth reached up and grabbed Sol’s collar. The whites of his eyes seemed all too vivid against the blood and grime smeared across his cheeks. Billy pulled Sol close, and his lips brushed Sol's ear. The youth choked out a single word.

Rustlers.

Chapter 2

BILLY GURGLED, CHOKED, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His body went rigid, then sagged in Sol’s arms. His hand let go of Sol’s collar, and his arm flopped to the dirt. Sol eased him to the ground and dribbled whiskey into his mouth. He slapped Billy’s cheek.

C’mon kid, don’t do this. Get up.

The youth's eyes glazed and stared sightlessly over his shoulder. Sol felt his heart being ripped from his chest. He sank to his knees, speechless.

Anger fought with sorrow deep inside him. Damn it, he growled. Kid, I’m sorry. Abe was right. Shouldn’t have left you—

A gunshot boomed close behind, and instinct kicked in. Sol ignored the rage burning deep in his gut, grabbed his mare’s reins, and loosened his Winchester ’73 in its saddle holster. Longhorns milled around him, tossing their heads, bellowing, unsettled by the gunfire.

He wheeled his mare towards the commotion. Abe cantered towards him, rifle in hand. Sol fought to keep the anger from his voice.

"What in tarnation, Abe? You tryin’ to spook ’em?"

His partner snorted. Needed you pronto, Red, and you weren’t listenin’. Abe looked down at Billy’s body. How’s the kid?

Sol shook his head. Dead.

Abe’s jaw dropped. What? How?

Gut shot, Sol growled.

Gut shot? But… Abe was silent. "I told you he wasn’t ready. You’re always in such a damned rush."

Sol dropped his head. Yeah… you’re right. He swiveled in his saddle, staring through the cattle dust towards the horizon. Rage smoldered behind his eyes. When I catch the bottom-feeder who did for Billy… he snarled.

That’s why I called you. Abe pointed over Sol’s shoulder. Look.

Sol turned and squinted into the afternoon sun. In the distance, past the heaving backs and tossing horns of a sea of longhorns, a new cloud of dust grew larger by the second.

Abe levered a fresh round into his Winchester ‘66. Got to be at least six, maybe eight riders comin’ in hot. With Billy gone, we’ve got five. He turned and looked east at the far edge of the herd. Tacoma Bill and Big Sam are runnin’ that flank. We’re spread pretty thin.

A rider suddenly emerged from the new dust cloud to the west and galloped straight for them. Fury bubbled up from the pit of Sol’s stomach. He drew his Winchester, levered a fresh round into the chamber, and drew down on the approaching rider. Abe swore and knocked it aside.

"No Sol, look. It’s Alma. Alma."

Sol heard nothing but fury roaring in his ears. Huh?

Alma May—that crazy squaw guide you hired. Done nothin’ but complain. What does she want now?

Sol blinked the dust from his eyes. Now he could see the Ute woman’s dark hair streaming out from under her shapeless hat. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A cool breeze tickled a bead of sweat as it ran down the back of his neck.

Alma’s horse skidded to a stop before them. The guide slumped over, panting heavily, before she straightened and pointed at Sol.

"Fool. Fool. It’s a trap, she hissed. They’ll kill us all."

Sol bit back a growl and raised his rifle again. He felt Abe’s hand on his shoulder, took a deep breath, and lowered his firearm.

Alma, this ain’t the time. We’ve got a dead man and a passel of hostiles approachin’. Frustration added an edge to his voice. I’m payin’ you to guide us through this hellhole. Quit bellyachin’ and do your job.

The Ute guide pulled her hat down over her ears and glared back at Sol. Sweat soaked her homespun shirt, the fabric sticking to her body. Her rough buckskin pants clung tightly to her legs. Her eyes flashed like the icy fire of a winter dawn.

Redding, we’ve got trouble. There are men hidin’ up ahead, waitin’ on us. They think they’re hidden, but I seen ’em plain as day. Alma stared at Sol. Ain’t a man alive who can hide himself from me.

Her voice held hidden strength, and Sol felt her eyes see straight through him. Abe cleared his throat. "Sol, think."

Sol felt the familiar flush of anger flood back in. Right, then. Ambush ahead, and trouble to the west. He pushed a fresh wad of Red Man chew into his mouth. We’re outnumbered and no cavalry comin’. He glanced at Abe. So, we head east.

His partner nodded. Alma, what’s to the east? What will we find?

Alma shook her head. A whole lot of nothin’. She gestured around them. Here? It’s dry plains, shrubs, grass. Out there? No water, no shelter. No chance.

Sol scratched his chin. That’s what they’re countin’ on. But we have no other options. We’ll have to move fast. Let’s turn the herd and—

Abe held up his hand. Wait, Red. What about Cookie? He stuck a thumb over his shoulder.

Sol turned to see a chuckwagon rolling and bumping towards them. Two floppy-eared mules pulled the rolling feed station, which was laden with pots, pans, foodstuffs, blankets, and everything else needed on the trail. The camp cook raised a hand in greeting from the driver’s seat.

Sol groaned. Cookie… well, Cookie will have to look after himself. He put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. We’ve got bigger problems right now.

A volley of gunshots echoed across the desert-like shrublands. Sol heard a high-pitched scream before bellowing longhorns and thundering hooves drowned everything else out.

Abe pointed, his horse rearing up. "Those shots—they came from the east, he hollered. Tacoma Bill and Big Sam are on that flank. They need help."

Another gunshot rang out. Sol drew his Smith & Wesson Model 3 Schofield, the blood pounding in his ears as he thumbed back the hammer. Abe rode in front of him and waved him back.

Steady Red, I’ll go, the older man said. This is no time to lose your head. That temper of yours will only make things worse. He leaned in. Remember Billy?

Sol took a deep breath and nodded. Get movin’, you old fool. Do what needs doin’. He raised his voice. Abe? His partner turned back, his black mare champing at the bit. Watch yourself.

Abe grinned and raised a mocking salute, then urged his horse into a gallop to the east.

Chapter 3

ALMA MAY REINED in her jittery steed. Time to move, Redding. Which way are we headed?

Sol looked back at the chuckwagon following them, then ahead at the churning, seething, roiling mass of frightened cattle. "Hell, they’re boxin’ us in. There are no good choices."

He felt his anger rise to boiling point. His hand trembled near his holstered .45. His gut urged him to follow Abe and confront the rustlers.

Another gunshot rang out, and a bullet phwipped by Sol’s ear. Someone hissed in pain, then panicked cattle bellowed behind him, startling Cookie’s team of mules and sending the chuck wagon lurching forward.

Sol saw the wagon rumble past, mules braying loudly as they surged against the traces. Cookie slumped over in the driver’s seat, the reins hanging free. Sol spurred his mare forward and pulled alongside the wagon.

He shoved the cook upright. Cookie, it’s a heck of a time to tie one on.

Cookie sagged the other way, exposing a patch of fresh blood soaking the shoulder of his vest. Sorry Red, he mumbled, no moonshine today. Seems I caught one.

Sol climbed on board and grabbed the reins, slowing the wagon to a crawl. He checked the man’s wound and nodded. Bullet passed straight through, he muttered. It’ll hurt some, but you’ll live.

Cookie leaned forward and caught his breath as the pain kicked in. Hurt? We’ll see about that. He fumbled under his seat and pulled out a bottle of redeye, drew the cork out with his teeth and took a swig.

Sol reached for the bottle. Not the time, Cookie. The cook snatched the bottle away and took another defiant swig.

Sol swallowed his anger and pointed at Alma. Change of plans. I’ll clear out those rustlers. You get Cookie and the chuckwagon out of here.

The Ute guide brandished a battered old Henry rifle in both hands, her teeth bared. No. I want to fight, not sneak away.

Sol made sure his Winchester was fully loaded. Alma, the rustlers are my problem. I’m makin’ Cookie and this wagon yours. Look, his voice softened, and she eyed him suspiciously. It’s the smart play. I’ve already lost Billy, I ain’t makin’ the same mistake twice. You know this country better than anyone. You get Cookie clear, you hear?

Alma shook her head. I ain’t yellow. Let me—

Another gunshot rang out from the west. Sol cut her off. Enough, he barked. I’m payin’ you to guide. He stood in his stirrups, craning his neck in the search for bandits. "You want to help? Guide Cookie to safety. Go, now."

Alma gripped her rifle until her knuckles turned white, her dark eyes burning under the wide brim of her hat. She cursed, shook her head, and tied her horse to the rear of the chuckwagon. The Ute climbed up to the driver’s seat and lay her rifle across her knees.

Sol noted how her pants and shirt clung to her curves as she clambered up. Move over, she growled at Cookie. I’m drivin’.

Sol saw rustlers circling Chilli Joe Winter, his last remaining rider on the west flank. There was no time to waste. He spotted a strange rider in the distance trying to stampede a knot of bellowing longhorns. A burning rage filled him from head to toe, and he ground his teeth together so hard they hurt. Not today, he growled.

He raised his rifle, his heart pounding, and squeezed the trigger. The gun boomed but the shot flew wide. Sol cursed, reloaded, and tried to slow his breathing. He fired again, smoke and flame belching from the muzzle of his Winchester. The outlaw’s arms flew up, and he slid off the back of his horse.

Sol grunted, satisfied. Billy, that’s one for you, kid. He levered another round into the breech. Hang on, Joe, I’m on my way.

Sol squeezed off two quick shots at another cattle thief, but his aim was high. He cursed and whipped the reins, pushing his mount to close the distance. The rustler fired at Chilli Joe, and the bullet clipped Joe, almost throwing him from his horse.

Joe, Sol yelled, ride to me.

Sol spotted a second outlaw through the dust clouds and fired by reflex. He squeezed the trigger and his rifle roared, and the cattle thief slumped over. Sol drilled another round between his shoulder blades for good measure.

Chilli Joe waved him in urgently. Boss, this way. He ducked another shot and fired back. The bullet found its mark, striking the outlaw in the arm. Sol heard a faint whoop as Joe disappeared into the dust in hot pursuit.

Sol raised his hand. Joe, no, wait. Head—

Gunshots crackled across the desert shrublands, sending a flock of crows cawing into the air. One round zipped by Sol’s ear, clipping his Stetson. Several longhorns whirled and lumbered away, bellowing.

Sol’s heart skipped a beat—would the rest of the herd follow? Just a few more seconds and he’d be at Chilli Joe’s side. Joe emerged from a cloud of dust at a gallop, two rustlers on his tail. Sol snapped his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the outlaw on the left, but his shot missed. Several longhorns bellowed as they galloped through the sagebrush, trailing dust clouds behind them.

Sol levered a round into breach. No, he growled. The hell with this.

He kicked his mare into a gallop, weaving between the charging cattle. The rustlers fired a volley at Chilli Joe, and his chestnut gelding tossed its head and squealed in agony before it pulled up, blood foaming from its chest.

While Joe fought to stay in the saddle, the two remaining outlaws flanked him. Sol raised his Winchester and sent another round in their direction, but a hapless longhorn blocked his shots. Sol cursed and squeezed his mare between a cow and her calf, trying to get a better angle. The rustlers wasted no time and fired at the injured Chilli Joe from point-blank range.

Sol’s heart sank. No Joe, take cover.

Chilli Joe slid from his saddle and fell under the hooves of the frenzied cattle. The two rustlers screamed like banshees and turned towards Sol, emptying their revolvers at him.

Sol ignored the lead flying past his head and felt his mare shift under him in an attempt to head off the stampede. It was a lost cause. Frantic cattle galloped in all directions, colliding with other longhorns, bellowing in distress, eyes rolling back, jaws foaming, horns tearing great gashes in each other. Sol backed off to spare his mare serious injury. The herd thundered away to the north, hooves flinging huge clods of earth into the sky as they ran through the sagebrush.

A rustler raised a Colt Navy and fired into the heavens. Hot damn, look at them beeves go, he crowed.

The outlaw turned towards Sol, and the blood drained from his face. Sol had his Winchester pointed right between the man’s eyes.

The rustler raised his hand. N-now wait a minute. You don’t have to—

Suddenly, he whipped his revolver up from behind his back. Sol squeezed his trigger, blasting a bullet through the rustler’s forehead. A cloud of blood and brains sprayed from the back of the outlaw’s head, and he flew backwards off his horse.

Sol looked at the corpse sprawled across the dirt. He let out a satisfied grunt. Wrong, jackass.

Gunfire boomed behind him, and he lost his grip on his Winchester. A bullet ricocheted away, leaving his left-hand stinging. A quick glance told the story—blood dripped down his forearm from a bullet hole punched straight through his palm.

Sol pushed the pain aside, swallowed his anger, and hunkered down low in his saddle. He spotted the second rustler aiming an old Colt Dragoon his way. The man fired, but the bullet whistled overhead. Sol spurred his dun forward, keeping low and holding the reins as best he could with his bloody hand. He charged directly at the rustler, his other hand searching for the Schofield holstered at his side.

The rustler fired again but cursed when his hammer fell on an empty chamber. He looked at Sol, horrified. Sol pulled up and raised his .45. The outlaw screamed and held his hands up in front of him.

Sol took careful aim and squeezed the trigger, blasting two slugs straight through the man’s chest. The rustler screamed and blood spurted down his vest and across his saddle. He touched his shirt, and his hand came away bloody.

The outlaw looked at Sol accusingly. You sonofa—

Too bad, Sol growled, his anger boiling over. The words burned like acid on his tongue.

He fired again, his Schofield filling the air with smoke and thunder. His bullet struck the outlaw in the throat, spraying blood skywards. The rustler dropped his revolver and slumped forward.