Farmer Haunted Falls

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9891220-4-7
Verlag: Timber Creek Productions, LLC
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 158 Seiten

If you are a fan of L'Amour, Kelton, Burroughs and Grey, you'll love Haunted Falls - the much awaited sequel to the best selling The Nations as it brings to life the American frontier! US Deputy Marshals, under Judge Issac Parker, The Hanging Judge, patrol the Indian Nations-the most dangerous place in the world-in the late 19th century. Marshal Bass Reeves long time partner, Jack McGann, goes undercover to ferret out some claim jumpers in the Arbuckle Mountains. He is bushwhacked and washed down the rapids and over Turner Falls. A restless spirit and a sacred white wolf send a fiery redhead widow to nurse him through his amnesia and other wounds back to health. Bass and his other partner, Jed Neal are sent to find the missing McGann, but are sidetracked into helping US Deputy Marshal Selden Lindsey track down Bill Dalton, the last of the old time outlaws. 'Son, I only warn once...you best step aside whilst you still have a chance,' Bass said softly. May God have mercy on the outlaw's souls, because the US Marshals Service and Judge Issac Parker will not. Spirits, thrills, action, Indian lore, danger, treachery, romance, tragedy, humor, the supernatural and surprises! It's all in Haunted Falls. Time to saddle up!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Farmer, Ken

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE

INDIAN TERRITORY

CHICKASAW NATION

1894

“Honey angry today,” said Montford Anoatubbi of the Chickasaw Nation.

The white man behind him spit a long stream of amber tobacco juice at the off-white limestone outcrop to their right. “Yep…five inches of rain’ll do ‘er every time.”

Just past daybreak, the brilliant azure blue sky, absolutely free of clouds, allowed the morning sun to shine upon the backs of the two men on horseback as they followed a large snow-white wolf-dog along a switchback. The huge animal led the way down a well-worn game trail toward a fast moving, churning mountain creek at the bottom of the ridge. They had started out that morning after taking shelter during an all-night rain storm in a cave high on a tree-covered granite ridge of the Arbuckle Mountains in the western portion of the Chickasaw Nation.

The underlying granite of the Arbuckles dated back some 1.4 billion years. Thrust-faulted igneous rock had been overlain by thick limestone sediments during the Paleozoic Era—when the entire central portion of North America was under a shallow sea—and folded numerous times in its early geologically active period, often giving the appearance of Christmas ribbon candy. The ancient range had eroded down to a height of only 1,412 feet above current sea level and numerous thrust outcrops stuck up through the loamy soil in evenly spaced rows like the rib cage of some gigantic prehistoric monster.

Much of the area was covered by a wide range of oaks, pecan, hickory, cottonwood, walnut, sycamore and cedar trees interspersed with meadows of grama, buffalo and blue stem grasses. The spring-time sweet scent of dogwood blossoms filled the dewy early morning air.

One rider was white, the other Indian—each wearing basically the same type of clothing—worn Levis, cotton shirts and work boots. They had tied their black broadcloth jackets behind the cantles on top of their soogans as the day had already begun to turn warm. The white man sported a full dark mustache and wore a faded blue cavalry-style bib-front shirt with a center-creased gray Stetson—he also wore a leather shoulder holster in addition to a belt gun. The Chickasaw’s shirt was a newer store-bought calico and his hat was a black beaver felt, tall-crowned, uncreased and with a Red-Tailed Hawk feather stuck in the porcupine quill-and-bead hat band—the traditional type preferred by the Chickasaw.

Abruptly the wolf stopped; the hair along his back and shoulders rose up as he looked across the creek and growled. The white rider reacted. “What is it, Boy? Smell someth…”

His words were cut off by a storm of gunfire from the brush on the other side of the raging creek. Montford, leading a pack donkey loaded with panning and camp gear, went down first as his horse was hit twice in the chest—trapping his right leg underneath. The startled donkey broke free, brayed and scrambled back up the incline. Montford struggled to extract his rifle from his saddle boot and took a round to his head, spraying the rocks and grass behind him with a red and gray mist—killing him instantly.

The other man dove from the back of his horse to the left just as his blood bay mount was hit by a fusillade of bullets. His hat flew off as he hit the ground, rolled and scrambled on all fours down toward the creek bank. He drew the Smith and Wesson .44 Russian revolver on his right hip as he reached cover behind one of the numerous rocks and boulders that lined the creek.

Rocks that were near or in the water in this part of the Arbuckle Mountains were known as slick rock because of a coating of many layers of calcium carbonate—called travertine—they received from the water of the area. Both man and horse had to be extremely careful when crossing any running water—a misstep could instantly plunge them into the normally swift current.

He crawled through a shallow eddy behind a rock that was little bigger than a number two washtub as shots peppered the water and rocks nearby. There was blood oozing from his side, both front and back, just above his hip. Damn, went clean through. Guess I’m lucky, he thought as he looked down…Naw…if I was lucky, wouldn’t have got hit atall.

The exit wound was bleeding the most—he pulled up his shirt and ripped bigger holes in his blood-soaked union suit. He took the chaw of tobacco from his mouth, split it in two and stuffed the biggest chunk into the larger hole, the smaller in the front, and then tried to tuck his shirt back in his trousers to help hold everything in place.

Another shot ricocheted from an adjacent rock, showering his face with glass-like rock splinters. The dog crawled up next to his leg as he wiped the blood dripping down into his right eye from a cut just above his eyebrow. “Dang, wish I coulda got to my Marlin. Could git their attention with a few of those 45-70 rounds…” He glanced back up the embankment. “Looks like Montford’s had it and we’re up the hill and over the mountain, Boy.”

The wolf-dog cocked his head.

The only thing he could see across the creek was a cloud of gray gunsmoke from the rounds being fired at his location. He rose up and snapped off three quick shots from the double-action Russian, spreading them one foot apart. He heard a cry from across the eighty-foot wide rapids.

“Lucky again…Looks to be at least three, meby four more over there. We need to get us some better cover…What do you think?” he said to his companion as he broke over the Russian, removed the spent cartridges that automatically stuck up, thumbed in replacements and snapped the pistol closed.

Nearly ten feet away was a larger boulder with the remnants of a tree trunk wedged against it from previous high water.

“You know, if we can make it to that big rock over there with that tree, we’ll have cover from two directions…Come on, son!” he shouted to the dog above the roar of the whitewater as he triggered off two more rounds across the creek and jumped up.

On the third step, his leather-soled boot slid off the top of a melon-sized rock at the water’s edge at the same time three more shots were fired in his direction from across the creek. A fine spray of red blossomed briefly as he grunted, dropped his pistol and splashed headlong into the raging torrent. More shots were fired at the large animal as he sprinted behind a deadfall up on the bank.

“Fools! Cain’t even hit a dog?” one of the men on the other side of the creek said to his comrades.

“What’n hell, Cougar, you think that hound is gonna tell somebody?” asked Ox, a huge square block of a man.

“We taken care of them two. The Lighthorse’ll raise hob if’n they try to pin this on us,” said Bobo as he rose up from his hiding place in the bushes.

“All right, grab Fleming’s body, we’ll bury him in the tailin’s back at the dig,” said Cougar “…we got another stop to make on the way.”

The swollen rapids of Honey Creek tumbled the man’s body downstream at between eight and to twelve miles per hour. The body briefly hung on the roots of a tree wedged between two boulders and then was ripped loose as much of his shirt tore away. He was then forced through a sieve between two rocks into a hole where he was rolled down to the bottom of the creek, back up to the surface and back down to the bottom again in a deadly cycle.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open underwater and looked up at the light above. He instinctively curled into a ball and as he hit the graveled bottom again, he pushed with all his might and shot to the surface. Grabbing a quick gulp of air above the churning water, he ducked back down, lunged to the right, cleared the hole and was back out into the main stream again.

On the bank, the wolf-dog, running along a game trail through the thick woods that paralleled the creek, easily kept pace with the surging water. His eyes never left the tumbling, bobbing and rolling figure that was his master.

The man tried to grab a boulder off to the side of the main channel, but it was too slick and he was washed on downstream. As he bobbed to the surface once again, he looked down the creek and his heart froze.

Honey Creek disappeared—it cascaded over the seventy-seven feet of Turner Falls. Oh Jesus, my only chance is to ride the flow to the bottom an’ take my chances on that thirty-foot deep pool…Hope to hell I don’t hit that big rock in the middle…Ain’t like I got a choice. He flattened out his body—his feet pointing in the direction of the falls—hands at his sides before he hit the slick coating. Over thousands of years, Honey Creek had deposited layer after layer of the fine-grained, multicolored travertine. The coating had thickened to the point that the falls did not drop straight down the block fault, but rather had smoothed to a near forty-five degree gradient—it was like hitting black ice.

He shot out into the middle of the pool at the base at almost thirty-five miles per hour just narrowly missing the large boulder in front of the falls. The impact with the water took his breath away as he plunged almost two-thirds of the way to the bottom. Once the water slowed his momentum, he started to kick his legs to bring himself back to the top. His lungs were near bursting and blackness was closing in as his face broke the surface. He took in several great draughts of air, shook his...