Farmer Hell Hole

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9912390-5-4
Verlag: Timber Creek Productions, LLC
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 173 Seiten

Bass Reeves is back! If you're a fan of L'Amour, Kelton, Buroughs and Grey, you'll love HELL HOLE - the third novel in the best selling and award winning Bass Reeves saga in The Nations. 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. Bass Reeves and his partner, Jack McGann, are tasked to bring in the Griffin gang and clean out the cesspool of outlaws at a town known as Catoosa, the Hell Hole. Judge Parker wants 'that bunch of societal paragons of miscreants and malefactors that are gathered there eliminated' and doesn't care how Bass and his men do it. 'Some call me one thing and some call me another...But mostly they call me Bass Reeves and I'm yer worst nightmare, son.' They team up with Jack's Godson, Texas Ranger Bodie Hickman and track the Griffin gang across half of Oklahoma Territory recovering two kidnapped young ladies, and then back into the Hell Hole with their orders of 'Bring them in alive...or bring them in dead.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Farmer, Ken

Leseproben

TIMBER CREEK PRESS

CHAPTER ONE

MARIETTA, IT

CHICKASAW NATION

Felix Griffin twisted the young retarded man’s own galluses around his neck and hoisted him to the top of the iron bar wall that formed one side of the cell. The small area reeked with body odor and the smell of stale urine from the white porcelain thunder pot in the corner. Nineteen-year-old, Abner Daly, kicked, struggled and clawed at the leather strap while it slowly choked him to death.

In the next cell, two other members of Griffin’s gang, Harlan Walker and Martin Haynes, quickly secured the other end of the hapless youngster’s leather suspenders to a crossbar. Felix grabbed a small wooden stand in a corner of the cell near the dying boy’s kicking feet, overturned it and the large white porcelain pitcher and washbasin that were on top fell to the floor with a crash. Martin and Harlan stepped to their bunks, slid under the thin wool blankets and pretended to be sleeping.

In the front office of the small jail, sixty year old Deputy Charlie Metcalf—awakened by the noise—jumped up from his bunk and rubbed his eyes to clear them of sleep. He looked around the darkened room in confusion at the sounds of something banging against the bars in the back. What in tarnation is that racket? He grabbed a coal oil lantern from the desk, turned up the wick, and then dashed toward the door leading to the cells in the back room.

Haynes and Walker acted as if they too had just been awakened. The two men sat up in their bunks as the elderly deputy ran in—the hanging teenager gave one final jerk.

“What the hell…” said Charlie.

“Looks like my cell mate done gone and hung hisself,” commented Griffin—a burly, dark visaged man—as he sat up in his bunk, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Charlie set the lamp on the floor, unlocked the cell and rushed in—still half asleep and unthinking. “What the deuce did the kid do this fer? I knowed he was a tad slow, but he was only in fer chicken stealin’.”

Felix didn’t respond.

The deputy looked up at the body hanging three feet off the floor, completely away from his bunk on the other side. “Now how in Sam Hill did he git hisself up…”

The skinny man’s feet were suddenly jerked out from under him when Harlan and Martin pulled the rope noose that was lying on the dark floor. They had unstrung the rope webbing from one of the bunks and snaked it along the floor and over the top of the bars to the next cell. Charlie was slammed upside down against the bars, completely off the ground next to the dead boy.

“Jesus…” the deputy exclaimed as his head banged against the iron bars.

Felix calmly walked over, removed the deputy’s Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt, swiftly plunged it into his stomach and ripped downward, cutting through the top of his pants. The deputy’s legs jerked and twitched in death as his intestines plopped to the floor with a soft wet sound and were rapidly covered with blood from his own cleaved heart. Griffin removed the deputy’s keys, walked out the cell door and over to the other cell and unlocked it.

“Hey, how about us?”

“Yeah, come on, here!” yelled two rapidly sobering cowboys in the third cell.

“You boys broke the law. Need to do yer time.” Felix chuckled as he picked up the lamp from the floor and the three headed for the front office. “Grab them other lamps,” instructed Griffin as he held his up high to better light the room.

Following his order, Harlan and Martin started sloshing coal oil over everything in the jail. Felix took two swings to break the lock on the gun cabinet with an ax and they armed themselves with their own Winchesters and sixguns. Griffin opened a tin of phosphorus matches from the desk, struck one on the side wall and tossed it into a puddle of coal oil, setting it ablaze. The fire crawled across the floor rapidly like a starving animal, its fingers seeking food.

“This oughta keep the town busy fer a spell.”

The trapped cowboys screamed frantically at the Griffin gang as they moved down the hallway to the back door.

“Let us out of here!…For the love of God…”

“Please….let us out!”

“You gotta git us outta here!”

At the rear door of the jail, Harlan and Martin ran out into the night, each carrying a rifle in addition to the guns they had strapped around their hips.

“Let’s go find some horses,” Walker said as they watched Griffin walk unconcernedly down the hallway.

Felix paused a moment in the doorway to survey their devilish handiwork, grinning malevolently as the flames consumed the dry board-and-batt building like a swarm of locust devouring a corn field. Then, ignoring the desperate cries of the other prisoners, he sauntered out of sight into the darkness.

CREEK BANK

ATOKA COUNTY

CHOCTAW NATION

The escaped prisoners rode down to the creek bank—all were riding worn-out looking horses and Martin Haynes rode bareback. They dismounted and allowed the horses to drink as they moved upstream to do the same.

“Damn, that water tastes good,” exclaimed Martin.

Harlan splashed water in his face after drinking, wiped it semidry with his shirt sleeve and sprawled back on the grass. “Might taste good to you, but by God I’m hungry. We ain’t et since yest’dy mornin’.”

“We’ll git somethin’ to eat,” said Felix squatting down after he too drank his fill.

“When? My stomach is startin’ to think my mouth’s been nailed shut.” He waved his arm at the spavined horses nibbling on the fresh winter grass near the water. “And these here crowbaits you and Harlan stole ain’t fit to pull a gol-durn plow!”

“Shut up, Martin…Jest shut yer damn mouth,” said Felix.

“And ya‘ll got the saddles, while I’m havin’ to ride that razor-spined sonofabitch bareback…Why is it I’m always the one gits the short end of the stick?”

Felix backhanded Martin, knocking him on his butt. “I said shut yer mouth. Yer constant belly achin’ makes my ass want a dip of snuff!”

“Martin’s right though, Felix. That marshal’s been stickin’ to our tails like a duck on a June bug since we left Love County…Unless we git some good horses…”

“Shhhh! Listen,” cautioned Felix as he held up his hand.

They heard the sound of a small wagon pulled by a single horse approaching along the hard-packed dirt road. The gang rushed over to the road and hunkered down in the brush.

A small flat-topped road wagon clattered and rattled along, with two men in the seat. Dressed in business suits and bowlers, they were traveling brush arbor preachers Thomas Whipple and Wesley Portis. The rear compartment of the wagon was hidden by roll-down canvas side curtains upon which was lettered in bright red:

REVIVALS

BIBLES - HYMNALS

WEDDINGS - CHRISTENINGS - BAPTISMS

FUNERALS

Portis, an older man about fifty, counted some paper money. He shook the sheaf of bills at Whipple, who was driving.

“Look at these greenbacks, Thomas, my boy. Prettier than spring grass, ain’t they?”

“Yes indeed, they surely are. They surely are. How did we do?”

Splendid, I’d say. Splendid! Over one hundred and twelve smackers. Yesireebob. A real profitable prayer meetin’…I love passin’ the plate. Praise the Lord.”

The Griffin gang watched the wagon as it drew closer to their hiding place in the grove of cedar trees.

“Travelin’ preachers,” whispered Martin.

“I kin read…Now, shhhh.” Felix put his finger to his lips.

As the wagon drew abreast of them, Felix calmly stepped out in the middle of the road in front of the bay horse. Martin and Harlan followed immediately with their guns leveled.

“Hold the wagon,” ordered Griffin.

Whipple reined the wagon to a stop as Felix motioned with his rifle.

“What…”

“Pull her over in the woods…Yonder behind us.”

“Now see here…” Wesley protested.

“Don’t give me no sass, preacher man.”

“Do as he says!” Harlan levered his Winchester.

Thomas pulled the wagon to where he was ordered and stopped. The gang surrounded them.

“Climb down,” Griffin ordered.

Hesitantly and fearfully, the preachers obeyed.

“I think you gentlemen should reconsider this. We’re men of God.”

“And I think you better keep your lip buttoned. God ain’t here to bail you out and Mister Griffin kin git mean as a bee-stung bear.”

“Felix Griffin?”

“One in the same…Martin find their luggage an’ you ‘men of God’…shed them duds.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Harlan shoved his rifle into Wesley’s face, bruising his lips, as Martin started rummaging through the wagon.

“You deef? Peel ‘em off, I said! And be quick about it.”

Hurriedly the two pastors undressed, down to their union suits. Harlan gathered up their clothing.

“Find...