Lost Mountain Pass Read online

  A TRUSTY DAWSON, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL WESTERN

  LARRY D. SWEAZY

  LOST MOUNTAIN PASS

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Larry D. Sweazy

  This book is based on the short story “Lost Mountain Pass” by Larry D. Sweazy, copyright © 2011 by Larry D. Sweazy, first published in The Traditional West anthology copyright © 2011 by The Western Fictioneers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4677-5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4678-2 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4678-3 (eBook)

  To Matthew Clemons,

  Trusted friend and gentle soul.

  The world needs more of the likes of him

  Chapter 1

  Kosoma, Indian Territory, May 1888

  Three pair of boots burst through the gallows, toes aimed straight to the ground. The simultaneous snap of necks echoed on the wind like someone had stepped on a thick collection of brittle tree branches. In a quick last breath and the final blink of the eye, three Darby brothers swung from the gallows, two of them wet from the waist down, one staring sideways in a state of shock like he never thought he was going to die. Embarrassment and pride belonged to another world. This one was cold and harsh, awash in black-and-white judgment, law and order, and relief from the violence of angry men—if only for a moment.

  Nothing moved beyond the lifeless bodies, not even a crow. Two of the shiny black birds stood atop the pitch of a nearby roof staring down at the crowd, hankering for something to steal. A few clouds lingered overhead, white, puffy, pausing to see if the truth of the human drama would finally be revealed. A baby started to cry in the distance. The piercing, uncomfortable sound of discomfort and need was quickly hushed. The townsfolk who had stood witness to the hanging needed a little time to digest the end of one life and the start of another. Madness and rage had been silenced. Peace and prosperity were at hand in Kosoma—if only for a moment. The baby wailed again, then was shushed by a solid, embarrassed hand clamping over the suckling mouth. New life could never be silenced for long, even in the shade of death, deserved or otherwise.

  Murmurs started to grow in unison like an amen at the end of a long prayer. The entire town stood still, too nervous to leave, eyes shaded, directed toward the three dead Darby men, making sure the twitching and struggling was finally done and over with before they felt free to move, to breathe, to say a silent thank-you to the judge who had passed the execution order on the deserving gang of three. Regardless of what they saw, the crowd found it hard to believe that the Darby brothers, Cleatus, Horace, and Rascal—evil bullies, overbearing toughs, and unpredictable gunmen—were really dead, no longer a bother, no longer a threat to their daily comforts. The Darbys’ terror had reigned for too many years to count. No one in Kosoma ever thought this day would truly come.

  “Looks like my job here is done, Trusty,” Eastern District of Arkansas Judge Gordon Hadesworth said. The judge held jurisdiction in Indian Territory along with Isaac Parker in the Western District. Hadesworth was a stately-looking gentleman with a well-trimmed goatee, bleached white by age, and wore a fancy dark blue suit that, like all of his suits, had been shipped to him directly from New York City by the tailors of his favor, Brooks Brothers. A lifetime spent poring over law books had left the elderly man stiff, arthritic, and hunched over; straight and upright he would have been as tall as an October cornstalk. A walking cane, carved from oak with a highly polished brass lion’s head that served as the handle, helped keep the judge vertical and moving forward. The educated man’s icy gray eyes stared forward at the gallows and bore no concern for the dead; their souls and their legacy were no longer his worry. The law had executed its judgment and it had been carried out to the fullest extent. Some scoundrels deserved to die because of the foul deeds they had committed. Judge Hadesworth made it clear to anyone within earshot that he was not in the salvation business.

  “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ a bite of dinner before we start out toward Muskogee?” Deputy U.S. Marshal Sam Dawson—often referred to as “Trusty,” by judges and outlaws alike—said.

  Trusty didn’t much care for the moniker folks called him by, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t argue against the reputation that he was reliable and trustworthy. Those were born traits, along with good eyesight when it came to pulling a trigger, and had got him out of more jams and scrapes than he cared to admit. Besides, he’d been called worse things than Trusty by men far more powerful than Judge Hadesworth. There were worse things that he’d had to force himself to live with.

  Trusty stood stiff next to the judge, a good three inches taller and straighter in physical form than the jurist. The extra height gave Trusty the advantage of wide sight, allowing him to survey a crowd for any apparent or rising threat. The Darbys had their fair share of supporters in Kosoma. A gang like them had deep roots in the town and in Indian Territory, even though the majority of townsfolk looked to be relieved by their deaths.

  The Darbys’ demise had been a long time coming. The blood and carnage they’d left behind in their wake was the stuff made of fireside stories, some true, some not, but real enough and valid enough to give Trusty reason to be suspicious of every man who itched the back of his neck or reached inside of his coat for a toothpick. The last straw had come when the three brothers had killed a beloved storekeeper in cold blood on a sunny day, in the middle of the town square—with no regard to the law or the man’s right to live peacefully. No one claimed to know what had started the ill-fated confronta
tion, but even the most silent of citizens spoke up and demanded that something finally be done about the Darbys’ lack of respect for life once and for all. Judge Hadesworth’s appearance was called for a day later after a reluctant sheriff overpowered the trio and locked them up. The wounds were still raw, but Trusty hoped that the dangle of toes would put an end to the Darby troubles in Kosoma once and for all.

  “Between you and me, Trusty, I’d just as soon get out of this stinking town as quick as possible,” the judge said, lowering his voice so no one could hear, or take offense, to his comment.

  Trusty nodded in agreement. The spring day was cool, and he wore a long coat over his utilitarian canvas pants and blue cotton shirt, concealing an 1880 Colt Single-Action, outfitted with custom-carved ivory handle grips that had come as a gift from his captain when he’d separated from the U.S. Army. His military days were well behind him, but he still wore the dark blue felt Cavalry Stetson, only without the customary ropes, braids, and accoutrements that came from being active-duty army. Trusty had missed out on the War Between the States, being a child when that war had been waged. A Winchester ’73 was loosely strapped to his left side, also hidden by the coat but always close to his touch. He was confident that the two weapons, along with his skills with them, could get him and the judge out of any trouble that might show itself.

  “Suits me,” he said to Judge Hadesworth. “Let’s wait until the crowd starts moving out before we head to the hotel to get your things.”

  “If I never have to come back to Kosoma again it will be too soon,” the judge said. “But something tells me that I will have to return sooner rather than later. It takes weeks to rid myself of the smell.”

  Kosoma meant “place of stinking water” in the Choctaw language. There was a myriad of bubbling, steaming springs fingering off the Kiamichi River, and they were all thick with putrid sulfur. Not even the smell of opportunity provided by the railroad, one of the first to get a land grant through Indian Territory more than ten years prior, could vanquish the residue of the springs from the senses or threads of the cleanest man’s clothes. The St. Louis–San Francisco Railroad, referred to as the “Frisco,” had built a rail line, completed in 1887, running from the north to the south, straight through the Choctaw Nation, connecting Fort Smith with Paris, Texas. Kosoma was perfectly located to capitalize on the rail line, smell or no smell, or the fact that it sat in the middle of Choctaw land. The future had been arriving every day with trainloads of Easterners, opportunity hunters, thieves, and speculators all hedging for a spot at the opening of Indian Territory land a year off, now that the Springer Amendment had passed through Congress. New ideas, the promise of change, and redskin conflict hung in the air alongside the pungent air. Most folks who had lived in Kosoma for any length of time were opposed to any kind of change—with the exception of exterminating toughs like the Darby brothers.

  Trusty figured he hadn’t been in town long enough to reach the point of immunity to the smell by any of his senses and had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. He was relieved to hear that the judge wanted to leave town immediately. “Not one of the nicer places I’ve ever been either.”

  The judge smiled, waiting for Trusty to lead him out of the crowd. “Not from the stories I’ve heard tell. There’s a line of whorehouses and saloons from San Antonio to Abilene that tell of your exploits.”

  They had stood far enough from the gallows to make a quick escape if the need arose, but there was still a gathering of people milling about around them. More in front than behind. Main Street and arranged safety were just around the corner in an empty bank vault. Trusty didn’t like that plan, but he was pretty certain that any threat would come from up close, or the rooftops overlooking the execution square. For now, everything was clear, but that didn’t stop him from scanning the crowd like a scout expecting to find an ambush. His army training was never far away.

  “You’d think a judge would be immune to embellishments and hearsay,” Trusty said.

  “We like rumor and gossip as much as any other man. Besides, you’ve a reputation to uphold. I am only endorsing your résumé and contributing to the myth that you are in the process of building, as well as living vicariously through your exploits. I am a bit jealous.” The judge nudged Trusty with his elbow, then offered a smile to prove he was serious.

  Trusty’s face flushed red. There was no question that he had always liked the company of women and had a taste for good whiskey, but there was more to his past adventures than the judge knew or that Trusty wanted to share. He had only loved one woman in all of his life, and that ill-fated love had left him broken and bothered, in need of a salve that could never heal the wound—if he ever found it. He avoided touching that hurt, or thinking about that lost love, as much as possible. “Ain’t nothin’ but tales about me anyways, Judge. The past is the past. I’ve become a reformed man.”

  “You mean you’ve found Jesus?”

  “Not in any of the places I’ve been lately. ’Course I ain’t been lookin’ much for Him neither. I was still an energetic boy after I left the army, before I took up the law as my calling. Besides, a woman tends to complicate a man’s life, at least this man’s life. I’ve always got some place to go, a judge to protect, a scoundrel to round up; you know, chasin’ trouble is what I like to do best. It’s been my experience that a fine woman likes to settle, live in a nice house, tie a man down, and extend roots into hard ground. I like to ride, see the country, have an adventure or two, while I still can. I’m not the marrying kind, Judge, simple as that.” Trusty tapped the Deputy U.S. Marshal’s badge on his chest with his stubby trigger finger and smiled. “This is all of the commitment I need these days.”

  “You just keep thinking that, Trusty, and we’ll all have plenty to talk about for a long time to come. But I’ll offer you some advice if you’ll have it.”

  “I’m always open to listening to a man of your stature and education about the nature of life.”

  “Well,” Judge Hadesworth said, “look at me standing here next to you without Mrs. Hadesworth in sight. She’s most likely back in Muskogee on another shopping excursion of one kind or another, keeping the fire lit for my return. It’s been that way for nigh on forty-one years. I ride the circuit and she is waiting at home keeping things nice and warm. Distance does a marriage good, Trusty. It always has mine. The return is a sweet and welcoming adventure worth traversing the drudgeries of humanity for. Even at my age, if you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t. But I’ll take your advice under advisement, Judge. Not that I’ll heed to it, mind you. My duties on the trail are longer and less predictable than yours, and I do enjoy a dose of variety in my life.”

  “Me too,” the gray-haired man said with a wink and another elbow nudge. “Me too.”

  Trusty laughed uncomfortably. “Let’s get your belongin’s from the hotel and dust our way out of here before the sun starts to dive west too fast. I’d like to get to Lost Mountain Pass before night settles in.”

  “Expecting trouble, Trusty?” the judge asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m always expectin’ trouble, Judge. ’Specially after a hangin’ as well-deserved as this one. I know a spot on the pass that’s about as safe as I can get us for tonight,” he said, looking past the judge at a flush of movement that had caught his eye.

  Two men were pushing through the crowd toward them, one as big as a bull, the other short and bulky as a boxer, reaching inside his duster for something that Trusty could only imagine to be a gun of some kind. “Anybody plottin’ trouble for us will be waiting for us on the road south. I aim to head north, take a night in the pass to wait them out, then circle around south Kosoma from the west, and get you home as soon as possible.”

  Judge Hadesworth nodded with approval. “I like how you think, Trusty.” He started to walk toward Main Street, back to the hotel.

  The sight of the men heading toward them caused Trusty to plant his feet and extend a hand to impede J
udge Hadesworth’s forward motion. “Stop,” Trusty said in a low, “don’t argue with me” command.

  The hunched man ceased to move immediately, silencing the click of his cane; even the old man’s breath restrained itself, hidden, pulled inside himself. A serious look fell over both men’s faces. Trusty had been responsible for the judge’s life on more than one occasion—ten, as a matter of count—and the two men were past developing a shorthand and wordless manner in sight of a threat. The judge, always happy and accustomed to being in the lead, submitted to Trusty’s instinct and drew back without question.

  Trusty reached inside his coat to grip the Colt. The holster was unhinged and a cartridge sat in the chamber, ready to be called into action with a quick pull of the trigger. One yank and the pistol would be let loose into the world to prove its purpose: protect and kill.

  The two unknown men continued their hard walk toward the judge and the deputy in step, on a mission, anger hanging on their faces as apparent as an OPEN sign at a barbershop. The crowd parted, pushed aside by the apparent suggestion of confrontation. Murmurs of acceptance and relief from the hanging quickly turned to fearful chirps, gasps, followed by an uneasy silence. All eyes were on the four men.

  Trusty edged around the judge so the adjudicator was shielded from the coming threat as completely as possible, then he reformulated his escape plan. This one called for the swift death of the two approaching men. Wounding them would not do. Any threat to a federal judge’s life had to be dealt with in the most severe terms. Trusty pictured two shots to the heart, if possible. If those shots weren’t clear, then the target would shift to just above the bridge of the nose, square between the eyes—a head shot meant to stop both men in their tracks. Trusty and the judge would flee to safety before both bodies hit the ground. Refuge would then be taken in the bank vault in case there were more than two men—because there were always more than two. Always.