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Gun Smoke on the Mesa
Gun Smoke on the Mesa
Gun Smoke on the Mesa
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Gun Smoke on the Mesa

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Ten years after taking vengeance on his tormentor, a wanted man returns home

The outlaws of West Texas know every twist and turn of the renegade trail. Carved into the rugged landscape of the Big Bend region by the hoofs of galloping horses bearing desperate men, it crosses the muddy waters of the Rio Grande into Mexico, where freedom—of a kind—can be found. Ten years ago, Jim Markle rode the trail south, fleeing for his life. Now he’s coming home with a new name: Stormy Knight.
 
For years, young Jim had chafed under his stepfather’s whip. Everything changed the night he gunned down the evil old man. Now a battle-tested gunslinger with a stern countenance, Stormy Knight is unrecognizable to all who knew him as a boy. He forfeited his inheritance the night he rode across the border. Now he’s ready claim it—even if it means killing once more.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 1, 2015
ISBN9781504025386
Author

Brett Halliday

Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series. 

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    Gun Smoke on the Mesa - Brett Halliday

    Chapter One

    Stormy Knight roused himself with a shake of his head from the lethargy which loneliness and the rhythmic jog trot of his bay had produced during the morning’s ride. Here the road forked, and the rider sat slouched in his saddle, undecided, while the merciless heat of the Texas sun beat down upon him and a heavy brooding silence gripped the desolate border region.

    Behind him lay the renegade trail. A much-used road, twisting through the broken reaches of the Big Bend region of West Texas to the Rio Grande and across the shallow muddy stream into Mexico. It was a road cut by the hoofs of many galloping horses bearing riders who sought to escape from pursuing posses.

    Ten years ago, he had ridden the renegade trail southward into Mexico to spend ten years in exile. All that lay behind him, and now the road forked in front.

    He had not expected this feeling of indecision to grip him upon his return. Until this moment, there had been no doubt in his mind as to which road he would take. For ten years he had dreamed and planned for it with a feverish intensity; and in none of his dreaming or planning had he foreseen the acute attack of nostalgia which gripped him now as he faced that precipitous trail leading off to the right into the Davis Mountains.

    The left fork skirted around the base of the mountains westward, leading to El Paso and on into New Mexico and Arizona, to a region and a people who had never heard of Jim Markle. There they knew nothing of that stormy night ten years ago when a tow-headed stripling fled from the mountains, leaving the dead body of his stepfather behind him on Flatrock Mesa. It was a night as full of terror as the boy’s heart, suggesting to his frantic and fanciful mind the alias he would take in the alien land toward which he rode. Stormy night—Stormy Knight.

    At the end of the road forking to the left lay peace and security, an opportunity to begin life anew, without the shadow of the past dogging his footsteps. There he could find all the things he had constantly dreamed about during those years of exile south of the Rio Grande.

    The right fork led steeply upward into rugged mountains, to become the stage road to Fort Davis and across Limpia Gap to Pecos City and the staked plains northward.

    Memories flooded through him as he sat his horse in indecision; bitter memories which sent a tremor through his lean frame and lighted a glow of anger in his gray eyes. He recalled his childhood in those mountains under the cruel dominance of Judson Haines who had never been able to forgive his stepson for inheriting Flatrock Mesa from his dead mother. That hatred culminated in the fateful night ten years ago when Judson Haines’ quirt had inflicted scars upon the lad’s body which he would carry to his grave. It put scars upon his soul, also, which loomed fresh and vivid as his eyes contemplated the road leading back to what had once been home.

    There was nothing to go back for. He supposed Flatrock Mesa was legally his own, but he could not claim it. The slightest hint of his real identity in Fort Davis would bring a noose around his neck just as surely now as on that dreadful night when Judson Haines was found dead, brutally murdered in his bed, and a frightened boy had fled southward from his neighbors’ wrath.

    On the other hand, there could be little actual danger in returning. No one could possibly recognize Jim Markle, the lad, in Stormy Knight, the man. Then he had been a gangling, awkward youth with an untidy shock of pale blond hair and a thin, freckled face that looked out at life with a wistful grin of reserved friendliness.

    Maturity had hardened his frame, now grown inches taller; had broadened shoulders which now rippled with strong, hard muscles; and stoutened his deceptively trim waist and hips. His lean, stern face, tanned and weathered by the tropic sun, showed no hint of freckles.

    The greatest change, however, was in his expression. Bleak distrust of his fellow men looked out of cold gray eyes. Even in repose, his thin lips were a straight line above a strong chin, signaling a bitter quality of recklessness. All in all, Stormy Knight’s was an arrogant face, the countenance of a reserved man who knew his strength from countless tests, and who had learned by experience to trust no living man.

    The wide brim of a black American felt hat was pulled low over his eyes, shading them from the glare of the sun. He wore a gray flannel shirt open at the throat, with blue jeans encasing slim hips, and tucked into the low tops of plain leather boots with huge Mexican spurs of silver at the heels.

    Twin cartridge belts of plain leather circled his hips, each fully loaded and each sagging low with the weight of its holstered .45 with black wooden grips worn smooth from much handling.

    Supple fingers lifted the makings from his shirt pocket as he sat his patient bay and stared at the dividing forks. He licked the paper down on a compact cigarette and spoke in a drawl to the horse.

    How about it, boy? Should we stay safe to the left, or mosey into the mountains and see what Fort Davis looks like after all these years?

    The bay’s pointed ears sloped back to catch his rider’s words, then went forward, neck arched.

    The returning exile lit his cigarette and puffed on it thoughtfully. Make up your mind, horse, he finally said. I’ll leave it plumb up to you.

    Silver spurs jangled. The bay stepped forward, stretching his nose out to sniff the air tentatively, as though he understood and was making a difficult decision. Then, tossing his head and breaking into a trot, he followed the road upward into the mountain. His rider made no move to check him.

    A twisted grin came fleetingly to the rider’s face. Them piñons do sorta smell good, he said aloud. Been a long time down yonder in Mañana-land ’thout the smell of mountain air in my nose. We can ride right straight on through Fort Davis ’thout mixin’ into no trouble, I reckon.

    The bay snorted and shook his head, as though doubting that last statement. Then the forks were left behind and the mountains enfolded them in clean cool silence.

    Nestled on a craggy mesa high above, the sleepy cow-town of Fort Davis was bathed in the last red glow of that day’s sun when they finally emerged from the twisting canyon and came suddenly upon the town.

    Stormy checked the bay with a light rein, and tipped the black felt high up to reveal his forehead.

    The years since his departure had brought no change to Fort Davis. It might have been yesterday that he had last looked upon this scene. The battlemented courthouse of weathered gray stone standing across from the meager business district which formed a three-sided square, was a familiar sight.

    The thick layer of dust on Miller’s General Store and Livery Stable looked as though it might well have lain there for ten years, and across from it on the corner, the imposing false front of the Limpia Hotel was still calculated to lure stagecoach travelers into its portals for a restless night on hard frontier beds.

    He wondered if Old Man Miller still presided over the dingy lobby, and whether the old proprietor would recognize him as the gangling kid he had known so many years ago. There was a queer tug of uneasiness inside Stormy Knight as he loosened the reins and rode toward the hotel at a slow pace. He squinted at the swinging sign of the Peso de Oro saloon next to the hotel with its inevitable quota of saddled horses standing at the hitch rail. He wondered how many of them bore familiar brands.

    He knew now that this had been building up for a long time in his mind, knew that his hesitation back at the crossroads had been feigned. He wouldn’t have been happy if he had gone on to El Paso and avoided this homecoming. He would stop for a little time, get the answers to questions that had been bothering him for a decade, then ride on out of Fort Davis without disclosing his identity.

    He stopped in front of the hotel hitch rail and swung off lithely. His bay nuzzled at his shoulder while he looped the reins and a pair of young punchers paused to stare at him as they turned into the Peso de Oro.

    The lobby of the Limpia Hotel was as dingy as he recalled it. The last light of dying day came through west windows and touched the bent shoulders and silvery hair of an old man behind the desk. There was no one else in the lobby. The old man lifted shaggy gray brows high above very bright eyes when Stormy’s spurs clanked toward him. He shoved a weatherbeaten ledger and pencil forward and said, Howdy.

    Stormy said, Howdy. He tipped his hat back and lounged against the counter with one elbow supporting his lean weight. When he made no move to pick up the pencil and register, Miller asked, Looking for a bed?

    I ain’t rightly decided. Stormy rolled a cigarette, frowning down at paper and tobacco. Old Man Miller didn’t recognize him, so it would be safe enough to ask some of those questions. I’ve been down in Mexico a spell, he drawled, licking the edge of the paper and pressing it down firmly. Met a fellow from Fort Davis down there a few years back. He paused. Can you keep your mouth shut about another man’s business?

    The old man bristled. I been running this hotel for more’n twenty years and I ain’t got lockjaw yet from wagging it too much.

    Stormy nodded. No offense intended. This fellow’s name was Jim Markle. He was on the dodge but figgered he might head back here some day. I’m wonderin’ if he did.

    Jim Markle, huh? No, Mister. If Jim had of come back he’d have decorated one of them cottonwoods around the square.

    He told me somethin’ about him shootin’ his step-pa and takin’ it on the run.

    Judson Haines was as mean a critter as ever made a rattlesnake give ground, the old man snorted. But the kid shot him from behind without giving him no chance.

    He shouldn’t ought to have did that, Stormy agreed. But he was always hankering after some mesa where he used to live.

    Flatrock Mesa, Miller supplied. Yep, it b’longed to Jim Markle all proper till he hightailed it across the border.

    And who got it after he pulled his freight? Stormy asked idly.

    Old Colonel Dillon took hold of the mesa. There was something about him having a mortgage on it and there wasn’t nobody else to care who got it. The colonel had hankered after the mesa for a long time just on purpose to bring some thoroughbred studs from Kentucky and breed ’em to western mares and see what’d happen.

    That so? What did happen?

    Don’t nobody know rightly yet. He’s got some right peart lookin’ saddle stock roaming Flatrock Mesa, and nary a one of ’em has ever been saddled.

    What does he aim to do with them?

    He’s been letting them run wild, settin’ the breed, he calls it. He’s got a little ex-jockey from Kentucky that lives on the mesa and tends ’em. And speakin’ of the devil, the hotelkeeper went on, glancing out the window, there goes Happy Jones now into the saloon next door. He’s the jockey.

    Stormy followed Miller’s glance and saw a short, bandy-legged little man turning into the Peso de Oro. He wore a bright yellow shirt with the high neck buttoned up tightly, with whipcord riding breeches laced snugly about bowed calves. Instead of the high-heeled boots of the West, he wore shiny leather puttees and flat-heeled shoes.

    Unable to repress a slow grin at the sight, Stormy said, He looks like somethin’ out of a book.

    Happy’s funny lookin’, all right, but he sure enough knows horses. He goes his own way and don’t pay no mind to the funnin’ the boys poke at him.

    Stormy shrugged and turned back from the window. He screwed up his eyes to get a final puff from his cigarette without blinding himself, then muttered, So, there’s a herd of wild horses on Jim Markle’s Flatrock Mesa now?

    That’s right, though I wouldn’t call it Markle’s mesa. Don’t reckon he’ll ever come back to claim it.

    If he should, Stormy argued, wouldn’t the horses rightly belong to him? Seems like I heard of a law that says anything raised on a man’s land belongs to him.

    I don’t reckon he’d do any lawing for his rights, the old man snorted. He wouldn’t dare stick his nose into Fort Davis.

    I reckon not, Stormy agreed equably. But I’d sorta like to look at them horses so if I should run into Markle again I could tell him what he’s missing.

    The old hotelkeeper grunted an indistinguishable reply. Turning, Stormy saw him staring out of the window again with a worried frown. In the last rays of red sunlight, Stormy saw a burly figure swaggering across the street toward the Peso de Oro. He felt the short hairs instinctively rising at the back of his neck as he recognized the whiskered face of the man.

    Before he could speak, Miller jerked out, There goes that damn Tay Borton looking for trouble again. More’n likely he saw Happy go in the saloon and he’s heading that way to romp on the little feller.

    Tay Borton? Stormy’s fingers involuntarily curled tensely over the worn butts of his holstered guns. He forced his hands to relax and fought back the gust of hatred that surged over him.

    Yeh, Tay Borton, foreman of the Black Ace outfit that lays right against Flatrock Mesa. As mean as they come and too dang gun-handy to have his bluff called by any of the punchers hereabouts. Ain’t many of the boys, Miller went on with a significant glance at Stormy’s low-tied guns, that tote hawg legs in these parts no more.

    Stormy smiled bleakly. It’s more peaceful here than below the Rio Grande, he agreed.

    Miller reached in his pocket for a plug of tobacco. He graciously offered the unchewed end to Stormy first, and gnawed off a portion when the stranger declined. There’s a lot of us around here would like to see Borton took down a notch. Feller that did that could stay here at my hotel long’s he wanted without never payin’ no bill.

    That so?

    That’s right, Mister. And another thing, if I was a friend of Jim Markle’s, I’d pay off an old debt he’s been owin’ Tay Borton from ten years back. He usta torment that kid till hell wouldn’t hold the anger Jim had stored up against him.

    That so? Stormy drawled again. Not a muscle in his bleakly frozen features indicated that he knew what Miller was talking about. There was silence between the two men in the lobby. Stormy finally ended the pause. It’s kinda funny to have you bring that up, he said in a gentle tone, because I happen to be a pretty good friend of Jim Markle’s.

    That was what I meant, the hotel proprietor told him. He looked down again at Stormy’s twin guns, then back at the stranger’s face. Briefly, a reckless smile played over Stormy’s features. If I was to pay off Jim Markle’s debt, he said, I reckon you wouldn’t have to tell no one that’s what I was doing?

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