A Short Rope for a Tall Man

Book 2: Carson Stone Western

by Nate Morgan

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Seeking redemption, reformed thief Carson Stone rides a hard trail in pursuit of a vicious outlaw in this gun-blazing adventure!

The most wanted man in the West, Big Bob McGraw has earned his reputation as a thief and killer. With a gang of trigger-happy desperadoes willing to do his bidding, McGraw has robbed banks, stagecoaches, and railroads, raised hell ravaging towns, and left bodies littering the streets in his wake.

Carson Stone rode with McGraw’s gang exactly once, minding their horses during a bank robbery, before quitting. But with the marshal of El Paso, Texas, gunned down in cold blood as the bandits escaped, he’s been judged guilty by association. To clear his name, Carson teams up with bounty hunter Colby Tate to track down the outlaws—now scattered across the frontier—and bring them to justice. And Carson must convince his partner to bring McGraw in alive or he’ll never escape the shadow of the hangman’s noose …

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Carson Stone stripped off his shirt and chopped wood, a sheen of sweat coating him within minutes. It would get hotter before it would cool off. His shoulders and neck were sore by the time he finished splitting the logs.

He paused when he saw Jenny coming toward him from the main house. She was only eight, butter-yellow hair in pigtails, a front tooth missing. She carried the water bucket with both hands, some of it sloshing out. He stood patiently and let her come at her own pace. He looked around. It was wide-open country and seemed especially empty with the Taylor brothers and the ranch hands off on the cattle drive. He’d worked on a ranch before, and the sudden quiet after months of hard work and mooing cattle always struck him as odd.

Jenny arrived and set the bucket on the stump. “Hot work, Mr. Stone?”

“Hot enough,” he said. “And I told you it was okay to call me Carson.”

She handed him the ladle. “Ma says not to call adults by their first name.”

“Well, listen to your ma, then.”

Carson Stone dipped the ladle into the bucket, then brought it to his lips. It went down his throat cool and clean. He dipped it again and drank more. “You need the rest of this.”

“No, sir.”

Carson dumped the rest of the bucket over his head, then handed it back to Jenny empty. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned and skipped back to the house.

Carson slopped the pigs, fed the chickens, and repaired a stretch offence on one of the pens. He leaned against a fence post, wishing he had the rest of that bucket of water.

“I don’t pay you enough to work this hard,” said a voice behind him.

Carson turned to see William Taylor grinning at him.

He smiled at the old man. “Ten dollars a month, meals, and a roof over my head. That’s what we agreed on.”

“I thought you’d talk me up,” William said.

William was the uncle of the two men who ran the ranch. In his midsixties, he’d had enough of the trail and now stayed behind when the others went on the drive. He’d fallen off a barn and broken his arm, which was in a sling. Carson had happened along at just the right time and now took care of the routine chores that usually would have fallen to William.

It was a good, temporary setup, a quiet place and out of the way, although Carson would be moving on at the end of the month.

There were things he had to do.

“The money’s not as important as a quiet place to think for a while,” Carson said.

“I reckon a man needs that every now and then,” William said. “I won’t pry into your business, but I’m a good listener if you ever find yourself in the mood.”

“It’s a dull story, so you’re not missing anything. But I appreciate it.”

“In the meantime, maybe you’d like to ride into town,” William suggested. “You could run an errand for me, then get yourself a beer at the saloon or whatever you want. You haven’t left the ranch in two weeks. Too much peace and quiet can ruin a man.”

That made Carson chuckle. “I’ll take that offer. I don’t want to risk ruin.”

He put on his shirt, and the sweat stuck it to him. He saddled his horse, a big, black gelding he called Jet, strapped on his Colt Peacemaker, and snugged his hat down low on his head. He hadn’t worn the Peacemaker since coming to the Taylor Ranch, and it felt both good and strange on his hip at the same time.

It was eight miles into Fort Gibson. The narrow trail along Beggar’s Creek took him to the road that went past the fort. The army had been gone for a while, but then the Tenth Cavalry had returned to take over proprietorship of the place a few years ago, just a small garrison that sent out patrols in the area. Most of the Indian trouble had been up toward the Dakotas since Little Bighorn, but Carson supposed folks felt better having the bluecoats around just in case.

The fort wasn’t much more than a blockhouse and a palisade and another low building for a barracks. It had the look of a place that was built by someone making it up as he went along, but Carson was hardly an expert on such things. A man in the only watchtower gave him a wave as he rode past, and Carson touched the brim of his hat in return.

The town itself wasn’t much farther, and it might even have been a stretch to call it a town at all. A few houses, a very small hotel, a general store, a barbershop that doubled as a dentist’s office in case somebody needed a tooth pulled, a stable with a blacksmith’s shop attached, and a ramshackle saloon.

Carson dismounted in front of the general store and looped Jet’s reins over the hitching post. The store also served as the stagecoach stop and the post office, and Carson had a packet of letters to drop off. William wrote to his brother, two sisters, and a couple of cousins twice a year to keep everyone up-to-date on family business and whatnot. Carson suspected William handed the simple errand off to him just to give Carson a chance to slip into town and get a break from the ranch.

Carson paused before entering the general store and looked around. A few people out on the street. Different faces. William was right. Carson needed this. After he dropped off the letters, he’d head to the saloon for a beer, and maybe strike up a conversation with somebody and get the news of the world.

He entered the store and paid for postage with money William had given him. He took a quick glance around, wondering if there was anything he needed for himself. He couldn’t think of a thing, and anyway, he was eager for that beer.

Carson walked out of the general store just in time to see a woman drop a huge armload of packages into the mud. He moved in to help without giving it a second thought, going to one knee in the mud and gathering packages.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” she said. “I suppose I should have made two trips, but I thought I could juggle them.”

“Happy to help, ma’am.”

“I hate to put you out,” she said, “but could you help me carry these to the hotel?”

She was easy on the eyes and that was a fact, dressed smartly in a green skirt and a matching jacket, an ivory blouse, and a heap of gorgeous red hair pulled back and tied with a green ribbon. She had the kind of vivid beauty visible a long way off that just got better up close.

Lady, I’ll carry your packages to Omaha if you ask me.

But what he said out loud was, “Happy to help, ma’am,” which he realized he’d said already. That’s it, Carson. Impress her with your razor wit.

He followed her across the street to the hotel.

In the lobby, she looked over her shoulder back at him and smiled, teeth about as white and perfect as God could make them. “My room’s up the stairs at the end of the hall. Thanks again. I do appreciate it.”

Carson’s mother might have had a low opinion of a young lady inviting a strange man up to her room, but Carson didn’t much care. All he was doing was carrying packages.

He followed her upstairs and down the hall to the room at the end. She went in and gestured for Carson to follow.

“Set those on the chest of drawers , would you please?” she said.

It was a surprisingly well-furnished room for such a small hotel in a Podunk town. Double bed. Vanity. Wardrobe. Washbasin on a separate stand.

Carson crossed the room and set the armload of packages down on the vanity. When he heard the door click shut behind him, his eyes flicked up to the mirror. He saw the woman’s reflection. She’d already set her packages on a luggage rack near the door, and her hand was coming out of her jacket. Carson caught a glint of metal.

He spun on pure reflex just as her arm extended straight to level the little gun at him. He backhanded it, the derringer flying across the room, then clattering on the floor. She took a quick step back, hiking up her skirts to reach for a small revolver strapped to her upper thigh.

But Carson’s Peacemaker had already cleared the holster, and he pointed it right at her heart. “Don’t.”

She froze, one hand hovering over the grip. Her eyes locked on his, and they stood that way a moment.

“Well, looks like you’re in charge.” The woman’s lips curled into a sly smile. “You gonna shoot, or are we gonna stand here all day?”

“It’s just that I hate to shoot anyone with such nice legs,” Carson said.

Her smile widened, almost like she couldn’t help herself, but then the top lip twisted nearly into a snarl, giving that smile a dangerous edge.

“But first, I wouldn’t mind hearing why you suckered me up to your hotel room just to put a bullet in my back,” Carson said.

“There’s paper on you,” she said. “Carson Stone, wanted dead or alive. And the state of Texas doesn’t much care if the bullet goes in the front or the back.”

Carson’s eyebrow rose into a question. “You’re a bounty hunter? A woman bounty hunter?”

“Katherine Payne, legally registered out of Beaumont, Texas, to exercise certain legitimate functions of the court.” She said the words with a sort of cool confidence, as if they might protect her from whatever Carson would do next.

The first thing Carson thought was that he’d stayed in one place too long. He’d gotten comfortable on the Taylor Ranch, felt safe. And now the bounty hunters had caught up with him—or this one had, anyway—and one was more than enough.

“Can I put my skirt down?” she asked. “I feel sort of awkward like this.”

“Take that pistol out first and toss it on the bed,” Carson told her. “Slow. Thumb and forefinger on the grip.”

She did as told, easing the revolver from its holster. She tossed it on the bed, then let her skirt drop.

“Now go stand in the corner.” He gestured with the Peacemaker.

She scooted into the corner.

He eased around the bed, keeping his gun on her, and took the revolver, sticking it in his belt. Then he bent and picked up the derringer. His eye roamed the room quickly, but there were no other weapons in sight.

“I’ll leave your guns at the desk downstairs,” Carson said. “You wait in here five minutes. I’d prefer to be on my way without any further trouble, but if you stick your head out of this room before five minutes are up, I’m just going to blaze away. Understand?”

“Five minutes,” she said. “I hear you.”

“Just so we’re sure, I didn’t do it,” Carson told her.

She sighed like she’d heard that one before. “The State of Texas don’t care.”

“Well, you tell the State of Texas for me to just sit tight, because I’m in the process of clearing up this whole misunderstanding.”

Carson backed out of the room, shut the door, and headed down the stairs fast. He dropped the guns with the clerk at the front desk with a story about cleaning the guns for the nice lady upstairs and she’d be along directly to pick them up. He headed outside, climbed on his horse, and headed out of town at a gallop.

Back at the ranch, William Taylor offered Carson a confused look as he filled his saddlebags with all his worldly possessions and prepared to head north.

“I know I said I’d stay on until the end of the month, Mr. Taylor, but something’s come up,” Carson explained. “Some business I should have taken care of a long time ago.”

William shook his head. “I sure do hate to see you go, but I understand there’s some things that just won’t keep.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Carson said. “Truth is, I liked it here. I wish circumstances could be different.”

“Me too.” William handed Carson a Gold Eagle. “I think the deal was for ten dollars.”

“The deal was for a month. I can’t take your money, Mr. Taylor.”

“You earned it, and you’ll need it. Go on.”

Carson took the coin. “You’re good people, Mr. Taylor. Say goodbye to the girls for me.”

“I will, Carson. Good luck.”

Carson mounted Jet and took one last look at the ranch.

So much for peace and quiet.

He headed out at a trot, wondering if he’d ever get back this way.

Carson knew he was headed for a place in the Ozarks north of Fort Smith, but he didn’t know much more than that, which might explain why he hadn’t been in very much of a hurry until the bounty hunter showed up. He knew what he needed to do, just not quite where it would happen.

All Carson could say for sure was that there was a price on his head for a crime he didn’t commit. It was past time he did something about it.

Katherine Payne had the air of a determined woman about her, but she didn’t seem much like a tracker. Carson took a shallow creek north a few miles, hoping to throw her off just in case. When the creek bent westward, he left the water and kept going north, a bit out of his way, but he wanted to discourage pursuit. He’d eventually have to nudge north anyway.

He spent the night on a level patch of ground with enough trees and bushes to conceal his small cookfire, beans and bacon and coffee. He stretched out on his bedroll. Sleep was slow in coming. His narrow bed back at the Taylor Ranch wasn’t what anyone would call luxurious, but it had already spoiled him for sleeping on the ground. He supposed he’d get used to it again quick enough.

Up again with the gray light of predawn. Carson settled for coffee, skipping breakfast, and soon he was in the saddle again, heading east. By dusk, he was riding into a small town called Clemmensburg. It looked a little bigger than Fort Gibson, but not by much. He hitched Jet out front of the local hotel and went inside.

The man behind the front desk wore little, round spectacles, hair neatly combed and slick, sideburns that looked like they were trying to make a name for themselves but otherwise clean-shaven. He welcomed Carson with an open, friendly face. “Welcome to the Barrymore Hotel. I’m Carl Barrymore. Need a room tonight, sir?”

“Depends on the price, I guess,” Carson said. “I need a place for my horse, too. Is there a stable in town?”

“There surely is,” Barrymore said. “But we’ve got a barn out back with plenty of room and hay, and if that’ll do for your horse, we’ll throw it in for the price of a room.”

“Okay, then. I don’t need anything fancy.”

“Not fancy would be number five,” Barrymore said. “A single bed and a window facing the side alley. It’s our most reasonably priced accommodation.”

“That’ll do.” Carson chastised himself inwardly. He should be saving his money and getting used to sleeping on the trail again, but he just flat out didn’t want to. He signed the register and took the key.

He put Jet in the barn and gave him a rubdown, then took his saddle, saddlebags, bedroll, and Winchester up to his room. It was small, and the bed was even narrower than the one he’d had at the Taylor Ranch, but it wasn’t the ground and that was all that mattered. He opened the window to let in some air. The alley wasn’t much of a view, but Carson didn’t care. He already knew what Oklahoma looked like.

He was dead tired. It would have been easy to kick off his boots and flop into bed, but fate had swindled him out of a beer in Fort Gibson. A minute later, he found himself walking down the town’s main street toward the saloon. He could hear the music, loud talk, and laughter before he got there.

Carson pushed his way through the swinging doors, and a grin split his face as he took in the saloon, about two thirds full, smoky, a piano player attacking an upright with more enthusiasm than skill, a couple of card games going, and some pretty women working the room and flirting with the customers.

Carson Stone absolutely loved a good saloon, and it had been too long.

He went to the bar and resisted asking for a bottle of whisky. Too many miles to travel in the morning. The barkeep brought him a beer instead, and Carson paid for it.

He looked at it a moment before drinking. This has been a long time coming. He sipped and was in Heaven. He made the beer vanish in four big gulps and ordered another. He planned to nurse this one and simply sit back and enjoy the atmosphere of the saloon. He found a small table against the same wall as the piano and sank into the chair.

He sipped his beer and watched the people. The men playing cards seemed content, both winners and losers alike. The working girls looked just as happy as the cowboys they pulled along by the hand for a good time. Even the barkeep seemed to be in a good mood.

This was all he’d wanted, Carson realized. To do a good day’s work, then relax around good-natured people, not bothering nobody, and nobody bothering him. He’d had a chance for a simple life like that and had blown it, not knowing a good thing when it was right in front of him.

I aim to fix that. But not tonight. Tonight I’m going to sip on this beer, and then if I’m still in a good mood, maybe just one more. Too long since I was just happy.

He’d been comfortable at the Taylor Ranch, but he only just now understood that wasn’t the same as being happy. He’d been hiding, avoiding what he needed to do. He’d made a mistake and hadn’t wanted to face up to—

Stop it. Not tonight. Be happy.

He sipped his beer and watched the other happy folks in the saloon.

“That bastard can’t play piano worth a damn,” said the man at the next table in a too-loud voice.

Carson sighed. There’s always one.

Nobody in the saloon paid the man any mind. The piano player redoubled his assault on the upright.

“Hell, I could play better’n that with my ass,” the man said, even louder this time.

Carson turned his head to get a better look at him.

He was big, more bulky than muscled, with a huge beard maybe meant to compensate for the thinning strands on top. Red cheeks. His coat hung on the back of his chair with his hat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over thick, hairy forearms. Eyes glassy with whisky. He shared a bottle with a man who guffawed at his outbursts, short and soft-looking, blond hair on his lip trying way too hard to make a mustache out of itself.

Carson had to admit the piano player wasn’t the best.

Still, there was no call to heckle the man.

“You stink!”

The man was shouting now, and spoiling Carson’s mood. He wanted to tell the man to shut his fat mouth. Don’t do it. Just finish your beer and head back to your room. No point in courting trouble.

But Carson opened his mouth. He couldn’t help it.

“Why don’t you just keep shut, you big tub of lard?”

The words startled him, mostly because they hadn’t come out of his opened mouth. Carson had been about to say something similar, but one of the saloon gals beat him to it. She stood up from a table near the middle of the room, hands on her hips, the cowboys with her looking half amused and half concerned. She was a tiny woman, not even five feet tall. Carson allowed her another inch or two because of all the glossy black hair piled up on her head.

“Nobody talking to you, bitch,” slurred the burly drunk.

The place had gone quiet. Even the piano player stopped and turned around to watch.

Carson sipped his beer and sighed. It had been a pleasant evening there for a few minutes.

The saloon gal stalked over to the drunk, high heels clacking rapid-fire on the wooden floor. The drunk stood up to meet her, and it was almost comical, her glaring up at the bigger man who had at least a foot on her in height.

“You been running your damn mouth all night and nobody’s impressed, Hank Baily,” she scolded. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Hank grabbed her by the arm, face going red and angry.

She tried to pull away. “Let go, you dumb ox.”

“Maybe we should all just settle down,” the barkeep said nervously.

“You stay out of it. I’m a paying customer.”

Baily twisted the woman’s arm, and she squeaked.

Carson stood and moved toward the drunk, who was focused on the woman and didn’t see him approach, but his blond pal saw and started to push away from the table.

Carson pointed at him. “Sit the hell back down.”

The man sat.

Carson grabbed the pinkie finger of the hand holding the woman. He cranked it back. One of the fighting tricks his father had shown him.

Baily howled in pain and let go of the saloon gal. He stepped back, jerking his hand away, hate flying from his eyes like daggers at Carson. “You son of a bitch.”

He went for his gun.

Which Carson had expected.

Instead of backing away, Carson stepped in close. Baily’s draw was drunken and sloppy. Carson put his hand over Baily’s, preventing the draw, and with his other hand slammed the beer mug into the side of Baily’s head right behind the ear. Glass shattered and beer splashed.

Baily stumbled back, eyes crossing and legs turning to water. He fought a moment to right himself but lost the fight and went down. He let out a long groan and closed his eyes. Carson stood over him a moment, but Baily didn’t move.

“Somebody ought to fetch the sheriff,” Carson said.

A deputy entered the saloon in no particular hurry two minutes later and looked down at the snoring drunk. “Hank again. That figures. You the one that hit him?”

“Yessir. He was stepping over the line with the lady.”

The saloon gal and the piano player and a half dozen other folks confirmed that Baily had gone for his gun.

“Better drag him over to the jail and let him sleep it off. Help me carry him,” the deputy told Carson.

“Me?”

“You’re the one that hit him.”

Carson couldn’t argue with that, and between the two of them, they took Baily to the jailhouse and put him in a cell. The deputy hadn’t asked Carson’s name, and Carson hadn’t offered. Men on the run don’t advertise who they are. Carson walked back to the hotel, his mood shot to hell now. He went up to his room, opened the door, and froze when he heard a gun cock.

The man on the bed looked at him over a pair of round spectacles. He held a leather-bound book in one hand. The nickel-plated six-shooter in his other hand was pointed right at Carson’s chest.

“My name’s Colby Tate,” the man said. “If I might have a moment of your time, I believe a brief conversation might be to our mutual benefit.”

“Make yourself at home,” Carson said.

Tate chuckled good-naturedly, almost like a man who didn’t have a pistol pointed at Carson’s heart. “Sorry. I didn’t know how long you’d be, and I’ve been riding all day.”

He sat on the bed, legs stretched out in front of him, the oil lamp on the nightstand burning low, and his hat hanging from one of the bedposts.

“Anyway, a chance to do a little reading.” Tate closed the book and held it up. “You’re familiar with Chaucer?”

“’Fraid not.”

Tate set the book aside. “Never mind. An indulgence from my school days.”

Carson looked the man over. Tate wore shoes instead of boots, creased trousers, and a matching jacket. A red plaid waistcoat. A gold watch chain hung from one pocket. A thin, black tie. Shirt starched and pressed. He looked like he talked. “You’re educated.” Not a question. The man wasn’t any older than Carson, maybe even a year younger.

“Harvard. Class of ’75.”

“You’re a long way from Boston, Mr. Tate.”

“Yes. I remember that every time I get an urge for a bowl of clam chowder. And it’s Cambridge, actually, if one felt inclined to split hairs.”

“You said a conversation to our mutual benefit,” Carson reminded him.

“That’s right.”

“If we could get on with that, I’d be much obliged. Benefit me how?”

“Well, if we’re conversing, I’m not shooting,” Tate said. “So I suppose not being shot is the most immediate benefit.”

“Talk all you w. . .