Between Hell and Texas

Book 2: Byrnes Family Ranch Novel

by Dusty Richards

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Spur Award winner and recipient of the Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Award, Dusty Richards pens authentic Western tales that blaze to the top of best seller lists nationwide. Between Hell and Texas continues the Byrnes family saga, picking up with Chet striking out on a dangerous trail from Texas to Arizona in the hopes of reversing his family’s diminishing fortunes.

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Texas hill country looked winter drab all around him when Chet Byrnes pushed the big bay gelding he called Julio off the ridge. The leafless mesquite branches stuck out and the brown grass waved in the relentless north wind under the cloudy sky. Kind of a day a man hunched under his denim jumper and rode along dreaming about a crackling fire to warm his hands. Fingers encased in the goatskin gloves, the heat would still feel good to his digits. Being home would, too, instead of out checking on scattered range stock this far away from the headquarters.

One good notion crossed his thoughts. The butter-milk ceiling rolling in from the Gulf might bring some rain. Wasn’t a day in Texas a man couldn’t use more water.

Then the sharp report of a rifle cracked the wind’s heavy breath. Without even thinking about it, he ducked down in the saddle and set steel spurs to Julio. They bailed off the steep slope into the dry wash bottom and the thicket cover of cedars and live oak. The powerful gelding slid to a stop amidst the tall, bushy evergreens. Chet jerked out the .44/40 rifle from the scabbard in a swift dismount. Rifle chamber quickly loaded with the lever action, his ears were tuned for another incoming round.

Where was the shooter? One round could draw a man’s attention, but he needed the second one for a source and a direction where the shooter might be located. His heart pounded hard under his breastbone. Breathing came short at the realization of his tough situation. Alone and far from any aid or assistance from the ranch crew, he must wait out these back-shooters. For a short moment he’d forgotten all about the deadly feud that existed between his family and the Reynoldses—a sneaky bunch of cowards who with their relatives had killed his younger brother the previous spring. Dale Allen’d been up there in the Indian Territory on a cattle drive to the Abilene, Kansas stockyards.

Listening intently, all he could hear were some windswept crows calling. Three or four more hours of daylight until sundown. Another cold winter day. He could wait them out. No doubt they’d quickly get fidgety. Then they’d either charge down there to find him, or hang tail on their horses and ride like they were on fire for home.

After a breakneck run last spring up to the Indian Territory, he’d gathered most of the herd and later evened the score of his brother’s murder with a gunfight in Abilene. But that never stopped a feud so deeply entrenched in revenge with ignorant people like the Reynoldses. If they came for him in this draw with its dense cover, he’d send some more of them to hell before they ever reached him.

Julio was busy snatching bunch grass through his small curb bit. He raised his head between bites as if testing the wind. Then, with a clang of the steel bit on his molars, he hurried to eat more, like he might not get another chance. Ground-tied by training with the dropped reins, the big horse would not leave him except to get more to eat—then the cow horse raised his head again and shifted around, looking south. Enough of a clue for Chet to belly down under the pungent-smelling boughs and try to spot the riders on the ridge above them, opposite of where he’d flown off the slope.

He caught sight of a red something, and next, through the limbs, he distinguished a rider huddled under a blanket jacket coming across the hillside. Armed with a rifle, the party stared hard down at the cedars for a sight of him. Satisfied this was one of the ambush crew, Chet took aim, the red cloth making a good target; drew a tight bead and fired. Then Chet rolled to the side and levered in a new cartridge. His shot had struck either the rider or the horse, for he left bucking and threw the man off on his back in a half-dozen short hops.

It was the others Chet worried about. If they’d seen his quickly dissipated gunsmoke in time, they might have him spotted. He needed to move aside from there and be certain they couldn’t see him. There came another shot, but the round never came close to him. And he suspected the bullet originated from the same ridge, as he settled in a new spot a dozen feet away.

Muffled shouting. “Joe. You alright?”

“Hit hard—”

Good.

“Stay down. We’ll get him.”

Don’t be so damn certain. Still flat on the ground, Chet removed a fresh brass cartridge from his jumper pocket and slipped it into the side breech. His rifle reloaded, he tried to peer through the boughs for another sight of one of them.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself, anxious to get this settled. The word “We” must mean more than one was left up there. Had he been daydreaming, riding along, to draw that many assassins? Or had they simply gotten lucky running into him? He was near the south end of— range. No matter, there were still at least two more gun-happy yahoos out there.

A hard-breathing horse was coming at breakneck speed off the hill, and he could hear the rider urging him. He rolled over and drew his .44. When the one on horseback busted into the space where Julio grazed and spooked him, the shooter never saw Chet on the ground half-under the cedar, and two shots from his Colt belched death into the rider’s shocked face and chest. The horse lurched sideways into the cedars and his rider fell off, face-down.

Chet was on his feet and headed for his own wide-eyed horse. In his left hand, he caught the reins and “whoaed” to him. The other mount tore out of the grove and clattered down the dry wash, wasting no time to escape. In an attempt to scramble up the hillside, the frantic animal fell over, then rolled back on his side into the dry wash off a chest-high side wall. Kicking and screaming, the horse finally righted himself and then bounded to his hooves. In lunges, he was going uphill with fear in his wide eyes, his tail tight to his ass.

“Damnit, did you get him?” someone shouted.

“No. He’s gone to hell, too,” Chet answered in a whisper, trying to locate the lastest one doing the shouting on the ridge. Then he saw the speaker and quickly drew a bead on him. Way too far away for a pistol shot.

There wasn’t time to get his rifle off the ground, but he lunged for it anyway. At last, with the wooden gunstock of the oily-smelling rifle in his hands, knowing the shooter must have seen him, he scurried to the right on the floor of sticky needles for another knothole in the green boughs to shoot at him from. When he reached the spot where he could see the black gunsmoke blasts of the shooter’s rifle, he aimed into them. Two quick shots expressed toward him and Chet raised the smoking barrel to look for the results. There was silence, save for the wind.

Chet found his feet, then swept up the pistol he’d dropped and looked it over. Save for some resin-sticky needles, the revolver looked okay and he jammed it into his holster. With slow intent, he studied the ridge selectively from his cover and reloaded the Winchester. Were there only three of them? By his judgment, that was all, but he wasn’t taking chances—that Reynolds bunch was never easy to kill.

The twice-shot man on the ground had never moved. He rolled him over with his right boot toe. This dead man had a name. Carley someone. Did day work for ranchers. He wouldn’t no more. He located Julio and swung into the saddle.

Julio acted upset when Chet rode him out of the thicket to the north. Twisted in his seat, Chet could see three saddled horses together, grazing on the ridge opposite his position. Their horses. It took fifteen minutes or longer to work his way over there.

He found Adrian Claus sprawled out on his back, rifle nearby in the grass. A brother-in-law to the Reynolds clan, he’d been the talker on the ridge. If he was alive, he’d not last long. He was unconscious, the wound in his chest pumping blood though Claus’s fingers. Chet booted his cow pony over and rode downhill where the one in the red jacket sprawled on the ground.

No more than a boy in his late teens, the stricken shooter blinked up at Chet and made a gasp. His open jacket showed he was losing lots of blood. He reached vainly for his handgun a few feet from his fingers.

“Better save those bullets for yourself,” Chet said, resting his left hand on the saddlehorn. “They won’t find you in time to save you from all the suffering. You a Clayton?”

“Joe Clayton... .”

He looked hard at the wounded one. “Are you boys that damn stupid?”

“Guess—” Joe’s voice cut off and he closed his eyes against the obvious pain. “We figured we could take ya easy.”

“You ain’t the first or last to think that. Shame you won’t be alive to tell ’em that.”

“Yeah—”

Chet reined the bay around and struck out for the north. Half-sick to his stomach, he short-loped Julio for the house. Small patches of sunlight through the buttermilk sky swept the hill country, lighting the live oak and cedars on the slopes, and then the seams in the clouds closed in again. Another day and a chapter in his belly-souring life had come and gone. The taste of vomit was hard to swallow from behind his tongue. Three more of his enemies were dead, or would soon be when the last one slipped away back there.

He hunched his shoulders under the unlined jacket against the penetrating cold. Damn, was there no end to this killing and dying?

Some lights were still on in the large sprawling ranch house and compound Chet called headquarters. Chet could smell the fireplace’s oak smoke as he rode up the starlit valley. Julio acted as weary as he felt. Snorting in the road dust occasionally, the big horse at last awoke to the fact that he was close to the corrals, feed, and his associates. The two arrived at the hitch rail and Chet dropped heavily out of the saddle. He slung the wool army blanket over the seat of the saddle. He’d worn it for warmth most of the way home. His sea legs under him, he loosened the girths, picking with his fingers at the sweat-soaked leather.

Chet could hear his young buckskin stallion snorting at the buggers that shared his barn area. And then he smiled to himself. The quick-footed stud from the Barbarousa Hacienda breeding farm was one thing that always made him grin over his pride of ownership.

“That you, Chet?” his sister Susie shouted from the half-open lighted doorway.

“No, it’s his ghost.”

“The ghost looks lively to me.” She laughed, then frowned at him. “You have trouble today?”

His 12-year-old nephew Heck must have heard him come in, too. “I’ll put him up, Chet,” he called out.

“You alright?” Chet asked the youth.

“Ah, sure. You must have rode him a long ways, he acts very tired.”

“He earned his keep today. You better get some sleep. It’s late.”

“I will.” With that, he led the horse off under the stars toward the corrals.

“Thanks,” Chet said, and turned to his twenty-some-year-old sister. “Well, did it all go well around here today?”

“Good enough. I was about to think you’d found a bed for the night.”

He slung his arm over her shoulder and kissed her forehead, going inside. “Naw, no one would have me.”

“You aren’t trying hard enough.” She smiled up at him, then pushed the brown wavy hair back from her face. “Food’s in the oven.”

Susie was attractive enough to have any fellar she wanted in the countryside. But, like himself, she didn’t have time for one—running the big house was no small chore. He removed his gloves, then hung his wide-brimmed hat on a peg and took off his jumper to hang it beside on the wall pegs. At the large open-hearth fireplace, he stopped and warmed his fingers.

“Cold out there, wasn’t it?” She shifted the woolen shawl on her shoulders.

In a quick check of the large room, he made certain they were alone. “Cold wasn’t the problem. Three of them tried to ambush me today.”

Her eyebrows hooded her blue eyes with concern. “What happened?”

He shrugged and looked hard at the overhead coal-oil lamp in the center of the living room. “They won’t cause us no more trouble.” Then, trying to revive her spirits, he smiled. “But that ain’t no concern of yours.”

“I knew something was wrong.” She shook her head, leading him into the dining room. “Gut feeling. Worried me all day that something was wrong. This won’t ever end. The killing, I mean?”

“Sis, we’ve talked about it enough. The only way to escape them is to clear out of Texas.”

She used some hot-holders and took his heaping plate of food out of the oven and slid it before him. In a low voice she said, “I know, but our dad can’t stand a long trip. I’d hate to bury a family member alone in some isolated graveyard and lose contact with them. Here we have our grandparents’ graves, Mother’s—”

“Sis, if we don’t do something soon, there may not be enough of us left alive to even tend those graves.”

“I know. I know.”

Chet sat down and turned at the sound of someone coming into the dining hall. Dale Allen’s widow, May, nodded and crossed to the table. May was on the chubby side, age twenty-three, and the past nine months had been hell for her. She’d lost Dale Allen’s daughter Racheal as well, from what the doc called some weakness. Never a strong person, May did all she could to raise his other children and her own daughter—Chet’s sister-in-law proved to be Susie’s greatest helper. May’s dark hair was thin, cut in a bob, and had no curl. She wore black, which did nothing for her appearance, but Chet felt certain she did all she could do.

“Did you have trouble today?” May asked, as he chewed on a piece cut from his slice of beef roast.

He nodded, not wanting to explain the day’s entire incident. Susie filled his coffee cup from the pot she brought over from the stove. Then she took her place across the table and nodded to May. “He had more trouble with the Reynoldses.”

Looking hard into her steaming cup, May nodded. “I thought so. Oh, I guess it won’t ever stop.”

Before taking another bite, Chet agreed with a head bob and went on eating. Finally he set his fork down and cradled the hot tin cup in his hands. “May, I’m planning on finding us a new place. We can’t raise our families in this hill country. The place is full of mean people with no value in them for life.”

“You still thinking about Arizona?” she asked, speaking subdued like usual.

“It could be the land where we could escape this madness. But—” He blew on the surface and the aromatic richness curled up his nose. “I don’t know, Arizona may not be far enough.”

May blinked her eyes. “When would we go?”

“I have no idea. Might take a year to sell this place and find another one out there.”

She chewed on her thin lower lip, looking concerned before she spoke. “I need to go with you and the family. I don’t have another. My people disowned me for marrying Dale Allen. I feel more a part of you all than I ever did growing up in that big house.”

May’s parents were the height of society in the area. They owned a large bank and several ranches. But May had never really fit in with them. Her younger sisters were charming young ladies in society, while Chet’s brother’s widow was always backward-acting and very tender. It didn’t help that May, against their advice, ran off to get married. Dale Allen took her to a country preacher and they gave their vows with Chet as a witness. May was nothing like Dale’s first wife, Nancy, a bright, laughing, attractive woman who died giving birth to their last child. At that moment in time, Chet figured that Dale simply needed a mother for his newborn daughter, Racheal, and the boys, Heck, twelve, Ty, ten, and Ray, seven. Racheal they later lost, and soon May brought in this world a baby girl of her own, Donna. She simply must have been a handy choice for Dale Allen.

However, Chet’s brother had turned his back on May. He spent long evenings working on farm machinery in the shop, alone. While Dale Allen was a terrific mechanic, when Chet finally confronted him about his absent ways toward his family, both May and the boys, Dale Allen about cried. “The kids remind me too much of her.”

Things were going better at last when his brother rode out ramrodding a fifteen-hundred-head herd for Kansas—then the last thing Chet ever thought about happened—the Reynolds clan attacked Dale Allen and the crew in the Indian Territory.

His father, Rocky, had been no help for years. He’d lost his mind searching for the twins, and later did more damage to himself looking for the other son kidnapped by the Comanche. Their mother, Theresa, had passed away with little left of her mind over the losses of the three children to the red marauders.

His father’s younger brother Mark’s wife, Louise Byrnes, widowed by the Civil War, was headstrong, and she locked horns a lot with him. Her two sons, Reg, nineteen, and sixteen-year-old J.D., were Chet’s right-hand helpers. A big family that shared the sprawling compound built originally to survive the Comanche. With two mildly creaking windmills, corrals, a large hay storage, granary, a dairy barn, bunkhouse and a rambling house all snuggled behind a twelve-foot-high wall. Behind the tall wooden gates that had not been shut in years lived his family.

Chet finished his meal and thanked them before heading to his small apartment in the bunkhouse. Scratching the thatch of brown hair on the top of his head, he put on his coat, ready to leave, and nodded to both of them. “Quit worrying, girls. We can figure this situation out. I thought they’d soon have enough of this dying business and quit. But I’m afraid they have their minds made up to die to the last man or woman.”

“Good night,” Susie said to Chet, and hugged May’s shoulder. “We’re both with you. You can count on us to do whatever we need to do.”

“I’m counting on both of you.” Hat on, he headed outside, dreading the cold night, leaving the warm fireplace. Heat in the bunkhouse was a wood-burning stove in the main part—little of its warmth reached his private bedroom.

At last, under the piled-on sogans in his bed, he quickly fell asleep, still wondering what those Reynoldses would try next. Before five AM, he was up, dressed, and back over in the kitchen filled with the aroma of food cooking. The two new Mexican girls, Juanita and Sonya, were setting plates and cups on the long table. A baby was crying somewhere, and Susie directed the breakfast operation in a starched white apron. Chet poured his own coffee and smiled at her.

Heck soon arrived with his two younger brothers, bringing in buckets of milk. Putting down the milk on a bench, all three boys smiled at the sight of Chet, then Susie sent them off to wash up. The youngest, Ray, ducked her herding and shouted, “Kill any Injuns while you were gone, Uncle Chet?”

“No, Ray. No Injuns this time.”

“You remember you promised me a big headdress some day,” he said over his shoulder, while Susie moved them out to the back porch to wash up.

Still grinning about Ray’s remarks, he nodded at Louise’s two older boys, who came in from the living room.

“We were about to go looking for you last night,” Reg, the older and taller one said, shaking his hand. “Susie said you’d be coming along. Any trouble?”

“We can talk about it later.”

Both boys agreed, knowing he didn’t want a conversation about the feud during the meal. Chet felt family meals were no place to discuss such bloody incidents and most everyone respected that. When he looked up he saw, with her hair put up and usual demeanor, his aunt Louise, forty-two, sweep in to the room. Chet’s father’s brother Mark found her in Shreveport’s society and brought her home before the war. Mark was supposed to have been killed in the final actions of the war. But they had only heard of his demise, with no news or record from the military. Chet never felt certain that his uncle had been killed, and he still looked for him to arrive any day, despite the intervening years.

Sipping on his coffee as the platters of food begun to be set out, Chet asked for silence to say his short prayer. He rose to straddle his seat and spoke softly. “Oh, Heavenly Father, guide and protect us through this day. May this wonderful food give us the strength to do the chores we are assigned. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Everyone nodded and then took their places. Susie oversaw everything. She and the two helpers made certain everyone had what they needed. Sleepy-eyed, May soon joined them with her little one in her arms and nodded good morning to everyone. Apologizing for her tardiness, she set Donna in a high chair that Juanita brought to her, and then took her place.

“How tough are those new horses to break?” Chet asked the older boys.

Reg shook his head to dismiss any concern about the fresh horses he’d bought. Range-raised, they came from a breed Indian named Crooked Foot who brought the herd of forty head to the ranch last January, winter-thin enough to catch, herd, and handle. Systematically, the boys had been working on them in their daily routine to green-break them.

“That gray we’re saving for you,” J.D. said, with a wink at some of the others.

“I thought he’d be the gentlest one in the bunch.” Chet laughed, recalling the hoof-pawing horse’s first day on the—.

“Yeah, he’ll make a real buggy horse,” Reg said, before he took the dripping sorghum-clad piece of pancake from his fork into his mouth.

“We just don’t have his attention yet.” Chet picked up his refilled cup of steaming coffee. “But he’ll learn. We need to put a running W on him, lay him down on a canvas for half a day and then see how wild he wants to be after that.”

Reg quickly agreed. “That’s about all that we’ve not tried on him so far.”

“Good, let’s do that first thing.” The horse matter closed, Chet excused himself and went with a cup of steaming coffee into the living room to the large rollback desk and swung the swivel chair in under his butt. His second-largest job, after being ranch ramrod, was keeping the books. A job that he hated worse than shoveling out a hog pen. He studied his list of items needing to be taken care of. He must make a payment to Grossman’s Mercantile to settle the ranch’s monthly account.

Among items on the bill was a glaring charge for three hundred dollars made by Louise for some special-order millinery items. A subject she’d never discussed with him before spending that large a sum. There would be hell over that between the two of them. No one else on the ranch abused his or her part in this outfit’s finances except Louise. With her free spending to gouge him, he also knew she did less work than the rest, other than throwing her weight around on the other folks.

In a short while, with the house cleared out, he walked back in the kitchen for another cup of coffee before he went outside. Seated at the kitchen table, he found his father Rocky, head down, slurping up too-liquid oatmeal from a tablespoon. Disheveled, unshaven, he looked up and then shook his head in disapproval at Chet.

“Now, by nab, I checked last night. Wasn’t an armed guard on duty nowheres around this place. I tell you, boy, them sneaking red devils will be in here and murder us all in our sleep.” He used the big spoon to make his point. “Them sonsabitches will swarm in here and murder us all. You can mark my words. You may be in charge, but you’re doing a damn sorry job of keeping up the guard around here.”

“I’ll check on it,” Chet said.

“Check on it, hell—why we’ll all be dead. Bring me some more of that oatmeal.” He handed the bowl to Susie, who shrugged on the other side of him, looking at Chet.

“Was it alright? The oatmeal I mean?” she asked him, loud enough to overcome his hearing loss.

“Just right, darling. Just right.”

“I’m going to check on the boys,” Chet said, setting down his empty cup.

Susie gave Rocky the cereal and patted his shoulder. “Now you eat big, daddy.”

Chet saw her actions were to distract his father, and nodded his approval, then left. A cold blast swept his face first, and the bright sun did not much warm the air. The confusion and dust down in the corral told him the taming of the gray was in process. He climbed the corral rails, and in time saw the struggling gelding being laid on the canvas sheet. The running W was a device of ropes on his legs that, with two men behind him pulling on the ropes, could trip him down. Then the crew tied his four feet together with soft cotton ropes. His older three boys, hands on their hips, studied the helpless pony on the ground.

“Looks good. What do you call him?” Chet asked.

“George, for George Washington, who once rode a gray horse.”

Squinting against the sun, the three nodded in approval. J.D. said, “And it says in the Bible to beware of the rider on the gray horse.”

“I heard that. How are the fattening pigs?” Chet asked them.

“They’ll be fat enough to butcher pretty soon,” Heck, the youngest of the three, said, about to bust his buttons with pride about the swine-fattening project.

“Reg, you better get the wood supply up for the scalding. Those Mexicans down there need the work and a share of the meat. We’ll plan on it for next week.”

“I’ll get it done,” Reg promised. “How long does George need to lay here?”

“You can let him up after lunch. If he don’t tame down, do it every day for a week. He’ll learn some time that we aren’t to be messed with.”

“You small boys better go gather eggs,” Reg said to the two youngsters on the top rail, who moaned about it, but took his orders and, hang-dog acting, went toward the house for their baskets.

The four got down on their heels, and Reg asked Chet about the day before, while the younger ones went off to pick up eggs and were out of hearing.

“I was about as far south as our land goes. They tried to ambush me, but I made it to some cover and held them off.”

“Who were they?”

“Joe Clayton.”

“He’s a brother-in-law,” J.D. said.

Chet agreed. “Adrian Claus.”

“He used to haul freight from San Antonio. They must have hired him.” Reg made a frown. “Who else?”

“Someone named Carley.”

“Frank Carley,” Heck said in disgust. “He did some day work around. Must have n. . .