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    The Guns of C.C. Ellis
    The Guns of C.C. Ellis
    The Guns of C.C. Ellis
    Ebook279 pages4 hours

    The Guns of C.C. Ellis

    By Ralph Cotton

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    About this ebook

    Outlaws plot a daring heist in this exciting new Western by USA Today bestselling author Ralph Cotton
     
    A corrupt former Army Colonel trying to run a railroad. The sheriff of a frontier town so raw its only name is New Water Stop One. And a gang of outlaws on a mission. When these forces collide, bullets fly!
     
    After pulling off their latest train robbery, outlaw leader C.C. Ellis and his unruly gang of long riders set their sights on a new target, a rich mining operation. There are only two men who can stand in their way.  Sheriff Max Boyd, a lawman who doesn’t always play by the rules, and Colonel Randolph Doss, the brutal security chief of the Colorado Western Express R.R. Co. Doss pursues Ellis like Ahab pursued the white whale, while Boyd pursues his aim of keeping the town standing . . . and even some of C.C.’s gang are secretly pursuing their own agendas. There will be plenty of hot lead on the road to a final showdown…
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJul 26, 2022
    ISBN9780593437797
    The Guns of C.C. Ellis

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      Book preview

      The Guns of C.C. Ellis - Ralph Cotton

      Part 1

      Prologue

      C.C. Ellis and Jax Hoyt stood out front of the big ragged tent saloon in the soft rays of early-morning sunlight. They looked both ways along the bustling muddy street, amazed at how the little rail-siding town looked today compared to only a month earlier when they’d last ridden through. They’d been higher up in the foothills that trip, scouting out Henry Morrow and Sadie Long’s Gold Bucket Gambling Hall farther up in the foothills. As it turned out, Sadie had recognized Hoyt from an encounter the two of them had when she was tossing her red skirts over her head atop a bar in Santa Fe.

      That was . . . what? Two years? Three years? A few years back, he settled on.

      Beside C.C. Ellis, Jackson Hoyt leaned on a newly built hitch rail. Jax shook his head, looking at piles and stacks of lumber, brick and roofing tin lying in town lots recently mowed and cleared, ready for whatever their new owners might want to build on them.

      I always hate seeing this happen to a place, Hoyt said as they watched even more delivery wagons roll in off the main trail.

      What’s that? Ellis asked, pretty sure he already knew what his friend was talking about.

      The way we rode through here last time and you could have shot marbles in the street, nobody to stop you, said Jax. Now look at it.

      Didn’t know you shot marbles.

      That’s not the point, said Jax. I’m just saying, if I wanted to, I could, is all.

      Ellis waited for a second and caught a glimpse over his shoulder of two men who walked out of the ragged saloon tent and stopped behind them. From inside the tent, a piano played a peppy New Orleans version of Oh! Susanna.

      What’s your game, Jax, straight marbles or Knuckles Down Tight? Ellis asked.

      What the hell . . . ?

      Are you going to start on me—? Jax said.

      But he realized something was afoot when Ellis nudged him farther along the hitch rail, getting away from where their horses stood right in the line of fire, should the two men from the saloon tent make a move, which his instincts had warned him in a split second that they would.

      Catching a quick glance of the horses’ position and having C.C. move him away from them told Hoyt everything.

      You there, one of the men called out, you with the black hat!

      Ellis and Hoyt didn’t answer. They moved away slowly, farther and farther from their horses. The two men followed at a distance of five yards until the tent was out from behind them and the horses were in a safer position.

      Don’t act like you don’t hear me! the man called out.

      Ellis and Hoyt stopped, keeping about ten feet between them.

      I hear you, said Ellis, the only one of the two wearing a black slouch hat. What do you want?

      "I want you, Christian Clayton Ellis, the larger of the two men said. The other man had stepped away from him, the same way Hoyt stepped away from Ellis. You’ve got something that rightly belongs to me, and today I’m taking it from you!"

      People along the street turned toward the big man’s raised voice.

      You know what it is?

      C.C. Ellis wasn’t interested. Don’t know. Don’t care, he said. Whatever you’re taking, try taking it.

      It’s that big reputation of yours, the man explained anyway. I’m hands down better than you with a gun, and I aim to prove it.

      Get to it, Ellis said quietly.

      One move out of you, Hoyt said to other man, and you’ll die as quick as he does.

      Inside his open riding duster, a long nickel-plated Remington stood diagonally across his belly. His right hand lay on the gun’s butt, resting yet poised. Onlookers gathered on the busy street.

      Whoa now! the voice of New Water Stop One’s sheriff, Max Boyd, called out. Any of you go for a gun, this double ten will lift you out of your boots.

      None of the four men squared off could see the big ten gauge, but they all heard the metal sound as it opened and snapped shut.

      Go on about your damn business, Sheriff, the big man demanded, staring hard at C.C. Ellis. This is strictly a private matter between me and this jake leg.

      All right, then, said the sheriff. In that case, give me twenty-five dollars and go at it. I ain’t wasting time arguing.

      Twenty-five dollars for what? the man shouted.

      That’s what it will cost the town to pay somebody to gather chunks of your ass, box it and stick it in the ground once this ten gauge is finished with you. The sheriff called out to one of his two deputies on the scene, Wade, show this fool your shotgun. See if it’ll make a believer out of him.

      The deputy raised the shotgun high enough to be seen.

      But the man didn’t even look at it. Instead, he made his move and let the fight start. He pulled his big Colt up from its holster and let out a yell. Die, you sumbitch—

      But before he got out his words or his gun, two of Ellis’s bullets pounded him in his chest, knocking him backward on the muddy building lot. A red haze of blood appeared in the air above the corpse, hung there for a second and vanished. A loud blast resounded from one of the shotgun’s barrels, and Ellis and Hoyt spun in time to see the other man’s gun fall to the ground. His hands went straight up.

      Quick thinking, Wade, said the sheriff. His deputy was still holding the smoking shotgun pointed at the sky. You just saved the town twenty-five dollars.

      He looked at C.C. Ellis, watching him replace the two spent bullets in his Colt as smoke curled from its barrel. I don’t think there’s anybody watching here who’d call this anything but self-defense. What was his problem with you? He nodded at the dead man lying in the dirt.

      I don’t know, Sheriff, said Ellis. Used to be I had a reputation for being quick with a gun. But that was a long time ago.

      The sheriff’s cordial smile disappeared. His deputies walked in closer and stood watching, listening, their faces serious.

      Don’t count me as a rube, he said quietly. "You’re Christian Clayton Ellis. I know who you are, what you are and what you’ve been from the war to now."

      As he spoke, Hoyt eased in closer.

      I know you too, Jackson Hoyt. I mean, Jax, the sheriff added with a hint of sarcasm. Back to Ellis he said, I was watching, is how come I saw what this fool had in mind, wanting to kill you.

      Gesturing his deputies toward the other man, who still held his hands up, he said, Wade, you and Bobby take this one over and stick him in a cell—one that’s finished enough to keep him in it. And get this dead man off the street.

      The sheriff stood with Ellis and Hoyt until his deputies and the prisoner were out of sight down the busy street.

      Fellas, I’m going to ask you both to do us all a big favor—for me, for Water Stop One and yourselves. I want you to get on your horses, or whoever’s horses these are, and get on out of here and never come back. Can I count on you to do that for me?

      Hoyt’s attitude started to curdle. Sheriff, you just agreed there was nothing more we could have done but defend ourselves—

      Okay, Ellis cut in. We’re leaving right now. We only came here looking for a friend we knew in Denver City. Seeing he’s not here, we’re gone. Obliged to you clearing up this mess.

      He gave Hoyt a slight nudge toward their horses while the sheriff stood watching them closely. He continued watching until they reached the town limits and swung down the main trail, headed south out of the foothills.

      That didn’t go real well, did it? Hoyt said.

      Depends on how you look at it, Ellis replied. Neither of us got shot. That’s always a good outcome.

      Maybe so, said Hoyt, considering. But we are going back, right?

      Yes, we are, said Ellis.

      He saw Hoyt slow his horse and start to turn it around. But not today, he said quickly. "We looked the place over, met their new lawmen, and I found a good place to post a rifleman. What else do we need?"

      Jax Hoyt straightened his horse and said, Not a damn thing that I can think of. See you in a week, New Water Stop One, he said, tipping his hat to a small road sign alongside the trail.

      They rode on.

      Chapter 1

      New Water Stop One

      Seven days later

      Look at this dandy bob standing up ahead of us, said the railroad fireman. He’s wearing a string tie and all! Bet he can’t tell his pizzle from a lampwick.

      He stood at the open iron door to the firebox inside the large steam-driven engine, his knees feeling the heat through his coveralls as the dying coals inside the firebox cooled. He pointed a heavily gloved finger at the well-dressed traveler standing on the platform ahead of their slowing train, not recognizing Jackson Hoyt, who was shaved, trimmed and wearing a thirty-dollar business suit. The traveler looked back at them, waving, a wide flashy smile on his face.

      If he stands any closer, you can wipe his nose on an oil rag as we go by, the engineer said sidelong to the fireman without taking his eyes off of the platform as they drifted slowly past.

      I’m tempted to do it, the old fireman said. Look, now he can’t stop waving at us! he said. Must’ve thought we wouldn’t stop for him. Bet he’s drunker than a dog.

      Drunk or sober, I bet he thinks he’s the berries, said the engineer. He can’t wait to get aboard the big choo choo!

      The engineer chuffed and repeated, A jackrabbit, indeed.

      Now the fool has forgotten his trunk and baggage! the fireman told himself, seeing the traveler step away from his large trunk and a leather valise, appearing to have forgotten the items in his rush.

      Instead, the well-dressed traveler grasped the handrail of the barely moving train and swung into the engine’s open door.

      Excuse me, sir! said the fireman above the pulsing of the large steam engine. You have forgotten your personals!

      The smell of rye whiskey wafted around the man. With it came the sour, bitter smell most frequently found lingering in a Denver City opium den.

      No, I have not forgotten anything, sir! said the traveler, laughing under his breath.

      Oh, yeah, this one is gone, drunk, doped. God knows what else, the fireman told himself.

      This new water stop hadn’t been here a month, yet already the tents, the loose women, the cutthroats and various other ne’er-do-wells were all here. They had gathered on nearby streets and around the station as if they had come to witness some magnificent event.

      The fireman knew that most of these people had migrated up from Denver City, following the new rails. Whatever else a man could do to himself here inside the saloon tent or at any one of the big tents outside of Boulder City, this well-dressed city fellow had already found and already done. But before the fireman could think much longer about it, a long Remington six-shooter came up from the traveler’s waist and cocked inches from the fireman’s face.

      Whoever wants to live, raise your hands! he said loudly like some schoolmaster seeking class participation. He didn’t sound as drunk or as doped up as his opium-lit eyes accused him of being. I’m robbing this train. He jiggled the big gun in his hand—his hand now rock steady.

      Both men’s hands sprang up, the engineer actually turning loose of the engine’s idle throttle.

      Sir, are you drunk? Are you funning with us? said the fireman.

      An iron coupling bar lay near his hand. He wondered if he could grab the bar in time to crack this man’s head with it and take charge of the situation. A darkness in the man’s eyes warned him against it.

      The armed traveler steadied the big Remington in a one-handed grip, looking calmly and expertly down the sights atop its barrel.

      Yes, I am drunk! he replied. But, no, I am not funning with you! he added, sounding miraculously sober.

      The fireman and engineer saw gunmen scramble down from their saddles on the platform and hurry to push their way onto the train. A larger group of them headed into the open door of the express car—the money car, as some people called it. Others spread along the loading dock beside the train, rifles raised, taking charge of the station, the streets and the onlookers.

      Holy Moses! It is a robbery! said the fireman. He took a step back, his eyes wide and frightened. You’re one of them, ain’t you? he said in a hushed tone.

      Yes, I am one of them, said Hoyt with a thin smile, his gun and his eyes steady, calm, in control.

      The fireman leaned slightly and looked back along the idling train where more gunmen had now gathered inside the reinforced express car. What he could not see were men gathered around the huge new safe standing bolted to both the floor and the thick walls of the car.

      You’re fixin’ to blow up the safe and open it, ain’t you? the fireman said.

      That is our plan this morning, yes, said Hoyt. Now, stand there quiet-like so we won’t have to kill either one of you.

      You’ll get no guff out of us, the fireman said. He lowered a shaky finger enough to point at the big Remington in the gunman’s hand. Say now. Is that the new nickel-plated model everybody’s talking about?

      The gunman turned the shiny six-shooter back and forth in his hand.

      I believe it is, he said, glancing down at the big pistol.

      Along the loading platform more gunmen arrived, some holding the reins of the others’ horses.

      My, my! the fireman said, staring wide-eyed at the big Remington. What I wouldn’t give to hold a shiny beauty like that just once in my life!

      Shut up, Lon! shouted the engineer, whose name was Oscar. You’ll get us both killed sure enough!

      I don’t mean no harm, mister! said Lon the fireman. I’m just curious, is all!

      I know, the gunman said quietly. Here, Lon. He uncocked the Remington, turned it around in his hand and held it out, butt first, to Lon.

      Oh, my God! said the fireman.

      He looked at the big pistol, stunned at the suggestion of holding it. Yet without further invitation he took hold of the bone grips and hefted the gun up and down, getting a feel for it.

      Whoo-hee! he said with delight.

      As the engineer stared in disbelief, Lon held the gun pointed straight at the gunman’s chest less than two feet away.

      The gunman smiled. He placed a fingertip against the gun barrel and calmly nudged it away from his chest.

      Don’t shoot me, Lon, he said affably. You get all these long riders stirred up, no telling what they’d do.

      Oh, no, sir! said the fireman. I did not intend to—

      It’s all right, the gunman said.

      He took the Remington as the fireman held it out to him. Cocking it, he held it loosely pointed at the two men. What did you think of it, Lon?

      It’s a whole different feel from the Army Colt, said the fireman. Both fine shooting irons, I have to say. I never thought I’d get to hold one of them big Remmys!

      I’m glad you got to do it, said the gunman.

      Outside on the huge wooden platform, a masked rider came to a quick halt, leading a spare horse by its reins. Hooves clattered on the heavy plank surface.

      If you gentlemen will excuse me, said Hoyt, I’ll let you get back to running this railroad.

      As he reached to open the small side door, Lon the fireman called out, Wait, mister! I never heard the safe blow up.

      The rail clerk must have failed to lock the safe to begin with, said the gunman. He must’ve just shut the big safe door behind himself.

      I’ll be danged! said the fireman. Somebody will catch hell over that!

      The engineer and the fireman watched the gunman through the smoked and dusty window glass. The rider holding the spare horse in check moved in closer and pitched the gunman his horse’s reins.

      When the gunman fumbled as he caught the reins, the rider, Bailey McCool, called down to him, Damn it, Jax, are you drunk?

      No! Jackson Hoyt said firmly, gathering his big silver-gray barb beneath him. Why does everybody keep asking if I’m drunk?

      I can only guess why! she said. Her blue eyes shot him a harsh look between the edge of her bandanna mask and the lowered brim of her slouch hat.

      Hoyt batted his knees to the horse, sending it forward, Bailey McCool right beside him. Where’s C.C.? she asked, shouting above the sound of their horses’ hooves on the platform.

      Without answering, Hoyt nodded ahead at a fifty-foot wall of rock overlooking the rail siding.

      I told you he’d be nearby keeping an eye on us, Hoyt said with a smile.

      The two raced on, their duster tails flapping on a breeze.

      *   *   *

      Watching behind the glass engine door as the two outlaws rode out of sight, the fireman looked at the engineer curiously.

      Do they really do that? asked Lon.

      Do what? asked Oscar.

      Just, you know, leave a safe standing open while they get tallied up and ready to leave the station?

      Damned if I know, Lon, said Oscar, sounding a little agitated now at how his fireman had acted: holding the gunman’s six-shooter, ogling it like a fool. Maybe next time you can ask him!

      The two got quiet as a few horses ran across the platform and down onto the rocky trail, joining other riders.

      Nowadays they just ride in and rob us right at the station, the engineer said with a sad face. Don’t even give us time to pull away from the siding!

      I’m sorry we’re getting robbed, said Lon, but that was as nice as anything that’s happened to me in a long while, getting to check out that big ol’ shiny Remmy—

      You have no idea in hell who that was, do you? the engineer cut in.

      Well, no, said Lon, I can’t say that I do. He was friendly enough.

      Friendly enough . . . !

      The engineer sat watching a large number of mounted gunmen ride off of the rail platform in a burst of dust. They rode strewn out along the trail in the direction of Denver City.

      That was none other than Jackson Hoyt himself!

      Jax Hoyt? So he really is one of them, said Lon the fireman, sounding amazed. One of the long riders?

      He’s not only one of them, said the engineer. He’s one of the top men, right up there with C.C. Ellis, Holden Ryan and Poker Joe Elliot. We might be lucky to still be alive.

      Jackson Hoyt stood right here, said the fireman, pointing down at the iron floor in front of him. I asked about his gun. Damned if he didn’t hand it to me like we were ol’ pals or something!

      I had a hard time believing that myself! said the engineer. If I was you, I wouldn’t be spreading that story around much. People will think you’re touched.

      Hell, Oscar, the fireman said to the engineer, you saw it with your own eyes!

      Yeah, but I would keep quiet about it, said Oscar. Ain’t nobody going to believe it but you and me.

      Outside on the trail, the new sheriff and his two town deputies galloped along behind the cloud of dust left by the many fleeing gunmen.

      Give them hell, lawmen!

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