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    Shoot-out at Broken Bow
    Shoot-out at Broken Bow
    Shoot-out at Broken Bow
    Ebook278 pages4 hours

    Shoot-out at Broken Bow

    By Charles G. West

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    In this western from Charles G. West, blood beats all—except justice…

    Outlaw Roy Blanton’s raised his four boys in the family business since they were half-pints—and they've gotten away with murder. That is, until U.S. Deputy Marshal Casey Dixon had hot-headed Billy, the youngest, hanged for shooting a policeman. Now the Blantons have vengeance on their minds.
     
    Old Buck Avery, Dixon’s partner, had been thinking of turning in his badge. And taking down the Blanton name sounds like a fine way to leave the law on a high note. But it's going to get bloody--because the house of Blanton isn't going to fall without a fight...

    “The West as it really was—savage, heroic and unforgettable.”—Ralph Compton
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateAug 4, 2009
    ISBN9781101108925
    Shoot-out at Broken Bow

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    • 5/5
      Shoot-out at Broken Bow was one of the most enjoyable westerns I've read in a long while.

      Young Marshal Casey Dixon captures and hangs outlaw Billy Blanton outside of the tiny town of Broken Bow. Billy had just murdered Broken Bow's sheriff, so the judgment was deserved. However Billy was the youngest of the notorious Blanton family who caused quite a ruckus in the Indian Territories a few years back. Once the infamous Roy Blanton and his no good sons find out, there will be hell to pay.

      This is a very well done pulp western. It's not the second coming of Lonesome Dove or anything, but it is slick, fast moving and constantly entertaining.

      I liked Mr. West's writing. He moved the story along at a snappy pace without making it feel like it was going so fast things were getting skipped. I liked reading about the Choctaw Lighthorse police, and the general portrayal on the Indian Territories. I wish there were more description as I happen to like well written details. Mr. West's writing was geared more towards suspenseful yarn-spinning than describing the layout of various saloons. He did provide enough detail to keep the narrative from ever feeling vague.

      The characters are all cardboard cutouts, but again, for the story he is telling it was enough. There were enough twists and quirks to the characters to keep them interesting, even if they weren't particularly deep. Roy Blanton makes for a very strong bad man. He is never softened and is fun to root against him.

      Casey is teamed up with older marshal Buck Fletcher, who was responsible for chasing the Blantons out of the Territories previously. The story of Buck's previous showdown with the Blantons is revealed slowly and made Buck a much more interesting character than he could have been.

      I would easily recommend Shoot-out at Broken Bow as a fast, suspenseful western. Charles West is a more solid writer than a lot of the other modern western authors I have read and I have already picked up a few more of his books.

    Book preview

    Shoot-out at Broken Bow - Charles G. West

    Chapter 1

    Captain Sam Sixkiller of the Choctaw Lighthorse glanced toward the open door to see U.S. Deputy Marshal Casey Dixon leading his horse toward the small shack that served as the headquarters for the U.S. Indian police in Atoka. Just watching the man walk—like a mountain lion on the prowl, moving deceptively slow and purposely—brought a smile to Sam’s face. From practical experience, Sam knew that, also like the mountain lion, Casey Dixon was quicker than lightning when danger threatened.

    Sam put his coffee cup down beside his chair and got up to meet the rugged young lawman. Stepping out on the stoop, he greeted Casey. You look like you’re all ready to get started back.

    Yep, Casey replied. I figured it was about time I got outta your way—get on back to Fort Smith.

    Sam smiled. Hell, I was fixin’ to wire John Council and tell him I was gonna keep you around for a while. He was joking, but the fact of the matter was the hard-riding deputy marshal had been invaluable in rounding up a band of cattle rustlers in the Choctaw Nation. Sam had worked with many deputies sent out from Fort Smith in the seven years he had been a captain in the Choctaw Lighthorse, but with none more determined and tireless than Casey Dixon. When you get back, tell ol’ Buck Avery I said hello. Buck used to work out this way a helluva lot, but we ain’t seen him all year.

    I’ll tell him if I see him, Casey promised, although he doubted he would run into him. Buck Avery was close to being a legend among deputy marshals. He was certainly the most senior of those lawmen working out of the Fort Smith court, having covered every square mile of Indian Territory years before Judge Isaac C. Parker was appointed to the district court. He was noted for working as a loner, seldom taking a partner along to help apprehend an outlaw—and never a wagon and cook, as some deputies did when being sent to some far corner of the territory. Casey favored working alone, too, although he was often called upon to work with other deputies who, like him, had less than five years’ experience on the job. He was far more interested in working with lawmen like Sam Sixkiller and his Choctaw policemen. They knew the territory and they were all skilled horsemen.

    As Sam walked over to shake hands with Casey, a thought occurred to him. If you ain’t in a particular hurry to get back to Fort Smith, you might circle back by way of Broken Bow. I sent one of my boys over there last week to arrest some young hell-raiser that’s been shootin’ up the town. Got the townfolk scared to come outta their houses, and I ain’t heard nothing from my man. I’d consider it a favor if you could check on him.

    Be glad to, Casey said.

    I appreciate it. His name’s Joseph Big Eagle.

    They shook hands, and Casey stepped up in the saddle, saluted Sam with a single finger touched to the brim of his hat, wheeled his horse, and started out toward Broken Bow.

    It could not really be called a town as yet, although a few families had settled there with high hopes for the future. A general store, a saloon that was half tent, half shack, and a blacksmith’s shop were the principal businesses established to date. In contrast to what he expected, the settlement seemed peaceful enough as Casey guided his horse by the blacksmith’s forge and headed for the general store. Dismounting, he looked around, surprised that he appeared to be the only soul on the short, dusty street. Looping his reins loosely over the hitching rail, he stepped up onto the stubby board stoop and opened the door to confront a double barreled shotgun looking at him from atop a counter along the opposite wall.

    Stopping abruptly, he considered the nervous middle-aged man standing behind the shotgun for a moment before speaking. Kind of an unfriendly way to greet customers, he commented.

    Showing obvious relief, the storekeeper slid his shotgun back and put it under the counter. I’m sorry, mister, but the past few days around here has got a lot of folks kinda edgy when a stranger walks in.

    That a fact? Casey replied. I heard you had some trouble. Looks quiet enough now, though. He walked up to the counter. I’m lookin’ for a Choctaw policeman named Joseph Big Eagle.

    Was that his name? the storekeeper asked. He wasn’t around long enough for anybody to know his name. He paused to give Casey a more thorough looking over. Are you a lawman?

    Casey nodded, pulled his vest aside to reveal his badge, and said, I’m a deputy marshal. Where did Joseph Big Eagle go?

    The storekeeper snorted contemptuously. Oh, he ain’t gone nowhere. He’s layin’ beside the saloon, right where he got shot down by that drunken maniac this mornin’.

    This was sobering news to Casey. Where’s the man that shot him? Is he still here somewhere?

    Pete Drucker—he’s the blacksmith—said he saw him ride out toward Eagletown. Said he was yellin’ he’d be back to see us. That’s why you don’t see no folks walkin’ around outside. The crazy son of a bitch has been ridin’ up and down the town for damn near a week shootin’ at everybody that sticks their nose out.

    And the Choctaw policeman, you just left him layin’ out there beside the saloon? Casey asked.

    The storekeeper shrugged. Like I said, nobody wants to take a chance on gettin’ caught outside. Besides, it’s just an Injun, anyway. It ain’t like anybody’s in a big hurry to have a funeral for him. I expect some of the boys will get him into the ground before he starts to stink. That is, if that crazy bastard don’t come back before this afternoon. He shook his head as if weary of the whole situation. It’s about time they sent a marshal over here. I just hope to God you’re better than that Injun.

    The man’s attitude did little to invoke Casey’s sympathy. "Sounds to me like that Injun just gave his life tryin’ to help you folks. I expect you and your neighbors owe him a helluva lot more than a funeral. His statement left the storekeeper short of words, and Casey abruptly moved on to the next question. Where can I pick up the trail to Eagletown?"

    Quick to reply then, the storekeeper said, It runs east, right beside the blacksmith’s. Noticeably contrite, he added, I’ll get some of the boys to dig a grave for the Choctaw policeman.

    Much obliged, Casey pronounced evenly. What does this feller that’s been shootin’ up the town look like?

    You’ll know him if you run into him, the storekeeper replied at once. Young feller, ridin’ a pinto. He’s wearin’ a fancy Mexican-lookin’ vest and totin’ pearl-handled pistols.

    You ever see him in Broken Bow before?

    Nope. And once is enough for Billy Blanton and anybody else like him.

    Casey nodded thoughtfully. Billy Blanton, huh? How do you know it’s Billy Blanton?

    Hell, he musta shouted it fifty times, ridin’ up and down the street, challengin’ anybody with a gun to come out and face him.

    And nobody did?

    Nobody but your Injun policeman layin’ out there by the saloon.

    Billy Blanton. That was not welcome news. Billy was the youngest of four Blanton brothers who, under the leadership of their father, old Roy Blanton, had rained terror across Kansas, Texas, and Oklahoma Territory for almost ten years. It had been a while, however, since the notorious outlaw family had been seen in Oklahoma Territory, at least since Casey had signed on as a deputy marshal. Anything he knew about the notorious outlaw family had been passed along to him by deputies who had served during that time. Buck Avery had by far the most hands-on experience and was given credit for chasing the Blantons out of the nations. Now, with Billy showing up here, Casey wondered whether the rest of the family could be far away.

    Before leaving the settlement, Casey went to see Joseph Big Eagle’s body. He stood gazing down at the already-stiffening corpse, the expression of pain frozen on the bronze face, and the eyes staring vacantly up at the sky. Four bullet holes formed a neat pattern on his chest. I’ll try to settle up for you, Casey promised silently before reaching down to take Joseph’s badge and pistol belt. There was no weapon other than the pistol. Casey figured the killer took the policeman’s rifle.

    After a half day’s ride from Broken Bow, it was approaching twilight when Casey saw the shacks on the other side of the Mountain Fork River. As it turned out, it was not necessary to cross the river, for he spotted a pinto like the one the storekeeper had described tied to a tent on the near side. There was a rough corral of pine poles behind the tent with one horse in it. Judging from the looks of the corral—the bark hadn’t even been skinned from the poles—Casey speculated that the owner of the tent didn’t figure on staying there long. The first thought that came to his mind was that the owner was most likely a prostitute or a bootlegger. With no evidence of a still, it was probably a prostitute.

    Taking his time, he sat with his rifle resting across his forearm, watching the tent carefully, ready for any surprises, while his horse padded slowly up beside the pinto. Dismounting, he moved quietly up to the tent flap and, parting it just enough to peek inside, he paused to consider the scene. Lost in the middle of a lustful transaction, the lady’s customer was hard at work, his bare behind reflecting the light from the lantern hanging from the tent pole. Casey glanced around the inside of the tent, noticing a decorative, hand-stitched vest on the back of a chair and a brace of pearl-handled pistols on the seat. He glanced down at his rifle, recalling the last time he had used a rifle for what he intended to do, the act of which resulted in a bent barrel. In no particular hurry, since his victim was sufficiently occupied, he glanced to either side of the tent flap. Spotting a shovel on the ground beside a shallow trench, evidently having been dug to drain water away from the tent, he propped his rifle against the tent wall and picked up the shovel.

    Pulling the flap open, he stepped inside. The customer was far too invested in his quest for satisfaction to notice that someone else had joined the party. The hostess, however, was less involved in the lovemaking, and from her position on her back, smiled up at Casey, thinking him another client. Oblivious to her young lover’s animal-like lunges, she winked and said, I’ll be with you in a minute.

    Her comment caused her lustful stud to pause, angered by the intrusion upon his party. Turning to threaten the intruder, he was met with the full force of a swinging shovel. The shovel rang like a bell when it collided with the side of his head, knocking the unsuspecting victim off the woman and onto the floor.

    Billy was game. He tried desperately to struggle to his feet and come up fighting. But his brain had been scrambled by the blow to his head, and each time he tried to get up, his knees seemed to go out from under him, causing him to stagger sideways against the bed-stead and land on the floor again. Still determined, he lunged for the chair holding his pistols, but Casey pulled it out of the way before he could reach it and stepped back to watch Billy crash to the floor yet again.

    Cursing like a wild man, Billy made one more attempt to counterattack. Rising to his knees, he prepared to lunge again, this time to be met with the muzzle of Casey’s .44, barely inches from his right eye. Now, you just keep it up, Casey warned, and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Billy froze for a few seconds while he thought that over. During the lull, Casey pulled his vest aside far enough to reveal his badge. I’m arrestin’ you for the murder of Joseph Big Eagle, he said. Now get your pants on.

    Glaring defiantly at the pistol pointed at him, Billy did not immediately respond, seeming indifferent to the trickle of blood now running down beside his ear. Still aware of a ringing in his head, effectively amplified by the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, he remained on his knees, his eyes burning with anger. He was just about to get an encouraging rap on the head with Casey’s pistol when he finally spoke. Mister, he said, his speech slurred, you don’t know who you’re messin’ with.

    Billy Blanton is who I’m thinkin’, Casey replied with little emotion beyond a raised eyebrow. And one sorry son of a bitch if you don’t pull your pants on like I told you.

    What if I don’t? Billy snarled.

    Casey shrugged indifferently. Well, it’s all the same to me, but it’s a three-, maybe three-and-a-half-day ride back to Fort Smith. Your ass is gonna get mighty damn sore without your pants on, but suit yourself.

    Mister, you’re a dead man. When my pa hears about this, he’ll string your guts across a barbed-wire fence.

    Yeah, I’ve heard about your pa and your brothers, but they ain’t gonna do you much good with your neck stretched about a foot or two. His patience running thin, he tired of the game of words. Now, if you don’t get up from there and get your pants on, I’m gonna save the court some trouble and shoot your worthless ass right here.

    The bewildered prostitute, shocked into silence during the bizarre incident up to that point, suddenly found her voice. I swear, Billy, I think he means it. She pulled her clothes together and sat up on the side of the bed. To Casey, she said, Take him outside to shoot him. I just cleaned the floor this mornin’.

    Billy glanced back and forth between the whore and the lawman, realizing that his life held no value to either. Settling again on Casey’s stone-cold gaze, he sobered enough to agree with the prostitute’s assessment of his situation. All right, dammit, back up and give me some room.

    Casey took a step back toward the bed, picked up Billy’s trousers, and started to throw them to him. Wait a minute! the woman said. He owes me money.

    For what? Billy exclaimed. We never finished the deal. Then he realized he was the one being cheated. Why, you old whore, I paid you before we got started.

    Yeah, but you were takin’ a helluva lot more time than you paid for, she protested weakly, knowing she didn’t have much of an argument.

    Yeah, well, you can go to hell, too, Billy responded.

    Aware that he was permitting the bickering between the two to get out of hand, Casey searched the pockets of Billy’s pants. Finding a modest roll of paper money, he peeled off a few bills and threw them on the bed. There, here’s a little extra for your trouble. Then he tossed the trousers to Billy. Get ’em on, he ordered.

    Hey! Billy protested. You can’t give her my money.

    You won’t need it, Casey said.

    His face a dark scowl then, Billy dutifully began to pull on his pants. Casey watched him closely, noticing the narrowing intensity of his eyes, which warned of a desperate attempt likely coming. Casey was ready for it. When Billy buckled his belt and reached for his boots, he suddenly flung one of them at Casey and lunged at him. Casey batted aside the boot and deftly sidestepped the lunge, cracking Billy hard on the back of his skull with his pistol. The ill-advised attack ended with Billy lying stunned on the floor. Put his boots on him, Casey ordered.

    Doing as she had been told, she rolled Billy over on his back and pulled his boots on. Finished, she looked up at Casey and smiled. My name’s Lila, she said. When you get done with him, why don’t you and I have a little go-around?

    Thanks just the same, Casey replied, but I’ve got a long ride ahead of me. I’d best get started.

    You don’t know what you’re missin’. She grinned mischievously.

    He just smiled in reply, thinking to himself that he had a pretty fair idea.

    Billy Blanton jerked his head from side to side in a frustrated attempt to shoo a curious yellow jacket away from his face. With his hands tied behind his back, he was helpless to swat it with his hat. The stoic man on the sorrel leading Billy’s pinto never seemed to tire or get hungry, stopping only to rest the horses. Coming down from a hangover caused by the combination of a couple of stout taps to the head and an overindulgence in rotgut whiskey, Billy had already emptied the contents of his stomach—most of it still in evidence down the withers of his horse. Feeling as if the sides of his empty stomach were now rubbing together, he yelled, Dammit, man, I’m dyin’ from hunger. Ain’t you ever gonna stop for some grub? When Casey ignored him, he yelled again. You know you gotta feed me. You gotta feed a prisoner. It’s the law.

    What the hell do you know about the law? Casey replied, amused that his prisoner’s attitude had changed considerably from the belligerent beginning. As a matter of fact, there ain’t nothin’ in the law that says I have to feed you. He paused, then added, Especially since you gunned down a lawman. He let that sink in for a few moments before continuing. But since you’ve been such a good boy, I’m gonna make camp in about a couple of hours. We oughta make Piney Creek by then, and I’ll feed you.

    In less than the two hours estimated, they came to Piney Creek. Casey untied the ropes that held Billy’s boots in the stirrups, then steadied him while Billy threw a leg over and dismounted. Ain’t you gonna untie my hands? Billy whined. I can’t eat unless you untie my hands.

    When I’m ready, Casey replied.

    Well, I gotta pee, Billy insisted. I gotta have my hands untied for that. A wicked smile crept across his face. Unless you’re plannin’ to help me out.

    Casey gave him a long, impatient look before finally shrugging his shoulders. All right, he said, turn around.

    When Billy dutifully turned his back to him, Casey untied the rope binding his hands together. As soon as one hand was free, Billy spun around in an attempt to strike Casey. The deputy, expecting such a move, jerked his rifle up to block the backhanded punch, catching Billy’s forearm on the barrel. Billy howled in pain when the bone in his arm made solid contact with the metal barrel. You broke my arm! he howled, and doubled over, holding the arm.

    You just don’t learn too fast, do you, Billy? You’re goin’ to Fort Smith to jail. The sooner you get that in that pea brain of yours, the better this trip is gonna be for you. He cocked his rifle. Now get over there by those bushes and get your business done. And make no mistake about it—if I don’t like the way you’re pissin’, I’ll damn sure shoot you down. You’d be a whole lot less trouble goin’ back over your saddle. And it really don’t make that much difference to me. I get paid either way. He followed Billy over to a patch of shrubs away from the creek.

    I can’t pee with you standin’ there watchin’ me, Billy complained. You oughta at least turn your back.

    Casey shook his head as if dealing with a child. I swear, you must think everybody’s as dumb as you. I’m tired of wastin’ time with you. Piss or bust. I’m givin’ you about two minutes to do somethin’.

    Seeing that his thoughts of escape were out of the question, Billy began to urinate at once with no in timidation. When he was finished, Casey marched him over to a sizable cottonwood and told him to hug it. Billy complained, but knew better than to refuse. Casey grabbed the rope still tied to one of Billy’s hands and tied it to the other hand again. With Billy hugging the tree, Casey was free to take care of the horses and build a fire. After he had finished his supper of bacon and coffee, he untied Billy’s hands and sat holding his rifle on his prisoner while Billy ate.

    Ain’t you got nothin’ to eat besides bacon? Billy complained when he had finished.

    I didn’t plan on havin’ a distinguished guest with me on the way back to Fort Smith, Casey said, so we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.

    Billy sipped the last of his coffee while he measured the somber lawman. How much they pay you for bein’ a deputy? he asked.

    Not enough, Casey replied, when I gotta play nursemaid to the likes of you.

    What would you say if I was to show you how to make a helluva lot more money, and right quick?

    I’d say you’d best get up if you need to piss again before I put you away for the night, Casey replied.

    Frowning, Billy persisted. You wouldn’t be the first lawman that’s smart enough to take a little money on the side. My daddy’s helped out more’n a few lawmen to look the other way once in a while. Daddy says it’s just good business.

    Is that a fact? Casey replied evenly. "Well, there ain’t enough money to make me look the other way when a low-down bastard guns down a policeman.

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