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  RAVES FOR THE WESTERNS OF COTTON SMITH

  Dark Trail to Dodge

  “An entertaining, believable, and fast-paced tale.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Cotton Smith tells the tale of a perilous cattle drive from Texas to Kansas. Diverse characters coming together to work on a cattle drive weave a story of struggle and adventure.”

  —Kansas City Star

  “An action-filled story of a farm boy’s rough initiation into the cowboy world during an eventful trail drive from Texas to Dodge City. Interesting characters, fast-moving narrative.”

  —Elmer Kelton

  “Hard-eyed characters and six-gun action. Smith knows cattle drives and cowboy lore.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A cast of colorful characters! Fictional but historically accurate.”

  —The Independent

  “Deep in the Wild West of the 1800s! A story of accuracy, excitement, and unforgettable characters.”

  —Overland Park Sun

  “Winning accolades for its compelling story line and accurate look at the Old West.”

  —Lawrence Journal-World

  “An enjoyable read with a strong sense of place.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  Pray for Texas

  “Cotton Smith’s stories are centered around the wonders of the human spirit in overcoming life’s obstacles.”

  —True West

  “Pray for Texas has plenty of pulsating action for fans of the traditional western, not to mention plot twists and a wonderful collection of characters. Cotton Smith secures his place as a promising new voice of the American frontier.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  “Happy trails for fans of western novels. It’s called Pray for Texas.”

  —Kansas City Star

  Behold a Red Horse

  “Cotton has pushed the envelope. Those plot twists and turns are what make Cotton Smith’s books engaging . . . great storytelling.”

  —True West

  “Readers praise his memorable characters, unexpected plot twists, and how he captures the look and feel of the real West.”

  —The Independent

  “A fine read for a cold winter’s evening with characters that stand out from the ordinary.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  Westward

  “Solid writing and superb storytelling.”

  —American Cowboy magazine

  “Westward is a treasure for all western enthusiasts.”

  —True West

  “Fans of history in any form will find Westward especially delightful.”

  —El Paso Times

  “A marvelous collection that can only help make reading westerns respectable once again.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Commendable . . . Enthusiasts of the Old West should enjoy the variety and the new twists given familiar tales.”

  —Denver Post

  “Cotton Smith tells the story of Leander H. McNelly, a compelling and tragic hero who served in the famed Texas Rangers.”

  —Wichita Eagle

  “The modern western writer has a keener fidelity to history than any of his predecessors.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  KILL TOWN

  A CORRIGAN BROTHERS WESTERN

  COTTON SMITH

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  RAVES FOR THE WESTERNS OF COTTON SMITH

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RIDE AWAY

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 Cotton Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3711-7

  First electronic edition: November 2016

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3712-4

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-3712-1

  To Scott F. Smith

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Sonya, my North Star and my wife. She has kept me on the red road of life. Thank you, too, to my agent, Cherry Weiner, for her fierce and professional attention to detail. And thanks to Gary Goldstein, my editor, for his belief in what I had to say.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cassidy County, Texas, sheriff Holt Corrigan adjusted his black string tie in the lopsided mirror that hung over a scratched dresser. He had no idea the Wilkon Bank, the town marshal, and he were about to be attacked while the three Bordner prisoners escaped.

  A month ago, the three Corrigan brothers were the only force that stood between the evil Agon Bordner becoming the emperor of Northwest Texas. That seemed like enough. Then.

  Holt’s hand served as a comb to straighten brown hair laying over his ears. He rubbed his just-shaved chin and brushed his trim mustache. It was important for a peace officer in the county to look right, he felt. The long scar on his right cheek, a reminder of a cavalry battle, had faded into a mark that some said made him more handsome, more mysterious. He was going to wear a black broadcloth suit, new. A gift from his brothers to celebrate his amnesty.

  He had been staying in the small sheriff’s office-apartment, next to the jail, since federal judge Oscar Pence appointed him Cassidy County’s top lawman. It was part of his belated amnesty from the Confederate fighting and alleged crimes afterward. That was just two weeks ago and the whole thing was still a dream.

  One minute, he was an outlaw; the next, a lawman.

  The judge, like many in the area, was pleased to reward Holt for his help in bringing Agon Bordner and his henchmen to justice, stopping them from taking over Northeast Texas. Not to mention his known heroics during the war itself.

  Slipping on his twin shoulder holsters, he checked the loads in each revolver, two Russian Smith & Wesson .44s, laying on t
he scarred desk. An ivory panther silhouette was inlaid in each black grip, a tribute to his belief in reincarnation and the idea that in one of his lives, he had been a jaguar in South America. The revolvers reminded him of the interview with the Dallas reporter yesterday.

  It wasn’t the first such story as, seemingly, all of Texas was talking about the outlaw turned lawman. This interview, like the others so far, had been aided considerably by the judge’s stern declaration of Holt’s innocence and gallantry. Judge Pence linked the accusations to Bordner’s gang attempting to frame him and yellow newspaper headlines not checking facts.

  To the reporter, Holt had simply said, “I’m very thankful to Judge Pence . . . and honored to serve the county where I grew up.”

  The reporter wanted to know about Holt’s revolvers and he politely showed them, but he didn’t explain the symbolism of the handles. Shaking his head, he slid each weapon into place and glanced out the window. The lower right panel was cracked, a long-ago incident. The day was overcast and autumn cool. Up and down the street, false-fronted storefronts looked dark, in spite of people coming and going. Wilkon, the county seat, was welcoming the gray day.

  “Going to rain. Too early to snow,” he muttered. “Good. That’ll knock down the dust. Help the farmers, too.”

  A few years ago, the county had turned a former tailor shop into the sheriff’s office and sleeping quarters. The room contained a bed, a dresser, a desk covered with wanted bulletins and telegrams, and a struggling wood stove. A small closet still contained clothes worn by the late former sheriff. Holt intended to give them away when he got around to it. Bordner and his key henchmen were downed in a fierce fight with the Corrigan brothers, their great friend and mentor, Silka, the former samurai, and help from the Sanchez men.

  Three outlaws were arrested, tried, and convicted of murder, coercion, and fraud. They were being held in the town jail for escort to the Huntsville state prison by Rangers who were expected any day.

  He heard a freighter rumble down the main street, its trace chains rattling, followed by someone yelling for someone else to get out of the way, then swearing. Holt chuckled.

  Unnoticed, Degory Black reined up at the hitching rack outside the bank near the end of the street. A killer of men, women, and children without remorse, he wore a long duster and a wide-brimmed hat. Under his coat were crossed belts holding handguns. With a quick look around, he went into the bank. A minute later, the crazy twins, Dek and Lennie Kinney, rode up to the adjacent hitch rack and swung down. Like Black, they were among the last of Agon Bordner’s gang, managing to escape the Rangers’ follow-up pursuit. Nonchalantly, they entered the bank.

  The townspeople were happy after the removal of the would-be “king” of the region and his reign of evil acquisition of area ranches. However, many were also unsettled by a Confederate outlaw, known to them only from yellow newspaper headlines and saloon talk, becoming the county’s top lawman.

  Holt eased into his coat. Looking around, he spotted his narrow-brimmed hat laying on the unmade bed and walked over. After running his fingers over the cardinal feather in its band for luck, he put on the hat and tugged on the brim. He planned to check on the new town marshal and his deputy, who were guarding the Bordner men.

  Along the crowded main street, two additional armed men of the Bordner gang dismounted on the far side of the thoroughfare. A third rider, blond-haired Chetan Jenson, nonchalantly pulled up to a hitch rack outside the Hammon General Merchandise Store. Two more armed riders rode down the street and dismounted; both were noted for their assassination skills and wanted in Texas and Kansas.

  Just before stepping outside, Holt remembered something. Glancing back, he saw the sheriff’s badge on the dresser and returned to pin it on his vest. Outside, German Hedrick pulled up alongside Degory Black’s horse. A half-breed known only as Pickles, because of his love of them, trotted toward the middle of town and disappeared down an alley. Hedrick quietly waited. Four more former Bordner gang members rode into town from the south and went into the livery.

  Unaware of the pending trouble, Sheriff Holt Corrigan stepped from his small office next to the jail and onto the planked sidewalk. Hot coffee would be waiting as usual. Sounds of the day greeted him. An unseen dog barked at something it didn’t like. A water pump creaked and groaned before releasing its liquid. A door slammed. Somewhere a woman laughed and a tinny piano tried to brighten the day. A few buildings away, two businessmen were arguing loudly about a delivery of goods.

  Seeing a button on the sidewalk, Holt leaned over and picked it up as he continued along. Good luck. He slid the tiny piece into his coat pocket. Only his two brothers, and Silka, knew of Holt’s superstitious nature. Hard-faced with light blue eyes and high cheekbones of bronze, the young lawman was an imposing figure, even though he was only average height. In the short-brimmed black hat, Holt was the shortest and second oldest of his brothers, Deed and Blue. Most men who saw him sensed the warrior within, even though he was a rawboned gunfighter, and were intimidated whether they admitted it or not. Many women were drawn to the hidden gentleness.

  He passed an older couple obviously uncomfortable being near him. Regardless, his smile was as warm as his greeting, coming with a slight bow as he walked on.

  Touching his hat brim as Miss Behesba Miller smiled and stopped to speak with him as they passed, Holt felt his face turning red with her attention.

  “Oh, aren’t you just excited about next Saturday’s big day?” she purred. “All kinds of fun things are planned, you know.” Her smile was inviting.

  She went on to explain that there was going to be a horse race, a footrace, a dance, a cake contest, a box supper auction, and a much anticipated baseball game between the town’s menfolk. There was also the possibility of a spelling bee for young and old. She was particularly interested in the dance and whether or not he was planning on attending.

  His response to her engaging questions were mostly a series of “mmms,” “uhs,” and “maybes” as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and alternately stared at the ground and looked into her brown eyes. A boyish grin followed. For a man who had faced all kinds of death, in war and afterward, it was unexpected that he would act so uncomfortable around women. It had always been so, even with Allison Johnson; she had been the aggressor.

  Coyly, Behesba dropped her handkerchief and he bent over to retrieve it.

  Three shots blistered past where his head had been. The movement saved his life. Behesba screamed and spun to the ground as her blue, wide-brimmed hat fluttered from her head. Instinctively, Holt dove and drew his Smith & Wesson revolver from one of the two shoulder holsters.

  His dive carried him behind the support beam holding up the jail front’s overhang. It was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. Cocking the big gun, he fired at the blossoming orange gun blast coming from behind a parked freight wagon across the street. Neither shot was effective.

  “Stay down, Miss Miller,” he managed to say before more bullets clipped the beam inches above his head.

  He thought she was wounded and had fainted, but couldn’t tell for certain. The wood planks under her showed streaks of crimson. There wasn’t anything he could do for her at the moment. A light rain began to take over the town as the street emptied quickly; people scattered when the first shots exploded into the quiet morning. The firing was coming from men with rifles, spread out across the street.

  Town marshal Micah Foster burst from the jail, shotgun in hand. His deputy, Billy Jorgenson, was a stride behind, levering a Henry.

  “Get back, Micah!” Holt yelled.

  Bullets slammed the farmer-marshal against the wall. He shuddered and slid down the unpainted surface into a strange heap. The deputy spun sideways, knocked off balance by the marshal’s collapse. A bullet caught the deputy’s shoulder, but he managed to scramble behind the doorway.

  Holt’s hat brim wasn’t helping stave off the wetness as he squinted for targets. Four more shots spit at him; one
creased his lower right leg; another clipped the beam, sending splinters into his cheek. Forcing himself to ignore both, he drew a bead on the legs visible under the wagon and squeezed the trigger. His assailant screamed and stumbled sideways, grabbing for his wounded leg. Holt’s second shot spun him around; his third jolted the outlaw backward into an unmoving heap.

  He knew who these men were, even though he’d never met them. They had to be part of the old Bordner gang, and they were trying to break out their fellow outlaws. The thought slid through him: where were his brothers? Both were in town. So was Silka.

  Firing quickly twice more, he missed the heavyset man firing with a rifle from behind a barrel next to the Blue Dog Saloon. The return fire was intense, but so far the beam was protecting him as he shoved new loads into his gun. The remaining outlaws continued their firing and he kept his head down. If he attempted to dash for the jail door behind him, their gunfire would stop him before he went two steps.

  “Let us go, law dog! They’ll quit shootin’ if’n you drop your gun an’ hold up your hands.” The suggestion came from one of the jailed outlaws, Rhey Selmon, able to see through the half-opened door from his cell.

  “Go to hell. Before they get me, I’ll kill all of you bastards.”