Chicago Chase

Chicago Chase

Merle and Hawk Book Two

Copyright 2001-2012 R. L. Kiser

Published by KiseSoft unInc.

Smashwords Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author-publisher.

ISBN: 978-1301889846

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are strictly from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Laura Gordon Designs.

CONTENTS

Top

Intro

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About The Author

Click on any Chapter Title to return to the Table of Contents

INTRO

Chicago Chase

By the time the round globe of the sun peeked over the horizon he was checked out and paid the bill, receipt in hand. Next came the livery where he saddled his horse, checked his bedroll and both rifles. The Winchester 30-30 was most every cow pokes companion and the hex-barreled Sharps .50 caliber shoulder cannon he picked up on his last adventure. There were some modifications, like a two inch extra thick shock absorbing padding placed on the end of the brass plated curved butt in place of the rags that were there before, and a small metal plate than was left out. Both he and his partner, the educated injun, had fond remembrances of sitting back three or four feet from where they pulled the trigger. He still had a momentary twinge in his shoulder whenever he thought about it. With everything loaded and strapped in place he was on his way north away from the railhead and civilization.

A full day’s ride found him deep into the cattle grazing lands north of the railhead. He stopped only to water his horse at a small stream. The tall hills and canyons that divided this land were still a half-day’s ride in front of him.

While the grazing land was mostly flat there were some dips and gullies. Merle found one of these in which to make camp. His camp fire wouldn’t be advertised across the flats.

Late in the evening while he was enjoying a cup of coffee and a freshly rolled Bull Durham cigarette he reached over next to the fire, filled an extra cup and held it up over his head. A big hand reached out and took the cup.

Merle said, For an Indian you make an awful lot of noise.

The big Indian with the long raven black hair smiled his perfect smile and said, Didn’t want to startle you.

More like you didn’t want to startle the dead.

Maybe you’re hearing’s just getting better being around me.

Oh, sure.

Good coffee.

My coffee’s always good.

Got a cigarette?

That all you bring was the habit?

You roll it. He seated himself across from his partner and proceeded to tell him what he learned so far. The man they were after, wanted for killing a sheriff’s deputy and a territorial judge in cold blood, was indeed seen running with a band of known rustlers. Hawk’s keen instincts were right. They were last seen up in this area about ten days ago. Most likely they had a camp up in the hills, which housed several natural canyons, and were re-branding. Six or seven dozen head were reported missing and there were always a few more unreported. They would concentrate their search there in the hills.

Merle acknowledged the information. As he was rolling another cigarette he recited all the things he had for dinner the previous evening. The inch and a half thick porterhouse steak, baked potato with sour cream and chives, tossed salad with fresh lettuce and tomato and sliced onion. Freshly baked rolls, creamy butter, strawberry preserves, butterscotch pudding, freshly ground coffee and a big fat cigar.

Hawk said it sounded good.

And a big soft bed with clean sheets to sleep in, Merle finished with a big smile.

That’s nice, Hawk said with a yawn as he stretched. This wasn’t getting to him the way Merle planned it.

And you?

Hawk finished stretching, laid his head down on his saddle and said, Oh, I stayed with a couple of friends. Couple of sisters I know have a ranch half a day’s ride from here. Both of them cute, too. I’ll sure be glad to get some sleep tonight. He pulled a blanket over him and closed his eyes.

Merle just gawked at him, his mouth working like a fish out of water. He looked away, looked back, looked away, looked back. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

CHAPTER 1

Chicago Chase

There was some cloud cover so the afternoon sun behind him wasn’t really a factor. Besides, the other fellah’s hat brim protected his eyes. He looked like he just came off the range, blue shirt disguised under all that dust and rough leather chaps over thick cotton pants. His boots seemed to meld into the dusty road, same color.

But what really got Merle’s attention was that hog leg slung low like the man knew how to use it. Looked to be a Colt .44, probably a single action, but someone who was really good would have it thumb cocked and ready to fire by the time the barrel cleared the holster. Nobody wore it slung low like that unless they knew how to use it. The fellah turned sideways and said, You talking to me?

The big man, all 6’2 of him, flexed his gun hand close to his Colt .45 double action Peacemaker, one of only a few in the territory, and replied, Yep. I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’d feel a darn site better about it if you weren’t wearing that hog leg."

The other fellah shook with a chuckle without ever taking his eyes off the big man. This here’s pretty rough territory, mister. Don’t hardly anyone ever ask for a man’s gun unless he’s a Pinkerton or a U.S. Marshal. You hiding a badge somewhere?

The fact that the man turned sideways to him wasn’t lost on him. He knew how to present the lowest possible profile.

Well, what I meant was I didn’t want you getting excited and pulling that hog leg. He slowly raised his gun hand pointing toward the saloon. I’d much rather buy us each a drink. It’s thirsty out here.

He heard somewhere, probably from that educated Injun, that discretion was the better part of valor. He wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but if it meant not getting your fool head blown off then he was all for it.

He walked toward and behind the fellah toward the saloon. When he was even with him he turned and strode beside him up the steps and past the two curved swinging half doors and across the room to the bar.

Typical of most cattlemen’s salons the bar was long, made of highly polished hardwood with a thick brass foot rail running the length, and brass spittoons every few feet. The back of the bar was well stocked with a polished mirror running behind the shelves. Centered above the shelves running half the length of the mirror was a finely done oil painting of a beautiful young lady reclining in mostly a state of undress.

Not many patrons at this hour. Just an old man with a broom and dust pan over by the stairs beyond the piano and the bar keep. The big man held up two fingers and the barman bent to his task.

Didn’t answer my question. You Pinkerton?

Nope.

Didn’t think so. They usually shoot first anyways. Not too many Pinkertons out this far in the territory.

Before he could ask about the badge, U.S. Deputy Marshal Merle Johnson on special assignment from Judge Leroy Hostetler, Denver office of the U.S. Territorial Provision downed his shot of whiskey in one gulp and said, Just wanted to ask if you’d seen anything unusual when you were out. Extra herds, clouds of movement, stuff like that.

You looking for rustlers then? You thought maybe I was one of them?

Anybody wears a pistol like you do is generally pretty good at pulling it. Besides, I know the Herstrom herd is just in, I figured you were with them. I doubt anyone boosting cattle would be in for a drink just now.

The stranger smiled a white toothed smile, downed his drink, stuck out his hand and said, Ted Herstrom. John Herstrom’s my pa, cattle’s the family business. The handshake was firm and strong without being overbearing.

We’ve had our run ins with rustlers too. Pa’s a big supporter of the governor, we’ve asked that something official be done about it. We’ve even hired extra men. You official?

Merle smiled. No, I’m not from the governor. I heard that some of these gangs were operating out of the hills above here. Seems a likely spot. Most herds are brought this way to the railhead."

Yeah, but nobody’s ever traced them. I don’t think anybody’s really tried. Well, thanks for the drink. I’ve got to get cleaned up and into city duds and catch a train. I don’t just punch cows, I sell them too.

He tipped the brim of his dusty hat and was out the door. Merle had the bar keep pour one more shot and downed it. He paid the man and decided to stroll down toward the cattle pens. As the telegrapher was closing his office he asked if there was anything for M. Johnson. The little fellah with the green shade hat looked at him for a second, reached for a folded piece of paper and said, Most unusual. I know all the telegraphers up and down this line. Never heard this one before.

How’s that?

The way a telegrapher sends is like a signature, no two are the same. Never heard this one before.

Merle suppressed a smile, laid a dime on the counter and unfolded the piece of paper. As he suspected it was from the injun. Technically Tyrone Narrowhawk, aka Hawk, U.S. Marshal, his immediate superior, educated at Jamestown University, graduated suma cum laude, law degree from Harvard. The Bureau of Indian Affairs didn’t want an Indian messing in their affairs so a federal judge in Denver, the one that sent him to college, made his a U.S. Marshal. Nothing scarier than an educated injun.

He strolled around the holding pens for a while noticing brands. He saw some cleverly applied modifications. Some of the bigger ranchers put more effort into designing their brands making them harder to cover. He talked casually to a couple of cow hands. There wasn’t much more to find out here so he strolled back to the combination hotel-saloon. It’d be nice to sleep in a bed with clean sheets. He might not get that chance for a while.

He had dinner in the dining room, rather elegant place. Rich brocade on the walls, gas lights, crisp linen, and a waiter with a French accent. He memorized every detail, the perfect way the inch and a half thick porterhouse steak was cooked just the way he liked it, barely pink on the inside and well done on the outside, baked potato with sour cream and chives, tossed salad with really fresh lettuce and tomato and sliced onion. Freshly baked rolls, creamy butter, strawberry preserves, butterscotch pudding, freshly ground coffee and a big fat cigar. He’d memorized every detail so he could tell his boss, the Indian marshal, who was probably eating beans and sleeping on the cold hard ground. The thought brought a smile to his face.

A couple shots of whiskey in the now crowded saloon, two or three hands of poker – he walked away exactly one silver Yankee dollar to the good – and off to bed. He had some riding to do the next day.

* * *

The first silver-grey streaks of light from the east found the big man sitting alone in the dining room amid the clash of pans from the kitchen and the tinkle of glass and silverware as they prepared for breakfast. In front of him a waitress poured his second cup of steaming hot coffee and told him his plate of eggs, sausage, bacon and grits would be right up. No matter how many times he told them he couldn’t stand the sight of it they always served him grits.

By the time the round globe of the sun peeked over the horizon he was checked out and paid the bill, receipt in hand. Next came the livery where he saddled his horse, checked his bedroll and both rifles. The Winchester 30-30 was most every cow pokes companion and the hex-barreled Sharps .50 caliber shoulder cannon he picked up on his last adventure. There were some modifications, like a two inch extra thick shock absorbing padding placed on the end of the brass plated curved butt in place of the rags that was there before, and a small metal plate than was left out. Both he and his partner, the educated injun, had fond remembrances of sitting back three or four feet from where they pulled the trigger. He still had a momentary twinge in his shoulder whenever he thought about it. With everything loaded and strapped in place he was on his way north away from the railhead and civilization.

A full day’s ride found him deep into the cattle grazing lands north of the railhead. He stopped only to water his horse at a small stream. The tall hills and canyons that divided this land were still a half-day’s ride in front of him.

While the grazing land was mostly flat there were some dips and gullies. Merle found one of these in which to make camp. His camp fire wouldn’t be advertised across the flats.

Late in the evening while he was enjoying a cup of coffee and a freshly rolled Bull Durham cigarette he reached over next to the fire and filled an extra cup and held it up over his head. A big hand reached out and took the cup.

Merle said, For an Indian you make an awful lot of noise.

The big Indian with the long raven black hair smiled his perfect smile and said, Didn’t want to startle you.

More like you didn’t want to startle the dead.

Maybe you’re hearing’s getting better being around me.

Oh, sure.

Good coffee.

My coffee’s always good.

Got a cigarette?

That all you bring was the habit?

You roll it. He seated himself across from his partner and proceeded to tell him what he learned so far. The man they were after, wanted for killing a sheriff’s deputy and a territorial judge in cold blood, was indeed seen running with a band of known rustlers. Hawk’s keen instincts were right. They were last seen up in this area about ten days ago. Most likely they had a camp up in the hills, which housed several natural canyons, and were re-branding. Six or seven dozen head were reported missing and there were always a few more unreported. They would concentrate their search there in the hills.

Merle acknowledged the information. As he was rolling another cigarette he recited all the things he had for dinner the previous evening. Hawk said it sounded good.

And a big soft bed with clean sheets to sleep in, Merle finished with a big smile.

That’s nice, Hawk said with a yawn as he stretched. This wasn’t getting to him the way Merle planned it.

And you?

Hawk finished stretching, laid his head down on his saddle and said, Oh, I stayed with a couple of friends. Couple of sisters I know have a ranch half a day’s ride from here. Both of them cute, too. I’ll sure be glad to get some sleep tonight. He pulled a blanket over him and closed his eyes.

Merle gawked at him, his mouth working like a fish out of water. He looked away, looked back, looked away, looked back. He couldn’t think of anything to say. A few seconds later Hawk looked up at the side of Merle’s confused face with one eye and smiled and went to sleep. During the night a cold chill swept over them both and they simultaneously sat bolt upright.

Merle looked at Hawk, his eyes wide and said, Did you feel that?

Hawk nodded his head and mumbled something about friendly spirits. They didn’t bother taking turns keeping watch figuring they’d both need their rest for the coming day and they were safe in a gully on the flats. Even so Merle slept fitfully the rest of the night.

The first rays of morning light found Hawk brewing a fresh pot of coffee and cooking pan bread. When Merle asked him what that was the night before he wouldn’t say much, just that they had a ‘friend’ looking out for their interests.

By an hour before noon they covered the distance from the previous night’s camp to the base of the canyons. They found a shady spot to rest having watered the hoses at a shallow stream earlier. Hawk brought out some jerked deer meat given to him by the Indian sister ranchers.

After their snack Merle was rolling a cigarette when Hawk, his back against one of the canyon walls said, Roll one of those for me, will ya’?

Damn, Hawk. All you ever bring is the habit.

You roll ‘em better than I do.

Yeah, but you never buy the tobacco, neither.

Put it on you expense account, said Hawk half jokingly. With that Merle laid down the makings, took out his little notebook and half-pencil and scribbled something about tobacco down. Hawk rolled his eyes.

As he was scribbling Merle muttered, Trees.

Hawk looked up and said, What?

Without raising his eyes from his notebook Merle said, Trees. Ain’t no trees out here.

Puzzled, Hawk looked to his left, to his right, craned his neck as if to look over the top of the gully, back at Merle and slowly said, Yeeeah…?

Merle looked up and said, Ain’t nobody stealing trees out here.

Still puzzled Hawk said, Stealing… and his face relaxed as realization came to him. He said, Ooooh, that. Logs.

Merle said, Logs, trees, whatever. Thought we was to find out who was stealing trees. Under his breath he muttered, How the hell do you steal a tree anyways?

Hawk replied, Were.

What?

Were. Thought we were, not was.

Merle gave him a puzzled look and muttered something about, Damned educated Injun.

Hawk smiled and said, Yeah, logs, somewhere up in Oregon. We’ll get to that. Judge wanted us to take care of this little matter first. Won’t take long.

Merle looked at him doubtfully saying, Uh-huh, and went back to his writing.

CHAPTER 2

Chicago Chase

While they were enjoying their smokes Hawk said that since neither of them knew these canyons they needed a plan of systematic search so that they didn’t go riding around willy-nilly. Merle began to outline an idea with a stick in the dirt when Hawk stood bolt upright, his long hair moved as if in a breeze, but there was no wind. The hairs on Merle’s arm stood up as he felt the edge of that same chill as the night before.

Hawk held up a hand and recited directions. Up the canyon where they now stood, third canyon opening on the right, look for a wide vertical split in the rock on the left. He climbed