The Sheriff’s Final Gunfight (Preview)

Chapter One

Sheriff Sam Lane, a thin cigar sticking out of his mouth, laughed uproariously as he read the dime novel tale about the gallant defender of Durango Hills, the incredible courageous Sam Lane, who had single-handedly taken on the vicious killers in the Duckworth Gang. The gang had spread blood and death throughout the state of Colorado. Although Sheriff Lane admired the courage and determination of his literary namesake, the real Sam Lane had no idea who the Duckworth Gang were. He had never arrested an outlaw named Duckworth and, in fact, didn’t think he even knew of a man, or a woman, with the name Duckworth.

He chortled again, laughing so much that the dime novel almost slipped from his hands. The cigar came close to slipping from his lips. He grabbed it with his free hand and chuckled again. Sheriff Lane thought he would definitely take the magazine home and show it to Amanda, his wife. She shared his sense of humor and the dime novel would have her falling on the floor with laughter. He puffed on his cigar again. He credited the writer with getting two things right – he was living proof that there was a real Sheriff Sam Lane, and the town he was sheriff of was named Durango Hills. But besides those two facts, the dime novel was entirely fictional.

In the novel, the leader of the gang liked to be called “Duke,” and the writer called him the “Duke of Death.” In the novel the man would twirl his silver pistol and yell, “No lawman has the guts to take me! I’ll skin his head and put a bullet in him.”

In the story the Duke of Death died under a hail of bullets from the fast gun of Sheriff Lane, who killed the rest of the fictitious gang too. It was a victory for law that was celebrated throughout the West, the magazine said.

“Well, the shootout was impressive,” Sheriff Lane said as he closed the novel. He tossed it on his desk.

He chuckled again as he reflected that his gun-toting, shooting-the-bad-guys days were almost over. In one month he would retire from his position as sheriff of Durango Hills, a post he had filled for thirty-two years. He planned to retire with Amanda to a small farm south of the town. He would sleep late in the morning and go to bed late at night. He planned to do absolutely nothing when he put down his badge. He and Amanda would sit on their porch every evening and watch the sun set. Their ranch house had a startlingly beautiful view of the snowcapped mountains. In the summer they could see the dozens of trees that grew on the mountain side, a patch of green that looked incongruous when contrasted with the snowcaps. Incongruous perhaps, but when he looked at it he felt a wave of serenity and contentment flow through him. He smiled when he thought that in thirty days Amanda would not have to worry that some outlaw or drunk cowboy would put a bullet in him. His wife was a sensitive woman and the hazardous life of a sheriff had always worried her. Next month, after thirty-two years on the job, she could breathe easily.

Lane was a tall, slender man, six feet tall. He hadn’t gained five pounds during the years on the job. But the brown hair now had gray strands flowing through it. He had a few wrinkles on his face too, but probably fewer than most long-time sheriffs. His blue eyes always gave a kind look to people. He had a deep baritone voice that usually was very friendly, reflecting his gentle nature. A few physical attributes had declined over the years but his shooting accuracy hadn’t. He remained a skilled sharpshooter, a trait any lawman needs.

He took another puff on his cigar. He had no complaints about his many years as a lawman. He enjoyed the job and he enjoyed living in Durango Hills. He and Amanda had made many friends in the town. They had raised three children; two sons and a daughter. Although he liked his job, Lane did not object when his second son, Jacob, went into banking instead of law enforcement. Jacob always had a head for figures and he was now vice-president of the Mountain Lake Bank in the town. His oldest son, William, did wear a badge on his chest. He was a deputy in Colorado Springs. His daughter, Melanie, had married a lawyer in town and, in three months, would deliver a baby. He looked forward to spoiling his grandchild.

He leaned back in his chair. There was only one thing during his years in Durango Hills that surprised him.

He had expected either Deke Hodgers or Jerico Larkin to be dead by now.

Hodgers and Larkin owned two of the biggest ranches in the area and had carried on a blood feud for years. He had thought one would have killed the other rancher by this time, or that they would have shot one another. He laughed again.

“Not that I’m upset both are still alive,” he said, shaking his head. “But I did expect at least one of them would be pushing up daises.”

He wondered if both of them would attend the ceremony the mayor and the town council planned to have for him when he retired. He’d get a plaque, a proclamation honoring his achievement, a brand new rifle and the honorary key to the city. Plus the bartender at the Silver Moon saloon had promised him the finest bottle of whisky in the establishment, which he would open later that evening when he was sitting with Amanda on the porch of their house. Then he would sip the retirement gift and smile.

He stood up and walked to the door. He was leaving at a good time, he thought. It had been peaceful in the town lately. He had two deputies who, he admitted, did most of the work. But the jail had been empty for most of the month. Maybe peace was spreading in the region, he thought. Of course, it wouldn’t last. He had experienced periods of tranquility before and taken advantage of them, treasuring each day because he knew the peaceful period would come to an end.

But this period of tranquility only needed to last about thirty more days.

Thirty days and he would pack up his gun. Some other sheriff would have to track down the real and fictional outlaws such as the Duke of Death.

Chapter Two

Ten men, five on each side of the downed fence, faced each other, and no one was smiling. Tension hung in the air like a predator preparing to leap on its prey.

Deke Hodgers placed his hand on his gun.

“You better explain what happened here, Larkin, and explain fast!” he said.

Hodgers’ voice was angry. He almost spit out the words. Facing him was Jerico Larkin with two of his men on each side of his horse. But Larkin’s voice sounded amused, not angry.

“I have no personal knowledge of what happened, but it appears someone tore down your fence, Deke,” Larkin said. “Probably should get your men to set it back up.”

“I’ll do that, Larkin! I’m thinking you and your men tore it down!”

Larkin smiled, almost chuckling. “Deke, we wouldn’t waste our time pulling down your fence. Take a deep breath and kick back. There’s no reason for any one of us to rip up your fence. We all have enough to do without adding trouble to it.”

Hodgers growled, the guttural sound similar to an animal’s. He was a burly man, with curly hair and a mustache. He had a large nose and mouth but small, beady eyes. His features contorted with hatred.

“I supposed you don’t know anything about my missing cows either,” he said.

Larkin’s voice became sterner. “No, I don’t. Not a thing. I don’t need any of your cattle, Deke. I’ve got plenty of my own. But if any of your cows wandered out on my ranch, my men will gather them for you and run them back to the Circle H. So don’t you worry about a thing.”

“I am worried. I don’t like fence cutters. I don’t like losing cattle. And when I find out who did this I’m going to deal with them my way.”

“You do that. I don’t like fence cutters myself. If I see someone swinging from a rope, it won’t bother me none. You’d have to watch out for the sheriff, though. He won’t like it a bit.”

“In about a month nobody will have to worry about him.”

Larkin nodded and smiled. “He is going to retire. It’s not that we don’t have to worry about him. In thirty days he’ll no longer have to worry about us. I imagine that makes him smile.”

“Good riddance to him. I never liked that Sunday-go-to-meeting polecat. If he hadn’t a been here…”

Larkin placed his hand on his gun. “Watch your filthy mouth, Deke. Sam Lane is a better man than you will ever be. I don’t like you calling him names. As for Sunday-go-to-meeting, I’ve never seen you inside the walls of a church. Of course if you walked in, you’d probably get spit out.”

“That’s another thing I never liked about you, Larkin. You’re a holy roller, just like that varmint of a sheriff.”

Larkin stretched in the saddle then gave a death stare at Hodgers. “I’m not going to shoot you today because you ain’t worth the bullets. But don’t push me, Deke, or I might make sure you get to the cemetery on time.”

“Why don’t we settle this right now? I don’t know why I haven’t killed you before.”

“Because I haven’t turned my back on you,” Larkin said.

“Why you—”

“Mr. Hodgers!” Clete Bartal, the foreman of the Circle H, spurred his horse and reined it between his boss and Larkin. “We came out here to look at a fence, not to kill anyone. Spilling blood won’t help this situation, and it won’t get us closer to finding out who done this.”

Hodgers bristled with anger. But although Bartal’s words sounded loud, they softened the fury in Hodgers’ face. He took a deep breath.

“Yes. Today is not the time,” he said.

Larkin looked at the Circle H foreman. Bartal was the only man on Hodgers’ payroll he respected. The man had a code he lived by, a code that Larkin understood.

“That’s right,” Larkin said. “Somebody did tear up your fence. He could do it again or next time he might rip up my fence. We need to find him. After that we can start shooting one another if we want to. You should double your foreman’s pay. I bet this isn’t the only time he’s saved your life.”

Bartal nodded. “Thank you for coming out and seeing what the problem was, Mr. Larkin. You can go back to your house now. We thank you for rounding up any Circle H cattle that have roamed over to your land.”

“If any have, we’ll herd them back. Don’t you worry. I don’t pull cards from my sleeve and I don’t steal cattle.” He looked at his men. “Come on, boys. The fun’s over.”

He turned his horse and headed west back toward his house. His four men followed. His foreman, Boone Langley, rode besides him.

“You and Mr. Hodgers should stay away from each other, Mr. Larkin. You’re like oil and water,” Langley said.

Larkin gave a sniff of disdain. “You know, Boone, I consider myself a good man. I’ve tried to be a good citizen, a good husband and a good father. Usually I’m in church on a Sunday morning and I listen to Rev. Copeland’s sermons, most of which are very good. I don’t think I have any violent tendencies. With one exception I have no ill will toward my fellow man.”

“Mr. Hodgers being the one exception.”

Larkin gritted his teeth. “Yes. He’s a man I wouldn’t mind shooting.”

Chapter Three

Linda Larkin, her red hair tied back in a ponytail, stuck the hand-made cigarette into her mouth. She was in a blouse and jeans, having just come in from riding her horse Astor. She scraped a match on a post and lit it, bringing the flame to the tobacco. She took deep breath and blew out gray smoke. Then coughed. She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and stared at it.

“Don’t see what all the fuss is about,” she said.

She brought the cigarette back to her mouth and puffed on it. She coughed again and thought smoking wasn’t an activity she would enjoy. But she always liked bucking the rules, and the rules said women were not supposed to smoke. She gave a wry grin and thought, at times, the rules might be justified. One more time, she thought.

“Linda, got that out of your mouth!”

The loud yell came from behind her and made her jump. Deputy Peter Grant, her husband to be, grabbed the cigarette and tossed it to the ground and stomped it with his boot. He grabbed her arm, turned her around and swatted the jean-clad bottom.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t you ever do that again! Ladies do not smoke!” Grant said.

Her fiery blue eyes blazed at her fiancée. She put her hands on her hips. “Yea? Well, this one does if she wants to. And I want to.”

He raised his finger and pointed at her. “You do and I will take you to the woodshed. As your husband, you are supposed to obey me.”

“I’m not your wife yet. And I don’t like obeying anyone.”

She made a fist and swung. Grant ducked as her fist went over his head. God bless her, he thought. Linda was not a wallflower. She did not shrink away into the shadows. He was caught off-guard when she dived into him. It stunned him and he stumbled as she propelled him backwards. The two tumbled into a hay loft. He lay on his back as Linda swung her leg over him and sat on his stomach.

“How come you are always around when I do something I shouldn’t be doing?” she said, smiling. She picked up a strand of hay and tickled his nose.

“Because you are almost always doing something you shouldn’t be doing,” he said.

Grant, like Linda, was young. He was barely past twenty but he had always wanted to be a lawman, and Sheriff Lane had given him a chance to wear a badge. Grant was almost six feet and broad-shouldered. He was a handsome man with black hair and gray eyes. He also had almost infinite patience, which a few people in the town said was needed if he planned to marry Jerico Larkin’s daughter.

“You ought to be a little more like your momma and daddy,” Grant said.

Linda stuck a hay strand in her teeth as if it were a cigarette. “Now why would you say a thing like that, honey?” The voice was jovial and full of sarcasm, which was another thing Grant loved about her. Linda had a heart of gold but her mouth could be sarcastic and even caustic at times.

“Because both of them are laid back and thoughtful. They are somewhat reserved. Neither your father nor mother go off half-cocked. They sort of think, consider and ponder before they have a reply or response. Don’t think I’ve ever seen your Daddy angry, or lose his temper. You don’t share their personalities,”

“That’s the truth. Don’t think momma ever jumped up and shouted in her life. She is sort of quiet. Strong and determined, though.”

“Those traits you share,” Grant said.

Linda chewed on the straw. She tapped Grant on the chest with her finger. “You know something Ed Barrow told me once when I was in his store?”

Grant shook his head.

“We got to talking and he for some reason mentioned Glen Oats. You know Glen and know he has a temper.”

“Yes, sure do.”

“So Mr. Barrow says Oats is the direct opposite of my father. He laughs and says before I was born, a group of about three men brought some real fine liquor out to the house. They were wondering if my father would ever get angry, and wondered if he was an angry drunk. Some men are. So they gather around a table and start drinking. Pa likes good whiskey and they brought out the best. So they talk and keep drinking. Turns out my Pa is a happy drunk not an angry drunk. When he has one too many drinks, he starts laughing and that night he laughed the whole evening.” She showed a big smile. “Never seen Daddy drunk. I would have liked to have been there that evening. I’ve never been drunk so I don’t know if I’m a happy drunk. Maybe one day I’ll find out.”

“That’s a great story. Never heard that before. But I bet that’s one trait you would share with your father.”

Linda laughed. “Think I’m an occasional mystery to momma too. I do a lot of things that puzzle her. Do you know for some reason ladies are supposed to ride side-saddle? Do you know how difficult that is? If a man tried to ride side-saddle he’d fall off and get trampled by the darn horse. But society says ladies should ride side-saddle. So we’re the ones supposed to fall off and get kicked by a horse.”

Grant took her hand. “I agree with you on that one. I tried to ride side-saddle once. Horse bucked and I was tossed in the air and bounced on the ground. Actually, I didn’t bounce I just hit the ground hard and stayed. At first, I thought I broke something.”

“There! You see,” she said, stabbing his chest with her finger again. “See what women have to put up with.”

He smiled and his fingers touched her chin. “There are times when you are right, my dear. And there is one trait you do share with your parents. You are very intelligent. You might have been the daughter of a school teacher.”

She undid the string of the ponytail and swung her red hair around. “For all my hijinks I do like to read. Books open the world to you. I like to travel but I may not ever get over to England and France, much less other countries. But I can visit them through books. I can’t complain about Colorado. This is a beautiful country. It is breathtaking. I enjoy hiking here. It’s a splendid piece of real estate.” She paused for a moment and Grant thought she looked reflective, as if pondering her short life. “If for some reason I had to stay here for the rest of my life I think I might be content. The reason is because the land is so beautiful, and because we have so many changes during the seasons. I really wouldn’t think of that as a punishment.”

“I’m glad you think so, because we don’t get far on a deputy’s pay.”

“That’s OK. Daddy has given me an inheritance. It was supposed to be given to me when I’m twenty-one. But since I’m getting married, he’s giving it to me sooner.”

“I don’t really like living off your father’s money.”

“It’s not my father’s money. It’s mine.”

“Yes….but still…”

“It’s our money, honey. Put it this way. I like to read. What if I become a writer and I make money selling books? Would you object to that money? Could we spend it?”

“Of course, but that’s kind of….different.”

“No, it isn’t. If I strike it rich writing, that’s my money. If my father grants me an inheritance, that’s my money. We can spend it on ourselves or our children.”

Grant thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. You’re an amazing woman, lady.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers ran over his chest. “And you’re a good looking hulk of a man. It worries me a bit that you’re wearing a badge. That can be dangerous work.”

“I’ll be fine. Durango Hills isn’t a hotbed of crime.”

“Thank goodness.”

He touched her cheek again. “You are an amazing woman. But keep away from those cigarettes!”

She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“This is probably the only time I’ll hear those words,” Grant said.

Chapter Four

Federal Marshal Dan Matthews gave a sour grin as he rode. The brown, burly mustached dipped below his lip as his horse trod down the trail. He wore a jacket because the temperature had dropped below the comfortable range. Plus he was in the mountains and that meant there might be brisk winds soaring through the passages. Those chill breezes could easily drop temperatures another ten or even fifteen degrees. So a jacket was needed.

But he didn’t like his assignment. It was a waste of time. The federal government owned a small strip of land in this part of Colorado, although how the feds obtained the land he never understood. It was wedged between private ranches. He assumed whoever drew the federal boundary lines had been drunk, and so was his superior. His superiors had told him there was talk of having ranchers or farmers buying back the federal land, which was a fine idea with him. The land ran about fifteen miles and then joined a larger part that belonged to the feds. The government should just give the fifteen miles back to the state or local landowners.

But there had been rumors of gunshots in the federal territory and other vague rumors of criminal activities. Matthews doubted it. If there had been a gun shot or shouts from liquored up folks, the disturbances were probably located elsewhere. There was nothing to do on the federal land except maybe hide some loot from a stage or bank holdup. In that case, he preferred looking for the loot instead of the criminals. Being a federal marshal didn’t pay much.

The wind howled as it whipped around the trail and trees. It was a lonely, anguished sound as if the very ground was moaning. Matthews frowned. The ground shouldn’t be complaining. It didn’t feel cold or heat. It was only humans who suffered from the vagaries of weather.

He twisted the reins and turned his horse left. He had been told to scout out the area for any trouble, but he hadn’t seen any trouble. For that matter, he hadn’t seen anything. He was the only rider for miles. He stopped and looked around and saw just what he had already seen. Nothing. There were no riders, no tracks, no horses. Just jackrabbits, squirrels and the tracks of a mountain cougar. The only sound was the songs of squirrels who had serenaded him for about a mile. but the furry critters sang off-key. As the path intersected with another one, Matthews did spot fresh tracks. He paused and stared at them. They were fresh. He guessed the horse had passed earlier that morning. That was strange. No one was supposed to be on federal land. He wasn’t alarmed. It was probably just a random cowpoke taking a short cut. He followed the trail as the squirrels stopped their singing and turned to other things.

He spurred his horse as he followed the trial. For a minute he thought he was wasting his time, but then he saw the two spots of blood in the dirt. He stopped his horse and started at the spots. It was blood, no doubt of it. He kicked his horse into a trot. A quarter of a mile later more blood had splattered on the trail. Matthews moved his coat away from his holster. He put his hand on his gun then saw the horse and the fallen rider.

He galloped to the man, who was lying face down next to the path. He walked over and turned him over. Three bullets had been shot into the man’s chest. The fourth shot must have been fired after the man was already dead. The killer would have walked up to the body, placed the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes, and casually fired.

Matthews was shocked because he recognized the dead man. He had been a federal marshal in this region of Colorado for six years.

This crime would be a shock to the community.

The dead man on the path was Deke Hodgers.

He bent down to take a long second look at Hodgers. But a second look didn’t tell him anymore than the first look had told him. An assailant had pumped three bullets into the man. Any one of them, he guessed, would have killed the older man. The bullets almost made an even line across his chest. The last one either hit Hodgers’ heart or came mighty close to it. Matthews had seen no sign of a struggle along the trail. The shooter must have just ridden up to Hodgers, pulled his pistol and fired. The question was, why was Hodgers up here on federal ground? Was he meeting someone? If not, why wander around on property that wasn’t his? The marshal walked around the body, searching the ground. Sunlight reflected from what looked like a piece of metal on the ground. Matthews bent down and picked it up.

It was a small insignia with the words “Silver Lakes.” Matthews recognized it. “Silver Lakes” was the name of Jerico Larkin’s larch ranch. Matthews thought it was an odd name because, although Larkin had lakes on his property, there was no silver. But the rancher had made dozens of such items and given them out on the 30^th anniversary of the day he had bought the ranch. He surveyed the land again but there were no other hoof prints and no other evidence.

Matthews groaned when he realized he would have work to do. If Hodgers was murdered on federal land, it was a federal case. Of course sheriffs and marshals didn’t usually quarrel about jurisdiction. Hodgers was a prominent man in Durango Hills. The sheriff there would no doubt run his own investigation. They would probably agree to work together. He knew Sheriff Sam Lane, but not well. However, Lane had an outstanding reputation.

Hodgers’ horse stood about twenty feet from the body, munching some grass. Matthews walked over and grabbed the reins. He led the horse back to the body. With a sigh, he lifted the body over the saddle.

“Not a dignified way to head back to town, Mr. Hodgers, but it’s the best I can do,” he said. He frowned. “But what were you doing out here, Mr. Hodgers? Maybe when I know I’ll have the answer to who killed you.”

He climbed on his horse. “Let’s go, Blackie. We’ve got some bad news for the people of Durango Hills.” Then he smirked. “Considering the reputation of Mr. Hodges here, maybe it won’t be bad news for some.”

As he turned around and headed back toward town, he wondered if he should keep the “Silver Hills” item to himself. It wasn’t clear evidence of a crime – Larkin had handed out any number of them – but the rich rancher might like the item to disappear. He would probably pay to have it disappear. And pay well. And federal marshals, Matthews knew, didn’t make a whole lot of money. He thought about the idea as he rode but shook his head. The late Mr. Hodgers had a reputation and Jerico Larkin had a reputation, but the two reputations were as different as night and day. Larkin’s reputation was of an honest man, a church-going man, and, to the best of his knowledge, Matthews thought the reputation was true. Larkin wouldn’t be a blackmailer. He sighed.

“A pity Mr. Larkin hadn’t been killed instead. It there was something linking Hodgers to the crime, he would have paid well to keep it hidden. Just my bad luck, Blackie. Could have been a rich man. Oh well. Have to find another way to make this pay off.”

The Aspen trees lined the path for several miles with yellow leaves. It looked like he was flanked by yellow and brown bodyguards. Farther back from the path were the Evergreens. Those were the trees that didn’t lose their leaves, during even the harshest winter. When the other trees in the forest offered their bare limbs to the sky, as if in surrender to the elements, the Evergreens retained their dark green color.

Matthews jerked and halted his horse. He was so shocked by Hodgers’ death that he had forgotten something. He climbed down and walked back to the body. He stuck his hand in the dead man’s back pocket, looking for a wallet. When he found it, he yanked it out of the pants. He opened it and smiled. Whoever killed the rancher wasn’t looking for money. He took out the bills and counted them. Hodgers carried a hundred and ten dollars in his wallet. That was a nice payday, Matthews thought, as he stuck the wallet back into the dead man’s pocket. Of course, having money in the wallet was a clue, but Matthews though he’d simply tell Sheriff Lane he’d found the wallet on the ground, away from the body. Lane might be suspicious but what could he do? Hodgers was definitely not killed for money.

He wondered about the heirs of Mr. Hodgers. He thought the man’s wife had died a few years previously but he thought he had heard about a son. A son might want revenge on his father’s killer. A rich son might put a huge bounty on the killer. A thousand dollars? Maybe even more. Five thousand? The son of Deke Hodgers could afford that and a whole lot more. He would have to check on that. He was a federal marshal but due to the peculiarities of the office, if he brought in a man with a bounty on his head, he collected the bounty. He liked the system.

But why was Hodgers killed? Revenge? There were some dark rumors about the man. Mostly they came from his younger days. Matthews couldn’t recall anything specific but the rumors had always swirled around about Hodgers. And if you had ever met the man, you’d agree with the rumors.

“It was a profitable day, after all,” he said as he climbed back on his horse. The ride back to Durango Hills would be much better now. He’d thought the hundred and twenty dollars had made his day. But it might be possible to make ten times more than that. Hodgers’ death was a huge opportunity.

As Matthews spurred his horse, he hummed a tune.

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“The Sheriff’s Final Gunfight” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Sam Lane has been the sheriff of Durango Hills for 32 years. With just a month left before retirement, he hopes that his last days of tenure will be quiet and peaceful. But his plan goes awry when one of the most powerful ranchers in the area, Deke is murdered, and all evidence points to his hated rival, Jerico. When Sam realizes that there’s more to the story, will he step up his game and get to the bottom of the murder, defying all odds?

While investigating Deke’s murder, more trouble comes Sam’s way. Two gunmen are passing through town and they do not plan on leaving before taking down the sheriff due to past grievances. Sam will be called to outwit and outgun them, while at the same time he needs to find another killer on the loose. Does the old Sheriff have it in him to solve the most demanding case of his life?

Gunfights and cat and mouse games create a thrilling tale full of twists and turns that will keep the reader flying from page to page. An action-packed story of rivalry and secret pasts, featuring complex characters and important pieces to the greatest puzzle of a sheriff’s life.

“The Sheriff’s Final Gunfight” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!