The Sheriff of River Bend

S. Dickson Gordon

Description

Jim Connor was born James Atlantic O'Connor: an average height, lean but muscular man of thirty-five years of age. He spent some years roaming the country working at ranches and living by his wits. He used poker to finance his own lifestyle before returning to his hometown, River Bend, Wyoming. Circumstances led him to become the sheriff when the incumbent retired and he undertook the task of bringing some lawbreakers to justice.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528968799
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Sheriff of River Bend
Gordon S. Dickson
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
The Sheriff of River Bend About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © 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 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38
About the Author
Gordon S. Dickson was born near Inverness, Scotland, but left there soon after when the family returned to Northern Ireland. He was educated at secondary and grammar schools and scraped through ‘O’ level English, as essay writing was not a strong point.
He was employed for many years in the Civil Service but is now retired and has recently taken up writing novels. The Sheriff of River Bend is his second novel. He enjoys reading, gardening, cinema and going to the gym, occasionally, and of course writing.
His first novel was Verdict Unknown: A Tale of Murder and Revenge .
Dedication
In the memory of Philip Brown, singer, Western fan and a
good friend.
Copyright Information ©
Gordon S. Dickson (2020)
The right of Gordon S. Dickson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528936682 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528968799 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter 1
Zach Frobisher and his best pal, Joe Richards, both aged sixteen, were riding home after selling twenty steers and a few heifers in Cheyenne, the state capital of Wyoming.
They had grown up together on neighbouring ranches, and were like brothers: where Zach went, Joe went. Both had fair, wavy hair, and were tall and lean from ranch-work. Strangers often mistook them for twins, because they were actually cousins: their mothers being sisters. The boys had in fact been born only days apart.
The area they had been riding through all morning, into the afternoon, was flat and pretty featureless for miles. A few stunted bushes struggled in the parched ground, for it had not rained for several weeks.
They had stopped to rest and feed the horses around noon, and had had something to eat. They then diverged from the main road to follow a little-used trail, which was a shortcut. This trail followed the course of the Snake River, crossing and re-crossing the creek. The main road took a longer route avoiding the many river crossings.
As they rode along on almost identical brown horses, with white blazes on their faces and white socks, they chatted about their passions: cattle, music and girls, though not necessarily in that order! Both lads were proficient guitar players, and entertained at many barn dances.
‘My pa is gonna get a Hereford bull brought over from England, to strengthen our herd’s bloodline, once we have the bank loan paid off. That is why he had to sell some of our cattle,’ Zach Frobisher said, taking his hat off and wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Phew, it is hot!’
‘Yeah, it sure is. That would be real good,’ Joe Richards replied. ‘Maybe my father will do the same. I must speak to him about it. Herefords are famous for beef, so it is bound to be worth investing the money. I expect it will be quite expensive though, but with Mr Stewart, in the bank, pressing for our loan repayment too, we just couldn’t afford it right now. I overheard Pa saying so.’
‘Yeah, they are expensive. It may take a while, but I’m sure we will get one someday,’ said Zach.
‘Hey, are you going to the July Fourth hoe-down on Saturday night, over near Canyon City, at the Carter place?’ Zach asked. ‘We could bring our guitars, and kick up a ruckus.’
‘I sure am, yeehaa, as long as Pa doesn’t have me chasing steers all over the valley,’ Joe replied, laughing. ‘We will need to be leaving pretty early to get there at a reasonable time.’
‘You will need a bath, too, cousin, because you stink of cows,’ Zach said, with a laugh.
‘And you don’t?’ laughed Joe.
‘Yeah, I suppose I do.’ He sniffed his shirt. ‘I think you are sweet on little Miss Carter. What’s her name? Daisy May?’ Zach grinned.
‘No, I ain’t, and her name is Susie May,’ Joe replied emphatically, and they both laughed.
Zach then began to sing: ‘Oh, my darlin’, oh, my darlin’, oh, my darlin’ Susie May…’
‘NO! NO! Anything but your terrible singing!’ Joe shouted, and covered his ears. ‘I’ve heard cows sing better. Stick with guitar playing!’
Their light-hearted banter continued as they rode along, which helped them to ignore the heat, as the sun beat down on them.
A few miles further on they were joined by a stranger, who apparently just happened to be going in the same direction.
‘Howdy, boys,’ he greeted them. ‘Mind if I tag along a ways?’
‘Howdy. Yeah sure, mister,’ Zach replied.
‘Howdy,’ Joe said.
‘You been to Cheyenne?’ the man asked.
‘Yeah, we were just down for a few days seeing what life is like in the big city,’ Joe said quickly, before Zach said anything: he did not wish the stranger to know they were carrying money. It might have been better to have banked it in the city , he thought in hindsight.
‘I am Zach Frobisher, and this here is my buddy, Joe Richards. What’s your name, and where do you hail from, mister?’ Zach asked.
‘Mighty pleased to know you boys. Bill… Bill Stanford is my name, originally from down Kansas way, but just travelling about looking for work,’ the stranger replied. ‘I have heard Wyoming is a mighty fine State. Plenty of room for a man to breathe.’
‘Yeah, it sure is. We just joined the Union a few years ago, when we were kids. Ranch work around here is a bit slow at the moment because of the drought,’ said Joe. ‘But maybe my pa could give you a job, of some kind. Won’t pay much, though.’
‘That would be mighty fine, mighty fine, Joe. Oh, hold on, I think my horse has picked up a stone. You lads ride on and I’ll catch you up,’ the man said as he pulled the horse up.
‘Sure,’ Zach said. The two lads rode on, chatting.
The man got off his horse and pretended to look at the horse’s hoof, but when the boys were not looking he slipped his six-gun out of the holster, and fired two shots. Both lads were dead before they hit the ground, shot in the back. Their horses bolted and headed for their respective homes.
The man flicked the used bullet cases from his gun with a thumbnail, and reloaded. Then he checked both lads were dead, remounted his horse, and rode off quickly in the direction he had come.
Chapter 2
Jim Connor, the subject of our story, was born James Atlantic O’Connor; an average height, lean but muscular man of thirty-five years of age, with hard, sinewy muscles gained from years of cattle-driving and ranch work.
Baby James O’Connor was born mid-Atlantic, which occasioned his unusual middle name.
His dark brown hair reached to his collar, and his brown eyes, though kindly, were always alert and watchful. Thick eyebrows and a firm chin gave him a determined, rather than a strikingly handsome, appearance. He was habitually clean-shaven except for sideburns, which came level with his earlobes.
A black Stetson, with a decorative Mexican silver band, was invariably tilted back on his head; and he wore a black shirt, waistcoat, pants and boots; the only colour being a red bandanna around his neck. A black leather gun belt and holster, with an expensive .45 pistol, completed his outfit.
His parents, George and Patricia O’Connor, had emigrated from County Kerry, Ireland, thirty-five years ago. They had been farming a few acres there of rather stony soil, with a few cows. The family had eventually settled in River Bend, Wyoming, in the high plains region, west of the Laramie Mountains, which was very different from the green mountains of Kerry. ‘No more growing rocks…cattle are better,’ his father had said, often.
The town of River Bend, population 972, was two days ride north of Cheyenne, the State capital. It was a collection of buildings, shaping into a town which was growing rapidly: a general store and barber shop, jailhouse, telegraph office, saloon and hotel, a recently opened bank; a small school which doubled as a church on Sundays, and a number of dwellings, and of course a livery stable. The town took its name from a bend, about a mile away, in the Snake River, which meandered through the county.
Jim O’Connor’s parents had perished in an Indian raid when the lad was three, but he was rescued just in time by a cavalry patrol, and had been adopted by a ranching family called Johnston nearby. He had since dropped the O’ from his surname.
The moderately sized O’Connor ranch was bought by a neighbouring rancher, once the Indian threat had been dealt with. The proceeds plus interest went to Connor when he was twenty-one.
When he had reached the age of twenty-one, and inherited a tidy sum, he had left home, and drifted for some years taking temporary jobs ranching and droving, and then used poker as a way to finance his way of life: he had a brain which was adept at solving problems, and numbers came easily to him.
He got a reputation as a gunman, having killed four men in “fair fights”, when they, mistakenly, accused him of cheating at cards. Which is why he was now in the lawman’s office, in h