Men of Vengeance by William A. Todd

Book Details

Men of Vengeance – Two short novels about men who had been used and taken advantage of, and how they had overcome.

Five Men Of Vengeance (1939)
A snaky ace of spades was digging Jingle Thatcher’s grave the hard way—while four human lobos snarled for his death!

Chapter I. – Ace Of Spades.
Chapter II. – Ordeal By Gunfire.
Chapter III. – Mavericks All.
Chapter IV. – Wolf Brand.
Chapter V. – An Order For A Corpse.
Chapter VI. – Gun Challenge.
Chapter VII. – Showdown.
Chapter VIII. – Bullet Hole.

Branded for Boothill (1940)
What evil curse lay in the clay of that rusty can—what weird power made Rainy Dey the unluckiest and most hounded puncher on that whole greed-maddened range?

Chapter II. – Outlawed.
Chapter III. – The Violet Glass Vial.
Chapter IV. – Broken Jinx.
Chapter V. – Murder For Profit.
Chapter VI. – Queer Brand Of Troubadour.
Chapter VII. – Death Watch.
Chapter VIII. – Bushwhacker Bait.
Chapter IX. – Double Double-Crossers.

Norman William Hay (1902-1988) was a journalist and prolific author of Western stories. He used several different pseudonyms including William A. Todd. He was most active during the 1930s and 1940s.

Men of Vengeance has 16 illustrations.

Files:

1. Todd-MenOfVengeance.epub

Excerpt: Five Men of Vengeance

Chapter I.

Ace Of Spades.

THE SLEET-EDGED storm was beating itself out against the cliffs of the Continental Divide. Dawn’s cold, ghostly fingers gripped the black eastern horizon.

It was an hour that spelled doom for one of four men who squatted in a shallow cave before the pale light of a guttering candle. They were fugitives from the Buffalo Basin range feud, and a lynching posse was hard on their trail.

The leader of the quartet, Jim Skelton, was dealing cards from a greasy deck. A broad-chested man with a hard, chiseled face, dressed in black flannel shirt and denims tucked into cow boots.

“The ten of hearts to Sleepy,” he said in a monotone. “The club king to Thatcher. The deuce of spades” —he paused— “to old Starvation. I take the diamond queen.”

The man who caught the ace of spades was fated to remain behind and hold off the man hunters with rifle fire. One of the four ponies standing with drooping heads in the rear of the cave, had pulled a tendon. The other animals were too exhausted to carry double. There was no other solution but to sacrifice one of the band, while the remaining three fled on down the ice-coated slants of the farther side of the divide.

“Once more around,” Jim Skelton muttered. “It ought to fall this time. Anybody want to back out?” There was a tightening of lips all around. They were a desperate lot, unshaven, caked with mud, red eyed. Just they four were the survivors of the Spade outfit, owned by an Eastern cattle company, and rodded by Jim Skelton. For the past year he had been fighting small-fry grangers in Buffalo Basin for waterholes and meadow grass. He had picked his hands carefully for the scrap, paying a bonus for gun work.

“Sleepy takes the eight of clubs.” Skelton dealt with a quick twist of the wrist that bespoke long experience at gaming tables. “Young Thatcher gets the—”

The group tensed, then relaxed, all except the cowboy who was nicknamed Jingle because of the size of his spurs.

Jingle Thatcher let the fateful ace of spades lie on the floor of the cave for a long moment. His heart picked up stride, galloping wildly. Steeling his nerves, he forced a crooked grin. He was scared. He had been scared ever since the shooting started in earnest a month ago in Buffalo Basin. Now it was up to him to prove whether he was a raw greenhorn or the tough two-fisted rider that he had tried to pretend.

“Just my luck,” he finally breathed, picking up the pasteboard with stiff fingers. “Reckon I’ll tuck that card in here. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”

He shoved the greasy pasteboard into the left breast pocket of his red silk shirt. It was a nonchalant gesture. There was no telling if it fooled Jim Skelton, Sleepy, and Starvation. They eyed the young hand suspiciously. He was not as old as he told them when hiring on the Spade outfit several months before. His beard hadn’t sprouted any too thickly on this last trail. Clear blue eyes, a short, turned-up nose, a blunt chin, he looked pretty young for the task ahead of him.

Jim Skelton allowed a cold smile, then erased it.

“Good idea to protect the heart,” the Spade foreman said. “Now here’s the way to handle the job. We’ll get a good head start before the posse turns up. Wait for ’em to start climbing the shale in the open. Pick ’em off one by one, the fellers in the back first, so they can’t run. Save the leaders to the last. You might rope one of the stray hosses when it’s over. Meet us in Fort Alliance across the Utah line. You could even make it on foot in a week.”

“Sure,” Jingle Thatcher said. “All I need is plenty of ammunition.”

The man called Starvation scowled. He was a lean, cadaverous specter, stoop-shouldered, with hollow gray eyes.

“If they wound you, kid,” Starvation advised, “I don’t think they’ll hang you. Ten years in prison would be the most that the courts would hand out. A jury would think of your age. Those ranchers blame everything on the Eastern cattle company.”

Sleepy was biting his lips, eyes shut tight, as if forcing thought. A pudgy figure of a man, he belied his name. He was as strong as a bear and twice as active.

“Ten years in the pen,” Sleepy growled. “We’ll spring you inside a month.”

“Them rubes won’t take me,” Jingle promised savagely. But doubt was already eating into his mind. “The storm is over,” he added. “Better get going.”

“Jim Skelton got up, buckled tight the two cartridge belts about his waist. He made a grotesque shadow on the wall as he turned to saddle his roan gelding. Back in Buffalo Basin it was whispered that Jim Skelton had been an outlaw before the cattle company hired him. He had ruled the Spade outfit with a hand of iron, and his war against the weaker ranchers had been ruthless.

Jingle Thatcher couldn’t help but think now of the hatred those small-fry grangers held for every Spade rider. He watched Skelton, Starvation, and Sleepy cinch down their hulls, remembering how the small-fry ranchmen had gone so far as to ask the government for aid. A court order gave them the rights to the waterholes. But Jim Skelton laughed at it. The Spade gunmen gave the grangers bullets instead of water when they showed up. But Skelton had misjudged the small fry. They formed a vigilante band, raided the Spade headquarters by surprise, and almost wiped out Skelton’s crew. They were still pursuing Skelton, Sleepy, Starvation, and Jingle Thatcher.

“All right, kid,” Jim Skelton said, leading his roan to the door of the cave. “Better come out with us. I’ll show you where the best hunting lies.”

Starvation offered a bony hand. “Good luck,” he muttered in a strange voice. “If you want, I’ll stick with you at the beginning.”

“Nothing doing!” Jingle snapped.

Sleepy offered his fist. “Might not be such a good idea to kill anybody in that posse,” he said seriously. “You got a clean slate with the law so far. Keep it. Just scare them riders. They won’t be so anxious to climb the divide with lead whistling close to their ears.”

“I know what to do,” Jingle replied tartly, blowing out the candle.

“Come on,” Jim Skelton ordered.

At the door of the cave, cold gray dawn met the fugitives. The wind had died to a swift flurry now and then. Flakes of snow fell intermittently. The slide rock was slippery from frozen sleet, so that the climb to the ridge top threatened disaster for another horse.

Skelton led, picking the trail carefully, sure that his roan did not slip. The clouds had lifted, but a low shroud would drift down and around them. Blinded, Skelton waited until the mist cleared, then went on.

The crest of the ridge was flat. It commanded a two-mile range down shale to the timber line. Crags, boulders, and pockets offered some protection to an attacking party on foot. But they’d never ride up fast. And if they tried to circle around, cross the ridge to the north or south, they would have a hard time even then to rout the man who held them back.

Jim Skelton looked the ground over. “Build yourself a low wall of heavy rock,” he advised the condemned puncher. “Keep your head down at all times. Don’t shoot too much. Let ’em think we’re all up here waiting until they get close.”

Jingle tried to chuckle. “Be seeing you all in Fort Alliance. Watch out for a good green fast bronc for me. I reckon this will put me in the same wagon with you fellows for all time. We’ll need to travel fast.”

Jim Skelton moved away without shaking hands. Sleepy scowled and followed him. Starvation held back.

“Listen, kid,” the tall thin man said. “I ain’t got long to live. My lungs ain’t so good. I’d just as soon take your place. It won’t be easy.”

“Think I’m yellow?” Jingle demanded angrily. “I hired with this outfit for gun pay. I’ll earn it.”

Excerpt From: William A. Todd. “Five Men of Vengeance.”