Raiders of Rifle Rock by Lee E. Wells

Book Details

Below the Pecos Ridge, a Fair Valley Becomes a Shambles When Two Outfits Wage a Desperate Feud—Until Wayne Morgan, the Masked Rider, Rides into Action to Make Peace with Grim Gun Logic!

Chapter I – War at Rifle Rock
Chapter II – Hangnoose Party
Chapter III – Trouble Trail
Chapter IV – Gun Trap
Chapter V – Colt Conference
Chapter VI – Gunhand
Chapter VII – Spy!
Chapter VIII – Jail Break
Chapter IX – Diamond H
Chapter X – Open Warfare
Chapter XI – Gunsmoke
Chapter XII – The Man With a Scar
Chapter XIII – Roundup In Rifle Rock

Born in Indianapolis, Indiana, Lee E. Wells (1907-1982) was a licensed public accountant in California before he turned to writing pulp Westerns in 1939. Raiders of Rifle Rock was published in the Winter, 1945 issue of Masked Rider Western.

Raiders of Rifle Rock has 22 illustrations.

Files:

1. Wells-RaidersOfRifleRock.epub

Excerpt: Raiders of Rifle Rock

Chapter I

War at Rifle Rock

JUST outside of town, two riders pulled up. After a brief consultation, one of them, an Indian, nodded and rode off, headed for the distant peaks, leading the extra horses. The other, a cowboy, waited a few moments, then urged his roan forward with a soft, drawled word. He rode easily, supple swaying to the movement of the horse, blue eyes looking ahead to the town.

Apparently there was only a single street, with a few houses straggling out to either side. The street was dusty and rutted and strangely empty. The cowboy saw two groups of horses hitched before two saloons which were far apart. A single buckboard waited in front of the general store. He saw no other signs of life.

His mild eyes narrowed a trifle, and a steely glint came into them. Something was about to explode in Rifle Rock, that was sure.

He passed the little white church, his swift glance missing nothing. There he had a glimpse of a tall young cowboy talking to a girl. She was beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed. The two stood so that they could not be seen from the street. The stranger’s wide, generous lips held the shadow of a smile, but that disappeared as he once more felt the tension in the town.

He ambled on up the street, passed the first saloon and pulled in to the rack of the second. He swung out of saddle and his eyes swept over the brands on the horses tethered nearby.

Most of them wore an M Bar C, but there was a smattering of other brands, some of them vented.

The cowboy took the hat from his thick, black, slightly curly hair, and beat the dust from his levis with the hat. He shifted his crossed gun-belts from which depended twin sixes, then turned and walked up the steps and on to the porch of the Winchester saloon.

Pushing through the batwings he stood just inside, blinking, a little blinded by the sudden transition from bright sunshine to cool shadows. Gradually the room came into focus.

There was a long bar, lined by men who had turned and faced him. At the near end a tall, gaunt man with gray hair stood with a shot glass in his hands. Next to him was a smaller, young man, with a dark scowl on his pinched face.

MOST of the rest of the saloon’s customers seemed to be cowboys in from the range though the new arrival instantly recognized the breed of others who sat at the tables across the room. The mark showed in their gaunted, wolfish faces, the thin lips and hard, narrowed eyes. He did not have to see the low-tied holsters to recognize those men as gun-slammers.

“Howdy, pilgrim,” the man behind the bar said to him jovially. “I reckon yuh want somethin’ to cut the dust, huh?”

“That’s right.”

The stranger walked to the bar, spurs jingling. Two men made way for him and the bartender swiftly filled a shot glass and sat it before him.

“Ride far?” the barkeep asked.

“Some,” the strange cowboy admitted.

A glance at the bar mirror showed that the gunhawks at the table were watching him narrowly. Then he saw the old man at the end of the bar push his glass away and pull his hat lower over his wrinkled, tanned face.

Better be a-ridin’, Limp,” the old fellow suggested to his companion. “I’ll find Rita and we’ll slope for home.”

The younger man nodded and dropped some silver dollars on the counter. The cowboys at the bar hastily downed their drinks and pushed through the batwings after the old man. The gunhawks, the barkeep and the newly arrived rider remained quiet and unmoving.

“Few strangers come to Rifle Rock, amigo,” the barkeep remarked in a friendly tone. “Ain’t nothin’ much to call ’em here.”

“Well, me,” this stranger remarked lightly, “I’m just a wandering waddy. Stopped by because I reckoned there might be a job down this way. The handle’s Wayne Morgan.”

“Glad to know yuh, Morgan. I’m King Gardner. Own the saloon here.” The bartender-owner frowned and rubbed his finger-tips along the black line of mustache above his thin, bloodless upper lip. “Reckon yuh come to a mighty poor place for a job, cowboy.”

“Ain’t there no spreads hereabouts?” Morgan asked, surprised.

“Just two,” Gardner answered.

He was a short, thin man, but Morgan had noticed the pantherlike movements that spoke of flowing muscles beneath the white shirt and flowered vest. Gardner had green eyes, flecked strangely with brown. His face was long and oval, almost pale from lack of sun.

His smile was wide and flashing, but Morgan had noticed the shadow of cruelty that lurked in the corner of the lips.

“Snake,” Gardner called across to one of the tables, “yuh know of any job in these parts?”

A red-heated giant with broad shoulders lumbered to his feet. He came to the bar, his narrowed gray eyes weighing Morgan, dropping briefly to the twin sixes at the cowboy’s slender hips. His eyes traveled upward along the lean, muscled body, the gray shirt, the tanned face.

Morgan might have been called handsome. His jaw was lean and long and hard. His full lips seemed on the verge of smiling but there was also the suggestion that they could set in grim, hard lines. His eyes, so mild and blue, were spaced well apart.

“There’s gunhands to be hired and I reckon that’s all,” Snake finally answered, and spat into the sawdust. He shifted his gun-belt.

“Sounds like a trouble range.” Morgan frowned slightly.

“The gent that just left here,” Gordon sighed, “is Zack McCloud owner of the M Bar C. The other spread is the Diamond H, run by Buck Henry and his son. Them two spreads is right on the edge of smokin’ one another.”

“Why?” Morgan demanded.

“Rustlin’s. Both blames the other. Morgan, yuh’d best ride out of Rifle Valley and forget a job around here.”

Excerpt From: Lee E. Wells. “Raiders of Rifle Rock.”