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Renegade Payoff and Other Stories by Ed Earl Repp

Four Western tales by Ed Earl Repp.

Book Details

Book Details

Renegade Payoff and Other Stories – Four Western tales by Ed Earl Repp.

Stockade of the Last Hope (1939) – Treacherous whites and lynx-footed redskins raised the bloody flag of lawlessness. Traders died under flaming stockades. Trappers lost their scalps. Throughout the lonely Yellowstones terror reigned. How could a wild forest-girl stem the march of Marquette’s brute legions?
A four chapter novelette.

Renegade Payoff (1939) – Gunsmoke Enmity Stalks the Owlhoot Until the Din of a Stampede Awakens Men to a Realization of a Duty Beyond Battle!
Chapter I – Barroom Battle
Chapter II – Renegades Not Wanted
Chapter III – Longrider Guns
Chapter IV – Powdersmoke Rescue
Chapter V – Renegade Payoff

Gun Orphan of the Owlhoot (1939) – She was the girl he had dreamed about during all those bitter owlhoot years. . . . yet a soul-crushing secret made Danny Moore buckle on vengeance-starved sixes—to blast her into a living man-made hell!
Chapter I
Chapter II – Spawn Of Vengeance
Chapter III – Release From Hate
Chapter IV – The Long Trail Beckons
Chapter V – The Kid Rides Again

Gun Wolves of Thunder Mesa (1945) – Cattle ran wild in those tangled bottoms, and men bought onto Rio range behind flaming six-guns, and if old Smokey Harper and Johnny Grimm chose to take a herd up the trail someday, they’d pay for each longhorn with hot lead, and see Satan deliver their drive at Dodge!
Chapter I – Mystery Killing
Chapter II – Message for a Dead Man
Chapter III – Doc Fanner—Itinerant Vet
Chapter IV – Gun-Guest On Rancho Adios
Chapter V – Sixgun Adios

Edward Earl Repp (1901–1979) was an advertising man and newspaper reporter who wrote a great many pulp magazine adventures between 1929 and World War II. He also used the pseudonyms Bradnor Buckner, John Cody and Peyer Field. His stories appeared in various early pulp magazines including Air Wonder Stories, Science Wonder Stories and Amazing Stories as well as a number of Western fiction magazines.

After World War II, Repp began working as a screenwriter. He is credited with writing and/or screenwriting 49 western movies including Saddles and Sagebrush (1943), Terror Trail (1946), and Guns of Hate (1948).

Renegade Payoff and Other Stories has 18 illustrations.

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  1. RenegadePayoff.epub
Read Excerpt

Excerpt: Renegade Payoff

Chapter I

Barroom Battle

THE lanky A Dot puncher lounging on the bench in front of the Bottoms Up Bar nudged his partner sharply in the ribs.

“Look what the wind’s blowed into Lodge Pole!” he murmured, and he jerked his head toward the lone rider loping steadily down the street. “The tides of hell are gonna rise, pronto!”

“Damned if they ain’t!” echoed the other tersely, hoisting his slatlike frame erect. “First time I’ve seen Jess Randle packin’ twin cutters since he hit Big Timber Valley. Looks like that nester man’s got his hackles up and Shang Ringo’s drawed his lighten’ at last!”

“Shang’ll fry him in his own grease!” chuckled the lanky puncher. “Come on! Let’s tell him what’s comin’!”

They batted eagerly through the batwing doors to seek out their burly ramrod who was somewhere in the smoke-choked, clamorous saloon. It was filled with A Dot men slaking roundup dust from their parched throats. Elbowing through the noisy crowd, the two punchers shoved up to Shang Ringo lazing indolently against the bar, a glass of red-eye poised in his malletlike fist.

“Jess Randle’s ridin’ this way, boss, all spread out to six-gun lengths across the britches an’ lookin’ for trouble!” the lanky puncher grinned.

“Yeah,” added the other, “he’s freighted down to the hocks for a gunsmoke frolic and sittin’ tight in his kak. The look that nester shucked at us’d peel the hide offen an alligator!”

“Shang” Ringo, mountainous A Dot range boss, stiffened. His beady eyes danced with battle lights. He tossed down his drink and a surly grin split his thick lips as he straightened his hulking body to full height. His big fists began clenching and unclenching, as he turned to the barkeep.

“Gimme my guns, Corkscrew!” he commanded gruffly.

The twisted old bronc snapper who now dispensed liquor because an outlaw hammerhead had tramped his spine, shook his head.

“Not unless yuh go outside, Shang. The floors of the Bottoms Up ain’t ever been stained by nothin’ but knuckle blood. And they ain’t gonna be long as ‘m roddin’ it. Step out on the walk an’ I’ll hand yuh back yore cutters.”

Before Ringo could give voice to the curse choking him, the swing doors batted open. Eyes in the room focused on the young nester framed there belligerently.

Jess Randle had to stoop slightly to keep his cone-peaked JB hat from brushing the top jamb of the door. He was lean and willowy, with the angular frame of a man born in the saddle. Hard work and harder riding gave him the temper of steel. A lonely existence on his little Rocking R spread had stamped his ruggedly handsome face with an impassiveness that was unreadable. His amber-flecked gray eyes were like mirrors that reflected the bitter turmoil of his soul. The toil of a nester fighting a lone fight in an antagonistic country had made him look more mature than he really was. His fine lips were creased into thin lines now, white about the corners.

Before he could step into the barroom, “Corkscrew” was relieving him of his guns with one swift jerk. But when Randle’s eyes lit on Shang’s gunless thighs, he made no protest. Slowly he stepped toward the A Dot ramrod.

INDOLENTLY, Shang faced him, his elbows akimbo. His lips formed a cast-iron grin and deep scorn puckered his eyelids.

“I’m short ten head, Ringo,” the young nester said resonantly, “Through my ‘scope I saw ’em bein’ hazed into yore shippin’ cars from Bald Knob less’n an hour ago. That’s ten yuh owe me—or a hundred apiece for prime beef!”

A guffaw swelled from Ringo’s throat.

“That’s rich!” he roared. “Owin’ a damn nester ten head o’ cattle because a few scurvied culls that strayed got caught in our roundup. Where was yore rep, nester? Every other spread in the Big Timber sent a man but yore Rockin’ R.”

A rush of blood to his temples made Jess Randle’s hair tingle at the roots. Ringo’s arrogance galled him. It had been a bold, deliberate steal, and he knew it. Hot resentment simmered within him.

“If I’d had a rep at yore chuck wagon,” he gritted, “he wouldn’t have seen them ten head. Yuh think yuh’re big enough in this valley to call it a mistake, Ringo. But I call it plain, ordinary rustlin’!”

ALL color fled from Ringo’s swart face.

“Why, yuh sin-pimpled son—” he swore luridly. “If a feller rustled everything you owned, he wouldn’t tally enough to buy his way into the pore house! As for rustlin'” —his voice dropped wickedly— “that’s somethin’ you should know plenty about, Randle! I’ve checked up on yuh— down Wyomin’ way. Before yuh squatted on A Dot grazin’ land, yore name wasn’t Randle a-tall. It was—”

“Easy, Ringo!” Randle cut in softly. “Don’t make me kill yuh for blattin’ off yore mouth promiscuous!”

Ringo’s barrel chest swelled. “Kill me?” he snarled. “You ain’t got the Red McVey bunch at yore back now. You was one of ’em, Randle! Yuh’re Jess McVey, brother o’ that no good renegade, Red McVey!”

“Yuh’re a liar, Ringo!” Randle snapped hotly. “I never rode with Red McVey in my life. Sweet cover-up yuh’re tryin’, so’s yuh can get my land and water the A Dot needs!”

“Yuh’re Jess McVey, or I’m a Chinese cook,” sneered Ringo. “Since Virge Addison got interested in you and yore doin’s, old Kim had me smell yuh down. He gave me my orders. I’m relayin’ ’em to you. Renegade—get goin’ an’ don’t come back!”

Jess Randle could sense the tightening of the circle of A Dot punchers about him. This was showdown! One against the most powerful outfit in Big Timber Valley. If he allowed this accusation to whip him, he would have to ride on. And wherever he went it would be the same. The name of his notorious, gunslick brother would catch up with him. “Renegade — get going!” Those three words would devil him to the grave.

Six months of hard labor, all his money and a certain degree of forgetfulness were in that little spread hunkering on the toes of Smoky Buttes. Three years and six months yet to go before the government would give him clear title to the land. A lifetime to go facing down the stigma “Red” McVey had attached to him. The reputation of his owlhoot brother haunted him.

Until now, he had succeeded in burying his identity in the Big Timber. And he had come to love his place, the country—and one of its people. There was a lift to its glorious dawns when the sun painted the Sheep Blue Mountains with pastel shades. Easy comfort to the velvety nights when he could sit on his small corral fence, smoke and commune with the glittering stars; listen to the low murmur of Big Dry Creek as it cut lazy scallops through his land.

And Virge Addison, supple, capable, lovely daughter of the A Dot owner. Her powerful parents had spoiled her a bit, yet she was the true princess of a cattle king. Beneath her proud, haughty exterior beat a heart of gold that needed the touch of tragedy to give her a better understanding of life in the raw. All men knelt to her beauty. All but Jess Randle, the nester of Smoky Buttes. Perhaps that was why she was so interested—and sometimes came to see him, against her father’s wishes. But he loved her. His indifference was only a mask to cover his shyness.

Now the skeleton in his closet rattled again. The curse had caught up with him once more. Struggling valiantly as he was, he needed the good wishes of the country instead of its distrust and enmity.

Excerpt From: Ed Earl Repp. “Renegade Payoff and Other Stories.”

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