Vaquero Guns by Jackson Cole

Book Details

Vaquero Guns by Tom Curry writing as Jackson Cole – Jim Hatfield of the Rangers Fights a Sidewinder Who Plans to Ruin a Vast Empire of the Old Southwest

A killer escapes justice and tries to take over a cattle empire by using an army of outlaws to intimidate the surrounding towns and steal an election.

Vaquero Guns (1939) – Jim Hatfield of the Rangers Fights a Sidewinder Who Plans to Ruin a Vast Empire of the Old Southwest
Chapter I – Range of Death
Chapter II – Man of the Hour
Chapter III – Deputy Shad
Chapter IV – Killers Meet
Chapter V – Rurale Blood
Chapter VI – The Vaqueros of Doom
Chapter VII – Outlaw Empire
Chapter VIII – At the Square A
Chapter IX – The Fight at the Court
Chapter X – Massacred
Chapter XI – Mysterious Message
Chapter XII – A Man Turns the Tide
Chapter XIII – Election Day
Chapter XIV – Belfort
Chapter XV – Death Duel

Thomas Albert Curry (1900-1976) regularly wrote between 500,000 and 600,000 words per year. His stories appeared in over 400 pulp magazines including Argosy, Black Mask, The Blue Book Magazine, Short Stories and several Thrilling Publications including Texas Rangers, Thrilling Adventures, Thrilling Ranch Stories and Thrilling Western.

In 1939, Curry created his most well known character, The Rio Kid, bringing an element of historical fiction to the genre with his lead character interacting with actual historical events and people. The Rio Kid Western magazine ran from 1939 through 1953.

Vaquero Guns contains 11 illustrations.

Files:

1. VaqueroGuns.epub

Excerpt: Vaquero Guns

Chapter I

Range of Death

THE east-bound express, a gigantic serpent in the rain-swept night, puffed heavily up the long grade. Black smoke billowed from the chunky engine stack, reddened by glowing cinders, the wheels shrieking on the steel rails; the searchlight’s overpowering eye pierced the mists.

Lightning intermittently flashed, the thunderous peals echoing through the mountains; the stunning white flares exposed a raw, unheaved land, spiny cactus growths in alkaline, rocky soil.

Shouts in a car of the train were drowned in the confusion of majestic sound. A dark figure leaped from a door, hit the graded cinders along the track, rolled over and over down a bank, bringing up against a heap of stones.

Another showed in the yellow rectangle of the train door, a gun blazed, a tiny crackle against Nature’s might.

Then the train had passed and the man who had jumped from it got up, hurried from the right-of-way, through the dark, rainy night. As he ran, a metallic clinking came from steel cuffs dangling at his wrist; he stumbled, caught himself, pushed on. Looking back, he saw the train had halted up the mountain and was disgorging pursuers.

“Damn them!” he raved.

He sensed movement nearby; again the lightning crashed and about him wet bodies of big steers huddled in the hollow, from the storm. A few yards off a cowboy, wrapped in glistening poncho, sat his saddle, chin on breast, faithful to his charge.

Like a stalking panther the killer flitted from rock to rock. Soon he was upon the waddy, with a feline spring he was up behind his prey, slashing at his face with the heavy handcuff.

“Hey, what—” shrieked the astounded puncher, but a forearm that was a steel band cut off his breath.

A hand drove to the .45 Colt strapped at the waddy’s waist. Flickers of light, bobbing toward the spot, warned the fugitive they were on his trail, searching with lanterns. The mustang bucked in alarm; there was a half-muffled explosion and the gun rammed against the cowboy’s ribs, blew out his life.

Blood spread over horse and saddle, on the murderer, who threw the corpse off. A heavy fist lined the mustang into running position. Again lightning flashed on the horrible scene. The twisted, ferocious face of the killer showed as he looked back, gritted teeth gleaming, his eyes fiery as a beast’s.

He rode till dawn streaked the sky, driving the horse relentlessly. Then pausing, he hid in the bush, having shaken off the pursuit.

Three days later, unrecognizable from dirt and beard growth, the killer mounted the weary mustang, goaded near to death. Viciously he kicked the broken horse through a winding trail in the chaparral, but the animal was through and finally sank under him.

He cursed with fury; then, down a slope, through a leafy vista, saw a rider swiftly loping west, eyes on the trail. The awful eyes of the killer glowed red; he left the wind-broken mustang and hurried down to the trail crossing. Stolen gun in hand he lurked, and as the rider came up he leaped out, grasped the reins, fired pointblank into the horseman’s heart.

It was but the work of a few moments to pull the dead man from the saddle. The piebald mustang was strong and he needed a good horse to make Old Mexico and complete his escape from justice. The piebald stood quietly enough while he held the reins; he took a loop around a mesquite limb to make sure of his mount. Then he dragged the dead man well back into the bushes.

An hour later, having eaten some of the food found in the saddle-bags, he returned to the trail, only to find that the piebald mustang had broken the leather straps and run away, leaving him again afoot.

Desperate, he retreated back to a high point, to watch the road, and soon he saw from his perch two riders approaching from east. He hid himself along the trail and when they were abreast, he jumped out to face them, gun ready.

“Fred!” the killer growled.

For an instant the leading horseman stared; then his jaw dropped, he shook as with palsy.

“Dowd— Russ Dowd!”

Suddenly the third man whirled his horse, to ride back around the turn and get away, but Russ Dowd fired, the slug rapping sharply between the man’s shoulder blades. The fleeing victim flexed back, dying in the saddle.

“You — shouldn’t ‘ve done that, Russ,” gasped Fred.

“I can’t take chances,” the icy killer snarled. “Got to escape and you’re goin’ to help me!”

Excerpt From: Jackson Cole. “Vaquero Guns”