Watered Guns by Walt Coburn

Book Details

As a boy, Roy Benton watched his father get killed by the Gorman clan. As a man he has to overcome his fears and bring them to justice. The mighty Missouri River is the backdrop for horse thieves, cattle rustlers and a blood feud that has consumed three generations.

Roy Benton had a lot of enemies: the Gormans, who had killed his father; Red McGraw, who had taken his girl; and, the biggest and toughest of all, the sick fear inside him that was born the night he saw his father shot down. Then he met the toughest outlaw in the West and learned that cowardice is not the thing that makes a man run but the thing that makes him stand up and fight.

Part One – Can a coward settle a feud, round up rustled cattle from the Badlands, travel the Outlaw Trail and come out the straight way? It’ll cost Roy Benton a lot to find out.
Chapter I – Killer Iron
Chapter II – Yesterday’s Battle
Chapter III – River Savvy
Chapter IV – Lady Wildcat
Chapter V – Dead Man’s Island

Part Two – Roy Benton’s heritage: to smell the smoke and taste the blood of battle; and at last to put the gun aside.
Chapter VI – Game In The Dark
Chapter VII – Wild Bill’s Whelp
Chapter VIII – Fighting Preacher
Chapter IX – Smoke Fever
Chapter X – Three Brave Men

Walt Coburn (1889–1971) was one of the premier writers of Western pulp fiction. Coburn was born in White Sulphur Springs, Montana Territory before it was admitted as the 41st state of the Union later that year. Watered Guns was published as a two part serial novel in Argosy Weekly in 1940.

Watered Guns contains 4 illustrations.

Files:

1. WateredGuns.epub

Excerpt: Watered Guns

Chapter I

Killer Iron

BIG RED McGRAW had head-roped the unbranded yearling bull and was dragging it toward the branding fire. Big Red was ramrod of the Montana Wolf Creek Pool roundup. Behind him rode Bob Purvis, swinging a lazy loop and ready to pick up the bawling bull’s hind legs and stretch him out for the brander.

Like as not old Bob Purvis wouldn’t miss his throw. In half a minute now the bull would be stretched out and Big Red would call out the name of the brand that he wanted burned on the yearling’s hide.

And right then would be Roy Benton’s last chance to declare himself or quit. And young Roy was scared. So damned scared that he was sick inside and the pit of his stomach was tied in a quivering knot.

Roy Benton was repping for the Hat outfit, and Big Red had him handling the branding irons. There were a dozen irons in the fire. Half circles, a quarter-circle iron, some straight bar irons, a couple of half diamonds, and Roy had shoved a Hat stamp iron into the red coals and it was cherry red now and ready. Ready to burn Tom Baley’s Hat brand on the yearling bull. Providing Roy Benton had the guts to tackle the job. And there were four or five Pool cowpunchers watching him now. They were wondering, making silent bets with themselves, waiting to see what Roy Benton, the Hat rep, was going to do about that yearling bull.

For two weeks now Big Red had been giving Roy Benton the muddy end of the stick. Putting him on day herd. Dropping him off alone on circle after the other riders had been scattered in pairs and leaving the Hat rep riding the long outside circle that would fetch him back to the hold-up grounds an hour or two late and after the round-up crew had nearly finished working the herd. And in other various ways keeping young Roy Benton from representing the Hat iron with any sort of real cowhand efficiency.

Big Red McGraw was tough and he was fast with a gun. He was mean to handle in a rough and tumble fight. And he had an ornery streak that made most men hate him. But Big Red was as good a cowhand and wagon boss as ever ramrodded a big round-up. And the Pool was big and hard to handle.

It was made up of half a dozen small outfits, the biggest of which was the Rafter Cross. Big Red, Bob Purvis and three other cowpunchers in the Pool outfit worked for the Rafter Cross. The brand and the range belonging to the Rafter Cross was owned by the Montana Mining Company at Butte. The Rafter Cross Cattle Company paid top wages, demanded results and big profits, and didn’t give a hoot how Big Red made the outfit pay. They demanded big calf crops and fat beef steers. They claimed twice as much range as they owned and expected Big Red and his tough hands to hold that range.

“One of ourn!” Big Red sang out as grizzled Bob Purvis heeled the yearling bull and stretched him out on his right side.

“One of ourn!” Big Red repeated, his voice loud and belligerent. “Rafter Cross on the left ribs. Crop the right ear and swallow-fork the left ‘un. And don’t cut ‘im. I’m savin’ this ‘un for a bull.”

ROY BENTON spat on his gloved hands and yanked the Hat stamp iron from the fire. He trotted, almost ran from the branding fire to where the yearling bull was stretched out. Before Big Red or Bob Purvis could slack their ropes to let the bull up, Roy had shoved the hot iron against the critter’s hide. Smoke rose from the burning hair. The yearling bull bawled loudly. The hot branding iron came away.

Tom Baley’s Hat brand was burned forever on the hide of the bull.

Big Red had slacked the turns of his rope around the saddle horn. Roy jerked off the head rope. Bob Purvis gave slack and the freshly branded bull kicked loose its hind feet from Bob’s noose and trotted back toward the herd, tail twisting, ears clean of earmarks. Roy Benton wasn’t taking time to earmark the bull he had claimed for his employer. He gripped the hot branding iron in both gloved hands and waited for Big Red to explode.

“That bull,” Roy’s voice was dry in his throat, “is wearin’ the brand that’s on his mammy. She’s a Hat cow with a calf a-follerin’ her. But the yearlin’ bull never got weaned proper. He’s still trailin’ his mammy. She’s one of Tom Baley’s pure-breds that strayed off the home range. A Rafter Cross man cut her and the calf and unbranded bull back into a coulee this mornin’ on the drive. I picked ’em up again and throwed ’em into the herd. I’m reppin’ for Tom Baley.”

Still Big Red didn’t explode. He sat with his weight in one stirrup and slowly coiled his catch-rope. Then he dropped the coiled rope over his saddle horn and rode towards where Roy Benton stood, the slowly cooling branding iron in his gloved hands. He reined up and looked down at the young Hat rep. Big Red’s green eyes were bloodshot slits under the slanted brim of his dust-powdered hat.

“Troubled with deefness, Benton?” Big Red’s voice had lost its bluster and sounded flat and toneless.

“My hearin’s all right.” Roy had to step back to keep from being crowded by Big Red’s horse. He had to tilt his face upward to watch the Pool wagon-boss. His heart thumped against his ribs and he knew that his voice sounded scared.

“I called the Rafter Cross brand, Benton. I’m ramroddin’ this outfit. When I give orders, my men take ’em.”

Big Red leaned a little forward. His right hand, holding a bone handled six-shooter, whipped downward without warning.

Roy Benton ducked. The long barrel of the gun grazed the side of his head and struck his shoulder. Instinct—the instinct of a man gripped by fear—had made him duck. It made him strike now in self-defense.

He swung the heavy branding iron like a club. Its hot end, graying from cherry red, caught Big Red alongside the head with a sickening thud. The big Pool wagon-boss lurched forward in his saddle and toppled headlong to the ground as his horse whirled and jumped.

Excerpt From: Walt Coburn. “Watered Guns.”