The Boot Hill Breed Read online

  The Boot Hill Breed

  Upon learning his mother is seriously ill, Jack Marric leaves his carefree life in California to return home to the tiny village of Jasper, Oregon. He is a quiet man, slow to anger but good with a pistol, who minds his own business and doesn’t look for trouble. But before he reaches Jasper, he is forced into a shootout in a saloon, leaving two of the notorious Harper brothers dead.

  Back home, Marric reunites with his family, and he is particularly happy when he learns his sister is engaged to the town marshal. Then some local ranch hands kill the marshal, reigniting an old feud between Marric and their boss, Chance Elson.

  As Marric takes over as lawman, he is determined to bring the murderers to justice. Little does he know that one of the surviving Harper brothers is stalking him, just waiting for the opportunity to take vengeance on Jack Marric . . . and his family.

  By the same author

  The Drygulch Trail

  Quarter to Midnight

  Rimrock Renegade

  The Boot Hill Breed

  Ned Oaks

  ROBERT HALE

  © Ned Oaks 2016

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2186-8

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Ned Oaks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  CHAPTER ONE

  Oregon, 1879

  J.J. ‘Jack’ Marric alighted in front of the saloon just as dusk settled in over Roseburg. After nine days of riding, he was thoroughly exhausted; he wanted nothing more than a shot of rye and, after that, a good night’s sleep.

  The saloon was on the southern edge of town. As he tied his reins over the hitching post, Marric looked up the muddy street. He spotted a hotel a block away. That, he decided, would be his next destination. He patted his chestnut mare on the neck and then climbed the warped steps up to the plank sidewalk. The smell of tobacco smoke drifted over the batwing doors of the saloon. Marric shouldered his way into the establishment and paused, his eyes sweeping over the room.

  There were ten or twelve men there. Half of them were leaning on the bar, with the other half gathered around a large table, playing a subdued poker game. One or two of the patrons turned their gazes to the newcomer, then went back to their whiskey or cards. That suited Marric just fine. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation anyway.

  He crossed to the bar and removed his Stetson as he sat down on a stool. The barkeep finished wiping up a glass before making his way down to Marric. He was an elderly man with a thick shock of snow-white hair. His alert eyes belied his apparent physical frailty.

  ‘Evening, mister,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Whiskey,’ Marric replied. ‘The best you got.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Coming right up.’

  A few moments later, a shot glass appeared on the bar. The barkeep splashed liquor into it and Marric downed it immediately.

  ‘Another?’ the man asked.

  Marric nodded. ‘Please.’

  When he had refilled the glass, the barkeep moved down the bar to help some other customers. Marric relaxed and sipped at his second drink. He glanced into the mirror behind the bar, thinking that he could use a hot bath and a shave.

  He was a large man, just over six feet tall. Still in his early thirties, his skin was dark and lined from years of laboring outdoors, both in ranch work and in mining. His face was further darkened by several days’ worth of stubble. He had a narrow nose that hooked slightly, ending in a point. His pale green eyes were probably his most notable and memorable feature. They told you everything you needed to know about how Jack Marric felt. When he was pleased, they sparkled with good humor. When he was angry, they glinted like chips of ice.

  He was dressed in range clothes – Levi’s, boots, a woolen shirt, and a sheepskin coat. In the holster on his right hip was a large Navy Colt, strapped to his thigh by a narrow strip of leather. Gunplay wasn’t Marric’s business, but he was highly skilled with a pistol, and had been since he was a boy. At times people had mistaken him for a cowpunch with no gun sense; on those occasions they had invariably learned how wrong they were.

  Marric waved the barkeep over and, draining his shot glass, asked for another. The man complied.

  ‘You from around here, feller?’ he asked amiably.

  Marric shook his head. ‘I’m from Jasper,’ he explained. ‘A little east of Springfield.’

  ‘Jasper,’ the barkeep muttered, as if searching his mind. ‘You know, I think I passed through there once, a long time ago.’

  ‘It ain’t much to see.’

  ‘No, it was a real small place. What brings you to Roseburg?’

  Marric didn’t normally talk with people he didn’t know, but he realized the old man was just making idle conversation to pass the time.

  ‘Well, I spent the last six years in California, doing a little of this and a little of that,’ he said. ‘Got a telegram from my pa last week telling me my ma wasn’t doing so good. I decided it was time to come home for a spell.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about your ma. My wife died two years ago next month. It ain’t been the same without her, I’ll tell you that.’

  Marric nodded slowly. ‘I’ve been away too long. It’ll be good to see the family again.’

  ‘Family’s important. Hell, it’s probably the most important thing.’ The barkeep raised his eyes as the batwings parted and two men entered the saloon. ‘Aw, damn it. The Harper boys are here. I better go tend to them. I’ll give you some more whiskey here in a minute.’

  The unease in the man’s voice caused Marric to look in the mirror. In the reflection he could see two dirty men standing side-by-side just inside the room. They looked like twins. There was an unmistakable aura of danger and malevolence about them, evident even from where Marric was sitting. They both seemed to sneer as they glanced around the saloon. He lowered his gaze back to his drink and sipped it, wondering who these Harpers were and why they made the barkeep so nervous.

  They strode up to the bar a couple yards to Marric’s right. The one nearest him slapped his hand down hard on the counter.

  ‘Beer, Glidden!’ he cried.

  His brother laughed. ‘Make that two beers, old man. And get stepping!’

  They were obviously already drunk; Marric could smell whiskey fumes emanating from them. He already didn’t like them. They acted like they owned the saloon, and like the man behind the bar was their servant. He assumed they were big fish in the little pond that was Roseburg.

  Glidden filled two glasses with beer and placed them on the counter before the Harper brothers. Neither thanked him as they lifted the drinks and gulped the liquid down. They slammed the empty glasses on to the bar simultaneously.

  Marric wondered if this was some kind of performance they were putting on for the other patrons of the saloon. He noted a new sort of tension in the atmosphere. The men at the poker table were quieter than they had been, each studying his cards as if keenly aware of the presence of the Harpers. At the bar, one of the men nearest to the brothers moved down a few feet further away from where they stood.

  The Harper closest to Marric belched loudly as he sleeved foam away from his grimy lips.

  ‘Another round for me and my brother,’ he demanded.

  Glidden hesitated for a moment, then complied. The brothers drained the beer and again slammed the glasses on to the counter. They seemed to be pla
ying a game with the old barkeep.

  ‘I know you’re not going to make us ask for a third, Glidden.’

  This time it was the other brother speaking. Marric watched him in the mirror.

  ‘Boys, you know I got no problem serving you,’ Glidden said, his voice steady despite his fear. ‘It’s just that you ain’t paid your tab in three months. I’ve dispensed a lot of beer and liquor your way, but I ain’t seen a penny. I’m . . .’ Here he hesitated again, and Marric noticed the flinty expressions on both of the Harpers’ faces. ‘I’m going to have to cut you both off until you pay.’

  The silence in the room was deafening. The head of every other man in the saloon turned to observe the exchange at the bar. Only Marric seemed indifferent, although his narrowed eyes were watching the Harper brothers in the mirror behind the bar.

  ‘Did you hear that, Matt?’ the brother nearest to Marric asked incredulously.

  ‘I sure did, Gil,’ said Matt. ‘I believe old Glidden just told us we’re no longer welcome here.’

  ‘Now, boys,’ Glidden said. ‘I didn’t say y’all ain’t welcome. All I said was that before I can serve you again, you’re going to have to pay off your tab.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘You don’t think we’re good for the money?’ Matt asked. Marric thought he was the leader of the two siblings. ‘Them’s hurtful words.’

  ‘Very hurtful,’ Gil said with a smirk. ‘After all the years you’ve known us, Glidden.’

  ‘You got to understand,’ Glidden pleaded. ‘A man’s got to make a living, and I can’t do that if I give away beer and whiskey for free.’

  ‘Damn it, we’ll give you your damn money,’ Matt said. ‘You don’t have to insult us.’

  ‘Like I said—’ Glidden began, but before he could finish his words were cut off, along with his air supply, by the massive right hand of Gil Harper, who leaned across the counter and gripped the elderly man by his neck. His fingers closed savagely around Glidden’s throat, and he pulled the man toward him, yanking him halfway across the counter.

  ‘We’re done listening to your damn mouth, old timer,’ said Gil through clenched teeth. His face was flushed with alcohol and rage. ‘You’re going to fill those damn glasses and, by God, you’ll keep filling them until we tell you to stop. Savvy?’

  He released the barkeep, shoving him hard away from the bar. Glidden crashed against the shelves behind him, knocking a few bottles on to the plank floor. The glass shattered around his feet as he struggled for breath, his hands feeling gingerly at his neck.

  ‘More beer, goddamn it!’ Matt Harper bellowed.

  ‘Damn, Glidden – looks like we got ourselves a couple of half-wits here, don’t we?’

  Jack Marric’s voice filled the room. He remained on his stool, looking relaxed. He had turned his head slightly and fixed his gaze on the Harper brothers. They, along with every other man in the room, were now staring at him.

  With dangerous, slitted eyes, Matt Harper said, ‘Did I just hear you right, stranger?’

  Marric turned his shot glass a couple times, holding it delicately between his fingers. Then he lifted it to his lips and tossed back the remaining whiskey before his eyes locked on those of Matt Harper.

  ‘Beats me. You hard of hearing as well as stupid?’ he asked.

  ‘Judas priest!’ sputtered Gil. ‘Did you hear that, Matt?’

  ‘You must be part deaf, too,’ Marric retorted. ‘Or maybe neither of you understands plain English.’ He stepped off his stool and leaned against the bar, resting his weight on his left elbow. ‘The old man said you’re cut off. I’m pretty he sure he owns this place, not you two. So unless you’re going to give the man his money, I suggest you both head on out and find refreshment elsewhere.’ Marric flicked his eyes to the men at the poker table. Their faces expressed disbelief.

  No wonder these Harper boys strut around the way they do, he thought. They got everyone scared of their own shadows.

  ‘You got a real smart mouth there, mister,’ Matt said.

  Marric thought he looked a little unsure of himself. The Harper brothers were definitely not used to being challenged. Marric’s lips formed a half-grin. ‘I guess I just don’t like seeing some two-bit bully trying to be tough with an old man who’s half his size.’ He shrugged. ‘But hell, maybe that’s the way they do things here in Roseburg.’

  Gil Harper wet his lips with his tongue, the alcohol dulling his already notably slow mental capacity. He wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but he had confidence that Matt would know the proper course of action.

  ‘Glidden insulted us,’ he said. ‘We ain’t going to take that from no one.’

  ‘He didn’t insult you,’ Marric said. ‘You insult him by stealing his liquor.’

  ‘We ain’t stealing a damn thing!’ said Matt.

  ‘If you ain’t paying the man, then you’re stealing from him. Does that make sense to you or do I have to draw you a picture?’

  Matt Harper stepped away from the bar and moved toward Jack Marric.

  ‘I’ve had about enough of your mouth,’ he said, reaching out and grabbing the front of Marric’s sheepskin.

  He was a strong man, a few inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier than Marric. His hand gripped the coat and he pulled back his other arm and made a fist. Before he could drive it into Marric’s face, the latter responded with a combination of speed and power that stunned the onlookers in the saloon.

  He drove his fist into Matt’s throat, and as the man clawed at his neck, his eyes bulging with shock and pain, Marric followed up with a brutal series of punches to the abdomen. Matt folded at the waist, staying on his feet for only a few seconds before his knees buckled and he went down.

  Marric moved away from the fallen man, looking up just in time to see Gil Harper reach down for the pistol in his holster.

  ‘I would think twice about that if I were you,’ Marric said. ‘Unless you’re keen to die right here, in front of everyone.’

  A bead of sweat rolled down Gil’s right cheek. Marric could almost hear the rusty gears turning in the man’s mind, and then Gil’s lip curled with contempt and he gripped the butt of his pistol and dragged the gun upwards.

  In one swift, fluid motion, Marric’s right hand streaked down to his Navy Colt. He palmed it and cleared leather just as Gil thumbed back the hammer of his gun, leveling it at Marric. Marric’s left hand chopped at the hammer of his Colt, sending three rapid shots into Gil Harper’s sternum. The mortally wounded man gasped, dropping his gun on to the floor. He took a couple of stumbling steps backward, knocking over a stool, and then he went down, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

  Marric’s fight with the Harper brothers had unfolded in a matter of seconds. Both men lay unmoving on the floor, one dead and the other apparently unconscious. The acrid scent of gunsmoke filled the room as Marric replaced his pistol in its holster and looked around the room. Every man was watching him with wide eyes, including the old man called Glidden.

  Marric exhaled slowly. ‘Anyone want to say that wasn’t self-defense?’ he asked, examining each man in turn.

  No one said anything until Marric met the gaze of the poker dealer on the far side of the table.

  ‘No question about it, mister,’ the dealer said. ‘They went after you. You’d be dead if you hadn’t done what you did.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Marric said.

  Glidden stepped forward and stood on his toes to look down at the two prone men on the floor in front of the bar.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find too many folks who like Matt and Gil Harper,’ he said. ‘Except their brother. I don’t know where he is, but unless you want more trouble, I’d clear out.’

  Marric pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘I don’t go looking for trouble, as a rule.’

  ‘Thank you kindly for coming to my aid, feller,’ Glidden said. He glanced at the other customers. ‘No one’s ever done that for me before.’

&nb
sp; ‘Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,’ Marric said.

  ‘Would you like one more shot before you go?’

  Marric smiled crookedly. ‘As long as you make it a double.’

  ‘You got it, friend.’

  The old man filled two shot glasses with the amber fluid, and Marric despatched them quickly.

  ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he announced, stepping over Matt Harper and walking toward the batwings.

  He pushed through them and paused on the sidewalk outside. He felt for the makings and constructed a cigarette, his blunt fingers perfectly steady. He poked the smoke into his lips and thumb-snapped a vesta, inhaling deeply as the tobacco took flame. He descended the steps to the muddy street and put a foot in a stirrup. He was just about to climb into leather when he heard some commotion from within the saloon.

  The anguished cries of Matt Harper echoed out into the street. The man had regained consciousness.

  ‘Christ Almighty, that son of a bitch killed my brother!’

  Marric put his boot back down in the mud and stepped away from his horse. If there was shooting to be done, he didn’t want the animal to be injured. He heard heavy boots scraping across the plank floor in the saloon, moving toward the batwings. A shadow partially blocked the light from within the bar, and then the doors flew outward as Matt burst through them, now hatless and frenzied, his pistol in his right hand. He saw Marric and began to raise the gun.

  ‘You murdering polecat!’ he screamed. ‘You killed Gil!’

  Without a word, Marric drew his pistol and fired from the hip with the uncanny accuracy that he had carefully honed over more than half of his life. The bullet struck Matt Harper dead centre in the forehead, killing him instantly. His glassy eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed forward on to the boards of the sidewalk, his pistol slipping from his fingers and clattering down the steps into the mud of the street.