- Home
- Jessica Bakkers
Guns of Perdition
Guns of Perdition Read online
Copyright © 2020 Jessica Bakkers
All rights reserved.
No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, audio recordings, facsimiles, photocopying, or information storage and retrieval systems without explicit written permission from the author or publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-6484986-0-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
While the Ba’cho tribe of Native American people featured in Guns of Perdition is completely fictional, the Sioux are real and I would like to thank all Native Americans, living or dead, for their rich history and incredible native legends that inspired portions of this book. The language used in this novel comes from actual Native American words sprinkled with a liberal dose of poetic licence.
The towns and locations featured in Guns of Perdition are fictional, however I have borrowed from the fascinating townships that did exist during the 1880s Wild West America and would like to pay my respects to the US and its majestic scenery and colorful history.
While all characters, beings, and demi-Gods in this book are fictional, I have studied and based some elements on mythological lore and religious history. That said, my portrayals of biblical figures are purely for entertainment.
Cover design and interior formatting by Indie Designz
Editing by Christie Stratos, Proof Positive
Bible quotations from King James Version
Table of Contents
Part 1: Raising Death
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Part II: The Doom Sword
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Part III: The Kneeling Queen
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Part IV: The Feasting Rich
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Part V: High Noon at Worm Wood
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
Jessie was on his hands and knees picking up shards of glass when the batwing doors swung open, and a stranger strode into the Bad Hoss Saloon. As the honky-tonk piano faltered on a flat note and silence descended, Jessie shaded his eyes to get a better look at the new arrival. A black silhouette revealed nothing of the stranger other than a chilly aura that permeated the saloon. Jessie suppressed a shudder and flicked his gaze around the saloon. He wasn’t alone in his unease; around the room, drinks were held mid-sip, a pair of aces fluttered to the card table, and the saloon girls leaned over the second-floor banister to eye the stranger.
The setting sun peeked into the saloon for just a moment before the doors swung shut. The stranger, clad in a dusty drifter’s coat and weathered John B. Stetson, trod the dirty boards confidently, cloaked in shadows beneath the Stetson’s broad brim. The nonchalance of the newcomer’s stride prompted activity to return to normal. The piano player plunked his keys, and a ruckus broke out over the pair of snake eyes on the card table. The saloon girls smoothed their silks and tied their laces in preparation for the night’s entertainment.
A loud belch close to Jessie’s ear reminded him he was on his hands and knees to clean up a spilled mug of beer, not goggle at drifters. As if in tune with his thoughts, the wrinkled prospector responsible for the shattered mug jabbed him hard in the shoulder and said, “You saying your prayers down there or what? Get your prat moving, sonny, and get me a beer.”
Jessie glowered and flinched away from the old man’s bony finger. One of the unwashed cowpokes sitting beside the prospector cackled. “Aw, leave off him, Cottonmouth. He’s got enough bellyaching to deal with from old Orville.”
With the cowpokes’ laughter filling his ears, Jessie clambered to his feet and skittered away, handling the shards of broken glass carefully. Orville would likely take the broken mug out of his hide, even though it wasn’t his fault it broke. The bartender was mean that way. Jessie crept behind the bar to discard the shattered glass and retrieve his broom. For once he didn’t have to contend with Orville’s feral glare or fierce tongue; Orville was fixated on the drifter, who approached the long wooden counter, hooked a stool, and slid onto the wooden seat. The drifter tapped gloved fingers on the bar and waited as Orville retrieved a bottle of forty-rod from under the bar. He slammed it down on the counter along with a shot glass.
Jessie frowned as the drifter raised the bottle, spat the cork onto the bar, tipped the bottle back, and guzzled. By the time the drifter thumped the bottle back on the bar, a good measure of the amber liquid was gone. Gloved hands reached up and tilted the Stetson’s brim. Jessie’s mouth dropped open as he caught a glimpse of the drifter’s shadowed face. She wore grime from the road, and the strands of hair that escaped her hat were blond and greasy. She might have been pretty when cleaned up except for the dead emptiness in her eyes.
“Looking for someone,” she said in a rough voice that might’ve passed for a young man’s rasp.
Jessie was drawn to a sudden movement three stools away, as a lanky longrider turned and eyeballed the drifter. Jessie swallowed. The longrider’s attention was never a good thing. People usually got hurt when Lee “Lonesome” Roberts started eyeballing.
Orville seemed to share Jessie’s notion as he stiffened and backed away from the counter. His gaze darted to Lonesome, then slid back to the drifter. “Firewater’s all we got here. Got no information to pass out to drifters,” he said loudly.
Down the other end of the bar, Jessie gripped his broom and shifted his gaze back onto the stranger. He’d rarely seen a woman who wasn’t the wife of some boss toff, a farmer’s missus, or else a painted lady. Though it would mean a hiding from the bartender if he was caught shirking his chores, Jessie inched closer. Orville be damned—he wanted to hear this.
The drifter reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a handful of silver coins. She plunked them on the bar. They were worth at least five times the bottle of forty-rod she’d been served, and Jessie knew damn well her payment wasn’t to cover the swill. Orville’s narrowed eyes fixed on the coin. Jessie wondered if he’d take the glittering coin and spill his guts or shut his bazoo and keep in good with the lawless longrider who was perched at the bar and apparently very interested in th
e newly arrived drifter.
Lee “Lonesome” Roberts was a twitchy sort with an itchy trigger finger; typical scalaw scum who cut fast and loose with the law, bullied good and decent folk and spent far too much time frequenting establishments like the Bad Hoss Saloon. He was also the sort who didn’t appreciate folk talking about him, not even if the folk doing the talking stood to gain some good tin for dishing the dirt. Jessie’s eyes flicked to the drifter. Was she here for Lonesome? She had the look of a bounty hunter, sure enough, all dressed up in dusty leather and a pair of cannons bulging beneath her long coat. But why was a woman bounty hunting in the first place?
Orville reached out and placed his hand on the pile of silver. Jessie drew in a quick breath as Lonesome slithered off his stool and stepped up beside the woman. Lonesome’s hand slid to his belt and he drew a long bowie knife. In a smooth movement, he slammed the knife into the bar, pinning Orville’s sleeve to the counter. Orville flinched and wilted at the knees, but the drifter didn’t move. She didn’t even look at Lonesome. Her dark eyes were fixed on Orville’s panicked face. Icy fear trickled down Jessie’s spine; he was desperate to see and hear what came next but was terrified of attracting Lonesome’s attention...and ire.
Lonesome leaned down to the drifter. “Well hey there, darlin’. What say you and me go for a real drink and leave Orville here to tend his bar?”
Orville’s gaze flicked back and forth between Lonesome and the drifter. The patrons of the Bad Hoss froze as all eyes fixed on the developing fracas at the bar. Jessie clutched the broom and hesitantly moved closer, curiosity nudging out caution and reason. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Ina Maddox, one of the saloon girls—a favorite with the Hoss’s handsy clientele—creep like a phantom down the staircase from the second floor. Normally Ina would’ve received a shy, sweet smile from Jessie, but tonight he was absorbed in the trio at the bar.
The drifter licked her chapped lips.
“I said, I’m looking for someone.” She directed her statement to Orville as though Lonesome hadn’t planted his knife through the bartender’s sleeve a moment ago. Orville’s watery gaze slid from the drifter to Lee and back again. He cast a quick plaintive glance in Jessie’s direction, and Jessie was stunned to see the mean-tempered bartender was close to panic. Orville let loose a strangled whimper and jerked his arm backward. The knife tore his sleeve and he was free. He dropped behind the bar. Jessie’s breath hitched in his throat, and his feet locked in place, rooting him to the spot.
Lonesome frowned and his face turned crin. He reached out and grabbed the drifter’s face. He turned her head and glared into her dark eyes. “Hey! I’m talking to you. What are you? Deaf or something?”
The drifter leaned back and pulled her face from Lonesome’s grasp. She slowly pushed her dusty coat off her left hip and revealed a Smith & Wesson .44 sitting snug in its leather holster. She rested her gloved hand on the handle and met Lonesome’s gaze. Her expression hadn’t changed since she’d first sat at the bar.
“I’d pull in my horns if I were you.” Her voice was quiet, the rasp lubricated by the forty-rod.
Jessie frowned. He’d never heard anyone speak like that to Lee “Lonesome” Roberts. Actually, he had heard folk speak like that to Lonesome—it was just usually the last thing they ever said. He was still frozen to the spot, unsure whether to creep closer or follow Orville’s lead and drop behind the counter.
Chairs scraped across the floor as patrons flattened themselves against walls or made hasty exits from the Hoss. Only drunk old Joe Mueller remained at his table, slumped over in a puddle of his own drool. The grizzled prospector who’d dropped his mug earlier winked at Jessie with a rheumy eye, then upped and vacated. The saloon girls on the second floor found reasons to duck into their rooms except for Ina Maddox, who stood on the bottom stair transfixed by the stand-off at the bar.
Lonesome’s eyes narrowed. He pointedly glared at the drifter’s hand resting on her revolver then back to her face. He roared out a laugh that sounded forced and slapped a hand on the bar. “Darlin’, ain’t you just the cutest little poppet? Think I’m gonna like having that drink with you.” His laughter abruptly ceased and his eyes turned flinty. “Course I’m gonna have to cut you some manners first.”
Lonesome struck fast. He swung a right hook and caught the drifter square across the jaw. Jessie gasped as the woman jerked violently, the stool rocking on two legs before slamming down on all fours. The drifter shook her head, then turned to face Lonesome. He stood before her with a grin on his lips, his hands balled into tight fists. The woman had a split lip and blood dribbled down her chin. She touched her gloved fingers to her lip and peered at the blood as it seeped into the leather. Jessie gulped and wrung the broom in his hands. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Lonesome cut someone up with his fists. Wasn’t even the first time he’d seen Lonesome cut up a woman with his fists, and it sat ill with him.
Lonesome grinned. “Warned you. Now, get your prat off that stool before I beat you all hollow.”
Jessie’s scalp tingled as the drifter looked up at Lonesome, smiled, and nodded. She moved like an eastern diamondback—quick and without warning. She spun on the barstool and delivered a stunning kick to Lonesome’s mouth. Her boot smashed his lips against his teeth, and he screamed in pain and went down hard. As he flailed on the floor—his hands pressed to his bloody mouth—the drifter slid off her stool and stood over him. Lonesome dropped one blood-covered hand to the gun on his hip. The woman moved fluidly and drew her pearl-handled Smith & Wesson. She cocked the hand cannon, aimed, and squeezed the trigger in a half-second. The gun barked in the silent saloon and Lonesome screamed as the large caliber bullet destroyed his hand. His gun clattered to the floor amidst the blood and gore of his ruined hand.
As Jessie watched in open-mouthed horror, the drifter aimed and blew away Lonesome’s other hand.
Aside from the thumping of his own heartbeat, the only other sounds Jessie could hear in the saloon were Lonesome’s screams of agony, which slowly faded away to sniffling moans as he cradled his stumps one against the other.
The drifter squatted down beside Lonesome. “Didn’t need to come to this, you mud-hole. I ain’t here for you.” She rose up and spat on him. The drifter cocked her head as a loud click broke the silence. She turned and faced Orville, who held a rifle in his shaking hands.
“Hold it there, missy!” Orville’s voice was taut.
Jessie took advantage of Orville’s distraction, using it as a chance to sneak up behind him. After taking a licking from a bad egg like Lonesome, it wasn’t right she get hog-tied by Orville, a lily-livered bully of a man. Jessie had been on the receiving end of Orville’s fists long enough to know first-hand his thuggery. His round eyes were intent on Orville, and he frowned as he glimpsed Ina Maddox across the room. The saloon girl shook her head as Jessie raised the broken broom handle behind Orville. At her wide-eyed expression, a moment of doubt crept into Jessie’s mind.
“Alright, missy, that there is a right fine patron of this saloon you just landed on his back,” Orville said.
Jessie saw red. Not only was Orville content to hold a gun on the drifter until the bulls arrived, but he was also defending that no-good lowlife, Lonesome. Jessie swung and clobbered Orville on the back of the head. The bartender let out a grunt and slumped to the floor. The drifter’s cool stare fell on Jessie and she tipped her hat. Jessie’s face warmed as her gaze touched him. He nodded in return, but she was already moving. She pressed a hand to the bar, then gracefully slid her butt up and over the counter. She ducked down for a moment and Orville grunted. The drifter popped back up holding the bartender by his lapels. Orville screamed until she slapped him across the face. Orville flinched and sniveled. The drifter slapped him again for good measure. “You gonna shake up some information now?”
“Aw, crimany! You done licked him already! That’s Lee ‘Lonesome’ Roberts right there on the floor! What more do you want in Holy God’s name?”
Jessie’s brows drew together. Orville blinked rapidly, confusion stark across his bland features. The drifter sighed. “She’d have come to you six months or so past. A right trat calico queen. Young, untouched skin like cow’s cream—and you wouldn’t have been able to keep your filthy hands off her.”
Jessie’s glance slid across the saloon to rest on Ina Maddox. His frown deepened as he noticed Ina’s already pale skin had become even more pallid. Her striking green eyes were fixed on the drifter. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his fingers tightened on the broken broom handle. As he edged away, one of Pa’s prayers crossed his mind.
The bartender’s lips flapped uselessly as the drifter’s steely gaze drilled into him. Finally, he nodded and raised a trembling hand. He pointed at Ina Maddox. The drifter glanced over her shoulder at the saloon girl. When their gazes met, the drifter dropped Orville, who crumpled in a heap behind his bar. The drifter turned and faced the saloon girl. In a smooth, unhurried movement, the drifter vaulted over the bar and dropped to the other side. Ina Maddox, a small slim figure in silks and lace, smiled prettily.
The drifter, not taking her eyes off Ina, lowered her hands to her guns.
“Everybody who wants to live, get out of here right now.”
CHAPTER TWO
No one moved. The saloon was silent. Jessie scanned the Hoss as he slowly inched toward the storeroom. The drifter stood with her legs splayed, both hands on the matching .44s on her hips. Her eyes were fixed on Ina Maddox. The saloon girl, a pretty smile still on her lips, stood with her back against the wall as though she was about to launch into an erotic dance. The piano player shifted on his stool and caught a key with his elbow. The key plunked and a single strained note pierced the tense anticipation.
Guns of Perdition