RETRIBUTION: - GlenMarcus (best summer reads TXT) 📗

New York World

June 11, 1876

As our nation nears its Centennial celebration, we proudly offer an article for our readers to peruse from our most western boundary of these United States. As Colorado teeters on the brink of statehood, rough and tumble heroes must come shining through at just the right moment. It will take these type men to tame a wild land, still fraught with renegade Indians and shrewd land barons. This is just such a story, but fiction it is not. So read an excerpt of the trials and tribulations of just such a man. A sheriff with his back against the wall and headed for a showdown.

Full article originally printed in the Rocky Mountain News

by Louis Clermont

The town of Laramie Flatts in the territory of Colorado was abuzz with the discovery of renegade Sioux in their midst. A fifty man Calvary troop had been viciously massacred within a few miles of town. With no help in sight, it was all up to the newly appointed sheriff to handle the situation. Luke Wallace was just the man for the job.
After saying goodbye to his father and younger brother, he left his home in Worthington Ohio at an early age. It was then when this daredevil began to roam the plains. His time living off the land had now weathered this man and the wilds of the mountain ranges Wallace traveled had readied him for most any situation. From cattle drover to buffalo hunter, Indian tracker and mountain man, Luke had experienced much in just thirty four years of living. He rode with the likes of Kit Carson, Jim Bridger and others that could teach him volumes. Now it was time to make a name for himself.
The tin star on his chest meant nothing to the town’s self-appointed master, Nathan Bradford. A man of great wealth, he bought everything his greed could purchase. But Wallace’s star was not for sale. When the mighty silver king crossed paths with this lawman, they gave each other a wide berth. A storm was brewing and the time would come for the two to meet.
As the sheriff tracked the Sioux’s every move, he found something peculiar in their ways. Even when the army sent in reinforcements to revenge their comrade’s murders, they only seemed to chase their own shadows. But the sheriff’s eye was keen and soon discovered the attacks were orchestrated by none other than the dastardly Bradford. After a daring ambush of the renegades by Sheriff Wallace and his deputies, they were sent on to their happy hunting grounds and now only Nathan Bradford was left to deal with.
As the afternoon sun beat down on the parched, dusty street, the two men met face to face. As with most gunfights, the villain made the first move. With no more than twenty feet separating the enemies, guns were drawn and vicious bullets were sent on their way. In the end only the lone sheriff was left standing, his foe now vanquished.
Now the quiet little town of Laramie Flatts is safe once more from the threats of devilish workers of iniquity. And the townspeople can rest peacefully at night knowing the man that wears the badge in their hamlet is a man above men. A lawman for sure, but Luke Wallace is their very own knight in shining armor.

RETRIBUTION: something given or exacted in recompense; especially: PUNISHMENT -Merriam Webster Dictionary

Saturday June 17th

The high red brick walls of the Huntsville Prison were in clear view from a hill almost six hundred yards away. Kneeling on the ground, Slim propped the Sharp’s carbine on the “x-frame” bipod. Mounted atop the breech and thirty-four inch barrel was a Hi-Lux Wm. Malcolm Telescopic rifle sight, probably the only one like it in the state. Slim had to kill the Texas Ranger that previously owned this long range beast to acquire it. He loaded a .45-70 round in the carbine’s chamber and racked it closed. Unscrewing the lens caps and placing them in his pocket, he sprawled out on the ground and snapped the barrel grommet into the bipod. Taking a pinch of dust in his fingertips, he flicked it into the light easterly wind. Winding the stem on his pocket watch, he checked the time and patiently waited for the signal.
Tony Bell and a half-breed Chiricahua Apache named GreyHawk eased their horses down the street beside the prison. As they turned the corner towards the main gate, the two guards outside were drinking coffee and making conversation with their rifles nearby. Tony pulled up about twenty feet from where the men were standing and remarked; “Now that’s a fine looking prison there.”
“We’re kinda proud of it,” replied the older and more portly of the two guards.
“Well it is mighty fine. Believe me when I tell you, I’ve been around a lot of jail houses, inside and out and this has got to be the prettiest one I’ve ever seen. Y’all getting ready for a Juneteenth celebration on Monday?”
“Naw, it’s just our monthly visiting day? It don’t start for another half hour though,” said the younger guard.
“Well, me and this feather head are just passing through. We just had to stop and stare at these tall brick walls. Glad we ain’t on the inside of this one. It’d be hell breaking out, if we were.”
“Not much chance of that,” as the large one pointed to the three-story crow’s nest above their heads, “that Gatling gun up there keeps everybody inside pretty tamed down.”
“I imagine it does.” Tony said, as he could see through the iron barred gate. The prisoners were milling about the yard inside waiting for the impending guests, “But what about us rascals here on the outside?”
Puzzled by the question and becoming leery of the twin .45 toting stranger, the larger guard turned to his left and realized his rifle was a good six feet away.
GreyHawk remarked as he noticed the man’s reaction, “I see you lookin’ to that long-gun mister. You know Tony here will drop you both by the time you get to them.”
The large guard was a family man and froze in his movements. As he glanced to the younger sentinel, it was too late to stop him from doing something both of them would soon regret. Lurching towards the rifles leaning against the red brick wall, Tony made good on GreyHawk’s promise. Pulling both Colts simultaneously, Bell fired hitting each uniformed man solidly in their upper torsos.
While the half-breed scurried off his mount to locate the keys to the gate, Tony went to action firing into the gun tower above them. The glass in the crow’s nest shattered, but the Gatling gun operator was unscathed. It didn’t matter anyway; the tower was Slim’s job.
At the first sound of the pistol fire, Slim put all that target practice he had been doing to good use. With the crosshairs squarely positioned on the tower guard, he took a breath, released it and squeezed the trigger. The 405-grain bullet connected with its intended target in less than a third of a second. By the time Bell heard the report from the rifle almost three-eights of a mile away, the tower guard was no longer an issue.
GreyHawk had found the key on one of the dead men’s bodies and opened the twelve-foot-wide gate. After mounting his horse again and giving an Apache battle cry, he kicked the gelding to a full run and went inside the prison yard.
Breeching the Sharps and loading a second cartridge, Slim sought out another target on the ground. Quickly finding a rotund, uniformed man seeking cover near a wall, he fired again hitting him in the breast. The velocity of the large-caliber bullet was so severe, after leaving its intended victim, the projectile tore a melon-sized chunk of stucco from the façade behind him.
The half-breed easily located the convict they had come for. As he slowed his horse to a strong canter, he extended his massive forearm to the man and in one smooth transition, slung him onto the rear of the bay. Additional armed guards had begun to swarm the yard with the noise of all the gunfire. As the double-riders headed for the exit, Tony appeared through the gate with six-guns firing and the leather reins in his teeth. Even at distances of over thirty yards, Bell’s .45’s were as deadly as Slim’s scoped rifle. Convicts, now seeing the open gates made their way towards them. This added to the confusion and Tony whirled his horse around and followed closely behind GreyHawk and his new companion.
Picking off two more men in the yard, Slim then calmly removed the lens caps from his pocket and screwed them back on. He was inserting the Sharps in his scabbard as the riders approached his vantage point on the rise.
Sliding off GreyHawk’s horse, the man hurried over to the spare chestnut tied to a tree. Hopping aboard he said, “I believe that I have worn out my welcome in Texas fellas. We need to ride.” And with that the four outlaws galloped out of Huntsville to the North…

Thurs June 22nd

Arriving just outside Dodge City with the herd about noon, Marsh Emerson gathered most of his eighteen cowhands together in a bunch around the chuck. “Y’all keep’em tight this side of the tracks until I get back from town.” With his instructions given, he whirled his big roan around and headed the last half mile into town.
Emerson was glad to finally be at the railhead. Through the years he’d pushed his longhorn cattle from his ranch in South Texas to Abilene and then Wichita. However, the farmers in central Kansas had convinced the State Legislature to now move the quarantine line further west in fear of splenic fever. This left Dodge City. The distance was less than Abilene, but the drive was harder on his beef. Water was scare and good grass was even sparser. It simply meant less money in his pocket at the end of the drive. Finding the office of the Chicago Cattle and Market Exchange, the deal was made for his beeves and his crew herded them into the corals.
With the new influx of cattle, Dodge had become a bustling town, quickly outgrowing its banks. Saloons and brothels had sprung up, almost overnight. Looking down the muddy street Emerson saw a bevy of tents and other makeshift structures, mostly gambling and drinking halls. Though most of his men had scattered once he paid them their cut, Gus and Thom had stayed behind with their boss.
“Wanna go get a drink Mr. Emerson,” said the young Thom, barely nineteen.
“We’d have to find a place that serves sarsaparilla for you son,” replied the crotchety old cowboy Gus.
Not one to usually join the fracas after a long drive, Gus had expected the boss to retire to the hotel after their meal. Much to his surprise, he stood and said, “Being this is my first time in Dodge, let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get in.” They exited the eatery and roamed down the narrow boardwalk. After traveling a couple of blocks they spied a very small storefront saloon and went inside.
“Welcome to the Long Branch gentlemen,” came a voice from behind the bar.
As the men bellied up, a clean cut man opened the office door in the rear and stepped out. Marsh noticed how well he was dressed and figured him for the owner. As the dapper man crossed behind the bartender, he stopped and introduced himself to the trio.
“William Harris, at