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    Black Rose
    Black Rose
    Black Rose
    Ebook194 pages3 hours

    Black Rose

    By Richard Dawes

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    About this ebook

    In Black Rose, the Tucson Kid battles his way out of a town run by and for outlaws. Hoping for a rest, he rides into the sleepy village of San Ignacio. There he meets an old friend, a lawman who persuades Tucson to help him transport a murderer and a shipment of gold through bandit territory. Unknown to the lawman, Tucson is carrying a map to a silver mine worth millions of dollars. During the dangerous journey, the Kid meets Black Rose, a legendary outlaw queen, who wants that map. Their epic battle over the silver mine extends across the southwest – a battle that only one of them will survive.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMelange Books, LLC
    Release dateJul 9, 2015
    ISBN9781680461220
    Black Rose
    Author

    Richard Dawes

    Richard Dawes was born and raised in California and now resides in a small town in Texas. After a tour of duty in the Marine Corps, he spent fifteen years in management in the Moving and Storage, Computer and Credit Union industries. He began writing short stories as a boy, and has written several historical novels. A long time student of Native American traditions, he includes positive references to those traditions throughout the Tucson Kid series. Other sub-themes explored in the series are authentic masculinity, relationships and power — what are they and how do they manifest.

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      Book preview

      Black Rose - Richard Dawes

      Special Smashwords Edition

      Black Rose

      A Tucson Kid Western #8

      by Richard Dawes

      Published by

      Melange Books, LLC

      White Bear Lake, MN 55110

      www.melange-books.com

      Black Rose, Copyright 2015 Richard Dawes

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      ISBN: 978-1-68046-122-0

      Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

      Published in the United States of America.

      Cover Design by Becca Barnes

      BLACK ROSE

      by Richard Dawes

      In Black Rose, the Tucson Kid battles his way out of a town run by and for outlaws. Hoping for a rest, he rides into the sleepy village of San Ignacio. There he meets an old friend, a lawman who persuades Tucson to help him transport a murderer and a shipment of gold through bandit territory. Unknown to the lawman, Tucson is carrying a map to a silver mine worth millions of dollars. During the dangerous journey, the Kid meets Black Rose, a legendary outlaw queen, who wants that map. Their epic battle over the silver mine extends across the southwest – a battle that only one of them will survive.

      Table of Contents

      Black Rose

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      About the Author

      Previews

      Chapter One

      A twig snapped in the darkness; boots glided furtively across the sand; suddenly, muzzle flashes turned night into day, illumining bearded faces, hard eyes and mouths stretched to grim lines. The thunder of gunfire rolled across the mesquite-covered hills as bullets tore into the bedroll thrown in the cover of a gnarled oak, shredding the blanket.

      As the two gunmen stopped firing, a voice as cold and hard as steel spoke from the bushes to one side, Are you hombres looking for me?

      Grunting with surprise, the killers spun around in the direction of the voice.

      Gunfire erupted again, but this time the muzzle flashes lit up a face gaunt and hard, with grey eyes shaded to the hue of molten steel and thin lips stretched in a cruel smile. Hot slugs ripped into the killers, their bodies jerked and shuddered as a chest exploded in a spray of blood, and intestines poured in a glistening heap onto the sand. Smoking guns fell from nerveless fingers as the gunmen dropped to their knees, then crumpled forward onto their faces in the blood-drenched dirt.

      Tucson moved cautiously from the cover of the brush and walked toward the bodies stretched lifeless on the sand. As he came, his fingers automatically ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded his Colt .45 with the bullets lining his gun-belt. Gliding cat-like across the clearing, his tall, lean frame etched itself against the stars, revealing eyes that blazed yellow beneath the broad brim of his black sombrero, high cheekbones, a blade of a nose and a wide, pitiless mouth. His broad shoulders and deep chest were encased in a black leather jacket cut short at the waist, and his long, horseman's legs were covered in dark serge trousers. His gun-belt was black, and the smoking Colt in his right hand had blued steel and rosewood grips—neither of which reflected the light.

      The somberness of his garb and his materialization from the shadows gave the eerie impression that he was a creature of the night; that darkness itself had taken human form. The flames flickering with sinister intensity in his eyes only heightened the impression.

      Halting beside the bodies, he kicked their guns into the brush, then put his boot on the side of one man's head and rolled the face toward the sky. Sightless eyes reflected the stars. Then he did the same with the other. He didn't recognize either man.

      Bushwhackers... he muttered contemptuously, in a deep voice, ...murdering and robbing anyone they found on the trail.

      Then he spun around, his Colt up and ready, as he heard a crashing in the bushes. A vague form was running away, stumbling through the clumps of mesquite, and Tucson moved out in pursuit. With no idea how many men could be lurking in the darkness, he went cautiously, his eyes probing the shadows. Then the retreating figure crossed an open stretch of sand, and Tucson saw a tall, lean man in a grey Stetson, a checkered shirt and denim trousers with two guns strapped down to his thighs.

      He was running toward three horses tied to the lower branches of an oak tree. As he reached the nearest one, he ripped the reins away from the branch and leaped into the saddle. Jerking the horse around, he kicked it into a gallop. Tucson stopped and raised his gun straight out from his shoulder, thumbed the hammer, took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The man jerked and clutched at his left arm, then he sank in the spurs and rode on into the night.

      Tucson returned to the camp where the two bodies lay. Barely glancing at the corpses, both of whom were already food for ants, he went to the bedroll and looked it over. The bullets had ruined the blanket, and he tossed it aside. Once again, he reflected, his habit of sleeping away from the campfire when he was on the trail had saved his life. Climbing back to his feet, he pursed his lips and gave a soft whistle.

      Instantly there was a crashing in the brush as a huge black stallion plunged into the clearing. It was a magnificent animal, massively built, with muscles that bunched and rolled like molten iron, a coat that glistened in the starlight like polished obsidian, and a long, thick mane and tail. Tucson put out his hand and stroked the stallion's arching neck affectionately.

      Easy, big fella, he murmured, gazing into the horse's huge liquid eyes. The fandango's over for now, but we need to make tracks before anyone else comes snooping around.

      He dragged his saddle, blanket and bridle out of the bushes, threw them on the stallion, then swung up onto its back. Then, still without glancing at the dead men, he nudged the horse in the ribs and rode out.

      * * * *

      The eastern horizon flamed crimson; then the sun rose as a huge ball of yellow fire whose long blazing rays seared the pale blue sky. The heat that came with sunrise struck Tucson's shoulders like a hammer-blow. He was riding west along a worn, dusty, rutted road that wound through rolling hills covered with mesquite and cactus, across the dry washes of long-dead creeks and through occasional stands of gnarled oaks. Even the breeze that drifted down from the mountains in the north felt warm as it struck his bronzed face.

      All night, he had been following the tracks of the gunman who had escaped from the ambush. Even in the starlight, the marks of the horse's hooves had been easy to detect in the soft sand. The outlaw hadn't deviated from the road to cross the country, so Tucson was reasonably certain he was headed somewhere in particular—somewhere along that road.

      It was clear that the road hadn't been used for quite some time—had been abandoned—and that civilization had moved elsewhere. It twisted through the desert badlands of southern New Mexico, close to the Rio Grande. Tucson had been riding toward the more settled areas to the north when he had been ambushed. By following the killer, he had been forced to turn back south. He wondered where the outlaw could be headed in such desolate country.

      About mid-morning, he reined in to read a faded sign stuck on a post at a curve in the road. It read: Cactus Gulch. Population: 99. But the number was crossed out and some wag had scrawled wittily beneath it, variable.

      Well, big fella, Tucson murmured, running his fingers through the stallion's thick mane, I guess this is where the killer was headed. Let's see what this town holds for us.

      Then he nudged it in the ribs and rode on.

      Cactus Gulch was a straggle of log and bare plank buildings running for about a quarter of a mile on either side of the road. The first things Tucson noted as he rode in was that there was no Marshal's office, nor a Wells Fargo depot nor a telegraph office. Evidently, the stage didn't stop there, and he saw no railhead. He wondered how the town supported itself. As he passed down the dusty street, he heard the tinny sounds of piano's coming from three different saloons, along with the deep-throated shouts and guffaws of men punctuated by the high-pitched screams and laughter of women. There were stores on the other side of the street and what looked like a stable made of pine planks at the far end of town on the right.

      Tucson spotted the horse the killer had ridden standing at a hitch rack in front of the biggest building in Cactus Gulch. Its head drooped, its coat was lathered and foam dripped from its bit rings. A yellow sign hung above the entrance to the building, upon which had been written with red paint: The Silk Garter Saloon. Loud raucous noise poured out through its bat-wing doors and rolled over Tucson in cacophonous waves. He dismounted in the sliver of shade thrown by the facade and threw the reins over the rack at one end, where the stallion could get at a water trough set off to the side.

      There was no sidewalk, and Tucson stepped up to the side of the entrance and peered over the doors. A group of men and women were carousing at rough wooden tables in the center of the room, with more men bellying up to the bar running along the back wall. The women were mostly white, with a few black-haired senoritas, all dressed in tawdry finery, their heaving bosoms glistening with sweat.

      But it was the men who captured Tucson's attention.

      It took only a glance to realize that he had stumbled into a town run by and for outlaws. It was as hard-bitten a crew as he had ever seen, and every man there was hung with an assortment of guns and knives. They were stamped with the look of men who had stepped outside society's strictures for the freedom and violence that came with riding the outlaw trail. Hard-eyed, they were leather-tough and ruthless in their will to take whatever they wanted, and the devil take whoever got in their way.

      Then Tucson's gaze came to rest on a man in a checkered shirt and denim trousers standing at the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. A woman, blonde, slender and surprisingly pretty, stood beside him examining his wounded arm.

      The bullet's passed straight through your arm, Slim, Tucson heard her say, in a clear, lilting voice. We should be able to get you patched up.

      Tucson chose that moment to step into the saloon. He moved quickly through the bat-wing doors and stepped to the side, with his back pressed to the wall. Instantly, the carousing stopped as everyone in the room swung around to stare at him. Becoming aware that something was amiss, the piano player's fingers drifted from the keys, and the music trailed off on a discordant note. The man in the checkered shirt saw Tucson and the whiskey glass he was raising to his unshaven lips stopped in mid-air.

      The blonde at his side leaned her elbow on the bar and looked Tucson over curiously.

      Tucson hadn't assumed the gun-fighter's crouch, but his weight was thrown slightly forward, his knees were flexed, and the thumb of his right hand was hooked in his gun-belt close to his Colt. His eyes smoldered with deadly fire as his gaze swept the room, and every man there, as he looked into them, had the impression that he was staring into his own doom. Those bad men knew another bad man when they saw one, and as Tucson stood against the wall with the coiled tension of a wolf at bay, hands moved away from gun-butts and eyes faltered hesitantly.

      Pushing himself away from the wall, Tucson strode toward the bar. His eyes were fixed on Slim, but his peripheral vision continued to take in the whole room, alert for any movement toward a gun.

      The closer Tucson got, the more Slim's hand shook, until he spilled whiskey over the front of his shirt.

      Tucson came to a halt a couple of feet from the killer, and the blonde slipped between them. Welcome to Cactus Gulch, stranger, she said, in a friendly tone. I haven't seen you around here before.

      Tucson's gaze shifted to the woman, and he looked her over frankly.

      She was pretty, with sparkling hazel eyes, a straight nose turned up at the end and full red lips. Her body was slender with high-riding breasts, narrow waist and flaring hips. Not even the cheap dress she was wearing could conceal the quality revealed by the graceful lines of her supple figure.

      This snake and two others tried to dry-gulch me in my sleep last night out on the trail, he said flatly, his voice carrying over the room. When someone tries to murder me, I want to know why.

      The woman glanced at Slim. His shaking hands, haggard face and glaring eyes told the truth of Tucson's claim. She turned back to Tucson. So you're the one who took out Frank and Charlie, she murmured. They were good—very good; no one's ever gotten the drop on them before.

      Tucson was surprised that she admitted the deed openly, without any attempt at subterfuge.

      Seeing the startled expression on his face, her smile became a chuckle. My name's Helen... She extended her hand. Helen Garfield. As Tucson took it in his, she added, Don't hold it against Slim. It wasn't personal to you, it was only business.

      When someone's business involves my death, Tucson responded. "I take it very personal."

      She made a gesture with her hands that took in the roomful of men and women listening eagerly to the conversation. What do you plan to do? she asked. Take on the whole crew singlehanded?

      The coals glimmering in Tucson's eyes flared into flame as they swept the room. Those gazing at him would have

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