Days of Death Read online

  Days of Death

  Elwood Black wants complete control over the gold mining community of Thomaston. He surrounds himself with killers such as Clive Carter, outlaw and deadly gunman, and the Goliath-like pugilist, Sheriff Goran Ginsberg. He makes one fatal mistake – his man Carter kills Cyriac Halkias’ brother. Heavily scarred from previous deadly encounters, Cyriac rides to Thomaston. Those responsible for his brother’s death must pay. The body count mounts as the days of death descend on Thomaston. Cyriac will not stop until the account of his vengeance has been paid in full.

  By the same author

  Zacchaeus Wolfe

  Massacre at Empire Fastness

  Hammer of God

  Paths of Death

  Caleb Blood

  Wild Justice

  Maclean

  Hornstone

  Gun Barrel Justice

  Writing as Elliot James

  Hot Spur

  Son of a Gun

  Hal Grant’s war

  Writing as Gary Astill

  Texas Rendezvous

  Writing as Henry Christopher

  Vengeance Unbound

  Writing as Jim Wilson

  Carson’s Revenge

  Days of Death

  P. McCormac

  ROBERT HALE

  © P. McCormac 2016

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2206-3

  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 P. McCormac to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  CHAPTER 1

  Turlough lay on his stomach and screwing his features into a grimace of pain, gingerly dabbed at the scalp wound with a wad of moss torn from the boulders on the side of the pool. Again and again he dipped the moss into the water and gently swabbed the lacerations, wincing each time the pad touched the tender punctures. Then he sluiced his face in the clear cold water. As he did so he became aware of a movement almost directly opposite. His body froze and a moment of fear lurched in his chest. If it was them, he knew he was as good as dead.

  Slowly, fearfully, his eyes travelled up the sapling-covered slope. Squatting opposite, quietly watching him was a stranger. About thirty yards separated them. Silently they stared at each other across the intervening distance. Turlough’s fear grew within as he noted the rifle held loosely in the man’s hands. Cautiously he raised himself and sat back on his heels.

  Turlough was a burly youth with square manly features and a steady manner which gave him an air of gentle reserve. He was slow to anger and patient in even the most taxing circumstances. Now he squinted anxiously up the slope at the man in the trees. He couldn’t quite make out the face of the stranger, but had an impression of long narrow features covered with a straggly beard.

  ‘You in some kind of trouble, son?’

  Turlough stared back in silence for a moment before replying.

  ‘I fell and hurt my head. Can’t seem to remember who I am,’ he lied. ‘Where’s this place?’

  ‘Cullbeg Pass,’ came the reply.

  Cullbeg Pass. Had he come far enough to escape them? Probably not. They would come after him. They would hunt him until the death. Turlough stared into the surrounding trees acting vague and lost. The bearded man stood up, the rifle hanging slackly from one hand.

  ‘Come,’ he gestured with his free hand. ‘You look as if you need a mite of help.’

  Obediently Turlough stood and waded across the narrow stream. As he came closer to the stranger he noted the slight build of the man. The stranger pointed up the slope. Turlough nodded and stepped forward to pass him. As he did so he lunged sideways and grabbed for the rifle. Turlough felt rather than saw the hard knee that hit him in the chest and then he was sprawling on the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath and scrabbling at the earth to prevent himself from rolling back down the slope and into the stream.

  ‘What in tarnation’s the matter with you, boy? I’m offering to help you and you attack me. Is there no gratitude in people these days?’

  Turlough had come to rest against the base of a young tree and lay there gasping and looking fearfully at the bearded stranger. He expected the man to use the rifle either to hit him or shoot him. But the man only stood there looking down at him for a moment before turning and walking back up the slope.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ gasped Turlough, struggling to rise. ‘I’m sorry, I do need help.’

  He went crawling after the stranger, desperately clawing his way up the slope. But the man was gone. Like a wraith of the woods he had vanished. Turlough reached the crest of the slope, panting heavily. Anxiously, he probed the woods for sight of the stranger. All was silent and still around him. It was as if he was the only person left in the world.

  Wearily Turlough sank back and cursed his own clumsiness. The wound in his head had slowed him down more than he knew. He should have been able to wrest the rifle from the man and force him to assist him. Now his inept attempt had only made him worse off. All he had done was make another enemy. There were enemies aplenty at this moment somewhere out there hunting him.

  He surveyed the woods again. Should he track the man down and wait for a moment to catch him off guard? He must live nearby. Perhaps he had been out hunting; that would account for the rifle. But what direction had he gone? Turlough cast around him but could find no obvious trail. He set out once more through the woods.

  The wound in his head throbbed steadily, making him feel sick and exhausted. The woods were silent and he was painfully aware of his own clumsy passage through the trees. He tried to ease his footfalls but that only slowed him down. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath his feet and branches jarred painfully against his body as he passed. On and on he stumbled – one weary step after another. When he saw the rabbit hanging in the snare he stopped, hardly believing his luck. Eagerly he stepped forward, then slowed and nervously examined the surrounding foliage – nothing moved – nothing stirred. He was alone and ravenous in the woods, with a dead rabbit hanging in a snare. There was only one course of action.

  He went forward cautiously and kneeling beside the noose, began to untangle the small mammal. When the cold, round thing pressed against his neck he knew instinctively what it was and who was behind him.

  ‘Jeez,’ he whimpered. ‘Don’t kill me.’

  ‘It’s not Jesus, my ungrateful friend. Not only do you attack someone who is about to help you but you steal from traps as well. On top of that you are a blasphemer, taking the name of the Lord in vain. What other crimes are you capable of?’

  ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’

  He felt something touch his hair and he jerked away.

  ‘Hold still while I examine that injury,’ an impatient voice ordered.

  He crouched, trembling as gentle fingers explored his head wound.

  ‘If I’m any judge of injuries that’s a shotgun wound.’

  Turlough winced as the fingers probed delicately.

  ‘I thought so; some of the pellets are still in the scalp.’

  The pressure of the gun on his neck eased and he knew the man had stepped away.

  ‘What poor critter had to protect themselves from you with a shotgun?’

  Slowly Turlough turned and saw the bearded man leaning casually against a tree with the rifle slung carelessly beneath one arm. Briefly Turlough wondered if he would be quick enough to tackle the man before he could bring the gun up.

  ‘The barrel of this rifle will c
rack open the other side of that thick skull if you try another dumb-ass attack.’

  Turlough blinked foolishly and then sank to the ground. This man seemed able to anticipate his every move. He shrugged hopelessly and sighed. All the fight suddenly went from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I was shot and I’m on the run from them as did it. When they catch me they’ll finish the job. I thought if I could get hold of your gun I would stand a better chance against them.’

  ‘What is it – angry father found you with his daughter or what?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Just a private matter.’ Turlough looked up at the stranger. ‘All I need is some food and a rest and then I’ll go on and not bother you again.’

  ‘Who’s after you?’

  Turlough hung his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Pick up that rabbit and head over in that direction.’

  The man pointed and Turlough did as he was told. They progressed steadily until at one point the man told him to stop.

  ‘I’ll have to blindfold you. It’s just so you won’t be able to track me.’

  Turlough stood docile while he was blindfolded. He felt the gun barrel being pushed into his hand.

  ‘Hold on to that. If you jerk or pull it’ll go off.’

  Thus they proceeded – Turlough blindfolded, stumbling in the wake of the stranger, and holding on to a rifle barrel.

  CHAPTER 2

  Turlough lay where he was for a time, nursing the ache in his head. After a while he hoisted himself on to his elbows. At once he wished he hadn’t. Pain lanced across the top of his skull and he moaned aloud.

  ‘Ah, Jeez! I wish I was dead.’

  Then he remembered his flight from the mine workings and immediately regretted the sentiment. When his surroundings stopped spinning and the ache in his head eased slightly he looked around. His host was nowhere to be seen.

  Last night he had led Turlough blindfolded through the woods. When they stopped the man had given him a slug from his canteen. Instead of water it contained raw moonshine. The brew had seared a fiery track from his throat to his abdomen before radiating a warm glow within him. After that he must have passed out, oblivious of everything until this morning.

  The youngster remembered the stranger had been working on the wound in his head when he had passed out. Gently he felt around his scalp and realized the injury now had a dressing.

  ‘Does that booger think he’s some sort of doctor?’

  Turlough surveyed his surroundings. There was nothing to indicate a dwelling or camp of any description. He concluded that his morose companion lived elsewhere and had brought him here for safety or for seclusion. The man had supplied a bed of soft grasses and a dirty blanket that covered the youngster from the elements.

  Slowly, so as not to jar his aching head, he rolled over and got cautiously to his feet. He had a great need of a drink and an urge to follow the call of nature. Tiredly he walked into the surrounding underbrush and trees.

  Finding a concealed place, Turlough lowered his trousers and squatted down, his eyes darting around as he did so. He relaxed somewhat as he settled and thought about the bearded man.

  Turlough wondered if he was a deserter from the army. The competent way he handled himself all pointed to this conclusion. The man had made a sanctuary for himself and was living off the land. If he was a deserter he would be lying low and that would suit Turlough admirably.

  Perhaps the stranger would let him stay. He certainly wasn’t unfriendly. In spite of his gruff manner he had taken care of Turlough and also gave him shelter of a kind.

  In the midst of his musings the gunshots startled him. Turlough leapt to his feet. The sudden movement started the waves of pain in his head again. Cursing under his breath he struggled into his pants and then crouched low, peering in the direction of the shots. There were shouts and then more gunfire.

  Someone came crashing into the clearing and Turlough saw it was his mystery rescuer. Suddenly there were figures swarming all over the clearing. Men in duster coats wearing black Stetsons and all pointing rifles at the man they had cornered. Turlough’s heart, already beating fast, now sped up by several degrees. His nemesis had arrived. This was the nightmare that had pursued him into these woods.

  The stranger, realizing he was surrounded, stopped moving and watched cautiously as the men circled around him. Turlough saw the blood dripping on the grass from the man’s left hand.

  He reminded Turlough of an animal at bay, trapped by the hunters. Turlough could see his eyes flicking from side to side, weighing up his chances. But it was hopeless. The ring of menacing figures closed tight around the man.

  Turlough chewed his lip and frowned down at the men who were pursuing him. He watched as a rifle butt hit the cornered man from behind. The man staggered and sagged to his knees.

  With a swift movement, the leader stepped forward and swiped the butt of his rifle against the side of the fugitive’s head. Turlough saw the wounded man try to roll with the blow but he went down heavily.

  ‘Bastard!’ grunted the man who had struck out.

  Turlough knew them, knew it was him they were after.

  ‘Where is he?’

  The hurt man mumbled something Turlough couldn’t make out. Viciously the interrogator kicked the man in the groin. Turlough winced as he saw his rescuer curl up with a low groan.

  ‘Don’t mess with me! You must have seen him. We tracked him this way.’

  Another kick emphasized the questions. The gunman raised his weapon.

  ‘First I’ll shoot you in the shoulder, then in the knees. I’ll carry on like that till you tell me where he is.’

  The shot rang out and the man on the ground jerked and cried out as the slug hit him.

  Turlough knew these men were capable of carrying out their threats. Chewing vigorously at his lower lip, he peered through the leaves at the scene in the clearing. The man on the ground was trying to raise himself up. He was kicked in the side for his efforts. Turlough knew they were going to kill the man, no matter what he told them.

  It would make no difference whether or not they got the information out of him. That was how they worked. Threats, intimidation, killing, all came second nature to them. That was how they survived. They lived on the fear of others, committing dreadful and foul deeds so that the dread of inviting their attention acted like a mantle of compliance so that no one crossed them.

  Turlough knew, looking now at their dark threatening forms, they were after him and they would keep tracking him until they found him. They would not kill him immediately. They would take him back, subject him to brutal torture and hang his body up as a warning to others.

  Turlough’s fingers searched the dirt, looking for a missile of some sort. Carefully he loosened a moss-covered rock about the size of his fist. Slowly he rose to his feet. He knew he should creep away and try to outrun his pursuers again. But the man down there had helped him and Turlough’s sense of fair play indicated that he owed him.

  With an eye that had hurled stones at birds and small animals with unerring accuracy, he measured distances and velocity. Slowly he drew back his arm. The stone curved through the air, turning over and over and plunged into the clearing.

  It took the leader of the gunmen in the ear and hit him sideways. As he fell, his trigger finger tightened, and a bullet from the weapon tore into the thigh of the gunman holding their prisoner.

  Once he saw the result of his missile, Turlough turned and plunged through the woods. He had done what he had to do and now his own skin was in danger once more. On he fled and in his great fear he forgot his wounded head and his injuries and thought only of flight.

  Crashing through the woods, he never thought once to look behind, for he knew there would be no point. It would be a certainty the armed men would be pursuing him.

  Bushes reached out and snagged his legs as he stumbled along a non-existent pathway. In his headlong flight, he crashed into trees – tripped up and fell,
his body labouring as he forced himself to get up and go on. What a fool he had been to intervene. He could not even be sure if his action would have saved the man who had helped him.

  He had seen the rock strike the leader and the effects of his reflex action on his trigger finger. Beyond that he knew only that in the next half hour or even less he would be caught and dragged back to agonizing torture and a gruesome end.

  He ran on only because he would not give up easily. While he could still run he would flee like a wounded animal till they cornered him. Only then would he turn and fight till they clubbed him into unconsciousness. With luck they would kill him out here in the woods. It was the only way he would hope to avoid the barbarities that lay in store for him.

  Turlough’s legs were beginning to falter. His breathing hurt his chest and his head was a jagged fireball of pain. Still he laboured on, forcing one leg in front of the other. He thought not of concealment, only of flight – the flight of a wounded animal running in terror from the hunt.

  The hunted animal didn’t know the fate that lay ahead; couldn’t anticipate the death that would bring oblivion. The hunted animal would run, using cunning and wiles to avoid capture. When it was caught it would accept its fate and die. Turlough had no such processes of insensitivity. He knew only too well what he faced. And then there was no ground underneath his flailing feet.

  CHAPTER 3

  As he fell, Turlough tried to get his feet under him but it was a futile effort. He tumbled over and then crashed face first to earth. For a few moments he lay winded and unmoving. Branches, grass and dirt rained down upon him from where he had hit the edge of the overhang. He was too breathless to do anything but lie there, waiting for the breath to come back into his bruised and battered body.

  While he did this he felt the ground move beneath him. It was the slow menacing heave of a prehistoric organism. At the same time he heard the shouts above and around him.