Tennessee Renegade

  Tennessee

  Renegade

  HANK J. KIRBY

  Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE: 1861

  CHAPTER 1: HOME IS THE HUNTER 1875

  CHAPTER 2: LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY

  CHAPTER 3: RANGER

  CHAPTER 4: UNO MACHO HOMBRE

  CHAPTER 5: FREE!

  CHAPTER 6: WALK TALL

  CHAPTER 7: A BETTER MAN?

  CHAPTER 8: RETURN

  CHAPTER 9: RIDE TO THE RIO

  CHAPTER 10: GRINGO’S GUNS

  CHAPTER 11: DOS GRINGOS

  CHAPTER 12: HOME ON THE RANGE

  By the same author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  1861

  Bucky Enderby ran through the damp brush, leaves and twigs from the green branches whipping at his young face. He ignored this although he felt the flesh tear and begin to bleed in several places.

  The long Kentucky hunting rifle that had belonged to his grandfather trailed from his right hand, impeding his progress a little, but he knew he was going to need it in a few minutes and hoped the rain-wet leaves hadn’t caused the home-ground gun powder to cake and so make it hard to ignite. Panting, long straw-coloured hair flapping around his ears and across his eyes, he staggered out of the brush on to the side of the knoll overlooking the secret hollow where Pa and his older brothers ran their still.

  ‘Too late! Goldarn it! I’m way too late!’ He was a little young to cuss, not that he didn’t know the words, but Ma had been a stickler for decent language and he had had his mouth washed out twice with her lye soap. Once should have been enough.

  Now, catching laboured breaths, he stood just behind a huckleberry bush and watched the men moving about below.

  Pa was lying stretched out on the ground and he could see the smear of blood matting his hair from up here. Cole was sitting with his back against a tree, mouth slack, rained-on hair in his face, one hand clawing a bloody patch on his homespun shirt. Jared was nursing a bullet-shattered leg just outside the crude sheet-iron shelter that held the still.

  There were three men under that shelter, two he knew would be the Revenue agents brought out here by the third man, Sheriff Asa Hunsecker. He said he would square with Pa for licking him after the last Turkey Shoot in front of the whole of the folk who lived in the Big Smokies and also some Kentuckians who had come across the State Line for the festivities. This was the lawman’s way of doing it, betraying the Enderbys to the Revenue men.

  ‘You son of a bitch, Hunsecker!’ Bucky Enderby sobbed as he dug deep in the pockets of his torn trousers and found the wadded rag and piece of chamois. He swiftly wiped over the gun-breech and hammer, took out the percussion caps carefully wrapped in the chamois and thumbed one on to the nipple. The hammer cocked smoothly beneath his surprisingly steady thumb and he worked the beautifully curved burr-walnut stock and butt into a comfortable position, getting down on one knee.

  The rain drumming on the sheet-iron roof above the still as Hunsecker and the Revenue men started to wreck it drowned the crisp whipcrack as the long-barrelled rifle fired, its woodwork absorbing much of the recoil. The .41 calibre ball took Hunsecker across the face, cutting open the left side like the blade of a knife. The lawman screamed and spun into the hot still, hands sizzling against the heated copper tubes. He convulsed and screamed again as he pushed himself off and fell to his knees. His head was in his hands and Bucky could hear the howling he set up way back here.

  The Revenue men, intent on smashing Pa’s still, didn’t know what had happened. They hadn’t heard the gunshot, but they soon saw the damage it had done to Asa Hunsecker’s face, never too handsome at the best of times, but now forever marked to remind him for the rest of his life that a 16-year-old backwoods kid had taken revenge for his treachery.

  By now, Bucky had reloaded and whipped the ramrod out of the long barrel as the Revenue men drew their cumbersome revolvers and fired blindly up the slope, not knowing where he was. The second shot didn’t give them his position either. It caught them half-turned away, the ball taking the gun clear out of the first agent’s hands with a dull clunking sound as the lead flattened against the blued steel of the revolver’s frame. The man lurched and cursed and the ricocheting bullet burned across the hip of his companion standing next to him. The man toppled like a Saturday-night drunk and Jared whooped like a brush turkey at mating time.

  ‘Nail ’em, young’un!’ he croaked, his voice hoarse and weak with the pain in him, it looked like the big artery in his thigh had been severed by the bullet he had taken. ‘Finish it, Bucky! Pa’s gone and so’s Cole … I’ll be joinin’ ’em right soon … You knows what to … do—’

  ‘Shut up, you stinkin’ moonshiner!’ snarled the Revenue man whose gun had been torn from his grasp. He stooped and picked up his companion’s revolver. Bucky sobbed with effort, trying to ram the third ball down the long barrel, jamming the iron ramrod in his haste. Tears blurred his vision. His ears were ringing with Jared’s words – You know what to do! – well, he did know what to do. It had been hammered into him many a time: ‘If the Revenue men come they’ll come a’shooting and that means someone’s going to die. Don’t let them leave alive, blow up the still if need be—’ He could hear Pa’s voice now….

  That was the Enderby Code: give the Revenue agents nothing in the way of evidence. They hated the hill men, killed on sight, never even differentiating between men and women and, a few times, children.

  Bucky jumped at the thumping roar of the big revolver below and, the ramrod freed at last as he pushed the ball home on its charge of powder, he saw that the agent with the numbed hand had shot Jared through the head. Choking now, Bucky thumbed home the percussion cap, cocking the hammer as he lifted the long rifle to his shoulder. He had the sight on the killer’s head, but on seeing Hunsecker on hands and knees, crawling out of the still shed towards some rocks, he changed his point of aim.

  He fired into the big copper tank bubbling above the flames, hitting the seam perfectly. It split the tank like a blow from some giant axe, and spilled the sour-mash into the firepit. The exploding tank ripped loose the condenser tubing to the reservoir of almost pure alcohol, and it too spewed into the firepit.

  He had a brief vision of blue-tongued flames leaping back up the flooding stream into the complex distillation system and then everything dissolved in a raging, rolling, expanding ball of flame that hurtled across the hollow a blink-of-an-eye ahead of a thunderclap worthy of Judgement Day.

  Bucky Enderby was blown off his feet. The huckleberry bush and those surrounding it were stripped of their leaves and fruit. Saplings twisted and whipped into fantastic corkscrew shapes around him. Dirt filled the air like buckshot. Mangled sheet-iron and sheared copper and brass whistled and howled and thudded deep into the slope.

  Something straight out of Hell seemed to roll right over Bucky’s thin, gangling body and his ears rang and whistled until he couldn’t get his bearings. The hollow was filled with fire and the forest was starting to burn. Somehow he got his shaky legs under him, found the long rifle and his possible sack with his powder-flask and spare balls, and staggered back over the crest.

  His family was gone now. Ma had gone to glory two years ago. Sister Kate had married and went to live in Georgia, but they had never heard from her, and Pa had decided long, long ago that she had died from the Spanish Fever that had swept that State at the time. Now Pa and Cole and Jared were gone, too.

  He had killed a lawman and two Revenue men and he was only four days past his sixteenth birthday.

  And he was alone in the world and didn’t know what to do.…

  CHAPTER 1

  HOME IS THE HUNTER

&nbs
p; 1875

  The girl standing in the doorway of the ranch house with the rifle cradled firmly in her arms watched the rider slow down by the corrals and then stop and dismount.

  Her mouth thinned into a hard, straight slash and her dark eyes slitted.

  ‘A whole year late and you come back wounded again!’

  She spoke aloud but only loud enough for herself to hear. She tightened her grip on the rifle, watched the man sag against the horse, head down across his arm as he still clutched the saddle horn. He was gasping for breath after the simple process of dismounting. She felt the brief wave of anxiety sweep over her – How bad was he hurt this time? – but forced it down and allowed the surge of rising hot anger to wash over her, drowning the stomach-knotting anxiety she had been fighting these last ten days, watching constantly for his return.

  ‘I see you’re hurt,’ she called quietly.

  He lifted his head and his hat fell off, revealing the sweat-damp, wheat-coloured hair, thick and bunched at the base of his neck. His face was deeply tanned and drawn with pain and exhaustion. God he was thin! She saw the paleness of his bright blue eyes, and the tautness in his wide mouth that showed through several days’ growth of yellow stubble.

  He nodded and when he spoke his voice was harsh, strained. ‘You gonna help me up to the house…?’

  She straightened, stared a moment, then turned back and passed through the doorway into the shaded cool of the parlour.

  ‘I’ll get water and bandages ready.’

  He swore softly and managed to toss the rein-ends over the middle rail of the corral and twist the rawhide strips around once or twice. It would hold the weary black and keep him from the water-trough until he cooled down. He let the saddle fall and slid his rifle out of the scabbard, worked free the ties on his war bag and let it drop. Breathing heavily, right arm pressed tightly against the blood-stained cloth of his shirt, he fumbled the rifle and got a grip on the war bag strap. He dragged it towards the house, each scrape along the gravel marking his progress.

  The girl came back to the door, walked out to the top of the short steps leading up to the porch, watching his efforts as he staggered towards her. She had thick raven-black hair that was long enough to blow a couple of strands across her unseamed forehead. The dark eyes were still narrowed but there was a softness that briefly appeared and she sighed, went down the steps and took the rifle from him, then steadied his arm with her other hand.

  ‘I ought to let you crawl all the way!’

  He turned his gaunt face towards her and his lips stretched out in a smile. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel, Kim. Just ain’t in you.’

  ‘I’m finding it easier and easier to think that way,’ she told him shortly and helped him up the steps.

  He was near exhaustion by the time they had reached the big, cool kitchen with its slate-flagged floor and the chair rocked when he dropped into it, grunting in pain.

  ‘Where is it this time?’ she asked, already tugging his grimy shirt out of his waistband. ‘Oh, for heavens sake, drop that damn gunbelt so I can work on you!’

  Actually, she unbuckled the belt, noting the many empty bullet loops and how few shells remained. The gun thudded heavily and she loosened his trouser belt, then she impatiently ripped his shirt open, the buttons popping.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Oh, shut up! It’s too ragged and filthy to wash or even attempt repair. Getting like its owner, maybe!’

  She stood back, grimacing despite herself when she saw the dark blood caking the crude wadded neckerchief he had tied over his wound. The gash was deep, the lips swollen, and she saw the raised and bruised welt of flesh going several inches to one side. He almost jumped out of the chair when she touched it.

  ‘The bullet’s still in there!’ She said it accusingly.

  He was very pale now, blood starting to ooze from the hole. ‘Looks like it’s skidded around a rib. It’ll have to come out! Oh God, Buck! I could kill you myself! Why do you do it? Why do you insist on taking on these – these damn jobs as you call them, and keep coming back to me to dig out bullets or sew up knife wounds, splint a broken arm or leg? When is it going to end? Can you tell me that, Buck Enderby? When in the name of all that’s holy is it going to end!’

  She flung herself across the room to where she had an iron kettle steaming on the wood range, her teeth biting into her bottom lip, eyes flooding with tears which she was unable to hold back. She wiped the back of a hand across her face irritably, poured hot water into an enamel bowl and added some disinfectant that made it go cloudy.

  She tried to stifle the sob, but it was as much from frustration as upset. She worked jerkily, anger in every movement, slapped the hot water on to the wound and, ignoring his roar of startled pain, began to clean away the dried blood and accumulated dirt.

  ‘Infection just starting to set in! How long have you been like this?’

  ‘Few … days,’ he gasped, trying to bite back against the pain. ‘There was some trouble in—’

  ‘I’m not interested!’ she snapped rudely. ‘I don’t care how it happened. It’s happened and it needs attention which I am now giving you – and make the most of it, Buck Enderby! Hate it or love it, it’s the very last time you’ll receive such attention from me!’

  He twisted his drawn face towards her, puzzled.

  ‘I’ll dig out this bullet and I’ll cleanse and treat the wound, but the next time you get shot, you go see a sawbones, or – or a damn Indian medicine man for all I care! Just don’t bring your troubles back here! I’ve had enough.’

  He moaned and groaned and grunted his way through the probing and removal of the bullet and sagged on to the kitchen table on his back where she had made him lay during the operation. She wadded clean cotton into the tunnel of the wound, made a pad to go over the outside and tore strips off a bed sheet to bind it in place. She helped him to his feet and headed him towards the tin hip-bath she had placed near the stove.

  ‘Get undressed,’ she ordered, as she took a pail outside and pumped water. He was sitting in the empty bath when she came back in and she snapped at him to get out. ‘D’you want your bandages to get all wet? Just stand in it and I’ll wash you down with wet cloths.’

  ‘I’m not a child, damnit!’ He almost fell and she steadied him.

  ‘You sure act like one! You’ve never grown up. You turned up here seven or eight years ago wearing the rags of a Confederate uniform, covered in dirt under which I found three bullet wounds and two sabre cuts and a stone arrowhead. It seems to me I’ve spent the intervening years doing the same thing, over and over again!’

  ‘And you’ve had a bellyful,’ he said and gasped and rose to his toes as water sloshed over him.’God, that’s cold!’

  There was no more conversation until she had scrubbed and soaped him clean. She even dried him, brought him fresh clothes and helped him dress. As he sprawled in the chair, shaking and pale, she poured him some strong coffee, and filled the cup with whiskey. He sipped gratefully, holding the thick china cup in both hands.

  ‘I’m mighty beholden to you, Kim. I’ll never forget all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I hope you won’t. But just remember, no more.’

  ‘You’re kicking me out?’

  She sighed, taking a chair across the wet table from him, pouring herself some coffee. She busied herself with sugar and cream, stirring longer than was necessary, not looking at him as she spoke. ‘It’s been too long, Buck. You worked hard and helped me build up this ranch and for that I’m very grateful. Then you seemed to get some kind of wanderlust in you. Couldn’t stay put more than a few weeks: once or twice you managed a few months but I saw what an effort it was for you. You always had some “job” or scheme that was going to make you a lot of money so you could put it into the ranch and really stock it up and buy more land, build a dam, and I’m still waiting for it to happen!’

  He scratched at his head, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead. ‘I always seemed to run into so
me unexpected trouble, Kim: lawmen, crooked lawmen, double-crossers, wrong information—’

  ‘And the Enderby quick temper! Don’t forget that, without it, you wouldn’t have had a quarter of the “trouble” that’s plagued and frustrated you….’

  He looked at her steadily now, a flintiness in his eyes. ‘A man has to have his standards, my Pa told me that and I’ve tried to be like him. I won’t be put-upon, or insulted or cheated by any man, or woman. If I have to settle things with my gun or fists, I’m ready to do that….’

  ‘More than ready, Buck, that’s mostly your problem. You like trouble. You enjoy risks and fighting, but we don’t have to go into all that. Just take note that from now on there is no haven for you here. You can ride out or stay and help me work the ranch, and we’re doing pretty well. It’s hard, but we’re starting to show a profit and—’

  ‘After all these years! You oughta be starting to show a profit, for God’s sake!’

  ‘You have to work for what you get in this life, I’ve always believed that.’

  ‘Me too, you think I’m looking for some sort of easy ride? I risk my neck and I work damned hard on these chores I take on. I sell what talents I have, my muscles and my gun….’

  ‘And only once or twice have you come out ahead with a few dollars that aren’t enough to buy a decent-sized herd! It’s just not good enough, Buck!’ She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘Oh, I know what chances you took to get those dollars, how hard it’s been, the long recovery from your wounds. But did you stop to think of what I have to go through? Wondering where you are, especially when you don’t turn up on time, whether you’re even still alive…?’ Her voice was beginning to catch now and she felt herself tightening up with the effort but she didn’t really care. This had been building up for a long time: it had to be said, should have been said long ago, but it was going to be said right now! ‘Buck, I love you and I think you love me—’