Wolf Creek Read online

  Western Fictioneers Presents:

  Wolf Creek Book 13

  Massacre!

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Copyright © 2015 by Western Fictioneers

  Cover art: “The Blanket Signal” by Frederic Remington

  Cover design by L. J. Washburn and Troy D. Smith

  Western Fictioneers logo design by

  Jennifer Smith-Mayo

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This ebook is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Visit our website at www.westernfictioneers.com

  Beneath the mask, Ford Fargo is not one but a posse of America's leading western authors who have pooled their talents to create a series of rip-snortin', old fashioned sagebrush sagas. Saddle up. Read ‘em Cowboy! These are the legends of Wolf Creek.

  THE WRITERS OF WOLF CREEK, AND THEIR CHARACTERS

  Bill Crider - Cora Sloane, schoolmarm

  Phil Dunlap - Rattlesnake Jake, bounty hunter

  Wayne D. Dundee – Seamus O’Connor, deputy marshal

  James J. Griffin - Bill Torrance, owner of the livery stable

  Jerry Guin - Deputy Marshal Quint Croy

  Douglas Hirt - Marcus Sublette, schoolteacher and headmaster

  Jackson Lowry - Wilson “Wil” Marsh, photographer

  L. J. Martin - Angus “Spike” Sweeney, blacksmith

  Matthew P. Mayo - Rupert "Rupe" Tingley, town drunk

  Meg Mims – Phoebe Wright

  Clay More - Logan Munro, town doctor

  Kerry Newcomb - James Reginald de Courcey, artist with a secret

  Cheryl Pierson - Derrick McCain, farmer

  Matthew Pizzolato - Wesley Quaid, drifter

  Robert J. Randisi - Dave Benteen, gunsmith

  James Reasoner - G.W. Satterlee, county sheriff

  Frank Roderus - John Hix, barber

  Jacquie Rogers – Gib Norwood, dairy farmer; Abby Potter, madam

  Jory Sherman – Roman Hatchett, trapper

  Troy D. Smith - Charley Blackfeather, scout; Sam Gardner, town marshal

  Charles Steel – Kelly O’Brian, small rancher

  Chuck Tyrell - Billy Below, young cowboy; Sam Jones, gambler

  L. J. Washburn - Ira Breedlove, owner of the Wolf’s Den Saloon

  Big Jim Williams – Hutch Higgins, farmer

  THE WOLF CREEK SERIES:

  Book 1 Bloody Trail

  Book 2 Kiowa Vengeance

  Book 3 Murder in Dogleg City

  Book 4 The Taylor County War

  Book 5 Showdown at Demon’s Drop

  Book 6 Hell on the Prairie

  Book 7 The Quick and the Dying

  Book 8 Night of the Assassins

  Book 9 A Wolf Creek Christmas

  Book 10 O Deadly Night

  Book 11 Stand Proud

  Book 12 The Dead of Winter

  Book 13 Massacre!

  Appearing as Ford Fargo in this episode:

  Chapter 1: Jackson Lowry

  Chapter 2: Bill Crider

  Chapter 3: Jerry Guin

  Chapter 4: Charles Steel

  Chapter 5: Troy D. Smith

  INTRODUCTION

  In Wolf Creek, everyone has a secret.

  That includes our author, Ford Fargo—but we have decided to make his identity an open secret. Ford Fargo is the “house name” of Western Fictioneers—the only professional writers’ organization devoted exclusively to the traditional western, and which includes many of the top names working in the genre today.

  Wolf Creek is our playground.

  It is a fictional town in 1871 Kansas. Each WF member participating in our project has created his or her own “main character,” and each chapter in every volume of our series will be primarily written by a different writer, with their own townsperson serving as the principal point-of-view character for that chapter (or two, sometimes.) It will be sort of like a television series with a large ensemble cast; it will be like one of those Massive Multi-player Role-playing Games you can immerse yourself in online. And it is like nothing that has ever been done in the western genre before.

  You can explore our town and its citizens at our website if you wish:

  http://wolfcreekkansas.yolasite.com/

  Or you can simply turn this page, and step into the dusty streets of Wolf Creek.

  Just be careful. It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to die there.

  Troy D. Smith

  Wolf Creek series editor

  Chapter One

  This time of day suited Wilson Marsh best. They always said it was darkest before the dawn, and Wil appreciated how he could go about his business and not be seen by any of the town's busybodies. Most of Wolf Creek still slept. A few hardy souls had gone to work early. He stood in the middle of South Street and sucked in a deep breath. So many smells caused his nostrils to expand. The livery stable needed mucking, but the new stableboy was a little touched in the head and did the same stall over and over, ignoring the rest. The baker already worked to turn out bread for a starving town. Would the good citizens of Wolf Creek gobble up the tender loaves if they knew how they were made? In the distance he heard sawing, followed quickly by frantic hammering. Like him, Elijah Gravely plied his trade when no one was about to look and wonder and ask questions no one should answer. The undertaker always finished his coffin building, and sometimes coffin filling, before the first ray of dawn poked into the sky. It made for better relations with the businesses around him not having their customers reminded of their own mortality as they shopped.

  For his part, Wil preferred to avoid the marshal or that nosy Sheriff Satterlee watching his every move. They suspected he took blue pictures of most of the women in town—or the ones he could inveigle into disrobing for his camera—and disliked him for it. It wasn't illegal. Nothing he did was illegal. Exactly. It was just that no one in town appreciated his ways of earning a living.

  He began walking briskly, slipping into deeper shadows as he passed the sheriff's office. A coal oil lamp had been turned down low, but he doubted Satterlee was inside. Wil checked every day or two for new prisoners. Magazines back East paid a pretty penny for photographs of desperados. They paid even more if those road agents and outlaws were dead. That was his speciality. Pictures of the dead. For the past few weeks, Gravely hadn't been much help in putting a few silver cartwheels into his pocket, either. The mortician sometimes convinced the bereaved that a picture of their deceased loved one carried great memory and was worthy of tucking a photograph away in the family Bible for future generations.

  Nobody important enough, rich enough or loved enough had died in Wolf Creek lately. That set Wil's belly to grumbling from lack of food, especially after the baker had caught him going through his garbage and threatened to give him a proper hiding, but that would change soon enough with his new venture. He patted his coat to be sure the photographs hadn't slipped out. He had done a piss poor job of sewing up a hole in the pocket. More expert hands were needed for the chore.

  That
thought made him turn from his intended route. Short Finger would wait for him. He took quick turns and ended up behind Li Wong's laundry. If the baker had threatened to whip him good, Li Wong had promised even more dire punishment if he got caught here. Wil knew he should avoid this part of town entirely, but so much of his business came from Hop Town. Tsu Chiao ran the opium den with an iron fist. He also collected in specie. Dealing with the Chinaman took time, and Wil always refused the offer to smoke from the hash pipe, but that never stopped Tsu from conducting business. Only, business had been slack lately. Either that or Tsu got his imported opium from San Francisco without a problem. Wil's contacts in New York always came through when the Celestial's Far East suppliers slacked off.

  But Tsu avoided him and had barred him from even entering the Red Chamber. That took more money out of his pocket. Instinctively, Wil touched his coat pocket again. This was a new venture, these pictures, but not one that would bring him more than a few dollars. Too many middlemen were needed.

  The laundry backdoor creaked open and a short, slender woman struggled to bring out two buckets of steaming water. Seeing Jing Jing set Wil's heart racing. He crouched down behind a water barrel and watched as she moved with incredible grace and beauty. Only once did he hunker down to get out of sight. Jing Jing's father came out and rattled off a staccato burst of Chinese that set the girl to bowing and scraping. This caused Wil's ire to rise. Li shouldn't talk to her like that, no matter what he said. It wasn't right.

  The laundry owner went back inside, and Wil moved to get a better look. The girl poured both buckets of hot water into a galvanized tub, then shucked off her padded jacket and thin muslin pants. He caught his breath. If only he had a camera now! This shot would be for his own collection. None of his usual customers, Appleford or the new Methodist minister or anybody would ever share such a glorious photograph.

  Jing Jing stepped into the tub, reached and picked up a bar of soap. In his mind Wil took a thousand pictures. He had to content himself with his memory, but that wasn't a problem. He knew what he saw would grow in his imagination. Every white foamy trail, every swipe, the way the water ran down her sallow body, finding just the right ravines as it washed away the dirt burned into his mind.

  All too soon, she stepped from the tub, dressed and went to a large basket just outside the door. She used the same water she had bathed in to wash the clothes. For once, Wil wished he had left his dirty clothes. To have clean clothes next to his skin that had been washed in water that had touched Jing Jing . . .

  He pulled himself away and got back onto the main street. People stirred now, clerks putting goods out on the boardwalk and others beginning their cleaning chores. None matched Jing Jing's ablutions. Wil sighed as he walked faster. He liked that word. Ablution. Someone like Jing Jing should never be only taking a bath because that sounded too ordinary. There was nothing ordinary about her.

  And her father swung a mean wooden paddle used for dying clothes. Twice Wil had been on the receiving end of that paddle. Part of his forehead had been dyed blue for a week. The second time he thought Li Wong had raised blood, but it had only been the color of the dye when it dried on his back.

  Wil passed the Wolf Creek Expositor office, and through the open door saw the editor at work setting type. His printer's devil, Hans, struggled to clean the printing press in the back of the large room before a new edition went to bed. Wil made a mental note to see if editor Appleford might be interested in pictures of Indian arrows, knives and even beadwork. He could tell him it all came from warriors left for dead. Appleford was a skeptical son of a bitch, but with the right story he could be gulled into believing about anything. All he had to do was convince the editor a story that would sell Expositors.

  He raised his hand and made a futile attempt to wave when he saw an Indian a dozen yards ahead of him. Doing so from the middle of the street might get tongues to wagging on who he was greeting so early in the morning. Wil saw Short Finger duck down an alley. The Kiowa had seen him. Since he didn't turn his back and pretend to ignore him, Short Finger was ready to deal. Another touch to his pocket reassured him he had the pictures the Indian wanted.

  Or pictures the Indian would want. Bad. The only problem he saw was that this was a one-time deal.

  "You here, Short Finger?" He walked down the alley. The sun had yet to light this back way, and he almost tripped over the Kiowa.

  Short Finger huddled down, arms wrapped around himself. Wil saw the hide bag on the ground next to the Indian and forced himself not to smile. The deal was as good as done.

  "You have them?"

  "Right here." He took the envelope from his pocket, opened the flap and drew out the top picture just enough for the Indian to see. "It's powerful magic. I don't know if I should trust it to you."

  "All three?"

  "Well, yeah, I got pictures of the three, just as you asked." Wil stretched the truth here. He already had the photographs when he approached Short Finger. "You must have a powerful hate goin' on to want these."

  "They killed my sons. All of them."

  Wil forced himself to remain impassive. He hadn't realized the depth of Short Finger's hatred and had just put off the man's desire for the pictures as petty mischief. This was heap big magic.

  "I'm not sure I should let you have them. This can turn itself right around and come back on you. The pictures have stolen the souls of those three braves. Right here. You've got proof of that." He drew the pictures a bit farther from the envelope and let Short Finger see them. "Their souls are captured by the camera."

  "Mine now. You give to me." Short Finger reached out, using the hand that proved the truth of his name. The first two fingers had either been hacked off at the first knuckle or had simply never grown right.

  "That bag? You've brought what I want for an exchange?"

  He took the hide bag when Short Finger stood and thrust it out for him. Wil began to get uneasy. Short Finger rested his hand on the buckhorn-handled knife sheathed at his belt. The way his stunted fingers drummed sounded like a death rattle. He opened the bag, glanced inside, then passed over the photographs.

  "You have truly taken their souls and captured them here?"

  "That's what some people say. Me, I don't know."

  "You take plenty of pictures. I know. None of them have souls." Short Finger exploded like a rabbit from a brush and got to the end of the alley before Wil realized it.

  "You use them carefully," he called after the retreating Indian. "They're right dangerous."

  He sagged in relief when he saw that his warning failed to reach Kiowa ears. He retreated to the street now filled with wagons rumbling along as freighters prepared for another day of commerce. With almost tender fingers, he opened the hide bag again and began examining what he had swapped the photographs for. Intricate beadwork headbands, a dozen handmade knapped flint arrowheads, a pair of six-inch long obsidian knife blades, feathered ornaments befitting a Kiowa chief's war bonnet and small stones that might have been turquoise or some other bluish stone. They had holes drilled in them for a cord to make a necklace.

  Wil wasted no time getting to Pratt's Mercantile. Waymon Pratt chewed out a young boy for not getting the display set up yet. To catch the store owner's attention, Wil held up the bag, then reached inside and pulled out part of a beaded headband. For the first time he could remember, Wil saw a big smile cross Pratt's face. The portly man motioned for Wil to go inside. He cuffed the boy and ordered him to do better with the crates on display, just to keep him occupied.

  "You got it?"

  "I do," Wil said. He spread the plunder onto a counter. Pratt's fat fingers worked through the pieces. The ones that caused him to pause were the bits of stone with the holes drilled in them for a necklace. He finally pushed it all back in Wil's direction.

  "This is shit. There's not a decent piece in the lot that I can sell back East."

  "A shame," Wil said. He began to replace everything in the bag, not saying a word but taking his time
when he got to the stones. "Yup, it's a real shame, but since you got first refusal, I can sell these in good conscience."

  "Sell them to who? There ain't nobody else in Wolf Creek that'd take them off your hands."

  Wil nodded sagely, snugged the rawhide cord and started to leave.

  "Wait," Pratt called. "Who're you selling them to?"

  "Nobody in town. Nobody you'd know."

  "That freighter. The one from Wichita. He's the one buyin' that?"

  Wil touched the brim of his bowler and said, "Good day to you, Pratt. I've got to hurry. My buyer's fixing to leave any time now."

  "It is that no account muleskinner! Tell me it isn't."

  "All right, Pratt. I'll tell you it isn't, though it pains me to ever lie."

  "Like hell it does, Wilson Marsh. Get your ass back here."

  "You're interested now? You did refuse. I gave you first refusal, not second. I'd have to get at least as much as—" He put his hand over his mouth. "Almost revealed a confidence there."

  Twenty minutes later, Wil left Pratt's Mercantile a hundred dollars richer. He hadn't expected this much for a pile of old beads and arrowheads. The Kiowa bought metal tips for their arrows now, likely from the very freighter he had used as a cat's-paw to get Pratt interested in dickering. He headed for Asa Pepper's saloon for a celebratory drink, then slowed when he saw an urchin huddled down in the doorway leading to a dozen cribs where the soiled doves performed their services for the cowboys and soldiers who frequented the town. Wil knew more than a few of them, having taken photographs to sell. One madam had asked for a complete collection of all her ladies of the evening to use for a catalog in what she thought was an upscale brothel.