The Legend of Jack Donovan (Bailey Clan Westerns Book 1)

Book summary

Jack Donovan, raised by a wagon train scout after a tragedy on the Oregon Trail, becomes a drifter at thirteen and quickly builds a reputation as a gunslinger. Returning from the Civil War, he finds himself fighting to defend the Double M ranch from a ruthless carpetbagger. THE LEGEND OF JACK DONOVAN is a gripping Western set in the unforgiving American frontier.

Excerpt from The Legend of Jack Donovan (Bailey Clan Westerns Book 1)

Chapter 1: The Stranger

He rode into town from the west. It was evening, and the setting sun was behind him as he rode. A tall, dusty man on a tall, dusty horse, riding easily in the saddle as he walked his horse down the dusty main street, with another horse on a lead rope tied to the pommel of his saddle. In fact, it was the only street of the town, if it could even be called that. It was just a cleared expanse of dried mud, which would turn into a morass when the rains came. It had never been graded and probably never would. The town itself consisted of the usual false-fronted buildings lining the street on both sides. There was a hotel offering food and rooms for rent, a general store, some office buildings, the marshal’s office next to the jail, and the usual saloons. Some distance away from the commercial buildings were the residential buildings of the town’s inhabitants: log cabins, adobe houses, some shacks, and even a few dugouts in the hillside. The town went by the name of Cedar Creek, and its sign boasted a population of 548, which included the surrounding cattle ranches. The stranger noted all this as he slowly rode down the street. He was a man accustomed to being alert and wary of his surroundings.

The stranger tied the horses to the hitching rail in front of the First Chance Saloon and jerked his rifle from its sheath. Banging his hat against his clothes to remove some of the accumulated trail dust, he mounted the boardwalk to the batwing doors. His keen blue eyes looked tired but still alert as he surveyed the interior of the saloon and the people who were there. There was a long bar taking up one side of the room, and a few tables were scattered around with chairs. Two hard-looking men were at the bar, dressed like cowboys, but the stranger immediately pegged them as gunslingers for hire. He had seen a few in his time. There were other men at the bar, but he figured them to be locals. There were townspeople seated at tables as well, but his attention was drawn to a table where four men were playing cards. Two of them he took to be professional gamblers. The third was a tough-looking man who shaped up to be a miner. The fourth was a young man, barely 20 years old. A good-looking youngster with long blond hair, he appeared to be on the way to being drunk, with a half-empty glass of whiskey at his elbow.

The stranger pushed the batwing doors apart and walked into the saloon. Everyone looked up to see who the newcomer was. They saw a tall, well-built man in his late twenties with broad shoulders and a slim waist, dressed in the usual range clothing with a flat-crowned black hat. He wore a low-slung, tied-down gun on his right thigh, and from the looks of the worn and polished gun butt and holster, both had seen much use. He carried his Henry rifle as though it were an extension of his left arm. His face looked drawn and tired, but the blue eyes were still alert. He had an angular face, hard-looking but with good features; and while he could never be called handsome, there was character in that face that made it attractive. As he entered, the young man looked up and caught his eye. The young man started to get up and began to say something like, “Ja…,” but even though he was startled, he caught the almost imperceptible shake of the stranger’s head and subsided in his seat.

The stranger walked up to the bar, and when the barkeep came over, he slapped a coin on the counter and said, “Whiskey, a double, and not that rotgut you usually serve. Pour it from the bottle under the counter.” The barkeep stared at him for a moment and was about to protest, but then he looked into the stranger’s eyes, and not liking what he saw, he pulled out a bottle from under the counter and poured the stranger a double. The stranger downed the drink in a single swallow and sighed. “That sure does settle the dust,” he commented. “The same again.” The barkeep poured him another double, and the stranger picked it up and then turned around to face the room, leaning his back against the bar. He still held his rifle in his left hand and the drink in his right as he watched the four men playing cards at the table.

Suddenly, the miner slammed his fist on the table and snarled, “Someone here is cheating for sure!” He glared at the young man and said, “Maybe it’s you, kid! You seem to be winning a lot just when I’m losing!” The young man turned slightly pale, but he gave the miner a level look and said, “In this country, it’s an insult to call a man a cheat. But I’m giving you the chance to take them words back.” The miner stood up and snarled, “Like hell I will! You’re a cheat!” Without taking his eyes off the miner, the young man slowly stood up, and his hand dropped to his gun. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. The miner looked confused, as the youngster now appeared to be stone-cold sober, and he threw a glance at the two hard-looking men at the bar. Then he challenged the young man, saying, “I’m no gunfighter, but I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands if you have the guts.” The young man smiled wryly and told him, “I’m no gunfighter myself. But seeing as how it was you who insulted me, I figure I get the right to choice of weapon, so draw when you’re ready.” He paused and then added harshly, “Either draw or eat your words right here, right now!” The miner again threw a glance at the two men at the bar, and one of them nodded his head slightly. He turned back to the young man and said, “Okay then, kid, this is where you get yours!” In the absolute silence of the room, as everyone waited for the explosive action to start, the click of the rifle hammer seemed extraordinarily loud. “You two gentlemen just turn around and face the bar,” the stranger said without raising his voice.

With everyone’s attention focused on the unfolding scene at the table, the stranger had unobtrusively placed his glass on the counter and had turned his body slightly so that he now had the two hard-looking men on his left under his rifle, while his right hand could draw his six-gun and point it towards the table or towards the two men at the bar. Having caught the nod that one of the men gave the miner, the stranger realized that this was a setup for a kill, and the young man was the target. Hearing the click of the hammer and the stranger’s words, the two men half turned towards him with their hands dropping to their gun butts, only to find the barrel of the rifle pointing unwaveringly straight at them. “I wouldn’t,” was all the stranger said, but it froze their hands all the same. One of them blustered, “What the hell, mister, we didn’t do nothing, so why the hell are you pointing a gun at us?”

The stranger sighed and said, “Either face the bar, gentlemen, or I’ll put a bullet through the two of you. This here is a Henry, and believe me, it can do the job with one bullet. Now!” Cursing, the two men turned and faced the bar. “Hands on the bar, gentlemen!” the stranger added. “I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation!” Cursing again, the two men complied and placed their hands on the bar. Taking a step away from the bar, the stranger told the barkeep, “Do me a favor and move over and face them.” The barkeep shrugged and moved until he was in front of the men. The stranger then told the two gamblers, “Gentlemen, do you have a stake in this? If you do, draw your cards and we’ll see how they lay; if not, then I would be mighty pleased if you would place your hands on the table.” The two gamblers hastily placed their hands prominently on the table. “Mister, we got nothing to do with whatever this is,” one of them said. The stranger nodded agreeably, and looking at the miner, he said, “Well now, you’re free to draw, so go ahead and show the kid what you got.” The miner looked stunned at the turn of events, and he blustered, “I’m no gunslinger, but I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands if he has the guts to face me!”

One of the men at the bar was slowly, and as he figured, unobtrusively sliding his right hand off the bar to drop it and grab his gun. The stranger casually raised his rifle slightly, and a shot rang out. The man screamed and clutched his right hand with his left. He turned around, and everyone could see that the bullet had gone through the center of his palm. The other man half-turned but turned back immediately when he saw the rifle barrel centered on him. “Both of you drop your gun belts right now,” the stranger ordered. The injured man moaned, “Hell, you shot my hand; how am I supposed to do that?” The stranger gave an indifferent shrug and said, “Use your left hand, unless you want a bullet through that as well!” Cursing, both the men unbuckled their gun belts and let them drop to the ground. “How about you?” the stranger asked the barkeep. “You want to draw some chips in this game?”

“I ain’t a fool, mister. I ain’t going to argue with a rifle,” the barkeep said, and placed both his hands on the counter. “Wise choice,” the stranger said. Then he told the miner, “Either draw or get down on your knees and tell the kid that you’re a liar.” The miner turned red in the face and snarled, “You’ll have to kill me first!” To be branded a liar was the worst insult in the West at the time, where a man’s word was his bond, and most deals were done with just a handshake. Nobody would have anything to do with a known liar. “Have it your way then,” the stranger said in an indifferent tone of voice, as though he was discussing the weather, and a gun suddenly appeared in his right hand. The gamblers would later swear that they never saw him draw, but that one moment the gun was in his holster and the next it was in his hand. The miner’s face turned pale, and he fell to his knees. “Please, mister, I was just funnin’. I didn’t mean anything. They paid me to do it,” he said, pointing to the two men at the bar. “Doesn’t let you off the hook,” the stranger replied coldly. “You were willing to be a part of a cowardly murder, so tell the kid that you’re a liar, or I’ll shoot you right now!” He thumbed back the hammer of the revolver, and the click seemed to galvanize the miner. He screamed, “I’m a liar! I’m a liar!”

“Take his gun, Kid,” the stranger told the young man. “And pick up the guns of these two yahoos as well.” The injured man was sitting on the ground and tying his bandana around his palm, but the other man snarled, “Big man when you got the drop! I’ll find you one of these days, and we’ll see how you stack up to a fair shooting.”