Tempered by the fires of his turbulent past, Jebediah Taylor knew it was a matter of kill-or-be-killed when he found himself confronted by a band of hired killers out to destroy everything he loved; the ranch he had built in the high lonesome reaches of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and the beautiful Megan Macloury. Major Bill Tower, a renegade scallywag from Texas would stop at nothing to attain his evil ends. That meant death to any man foolish enough to stand in his way—Death by six-gun fury or a violent end beneath the hooves of the fifteen-thousand cattle he planned to stampede onto land he had no legal claim to. Would a Forty-five Colt Peacemaker in the hands of the fastest gun in the west be enough to stop him? For Jebediah Taylor the answer to that question was a moot point.
At a poker table in the rear, four bad cases sat playing five-card stud and talking loudly. "I tell you the Major's not going to allow no two-bit ranchers to keep him off the range." A big dirty-faced man wearing a beat-up Confederate cavalryman's hat responded forcefully to the comment. "Shut up, Hardy! You talk too damned much. Besides, we don't expect much resistance. Who's gonna buck fifty guns?" >br< Jeb stepped up to the bar and plopped two bits down. "Whiskey." As the bartender reached for a bottle from the shelf, Jeb tapped a coin on the bar top. "From the bottle under the bar if you don't mind," he said coolly. "Sorry, can't do it," the bartender said. "Private stock-for special clientele. And the last time I looked, your name wasn't on the list. That's Kentucky whiskey, mister," he continued with an air of superiority; "only served to customers with discriminating taste." "That's me," Jeb smiled." His eyes took on a glassy caste as he suddenly reached across, grabbed the barkeep by his shirt, and jerked him halfway over the bar. "Now, whiskey-man," he said. . . . "reach under that there bar; take out the bottle and. . . . pour!" Yessir!" The bartender fumbled for the bottle. . . and with a shaking hand poured the whiskey; spilling as much on the bar as went in the glass. At this point, a large bow-legged man with a sweat stained hat, crooked yellow teeth, and a tied down gun got up from his chair at the poker table and slowly approached the bar. The three prospectors near the window immediately straightened up from where they were hanging over the counter-top and, leaving their drinks half-finished, hurried for the door. Jeb casually tossed off his whiskey and watched the yellow toothed man in the fly-specked mirror. With an air of one used to running roughshod over lesser men, the man swaggered up and put his foot on the boot-rail. "You're takin' in a lot of territory, mister," he said in a bullying tone. "Where do you get off coming in here playin' it all high and mighty and roughin' folks up? Bob there at the bar's my compadre, and you used him a mite poorly. I think you should apologize!" He glanced over his shoulder. "What about it boys?" "That's right!" they answered. A short man with thinning hair and wearing a grease stained buckskin vest got up from his chair. "I'm with Luther," he spouted in a raspy voice. "Any man who messes with a friend of our'n ought to say he's sorry. How about it, mister?" Jeb smiled a cold steely smile and slowly stepped away from the bar. "Of course, gentlemen." he said. "Maybe an apology is in order." As he spoke, his voice was low and calm with an edge that would cut an oak tree. "I'm real sorry, mister barkeep....sorry for not drinking the rot-gut whiskey you serve in this poor excuse of a saloon. I'm also sorry for eaves-dropping on a bunch of no-good land grabbing skunks planning to rob the innocent ranchers of this valley!" Why, you son-of-a-_____!" Luther reached for his gun! Jeb hesitated a split second palmed his Colt, and fired two rolling shots. Luther's pistol, only half drawn, slipped back into his holster as he crumpled to the floor and lay there, a crimson stain slowly growing on the front of his shirt. The bad case in the buckskin vest just took a long step backwards and folded into his chair, a look of stark disbelief fixed on his face. "Anyone else need an apology? Jeb asked through his clinched teeth. The three men at the table and the barkeep were obvious in keeping their hands in plain sight. No one said a word. "You!" Jeb pointed his Colt at the man in the buckskin vest. "Carry this message back to that bottom dwelling excuse of a boss you work for. Tell him he's bucking a stacked deck here. Warn him! If he brings fifty gunmen into this valley, he'd better bring his own preacher and a gravedigger cause he's gonna need both....one to bury 'em and the other to pray for their mangy souls." Keeping the room covered, Jeb slowly backed out the door leaving the yellow toothed man in a grisly heap on the barroom floor. He had two bullet holes in his left vest pocket you could have covered with a half-dollar.
About Mitchell de Mosley
In the footsteps of the writers who chronicled the western expansion, Mitchell de Mosley’s works paint a tapestry of the American Frontier. He wields the written craft with a talent matched only by an imagination that rises to the task. BLOOD ON THE RANGE is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up.
Tempered by the fires of his turbulent past, Jebediah Taylor knew it was a matter of kill-or-be-killed when he found himself confronted by a band of hired killers out to destroy everything he loved; the ranch he had built in the high lonesome reaches of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and the beautiful Megan Macloury. Major Bill Tower, a renegade scallywag from Texas would stop at nothing to attain his evil ends. That meant death to any man foolish enough to stand in his way—Death by six-gun fury or a violent end beneath the hooves of the fifteen-thousand cattle he planned to stampede onto land he had no legal claim to. Would a Forty-five Colt Peacemaker in the hands of the fastest gun in the west be enough to stop him? For Jebediah Taylor the answer to that question was a moot point.
In the footsteps of the writers who chronicled the western expansion, Mitchell de Mosley’s works paint a tapestry of the American Frontier. He wields the written craft with a talent matched only by an imagination that rises to the task. BLOOD ON THE RANGE is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up.