Sins of Motherlode Read online

  The Sins of Motherlode

  Sin was a profitable commodity in a mining town like Motherlode. Lust made money for the madam, wrath and avarice created targets for the manhunter, and the newspaperman was greedy for stories.

  ‘He had no right to take you against your will.’ When a prostitute is raped during the robbery of the Motherlode stage, Jonah Durrell seems to be the only man who cares. The handsome manhunter can never resist a damsel in distress. He is determined to get justice for Miss Jenny’s girl, and recruits Robinson, an enthusiastic newspaperman who witnessed the attack. The women are not meek and passive though. They are willing to take matters, and guns, into their own hands to survive in a tough world. Together, with Durrell and Robinson, they begin to uncover the layers of lust, avarice and envy in town, bringing down the wrath of their enemies. Can the women of sin get the justice they deserve?

  By the same author

  Rocking W.

  The Paducah War

  The Horseshoe Feud

  Darrow’s Law

  Cullen’s Quest

  San Felipe Guns

  Darrow’s Word

  Hyde’s Honour

  Navajo Rock

  Darrow’s Badge

  Two-Gun Trouble

  Silver Express

  The Judas Metal

  Darrow’s Gamble

  Dynamite Express

  Outlaw Express

  The Sins of Motherlode

  Gillian F. Taylor

  ROBERT HALE

  © Gillian F. Taylor 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2702-0

  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 Gillian F. Taylor to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I do beg your pardon, yeah?’ The tall man drew his gangly legs in sharply after inadvertently bumping them against the skirts of the woman sitting opposite him in the stagecoach. Although nearly thirty, his long limbs gave him a coltish look. Curls of thick, brown hair were escaping the control of his patent hair oil and his bony face was unsuccessfully decorated with the latest style in side-whiskers, but he had a winning smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ the young woman replied quietly. She was a green-eyed redhead, her hair worn in a coiled braid on the back of her head.

  The man raised his broad-brimmed hat to her. ‘Hulton F. Robinson at your service, ma’am.’

  ‘Miss . . . Waterford,’ she replied.

  Robinson noticed a very slight hesitation before she spoke her surname, but before he could form a polite question, one of the other three male passengers spoke up.

  ‘Hulton F. Robinson? I seem to recall seeing that name in a newspaper.’

  Robinson smiled proudly. ‘I’m a correspondent for the New-York Tribune, and the Rhode Island Chronicle,’ he added.

  The other man nodded. ‘The Chronicle; I used to read that sometimes, back at home, ’fore I come along of Colorado.’

  Robinson’s smile sagged briefly. It was wonderful to have his name recognized, but the local paper from his hometown hardly compared to the prestige of the mighty New-York Tribune. A few moments later, his natural optimism had reasserted itself, and he was digging in his jacket pocket for the notebook and pencil that accompanied him everywhere.

  ‘May I ask, what brings you to Colorado, Mister. . . ?’

  ‘Hopgood. Well, sir, I’m a carpenter. . . .’

  Within a couple of minutes, Robinson had got the names and businesses of the other three men on the coach and the second female passenger. His pencil flickered across his notepad, producing a shorthand that was surprisingly neat, given the rocking of the coach on the dirt trail. The pencil jerked across the page when a couple of shots cracked out from somewhere nearby. As the passengers looked up, they heard a shout, demanding the coach to halt.

  ‘Bandits!’ exclaimed Hopgood, as the regular pounding of the team’s hoofs broke up and the stage began lurching to a sudden halt.

  Robinson used his long legs to brace himself as he dropped notepad and pencil into his jacket pocket. He quickly whipped out a wad of notes from his wallet, and tucked them into the crack between the seat and the side of the stage. He was done just before the stage pulled up. Bandits were at the side of the stage almost immediately. The doors were yanked open and men wearing bandannas tied over their faces, gestured with guns.

  ‘Everyone out this side, pronto.’

  Robinson was nearest the door. He folded his ungainly height through carefully, then turned to give Miss Waterford a hand down the step. The other passengers followed and soon all six were lined up near the coach. Steep mountainsides rose either side of the tumbling River Animas as it wound along the flat floor of the valley. Masses of dark green pines scented the clear air, with the bright splash of yellow aspens clustered here and there on the lower slopes. No one was looking at the lovely scenery though. By turning his head slightly, Robinson could see a bearded man covering the stagecoach driver and guard with his pistol, while two other bandits lowered a chest from its place beneath the driver’s seat on the front of the stage. He kept more of his attention on the men who were holding the passengers at gunpoint.

  They were the two who had opened the doors; one had come around the back of the coach to join the first. He now pulled a small, cloth bag from the pocket of his brown jacket, and shook it out. Holstering his gun, he approached Robinson cautiously.

  ‘Don’t any of you make any fuss now,’ he warned, his voice slightly muffled by the stained bandanna over his lower face. ‘My buddy’s watching you. We just want your valuables.’

  With his right hand, he cautiously patted Robinson’s clothes. He found the newspaperman’s wallet and plain silver pocket-watch. The watch was returned to Robinson’s pocket, but the wallet was opened and the few dollars inside removed and dropped into the cloth bag. The bandit moved on to Miss Waterford. He took money from the reticule in the pocket of her skirt, then reached for the gold bar brooch at her throat. Miss Waterford stiffened, but stifled the protest she’d been about to make. She stood still, her lovely face expertly schooled into stillness as the bandit unfastened the brooch and yanked it free.

  ‘Pretty thing,’ the bandit muttered, glancing from the brooch to the woman. He paused and stared intently into her face, then took a step back and looked her up and down. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He turned to the bearded bandit who was covering the driver and guard. ‘Hey, boss! This here’s one of the doves from that fancy parlour house in Motherlode. I wanna see if she’s as good as they reckon.’

  ‘You sure?’ the leader called back. ‘Remember, we don’t hurt women.’

  ‘You bet I’m sure. I saw her out with that tall madam and there ain’t no decent woman would be seen talking to her. ’Sides, you can’t mistake that red hair.’

  The leader glanced at the chest and the two bandits who were transferring its contents of m
oneybags to the pack saddles of a couple of mules. ‘Get the other passengers’ money, then be quick with her,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll take extra watches,’ he added.

  The bandit hastily relieved the other male passengers of their money, and a gold watch belonging to Gibson, the businessman. Dropping the cloth bag near the man holding a gun on the passengers, the bandit grabbed Miss Waterford’s wrist.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ she pleaded as he pulled her out of line.

  ‘Please leave her, yeah?’ Robinson added impulsively.

  The bandit continued pulling Miss Waterford away. ‘You’re a whore an’ you know it,’ he said. ‘She’s just doing her job, ’cept she ain’t getting paid this time,’ he added generally.

  Robinson clenched his fists in frustration, but the bandit watching them was tensely alert, his Colt aimed steadily at the male passengers. He took a quick glance at his companions, but none of them were armed and all the bandits were. Miss Waterford was pulled away to a spot near the trees, but still in plain view of the coach, and thrown to the ground. She made no protest or attempt to struggle as her skirts were roughly pulled up. Robinson looked away as the rapist held her arms with one hand and began fumbling at his belt with the other. He glanced at the other woman passenger, Mrs. Thompson, who had her eyes closed and looked as though she wanted to cover her ears. There was nothing he could do to help anyone now, so he concentrated on the man holding them at gunpoint, trying to memorize as much as he could about him.

  As he stared, Robinson could hear the muffled chink of the moneybags being moved, the gentle sound of the river, and the steady grunting of the bandit forcing himself on Miss Waterford. A quick glance revealed that she was lying still with her face turned away.

  ‘Hurry up,’ called the leader. ‘We’re nearly done with the money.’

  Two minutes later and the worst was over. Miss Waterford was pushed back to join the other passengers. She kept her face averted from them as best she could. Her cheeks were flushed and Robinson could see a smudge of tears on her eyelashes, but her expression gave away little. The businessman, Gibson, helped Mrs. Thompson back into the stagecoach, making sympathetic noises about her ordeal as she sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. The other two men followed, leaving Robinson and Miss Waterford standing together.

  She looked at him and waited, expecting him to ignore her. Something in her quiet dignity moved Robinson to take her hand and help her aboard. Her face warmed at his gesture, and she murmured thanks as she climbed inside. Mrs. Thompson rather obviously drew her skirts aside as Miss Louise took her place opposite, but otherwise ignored the other woman.

  As they settled themselves, they heard the leader giving instructions to the driver.

  ‘You can see my pal there on his horse. He’s gonna cover you for fifteen minutes while the rest of us get away. You try making any move afore then, and he’s gonna start shooting. Just you all wait nice an’ peaceful, and won’t no-one get hurt.’

  A group of hoofs moved away, but the stagecoach remained stationary. Gibson, the businessman, grumbled and finally announced he was going to sue the stage line.

  ‘Don’t the tickets say something about travelling at your own risk, yeah?’ Robinson enquired. ‘And anyway, I reckon Miss Waterford’s got a better claim for damages than you.’

  ‘If she’s a whore, then her goods are soiled anyway,’ Gibson returned.

  There was a sob, but no other sound from Miss Waterford, who was staring out of the window towards the river. The passengers fell silent again. After a few moments, Robinson took out his notebook and began to write.

  There could hardly be more contrast in appearance between the two men riding together along the main street of Motherlode on that same fall afternoon. The man slightly in front, on a fine dapple-grey, would be an eye-catcher in any company. He was tall and athletically built, with black hair and dark eyes. A small scar on his right cheekbone only added a roguish touch to his unusually good looks. He had the gift of being able to wear any clothes well, and showed off the well-made black jacket and trousers and the red and gold embroidered waistcoat over his white shirt, beautifully. The smart, well turned out appearance tended to distract people from noticing the two fancy matched Smith and Wessons he wore in a tooled leather gunbelt.

  Slumped in the saddle of a nondescript bay, a length behind, was a lumpy, unshaven man in hard-worn trail clothes. The mousey-brown hair showing under his scruffy hat was in need of a trim, and even the fact that his hands were cuffed together failed to draw attention from the man ahead, who was leading the prisoner’s horse.

  ‘This is our stop,’ said the handsome man cheerfully, turning his grey towards the hitching pole out front of the marshal’s office. Dismounting gracefully, he hitched first his own horse, and then the bay to the pole. Approaching his prisoner from the bay’s off-side, he warned, ‘Don’t make any fool moves now, Brown.’

  ‘I know you, Durrell,’ Brown replied.

  Jonah Durrell unlocked the handcuffs and stepped back, the metal cuffs dangling carelessly from his left hand as he watched his prisoner. Brown kicked his feet free of the stirrups and leaned backward in his saddle, stretching his arms out to each side.

  ‘Man, that feels good,’ he exclaimed, circling his shoulders to loosen them.

  With no other warning, he swung his left leg over his horse’s neck and jumped down, using his momentum to swing a powerful blow with his left hand.

  Jonah simply took half a step back, out of range. As Brown’s fist harmlessly passed his face, Jonah stepped forward again and drove a short punch into Brown’s jaw. Brown staggered back, bouncing against the side of his horse, which snorted in alarm. Gathering himself, Brown lunged forward, feinting with his left hand while following with a hard right. Jonah stepped nimbly to his left while bringing up his right arm. Brown’s feint hit only air, throwing him off-balance slightly as Jonah deflected the right-hand punch with his right arm. He pushed the outstretched arm hard enough to twist the unsteady man around. As Brown staggered, Jonah took a fast step after him and slashed the metal handcuffs across the back of his head.

  Brown stumbled forward, half-catching himself on the hitching rail. As he tried to pull himself back up, Jonah pursued him. Grabbing the collar of Brown’s jacket, Jonah pulled him away from the pole then abruptly smashed his head back against the wood. Brown let out a grunting groan and subsided to the edge of the rubbish-strewn sidewalk. As he collapsed, the door of the office opened and the marshal himself came out, shotgun in hand.

  ‘What the hell . . . oh, it’s you,’ he finished, looking first at Jonah, and then at the man slumped against the wooden boards.

  ‘Good afternoon, Marshal Tapton,’ Jonah said cheerfully, quite unruffled by the short fight. ‘This is Pete Brown, wanted for armed robbery in Animas Forks.’

  Marshal Tapton grunted. ‘Bring him in then.’

  Jonah Durrell efficiently cuffed his prisoner again, hauled the man to his feet and pulled him round the horses and towards the marshal’s office. As he crossed the sidewalk, he gave a dazzling smile to a weather-beaten woman in hard-worn, modest clothes who was holding a laden basket of freshly cleaned and ironed clothes of better quality than her own. Her eyes widened at Jonah and she automatically smiled back, colouring prettily at his attention. Jonah was cheerful as he entered the warm office, knowing that the washerwoman would treasure the memory of his smile at her. He was vain of his good looks, without taking his vanity seriously, and had real pleasure in using them to brighten other people’s lives, if only for a few minutes.

  Although it was a pleasant September afternoon, the coal heater in the marshal’s office radiated enough heat to make the place slightly too warm for most people. Tapton was a work-toughened man, starting to spread at the waist as middle-age set in. His craggy face was decorated with a flourishing moustache and side whiskers, intended to draw attention from his impressive nose. He had already opened the door separating his office from the cells at the back,
and Jonah led his grumbling prisoner straight through. Taking Brown into the cell Tapton had opened, Jonah removed his handcuffs and retreated.

  ‘You saw him beat me up,’ Brown called to the Marshal as the door was locked.

  Tapton just looked at Jonah.

  ‘I warned him, but he was fool enough to try jumping me when I let him off his horse,’ Jonah commented. He had a clipped, New England accent that suggested a good education.

  ‘You’re plumb lucky he didn’t shoot you,’ the marshal said unsympathetically to Brown. ‘Son-of-a-bitch is as smart with them guns as he is with his fists.’

  Jonah smiled at the mixture of compliment and insult, and followed the marshal back into the too-warm office.

  Handing the marshal a wanted notice he’d pulled from his pocket, Jonah waited patiently as Tapton carefully scanned the paper.

  ‘A hundred and fifty dollars for Brown,’ the marshal muttered. ‘I guess that’s him you brought in.’ He looked at the manhunter. ‘It’s a dirty job you do, but you do it straight.’

  ‘Where there’s mines, there’s robbery, gambling and drinking. You get folks as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks, and some just plain drunk and mean, and the county sheriff can’t keep on top of it all,’ Jonah answered, as the marshal began opening his safe.

  ‘Someone’s got to take care of the folks in town, and someone’s got to go chase the wrongdoers hiding out in the country,’ Tapton answered with a dry snort. Getting some paper from a drawer, he changed the subject. ‘You got some doctor training back east, didn’t you? Whyn’t you finish your studies and set up practice out west? Folks need doctors more’n they need manhunters.’

  ‘With the way the new country is at the moment, I’d say there’s room for both,’ Jonah answered, as the marshal began writing out a receipt. ‘I turn my hand to medical work when someone’s in need of it, but manhunting pays better,’ he said honestly. ‘I can do medicine full time when I feel I’m not quick enough to go on with the manhunting.’