RETRIBUTION:, GlenMarcus [bill gates book recommendations TXT] 📗

Saturday nights, some in alleys and the more rambunctious in his jail cells, the church folk had their service. This particular morning, their new piano could be heard quite well from his office porch where he was sitting trying to drink another putrid cup of his own coffee.
Though the music was clear, the congregation’s singing was muffled. It didn’t matter since Luke knew all the words to “Amazing Grace.” Though not widely known, the town’s sheriff was the son of a Methodist minister. As he sat there leaned back in the chair against the plank walls, his mind drifted back to when life was a bit slower…
At eleven years of age, little Luke was the terror of his neighborhood in a northern suburb of Columbus, Ohio. The railroad expansion into the city had brought his widowed father and younger brother there a couple of years before. Fredrick Wallace was the pastor of a small gathering and not having a mother at home left the young Luke a lot of time to find trouble. Nothing violent, just mischief that children his age found to get into. He was a handful, to be sure and his father, busy with the shortcomings of his flock paid too little attention to his two son’s misgivings.
By sixteen, this city bound him no more. Fredrick’s religion was not for him and even though Luke did well in school, the west was calling to him. Being full grown or so he thought, the teenager lit out for St. Louis or bust. Though the Lord would forgive him for leaving home, his father probably never would. He could still remember his brother James waving goodbye from the steps of their home as he rode away. After finding gainful employment in St. Louis, young Wallace stayed there for almost a year. But his wings still needed more flexing, so with a pocket full of money, he left the east once more in search of what lay ahead. His travels and experiences in the coming years would mature him into the man he had become, sitting on the porch of the sheriff’s office in Laramie Flatts….
“Sheriff,” said William the telegraph operator, as he brought Luke back to the present. “I got a couple of telegrams for you.”
He took the papers and tipped the young man again. Opening the first wire, it was from Monty.
He replied that at least three men had helped in the Rickett’s escape. There appeared to have been two on the ground and a third at a distance with a rifle. There had been no reports of the bunch heading to the south, but the Rangers stationed along the Mexico border were on high alert for them. Cush had sent the telegram from north of Amarillo as he was on his way to Kansas. The ranger was traveling to investigate the death of a prominent cattleman a couple of days ago in Dodge City. Monty didn’t think it was related, but the man was a friend of Governor Coke, so he was doing it as a personal favor.
The other note was from a U.S. Marshal in the Indian Territory north of Texas. Luke had helped the Marshall out of a bind some years ago and they had kept in touch from time to time. He didn’t have anything to report as far as Dawson and his crew was concerned. The only thing of note was the killing of a telegraph operator just north of the Red River in his jurisdiction. The operator ran a small ferry and stage coach rest stop. The marshal told him that the man had been stabbed a number of times and his ferry was cut loose and had floated down river. He told Luke he’d let him know if they turned up in the Nations.
A welcoming cool breeze swept down the street as Luke folded the papers and tucked them in his pocket. Still reclining against the wall, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and went back to thinking about his father and brother, wondering how they were getting along.

Monday June 26th

Luke uncharacteristically skipped his ride this morning in lieu of the word that was coming out of the Black Hills War, north of the Colorado territory. First reports out were the Lakota and Cheyenne had buffaloed the 7th Calvary into thinking they had superior numbers. Jedediah Stubbs, Luke’s old army scout friend and mentor had told him stories about the 7th and some of their commanders.
Major Marcus Reno was described as a cut and run strategist that would just as soon lose a hundred men as one. His soldiers hated him and political aspiration’s overshadowed the ability to lead his men. Now George Custer was another story altogether. His political future had already been squelched by Grant and he was fortunate to have a command at all. Custer seemed to get enjoyment from enraging his superiors and to that end; it bit him in the rear. But now he and Reno had the command of about five hundred troops. Their job was to secure the Black Hills and protect the gold reserves in that area. Numerous treaties had been broken with the tribes in the area and they the Indians felt it was time to take a stand against the forked-tongue whites.
While Grant seemingly sent his rejects to clean up what was reported as a scattered band of renegades at best, the Lakota and Cheyenne had banded with a group of Arapaho, bringing their numbers to almost eighteen hundred braves. The news that was being telegraphed in bits and pieces was not promising. Fortunately for Jed, he was still stationed with the Fifth Calvary and last word was they were down along the New Mexico territory line.
Even though the Black Hills were a far piece from Colorado, it still could have implications in their statehood constitution vote in a few days. The nation had to see the west was tame or at least somewhat tame, before people would move their entire families out west to populate the new lands. And the politicians, whom Luke Wallace despised greatly, knew this fact all too well. President Grant badly needed funds to rebuild his wounded nation. But whether it was the gold in the Black Hills or the silver in Colorado, the politicians were not willing to risk civilian massacres to secure it.

*******************

In the Denver rail yard on Gilpin Street, four riders had just arrived outside the station house. Two men dismounted and gave their reins to the others. A tip of the brim and the half-breed GreyHawk and the blonde Slim were off to the west with empty horses in tow. Ricketts and Bell made their way to the rail office to check on incoming train schedules. Then they walked to the stage office next door at a half past three and went inside. The clerk seeing potential customers came to the window and asked if he could be of help.
“Yes sir, what time does the next stage leave for Laramie Flatts?” Ricketts asked.
The clerk responded, “That would be the Leadville run, leaving at six p.m. tomorrow and arriving in Laramie Flatts Wednesday mid-morning.”
“I would like four tickets, if you please,” Dawson said coolly.
“What are the names in your party?” The ticket agent asked.
After supplying bogus handles for the four tickets and paying with some of Marsh Emerson’s cattle money, he and Bell found an alleyway saloon to wash down the trail dust. They had covered almost eight hundred miles since Huntsville. It would be a welcome relief to rest up before taking an overnight stage ride. If all went well they would retrieve a couple of train passengers and be in Laramie Flatts soon.
It was a stroke of luck that had gotten Ricketts this far in his planning. The breakout of Huntsville for him was a foregone conclusion. He and Bell had been planning it secretly for almost a month. Though the tall walls of the prison and the armed guards kept him inside, they did not stop covert notes strapped to rocks from being tossed over and retrieved by his cohorts after darkness had fallen.
But when by chance a guard left a copy of a newspaper out in the yard one day, the outlaw couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw a familiar name in the headlines. Just under the main text of ‘Colorado’s Impending Statehood

 

', Dawson read a story about a small town sheriff who was cleaning up the west single handed. The name sent an uncontrollable rage through him like he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Though Ricketts thought daily of his revenge and what he would do whenever he met up with Wallace again, his plans of late had been simply to escape and find his target later. Now he knew exactly where to find his quarry and come hell or high water, the good sheriff was going to pay dearly. It was an all consuming lust of hate with a twist that no one would see coming.
As they drank their whiskey at a corner table, the amber liquid began to calm Ricketts a bit and he relaxed to a point of near pleasantness that even began to make Bell feel uncomfortable. A feat not easy to do as Tony Bell was the truly unshakable one of the bunch.
“You seem pretty confident all this is going to go off without a hitch Dawson.”
“In my mind, it’s already done and I’m fishing in a cold stream up north.”
“So if this sheriff is such a pushover, why did the paper say he was so tough.”
The statement from Bell once again boiled up the hate inside the previously calm Ricketts and he almost shouted back at the gunman, “Wallace ain’t nothing. He’s a scab on a sore and he needs to be picked off and flicked away. When I stand over him as he takes his last breath, he’ll know what it means to feel pain, remorse and most of all regret.”
Seeing he had hit a tender spot and not wanting to draw undue attention to them, Bell replied, “All right, all right. Settle down, we got all night to work up a lather. I’m gonna go get us a couple of rooms at that hotel across the street. You sure our other guests will be here tomorrow?”
“They’ll be here in plenty of time to catch the stage with us. We can’t leave without them anyway. There the reason we’re here.”

Tuesday June 27th

Monty Cush pulled into Dodge City early on and tied up in front of the jailhouse. With his Texas spurs jingling as he entered, the noise woke the marshal as he was back in one of the empty cells getting some shuteye.
“Good morning. You must be Ranger Cush. I’m Marshal Browning,” said the lawman rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Shaking his hand and removing his calfskin riding gloves Monty replied, “Yes sir. Pleased to meet you.”
As Browning walked over to the wash stand to remove the night’s leftovers from his face he said, “Didn’t figure you’d be here ‘til this evening.”
“Ole Doughboy moves pretty fast at a trot.”
Removing the towel from his face revealed a smile and then peering outside through the window the marshal noted, “Yep that is one fine piece of horse flesh.”
As Monty sat down the marshal offered a cup of coffee, which the trail weary man graciously accepted.
“So tell me what you know about Emerson’s death,” asked the ranger.
“Well, early last Friday morning, I got roused by a young cowhand named Thom Shepherd. He was all in a dither about his boss and one of their compadres getting bushwhacked in an alley outside the Longbranch Saloon. The kid couldn’t tell me much about what