Yenne - Bladen Cole: Bounty Hunter

Fear and Respect

For the first time in years, Cole found himself frozen in fear. The first reaction of a person to a grizzly, that being to run like hell, was often fatal. As clumsy as they seemed while lumbering about, grizzlies could outrun a man, even a man on a horse.

He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and began backing his horse, figuring that his best chance was to get away slowly before the bear decided to drop back down to four legs and charge him.

The Winchester represented his last chance.

For a short while, it worked. The bear watched the mounted rider as though bewildered by the jerky backward motion.

At last, the grizzly decided that despite an apparent backward movement, this intruder represented an interloper at his supper table.

With an angry snarl, the beast charged.

The roan bucked, and Cole felt himself losing his balance.

In the process of trying not to lose his rifle, Cole lost his reins.

For a moment, he felt himself sliding sideways from a galloping horse.

In the next instant, he was colliding awkwardly with the ground.

The Winchester, on which he had lost his grip, dropped about six feet away.

The sound of the bear galloping toward him was like thunder.

He literally threw himself toward the gun.

Grabbing the rifle in mid-tumble, Cole fired without aiming.

BLADEN COLE:

BOUNTY

HUNTER

B ILL Y ENNE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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BLADEN COLE: BOUNTY HUNTER

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley edition / November 2012

Copyright 2012 by Bill Yenne.

Cover illustration by Cliff Nielsen.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61197-5

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Contents

Prologue

W HO CALLED ME THAT?

The big man who had been leaning on the bar at the Palmer House Saloon for the past hour, gregariously telling tall tales, turned suddenly, jerking his head so hard that youd have thought somebody had slugged the side of his chin.

Who called me that? Stewart Webb repeated.

All eyes were now on the man at the end of the bar. He had spoken to Webb, calling him by another name.

That you? Bladen Cole said, holding up a yellowish sheet of paper and tossing it on the bar. Is that you... Alonzo Sims?

Stewart Webb glanced at the stranger, at the gun on his hip, and finally at the paper. The only words that he could read at this distance were the one at the top WANTED and the ones beneath ALONZO SIMS . Stewart Webb recognized the picture as one that had been taken of himself some years back, when he still was Alonzo Sims and when he led a different life.

Alonzo Sims had disappeared, and Stewart Webb had been leading his new life in Green River, Wyoming, for eight years. It had been long enough for Stewart Webb to believe that Alonzo Sims had gotten away clean and disappeared forever.

Stewart Webb led his new life under a purloined name, borrowed audaciously from another.

Stewart Webb was no more Stewart Webb than the Palmer House was the Palmer House. Just as the saloons founder had poached its name from the legendary Chicago hostelry to lend his place undeserved prominence, so too had the man taken the last and middle names of Alexander S. Webb, a Union general who earned a Medal of Honor at Gettysburg. It gave this man leading a new life an aura of importance. Alonzo Sims had been at Gettysburg as well, but as far down in the enlisted ranks as Webb was high in officer rank.

Stewart Webb had lulled himself into the belief that this day would never come.

Now it had.

That you? Bladen Cole repeated.

Dont recognize that name, Webb lied, swallowing hard. He gritted his teeth, wishing that he could, by force of will, banish from his bloodstream all the alcohol he had consumed over the past hour.

Thats not me, Webb insisted. My names Stewart Webb. Im a prominent member of this community. Ask anybody.

Even as he nodded toward the other patrons in the bar to vouch for his prominence, they were scuttling discreetly toward the door. Only the bartender remained, and he had moved as far as he could from where Stewart Webb was standing.

Tell the man, John, Webb demanded of the bartender.

Nervous silence.

Barely out of his twenties, John did not want to die. He imagined that he had a life of some promise ahead of him and had no interest in seeing it cut short in the sort of cross fire that often followed the sort of fighting words that were being tossed about in his bar this afternoon.

Tell him, John, Webb repeated.

The bartender nervously edged toward the wanted poster, stopping when the words were visible and Webbs portrait was clearly identifiable.

It surprised him not in the least that Stewart Webb was not really Stewart Webb. Lots of men who came westand not a few womenchanged their names to avoid a past and get a new start.