eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Heading For A Showdown. . .
Towering, flame-haired Alf Bolin is a ruthless young outlaw with a passion for quoting fine literature, slaughtering anyone who gets in his way and keeping the body parts as souvenirs. Already with forty murders under his belt--and counting--the locals of Branson, Missouri, live in a state of constant terror.
. . .In Hellfire Canyon
Zach Thomas is a federal trooper with a personal vendetta strong enough to send him deep undercover--into the dark heart of Bolin's vicious gang. Fueled by hatred and justice, he soon wins Bolin's confidence and waits for the killer to turn his back...
Max McCoy's westerns have been called "powerful" by USA Today. Now comes a gripping new novel inspired by the true story of one of America's first serial killers--and the lone federal trooper who took on the most daring mission of all.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780786038459 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 11/20/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Sales rank: | 860,175 |
| File size: | 817 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Hellfire Canyon
By Max McCoy
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Copyright © 2007 Max McCoyAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-7860-1780-5
Chapter One
Seventy years pass.As I write these lines, I am sitting at a window table in the House of Lords Bar on the principal thoroughfare of Joplin, a bloody-knuckled mining town in the southwest corner of Missouri. A glass of whiskey is at my elbow. In my left coat pocket is a .45-caliber Colt automatic, a brutish weapon compared to the elegant simplicity of the cap-and-ball revolvers of my youth, but a handgun that has no equal in pure man-stopping power. Such have become the tools in my line of work.
Outside, the street hums with commerce-horses and wagons and motor cars and the electric trolleys that unite the outlying mining camps with the fledgling metropolis. It is late afternoon and scattered on the sidewalks are the miners, the long-faced men upon whose backs this wealth is built, lunch pails swinging at the ends of lanky arms.
I have never cared much for Joplin, or any center of commerce for that matter, preferring instead the solitude of the deep Ozarks of my childhood.
But I have been summoned here to meet a scribbler for one of the local newspapers, and since consideration is promised, I am happy enough to drown the bitterness with whiskey, watch the thoroughfare, and record my thoughts while awaiting the appointed hour. The reporter, one Frank Donovan, wants the story of my life.
Of course, Donovan will want to know about Alf Bolin.
And I won'ttell the truth.
Instead, I will spin the tale that is expected-that I was forced by circumstances at the tender age of thirteen to become the youngest member of the Bolin gang. I will say Bolin was a monster who killed without remorse, that he was an illiterate woodsman with an animal's cunning for the chase and the kill, and that while I was lucky enough to escape with my hide intact, the ordeal set my feet firmly on the path of crime. My only saving grace, I will plead, is that for all my dash and daring, for all of the crimes committed since those dark days in the wilderness, I have never shed innocent blood.
And it will all be lies.
Chapter Two
When I finally met Jacob Gamble, the outlaw fiddler, it was in the House of Lords not half a block from the newspaper office. He was sitting at a table near the window of the bar, sipping whiskey and writing in a neat hand in a ledger book.Instead of introducing myself right away, I went to the bar, exchanged a few words with the tavern owner, Joe Dorizzi, and gave him a package to keep. Then I lingered at the bar and nursed a cold glass of beer while studying my subject from a safe distance. It was a habit developed in my years of interviewing princes and paupers, and it usually paid off. People's behavior speaks volumes about their approach to the world, and a little observation allows me to tailor my approach to the job at hand.
I knew it was Gamble because he was unmistakably the man I had studied in old photographs-a patch over his right eye, tall and rail-thin, possessed of an almost feminine grace, and with a visage that reminded me of the statue of Moses at the church of St. Peter in Chains at Rome. In other words, he resembled a man whose face radiated with a secret light after meeting with God and living to tell of it. About the only things that were missing were the horns that Michelangelo had placed on the top of the patriarch's head.
The stub of a pencil was clutched in Gamble's left hand, and on the tabletop was a pocketknife that he periodically used to trim the lead to a fine point. He was wearing black, and even though he was in his eighties, he had a full head of long blond hair that had gone gray only at the temples. Every so often, he would peer out the window onto the hubbub of Main Street, and the afternoon light reflected in his one good eye, which was clear and blue.
Soon, he grew restless and glanced at his pocket watch, and I decided it was time to end my study and get on with it. I finished my beer, straightened my clothes, and walked with purpose to the table.
"Frankie Donovan," I said.
Gamble smiled.
"A girl reporter," he said. "You didn't say that in your letter."
"Frank Donovan is my byline," I said. "I don't want to be thought of as just a 'girl reporter.' Besides, would it have mattered if I had identified myself as a woman?"
"Yes," he said. "I would have answered much sooner."
Gamble placed the pencil in the ledger and closed it, closed the pocketknife and placed it in his vest pocket, and stood. His chair scraped on the wooden floor as it was forced backward by the strength of his calves.
I held out my hand, but instead of shaking it, he took it gently in his left hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss was brief enough to remain within the bounds of good taste, but just long enough to be sincere.
"Charming," he said.
I felt myself blush.
Then he moved to pull a chair out for me, but I insisted on doing it myself.
"As you wish," he said, but waited until I had taken my seat before returning to his.
"Why do you dress in men's clothing?"
"Because it is a man's world."
"And you aim to be a part of it?"
"Something like that," I said.
"Then let us behave as men," Gamble said. He drained his whiskey, lifted the glass, and beckoned for another. "You said you wanted to know the story of my life. I gather that the only reason you are interested in me is because of the talking picture."
"It has created a sensation."
I indicated to the bartender that I would have a whiskey as well.
"Have you seen it?" he asked.
"I was at the premiere two nights ago, a block from here at the Orpheum. It was entertaining enough. But I'm curious about how much of the story is true."
"Does it matter?" Gamble asked.
"Of course it matters," I said. "Readers are mad for anything connected to Hollywood, and a local angle is guaranteed sales at the newsstand. It was shot locally, you know-Granby is just a few miles from here."
"I know where Granby is," Gamble said as the Irish waiter brought a tray with two straight whiskeys. The waiter placed the drinks on the table, removed Gamble's empty glass, and waited patiently.
"This one is on my partner," Gamble said.
"Of course," I said, and fumbled in my pocket for a silver dollar and placed it on the tray.
"Keep the change," Gamble said.
The waiter nodded his thanks, then vanished.
Gamble raised his drink.
"Here's to the end of Prohibition," he said.
"So, did you see the picture?" I asked.
"The actor who plays me in the film-what's his name?"
"Tyrone Power."
"Never heard of him."
"He's new."
"Well, he's too old to be playing me," Gamble said. "He must be twenty. So is the actor who plays Bolin. But I liked his performance somewhat better."
"John Huston," I said. "He's thirty. He was born not far from here, in the town of Nevada. He also wrote the script."
"He didn't ask my advice."
"He thought you were dead."
"Well, should have known better than to call it Hellfire Canyon," Gamble said. "There are no canyons in the Ozarks-hollers, yes, but canyon is a Western word."
"The movie is a Western," I said. "It was probably named by the studio, to attract the largest audience. Besides, Hellfire Holler sounds like a comedy, doesn't it?"
"There was nothing funny about Murder Rock."
"I rather like their title," I said. "It suggests a place where one's very soul is in peril. Good and evil. And that reminds me."
From my jacket pocket I withdrew the ledger pages that Gamble had sent. I unfolded them and placed them on the table between us.
"Is there more?"
"Yes," he said.
"So what happens next?"
Gamble smiled.
"This is a neat bit of fiction," I said.
"It is not a storybook," Gamble said defensively. "I put it down as I remember it. Of course, seventy years have passed, and some of the names and dates escape me now. But the entire account is true."
I nodded toward the pages.
"Do you always write in ledger books?"
"It is a habit I developed long ago," he said. "Ledger pages are lined, and were always much easier to obtain than the blank kind that folks use for letters home."
"This episode," I said, tapping the pages. "It is peculiar. You don't explain what brought you to Murder Rock, or who you wanted to kill, or even whether you pulled the trigger on the poor corporal."
Gamble shrugged.
"It was all I felt like sending."
I did not hide my frustration.
"Let us understand one another," I said. "I'm not some little girl begging for a story at my grandfather's knee. I am a professional in need of a story for tomorrow's paper, and if you are unwilling, you should stop wasting my time."
"Your newspaper," Gamble said, "does not have the space to publish my story."
"Try me," I said. "I'm very good at summary."
"You mentioned consideration in your letter," Gamble said.
"I have something in mind," I said. "But I will make my offer only after I've heard your story. If you find the offer unacceptable, then I agree to print not a word of our conversation."
"Do you play poker, Miss Donovan?"
"From time to time," I said. "From what I've read about you, Mr. Gamble, you don't seem like the kind of man to shy away from a risk."
"Nor do you," Gamble said. "You've been admiring the line of my jacket."
"I recognize the outline of a heater when I see one."
Gamble laughed.
"Heater," he said. "Now, who came up with that bit of slang? These gangsters nowadays, they are spoiled. Thompsons. Guns that spray bullets as if from a fire hose."
"Was it so very different when Bolin and his guerrillas carried braces of six-guns?" I asked. "The typical soldier carried a rifle that could fire perhaps three shots a minute, with expert reloading. You could accurately place a dozen shots in the same amount of time."
"Your point," Gamble said.
"Why do you still feel a need to carry a gun?"
"My enemies are legion," he said.
Before I could ask what enemies, he changed the subject.
"You know, I have disliked the bobbed hair that women have adopted since the last decade," Gamble said. "But, Miss Donovan, it suits you."
"It is a practical matter," I said. "Short hair is easier to care for."
"If people think I am dead," he asked, "how did you find me?"
"I have a friend at the penitentiary at Jefferson City," I said. "He sent me the addresses they had on file when they locked you up. I wrote to all of them."
"Ah," Gamble said.
"Will you tell me your story?"
"Do you have the time?"
"I understand the bar stays open quite late," I said.
"You must promise that you won't publish until I have left the state," he said. "A couple of days should put extradition behind me."
"And don't worry," I said. "I won't tell where you live."
"You don't know where I live," he said. "That letter was forwarded."
I took a pencil and a sheaf of blank pages from my pocket. The papers were folded twice, lengthwise, which gave six clean panels per sheet on which to write. I took a few shorthand notes about some of the things that Gamble had already told me.
Then I sensed that Gamble's mood had changed.
"It's important for you to relax," I said. "Lots of folks get nervous when the pencil and paper come out, but I want you to forget about that. We're just two friends talking." "You mistake my thoughtfulness for anxiety."
"And what has caused this introspection?"
"The weight of years," he said. "And the fact that much of what I am prepared to tell you I have never confided to another soul. Your readers may find some of it unpalatable. Is that what you desire, Miss Donovan?"
"I desire the truth," I said.
"Then where do you want me to start?"
"At the beginning, of course," I said.
Chapter Three
My mother was Eliza Gamble. She was a liar and a thief, wildly superstitious, equal parts gypsy and pirate, and altogether the most courageous woman I have ever known. Together we walked from our farm in Shelby County to the federal prison at Palmyra in one day.Mother was twenty-six, with flaming hair and ice-blue eyes, and over her dress she wore a man's butternut coat with a .36-caliber Manhattan revolver tucked into the right pocket. I was too young to understand all that happened that day, and for many years after, but now I know that she loved my father and was trying to save his life.
I was twelve when the guerrillas came to our farm early one morning in the middle of October of 1862, and rousted my mother and me from our beds.
There were three of them. They obviously had been riding all night; their faces and clothes were caked with dust, and their eyes were red from lack of sleep.
Their leader was a fat old man with long gray hair and a full beard, a slouch hat worn at a rakish angle, and a leather necklace adorned with weird-looking scraps of what looked like shriveled and rotting bacon. He demanded breakfast for them all. I huddled in a corner of our rough-hewn cabin as Mother cooked up the last of our ham and eggs.
The fat guerrilla ate greedily. He scooped food into his mouth with the blade of a wicked-looking knife with one hand, while sopping a biscuit with the other. On the table within easy reach was a short-barreled revolver of the kind favored by constables and sheriffs.
Then he paused.
"What is today?" he asked.
"Don't reckon I know or care," the guerrilla nearest the window said.
"It is Friday," Mother volunteered.
She was standing behind them, her hair in a bun, hands in her apron.
"Hell," the fat guerrilla said. "How I despise Fridays!" His face grew somber, and he cocked his head as if listening to a voice only he could hear. "The day they crucified our Lord. Hangman's day in England. The day of the Last Judgment."
"We'd best be on our way, Jack," said the guerrilla near the window.
"Before we've finished our breakfast?" the old man asked. "I'll not greet the devil on an empty stomach." And then he began to mug, as if meeting Satan in person: "Pleased to meet you, Your Highness. Mad Jack Vandiver and company, at your service. Truffles? Why no, we've just ate!"
The third guerrilla was puzzled. He was younger than the others, his hair resembled a bird's nest, and he wore a long butternut coat.
"What're truffles?" he asked.
"Black magic that grows beneath the roots of oak trees," Mad Jack said expansively. "You find 'em by using pigs for bloodhounds, and then you make a Frenchman cook 'em up. The devil has plenty of Frenchies."
While Mad Jack was going on about truffles, the guerrilla who had urged speed was peering out the window.
"Dammit, Jack," he said, still facing the window. "Stop telling the boy lies. You've never had the pleasure of passing truffles through that gut of yours."
Mad Jack snatched up his revolver and pressed the muzzle against the man's temple. The gun seemed like a toy in Jack's broad hand.
"Take that back," he said. "I won't stand for cussing in front of a woman."
The cautious guerrilla rolled his eyes.
"Why do you favor that tiny thing? It's an embarrassment, Jack. You'd be lucky to give me a black eye."
Mad Jack cocked the revolver.
"Let's find out."
The other man glared, but finally relented.
"I beg your pardon, madam."
Satisfied, Mad Jack withdrew the gun.
"Gentlemen," Mother suggested, her hands folded in her apron. "If you're in a hurry, I could wrap your food in damp cloth. It would keep."
"Oh, my digestion requires a sit-down meal," Jack said. "It's not good for your health to eat and run."
"It may not be so healthy not to run," the other guerrilla argued.
"Oh, the devil and I have an understanding," Jack said. "He keeps me healthy as long as I keep sending him Yankee souls." Then he grasped the necklace and turned to Mother. "I keep their ears so's I can keep a good account."
Jack scooped some more eggs up with his knife.
"You ought to wash that knife before you eat with it," she said.
"Don't worry," Mad Jack said, then lunged at her while snapping his teeth. "I bites them off."
Mother jumped back as Mad Jack roared with laughter.
He was obviously quite insane.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hellfire Canyon by Max McCoy Copyright © 2007 by Max McCoy. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
