Maggie O'Bannen 2

  ‘Frank O’Bannen wanted five thousand dollars to let you go. I offered him ten thousand to kill you.’

  Kidnapped at sixteen, Maggie O’Bannen returns home after seven years to be reunited with her father. No longer the idealistic girl she once was, her return is meant to help put her demons to rest. Instead, it sets in motion a series of events that will put her on a collision course with trouble, and this time, Maggie has no qualms about speeding towards it.

  Discovering who was behind her abduction is just the beginning. Murder with no apparent motive and no suspect soon brings her under the scrutiny of the local sheriff. As the body count rises, Maggie fights for her life against a foe who will stop at nothing to win.

  As events escalate, Maggie will need to rely on her friends more than ever before if she is to survive. But at what cost?

  MAGGIE O’BANNEN 2: WANTED: DEAD

  By Joe Slade

  Copyright © 2017 by Joe Slade

  First Edition: April 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  ‘Hey, darlin’, why don’t you come over here and keep me company?’

  Maggie stiffened but chose to ignore the drunk sitting two tables behind her. Dressed in dark pants and blue shirt, with a shapeless short leather coat worn over the top, she didn’t resemble any man’s darling. That he was just looking to cause trouble was obvious. He and his two friends had entered the Bony Steer saloon ten minutes earlier and after breaking up a friendly game of Blackjack had been skimming cards at a spittoon ever since.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he bellowed.

  ‘Leave the lady alone, Brady,’ the barkeep shouted across. A young, clean-cut man with short-cropped hair and a tight smile, his peppermint breath wafted in Maggie’s face as he leaned across the bar to whisper to her. ‘I said you could stay while it was quiet. Now, it’s time to leave.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Lady?’ The curly haired man in the cheap black suit got up from his seat and wandered towards her. ‘I thought only whores drank in saloons.’

  Maggie kept her head down, focusing on the whiskey in her glass. She didn’t know how many she’d had but she knew she should have left when the trio first arrived. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Someone else certainly didn’t think so as a chair scraped back and the split doors banged farewell to the sound of fading footsteps.

  ‘So which one are you, darlin’?’ Brady asked, moving in close beside her.

  Maggie finished her drink and picked up the half-empty bottle. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Why?’ He grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around so that her spine jarred against the bar. ‘We were just getting—Je-sus!’

  The leer left his drunken face and he staggered back as if he had been slapped. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t the disfigured visage that stared back at him. He held up his hands as if warding off a physical attack. Maggie noticed that his small finger was missing at the knuckle on his right hand. The third digit was missing its tip.

  His face twisted in a sneer. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ There was no concern in the question, only disgust. ‘Did a steer trample on your face?’

  Maggie covered her cheek with her hand. The whiskey had started to dull her senses, had helped her forget the scars for a while, but the man’s cruel jibes cut as deeply as the pistol whipping that had put them there.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the barkeep warned. ‘She doesn’t want any trouble and neither do I.’

  ‘What trouble could she be?’ Brady looked around the room at the empty tables then over at his two friends. ‘It looks like she already frightened all your customers away.’

  The two men who had come in with him were equally as drunk as he was and their forced laughter sounded too loud in the quiet room.

  ‘I’m telling you, Brady, you need to leave her alone and sit back down,’ the barkeep warned.

  ‘She ain’t answered my question.’ Brady stepped back, his two friends getting up and spreading out around Maggie. ‘And I really want to know how a woman can be that ugly with only one head.’

  Maggie had been about to make a run for it but out of the corner of her eye she saw the barkeep reaching under the counter. Brady saw it too and grabbed clumsily for his sidearm. Maggie kicked out, planting her heel firmly in his groin area. Brady staggered. The gun went off before it cleared leather, the bullet kicking up splinters as it went in to the floor.

  To her right, the redhead of the trio already had his .45 out but it was down at his side and as he brought it up, Maggie swung the bottle. It smashed as it hit him in the face, opening up a bloody gash in his cheek and spraying whiskey in his eyes. He went down like a man pole-axed.

  ‘You blinded me,’ he screamed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Floyd, I’m going to kill the bitch.’

  The third man made a grab for her but she knocked his hand aside and threw her weight behind a punch that connected with his jaw and sent him reeling along the bar.

  By now, Brady was on his feet again. He staggered towards her, gun flailing in his hand, the devil shining in his eyes. She stepped towards him, grabbed his arm, deflecting the shot upwards, and spun him around with as much force as she could muster. He slammed in to the man who had tried to grab her and as they fought to untangle themselves she pulled the Schofield from its holster at her waist and knocked back the hammer.

  ‘Keep coming,’ she said, aiming at Brady’s belly, ‘and I’ll spray your guts all over this place.’

  Brady sneered but whatever he had intended to say or do, he stopped cold as the split doors creaked open and the twin barrels of a shotgun preceded a wiry old man in a black duster coat.

  ‘She probably would, too,’ the newcomer said. ‘Drop your weapons and put your hands up where I can see them. That includes you, ma’am.’

  Maggie recognized the marshal’s distinctive southern drawl. She didn’t take her eyes off Brady but she knew the lawman would be backed by at least one deputy. She waited for Brady to comply then carefully placed the Schofield on the bar and fanned her hands to the side.

  ‘Arrest her, marshal,’ Brady growled. ‘The bitch went crazy, damn near killed us all.’

  The lawman stepped aside to let his deputy pass. ‘Is that so, Brady? Three big men like you got your asses whooped by a woman. That’s the story you want everyone to hear?’

  Brady’s jaw dropped as the absurdity of the situation dawned on him.

  ‘What about you?’ the marshal asked Maggie. ‘What’s your version of events?’

  She bent over and vomited, spraying Brady’s boots as the best part of half a bottle of whiskey cleared her system.

  ‘She was protecting herself, marshal,’ the barkeep said, handing her a washrag. ‘If anyone should be pressing charges, it should be her. He said he was going to kill her before she threatened him.’

  The marshal stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It seems to me both stories have some merit.’ He nodded to his deputy who had collected all the guns and was waiting for further instructions. ‘I’m arresting all of you until I decide what to do about it.’

  ‘I’m sor
ry I had to drag you out of bed at this time, Doc,’

  Marshal Bart Owens shoved open the door of the Flitwick law office and Doc followed him inside. The interior stood in semi-darkness with only the glow from the pot-bellied stove in the corner shedding a vague light around the large square room. Two desks sat left and right behind a wooden railing that separated the law from the public. At 5 o’clock in the morning, Owens’ deputy was at home in bed. It looked like the marshal had been taking care of paperwork.

  Without a word, the elderly lawman hung his hat on a peg beside the door and lit a lamp. He had said all he had to say on the way over from the hotel and, going through the gate in the railing, he headed straight for the cellblock at the back of the building. The big iron key made an ominous grinding sound as it turned in the heavy lock, the marshal grunting as he swung the thick door open.

  Once inside, he stopped alongside the first set of bars, hung the lamp from a peg on the wall and took a set of keys from a loop on his belt. ‘In all my years as a lawman, this is the first time I’ve ever locked up a woman.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry it had to be her.’

  Doc’s expression was one of disappointment as he peered at Maggie O’Bannen sprawled face down on the low cot. He could see that beneath an old grey blanket that hung mostly on the floor, she was dressed in her favored dark pants and a blue shirt. A red bandanna was wrapped around her hand. She only had on one boot. The other was wedged between the bars that separated her from the men snoring in the next cell.

  ‘I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you,’ Owens said, taking a step back. He rubbed his jaw. ‘She’s got quite the right hook.’

  Doc heaved a sigh and stepped inside, grimacing at the stench of vomit. He kicked aside the bucket placed near Maggie’s head and nudged her shoulder, like a man poking a bear.

  ‘Wake up, Maggie. It’s time to go.’

  She started flailing her arms before she opened her eyes. It took a few seconds for her to adjust to her surroundings and push herself up to a kneeling position. She held on to the wall for support but still managed to sway. She looked as though she might be sick again as she focused on his face.

  ‘Doc? What are you doing here?’ she asked, her voice thick and groggy with sleep.

  He turned his head away as the rank odor of stale whiskey and vomit assailed his senses.

  ‘Bailing you out,’ he said catching his breath again.

  She pushed back a mass of unruly blonde hair, straightened her eye patch and massaged her temple. ‘Am I in trouble?’

  Marshal Owens cleared his throat. ‘I think you should take her back to the hotel before it gets fully light. I’ve kept things as quiet as I can but if folks see her looking like that…’

  ‘What about them?’ Doc asked, nodding towards the men in the next cell. Two of them appeared to be sleeping. The third, a dark, curly haired feller with piercing green eyes stared contemptuously at him. ‘Do you need me to take a look at them?’

  ‘No. Luckily, it was mostly their pride that got hurt.’ He stepped aside to let Doc and Maggie pass. ‘Just get her out of here.’

  Doc nodded. ‘I appreciate this.’

  ‘I know you do but I’m not so sure about her.’

  Doc picked up the errant boot and pushed Maggie out through the office. At the door, he waited for her to put it on, too angry to help her as she struggled to balance and locate her foot at the same time.

  Owens waved him back towards the desk. ‘Did you say you were leaving town today?’ he asked in a low voice.

  Doc looked his old friend in the eye. ‘Sounds like more of a request than a question?’

  ‘I don’t mean any offence, Doc. It’s just…well, she caused quite a fuss. Nobody’s pressing any charges but…word’s getting around about Braddock and…well, she’s attracting an unwanted element. Have you seen this?’

  Owens opened a drawer and pulled out a ten-cent dime novel. Printed in black and white was a picture of a pretty girl in her Sunday best holding a giant of a man at gunpoint. The title read “Legend of Maggie O’Bannen”.

  Owens looked decidedly uncomfortable as he handed it over. ‘This came in today,’ he said. ‘It’s trash written by some local hack looking to make a few dollars out of a sensational story but these things are damn popular. Who knows how far it could travel?’

  He waited while Doc scanned a few pages. Whoever had written it obviously hadn’t seen the need to include the truth. Whilst the events of Braddock’s demise were fundamentally correct, the story painted him as a hapless outlaw pitted against a gun-toting, knife-wielding man-hater. Its only saving grace was its completely inaccurate description of Maggie as a “beauty in satin and lace”.

  ‘I know it’s trash,’ Owens said again, ‘but I’m thinking about her. She’s got a short fuse and this is a quiet town, for the most part. I’m sorry about what happened to her but…’ He shrugged. ‘You understand my position, don’t you?’

  Doc understood perfectly. The grey-haired old lawman with the rheumy eyes was due to retire in a couple of months. He wanted an easy life until then. All Owens saw when he looked at Maggie O’Bannen was trouble with a capital T. With the dime novel in his hand and Maggie muttering apologies in the background, Doc couldn’t blame him for being concerned, although it still irked him.

  ‘The train pulls out at noon,’ he said, shoving the publication in his pocket. ‘We won’t trouble you again after that.’

  ‘Doc, that’s not what I meant. You know you’re always welcome—’

  Doc wasn’t listening. He didn’t blame Bart. The lawman was just doing his job. The town paid him to keep the peace and that included dealing with anyone who threatened that.

  Doc almost dragged Maggie back to the hotel. The look he gave the night clerk, when he glanced up from the book he was reading, stalled the questions on his slack mouth.

  ‘Easy, Doc, I think I’m going to be sick,’ Maggie groaned as he hustled her up the stairs and along the narrow hallway leading to her room.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he warned, reaching in to her pocket and pulling out a key on a small wooden fob.

  He shunted her inside and shut the door behind them, moving to open the window while Maggie hung her head over the washbowl and heaved. He gathered her hair, holding it back as she spat bile. When she was finished, he handed her the washrag and went to look out of the window where a light breeze helped to calm his ire.

  ‘I’m sorry, Doc,’ she said, hanging her head in her hands as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘What happened, Maggie?’

  ‘I needed a drink.’

  Doc shook his head. Since they had left Shaw’s Creek Crossing two weeks earlier, she had been doing a lot of that.

  ‘I went in to the Bony Steer because it looked quiet, and it was until Brady walked in.’

  Doc held up his hand for her to stop. He knew the rest, probably better than she did. He continued to stare out of the window, knowing if he looked at her he wouldn’t be able to say what he needed to.

  ‘It’s got to stop, Maggie, before you do something we all regret. You could have killed those three men. They could have killed you.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. He grabbed me and…you know I don’t like to be manhandled. I thought—’

  He cut her off. ‘I’m talking about the drinking, Maggie. It’s not helping you.’

  She sighed. ‘It does for a little while.’

  ‘Well you need to find another way to deal with things.’ He went to her and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You can come to me.’

  She placed her fingers over his and squeezed. ‘I know.’

  He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘Then promise me that the next time you need a drink you’ll come to me instead. Whatever it takes to get you past the demons that are haunting you, Maggie, I’ll help you.’

  She chewed her lip. ‘All right, Doc…I promise.’

  He didn’t like the slight hesitation but he knew her well enough
to know it was all he could hope for.

  ‘Now get a couple of hours sleep, get yourself cleaned up and join us for breakfast downstairs. The train for Flamstead Junction pulls out at noon and it’s time we were on it.’

  ‘Not today, Doc. I’m not feeling well.’

  He didn’t doubt it. She looked almost grey in the pale dawn light. But he also knew that wasn’t the main reason she wanted to delay. It had more to do with why she had been drinking these past few weeks. Although it had been her decision to return to her hometown, she was dreading it.

  ‘Today, Maggie. No more excuses.’

  She nodded unconvincingly. ‘Are you going to tell Rick what happened?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know.’

  Rick was another worry but Doc refused to dwell on it as he left Maggie and went back to his own room next door. The sun was coming up fast and he didn’t bother to undress before he threw himself onto the crumpled bed. Why bother? He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  A lot had changed in seven years.

  The railroad spur to Flamstead Junction hadn’t been built when Frank O’Bannen had robbed the bank there. Maggie remembered the endless weeks spent tied in the saddle as the gang travelled south through Colorado and New Mexico. There, the men had split up the loot and gone their separate ways. Frank had taken her on to Arizona, threatening every day to kill her tomorrow. There were times along the way she had wanted to die – times when she thought she truly had.

  Now from the relative comfort of a railway carriage, impressive with cedar framework and green leather seats, she was glad to be alive as they passed rolling meadowland framed against a backdrop of red sandstone bluffs. Later, they traversed a steep sided gorge where the train seemed to balance on the rocky edge, ready to plunge them all to their deaths at any second.

  ‘No matter how many times I ride this train,’ a man’s voice said behind her, ‘I never get used to seeing that drop.’