Cowboy from Hell

Prologue-2

Storm listened as the room full of men continued to bicker back and forth. He was itching to get in the middle of it and break a few heads, but he had to admit that everything had happened just the way they said. There was a mine explosion at the Copper Queen, and he was lucky to come away with nothing more than a head injury that made him dazed and disoriented. He didn’t remember it, but they say that during his recuperation period he’d simply wandered away, never being heard of again—until ten years later.

They’d questioned him over and over, but all he could tell them was that one day he was workin’ in the mine, and the next he was in a doctor’s office in Durango, Colorado. He couldn’t remember anything about the ten years in between, but he would never forget the day his memory came back to him.

The day the mysterious veil of darkness began to dissipate, it seemed to come apart in strings. These shadows would stretch and drift apart until they revealed a small dingy office. Nothing was familiar. He even felt different. Instead of having a teenager’s scrawny body, he looked down at his muscled frame, and wondered where he was. Noticing movement, his gaze shifted toward the old, gray-haired man who was cutting bandages. “Where the hell am I?”

The old man looked around and smiled. “Welcome back. By the way, I’ve been expecting you. How does your head feel?”

“It hurts a little,” Storm said as he moved to get up. “Just tell me where I am.”

“No, don’t move yet. You’re in Durango, Colorado.”

Storm looked around. “How the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember I was diggin’ in a mine when suddenly…” Storm’s words faded when the mine exploded again in his mind. “It blew up,” he whispered.

“Right, but that was ten years ago.”

“Ten years? Ten years, hell, it just happened…”

“Look son, it happened ten years ago. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. Like a bank robbery?”

“But it couldn’t…”

“Sorry, I don’t know about that. All I know is somebody brought you in here after the bank was robbed.”

“I robbed a bank?”

“No, not you. Johnny August. You were just somebody who got in his way. I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow you got whacked over the head, which is probably what brought your memory back. Anyway, you lost a good amount of blood, but I think you’ll be okay.” The doctor put a finger beneath each eye, stretched them open, and looked into them. “Do you know who you are?”

“My name is Storm….” He winced when he felt a pain. “Storm Benedict.” When the pain subsided, he looked curiously at the doctor. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Galen Stoddard. I’m the doctor here. I must say you were lucky to come out of this with nothing more than a gigantic headache. A couple of people were killed in the robbery. You’ll be okay, though. If you feel like it, you can get up now, but no sudden movements.”

Storm threw his legs over to the side and stood up. He began digging in his pockets but came up with nothing. “Look, Doc, I’m afraid I don’t have no money to pay you.”

“I wouldn’t take it even if you did. All I did was put a bandage on that hard head of yours.”

Storm looked over and saw a hat and asked, “Is that mine?”

“It must be. You were wearin’ it when they brought you in.”

After grabbing the hat, he said, “Well, thanks, Doc—”

“Before you go, take this with you.” The doctor handed him a box of small envelopes. “I’ve already given you one of these for the pain. It’s nothing but headache powders. When your head starts hurtin’ again, just empty an envelope of powder in a glass of water, drink it, and in a few minutes you’ll be as good as new.”

“Thanks again, Doc, I sure appreciate it.”

Storm was on his way out when suddenly he caught a glimpse of himself in a wall mirror and paused for a moment. He stared for several seconds at the stranger he saw. The stranger that according to the doc, was ten years older. As a kid his dark hair had been short, but now it was hanging down to his shoulders. He’d been smaller then, but now he was muscled and rough looking. He had the shadow of a beard on his face, and he was dressed in a black shirt, pants, and hat. He also had on black boots with silver spurs. Although the image he saw was familiar, he seemed roughed-up and dirty—sort of like a hellish gunslinger ridin’ up out of the bowels of an abyss.

With a big black void in his mind, he turned and hurried out to find a horse waiting. He could barely remember riding this animal, but with a Mexican saddle on it, he knew he must have spent some time in Mexico. It was his only clue as to where he had spent the last ten years of his life. Climbing upon the horse, he gave him a nudge with his silver spurs, and the animal responded as if he’d been doing it every day for the past ten years. As quickly as he could, he headed out of town, toward Texas and a little town called Thunderbolt.

* * * *

Now, as he sat at a table listening to the town fathers discuss him and his ranch, he’d had all he could take and lunged out of his chair. “I’m gettin’ mighty tired of—”

The sheriff rushed over to him and said, “Easy, Storm. Now’s not the time. You got a place to stay?”

“I’m out at Thunderbolt Mountain,” Storm said as he pushed his long hair out of his face. “It ain’t much, but it’ll do until I can move into the ranch.”

“I know all this is hard on you, Storm. Why don’t you go now, and when I get this settled, I’ll come out and let you know.”

“Sheriff, I ain’t givin’ up that ranch. If I have to—”

“Don’t say anymore, Storm, and don’t worry. Me and Charlie Davis will do everything we can for you.”

Storm turned, and in anger, he brutally pushed the men aside as he made his way to the door. When he opened it, he paused and looked back, his gaze jumping to each one of them. “You better hear me and hear me good. I ain’t the same kid that walked out of this town ten years ago. You’re dealin’ with a man now, gents, and my advice to you is to say your prayers because your asses belong to me! If you think I’m gonna sit back and let you take my ranch, you’re the idiots, not me. If I have to, I’ll let my six-guns do my talkin’ for me.” He laid a threatening hand on his gun. “You just remember that.” With that, he turned, walked through the door, and slammed it shut.

“He’s a devil, Sheriff,” Leroy Hawkins said. “Hell, I wish he’d stayed away. Even as a kid he was a live wire, but since he’s growed up, he’s twice as mean.”

“Storm ain’t mean, Mr. Hawkins, he’s just fightin’ to hang on to somethin’ that belongs to him. You’d do the same thing if the shoe was on the other foot.”

“But he’s livin’ on a mountain,” Bernie Lawson said with a trembling voice. “How many sane men do that?”

“And whose fault is that? With no money and no place to stay, he has no choice. Storm’s rough, I’ll admit it, but he knows how to survive in the wild, and that’s more than you or me can do. Believe me, if I was caught out on the prairie, Storm Benedict is the man I’d like to have with me. You sure as hell can’t call him an i***t anymore.”