Confessions of a Gunfighter (The Landon Saga Book 1) Read online

  CONFESSIONS OF

  A GUNFIGHTER

  Tell Cotten

  Also by Tell Cotten

  Entwined Paths

  Cooper

  Rondo

  Yancy

  Lee

  They Rode Together

  Dedication

  For Andi; only once in a lifetime

  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 storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Editor in chief: Nik Morton

  Cover Art:

  Select-O-Grafix, LLC. www.selectografix.com

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2012 Tell Cotten

  2nd edition

  Prologue

  I had been shot. That I knew.

  After that, it was just a guess. I didn’t know how bad, or even where I’d been hit.

  I had been unconscious for many days, and as I woke up, I was confused. I didn’t know where I was or even what day it was.

  I blinked my eyes as I looked up, and I was stunned to see metal bars all around me.

  I was in a prison.

  I was lying on a bunk, and my shoulder was bandaged.

  I tried to move. It hurt, so I decided against it.

  I was still lying there a while later when the outer door opened, and I heard boot heels walking up to my cell.

  With pain everywhere, I sat up slowly and swung my feet out onto the floor.

  “How you feeling?” I heard a voice say.

  My mouth was dry and my tongue felt thick, so I swallowed and licked my lips.

  “Horrible,” I managed.

  “You was shot.”

  “I know.”

  “Took us two days to find you. Rain came in, and we lost your tracks.”

  I looked up. At first everything seemed hazy, but then things slowly came into focus.

  There were two men standing by my cell door.

  One of them was a short, pudgy looking feller I’d never seen before. He wore a business suit and looked to be important.

  The other person was Lieutenant Yancy Landon.

  Every time I’d seen Yancy he’d been somber and serious, and when he spoke it was always clear, certain, and to the point.

  He was a small man, much like myself. He was also real good with that Colt six-shooter of his.

  “Well, cousin, looks like you’ve finally got me,” I said.

  “That is correct.”

  Suddenly I jumped, and the movement sent sharp pains throughout my body.

  “The herd!” I exclaimed. “What happened to the herd?”

  “Forget ’em. Those cows aren’t your concern anymore,” Yancy said.

  I frowned.

  “I was being paid to worry. It was my responsibility.”

  “It ain’t anymore.”

  I was angry, but Yancy didn’t seem to notice.

  “I was going to turn myself in, soon as the cattle drive was over,” I said.

  “Sure. That’s what they all say,” Yancy replied.

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  “I got it.”

  “I meant it, Yancy.”

  “Either way, doesn’t really matter. I’ve got you now.”

  “So what do you want?” I asked irritably. “You ain’t here to talk family history.”

  Yancy started pacing.

  “I’ve been wanting you for a long time, cousin. Most all us Landons are known for our honesty and good will, but you’re nothing more than a killer and a thief.”

  I was silent.

  “But, bad as I’ve wanted you, there’s another feller I’ve wanted even more.”

  I looked down at the floor and nodded slowly.

  “I know,” I said softly.

  Yancy stopped pacing and turned to me.

  “And, you’re the only feller who knows where he is.”

  “How did you figure that?”

  Yancy didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and looked out the window, and his face was real thoughtful looking.

  “I had a long talk with Lee Mattingly and Ross Stewart ’bout you.”

  “Oh?” I asked curiously. “What’d they say?”

  “Plenty.”

  It was silent, and then Yancy turned and looked down at me.

  “Rondo, these past few years I’ve heard all sorts of stories ’bout you.”

  “Seems I’m a favorite subject,” I agreed.

  “Not all those stories are true, are they?”

  “Depends on which ones you’ve heard,” I said.

  “How ’bout the killing and the stealing?”

  I was silent, and Yancy sighed and shook his head.

  “I knew your Pa. He was a good and just man. How come you turned out so different?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got the time.”

  I looked up, surprised.

  “You really want to hear it?”

  Yancy glanced at the short, pudgy looking feller. He nodded, so Yancy turned back to me.

  “We want to hear it.”

  “Why do you care?” I asked.

  “We’re interested,” Yancy said, and he nodded towards his companion. “This here is Judge Parker. I want you to tell your story to him.”

  “Sorta like a confession?” I asked.

  “Something like that.”

  I thought on that for a second.

  “Why should I?” I asked.

  “Clear your conscience for one thing,” Yancy replied. “And, if you don’t, then Judge Parker can personally guarantee you that you won’t be seeing the sunshine again for a mighty long time.”

  Judge Parker nodded solemnly.

  I exhaled loudly as I thought it over, and then I nodded. I had planned on doing this anyway, and I might as well get it over with.

  “All right, I’ll confess,” I said.

  “You’ve made a wise decision,” Yancy said. “Need anything before you start?”

  “Coffee’d be nice.”

  Yancy turned and left, and moments later he came back with a full coffee pot and three cups.

  He poured the coffee, and he handed me a cup through the opening of the cell.

  I cradled the cup with both hands, and I took a long swig and swallowed slowly.

  “Good coffee,” I said. “Tastes real sweet.”

  “It’s got sugar in it,” Yancy explained.

  I took another swig while Yancy and Judge Parker pulled up some stools.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I said.

  “Beginning would be nice,” Yancy suggested.

  I thought for a moment.

  “Reckon we’ll have to go all the way back to my childhood then.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I collected my thoughts and started talking, and Judge Parker and Yancy listened closely.

  Chapter one

  Since I’m confessing, I’ll go ahead and say that I’ve done some bad things. But, there’s been a lot of lies told about me too. Gossip travels fast, and my name has sure gotten around.

  Most folks say I’m an outlaw, a fast gun, and a killer. I have killed folks, but I never wanted or planned to. It’s what
life threw at me, and I had to deal with it accordingly. And, every feller I ever killed went down facing me.

  As for me being a fast gun… that’s true. I am mighty handy with a six-shooter, and my speed is right up there with the best. Course, I’ve had lots of practice over the years, so I should be fast after all that practicing.

  It’s also been said that I have a fierce temper, and I can’t deny it. But, I think temper is the wrong word. Instead, it’s more like a feeling that comes over me right before times of trouble.

  It’s a feeling that’s hard to explain. The best way is to say that it’s a feeling of confidence, calmness, loneliness, sharp keenness, and pure meanness all rolled up into one. It also dulls my senses, and many a time I had been hurt and didn’t even know it until afterwards.

  I’m not the only Landon that has experienced this feeling. It had happened with Pa, and Pa warned me often about it. But I wasn’t worried, and I never gave it much thought until the day that it actually happened to me.

  My childhood days were lived in eastern Louisiana. I was born on our small farm in 1851, ten years before the start of the Civil War. My Pa’s name was Noley Landon, and Pa named me Rondo after a childhood friend of his.

  Pa and me were always real close. In my eyes there was no better man, and I still feel that way.

  My Ma got sick and died when I was a youngster, so I never did know her. But Pa talked of her often, and I know that he missed her.

  My Ma had a younger brother named Elliot. He was only six years older than me, and my Ma took care of him growing up.

  When my parents got married, Uncle Elliot sorta came with the arrangement. But Pa didn’t mind, and Pa treated him like a son. As for me, Uncle Elliot was like a big brother.

  Besides farming, we also bred and broke a few horses. Elliot preferred the farming end, but breaking broncs was my passion.

  Pa was a real good hand with a horse, and he taught me all he knew. By the time I was fourteen, I was busting broncs and could ride just about anything. Pa said I was a natural, and my dream was to one day go out west and get a ranch job breaking broncs.

  Looking back now, I reckon I can say that I had a normal childhood. Life was good, and I never was in much trouble. That is, until the day that I first experienced the feeling.

  I was eight years old.

  It was midmorning, and Pa sent Elliot and me to town to pick up some fencing supplies for the farm.

  We were loading the supplies into the back of our buckboard when a local bully named Jake Bellows came walking up.

  It was generally known that Jake was no good. His wealthy Pa owned numerous slaves, so Jake never had to work.

  Jake and Elliot were always picking on each other, and I figured with no grown-ups near that trouble was coming fast.

  On this particular morning Jake was extra cocky and full of himself. He was packing an old, rusty Colt pistol that his Pa had just given him, and he was anxious to show it off. According to Jake, the corroded six-shooter still worked, and Jake claimed to be an excellent shot with it.

  We went about our work, but Jake kept picking on Elliot about this or that.

  Elliot finally had enough. He told Jake what he thought of him, and that made Jake fighting mad. Jake tossed the gun aside, and they started kicking, gouging, and fighting each other in the street.

  Jake was a big, pudgy feller, and he was nearly twice the size that Elliot was. But that didn’t bother ol’ Elliot any, for Elliot was in good shape on account of all the hard work out on the farm.

  They traded blows back and forth, and for a while it was an even match.

  Jake’s size finally started to break Elliot down. Elliot’s face became a bloody pulp, but he was awful stubborn and wouldn’t stop fighting.

  The situation kept getting bloodier, and I was concerned that Elliot was about to get seriously hurt.

  Suddenly I was mad, and that’s when the feeling came washing over me. It made me lose control of myself, and before I knew it I was jumping into action.

  I spotted Jake’s Colt pistol lying on the ground, and I ran over and grabbed that six-shooter with both hands.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but by now folks down the street had spotted the fight, and they were running towards us to break it up. But I was sort of like in a fog, and could only see what was happening right in front of me.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “That’s my friend!”

  And then, without any further warning, I pulled the trigger.

  Chapter two

  I didn’t figure on hitting anybody. All I had wanted was to make some noise to break up the fight.

  I fired four times, and folks dove for cover.

  Finally, I couldn’t make the six-shooter fire anymore, and somebody ran up and knocked the gun away from my grasp.

  Jake was nowhere to be seen. But Elliot was thrashing around on the ground, yelling and grabbing at his foot.

  As for the other shots fired, two of them were buried deep in our buckboard, and the other one knocked out a pane in the general store’s window.

  Pa had to pay for that window, and later on Pa made me pay for it back home behind the woodshed. It was the worst whipping I ever received from Pa, and thinking back on it now I can see how I deserved it.

  Pa had a long talk with me that night, and he told me how bad I’d been. Pa was scared, and he told me sternly if I didn’t learn to control my temper that I would wind up on the wrong side of the law someday.

  I was real low after that, especially when I realized that I could have killed Elliot or someone else. At first Elliot was plenty mad, but after a while he warmed back up to me, saying he realized I was only trying to help, but that I just went about it the wrong way.

  After that, I got the reputation as being no good. Whenever I was in town, folks would frown and shake their heads, and none of the youngsters my age would have anything to do with me. But I didn’t care, because I liked being left alone.

  Pa came and fetched me a few days after I shot Elliot in the foot.

  “Judging by your shooting spread, I reckon I’d better show you how to work a gun proper like, or else you’re liable to blow your own head off,” Pa told me.

  Pa was trying hard to look stern, but he couldn’t help but reveal a small, amused smile.

  Pa grabbed his rifle and took me out deep into the woods. He sat me down on a log, and then he showed me his rifle. Next, he showed me how to load it, and Pa made me load it in front of him while he watched carefully.

  “Now then,” Pa said as he stepped back. “Take aim at that branch over yonder.”

  I looked to where Pa was pointing, and the distance had to be at least seventy-five yards.

  I took ahold of the rifle, and I squatted down behind the log and rested the barrel where I had just been sitting. I took a long, careful aim. Then, I let out my breath and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle boomed in my hands, and the branch exploded at the end.

  Pa looked at me with a surprised look.

  “Well now! That’s pretty good shooting, son! Why, I think that’s even better than I could do!”

  I beamed with pleasure while Pa scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Tell you what; you take some time everyday and practice, and then you and me will go out hunting. How does that sound?”

  That sounded good, and I said so. Pa was true to his word, and a week later I killed a deer with Pa’s rifle.

  Pa and I went out a few more times, and then he started letting me do all the hunting by myself. I was good at it, and I hardly ever wasted any ammunition.

  Pa bragged often that he had never seen a youngster be as good a shot as I was. Pa was proud, but he also made sure I understood that handling a gun was a very serious thing.

  “A rifle is a tool,” Pa told me sternly. “Sometimes you have to defend yourself with one, and that’s not a bad thing. Just make sure you use a gun for the right reasons, and not the wrong ones. You kill the wrong man and it will haunt
you for the rest of your life.”

  “Yes, Pa,” I said.

  Things went back to normal after the incident with Jake Bellows passed. Growing up on a farm would give any youngster plenty of excitement, and I treasured every minute of it.

  I had no idea that it would someday all end. To a youngster things go on forever, but you find out real quick as you grow up that things change quickly.

  I was ten years old. The year was 1861, and the Civil War broke out. Men from all over rushed off to war, and Pa was one of the first to go.

  There’s been some foolish talk that I avoided fighting in the war. Truth was, I wanted to go real bad.

  My Pa was the youngest of three brothers by nine years, so I had a lot of older cousins that went and fought in the war. I reckon them going and me staying sort of made me look bad, but they were old enough and I wasn’t, plain and simple.

  Pa made Elliot stay behind too, for he said I was too young to stay by myself. Elliot was aggravated, but he finally gave in to Pa’s wishes.

  Pa instructed us to watch the place while he was gone, and we did just that. I helped Elliot with the farming, and when I needed help breaking one of the colts Elliot helped me. We both worked extremely hard, and when Pa came back the place looked even better than when he had left.

  Pa came back home in 1863. Elliot and I were surprised, because the war was still on and we had received no word from Pa.

  Pa told us that he had been shot and captured. He was then going to be sent up north to prison, but luckily he bumped into an older Yankee cousin of mine.

  Turns out, it was Yancy.

  Yancy helped Pa and a few others escape, and after that Pa hurried on back home.

  Pa had been shot in the hip, and he never did make a full recovery. He was still in good shape and could do whatever he wanted, but he had to deal with a slight limp for the rest of his life.

  Pa hadn’t been back home much more than a week when I got the biggest surprise of my life. It was late in the day, and Pa and I were out behind the woodshed chopping up firewood when he asked me how old I was.

  I stopped working while I silently added up the years.