Adam Steele 28

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  Steele.

  Storekeeper, settled and accepted. Him and his wife. Until the stranger rode into town. A hard, silent man with an old newspaper photo all crumpled up in his hip pocket. A photo that just happened to show something from his past.

  That was when Steele realized that there were two kinds of past. The past a man tries to forget, that forces itself into his sweat-soaked nightmares. Memories of blood, pumping, hot, vivid red on Confederate gray. Of triumphant Rebel yells that rise horribly to bone-chilling screams.

  And then there is the past you didn’t know about.

  Until it rears up, sudden as a diamondback and strikes to kill.

  ADAM STEELE 28:

  STEELE’S WAR -THE STRANGER

  By George G. Gilman

  Originally published by New English Library in 1981

  Copyright ©1981, 2022 by George G. Gilman

  This electronic edition: May 2022

  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.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series editor: Mike Stotter

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  For Phil and Margaret

  Be my guests – have a book!

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  The Stranger – Part One

  Steele’s War – Book Four

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  The Stranger – Part Two

  About the Author

  Books by George G. Gilman

  Author’s Note

  The Civil War sequence in this book completes the four-part account of Adam Steele’s experiences as a cavalry lieutenant in the Confederate army. Although both it and the contemporary story contained in this volume are complete in themselves, enjoyment may be enhanced by reading the earlier three books in the series in chronological order: The Woman, The Preacher and The Storekeeper.

  Illustration © Tony Masero

  The Stranger – Part One

  AFTER THE TWO men out front of the White Rock stage depot had watched the San Antonio bound Concord roll off the single street of the town to head down the south trail, one of them said to the other: ‘You know somethin’?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Folks around here are real glad you and your wife decided to stay on at the store. After the trouble.’

  Adam Steele smiled quietly and nodded to the stage depot manager whose name was Coburn. And answered: ‘Reckon Lucy is, too.’

  The chubby-faced Coburn looked slightly perturbed. ‘Hope that don’t mean you’re havin’ second thoughts, Mr. Steele?’

  ‘Never have changed my mind since I bought the store off George Dalton.’

  ‘Folks’ll be real glad to hear that,’ Coburn said as he turned to go inside the depot, stepping out of the heat and glare of the Texas sun a few minutes past its midday peak.

  And Adam Steele angled across the dusty, deserted street toward the White Rock Grocery Store that had provided a home and a living for his wife and himself for almost two months.

  At the very start, the omens had been good. When he and his bride had ridden away from a time of violence into this quiet country town on the trail between San Antonio and Abilene: to discover the store up for sale and a bank mortgage readily available. To buy the place and to attempt to put down roots here in White Rock had been an impulsive decision. Just as impulsive as his marriage to Lucy Girard. But then the violence which had surrounded his meeting with the woman and next attended their wedding, intruded yet again. And Adam Steele, storekeeper, was required to revert to being the kind of man whom the War Between the States had molded and long years of a violent peace had honed.

  Although grateful for the way in which the newcomer to White Rock took the brutal initiative in dealing with the trouble that came to their town, the people were shocked by his skill in the killing art and his lack of any feeling toward those who died by his hand. And for some time, Lucy and he could not fail to be aware of the antipathy which the events on the day of the bank robbery had created between the long-standing citizens of White Rock and themselves.

  Nothing was said or done directly to make the couple feel they were unwelcome. There was just a subtle change of attitudes among the customers who had to use the store because there was no alternative: a certain coolness that discouraged small town social chitchat and confined conversation to the limit of what was necessary to complete the buying and selling transaction.

  Back behind the counter in the cool shade of the store, breathing the air which was redolent with the aromas of his stock in trade, Adam Steele expressed another quiet smile. The period of semi-ostracism was now ended. Coburn had spoken of ‘folks around here’ being pleased that the Steeles were still working their store in town. And during the morning, before Adam Steele walked his wife across to the depot and saw her on to the stage, a number of women customers had sought assurances that Lucy really was only going to San Antonio to buy a dress for her birthday.

  Which meant they had passed some kind of spontaneous test – or, rather, that Steele had been tried and not found wanting. And if he could settle comfortably into the mundane pattern of life in this quiet Texas backwater, then his wife who had not shown herself to be anything but a respectably married woman was equally acceptable to the people of White Rock.

  Oddly, she who had done nothing wrong in the eyes of the local people had been most affected by their change of attitude toward Steele: had been moodily anxious for three weeks after the day of the bank robbery for her husband to leave and find a new place to settle down. She had insisted that the reason she wanted this was exclusively on his account – that he was demeaning himself by remaining here, serving an ungrateful community which held him in such low regard.

  But Steele was certain this was only partially responsible for her line of thinking – maybe even a pretense – and that there was a deeper, more personal reason for her strong desire to move on. And, certainly, she had stopped trying to convince him they should move on long before this morning, when the people of White Rock had made overtures of renewed friendship toward the couple.

  For an hour Steele was alone in the store except for a couple of green-bodied flies which buzzed lethargically in the display window beside the open door. And only for a fraction of this time did he consider why Lucy had changed her mind – or abandoned her attempts to get him to change his. For he did not wish to cloud his mind with unpleasant thoughts and there was too much they did not know about each other: about their respective pasts. Because neither ever asked and information was seldom volunteered. And since Steele was taciturn on this matter because there was so much he did not want Lucy to know, it was natural that he should feel her silence had the same basis.

  ‘A half pound of coffee if you please, young man. I don’t suppose you have any eggs?’

  His first customer of the afternoon was the thinly-built spinster of advanced years who taught school in town. She had a temperament to match her sour face and so her curt manner was not an indication that she was at odds with the feelings of the rest of the people in White Rock. It was just her way with everyone.

  ‘No eggs,’ Steele confirmed, as he placed a package of coffee beans on the counter.

  The woman took out the right amount of coins to pay for the coffee and complained: ‘You shouldn’t allow flies in a store selling provisions, young man.’ But then, pausing on the threshold, she glanced back to add in the same tone of voice: ‘But you’re a fast learner and I am very pleased about that. Good day to you.’

  He knew he was a fast learner – especially of those lessons which showed a man how to survive.

  During his youth and early manhood, as the son of one of the most wealthy plantation owners in Virginia, this had been easy. First in terms of orthodox school education and then the learning of the social mores and business techniques necessary to fit him for taking over the running of the plantation in due course of time.

  But the Civil War made a destructive intrusion into this plan and when, against the wishes of his pro-Union father, the young Adam Steele threw in his lot with the Confederacy, it was not just the war he was destined to lose. He also lost the bright and privileged future which he had always considered his birthright.

  The ending of the war marked, for the Virginian, the start of the violent peace when, after cutting down the corpse of his lynched father from a beam in a Washington barroom, he buried Ben Steele in the grounds of the burnt-out big house and set off to find and punish the killers. He succeeded in this mission by abiding by the lessons of survival which war had taught him: gunning down the murderers with the Colt Hartford rifle which was his sole inheritance fr
om his father.

  He still had that rifle, upstairs in a closet of the bedroom he shared with Lucy above the store. It, and a variety of other weapons, had been used on countless occasions to fight his way out of trouble on the many trails he had covered between a madman’s fortress in Tennessee and this one street town in Texas. Long, hard trails which had provided few opportunities for him to even think about forgetting those wartime lessons on how a man must kill or be killed.

  And through all these years of maintaining a delicate balance on the dangerous line between tense living and brutal dying, he had submitted to the dictates of the ruling fates that marked his course. Until he found Lucy Girard, took her as his wife and ignored the bad omens by calling a halt to his ways as a drifter. Dug in his heels, put his rifle in the closet and defied trouble ever to come his way again.

  In truth, it did not. The bank robbery was not his concern, except insofar as he was now a citizen of the town where the raid took place. And it was as a law-abiding citizen that Adam Steele had taken the Colt Hartford from the closet and ridden with the posse in pursuit of the raiders. But when the quarry was tracked down, he was set apart from another storekeeper, the town barber, the stage depot manager, the liveryman, banker and sheriff. For a few violent seconds he was not a storekeeper. He was an avenger with a gun who far outclassed the trio of hard men who had robbed the White Rock bank. And when the acrid gunsmoke cleared, his fellow citizens were appalled by his skill and frightened by the utter lack of compassion which he displayed in the wake of the slaughter.

  They were quick to thank him – perhaps for saving their lives – but then had followed the time when they made it plain that they were not so sure they wanted their wives to buy flour and beans from such a man as this.

  But now that time was past and throughout the hot afternoon women, some men and a few children came into the store to buy the necessities and some luxuries. Cheerfully smiling and often chattering: never putting into words what Coburn had said, but nevertheless making it clear that Adam and Lucy Steele were welcome additions to White Rock.

  At five o’clock, Steele took off his waist apron and went out into the kitchen to wash up and shave. And when he was through, he grinned broadly at his reflection in the broken piece of mirror propped on a shelf above the sink. From the neck down, he knew he looked like a small town storekeeper – even without the apron. For he was dressed in a plain cotton shirt, denim pants and shoes: the clothes spick and span and smelling of the same aromas that clung to the store. Such a garb was far removed from the dudish attire he used to wear, as a throwback to his rich Virginia beginnings, while he was riding the dusty Western trails. And the image that grinned out at him from the looking glass ...?

  It fitted the clothing.

  It was a lean face, lined and tanned to the texture and color of old leather by continual exposure to the elements. To either side of the coal-black eyes and the gentle mouthline some of the wrinkling suggested that this was the face of a man who had suffered both physically and emotionally, but the evidence was not so pronounced as it once had been, he decided. It was a handsome face, the features regular. With a bone structure that, over the years, had seemed to alter: to manifest the increasing strength of character which had developed within Steele. Above the forehead and down each cheek in long and thick sideburns, his hair no more showed any trace of the auburn it had been when he was young: for premature grayness – he was not yet forty – had now entirely taken over.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon you look the part,’ he told his reflection. ‘And it doesn’t even show how hard you had to work for it.’

  He turned and went out of the kitchen, across the store and stepped on to the sidewalk in front: a five and a half foot tall, solidly built man who looked incapable of hurting the two flies still buzzing in the window of his premises. Obviously content with his appearance, his surroundings as he crossed the street in the pale reddish light of the cool evening, and with a chore well done – this chore the not inconsiderable one of molding himself, under adverse conditions, to merge with such apparent ease into the backdrop of this small town.

  ‘Evenin’, Mr. Steele,’ Bart Dillon greeted brightly as the Virginian crossed the stoop of the saloon and pushed through the batwing doors. ‘Usual?’

  ‘Grateful to you.’

  Dillon, who was in his late fifties with a once strong body running to fat, owned White Rock’s only saloon and hotel. And when necessary pinned a five-pointed star to his shirt front to become the town’s part-time sheriff. The barroom was small, cramped by six chair-ringed tables and a counter which stretched thirty feet along one wall. It was spartan and clean, smelling of tobacco smoke from the pipe of the wan, pallid Felix Humbert who ran White Rock’s hardware store. As usual at this hour of the day, Humbert shared with Frank Boyd, the town barber, Riley, the banker, and Grant Erland, who was the blacksmith and liveryman, a table close to the bar. The four of them drinking beer to settle the dust of the day in their throats and passing the time with a game of penny ante poker.

  ‘Widower for the night, I hear?’ the sixty-five year old Miles Riley said with a grin. ‘Best we keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t do your lovely little lady wrong.’

  Steele responded with a quiet smile to the grins of the card players and to the wink from Bart Dillon as the bartender emerged from a doorway in back of the counter, carrying a steaming mug of black coffee.

  On other evenings when Steele had entered the saloon at this time the greetings had never been more than coolly polite. And Miles Riley had refrained at all times since the gunning down of the bank robbers from speaking about Lucy in a way that told of the innocent shine he had taken to her when the Steeles first came to town.

  ‘Still sticking to coffee,’ the Virginian pointed out as he raised the mug. ‘Anxious that strong liquor will get a hold on me and I might not be able to control the yen I have for Emily Hawkins.’

  Grins became gusts of laughter now, as the men conjured up images of the strait-laced and vinegary schoolma’am fending off the sexual advances of a man.

  ‘Have a bottle of rye on the house,’ Dillon offered good-humoredly. ‘A roll in the hay could be just what that crone needs to improve her disposition. ‘

  ‘Which’ll make a lot of kids hereabouts happy,’ Frank Boyd added.

  There was another burst of laughter and when this petered out, a horse could be heard on the street. Slow moving, with weariness discernible in the uneven clop of the hooves.

  The card game was resumed, Dillon returned to reading a week old edition of a San Antonio newspaper and Steele sipped at the hot, strong coffee. Low voices and small sounds disturbed the silence, which this evening, was comfortable and totally without strain.

  Then the horse was halted outside and the dismounting rider could be heard rasping curses at the animal while he hitched the reins to the rail. His booted feet rapped hard on the stoop boarding and the batwings were thrust forcefully open. Dillon and his five local customers turned to glance with only mild interest at the stranger who entered the saloon so noisily.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ the newcomer growled sourly. ‘It ain’t a ghost town after all.’

  He was in his mid-fifties. Six feet tall and string-bean thin. With an ugly, hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed face. When he took off his hat to shake trail dust from the brim, his head was seen to be totally bald. A Mexican-style moustache was prominent above and to each side of his small mouth, even though there was at least a three day growth of bristles on his cheeks, jaw and throat. He was dressed in patched and sweat-stained black clothing and carried a Smith and Wesson .44 Russian revolver in a hip holster hung from an ancient gunbelt. There was contempt in his red-rimmed green eyes as he surveyed his surroundings and its inhabitants on his way to the center of the bar counter. ‘Get you somethin’?’ Dillon asked.

  ‘Beer for my thirst and a bottle of rye for everythin’ else that ails me, mister,’ the stranger in town answered. ‘Sure is some quiet place this White Rock. ‘

  He put his Stetson back on and rasped the palm of a hand over his bristles while he made another, more careful examination of the men in the saloon.