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  An eternal reminder of the barbaric act of violence which took from Tyler Wyatt his wife and his left hand is the vicious weapon that makes him known as — Claw. And though his quest for revenge is over, his blood lust lives on …

  Wyatt faces a hanging charge brought against him by the US Army. The only way he can clear his name is to bring back the $10,000 stolen by deserters … and a Gatling gun. The only choice he gets these days is between trouble and more trouble.

  CLAW 4: YELLOW STRIPE

  Copyright © Matthew Kirk 1983

  This electronic edition published 2023

  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: Lesley Bridges

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

  You helped me through: thank you;

  this one is for

  Dr. A. V. R. Watkins.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  THE MAN REINED in his pony and stared at the terrain ahead.

  It was flat, the prairie stretching off in a vast expanse of moonlit chaparral, shining silvery grey under the starlight. The moon was waning, but the stars filling the New Mexico sky transformed the arid landscape to a wash of ghostly color, from which the limbs of the big saguaros jutted like primeval skeletons. Off in the distance the bulk of a mesa lifted up from the flatlands, its vertical walls a more solid black than the darkness of the heavens, its rim painted silver by the stars.

  It was known as Black Rock, and the town that stood before it had taken its name from the buttress.

  The town was mostly dark, only a few lights still showing at this hour of the night.

  The man knew it well enough to pick out the individual buildings, thus guessing who was still awake and who asleep. The saloon called The Belle was still showing light; so was Wilbur Meacham’s store; and Abner Teech’s stage depot. The rest was darkness and silence.

  He tapped his heels against the flanks of the mustang and moved slowly forwards towards the settlement, following the trail that wound up through the chaparral from the direction of the Mexican border, wary of what he might find there. Waiting for him.

  His name was Tyler Wyatt, and once he had been a citizen of Black Rock. He had been a blacksmith. He had been married. He had lived there with Josie. Happy.

  Until an outlaw band led by a man called Vance Jennings had ridden in and destroyed his life. He had seen his wife’s father butchered. Seen Josie shot down.

  And felt Jennings pound his left hand to bloody pulp with one of his own hammers.

  He looked down at the thing he had made to replace his hand. A thing designed for killing. For vengeance.

  It was a cup of polished steel that fastened to the amputated stump of his left wrist with leather straps. It covered the stump, and from the forward part—where the fingers should have been—there protruded three tines of sharp and pointed metal. The tines had ripped the life from the outlaws: the massacre and the maiming had transformed Tyler Wyatt to a relentless killer. He had hunted the killers down one by one. The only one to escape his vengeance had been Jennings himself, and that was because the renegade Apache, Salvaje, had killed the man. After forcing Wyatt into holding off the pursuing column of US Cavalry chasing the broncos.

  ‘Now we are brothers in the blood,’ Salvaje had said. ‘Now we both have nothing. Except hate.’1

  And he was right.

  Wyatt had ridden out of Mexico towards the only place he could call home. Perhaps the only place he had any friends.

  And even there, the Army might be waiting for him.

  He pushed his long brown hair back from his face and eased the mustang up to a trot, swinging round to encircle Black Rock.

  He was a big man, his size almost dwarfing the Indian pony; long in the leg and broad of shoulder, his chest and arms heavily muscled from the years of working at the blacksmith’s forge. Beard stubble covered his cheeks and his eyes were haunted, the grey hollowed by pain and lack of sleep. His dirty shirt was blood-stained like his black pants where bullets fired by the Army had hit him. Around his narrow waist there was a gunbelt containing a Colt’s Peacemaker in .45 caliber. He carried no other weapons.

  He waited until the light in Wilbur Meacham’s store went out and the lights in The Belle dimmed. Abner Teech kept a lantern burning outside the stage depot all night, so he ignored that as he rode in, circling around the town to come up on the saloon from the rear.

  He waited for Meacham’s brindle hound to bark its last farewell to the final drinkers in the saloon and watched the light go on in the rear.

  The Belle had belonged to Josie’s father, Cole Garrett. With both Cole and Josie dead, it had come to Wyatt. But vengeance had come first, and he had left Doc Mortimer in charge of the place.

  Mortimer was a drunk, but he had still been a good enough doctor that he had saved Wyatt’s life—at the cost of the blacksmith’s left hand—and he was one of the few people Wyatt trusted.

  Wyatt climbed down from the mustang and watched the glow in the rear of the saloon get brighter.

  Then he moved in.

  Silently.

  Like a thief in the night in his own town.

  ‘Christ Jesus!’

  Whiskey spilled from the rim of Doc Mortimer’s topped-up glass as the door opened and his hand shook.

  ‘Tyler? My God! You scared me damn’ near to death. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.’

  Wyatt grinned at the florid-faced, curly-haired man.

  ‘I thought there might be people waiting for me.’

  ‘You’d be right.’

  Mortimer dragged a hand over his plump cheeks, licking at the whiskey spilled there.

  ‘What the hell have you been doing?’

  Wyatt shrugged. ‘I found Jennings. He’s dead.’

  It was sufficient explanation for him.

  ‘Sure.’ Mortimer emptied his glass and went over to the cabinet Wyatt remembered Cole Garrett had shipped in from the South. The doctor poured more whiskey. Drank it. Then found a second glass and filled them both. ‘You look like you could use a drink. You want me to tell you what I heard, or you want to tell your story first?’

  Wyatt shrugged, taking the glass.

  The whiskey burned his throat, filling his belly with fire. It had been a long time and it gave him energy.

  ‘You,’ said Mortimer positively. ‘Then I’ll give you the bad news.’

  ‘Jennings is dead,’ said Wyatt. ‘I trailed him down into Texas an’ he got caught by Salvaje. Salvaje caught me. We made a deal.’

  ‘The Army said that,’ Mortimer grunted. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had to hold them off. Across a bridge.’ Wyatt shrugged. ‘It was the only way to get Jennings. Salvaje killed him in the end.’

  ‘And you ended up wanted by the Army. Christ!’ Mortimer shook his head.

  ‘Wanted?’ Wyatt asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mortimer nodded. ‘There was a patrol through here four days ago. Looking for you. They got you posted as a renegade. You’re goddam lucky you got LeFevre on your side.’

  Wyatt nodded: LeFevre was the Federal Marshal who had originally investigated the Black Rock massacre, the result being Wyatt’s secret commission as a roving deputy. ‘He wants you in Las Cruces,’ said Mortimer. ‘Fast.’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘So I’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’ Mortimer shook his head and poured more whiskey. ‘There’re three soldiers upstairs in the hotel. Waiting for you. And the way you look, you need sleep and care.’

  Wyatt grinned. ‘I can sleep on the dirt.’

  Mortimer gestured with his glass at the blood-stains on Wyatt’s shirt and pants.

  ‘And those? They don’t hurt?’

  Wyatt shrugged. ‘Not too much. One of Salvaje’s people looked at them.’

  ‘And I want to,’ said Mortimer. ‘Professionally. Besides, you’ll need supplies. And you look like hell.’

  ‘I could use sleep,’ Wyatt admitted.

  ‘You know where.’ Mortimer pointed over his shoulder at the bedroom that had once belonged to Cole Garrett. ‘Use it. I can find someplace else.’

  Wyatt grinned his thanks and went through to the r

oom he remembered too well.

  He stripped down and settled his pistol under the pillow. Then he unfastened the straps around his left forearm and sat on the edge of the big, comfortable bed, staring at the calloused stump of his left arm.

  The salves and liniments Doc Mortimer had given him had kept the stump hard enough to take the metal hand. What they couldn’t do was take away the memories.

  Nothing could do that.

  Not killing Vance Jennings and the other outlaws.

  Not time.

  Not anything: the memories would always be with him. He had to learn to live with them.

  He settled down to sleep, feeling almost safe for the first time in a long time.

  Morning came with the smell of coffee. Wyatt was instantly awake, right hand questing beneath the pillow to locate the Colt. He found it and brought it out, habit cocking the hammer as he set it on the sheets by his right thigh and stretched over to lift the metal hand from the floor.

  With the expertise of practice, he settled the leather-padded cup over his stump and fastened the straps in place about his forearm, using teeth and his right hand to draw them tight and buckle them in place.

  Then he stood up and used the wash basin to clean his face and mouth. His belly rumbled protesting, and he realized he had not eaten in twenty-four hours.

  He was pleased when Mortimer tapped on the door to announce that breakfast was waiting.

  There were eggs and thick slabs of ham with biscuits and maple syrup; the coffee he had smelled. He got dressed and went into the room that had once been Cole Garrett’s parlor. It was tainted slightly with the odor of Doc Mortimer’s whiskey, the smell of the liquor too strong for the breakfast fragrances to overcome. He looked at Mortimer’s red-veined face, the cheeks flushed with excessive drinking, the nose veined, and knew that he was looking at the best friend he had.

  Mortimer spilled liquor into a half-full coffee cup and held the bottle towards Wyatt.

  The big man shook his head and settled at the table, filling his own cup with unadulterated coffee.

  ‘You said there were troopers looking for me,’ he murmured through a mouthful of bacon.

  Mortimer nodded. ‘A corporal and two enlisted men. They got orders to take you in to Fort Davis. They’ve been waiting here the last two weeks.’

  Wyatt nodded, forking eggs into his mouth.

  ‘You said something about LeFevre.’

  ‘He sent word.’ Mortimer drained his coffee cup and reached for the jug. This time it was one quarter coffee, the rest whiskey. ‘He said to get to his office in Las Cruces as fast as you can. Ahead of the Army.’

  ‘I’ll need a horse,’ Wyatt said. ‘I left an Indian pony out on the prairie. I need something bigger. A runner.’

  Mortimer nodded. ‘All right. What else?’

  ‘Clothes.’ Wyatt glanced at his blood-stained shirt and filthy pants. ‘Ammunition. A Winchester. Supplies.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it,’ Mortimer agreed. ‘But let me take a look at those wounds first.’

  Wyatt nodded, wiping the last of his breakfast from the plate with the final biscuit.

  ‘Now,’ said the doctor, emptying the bottle into his coffee. ‘While I’m still sober.’

  Wyatt buttoned the clean shirt over the bandages. There was a hole through his right arm and a six inch rip over his ribs on the left side. He thought the Apache medicine was healing both wounds well enough, but Mortimer had insisted on applying his own cures. His right thigh still felt stiff, but the bullet was out and there was no sign of infection; even so, Mortimer had bandaged that like the rest.

  Wyatt tugged on clean black pants and awkwardly fastened his gunbelt in place. Mortimer had brought him clean clothes and a new Stetson, black to match the pants and the boots. Also a Winchester carbine in .44-40 caliber, so that it would accept the slugs tucked into the loops of the gunbelt. There was a bay gelding waiting for him outside the saloon, paid for out of The Belle’s profits, saddle and bags stocked with provisions.

  Mortimer had gone out first to check the way was clear.

  Wyatt didn’t feel like waiting, so he went out into the saloon as soon as he was dressed.

  It was mostly empty. One barkeep he didn’t recognize was cleaning glasses behind the long counter. There were three girls looking haggard as they drank coffee around a table down at the far end. Doc Mortimer. And three soldiers hunkered up against the bar, alternating sips of coffee with slugs of whiskey.

  Mortimer looked round in alarm as he heard the door slam closed.

  The soldiers looked round in curiosity that was rapidly followed by anticipation.

  The corporal was a squat man with a barrel chest and a nose spread wide over his face by too many fists. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing an expanse of hairy, muscle-laden arm. His teeth were stained yellow by tobacco when he smiled.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It looks like waitin’ paid off. Looks like we found him.’

  Either side of him, the troopers grinned.

  One was a tall, tow-headed man with freckles covering most of his face, his blue shirt loose over gaunt ribs. The other was swarthy, his hair Mexican-black, his body almost as thick as the corporal’s.

  ‘Looks like,’ he agreed.

  And all three moved out to block Wyatt’s path.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ said Mortimer. ‘Not in here.’

  ‘Won’t be none,’ said the corporal, still grinning. ‘So long as he comes quiet.’

  ‘I’m going to Las Cruces,’ Wyatt said, his voice even. ‘I want to talk to the marshal there. You want me, you can find me there.’

  ‘I can find you here,’ the corporal said. ‘Be a pure waste of my time chasin’ over to Las Cruces after you.’

  ‘Stay out o’ my way.’ Wyatt said. ‘I got no quarrel with you.’

  ‘None with you, feller,’ said the corporal. ‘Just orders.’

  ‘I’m going to Las Cruces.’

  It was a statement.

  ‘No you ain’t. You’re comin’ with us.’

  Wyatt shook his head as he moved on down the saloon. ‘Sorry, feller, but you got that wrong. I told you where I’m going.’

  The corporal’s hand moved towards his gun. It was a long-barreled Cavalry Colt, held in the turn-grip, flapped holster favored by the US Army. Either side of him, the troopers reached for their weapons.

  Wyatt was holding the Winchester carbine in his right hand. He closed the distance between them with the long gun swinging up in a curving arc that slammed the metal barrel hard against the non-com’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back with a vicious cracking sound as his teeth smashed together. Chips of broken enamel spat from his mouth as his eyes glazed and blood trickled from between his lips. His hand dropped away from his holster as Wyatt brought the carbine down and rammed the muzzle into his belly. He grunted like a pig and began to fold.

  And as he did, Wyatt swung the carbine up and round to the right as his metal hand swung to the left.

  On the corporal’s right side, the tow-headed trooper caught the full weight of the hand against the side of his neck. His mouth gaped open as his eyes went blank, the nerves along the side of his throat crushed. He gargled noisily and slumped sideways, folding at the knees to crash facedown on the floor.

  On the left side, the swarthy trooper dragged his hand clear of his pistol in time to deflect the carbine’s barrel. Instead of striking his face, it hit his wrist. There was the sharp sound of cracking bone. The man yelped. Wyatt pivoted, letting the force of the original blow carry him round so that the metal hand swung in a flat trajectory to thud against the side of the trooper’s face. The soldier gasped and went down on his knees. Wyatt turned, bringing the Winchester up. Then brought it down against the back of the man’s neck.

  The trooper joined his companions on the floor.

  Doc Mortimer said, ‘Jesus, Tyler! You better get out of here fast.’

  Wyatt nodded, glancing at the unconscious men.

  ‘Yeah. I guess my country doesn’t need me. Any more.’

  Chapter Two

  NATHAN LEFEVRE’S FACE looked like some kind of relief map of the New Mexico territory. It was tanned a deep, dark brown that was striated with deep wrinkles, like old parchment. His eyes were blue, almost silvery; like twin lakes set into sunbaked mountain country. His hair was cropped short and white as the snow topping the Guadalupes come winter. His body was long and lean, hard as that of a man half his forty-plus years. In repose—with his head eased back against the wood of his swivel chair and his feet up on his desk—he still looked like he could swing into action on the blink of an eye.

 

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