Growing up in Ohio in the 1860s, brothers Bill and John Cole dream of going west and becoming gunfighters. They have no intention of following in their father's footsteps and working the land, spending their days as farmers. At eighteen, Bill is the first to leave and become a deputy. He cleans up the town of Amber Walls, Texas, and is believed to be the fastest gun of his time. But there's one faster-his brother, John, who rides into Abilene, Kansas, on his bay mare and leaves his mark on this western town as a deputy sheriff. He becomes known as the "left-handed gun." All those who challenge young John Cole end up six feet under in Boot Hill. The Left-Handed Gun follows the trials and fortunes of Bill and John Cole as they tackle the challenges of the Old West. They learn that all who take the way of the gun will sooner or later end up on Boot Hill.

THE LEFT-HANDED GUN

By Tony Monte

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Tony Monte
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-8847-7

Chapter One

JOHN HEADS WEST

Young John Cole rode into the town of Abilene, in Kansas. The day was hot, very hot. The year was 1879. His bay mare was as tired and worn as he was. He spoke softly to his horse, "It will not be long now Amber, and you can rest and get some oats". To his right were the stockyards, a sign read Joseph G. McCoy Proprietor. There were a number of water troughs along the fence. John dismounted next to one and let Amber have a drink, while he splashed water over his hot and dusty face. A young boy was playing in the road with a stick and his dog. "Boy where is the stable?" The boy looked up, "Crenshaw's, down at the very end of the street and to the left" he said. John mounted and gave a slight jab with his spurs. His horse plodded forward, the horse must have smelled the stable, for it picked up the pace on its own. John looked around at the buildings, a hotel and a bank that looked as if you could break into it with a crowbar. John turned left down the first rutted dusty street; He saw the stable on the left and the saloon across on the right. He stopped in front of the open door of the stable and dismounted, He looked at the dirty old man sitting in a chair. "Are you the stableman?"

"That be me sonny, Crenshaw's the name."

John asked "How much to board my horse Crenshaw?"

"Two bits a day" grunted Crenshaw. John flipped him a quarter, "Grain, and rub him down."

"You are somewhat young to be barking orders," Crenshaw said. Cole gave him a hard stare. The old man looked at the tied down gun, "Ok I will take good care of him." Cole looked around, saw the Buffalo saloon, and walked across the rutted street, stepped up onto the porch and pushed open the batwing doors. Cole waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark room; he walked over to the bar and laid a nickel on polished wood, "Beer." There were two men on his left at the bar and an old man to his right. Behind the bar there was a mirror on the wall and a shelf with whiskey bottles. Looking in the mirror, John saw some men sitting at tables staring at him. Turning his head around, John said, "A man does not like to be stared at when he is drinking." John noticed they looked at his tied down gun, and then looked the other way.

The man at the end of the bar said, "You don't look old enough to drink." Cole picked up the glass with his right hand, took a sip of the warm beer, stared at the man, and then said. "And you might get older if you mind your own business." "Just making talk young man, did not mean to rile you." Cole finished up his beer. He turned back to the bar. "Where can I get a bed?" Cole asked the bartender."

"Go left out the door, across the street and four doors down. Gus said; "The Abilene Hotel."

Cole picked up his saddlebags, and tossed them over his right shoulder, then picked up his dads' old rifle, and left the bar. He then walked to the hotel, looking over the town as he went, entering the dimly lit hotel; he again waited for his eyes to adjust. Cole walked over to the desk clerk. "I want a room facing the street."

"That will be two bits a day. Room two, on the right." Cole gave him two bits, signed the register, picked up the key and turned towards the stairs. Cole walked up the stairs, and walked over to the room marked 2, he tried the door, it was unlocked, with his is left hand on his gun, He pushed the door open with his right hand, looking around to make sure no one was in the room. He entered the small shabby room, locked the door, and looked around. It was a typical hotel room. It had a bed, small washbasin, kerosene lamp, old curtains hanging limply on the one dusty window and a pitcher of water on the worn old table. He dropped his saddlebags on the floor and rested his rifle against the old dresser; He took off his gun, laid it on the bed, and then lay down close to it. He closed his tired eyes, and thought back of his family. He thought of his Mother and Father, and his older brother Bill. Who already had a reputation as the fastest gun alive, But John knew there was one faster..

Chapter Two

WAGON'S WEST

John thought back to the small farm they had in Ohio, He had sold the few cattle, about ten head, it was a farm and ranch combined, about a hundred and sixty acres. Though he was only fifteen, he had to do a man's work, for his father and mother; both in their seventies were sick and not long for this world. John thought back to his Father telling how they came to Ohio.

William Cole was born in 1808 along the Hudson River, In the Eastern Kaatskil Mountains. At the age of eighteen, he married his lifelong girlfriend, Mira O'Leary. Not being able to make a decent living, William took his new bride and headed west with all his possessions. Two horses and a pack mule, loaded with all the food they could carry and his old Flintlock rifle and pistol. Not being a talkative man, William did not tell his sons much about the trip to Ohio. When Bill was 13 and John 10, they were sitting in the cabin at the dinner table. The cabin had two rooms with a loft, where the boys slept. John asked; "Pa on your way here from New York, did you have to kill any injuns?" Even now he could hear his father talking to him.

"John, killing another human being is not a good thing, but sometimes a man has to do things, he does not like. It is not the way of the Lord, to kill. I will tell you of one instance. After making camp one night, we ate our meager dinner of bread and beans, and then we turned in for the night. Sometime close to morning, I was woken, by the braying of the mule. I pulled off my blankets and grabbed my rifle." Young John with both arms on the table, mouth open, listened intently.

"I saw someone leading the mule away; we could not afford to lose the mule. I had no choice! I brought the rifle to my shoulder and shot the man. I took my powder horn, and shot pouch and reloaded my rifle. I did not know how many were around. Lucky for us it was one, lone Indian. I wondered why he was trying to take the mule, and not the horses. Later I found out they like mule meat. There were a few more problems along the way. About a week later, I saw smoke off in the distance, fearing it might be Indians, I told your mother we would make camp and lay low for the rest of the day. The next morning we had a cold breakfast, I was afraid to attract attention to ourselves. As your mother packed the mule, I saddled the two horses and we headed where we saw the smoke. After climbing a rise we saw a burnt out wagon, near the wagon we saw three forms, I knew right away what they were. "When we got close enough where I could still keep an eye on your mother, I told her to stay back with the mule. I could smell the stench of death and so could my horse, as he became hard to control. I dismounted and ground hitched him, taking my rifle with me I approached the bodies. There was a man, woman and a young girl, all were dead, and had been mutilated. It was all I could do not to lose my cold breakfast. There was not much of anything left. The Indians took almost everything. I saw a Bible lying next to the woman, it was in bad shape, but I could make out the family's names. Cian Moore, Shannon and Erin Moore and their birth dates, I can't remember the dates, but the young girl was only ten that I will always remember. There were still some scraps of clothing thrown around, so I gathered what I could and wrapped the bodies in them the...