The Pinfire Lady Read online

  The Pinfire Lady

  Abigail, Lady Penraven, is an Englishwoman set adrift in the wilderness of the Great American Desert. But Abbie is made of stern stuff, and she develops skills with firearms and establishes herself as a gunfighter and wagon master. During a trek westwards, seeking the supposed inheritance left by her deceased father, she encounters numerous perils that test her new skills to the full.

  The Pinfire Lady

  P.J. Gallagher

  ROBERT HALE

  © P.J. Gallagher 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-295-4

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of P.J. Gallagher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Dedicated to my wife Maureen, aka Mo M. Down

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Damn him!’ Abigail, Lady Penraven, slipped from the saddle and threw herself down on the short, coarse grass of the little clearing. Pounding her fist on the ground, she uttered a string of most unladylike expletives, overheard over the years from men of her father’s regiment. At the same time, a whole series of different emotions rushed through her mind. Of these, uppermost was anger; coupled with sadness at her betrayal; humiliation at the situation in which she found herself, and a sense of inadequacy.

  Abigail had left the wagon train intending to go for but a short ride, to exercise the big bay gelding she had bought before leaving Independence. Something had prompted her to return. Some inner sense had warned her all was not well. She had quietly ridden back to the encircled wagons and, dismounting, had walked over to the steps secured at the back of their wagon, ignoring the half-embarrassed, half-pitying looks she received from their neighbours. Even before mounting the steps, she heard female giggles, and a male muttering from within. Quickly, she stepped up and peered inside. Her worst suspicions were realized when she observed Bertram Penraven, her husband, and Yvette, her French-Canadian maid, engaged in passionate love making.

  Yvette had uttered a little scream and Bertie, interrupted in his sexual endeavours, had looked back over his shoulder to see the outraged figure of his wife, Abigail, staring at the two half-clothed figures before her,

  ‘O Lor’, Abbie!’ he cried as she turned away in disgust. ‘I can explain. . . !’

  Abbie did not stay to listen to the remainder of his lies. Aboard her bay, she tore out of the encampment and, with the horse at full gallop, had thundered across the undulating vista of prairie, heedless of her direction. There was a red mist before her eyes, while the pounding hoofs seemed to be mocking her constant thought. ‘He promised! He promised! He promised!’

  Eventually, she had slowed the sweat-lathered gelding to a walk and looked about her. She had entered an area where there was a rocky outcrop, evidence of some cataclysmic upheaval in eons past. Abbie’s route led her into a small, cleared area about the size of a tennis court, nearly surrounded by boulders and rocks of grey granite. And there, in this solitude, she had given vent to all the pent up feelings that had been part of her nearly three years of marriage to Lord Bertram Penraven – the petty humiliations, the broken promises of a drunken sot, who preferred the attentions of barmaids and the like, rather than seek the woman who had occupied his marriage bed.

  Finally, her blind rage began to subside and she became more conscious of her surroundings while, at the same time, a swirling kaleidoscope of memories welled up one after another. There were the years in India, tenderly cared for by Marta her Ayah, who had taken the place of her own mother who, worn out by the constant humid heat and frequently bed-ridden, had finally succumbed to a tropical fever. Major Frederick Martin, her father, had continued to offer the bluff love that he had always shown his little daughter, but inevitably his military responsibilities took precedence and therefore the raising of little Abbie had been left to the Indian girl, Marta.

  As time had passed, Abbie had taken more notice of the world around her; the cantonment, with its small married quarters, bungalows; the garrison church where she was taken every Sunday in her best white dress, and forced to sit, without too much wriggling, to long grown-up sermons delivered by the Reverend Mr Williams, the regimental Chaplain. Then there was the regiment itself, the Royal Berkshire Light Infantry and, more especially, D Company, which her father commanded. In her early days, she had clutched Marta’s hand tightly as she watched, one thumb stuck firmly in her mouth, while the company was drilled on the square by Company Sergeant Major Jones, he with the loud terrifying voice, who in later years, she found, was like putty in her hands, as she wheedled some small favour from him.

  The years had passed and, as she grew older, her father took to taking her with him when he went on safaris up into the Kashmiri hill country. During these treks, Abbie learned the rudiments of finding comfort in but a primitive camp, and more importantly, developed into a reasonable shot with both a .24 gauge shotgun, and also a small .25 calibre rook rifle. As she had grown in size and strength, so her skills with firearms of still larger calibre improved, till the day arrived when she triumphantly bagged an Indian deer, using the then standard British military rifle, the 1853 pattern, percussion .577 calibre, Enfield.

  Sadly it was but a short time after that that Major Martin had received a mortal wound from a round fired by a jezail-wielding Afridi, and seventeen-year-old Abbie had found herself an orphan. Despite her tearful pleas to remain in India, Major Martin’s will had been quite clear. In the event of his demise, Abbie was to be sent to England to live with his brother George’s family. Apparently this had all been arranged between the two brothers, when the Major’s wife first exhibited signs of the debilitation that was to slowly, but inexorably, drag her to a lonely grave far from the land for which she had constantly, but secretly, yearned.

  Abbie Martin did not like England, with its cold damp climate for so much of the year. Nor did she manage to establish a warm relationship with Aunt Sarah, Uncle George’s wife, a shrewish woman of icy temperament, who was always picking holes in Abbie’s deportment and mode of speech, and deploring the education that had been imparted by the Reverend Mr. Williams.

  ‘Don’t do this, Abigail! Don’t do that, Abigail. Well brought up young ladies do not enter conversations which deal with topics that are purely a male domain!’ This last admonition was her reaction when Abbie had startled an assembled company by daring to describe the impact effect of a rifled bullet upon an Indian deer. She was stifled and depressed by her inability to resign herself to an endless future of soirees, dainty tea cups and mindless gossip about clothing, fashions and the wayward exploits of those not present.

  It was no wonder that the lonely, friendless girl was easily swept off her feet by the attentions of a youthful neighbour, Lord Bertram Penraven. There was a whirlwind courtship, followed by a society wedding about which Aunt Sarah was, for once, wildly enthusiastic. Harsh reality emerged, shortly after the wedding, as Abbie Penraven rapidly became aware
of the truth of her situation. Her debonair spouse was a wastrel drunkard, who pursued anything in the female form – except his own wife, whom he had apparently married only for her dowry and to gain access to certain investments which, Abbie learned, had been made in her name when she was but a child. These investments would appear to be the product of extensive travelling her father had undertaken many years before her birth. Apparently while still single, the then Lieutenant Martin had taken an extended furlough and had spent some considerable time in the western United States. In fact he was one of the early prospectors who found pay dirt in what was to become a gold rush to equal that which was shortly to take place in California.

  Hounded by his creditors, and promising to reform, Bertram had proposed that they travel to the United States and examine the situation regarding the major’s investments, about which there was apparently a mystery. The investments included major shares in a mining operation in Colorado, one of the western Territories though, at that time, still part of Kansas. After an initial dividend, there had been no further word regarding the success of the mining operation. Agreement was reached regarding the need to clear up the American mystery, and Abbie thought that being away from his regular haunts might aid Bertram in his professed attempts to reform.

  The Atlantic voyage had been uneventful, as had the coach journey on the Cumberland road as far west as the Mississippi. Crossing the great river, they continued west as far as Independence, where wagon trains assembled before journeying across the Great American Desert, otherwise known as the prairie. At Independence, the English couple had purchased a sturdy wagon known as a ‘Prairie Schooner’, and a full team of oxen to draw their conveyance. A rather uncouth teamster, Caleb Otter, whose habit of continually spitting tobacco juice Abbie found more than a little disturbing, had been hired to handle the team and, at the last minute, Bertram had suggested that Abbie should have the services of a personal maid. Reluctantly, Abbie had agreed, and Yvette, the attractive, vivacious little French-Canadian was added to their party.

  Was it a pre-conceived plan on Bertram’s part to add another female, and had he already encountered Yvette during his many strolls around the little frontier settlement? Abbie never knew but, from that time on, there had been a subtle change in the relationship of the quartet travelling westward.

  A distant sound of gunshots, accompanied by wild screams and whoops, broke in upon the distraught girl’s recollections. Startled she rose from the grass and, drawing her father’s small brass telescope from its leather case, she clambered up some of the rocks enclosing the clearing and focused the instrument in the direction of the encampment. The lenses brought the full horror of the Indian attack much closer to her, and she crouched down terrified lest keen eyes observed her up in her eyrie. She need not have worried about disclosure.

  The mounted attack had moved from its initial operation of riding around the wagons, pouring in clouds of arrows and the occasional musket shot. Now, upon a signal from a war-bonneted figure directing the attack from some distance away, raising high a lance, the circling riders turned and drove their horses at the gaps between each wagon. Although some fell to the defenders’ frantic fire, the majority were successful in breaching the defence and, from her elevated position, Abbie could see desperate figures attempting to avoid their ghastly fate.

  One figure leapt over a wagon tongue and, mad with fear, fled into the open prairie, pursued by a tomahawk-flourishing Indian warrior. Focusing on the trouserless white man, she could see it was her faithless husband Bertram, screaming with fear, as the pounding hoofs of his horse-borne nemesis drew ever closer. Seconds later, the horse was alongside, and the tomahawk rose and fell, buried between Bertram’s shoulder blades. The Indian let out a triumphant yell, and Abbie sank down upon the rocks, oblivious to the fact that she was suddenly now a widow. She was horrified, yet still compelled to watch the remainder of the distant tragedy which, like some ghastly play, was taking place before her eyes brought sharply into focus by Major Martin’s field telescope.

  Her late husband’s killer leapt from his dappled pony and, jumping astride Bertram’s corpse, proceeded to pass a knife around his victim’s head with an efficiency born of much practice. In no time, he was waving aloft his Lordship’s blond and now bloody hair.

  The last of the defenders had now been killed and scalped, and the scene resembled something from Dante’s Inferno. Naked and near-naked braves were dancing war dances and waving aloft bloody bunches of hair, while others looted the wagons that were already burning from the arrows launched during the initial attack. The wagons’ contents were being dragged out and scattered on the bloody grass, not with any systematic order, but appearing more like the wilful reaction of a large number of bad-tempered children.

  Abbie had reopened her eyes once more, in time to see, feel and hear the effect of a massive explosion, as one government wagon, containing a large number of gunpowder barrels, caught fire and exploded, sending pieces of the wagon, together with parts of Indian bodies, high into the air.

  Almost at the same time there was a series of lightning flashes, followed immediately by crashes of thunder, as a violent storm burst upon the scene. The coincidence of explosion and storm may well have convinced the Indians that Manitou was angry with them, for suddenly they dropped much of the looted material and, springing upon their ponies, fled.

  Abbie meanwhile had slid down the rocks and, soaked to the skin, had crouched against a slight overhang in the vain hope of seeking some relief from the relentless downpour. Luckily she’d remembered to leave the bay’s reins hanging down in front of him. He had hardly moved from where she had dismounted and, temporarily leaving her illusion of shelter, she ran to where the bay patiently waited, and dragged him over to stand with her against the rocky wall. So passed the most miserable night of Abbie’s existence. Buffeted by continuous gusts of rain-laden wind, and half deafened by the noise of the thunder, horse and girl waited out the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gradually the storm drove on towards the east, where a faint light along the horizon heralded the coming dawn. During the terrors of the night Abbie had been doing some hard thinking, and it was now that the skills learned with her father on their treks together stood her in good stead. First, she had to get off some of her wet clothing, hanging in soaking clammy folds around her. She stripped to the bare skin, her lithe young body shivering in the cool, damp, morning air and her nipples hardening involuntarily. Then she wrung out her cotton blouse, chemise and pantalettes and donned them, with the thought that, being of light cotton, they would dry fairly quickly. Her heavy riding habit of jacket and ankle-length skirt she bundled up and tied behind her saddle.

  Now she had to forage the abandoned camp looking for specific things – food, utensils, a blanket and, most important, weapons with which to defend herself against both wild animals and wild men.

  Mounting the bay from a convenient boulder, Abbie settled herself with a little grimace in the wet side-saddle and rode cautiously across the sodden prairie towards the devastated wagon train. Nearing the site she paused momentarily, looking down on the thing that had once been her husband. Curiously she felt no particular emotion, not even disgust or horror, at the partially disrobed corpse, with its hairless, reddened skull; he was no longer part of her existence.

  She entered the enclosure formed by the burnt, partially burnt and destroyed wagons, appalled by not merely the human death all around her, but also the wanton slaughter of the oxen. There Caleb Otter slumped, pinned to a wagon by an Indian lance, still with a brown stream of tobacco juice drooling down his dead whiskery face. Close by lay Yvette, on her back, her golden hair gone, now no doubt adorning some Indian’s lance or tippee. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear and, in a final parody of her illicit sexual adventures, a broken lance was thrust up between her bare legs.

  Shuddering, Abbie dismounted and, tying the bay to a wagon wheel, she set about obtaining some of the things she desperately n
eeded. Quickly, she gathered up a blanket, burnt along one edge but still serviceable, a small skillet and several scattered cans which, hopefully, contained food. The Penraven wagon was still standing, relatively untouched, apart from a ripped and burnt tilt. There was a secret compartment behind the driver’s seat, and Abbie prayed that it had not been discovered. Climbing up into the front of the wagon, she reached down and slid the panel aside. The first thing her searching fingers discovered was a small bundle of papers, which she drew out and put to one side. They could wait.

  The remaining object she eagerly seized upon was a case about eighteen inches long, by nine or ten inches wide, and about four inches deep. Trembling slightly, Abbie unfastened the case and drew out its principal content. In her hands was a long-barrelled pistol; her mind swept back to her Uncle George’s study, and their final meeting before she and Bertram had left for Liverpool and the ship that would take them to the New World.

  ‘Abbie, I want you to accept this little gift from me. You’ll probably never have to use it, but you’re going to a strange wild land and anything could happen.’

  Opening the box, he had shown and demonstrated the contents. He pointed out that the pistol had the name ‘Tipping and Lawden – London’ engraved on the barrel and stressed that it had been proofed, that is, tested thoroughly by the London Proof House who had verified that the gun was safe to use. He explained patiently that, despite its markings, the pistol was not of English origin.

  ‘This is a 12mm pinfire revolver, designed by a rather clever French chap, name of Lefaucheux. Unlike the pistols now being produced at the Colt factory on the south bank in London, these are not loaded from the front of the cylinder with powder and ball. Here.’ He had paused, and extracted a small brass tube, which had a dull lead appearance at one end and a small pin projecting from the side. ‘This is called a cartridge. When this gate is raised on the right side of the pistol, the cartridge is slipped into the empty chamber, and the pin projects through this little slot here.