Are you a published author looking to expand your reach? Find out how Living With Retirement can help you.    <Find Out More Here>

---

Hap & Cal
On the Trail of Stewart Clayton
Chapter One: Big Mistake
Scott A. Gese

---

---

Two sharp-shooting bounty hunters, one dangerous outlaw and a twisted trail through unexpected territory.
When Hap and Cal saddle up to hunt down the notorious killer Stewart Clayton, they think it's just another bounty job. However, as the trail winds through unfamiliar territory and one-dog towns, they realize Clayton isn’t as clever as he thinks. This story pits two seasoned trackers against a not-so-cunning outlaw, culminating in a quick and deadly showdown where only the strongest will survive.

Hap & Cal: On the Trail of Stewart Clayton By Scott A. Gese (aka Christopher Scott)

Copyright © 2025

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. 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 or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

---

Chapter One

Big Mistake

The Wichita stage had already reached Wishbone Split, the last major landmark, well ahead of schedule. From here, the driver knew he was only an hour north of town. As the stage entered what was known as The Shallows, the road dipped down into a shallow crevice. It followed the contour of the land for about a mile before abruptly rising on the other side. From that point, it was open range all the way to Wichita.

As the stage reached the far end of The Shallows, a shot rang out. Harvey Wilcox, who was riding shotgun that day, suddenly clutched his chest. Blood seeped between his fingers. His partner could see the surprise on his face as his lifeless body slumped forward. The driver leaned to the side, grabbing Harvey to prevent him from falling onto the horses. In the process another shot rang out, hitting him in the right shoulder. Through gritted teeth, he managed to hold onto the reins, keeping the horses in check.

Before the horses had a chance to panic, a lone rider spurred his horse forward, blocking the path of the oncoming stage and forcing the driver to bring the six-horse team to a halt. The rider leveled his gun at the injured man and called out, “Get down and get everyone out of the stage. And while you're at it, throw down that box you’ve got hidden under your seat.”

The passengers were unaware of what had just transpired. They wondered why the stage had come to a stop. They didn't have to wonder for long. The wounded driver approached the coach and opened the door. “Everyone out! We're being robbed. Believe me, this hombre means business—he's already killed my partner and…” He paused to catch his breath, then continued, “…as you can see, I’ve been hit and I'm bleeding badly. So I suggest we cooperate and maybe we'll all get out of this alive.”

Frightened and bewildered, the passengers—two men and a woman—stepped from the coach. The two men were both drummers (peddlers) in their mid-fifties and dressed in ill-fitting business suits. They helped the agitated woman out of the coach. The long, hot ride had forced the larger of the two men to remove his hat and jacket, which he had left neatly on the seat. The three passengers and the wounded driver stood waiting for the outlaw to make his next move.

Surprisingly, the robber made no attempt to conceal his face. In fact, he openly revealed his identity. Flourishing his hat in a wide arc, he introduced himself in a nonchalant manner. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Stewart Clayton, and I'm here to relieve you of your money and any valuables you may have on you.” He scrutinized each passenger in turn before declaring,

“Now, don’t be shy, my friends, because the quicker we get this done, the quicker I’ll be out of your hair.” He threw a gunny sack at the driver’s feet. “You can use that to put all your valuables in.”

The tall, thin drummer slowly pulled a small drawstring leather pouch from his pocket and handed it to Stewart. “Is this all you have?” he complained as Stewart grabbed the bag and let the contents fall into his hand. “Oh yes, this will do nicely,” he remarked as a half dozen gold coins spilled out.

Turning his attention to the larger of the two drummers, he barked, “I thought I told you to get your money out.”

“It’s in my jacket pocket,” the drummer replied, nervously pointing to the open door of the coach.

“Well, don’t just stand there—go get it, and don’t try anything funny. I'm watching you.”

Stewart relieved the wounded driver of his money while the passenger stepped into the coach. When he turned to step back out, he was holding a nickel-plated pistol aimed at Stewart. But it was a foolish move; he was no match for the young outlaw. A swift, deadly shot from Stewart's gun rang out before the passenger had a chance to squeeze the trigger. The man fell back into the coach, a ball of hot lead buried deep in his chest.

“I warned him,” Stewart reminded the others. “Some people just don't listen.” He then turned his attention to the woman. “OK, little lady, it's your turn. Your money or your life, and I’m not joking!”

The woman stood motionless except for her mouth. “Do you have any idea who I am?” she sternly asked.

“No,” replied Stewart. “And I don’t really care. I'm not here to make your acquaintance; I’m here to lighten your load.”

The woman foolishly persisted. “Well, if I must know your name, then you will know mine. I am Martha Littleton. My husband is a wealthy and well-respected citizen of Wichita. He will see to it that you are caught and punished for this vicious crime. You, young man, will regret robbing this stage.”

She reluctantly held out her purse toward Stewart, who gladly snatched it from her grasp. Then he noticed a small butterfly brooch pinned to her dress. “Well, that’s a mighty sparkly piece of finery you’re wearing there. Let me have that as well.”

Martha quickly covered it with her left hand. “This was a wedding gift from my husband. You have my money, and that’s all you’ll get from me. The brooch will not leave my dress.”

“Well then, maybe I’ll just take the whole damn dress. Take it off now,” demanded Stewart.

“Now just hold on there, mister!” interjected the driver. “You can't do that!”

“The hell I can’t. I’m Stewart Clayton, and I do whatever I damn well please. If I want this bitch’s dress, I’ll have it.”

“How dare you!” shouted Martha as she slapped Stewart hard across the face.

“Why, see there,” remarked Stewart angrily. “You are a bitch, and a dead one at that.” Without a moment's hesitation, he squeezed the trigger and dropped Martha Littleton where she stood, then reached down and tore the brooch from her dress. “Too bad,” he snidely remarked. “I was kind of looking forward to the floor show.”

Stewart shoved the brooch deep into a pocket in his pants, then nudged the strongbox with his foot until the padlock faced him. It was clear that when it came to opening a strongbox, the young bandit was no stranger. With careful precision, he aimed his pistol at the heavy padlock at an angle that would keep him safe from any ricochet. It only took one shot to free the box from the lock. After transferring the contents to his saddlebags, he mounted up and rode off, leaving three dead, one of whom was a woman.

The two men who remained alive loaded Martha’s body into the coach and raced toward town.

From the moment Stewart pulled the trigger, he knew that shooting a woman was a grave mistake and that redemption would be costly. It weighed heavily on him, but he could never bring himself to admit it, and it was too late to take it back. He figured someone would be after him because of it, and the best course of action would be to lay low for a while. He knew just the place and devised a plan to get there without being followed.

***

Forty-five minutes later, the stagecoach rolled rapidly into Wichita. The driver, weak from blood loss, managed to bring the stage to a stop in front of the sheriff's office. The only surviving passenger jumped from the coach and began shouting, “We've been robbed! We've been robbed!”

Sheriff Andrew Borden stepped out of his office and climbed onto the stage to question the drivers. Realizing one was dead and the other seriously wounded, he called for help to get the injured man down. As soon as the driver was down from the coach, the sheriff began his inquiry.

“Who did this?”

“It was Stewart Clayton,” the driver replied. “He took whatever was in the strongbox. He stopped us just before we got through the shallows. He shot Harvey and wounded me before we even knew what was happening.”

The passenger added, “He forced everyone off the stage and robbed us all. One of the passengers tried to play the hero and paid for it with his life. Another, a woman, refused to give up a brooch she was wearing. He shot her without a moment's hesitation and took it.”

“He shot a woman?” the sheriff asked in disbelief.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied. “He shot Martha Littleton. Killed her.”

“He killed Jack Littleton's wife!” the sheriff repeated, still in shock.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Littleton's going to be sorely grieved.”

“That ain't the half of it,” the sheriff remarked. “You can bet Stewart Clayton just signed his own death warrant with that act of stupidity.”

Sheriff Borden stepped aside as the doctor entered to tend to the driver. It had only been a couple of minutes, but a crowd was already beginning to gather. The onlookers peered into the windows of the stage to get a better look at the bodies inside. Borden himself glanced through one of the windows and saw the two lifeless forms. Just as he was about to disperse the crowd, he noticed Jack Littleton running toward the scene. Oh boy, here we go, he thought.

Jack was breathing heavily when he reached the sheriff. “I heard rumors from my office at the bank that my wife has been shot. How bad is it?” he asked.

Sheriff Borden stepped between Jack and the stage. “As bad as it gets, Jack. She's… well, she’s… she's gone. She died at the scene of the hold-up.”

Not wanting to believe it, Jack pushed the sheriff aside and flung the stage door wide open. There lay his beloved Martha on the seat. He stepped inside and lifted her lifeless body close to his, holding her one last time as he wept openly over the loss of the woman he loved so dearly.

While Sheriff Borden was trying to disperse the crowd, Jack stepped out of the coach, demanding answers from the sheriff.

“Who did this, and what are you going to do about it? Whoever it was, I swear I'll kill them, just as sure as I'm standing here! What size posse have you got?”

“Hold on there, Jack. Slow down. It's only been fifteen minutes since the stage rolled in. I haven't even had a chance to think about a posse.”

One of the men standing nearby raised his voice. “I heard it was Stewart Clayton. I'll go.”

“And so will I,” called out another.

“Well, that makes four,” shouted Jack above the crowd. “If any more of you men want to join me and the sheriff, grab your gear and a few supplies. Meet me back here in thirty minutes.”

Sheriff Borden felt annoyed that Jack was undermining his authority by organizing a posse right under his nose. “If anyone takes charge of this manhunt, it'll be me. You got that, Littleton?”

“Well then, you best get to it,” growled Jack. “I'm leaving in thirty minutes with whoever wants to come with me. If you want to take charge, make sure you’re here on time, 'cause I’m leaving with or without you!”

With that, Jack abruptly left to get his gear, leaving little doubt that he was going after Stewart Clayton. As he stepped off the sidewalk, the undertaker approached him.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Littleton. Before you ride out, I need…”

Jack cut in. “I’d be obliged if you could take my Martha's body and prepare her for burial. I can’t imagine being away for more than a day or two, three at the most. I’ll settle up with you then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have an outlaw to capture."

***

Sheriff Borden collared the passenger, McBride. “Get your things together. You're coming with us,” he growled.

McBride was less than enthusiastic about returning to the scene of the crime. “I'll go as far as the shallows, but no further. Plus, I don't have a horse. You’ll have to arrange one for me.”

“That's fine,” Borden agreed. “We only need you to show us where the crime took place. We'll pick up the trail from there, and then you can head back to town. Now go to the livery and tell Tom, the stableman, to loan you the horse named Kirby. He'll know the request came from me.”

Thirty minutes later, ten men were saddled up and ready to ride. Sheriff Borden rode alongside McBride. “Any problem getting the horse?” he asked.

“No sir. When the livery man heard the name Kirby, he hurried about his business and even saddled him for me.”

“Kirby's my best horse, McBride, so you make damn sure you take care of him. And when the time comes for you to head back to town, return him in one piece, or by God, I’ll have your hide!”

McBride wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief and gulped. “No need for concern, Sheriff. I’ll make sure no harm comes to him.”

“OK, let’s move out,” he called to the men.

McBride rode with the posse as far as the spot of the holdup.

“Well, this is it. This is where it happened. This is where I witnessed that scoundrel shoot a man and a woman in cold blood. The man tried to stop the robbery with a gun he had hidden in his jacket. He claimed he needed to retrieve his money and came out armed. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough, and the robber shot him dead. The woman... her death was all because of a brooch.”

Upon hearing this, Jack Littleton stepped forward. “A brooch, you say? I hadn't realized it was missing. It was a wedding gift I gave to Martha.” Jack glared. “And he killed her for it?”

“Well, it wasn't exactly like that, Mr. Littleton. She did refuse to hand it over, but then he insisted that she not only give up the brooch but also the dress it was attached to.”

“What do you mean, the dress it was attached to?” Jack asked.

At this point, the man looked a bit embarrassed. He squirmed in his saddle before continuing. “Well, Mr. Littleton... it's like this. He told your wife that if she wasn't willing to remove the brooch from her dress, then he wanted the dress as well and demanded she take it off. He called her a... a bitch.”

Upon hearing this, Jack Littleton was furious. “He what! How dare any man treat my wife that way!”

McBride continued, “That's not the end of it. The driver protested, and Ms. Littleton... she... she slapped the robber for insulting her. I’m afraid to say it, but that was her big mistake. He shot her right then and there and then yanked that brooch from her dress.”

“That sounds just like my Martha. She never would tolerate that kind of talk from any man. That son of a bitch, I'll kill him. I swear, just as sure as I was born, I’ll kill him.” He then called out to the others, “Find the trail. I don’t want that bastard to see the light of another day.”

Everyone began searching, and within a few minutes, they found a trail. “Looks like he’s heading east,” someone called. “Maybe toward Fort Scott.”

The posse rode out, except for McBride. He had done his part and was heading back to Wichita.

The trail led the men across open country to the main route between Wichita and Fort Scott. On the second day, the trail grew cold, and several of the men were ready to turn back. Jack Littleton urged them to continue, but most knew it was a lost cause. They sympathized with Jack and understood his pain to some extent. Unfortunately, many of the men had obligations to return to, and the decision was made to give up the search. They all rode back to Wichita, where Jack occupied himself with the grim task of arranging his wife’s funeral, grappling with his grief and anger.

He took one thousand dollars of his own money and opened a bank account in her name. He then challenged his friends and the citizens of Wichita to contribute to it as a reward for the capture of Stewart Clayton. The only stipulation was that he be brought back alive. Publicly, Jack Littleton sought the satisfaction of seeing him hanged; secretly, he wanted to shoot the bastard before he ever reached the rope. He wanted him to suffer before facing justice.

***

Two days after Jack buried his wife, a stranger rode into town. His name was Hap Freeman, and he was looking for someone named Cal Collins. They were old friends, and Hap had a proposition for him. Once a deputy, Hap had left that life for a more adventurous occupation. Now, he was a bounty hunter with his ear to the ground regarding Stewart Clayton. News travels fast, and he had not only heard of the reward for Clayton's capture; he was already on the trail. Tracking Stewart Clayton would be the easy part, as the outlaw was skilled at leaving a path of dead and wounded victims behind him. He also had a bad habit of letting those he robbed know he was the notorious Stewart Clayton. Yes, following him would be simple, but catching him would be another matter.

The details were still sparse, but the name Stewart Clayton was definite. The fact that there was now a substantial reward on his head was enough to set Hap in motion. He had worked with Cal in the past and knew he was a man who could hold his own against the likes of the hombre he was now hunting. His plan was to find Cal in Wichita. Together, they could easily track down Stewart Clayton, especially since Hap had also heard rumors that Clayton was heading in the direction of Fort Scott.

His first stop was the sheriff’s office. He needed more information, if he could get it. He found the office easily and stepped through the doorway. Sheriff Borden was seated at his desk but stood as Hap walked in and approached him. Hap reached out to shake the sheriff’s hand as he introduced himself.

“Afternoon, Sheriff. My name's Hap Freeman, and I'm looking for some information.”

“What sort of information?” Borden asked.

“I understand the stage was robbed a few days ago, and a couple of passengers were killed. I don’t suppose you could fill me in on the details if it’s not too much trouble?”

The sheriff had an inkling about the reason for Hap's visit. “My, my, word travels fast around here. Would I be right in saying that you’re a bounty hunter?”

“I guess you could say that. I always like to know what I'm up against, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, hell no, I don't mind sharing the details about the robbery and the two passengers and guard who were gunned down. Why don’t you take a seat while I pour myself a coffee? Want one?”

“Yeah, thanks. Coffee would be good,” replied Hap.

Borden grabbed the pot from the stove and poured a mug for both himself and Hap, then sat back down behind his desk. “You're up against a man named Stewart Clayton. Ever hear of him?”

“Yeah, I've heard rumors. They say he has a reputation for being a slick killer.”

"That ain't no rumor," declared the sheriff as he sipped his coffee. "He robbed that stage all on his own and killed three in the bargain. But he had a reputation even before then. The thing that put the big reward on his head was the fact that he killed the wife of a well-known banker, a man of some importance in this town. He shot her over a piece of jewelry. Believe me, he's not one to be taken lightly. Originally from Oklahoma, he has made a name for himself robbing drovers along the Chisholm as they head back south."

"I heard he might be heading toward Fort Scott. What do you reckon, sheriff?" inquired Hap.

"That's been verified," replied the sheriff. "I had a fellow in here just this morning reporting he had been robbed between here and Fort Scott. He said the robber introduced himself before pulling his gun. Said his name was Stewart Clayton. That makes sense; the man is known for wanting recognition for just about every crime committed in the territory."

"Sounds like he's got what he was after, killing a woman and all," commented Hap. He took one last gulp of his coffee, then stood to leave. "Thanks for the coffee, sheriff, and the information."

Sheriff Borden walked him to the door. "You do know that in order to collect the reward, you need to bring him back alive."

"Alive!"

"Yeah, seems the banker wants the satisfaction of pulling the lever himself."

"And you’re okay with that, sheriff?" questioned Hap.

"No, he doesn't know it yet, but I run things by the book around here. So he’ll just have to be satisfied with watching the town’s appointed hangman do what he’s paid for, along with anyone else who cares to see the son of a bitch hang."

"Well, he'll be breathing when I bring him in, but no guarantee what kind of shape he'll be in."

"Never was anything said about that," replied the sheriff as he eased himself down into the chair outside his office.

Hap tipped his hat and headed down the street.

He knew that Cal was partial to a saloon called the Customs House, so he thought he’d start there. The Customs House was packed to the rafters, and Hap wondered if he would even find Cal among the crowd. He scanned the room a couple of times but had no luck. Since I'm here, I might as well have a drink, he thought. Hap approached the crowded bar and ordered a whiskey. As the bartender filled the glass, he glanced into the mirror behind the bar and spotted familiar faces. To his surprise, Cal was one of them, sitting just ten feet to his right. Hap downed his drink and walked up behind his old friend.

“Cal Collins,” he announced loudly. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Cal quickly turned to see Hap standing directly behind him. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Hap Freeman.” He reached out and shook Hap's hand. “The day you have a warrant for my arrest will be the day hell freezes over. How the heck are you?”

Hap smiled. “You know me, my friend—busy as always.”

Cal grabbed his bottle and a couple of glasses. “Come on, let’s find a place to sit.”

The two of them searched for an empty table. As luck would have it, one opened up just as they arrived. “We must be living right,” Cal bragged as they took a seat. “So what brings you to Wichita? Are you on a trail?”

“I am at that,” replied Hap as Cal poured him a drink. “In fact, I’m here because I could use your help. I’m trailing a killer named Stewart Clayton. Have you heard of him?”

“Heard of him? Why, hell, he’s been the talk of the town for the past week or more. He robbed a stage and left three people dead—one was a woman, the wife of a well-to-do banker, I believe. And there’s one hell of a reward on that man’s head.”

“Yeah, I've heard. That’s why I’m here. I have an idea of where he’s heading, and I could use your help to bring him in.”

Cal was deep in thought when a young kid sat down at the only empty chair in the saloon. Hap took offense, considering the conversation a private matter, and let the kid know it. Cal, uninterested in providing an answer at that moment, told the kid to stay put. Hap realized he was getting nowhere with Cal.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Hap. A private conversation isn’t going to happen here. We’ll talk about this later,” Cal said.

Hap barked back in an urgent tone, “I can’t wait for later. I need an answer now. The longer we wait, the further away he gets.”

“Truth is, I don’t have an answer for you right now, Hap,” Cal snapped.

Hap clearly disliked the brevity of Cal's response. “Then I’ll take that as a no. I guess I’ll have to do this on my own.”

“I would advise against it, my friend. He’s deadly!” Cal replied, his tone shifting to one of genuine concern. “It’s a fool’s errand, Hap. Let it be!”

“I’ll take my chances,” Hap shot back angrily as he downed his whiskey and slammed the glass on the table. “Thanks for the drink.”

He got up and moved toward the faro table, disappearing into the crowd.

The kid who had been sitting with them navigated the crowded room in search of Hap. It didn’t take long for him to find him, and he began pestering Hap about tagging along in Cal's place. Hap refused and put the kid in his place before taking a seat at one of the poker tables.

The following day, Hap made one last attempt to recruit Cal. He informed him that the bounty had risen to two thousand dollars. Cal liked the sound of it, but his hesitation stemmed from the stipulation that Stewart Clayton needed to be brought in alive. Most outlaws wouldn’t allow that, and even if they managed to capture him alive, they would have to drag him back to Wichita. There was always a chance he could escape. If that happened and neither of them got shot, the chase would begin anew.

In the end, Hap got his way. Cal relented, and the two men left town.

---

---

---

---

Please Share this Website

Add this site to your social media pages by using the social media buttons below. Your friends will thank you for it.

---

---

---

---

---

Our Top Five Most Read Articles/Short Stories for the Month of April
(and Five From the File)
<HERE>

---

Newest Article

Struggling With Balance Issues Could Become a Downfall for Older Adults

As we age, maintaining balance becomes increasingly vital to our overall well-being. While mental and emotional balance is essential for a fulfilling retirement lifestyle, physical balance plays a crucial role in staying active, independent, and injury-free.<Read The Full Article Here>

---

---

Newest Short Story

An Unexpected Shark
      By Scott A. Gese

The “regulars” thought it was great fun inviting a new player to the table in what they called a suckers game. Tonight the odds would not be in their favor.<Read The Full Story Here>

---

---

Newest Classic Film

Kansas City Confidential

(1952) John Payne and Coleen Gray.

Four robbers hold up an armored truck getting away with over a million dollars in cash.

<Watch The Full Movie Here>

---