Jeremiah had a lot to thank God for.
When that Pony Express rider had first galloped by in the last light of the afternoon with the storm approaching, even knowing that Noah was losing respect for him, Jeremiah had been so discouraged he couldn’t even find the energy to get down from the wagon and build a fire.
In his despair of that moment, he had been willing to admit Grace was right. He was a pitiful man for this wilderness. Couldn’t get out of the way of a horse quick enough to save his leg from busting. Couldn’t drive a one-horse wagon. Couldn’t even fix a broken axle or keep his one horse from running off. Couldn’t do enough for his oldest boy to look up to him. There was nothing Jeremiah could do right out here. It was time to pack up all they owned and move back to the city, even if it meant that Jeremiah had squandered his entire inheritance for his dream of a new life in a new land.
Then God had answered Jeremiah’s prayer by sending the Pony Express rider back.
But God had given him much more.
The two outlaws had arrived—on his short trip to the wagon to get tea, he’d seen army blankets and army brands on the flanks of the horses—but Jeremiah had not succumbed to fear. He felt some pride that, in deliberately taking so long to find supplies, he’d been cool enough to make sure that Kentucky had ridden off with coffee, not mail, in the Pony Express rider’s leather saddlebags. Most of all, in calmly facing death as he expected the bullet from the Winchester, Jeremiah had discovered a strength in himself, and that alone would have been enough of a Christmas gift from God.
But Jeremiah had been given more—a wonder and awe at the workings of the God he trusted. For all of the events that had left Jeremiah stranded in a storm had happened with purpose. So that Jeremiah would be waiting at that fire for a tired and sick man who needed peace. God had wanted to bring back one of his lost loved ones.
Warm and safe in his cabin, Jeremiah thought about another who was now warm and safe.
Reb.
After the Pony Express rider had returned to the wagon and then departed again, Jeremiah had remained at the fire and cradled Reb’s head and tried to get him to sip tea.
But Reb had been too far gone to even drink any more of the hot liquid, and all Jeremiah could do was hold the man.
Only a minute earlier, before falling back into his fever, Reb had prayed for Jesus.
When Reb woke again, his eyelids fluttering, Jeremiah had tried to pour some tea into Reb’s mouth, but the warm liquid had just dribbled down the man’s beard. The man was too far gone.
“Can you hear it?” Reb had asked.
“Hear what?” Jeremiah asked in return. There was only the snapping of embers. Had Kentucky returned?
“Angel music,” Reb had said. “All around us. Sweetest sound I ever heard. Ma’s singing with them.”
Jeremiah had had no chance to reply.
Reb had closed his eyes again and said no more. Reb died quietly, with a smile on his face.
Here’s the first chapter of Evening Star, the first mystery of the Sam Keaton series, set in the Old West.
Wyoming Territory, Laramie, July, 1874
Chapter 1
While all of this began because of my attempt to rescue an irksome Injun, it wasn’t until much later that I realized it was me who needed rescuing. God, I believe, is a patient cowboy himself, going deep and wide into the mesquite for stray souls like mine, and when He fashioned the lariot to pull me close, He threw it by putting that irksome Injun directly in the middle of my path.
To make sense of this, I have no choice but to confess my life until that exact moment in Laramie had been a gradual retreat from anything of meaning, with me like a stubborn longhorn preferring deep snake-filled canyons over green grass and clean water. Cowboying is a good life for that kind of escape, as it allows a man to keep his own business with a surliness that invites no intruders.
For that reason, I suppose, God knew it would take no less than that irksome Injun to get my attention.
I had just stabled my horse and was intent on getting rid of six weeks of range dust with cool beer down at one of the saloons on Laramie’s main street. My mistake was in taking the short route from the stable to the saloon, an alley between the hotels and train station.
I was walking with no particular thoughts in mind when I heard some strange thumps. Thumps mixed with grunts and a couple of gasps. Thumps like someone whacking a pole against a ornery pack mule. Thumps from behind a small, crooked shed just beyond the shadows of the saloon.
I shrugged and turned toward the saloon.
Then another thump— and the gasp became a strangled yelp.
I wandered to the shed and stepped around the corner.
What I saw was a big, shaggy man standing over a runt of an Injun curled on the ground. I watched two kicks, both a good sign the Injun’s ribs didn’t much pain the big man’s toes.
“Afternoon, partner,” I said halfway through the giant man’s next kick.
“Tend your own business,” he said as casual as if he might be ordering a beer. He paused to mop the sweat from his brow. “This horse-thievin’ Injun’s getting what he’s due.”
Some white folks hold that the only good Injun is a dead one. This cowboy seemed intent to prove the saying. He delivered another kick which resulted in another thump. The Injun gasped again. He was slight, with greasy braids flopped below a big hat and ragged clothes covered with dust.
That cowboy stood maybe four inches taller than me, which made him plenty big. I’m pushing six feet myself, and got all the muscle a man needs to outwrestle the most mulish steer. But this man in front of me was so tall, I had to push the brim of my hat back to get a good look at his face.
What I saw didn’t cheer me. Small, angry, red eyes set deep gave his face a look halfway between a pig and a grizzly. A dark, matted beard helped that same impression. And, even accustomed as I am to the smells a man can cultivate after weeks in the saddle, I flinched at this one’s ripeness.
“Get along, boy,” he said. “This is my show.”
I wanted to. Range dust caked my throat and beer was waiting.
The man raised his foot to give another whack. Behind him, the horse tied to a rail stamped nervously.
“Stop,” I said without thinking. It wasn’t that I took insult at being called boy. No sir. Long ago, my pa and ma had died over useless pride.
“Huh? Stop? Why?” He was so dumbfounded anybody might order him to do anything, that he remained on one foot, the other reared and ready to kick.
“Well…” I said.
I couldn’t think of a good reason for him to stop. This wasn’t my business. And it was only a Injun. But I guess it was a Injun too stubborn to cry or beg, and that kind of perseverance always gets a person’s attention.
“Boy, horse thieving’s a mortal sin.” The man mopped his brow again and then delivered the next kick.
I winced at the crack of boot against ribs. The Injun rolled slightly.
“The Sheriff’d be happy to hang him,” I mentioned. “Might save you all this work.”
“Huh?” He didn’t glance up. “You still here?”
I pictured the cool shadows of the saloon. Some cowboys at a card table. An open spot waiting for me.
I sighed. “I’m still here.”
The man stared at me, genuinely puzzled. “I thought I explained. This here’s a horse thief. A Injun as you can plainly see. And I don’t ever explain nothin’ to nobody but once.”
“Got money,” the Injun managed to croak. “Got money.”
“Shut up,” the big man said to the Injun and absently added a half kick to encourage the silence.
Why hadn’t I just walked along main street, stopping to look in the windows at fancy merchandise brought in from the east by train? Instead, I was half into something I didn’t understand and had no idea how to leave alone.
“That’s your horse he tried to steal?” I said, pointing behind the giant man for a change of subject. “You
must be a smart one, catching a Injun in the act.”
“Didn’t,” the man grunted. At least he’d stopped kicking.
“I thought you said —”
“Injun tried to buy my horse with this here gold piece.” The man opened a giant paw and showed glinting yellow. “And any fool knows Injuns don’t have that kind of money.”
“But—”
“Boy, you test a man dearly. To buy my horse with stole money is jest like to steal the horse itself. And I take insult real easy.”
He shook his head, a grizzly shaking off angry bees. His focus moved from the Injun to me. “In fact, you done pushed too far.”
He took a step sideways of the Injun on the ground.
I made the mistake of touching the handle of my gun to reassure me it was still there. Not that I intended to use it. Gunfights are mainly something you find in Ned Buntline dime novels, stuff eastern folks believe happen every day out here. Only bounty hunters and desperate men are willing to risk a shootout, and it had been years since I‘d been acquainted with either.
I never thought a man so big could move so quick.
Gunfights — real gunfights — usually take longer or shorter then this one did. The short ones happen with the few outlaws—like Jim Hickok— who learned to survive by any dirty trick — rigged holsters, sleeve derringers, and a shot in the back, front or sideways when least expected. They ain’t fools, and they don’t leave survivors.
On the other hand, you can expect the longer gunfights from fools who carry a notion of honor with their guns. These generally start with insults and half-drunk cowboys. One cowboy says something like, “We’d best be slapping leather unless you is yeller,” and the bartender moves everyone outside to keep stray bullets from shattering mirror. Then both cowboys walk toward each other on the street until someone finally breaks nerve and reaches for his gun, and then the slowest gun loses unless the fastest gun can’t aim. It ends with mostly one or the other getting sent to a doctor for patching up ‘cause hardly anyone is steady enough to plug someone in the heart when they’re so shaky and nervous about being plugged back. In other words, a fair gunfight builds real slow and don’t cause much damage.
Not this one.
I’d barely touched the butt of my gun when the man flapped back his vest with one hand and reached across his stomach to draw with the other.
A cross draw’s the deadliest if a man does it right, and it took only a wink for me to figure he was doing it as right as it can be done. In the same moment I realized that a part of my brain still remembered enough to instruct my hand to make a move of its own.
I had the advantage ’cause my hand was already on the butt of my gun. Without that lucky accident, I’d be dead.The Colt was out of my holster and jumping with the first shot before I really knew it was live or die.
I was able to fan the gun’s hammer maybe twice more before something burned through my left arm and spun me around.
As I fought to stay on my feet, the next second was deadly quiet. Only the smell of cordite told me there’d actually been a gun fight and that I was still alive.
I weaved back to face the giant man again. Except I had to look down, through the drifting gun smoke, to see him sprawled flat backward with his hat still wobbling tracks in the dust.
“Durn,” I muttered.
He wheezed bubbles of blood that snapped and popped at the side of his mouth. His eyes stared straight up at the high sun.
My stomach bumped. Then lurched. I managed to reach the side of the shed before I threw up. And threw up some more. It had been a long time since I’d seen violent death caused by my own hand.
When a bullet hits, it don’t really hurt at first. Maybe as much as the sting of a bee. But given time, the nerves and vessels start to realize something’s wrong. Awareness of pain reached me about the same time as distant shouts.
I stood, still unable to believe this had happened. Blood soaked through my sleeve. Approaching shouts grew louder.
Who was there to witness this had been a fair fight and not a murder?
The Injun. Maybe I could take a chance someone might take the word of an Injun as witness.
Except the Injun was gone. And so was the horse.
Depending on who I’d shot — whether he was local or not and how much anyone liked him — chances were fifty-fifty I’d hang. I didn’t have much time to decide. I figured better safe than sorry. I’d ride out. Quick. The territories had plenty range and not many people.
I stumbled in the opposite direction of the saloon to find my horses at the stable, wanting to build a lead before anyone knew it was me that had done the shooting.
I cursed each step of the way. My first gunfight since I’d assumed the name of Samuel L. Keaton. The first man I’d killed under that name. And now, no doubt, my first posse. With me on the wrong end of the chase.
Pony Express Christmas Page 7