A Knight Templar in Lincoln County (A Jacob Smith Story #1)

by Craig Gabrysch

Charles was pretty handy at his first aid and splint manufacturing skills. Likely, it was from all the years on the trail, not to mention his time in the war. The two older men insisted Jacob remain seated in a kitchen chair they’d dragged into the living room. His right leg rested on another kitchen chair. The bottle of whiskey rested between his legs. They had been sure to position the chair so that Jacob still had full view of the approach to the front gate, but had enough cover behind the window sill to make him a difficult target. His Winchester was across his lap. A loaner from Charles leaned next to a makeshift broom-crutch at his right. He’d loaded and laid out all four of his revolvers. While the Templar wished he still had his right leg, this was as close as he was likely to get to what he had originally imagined his shooting nest would look like.

  Charles was crouched at a window to Jacob’s right. Both had extra ammunition in case they needed it. Jacob had a feeling they would. Father Ryan was upstairs with Angela. He’d been insistent on not taking one of the rifles, but Charles and Jacob had been more insistent on him having one.

  At noon, Jim Chisum’s posse of fifteen riders came to a halt at the Triple P Ranch’s gates. Jacob levered a round into his rifle’s chamber. Charles did the same.

  “Why they gathering dust for?” Charles asked. “They waiting for me to invite them in?”

  Jacob smiled through the pain, took another sip of whiskey. “I think they’re making sure we’re home, Charles.”

  The old cattle hand looked at the Templar, then called through the open window, “Jim Chisum, you cocksucking son of a bitch, you get off my land ‘fore I shoot you dead for trespassing.”

  Out at the gate one of the riders shouted back, “Charles Goodnight, you hear me out, you old goat. I’m not coming around here with my men to try and run you and yours off this land. I’m just here for that hired gun you brought in. I got a witness that says he done robbed and killed two of my boys on his way down here from Santa Fe. My men and I mean to have justice served. Now, you turn him over and I’ll leave you be.”

  Charles shouted back, “Well, why didn’t you tell me you went and fucking won the election for Lincoln County Marshal, Chisum?”

  “Goddamnit, Charles,” Chisum shouted back, “you turn that man over. This is the only chance I’m giving you, you bastard. Take it or I burn this whole place to the ground.”

  “Well,” Charles said to Jacob, “you antsy to fire the first shot? Or you want me to?”

  The Templar bit his lower lip and stared across the yard at his supposed lynch mob. “Neither of us will. I’m heading on out there.”

  Charles started, “What? You know they ain’t anymore here for you, than you robbed and killed two of his boys in cold blood. I ain’t letting you go out there, no sir, not for nothing.”

  “Charles, help me up out of this chair. I got a plan.” Charles eyed him. Jacob just looked back, eyes steeled. “Trust me on this, Charles. I ain’t gonna let them touch you or your daughter. I came here to save innocent lives, and by God I’ll save some innocent lives. I told you last night I’d get your daughter back, and I did, so just trust me on this. I imagine this walk is gonna hurt like hell.” Charles passed the makeshift crutch to Jacob. Jacob took the broom-crutch in his left hand and Charles helped ease him out of the chair. He shouted out the window, “All right, Chisum, hold your fire. I’m coming out.”

  Jacob hobbled to the front door and opened it. The comforting weight of his broadsword hung at Jacob’s hip. The Templar traded pain for the familiar, though. It slapped against his destroyed thigh with every limping step he took. Jacob stepped through the doorway and onto the porch, then closed it behind him. “Forewarning, Chisum, I’m not putting my hands up.” He dragged himself inevitably closer, a silent prayer accompanying his grunts of pain with every footfall. As he got closer, he could see the Billy Bonney, the kid that he and Jorge had left tied up in the stable. Same stupid porkpie hat on his head. Felt like that had been ages ago.

  “Mr. Chisum, you’d best tell him to toss that saber of his aside. That’s what he used to kill Reed last night.” Jacob recognized the voice through the haze of pain. The rest of the posse just laughed. Billy glared. The Templar spat in the dirt as he dragged himself the last twenty feet to Chisum’s posse. He grit his teeth and just hoped that fucking demon would show like he had agreed.

  Jacob finished his journey to the gate. He hadn’t dismounted yet, so Jacob was forced to stare up at him. He tipped his hat back to get a better look at the man that wanted him dead. He was bigger and heavy set. Looked like this was the first real riding he’d done in a few years. “Well, Jim, you got me, gimp leg and all. You wanna shoot me here, or you just wanna take me to that tree yonder and hang me ‘til I’m dead?”

  “Boy,” Chisum replied as he crossed his arms and leaned on the pommel of his saddle, “I still ain’t decided. Still surprised as a kid on Christmas that you dragged yourself all the way out from the house. What happened to your leg?”

  “Fell off the porch roof this morning. Don’t change the subject. What’s it gonna be, Jim? Let’s get this out of the way so I can at least tell the good Lord I tried to save some innocent lives.” A couple of the horses began to whinny softly and shuffle their feet. Jacob glanced down at the ground and saw fine wisps of crimson mist beginning to encircle the horses’ hooves and his boots.

  Chisum smiled thinly, “Never met a man in such a rush to get to his own funeral. What’s your name, son?”

  “Jacob, Jacob Smith. I got your word this is the last the Goodnights hear of you, right?”

  Chisum kept that thin smile and looked at the stupid-hat kid. The kid drew a six-gun and rested it across his lap. “Now, I know I said that, Jacob Smith, but that don’t mean I meant it. This is America, son, and might sure does make right here.”

  Jacob nodded silently. The mist had become thicker. It was no longer a faint, translucent red, but looked almost like evaporated blood. The horses were more skittish now. “You know, Jim, I believe I fought in the war because of that idea,” he stepped closer to Chisum, prompting the kid to thumb back the hammer of his revolver. “Thought it was bullshit then and I still do.”

  Then Gazael materialized. A single right-handed swipe brought down Billy’s horse and crushed him to the ground. The porkpie went flying. The demon swung out with its left, disemboweling another rider. Chaos broke free, and screams akin to the tormented and the damned erupted from the throats of the posse. Jacob watched one of the older men fall to the dirt, clutching at his chest in panic. Another placed the barrel of his own pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Billy, though, wasn’t as perturbed as the rest. He managed to roll away from the center, in the process narrowly avoiding another strike by Gazael.

  The men on the outer edges of the posse, the furthest away from the demon, tried to wheel their horses away from the carnage. Most of their mounts were more terrified than they, and reared back on hind legs or bucked them off. Only two riders successfully made it out.

  Jacob cringed at the dull crunch of a man’s neck as he landed in the dirt, thrown from horseback. He drew his blade and slashed a deep cut across Chisum’s thigh. The Templar dropped his makeshift crutch and latched his free hand onto the shoulder of the man’s shirt. Jacob pulled with all his strength and yanked the bigger man from the back of the horse. Chisum landed with a shout followed by an “oof,” and frantically scrambled for the revolver at his belt. Before Chisum could grab his shooting iron, though, Jacob stabbed the broadsword into his chest. The Templar, still used to having two good legs, put too much weight on the right one and went down, driving the blade in deeper than he needed. Jacob felt the sword puncture Chisum’s chest and back, then plunge into the dirt on the other side. The Templar collapsed on top of the rancher, a six-gun digging uncomfortably into his gut. Chisum twitched uncontrollably, his spine severed. Blood began to pool beneath his corpse. Jacob just lay there, letting Gazael finish his work.

  Behind him, even through the screams of dying men,
Jacob heard the click of a hammer drawing back. He reached beneath him and drew an offending revolver from Chisum’s belt with his right hand. He rolled on his back, his left hand fanning the revolver’s hammer. Billy Bonney caught three bullets. One through his forehead and two in the sternum. Jacob stayed down this time.

  The carnage began to dissipate. Gazael upheld his part of the contract, hunting down even those who’d turned yellow and ran. Jacob didn’t blame them and certainly didn’t envy them.

  When the dust settled a minute later, Charles Goodnight broke the eerie silence from back at the ranch house. Jacob just coughed weakly. He could feel blood pooling in his right boot. Charles opened the front door and walked to the gate slowly, rifle raised. “Jacob?” Charles called as he approached. “You all right, Jacob?”

  Jacob groaned softly and coughed again. Damn his leg hurt. Charles walked through the gate, stepped over corpses of both men and horses, and knelt by Jacob’s side. Jacob looked at Charles and said, “You make sure Angela’s got a good life now.”

  Jacob made the sign of the cross, said a soft prayer meant only for him and his God. He thumbed back the hammer of Jim Chisum’s revolver, then put the barrel beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

  # # # #

  Afterword

  Well, you made it through the story, and to the end of Jacob’s life. So, a brief word from the author. That would be me.

  When I originally wrote this story, I was looking at one serious deadline. We had a book that was scheduled to be completed in about five days. I briefly riffed off an idea for the story to my brother, Chris Gabrysch, and he liked it, so I went ahead and wrote “A Knight Templar in Lincoln County.”

  Well, I got to the end of it, and finished the story the way I thought it should end. I mean, Jacob had gotten backed into a pretty serious corner, and there wasn’t much else of a way out, not one that I could see at least.

  So I had him sacrifice himself. After all, the mythology and theology of Catholicism is all about self-sacrifice, right? It seemed fitting.

  My brother said I was stupid for doing it. My girlfriend, Jill, got a little upset. But that was the way the story felt right. Anything else would have felt contrived, and I wouldn’t have put it on paper. Besides, if I tried to rewrite the story, it wouldn't have been “A Knight Templar in Lincoln County” anymore. What you just read was the story that had clawed its way out of my brain. If I changed it, it would have been a different one. And I didn't want to abort the story just because some people didn't like the ending.

  But, there was a problem. I thought Jacob Smith was a pretty cool character. He had a great backstory, writing his dialogue felt like I was crawling into a Sergio Leone film. Telling his story was so much fun I couldn’t stay away. It was an interesting little world.

  So I started his backstory.

  In the next installment of Jacob Smith's life, “Hillbilly Hell,” we go with Jacob on his first adventure as a Knight Templar. It's not an Old West story, so no painted deserts, no endless tracts of sand unbroken by a tree. Instead, we travel to Reconstruction-era Tennessee to recover a book of ancient evil and power: The Necronomicon.

  You can find “Hillbilly Hell” on all the major ebook sites (for free, except for on Amazon.com) and at: https://www.TwitPublishing.com