The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  Chrissy set her jaw hard and said coldly, “Am I part of what makes you want to skedaddle?” she said mocking him.

  Blake searched her eyes for a moment. God, she stirred feelings in him like no woman ever had. “No, Chrissy O’Bryan, you are what makes me want to stay here forever.”

  She shrugged his hands off her arms and said flatly, “Then, Blake Thorton, I recommend that you make up your mind, because I will not wait long.” She bent down and started jamming the picnic dishes in the basket, not being too careful with the dishes because Blake was sure he heard a few break.

  Blake felt like he had been kicked in the gut by an angry mule, he searched his mind for the correct words and, once again, chose the wrong ones. “I don’t like being pressured,” he said immediately regretting it.

  “Oh my dear, Mr. Thorton, there is no pressure. I’m just feeling a tad used for your pleasure. I wish to go home now,” she said coldly, picked up the basket and marched to the buggy and got in.

  Once again, Blake searched for the right words and finally took the most intelligent action he could think of, and he shut up.

  ******

  It was undoubtedly the longest ride of his life back to town that day. Chrissy was completely silent except for an occasional sniff when she dabbed her eye with a lace handkerchief. Every time Blake wanted to say something he elected not to because of his track record that day. He became more and more frustrated as the ride went on, until he stopped the carriage in front of the café and let Chrissy off. He tried to get out of the buggy to help her but she jumped out so fast his feet never touched the ground. This was all new territory for Blake Thorton. He had been with several women in his life, although they were whores mostly, and not very often at that. Whores were easy; you paid your money, had a couple laughs, filled your lusty desires and went about your way. Never once had he ever felt so out of sorts as he did with Chrissy. Sure maybe he might have thought about a wife and family someday, but all of the sudden it was staring him in the face. It might as well have been a tornado he was looking at, he had never been so unsure of anything in his life.

  He had only loved a woman once in his life enough to marry her, but that was different, he was stranded on an island and it was more of a status thing in the tribe. The marriage was practically arranged and he was presented with little choice. The tribal culture was so different than his situation now. Chrissy was a free woman, able to make her own choices. She was fiercely independent and smart, a true force to be reckoned with, and would take him to task if she felt it necessary. But yet he saw a softer, more vulnerable side to her today and that made him want to be around her all the more, and now he had probably ruined any chance of that forever. That’s what pissed him off the worst. He was just living his life one day at a time and failed to consider the long term ramifications of what he was doing. He had killed men before, he had seen the horrors of war, he had witnessed and taken part in some terrible things, but nothing compared to how low he felt when he made her cry.

  He returned the carriage without having to see anybody at the barn, which he was grateful for. He decided he needed a drink, or two, enough of them to make him forget the damage he’d done. He headed for the Trail’s End and pushed through the batwing doors. Walking straight to the bar he met the bartender. “Whiskey,” he growled.

  “Coming right up,” the barkeep said taking out a bottle of the good stuff he kept under the bar, and pouring the amber liquid into a shot glass.

  Blake usually sipped it but tonight he drank the entire shot in one swallow. The burn felt good as it spread through his body and he said, “Again.”

  The barkeep obediently poured another shot and went to put the bottle back and Blake said, “Leave it,” tossing a double eagle on the bar.

  Smiling, he picked up the money and went back down the bar to another customer.

  Dan LaClare saw Blake enter the bar and took notice of how Blake was drinking whiskey in an unusual manner. Smiling, he strolled slowly over to him and leaned against the bar. “It has been my experience that only two things make a man drink like that,” he drawled, “either someone urinated in your oatmeal, or a woman.”

  Blake downed another shot and refilled his glass. “My oatmeal is untouched.” He motioned to a clean glass on the bar and Dan handed it to him. He filled it and slid it over to him.

  Dan picked up the glass and took a sip. “Then I am correct about the latter?”

  Blake bugged his eyes and blew heavily while staring at his glass. “Where do they get the power to make a man so bat-shit crazy?” he asked.

  “Ah,” he said taking out a cigar, plus a spare and offered it to Blake. “The female of our species has remained to be a complete mystery to me, my friend,” he paused lighting the cigars. “One that is sure to drive a man to madness, should he try to understand their thought processes.”

  “Amen,” Blake said refilling their glasses.

  “Am I correct in assuming your carriage ride with the fair Mrs. O’Bryan did not go well?”

  “It was great right up until I opened my mouth and it blew up in my face.” Blake downed another shot. “It wasn’t entirely my fault though, she backed me in a corner.”

  “How so?”

  “She brought up marriage, I never saw it coming.”

  “Good Lord,” Dan laughed, “she should be horsewhipped.”

  “Shut up, you shithead,” Blake laughed back; he was feeling the effects of the whiskey now and started to relax.

  Blake had not noticed the cowpuncher sitting near them and listening to their conversation. “Hey, Thorton,” he said loudly. “If you’re through with that widow woman, can I have a try at her?”

  Blake stood straight up and glared at him. Dan paced his hand on his arm and directed his attention to the cowboy. “Sir, I am sure you are trying to be funny, but the wounds are still fresh to my friend here and I would recommend that you keep your comments to yourself.”

  “Bullshit,” he said even louder. “That’s one horse I could ride to Californy and back.”

  “Oh, damn,” Dan said as Blake shot around him and landed a solid punch on the cowboy’s jaw. He flew backward with his eyes rolling up into their sockets and landed squarely on a table occupied by six men playing poker. The table legs snapped under the pressure and sent the contents of the game spraying across the room. One of the poker players stood dumbfounded and glared at Blake. “You had no call to hit Willie like that. I was winnin’ and you owe me money.”

  “Go to hell,” Blake sneered and turned back to the bar.

  “Get him, boys,” the player yelled and the saloon erupted in a fight. Chairs flew through the air and glass smashed on the floor. Two of the poker players grabbed Blake’s arms and held him while another punched him in nose. Dan was busy fending off another to help him much but was doing some damage with his own fists. Now every man in the saloon was hitting someone else, except the bartender who was trying to save the huge mirror in back of the bar by fending off flying objects. Blake managed to shake off one of the men holding him and threw him out a window in the front. He rolled a couple of times and got up jumping back through the same window.

  Percival had been in the back when the whole thing started and came out and entered into the melee. Five men jumped on him trying to bring the monster down but he threw his arms apart and they flew in all directions. One man was foolhardy enough to rush headlong at him and the Big Man tossed him easily over his shoulder directly into the precious mirror. The bartender seemed to take the damage personally and grabbed the patron and pulled him across the bar punching him squarely on the jaw. Blake and Dan were now standing back to back swinging at any one within reach. Suddenly an ear-shattering blast erupted in the saloon and everyone stopped to gaze at the sheriff who had just unloaded a barrel of buckshot into the ceiling.

  “Everybody just simmer down,” he yelled. “Next man to move gets the other barrel.”

  Dan and Blake looke
d at each other breathing heavily, Blake’s shirt and face were covered in blood because of the punch to his nose, which bled the way noses do, and Dan had one eye swelling shut as he stood there, his fine clothes in tatters. Percival dropped a semi-conscious cowboy on the floor with a sickening thud.

  “Just who the hell started this dustup?” asked Johansson in an authoritative voice.

  The cowboy who Blake had thrown the first punch at sat rubbing his chin and said, “I can’t rightly remember sheriff, I think somebody said somethin’ stupid.” Blake looked at him and gave a little grin. He turned to Johansson and added, “Yeah, things got a little out hand.”

  “They sure as hell did.” Still wanting answers, he gestured at Dan with his shotgun. “What do you say LaClare?”

  “Umm,” Dan stalled, “my eye hurts.” Someone snorted and it spread through the saloon, soon everyone was laughing except Johansson who stood stone faced.

  “Well someone owes the owner damages, and that would be the man who threw the first punch. So who would that be?” Johansson stated firmly.

  Blake held up his hand and said, “Sheriff I’m not admitting guilt but I abhor violence and am deeply ashamed of myself for taking part in it. I will pay the damages as long as everyone agrees to act like gentlemen from this day forth.”

  The sheriff gave him a disapproving look and sucked his teeth. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard so much bullshit, but if the owner agrees I guess we can consider the matter closed.”

  “Mirror, too?” the barkeep asked.

  “Yup, mirror, too,” said Blake.

  “Then I’m happy,” the bartender said.

  “Fine,” Johansson growled. “I think it would be best if everyone went home. This here saloon is closed for tonight.” He turned around and went back out in the street.

  As the men started to file out the offending cowboy stopped beside Blake. “Sorry for what I said, I was just drunk is all.”

  “So was I,” Blake smiled. “No real harm done.”

  Blake and Dan left together but took opposite sides of the street because the fight had attracted the attention of the townsfolk who were standing on the sidewalks watching, Chrissy and Bonnie among them. If Blake stayed with Dan he would have had to walk right in front of her. He continued down his side without turning his head. Dan on the other hand walked right up to her.

  “What happened in there?” she asked him.

  “There was a minor disagreement,” he said casually.

  Chrissy looked concerned at his eye. “Would you like a piece of steak for that eye?”

  “Why yes, ma’am, I would like that very much, thank you.”

  “How’s he?” she asked in an indifferent tone, while pointing her chin at Blake.

  “Would you referring to Mr. Thorton, ma’am?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said quietly.

  “As I do not know the particulars, I believe any pain he is in now truly pales to the agony he feels over hurting you.” She looked at him and he was smiling gently at her.

  “Let’s see to that eye, Mr. LaClare,” she said smiling in a similar way.

  Chapter 16

  A hundred miles away in a town named Sweetwater, Tom MacIntyre was not fairing all that well. It had had only been a couple of weeks but he was just about out of the money he took from his father’s safe. Last bit of what he had, save twenty dollars, laid in a poker pot on the table in front of him. He sat in his usual manner, slouched in his chair and his hat pushed back on his head. He thought a casual position made him look unconcerned as to the outcome of the hand, but nothing was further from the truth. Tom was genuinely worried that if he lost this hand he would be broke and have to return to his father’s ranch. A thin trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face as he studied his cards; three kings, a two and a jack stared back at him. The last man to participate in this hand was a professional gambler and was stone faced. It was his move to either fold or call the bet. Placing a twenty dollar chip into the pot he smiled and said, “Call.”

  Smiling, Tom relaxed and set his cards on the table. “Three kings,” he said grinning.

  The gambler grinned back and said, “Not bad, a respectable hand to be sure.” Tom leaned in to take the pot, but stopped when the other man said, “Unfortunately for you, not respectable enough to beat a full house, my friend.” He laid his cards on the green tablecloth, two queens and three fives.

  “Damn cheatin’ card sharp,” Tom muttered under his breath and leaned back in his chair.

  Being a professional, the gambler had been called a cheat many times in his life so he was able to retain his composure. “I assure you, sir, there have been times in my life when that may have been a necessity, but here tonight it was the furthest thing from my mind, because of your inferior method of play,” he said stacking his chips into orderly piles. He grinned an evil smile at Tom who was concentrating on his eyes, not on his right hand as it slipped under the table.

  “Just what the hell does that mean?” Tom gritted his teeth.

  “Simply stated, friend, you stink at cards.”

  Tom stood up suddenly, throwing his chair back with his legs and clawed for his revolver, but stopped before it even cleared leather because a forty-five caliber Peacemaker was pointed directly at his head. The gambler’s hand was steady as a rock and Tom knew he was facing death right in the eyes. “Go ahead and finish pulling that hogleg, sir, and I will end your foolish life where you stand,” the man said coolly.

  Tom knew the man had the drop on him and tried a bluff. “I have friends here and they will gun you if you twitch.”

  The gambler’s face was as rock steady as ever. “Your bluff in life is as bad as your card playing. The two men who came in with you have not even reached for their pistols. So I can confidently say that before they clear leather, I will have killed you and one of them and the third will have lead in him. Now the three of you drop your guns and piss off, as I grow wearisome of your company.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ here without a gun.”

  “Ah, I am certain you will because my dear friend who tends bar here will raise very serious havoc with your insides when he cuts loose with his favorite scattergun,” smiled the gambler.

  Tom heard the sickening sound of the hammers being pulled back off to his right. Turning his head slowly he saw a stout man holding a coachgun squarely in their direction. Tom swore under his breath and told Jimmy and Tug to drop their gun belts, as he did the same.

  “You may pick them up in the morning but know this; if I even get a whiff of you in my vicinity I will assume the worst and shoot you like a skunk in the henhouse. Good night, gentlemen,” the gambler said flatly.

  Tom left the saloon red faced, with Jimmy and Tug close behind.

  ******

  The next morning they returned to pick up their guns and were greeted by the bartender holding his shotgun at the end of the bar. Grinning, he slid the three gun belts one at a time down the bar. The three men snatched them up and put them on. Going outside they mounted their horses and rode slowly out of town.

  “Where to now, Boss?” Jimmy asked innocently.

  Tom was in a foul mood and grumbled, “We ain’t got enough money to get back home, I reckon we’ll have to find some.”

  Tug smiled, “I like the sound of that.”

  Twenty miles away they sat on top of a rise watching a stagecoach coming their way. “You reckon they is carryin’ a strongbox?” Jimmy said to Tom.

  “One way to find out,” Tom said pulling a neckerchief over his nose. “Just follow my lead and keep an eye on the driver and his sidekick.”

  He spurred his horse into a gallop and the others followed suit after covering their faces. Tom came to a sliding stop in front of the coach and fired a shot in the air. Reining back hard on the horses the driver managed to get the team under control and stop the coach just in time. Just as Tom was about to speak, two riders came out from the opposite side of the
road, both with their faces covered, all five men had their pistols pulled and pointing at one another.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” one of them yelled. “We is robbin’ this here coach.”

  Tom couldn’t believe his luck and was trying to figure out what to do when out of the corner of his eye he saw the sidekick raise a sawed off shotgun. Tom spun in his saddle and shot him in the chest, the driver went for his pistol and one of the new men shot him.

  Tom pulled down his neckerchief and said, “Damn, boys, I guess we’re in this together now. What do you say we split the money?”

  Pulling down their masks they looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “Seems fair, I guess,” the fat one said.

  Tom turned to his two men. “Jimmy, check up top for a strongbox,” he ordered. “Tug, check the coach.”

  Jimmy leapt off his horse and climbed to the top and Tug got down and opened the door of the coach only to be greeted by a thirty-two caliber slug in the forehead. As Tug fell backward, a well-dressed man leaned out of the coach and aimed for Tom. Jimmy drilled him with a shot from the top of the coach and killed him instantly. Inside the coach a women was screaming as Tom dismounted, running for the door. Inside was a pretty brunette woman who pinned up against the wall, trying to hide. She tried to kick him as he grabbed her by the ankle and roughly yanked her out onto the hard ground. Still screaming she tried to scurry away as Tom brought the barrel of his gun hard down on her head. She laid on the ground moaning softly.

  Jimmy jumped down from the top and looked at his friend. “Is Tug dead?” he asked disbelieving.

  Tom jammed his pistol in his holster and said, “As a god-damned doornail.”

  “Sorry about your friend,” the taller of the two new men said as he came around the wagon, “Was there any money on here?”

  Tom was irritated now, “Well we didn’t have much time to check, did we?”

  “Suppose not,” he said sheepishly. “Let’s have us a look around.”

  After they tore the wagon apart, the grand total of the take was forty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents. Tom was incensed with anger. He started to throw items from the coach cursing the whole time.