Storm in the Saddle (An Ash Colter Western)

by Ben Bridges

  I looked into his pale, slightly puffed face and saw the threat of violence there. He was a hair-trigger man, all right, and I had met plenty of his type over the years. No matter the reason, they were always spoiling for a fight.

  But before he could force the issue, a tall, rail-slim man with a deputy’s shield pinned to his lapel came hurrying across the street, yelling, ‘All right, break it up, there! What’s going on here, anyway? Jameson?’

  Jameson’s eyelids flickered and I saw some of the tension leave the hunch of his denim-clad shoulders. He glanced sideways as the deputy pulled up a few yards away and said, ‘No trouble, Jeffers.’

  The deputy looked from me to the girl, then back at Jameson. ‘Doesn’t look that way to me,’ he said.

  ‘You calling me a liar, then?’

  ‘Well...no.’

  ‘Then go on about you affairs, Jeffers. There’s nothing happening here that need concern you.’

  The deputy stood indecisively for a moment, unable to decide which course of action he should take. Jameson regathered his reins and turned his attention back to me. He said, ‘You’ll keep,’ and he spoke as softly as ever. ‘But don’t be in too big a hurry to leave town, pilgrim. I never yet incurred a debt I didn’t pay. And I intend to pay you, all right. In spades.’

  With that, he tugged on the reins and his sorrel wheeled around and blurred off up the street with mane flying wildly. A few seconds passed, then his friends turned their mounts too, and heeled them after him, and once they had gone, the silence of the grave descended upon us.

  Chapter Three

  As the Association men galloped away, I shook my head slowly. There went another reason why I could not see myself working for Robert Linderman. Ward Jameson and I were oil and water. We would never be able to set aside whatever petty differences existed between us and work together in something like harmony. No—sooner or later we would come to blows, he and I, and I knew intuitively that when it was over, only one of us would walk away.

  The deputy, Jeffers, came through the still-drifting dust and put one hand on the girl’s arm, making her start. ‘Are you all right, Jane?’ he asked.

  She nodded and said in an uncertain voice, ‘Yes...yes...’

  Still with his hand on the girl’s arm, the deputy fixed me with a flinty stare, noting my gun, my stance, the gunfighter look of me. ‘I guess we should be thanking you, mister,’ he said. ‘Could have been a nasty accident there.’

  I shrugged. ‘Glad to be of service.’

  A short, elderly man came out of the hotel just then, boot-heels thudding hollowly against the weathered boards underfoot. He shuffled over to the girl and said, ‘Jane! My God, did they hurt you? What have I told you before about trying to cross the street alone?’

  The girl waved him away, but a fond smile played along her generous mouth as the old man fidgeted around her. ‘Don’t fuss, father. I’m fine. Those riders just took me by surprise, that’s all. Still, if it hadn’t been for this gentleman...’

  She gestured vaguely towards me and the old man turned and came to grasp my right hand in both of his. He was a bulky little barrel of a fellow, in a creased black suit and a cardboard collar. I put him somewhere in his sixties, tiny of eye and drooping of cheek, but with a ready smile that projected a warm nature. The last remnants of a once-thick head of pepper-colored hair lay flat across his glistening pate, but still grew in a curly, unruly mass over his ears.

  ‘Thank you, sir, thank you!’ he said with heartfelt sincerity. ‘It’s a good thing you were on hand, Mr...’

  ‘Colter,’ I replied. ‘Ash Colter.’

  From the corner of one eye I saw Deputy Jeffers look at me with new interest, but then the girl’s father was speaking again. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Jane—come and express your appreciation to Mr. Colter.’

  Now that everything in his town appeared to be back on an even keel, Jeffers mumbled something about Jane being more careful next time and then left us to it. The girl herself came over and put out one hand. She was twenty-two or so, of average height but elegantly slim. Her long hair fell in a chestnut cascade down over surprisingly broad shoulders, and framed a well-sculpted face with full, naturally red lips, large green eyes and a small, finely molded nose.

  I took her hand. It was smooth and dry, and as her wide green eyes travelled up over my face, something suddenly wrenched at my gut and I realized for the first time that she was blind.

  The old man was speaking again, making introductions. ‘Mr. Colter, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. I am Zachary Dawes, owner-manager of this fine establishment, and this here is my daughter, Jane.’

  Jane bobbed her head. ‘Mr. Colter.’

  Her voice was like the soft, cool tinkle of a waterfall in summer, mild and light and peculiarly soothing to me. I studied the smooth flawlessness of her alabaster skin and concluded that she was serenely beautiful, which was an odd combination to find in a land that was seldom beautiful and hardly ever serene.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to handle you so roughly, Miss Dawes,’ I said.

  ‘Better that than the alternative,’ she replied philosophically.

  ‘Well,’ said her father, ‘let that be a lesson to you, my girl. That’s her trouble, Mr. Colter. She’s too independent by half, this one.’ But he hugged her with obvious affection just the same, and she reached up to pat his ample chest. ‘Now, unless I miss my guess, you were just on the way into my hostelry, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was indeed, Mr. Dawes. I’m after a room.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it that you have the finest one we’ve got to offer.’

  I unbuckled my gear and carried it inside, then signed the register, and while Dawes took my horse around to the stable at the rear, Jane led me upstairs with a key in one hand.

  It was amazing. She knew every inch of the hotel so well that I had to remind myself that she really was blind. I followed her up a flight of narrow, creaking treads and thence down a long, shady hallway to a door which she unlocked with but the slightest difficulty.

  ‘Will you be staying long, Mr. Colter?’ she asked pleasantly as I followed her inside.

  ‘Just the night.’

  ‘Moving on again so soon?’

  ‘That is sometimes the nature of my business, Miss Dawes.’

  ‘You may call me Jane, if you like,’ she invited. ‘And what is your business, if I may ask?’

  It was a very good question. I held back for a moment, trying to word an adequate response, then said lamely, ‘I suppose you could say I trade in metals. Specifically iron and lead.’

  Well, it was no lie.

  Looking around, I saw that I had been given a decent-sized room overlooking the street, with thin, decorative wallpaper through which the batten-and-plywood walls could be clearly seen, a few sticks of furniture, a chest of drawers atop which sat a flaking mirror and a chamber set, and a passably comfortable bed.

  The girl held the key out and I took it from her. She turned her head towards me and again her big green eyes moved restlessly over my face. I felt uneasy beneath her scrutiny, even though I knew she could see only darkness.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, no. Unless you can suggest a good eatery?’

  ‘Marvin’s is four doors along,’ she replied. ‘The food there is good and cheap, and the helpings generous.’

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  She whispered past me, one hand raised in case she should encounter any unexpected obstacles. I watched her go, then turned and threw my saddlebags onto the bed. When the girl spoke again it was my turn to start, because I believed she had gone, when all the time she was just lingering in the doorway.

  ‘I hope there will be no trouble with that man,’ she said.

  Surprised, I replied, ‘Jameson? Of course there won’t, Miss...Jane.’

  ‘But he spoke angrily of paying back his debts.’ />
  ‘He imagines there to be some ill feeling between us, but he is mistaken. I have no quarrel with him. I never even saw him before today.’

  ‘And yet his threats have upset you,’ she said.

  I frowned. ‘When a man like Jameson threatens you,’ I explained, ‘it is as well to take him seriously.’

  She shook her head and her lips firmed down. ‘I understand that, but I sense that it goes deeper than that for you. I can tell.’

  Because she was right, because he had unsettled me, damn him, I tried to make little of it rather than confess it. ‘Can you now?’

  Calmly she said, ‘Yes. Why is that?’

  ‘You ask a great many questions, Miss Dawes.’

  ‘Forgive me if I offend you. But I am sensitive to the moods of others, and I find your reaction a curious one. When a man is threatened he may feel fear, or anger, or indignation. But in you...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In you,’ she said with another puzzled shake of the head, ‘I sense only...regret.’

  My God, but she was right on the money with that, and uncomfortable with her uncanny insight, I turned away from her and unbuckled my saddlebags.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ she asked gently.

  I nodded, remembered she couldn’t see me, and said, ‘If it gives you any satisfaction—yes, you are.’

  ‘Why is that?’ she pursued.

  I turned back to her, suddenly angry. ‘You will not like the answer,’ I said huskily. ‘But since you are so determined to know, I will tell you. I regret the aggravation I have had with him because unless I leave the county first, I know that he will push it and push it and keep on pushing it until we settle the matter the only way he understands—with violence. Do you understand that, Miss Dawes?’ I snapped. ‘He will push it until there is no going back, and I have no choice but to put him in his grave.’

  The sun sank slowly westward to trickle molten gold across the gentle, sweeping hills and their crowns of regal white pine. Gradually. Beaver Dam’s streets emptied of traffic and the sounds of commerce were replaced by the glass-clinking, piano-tinkling, altogether warmer sounds of revelry.

  I had left the hotel shortly after making my outburst, and spent the remainder of the afternoon at the cafe Jane Dawes had recommended, regretting it. Upsetting the girl had been the last thing in the world I had wanted to do, but I had reacted instinctively, turned defensive because her ability to see so clearly and effortlessly into the very heart of me was frightening.

  Now, with the image of her face vivid in my mind, paling as I confessed my killing gift to her, I felt the need to seek her out and set things right between us, and yet I wanted to delay it too, because apologizing is seldom easy, even when we know it is the right thing to do.

  From the cafe I went into one of Beaver Dam’s three saloons and ordered a beer. I am not much of a bibber, but I felt the need for a consoling drink that evening. On the morrow I would ride back to that big blue house on the hill and tell Lindeman that he must find someone else to go in search of Jessica Dunbar. And after that I would once again find myself rootless and devoid of purpose.

  It was not a prospect to look forward to.

  By the time I left the saloon, the sky had turned a powdery gray-blue and in the distance the sunset was a fiery yellow-amber splash that hung over the shadowy hills and clung to the underbellies of the few clouds. I admired it for a moment, then set off back to my room, passing the town lamp-lighter as he worked his way methodically along the street, hooking his ladder to every lamp-iron he came to so that he could clamber laboriously up and light the kerosene beacon at its summit.

  I had not gone very far when I realized that I was being followed. There were two reasons for this. One was the sense of danger or possible danger that I had cultivated during my years as a peace officer, town tamer and Army scout. The fact that my pursuer was frankly inexpert at the chore was the other.

  Inexpert or not, though, he was obviously following me for a reason, and I wondered who he was and what that reason might be. Had Jameson sent him? It was a possibility. But why? Surely my movements would not be of that much interest to him. And yet, who else could it be?

  I crossed the street slowly. A casual glance over one shoulder confirmed that my stalker had suddenly paused in a pool of shadow directly opposite, and was busying himself on some pretext or other, doubtless to allow me to get some distance ahead of him. I received a fleeting impression of a bulky man with a broken hat-brim, but that was all.

  My stomach was taut and my every sense was attuned to the possibility of ambush, but nothing happened and I reached the hotel without event. Dawes was behind the desk when I let myself inside, reading a copy of Lippincott’s Magazine. We made some polite conversation, then he gave me my key. Since his daughter was nowhere to be seen, I resolved to offer her my apologies tomorrow, before riding out.

  Wearied by the weeklong ride it had taken me to get here as well as the added tensions of the day, I let myself into my dark room, pulled loose my string tie and went over to the window. Though I scanned the street as carefully as I could, I saw no further sign of my mysterious follower.

  With a shrug, I turned away from the window, put a match to the socket lamp on the wall and replaced black shadow with warm light.

  I had not been in the room longer than ten minutes when there came a light rapping at the door. By then I was in my shirtsleeves and my vest was unbuttoned. I had hooked my gunbelt over the bedpost—but within a second, the .442 was in my hand and I had positioned myself to one side of the flimsy portal.

  ‘Yes?’

  A man’s voice came through the panels to me. ‘Mr. Colter? I’d like to have a few words with you, if I may.’

  My brows pulled together, for I had not heard the voice before, and to the best of my knowledge had no business with anyone else in town. After a moment I cautiously clicked the door open just a fraction.

  The man standing in the hallway was short and thickset, dressed in a cotton shirt and calfskin vest, baggy denim pants and scuffed, run-over brogans. I recognized him from his broken hat-brim as the man who had followed me from the saloon. As near as I could tell he was alone and unarmed, so I drew the door wider until he could see the gun in my hand, and bade him enter.

  My visitor was about thirty, with a dark, spare, cynical-looking face, very dark eyes and a beard as midnight-black as the curly hair I could see projecting from beneath the old hat. He came inside and scooped the hat off. I closed the door softly behind him and stuffed the gun into my waistband.

  ‘My name’s Ernie Franklin, Mr. Colter,’ she said, unsure whether or not to offer me his hand and evidently deciding not to. ‘I thank you for seeing me, and promise not to take up too much of your time, but...well, it’s not every day that a gun hand of your caliber comes to Beaver Dam, Mr. Colter, and meaning no offence, we...well, I guess I might as well say it straight out—we want to know exactly where you stand in this affair?’

  Eyeing him with fresh interest, I said mildly, ‘That is a pretty blunt question, Mr. Franklin. Might I ask who wants to know?’

  Surprise showed on his face. He obviously thought I already knew. ‘I’m one of those small-scale ranchers that Linderman and his cronies are so determined to get rid of,’ he said truculently.

  ‘And the rest of them have sent you here to learn the strength of the enemy?’

  He made a vague gesture with one hand. ‘Oh, we know all about the strength of the enemy, don’t worry. Linderman’s been importing hired guns for months now. I don’t suppose one more’s likely to make much difference, even if his name is Colter. But...if you’re still open to offers, well...I’ve been empowered to make one of our own.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He nodded, his thick, blunt fingers working at the material of his much-abused hat-brim. Drawing in a deep breath, he said in a rush, ‘Whatever the Association’s offering to pay you...between us, we’ll do our level best to match it, maybe even top it if we can ke
ep them at bay long enough to get our claims recognized in a court of law. After that it won’t much matter what they do, because the land will belong to us legally, and they’ll just have to learn to live with it.’

  I was silent for a while, and around us the hotel was silent, too. I heard piano music drifting up from the saloons further down the street, and the clip-clop of a rider walking his horse along the thoroughfare below. Finally I said, ‘It’s a handsome offer, Mr. Franklin. But I’m not for sale.’

  ‘Ah, let’s not beat around the bush here, Colter! Linderman’s been hiring fast guns from all over. Haven’t we got the right to hire one for ourselves?’

  ‘Sure you have. But I wasn’t called here for that.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Then you thought wrong, Mr. Franklin.’

  He held his peace for a moment, then squared his shoulders and clapped his hat back onto his head. ‘I cannot interest you in working for us, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I apologize for the disturbance.’

  He headed for the door, but stopped when, as an afterthought, I said, ‘Mr. Franklin—maybe your visit will not be a complete waste of time.’

  He narrowed his brown eyes at me suspiciously. ‘I’m not with you,’ he said.

  I explained myself to him. ‘As I understand it, the people you speak for already have a champion of sorts. I’m talking about Jessica Dunbar.’

  His hands folded suddenly into fists, and his lips congealed to a hard set. ‘Is that why they called you in?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Dunbar?’

  Not answering him directly, I said, ‘The Association wants to make its peace with her. I know it doesn’t sound like much, after what she and her husband have been through, but they want to somehow compensate her for what happened.’

  His laugh was a brief, disgusted bray. Then he sobered and said in wonderment, ‘Well, I swan! You really believe that, don’t you?’