Storm in the Saddle (An Ash Colter Western)

by Ben Bridges

  We arrived at Franklin’s spread next morning, and Mary made the reporters as comfortable as she could in the new house while I dispatched Mayberly and the others to bring in some more settlers who could testify first-hand to the Association’s atrocities. Ethan Dunbar sat in a rocker on the porch, watching all the comings and goings with a bemused smile on his loose lips, humming and muttering and occasionally gurgling like a baby.

  He, more than anyone, represented the true cost of what had happened here: I saw that in the reporters’ shocked faces.

  Towards the end of that day I left the crowded supper table and went outside to watch the sun go down. After a while Jessica came out to watch it with me. We stood side by side in silence, and then I turned to her and told her what the reporters had told me—that we should have justice here.

  Her only response was a dismissive snort. ‘And you really believe that the Association will let that happen?’

  ‘They might be powerful,’ I replied. ‘But I doubt that their influence stretches all the way to Washington.’

  ‘It only has to stretch as far as Helena.’

  ‘Well...we’ll see.’

  ‘There’s only one way to win this war,’ she said.

  ‘By fighting?’

  ‘Yes. And deep down, I think you know it, too.’

  ‘No, Jess. You’re wrong. In time you’ll see that.’

  And I really believed it, too. But as it turned out, she was right. God help me, she was right.

  The turning point came midway through the following afternoon.

  So that they could not be accused of bias afterwards, the journalists had decided that they should go into Beaver Dam and get the Association’s side of the story before returning to Helena, and we were gathered in Franklin’s parlor, discussing the wisdom of such an idea when Ethan Dunbar, again taking his ease on the porch outside, suddenly raised his phlegmy voice.

  ‘Rider comin’!’

  There was an urgency to the way he said it that made us all rush for the door, for I suppose it had been in all our minds that a thorough search for the missing newspapermen must commence sooner or later.

  We spilled out into the hot afternoon and followed Ethan’s trembling finger. At once I spotted a single rider about two hundred yards north, lingering just this side of a timbered knoll. I thinned my eyes at him, but it was Jessica, who had come to stand at my shoulder, who identified him first. She said, ‘It’s James Carbonne.’

  Fearing the worst now I echoed the name, for I knew he would not have risked coming here unless it was important.

  He kicked his horse into a run and drew nearer. I saw then that he was leaning forward over the horse’s neck, clinging on for dear life, and that every jouncing step the animal took made him screw his sweated face up in agony.

  He came into the yard and we swept down off the porch to surround him. I saw that he was hugging himself, and swaying dangerously from side to side. I reached up, grabbed the bridle, opened my mouth and started to say something, but then stopped.

  His waistcoat was dark with blood. The material, the buttons, they were saturated by it.

  I said, ‘Oh my God—’ And then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell sideways. I caught him, and a couple of the reporters hurried forward to help lower him gently to the ground while Ernie led the skittish horse away.

  Carbonne was burning up and his head was snapping back and forth as if he were trying to surface from a nightmare. A swift examination confirmed the worst. He was hurt bad, gut-shot, and the revelation made me ache for him because he was a good man, and not even the worst should have to endure the hopeless, lingering pain of such a wound.

  I looked up, found Mary Franklin’s shock-white face and said one word. ‘Water.’ I yanked off my jacket, balled it up and put it under his head. When the water came I trickled a little between his lips. I knew that it was not really the thing to do for a man in his position, but he was already so far gone that I didn’t think it would make much difference.

  His eyes flickered open, cast around in a loose, undefined way and then, all at once, the pain hit him again and he jack-knifed so suddenly that the reporters leapt back, away from him.

  His face screwed up, his lips peeled back from clenched teeth, his cry rose, broke, fell to a moan. I held him down, wanting to weep for him, for the distress he must be suffering. Jessica came around to the other side of him, knelt, said, ‘James...James...it’s all right now. Everything’s all right now...’

  She didn’t believe that any more than I did, but when it cut through Carbonne’s pain he seemed to subside a bit, his bloody chest rising and falling rapidly to his wheezing, tortured breathing.

  ‘...n-no...’ he rasped. ‘No...it’s not all r-right. They...they’re coming ou-out...first light tomorrow. Th-they’re going to...”r-rescue” the newspapermen...’

  ‘And gun down the rest of us while they’re at it?’ asked Jessica.

  He nodded. ‘Th-the r-reporters too...if it l-looks as if they’ve t-taken your side...’ he continued. ‘L-Linderman says...he c-can always claim that...y-you...killed them.’ His features suddenly crumbled. ‘Oh God...it hurts so much.’

  ‘Who did it, James?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

  His lips formed the name Jameson, but no sound came out. I gave him another sip of water, and he cleared his clogged throat. ‘They...w-wondered how you...f-found out about their...plans. I...suppose the answer was...obvious, really. They...accused me. I...didn’t...deny it.’

  My voice sounded like dust blowing across a headstone. ‘So Jameson shot you.’

  ‘Sh-shot me...dragged me outside and... left me to...die.’ He swallowed. ‘I crawled... to the stable, took a s-saddle horse... somehow got away from...there without them seeing me.’ Another swallow. ‘H-had to...warn you...’

  I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘All right, James. Rest easy, now—’

  Suddenly his eyes rolled up into his head and he jack-knifed again. I yelled, James!’but drew no response, and then, when he shuddered and lay absolutely still, I knew he was gone.

  I was shaking, and my chest was tight. I looked across the body to Jessica and was startled by the hostility in her eyes, the hatred with which she viewed me.

  ‘I told you!’ she cried, standing up. ‘I told you there was only one way to finish this! And now look where your peace-mongering ways have got us!’

  Standing also, I reached for her. ‘Now wait a m—’

  She pulled out of my grip, eyes liquid, lips trembling. ‘Leave me be, damn you! If you’d killed Jameson when you had the chance, Carbonne might still be alive!’

  I didn’t need her to tell me that.

  She turned to the reporters and jabbed a finger at the corpse. ‘Do you still want to hear the Association’s side of it, after this?’

  She didn’t wait for a response, just pushed through them and stalked off, sobbing once.

  Ten minutes later she came riding out of the barn astride her big copper-colored horse. I ran towards her, calling for her to wait a moment, asking just what she thought she was going to do now.

  Her face was the face of a madwoman, her eyes lit from within by two beacons of hatred. ‘I’m going to finish it!’ she spat in reply.

  I reached for her bridle but she turned her horse’s head away from me. ‘Don’t be silly, Jess! What can you do against so many?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, Colter.’

  She kicked the horse to speed and left a cloud of dust in her wake. I wasted precious moments watching her go, thinking about what she had said, remembering what she had said at the meeting a week earlier.

  Suddenly I went cold, murmured, ‘Oh, dear Lord, no...’

  I sprinted into the barn and set about saddling my mustang in order to go after her. The reporters followed me inside, scared by what they had heard of Linderman’s plans, and demanding that I take them back to Cascade at once.

  There was no time to argue with them, not if I were to catc
h up with Jessica, so I told them to sit tight, that I would get them out of there as soon as I could, and they would just have to be satisfied with that. Then I flung myself up into the saddle and heeled the mustang to a run, and they had to scatter before me or fall beneath the animal’s plunging hooves.

  I left the yard behind me and galloped madly in Jessica’s wake, though she was already lost to sight, having one way or another gained a sizeable lead over me. I pushed the mustang on as fast as I dared, knowing after the first twenty minutes that I should slow the pace or risk bursting his heart. But no matter how much he meant to me, there was more at stake here than the life of one horse. I had to keep going: there simply was no other choice.

  That ride! It seemed to last forever, and still there was no sign of Jessica up ahead. But I knew where she was going. My primary concern now was to stop her before she could get there.

  An eternity later Beaver Dam came into sight and I galloped down towards the bridge and clattered across, my destination the big blue and white house overlooking the town from the far side.

  I thundered along First Street, the mustang weaving piteously beneath me now, his mouth and flanks lathered and his eyes wide and scared. But still I pushed him, forcing myself to do it and hating myself for it.

  Sweat-run, breathing hard, half out of my mind with worry, I kept us surging on, swerving around any wagons and riders who blundered into our path—and then the street ahead of us was clear and we were beginning the final push towards Association headquarters.

  I really believed I was going to make it after all.

  And then—

  Four men appeared in my path, coming out of one of the saloons half a block ahead, stringing themselves out with deliberate intent, then turning to face me, legs spread, gun-hands hooking threateningly above the grips of their sidearms, their belligerent manner just daring me to try riding through them.

  One of them was Jameson. The other three were men I had come to recognize as part of his own little company. I could only assume that the other gunmen were being quartered up at the big house.

  Seeing the men in his way, my horse slowed gratefully, and as my anger at Jameson rose, so I felt my spirits plunge, for I could not afford any delays now. But Fate had other ideas. Suddenly silence seemed to engulf the town, and after the constant rush of wind in my ears, the quiet was a sinister, unnatural thing.

  I looked Jameson in the face, and remembering what he had done to Carbonne, I wanted badly to gun him down there and then. But it was as I had said before—there was more at stake here than my own personal vengeance.

  My voice was husky after the long ride. ‘Step aside, Jameson.’

  He shook his head, as insolent as ever, and said, ‘Nuh-uh. I’ve waited long enough for this, Colter. I’m not about to wait any longer. We’ve got a score to settle, you an’ me.’

  Still, a part of my mind was thinking about Carbonne. ‘You’re right there,’ I agreed. ‘But I haven’t got time right now—so get the hell out of my way.’

  He said, ‘No.’

  Then, almost faster than a man can blink, he drew his right-side .44, brought it up and fired two swift, deafening shots.

  The mustang made a choking noise and trembled beneath me. His forelegs began to fold under him and he slumped forward. I kicked free and threw myself off him just before he keeled over onto his side, bleeding from two holes in his chest, his great body gasping and coughing, and I thought, Oh no, oh God no, please...

  Winded, down on my knees, I watched the animal die and something inside me died, too.

  Jameson re-leathered the gun and he and his friends laughed coldly, and then he said, ‘You’re not going anywhere—pilgrim.’

  I looked up at him, and I think I felt what Jessica was feeling in that moment. I got my feet under me and shoved erect, and I knew my clouded face was threatening him with the worst storm he was ever likely to face.

  The silence was absolute.

  So quietly that he almost didn’t hear me, I said, ‘Go for your guns, you sorry son of a whore.’

  He did. He dropped into a crouch, his face twisting all out of shape as his mouth formed a roar, his hands sweeping down, scooping out his twin Smith and Wessons. He fetched them up, fast, really fast—

  But my own Adams was already filling my hand, and I could tell by the way his eyes widened that he saw it, too.

  I gave him no quarter. With a savagery I have never felt since, I thought, Die, you bastard, die.

  I shot him once, twice, and he staggered under the punch of the bullets and flung his guns up so that they spun through the air and landed somewhere behind him.

  He lurched and reeled around, still looking at me, still wearing that stupid look of surprise, and I felt no compassion for him at all, and absolutely no regret at what I had done.

  Very deliberately, so that he would see me do it, I raised the .442 to arm’s-length, took aim and fired it one last time. The weapon roared, jumped in my fist like a live thing—and Jameson’s face seemed to rupture and fly open in a crimson explosion.

  He fell over backwards and did not move again.

  The echo of the shot faded away and the town was once more claimed by silence. I looked at the three men who had been siding Jameson, saw by their expressions and the tightness in their legs and shoulders that this wasn’t over yet.

  Heedless of the consequences, I said wearily, ‘Come on, then. Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Before anyone could do anything, however, the silence was shattered by a rattle of gunfire coming from the house on the hill, and without even having to think about it, we immediately set our own differences aside so that we could turn our attention to this new conflict.

  For suddenly it seemed that a pitched battle was breaking out at Association headquarters. Gunmen were boiling out through the column-flanked front door, brandishing weapons and yelling, and yet more were appearing at the windows and from the stable.

  Then Jessica came galloping around the far side of the great building with more men in pursuit, and she was once again every inch a warrior-woman, and seemingly impervious to all the gunfire being directed her way.

  Gaining the front yard, she reined her prancing horse down and hurled something heavy that flew end over shouldering end in through an open ground-floor window.

  I heard one of Jameson’s partners mutter, ‘What in the hell—’ And I myself husked in disbelief, ‘No...no...you can’t...’

  She could, though. And furthermore, she was. She was finishing it, just as she’d said she would.

  Almost before I knew it I was running, pushing past the men who had so recently been my opponents, saying it over and over again— ‘No, Jess, no...you can’t...’

  On she rode, scattering the gunmen in her path, dragging yet another bundle from her saddlebag, lighting the dangling fuse from a cigarette she had clamped in her mouth.

  She threw the fizzing bundle at the side of the house, and it slammed against the wall and dropped to the ground at its base.

  I ran on and on, my gun still clenched in my hand, thinking it now, No, you can’t, Jess, for God’s sake you can’t—

  Jessica reined in suddenly and tried to turn her horse around. A moment later I saw why. A handful of Linderman’s hired guns had appeared around the corner to which she had been riding, and were trying to cut her off.

  She jammed her heels in and started back the way she had just come. But more men were coming at her from that way, too.

  I knew what was going to happen next. It was fated, inevitable. But still I tried to change it. Frantically I yelled, Jess!’ But at exactly that moment another volley of gunfire drowned my cry.

  So many bullets...they shredded cloth and lacerated flesh, tore her and her horse to pieces. The horse went up on his hind legs and then collapsed sideways with a hideous scream, and Jess herself fell backwards in a loose somersault and struck the ground hard, with a limp, lifeless bounce.

  Seeing that, I stopped running
, whispered, ‘... Jess... Jess...’

  Jess.

  And then, from somewhere at the back of the house, there came a crack like thunder and a great gout of flame tore up into the air.

  What happened next happened swiftly.

  With the ground still trembling under me, another explosion ripped off the side of the house, throwing splintered wood and shattered glass everywhere. I saw screaming men tossed high into the air, others knocked off their feet, blasted by flying debris.

  Again there came a deadly crump of sound: again the fine blue and white house shivered and part of the roof caved in with a wrenching groan, doubtless accounting for yet more of the gunmen who had so recently arrived.

  Another explosion, more smashing glass, the columns crashing to earth and rolling before breaking up...

  Fire quickly took hold of what remained of the building, for it had been a long, hot summer. Soon dense black smoke was billowing up into the sky, marking the spot where the Montana Stock Growers’ Association had finally breathed its last.

  Suddenly my legs felt weak.

  Up on the hill the scene of carnage was not lost behind a screen of drifting smoke. I thought that was probably just as well. But still I could hear the cries of the wounded and close to death.

  Jessica, I told myself numbly. You finished it, all right.

  On the short, slow walk back to town, I asked myself what would happen now. Robert Linderman and the seven Association members were dead. But did it necessarily follow that the Association was dead, also? That the trouble here was at an end?

  I wondered long and hard about that. There would be wives and children to carry on the running of their spreads. Inevitably a new Association would eventually come into being. I could only hope that it would be a more generous and forgiving one, that those children, having been born to the wealth and power that their fathers had pushed and grabbed so hard for, would not guard it quite so jealously.

  In the end, only time would tell. What they needed here was a truce, a long, quiet period of mourning and healing, followed by the burying of old scores and the making of peace. It was possible, I told myself. But it wouldn’t happen overnight.