Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Marshal Harrison ran his hands through his gray hair and said, “That’s cause I’m wise enough not to completely embarrass a man. Especially a big-time gunslinger like Valdez.”

  “Didn’t know he was a gunslinger at the time,” I replied. “But, after Bill Garland slapped and embarrassed me in front of everybody, I was too mad to think straight.”

  I stood up and left the room. Not saying a word about where I was going. More and more, I saw Marshal Harrison as just an old windbag. More air than starch.

  Chapter 9

  The strain of worrying about Valdez grew so bad that when I finally saw him, I felt relief rather than fear. I was sitting in my usual spot by the door of the Marshal’s office, leaning back against the wall in an old four-legged cane chair with my thumbs hooked in my pockets. It was a small pleasure to sit like that in the early evening with my feet against the porch rail, watching people as the sun dropped down. I rested like this each night before the hours and hours of walking between saloons in order to keep cowboys quiet and trouble down.

  Valdez and his crew ambled in at dusk on horseback. They came when I expected, riding in just before dark. Light enough to see your gun sights and with enough time to commit mayhem and murder and ride off into the night. Any pursuing posse would have nothing to track for at least eight hours, giving them an insurmountable lead if they rode hard and used their heads. Striking any earlier, or even at dawn, would be flirting with death.

  Valdez came with six other men, and when I first saw them, a good three hundred yards separated us. I say I knew it was Valdez, but I couldn’t be sure at that distance. I certainly couldn’t see faces. However, the pace and the way they rode into town gave them away.

  Cowboys ride in fast at a trot or struggle in as groups of two or three -- in a hurry to get something wet in their throats or between their legs. Merchants, farmers, and traders don’t have time to waste either. If they come in at dusk, they’re trying to catch the owner of the General Store before he closes, and they’re moving fast.

  These seven men, all abreast, walked their horses down the main street slowly, clearly aiming to intimidate.

  I eased my chair down and grabbed my rifle, which leaned against the wall just a foot away. I did all this nice and slow. At three hundred yards, I knew they’d struggle to see much, and I didn’t want them to know I’d recognized them.

  I kept my rifle vertical and against my leg, hoping they wouldn’t see it. I even stood a second and pretended to stretch, using only my left arm above my head, then looked down the street to my right away from them.

  I paused another second, looked down the road away from them, and walked through the door into the jail, as calm and slow as a woman who’d finished sweeping off the porch. I hoped I didn’t look alarmed or worried. I wanted them to stay in formation.

  Marshal Harrison was away -- a recurring theme that was getting old. He’d left earlier to head up to the other end of town to check on a disturbance. One of the Chinese men that lives in town had claimed two cowboys had beat him up, but good. Marshal Harrison needed their names or at least a good description so he could try to identify them.

  So, it was me and me alone, and I didn’t intend to end up dead. Now inside the jail and out of sight, I ran to the gun wall and snatched a handful of rifle cartridges with my left hand from a wooden box we kept loose ammunition stored in. I stuffed the shells in my left pocket and grabbed another handful.

  I sprinted back to the door, staying inside, so they couldn’t see me. I dropped to my stomach, removed my hat, and slid to the edge of the door. I laid the second handful of shells in front of me and assumed a good prone firing position.

  The seven horsemen had gained little ground. They now appeared roughly two hundred and fifty yards away -- they were walking their horses that slow. And it was intimidating. They seemed so in control. So powerful. So unmoving. Seven experienced men with revenge on their mind. Too much for two small-town, underpaid deputies out near the edge of the frontier.

  I doubted they could see me. Only my head, shoulder and rifle showed. I figured they never expected to need to look low, at the bottom of a door. This wasn’t war, or so they thought.

  I thumbed the hammer back and took a good aim at the third rider from the left. I couldn’t tell which rider was Valdez at this distance, but I assumed he’d be in the middle. It’d be easier to shift from left to right after my first shot, so with that line of thinking, I decided to take the third rider with shot number one.

  I’d shoot once they came within one hundred yards. A range I didn’t miss at. But as slow as they approached, this wait would prove painful. Might feel as long as the two weeks had.

  I decided not to dread the slow movement of the group, rather I embraced this timely opportunity to control my emotions and plan my steps. I’d been waiting on this, and I’d either live or not.

  And I’m a hell of a man with a rifle. Been lugging one after squirrels and rabbits since I was a kid back in Tennessee. I’m much better with one than with a pistol, which is why I’d been shooting so much with my pistol. If this went as I planned, my pistol would never leave my holster.

  What I was about to do was border-line murder. The law doesn’t shoot men down in the street with no charges. And that’s what they counted on. They planned to get close, maybe say a few words -- or maybe not -- and gun me down.

  My only fear was if these men weren’t Valdez and company. I knew they weren’t Army soldiers -- Army troops moved in columns of twos and wore distinctive blue. But, these men could be a group of riders who were just nervous about the town. Maybe Belleville’s reputation was worse than I’ve heard.

  But my gut said otherwise. It had to be Valdez and some of his gunslingers. And if it wasn’t, then I’d pay the piper and let the U.S. Marshal for the territory hang me for flat-out murder. Not lighting these guys up would be the same sentence -- only earlier and more painful.

  Once they reached a hundred yards, the debate raging in my head ended. I needed to drop them while I had the surprise advantage and preferred shooting distance. I fielded a long rifle and waited in a perfect position. They rode on horseback and hadn’t drawn their pistols.

  To continue reading, purchase it from here: Little Man, and the Dixon County War.