Chapter Selection: 1 2 3

1.

It was late in the day when Vic led the pony to the livery; the ride had been hard and unforgiving.  What was needed now was a hot bath and meal.  Paying for the care of the pony, Vic stood and stared along the main street picking out the best place to rest up.  The small hotel at the t-junction should do, and provide a good look-out too.  The few folk still around hurried to homes or lit lamps, and Vic walked up to the counter, ordered and paid for a room with fresh water and a bath, and also something to eat. 

Sitting in the small but well kept room, the plate of chicken had been finished off after the luxury of hot, soapy water had washed away the evidence of the long ride.  Vic downed the last of the coffee and started to re-assemble the old .45, stripped and cleaned for the job in hand.  Father had always said, you should always look after not just the gun but the ammunition too.  Each round was cleaned and replaced in the belt loops.  After everything was lightly oiled and wiped down, it all went together easily and was re-loaded, and left next to the lamp on the bedside table.  Pulling over the quilted blanket Vic settled to sleep.  Again, as for the past six months, the dream came. It was dark, the night punctuated by horse’s hooves and gunfire.  The light from torches flickered and drove away the darkness.  Shouts, cries and hollering filled the air, as Vic peered over the windowsill to see father standing, half dressed and swinging at two horsemen with a lit torch of his own.  Vic stared silently as shots rang out, and father slumped to the floor, a purplish stain spreading over his back.  The two horsemen were laughing as they set the barn aflame, tossed the torches at the house and turned to ride for town.  Vic ran through the small ranch house, trying to get the brothers out but found they were already dead, shot once through the temple as they slept.  Running into the night, to kneel by father's still body, his .45 clutched in one hand as if to still defend his home.

 Vic woke suddenly, hot and breathing heavily.  The nightmare of six months past still lingered and haunted the few hours of sleep manageable.  Climbing out of bed, the washbowl was filled with cold clear water and the last remnants of the dream were washed away, along with the tears that had gathered.  Now, a steely resolve hardened deep inside and it was time to exact revenge, the months of waiting and practicing were over.  Time spent with father's .45, drawing, aiming, shooting; all to sharpen the hand and eye.  Many rounds of ammunition had been expended, but Vic had mastered the art.  Still, targets were one thing, and it was men that would be in front of the gun.  Now, the two men that had taken father and the brothers were to meet their own end in the same violent manner they had handed out.

 Michael Joseph Bulman was a large built man, loud in manner and voice.  He was going out on the town to celebrate getting four of the five local cattlemen to use his railhead exclusively.  The fifth man was about to get a reminder of what it cost to cross or fail to agree with M.J Bulman!  He usually got his own way, had for most of his life.  As an only child, he had been spoilt, had grown up to realise he didn’t have to work or earn a living; his size and manner got others to bend to his will and do what he wanted done.  Now, this year was to be the one where the fruits of his labours repaid him handsomely.  The last hold-out had been dealt with six months ago, by himself and his right hand man Jase Edwards.  The rail company had bought rights and paid for the land, and the railhead, station and coral would be worth the weight in gold.  Now, dressed in his finest suit, boots and hat he was going to celebrate.  The big nickel plated Schofield strapped to his hip had been a gift from his daddy; a present when he made his first profit selling war stock horses at inflated prices to the dirt farmers already ravaged by the war.  Now in all his finery he was going to have a good time, and get a party going in this miserable town.

 Jase Edwards cleared his throat and spat.  It was dusty in his vantage point overlooking the small gully.  Mr Bulman had sent him to deliver a particularly hard message to the hold-out Barnes.  His son was sweet on a girl out on the small farm at the gully's end, and would be on his way back soon from visiting.  Edwards checked his sights and cocked the 74 model Sharps rifle, settling into his position.  The boy and his horse wandered casually into view, and Edwards saw the smile on his face as he neared the spot picked out by Edwards for the shot.  At least he will die happy, he thought, as he took the slack on the trigger before slowly squeezing, the hammer dropping.  Recoil jerked at his shoulder and the bullet slammed into the boy sending him toppling from his saddle.  As the smoke and dust settled, Edwards saw the boy trying to crawl towards an outcrop of rocks, his left arm useless where the shot had entered his shoulder.  Working the action, reloading and sighting, Edwards fired again and finished the job.  He cleared the rifle, watched to make sure the second shot had killed the boy and mounted up.  Message sent.

Vic finished off the breakfast brought to the room, and pulled on the worn old boots and coat.  Shaking the last of the trail dust from a battered hat, it was time to go looking.  The old .45 nestled snug in the holster on the right thigh, clean, loaded, ready.  Making to the entrance, the town was busy with traders and folk bustling along the wooden walkways and between the many buildings that made up the main street.  Saloons were plentiful, and it would be a long day before Vic spotted either target.  Still, starting somewhere would be good, and the first bar at the top of the street was where Vic began.  Ignoring the various brightly coloured saloon girls that stared a little too long or the bar flies that hovered and pointed and mumbled, Vic knew that listening would be the best way to track the men wanted.  Gossip about railways, livery fees, gold strikes and such were commonplace in most bars, and it was a few hours and bars later that Vic struck lucky.  Leaning across the bar from two of the better dressed patrons the conversation was just what was wanted.  "Yeah, I had a few but there's only so much of Bulman's bull I can take, free or not."  The other man nodded; "Yup, it took a stretch o' beer before my belly was full and that was just him.  Shame, cos I used to like old Nev's bar."  The two men didn’t spare a glance as the small stranger almost ran out of the place.  Finding a passing old man carrying kindling Vic asked; "Please Mister, can you tell me where old Nev's bar is?"  Jerking his head towards the middle of town "Its by the cooper's store, but I don’t think it's a place for you young 'un."  The last sentence wasn’t heard as Vic headed purposefully towards the first of the targets.

The men sat around, the free drinks made the conversation bearable but only just.  When Mike Bulman got going it was usually the same story; him, his daddy and what they had done for the town.  Still, the beer and whiskey were always there to dull the pain, and false smiles made sure the glasses were rarely empty for long.  Bulman was telling them of the fortune coming his, and therefore the town's way.  "Still boys, we will all be better off when the trains start a'rollin'."  Another swig followed; "Money to be made by us all and it will be comin' right up your own front porch!"  Another round was poured and offered to the table, the price to pay was listening to Bulman go on but it most thought it was worth it.  Still, some people didn’t like the methods employed by the big blowhard, and his daddy would turn in his grave if he knew of the going's on of his offspring.  It was the same old 'what can we do' story and few ever discussed the prospect of calling in outside help or law, not if they wanted to walk unaided.  One of Bulman's ranch hands stepped into the bar, and gave him a folded note.  Upon reading it his smile spread even wider over his already beaming face, and he proclaimed another round be sent over.  Raising his glass, he proposed a toast; "To the railway, free enterprise and a hell of a year" !

As the glass neared his lips a shot rang out, the glass shattered into fragments; covering the drinkers and making a mess of Bulman's lips.  The occupants dived for cover as Bulman was temporarily stunned; standing stock still with the beer and a trickle of blood dripping from his face.  Standing in the doorway, the last of the day's sun outlining the figure in the entrance, Vic holstered the .45.  Bulman was quivering with rage now, anger flooding into his body as he burst; "What the hell?  Do you know who I am?  Think that trick was funny?"  Vic edged sideways into the bar, back to the wall.  Bulman's hand now hovered near the butt of the Schofield, his teeth grinding in absolute menace.  It wasn’t often he fired in anger himself, that’s what Edwards was for.  He had, however, learnt a bit from the hired gun and wasn’t slow when it came down to it.  Now, this vagrant had come into his town, and virtually signed their own death warrant!

 

Chapter Selection: 1 2 3