Rocky Mountain Discipline

by Lee Savino

  “A what?”

  “A quest, a cause. Like King Arthur’s knights of the Round what-sit. A chance for heroics, valor. Perhaps a lady who needs rescuing from an evil…something. You know…a Grendel. Or whatever.”

  Cage’s blank face reminded Sebastian that book learning was rare in the Wild West. Men learned to read the sky or an animal track instead of Keats.

  “A damsel in distress!” Sebastian slammed his glass onto the table for emphasis.

  “You mean a woman?”

  “Yes! No! Not just a woman. A fair lady who needs my help. I’ll perform heroic actions in her honor. Pledge my troth. Whatever that is.”

  Cage tipped back his chair, balancing it on two legs. “Hate to remind you, boss, but ladies aren’t exactly in plentiful supply ‘round here. And I sure as hell ain’t never seen a damsel.”

  Sebastian sighed. “Then let’s be on our way.”

  Cage’s chair came down with a thump. “Really?”

  “I think so. Pack the bags and saddle up at once.”

  All three of Sebastian’s hired men rose and hurried off, returning a few minutes later with their bags. They’d probably been packing them every morning, in hopes they’d be leaving soon. Two of the men headed out towards the stables while Cage sat down.

  “Took the liberty of throwing all your things into the packs. The men will saddle up the horses so we’ll be ready as soon as you want to go.”

  Sebastian winced, but finding a good valet was a bloody impossible feat in the colonies. His mother would be horrified at the current state of his suits.

  “So where are we going, boss?”

  “I don’t know. California, Texas.” Sebastian shrugged. “One thing for certain: we’ve seen all this valley has to offer.”

  The door to the saloon blew open and a woman stalked inside in a flurry of skirts. Clad in black, from her boots to a heavy lace veil falling over her face and down her back, she paused in the door with the light behind her. Every man’s head whipped around. As Cage had pointed out, a woman was a rare enough sight this far in the rugged west. Other than the soiled doves, Sebastian had never seen a lady in a saloon, and certainly not one dressed in widow’s weeds.

  “Charlie the Red?” she called in English with a slight Spanish accent. The card game had stopped, and the man with the red bandana turned, rising out of his chair with a smirk on his face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  The woman threw back the black veil, revealing a lovely, narrow face, caramel skin flushed and dark eyes sparkling with passion.

  “Yes,” she said. “You can die.” The woman pulled a gun out from her skirts and shot the man in the chest.

  The force of the woman’s bullets sent the man crashing backwards into the card table. His dead body hit the floor. The other players scattered.

  Sebastian and Cage leaped to their feet, guns at ready, though no one made a move to shoot the woman.

  “Blood for blood,” the woman spat. She turned on her heel and was gone, leaving all but the dead man staring after her, guns in hand.

  “By Jove,” Sebastian burst out, breaking the terrible calm. “Who was that?”

  Francesca spurred her horse out of town, riding hard. Her veil bounced on her head and she ripped it off with a curse, tossing it behind her. Ana would scold her for losing her mourning clothes, but who cared that she grieved her husband, when she could avenge him.

  Guiding her horse off the path and into the wilderness, she glanced back one final time. The town was already fading in the distance, but it would not be wise to stop and dally. The Madonna only knew what vengeance would fall on her for shooting a man dead, even if he was an outlaw who’d committed many crimes, including murder. She only prayed the consequences would fall on her, and her alone.

  As her horse crested a ridge, a man came riding over the opposite ledge. Her heart almost stopped before she recognized him.

  “Señora,” her man, Juan, called as he drove his horse beside hers. “I have been riding since last night. Where were you? Where did you go?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. Juan was a servant as well as a friend, but sometimes he acted more like a worried older brother. “How did you find me?” Inwardly, she cursed. She hadn’t wanted to involve any of her people in her plan for revenge.

  “I went to the saloon and they said you there yesterday morning, looking for a man who came this way. Did you find him? This Red Charlie who shot your husband?”

  “I did. Unfortunately, I can’t turn him into the law, because now he is dead.”

  “Ay Dios mío,” Juan half cursed, half prayed, crossing himself. “Francesca, what have you done?”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  The land leveled along a dried out riverbed, and Francesca spurred her horse faster. By now Juan would be able to guess her mission: find and destroy the man who’d murdered her husband, but he held his tongue, and directed his mount to gallop with hers towards San Luis and home.

  “Chivington, stop!” Cage raced out of the saloon after his long legged employer.

  “Did you see her?” Sebastian halted at the stables, shouting at his two hired men. “Which way did she go?”

  Met with blank looks, Sebastian tore his hand through his blond hair. “Hellfire and damnation. She can’t have just disappeared.”

  Cage arrived at his side. “What are you doing?”

  “Going after her!”

  “What? Why? Do you know her?”

  “No, but she’s in trouble. The lady, the damsel…widow…whatever… she needs our help!”

  Right on cue, the saloon doors burst open behind them, and a bevy of men poured into the street. They headed to their horses, cursing and shouting up a storm. A few were still pulling on their vests and buckling their belts, obviously roused early to get on the road.

  Someone from the card game must have run and told them their friend was just shot dead.

  Sebastian pointed. “Those men rode with the deceased. And if they catch her…”

  He didn’t need to finish. Cage was already saddling his horse. The frontiersman wasn’t the sort to let a lady get run down by scoundrels.

  “Come on, come on.” Sebastian practically bounced on the balls of his feet. His men finished loading the saddlebags and stared in shock as Sebastian brushed them aside to saddle his own horse. They’d never seen him so roused, not even when he was shooting game. But this adventure wasn’t for sport—this was gallantry on a lady’s behalf. It was practically out of an epic poem.

  Perhaps, when it was all over, he would write one of those Keats-types and tell them about his heroic act. Bloody good inspiration for them.

  Sebastian vaulted onto his noble steed. His men tied on the last of their packs, too, hurrying so they wouldn’t be left behind. “Which way, Cage?”

  His guide pointed. “That way. She’s headed to San Luis. From the look of her, she’s Spanish. Catholic. Probably has a ranch there.”

  “Then onward.” Sebastian kicked his horse forward. “To the quest!”

  The sun was sinking in the sky before Francesca allowed them to stop and water the horses. Even then, she paced along the river bank. Her body was tired from a long ride yesterday, and a hard night staked out waiting for the man with the red bandana, but her mind whirled.

  Since the horrible dawn they’d found her husband dead, shot in the back and left in a field, her only thoughts were on revenge. As they’d lowered him into the ground, she’d vowed to give him justice. She’d thought destroying the killer would make her happy, but she felt emptier than ever. She and Juan would make camp and arrive home tomorrow, and then the real work of running the farm, managing the vaqueros, hanging onto her father’s land and keeping her husband’s dream alive would all begin. But for a few servants like Juan and Ana who’d worked for her family since before her father died, the burden would all fall on her.

  Juan watched her pace.

  “Señora, perhaps we should make camp.”


  “I do not know if it is safe. Someone may be following me.”

  The man sighed. “You are so impetuous. Just like your mother.”

  Francesca glanced up sharply. Normally she loved hearing about her mother, who’d died when she was a girl, but now she did not want to hear the comparison.

  “She was so wild, as are you. Your father, your husband, even your brother-in-law Diego Montoya all agreed—you need someone to keep you in line.”

  Francesca took her horse’s reins from Juan.

  “I do not need another man telling me what to do. My father and Cyro are now gone. I have to choose my own path.”

  “Diego is still here. You should’ve gone to him about this matter with Red Charlie. The man who shot your husband is dangerous; Diego would not have wanted you to face him alone.”

  “I did go to Diego. And when I told him that I had found the man who’d killed his brother, he didn’t believe me. He even told me I should stop questioning, that I would not serve Cyro’s memory by seeking out such evil men.”

  “He is right, you know. I agree with him; it was very dangerous to do what you did.”

  “And yet I had to.” Even with the farm and the ranch falling apart, she’d been obsessed, consumed with getting to the bottom of her husband’s shooting. She didn’t understand why people seemed content to honor her husband Cyro’s passing and leave his murderer unpunished. “Justice had to be done.”

  “I wish you would heed Señor Diego Montoya. You need his guidance.”

  Francesca gritted her teeth. Her husband’s brother presented his own complications. “Diego doesn’t need to be in my business.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if he was. Diego Montoya has never married, but there is no reason he shouldn’t. He would be good for you.”

  “You want me to join myself to him? So soon after my husband’s passing?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps not for another few seasons. But the farm and ranch may be better under his guidance. He is a powerful man and well respected. And he could protect you, while you to do your work as a healer.”

  “Did he approach you and say he was going to ask for my hand?”

  “No, Ana and I spoke about it.” Juan frowned. “Why, did Diego Montoya come to you?”

  “At the funeral. He drew me aside and hinted about what you are saying. That our two farms might be better joined together.”

  She’d been vulnerable that day, and so alone. Her weakness for her husband’s brother almost made her tremble. He’d come to her after the long day, greeting her in Cyro’s old office, all soft murmurs and tender looks, and she’d longed for his touch, and hated herself for it. When he’d left, she felt full of grief and empty at the same time. Her wicked thoughts on the day of the funeral made her want to bathe over and over again, to cleanse her sinful flesh.

  “Diego did not ask me outright to marry him, but he will soon. I know it.”

  That seemed to unsettle Juan.

  “I thought it strange he would approach me at his own brother’s funeral,” Francesca voiced what she knew her servant and friend was thinking.

  “Perhaps he is just trying to look out for you. He’s always felt protective of you.” Juan took a breath as if he would go on, then hesitated. “What is that?”

  At the sound of horses, Francesca’s head snapped up, and she and Juan came to the conclusion at the same time: someone was coming for her.

  So far, so good. Sebastian’s party galloped along the banks of a river, making record time as they followed the easy, grassy trail.

  They couldn’t be far from the little lady, and might even catch her before the other party from the saloon.

  “This way,” Cage said. The silver haired gunslinger was an expert tracker. Sebastian had the utmost faith he’d soon be at his lady’s side, defending her and proving his valor before riding off into the sunset, or perhaps to a secret grove where the lady would undress and show her undying gratitude…

  “There they are,” Cage called and Sebastian let his stallion surge forward to take the lead. The woman now had a companion; her dark head bobbed as she ran for her horse—frightened, no doubt. Well, that wouldn’t do at all. He reined back his noble steed, slowing to take an easier approach.

  “Stop,” he called. “We mean you no harm.” He holstered his weapon and held up empty hands.

  Gunfire blasted and he ducked in the saddle.

  “Don’t shoot!” His horse shied to the right and he realized the shots weren’t coming from his dark lady, but from the top of the ravine. The dead man’s friends had caught up with them. They’d crested the ridge, perfectly positioned to fire down on them all.

  “Bloody hell.” Wheeling his horse away from the river, Sebastian pulled out his gun and took aim at the villains above. It wasn’t the best idea to draw enemy fire, especially when they had the high ground, but it would give his lady enough cover to ride out of the ravine.

  “Ride, Francesca,” Juan cried. In the seconds following their first warning of approaching pursuers, both she and her servant had swung up onto their horses and started out of the ravine. The shouts from behind and shots from above followed them until they broke away from the river and wove through the brush and trees.

  Francesca clutched the heavy revolver as she rode, wishing she’d taken time to reload it. How many bullets had she fired into the dead man’s chest?

  More shooting broke out behind her, and she glanced back. There seemed to be two groups of men after them: one charging over the hill toward her and Juan, and the other in the ravine near the river.

  The rise in the land ended and she and Juan’s horses broke onto open plain. A copse of trees lay ahead and Francesca spurred her horse toward it.

  “Make for the woods,” she cried. The group coming over the hill toward them wore bandanas over their faces and were shooting at the others. Francesca caught a glimpse of one of the riders in the ravine, a tall man with flaxen hair.

  “I’ll hold them off,” Juan shouted, peeling away to face their pursuers. “Go!” Francesca felt cold fear in her heart. Her employee would stand between her and the rest so she could escape. He would fight until he had no more bullets left, and he would die.

  “No! I will not leave you.” She started to turn her horse with his. Waving in frustration, he kept on towards the copse, continuing to flee with her.

  Now their pursuers were catching up, in two distinct groups—one made up of the bandanas and the other containing just one man—the tall blond. As they grew closer, she recognized them from the saloon.

  “Madre,” she prayed, and crossed herself. She had the feeling this was the beginning of the end. At least she had removed Cyro’s killer from the earth.

  Juan saw her cross herself and, as their horses hit the trees, he veered again, turning back to make his stand.

  “Go on, Francesca. I cannot let them take you.”

  Francesca went from praying to cursing without drawing breath. “Juan, if you die, I’ll never hear the end of it from Ana!”

  After her horse crashed through the bushes, she wheeled it around, coming to face their pursuers several hundred feet away from Juan. She drew her gun and watched with perfect vantage her executioner’s approach.

  The men with bandanas were still coming, bristling with guns, but angling ahead of the rest was the flaxen haired man on a very fine horse. He would reach her and Juan first, so Francesca started to aim for him, then watched in surprise as he turned and shot at the bandanas, whooping crazily when they scattered.

  It was a bold move, but not very smart; he was but one man against them all.

  Then, from a hill on the far left, three riders burst over the ridge and started firing at the bandanas too. The blond shouted encouragement to the three who must be his friends.

  She and Juan exchanged glances and, as one, reined their horses to head deeper into the woods. They would not waste their one chance to get away.

  While gunfire exploded at their backs and the
trees divided her from Juan, Francesca wondered who the blond man was, and why he and his friends were fighting her other pursuers.

  Then her horse stumbled, tossing her from the saddle. Francesca hit the ground and rolled, coming up bruised but otherwise unhurt. The horse was screaming, and she raced to its side, only to recoil at the sight of bone in its broken leg. With a sob, she whirled to find her gun. Better to put it out of its misery and go forth on foot, rather than risk the animal’s cries drawing more attention.

  She lifted her gun from the forest floor and took aim. The shot sounded and the horse’s cries stopped, and she heard the hooves of another horse, behind her.

  Whirling, she came face to face with the flaxen haired man, dismounting from his stallion. He must have followed her after his calvary arrived to fend off the bandanas.

  Beyond him, in the woods, she heard gunfire.

  “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

  Backing into the bracken, she shook her head. He would not take her alive. Her heart pounded as she raised the gun, pointing it at him.

  “No,” the man shouted, lunging for her. She recognized him then; the lanky blond from the bar. He’d followed her all this way.

  Her eyes closed as she took the shot. To her horror, the empty barrel clicked in terrible announcement: no more bullets. The man tackled her and drove her to the ground.

  She fought with everything she had, thrashing even as the man grabbed for her wrists. He wrestled her to her back, his long body weighing her down.

  “Hell and damnation,” he growled. “I told you I meant no harm.”

  “Get off of me,” she screeched, and tried to claw his face.

  When he didn’t let go of her, she bit his wrist.

  He bellowed, flipping her over and resting a knee on her back.

  “My lady, you will desist,” he ordered in his crisp accent. “This is a rescue. I am attempting chivalry—”

  “Liar! Let me go!” she shrieked, thrashing and kicking as she tried to get away.