Sage & Sand
By Yolande Kleinn
Copyright 2014 Yolande Kleinn
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-946316-03-5
Originally published in Rode Hard Anthology, Torquere Press.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sage & Sand
About the Author
Other Titles by Yolande
Sage & Sand
by Yolande Kleinn
Bram Caldwell prefers sunrise to any other time of day.
It's the quiet he appreciates most, a gift especially rare in a place like this. Marrick is a town choked by its own rapid growth, sprawling clumsily into the surrounding sage brush as though if it spreads far enough, it might just make something of itself. Evening always draws a ruckus of noisy life along the main streets at the center of town. That's where the saloons stand, gaudy facades wedged awkwardly between the news press, the general store, and the telegraph office that opened its doors some six months past.
Saloon clientele never pay much mind to the neighbors, and Bram Caldwell has learned to sleep despite the noise pressing in from outside.
Mornings are better. Quieter. He wakes before the sun most days, and sometimes crawls right out onto the roof. He likes to watch in solitude as the black sky softens and blurs toward gray.
The quiet never lasts, of course; other businesses come alive with the sun. Today, as always, Bram scuttles back inside and changes into his cleanest shirt and yesterday's trousers. His boots stand like an afterthought beside his bedroom door, and he laces them tightly before stepping into the hall, barely pausing in the kitchen before hurrying downstairs.
The spacious main floor is dedicated entirely to the business Bram's father built from the ground up. Caldwell's Freight and Mail is the only stagecoach service in town, though competition will come soon enough. Bram's been working the front counter since he turned fourteen, but six years along, his responsibilities have grown. Most mornings, after a shave and a clumsy brush of fingers through unruly hair, he barely has time to bolt down a scalding mug of coffee.
Today he finds his father waiting at the front counter, and he worries that he's late; a quick glance at the clock on the far wall tells him otherwise.
"Shouldn't you be at the stables?" Bram asks. He stares at his father—a short, bearded man who's never understood his son's fastidious preference for a clean-shaven face—and does his best not to look confused. As far as Bram knows, his father is due on the road today; it's not like the man to waste daylight when he could be making an early start.
But Colton Caldwell stands before Bram, scrutinizing him heavily. Bram doesn't know how to read that look. He waits in awkward silence, the obedient son, and wonders why he feels suddenly wary.
"Ain't riding out today," his father says at last, one side of his mouth quirking. "You're going to take this run for me. You know the way to Darrow."
Bram stares, certain he's misunderstood. "That's a three-day route," he says, more in confusion than protest. The only stage routes his father lets him handle solo are the shortest. Light loads with little danger and no chance of bandits. He's never sent Bram alone more than a day distant, though he's brought his son alongside him more than once.
"There are no passengers," Colton says, as though Bram needs reassuring. "And you'll be traveling with Cooper."
Bram knows Cooper. He's a grizzled, cranky old bastard, and an unpleasant traveling companion. He's also the best gunman in Colton Caldwell's employ, and the logical choice to ride shotgun for Bram's first real run.
"You're serious about this." Bram schools his expression, tries to look collected and credulous.
"Only if you think you can handle it," Colton says - a chiding challenge in his voice. Bram's spine straightens, his slim shoulders tightening as his chin juts forward. He bristles at the vindictive glint of amusement in his father's eyes, at the way his father stares straight through him, baldly unimpressed.
"Of course I can handle it," Bram snaps. "But you ain't given me the reins on a longer run before. Why now?"
Amusement fades and leaves a more somber expression on his father's deeply lined face. "Because it's damn well time you learned what this business is really about. You're almost twenty-one. Someday you'll have to do more than measure parcels and man the counter."
Bram rankles. It takes conscious effort to keep his hands from curling into fists at his sides. He hates the smug implication that all he's good for is keeping shop, when in fact he's grown up breathing the business around him. There's little Bram Caldwell doesn't know about carrying the mail. Not just parcels and packages, but all the heavy work that goes into seeing them to their destinations. He knows horses and coaches, as well as every route traveled by Caldwell Freight employees. He knows guns, too, though he's never had call to use that knowledge on the road. He drives a coach himself when there's need, and he's well accustomed to managing the business when his father is gone for days at a stretch.
Knowing a fight will get him nowhere, Bram keeps all these truths to himself and says, "Just give me five minutes to pack."
*
The first two days of travel proceed without incident, with nights spent at dusty inns along the route. Cooper never talks, and Bram doesn't try to break the dull silence.
The third day begins a similar monotony of sand and sun, and passes much the same.
Until very abruptly it doesn't.
Bram's skin prickles as they approach a sickly looking copse of ash trees. There's no sign of trouble ahead, but he nudges Cooper anyway and glances down to check his own weapon. He would feel better if he could take his revolver in hand, but he focuses on the reins, urging the horses faster. He feels steadier when Cooper readies the shotgun and braces it against one shoulder.
The terrain is uneven here, the road itself worn down into ruts. The copse marks a bend in the road, and to either side the ground rises, forming miniature cliffs as high as the stage's wide-spoked wheels. There's nothing suspicious about this particular bend. There's no reason for Bram's instincts to kick up a fuss when, if anything, the scraggly trees are a poorer hiding place than a dozen other spots they've already passed.
But the closer they draw, the more stubbornly the back of his neck prickles.
In the end Bram is startled but not surprised when a gunshot, fired at the ground directly in their path, spooks the horses to a jolting, violent stop.
Things move quickly after that. Cooper drops from the wooden bench, hitting the ground with a scrape of gravel. He fires twice, dropping two masked figures in quick succession, but more are already coming. Bram slides off the seat himself just in time to avoid a bullet that splinters the coach's woodwork. His own gun is in hand, steady despite his speeding pulse, but his shot misses its mark when his target ducks low. On the other side of the coach he hears Cooper's shotgun hit the sand, then the click of a revolver cocking as Cooper draws it, already loaded.
Bram doesn't dare try to see what's happening on the far side of the coach. There are at least three cloaked figures circling toward him, demanding his entire focus. His second shot also misses. Behind him he hears revolver fire, and more distantly a wounded gurgling sound as Cooper's bullet catches its mark.
Another gunshot, but this time the cry of pain comes from much closer, and Bram pivots despite himself. He's just in time to see Cooper crumple out of sight behind the horses. Cooper is quiet after he hits the gr
ound, and Bram curses in fear and frustration.
"Drop it," comes a raspy voice, and when Bram turns he finds himself completely surrounded. There are three guns trained on him. Beyond the three masked men holding those weapons, Bram spies two more approaching, one from behind a tree and the other from a crouch around the bend. A glance behind him shows two more bandits circling in front of the horses. Every man has a gun aimed directly at him.
"Put it down, boy," a second, uglier voice says. "We'll kill you quick and painless so long as you don't put up a fight."
Persuasive as those seven guns are, Bram finds it impossible to obey. What point is there cooperating if they intend to kill him anyway? The men before him are all shabbily dressed. Their dark coats have seen better days, and their ragged hats hang low. They all wear kerchiefs masking their faces, but their eyes alone send shivers along Bram's spine. Cold, whispery fear winds tight in his chest, and he's shocked that his own revolver is still steady in his hand.
Little good it will do him. He swallows, nauseous with the knowledge that he is going to die.
Every muscle in Bram's body jolts at the crack of fresh gunfire, and without letting go of his own weapon he drops to his knees. The bandits are turning, shouting, raising their weapons. It's only when Bram sees that one of them has fallen that he realizes the bullet he heard wasn't meant for him. He raises his eyes just in time to see another of his masked assailants fall, leaving only five. Four of them are turned away, aiming their guns at the scrubby trees, holding their fire for want of a target.
The fifth still has his weapon trained on Bram, but keeps darting his eyes aside to scan the horizon. Bram waits for the right instant, a moment of divided attention, then shoots the man squarely in the chest.
He doesn't stay to watch his victim fold down into the dirt. The stagecoach is at Bram's back, and he rolls beneath it, rising on the far side. He keeps his gun up as he circles behind the coach, keeps his head down, glancing back to make sure no one is sneaking up on him. All he sees behind him are the horses, restless and spooked by the din. It's a small miracle they haven't bolted. Cautiously rounding the rear of the coach, Bram watches in disbelief as another bandit falls. There are only three now, and Bram raises his gun.
He holds his fire when a dark-clad stranger bursts from the thin copse. The stranger shoots one of the remaining bandits in the face without breaking his stride, then cold-cocks another with the butt of his gun, sending him unconscious to the ground. The final bandit drops his weapon without a fight, and the stranger kicks it viciously aside.
"Any last words before I end you?" the newcomer asks. His voice is cool, rumbling gravel that sends a shiver along Bram's skin.
The bandit, hands raised in the air with palms out, is visibly shaking. "Who are you?"
The man doesn't answer, except to shoot the bandit through the heart, calmly watching the clumsy collapse and final thrashing of a body bleeding out. Then, just as calmly, he turns and shoots the final unconscious bandit directly between his closed eyes.
Bram steps cautiously from cover, making his footsteps as noisy as possible. Something tells him it would be foolish to sneak up on the man who just saved his skin. He lowers but doesn't un-cock his weapon as the man turns from the massacre.
His rescuer is an imposing man, but on closer inspection not nearly so tall as he seems. He stands maybe an inch higher than Bram himself. His shoulders are broad and strong beneath the dusty leather of his long coat, and Bram can see only shadows beneath the brim of his hat. From those shadows, dark eyes glint sharply, taking Bram's measure.
Bram shivers under the scrutiny, but almost immediately stiffens with a stubborn rush of rebellion. Despite his better instincts, not to mention the relief in his chest, his posture tightens at the challenge he perceives in those eyes.
He wonders what the stranger makes of him. Probably just a scrawny, foolish boy, he thinks with chagrin. He's never cut an imposing figure with his lean build, or dark eyes set close on his narrow face, his hair unruly at the best of times but absolute chaos after two days' hard travel. He hardly looks the rough and ready frontier businessman his father is constantly admonishing him to be.
The newcomer steps toward Bram, gun hand turned aside and offering no threat. Bram doesn't know why his pulse quickens at the approach, or why his heart beats faster still when the well worn hat comes off to reveal a strong, angular face. Dark hair just shy of too long curls over the man's ears and forehead, and his jaw is dark with stubble, not quite a beard but carelessly headed that way. His expression is more smirk than smile, and though his face is deeply creased, Bram can't guess his age.
He's staring, he realizes with an awkward jolt, and reminds himself belatedly of his manners.
"I should thank you," he says. He un-cocks his gun only after seeing the stranger do the same.
"No need." The man holsters his weapon and hooks a thumb in his belt. "I've been tracking this bunch for almost a week. Nothing personal, but I'd have taken them down with or without you."
"Are you a State Marshal?" Bram asks, surprised at the thought. It seems poor strategy to attack such a band of brigands, alone and without backup.
But the stranger only laughs, a low rumbling sound that makes Bram's chest feel tight. "No. Though my pa must've thought it'd be a good fit, to name me the way he did."
Bram stares, too confused to respond, and the stranger laughs again.
"Marshall's my name." He extends a hand that Bram accepts without thought. "Marshall Maddox. No state in its right mind would pin a star on my chest."
A vigilante then. Maybe a bounty hunter, maybe just a lone man with a grudge to settle. A glance at the death scattered around them is enough to prove that such a man's grudge shouldn't be taken lightly. Marshall's grip is firm and strong, a handshake as powerful as the rest of him. It takes Bram several seconds to realize he should probably let go, and by then Marshall is watching him with an unreadable expression. Bram's face heats as he takes his hand back, and he drops his arm to his side. He wonders if he's imagining the twitch at one corner of his rescuer's mouth.
"You got a name, kid?"
"Caldwell." He pauses, holsters his own revolver at his hip. "Bram Caldwell."
"Charmed," Marshall says, but the word carries a dry edge. There's something careless in the way he drops to his knees and searches the pockets of the scattered corpses, and Bram watches only a moment before turning to his own business. He feels a twinge of something—not quite guilt, but near enough—at the sight of Cooper beside the front wheel. The horses fidget restlessly at Bram's approach, but he ignores them. He kneels instead, feeling for a pulse at Cooper's throat. He isn't surprised at not finding one, considering the amount of blood staining the man's shirtfront and darkening the sand beneath the wheel.
Bram realizes only then that his hands are shaking, and he clenches them into fists to try and stop.
There should be space enough inside the coach to transport Cooper's body, which even now stinks of the particular indignities of death. Soon the flesh will be reeking in its own right, all the faster in this heat. The sooner Bram reaches his destination, the sooner he can put this misadventure behind him.
"He a friend of yours?" Marshall's voice startles him back onto his heels, and Bram twists to look over his shoulder. He finds Marshall watching him with dark, steady eyes.
Bram shakes his head. "Not exactly." He rises to his feet and finds his legs are trembling, too. "He worked for my father. Help me get him inside?"
"I'll help you bury him. Come on, there's some softer ground behind the trees."
"No," Bram says. "Darrow is only a few hours out, and he's probably got a family who'd as soon see to his burial." He's not actually sure of that fact, but considering the man died protecting him, Bram figures he owes Cooper the attempt to find out. He props open the stagecoach door, and with Marshall's help it doesn't take long to secure the body inside.
Bram needs a moment after, if only to breathe, but Marshall
is watching closely now. His expression is a mix of surprise and cryptic intensity. He's standing near enough that Bram wonders if Marshall can see him shaking, as relief and other instincts jar beneath Bram's skin and set him on edge. The sharpness of the stranger's focus is doing nothing to settle his nerves.
"What will you do without a gunman to watch your back?" Marshall asks. The question, which Bram hadn't considered, sends an unpleasant chill along his spine. He'll surely reach Darrow by nightfall if he leaves now, but daylight didn't stop the slaughtered bandits at his feet from mounting an ambush. A few hours' travel leaves plenty of room for mishap.
But he squares his shoulders and says, "I'll make do."
The smile that cracks across Marshall Maddox's face is a startling sight, but even more surprising are the next words out of his mouth. "I'll see to it you get there in one piece."
Bram gapes dumbly for several seconds, sure he's misheard. But Marshall only regards him in return, patient, maybe even amused. His offer seems to be in earnest, and Bram can't figure why.
"I can't pay you up front," he protests. "Might not be able to pay you much a all, even once we reach town." Cooper's salary was settled before leaving Marrick, and Bram doesn't carry much money of his own.
Marshall snorts. "My gut says I can trust you to make good."
Bram doesn't really consider leaving when Marshall disappears to retrieve his own horse; but his heartbeat is a confused racket in his chest, and he's none too sure why he stays. He doesn't know this Marshall Maddox. He's got no reason to trust him beyond the fact that so far the man hasn't tried to shoot him. Well, that and the rescue for which Bram is plenty grateful. He wishes it were enough to settle his anxious nerves as he climbs back into his seat, reins in hand.
Marshall returns quickly, on foot, kicking up dust as he leads his horse into the road. Instead of mounting, he simply hitches his horse to the back of the coach. When he climbs onto the bench beside Bram, it's with a freshly loaded shotgun in hand; he looks like a man ready for anything. Bram finds himself staring again, and this time he can't bring himself to look away. He should put his eyes on the road ahead and get the horses moving, but his hands are still shaking.
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