by Faye Byrd
Now most wouldn’t consider what I do being helpful, since people die and all, but way I see it, the world’s a better place without them lowlife bastards. ‘Sides, I always give ‘em a chance to live, not my fault they too stupid to take it.
Everywhere I go, people recognize me. Some cower in fear, some give me a pat on the back and some fools actually try to claim that bounty on my head.
Poor suckers.
Ain’t met a man yet who can match my draw.
But everybody knows who Nathan King is.
And that’s a man who’ll do what it takes to keep people from being run roughshod over by dirty, rich men—even if people gone be dead when I’m done.
Virgil West’s been a small thorn in my side, but not enough to interfere with my important work. His ego knows no bounds and until he can swallow it back some, he ain’t got no chance in hell of taking me in.
Not that he has to.
I’m wanted dead or alive now.
My bounty’s at five grand.
Chapter Six
The Showdown
NATHAN
All sounds cease as I make my entrance into the saloon. Mutterings die out and eyes turn. I stand, my hand resting with ease on my Colt revolver. Not that it’d matter if anyone tried to draw, they’d be dead in their spot. If these last six years taught me anything, it’s that I’m a man to be feared.
I cast my eyes over the half-naked ladies and even drunker men they entertaining. Recognition flashes in their eyes as they shift nervously, afraid of even looking me in the eye. I smirk. That’s the respect I demand, the respect I earned.
Nathan King fears no man, and as long as they know it, I can have my whiskey in peace. As I amble up to the bar, the room slowly comes back to life. Women titter about, hoping to make some coin as the men douse their sorrows in a glass.
“Got any coffin varnish?” I ask the baby-faced bartender.
He’s been polishing the same glass since I took my seat, but stops and gives me his full attention as soon as I speak. With a frantic nod, he places a glass down in front of me. “H-here you go, sir.”
With a tip of my hat, I pick up the glass and pour it back. “Another,” I demand, slamming it on the bar top.
A soft arm slides across my shoulders and warm tits push into my arm. “How ya doin’ there, cowboy?” The stench of another man permeates her pores.
“I was doin’ good ‘til ya sidled up here pressin’ your stank against me,”
“Lucy,” Baby Face snaps. “The man didn’t ask for no company. Take your leave!”
“Well, excuse me,” the whore huffs out, already stalking toward her next over-indulged victim.
Baby Face places my whiskey down with a shaky hand. “Sorry, sir. Sometimes ‘em whores don’t know their place.” He swallows nervously. “Could I offer ya a bath be drawn and your clothes laundered?”
Just as I’m ‘bout to nod my consent, the sound of hoofbeats thundering on the dirt outside makes me tense. Schooling my expression, I eye the bartender. “Looks like I may not be ‘round long enough to take ya up on that offer. Mighty damn kind offer it was, though.” I give him a curt nod and spin in my chair, waiting for the newcomers.
The sound of spurs clinking against the wooden steps has me expecting four men to make an entrance. The first through the door is none other than Virgil West, the well-known bounty hunter who’s been chasing my tail for years. The corner of my lip lifts at his cocky air.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he asks with a smug smile. “Why it’s none other than Nathan King, famed outlaw, wanted, dead or alive.” He holds up my poster and waves it around the room, as if he has some chance of making it happen.
I always did hate that picture; black and white does me no justice. My hair looks a flat gray color and the bright hue of my eyes appears to be black—soulless.
Before he can even blink, my Colt is drawn and a bullet rips the poster from his hand. Heads duck and whores scatter up the stairs. The drunkards sit with jaws dropped, not sure which side of this skirmish they want to be on. Best if they keep to themselves is all I can suggest.
West’s frame tenses and his hand goes to his holster. The other men who came in silently behind him, now step forward in a show of support.
“Are ya sure this is what ya be wantin’ to do, West?” I ask, but then revise. “I mean, attempt to do. You got no chance of takin’ me from this here saloon, dead or alive.” I stand, one gun already drawn, the other hand propped easily on its twin, my shotgun slung over my back.
Virgil’s face turns menacing, like he might be trying to put the fear of God in me, but I done learned, ain’t no man can make me fear my maker. Living the life I do, I’m sure to stand before him sooner than most.
“I guess we’ll just have to see ‘bout that then, won’t we?” West snarls, his hand twitching.
‘Fore he can grip his piece, though; a bullet rips through his skull. His men stand in shock, staring at their dead leader as he sways then drops where he stands, eyes staring into nothing.
The Bean Eater in the back turns tail and runs. “You gonna pay, gringo!” he yells as the doors flap closed behind him.
The other two stay for the fight. They grab for their guns and dive, flipping the closest tables for cover. Patrons scatter to the back corner and huddle together, hoping they live through this mess.
On nimble legs, I jump behind the bar, pulling Baby Face down to keep him out of the hail of gunfire that’s a surely coming this way. Surprising me, he crawls over and grabs his own shotgun. Appreciative that he’s chosen the right side, even though I don’t need the help, I give him a nod and hold up my fingers for a count.
When I reach three, we both stand and exchange bullets with the two remaining posse members. Ducking and shooting, we finally manage to wound the both of ‘em. One crawls out from behind the barricade clutching his stomach and calling for a truce while the other is gasping for his last breath. Slowly, I walk from behind the bar, gun trained on the living man.
Biggest darn mistake I ever made.
‘Cause the barely live man uses his last bit of strength to plant a bullet right smack in my side. Using that as a distraction, the surrendering man attempts to add another, but fails due to the gaping hole through his torso, created by Baby Face’s shotgun.
I sink to my knees on the floor, my body rocked from the bullet and the pain that burns through me. I manage to give Baby Face an appreciative glance before sucking up the pain and struggling to my feet. Stumbling toward the saloon door, I make my way toward my horse tethered outside.
“Wait,” Baby Face calls, running to catch up. “Where ya goin’? That wound’s got to be looked at, and I can help.”
Doing everything I can to pull myself on Arrow, I shake my head. “Can’t do that. That Bean Eater got away, which means there’s a shitload more a comin’. You go back in there and make sure everybody knows that Nathan King is the only one responsible for that carnage. Anyone who says otherwise will have to answer to me.”
“Shucks, man. Those drunks know where their bread’s buttered. They ain’t gone squawk on me for helpin’ ya out. Shoot, you’re a legend in these parts, even more so now that ya took out Virgil West,” Baby Face offers. “Let me, at least, wrap ya battle wound.”
Before I can refuse, he’s off and running back to the saloon, the swinging doors flapping in the breeze. I shake my head at the kid’s hero worship, but he need be worried. Whoever comes next might not be as by the book as West. I feel real bad for leaving him in the lurch, but I got to get out of here and get this damn wound tended if I’m gone live to see any more days.
When the young bartender comes running back out, he has white strips of cloth in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Already groaning from the pain, I suck in a huge breath and pull my arm up so he can get to the hole in my side. “Hurry, now, Baby Face. Get this shit over with.”
Biting my tongue so as not to show weakness, I steel myself for the
pain. And boy does it come in the form of hellfire racing over my skin. Whistling low, I fight with everything in me to shake it off. Baby Face wraps strips of cloth ‘round my waist and secures it with a knot.
When he’s done, I don’t know if I’m better for it, but I express my gratitude all the same. “Thank ya, for all your help today. I must be goin’ ‘fore the next posse gets here.”
“Will you be back?” he asks hopefully. “I mean I wanna know ya lived.”
“What’s your name, Baby Face?” I ask the scraggly, blond-haired bartender.
He smiles all proud like it’s the greatest honor in the world to have Nathan King inquire his name. “Levi, sir. The name’s Levi.”
“Well, Levi, you can bet I’ll live. Nathan King ain’t gone die from a gunshot wound he’s able to ride away from. When I die, it’ll be in a blaze of glory,” I assure him.
I tilt my hat and nudge my stallion. Kicking up dust, we make tracks away from the small town, hoping to put some distance between me and the next wave of men that I know are coming. Grunting and hurting with every gallop, I push my mount to move faster and faster.
We ride past sundown and late into the night ‘fore I slow it down. Sweat beads on my brow, and I’m barely able to stay atop Arrow. There’s no way I’m gone make it to Roy’s ranch, the ride’s just too far. My bandages are stained red with my life’s blood, and if I don’t stop the flow, I’m liable to bleed out on the trail.
I start scoping out the territory, and when I finally see a light on the horizon, I begin to make my way toward it. From a distance, it looks to be a small cabin, but as I get closer, I can tell there’s a barn placed far enough away that I should be safe for a few hours of rest.
It’s a small structure, holding only a single horse. I lead Arrow into an empty stall and begin ripping my shirt to make fresh bandages as I settle onto a pile of hay in the corner. Removing the strips Levi was kind enough to apply, I take inventory of my wound. It’s red, angry and seeping blood. Using my flask, I grit my teeth and pour more whiskey over it ‘fore wrapping it as tight as I can stand.
Breathing heavy, I rest my weary head and am finally able to close my eyes.
Chapter Seven
The Double Barrel
NATHAN
The feel of cold metal under my chin has my eyes snapping open, the bright sunlight gleaming through the barn doors obscures the face of the weapon holder. I stay still in order to keep my head from being blown off.
“What ya doin’ trespassin’ on my land,” comes a demand. Only it’s not what I expect at all, it’s the voice of a woman.
I slowly pull my hands up where they can be seen. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I been shot and couldn’t ride no more. Your barn here was the first place I could find. I mean ya no harm,” I say evenly, the gun pushing harder under my jaw.
“How do I know that as soon as I lift my shotgun ya won’t attack? Ya already done snuck up on my land,” she says, her voice sharp and demanding.
“Easy there, ma’am. If I was out to hurt ya, I’d have come into your cabin while you slept. I was just tryin’ to rest so I could make it to my doctor friend.” I motion to where my side is wrapped in my tattered shirt.
Indecision flickers over her face as her eyes slide down over my bare chest to rest on my side that’s already showing red through the cloth. Taking the opportunity of her distraction, I grab the double barrel and snatch it from under my chin.
A blast echoes through the barn causing my ears to ring. I jump up and shake my head trying to clear the bells. Pain lances through my side at the quick movement, and I drop back to my knees, gripping my head in one hand and my side in the other.
In my periphery, I can see the woman’s mouth moving, but can’t make out a word for the damn bells in my head. Rocking to the side, I roll back to my makeshift bed with a groan that I can’t even hear leave my lips, but I feel it rumble in my chest.
Soft hands force me to lay straight back. With a questioning look cast in my direction, they go to the rags wrapped ‘round my waist. This time, when her mouth moves, I can hear the hum of her voice, just not the words that are being spoken.
Assuming she wants to take a look, I give her a nod and tense, ready for the blinding pain. Only none comes. Her touch is gentle as she maneuvers the bandages, exposing the hole in my side.
“ … need to remove … while I get … ” Her words reach my ears in pieces, but I can only assume from the ones I did hear that she intends to help.
I grip her hands and wonder at the feel of her soft skin against my rough fingers. Not even meaning to, I catch myself stroking the flesh with my thumb. “You tried to kill me,” I say, curious to what her motives are for helping me.
She snatches her hands away and stands. “No, you idiot, you tried to kill yourself,” she yells and every word is loud and clear. “I was only gone shoot ya if you meant me harm.”
Closing my eyes and swallowing deeply, I accept her words. Maybe she wouldn’t have shot me, but I can’t take no risks with a shotgun under my chin, although the resulting fallout has left me the worse for wear.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I mean ya no harm. I just needed a place to rest,” I say once more, trying my best to look earnest.
She huffs. “Very well then. Stay put and I’ll go get my tools, that bullet’s got to come out.” ‘Fore I can ask what she means, she turns and leaves me gaping after her.
Not sure how long she’ll be gone, I close my eyes in an attempt to quell the dull ringing that remains. Visions of the woman and the fierce way she stood over me dance behind my eyes. The fire in her eyes, the softness of her skin, they all play a tune in my mind.
A kick to my shin causes my eyes to snap open. “What’s all that moanin’ for? You in that much pain?”
Feeling heat flush over my skin, I look away, ashamed of the scenes playing behind my lids. “Uh, sorry, ma’am. I must’ve fell asleep.”
She studies me carefully before heaving a big sigh. “No need for all this ma’am business, you can call me Josie.” She places a tray she was holding on the ground beside me. “You need to eat up and build some strength ‘cause what’s a comin’ ain’t gone be pretty.”
Glad to have something else to focus on, I raise up very carefully and grab the bread. Around a mouthful, I say, “Thank ya … Josie.” Instead of feeling foreign on my tongue, it feels sweet to say her name. “You can call me Nathan.”
“How’d ya get that wound, Nathan?” she asks, brow raised.
“Ran into some trouble ‘bout a day’s ride from here,” I respond truthfully. “But don’t worry, the other guy didn’t make it.” I smirk. She may not need a know all my business, but I don’t want her thinking I can’t be dangerous.
“As long as all you intend to do is get well and move on, I’m more than happy to oblige. Better not none of your mess follow you here, though. I don’t take kindly to strange men with guns showin’ up on my land.” She crosses her arms over her chest and forms her own smirk.
“I can see that, Miss Josie,” I concede. “I can just be on my way here shortly if you’d prefer?”
She kneels down and slides the now loose bandage from my wound. Shaking her head, she says, “I don’t know how far ya goin’, but ya won’t make it if we don’t get that bullet out. This here wound is infected.” Her hand goes to my forehead. “You already gettin’ the fever, too. We a wastin’ time now.”
Noticing she didn’t bother to correct my use of miss before her name, I can’t help but wonder what a single woman her age would be doing way out here with no protection. “Are ya sure you can remove it?”
“I either try, or you die on the trail. Take your pick.” She stands and moves over to Arrow, who gives her a neigh as she rubs his nose.
“Well get on with it then,” I snap. Her nonchalance is pissing me off and I don’t even know why. Would she really let me die?
“That’s what I thought.” She nods and pulls a bag I hadn’t even noticed from her shoulder
.
“What ya got there?” I question.
“It belonged to my husband; he was the local doc ‘fore he met an unlikely demise,” she explains. “So as you can guess, I’ve seen him treat many a gunshot wound.”
“What happened to him?” I ask solemnly as she positions herself beside me.
Her eyes meet mine and what I see there takes me aback. They cold, unflinching. “He thought he could go into town and lay with whores and then come to my bed reekin’ with their stench.” She uses a little more force than necessary to remove the rags from my torso. “He don’t think that no more.”
This revelation rocks me to my core, she’s more like me than I ever imagined. I almost wonder if I’m having hallucinations. Is this really happening, or am I out on the trail somewhere on my deathbed?
Swallowing thickly, I respond, “And no one missed him?”
She holds a tin cup to my mouth and encourages me to drink; the burn of whiskey hits my throat. “Ain’t my fault he went to deliver a baby and never made it. Now drink up, there’s sure to be some pain a comin’ your way.”
I do as she says and drink my fill of the whiskey she’s offering. When my head is so fuzzy I can barely remember who I am, she pulls a knife and a pair of long pliers from the bag.
My eyes widen. “What ya gone do with those, pretty lady?”
Her eyes slide to mine and her lips curve up. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Any man’d be a fool not to see that. I don’t know why one would go see whores when they had a woman like you at home.” I ramble off things I’d have never said if it weren’t for the spirits flowing through my blood.
She holds up the knife in front of her. “This is gone hurt some, but I got to open you up to find the bullet.” She focuses on my wound but still talks as she works. “I moved out to the West with big dreams. I thought I’d marry a man I loved and we’d raise a family on our land. Turns out, love ain’t even real. Men don’t know how to be faithful, and a woman is just ‘posed to look the other way.”
