Storm in the Saddle (An Ash Colter Western)

by Ben Bridges

  I resettled my hat on my head and nodded. ‘Thanks, Carbonne. You’re a good man. Too good to be around the likes of these people.’

  He smiled sourly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps I can do more good right where I am.’

  He opened the door and let me out. Sunlight dazzled my eyes and heat bounced up off the wide stone steps to dash me in the face. The black boy was waiting patiently with the reins of my horse in his hands. I went down and took them from him, and pressed a quarter into his flesh-colored palm. As he raced off, I reached up, put my hands around my saddle horn and slipped one foot into the stirrup.

  And at exactly that moment a voice bellowed, ‘Colter!’

  I recognized it at once.

  It was Jameson.

  For a heartbeat then, I was locked where I was. Then, slowly, I slid my foot free of the stirrup, took my hands off the horn, turned to face him.

  He had probably been skulking in the shadowy barn that was directly across from the house, just waiting for me to show myself, and now he was standing right before it, legs slightly parted for balance, hands held out from the handles of his .44s, fingers hooked, flexing one after the other like the legs of a crab, and this time there was no mistaking the threat in him, the ultimate challenge.

  ‘We’ve got a score to settle, Colter,’ he said in a flat, emotionless voice.

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Lawson,’ he replied. ‘He was a good man, a friend of mine. And you killed him.’

  Behind me, his voice breaking just slightly, Carbonne said sharply, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Jameson? Stop playing the fool and get back to work!’

  But I already knew what Jameson was doing there. He was obeying orders.

  What had happened to Lawson was immaterial, just an excuse. I glanced over my shoulder, saw Linderman at the window of his office, surrounded by seven other eager faces, and I told myself with curious detachment that Carbonne was right—I was a target. And even though Linderman had given me a message to take back to the settlers, a bloody, stiffening body draped across a saddle would declare war just as well, probably even better.

  I returned my gaze to Jameson. The swelling on his face had gone down, and the bruising had almost vanished. In his eyes I saw a familiar killing-light, and wearily, angrily, I said, ‘Why does it always have to come down to this, Jameson?’

  He looked a little surprised by the question, and I was too, for I had not meant to speak it aloud. Harshly he said, “Cause that’s the way it is.’ And then his fingers crab-walked some more, and he spat, ‘Now draw, you son of a bitch!’

  Something in his tone, in his unquestioning acceptance of Fate and his eagerness to kill, made something inside me suddenly snap, and I started walking towards him, coat flapping around me, my eyes ensnaring his. I was losing my temper, a temper I did not even know I possessed, and in that moment I knew I must vent my anger on someone or go mad.

  It just so happened to be him.

  He said again, ‘Draw!’ and he dropped into a crouch, shoulders rounded, fingers working furiously, oval face held taut, soulless brown eyes wide like saucers, and fired-up with unholy light. I kept stalking towards him, fists clenched, jaw muscles bunching and flexing. I remember thinking, All right, Jameson—do it> if you’ve a mind. Go for your guns. I’ve still got the beating of you. I really didn’t care in that wild, reckless moment, I really didn’t care.

  ‘Draw, damn you!’ he snarled between clenched teeth.

  But we were too close for gun fighting now, and he knew it. I kept coming, my shadow lurching ahead of me with every step, spilling like tar up over the toes of his spur-hung boots, then on up his tight-fitting black pants, past the knees—

  Glaring at him, I saw my own anger mirrored in his expression, and saw the faint stirrings of alarm there, too. Then—

  I hit him, quickly and without the slightest warning. My fist slammed him right in the mouth and he fell backwards, his arms windmilling, curses flooding from his suddenly-split lips. He stumbled into the darkened barn doorway, then just about caught his balance, but I hit him again, knocked his head sideways, hit him once more to send it crashing back the other way, and my knuckles stung a protest but I still didn’t care, because in a way the pain only spurred me on.

  He tumbled to the ground, into all the hay and dust, and I bent and grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him back up, but in my fury I was careless, for suddenly he shoved at me and I fell against the wall of a stall, knocking dust loose from the gaps in the planks, and then he was on me, grabbing, punching, stamping, kicking, and after that it was a free-for-all, a crazy, violent brawl.

  We went down in a tangle, hats flying, rolled through the hay, hitting and blocking, trying to hit again, the pair of us cursing now, cursing and grunting and trying everything we could to beat the other.

  Up again, and falling apart. I remember a brief glimpse of Jameson’s face, some swelling coming back to the flesh around his eye, blood speckling his chin, dyeing the black hair of his moustache, and a scratch on his cheek.

  Then we clashed again, and though I was not much of a pugilist, I forced myself to keep at it, punch after punch, driving him back, deeper into the bam, between the stalls, our audience only nervous horses.

  He caught me on one ear. The pain was tremendous. I shook my head to clear it, and in that moment he was on me again. I shoved him away from me. He slammed into a stall-post and groaned. Then he did as much to me, rammed me hard against the side of a stall, and this time the wood splintered and we went crashing through it, collided with a sidestepping mare that shoved us back out through all the jagged wood.

  Stumbling and jabbing, swinging and blocking—the terrible sting of a connecting punch, the rush of heat to swelling flesh, the sudden, liquid course of spilling blood...and the awful desire to hurt the other man, and keep hurting him. Lord, it was the only time I have ever felt that way, and it still shames me, even today.

  We came lurching and pouncing back towards the sunlight, his contorted face twisted in my fingers, my face grasped in his, the fingers questing and gouging, our free hands alternately blocking and punching, our boots kicking and stamping.

  Out into the full glare of the sun. We crashed into the dirt and rolled, dust exploding around us. I came up on top, hit him in the face. My fist made a wet sound striking his flesh, and I left a smear of blood on his face from my split knuckles.

  He writhed and twisted under me, but I hit him again, and groaned myself that time, at the pain of it. Then, dimly, I saw his eyes roll up into his head, and a voice inside my mind said, It’s finished. I was not sorry, and I sort of sobbed as I let him go and flopped over him.

  For a time then I just crouched there, gasping for air, every part of me aching. I told myself that I had been a fool to get into a fight, that I would be of little use to the settlers if anything was broken or otherwise damaged. But at the same time I knew that if I hadn’t bested Jameson in a fist-fight, I would most likely have had to kill him with my gun. Maybe he would realize that too, though I doubted it.

  A shadow fell across me. I looked up, saw only the harsh white glare of the sun and a silhouette, reaching down for me. Hushed by shock, Carbonne’s voice said, ‘My God...’

  I let him help me to my feet. To be honest, I do not think I could have made it on my own. Then his hands moved away, and I was swaying there, dusty and flushed, bloodied and hurting, and my feverish sky-blue eyes were trained on and glowering at Linderman and his cronies, still at the window.

  ‘Come on.’ It was Carbonne again. He had retrieved my hat, and now thrust it into my fumbling grip. ‘I’ll help you to your horse.’

  I gave him no argument. I stumbled over Jameson and weaved towards the mustang. Carbonne helped me to mount up, told me again to take care, and then I was walking the horse out of the yard and back towards the town.

  Chapter Seven

  I remember little about the ride itself, though I remember the pain, the heat that pounded down on
my shoulders and the splitting headache, very well.

  I felt sick. My senses swam. I seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. Jameson had hurt me. Not as badly as I had hurt him, true—but badly enough to make the trail ahead bend and roll like rubber, to make me sway dangerously in my hull and almost lose my seat.

  God, it was hot. I can still recall the searing closeness of it today. I was burning up, sweating like a bull, and the sun-glare was too much for my puffed, bloodshot eyes.

  Thirst. The need for a drink was almost more than I could handle. I tried to reach for my canteen, but when I glanced down at it I saw two of them, and could not puzzle out which was real.

  The horse walked on, his gait waking fresh pain in my every muscle. I felt it building to a crescendo and bit down hard to stifle a groan, but still it grew, and grew, and—

  All at once the world went black. Black and silent.

  How long it lasted I could not say. But I remember the dark quietness well, the peace and tranquility of those uncharted seconds/minutes/hours, and I know I was in no hurry to leave it.

  Blackness and silence...blackness and silence... And then—

  The unwelcome, pungent odor of ammonium carbonate, or smelling salts, in my nose, and a sensation of rising as if from great depths, rising, trying to fight it and failing, and finally, of leaving the darkness and surfacing into the light.

  Cautiously I cracked my eyes open, squinting them against the near-white sunshine cascading in through the window to my right.

  For a moment I just lay there, trying to remember who I was and why I felt so wretched. My head was throbbing. My joints felt stiff. I tasted blood on my tongue, and it was that more than anything else that brought it all back to me in a rush.

  I tried to groan, but my throat was so dry that the best I could manage was a sort of scratchy croak. That drew a response from someone to my left, and I turned my head that way, bringing fresh pain to my neck and shoulders.

  ‘Ashley? Are you awake? How do you feel?’

  I knew then that I had died and gone to heaven, for there, standing over me, was Jane Dawes.

  Again I tried to speak, but all I was able to produce was a weird clicking sound.

  ‘Here,’ said a man’s voice.

  It drew me back to reality. My eyes shifted reluctantly from Jane’s concerned face to that of her father, who was standing beside her. Capping the bottle of ammonium carbonate and stuffing it into a trouser pocket, he knelt and snaked his right hand roughly under my head, then raised it and held a glass to my dry lips. Cool, clear water trickled into my mouth, so cold that it stole my breath away and cleared my head a little.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw that I was in a cluttered but pleasantly appointed sitting room. As unlikely as it seemed, I was in what appeared to be the Dawes’ parlor, stretched out on a horsehair sofa, my jacket, vest and boots removed, my collar unbuttoned and my wounds bathed and cared for. I wrinkled my nose at the heady stink of salve, but undeniably I felt better than I had.

  I said, ‘How...did I...?’

  Dawes was looking down at me with as hard an expression as his normally cheerful face could manage. Brusquely he said, ‘After that last affair, I did not expect to see you again, sir...’ and suddenly his face and voice relented a bit. ‘But when a man comes riding up to your front door in the state you were in, and then falls off his horse...well, it’s a hard man indeed who would refuse him help.’

  ‘I...came here?’

  ‘Yes. And from the look of you, I don’t know how you even made it that far.’

  ‘How long have I been...unconscious?’

  ‘About an hour. Maybe a little over.’

  ‘Well, I’m in your...debt, Mr. Dawes. And I’ll repay you.’

  ‘I don’t give to receive, Mr. Colter,’ he said, erecting that formal barrier again.

  I looked up at him. ‘Mr. Dawes,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry for what happened last week. Involving Jane, putting her in jeopardy...that was the last thing I wanted. But I’ve apologized, and you’ve likely heard by now that I did not go seeking that fight. I don’t see what else I can do.’

  ‘You can leave as soon as you’re able,’ he suggested.

  ‘Daddy!’

  Nodding, I sat up carefully and swung my legs over the edge of the sofa. ‘If you’ll tell me where the rest of my things are, I’ll go now.’

  ‘You’re not leaving until you’re fully recovered,’ Jane put in firmly, and her father reluctantly agreed with a jerk of the head.

  ‘Jane,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go and fetch Mr. Colter a bowl of something good and nourishing?’

  Her perfect face turned in the direction my voice had told her I would be. ‘Ashley?’

  ‘I’d appreciate a cup of coffee, if it’s no trouble.’

  She turned and left the room, and we listened to her careful, gentle tread in the hallway outside. At length, Dawes said with a quiet sigh, ‘You’ve got to see this from my point of view, Mr. Colter. It’s nothing personal. But I’ve got the welfare of my daughter to consider. And whether you like it or not, you’re trouble.’

  I opened my mouth to debate that, then closed it again. He had every right to think of me the way he did...and the way in which I had turned up at his place today must only have confirmed his worst opinion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Dawes,’ I said softly.

  He waved the apology aside, and gestured to my battered face. ‘What happened, anyway? Who did that to you?’

  Briefly I sketched out some of the events that had led to my fight with Jameson. He listened without interruption, and at the finish said, ‘So they dismissed this plan of yours out of hand?’

  I nodded soberly. ‘They’d already made their minds up about what they were going to do,’ I confirmed. ‘You know, I have a terrible feeling that Jessica Dunbar’s right—that war is coming to Fairfax County.’

  He reached down and touched me gently on one forearm. ‘Well, at least you know you did all you could to try and stop it.’

  ‘I know you mean well, Mr. Dawes,’ I murmured. ‘But it doesn’t help.’

  Sadly he said, ‘Well, that’s the thing with this land. You have to make the most of whatever you can get.’

  I frowned at him, and he made a dismissive motion with his hands. ‘Jane’s mother,’ he explained quickly. ‘We lost her the same day Jane was born.’ Then he shook his head and gave a shuddery sigh. ‘I still miss her, but Jane is a compensation.’

  ‘I believe you there, Mr. Dawes.’

  He went to the door, where I stopped him with a word. When he turned back to me, I said, ‘Mr. Dawes, about Jane. It’s been on my mind. I hope that what happened between me and Lawson did not...distress her too much?’

  ‘She’s a strong girl,’ he replied. ‘With her affliction, she’s had to be.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Mr. Colter, and for what it’s worth, I like you. But I meant what I said. I want you to keep away from Jane. She deserves better than you can offer.’

  I dipped my head slowly. ‘I understand that you only have her best interests at heart, Mr. Dawes, and I would not want you to be any other way. But afterwards...when this present trouble is all behind us. If I could earn your trust, convince you that my intentions were honorable...would you allow me to see her then? If she were willing?’

  ‘What do you want with a blind girl?’ he asked bluntly.

  My reply came without hesitation. ‘The same things you want, Mr. Dawes. To love her and take care of her. To see for her, and describe the world in such a way as to let her see it as well. To make sure she knows that there will always be someone there for her.’

  His surprise showed plainly in his expression, but he passed no comment, only nodded faintly a couple of times, then put his hand on the door and swung it open. Just before he left, he looked back at me and said, ‘You don’t need to convince me of your intentions, Mr. Colter. I’m a pretty fair judge of character, and
I believe you mean what you say.’ He hesitated a moment longer, still reluctant to commit himself, but then said, ‘Maybe, as you say, when this is all over—’

  From someplace out towards the front of the hotel, the counter-bell rang. Dawes said, ‘Excuse me. Sounds like a customer.’

  He closed the door after him, and left me sitting there, grinning like a fool.

  I sat back slowly, so’s not to aggravate my bruised muscles any more than I could help, and closed my eyes. Someone walked across the floor directly overhead. I heard voices out front.

  Then footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, coming quick and urgent, and suddenly Jameson’s name flashed into my mind. I felt a sudden stab of alarm and looked around for my gun. I saw it on a chair in the corner, lurched up off the sofa, closed my fingers around it and dragged it from leather.

  I was just turning towards the door when it swung open. Convinced now that Jameson had come looking for revenge, I brought the Adams up and barked, ‘That’s far enough.’

  Startled, James Carbonne came to a sudden halt in the doorway and Mr. Dawes, who was at his shoulder, blundered into him. Realizing my mistake, and submitting to a giddying rush of blood, I let the gun drop tiredly to my side.

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was—’

  Recovering himself, Carbonne said, ‘Jameson? I don’t blame you. He’s hopping mad over the beating you gave him, and he’s sworn to kill you.’

  I staggered back to the sofa and fell on to it. Carbonne and Jane’s father followed me across and Mr. Dawes told the grim-faced Association man to take a seat. As he did, I said, ‘Is that why you’re here, Carbonne? To warn me about Jameson?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not entirely.’

  He glanced uneasily at Dawes, and I said, ‘It’s all right, Carbonne. Nothing you say will go beyond these four walls unless you want it to.’

  Dawes nodded. ‘Yes, you can trust me, Mr. Carbonne. I have no love for your Association, but I know how to keep my mouth shut.’