Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (40 page)

Chapter
7

The hitching posts at
Frank’s Place were slammed full of horses, but I directed Sable in between a
couple of them and slid off, squeezing between the tight fit. I tied her off
and stepped up onto the deck, pulling my leather gloves off and stomping my
boots to knock the mud off.

I walked into Frank’s
Place and saw nearly every other table was full. Many were playing cards, while
others were drinking or putting down some food. I angled toward the bar, where
I saw Frank.

“Where you been?” Frank
asked, concern written on his face. “I sent my boy Joe to get you and he
couldn’t find you.”

“I been out riding and
shooting some,” I said. “What do you need?”

“I wanted to tell you a
couple riders stopped by here earlier. They claim that Valdez plans to bury
you. He’s assembling a gang of riders.”

“Valdez? Who’s Valdez?”

“He’s that Mexican you
disarmed. Turns out he was a bigger gun hand than Bill Garland by a far sight.
Them fellers said he’s killed eleven men and couldn’t believe you got the jump
on him. Blames the whiskey. He’s not a blow hard like Bill Garland was, but
he’s done a lot of gun work.”

“Get me a drink,” I said.

As Frank stepped away to
grab a glass and some whiskey, I turned and scanned the room. Besides Valdez, I
worried about wannabe gunfighters. Many men wanting to make a name for
themselves had shot men like me in the back. They wanted a name that would make
sure their bed was always warm and their glass always full. And if they had a
crew with them, they could often stand off the other patrons who’d seen a man
gunned down in cold blood. Shot in the back, most of the time.

I didn’t aim for that to
happen to me, so I examined the entire room nice and slow.

I heard Frank place the
glass of whiskey in front of me, and I turned back around.

“So, what are you going to
do?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” I said,
picking up my drink. “Be careful, I guess.”

Chapter
8

Valdez arrived two weeks
later. But that two weeks felt like my year and a half fighting for the South.
Dread and fear eat at you worse than hunger and pain.

My two weeks felt like two
years. Maybe three. I fidgeted and looked about constantly, worried Valdez
might be sneaking up on me. Frank Connors said I looked more nervous than an
unarmed preacher moving through Indian country.

I slept in fits. I ate
little; my normal hunger a distant dream. I couldn’t stand still. All I’d
learned about courage and keeping your cool seemed for naught with the threat
of Valdez’s return. I fiddled and paced like a dog thrown in a small, barren
lot.

My fear turned to
paranoia. I could think of a dozen different ways it could go down. Valdez
could catch me leaving the Marshal’s office or exiting Frank’s saloon. He could
hit me with a rifle while I was out riding Sable. Or, Valdez could keep it
simple and just ride into town with a big crew and spread everyone out in front
of the office. Demand we come out, assuming Marshal Harrison was there, or
they’d burn the place down by chucking a couple lanterns against the building. Just
in case, I’d bought four buckets, filled them with water, and placed them at
each corner of the jail, ready to douse any fire Valdez might start.

Marshal Harrison said I
was crazy, but I told him to not move those buckets. He didn't either, which
told me he was worried, too.

To avoid being gunned down
on my daily rides with Sable, I varied my routes and the time of day when I
took my ride.

Valdez had too many
options for killing me quite easily, as I saw it, but I couldn’t run. Especially
if I wanted to keep my manhood and honor my family name. So, I started carrying
my lever action Winchester everywhere I went. Resolute, I turned my anxiety
into energy.

I practiced shooting every
day. I demanded the Belleville Town Council include one box of shells each day
as part of my pay. They did, after some heated arguing, but only because the
man selling the ammo sat on the Town Council. I didn’t care if he got rich. I
just wanted the ammo and ability to practice shooting.

For my pistol work, I
carried the Colt Single Action Army, chambered in .45 with a 4 ¾” barrel. It
was the shortest barrel offered, but nearly every gunfighter carried the short
barrel. I moved up to the Colt Single Action Army as soon as it was offered in
.45.

I thought the .45 was far
more powerful than the more common .44 American chambered for Smith and Wesson
Model 3 revolvers.

I spent half an hour every
day practicing my draw and working through in my mind what I’d do in a
gunfight. Draw. Fire. Take a knee. Fire again with your elbow propped on your
knee for better accuracy. Find something to hide behind. Then fire again.

I did a similar drill with
my lever action. Most of the lever actions in use fired the same ammunition you
used in your pistols -- so that you’d only have to buy and carry one kind of
ammo -- but I preferred the Winchester Model 1876. It fired a full-powered
rifle cartridge, as opposed to a smaller handgun-sized round.

Besides shooting outside
town every day, even in the rain, I practiced drawing and aiming my pistol as
much as I could. When I was alone in the jail, I’d draw ten times standing.
Whenever I stepped into the outhouse behind the jail, same thing. Draw and aim
ten times before getting down to business.

Marshal Harrison gave me
all kinds of hell about all the drawing and shooting and gun cleaning, which I
seemed to be doing all the time now.

“You don’t see me shooting
every day,” he said one day while we were at the jail, his hands clasped
together across his big belly.

I stopped scrubbing out
the inside of my pistol and looked at him. “Hadn’t seen you in the papers,
either,” I said.

Marshal Harrison ran his
hands through his gray hair and said, “That’s cause I’m wise enough not to
completely embarrass a man. Especially a big-time gunslinger like Valdez.”

“Didn’t know he was a
gunslinger at the time,” I replied. “But, after Bill Garland slapped and
embarrassed me in front of everybody, I was too mad to think straight.”

I stood up and left the
room. Not saying a word about where I was going. More and more, I saw Marshal
Harrison as just an old windbag. More air than starch.

Chapter
9

The strain of worrying
about Valdez grew so bad that when I finally saw him, I felt relief rather than
fear. I was sitting in my usual spot by the door of the Marshal’s office, leaning
back against the wall in an old four-legged cane chair with my thumbs hooked in
my pockets. It was a small pleasure to sit like that in the early evening with
my feet against the porch rail, watching people as the sun dropped down. I
rested like this each night before the hours and hours of walking between
saloons in order to keep cowboys quiet and trouble down.

Valdez and his crew ambled
in at dusk on horseback. They came when I expected, riding in just before dark.
Light enough to see your gun sights and with enough time to commit mayhem and
murder and ride off into the night. Any pursuing posse would have nothing to
track for at least eight hours, giving them an insurmountable lead if they rode
hard and used their heads. Striking any earlier, or even at dawn, would be
flirting with death.

Valdez came with six other
men, and when I first saw them, a good three hundred yards separated us. I say
I knew it was Valdez, but I couldn’t be sure at that distance. I certainly
couldn’t see faces. However, the pace and the way they rode into town gave them
away.

Cowboys ride in fast at a
trot or struggle in as groups of two or three -- in a hurry to get something
wet in their throats or between their legs. Merchants, farmers, and traders
don’t have time to waste either. If they come in at dusk, they’re trying to
catch the owner of the General Store before he closes, and they’re moving fast.

These seven men, all
abreast, walked their horses down the main street slowly, clearly aiming to
intimidate.

I eased my chair down and
grabbed my rifle, which leaned against the wall just a foot away. I did all
this nice and slow. At three hundred yards, I knew they’d struggle to see much,
and I didn’t want them to know I’d recognized them.

I kept my rifle vertical
and against my leg, hoping they wouldn’t see it. I even stood a second and
pretended to stretch, using only my left arm above my head, then looked down
the street to my right away from them.

I paused another second, looked
down the road away from them, and walked through the door into the jail, as
calm and slow as a woman who’d finished sweeping off the porch. I hoped I
didn’t look alarmed or worried. I wanted them to stay in formation.

Marshal Harrison was away
-- a recurring theme that was getting old. He’d left earlier to head up to the
other end of town to check on a disturbance. One of the Chinese men that lives
in town had claimed two cowboys had beat him up, but good. Marshal Harrison
needed their names or at least a good description so he could try to identify
them.

So, it was me and me
alone, and I didn’t intend to end up dead. Now inside the jail and out of
sight, I ran to the gun wall and snatched a handful of rifle cartridges with my
left hand from a wooden box we kept loose ammunition stored in. I stuffed the
shells in my left pocket and grabbed another handful.

I sprinted back to the
door, staying inside, so they couldn’t see me. I dropped to my stomach, removed
my hat, and slid to the edge of the door. I laid the second handful of shells
in front of me and assumed a good prone firing position.

The seven horsemen had
gained little ground. They now appeared roughly two hundred and fifty yards
away -- they were walking their horses that slow. And it
was
intimidating. They seemed so in control. So powerful. So unmoving. Seven
experienced men with revenge on their mind. Too much for two small-town,
underpaid deputies out near the edge of the frontier.

I doubted they could see
me. Only my head, shoulder and rifle showed. I figured they never expected to need
to look low, at the bottom of a door. This wasn’t war, or so they thought.

I thumbed the hammer back
and took a good aim at the third rider from the left. I couldn’t tell which
rider was Valdez at this distance, but I assumed he’d be in the middle. It’d be
easier to shift from left to right after my first shot, so with that line of
thinking, I decided to take the third rider with shot number one.

I’d shoot once they came
within one hundred yards. A range I didn’t miss at. But as slow as they
approached, this wait would prove painful. Might feel as long as the two weeks
had.

I decided not to dread the
slow movement of the group, rather I embraced this timely opportunity to
control my emotions and plan my steps. I’d been waiting on this, and I’d either
live or not.

And I’m a hell of a man
with a rifle. Been lugging one after squirrels and rabbits since I was a kid
back in Tennessee. I’m much better with one than with a pistol, which is why
I’d been shooting so much with my pistol. If this went as I planned, my pistol
would never leave my holster.

What I was about to do was
border-line murder. The law doesn’t shoot men down in the street with no
charges. And that’s what they counted on. They planned to get close, maybe say
a few words -- or maybe not -- and gun me down.

My only fear was if these
men weren’t Valdez and company. I knew they weren’t Army soldiers -- Army troops
moved in columns of twos and wore distinctive blue. But, these men could be a
group of riders who were just nervous about the town. Maybe Belleville’s
reputation was worse than I’ve heard.

But my gut said otherwise.
It had to be Valdez and some of his gunslingers. And if it wasn’t, then I’d pay
the piper and let the U.S. Marshal for the territory hang me for flat-out
murder. Not lighting these guys up would be the same sentence -- only earlier
and more painful.

Once they reached a
hundred yards, the debate raging in my head ended. I needed to drop them while
I had the surprise advantage and preferred shooting distance. I fielded a long
rifle and waited in a perfect position. They rode on horseback and hadn’t drawn
their pistols.

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