Unflinching E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the unforgiving West, a lone Pinkerton detective is on the trail of two vicious killers. 

When the daughter of a famous general is kidnapped, Detective Simms is assigned to bring her home. Forged in the Mexican War, this man of steel knows how to survive, and how to kill.

He will need all of his skill and guile to survive this dangerous land, and bring the general's daughter home. And then, it gets personal.

Leseprobe

Unflinching

A western

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2015 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Base image courtesy of Magic Covers

Cover Design by The Cover Collection

Edited by D.S. Williams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements and Dedication

As with any work of fiction, there are so many people to thank, for their support and belief in what I try to do. For all the staff at Next Chapter, a huge thank you for your faith; for Elmore Leonard and Robert B Parker, for inspiring me to write a Western which is relative to our world; and to my friends who have always been there, but, for this one, most especially to my best friend, Ray. We've seen so many Westerns together and enjoyed every one. I hope he enjoys this, for it is for him.

One

They swung the wagon down into the tiny side street, which ran alongside the store. Randall pulled on the wheel-brake and gave a long sigh. Stained with sweat and dust, his shirt stuck to his back and when he pulled off his hat, tangled hair clung tight to his scalp. The thick, acrid air sucked all the moisture from everything, including himself, but now, having reached his destination, the first signs of relief trickled through his bones and the strain left his features. He smiled across to Elisabeth who sat stoically beside him, eyes straight ahead. She said, “Is this finally it?”

He was in awe of her composure, how she remained so elegant despite the rigors of the past weeks. “It is.” He reached over and patted her knee. “The worst is over now.”

She turned. “Can you be sure?”

“We got through those Indians, didn't we?” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “We can relax now, turn our mind to normal things.”

“Like the things we used to concentrate on.”

“Precisely.” He replaced his hat. “I'll go and get some supplies then call on the sheriff, see if he can point us in Widow Langton's direction.”

“I have a bad feeling about all of this. Why didn't she answer any of our correspondence?”

“There'll be a genuine reason, I'm sure.”

“Maybe she's sold her place to someone else.”

“I doubt it. My lawyer drew up the deeds. She'd be a fool if she did that. I don't believe she's a fool, and her family connections over in Illinois stand as security. It'll be fine.”

“Well maybe she's dead.”

He gave Elisabeth an understanding look, conscious of her anxiety, of being so close to a new life. The trail had proven hard, the recent drought one of the longest ever known. People out on the plains were struggling to survive, settlers and natives both. Desperation led to excesses on both sides, brought out the very worst in people. But this town, with its fine buildings and well-ordered streets gave a sense of hope. He wished she would accept it. “Honey, there'll be an honest explanation for why she didn't return my cable. Communication is spasmodic at best in this part of the country. Maybe the lines went down, who knows? We're out west now and we have to get used to the fact that life here is different.”

“Primitive is what you mean.”

He smiled. “We've talked about all this – it's only natural to have these self-doubts. We're taking the first steps on a brand new life, with all its uncertainties, but it's exciting too. Once we're in our new place, have settled in, got into a routine, everything will seem a lot brighter. I promise.”

“I know.” She looked around her, to the wooden buildings on either side of the quiet street, then craned her neck towards the main drag. “I hate to say it again, but it just seems so… primitive. It's nothing like Chicago, that's for sure.”

“These towns, they are new, maybe only been here for a few years. Now that the rush is over, it'll take time to readjust, to create new, longer lasting opportunities. We're at the forefront of that, Elisabeth. Pioneers.”

“Or what are those other name they give us – tenderfoots? Sod-busters?”

It'll be okay,” he reassured her, gathered himself and jumped down onto the dirt. “You wanna come with me?”

“No. Just don't be too long in there. When you're done, we'll go to the sheriff's together and get the legalities moving.”

Always his little lawyer, his rock. He smiled and tramped down the street.

One or two people acknowledged him, but for the most part the street was quiet. Opposite him ran a group of stores, a small hotel and a telegraph office with a bank squeezed in between. A milliners took his attention and he thought about buying Elisabeth a new hat. After the visit to the sheriff perhaps, after the papers were signed and they were both feeling more reassured, they could take some time, get their bearings. Buy things. He knew in his heart this was a good move, the right move. A fine ranch, with a dozen acres of good grazing land, sweet water, space to grow. The land registry had assured him the purchase was sound. Widow Langton was an honest woman, the lawyers said so and Randall knew it. The time for doubts and uncertainties was gone. They were here, safe, unharmed; the first day of the rest of their lives.

He stepped up onto the boardwalk and doffed his hat as two ladies in fine bonnets and trailing dresses drifted by. They smiled in return, a simple gesture, but one which caused his heart to swell. Buoyed up, he clumped along towards the hardware store, crossing the window fronts of the small bank and the telegraph office – which would come in handy for when he needed to send a message to his sister back east that all was well. He recalled how forlorn and concerned she'd looked, standing on the station platform, tiny handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her other hand waving. Elisabeth had cried. So did he.

But that was then and life changed from the moment they alighted the train. The purchase of the wagon and horse, supplies, listening to the stern words of advice from the proprietor of the hardware store. Two old prospectors joined in. Reading between the words, it was clear none gave father and daughter much chance of surviving. The trail was hard, unforgiving, with many dangers along the way. He'd need to shoot, they all advised, and Randall could shoot. The proprietor didn't seem convinced and the two old men laughed. A week into their journey, when the Indians came out of the dust, with their intent clearly visible in their scowls and nocked bows, Randall blew them out of their saddles, no questions asked. A pity nobody back at the store had witnessed it. Their low opinion of Randall may have been somewhat upgraded. He shook his head, pushing such thoughts to one side, took off his hat and went through the door of the store.

There were a couple of young women in the far corner, giggling as they sifted through a large catalogue. One of them glanced over to him and caught his eye before she looked away, cheeks reddening, and nudged her friend, who checked him out and smiled.

Randall nodded and stepped over to the counter. He was a lean, rangy man who moved with the grace and easy stride of a big cat. His forearms rippled with muscle, the skin tanned. A hard life, close friends with death, made him tough, resilient. For twenty-five years he'd followed his father's path through the military; now the time was here for him to pursue a new path, and with his wife Caroline passing away, nothing remained to hold him back. He tipped his hat at the girls and they giggled again.

He pushed the bell, and within a few moments, a trim, middle-aged woman emerged through a beaded curtain. She was small, dressed in a tight black dress, hair pulled back into a bun, showing off her handsome features to good effect. Her face, pale and serious, gave nothing away as she studied him from head to foot. “We don't give credit.”

Randall blinked, shooting a glance towards the girls, who both laughed. He coughed. “I, er, don't intend to ask for any, ma'am.”

“Well that's good. I always like new customers to know where they stand before any purchases are considered.” She frowned and Randall stared back, face blank. “Before they buy, that is my meaning. That way there cannot be any misunderstanding.”

“Yes, quite understandable. But I have money. I need some grain for my horse and,” he looked down and tugged at the threadbare knees of his pants, “some work clothes. We've been on the trail for something like three weeks and we're both in desperate need of something new to wear.”

She nodded, pointing vaguely behind him, “There's a selection of items behind you. Both of you, you said.”

“Yes. My daughter is with me.”

“I see. Well, ladies' clothes are somewhat more difficult to acquire, but as you can see, we have a catalogue.” The girls giggled again, whispering to one another. “If you're planning on settling, that is.”

“Indeed we are. We have purchased Widow Langton's place.”

“Have you indeed? Well, that's a right tidy spread, built up by her good husband before the fever took him. “

“She is still alive then? I was hoping the sheriff might—”

“Oh, she's alive. No question. She boards at Drayton's, just a way along Main Street, second on the left. Nice place. She seems happy.” She frowned. “What might you be needing the sheriff for?”

“Pay my respects, prepare some papers, that sort of thing. As we're strangers here I thought it best to introduce myself to the town officials before settling into our new place.”

“Well, Sheriff Pickles will no doubt help you with the formalities an' all. Can't say I know what those formalities might be, but we are a friendly town. Treat people right and they'll treat you the same. No doubt we will be seeing you in church on Sunday?”

“Of course.” He smiled and reached inside his pocket. He brought out an ancient leather wallet, which almost fell apart when he opened it. He extracted a dollar bill. “This is for the grain. I'll take a look at those clothes.”

She smiled, an action which changed the entire complexion of her face. Her features relaxed, any nervous tension slipping away as she picked up the money and put it into a drawer underneath the counter.

Randall was about to say something when from out in the street, a voice cried out in alarm, quickly followed by a series of gunshots. The girls in the corner shrieked and one of them stumbled backwards, falling into a shelving unit, which gave way under her weight and collapsed. The storekeeper clamped her hands over her mouth and more yells and shouts echoed through the street. “Oh my, that must be the bank!”

Randall's only thought was for Elisabeth, still sitting outside on the wagon. He had no idea what caused the mayhem outside, but he wasn't about to expose his daughter to any danger, especially not the kind that involved shooting. He crossed the store in three quick bounds and tore open the door.

He squinted into the sunlight. There were people running along the street, horses were bucking and neighing loudly close by and as he looked to his left, he saw them; two men, neckerchiefs over their mouths and noses, brandishing heavy-looking firearms, one of them bleeding from the arm, the other holding a canvas bag which appeared weighty in his fist.

Two others erupted from the bank, revolvers barking in all directions, mainly skywards. Randall suspected their intention was to frighten, not harm. He instinctively reached for his hip, and swore when he remembered his own Army Colt was back in the wagon, together with a single shot carbine. With Elisabeth.

Randall wanted nothing to do with these men and made his decision to get as far away as fast as he could. As he went to move towards the side street where he'd parked the wagon, Elisabeth came tearing around the corner towards him, hair and eyes wild. He wanted to shout out, tell her to stop, return to the wagon, but his words became lost as a large, pot-bellied man charged from out of a building opposite, firing off a series of shots from his handgun.

Bullets zipped and cracked overhead, forcing Randall to dive face first to the boardwalk. He clamped his hands over his head, straining his neck to catch a glimpse of Elisabeth, holding her tresses, pressing herself against the side of the general store. She slid down to the wooden slats, screaming. She was in shock.

“Stay down,” screamed Randall as another bullet smacked in the woodwork above where he lay. Did the buffoon with the handgun think he was one of the robbers?

He didn't receive an answer. One of the real robbers, standing a few paces away from him, fired his revolver, and hit the big man in the chest, throwing him down into the dirt. He lay there on his back, blood seeping from the wound. The robber ran across the street, sweeping up the man's gun and looked back. “Nathan, get to the God-damned horses!”

All hell was breaking loose. People, some of them armed, were appearing from all areas of the street, many shouting, most looking on and seeming petrified. The third and fourth robbers were blazing away with their firearms, some of the townspeople returning fire. The smell of hot lead filled the afternoon air, bullets slapping into woodwork, pinging off metal stanchions, or fizzing overhead.

“Get the hell out,” screamed the first robber. Randall got to his knees and watched him levelling his revolver at the stricken man in the street. Without any outward show of hesitation or conscience, the robber blew the man's head apart from point-blank range. A collective wail rang out across the street and the majority of the onlookers stampeded in every direction. The killer whirled and his eyes settled on something across the street from where he stood.

Randall climbed to his feet and swayed, uncertain, light-headed. He saw Elisabeth standing frozen, ashen, eyes unable to take in such horrors, tears streaming down her face. He took a step towards her, dismissive of the danger all around.

“Mason, grab that wagon and get off the damned street!”

The panic welled up from within Randall's gut. The killer must have spotted the wagon, and now meant to take it and escape, with all that meant for father and daughter. With no possessions, the new life he'd dreamed for them both would be undermined before it began. Randall could not allow such a thing. He took another step, then something as heavy as a blacksmith's anvil slammed into his back and he pitched forward onto his face once more. The world flipped all around him, everything skewed, senses confused, head spinning. From far away, Elisabeth screamed and Randall, unable to understand, or move watched as a man's feet stepped over him and strode towards her. Randall tried to raise himself up, move the weight from his back, but he couldn't. The strength was leaving him, leaving him quickly. He saw the man taking Elisabeth around the waist, lifting her. She was kicking, struggling, but the man was too strong.

“Get her in the wagon, God-damn you!”

Another robber appeared in view. He spotted Randall, seemed to be considering something before a gunshot rang out, the bullet taking him high up in the arm. He groaned, staggered to the side and hit the building with a grunt. Three, four, five more shots hit him in the chest and stomach, the blood blooming like red-roses across his body. He crumpled, died.

“Oh no, Nathan!”

With the clouds parting in his head, the sunshine burst through and Randall's brain pieced together the details, although the pain in his back burned and the muscles in his legs refused to work. But he saw them. He saw the first robber, the killer of pot-belly, stooping beside his dead companion as the other two struggled with Elisabeth, who kicked and screamed. They were taking her to the wagon, for God-knows-what awful reason. If only he had a gun. If only he'd thought. He groaned, tears sprouting, frustration overwhelming him. For it all to end here, in this nameless street, after the life he'd had. Dear God, where was the justice in that? And Elisabeth. Please, don't take her from me!

The robber was on his feet. He held two guns, one spent, hammer clicking on empty cylinders. A bullet struck him in the throat and he went down, gurgling. Randall heard the sound of a whip cracking. They had the wagon. Oh no, please, please!

More gunshots. Randall thought he saw money floating in the breeze. Crisp dollar bills. Was any of it real, or a dream? He didn't know, his only desire was to be able to stand, to walk, to rush to Elisabeth's side. He heard another scream, but more distant this time. A cry of “Father!” More gunshots. Oh God…

A quiet voice came to him from out of the confusion, a cool hand on his neck. He turned. Black clouds were settling over the town. A storm was coming. He saw her in the gloom, the storekeeper, her face so lovely, but gripped by anguish.

“Dear God, mister. Hold on, hold on. We'll get a doctor.”

Why would he need a doctor? All he needed was to get to his feet, stop those horrible men from manhandling his Elisabeth.

“Please,” he said. He wanted to say more, to tell them to rescue his daughter, to apprehend the robbers. At least he wanted to say those things, but for some reason he didn't have the strength. So he turned his head, lay his cheek against the cool of the boardwalk and breathed through his mouth. No strength now. No worries. His one remaining desire, to sleep.

Two

The office rang with confused voices as Simms came in from out of the rain, shaking himself like a dog.

“Jeez, Simms!” Henson brushed spots of rainwater from his paperwork. He sat behind a desk not two paces from the door, spectacles pushed back on his head, shirtsleeves rolled up almost to his shoulders. He seemed frazzled, hair wild, as if it had dried in a mid-season hurricane.

“What's with all the panic?” Simms threw his coat and hat across the back of his chair and sat down.

“Got a telegram, not twenty minutes ago,” said Henson, scouring through his papers, not looking up. “Seems like General Tobias J. Randall got himself caught up in a bank robbery in some lice-ridden backwater over on the Colorado-Utah border. His daughter's been kidnapped.”

Simms rested his elbows on his desk, put his face in his hands and groaned. “And they sent for us?”

“As a retired, former general, he comes under Federal jurisdiction, but it seems they have had little success in tracking him.”

“Great.”

Henson looked up, measuring Simms with quiet indifference. Simms looked at him from between his fingers. Henson tilted his head sideways and asked, “Why are you so pissed?”

“Because I know Randall, so it's highly likely I'll get the assignment.”

“You know him? How the hell do you know General Tobias J. Randall?”

“I served under him in the war with Mexico, at Churubusco back in '47. I was part of Clarke's Brigade. It was all a long, long time ago.”

“I never knew you were a soldier.”

“Lieutenant.” Simms dropped his hands. “I never thought I'd need to do this sort of nonsense again.”

“Well, you never know, Simms. They may not even give you the assignment. For all you know they may already have someone else to—”

At that moment, an office door in the far reaches of the room was wrenched open and a large, burly man sweating profusely and sporting enormous side whiskers, peered out into the room. He caught sight of Simms and growled, “Where the hell have you been?”

“I was feeling sick, so I decided to—”

“Get yourself in here now, Simms. You have a job to do.”

The door crashed shut and Simms turned and gave Henson a knowing look. “You were saying?”

Henson looked away and Simms sighed. He shoved his chair back, edged his way through the bustle around him, and went through the office door without knocking.

“It's a helluva place,” said Chesterton, leaning back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly. Before him, he'd laid out a large map of the Territories. “That's why I chose you. You know what it's like.”

“I've never been to Utah.”

“No, but you've served, and with some distinction so I understand. You know how to survive and the only way we're going to get the good General's daughter back is by cutting across that hellhole and tracking her down.” He pointed to the map. “Most of it is uncharted, although there is the trail, of course. Nevertheless, you'll need wits, skill and a large helping of luck.”

“I'm not a tracker, sir. I can shoot, I can fight, I can lay down in a hole and stay there for three days without moving, but I'm no tracker.”

“Then find yourself someone who is. I hear there's a lot of Indians out there.”

“There's a lot of everything out there. And some of those Indians are mean. They hate us.”

“Yes, but as you say, you're a survivor. Three days in a hole might be just the thing. Listen,” he came forward, planting his arms on the desk, covering the map, and peered straight into Simms's eyes. “I'm not going to lie to you; this is one of the toughest assignments we've had, but if we are to make any headway in this business, we need something to grab the headlines, shake up the powers-that-be in Washington. They sent two Federal Marshalls over there, and they never came back. Disappeared.”

“Perhaps they got lost.”

Chesterton shook his head. “No. Their bodies were eventually found by some settlers, who took 'em back to Laramie. Pegged out in the dirt they were, roasted black by the sun, their cocks stuffed in their mouths.”

“Nice.”

“Mr. Pinkerton met with the President.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. Simms remained stoic and Chesterton sighed. “The President was convinced by Mr. Pinkerton's assertion that we are the finest law-enforcement agency there is, and only we could deliver. Consequently, we've been given the assignment, Simms, and you are the man for the job. You'll travel over to Wyoming, which I think is the furthest west you can go from here, then make your way across the Territories until you find her.”

“And if she's dead?”

“The remit is to find her. Nobody said anything about finding her either dead or alive.”

“I need men, sir. At least three.”

Chesterton shook his head. “Can't spare 'em. Nor can the government. Seems it's ugly over there, Simms, talk of a war. Them Mormons…” He shook his head. “Brigham Young has got a cracker up his ass about folk over at Bridger selling whiskey to the Indians. He might be right, but it's leading to all sorts of conflict. That's the place you're going to Simms. A war zone.”

“And to think I was actually contemplating taking today off.”

“I'd have hauled you in anyway.” Chesterton opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small wooden box, which he flipped open, extracted a cigar and rolled it under his nose.

Simms frowned and stood up. He felt very tired all of a sudden. “I'll get my things together. “

“You do this right, Simms. I don't want to see you back in this office without the girl, you get me? Randall is a national hero and those bastards who took his daughter, they need dealing with. You understand?”

“So, it's a rescue and assassination mission?”

“Phrase it however you want, just get it done.”

He threw the box back into his drawer, leaned back and put a match to the cigar. He sucked on it furiously.

“You need to cut it,” suggested Simms, “in order to smoke it.”

Chesterton's eyes narrowed. “Just get the fuck out of my office, you pompous bastard.”

Simms did just that.

Sometime later, Simms waited in the rain at the main ticket office, whilst the clerk behind the grill tapped his teeth with a pencil as he trailed a finger down a printed piece of paper. He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and appeared miserable. “Sorry, sir, there is nothing that gets you even close. Fort Laramie is about the nearest, but then you'd have to either board another train to Fort Bridger, or get a stage, if there is one. I doubt it though. It's a fairly wild place, mister. Lots of trouble over there, with Mormons and the like.” He looked up, “Either way, it'll be up to you, but I reckon your best bet would be to get yourself a horse at Bridger. If it's still there, of course. You never can tell in this day and age.”

Simms sighed, chewed his thoughts around for a moment, and finally put a five-dollar bill on the small counter. “Fort Laramie will be just fine.”

The official wrote out the ticket and slid it under the grill, together with a few coins in change. Simms folded the ticket and put it away under his coat. He turned, looking to the sky, the clouds heavy and leaden, the rain well set for the rest of the day.

He wondered if it would be raining where he was headed.

Somehow, he doubted it, but he knew a lot worse things than rain waited for him out in the Territory.

Three

He slept most of the way, the rhythmic movement of the train helping him rest, oblivious to the rolling landscape, the changing scenery, the weather gradually growing brighter, and much hotter. When the train lurched and slowed down, he stirred and found himself sitting opposite two grizzled old men swathed in black coats, faces covered with tangled beards, their stares disturbingly piercing. Simms stretched and pressed his face against the window, anxious to gain his bearings. He saw nothing he recognized so he turned hopefully to the men opposite. “Do either of you two gentlemen know where we are?”

A passenger across the aisle leaned forward. “They don't understand you, sir. They're French.”

Simms frowned, looked from the passenger back to the two Frenchmen. He sighed, shot the man a glance. “Do you know where we are?”

“Moving through Nebraska, but the line stops in about ten or so miles.”

“It does?” Simms shuffled uncomfortably in the hard seat. “I thought it went as far as Fort Laramie?”

“Well, if the line reaches that far, I doubt it'll be this train. Best ask at the station when we get there. Perhaps there is some sort of connecting service.”

Simms nodded and studied the other passenger. He was well-dressed in a brown, tweed suit, brogue tan shoes and a Derby hat sat by his side. Clean-shaven, middle-aged, he looked every inch a city banker, or someone similar. “Name's Nathaniel Constantine,” he said, prompted by Simms's gaze, and thrust out his hand.

“Please to meet you,” said Simms, shaking the man's hand. The grip was dry, firm. “My name is Simms. I'm making my way to Utah, to meet up with some business associates.”

“Ah, yes.” Constantine nodded knowingly. “Some fine opportunities out there, so I understand. I'm in the poultry business myself, looking to establish a network of chicken farms in this area. My company is assured of success, given the number of people now settling in and around the Territory. What business might you be in?”

Simms remained calm. He'd never suspected he might need a cover story. “Livery. For the Government. I'm instructed to buy horses for the Army.”

“Ah, that'll be because of the trouble brewing in Utah. Yes, we've all heard about that. Nasty business.”

“Yes indeed.” Simms shifted his gaze to take in the view through the carriage window. The sun beat down on an endless plain, punctuated by rocky outcrops but little else, the distant hills forming a backdrop to the vista. “It sure looks dry.”

“Oh, it is. It hasn't rained for days, even weeks. Some say if it continues, crops might fail. Settlers will be in for a hard season.”

“Doesn't bode well for your chickens.” Simms twisted around to see Constantine's expression faltering.

“Well… they do say the situation is far worse in Colorado. People are starving, so I hear. Perhaps they might move back once they hear of my company's plan.”

“You could be right,” Simms said and forced a smile. The two Frenchmen were no longer staring. Both had pulled their hats over their eyes and were sleeping. Simms settled himself into his seat and tried to do the same.

He sprang up, roused by a violent shaking of his shoulder. Constantine loomed over him, flashing his grin. “We're here, Mr. Simms. I wish you well in your endeavors.”

Grunting, Simms stood up, reaching up to the rack where his portmanteau waited. “Thank you. You too, Mr. Constantine.”

He noted the Frenchmen were no longer there. With a grunt he pulled down his case and made his way out onto the platform.

The heat hit him like a wall, forcing him to stop on the bottom step. He took a moment before striding across the wooden platform to the tiny office. The locomotive sizzled and snorted behind him, other passengers drifting away. He saw Constantine talking to a man beside a rickety-looking carriage, pulled by the thinnest, most moth-eaten mule he thought he'd ever seen. This place was certainly in the doldrums, he mused, and went straight to the ticket booth.

From within the booth, a tired weasel of a man sauntered up to the grill. He looked hot, close to death, gnarled hands running across his brow.

“I need to get to Fort Bridger,” said Simms without preamble, “or as close as I can get.”

“We do have a train to Fort Laramie,” the little man wheezed, “but it only calls once every two weeks.” He pulled a face. “You missed it by three days.”

“Once every two weeks?” Simms blew out his cheeks, swiveled around on his heels and surveyed the surroundings. “Is there a stage?”

“Sometimes. Best going into town…”

“And buying myself a horse. Yes, I've heard all that. Thanks.”

“…best going into town and asking at the hardware store. Man there name of Buster Norwich owns a half share in the local stagecoach. He's the man to ask.”

“Where will I find this hardware store?”

“It's on the main drag. You can't miss it.”

Simms doffed his hat, hefted his portmanteau, and drifted away.

It took him five or more minutes to stroll towards the town. It was a mixed bag of weather-beaten, rundown stores and hotels, and newer, fresher looking cattle association offices. He moved through the almost-deserted main street, aware of people's stares, and spotted the hardware store at the far end. As he moved closer, he noticed a man standing next to the doorway, arms folded, appearing bored. He studied Simms's approach for a few moments before turning and disappearing inside.

Simms paused and took another look around the street. Very few bystanders remained. A slight tickle played around the nape of his neck, the same sort which always manifested itself when he was about to go into action. With a growing sense of unease, he clumped across the sidewalk and went inside the store. A tiny bell shrilled to announce his entrance. Simms took a moment to survey the interior. The single room was a jumble of every conceivable type of merchandise available for settlers, builders, cow-herders, perhaps even bounty-hunters, because there were guns. Lots of them. He wandered over to a rack of smooth bore muskets, together with a choice offering of rifled carbines. He picked one up, worked the mechanism.

From the corner of his eye, Simms spotted the man who had stood in the doorway, coming through a beaded curtain behind a large counter. Gruff looking, massive shoulders, ruby-red face, he coughed. Simms, making as if this was the first inkling he had of the man's entrance, stiffened slightly and turned. He hefted the carbine. “Nice piece.”

The man glared. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Simms returned the carbine to its place and crossed to the counter. He took off his hat. “I hear there might be a stage to Fort Laramie?”

“You just got in off the train.” Simms nodded. “Well, about the stage, you heard wrong.”

“Oh. I understood you—”

“Are you buying?”

“No, I want to get to Fort Laramie. I was hoping you'd be able to—”

“If you ain't buying, I'll be asking you to leave.”

Simms rocked back on his heels, blew out a silent whistle. “Mister, I'm not here to cause trouble. I have business in Laramie and need to get there. I was informed, by the good man at the railroad station, that you ran a stage. I'm merely asking—”

“Stage hasn't run out of here for over six months, mister. Too much nonsense in the Territories. If you're aiming to head for Laramie, my suggestion is to buy a horse.”

“And where might I do that?”

“'Round back.” He jerked his thumb towards the rear of the building. “There's a livery stable there. They'll give you a good offer for a horse and rig. Also, where you're going, you'll need firearms.”

Simms nodded, unbuttoned his coat and pushed it away to reveal the pistols already holstered around his person.

Buster Norwich, or so Simms assumed the man to be, studied the guns, smirked, then turn his head, hawked and spat on the floor. “Damned bounty-hunters. Your business in Laramie got something to do with taking a few scalps, trading off some innocents for desperadoes? Jesus, you make me sick.” He reached under the counter and brought up a shotgun, barrels sawn off. But if he had a desire to use the weapon, or merely to intimidate, he did not get very far. Before he could bring the impressive firearm to bear, Simms pulled out the Colt Dragoon at his hip and rapped the barrel hard across the big man's nose, sending him screaming and squirming to the ground, collapsing into the well-stocked shelves behind him. The suddenness and weight of his fall brought down a profusion of cans, bottles and paper bags, filled with an assortment of flour and maize, around his head.

Simms holstered his revolver, returned to the rifle rack and lifted out the carbine he'd been looking at. Recognizing it from his War days, Simms hefted the weapon in his hands. An Eighteen-forty-three model, Halls breechloading carbine. A fine gun. Grinning, he vaulted the counter, and scraped around, searching for cartridges. He found a small carton, only half-full of ready-made paper cartridges, and dropped them into his pocket. He kicked the shotgun away well out of reach, stomped his foot into the writhing man's groin for good measure, and went through the beaded curtain, carbine in hand.

The rear door yawned wide open. Beyond it, Simms could just make out a battered old barn, surrounded on two sides by a makeshift fence. A broken cart lay next to the entrance. He did not step closer so the angle from which he looked obscured most of the details, but he could see enough to realize this was no livery stable. A miserable attempt to waylay him, perhaps, with Norwich's associates standing just out of sight, waiting.

He turned and went back into the shop. He stooped down beside Norwich and put the end of the barrel under the squirming man's chin. “You aiming to kill me, boy?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Norwich, eyes cloudy with tears, blabbed, shaking his head. “Please,” was all he managed.

“How did you know I was coming?”

To lend some weight to his question, he pushed the barrel deeper into Norwich's thick throat. He gagged. “Seamus.”

“And who is he?”