just a another western man

[Peredhil]

She stood to her full five feet tall and stared up at him firmly. "I will not lose another husband to a gunfight. I don't care about your masculine pride or what anyone thinks. If you can't promise me that, I'll die a lonely old woman."

He looked down, bemused, at her earnest declaration, already a widow and old maid at twenty-three. The Great War between the States had left many widows. "I reckon I won't be tolerating no disrespect to no women of mine," he advised. Her eyes flashed and her bosom heaved as she prepared to reject him. No back-up in her, probably a good thing, he thought wryly, that she wasn't the gunfighter her dead beau had fancied himself. He placed a calloused finger gently on her lips, silencing her in surprise - for the moment. "But I reckon we kin work something out that will settle right for you."

 

They married, the fierce wildcat of his heart and the tall sloop-shouldered quiet man, hair piled high and hair slicked back with water. She'd been dated and all were baffled at her choice, but she had his word and knew the value of it, in matters great or small. She'd never hold her man, down in the dust, bullet gnawing at his vitals and him trying not to cry from the lead rat gnawing at his guts as he bled out in front of her, his opponent tipping their hat politely and strolling away -

No.

And in his arms, she felt safe.

 

They traveled out western, with his bit of money saved during what they now called the Civil War, nothing civil about it, and in each other's arms they had only love and no nightmares. They nearly lost their horses to a night raid of Comanche, young warriors more interested on counting coup to impress the maids than killing anyone. Killing was fine, but it brought out the blue coats and the older men frowned and muttered. She loaded as he fired, slow, methodical shots in the starlight that always just missed, giving the braves the time of their life but not starting something that would require avenging. The only shot that hit was on an out-stretched hand toward the oddly placid draw-horses, a team of four large, that reacted to the loud shots, puma screams, and whooping yells not at all. The shot took away a pinkie finger, and he would proudly accept the name Little Hawk with Missing Claw and think it all fine great fun, being consoled by sloe-eyed maidens as he healed.

 

They came to rim-rock country in Texas. He mucked out a spring until it flowed clear and cold, and built spreader dams in arroyos and gullies, and she was right beside him at all times, helping when she could, fixing him vittles or coffee when she couldn't, but always in sight. Their rawhide cabin burned a few times when they were away, casual statements of intent from passing Apaches that they weren't unaware, but they rebuilt each time. He was more intent on building the land than the cabin just yet. He carried a short gun for snakes, but it usually had a thong on it to keep it in the holster. It was the long rifle that was always in reach, either in his hands or carried by her, a comical sight seeing as it was a good foot and half taller than she. But she carried it with the fierce pride of her Scots ancestors and he recalled the songs around the cattle drive fires, singing of warrior queens and wondered.

 

When another civilized man came to the country, driving in with three wagons and many tough men driving a small herd of cattle, he left his short gun and wife in the brush while he rode in to talk. He had nothing against greasers, and spoke the language well, a legacy of travels in his youth, and had some Maderia he'd packed away for just such an occasion. By night-fall, the Vaqueros had slaughtered a steer and the Don with the waxed mustache and fierce eyes was paying polite homage to his wife, and they'd negotiated friendship, respect, and most importantly, territory. Knowing the pride of hospitality, he had no hesitation in leaving his wife to their protection while he rode out the next morning, deeply troubled at seeing her heart in her throat and her pain at parting, but it was time to negotiate with the true owners of the land.

 

Driving a few steers he'd bought with a real gold coin, he rode right up to the Apache camp by nightfall, he and they both pretending that they hadn't known he was coming. These who lived the land and knew the snake's movement and the hawk's flight. They knew him, and he knew them and he'd chosen this land carefully. With halting tongue, he addressed them in their own language, called them horse thieves and dogs, offered the steers to the old men and challenged the young men to fight, fist, wrassle, or gun. After he'd thumped and been thumped, root-hog and eye-gouge and lost at bow but won a rifle contest against the finest guerrilla fighters in the world, who only respected strength and skill, they sat down to talk. He provided cigars for the chiefs and tobaccy for the rest and they drank cactus whiskey that made his eyes water and his throat hoarse.

 

When he rode back into the Don's camp, she ran out and caught her foot in his stirrup and he swung her up and kissed her right there, unshaven and red-eyed and scabbed, and didn't the Vaqueros throw them big sombreros and sound loud, them loving romance and each thinking of a gal left back home!

 

But the Apaches took only what cattle they needed for food, and too proud to take much, and hired on during cattle round-up and didn't they know where them mossy-horned old ones liked to hide, and they could ride or, on a bet, they proved they could out-run a horse, a good horse, over a day's race, and the horse pushed 'til it died. The Vaquero laughed and gave the horse to the victor, who cooked it and offered the meat and another friendship was started, and the Apaches had access to the water-holes and springs and didn't burn the cabin any more, so he built it hog-tight and bull-strong for his wife.

 

The Calvary came in a few years later, and her thirty-one still looked twenty-three, he'd swear on a stack of bibles, but the tan brought her freckles out and she thought she didn't look like a real lady, but did when she looked into his eyes. A drunk Apache tried to kiss her at the spring one time, but he snaked out a loop and trussed him up like a calf, and let her lead the horse as they delivered him back to the council, and she learned that what he'd said was truly true, they did know how to laugh and their smiles were like quick summer lightning, hot and fierce, as they took and teased the brave.

 

With the Calvary comes civilization and creature comforts for the yellow-legs, the gamblers and whores and toughs and whiskey that follows a military base. But there were catalogs and a telegraph and mail-order, just off a day's ride across the rimrock and she was pining to have lace curtains.

 

So they came to town, the bright woman on an Indian paint pony and the slope-shouldered grey-haired man with dark eyes on the big dun. Heads turned and the attention had her preening and smiling to all. And his eyes got careful and watchful and he turned in the saddle often to look behind him. There was a real mercantile, with a Sears and Roebuck catalog, and he got the banker and established credit, carefully counting out five golden double-eagles with milled edges, and noted how the banker's hands were suddenly trembling and sweating, but they signed their marks and he signed his and she signed hers in a proud bold hand, for she was an educated woman. And she browsed the store and men came and peered through the windows and even a painted lady came and looked in at her. And he keep his back toward a wall, but not against it because a .45 will go straight through six inches of pine wood and these walls weren't thick.

 

They spent the night outside town, camping out, content in each others arms, and she chattered quietly but joyously and he was content. That there were some seeking their camp he heard and she didn't, and he slept lightly that night.

 

Next morning they went in and picked up their parcels, and a young bravo, seeing he had no gun, opened his mouth and asked her how much for a kiss. She flushed red and kicked him in the shin, and thought he looked funny hopping there, his pride was pricked, and he started to draw but realized it were a woman and he'd be hung before the day was out so he paused in confusion.

Which was when he hit the boy, knocking him back, gun flying and legs sprawling, and advised the boy that he might want to clean up his mouth when a lady was present.

And the boy was swearing vengeance and telling him to be wearing a gun if he ever came back, calling him a coward, and his promise was in her eyes and his nod to her as they rode away.

 

To the north, opposite the rim-rock country because he wasn't going to leave a plain trail. And behind them a boy with a gun brooded, and I guess if you're old enough to carry a gun and ride a horse, you're a man after all.

 

The month went by and it was time to go pick up her orders and she didn't want him to go, it was in her eyes, but she didn't say a word. And he didn't want her to come, but it was in her eyes, and he didn't say no word neither, having been married that long at least.

 

They were country careful, cutting and doubling trail and riding through soft sand and over hard rock and while an Apache could've followed at a run, few white men would. And they slipped into town and were there when the store opened. And when the banker heard they were in town, he came over special and greeted them, and on his way out gave a wave, which he hadn't down last time. So over protests, they slipped out the back door and went around in time to see the store keeper outside talking to a group of young men, and the banker looking out his barred window with hot eyes, and he was standing tall with his rifle in hand and she was at his side and his quiet "Hello boys, looking for someone" cut through the air and it was awfully quiet all the sudden.

 

His rifle bucked against his hand, one handed, the other still holding hers, and a holster fell to the ground, the owner turned and staggering at the impact and the others suddenly awful careful of where their hands were and looking a bit sick.

 

"Might want to know I were a sharp-shooter for Sherman in the War. I ain't got nothing about sitting down and shooting some damned fool with a bufferlo gun from over a mile away. Made me a promise some years ago to this here lady or you'd all be already dead. Just so you know."

 

And they rode away, north, and she decided she'd rather deal with a drunk Apache than civilization and he smiled quietly. But they had their parcels and he was content, and he'd kept his word and she was content. And a few hours later, he shot all four of the men trying to follow them, one being the banker, and she didn't say nary a word, cause that was their deal.

Edited June 16, 2009 by Peredhil
all them thar gawd-awful spelling and grammar errors.

[Katzaniel]

Very nice. I'm impressed how the voice changes from other stories of yours I've read: the long sentences, more than the speech and wording changes, made the mood for me.

 

I was a little confused by the third-last paragraph, but I'm not sure why. Once I figured it out it makes perfect sense and I can de-understand it.

 

Anyway, I liked it.

[Quincunx]

Same as Katzaniel, but I'm enough of a non-gun-owner to trace it; somehow the long rifle sticks in the memory where the short-barreled snake gun doesn't--the rifle contest with the Apaches intervenes--and with that long barrel in the mind of a non-gun-owner, it doesn't work so well to imagine a rifle being drawn and fired one-handed. Is that possible? You left no doubt as to his skill with it.

 

But the flavor of this--my goodness, the phrases handled with perfect understanding even when the reader doesn't, the periods scattered like loose pebbles to slow down the reading to the pace of a wilderness thought!

[Peredhil]

*blush* I'm so glad you said something about this; I'd forgotten I wrote it at a dead run, wishin' to get it down before it fled my head. Fixed the worst of the spelling and grammar.

 

Saw a trick shoot holding his rifle barrel pointing to the dirt, talking to the audience. He turned and the barrel came up as his hand was the fulcrum and he fired it, bam bam, and two cans went flying. I guess the sight stuck with me.

[Quincunx]

Ah! That's what it looks like, like the rifle is an extension of the arm! Silly cloistered suburban existence and general lack of gunnery.