Riders on the Storm
Prologue'Hell' is the only word to describe what your life can turn into when your horse has a better trip to Tucson than you do. That's the position my brother and I found ourselves in when we had to ship his stallion and my gelding the day before we were supposed to leave Yuma. But as usual, I've started in the middle instead of at the beginning of the tale.
My name is Bart Maverick. I'm the younger, and dare I say, better looking, of a pair of brothers. Not just any-old-pair, mind you. We are the best poker playing brothers that Texas has ever loosed on the American West. Oh yeah, the other guy – my brother Bret. Older by one year and five months. And he never lets me forget it.
I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Bret is what the ladies might refer to as 'drop-dead-gorgeous'. That, in my opinion, is a tad excessive. He IS good-looking. And charming. And suave. And he has those dimples. But I definitely have the better sense of humor. If you like that sort of thing. Most of the ladies I meet do.
Anyway, we'd just spent way more time in Yuma, Arizona than we had any intention of spending and, as usual, we were banged up, beat up and all around worn out. And we found ourselves in a conundrum. There was room on today's train for the horses, but not for us. There was room on tomorrow's train for us, but not the horses. So we sent Blackthorn (his stallion) and Noble (my gelding) on the train first, with strict instructions to the livery in Tucson about how the two of them were to be treated. And we spent the last night in the Yuma hotel, which is where we were staying when we started the little adventure we had that involved the corrupt marshal, the crooked mayor, three land-hungry cattle breeders, and a sweet young lady named Molly Hooper.
I should also tell you, Bret's left arm was in a sling, with stitches in his shoulder to close a bullet wound, and I was walking with crutches, having been shot in the right calf (also with stitches). See? Banged up. Which is why the horses were taking the train, rather than us taking the horses.
Back to Bret-the-older. His shoulder was just beginning to feel like he might be able to use it again sometime in this life, which had severely hindered his poker playing ability up until now. I didn't have the same problem, since I don't play poker with my legs. Thank God. But it was time to go and, after some discussion, we'd picked Tucson as our destination. Things started out fine; we had an excellent breakfast, made the train with plenty of time to spare, and were looking forward to a pleasant, restful trip in relative comfort. Which lasted until we got to a town named Why, Arizona and the train decided to go on strike.
Now we had a decision to make. We could wait for two or three days (in a town named Why) or we could take the stage on to Tucson. Something you need to know about both of us – when we decide to leave, we want to go right now. So waiting two, three, or more days in a town not even big enough to have a saloon was completely out of the question. Not that we needed the main part of what a saloon offered – liquor. Neither one of us drinks. But after playing ranch foreman for some months (another story, and one that's already been told), we did need a poker game. At least I needed a poker game. You can see the reason for wanting to leave Why. We opted for the stage coach.
And that's how the horses came to have a better trip to Tucson than Bret and I had. Hindsight is, of course, what you wish you had before you did something rather than after, and if we'd had it we would have sat in our lovely hotel room in Why and waited for the train to be repaired. Then I wouldn't have this charming little tale to tell you of murder, mayhem, poker, stage coach travel, highway robbery, monsoon season, and Tucson.