We're Loyal
Chapter One
It was still morning, as the clock above the desk clearly stated, but it was drawing close enough to noontime that those who lived and worked at the ranch decided that the morning work was done, to return to the house for a meal, only to put muscle and might back into the work in the afternoon.
Three men on horseback, not caring what any clock or watch stated, rode as silently as their mounts could walk down the slope to the Sherman ranch house. Once stopped at the hitching rail, the leader stayed on horseback, the only part of his body that showed any type of movement was his eyes as they roamed back and forth searching his surroundings. The other two men dismounted without a command to do so, each knowing their duties before their feet even hit dirt. One entered the house, the other with a swift run towards the barn, but both returned a moment later with the declaration that the place was vacant. It was perfect for their plans, as if the men who belonged at the house had agreed to the arrangement before the day began.
Lowering himself from his horse, the man in charge, gray haired and weathered, but not weakened in stealth and stature, gave instructions for their mounts to be stashed behind the barn as he stepped into the house, looking at everything as if he was assessing the room for its value. The three of them had been there before, but never stepped inside until now. The interior was as he would have expected it, without frills or finery, but every inch held the mark of a strong-willed man, or two.
He sat down in a chair, rocking silently as he waited for the two others to join him. When the door opened he smiled, his scruffy beard bending with the action as he knew they'd just gone passed the first step of their quest. He pointed to the window and with a firm nod, one man placed himself there to watch and with a jerk of his thumb towards the kitchen, the other man took quick steps to fill the doorway with his frame. With both sets of eyes on the incoming roadway, the man rested his head back on the chair and folded his arms over his chest. It felt good to be in this position, not just to say that he could relax, but that he was ready. They were all ready, now they just had to wait. At that moment, the hands on the clock ticked its last movement, coming together at the number twelve.
"Coming," the single word came from the man that rested his knee on the couch under the window, his pistol being clutched with his hand.
"How many?" The leader continued to rock in the chair, not even turning his head towards the one who'd spoke.
"One," the reply somehow seemed shorter than the single syllable word.
"Which one?" This brought a bearded face towards the one doing the observing.
"Can't tell from this distance," the eyes squinted, but the sunlight was bright, so the features remained unrecognizable.
Outside of that window, in a perfectly straight line aiming towards the house, the single rider steadily rode. His blue eyes that were focused on the familiar sight in front of him showed no concern, as there wasn't any indication that anything was abnormal in his vision. He was always looking for signs of trouble, as it just came naturally for those that lived in the western wilds of the Wyoming Territory to do so, but there wasn't any way he could see what waited inside of the house for him. He rode alone, for the man he called partner and friend had been away from the ranch for the past three days, leaving the ranch duties on his firm shoulders. He could handle it alone, but he could never say he liked it that way.
The rider pulled to a stop and dismounted, his hands going to his holster to straighten the gun that he wore at his hip. It had to feel just right, always, even if he was alone, because a life could depend on that gun. He gave a gentle rub to his faithful horse, and then with even strides, he glided onto the front porch, his features now fully evident to the ones watching from inside. He was scrutinized with eyes of hatred, but the remainder of the surroundings that saw his presence on an almost daily basis always viewed him with much more admiration.
His frame was what some would note as perfect. From the hat that rested on his sometimes untamed locks all the way down to the dusty boots, the man's body was strong enough to fight with the toughest ruffians but gentle enough to dance with the fairest maidens. His shoulders were solid, that underneath his faded work shirt showed his firmly shaped muscles that bulked with a simple act of flexing or under the strain of heavy labor. His chest, with smooth lines that cut down to a trim waist, often begged to be exposed through an unbuttoned shirt or left completely bare for the sunlight to turn the skin a sensual golden brown. His evenly proportioned hips were clad with form fitting jeans and covered with a pair of worn chaps that swished around his legs as he walked, with steps that were always in a steady stride, with feet that were forever in a pair of dirty, well-worn boots.
The man had a tingle race down his backbone and his grip should have paused on the doorknob, but his gloved hand opened the door, far away from the gun that would have protected him. When his foot touched the inside of the house, two different pairs of hands came alongside of the doorway and grabbed him tight, throwing him to the ground, face first to the floor.
