There's a Road Going There
Chapter One
He didn't know what had hit him. Well, he did after a few shakes of his head.
The sting against his jaw made the pronouncement loud enough, even if his mind had continued to flip a book of blank pages in front of him. It had been a fist, but not just any fist, for this one had been seasoned by years of experience and could knock a man out with one swing. He had seen it coming, expected its harsh jab, but once it hit, all the preparation he put in his stance to hold him steady went through the floor, similarly to where his body would find its rest. The smack of balled knuckles as loud as his grunt that spoke of the wind whooshing out of his lungs, he lost his feet as he was circled by air, his back slapping against the wall his harsh stop. And then like the slow stream of pouring molasses out of a bottle, he had slid to the floor, his body in a dull wait for the light to be separated from the darkness. Once the blinking of his eyes matched the patting of his cheeks, the question mark dangled above him, but it would get quickly tossed aside for another distinct point, that of exclamation, even if the heated words didn't shoot past his teeth.
"Take another, Slim." Jonesy leaned over him, the whiskey sloshing in the bottle that he held.
The blue eyes had to crash back into a close, for seeing the sway of the liquid made more than his head move, but shook his innards hard enough that he might lose the first swig of medicinal purposes that he had already downed.
"No," Slim said, pushing the bottle away with his hand, yet careful to not take the older man's arm with it. "Just help me up."
"That boy sure's got a whopper of a punch," Jonesy said, capping the bottle before putting a hand around Slim's arm, the hoist upward done with a duo of guttural grunts as the largest height was reached. "Lotta practice, I'd say."
"They light out?" Slim asked, needing the aid of his hand gripping the back of the rocking chair to keep him steered in the direction of the door, for his legs had the resemblance of jelly as he walked.
"Yup," Jonesy answered, the shake of his head going into his words. "Took off without a single look back by either of them. I thought Andy had better sense and knew how to use it properly. A drifter."
"Not just any drifter," Slim said, wanting to insert a stream of spit to slap the floorboards instead of saying the man's name aloud, but refraining from adding a blob of soiling to his house, he did neither. "He's a smoking, gambling, out-of-his-luck, no-good…"
"Just stick with the short version, Slim. Drifter. Easier on your sore head."
"I'll call him more than that when I catch up with them." Slim swung the door wide, his eyes immediately stretching up the green hillside where the horses were grazing. It was minus one. Andy had taken off on his own horse. He shook his head and then his look spanned the entire horizon with one large sweep. "You see which way they went?"
"No, but when he first rode up, he wanted to know what was west of here, so I'd say that way."
"Yeah, he mentioned heading west when I ran into him too. But would he take that obvious route? He's going to know I'm coming after them."
"Probably. Right now I'd suspect he doesn't care, just as long as he's riding."
"With my brother along for the run." Slim slammed the door shut, his hand touching the gun at his side, knowing that he would need more than just what rested against his hip to start the pursuit.
He went to the bedroom, the boxes of ammunition coming out of their drawer to fill his hand, and as he moved with reckless haste to drop them to the dinner table, a handful of cartridges slipped through the slight opening that was the top of the box and landed on the floor. The mutter not loud enough to be heard, Slim went to his knee, his fingers packing his palm with each one, but with a clatter they would return to the ground, as something more important would find his clasp. A distinct step landed against the porch, the handle in a definite turn, and Slim poised his body, ready to blow a particular face in two, but it was a far different expression looming through the door.
"You look like you're ready for action." The man's mouth spread apart into a wide grin as his eyebrows rose up into the rolling lines of his forehead. "Too bad I'm going to break it up. I'm Bud Carlin. Me and my friends are hungry. What's for dinner?"
Was there anything on the stove? Slim had to look at Jonesy for the confirmation. Although it was merely passed from one gaze to another, Slim received the message that the stew was hot, but if there would be any pie left after feeding—there went the hesitation to think his name again— him, that would remain stuck in the unknown. Slim took a step backward to avoid the direct shove from Carlin's hand as he strode to the kitchen, the outlaw's smile reaching its widest mark a second time when he checked the fixings. There obviously was still pie left in the tin.
Slim's eyes stayed on Carlin as he removed a plate from the stack and then gave it a wipe with his sleeve. Even if it would have been pulled out of the pile of dirty dishes, it would have been cleaner than before his arm spread across its front. The blue that had steadily grown in intensity was shifted away from the leading outlaw when a man bearing a rifle removed Slim's sidearm, the shade deepening further as Slim followed the iron to where it was placed on the table. Slim's eyes might have remained locked on its position as a dare, a prompt, a tempt, or whatever he might have called what was hammering between his temples, but Carlin was quick with his own stare, catching Slim's thoughts before they could be put into action.
"Your ideas are showing, and they're not very smart."
Slim's gaze shifted back to the outlaw, his frown hard, and it wouldn't have taken much out of Carlin's imagination for him to know what else resided in Slim's thoughts. But he would let some of them lay still for now. There might have been one less under his care at the moment, but this was no time for a heroic act that could get a bullet lodged in his flesh, or worse.
"The stagecoach," Carlin began, his manners, if he ever had proper ones, were pushed aside as he stuffed the contents of his fork into his mouth, the swallow not complete before he continued. "Once it comes into sight, how long does it take before it gets here?"
"Long enough."
"Hmm. Trying to be clever, are you? That'll only get you a bruise on the other side of your face."
Carlin stuck his empty fork in the air, tapping it toward Slim's jaw, but the jab was stopped before it made contact with skin. "You run into a wall or something?"
He wasn't far off. "Something like that."
"Better be careful, because it could happen again. Now, about the stagecoach. Once it comes into sight, how long does it take to get here?"
"No more than three minutes."
Carlin pulled a watch from his pocket, the frown forming as he checked the time. "It was supposed to be here by three-thirty. It's late."
"We got behind ourselves, Bud," one of Carlin's boys said, scraping the last of the stew off of his plate. "You worried or something?"
"If the stage is late getting to Laramie, they might send a posse to check it out," he answered, his voice grating along the edge of a snap. Setting his dish down on the table he reached for the bottle and popped the cork. "Glad I don't have to ask for whiskey since it's already out. One of you the sauce sipper?"
"I am," Jonesy lied. Watching the liquid flow down Carlin's throat, he gave a nod toward the window. "I keep more in the barn. Want me to go get it?"
"There might be a horse in the barn, too, Paul Revere. Now how would it be if I let you ride out and cry aloud who's coming? So tell me, Paul, how long does the stagecoach stay parked out front?"
"Long enough," Jonesy replied, copying Slim's answer, although out of Jonesy's throat it came out more dryly.
"Trying to be funny will only add a knot to your head, Paul."
The kitchen door gave its usual creak during its open and close, bringing in the burly version of Carlin's sidekicks. "Hey, Bud, Matt's out back. Says one of the horses is throwing a shoe. Should he fix it or can he come in and eat?"
"I'll take care of it. I'd like to take a look around anyway," Carlin said, tucking the bottle into his pocket before stepping up to Slim and Jonesy. "I need one of you to shoe that horse, the other to be ready to swap teams when the stage arrives. Who's going to volunteer for what?"
"I'll shoe the horse," Slim said quickly, his eyes unblinking as he thought of the guns in the barn, but unfortunately, just like before, Carlin saw right into his thoughts.
"I don't like eager men." Carlin shrugged, his eyes hanging onto Slim's frame to try to catch his reaction. "You just might have an idea in that blonde head of yours. Like maybe a rifle ready to grab? Paul Revere will do the shoeing and you'll handle the team. And in case there is an idea in that blonde head of yours, know that Paul here will bite the dust if you put the wrong thought in motion. That clear?"
"It is."
"All right. Get moving, Paul. That horse isn't going to shoe itself you know. You come too, so I don't have to worry about what you're thinking."
Slim followed Jonesy and Carlin out of the house, but with a gun not far from his back, his trail didn't go all the way into the barn with them. He knew Jonesy wouldn't go for the guns that were kept in the rear corner, but Slim's rifle was close enough to being in plain sight that the temptation could have been strong enough to give it a glance. If a single step was taken in its direction, Slim didn't want to know what could happen. But he couldn't see from his vantage point outside of the barn if Jonesy's thoughts were straying from the shoeing so all he could do was stand still and work his hand in and out of a knot.
He heard it the same time that the man behind him did, and Slim looked up, the team taking the bend that was the final corner before the descent to the yard. A blow like this could cost him the franchise.
"Bud, the stage is coming."
"All right, Tall Boy," Carlin said, casting a glance to the hillside as he watched the coach's wheels roll. "That's where you fit in. But remember. There's a gun on Paul every second."
"I'll remember," Slim said, his breath becoming stuck in his chest as Carlin walked into the house and then the air trickled outward when he saw the man's face in the window. Even if he turned he wouldn't have seen the pistol pointed at Jonesy's chest, but he knew Matt held it, and the breath inside of him had another difficult entry and exit as he prepared for the coach to come to a stop. If even one thing went wrong then…
"Whoa!" Frankie pulled hard on the reins as the lead horse was being on the ornery side of persnickety. "Howdy, Slim."
"Frankie." Slim tried to sound upbeat, but the tone couldn't be found.
"Sorry the ride's been rough, Judge," Frankie said, opening the coach's door to the single passenger. "Why don't you get out and stretch your legs? Coffee's in the house."
There wasn't any coffee. The outlaws drank it all. But Slim didn't loosen his tongue to inform the Judge of this. The gun that was on Jonesy didn't need to be fired, it could do just as much harm getting rapped against his skull, and all that needed for it to get raised was one wrong blurb out of his mouth. He would say nothing. At least to Judge Wilkins. Frankie was chatting about something, but what was about to come out of the stage driver's mouth would make Slim feel like it was his head that received a mighty crash.
"Where's Andy?"
"Huh?" Indeed. Where was Andy? He would need to think faster to not get caught up in what was obvious, but right now it was too late. He had to lie. "He's sick."
"Oh, that's too bad," Frankie said, and by his gaze switching toward the house, Slim expected the next thing out of the driver's mouth to inquire further on Andy's condition, but his thoughts were stopped when Carlin strolled out of the house, his jaw quietly at work with the judge. "Who's that?"
Slim couldn't stop his tongue from sliding along his lower lip when he looked at the gun on Frankie's hip, but then like a hot iron was searing into his flesh with the long handle coming from the barn he turned. He couldn't see Jonesy behind the closed door, but he knew the henchman was there, gun in hand with the instruction to pull the trigger if Slim slipped. "No one."
"Looks like he knows the judge," Frankie said with a shrug as he watched the man walk along the judge's side into the house.
"Could be," Slim mumbled, his eyes not far from the two men enter through the front door, although his hands never quit the job that was switching the team. He was finished with the job when the door came back open, but even if Slim's hands weren't idled at the moment, then his whole body would have been completely stilled. Carlin was wearing the judge's coat and hat.
"Dave," Carlin said, his hands wrapping the coat over his protruding holster, but the meaning of Carlin's call didn't click in Slim's brain until it was too late.
"No!" Slim hadn't been the one that was shot, but he felt the slam against his chest all the same. The shotgun rider's body lay lifeless on the soil that bore the Sherman name. He would have rushed to the fallen side, but Carlin was aiming for someone else and another scream was threatening to burst out of his chest.
"You know, Paul, you don't look like a man that's any threat to follow," Carlin said, patting Jonesy's cheek before his laughing eyes switched to Slim, "but him… Dave."
Carlin had threatened to bruise his other cheek. With one swing, it happened, although this time, his skin split, the dribble of blood sliding down to drip into the dirt the moment Slim's body crashed to the earthen floor. With Dave's boots in a straight stomp toward the coach, Slim shook his head, its clanging ring switching to a lion's roar as he made the attempt to bring it upward. A quick return of his eyes to the soil, Slim's lashes lowered, and the remainder of the outlaw's escape took shape through his hearing alone.
The shout coming out of Frankie's mouth, the wheels began to turn behind the team of horses and Bud Carlin rolled away. As Slim turned over, the dizzy lines in a constant wiggle over his eyes, he heard Matt give a talk about his rifle, but the words were just as fuzzy as his vision. He shook his head, the clarity taking a step closer to normalcy when the remaining outlaw rode past his position, and at a second shake, the rotation of the earth quit.
"Second time today," Jonesy said, helping Slim to his feet. "You're not doing so good."
"I don't feel so good, either, but that's not going to get in my way."
"What're you gonna do, Slim?" Jonesy didn't have to say what problems Slim had sitting on both of his sides, as it was just as evident if they were spelled out in red on the ground on his right and left.
"Right now, there's only one thing I can do, even if it makes me feel sick doing it. I'm going to trust Jess Harper." Slim's eyebrows jumped upward as the completion was made through his lips, the surprise going so far as to gaining Jonesy's full attention. So he could say the name without cringing.
"You're going after Carlin?"
"I have to Jonesy. There are a lot of lives on the line with him running on the loose."
"And maybe some of your pride too?"
"No. That went out the door with Harper."
"Shook the hinges some with the slam, too."
How right he was. This being one of those times when Slim couldn't look at the flicker of a smile on Jonesy's face, he began a trot toward the pasture, his words being tossed into the air for the older man to catch from behind. "Get the guns out of the barn, Jonesy."
He did, carrying a handgun in his right and a rifle in his left, the removal of them coming immediately as the two men met at the corral. "You shouldn't be going after them alone, Slim!"
He was in the saddle, pointing toward Laramie as he muttered his reply. "There's nothing I can do to change that."
"Stay wide of that stage if you catch up with it!" His voice projected strong for an aging man, but even if it would have boomed back off of the hill in a prominent echo, Slim didn't pay attention to the warning as he rode away. "Aw, stubborn kid. And he wonders what makes Andy like he is. Can't see that the boy's just a smaller image of himself."
Waiting. It was a tough job, but Jonesy had done it enough times that the only stewing he did anymore was the cooking kind. He left what could have been stirring in his innards alone. Slim knew how to fight. Maybe he wasn't a professional like that Harper fellow, but he had experience, some going so deep that it was carved into his hide. He could give Bud Carlin and his cronies a taste of his own sour medicine, but how could he make each of them taste it? He was only one man. No. Jonesy wasn't going to take his thoughts into the negative area. That would only put another gray hair on his head. And he already had more than he could count up there. But he couldn't just sit still, or he really would turn into worst tasting stew than what was in the pot.
Another stage came in. Along with a passel of gossip to carry to town, the body of the shotgun rider took his last ride to the undertaker's. Despite the back and forth chatter, the stopover that didn't stretch further than fifteen minutes couldn't erase enough time on his watch, and Jonesy was tempted to pace, but that wouldn't be enough action to eliminate more of the hour.
Gathering up the broom, Jonesy swept the floor, pushing every particle of dust that blew in with the young ruffian and the Carlin baddies back to the earthen ground. Jonesy gave the broom more than a necessary count of taps on the edge of the porch to remove any excess from the straw tips and then as he turned, the old man's back bristled. He half expected the Harper hound was returning, already spent of his pup, but the hoof falls were too familiar and Jonesy began to nod. It was Slim. Seeing him round the corner and pull to a halt at the hitching post, the breath of relief was pushed through Jonesy's lips in a silent sigh as he lowered himself into the porch chair.
"Well, I see you made it back in one piece," Jonesy said, shifting his head long enough to give Slim a short glance, but his eyes wouldn't stop roving, the fuller view taking place after his head dropped against his chest. Slim was whole, but that pertained to all that Jonesy could see on the outside, and what was bunched up into wads in his middle was starting to spread outwardly, the haunt already forming shadows under the blue that were his eyes. There was no reason to ask what the changing image was from, but there was reason to blurt out what he didn't yet know. "Carlin dead or jailed?"
"Jailed."
"I'd rather you'd said the opposite."
"I couldn't do much with one gun, Jonesy. A posse from Laramie caught up while I was swapping fire with Carlin and his boys or it might have been a different end to the story. I nailed one, but the others didn't catch a single bullet."
"Well, they'll get a version of it anyway, Slim. They'll be looking out through a string of irons for awhile, until the judge gives them the sunrise sentence."
"Yeah," Slim answered, his voice coming out with a light breath as his eyes focused on the western sky. "Sunset's mostly what I'm thinking about, and getting out on the trail before it gets here."
"That tussle with Carlin did while the hours away, all right. I caught up another horse for you, figuring you'd be ready to head right out again when you came back."
"Thanks, Jonesy. I don't want to think about what the delay could cost me. I only pray that it's nothing more than time."