Hello lovely readers! Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews. We read and appreciate them soooo much. Sorry this is coming out a little bit late, but we're experiencing a little bit of RL fail, so please be patient. We're also nearing the end of our saved up chapters, but we'll endeavor to keep up with regular postings.
For now, thanks to our beta, Sweetthunder, because she makes our chapters awesome. So now please enjoy Westward...
The Marksman
Chapter Four – The Rise of Ward Masen
(This chapter begins where chapter 2 ended)
The darkness hid the plume of dust kicked up by his horse as Ed Cullen rode out of Phoenix. Ed Cullen! That name would soon be on every sheriff's wall and post office bulletin board west of the Mississippi. Ed took a moment to speculate what kind of price they'd put on his head. He snorted a little as he thought cynically that it would probably be as much as Mike Newton's father could put up.
The moon was casting enough of a hazy glow to see the road ahead so Ed rode through the night, finally slowing as the sun was rising above the horizon. He was deep in Apache territory before he pulled his horse up near some bluffs to sit out the hot part of the day. He was sure to lash his horse up well out of view and then move around some tumble weed so that he would be well hidden from the road. Ed didn't want to deal with any travelers, lawmen, or Indians. Not just yet anyhow.
Young Billy had done remarkably well in packing provisions; however, Ed had already bought most of what he needed before that darn fool Newton kid had decided to play quick-draw with the fastest gun in the territory. But Billy had the foresight to hang some extra canteens of water on his saddle. Ed thought about Billy for a minute, still amazed that the kid had succeeded in breaking him out of jail. He snickered a little when he thought about the look on the Sheriff's face when he came in the next morning and discovered an empty cell. He would be sure to remember Billy the kid, he might run into him again when he gets a might bit older. Never could tell when you'd cross paths with someone like that again.
Ed had more than a passing knowledge with this territory and before the sun had risen too far in the sky he had reached his destination. These old ruins had been here long before white men had settled the area, probably even before the Apache had moved in. The huge, stone structure nestled among the cliffs had been carved into the rock by an ancient people hundreds of years ago. Ed had discovered it on one of his trips through the area. It was near Beaver Creek, and provided the perfect place for him to hole up for a few days. While he wouldn't climb the rock face to reach the structure, it overlooked cliffs that would provide adequate shelter. The chances of a posse finding him here were slim to none. Ed could live with those odds. He would rest here for a few days and figure out a strategy for integrating himself back into society before he headed out for Flagstaff.
He tethered his horse by the creek before removing his bedroll, saddlebags, rifle and other items. Then he tugged off the saddle and saddle blanket carried them to a sheltered area under the cliffs. He spread out the bedroll and figured he'd get some shuteye. It sure did seem like a long time since he woke up in that hotel room in Phoenix. It felt more like a week than a day since he had slept in that soft feather bed. And it seemed even longer since that bath. He knocked the dust off his hat and settled it over his face to block the sunlight as he lowered his weary body down on the cool rock slab below the cliff.
When he left the shelter of the cliffs three days later, he left behind the persona of Ed Cullen and put on the mantle of a new identity. Using his razor, he shaved his face clean and cut his hair so that it was more of a floppy mess. He would have to switch out this horse as soon as possible, people in these parts recognized a horse better than a man. Then, using part of his first name and adopting his mother's maiden name, Ward Masen emerged and continued the journey to Flagstaff.
Ward spent the next few months moving from one mining town to the next, picking up card games with the local miners. Since he couldn't use his gun to make a living for a while, gambling was the next best thing. His first stop in Flagstaff was the stables where he traded his horse and made sure to tell the owner he was heading north east, towards Ohio and Canada, anything to put them on the wrong trail.
As much as he wanted things to be different, circumstances rarely allowed life to happen the way he would have preferred. Ward soon discovered that once your existence on this earth was defined by your prowess with a firearm, trouble just had a way of finding you. Trouble caught up to him about three months after he had fled from Phoenix, in a one-mine town called Crown King. Another darned fool with whiskey-inspired courage saw the low-slung gun strapped to his side and had called Ward out. Without even trying, Ward put him to the ground. It was a fair fight, but he had still been encouraged to leave town by the local Sheriff. Even though Ed Cullen had disappeared from public view, the reputation of Ward Masen was fast rising to take his place.
And rise it did. Ward traveled through the small, thrown-together towns of the gold-rush west, continuing to make his name and living as a gambler, but the reputation of being a quick draw continued to haunt him. Six weeks after the incident in Crown King, he faced another showdown in Jerome that ended the same way they always did, one man on the ground and Ward standing by his horse on the leaving side of town. A month after that, it was in Tombstone. As the New Year rolled around, Ward Masen had built quite a reputation in the Arizona territory.
By February and March, he was being contacted once again to 'take care of business' for a price. The purses were tempting, but this time, Ward wanted something different. Until he could find a way to clear his real name, he planned to make his living as a gambler. He was getting quite good at it, he found a little patience and lot less talkin' led a man to an easy win over drunken hotheads. He was beginning to like the lifestyle. He stayed in fairly decent hotels and could afford some of the better things in life, like real linen shirts shipped all the way from New York City. He hadn't indulged in such superfluous niceties since before he left for the war.
Early May, 1875, found him traveling through a little out-of-the way town called Devil's Fork. It lay on his route to Carson City, and he planned to be in town no more than two or three days, tops. Fate, as always, had other plans.
As was his habit when entering a new town, the first thing he looked for was a saloon. He was really looking forward to a Sasparilla, as he hadn't been able to find one in a while. The swinging doors of the Devil's Luck Saloon looked mighty inviting. After tethering his horse to the hitching post, he pushed open the doors and entered the establishment.
He took a moment to size up the patrons and pick a few marks. As it was early Friday evening, the place was pretty crowded and most of the tables were occupied. Ward surveyed the area with a practiced eye before making his way to the bar. The bartender was a big guy, easily four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Ward. He had dark hair that looked like it might have had the tendency to curl if it wasn't slicked down flat against his head with some kind of sweet-smelling hair tonic and parted in the middle. He sported a thick handlebar mustache that curled up on either side of the winning smile that he flashed in Ward's direction when he reached the bar edge.
"What'll it be, stranger?" the bartender asked, and Ward noticed he was wiping a glass with a surprisingly clean rag, the muscles of his arms flexing under the black garters that kept his sleeves out of the way. Maybe this place wasn't as bad as its name would have you think.
"Sasparilla," Ward let the word roll off his tongue slowly.
The bartender's eyes went wide at the word, and his brows nearly disappeared into his hairline.
"Sasparilla?" came his bewildered question.
"Sasparilla," Ward answered, again speaking the word slowly in that deep, gravelly voice that defined his persona. The less unnecessary explaining the better.
"Yeah, I heard you the first time. I just wanted to make sure," the bartender said carefully. "As a matter of fact, I keep a good supply of Sasparilla in the back and a few bottles under the bar." He smiled again and Ward noticed the sincere friendliness on his face. "I also keep a fine supply of beer and good whiskey, none of that watered down stuff some saloons serve."
Sensing that the bartender wasn't trying to poke fun at his selection, Ward gave him a nod and replied, "If it's all the same to you I'll just have the Sasparilla. Whiskey tends to affect my concentration."
"What ever you say," was the barkeep's response and he proceeded to pull a bottle from under the bar, open it and pour the drink into a glass. He handed it to Ward with a flourish.
"By the way, the name's Emmett McCarty and I own the Devil's Luck," the bartender continued. He leaned in close on one elbow across the bar and with an intense yet friendly look asked, "You in town long, Mister…?"
"Masen, Ward Masen, and I figure a few days at most." Ward couldn't help liking the man; his voice and mannerisms just put a body at ease. Ward had come to trust his first instincts about people and he sensed that Emmett McCarty was an honest man.
Word got around fast when a stranger came into a small town like Devil's Fork, especially one like Ward Masen. Most people could tell he was different just by the clothes he wore. Ward was just finishing his drink when he heard the sound of spurs clinking on the boardwalk before the swinging doors pushed open. He turned his head to size up the newcomer and saw a man, tall, but still a couple inches shorter than Ward's six foot two inch height. He was broader through the shoulders than Ward and sported muscular arms and legs. His gait was slow and deliberate and Ward noticed that he wore his six-shooter strapped low on his leg in the tradition of someone comfortable with drawing the weapon.
The newcomer's hair was dark blond and long enough to brush the top of his collar and then some. Ward placed his age to be early to mid-twenties and could see that the younger man wasn't afraid to look him straight in the eye as he did some sizing up of his own. He halted at the bar, calling, "Em, how about a beer?"
Emmett McCarty smiled at him and called him by name as he drew the liquid from the keg. "Sure enough, James," he said and was soon sliding the full mug across the bar to him. He then topped off Ward's glass with a nod.
James took a swig from the full mug, wiping the foam off his lip before glancing once again at Ward. "You're new in town." It was an observation, so Ward didn't bother to answer, just inclined his head in James' direction.
James continued to scrutinize Ward, taking in his black boots and pants, fancy white shirt and black vest partially covered by a black jacket, stopping at the black hat that was perched low on Ward's head before moving back down to eye the gun strapped to Ward's thigh.
"You here long?" James asked, looking pointedly at Ward.
"A few days," Ward answered without elaboration.
James just nodded and took another long draw on his beer. He looked back at Ward, "You wanna join me and my buddies for a friendly game of poker?" He indicated with a nod of his head a table to the right where two cowboys were seated.
"I'm just passin' thru, not much for cards," Ward bluffed expertly.
"It don't matter here, just a friendly game." Ward glanced between James and the two men at the table before he responded with a tilt of his head to let James know to lead the way.
They reached the table and Ward automatically took the chair facing the door. It was a gunfighter's reaction. He never sat with his back to the door. Too many things could go wrong.
"By the way, I'm James Dunbar, and this is Rufus," the man identified as Rufus inclined his head, "and this is Hank." The other man nodded. "We work out on the Valle Verde spread for the Valentine brothers."
Ward had heard of the Valentine brothers by reputation, which wasn't good, and the Valle Verde ranch. His expression never changed but he knew the three were waiting for him to respond so he finally answered, "The name's Masen, Ward Masen."
Ward saw James' eyes widen a little and figured he might have recognized the name, but James didn't say anything either as he began to shuffle the cards. "Alright boys, the game's five card draw, Jacks or better to open." And with that he began to deal the cards.
The cards fell fast and the bets were made. After Ward won the first three hands, Rufus and Hank were beginning to squirm in their seats. Ward could sense that James was a seasoned player, because if he was concerned about Ward winning, he gave nothing away with his facial expressions. He could also tell that Hank and Rufus weren't the shiniest pennies in the till, however, they had money and as long as they wanted to play, Ward wasn't averse to relieving them of it.
James won the next hand, before Ward won two more. Rufus and Hank were fast running out of cash. Hank spoke up first, "What kinda chiseler are you? Ain't nobody that lucky!" He was staring at Ward through narrowed eyes. Without shifting his glare from Ward, he addressed his buddy, "Don't you agree, Rufus?'
Rufus wasn't quite as outspoken as his friend, but he seemed to gather strength from Hank's indignation. "Yeah, I do. This'uns a Flimflammer if I ever seen one."
Hank and Rufus both eyed Ward up and down, almost identical sneers twisting across their faces.
"Too right," answered Hank, pushing his chair back from the table. Rufus joined him. James, sensing that the two men were about to bite off more than they could chew, moved fast to alleviate the tension that was fast filling the room.
"Boys, boys, now don't blame the man for your lousy luck. I ain't never seen worse players than you, anyways, I'm losin', too." James eyed his two friends and motioned for them to sit back down. "Here," he tossed each of them a few dollars, "I'll spot you for the next hand."
Hank and Rufus warily took their seats again, each giving Ward their version of the 'evil eye' before pulling the money James had thrown down into their fast-dwindling piles. Even though James was younger than both men, they seemed to defer to his authority.
Ward speculated that perhaps he was their boss at the ranch.
James passed the deck to Hank. "Here, Hank, just so you'll know, why don't you deal the next hand?"
Hank never said a word, just picked up the deck and slowly shuffled the cards then silently dealt the hands.
Ward nonchalantly looked at his cards then waited for James to either bet or check. James opened for a dollar. Ward called and raised two. Hank and Rufus both called and the game of luck and bluff commenced.
Cards were thrown down, discarded, and new ones dealt to take their place as the hand progressed. Ward, ever the soulless gunfighter, showed no emotion as he read his opponents' faces like open books.
The betting rounded the table and Ward knew he could easily raise the bet to a level that would effectively shut out his opponents, but that wasn't his way. He preferred to win the hand fair and square.
And that's what he did, laying down a full house, Queens over Tens..
As Ward moved to rake in his winnings, Hank and Rufus again rose to their feet, knocking their chairs over violently, and this time James couldn't control them. Ward knew they were seconds away from calling him out or drawing their guns right there in the saloon. Either way, they must have had a death wish, and James was smart enough to know it.
"Okay, boys, if it's a contest you want, lets keep this civilized, shall we?" James cajoled the two hired hands. "Mr. Masen, how about we try to even things out. Let's make a wager on your skills with that side-arm?"
Ward just looked at him for a long moment, sensing he was trying to keep his two dim-witted friends alive. "What did you have in mind?" came the slow drawl from the gunslinger.
"How about a friendly shoot out? I bet Emmett has some empty bottles we could use for targets." James was already rising to his feet.
Ward inclined his head and Hank and Rufus grumbled their agreement as James ambled over to the bar to have a word with Emmett. Within minutes the four men were making their way outside, James with his arms laden with empty whiskey bottles. Emmett, who had appointed himself as referee to make sure the contest was fair, joined them shortly.
The group made their way the couple hundred yards up the street to the livery stable at the end of town. James lined the bottles carefully along the top of the rail fence that bordered Devil's Creek, the now-trickling stream that gave the town its name. He paced off forty yards, putting them smack dab in the middle of Main Street, before turning to Ward.
"Does this look okay to you?" Ward just inclined his head and Emmett gave a silent nod as he folded his beefy arms across his chest to watch. James turned to Hank and Rufus. "You guys okay with this?" He got a grumbled okay from each of them.
A small crowd had begun to gather around the men, ranging from the merely curious to the blatant gawkers. Some simply wanted to see who could out-shoot whom, while others hoped matters would escalate into actual bloodshed.
James looked at Ward, silently indicating that he should go first, but Ward just gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head so James turned to Hank and Rufus.
"Which one of you boys wants to go first?" James said with a little smirk on his face.
Hank gave a snort and tugged on his waistcoat as he swaggered to the proposed shooting area.
"I'll take a crack at it," he said with a wink at Rufus.
"Okay then, turn your back to the target and on the count of three turn, draw, and shoot. Start with the first bottle on the left. Got it?" Hank nodded. "Okay, you ready?" James asked.
Hank turned around and nodded again.
James counted, "One… Two… THREE!"
Hank turned, drew his gun, and fired.
The bottles never moved. He missed the target by a mile but they did see the dirt jump about five feet in front of the fence.
Hank threw his arms up wildly, cursing his luck and the bottles and everything in between. Ward and James both discretely moved away from his swinging arms, out of any potential line of fire.
Rufus let out a loud guffaw at the embarrassed Hank.
"Dagnabbit! James, you hollered and got me rattled!" Hank yelled indignantly. "I git to go again."
James looked over at Ward who was trying hard to quell the amused grin that was lurking around his mouth. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders letting them know it was okay with him if Hank had another turn.
"Ok, Hank, let's try that again," James said in a deliberately calm voice. "Why don't you count for yourself this time?"
"I'll do that," Hank said with a satisfied nod and he turned his back once again to the targets.
The three men watched, Ward and James with barely concealed amusement, as Hank counted out loud.
"One… Two… THREE!" he yelled louder than James had done a few moments before and turned to fire at the bottles.
Again the bottles never moved. But a few splinters from one of the fence posts flew in the air.
Rufus again let out a bark of laughter and the beginning sounds of a snicker came from Emmett's direction before it was firmly quashed.
"Dagnabbit! Tarnation!" the quasi-curse words fell from Hank's lips as he stomped his foot in frustration and glared at James. "You got me s'rattled that first time, I'm still rattled!"
"Oh, yeah," James nodded his head in agreement, "I can see that, Hank." He placated the clearly upset Hank and threw a sideways glance at Ward and Emmett and saw amusement twist the gunslingers lips a moment before he turned his head to stare intently at the window of the newspaper office behind them. Ward had fast caught on to the fact that this wasn't so much a 'shooting contest' as a 'keep the natives happy contest'.
"Why don't we let Rufus have a shot while you….uh…" James searched for exactly the right words, "While you show him support."
"Yeah, Hank, you can s'port me," Rufus was nodding as he took his position in the spot now vacated by the still-muttering Hank.
"Alright, Rufus, you want me to count off or you want to do it for yourself?" James asked him politely.
"Ah, you count," Rufus said in a swaggering tone. "I don't get rattled as easy as some people." He threw a look in the direction of the now red-faced Hank who gave him a sneer in return. Well, so much for supporting a friend.
"Okay, aim for the first bottle on the left. You ready?" James asked as he concentrated on keeping his mirth from bubbling to the surface.
"I wuz born ready," Rufus answered as he turned his back on the targets with a determined look on his face.
James heard a choked coughing sound come from Ward's direction and another muffled snort from Emmett, before he started counting, "One… Two… THREE!"
Rufus turned, drew, and fired. And he actually hit a bottle.
The first one on the right.
Hank started hee-hawing and slapping his leg as he laughed relentlessly at Rufus' expense. Rufus jerked his head from Hank to James as the later hurried to cover for him, "Rufus, you've always got your right and left mixed up. You just did it again," James said with a little shake of his head. The crowd that had gathered around was laughing now and Rufus was a red as a beet.
He re-holstered his gun and grabbed onto the explanation with both hands. Shouting so everyone could hear his explanation, "Yeah, I have. Done it since I wuz a kid. Can't help it."
James grinned in Ward's direction and quirked an eyebrow in silent question to see if Ward wanted to go next.
Ward just inclined his head to indicate that James should shoot next.
"Well, there are five bottles left," James said with a grin in Ward's direction. "How many you want me to leave for you?"
Ward just smirked and drawled slowly, "Doesn't matter."
"Alrighty then, none it is," James smirked back as he took his position. He called to Hank, "Hank, count for me." The crowd hushed up now, and Ward took good note that the crowd knew better than him what James's skills were.
Hank began his count, "One… Two… THREE!"
James turned, drew and picked off the five bottles one by one, his left hand quickly slapping the hammer on his pistol after each shot.
Hank and Rufus let out whoops of victory as they had obviously chosen James to be their champion.
James flipped his gun back in the holster before he turned to Ward. "Well, it seems there're no more bottles. You want me to send to the saloon for more?" He asked as he looked in Emmett's direction.
"That won't be necessary," came Ward's low reply. Quite a crowd had gathered now, drawn by the sound of gunfire, and they had waited anxiously to see the man in black shoot. Murmurs and grumbling surrounded the four shooters.
"You're not gonna shoot?" James asked in a bewildered tone.
"I didn't say that," Ward replied through lips that barely moved. He was looking intently at the ground under the fence that was now liberally strewn with glass. He turned to the now gaping Hank and Rufus.
"Boys, I think I see the necks of those bottles lying on the ground." Rufus and Hank turned and squinted their eyes to see, then nodded in unison at Ward.
"Do you think you could go set those necks up on the fence?" Ward asked.
"You want to just shoot at the necks?" Hank asked in surprise, and gasps were heard from the crowd.
"That's the plan." Ward drawled as turned back to look at the fence.
When he didn't say anything else, Hank and Rufus beat a straight path to the fence and carefully sat the bottlenecks up, top down, along the top of the fence. When they were finished they scampered back to stand beside Ward.
"Do you really think you can pick off those bottlenecks?" Rufus asked, a touch of awe in his voice as he gazed at Ward.
Ward just gave him and Hank a crooked grin and stepped around them to take the shooter's position. "We'll see," he said in a soft, deep voice and then paced another twenty yards further away from the original position. The crowd parted and stepped aside like he was Moses in front of the Red sea.
Ward turned his back on the targets, cut a glance at James and Emmett, as he heard the low voices of men making side bets in the crowd. He gave them a few moments to conduct their business before he looked pointedly over his shoulder at Hank.
Hank, always a bit slow on the up-take, just stared back for nearly ten seconds before he finally realized with a start that Ward was waiting for him to count. He quickly gathered his composure and began.
"One… Two… THREE!"
In one fluid motion Ward turned, drew his gun, and fired six shots in rapid succession. A bottleneck exploded with each shot, until all six had disintegrated into tiny shards of glass now littering the ground. The entire episode had taken less than two seconds.
"Well, I'll be damned," Emmett's voice spoke above the rabble of the crowd and a huge grin split his face making the dimples appear prominently in his cheeks. He walked over to Ward with his hand outstretched.
"That was the best shootin' I've seen in many a day, Mr. Masen. When you've a mind to, drinks are on the house for you over at the Devil's Luck." He gave Ward a sly wink as he shook his hand and then slapped him jovially on the back.
"Much obliged, Emmett, and the name's Ward."
"Okay, Ward it is. I'll be seeing you later." And with those words, Emmett turned and moved toward the boardwalk, his big body cutting a path through the crowd as he made his way back to the saloon.
They watched him for a few moments before James turned to Ward with his hand reaching out too. Ward took it with a slight grin as James said with a raised eyebrow. "There's only a handful of men in the territory that's known to shoot like that and I don't believe the name Ward Masen is on that list."
Ward let the grin turn into a smirk as he replied, "I suppose not."
James let out a snort of laughter and said, "Well, it is now." He and Ward turned toward the boardwalk, their unspoken destination the saloon.
The crowd was dispersing as the side bets were settled and the people figured the show was over. A few still stood and stared at the fancy-dressed man with the fast gun, but none followed the two retreating men. Hank and Rufus had walked back over to the fence just to make sure they could believe their eyes.
"Hey, you said you would be in town for a few days?" James asked as they walked.
"That's right. I need a shave, a bath and a decent bed and I figure I can find those as good here as the next town."
James' eyes widened as Ward had just spoken more in one sentence than he had all day. He quickly collected himself and said, "Well, if you have time, I'd like to introduce you to the Valentine brothers, the men I work for down to the Valle Verde. I ain't been there long myself, but I know that they're always looking for someone with your special talents, if you catch my drift."
They were just passing by the general store and Ward momentarily turned his head to look at James as he began to answer. His mouth was open but his words were never spoken as he caught a flash of chestnut brown out of the corner of his eye a split second before his path was blocked. He caught another flash of blue fabric and lace and what he thought was the leather binding of a book before he collided with the small woman and sent her flying through the air. The next thing he registered was a loud gasp and the sound of splashing water.
Bel: Hey Melly?
Mel: Yes Belly?
Bel: Real life sometimes sucks doesn't it?
Mel: It really does. I hope you're hanging in there.
Bel: Yeah, I am. I'm just happy I can still see. Retinal detachments are nothing to fool with. On a brighter note, Westward was really smokin' in this chapter.
Mel: Don't you mean smokin' hot?
Bel: I'll say! And James isn't far behind. I do love a sexy man that can handle a gun!
Mel: So how do you think Izzy's going to react next chapter?
Bel: The term "mad as a wet hen" comes to mind.
Mel: Wonder if there's any way we can get Ward wet?
Bel: Ummm that idea has definite possibilities...
Mel: Maybe we can dream about it.
Bel: Wet, wild, Westward...
Mel & Bel: * Sigh *
If you would like a teaser, let us know in your review.