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Authors: George G. Gilman
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gully, all the men rode up toward the arch.
Men spanning an age group from twenty to fifty. Most attired in bib aprons over sweat-stained shirts. Homesteaders, all of them. Not expert horsemen and doubtless unused to firing their weapons in rage. Grim-faced and angry. Some looking a little sick at having been involved in the gunning down of the man in front of the Wolfe house. Will and Jesse Gershel almost haggard with anxiety about the fate of a wife and mother.
Ordinary, hard-working men visited by trouble that was snowballing as decent and honest as most probably, just as John Lloyd Larkin had claimed. Almost in the same breath as he had said he was not prepared to tell the truth unless he was asked.
Then, when they had ridden out of sight beyond the high ground, Barnaby Gold led his horse out of the gully and mounted him: started to ride down the slope away from the arch. A man like few others. Disliking crowds wanting no part of anything at which he did not excel Totally single-minded in achieving his aims, to the paradoxical extent of allowing himself to be far side-tracked if anything threatened to keep him from his purpose.
He rode toward the house with the sawn-off Murcott unhooked from the rigging ring. The safety catch off and the twin barrels resting across the saddle horn. His approach was heard, but he was not seen until he rode around the corner of the house and along the front.
When the door banged open and the woman who had been hysterical a minute or so earlier stood on the threshold. A tall, thin, gaunt-faced woman of fifty or so. With thinning grey hair, a sallow complexion and a soured mouth-line. Wearing a shapeless grey dress of denim that hung straight from her narrow shoulders to her laced black shoes.
She was holding a heavy, long-barrel Le Mat revolver with a hanging ring in the base of the butt, visible beneath the heels of the two hands in which she gripped it. She tracked his slow progress with the seven inch barrel and then held a rock-steady aim on him when he turned the horse to face her and reined him in.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Wolfe.’ He accompanied the greeting with the personable smile.
It did nothing to shift the grimness from her eyes and the set of her mouth.
‘You’re him, ain’t you?’
‘You make that him sound as if it’s in capital letters. As though you were speaking of God.’
‘It’s the Devil prefers black. And from what I’ve heard you’ve done, you could be him. Let that shotgun go,’
‘No lady.’
‘What?’
‘No, lady. Not until you put away that revolver. I don’t want to kill anybody, and I don’t think you do, either.’
‘I could plug you where you sit on that horse, young feller!’
‘If you’re that good with a gun that big, do it, Mrs Wolfe. But if you miss, I’ll guarantee I’ll have to shovel you into your own grave.’
The woman gasped, stared fixedly into the unblinking green eyes of the man astride the horse: knew it was no idle threat. Then admitted her lack of confidence by allowing the barrel of the Le Mat to sag toward the stoop boarding.
‘What do you want here?’
He hooked the shotgun on the rigging ring and swung down from the saddle. Without shifting his gaze from her and with his left hand in the holed pocket of his frock coat.
‘Check on the deceased.’
She leaned against the doorframe and now held the revolver one-handed. ‘They thought he was you.’
‘What I thought, Mrs Wolfe.’
‘You saw it?’
He nodded. And turned his back on her to go to where the dead man lay beneath the blanket.
‘They saw that black horse of his there and they come runnin’. I come outta the house to tell them it wasn’t your horse. But they said they didn’t hear me, what with the noise of the water. He must’ve figured that and he come out to show himself. But they said they was so scared of what might’ve happened and so mad at you, they just started to fire.’
Gertrude Wolfe gasped again. And let the revolver
Men spanning an age group from twenty to fifty. Most attired in bib aprons over sweat-stained shirts. Homesteaders, all of them. Not expert horsemen and doubtless unused to firing their weapons in rage. Grim-faced and angry. Some looking a little sick at having been involved in the gunning down of the man in front of the Wolfe house. Will and Jesse Gershel almost haggard with anxiety about the fate of a wife and mother.
Ordinary, hard-working men visited by trouble that was snowballing as decent and honest as most probably, just as John Lloyd Larkin had claimed. Almost in the same breath as he had said he was not prepared to tell the truth unless he was asked.
Then, when they had ridden out of sight beyond the high ground, Barnaby Gold led his horse out of the gully and mounted him: started to ride down the slope away from the arch. A man like few others. Disliking crowds wanting no part of anything at which he did not excel Totally single-minded in achieving his aims, to the paradoxical extent of allowing himself to be far side-tracked if anything threatened to keep him from his purpose.
He rode toward the house with the sawn-off Murcott unhooked from the rigging ring. The safety catch off and the twin barrels resting across the saddle horn. His approach was heard, but he was not seen until he rode around the corner of the house and along the front.
When the door banged open and the woman who had been hysterical a minute or so earlier stood on the threshold. A tall, thin, gaunt-faced woman of fifty or so. With thinning grey hair, a sallow complexion and a soured mouth-line. Wearing a shapeless grey dress of denim that hung straight from her narrow shoulders to her laced black shoes.
She was holding a heavy, long-barrel Le Mat revolver with a hanging ring in the base of the butt, visible beneath the heels of the two hands in which she gripped it. She tracked his slow progress with the seven inch barrel and then held a rock-steady aim on him when he turned the horse to face her and reined him in.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Wolfe.’ He accompanied the greeting with the personable smile.
It did nothing to shift the grimness from her eyes and the set of her mouth.
‘You’re him, ain’t you?’
‘You make that him sound as if it’s in capital letters. As though you were speaking of God.’
‘It’s the Devil prefers black. And from what I’ve heard you’ve done, you could be him. Let that shotgun go,’
‘No lady.’
‘What?’
‘No, lady. Not until you put away that revolver. I don’t want to kill anybody, and I don’t think you do, either.’
‘I could plug you where you sit on that horse, young feller!’
‘If you’re that good with a gun that big, do it, Mrs Wolfe. But if you miss, I’ll guarantee I’ll have to shovel you into your own grave.’
The woman gasped, stared fixedly into the unblinking green eyes of the man astride the horse: knew it was no idle threat. Then admitted her lack of confidence by allowing the barrel of the Le Mat to sag toward the stoop boarding.
‘What do you want here?’
He hooked the shotgun on the rigging ring and swung down from the saddle. Without shifting his gaze from her and with his left hand in the holed pocket of his frock coat.
‘Check on the deceased.’
She leaned against the doorframe and now held the revolver one-handed. ‘They thought he was you.’
‘What I thought, Mrs Wolfe.’
‘You saw it?’
He nodded. And turned his back on her to go to where the dead man lay beneath the blanket.
‘They saw that black horse of his there and they come runnin’. I come outta the house to tell them it wasn’t your horse. But they said they didn’t hear me, what with the noise of the water. He must’ve figured that and he come out to show himself. But they said they was so scared of what might’ve happened and so mad at you, they just started to fire.’
Gertrude Wolfe gasped again. And let the revolver
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