Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (39 page)

Chapter
4

Standing there with my
pistol, I knew the tide had turned. Thirty seconds ago, I’d been a young man
who’d been slapped and humiliated in front of roughly twenty-five people. Now,
I’d just killed the great Bill Garland, and his reputation had been transferred
to me.

It hit me that I was no
longer some minor Deputy Marshal in some no account town. I’d killed a famous
man. A serious threat. I was no longer just a nobody.

Still aiming at the
Mexican’s head, I commanded, “Drop your gun belt, nice and slow. I’d hate to
accidentally shoot you. I’m a little jumpy tonight.”

The Mexican did nothing,
and I wondered what I’d do if he refused.

“I’m not taking off my
gun,” he said, and his deep voice, his aged confidence, his weathered face did
something to me. It was his cockiness that drove me to the edge of my limit.

I raised the front of the
gun barrel just a couple inches and fired. The blast shook the room, and the
Mexican nearly jumped out of his skin as the bullet passed inches over his head
and into the wall. I think he thought I meant to shoot him, and I have no doubt
he filled his pants. I know I would have.

Visibly shaken, his hands
quivering and high in the air now, he slowly lowered them, unbuckled his gun
belt, and lay it on the floor.

“Bravo,” someone yelled
behind me, clapping. Others joined him, still timid.

“You, too,” I motioned to
the lanky one with my pistol. He’d turned around when the shooting started, but
seemed convinced he was in over his head. He posed no threat. I’d just killed
Bill Garland, and he probably thought I was the next Billy the Kid.

As the tall, lanky one
went to unbuckle his gun belt, I stepped back to get some distance from them
both. I didn’t want them to rush me.

When the tall lanky one’s
belt hit the floor, the Mexican said, regaining his confidence, “Unload our
pistols and give us our belts and guns back. We’re leaving town right now.”

“Those guns are no longer
yours,” I said. “They’re the property of Belleville now.”

“What do you mean?” the
Mexican asked, angry. He eyed his holstered pistol in the gun belt. It was no
ordinary pistol; it had intricate sketching in both the frame and ivory handle.

“We’ll need to sell them
to cover damages,” I said, nodding toward some busted tables and chairs.

“His pistol alone,” the
Mexican tilted his head toward his lanky friend, “would cover the damages in
here.”

“Burying expenses,” I shrugged,
motioning toward the dead Bill Garland with my pistol.

Someone laughed behind me.
And then someone else clapped. Others joined, and soon the applause, laughs,
and jeers grew louder. Someone else yelled, “Way to go ‘little man,’” mocking
Bill Garland’s words.

“Little man, indeed,”
replied another customer.

The Mexican moved forward,
and I reoriented my pistol from the lanky guy to him. He stopped a foot away
and, as angry as I’ve ever seen anyone, said, “No one takes my pistol from me.”

“I just did,” I said,
“which doesn’t say much for you since I’m new to the job.”

Several laughed and I
realized I was really feeling it now. Even getting cocky.

“Now get the hell out of
here,” I said, “before my pistol accidentally misfires. It happens sometimes
with young deputies.”

Chapter 5

I didn’t aim to become a
famous gunfighter. It’s just the way things worked out.

I only ended up as Deputy
Marshal of Belleville because of some posse work I’d helped on. I was just
passing through the town when I came upon the early stages of a posse forming.
The town had been robbed, and the people were raring to go.

I’d told them I’d done
some cavalry work in the war between the states, but back then all the men had
supposedly “seen action” in the war, so news of wartime experience barely
raised an eyebrow.

I didn’t do anything super
brave as a member of that posse – at least nothing that compares to what I did
in the war. I just talked less in the beginning and rode harder in the end. And
when we cornered the Jones brothers in Dead Man’s Canyon, it seemed no one
wanted to be the first to confront the bank robbers.

“They’ve killed a man
before,” said Hugh, who’d been talking loudest the day before while the town’s
posse had formed. “We better be careful.”

Hugh had said he’d served
in the war, but I had my doubts.

Another man, Phil
Campbell, said, “We need a plan,” though he’d also been talking big before the
posse pulled out. He had claimed to be another “veteran.”

They probably talked some
more, but I can’t say for sure. I rode away from the nearly two dozen riders
while they strategized and planned and tied my horse to a tree nearby. I spent
the next twenty minutes freezing my ass off as I crawled forward on the wet,
cold ground with my lever-action rifle.

I slid and waddled from
puddle to puddle, following the low ground as I worked my way toward the Jones
brothers, who were also strategizing and planning at the end of the canyon.

Once in range, I cocked my
rifle and took up a good prone position. I looked around, and decided where I’d
run if I were them, then aimed in on the meanest-looking one.

“Drop it!” I yelled.

And as they scrambled to
draw their weapons and locate the source of the shout, I blew a hole through the
meanest-looking one, levered my gun, and then dropped the other. Neither of the
two brothers even saw me as I lay in a depression in the ground three inches
deep -- full of icy water -- that some cow had wallowed in months before.

My Captain used to say,
“If you’re not muddy, you’re not low enough,” and that advice has saved my life
more times than I care to count. And while I hated riding back to Belleville
soaked and cold, it felt great to have so many men congratulating me on my
“bravery.”

Deep inside, I couldn’t
shake what I’d felt before but knew now to be true: not a single one of these
men had actually seen action in the war. Because if they had, then they’d have
known that crawling forward in the mud and knocking two men dead with a
lever-action, repeating rifle falls far short of bravery. And if they had
served, they’d have been sliding forward in the mud with me instead of standing
around circled up, talking rather than doing.

Chapter
6

I’d barely gotten dried
and put three rounds down at Frank’s Saloon before they offered me the job of
Deputy Marshal of Belleville.

I was a hero for days
following the burial of the Jones brothers in a public cemetery outside town.
One of the more religious men called me a warrior of God, and the women sure
smiled hard and looked long.

I learned real quick that
Deputy Marshal work is mostly boring, and I nearly quit after three weeks of it.
Though, I held out since it was still winter and cold and most of the cattle
owners weren’t hiring hands.

Then the Bill Garland
incident occurred. Once again the women went out of their way to thank me, and
the men seemed torn between appreciation and envy. Nonetheless, after a couple
weeks, things slowed down once more.

The work got boring, and
the women stopped looking my way. My youth and short height always has a way of
doing that, and it wasn’t long until I’d forgotten about the “little man”
nonsense.

That is until Frank
Connors burst into the Marshal’s office one day with a newspaper.

“Paul, did you see the
most recent paper yet?”

“No.”

“Take a look,” Frank said,
bringing it over and dropping it on the desk.

I picked the paper up and
saw it was
The Texas Gazette
. The front page story was about me.

I slowly read over each
bold-printed word, absorbing the official report.

“Deputy Zachary, an
officer of the law for Belleville better known as ‘Little Man,’ shot and killed
well-known gunfighter Bill Garland on Feb. 22.”

I looked up at Frank
Connors.

“No one calls me Little
Man,” I said.

“Well, they will now,” he
said with a smile.

“You make this sound like
it’s a good thing,” I muttered.

“Well, it is,” Frank beamed.
“Belleville made the front page, and this story is being reprinted in papers
across the state. It’ll drive more people here.”

“Easy for you to say,” I
said. “You’re in the business of selling liquor. But, I’m in the business of
trying to stay alive, and all this article did was put a bigger target on me.”

Frank didn’t have a
response to that, so I grabbed my hat and went out for a ride. I rode in a wide
circle around Belleville, not really looking for anything. Just thinking and
trying to clear my mind.

Everything in me said the
mean-looking Mexican would come back after me. I’d killed his friend. I’d
embarrassed him. I’d taken his fancy gun, and then sold it as if it were no
more valuable than an old farm tool. Hell, I’d have been pissed, too.

I stopped at the edge of
some woods and dismounted, tying my horse to a strong limb. I walked out into a
field of weeds and brush and sat down. I snapped a twig off a bush, and made a
tooth pick of it, and simply decided to stay a while. Sitting back, my boot
heels dug in the ground, and my elbows around my knees.

Looking out across the
field, I allowed my mind to reflect on the recent events. I knew I was in a
mess of trouble. At twenty-seven, I was young and inexperienced by the
standards of most gunfighters. And while I’d played around quick drawing some,
like every man in the Wild West, I hadn’t diligently practiced it. And while I
was an expert shot with a rifle, I hadn’t shot enough with a pistol to have
similar skills.

The skills I had were more
military in nature. I could shoot a rifle, ride hard, and even track. But quick
draw? Not really.

As the afternoon passed, I
realized I’d have to change. I’d need to become a gunfighter. Not just a good
one, but a great one. Or, I could ride off and leave town, but those were my
two options: Get good or get gone. Otherwise, I’d be dead soon.

Finally, a couple hours
later, I could think of no other angles around the problem. So, I stood up and
began seriously working on my draw. Nice and slow at first. Then faster. And
faster.

Next, I practiced my
accuracy with the pistol. Shooting from the hip at a wide oak eight feet away.
I struggled to hit it with the pistol down by my hip, so I moved closer to four
feet. By the time I’d gone halfway through the ammo on my gun belt, I felt more
confident but not nearly as good as I needed to be.

I rode back to town more
humble than I left it several hours earlier -- the hours of shooting having had
the opposite effect of what I intended. Before, I thought I was good. Now, I
knew how average I actually was.

I took my time moving down
the main street, which had gone from dusty to muddy following a rain shower the
day before. I rode slowly, because I was uneasy. Not only about the
mean-looking Mexican and his lanky young friend, but also all the folks who
might be looking to challenge me and my new reputation. Some fool newspaper man
had hung a big target on me, whether he meant to or not.

I stopped at the general
store and looked up and down the street before dismounting and tying up my
horse. I went inside and bought a box of ammo to replace what I’d shot.

I headed over to Frank’s
Place next. Frank’s was a short distance from the general store – maybe two
hundred yards, but I remounted and rode to it. I liked to have my horse just a
few feet away ever since our bank got robbed.

Belleville had quickly
gained a reputation as a good place for bank robbers to hit. It had a lot of
money stashed in its bank for such a small town, thanks to its saloons stacked
full of women. Also, it was on the fringe of civilization, so bandits could
ride hard and have a decent chance of making a getaway in rough country.

I kept my horse, a thin
six-year-old mare named Sable, to the edge of the road near the boardwalk of
several saloons. These days, it seemed Belleville hatched new saloons almost
every month. And since the town didn’t have a church yet, no one frowned upon
what went on upstairs with the women. All the alcohol and available women
brought other industries as well.

Belleville now had a
blacksmith, lumber mill, stage stop, hotel, leather goods store, and well-run
stable. Men, even married men, preferred to do their buying and trading in
Belleville these days. They’d tell their wives the prices were lower, but the
lights above the saloons through the late night told me more than low prices
were involved.

A couple of the folks I tipped
my hat to probably wondered why I was riding so close along the edge of the
road. I’d made it a habit to ride directly down the center ever since I’d been
sworn in as Deputy Marshal. I only moved for wagons – not even groups of
riders. I’d once split a group of five rough looking riders. They were so mad
that I probably would have been shot out of the saddle except that Marshal
Harrison happened to be nearby and intervened.

But back then I wanted
folks to know that I was the man and one not to be challenged. Maybe it’s true
I was overcompensating for my size, lack of experience, and young looks, but so
be it. Even though only mere hours had passed since reading that newspaper
article, I couldn’t imagine riding down the middle of the main street. I didn’t
want to draw attention to myself. I was unsettled and alert, like I was riding
into a new town. Not patrolling my own.

I wanted to see, not be
seen. I wanted the jump on anyone coming to town for me. I certainly didn’t
want to stand out, and with that thought, I realized how much I’d changed since
reading that article just hours earlier before riding out.