A Western Novel By Lee Selders
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Chapter 1
I stopped on top of a small hill overlooking the stage stop. I'd been riding for over a week, zig-zaging a trail west
from Kentucky. Wanted by the law back in Salyersville, I’d stayed off the main roads and kept a watch on my back
trail. They claimed I’d shot a man down in cold blood. Actually, he’d called me out as I was leaving the saloon,
said I was looking at his girl too hard. I had only stopped in for a bite to eat and I’d seen her, sure. But I knew who
she was. Well now, I've never been known to turn away from a fight if talking don't work, but fighting over looking
at a woman is just plain silly. I told him as much, waved him off and turned to walk away. I’d only gotten maybe
twenty feet away when that man took a shot at me! But in his rage, he fired too fast, the bullet whizzed past my left
shoulder. I instinctively spun to my right, ducking and pulling my pistol at the same time. I fired before I knew what
had happened.
When I got to him, he was lying on the ground looking at the sky. He wasn't seeing anything. He had a bloody
hole in his stomach and one in his neck… He was dead before he hit the ground. I don't even recall firing that
second round but I know I did. My instincts had told me to kill or be killed. Fire twice, I remember learning, don’t
give them a chance if they’re out to kill you. I recognized the two men standing beside him, they were his brothers.
A small crowd had gathered by this time and one of the brothers was yelling something to them and pointing at
me. I hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the crowd, I had been listening to the man doing all the yelling. He was
saying I murdered his brother to get his girl and that his brother never had a chance.
All of a sudden, the other brother went for his gun. He had moved to the outside of the crowd and I had been
keeping an eye on him too. Before he had his hand full on the grip, he was looking down the barrel of my forty-
four. I didn't want to kill again, so I did the only thing I could, I backed on out of there and hit that saddle moving.
I could've made a big deal about the whole affair but that man I killed was the son of the well-to-do family there in
town. Actually, his family’s name is Salyer. A few generations back, the story says, his family settled there and
started a town. Now, they own most of the town. Fact is, we all knew, they did own the sheriff. I never had gotten
along with those brothers, little things, always trying to pick a fight with someone. I’d never budge or back down so
they didn’t like me. Everyone in town knew… someday it would come to this. Problem is, we couldn’t go against
that family and the law. They would have had the trial right there, with the rest of the Salyer family and the sheriff,
and hung me for murder. Didn’t sound too good to me.
I headed for home, gathered my belongings, a few supplies and lit out. Fighting's one thing, if it's down right
necessary, but its kind of nice to have some good odds. A lot of those folks back there around the area knew me
and liked me but having the law and the powerful people against you makes for real bad odds. I’d traveled around
some, helping out the neighboring farmers by making or repairing things. Odds and ends, tinkering, carpentry,
that sort of thing so I’d earned the respect of a lot of people. But thinking about it, there was really none I could
call friends. There was the Cherokee tribe a couple of miles to the east of our farm, I had friends there that I had
grown up with, I’ll miss them. And there was Shock… I’ll miss him too. He’d always been a good teacher and
friend.
The farm had run down since the folks died. Pa always did say I wasn't much on getting dirty. The only other kin
was Pa's brother Matt and I hadn’t seen him in over three years. He was always on the move, “The adventuring
part of the family,” Pa said. He’d stop in every two or three years, on his way through, stay a bit and then move
on. Thinking back, other than those few Cherokees and Shock, I really wasn't leaving much behind.
I had been leasing the land to our neighbor, Samuel, to graze his few head of cattle on so before I lit out, I wrote a
letter leaving him the whole place. I stuck it in a crack of the bench up on the hill where him and I used to sit and
have coffee. I knew he’d find it. He loved to sit there, overlooking the farm. I had cut that bench out of a fallen
branch of the big oak tree it sat under. The branch had broken off during a big storm we had back when I was
young. It had broken off about four feet up but was still attached to the tree at the break. It kind-of crooked down
to the ground then curved back upward toward the branches. Pa always thought it was ugly and a few years ago
sent me out to cut it away from the tree and chop it into firewood. I had started on the dead branches and worked
my way down, cutting small pieces from it then chopping them into firewood. By the time I had gotten to where it
started to curve upward, I had a half a wagonload of firewood piled up. I sat down on that remaining part of the
limb and took a break to smoke my pipe. I remember thinking it was really nice, sitting there looking down over the
whole farm. An idea came to me, I cleared all the bark off that section lying on the ground and chopped a flat spot
on top of it. It was a nice bench, about five feet long and a foot and a half deep, sitting in the shade with a real
nice view.
I never stayed around the farm much anyway. Pa probably wouldn’t be happy seeing how I had let the place go
but I always thought he understood somehow the way I liked traveling. Seeing what's over that next hill, not
hanging around digging in the dirt. Guess I ended up with some of my uncle’s blood. I think he’d be happy
knowing that I left the place to his old friend and neighbor.
In this past week, I'd made only one stop in a town. I can live off the land pretty good and usually don't need
much, thanks to Pa and my Indian friends I grew up with, but I sure do like my coffee and tobacco. Tobacco was
another thing I got from Uncle Matt. It was a few years back, on one of his visits, that he offered me a toke on his
pipe. I took a liking to it right away. Soon after, I carved a pipe of my own and made a tobacco pouch out of some
scrap leather. There wasn’t anyone else in the area that smoked a pipe so I would get a look every time I’d light
up, especially in a saloon or café after eating a meal. They’d see me take the pipe out of the bottom of the pouch,
tamp it on the palm of my hand then blow through it to clear the stem. That always got attention, guess maybe I
did that on purpose. I’d dip it into the large part of the pouch, holding the tobacco, and fill the bowl with my finger.
When I pulled the pipe out, I would slowly pack the tobacco into the bowl with my finger as everyone watched.
Then I would take a match out of another section of the pouch, strike it with my thumbnail and hold it over the
bowl while drawing on the stem. I’d blow the smoke into the air while looking at the people around me out of the
corner of my eye. I smiled a little, thinking back. Ma always said one of the things I was real good at was showing
off. Stopping in that town was three days ago and I was mighty careful even there, picked up my supplies and
kept moving. That’s all I had needed, tobacco and coffee.
I knew I was somewhere in the territories by now and this stage stop must mean the Santa Fe Trail. I'd seen the
dust from the stagecoach coming so I figured I'd just ease in and see who's on board.
It rolled in and stopped just about the time I got to the far edge of the corral, I sat there for a bit on the Dun and
watched. The driver got down, looked at me and nodded, then met the man coming out of the building. While they
talked, the stage door opened. A man stepped out in an eastern, big-city type suit with one of those rounded
hats, followed by a boy about fourteen or fifteen years old dressed the same way. They started into the building
with the driver who gave me one more look before going in. I eased on in toward the corral.
That Dun hadn't taken two steps when I saw that leg come out of the stage. A woman, a beautiful woman! She
stepped down, dusted herself off gracefully and walked into the building. I wondered why that gent in the suit
hadn't given her a hand, or the driver. Guess they don't teach manners where they’re from.
The owner of the stage stop was tending the teams when I got to the gate. "Howdy," he said. "McCory's the
name, most just call me Mac. Light an' rest a spell, ‘less you’re just passin’ through. Ma's got grub on an' you can
wash off some trail dust if you've a mind to."
I nodded, reminds me of Pa, I thought. Probably be about the same age too. Kind of on the short side but wide.
His hands were as big as mule shoes and probably just as hard and his skin looked tougher than boot leather
from all the years in the weather.
"Thanks," I said, stepping off the Dun.
"Four bits,” Mac said, “room an' board, for the both o’ 'ya."
His hair was gray, for the most part, straight and cropped off short like most men. It stuck to his head from the
sweat and I noticed there was a sunburned spot on top in place of hair. I had to smile but I wondered why he didn’
t wear a hat. His pants were dirty, like any workingman’s pants, but his shirt looked clean and neatly
pressed.
Odd, I thought, how a man doing his kind of work could look neat. He held up his pants with a belt but it couldn’t
be seen from the front because of his big belly hanging over it, I had to smile again. He had on tall boots, almost
to his knees, and wore his pants tucked inside his boots. He was extremely bowed-legged. I wore boots too but I
kept my pant legs on the outside of my boots, I never cared for that look and it seemed to be too much trouble.
His boots were the kind with the big pull-on flaps that hang half way down the boot. I’d seen these before, some of
the men back home, but most back there wore the lace-up kind of boots like Pa. I liked my more narrow-toed
boots that only came to the bottom of my calf. They weren’t as high as some but I kept leggings in my gear that I
could tie on if necessary. They came all the way to my knees and protected my legs.
"Here's six," I handed him the coins, "take extra care of him."
That Dun isn't just a horse. Fact is, I've never considered him a horse, he's more like my best friend. I gave him a
pat on the neck and headed for the house. I took one more look around before opening the door.
It was a well-lit room, the floor looked as though it had just been mopped. I stopped dead in my tracks when I
saw that floor. Backing out the door, I brushed myself off the best I could with my hat, kicked my boots on the side
of the step and ran my fingers through my hair. Hat in hand, I started in again. A woman was standing in the
doorway this time.
"Thank you, young man, I'm Mrs. McCory. Most men brush themselves off inside, or not at all."
I nodded. "Yes ma'am, I'd almost forgot my manners. The name's Colter. I'd be grateful if I could wash off some
of this dust."
"Of course, there's a basin and fresh water behind that curtain," she gestured toward the side wall. "I'll bring
some hot."
I watched her hurried steps as she walked toward the back of the room. She was a stout woman, her gray hair
pulled back into a knot on the back of her head. I'd guess she was about the same age as Mac, nearing sixty I
figured. She wore a neatly pressed apron over a clean dress. Her skin was tough and wrinkled by the weather
too, but somehow it also looked smooth. These are good people, I thought.
Behind the curtain, on a cabinet, was the basin and pitcher of water. Clean towels hung on hooks beside a
mirror and a small window lit up the area. I had just poured some water when Mrs. McCory walked in with a kettle
of hot water, poured some in the basin, smiled and left. I wasted no time stripping off my buckskin shirt. That soap
and hot water almost made me forget I was hungry. A bath would be nice too I thought, but this'll have to do. I
washed my face and upper body as well as I could and looked in the mirror. It was old and hazy but it was clear
enough for me to see I needed a shave. I dried myself off, pulled my shirt back on and headed for the door. I
could feel they were all watching me but I didn't say anything, just walked outside toward the corral. Mac had hung
my saddle and gear over a rail in the lean-to, I went straight to my bags and took out my razor and comb from my
cleanup roll. I could get the rest later, I thought. When I walked back into the room, the passengers were at the
table eating. Mrs. McCory was standing at the table looking at me. I nodded to her and went back to the
washbowl. I took my shirt off again and hung it up, then lathered up real good with the soap and shaved off a
week of growth from my face. I wet my hair and combed it straight back, fighting to get the knots out of it. The only
thing I don't like about long hair, I told myself, but I managed to get it combed. I had always had long hair. Ma liked
it that way, being that she was part Cherokee I guess. She got some argument out of Pa for a while but she
always won. Besides, I like it long too and as I got older, I just kept it that way. I’d cut it every now and then, but
never shorter than a few inches below my shoulder. I laid my shirt out on the cabinet as flat as I could and wiped
down the back with the damp towel, then turned it over and wiped down the front. Pulling it back on, I laced it up
neat and tied it at the top. I looked in the mirror, that’ll have t’ do, I thought. I wiped off my hat, creased it into
shape again with the center pushed down and the front to nearly a point and went out into the room to the table.
The eastern city dude and his son were just getting up and Mrs. McCory was picking up their plates. I sat down
next to the stage driver and nodded to the lady across from me.
Mrs. McCory brought me a plate of beans and bacon, biscuits and a cup of coffee. "There's plenty more if you
like," she said.
I nodded and found myself looking at the woman again. She looked up and smiled. I glanced around the room,
feeling embarrassed for some reason. The walls were white, they had whitewashed the inside of the house!
That's why it's so bright in here, I thought. I was so intent on washing up, I didn’t even notice before.
Black hair. Long, shiny, beautiful black hair, and a pink comb above her left ear. "I am Maria," she said, looking
across the table at me.
I took a swallow of coffee. Caught, I thought, hope I wasn't staring. "Colter, pleased t' meet you," I answered,
and looked down at my plate trying not to choke. Don't be a fool, I was telling myself, you just had to kill a man
over a woman. Although, this one is truly a beauty. I wanted to look again, but…
I'd no sooner tore into that grub when the man next to me spoke up. "Colter is it? Josh Morgan's the name. I'm
the owner of the stage line, an' for the time bein', the driver too." He bit the end off a big cigar and turned his
head to spit. He looked around at those clean floors, saw Mrs. McCory looking at him and spit that butt into his
hand. He looked back at me, "You headin' for Santa Fe?"
"Just headin'," I said.
He stood up, "I'm not one t' bother a man when he's at grub," he said. "Would like t' talk though, when you're
through." He went to a bench in the corner, leaned against the wall and lit his cigar.
A big man, about equal to my height of a little better than six foot but I'd guess he'd outweigh me thirty or forty
pounds. I took another drink of coffee then looked back at him again. Almost funny, I thought, that extra weight
was all in his stomach too. His shoulders were every bit as broad as mine, and I'd been told I was as broad as a
doorway. Never paid it much mind, never thought of myself as being different from anyone else. I glanced at him
again while I was eating. His pants, that's what had caught my attention. They were held up by suspenders and
tucked in his boots, which wasn't uncommon, they were even the same kind of boots that Mac had on. But his
pants looked to be three or four sizes too big, his shirt must've been the biggest one the store had and the
pocket was stuffed full of big cigars. His floppy brimmed hat was turned up in the front, resting on the bushiest
eyebrows I'd ever seen. I couldn't tell where one stopped and the other one started. I had to laugh to myself.
What I could see of his hair was cropped short but he had long sideburns, to the bottom of his jaw, and a two or
three day beard. With his small nose and dark eyes, surrounded by hair, he reminded me of a dog we had when I
was a kid. This man looks like a picture in a storybook, and yet, I think I'd want him on my side in any trouble.
Maria was taking some plates to the kitchen and I found myself staring again. She carried herself in a graceful,
easy way. This is the type of woman that could really set a man to thinking. Small built and maybe just over five
foot in height. The clearest, creamiest, golden tan skin you ever laid eyes on. A smile that could stop a man dead
in his tracks. And that beautiful, long black hair. Not to mention, that leg I saw when she stretched to get out of the
stagecoach.
She had brought back the coffee pot and was pouring me another cup. I nodded a thank you, embarrassed
again for staring.
"This coffee is quite good, Mr. Colter," she sat down across from me again. "Don't you think?"
“Very good," I said. "Ain't never had any like it." I took another sip. "Just Colter 'll do, Maria. You headin' to
Santa Fe?"
"Yes, that is my home. I have been east on business for my father. And you? Is there a certain place you are
going?"
"No," I said. "Just figured I'd look around a bit." I was staring into her black eyes. "Excuse me Maria," I stood up,
"I'd better see what that stage driver wants." I took another sip of coffee, standing there.
Maria got up and took the coffee pot back to the stove, I couldn't help watching again. When she put the pot
down, she turned her head and saw me looking. She smiled. I came to my senses, turned, and went over to
where Josh was leaning against the wall smoking his cigar.
"You all through eatin' an' lookin'?" he said with a smile, "mind talkin' for a bit?"
"Don't mind," I said and pulled up a chair that was a few feet away, against the wall.
"I'll get right to the point," Josh started. "We've been havin' trouble with outlaws out this way. I've lost two
shotgun guards and a stage driver in the last three months." He drew on his cigar and blew the smoke up toward
the ceiling. "Now, I couldn't help notice, you're carryin' a lot of firepower."
"You notice quite a bit," I said.
"Saw you from the window there, when you were getting' off that Dun." He pointed toward a window by the door.
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