Bullet Advertising

Peacemaker

Bullet Advertising

by

Michael Sutch

     Barton climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. It took him some time because his legs weren't working too well. It was funny, though, there wasn't as much pain as he thought there would be. Behind him he imagined a trail of bright red blood. He didn't look back down the steep staircase, though, as dizziness would likely cause him to fall. At last he reached the top and leaned heavily against the railing. Before him was a wooden plank door with a small window set at head height. The door was white, the window trimmed in green. In the center of the door was fixed a wooden sign that read, "M. Daniels, M.D." Barton knocked on the door.
    There was no answer.
    Barton pounded with his fist on the door.
    "Ok," came a voice from inside, "I'm coming."
    Barton leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to fall in when the door opened. It opened.
    A girl stood there...no, a woman, he decided. She wasn't as young as he first thought. She wore a green night dress, cinched at her narrow waist. Her straight brown hair was held back with a green ribbon. The doctor had good taste, he thought, she was pretty.
    "Yes?" she said. Then she saw the blood welling from beneath the hand clenched at his waist. "Oh. Come in. Quickly!"
    He staggered forward. She tried to help him, but he pushed her away.
    "Where's the doctor?" he asked.
    She pointed to a table in center of the room. It was heavy, about five feet long. "Lay down there. On your back."
    He leaned against the table, but did not lay down.
    "Where is Dr. Daniels?"
    "I'm Dr. Daniels," she said.
     Barton watched as she took water from a pitcher and poured it into a pan on the sideboard and took scalpel and forceps from a black bag.
    "That can't be," he said.
    "Certainly, it can," she said briskly. "Boston College, class of '84."
    She opened a cupboard door and took down took down a bottle of whiskey. She handed him the bottle. "You better start drinking this."
    He put the bottle on the table next to him and levered himself to his feet. "Look, I think..."
    "What's your name?" she asked.
    "Lawton Barton." he said, and waited.
    "I've heard of you."
    "So has everyone else," he said, and looked down at the wound in his side.
    "Someone wanted to prove he was faster with a gun than Lawton Barton?"
    "I don't think so," he grinned a little even though it was an effort. "Whoever it was shot me from an alley."
    "Another fool who wants a reputation."
    "That would, indeed, be a fool, ma'am."
    She was close, her large green eyes intent on his. He saw her irises were flecked with gold. Her warm breath was fresh. She leaned close to him, reached for something on the table. It was a large wooden mallet. His hand went to his gun.
    "Don't be silly," she said, and moved away to the middle of the room, knelt down and pounded the floor planks with the mallet.
    "What was that for?  Something they taught you at Boston College?"
    She smiled at him and he realized that she was more than pretty.
    "You have a sense of humor."
    "Yeah, I'm a regular Mark Twain."
    "I just signaled Cephus to come up."
    "And who is Cephus?"
    "A large black man."
    "Why do we need a large black man?" he asked uneasily.
    "When you have had as much whiskey as you can take, Mr. Barton, Cephus and a friend will hold you down while I cut that bullet out of you. If it's still in there."
    "It's still in there. I would of knowed if it took a notion to leave."
    He stood up and moved heavily toward the door.
    "Where are you going?" she asked.
    "Lady," he answered, "in other circumstances I would be tickled to stay here with you, 'cause you're just plain pretty. But I can't believe you're really a doctor. No offense, but I best see the other doctor in town."
    Her green eyes flared wide in anger, or maybe, he thought, just frustration. When she spoke there was no hint of either in her voice. "Mr. Barton. Are you good with that gun?"
    "You know I am." His tone was flat, sure.
    "As expert a gunfighter as you are, Mr. Barton, I'm just as expert a doctor."
    He stared at her, then shook his head. "Ok, you don't lack for spit, at least."
    "Do you know old Doc Hamlin?"
    "I'm new to town, so no, I don't."
    "He's a competent frontier doctor, which means he saves the lives of half the patients with serious ailments he treats. That is, when he's not drinking. This being a Saturday night, I expect he's been drinking since around two this afternoon."
    "You don't pull no punches, Lady."
    "On the other hand, Doc Hamlin has been here in Curtain for nearly twenty years. He has done a lot of good work, delivered nearly every baby, set every broken bone, nursed every fever, brought the town through the plague single-handed, and patched every gunshot victim brought his way. Everyone in town swears by Doc Hamlin."
    Barton considered her. She was tense, the muscles in her bare arms as defined as if she were lifting a heavy weight. Her expression was grim and her gaze direct.
    "So old Doc gets all the doctoring business in town," he said softly. "Right?"
    "Yes. Oh, a few of the women have come to me with special problems. But few and far between."
    "And fixin' up Lawton Barton would be good advertisin'," he said harshly. "Right, again?"
    She didn't flinch. "Yes, of course. It would show I was good for more than soothing women's vapors."
    He laughed and felt something pull in his wound.
    "That smarts," he said. "I should go have a drink with old Doc Hamlin."
    "You're choice," she said, and turned away.
    Outside on the stairs came the sound of a heavy tread moving slowly upward. Presumably Cephus coming in response to the hammered summons.
    "What the hell!", he grinned over the increasing waves of pain. "What gunfighter doesn't like to take chances? And I think I like my chances here."
    He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey bottle. He drank, liking the burn in his throat. The brief smile she flashed him, before getting busy with her preparations, was unexpectedly gratifying.
    "If I'm dead in the morning, don't wake me," he said.
    "If you're dead in the morning, I'll take my shingle down and leave this town behind. And I really hate moving."
    He laughed again and then held his fist to his abdomen in response to the pain. "I'm glad to see we both have a personal stake in this, doctor."
    He lay down on the table and took another drink.

    In the morning he woke hot and achy. It felt like a beast had savaged his lower gut. The room was dim behind heavy curtains. She was sitting in a chair by his bed, her breathing was even, her eyes closed.
    "Hey," he said, and was surprised at the weak rasp of his voice. "I told you not to wake me."
    She opened her eyes, leaned forward abruptly, took his wrist in her hand and gauged his pulse. Then she put a cool palm on his forehead.
    "You told me that only if you died, Lawton Barton. You're alive, and I intend to keep you that way."
    She rinsed a cloth in water in a pan on the sideboard, folded it and placed it on his forehead.
    "Glad to hear it, doc," he said, closing his eyes and savoring the cool. Then he slept again.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

The Courting Of Mallory, Part 4: The Ride-Out

Mallory & Kell

At long last, the ride-out with Miz Allie is upon Mallory.  How can he let her down easy, without hurting her feelings? It doesn't seem possible.

The Courting Of Mallory, Part 4:

The Ride-Out

by Michael Sutch

    Mallory's burst of self-confidence at besting Kell at target shooting was short-lived. The closer he got to town and Miz Allie, the more nervous and insecure he became. At the Holden house on the edge of town he nearly turned back to the ranch. The wheel-rutted dirt street and the weathered, gray wood of the many unpainted buildings suddenly seemed overwhelmingly drab and dreary as if life and color had been sucked out of everything he saw. Even the few people about were bloodless white and listless. Only a few raised a hand to him in desultory greeting. It was grim determination not to suffer the shame of failure that kept him moving toward the stable at the opposite side of town.
    Miz Allie's bright red dress, peeking from beneath the satin-like black of the buggy's top, and her brayed, cheery 'Hello!' brought Mallory to himself.
    "That's some fancy rig, Miz Allie!" he said in involuntary excitement.
    Truly the new buggy was spectacular. The black satin top was convertable, up now against the heat of the day. The body gleamed with black paint and silver trim curlicues. The half doors were decorated with a silver crest that somehow wove a letter 'A' inside a celtic circle. Even the wheels with their bright black spokes had a repeat of the crest in white metal on the hub. A jet black horse strained impatiently against the silver harness and the tightly held white reins.
    "Are you talking about my new dress, Mallory?" she asked coquettishly.
    Mallory flushed. Miz Allie's red dress was etched in gold chinese ideograms and covered her from her black-shoed toe to a high-necked gold frill just below her narrow chin. Except for the exaggerated bustle the dress was relatively shapeless. Or perhaps, Mallory thought, it was just that she was relatively shapeless. Whichever, he was glad it covered her so completely. To top off her outfit she wore a wide-brimed, closely woven straw hat with a wide red headband of the same material as her dress. A long peacock feather was mounted in the headband and swept the inside of the buggy's satin top like a broom each time she turned her head.
    "It's quite...well...fetching, Miz Allie."
    "Oh, just Allie, Mallory, please. You'll make me sound like an old maid."
    "Oh, sure. Sorry," he sputtered.
    She patted the seat beside her and smiled in a way that made Mallory's heart writhe in fear. "Come, sit here and let's drive out to Rose Hill."
    He dismounted and tied Windy to the back of the buggy. Then he climbed in. His weight made the little vehicle dip and Miz Allie slid toward him with an involuntary intake of breath. She gripped his arm with long, strong bony fingers to steady herself and smiled at him apologetically. But then she settled in as close as she could. He was glad he was wearing his gun belt because it kept her from resting her lanky thigh next to his.  He cleared his throat, clucked at the black gelding and shook the fancy white leather reins. They started off down the street, Mallory staring grimly straight ahead. He didn't want to look at her for fear it might her encourage her to conversation.
    "Nice day, isn't it?" she said.
    "It is?"
    Mallory looked around. The sun shone brightly. The sky was a brilliant blue and sported a few fluffy white clouds. Heat caused the air to shimmer in the distance over the Colorado prairie.
    "I guess it is, at that." he said, though he felt betrayed by its friendly beauty.
    They rode out of town with Miss Allie chattering gaily. Mallory replied in monosyllables when it seemed he must. The farther they went and the more she talked, the more it seemed to him that the sun dimmed and the color went out of the world.
     Two miles out of town a small trail branched right and headed west. Mallory directed the gelding into the turn. He looked ahead along the irregular track perhaps a quarter of a mile to where a line of cottonwoods and elms curled sinuously along the banks of Bitter Creek. Beyond the creek rose a low ridge, the crowning point of which was Rose Hill.
    Mallory swallowed on a throat suddenly gone dry as a gulch canyon.
    "What's them tracks?" Miz Allie asked.
    "Tracks?" He looked at the ground they were passing over and saw it was torn up with the prints of a multitude of horses.
    "Unshod." They said that word together.
    He drew back on the reins, bringing the buggy to a stop.
    "Wild horses?" he asked.
    "Nope," she answered him. "There's moccasin scuffs there...and over there."
    He looked where she pointed, saw the faint imprint of moccasin-clad feet, and looked back at her with new respect for her sharp eyesight. Then the import hit him.
    "Indians! But they're all on the reservation. Unless..."
    He reached for his pistol but found the holster empty. Miz Allie was holding the gun in her left hand with competent authority.
    "Quit dithering, Mallory," she snapped. "Help me down."
    "That's my pistol, Miz Allie. I'm familiar with it. Perhaps it would be better if you let me have it back."
    "I've seen you shoot and I'm a better shot than you are. If any of them savages are around here they'll be missing a few eyes before I'm done."
    Mallory, nonplused, wasn't able to think of anything to say.
    "Now, help me down," she repeated.
    He looked down at her high-heeled shoes. "Those shoes..."
    "Right you are," she said, and with two quick movements shucked the shoes, revealing pristine white stockings.
    When she was out of the buggy Miz Allie bent over at the waist, because she couldn't kneel in the constricting dress, and studied the hoof prints in the red dirt of the wagon track. Her position made the bustle of her dress waggle in the air above her backside while her head bobbed down toward the ground with each attempt to view a hoof print or moccasin scruff. She looked remarkably like an old hen pecking at seeds and clucking to herself. Mallory managed to suppress an outright laugh only because of the potential seriousness of their situation.
    "At least a day old, maybe more," she said, straightening up and joining Mallory in scanning the horizon. "They went north. Likely long gone by now."
    "What tribe?" he asked.
    She looked at him like he was witless. "A hoof print is a hoof print and a moccasin is a moccasin. I ain't a medicine show mystic."
    While he scowled at that she handed him the pistol, butt first. He holstered it, scowling even more fiercely. Her brown eyes watched him with a raptor's gaze and her narrow lips widened in a smile.
    "You shouldn't take a man's weapon like that," he said. He was surprised at the gritty anger in his voice.
    "I've seen you shoot," she said again in the same dismissive tone she had used earlier.
    He felt a flush spread over his face. Then, remembering how he had bested Kell that morning, he said, "I hit what I'm aiming at."
    "Sure you do, if it ain't moving and doesn't take a notion to mosey on for an hour or so."
    "And you could do better?"
    "Well," she said and took a moment to study the surrounding area, "see that pile of horse turds there about twenty yards up the road?"
    He nodded.
    She came to him and cuddled close in on his right side, looking up from under the brim of her hat with a smile that showed crooked teeth. He stepped back with an involuntary shudder and when he did she drew the pistol from his holster with her left hand. The movement was as swift and smooth as Kell's best. She fired three times in rapid succession. The first shot exploded the top horse dropping. The next two obliterated those which had supported the first. Without a pause she slapped the gun back into his holster.
    He looked at the reduced pile of horse apples for a long time.
     "They weren't moving," he said.
    She laughed. "If you want me to shoot moving turds you'll have to go toss a couple in the air."
    "I'll take your word for it. You know, Miz Allie..."
    "Allie."
    "Uh, Allie, I think we should go on to Rose Hill and see if we can spot any more Indian sign."
    "Why, Mallory," she leaned into him, her breath warm on his neck when she spoke. It was curiously sweet and minty breath. "I do admire a man with initiative."
    His hackles rose and he retreated from her abruptly. "Why, I didn't mean...I just thought...I mean, we might see..."
    "Quit sputterin', Mal, for pity's sake," said a voice behind them.
    Mallory turned, instinctively reaching for his pistol, only to find Miz Allie already had it pointed at the figure slouched against the buggy. Kell pushed his Stetson back on his head allowing a lock of red hair to escape down his forehead. He grinned at them.
    "Kell, what are you doing out here?"
    "Spying on us." Miz Allie said. There was a loud, unmistakable click when she cocked the pistol.
    Kell dropped the his horse's reins and raised his hands. "Miz Allie," he said with considerable earnestness. "I swear that wasn't what I was doin'. In town someone was sayin' they'd seen Indian sign out this way. And I came to warn you two."
    "But I got to tell you," he went on, "I'm thinkin' it would be the Indians'd need to worry. I swear I ain't never seen a better bit of shootin' in my life."
    Kell was watching Miz Allie with an avid intentness that Mallory had never witnessed in his friend. He glanced at Miz Allie as she uncocked the pistol and handed it back to him and saw that she was blushing. Mallory closed his mouth in utter surprise. Then he reconsidered. He faced Kell straight on.
    "Well, you warned us Kell. Now you can ride back to town. Allie asked me to ride out with her."
    Kell glared at him. "You ain't got no brand on her, Mal."
    Beside him, Miz Allie shivered, causing her bustle to rustle the fabric of her dress. Her homely face was alight with pleasure.
    "Now boys..."
    "Miz Allie..."
    "Kell, really, you'll make me feel like an old maid."
    "Oh, well, Allie. I just got to ask: who was it taught you shootin'?"
    "It was because of the rattlesnakes, you see. I hate rattlesnakes and my pa and Mr. Goodnight..."
    "Charles Goodnight? You know him?"
    "My pa was a wrangler on Mr. Goodnight's ranch. So..."
    "Do you think you could teach me to shoot like that?"
    "Well. You are quick, Kell. With more natural talent than Mallory."
    "Everbody on this Earth's got more aptitude than Mallory."
    Mallory faded back to the buggy and untied Windy. He looped the reins of Kell's Thunder there instead.
    "But Mallory is so sweet and nice and..."
    "Boring." Kell said.
    Mallory flushed a little when he heard Miz Allie giggle. He rode back to town shaking his head. People plum amazed him.

The end

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

The Courting Of Mallory, Part 3: The Shooter

Mallory & Kell

The Courting Of Mallory

Part 3: The Shooter
by Michael Sutch

    Kell strapped on the new Colt Peacemaker he had purchased the day before. Then he rummaged through the cluttered jumble of his possessions in the old wooden trunk at the foot of his unmade bunk and finally came up with a box of shells. He clicked home six cartridges in the finely oiled cylinder and slid the gun into the holster that rode high on his scarred belt. He grinned at Mallory who, with military precision, was putting the final crease and tuck in his own tightly made bed.
    "You're lookin' at a new man," Kell said. "This here is the first day in the life of Kid Kell!"
    Mallory surveyed him with exaggerated thoroughness and then said slowly, "Looks remarkably like the old Kell."
    "Shows you what you know. Startin' today I'm gonna practice with this piece of iron 'til I'm the best shooter in this whole country."
    Mallory frowned, wondering how such a foreign bit of ambition had lodged in his friend's mind. Then he noticed the spreadeagled, dog-eared, print-smudged copy of a dime novel lying on the floor next to Kell's bunk. Stretching up on tiptoe he could just make out the illustrated cover which read "Wild Bill, the Pistol Dead Shot."
    "I see," he said.
    "Yep." Kell grinned. "Come on out to the fence back of the outhouse and I'll show you how a real shooter shoots."
    Mallory shook his head. "I can't, Kell, I have to get ready."
    Kell drew his head back in surprise, causing a thick forelock of his unruly mop of red hair to cascade down over his eyes. He brushed it back with a lightning swift flick of his left hand.
    "What are you talkin' about? Today is Sunday. Old Sandy's checkin' up on the herd. Ain't nothin' we have to do today."
    "I have to ride out with Miss Allie after church," Mallory reminded him.
    "You're not really goin' to do that, are you?"
    Mallory opened the chest at the foot of his bunk and took a can of boot black from its accustomed place. At Kell's question he stood up stiffly, a faint red flush on his cheek.
    "I said I would."
    "Yeah, but she don't really expect you'll be there, Mal. Heck, everyone she ever asked probably turned her down."
    "I said I would go, and I'm gonna go." Mallory said stiffly.
    Kell grinned. "Suit yourself, partner. You surely do love gettin' yourself into trouble. Kid Kell, now, I'm off to practice up on shootin'." And he left the bunkhouse, banging the door behind him.
    Mallory stared after him, glumly. In a moment a thought occurred to him and his lips formed a smile. Then he made his preparations for riding out with Miss Allie. He blacked his boots, polished his belt buckle, and got out his best pair of trousers and his sunday shirt from the pressing frame which had been weighed down by his Bible. He washed his hands and face and carefully parted his hair down the middle of his head and then slicked it down. He took very special care in shaving and and even more care in trimming his moustache. Then he brushed his Stetson, laid it on his well-made bunk and got dressed. Last of all he strapped on his gun-belt. He looked in the cracked mirror tacked to a center post, smoothed his moustache with a finger and nodded to himself with approval. If he had to ride out with Miss Allie, at least he could look a picture. And he thought he looked a very good picture, indeed.
    Mallory stepped out of the bunkhouse and closed the door quietly, firmly behind him. From out back came the sounds of intermittent gunfire. He smiled a small smile again, but went to the tack room and got his saddle and bridle, then went to the corral, called his mare Windy and saddled her. He led the horse back of the bunkhouse, past the outhouse, to the weathered old wooden fence that marked the south pasture. Kell was there quick-drawing and firing at a couple of rusty old airtights propped up on fence posts. Mallory noted that none of the cans had any holes in them and certainly none moved from Kell's latest barrage. It was as he expected. He had seen his friend at target practice before.
    "How's it going?" he asked.
    Kell frowned at him. "Well, I reckon I'm gettin' a little better. Here, I'll show you."
    He reloaded, holstered, and got into a little bit of a crouching stance, his right hand hovering over the butt of the pistol. Then he quickly drew, fanned the hammer back with his left palm, and fired. He fanned and fired five more times. None of the airtights perched on the fenceposts moved.
    "See," Kell said. "I'm gettin' a little better."
    "How can you tell?" Mallory asked.
    "What do you mean, 'how can I tell.' You could see it for yourself. Them cans moved a hair each time I fired."
    "No doubt from the breeze caused by a passing bullet."
    "Exactly. None of them shots couldn't a' been a eighth inch wide. You seen that, didn't you?"
    Mallory frowned at the three cans standing lonely and naked on three weathered gray fence posts.
    "Well..." he said.
    "Yeah?"
    "Don't you think you should aim?"
    Kell was flabbergasted. "Aim! I was aimin'!"
    "You were shooting from down by your hip. How can you aim from down there?"
    "That's how Wild Bill does it. He's a dead shot that way. It takes too long to raise a pistol up to eye level. The other guy would 'a drilled you through the heart 'fore you could git set up to shoot."
    "Maybe," Mallory admitted. "But you aren't Wild Bill."
    Kell looked disgusted. "I know that! That's why I'm practicin'."
    "I think he'd have told you that shooting ain't just speed, it's accuracy too."
    "I'm fast, Mal, you know that. Nobody's faster than me."
    Mallory nodded his grudging respect. "I've never seen anyone quicker than you, Kell. You're a natural that way. Heck, I think you might of out-drawn Wild Bill."
    "You ain't never said nothin' more true, partner!"
    "But the safest place for Wild Bill, could he be here, now, would be standing right in front of you."
    It took a second for Kell to register Mallory's words. Then his ruddy face flushed an even deeper color.
    "I suppose you think you could do better."
    "I do."
    "Then let's find out, Mister Oh, So Prissy Neat."
    "Let's do," Mallory said.
    Kell reloaded and took up his stance. Mallory dropped Windy's reins and moved to join him. "You take the one on the right and I'll take the one on the left. Whoever hits his target first can take the center one."
    "You're on," Kell said. "Say when."
    "When", Mallory said.
    Kell drew and fan-fired six times in succession before Mallory had his pistol clear of his holster. But Mallory calmly raised his weapon and took aim. He fired. The can on the left leaped into the air.
    Kell grunted. "Luck."
    Mallory aimed at the center can and fired. It jumped into the air. He grinned at Kell.
    "It don't mean nothin'," Kell said.
    "Sure," Mallory agreed.
    "Go on, get out of here before I get riled, Mal. Take your gal Miz Allie," he snidely emphasized her name, "out to Rose Hill."
    Kell tried to maintain a glare, but his eyes fell before Mallory's steady gaze. Mallory decided to leave before Kell recovered his self-composure.  He mounted Windy and rode off to keep the date he didn't want.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

The Courting Of Mallory, Part 2: Miz Allie

Mallory & Kell

After he sent a curt "NO" to Miz Allie's invitation to ride out, Mallory finds himself in desperate need of new long johns. The only place he can buy them is Allie's Dry Goods Store.  How will she react to seeing him?

The Courting Of Mallory

Part 2: Miz Allie

By Michael Sutch

    "I can't go in there," Mallory said, nervously stroking his freshly trimmed mustache. "Not after that letter you sent. She'll hate me."
    "Hey!" Kell objected, "I didn't send no letter. I only wrote it. And I only wrote what you wanted to write, but was too yellow to. You sent that letter, not me."
    "And I delivered it, just like you paid me to, Mal," Sandy McNeal added, his youthful face split in a wide grin. "She sure was nervous about it, too. Then, when she read it, her face kind'a all fell in, real disappointed-like. It was awful. I got out'a there as fast as I could."
    Hearing that description for about the fifthteenth time in a week still made Mallory shudder. He caught the surreptitious wink Kell gave Sandy and watched as the  kid's grin got even wider.
    "A couple of real friends I've got," he said.
    They stood on the boardwalk outside the The Rattlesnake saloon, across the street and catacorner from Allie's Dry Goods Store. The sun was high and hot this August Saturday. They had just tied their horses to the hitching rail outside the saloon, having arrived in town for an afternoon of shopping and an evening of debauchery.
    "It ain't like she'll spurn your hard money, Mal," Kell offered. "I bet she's over it already. Most likely, the worst she'll be is kind'a frosty."
    "And you sure need a new pair of long johns," Sandy said, helpfully, "after the dog got a'holt of the back end of yours. It kind'a left a permanent breezeway there in your backside."
    "Shut up!" Mallory hissed. That wasn't a story he wanted bandied around town.
    Without more hesitation, Kell grabbed Mallory's arm and pulled him toward the street in the direction of Allie's store. "C'mon, we ain't got all day."
    The interior of the dry goods store was stifling and dim, although here and there dust mites danced in sunbeams slanting in through the windows. It made for odd areas of light and shadow over the humped bales of cloth and the tables piled high with articles of clothing. The main counter was shrouded in darkness and Mallory could not see Miz Allie there. He desperately wanted to gauge her mood. He found a pile of long johns and was fingering through them, anticipating in nervous dread her first words.
    "Mallory!" came the high, thin voice of Allie Waterson in pleased satisfaction. "You finally came."
    The three men exchanged confused looks at this unexpected evidence of good humor. She came upon them, her boney face alight with anticipation when she looked on Mallory. The glances she gave to Kell and Sandy, though, were many degrees cooler.
    "Miz Allie," the three men mumbled together.
    "Mallory, I sent you a letter last week, and this is what I got in return." She waved the letter with Kell's curt 'NO' scrawled on it, along with an impossible rendition of Mallory's signature.
    "Uh..." said Mallory.
    "This is not your writing, and certainly not your signature. I've seen that on enough IOUs to know the difference."
     "Well..."
    "My guess is, you never even saw my letter, did you?" Her hard, little brown eyes drilled both Kell and Sandy. "I think a couple of no-goods intercepted it and decided to have a little fun."
    Given this way out of his acute embarrassment about the whole affair of the letter, Mallory gravely considered the evidence she had thrust in his face.
    "You sent me a letter?" he asked.
    At his side, Kell muttered, "I'll be a...."
    "Yes," she said. "I sent you an invitation to go out riding in my new buggy. The invitation is still open. We could go tomorrow, if you want, after church."
    "Uh..." Mallory said. Her horse-like face wore a simpering smile that filled him with horror.
    "Oh, please, Mallory. It would give me great pleasure to ride out to Rose Hill for a look out over the valley."
    Mallory flushed, suddenly very hot, and sweat popped out on his brow. He heard what sounded suspiciously like smothered snickering laughs from both Kell and Sandy. Rose Hill was a local favorite for lovers trysts.
    "Well..." he said.
    "I'll pack a picnic lunch," she went on. "You've always liked my fried chicken at church socials."
    "Yes, I..."
    "Oh, you'll go! I knew you were too much the gentleman to hurt a lady's feelings."
    Backed into a corner, with nowhere left to turn, Mallory sighed. "Sure, I'll ride out with you, Miss Allie."
    "I knew you would. I'm so excited!" she said. Then she eyed the pile of long johns his hand still rested on and her manner turned very practical. "What is it you need today, Mallory?"
    "A pair of long johns," he said, in despair.
    When he had made his purchase and they were back out on the street, Kell and Sandy erupted in long-suppressed laughter.
    "Oh, you're such a gentleman!" Kell gibed in high falsetto.
    "Rose Hill!" was all Sandy could say, bent over and slapping his leg with his gloves in great hilarity.
    "Oh, shut up!" Mallory snapped and stomped away.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

The Courting Of Mallory, Part 1: The Letter

Mallory & Kell

Mallory receives an invitation from homely Miz Allie. He doesn't want to go out with her, but he doesn't want to hurt her feelings, either. What will he do? What can he do?

The Courting of Mallory 

Part 1: The Letter

by Michael Sutch

Mallory dithered.
    He gathered his writing implements, quill pen, ink pot, parchment paper and spread them out over the rickety old table that occupied one end of the bunk house. Then he sat, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink and stared at the paper. He put the quill down, angled the paper a little more to his liking and picked up the pen again. After another moment of contemplation he noticed the tip of the quill was split. He drew the knife from his boot sheath and used it to whittle the quill to a sharper point. Then he dipped the quill in the ink once more and resumed staring at the parchment.
    Kell, watching this game of indecision from where he sat on his bunk smoking a cigaret, glanced over at Sandy McNeal and jerked his head toward Mallory.  "I got a silver dollar says old Mallory won't be able to finish that 'No Thank You' letter to Miz Allie," he whispered.
    "That who his letter was from this morning? Miz Allie?" Sandy's whisper was a little hoarse from trying to control an outright bray of laughter.
    Kell's grin was wickedly wide. "Yep. The very mistress of homely, herself."
    "What'd she want?" Sandy gasped.
    "Ain't sayin' until you take my bet."
    Young Sandy levered his six foot four inch frame off his bunk high enough to peer through the blue smoke over Kell's head at Mallory. "All he has to do is say no thank you?"
    "Yep."
    "Ok, you're on. See, he's writin' already. Now, what did she want?"
    Mallory, hunched over the parchment, was was writing with a slow and careful hand. Abruptly he crossed out what he had written, folded the paper neatly and reached out to place it in the nearby box of kindling for the wood-burning stove. Then he carefully drew forth another piece of paper and maneuvered it to the precise angle he needed for writing.
    Kell sucked in a lung full of smoke and blew it toward the cobwebbed rafters of the bunkhouse. He thought Sandy's face was a trifle whiter that it had been a moment before. No doubt he was seeing that silver dollar sprout wings to fly away. The thought made him happy.
    "Come on! What'd she say?" Sandy hissed at him.
    "She asked him to go out ridin' with her come Saturday afternoon in her new rig."
    After a moment of sheer disbelief, Sandy's deep-throated laughter bubbled loudly to the surface. "No," he said, "tell me it ain't so." At Kell's solemn nod, he doubled up, buried his head in his pillow and howled.
    "What do you two find so funny?" Mallory snapped.
    Kell looked at Mallory in feigned surprise. "Why I was just telling young Sandy here one of the more ridiculous facts of life. He found it somewhat amusing too."
    Mallory stood and placed the quill in its inkwell. "I can't do this," he said. "I should ride into town tomorrow and tell her I can't go, face to face."
    Kell stood and scratched his shaggy locks. "You ain't going to write that letter?"
    "No."
    Kell held his hand out to Sandy. With a sour expression the kid dug a silver dollar from his jeans pocket and slapped it in Kell's palm.
    "I knew it!" Mallory said, disgust making his moustache quiver.
    "It would be a bad idea to go see her face to face, Mallory," Kell said.
    "What do you mean?"
    "You'd get to feeling all sorry for her and you'd end up agreeing to go with her."
    "Well, I can't write this letter either. It would hurt her feelings too."
    "You remember I told you she'd get the wrong idea, you bein' so friendly all the time."
    "I was just trying to be nice. Maybe I'll just ignore the whole thing and not do anything."
    "For pity's sake, Mal," Kell said. "This ain't that hard." He picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink pot and wrote a big 'No" on the page. Then he scrawled a totally impassable imitation of Mallory's precise signature. "See? All done."
    "I can't send that!"
    "Better that than nothing. It would really hurt her feelings if she thought you were going to go and you never showed."
    Mallory grimaced, reached for the paper, then shook his head. "No, I can't."
    "I'll bet you another dollar, Sandy, that Mal will end up not doin' nothin and makin' the whole thing worse."
    Mallory shuddered. "Ok!" He folded the terse letter into an envelope and neatly addressed it to Allie Smith. "Will you deliver it for me?"
    "Not me!" Kell said.
    "I will, Mallory," Sandy said, "for a silver dollar."
    Mallory closed his eyes. Then he took a silver dollar from his pocket and flipped it to the kid.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

Nightwolf's Vengeance

Photo by John Glenn

Will Hino, the Iroquois god of thunder, help Nightwolf in his quest for revenge against the Viking raiders? 

Nightwolf's Vengeance

  by Michael Sutch

    Their trail was clear. They had made no attempt to hide it, thinking no one would follow.

    Sunlight dripped through the leaves of the canopied forest and spattered the trail with splotches of golden light. Here and there small creatures rustled the underbrush or flitted from tree to tree. The air was moist and cool, smelling freshly of rain. Nightwolf moved noiselessly between the trees, hardly marked by the animals and birds in his path, let alone by human eye or ear. His own senses were finely focused, searching for any movement, any sound, any odor that was foreign to this place.
    He stalked the wind which blew lightly from the west. And it was the wind that brought him the first faint trace; the stink of unwashed body. He halted then and crouched with head bowed and eyes closed, listening. There was a whisper of laughter far ahead and a high voice raised in a protest that was cut short with the dull sound of flesh hitting flesh. He growled low in his throat, though it was more a vibration than a noise. He wanted to run, then, but caution held him. The voices were far away, but the stink was near.
    He eased forward, breathing deeply. The smell came from ahead, to the right of the trail. There should have been noise as well; the rasp of breath, the impatient stirring of tension or boredom, the unguarded scratching of an itch or a smothered cough. These men were not woodsmen. They made constant noise even though they thought themselves silent. Except here, there actually was silence. When he reached the place where the man was hidden, he saw why. His blond hair was matted with blood. He was unconscious, though still breathing. Nightwolf drew his knife and put an end to that.
    He ran then, heedless of the branches whipping his face and body. The way led down a bank and across a slow moving stream whose water was murky with churned mud.  Several large rocks had been turned by the passage of the men, leaving their clean, bright faces up.  He stopped before crossing to study the ground and counted six sets of prints; the two girls and four others. Then he moved again, three steps on the surface of flat, friendly stones and he was over. He passed through a fringe of willows and up the bank on the other side.
    The forest gave back, opening into a large glade. The grass and the blue and red and yellow wild flowers were still dewy with the moisture of a retreating bank of fog. The low-lying cloud swathed the far end of the glade like a gray blanket, but overhead in the bright sunlight and the bright blue sky was the thunder god Hino's consort Rainbow. Thunder growled like drums from the forest still shrouded in cloud as if announcing the presence of the god. Nightwolf smiled at the omen.
    Ahead, just visible in the embrace of the fog were struggling figures. The two girls fought with their strange, outland captors. The sobs and cries of the girls were mixed with the deep laughter of the men. Keeping to the edge of the forest, Nightwolf eased silently forward. He drew the arrow he had recovered, one of the strangers' own, that has missed him in the battle at his village.  The arrow had a sharp, wicked metal arrow head.  He notched it to the taut bowstring.
    He halted when he was within a hundred paces of the melee. The strangers were not aware of him as they were too engrossed in their game of stripping the girls. They were large men, unlike any he had seen before, with hair like gold and eyes the blue of the wild flowers. Their skin was pale white. They wore small round hats that gleamed like silver in the sun and had horns twisting to either side. Their clothes were baggy cloth in shades of brown and they wore leather boots that came high to mid-calf. Each carried a round metal bossed shield and either an axe of bright metal or a long metal tipped spear.
     He raised the bow and arrow as offering to the spirit of the thunder god. "Hear me Hino! Bless my arrows. Let them strike the evil men as your arrows of fire strike all who do evil!"
    A low growl of thunder answered him and he shrieked a defiant war cry. The outlanders turned as one man, the girls abruptly forgotten at their feet. When thunder again rumbled off the distant cloud-covered hills the strangers raised their own weapons to the sky and shouted with fierce joy. All four voices spoke the same name in an exultant pean, "Asa Thor!"
    Nightwolf guessed they too worshipped the god of thunder. He did not understand how men capable of doing the evil things they had wrought among the people could expect Hino to answer their call, but it didn't matter. His arrows would be the thunder god's justice and, incidentally, his own vengeance. He prayed that he was worthy and that it would be so.
    Two of the men with hairy faces took little running hops toward him and threw their spears. Nightwolf was surprised at their accuracy. He had to step aside and duck down at the same time to avoid being skewered. When he rose to his feet again he saw that all four were charging toward him. He raised the bow, pulled the arrow to his cheek.
    "Let my arrow strike as yours would, Hino," he said, and released the shaft at the leading outlander.
    The arrow streaked true and as it did so, lightning flashed from the clear sky and followed in the arrow's path, only faster, until at the last moment it seemed that the arrow flared with flames. Then the lightning forked in four directions and struck each of the outlanders simultaneously. The awful crack of the bolt knocked Nightwolf down and left his ears ringing in the crashing thunder.
   It took long moments before fear left him. Then he sat up and stared uncertainly around. The white men were dead. Their golden hair was smoking and blackened beneath their metal hats. He raised his voice in a song of thanks to Hino. At least, he thought he did. He could hear nothing. When he closed his eyes all he saw was a streak of white light. He shook with dread at the power of the god of thunder.
    Sometime later he felt the hands of the girls urging him to his feet. He opened his eyes and let them help him walk, one on each side, their shoulders offering support to his arms. Now they could return home to the cries of the injured and to the wailing for the dead. But they could make that walk without shame.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch

The Silver Spurs

Mallory & Kell

Just a little bit of humor, again set in the old west.  There is more to come from Mal And Kell.

The Silver Spurs

by Michael Sutch

 "No one stole your spurs, Kell. It's just you can't find them in all this mess!"
    Mallory was looking askance at his partner's kit spread out over Kell's bunk and scattered half around the bunkhouse. Kell grunted, digging further into his trunk and throwing an old pair of chaps on the floor.
    "I tell you," Kell grumbled, "one of the boys stole my new spurs. They was right here on top of everything. Now they ain't."
    Mallory looked over Kell's shoulder and into the dark depths of the trunk. "I don't see how you can tell where anything is. It's like a rat's nest in there."
    Kell slammed the top of the trunk shut and stood glaring at Mallory. "Damn it, Mal! Just 'cause I'm not a prissy old woman like you that keeps everything in its own special place don't mean I don't know where things are. If all you are going to do is stand around and comment on the state of my kit, then git out of here! I don't need you."
    "Hey," Mallory said, smoothing his mustache. "I don't mean anything, it's just...Well, never mind. If they aren't here, they arent' here. Who do you think took them?"
    "I don't know," Kell said, stuffing wrinkled shirts, trousers, the aforementioned chaps back into the trunk in haphazard fashion, followed quickly by a sewing kit, shaving gear, and a leather tobacco pouch. "But I'm betting if we head into town and stop into Kott's Merchandise, we'll find them fixed to the wall behind his counter, all polished up and gleaming like the silver he paid for them. And he'll tell us just who it was sold them to him too."
    Mallory nodded. "Sounds like an idea. I'll go saddle up."
    Kell grabbed his old stetson off the pillow of his bunk and slammed it down on the uncombed mop of his thick red hair. As he passed the bunk, he accidentally kicked it. There came a clinking sound from beneath one of the wadded up blankets. Both men stopped. Mallory, by the door, turned around, looking at the bunk. Kell pulled the blankets aside and there, resting on the yellow sheets, were two silver spurs.
    Mallory grinned.
    "Oh, shut up!" Kell said.
    "I didn't say nothing," Mallory answered, but his grin got bigger.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch