With this book I am holding all who read it to the Honor System. Please do not take it and call it your own... Thank You.
Chapter 1
Taking a deep breath, Wesley Flynn relaxed against the wall. After hours of pacing his small enclosure, he was still no closer to understanding what had happened. The only revelation he received was that pacing did nothing to sooth the storm raging inside of him. Looking around the small cell drove reality deeper into his subconscious. Raking frustrated fingers through his dark brown hair, he rested his head against the cold brick of the small town’s new sheriff’s office.
He hadn’t even been in the town long enough to learn the deputy’s name… well… not until he was escorted by the young man into the cell he now occupied. It was hard to ignore the silver badge that gleamed “Deputy” and the shotgun in Wesley’s back. The cold steel of the shotgun was now replaced by frigate iron shackles, which by now where beginning to chafe a layer of skin off his wrists.
Two nights, and still no one has told him exactly what he was in here for. The first hour of his imprisonment he had spent yelling at the deputy to let him out, which had earned him a death glare and the door connecting the sheriff’s office to the cells slammed in his face and successfully shutting out the sound of his protest. Either that door was thicker that it appeared or the deputy was very skilled at ignoring belligerent prisoners.
Shaking his head and releasing a humorless laugh, Wesley tries yet again to piece together what had gone wrong between his last whiskey at the local saloon and being escorted at gunpoint to the jail. The fog of whiskey that night caused Wesley to concentrate on what he may have done to deserve two nights in jail. Maybe he started a bar fight… it wouldn’t be the first time he was the center of that scene but none of the other instances earned him more than being thrown out or one night in jail… but two? If it was a fight then this town’s laws where beyond strict for a just-starting-out western town.
He hadn’t been here long enough to know the town’s crime rates but if the fact that he was the only prisoner in this jail with four cells making use of the back room then he would venture to guess they haven’t seen much use. He didn’t even recall seeing a gallows or hanging tree around town when he roamed the streets a free man. Maybe the sheriff was just looking for someone to relieve the itch he has in his trigger finger and chose a newcomer that no one had made any lasting friendships with over the week he had been there.
The reality of that thought brought Wesley’s eyes open with a jerk. Was he about to be killed because he prefers to keep to himself? Is it against the law to be a private person? Well… maybe in this town it was. He hadn’t been rude or cruel to anyone… that he remembers that is. Wishing he hadn’t had that last whiskey that night so that his memory would be clearer, the only hint that he had was his sore muscles and bruised knuckles. Those he probably earned while fighting with the man, he now knew was the sheriff, who was trying to take him in. He didn’t possess enough patients to fill the Grand Canyon by any means but what little he was blessed with evaporated like a drop of precious water in the Sahara Dessert when he had a few drinks in him. He didn’t make it a habit to drink often but once in a while it helped with the loneliness.
His body went rigid with that last thought. He wasn’t lonely; he just preferred to be alone. A big difference he tried to convince himself. Thinking was a dangerous thing he reminded himself. He made a conscious effort not to do it anymore, a task easier thought then done. Releasing yet another frustrated breath when he realized he just contradicted himself in his own head, he decided that safest thing to do to help with the boredom and keep his mind from wandering was to count the bricks that made up the far wall of his small cell.
Unlike many men in the west, Wesley was able to obtain a solid education that included reading, writing, and some arithmetic. Not sure if this was a blessing or a curse at this moment, he chose the first and continued to count.
***
“Not again,” Rory sighed in frustration.
Raining the old gelding in, she tied the reins on the brake and jumped down from the even older wagon. Making her way to the horse she gently lift his front leg that he was favoring, sure enough the metal shoe that she had fastened out of a horse shoe that was too big and bent out of shape was lose and causing the old horse pain. She had hoped that it out last the whole trip down to her sister’s house and back but with a shake of her head she realized she would have to stop in town and see the blacksmith about a new shoe.
She made it a point to avoid town as much as possible but, like today, some things just can’t be helped.
“Drat,” she mumbled under her breath as she released the gelding’s tender hoof. Looking around to gauge how close she was to town. She had to get home to care for the animals. The thought of being on the ranch all alone seemed daunting, and caused a pain of loneliness to settle in her stomach. She understands that ma and pa had to go stay with Gerty, Rory’s older sister. Gerty was about to have a baby and with Steve, Gerty’s husband, away tracking down outlaws, she needed all the help she could get to run the small ranch she calls home.
Rory wished she didn’t have this old wagon to slow her down, if she was just visiting her sister she would have done it on horseback and shaved off a day and a half on the trail and be home before dark without having to make and unwanted stop in town.
There is no use in wishing things could be different if you have no control over the matter, the hard life of ranching had taught her that lesson many times. At this rate she will get home well after dark and be feeding the animals around midnight, not a task she was looking forward to. If pa had known she would be that late he would have made her stay the night at Gerty’s and head out in the morning. He hated the thought of one of his girls traveling in the dark alone. But Rory had insisted that she would make it using the logic of the animals going without food twice. There was her stubborn streak making its self known again. This isn’t the first time it had gotten her in a fix.
Straightening her back she took a deep breath of determination and set her mind on the task ahead. Clamoring back into the wagon she unties the reins and coaxes the horse to proceed toward town. At least it wasn’t out of the way to the ranch, not even a big detour, she just had to take the smooth well trod road right up Main Street instead of veering left and choosing the rougher road that passed through some tree littered hills avoiding town. Truth be told, the road through town would get her home faster, she just preferred not passing all the people and stores that lined the street.
With the fork in the road now in sight, Rory veered to the left headed towards town hoping the blacksmith could make short work of this shoeing job so she could be on her way. With a sigh and a prayer she pushed on.
***
Wesley’s counting was interrupted by the Sheriff entering the back room, gracing the prisoner with his presence. The way he moved clearly spoke overconfidence coupled with lack of self-control. A pair of traits that Wesley was beginning to see in many of the western male dominated towns, nothing to brag about, many a man was killed by one but both in one person bespoke devastation. And this man held Wesley’s fate in his hands, not exactly a comforting thought.
“Here,” the sheriff spoke gruffly one hand extending the tin cup and crusty bread at Wesley while the other hand rested on his pearl handled pistol holstered on his left hip.
As Wesley rose slowly, keeping one eye on the more-than-willing-to-draw sheriff’s left hand. He noted that the sheriff, under first glance did all he could not to make eye contact, seemingly above having to bring food to the riff-raff that occupied his jail. Yet, any man who had lived in the west and was still kicking would be able to see how keenly the sheriff kept his guard up as Wesley reached for the meager meal.
None the twitchiness nor the watchfulness of the sheriff escaped Wesley’s eye. Not even the shiner the sheriff was sporting or the crooked nose. The appearance of the sheriff’s beaten face caused the corner of Wesley’s mouth to rise into a half smile of satisfaction.
“Thanks… and sorry ‘bout the eye,” Wesley said taking the meal and taking a step back from the bars, out of striking distance. His voice lacked both sympathy and pity.
The glare the sheriff shot him could have put a bullet to shame. Red creeping up his neck, the sheriff huffed, turning on his newly polished cowboy boot, retreated with a stomp and jingle of big Mexican spurs with each step.
Chuckling quietly to himself, Wesley sat atop his bench that doubled as a pathetic bed, and ate his meal. He had had worse, so who was he to complain. Still a change of scenery and lack of shackles would be nice.
Wesley found himself, for the hundredth time racking his brain for the truth of what happened that night that caused him to be locked up. It couldn’t be a sheriff’s bruised face and ego that had kept him prisoner for this long.
Downing the last of his water and bread, he racked his brain… He remembers entering the saloon around noon, after dropping his horse off at the livery to be cared for. He had ordered lunch with a whiskey, occupied a dark table out of the way, ignored the painted woman that kept trying to use their wiles to dip their greedy little fingers into his dwindling bill fold. Then he had just sat here, drinking, sparingly, and deciding which direction to head next. He had spent one night outside of town in the forest that surrounded it, come in to town the first day and restocked his supplies at the general store. Is two days enough to get in trouble with the law? Was one night? Apparently it was, because here he was a newcomer, just passing through, and in jail.
The night was a blur, foggy from the whiskey, until the sheriff had come in and commanded Wesley to rise and follow him to the jail. Naturally, Wesley refused… with force. The brawl was in Wesley’s favor, him having more experience and skill, he was just about to land a final blow and escape out the back and hit the trail without a backwards glance when the barrel of a shotgun, as cold as death, sobered him up enough to realize the odds had now shifted into the hands of the deputy. He woke after noon the next day, in jail, with no idea as to why.
Why was it so hard to remember? Frustration coming back ten-fold, Wesley hurled the tin cup at the brick wall. It hit with a clank and settled a few feet in front of him, his eyes tracking its violent movement. The whiskey helped him forget the past… unfortunately that included not only the distant past but the more recent pass as well.
He had been raised a good Christian by his mama, how ashamed she must be, seeing what her son had become. Shaking his head and running fingers through his hair he quickly tried to derail that train of thought. Thinking of his mama always awakened the pain. The only antidote he found was to order a whiskey to dull it. Unfortunately, that only worked until he sobered up the next day.
There was nothing to do about it… he had no choice but to wait in the agonizing ocean of wondering. The more he looked around the more the walls seemed to close in around him, causing him to literally fight for air. He felt like a caged animal. Attempting to clear his panicked mind, he decided to finish the last clear thought he remembered from the imperceptible night, where was he headed to next? He had little money and few supplies. He would have to join up with a ranch and work for some food and some pay.
At least he had learned some valuable skills out west so that he could earn an honest living and not stoop so low as to be forced to steal. He was a fair hand at helping with roundup and spring branding. Wesley wanted to get as far from this town as he could. How could you learn to loathe something so quickly?
Shaking his head he decided that he would head north as fast as he could and join on with a ranch.
Now that he had that decided, all he needed to do was to convince the sheriff of his innocence and disappear. And he was back to that same train of thought… how can he plea for himself when he knew not what he was being charged with?
Chapter 2
“Are you sure he is in thar?”
“‘Corse he is. I saw the sheriff and deputy take him in there that night,” came the confident reply to the first man’s inquiry.
“’Kay... fine, let’s get this over with,” voiced the third while unsheathing his knife and pulling his filthy bandanna over his equally grimy face.
“Now boys… let’s do this fast and quiet. The sheriff went to go see his girl ten minutes ago and Slim is watching for the deputy while he visits the outhouse so we have about five minutes to get our boy out and on his pony headed south,” the leader reminded as he pulled out his pistol, grasping the barrel to make his makeshift club. This was met with silent nods.
Slowly the group of men casually approached the sheriff’s office. Two men walked in and exchanged friendly greetings with Slim. When a loud thud reached the ears of the others they made their move and entered to assist in tying up the now unconscious man.
Each man has his job, one find the keys, a few to secure the victim, one lookout, and the rest to free the prisoner. With a nod of satisfaction, the leader proceeded to the back door that separated the office and the cells.
***
“Easy there boy,” Rory eased, pulling on the old horse’s reins to halt him in front of the blacksmith’s shop which doubled as a livery stable.
Alighting off the wagon, she took a deep breath of resignation and headed for the door and the conversation she knew was coming. Wishing with all her heart she could avoid this, she approached Jake O’Hara, the blacksmith.
Clearing her throat quietly, Jake turned toward her and allowed a huge grin to spread across his face.
“Well, I’ll be… if it ain’t the bonniest lassie this side of the Rockies… Miss Rory Clayton. What brings you to town?” Jake said dusting his huge hands off on a dirty rag, then running his other through his curly hair in an attempt to tame it.
“Good day Jake,” came the less friendly reply. “Seems my horse loosened a shoe on my way home… I don’t have a spare with me and he would be lame by the time I reached home. So, can you help me?” she said not at all enjoying the taste of humility on her lips.
Jake’s uproarious laugh shook his body and caused his head to face the ceiling. “I believe this is one of the first times ye have ever darken my doorway. As I recall ye prefer to shoe and trim yer own horses and steer clear of town all together.”
Wincing as he hit a nerve, Rory masked her rising temper and proceeded to lead the way to her wagon and unhitched the old gelding, leading him into the livery towards the still laughing Irishman.
“It’s this one,” Rory said motioning to the tender hoof. Still chuckling, Jake bent low to retrieve the hoof and examined it.
“Um…” he mumbled thoughtfully pulling the makeshift horse shoe off. With a cocky grin at Rory he examined the shoe, “Yer creation?”
“It’s all I had,” she defended quickly, “Pa and Ma needed to get to Gerty’s and we ran out of ready made shoes so I had to use one of the Clydesdale's and cut it to size.” She could feel her face burning red under Jake’s raised eyebrow.
“Can you fix it or not?” she finished in exasperation her wounded pride making itself known through the guise of anger.
“Sure can lassie. Just give me half an hour and this ol’ lad will be ready to cart ye home,” Jake said easing the hoof to the ground and dusting off his hands. “Ye can head on over to the general store and do some feminine visiting and I’ll be done directly.”
“Um… no thanks I think I’ll just stay here and wait, if that’s okay with you.” Rory said cringing at the thought of having to endure a half hour surrounded by the people of this town.
“Suit yer self,” Jake answered quickly stoking the fire and getting to work.
Rory studied him for a time as he worked, wishing she had this equipment at the ranch, it would make life much easier on her. She wondered how Jake got stared in this profession. He couldn’t be five years older than her, who did he learn this trade from? Was it his father? Would he pass this on to his sons? As she pondered these thoughts, she decided to wander the livery.
She wandered from stall to stall examining the horseflesh that occupied it, silently comparing it to her family’s stock. One particularly attractive hide was worn by a good sized mustang stallion, making the last stall his temporary home. He had a long, thick, slightly wavy mane and tail, which perfectly complimented his chiseled head and defined body. His color was a dark bay with solid black legs reaching up almost to his body.
What she would give to own such a horse, or at least possess some of his blood in her stock. Wondering who the owner was she continued her scrutiny or the horses while Jake worked.
***
Wesley heard some commotion coming from the front office. There were some muffled voices followed by a solid thud. From there the Sheriff’s office was filled with hushed tones. Rising to his feet Wesley prepared himself for the lynching posse he knew was coming.
The door burst open reviling three masked men all wielding drawn guns. The thought shot across Wesley’s mind that this is what his life had come to, angry townsmen coming to kill him, taking the law into their own hands. He decided he would not go out without a fight, and braced himself.
“Bring the keys here,” one man said, obviously the leader, motioned for the keys to be surrendered to him. Approaching the cell door, he eyed Wesley warily. “Now boy, we is here to get you outta here, Okay?”
Wesley wasn’t convinced and it showed on his face.
“Truly, we knows you didn’t do it. See, the law here is dirty and me and the boys… Well, it just don’t sit right with us that an innocent stranger is hung for it. So we is here to get you out.” The leader persisted.
“Oh really…” Wesley said dubiously, “and how are ya’ll know I’m innocent? Why should I trust you? You could be working with the Sheriff and be taking me out to hang me yourselves.”
“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that,” the leader said, measuring up Wesley. “Then again, maybe ye ain’t. Seems to me yer the one behind bars.” The leader allowed his eyes to roam around the small cell that encased Wesley, finally resting on his shackled wrists.
Grinding his teeth Wesley realized he was in to position to call any shots, but that didn’t mean he had to go quietly.
“Didn’t anyone tell ye not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” the leader prodded. “I give ye me word that
We will help ye escape and no harm will come to ya by our hands… or guns.” The leader hastened seeing Wesley’s eye their drawn hardware.
“Now… as I see it… ya have two choices…” the leader continued pacing casually in front of Wesley’s cell, “you can stay here and be hung by the sheriff in two days time… or you can come with us now and be out of this state in a few days time… ultimately the choice is yers but we are running short of time so…”
The last statement hung in the air like a dead man hangs from a tree. Wesley knew he needed to decide quickly. His mind raced, the only indication he gave of the turmoil going on inside him was the fingers he raked through is hair. He knew he was facing death, for what was still a mystery. Could he trust these men? Where both paths leading him to the hanging tree? Why not chose the one where he could have a fighting chance?
Eyeing the men in dirty bandannas, he knew he couldn’t best all of them… but it was better odds then being forced to the tree admits a crowd of townsfolk at the wrong end of a shotgun.
The leader could see Wesley’s decision in his eyes when they met trough the bars. “Good choice,” he congratulated and proceeded to unlock the cell door. The loud click ensured Wesley’s freedom.
“Thanks,” Wesley mumbled dryly as the leader unclasped his shackles. Rubbing his chafed wrists he followed them out into the front office. Reclaiming his gun belt from the sheriff’s desk, Wesley never took his eyes off the masked men that occupied the office. Seeing another man gagged and tied to the chair behind the desk, obviously unconscious, shook Wesley’s confidence in the men that surrounded him.
“Ya ready cowboy?” inquired the man stationed closest to the door.
Wesley nodded and crept to the window… gauging how far he would have to run to reach the livery that housed his horse.
“Once we get out there… stay out of sight and get your horse and get outta here,” instructed the leader.
“Why are you helping me?” Wesley had to ask still not trusting that these men where honest, God fearing Christians who just couldn’t stand to see an innocent man die.
“Cause… ya needed it… and may repay the favor someday,” came the gruff reply as the first of the men headed out into the street.
Taking a deep breath… with gun drawn, Wesley followed.
