Storyteller / Shared NPC
It was one of those muggy dog days of mid summer, the sun was out, only a light breeze made it reasonably tolerable - that is if you weren't engaged in manual labor. But that was exactly what four of the Evergreen hands were doing and were none too happy about it either. They had been ordered on firewood collection detail, an onerous task that involved going out into some of the wooded sections then chopping and gathering suitable firewood to fill up a buckboard. The wood was necessary for the large Steelgrave residence plus the bunkhouse for the rather large crew of hands who were employed on that ranch empire.
There had been four men sent out on this day, two mounted accompanying a buckboard wagon with two on board. Normally the job would be left to two men but with all the Indian trouble going on throughout the territory it was felt doubling the numbers was a precaution just in case. Of course all of them were suitably equipped with rifles and revolvers besides chopping axes for the actual wood gathering chores.
They had made their way to a sizeable stand of wood, with trees that were young enough to chop down easily and not be too heavy and thick cords to toss into the back of the wagon. The wagon was now parked as close as possible to the treeline, the riders' mounts tethered to a convenient low tree branch. The quartet had just commenced with the work then.
In charge, mostly because he assumed the so called responsibility, was Black Jack Laine. He was also the oldest in his early mid thirties and was a rather forceful personality. He was reputed to be good with a six-gun and told anyone who would listen of his exploits in a range war down in Texas a couple years back. So of course the Steelgraves hired him, it wasn't for his cowpoke skills. He now sat on the wagon making himself a cigarette with paper and tobacco, having ordered the others to get started.
Greer was grumbling as he reached for one of the axes, something about having cut the palm of his hand the other day in the corral and how it would make swinging this tool a mite uncomfortable. It was an excuse, he was always making them. Hard work and Greer did not mix. Thing is everyone knew it by now and he got no sympathy.
Billy chuckled at hearing the latest whining, honestly that jasper was never happy, "That ain't a cut, that's a scratch."
"Damn, it's too hot anyhow for this sorta thing. We should do this at night when it's cooler," Greer now declared in that sorrowful tone of his.
"You want to wander about out here in the dark when Indians might decide to lift yer scalp...oh wait, you ain't got enough hair on that head of yers to get scalped," Blackjack smirked.
"Injuns don't attack at night," Greer argued.
"So you an Injun expert now too? How many Injuns you fought?" Billy chuckled as he stripped off his shirt, he was perspiring already and he had yet to take his first axe swing, "Crissakes, I'm sweatin' like a pig already."
Greer only muttered some more and finally picked up the axe. Billy grinned as he glanced over to Brendan next to him.
"You watch, Bren, it'll end up bein' you n' me who'll do most of the work today."
Yeah, it was going to be one of those days, little did any of them know how momentous it was going to turn out.
Brendan wished he was the one sitting on the wagon and giving orders, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
"Nah, you got it backwards, Greer," he said disgustedly as he followed Billy's example and slid out of his suspenders and shirt, then tossed his shirt at Greer's head. "Injuns like attackin' at night. They're sneaky, like us. They just blend in with the shadows an' you never hear a sound 'til they're standin' right next to ya. An' then all you hear's this."
He suddenly tilted his head back to the sky and let loose with his version of the rebel yell. It started low in his throat and rose to a high, hair-raising pitch that sounded reasonably like he figured an Injun war cry would. It also sounded a little like a wolf howl, and made the horses shift nervously. All except his, who was a little more used to whoops and yells.
With a grin, Brendan swung his axe and let it sink into the trunk of a tree with a thunk as if to represent a knife or tomahawk in Greer's balding head. "An' then it's too late."
Billy seemed as disgusted with Greer as he was. "You watch, Bren, it'll end up bein' you n' me who'll do most of the work today."
"Isn't it always?" he grumbled as he yanked the axe free and swung again. "I betcha Greer never gets a swing in and Blackie stays on the wagon."
Storyteller / Shared NPC
Brendan begged to differ with Greer about Indians.
"Nah, you got it backwards, Greer," he said disgustedly as he followed Billy's example and slid out of his suspenders and shirt, then tossed his shirt at Greer's head.
It hit Greer and fluttered to the ground, the man glared but said nothing, Brendan was talking anyhow.
"Injuns like attackin' at night. They're sneaky, like us. They just blend in with the shadows an' you never hear a sound 'til they're standin' right next to ya. An' then all you hear's this."
And the young man now proceeded to give out a powerful yell much to the surprise of the others and annoyance of a few of the horses. Billy seemed bemused as he watched the performance. Greer winced at the racket. Black Jack simply growled, "Oh shuddup!"
But Brendan wasn't quite finished, taking a powerful swing and burying the axe into the closest tree trunk, "An' then it's too late."
Billy observed the swing and the workings of Brendan's biceps and torso, then felt a twinge of jealousy when his own frame did not compare. Well, the other man was older afterall. As for Greer, he huffed, "No Injun was born who can sneak up on me."
Blackjack lit his cigarette and ground the match into the wagon seat, "Besides any Injun who'd hit you in the head couldn't possibly do you any harm, nothin' up there to hurt."
That amused Billy but obviously not Greer who dared not backtalk the gunslinger. None of them had seen Blackjack in action but the way he carried that gun of his and the look in his eyes , no one wanted to mess with the fellow.
"Get to work, boys! That firewood won't chop and load itself now," Blackjack ordered.
Billy hissed, "You watch, Bren, it'll end up bein' you n' me who'll do most of the work today."
"Isn't it always?" Brendan grumbled as he yanked the axe free and swung again. "I betcha Greer never gets a swing in and Blackie stays on the wagon."
Barely a quarter hour passed when Greer paused to pull out an already filthy rag that passed for a handkerchief and mopped his brow, he was totally sick of this chore already. Glancing at the two younger ones, he figured let them do this sorta nonsense. Then he stared out at the skyline, Montana was a place for magnificent views. And had an idea!
"Sonofabitch! Lookee that!" he dramatically pointed in a general direction, dropping his axe.
Billy looked, but at what he had no clue or where? He didn't see anything. Blackjack had been dozing and woke with a start.
"THERE! OVER THERE!"
That helped nothing, it was as if he alone could see what he was jabbering about. Greer now impulsively headed for his horse.
"I just saw me a big ol' deer. A nice fat doe! I'll go shoot her and we'll have us a grand ol' supper!" Greer chortled then clambered onto his mount.
Billy just stared, he still saw nothing, no movement even. And then he knew. Greer was lying.
Blackjack sat up straight by then busying himself with stamping out the final ashes of the cigarette which had fell from his mouth to the wagon floor. Greer was racing off as he belatedly spoke.
"Now where you goin"?"
Billy just rolled his eyes and glanced over to Brendan. He figured Brendan had known Greer long enough by now to figure it all out too.
Not that it mattered what any of them knew or didn't know. Greer was racing off chasing his invisible deer.
Brendan snickered at Blackjack's comment about Greer's lack of brains and got to work. He and Billy made a good team. Even though the other, younger man could be lazy, they worked well together since Brendan didn't get on his case like the other hands who actually cared about their work (few of them as there were) might have.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Greer yelled, and tried to see whatever he was looking at. But there was nothing there, not even when he squinted. But as soon as the man got on his horse and started to ride away, he knew what was up. Greer wouldn't be back until he knew all the work was done. Brendan rolled his eyes and exchanged a knowing glance with Billy.
"Wouldn't it be somethin' if there actually was a doe," he grumbled as he started splitting one of the trees he and Billy had cut. "But he'll be back with nothin'. It'd serve him right if his horse threw him."
Storyteller / Shared NPC
Wouldn't it be somethin' if there actually was a doe," Brendan grumbled as he started splitting one of the trees he and Billy had cut. "But he'll be back with nothin'. It'd serve him right if his horse threw him."
"The odds of him hitting the damn deer even if he did see one are pretty slim to none. He's a rotten shot," Billy declared with a grunt as he then whacked at the fallen tree. He was going to be really sore the next morning, all this heavy work was not for him. Of course this whole task would be over with a whole lot sooner if they actually had FOUR people working on it.
He turned to sneak a glance up at Blackjack still sitting upon the buckboard, he was sipping from one of the canteens they had brought along.
"Thirsty work there?" Billy couldn't resist some sarcasm.
"Damn right, hotter than hell today," Blackjack stated the obvious but didn't offer any to the other hands.
Storyteller / Shared NPC
Once Greer got out of sight of the other three hands, he pulled on the reins and eased the horse into a much slower pace. His plan was simple, wander around for ...oh maybe a few hours, then head back and sadly report he lost the deer and there would be no venison for supper tonight. He thought it was a pretty clever plan and here Billy always thought him an idiot.
He didn't get all that far when his eyes caught sight of some sort of movement up ahead, he was up on a rolling hill crest amongst some scattered trees and down below was a fair stretch of wild grassland. Sure enough there was a rider moving parallel to him, no more than ....maybe a good hundred yards off. He halted then grunted. There was something about that rider?
Dismounting he took a longer look. Wait! Talk about blind luck! That was certainly none other than that high and mighty Lost Lake big shot, Quentin Cantrell. The very man who slugged him hard in the beer tent brawl of last fall and now lately who pistol whipped him for no reason at all on Main Street, Kalispell. And then it turned out it was HE not Cantrell who got arrested! There was no justice.
Ever since he had sworn revenge, he'd told any Evergreen hands who would listen. Billy just scoffed. Another hand even laughed. It was because of men like Cantrell that he never got any respect in this world.
But this was a golden opportunity, he might never get a better chance than this. He now pulled his Henry rifle from it's leather scabbard. Wiping his brow of sweat, he then brought the long gun up and aimed. The man had no inkling he was even about to die. Greer smiled to himself then pulled the trigger.
Quentin Cantrell let Paladin find his own way down the side of the hill. The horse wound its way along the unstable slope until the ground flattened out at the bottom. Quentin turned Paladin to let the horse continue his pace but moving to cross the open meadow. The day already promised to be hot and Quentin had already learned how hot even a Montana summer can be.
After word of the Little Big Horn had reached Kalispell and the surrounding area, everyone was seeing Indians behind every tree and under every rock. The Lost Lake people were understandable worried after reading the lurid news stories and hearing the rampant gossip about the "Rampant Indian Uprising". Quentin did not consider himself an Indian expert, but he knew from his few dealings with the ones in this area that they weren't given to bloodthirsty rampages and his travels around the West in the past had shown him that the white man's idea of a "Savage Indian" usually started with something the white people did to them that made them so angry they were goaded into action.
But, regardless, Lost Lake was partly his and he was not about to take a chance on any Indian groups laying in wait on the land or massing to maybe attack the ranch or Kalispell. Quentin and Shade had organized the hands to act as scouts, riding out along the edges of the land looking for any signs of Indians, either camping or passing through. If they were to find such signs, they would immediately send riders into town and to the nearby fort to spread the alarm. So far, thankfully, nothing had been seen, either actual or sign of marauding Indians. Quentin had felt the nice morning air and decided to take one of the scout trips for himself, but the climbing sun was reminding him of how bad an idea it could be even this far north.
Quentin tugged rein and Paladin stopped in the meadow. Quentin sat his horse as Paladin fed on some of the summer grass and Quentin reached down and tugged one of his canteens loose. He twisted the cap off and lifted it up to take a drink. His head tipped back and he lifted the canteen just in time for the .44 rimfire round to smash into it. Water went everywhere and the canteen was smacked from his grasp at the same time the report of the rifle reached Quentin's ears. Reflex threw him to the side and he let himself fall from the saddle. Paladin bucked and neighed and hopped sideways as he felt Quentin fall. His horse was too well trained to flee and simply loped a few yards away to look back at his owner laying in the knee high grass.
Quentin lay sprawled in the grass, his Smith in his hand as he peered through the blades of grass back toward the direction the shot came from. His eyes narrowed as he watched carefully...gaze moving from left to right slowly before he saw the mounted man in the distance. Quentin squinted as the rider lowered his rifle to work the action and then it hit him as he saw the balding head...Greer. Quentin muttered a string of curses after deciding that he definitely should have shot that sonofabitch in the street that night.
Bringing the Smith up, Quentin aimed above Greer and let loose a few shots. He figured the sound of rounds passing by should keep Greer honest until he could figure out his next move.
Storyteller / Shared NPC
There was the crack of the shot, his rifle kicked a bit, and Greer quickly squinted to see if he'd hit his target. For just a few seconds, his hopes were skyrocketing. Bits of something flew, maybe from Cantrell's skull, and the man dropped off his horse! This triumph would more than make up for his embarrassing miss when he tried to pick off that damned Redmond girl. He levered his Henry as he now looked forward to heading over to the corpse and pick up some nice loot. The man was rich afterall, well HAD been rich.
But all that dissolved in an instant as three shots rang out. None came close to hitting him but it was plain even to the rather dim Greer who was shooting at him. Cantrell was alive! Greer now had a quick decision to make. Had he thought it thru, he might have realized he still had the range on the man, rifle versus revolver, but he instantly reverted to type. Greer was essentially a coward, bullying and bushwhacking were his tactics and the idea of a stand up fight did not appeal.
He quickly half leveled the rifle and snapped off a shot at Cantrell's horse in the desperate hope he might bring the animal down and prevent pursuit. Then he yanked on the reins and his mount turned about. He made his choice. Ride straight back to the others. Maybe Cantrell wouldn't chase him, especially with an injured horse? But if he did, there were three others back there at the wood detail. Four against one. That bastard wouldn't stand a chance.
Greer disappeared over the crest.
Brendan had finally had enough of being the only one to be working besides Billy. He'd never been good with authority anyway, and watching Blackjack sit and drink water was the straw that broke the camel's back. (There wasn't a reason he couldn't have stopped to drink water before now, but that was beside the point.)
With his axe still in hand, he trudged over to pick up his shirt and headed back for the wagon, where he picked up one of the extra canteens and took a long drink, staring at Blackjack the whole time. He finally looked away and stretched to get the kinks out of his neck, arms, and back, groaning softly.
Suddenly he had an idea. His eyebrows shot up and his lips twitched. It was a good idea.
"If it's so hot," he said finally, "why don't ya cool off a little?" His free hand shot out and knocked the canteen up so that the water would hopefully spill out onto Blackjack's clothes. Yes, it was a waste of water. Yes, it would make the supposedly famed gunfighter mad at him. No, he wasn't thinking about that as he acted. Yes, it felt good to do that.
But before Brendan could move to get out of the way of Blackjack's wrath, a shot rang out. And then three more. And then a fourth. Even Greer wasn't that bad of a shot to miss that many times, or that stupid to keep shooting at a deer that had already gotten away.
And the shots sounded different, too. The first and the last were definitely Greer's rifle. Something wasn't right. Brendan dropped his axe beside the wagon and glanced at Billy, then at Blackjack. He was the oldest, after all, and would know what to do.
Quentin finished reloading the Smith and snapped it shut. He looked back over at Paladin as another shot rang out. Quentin ducked but he also saw Paladin neigh and dance with a sudden motion. He had heard the faint snap of a round passing by but it didn't seem close to him. Hoof beats carried to Quentin's ears and he craned his head up to glimpse the horse disappearing over a nearby hilltop. Quentin exhaled and stood, shoving his revolver back into its holster. He then jogged over to Paladin, giving the horse a quick looking over but he didn't see any wounds or blood. Quentin swung up into the saddle and reined Paladin around before spurring him off in the direction Greer had ridden off.
Several seconds Quentin crested the rise and off in the distance he could see Greer. He was leaned back, hanging on to the reins as his horse galloped furiously. The man looked like a pile of clothes flying in the same direction as his horse, not like a man riding a horse. Quentin smiled and leaned over, arms down to the sides holding Paladin's reins as he lightly kicked his heels. Paladin stretched his own neck out as his feet erupted. The horse's powerful legs gathering and leaping in unison and the animal literally leaped from a lope to a flat out run. Quentin's eyes widened a bit and he held on tighter as his horse began to close the distance on the rider in the distance...this wouldn't take long...