Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Little man, indeed,” replied another customer.

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Drop it!” I yelled.

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

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

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

  Chapter 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No.”

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

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

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

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

  I looked up at Frank Connors.

  “No one calls me Little Man,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 7

  The hitching posts at Frank’s Place were slammed full of horses, but I directed Sable in between a couple of them and slid off, squeezing between the tight fit. I tied her off and stepped up onto the deck, pulling my leather gloves off and stomping my boots to knock the mud off.

  I walked into Frank’s Place and saw nearly every other table was full. Many were playing cards, while others were drinking or putting down some food. I angled toward the bar, where I saw Frank.

  “Where you been?” Frank asked, concern written on his face. “I sent my boy Joe to get you and he couldn’t find you.”

  “I been out riding and shooting some,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “I wanted to tell you a couple riders stopped by here earlier. They claim that Valdez plans to bury you. He’s assembling a gang of riders.”

  “Valdez? Who’s Valdez?”

  “He’s that Mexican you disarmed. Turns out he was a bigger gun hand than Bill Garland by a far sight. Them fellers said he’s killed eleven men and couldn’t believe you got the jump on him. Blames the whiskey. He’s not a blow hard like Bill Garland was, but he’s done a lot of gun work.”

  “Get me a drink,” I said.

  As Frank stepped away to grab a glass and some whiskey, I turned and scanned the room. Besides Valdez, I worried about wannabe gunfighters. Many men wanting to make a name for themselves had shot men like me in the back. They wanted a name that would make sure their bed was always warm and their glass always full. And if they had a crew with them, they could often stand off the other patrons who’d seen a man gunned down in cold blood. Shot in the back, most of the time.

  I didn’t aim for that to happen to me, so I examined the entire room nice and slow.

  I heard Frank place the glass of whiskey in front of me, and I turned back around.

  “So, what are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said, picking up my drink. “Be careful, I guess.”

  Chapter 8

  Valdez arrived two weeks later. But that two weeks felt like my year and a half fighting for the South. Dread and fear eat at you worse than hunger and pain.

  My two weeks felt like two years. Maybe three. I fidgeted and looked about constantly, worried Valdez might be sneaking up on me. Frank Connors said I looked more nervous than an unarmed preacher moving through Indian country.

  I slept in fits. I ate little; my normal hunger a distant dream. I couldn’t stand still. All I’d learned about courage and keeping your cool seemed for naught with the threat of Valdez’s return. I fiddled and paced like a dog thrown in a small, barren lot.

  My fear turned to paranoia. I could think of a dozen different ways it could go down. Valdez could catch me leaving the Marshal’s office or exiting Frank’s saloon. He could hit me with a rifle while I was out riding Sable. Or, Valdez could keep it simple and just ride into town with a big crew and spread everyone out in front of the office. Demand we come out, assuming Marshal Harrison was there, or they’d burn the place down by chucking a couple lanterns against the building. Just in case, I’d bought four buckets, filled them with water, and placed them at each corner of the jail, ready to douse any fire Valdez might start.

  Marshal Harrison said I was crazy, but I told him to not move those buckets. He didn't either, which told me he was worried, too.

  To avoid being gunned down on my daily rides with Sable, I varied my routes and the time of day when I took my ride.

  Valdez had too many options for killing me quite easily, as I saw it, but I couldn’t run. Especially if I wanted to keep my manhood and honor my family name. So, I started carrying my lever action Winchester everywhere I went. Resolute, I turned my anxiety
into energy.

  I practiced shooting every day. I demanded the Belleville Town Council include one box of shells each day as part of my pay. They did, after some heated arguing, but only because the man selling the ammo sat on the Town Council. I didn’t care if he got rich. I just wanted the ammo and ability to practice shooting.

  For my pistol work, I carried the Colt Single Action Army, chambered in .45 with a 4 ¾” barrel. It was the shortest barrel offered, but nearly every gunfighter carried the short barrel. I moved up to the Colt Single Action Army as soon as it was offered in .45.

  I thought the .45 was far more powerful than the more common .44 American chambered for Smith and Wesson Model 3 revolvers.

  I spent half an hour every day practicing my draw and working through in my mind what I’d do in a gunfight. Draw. Fire. Take a knee. Fire again with your elbow propped on your knee for better accuracy. Find something to hide behind. Then fire again.

  I did a similar drill with my lever action. Most of the lever actions in use fired the same ammunition you used in your pistols -- so that you’d only have to buy and carry one kind of ammo -- but I preferred the Winchester Model 1876. It fired a full-powered rifle cartridge, as opposed to a smaller handgun-sized round.

  Besides shooting outside town every day, even in the rain, I practiced drawing and aiming my pistol as much as I could. When I was alone in the jail, I’d draw ten times standing. Whenever I stepped into the outhouse behind the jail, same thing. Draw and aim ten times before getting down to business.

  Marshal Harrison gave me all kinds of hell about all the drawing and shooting and gun cleaning, which I seemed to be doing all the time now.

  “You don’t see me shooting every day,” he said one day while we were at the jail, his hands clasped together across his big belly.

  I stopped scrubbing out the inside of my pistol and looked at him. “Hadn’t seen you in the papers, either,” I said.