Bone's Country 3 (Patreon)

Just looking at the way Frenly sat his horse, you could tell he would be the winner, and not by a nose either. He hunched down low in the saddle, legs gripping the withers, giving the wind nothing to grab hold of as he and his stead bulleted through it. It was a thing of beauty and once more Bone felt like brute force, his cayuse and him punching through the stagnant air when they even tried to match the speed Frenly made.

Sound emerged from the distant confusion like the first drop of a rainstorm. It was the tremolo of Frenly’s hoof-thunder, a quick and jagged beat, but with an undeniable rhythm. Even when pushed to the limit, that magnificent horse kept its disciplined gait. Each hoof hitting-hitting-hitting according to the same pattern, step after bounding step.

Thing of beauty.

And like all beauty in the West, it couldn’t last.

Bone felt the staccato rattle of Frenly’s horse through the ground. Just his, at first, a lonely vibration like the dots and dashes of a telegraph wire. Then came the bone-jarring clatter of the entire pack, transmitted up his legs and finding purchase in his heated groin. Yes, he was ready to make his move. The excitement wasn’t sexual, but it was excitement. Sophia cooed to feel it. She knew they would celebrate tonight, and her enjoyment of that would be exquisite.  Her fingers trailed over the old scratched leather ‘round his holstered Colt Single Action Army—the sheath almost as hard as the gunmetal—a well-worn holder that would never drag a man’s draw.

Teasingly, Sophia dipped her little finger into the holster with the barrel of his Peacemaker. “It feels warm to the touch already, jefe.”

“I won’t be using it,” Bone told her.

“No?”

“He’s wanted alive.”

Sophia scoffed. “By him himself, sin duda.”

Frenly came in, displaying such equestrian skill, with such a lead on his competitors, that he reined in his horse before crossing the finish line. He won the race with his horse’s hooves dug in, skidding across the dirt—the second and third place winners had to veer to the sides to avoid running into him as he triumphantly made his horse rear up and cycle its forelimbs in the air.

The remaining racers peeled off, some not bothering to finish, but making their way straight to the stables. With the dust settled and the ground still once more, well-wishers streamed onto the raceway to congratulate Frenly, who dismounted and received their admiration like a cactus soaking up a rare rain.

Bone hung back, displaying a rictus of a smile to set Frenly at ease. He didn’t rush in, but he didn’t stay abreast of the mob either. With a pat on Sophia’s hip, he dismissed her, then waded closer to Frenly like one more adoring fan. If Frenly saw him coming, he put no mark on the fact. Bone was only another face in the crowd.

Finally, he was close enough to Frenly to reach out and touch him, were it not for the swirling crowd coming between them like milling sheep rejoicing in the lack of a sheepdog. But Bone didn’t make his move. There was something to be done first.

“Make way, make way!” the mayor said—a tall, thin customer that reminded Bone of one of those little birds that hopped about while it was on the ground and flittered in all directions when it was up in the air. He held the One In One Thousand Model 1873 and was pumping it in the air like it was his trophy as much as Frenly’s.

Frenly turned his smug smile on Mayor Thornbury, graciously including him in the victory, nodding as he accepted a pat on the shoulder from the politician.

“Carl Frenly, it is my honor to congratulate you on your fine display of horsemanship and my privilege to present you with this prize in commemoration of your high deed on this day. This Winchester rifle—itself a rare token, as you may know—is yours by right of your victory. Take it and think well of our little town whenever you use it!”

Frenly took the Winchester and thrust it into the air himself, to the wild acclaim of the crowd. Bone didn’t join in, though it was a fine-looking rifle. Too fine for the grubby hands wrapped about it.

“That’s not a One of One Thousand Winchester,” he said, not raising his voice but making himself heard with a clarion call that ripped through the dying merriment.

Mayor Thornbury turned to him with a start, his eyes big as he registered the deathly presence that’d been standing among his constituents all along. “Beg pardon?” he managed, weathering Bone’s hard stare.

Bone’s eyes ran over the Winchester, inspecting it from butt to muzzle, then nodding to himself with an air of condescension. As of a man who was asked to work out a chalkboard that two plus two equaled four, and then did so to his own overt satisfaction.

“That’s no One of One Thousand. It’s just a Winchester Model 1873. Good rifle, fetch a decent price—suppose it’s a good enough reward for a man that can stay on his horse from one point to another.”

Frenly frowned at him: Bone could see the calculus in his head. The offense, but also an unwillingness to tangle with someone of Bone’s dangerous looks. He wasn’t a smart man, but he had an animal cunning that made him too much for your average lawman or posse.

Thornbury, though, was a politician. “I say, young man, I say… what brings you to such a bold declaration! I purchased this here firearm myself and I have it on the highest authority, I say, the highest authority—“

Impatiently Bone gestured for the Winchester. “Look. You can see it right on the gun.”

Suspicious, but compelled by curiosity and the weight of the crowd’s interest, Frenly held the Winchester out to him. Bone examined it up close, gave another curt nod, then gripped it so as to turn it in Frenly’s grip and present him with the stock.

“See here, right on the heel of the thing. On an authentic One of One Thousand, they stamp the initials OW for Oliver Winchester. But look here where it’s supposed to be…”

Frenly leaned in, neck craned for a good long look, and that was when Bone tightened his grip on the rifle’s barrel and drove the butt into Frenly’s face. Frenly’s head jerked back, a spout of blood marking where his nose had been driven in. Even as he reeled, Bone was in motion. He unleathered his Peacemaker and brought it up between the Mayor’s eyes. With the Winchester he tripped Frenly, holding his heel on the man’s throat where he was laid out.

“Everyone back!” Bone roared. “I’ll have a good serving of daylight around me or Mayor Thornbury takes up breathing out of the other side of his head!”

The crowd backed up, hushed and mortified and awed by the sudden shock of violence. Bone detected what had to be the Sheriff and his deputies pushing through the onlookers, not that any of them wanted to relinquish their view, and he knew he didn’t have long. Already he’d been lucky that no one wanted to see their Mayor’s face as a canyon.

“I take it you won in a landslide,” he commented to the Mayor, then tossed the Winchester into his arms. With his now-freed hand, Bone dug into his duster for the rolled up paper he wanted. He unfurled it and held it out to the crowd. “This man under my heel, Carl Frenly, is also known as Elias Guthrie and Carlton Paper. He’s wanted due west for his participation in the crimes of the Earl Fredericks Gang.”

“Damn you, damn you, damn you!” Frenly muttered through his broken nose, blood bubbling each time his lips parted.

“Hush now, there’s women and childfolk present,” Bone admonished him. “As a duly sworn officer of the court, I’m arresting this man and confiscating his property until such time as he stands trial.”

“I didn’t do nothing! I rode with that man but I took no part in any unlawfulness!” Frenly howled, voice shot with the pain of speaking through his injury.

“That’s between you and the judge. My job’s just making introductions.” He pointed the Peacemaker skyward and took it off-cock, ending the threat to the Mayor. “Sorry I had to borrow you, Mr. Mayor. If it’s any consolation, least now you know where you stand with the electorate.”

The Sheriff arrived, a burly man of a barely trimmed beard and barely washed clothes. He got there just in time for Bone to stick the wanted poster in his face.

“You should have a copy of this in your office. You’re welcome to double-check, I’ll wait.” Bone grew a terse smile as the Sheriff took the poster from him. “Then I’d appreciate it if you keep this ruffian in your metal until the circuit judge rides in to pass sentence. You can bring me the bounty at your convenience—you’ll find me at the saloon.”

The Sheriff, red-faced, could only look over the wanted poster. His mouth worked inward like he’d rather chew up the parchment then stare at it a moment longer, but finally he nodded.

“No need to double-check. I recall a warrant out for Elias Guthrie. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be so brassy as to run a race while having paper on him.”

Bone pulled the Winchester rifle out of the Mayor’s fingers as easily as he’d take a hat off a store mannequin. “If he was a brain, he’d find himself some steady pay in a padded chair. Maybe as a lawman.”

The Sheriff’s eyes shot out at his, guessing he’d been slighted, but unable to grasp how. Before he could puzzle it out, Mayor Thornbury spoke.

“The rifle, Gene, the rifle…”

The Sheriff reached out and grasped the Model 1873 in Bone’s hand. “Of course, as a peace officer, you know that any property of a criminal is forfeit to the court.”

Bone held onto the Winchester. When the Sheriff pulled, it stayed where it was. Moving as much as a brick house would in a summer wind.