In The Blood

OneUtah/Colorado border, 1858 The retort of the gunshots rang out across the still, open countryside, echoing amongst the nearby mountains. There were six shots, even and measured. Simms squinted through the cordite and whistled. “You've nailed it, Noreen,” he said, grinning, and glanced across at the short, dark-haired woman with the striking face, dressed in dungarees and red-checked shirt. She smiled back at him, cheeks reddening. “Ah, shush, you're just saying that!” “No I ain't,” said the Pinkerton detective and he strode over to the fence not fifteen paces away and looked down at the cluster of tin cans lying on the ground. The holes torn through their sides from Noreen's bullets testified to her improved accuracy with the six-g*n. He got down on his haunches and picked a can up, examining it more closely. He straightened his back, holding the can as if it were a prize. “I'm proud of you,” he said and nodded across to her. “Reload your piece, Noreen. No point having a g*n that ain't loaded.” He shook his head, eyes growing distant for a moment. “I've seen that happen more than once.” “What?” “Dropping an unloaded, just fired revolver into the holster, then dying when another assailant steps up and you ain't got nothing to stop them with.” “That ever happen to you?” He tilted his head and gave a small chuckle. “I wouldn't be here if it had. Now, reload your piece.” “But I'm so dirty already,” she said, giving him that coy look of hers which broke down his defenses with such ease. She held up a hand. “Look at me, covered in all this horrible, black powder.” “Well, that's why I carry three, sometimes more, pre-loaded cylinders.” He moved closer to her and for a long time they stood there, so close. After a moment, she reached up and clawed the hair at the back of his head. Melting, he leaned into her and kissed her smooth mouth, the warmth seeping through him. They pulled apart slightly and he rested his face on her cheek, loving the way her fingertips massaged away at his scalp. Forcing himself back to the real world, he gently took the revolver from her fingers and gave it a long, admiring look. “Brand new, Remington Navy. A fine g*n indeed. Easier to maintain than my old Dragoon, that's for sure.” She stared at him. “There's so much I don't know about you. Your life, where you're from.” Simms shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. Maybe when we're old and grey, I'll fill out the long evenings with my story.” “You think we will grow old together?” “Would you like us to?” A smile flickered across her full lips, those lips he loved to kiss. “I'd like nothing more.” Now it was his turn to smile, before he lifted the still-smoking g*n. “Best take this over to the firing table and reload, like I said.” As he wandered over to replace the cans, he craned his neck to watch her dutifully filling up the cylinders with black powder before ramming home the lead shots with the under-barrel lever. He gave an appreciative nod, settled the cans back on the fence post and moved towards where she stood at the little trestle table. He was about to place his hand on her slim shoulder when something caught his eye. Drawing in a breath, he looked beyond her and peered out across the plain, taking in every detail of the slowly approaching rider. Without a word, Simms took the g*n from her fingers and slipped it into his own, empty holster. She frowned. “I only did four.” “Get inside,” he said quietly. “What do you mean? I thought we might try it again, make sure none of it was—” “Get inside. Take my carbine from above the door, lie on your belly the way I taught you, and don't make another sound.” Their eyes met and he saw the alarm there. He brushed his fingers across her cheek, to reassure her. “What is it?” she asked. “Just do it.” With no further explanation needed, she broke into a run, hurrying across to the small, log cabin where they lived together. From above the inside doorframe she pulled down the carbine, checked it, then lay down, following his instructions to the letter. Satisfied, Simms turned and waited for the rider to come closer. The stranger sat astride a piebald horse on a brightly polished saddle of coal black. Big across the chest, his long hair fell to his shoulders, hat pushed back to hang down over his back, suspended by a leather cord around his throat. Across his back, a long-barreled musket hung in a frilled canvas scabbard. As he drew closer and reined in his horse, his coat fell open to reveal two ivory handled Navy Colts, butts inwards for a double cross-belly draw. Snorting, the horse pawed at the ground and the rider leaned forward and grinned, his teeth stained brown with tobacco. “My name is Beaudelaire Talpas,” said the rider, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth before spitting out a long trail of tobacco juice. “And my name is Simms. You're late.” Talpas frowned and leaned back in his saddle, measuring Simms with unblinking, alert eyes. “Late? What the hell do you mean by that?” “The fight is over. News came through but two weeks ago, saying the President himself had granted a pardon to those who had taken up arms.” “The Mormons?” Simms nodded. “Well, I ain't in the employ of no Mormons.” The long-haired man's eyes twinkled with barely contained glee. “Not now.” “You're still late.” The humor slowly drained from his face. “And how is it you're knowing who I am?” “People talk. I listen, see, remember.” “I see. Well,” Talpas rolled his shoulders, lifted his backside from the saddle, farting loud and long. Grimacing, he settled back down in the saddle, which groaned under his weight. “That's what I think of President Buchanan and all those rascals over in Washington. Brigham Young, too. Never could quite grasp how they came to an agreement. Maybe Young will be given a Governorship.” He jutted his chin towards the log cabin. “Mind if I ask you to tell the little lady to point her g*n somewhere else?” Without averting his stare, Simms nodded once. “Noreen, move back inside.” Wriggling like a snake, Noreen withdrew, soon swallowed up by the murkiness of the interior. “She's still pointing it.” “As I told her to.” A change came over the face of the man on the horse, eyes narrowing, jaw clenched. “Now why would you do that?” “I might ask you what you're doing here, coming onto my place?” Talpas grunted, moved around in his saddle as if it were not quite to his liking, and sighed. “Just passing through.” “My advice would be to move on.” Talpas leaned over to his left and released a second trail of tobacco juice to the ground. “I don't much like being told what to do, mister.” “It's a suggestion.” “Simms, you said?” The detective nodded, unblinking. Talpas sneered. “Don't think I know what you do. For employment, I mean.” “No reason for you to.” Talpas mulled Simms's words over, chewing hard on his tobacco. “The way you wear your g*n makes me think you know how to use it.” “I protect my own.” “Well, you have a mighty nice home here to protect. Let's hope it stays that way. Nice talking to you.” Straightening himself up once more, Talpas flicked the reins, turned his horse about and slowly made his way back the way he had come. The seconds trickled by, Simms remaining motionless until Noreen sidled beside him. Without a word, he slipped his arm around her waist. “Who was he,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Death on a horse, that's who he was.” Her face came up, her eyes big, full of fear. “You think he will come back?” Simms gnawed at his bottom lip for a moment. “I reckon you could guarantee it.”