A Trail of Grit and Gunfire (Preview)

Prologue

Wesley Callahan peeked through a small hole in the side of the barn with one eye, his heart slamming uncontrollably in his chest. He could hear the screaming from inside the house. Most of it was his mother, her voice scratchy from the torn muscles in her throat, a result of the painful shrieks that had ripped through it.

This wasn’t the first time Wes had hidden in the barn during a fight between his parents. He flinched, knowing every thudding sound was something hitting his mother’s body, maybe a fist, maybe a wooden spatula, whatever his father could get his hands on.

Wes’s mother never left the house because of the constant bruises, black eyes, swollen cheeks, or sprains of her limbs. All caused by his father’s brutal temper. He’d grown up listening to it and had taken to hiding in the barn four years ago at age seven.

As he listened, his anger grew. All his life, he’d sat in the barn and cried, sometimes hiding behind bales of hay just in case his father thought to come to the barn and attack him. In the last few months, ever since his eleventh birthday, which had gone terribly wrong, he’d started watching the house, growing increasingly angry at his father as the days went by.

His birthday… he would never forget it. His mother had baked him a cake—a small one because they both knew if she spent too much money on the ingredients, his father would be thrown into an absolute rage. Happy moments filled his mind. Those times had been on his mind that day before his father came home early from work, which he rarely did.

Wes was convinced his father had come home early on purpose. He knew it was Wes’s birthday, but he hadn’t taken off work so he could spend a happy day with the family. He wanted to know what his wife had done to make the day a good one for their son.

Before his father got there, his mother had woken him up with a nice breakfast, one egg, two pieces of toasted bread, and two slices of bacon, a rare treat in the Callahan home. His father was the only one allowed bacon because he was a hard-working man. To Wes, the bacon was like being given two blocks of gold that he could consume. He’d eaten them slowly, taking tiny bites so he could savor the delicious meat.

After breakfast, his mother took him fishing, one of their favorite pastimes to share, just the two of them. They always threw back the fish because they didn’t want his father to know they enjoyed the ritual of fishing.

They didn’t catch anything, which was all right with Wes. He just enjoyed spending time with his mother. She’d given him a horse she’d carved out of a piece of wood all by herself. Wes was absolutely astounded by the beautiful work and considered his mother to be a skilled wood carver.

But his father came in just before lunchtime, when his mother had presented the small cake to him. Just a few minutes after, in fact. He hadn’t been able to take even one bite of what looked to be a delicious dessert.

The man had stormed in, seen what his wife and son were doing at the kitchen table, and flown into a rage. He grabbed the hand-carved horse and threw it through a window, smashing the glass into shards. Then he blamed them both for the broken window and reminded them what happened when he had to work harder to fix their mistakes.

He put a fist through the small cake and punched Wes’s mother with that same fist, splattering the sugary icing and cake matter all over her. Wes had taken to his feet, running out to the barn, tears streaking down his face.

That was three months before this day, when he was back in the barn, peeking through the holes in the wall. Three long months of weekly, sometimes daily beatings for his mother. Usually, his father let a few days pass so his mother would heal a little before he lost his temper again.

Wes heard another scream from inside the house. Then all he heard was his father’s voice, yelling words that were incomprehensible to Wes, he was so enraged.

Courage spilled through him. He straightened his shoulders and slapped the tears from his cheeks. Getting to his feet, he leaned to the left and wrapped his small hand around the rifle leaning against the wall.

He broke it open to check for bullets. There were two slugs in the barrel. Closing the rifle, he looked at the wall in front of him as if he could see through it.

This was the last day. The last day his father would do this to him and his mother. She deserved a better life and so did Wes.

He moved to the door of the barn, his feet silent on the hay-covered floor. He crossed from the barn to the house and went in through the front door.

The kitchen was a disaster area. Pots, pans, broken plates and glasses littered the floor. He raised the rifle and placed it against his shoulder.

His father was holding his mother, his fingers tangled up in his grip on her hair. Her eyes and puffy lips pleaded with the man to stop. His fist was pulled back as if he was about to hit her again.

He looked over at Wes, who was staring down the barrel of the rifle, aiming at his father’s head.

“What are you doing, little boy?” his father growled. “You put that weapon down right now.”

His mother turned her eyes to him. “No, no, Wesley, don’t.”

Wes paused momentarily. Her face was bruised and bloody. He was confused but didn’t want to hesitate too long. It had to be done.

“No more, Pa,” he said quietly. “No more.”

He pulled the trigger, turning his head at the last minute, closing his eyes.

When he looked back to see if he’d hit the mark, he watched his mother drop to her knees beside his father’s prone body.

“What have you done?” she screamed, turning an angry, swollen face toward him. “Get out of my house! Get out!”

Wes felt his heart break in that moment. He wanted to protect her. How could she turn on him?

“Momma…”

“Get out! Get out!”

Wes dropped the rifle to the floor. He turned, ran to his room, grabbed some clothes, and stuffed them into a burlap bag.

Crying so much he couldn’t see through his teary eyes, Wes left the house, running toward town. He vowed never to return, and never to treat anyone the way his father had treated his mother, no matter what happened in his life.

Chapter One

Twenty-four years later, Wesley Callahan rested his head on the bar counter, enjoying the coolness of the dark, hard wood. His head was spinning. If he closed his eyes for just a moment, he would probably pass out. But he wasn’t in a bed or even in his own home, so it was best not to let that happen.

The alcohol had covered his anxious feelings, relaxing him, but also bringing on depression over the life he was currently leading. He didn’t want to be drunk every day. He would rather be a productive citizen. But he’d never found his way. He’d never settled on anything that would give him satisfaction. No job, no friends, no woman to go home to.

He was thirty-five and felt like his life might as well be over. Not a day passed that he didn’t think of his mother, wondering what she’d done with herself. Had she married again? Did she have more children? Was she happy?

He’d found no helping hand in the little town of Bedford where his father had worked as a tradesman, repairing items in the homes around town. He’d been too frightened to go to the sheriff, who was a friend of his father. His mother would surely have told them all what he’d done and he would have been hanged, even at eleven.

With those thoughts in mind, Wesley had jumped on a train and hidden with hobos, who were surprisingly protective of him until they got to the nearest large town of Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Now, all these years later, he was nothing but a hobo himself, though he didn’t jump trains anymore. He stayed in Sioux Falls.

“You about ready for a cup of coffee, Wes?”

Wes lifted his head and looked at the bartender, Frank Collins, a short, fat, bald man who was one of Wes’s favorite people. Frank had become a father figure in his life, treating him the way a true loving father would have. He’d given Wes a room on the second floor of the Good Shepherd Saloon, where Wes still resided.

“Would rather have another beer,” he responded, pushing the empty glass in front of him with two fingers.

Frank shook his head. “No, sir. You’re already drunk as a skunk. You don’t need more beer. Besides, ain’t you got a job to do? You and your people are takin’ the coaches out today, ain’t that right?”

Wes had nearly forgotten the job he was supposed to be doing. He pulled an old watch on a chain from the lower left pocket of his vest and pushed the top button to pop open the lid.

The glass was cracked, the result of a fight he’d gotten in three years ago. He didn’t have the money for another and he could still see the time so he’d kept it.

Fifteen minutes. He had fifteen minutes to sober up. If he downed one more beer in the next few minutes, that would give him about ten more to drink some coffee.

“I got time,” he replied. “How about just one more?”

Frank shook his head. “Wes, you gotta get control of yourself. You finally have a job you like doin’. I can’t keep helpin’ you go down the wrong path. Don’t you wanna make somethin’ of yourself? When you were a kid, ya did.”

Wes frowned at the old man. “I’ll get myself together tomorrow. Right now, I could just do with another pint. Come on. You’re my friend. Just one more.”

Frank pulled in a deep breath through his nose and let it out the same way, his own frown pulling down the sides of his mouth, his large lips pressing out in disapproval.

“Ain’t givin’ you another beer, Wes. You need to sober up. I ain’t gonna be responsible for you crashin’ a coach with people inside. You might kill somebody.”

Wes tried to be irritated with his friend.

“Ain’t gonna crash the coach,” he grumbled, spinning around on the tall stool and looking across the lobby at the door.

It opened and his friend, Greg, the son of the man who ran the coach trains from Sioux Falls to anywhere the customers wanted to go, walked in. At first, his large body blocked the sun and the rays surrounded him like a halo.

Wes looked back over his shoulder at Frank, who had taken it upon himself to make a cup of coffee, which he set down where the beer had been.

“Drink this. I’m not givin’ you another beer. You gotta get goin’ soon.”

Sighing heavily, Wes reached around and grabbed the cup by its handle. It was still steaming when he put it to his lips so he only took a small sip to test the heat. He set it back down, giving a narrow look to Frank.

“You tryin’ to burn my tongue?” he quipped, teasing the bartender.

Frank grunted, slinging his dishtowel over his shoulder and walking away from Wes to tend to another customer on the other end of the bar.

There were a few people in the saloon, sitting at the tables. He and Johnny, the other man Frank was tending to, were the only ones at the bar on the tall stools.

Four men he recognized as carpenters from Browns Carpentry were at one table. A man and a woman at another leaned toward each other, whispering. Neither looked at him so he suspected they were not talking about him. In fact, no one was looking at him. No one except Greg, who stopped at the table of carpenters to say hi before sauntering over to him.

“Wes,” he greeted him. Greg was about the same age as he. Wes considered him to be smarter, better-looking and a much better catch for any woman who showed interest.

Greg was six feet tall, just an inch taller than Wes, with cropped dark blond hair and hazel eyes that pierced the soul when he was unhappy. Thankfully, that wasn’t often. Greg was a master at keeping his temper, which was good because he was a very strong man. His chest was broad and muscular. He was the strongest person Wes had ever met.

“Greg,” he replied, turning around to face the mirror on the wall in front of him, where bottles of liquor were placed in front to show customers the variety Frank had to offer.

He avoided looking at himself. He knew what he looked like. He kept his shoulder-length, wavy brown hair pulled back in a tail, his skin was tan from being outside for long periods of time and his deep-set brown eyes were topped with eyelashes that made the women he’d talked to jealous.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been told he was an attractive man. Other than a small scar on his chin from a fight he’d gotten in when he was twenty, his face was smooth. Sometimes during the winter months, he grew a beard and mustache. But it was mid-June and he was clean-shaven.

So far,Wes had found only one woman who returned his interest, and she didn’t live in Sioux Falls. She was a stop on the route Wes and the other drivers took to get customers south toward California, Nevada and Arizona.

Those were long rides. The one coming up in about ten minutes would be much shorter. They weren’t even leaving South Dakota this time. He’d been on month-long trips before. He didn’t care how far he had to travel. There was nothing keeping him in Sioux Falls anyway.

Chapter Two

“Hey, where you at?” Greg snapped his fingers in front of Wes’s eyes.

He blinked, turning his head to his friend. “Wha… What?”

“I think you might have gone unconscious for a minute there, friend,” Frank said. Last thing Wes remembered was the bartender being at the other end of the bar. “I told ya, you should have drank this coffee. Now get it in your gut. You gotta leave soon.”

Frank pushed the cup toward him. Grumbling but willing, Wes took the handle and drank the entire cup quickly. The drink hit his stomach hard and made him cramp up a little.

“Ugh,” he groaned, one hand on his belly.

“Well, I didn’t tell ya to drown yerself.” Frank shook his head. “You want another?”

“Nah,” Wes replied, shaking his head. “One cup is enough. Look at me, awake and alert. All sobered up.” The twinge of a headache poked the back of his neck and he put one hand over it, rubbing the skin gently. “I’ll be fine to drive the coach. We got stuff to do beforehand anyway. Gives me more time.”

“My pa wants to see you, too,” Greg said, nodding at Frank, who set a cup of coffee down in front of him. Wes didn’t remember his friend ordering the drink.

Sighing through his nose, Wes pulled a small felt bag from the pocket that held the watch. He pressed the bag between his fingers and stared at it.

“What’s that?” Greg asked, taking a sip from his coffee.

Wes gave him a blank look. “It’s a ring,” he said calmly.

“A ring, eh?” Frank was suddenly interested, leaning on the bar, clasping his fingers together in front of him. “Let’s see it, then.”

The only reason Wes had pulled the bag out of his pocket was because he wanted someone to share his big news with. He was slightly concerned about the reaction he’d get from his friends when he showed it to them, but he also wanted their opinions.

He pulled the drawstring at the top of the bag and poked his finger inside, coming out with the ring on the tip of his finger. It was too small to fit properly over his knuckle but that was okay. He didn’t need it to fit his finger. It wasn’t going on his hand. It was going on Clara’s.

“I’m gonna ask her to marry me,” he mumbled, flipped his hand gently so Greg, who was beside him, could slide the ring off his finger and take a closer look. It was silver with a small green stone embedded in one side. He hoped it was an emerald but doubted it was due to the low price he’d paid for it.

“Boy howdy, never thought I’d see the day!” Frank sounded excited. It gave Wes a good feeling, making him smile. Frank took the ring from Greg, who nodded, giving Wes a look of approval. “Let me see that. My god. Never thought I’d ever… this for the lady on the route you take to go South?”

Wes was pleased Frank remembered. He nodded. “Yeah. Clara. Clara Monroe.”

“She’s a widow, right?” Frank continued, examining the ring closely.

“Yeah,” Wes responded. He didn’t try to take the ring back. “Just wanted y’all to tell me what you think. Is it good enough?”

“It’ll do,” Greg teased, hiking himself up on his arms so he could lean closer to Frank, his eyes on the small ring, “till you get a better one. That supposed to be an emerald?”

Wes felt his elation sinking. “Yeah,” he said. “You don’t think it’s good enough?”

Greg sat back on the stool, shaking his head. “If she cares about you, she won’t care about the size of the stone or even if it fits her finger. She’ll wear it on a chain around her neck if she has to. You think she’s gonna say yes?”

Wes shrugged, his eyes on the ring as it was twisted and turned under Frank’s scrutiny.

“Doesn’t matter what we think,” Frank responded. “Matters what she thinks. We’ve never met the woman. You know her better than we do. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Wes sighed. “Maybe. She’s a widow, like ya said. Don’t know how long it’s been since her husband died but she’s done a real good job running that ranch on her own. She’s got a foreman and he does a lot of the work, too, but she runs it like a business. Just sayin’ she don’t need a man. She’s doin’ fine on her own.”

He tapped his temple. “She’s got a lot goin’ on up here. Way more than me, I’m afraid. Hopin’ she can forgive the fact that she’s smarter and better than me in almost every way. I’m pretty sure I’m stronger than her. That’s about it. Physically stronger, I mean.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Frank stated, handing the ring back to him. “If you’ve already got her heart, she won’t care about nothin’ else but how you feel about her.”

Wes took the ring, feeling more satisfaction now with encouragement from both men. “I think she’ll say yes. I hope she will.”

The door opened behind them. Wes looked up in the mirror to see who had entered. It was Butch, Sam, and Curly, three of the rowdiest cowboys this side of Sioux Falls. They normally didn’t come to the Good Shepherd. They weren’t always welcome there.

Wes flicked his eyes to Frank, who had seen them and was frowning deeply. Greg noticed Frank’s expression as well and twisted his upper body to look at the men who’d entered with loud laughter and roughhousing, pushing each other for seemingly no reason.

“Looks like they’re already drunk,” Greg mumbled. “You want us to get ’em out of here?”

Frank didn’t respond at first. After a moment of reflection, he said quietly, “Let ’em sit down or come up here and order first. Maybe they’re celebratin’ somethin’.”

Wes resisted the urge to snort. The three men were not known for their civility. He couldn’t imagine what kind of celebration they’d be having at ten o’clock in the morning on a Thursday.

The fact that it was ten o’clock, or near to it, reminded Wes he had to get to the stagecoach station. Greg’s father, Ben, was probably waiting for him.

He cared, but not as much as he cared about keeping roughnecks out of the Good Shepherd Saloon. Frank could defend himself and was armed every moment he was behind the bar. But if he could avoid violence, that was the path Frank usually took.

Wes tapped the counter of the bar. “I’ll take another coffee, Frank. I’ll wait here until we see how those boys act. If you want me to deal with them, me and Greg here, we’ll get ’em out of the saloon for ya.”

Frank nodded. “I appreciate that. Guess you have sobered up some, haven’t ya? Don’t know how ya do it so fast. I really don’t.”

He turned around and poured another cup from the carafe on the counter behind him.

Someone came up to the bar and stood beside Wes, who turned his eyes to see it was Butch. They nodded at each other in greeting. Butch leaned over the bar as if he had to yell for Frank’s attention.

“Need three beers over there, Frank!” he demanded.

Wes heard his words slur a little bit. They had already been drinking at another saloon in town, Wes had no doubt. Probably kicked out for bad behavior or rowdiness.

“Just send ’em over there,” Butch continued before turning around and heading to the table where his friends had sat down.

Chapter Three

It only took five minutes from the time Frank served the three rabble-rousers for them to act up. Wes counted the minutes, glancing at his pocket watch. He was now four minutes late.

Ben would either wait or make an appearance in the saloon. Wes figured Ben knew where his son was and would come and get them either way. Greg’s job was to clean and provide maintenance for the coaches.

Butch and his two companions were yelling at each other. The carpenters got up and left when the shouting started.

Wes lifted his eyebrows quizzically, looking at Frank for permission. After just a few more minutes, Frank nodded at Wes, who knocked his knuckles lightly against Greg’s chest, jerking his head in the group’s direction.

Greg nodded, pushing away from the bar, grabbing his coffee cup to finish it off.

Wes’s heart pounded in his chest, making him feel lightheaded for just a moment. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and focus. Before he left the bar, he also finished off the coffee. The urge to urinate pushed him to move a little faster.

He and Greg marched to the table the fighting men were sitting at. Before Wes got there, he scanned them. They were well known but he hadn’t had any dealings with them in the past. He knew of them and that was about it.

They weren’t killers, outlaws, or anything that bad. They were just three men who did nothing productive with themselves. They were mischievous, like boys who had lost their way.

Butch was the biggest of them all, having earned his nickname when he was a teenager. He was dark-skinned, with black hair cut close to his head and dark eyes that often looked dangerous and menacing. Wes had never seen him arrested, but what men did behind the façade of innocence was always a question in Wes’s mind.

Like Wes, he typically only had a beard during the winter. The area where the scar reached his chin never grew any hair, so his beard always looked incomplete. Wes had wondered every now and then if it was difficult to shave with a big scar like that.

Sam was tall, nearing six feet, but was skinny, a wiry weasel-looking man with brown hair and eyes. None of the men intimidated Wes. He’d been through too much to be intimidated by the drunks he saw before him.

There but for the grace of God go I, Wes thought. At least he had a job, though he was constantly at risk of losing it because he wasn’t exactly taking good care of himself physically or financially.

“Howdy, boys,” he said from a foot away from the table. Wes went around to stand in between Curly and Butch, while Wes was beside Butch with Sam on the other side.

He set his hands down on Butch and Sam’s shoulders, not squeezing, trying to be friendly.

“What do you want?” Butch asked angrily. “You ain’t see we got a conversation goin’ on here?”

“Yeah, you ain’t in it, Wes,” Sam continued the rebuke.

“You ain’t invited,” Curly added, his own eyes moving up to Greg, whose eyebrows shot up as if he was daring Curly to make a move.

“Frank don’t want you boys in here causin’ a scene. Ya already drove the carpentry boys out with your shenanigans. This is a peaceful establishment. If you can’t be civil to one another, ya gotta take it outside.”

Wes thought he’d done a good job. He’d spoken respectfully, calmly, and in a smooth voice that actually surprised him, considering how out of it he’d been for the last twenty to thirty minutes. Doing his due diligence for his friend Frank had done more to sober him than two cups of coffee could have.

To his surprise, the three men didn’t take kindly to his intrusion, nor did they seem to register the friendliness with which he spoke. Maybe he hadn’t heard himself correctly. Or maybe his face was showing something different from what he was thinking or had said.

Either way, when Butch dropped his hand down and set it on the butt of the gun in the holster at his hip, Wes narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. He’d been fighting for his survival all his life. These three weren’t the toughest he’d fought.

In response, he put his own hand on the butt of his gun.

“You don’t wanna do that, Butch,” he said, keeping his voice low, his temper down. “We’re just askin’ that you keep it down. If you don’t think ya can, ya need to leave the saloon. Frank don’t need his customers bein’ driven out by rowdy cowboys.”

Just as he said that, he glanced up to see the couple who had been whispering to each other were rushing out the door. The only other people left were the two men remaining at their table, watching with interested eyes and Johnny at the bar.

Johnny was almost seventy and Wes rarely saw him anywhere but on that stool at the end of that bar. He wasn’t watching them. He was staring ahead, maybe remembering the good ol’ days when he was a youngster.

“We’ll act however we wanna act,” Butch replied.

It was Sam who put out his hand to Butch. “You gotta calm down, buddy. Wes is right. We don’t need to be puttin’ Frank outta business. He’s gotta make a livin’ too, ya know.”

The look on Butch’s face grew darker as Sam spoke. He suddenly sat forward, his large chest pushing the table forward so that it was pinning Sam to it. He scooted his chair back slightly, a defiant look on his face.

“Cut it out, Butch. You’re drunk. You’re gonna regret this later,” Sam said in reaction to the movement of the table.

Butch didn’t want to hear it from his friend, either. He shot to his feet, whipping the gun from the holster.

Wes wasn’t having any of that. He tackled Butch, knocking the gun from his hand. It went off, the bullet shooting across the room and embedding itself in the wall next to the large, black piano.

“Hey!” Butch yelled. They both toppled over and Wes sat on top of the man, pressing one hand down over Butch’s throat, pinning him to the floor. Butch’s face turned red in his struggle to move Wes off him. “Get off me,” he managed to croak out.

Wes didn’t have much force on Butch’s neck. He shook his head.

“You’re gonna respect Frank or you’re gonna get out. Which one? I ain’t got time for this; I’m already late for work. Something’ you and your buddies should consider. Why don’t you make something of yourself instead of goin’ from saloon to saloon, spendin’ your days drunk and wasteful?”

Wes was aware he should take his own advice. But there was no reason for these men to know that.

Chapter Four

The sunlight hit him like a beacon. Wes slapped his hat on his head in reaction, flinching from the bright light outside the saloon.

“You alright?” Greg asked, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

Instead of answering, Wes grunted, pulling his watch from his vest pocket and flipping the lid open. “Goin’ on a half-hour late.” He turned his eyes to Greg. “I’m gonna blame it on you.”

“Pa won’t be too mad. It’s the customers waiting to leave that might be perturbed by the delay.”

Wes gave in and cracked a grin. “Perturbed, huh? Yer learnin’ them big words real good. Soon you’ll start usin’ words I don’t even know.”

Greg just chuckled.

Wes went with him across the street, avoiding a wagon being pulled by four oxen and several vendors trying to sell him fruits and vegetables. There was a hide vendor, too, who was surprisingly successful, considering most of the men in town were hunters and didn’t need to pay for hides.

They passed the barber and were almost to the station, where Wes could see quite a few people were waiting. None of them looked particularly ornery about the situation, but Wes could see Ben among them and he didn’t look happy at all.

“Sorry we’re late, Pa,” Greg spoke up before Wes could say anything. “There was almost a brawl at the saloon and we needed to get some fellas out of there before they destroyed Frank’s establishment. You know how it is.”

Wes was grateful for Greg’s excuse. His reasoning was sound because although that wasn’t the real reason they were late, it had, in fact, happened. So Greg wasn’t lying. But both he and Greg knew they would have been late anyway because Wes had been flippant with the time.

Ben’s face relaxed with understanding. He turned to the people waiting and said, “All right, we have our last driver here. I have three coaches going south and each of you will be assigned to one. The numbers are on the doors so you won’t be confused about which one to board.” He lifted one hand and used it to point at who he was speaking to.

“Mr. Baker, Mr. Lowell, Crockett sisters, you are all assigned to coach one.” He turned his head to look at one of the drivers. “Your driver will be Harold Crane, here. Harold is new to the job but I find him to be very careful and capable. I think you will, too.”

He took a step closer to Wes, looking in his brown eyes. Ben was just a little shorter with hazel eyes and lots of white hair waving all around his head, which right now was covered by a tan cowboy hat.

“You look rough, Wes. Before we go, splash some water on your face and go inside to get a cup of coffee to take with you.”

Wes nodded. “Yes, sir.” As he walked toward the entrance to the station, he heard Ben continue and then cut himself off.

“The second coach—oh, one more thing, Wes.”

Wes turned around, his eyebrows lifted.

“Greg is going with you on your coach.”

Wes instantly averted his eyes to Greg, who was switching his gaze between the two of them. He could tell Greg knew about this already but hadn’t said anything. He shrugged and nodded, gesturing for Greg to follow him.

“The Nettles family will go in coach two, also Mr. Bench and Mr. Forbes.” Ben’s voice rose over the noise of the street, which was muffled when Wes went inside. “That one is driven by John.  He’s been driving coaches for years and years.”

Greg held the door open, looking out at the groups as they gathered their things and headed for their designated coach. All three were lined up in front of the entrance, taking up a lot of space that would immediately be filled when they pulled out onto the street in about twenty minutes.

“Third coach, yes, that’s just for your family, Mr. Hughes. Wes Callahan is your driver.”

Wes heard a lot of thank-yous coming from the crowd as they dispersed. He washed his hands under a water pump and poured a cup of coffee from the pot. He gestured to Greg to see if he wanted one, but he was still looking out at the people.

“Greg, you want a cup, too?”

Greg turned his head, dropping his eyes to the pot in Wes’s hand. He shook his head. “No, thanks. I had coffee already and if I drink any more, I don’t know if my heart could take it. Seems to speed it up if I have too much, and that makes me feel tired.”

“Got it.” Wes put the pot back and walked slowly to the front door, sipping it delicately as it was still piping hot. “You got business somewhere down south?”

Greg sighed, nodding. “Pa’s thinking of expanding the business. Wants to bring in his two cousins in Utah. They’re on this side so it will only be a short ride on horseback for me once we make it to the final destination on the map.”

Wes watched as the family he was transporting got in the coach. It was a father and mother with four children. As the passengers boarded, Ben strolled over, handing his clipboard to Wes. He tapped his finger on the list of names.

“That’s the family you’re takin’ south right there, Wes. They’re good people, so make sure you take good care of them. You all right to drive or do we need to wait a little longer?”

Wes figured by the man’s words that he must look a fright. He hadn’t looked in the mirror. His eyes were likely bloodshot and looked strained from the headache he was trying to avoid. He scratched his chin over the scar and wiped one hand down his face.

“I’m good to drive, I swear,” he promised.

“All right, son. Go on then, you boys get up front. If you don’t want to drive right away, just give Greg the reins. You gonna be all right, Greg?”

“Oh yeah,” Greg responded immediately. He gave Wes a look. “You gonna be all right?”

Wes grinned. “A’course. I’m ready to go!”

He sauntered away from the two men, fighting the urge to tell them just how rough he felt. He held the door open for the Hughes wife, smiling appropriately and closing it once she was inside.

He looked in over the door, placing both hands on the sill. “You all ready and rarin’ to go?”

“Yeah!” The kids looked especially excited for the trip.

“I promise I’ll get you there in one piece,” Wes said with a laugh. “Enjoy the ride!”

He and Greg climbed up onto the bench seat where the reins to the two-horse team were laying. When Wes bent to pick them up, his head swam and he became dizzy. He thumped down on the bench, putting one hand to his forehead.

“You okay?” Greg asked in alarm.

Wes nodded, glad he hadn’t pitched forward or dropped his coffee.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll let you drive for an hour or so.”

Greg grinned, taking the reins from him. “Sure thing, buddy.”

Chapter Five

Right before they left, Wes heard Ben calling his name. The older man came up along his side of the coach, resting his hand on the guard rail.

“I’m addin’ two to the train but they aren’t gonna be inside a coach. Look there.” Ben stepped back, looking along the side he’d approached from.

Wes twisted his upper body to look.

“That’s Rupert Malone. He’s a bounty hunter. He’s takin that prisoner you see tied up there in the same direction and doesn’t want to travel alone. I told him he could tag along. He shouldn’t be no trouble to either of you, but ya need to know so ya won’t wonder why he’s followin’ ya.”

Wes nodded, regretting the move instantly as his brain knocked against his skull. He instinctively took off his hat, shaking out his brown hair before putting his hat back on.

“Sounds good to me, Ben. Thanks for lettin’ us know.”

Ben nodded, patting the railing before walking away to tell the others.

Malone pulled up to where Ben had been. He was dressed in a light brown uniform and had a badge stuck to his shirt right below his left shoulder over his heart.

“Rupert Malone’s the name,” he said. “I’m transporting Roy Townsend.” He jerked his head in the direction of his prisoner rather than look at him.

Malone’s skin was deeply tanned. Wes surmised he’d spent a lot of time outdoors.

“He’s a well-known murderer in the eyes of lawmen all over this county and South Dakota. Ain’t ya, Roy?”

Wes felt a little unnerved by the bounty hunter taunting his prisoner.

Roy Townsend didn’t look like the kind of man who appreciated wit or humor. He didn’t look too old, but he was older than Wes. He was mostly bald and what hair he did have was long, hanging in strings. He had narrow, dark eyes that made him look even more menacing. He gave Malone a sarcastic fake grin, showing he had only a few teeth left in his mouth.

Wes shivered. He wasn’t the kind of man Wes wanted to spend his time with. He had flashbacks of his teen years, spent with his gang breaking laws and destroying good things. He had never once seen anyone who looked as evil as Roy Townsend.

“I got a reputation,” the man said bluntly. He lifted his eyes to Wes and every hair on Wes’s body stood up in response. He would maintain his temper no matter how he felt.

“Shut up, weasel,” Malone said, jerking on the rope he had that led to Townsend. Wes followed the line of the rope and realized Malone had tied the rope around his neck. He wondered if it tightened when Malone pulled it.

“You can follow along behind the third coach,” Wes said. “If you need our help, just let us know. But I think we’d all feel safer if you’re bringing up the rear. We’ll all see the danger coming from the front, but it’s good to have someone watching for trouble in the back.”

Malone nodded in agreement. “Sounds good, buddy.”

“I’m Wes,” he introduced himself. He stuck a thumb in Greg’s direction. “That’s Greg.”

Malone nodded at them, flipping his eyes between them. “I’ll keep this ruffian under control, don’t you worry.”

“We appreciate that.” Wes watched him turn his horse and head for the back.

He didn’t like the lingering look Townsend had on his face. He looked like he was plotting how they were all going to die. He shook off his tightened nerves and stood up, looking over his coach to the two behind him. John stood up, turning to see if Harold was ready.

John wasn’t the kind of man who could protect himself or the people in his coach. He was nearing seventy and although he still had a lot of energy, he was rail-thin, his white hair hanging around his head, tucked behind his ear and often hidden by his dark brown hat.

He was always in the middle and since Ben hired Harold Crane, who was in his early twenties and could scrap with the best of them, Wes had felt more secure on the journey. He’d often been the only person of the group who could protect the passengers from obstacles along the way.

It usually turned out he didn’t have to worry. They had never encountered outlaws or big animals while they were traveling. Every trip he’d been on so far had been a lucky one in terms of safety.

Harold finally stood up and saluted John, who turned to salute Wes and give him a nod.

Wes turned around and sat, glancing at Greg. “Your cousins expecting you?” he asked.

“Yeah, they are. I’m lookin’ forward to seeing them again. It’s been years.”

“What are you, thirty-somethin’?”

Greg nodded. “Thirty-seven, to be precise. Why?”

“How long has it been? Twenty years? Thirty?”

Once again, Greg gave him a nod. “About twenty, I’d say. I was around seventeen or eighteen last time I was with ’em.”

“People change in that amount of time,” Wes said, as Greg slapped the reins and clicked his tongue to get the horses moving. He pulled the wagon out of its spot by the station and out onto the main road.

Wes knew the route like the back of his hand. They’d have no trouble as long as they weren’t detoured somehow. So far, that was also something Wes hadn’t had to worry about in his previous trips to Utah.

He lifted out of the seat and looked back again to make sure John and Harold had pulled out and were coming along behind him. He barely saw the top of Malone’s hat but could tell the bounty hunter and his prisoner were also there, way in the back.

“What do ya think of that bounty hunter?” he asked, sitting down and settling in for the journey.

Greg gave him a curious look. “What do you mean? What am I supposed to think of him? I don’t mind having a gunslinger along for the ride. I haven’t done this before.”

“At least you’ll be with us if we break down or somethin’.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ ya won’t need those skills on the road. Ya never have before. I keep these coaches in fine shape when they ain’t bein’ used.”

Wes nodded. “Yeah, I know. You’re the master of all coach repairers.”

Both men laughed.

“I will tell ya I didn’t know they were comin’ with us. I had nothin’ to do with that deal. Don’t even know if Pa asked for any payment. I doubt it. We don’t gotta take care of either of them.”

“You knew you were comin’ along on this ride, though, didn’t ya?” Wes didn’t ask him in an irritated tone. He was starting to feel grateful he had a companion with him that he liked and could talk freely to. He was usually alone with his thoughts until the group stopped for meals and camping for the night.

He had a feeling this would be a much smoother ride, hopefully with no worries at all. His thoughts did bring up a question he hadn’t asked Ben.

“So once you get to Utah, what’s your plan?” he asked. “Am I supposed to wait for you and bring you home?”

Greg’s expression was blank. He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll be more than an hour talkin’ to my cousins, but it might be nice to stay and visit with them for a while. I reckon if you want to stay and be introduced to them, you could probably stay overnight with me and we could head back together. John and Harold don’t have to wait. I’m sure John knows this route even better than you do.”

Wes nodded in agreement. “I like that plan. After the long journey, it’ll be nice to stay in a real bed before coming back to Sioux Falls.”

He could tell by his expression Greg was pleased. “You’ll like my cousins. I’m sure they haven’t changed that much. Otherwise, Pa probably wouldn’t do business with them. He takes all of it very seriously. Wants to keep it profitable and affordable so I can inherit a successful company when he passes. His words, not mine.”

Wes cracked a grin and chuckled under his breath.