A Western in 30 Working Days -- Twelve

Curiouser and curiouser, as someone once wrote. Matt Stryker started off looking for a wanted man. Then he ran into a burnt out stage way station full of dead bodies--men, a woman, and horses. But one man, the station master, was shot and left for dead. He hid in the outhouse. The killers raped his wife and took her with them.

That gave Matt Stryker a new objective. Get Dodge Miller's wife Molly back from the killers, a family of father and three sons called the Dents.

Sounds simple.

But Matt has to take the wounded Dodge Miller in to Tucson to get treatment for his wounds. He's shot up enough that he'll not be really back on his feet for a month or so. But Molly's getting farther away.

Stage arrivals can be a big event

Matt reports to the county sheriff, Bob Paul (a real historical character) and to McCabe at the stage line's Tucson office. There he finds out that a man who's part owner in the Old Dominion Mine at Globe City's been in asking about the missing stagecoach.

But that man gets killed (made to look like a suicide by hanging).

And, where that looks like a lead gone dead, Stryker and his new partner, Elijah Carpenter, find out a lot more about what's going on. Listen to this:

Stryker took the conversation to the subject at hand. “Tell me, Lige. You know anyone called Rick Cavanaugh?”

“Heard the name, why?”

The Youngers were part of the
Kansas outlaw bunch

“When I was at Rimrock, a gent called Rick Cavanaugh was trying to become king of the mountain at Diablo. Someone that knows said Rick Cavanaugh was just a moniker that a bushwhacker from Kansas took out here in the west.”

“You taking about Nate Cousins?”

Stryker’s ice blue eyes held Carpenter’s brown ones for more than a long moment. “Know him? He was on the Kansas border to the Nations, I hear.”

“He’s here now,” Carpenter said.

“I know. He stayed on the second floor of the Royal the night Elrowe Hershey got killed. Signed in as Richard Cavanaugh.”

Carpenter nodded. “He’s riding with four gunsharps,” he said. “Ben Kilgallen, Marty Henshaw, Art Rennick, and . . . you’re not gonna like this . . . Garth Upton.”

“Why the army? And Upton ain’t no gunsharp.”

“That stage was carrying more than two hunnert fifty pounds of gold. The Dents got it, but Nate Cousins and all them gunsharps . . . and Upton . . . are gonna take that gold away from the Dents.”

“Why’d they kill Hershey?”

“Maybe to keep word of the gold from getting out? Secret shipment.”

“Could be. Could be.” Stryker wiped his cheek with one hand and lifted the porcelain cup with the other. “Anyway, that’s Bob Paul’s worry.” He poured more oolong tea and sipped. “How they planning on catching up to the Dents, do you know?”

Carpenter shook his head. “Nate Cousins is no dummy. But I don’t know how.”

“Guess we’ll just have to find the Dents and Molly Miller first, then.”

“How we gonna do that?”

Stryker grimaced a smile. “Who knows this country best?”

“Apaches?” Carpenter said.

“Yeah. Apaches.”

Word Count: 20,445

Western Novel in 30 Working Days--Eleven

On a cruise boat in Tokyo Bay

You start off with a cut and dried concept. In the case of Stryker's Bounty, the current project, the concept was for Stryker to rescue a battered woman, wife of an acquaintance, from her captors. Well, as we get deeper and deeper into the story, things happen to add depth. The objective goes from trying to find four misfits who burned a stage station, killed four people, killed four horses, nearly killed the man who ran the station, raped the man's wife in front of him (not knowing he was still alive), so something more. Gold.

We get a whiff of that gold when Finn is drinking in Alamo. Talking to the bartender Todd, he says:

Supplies. Pa said the Dent column’d be going through Hell’s Gate and east over Hell’s Trail to a place where they could hunker down until people’d kinda forgot about Miller’s Well. Not that Miller’s Well was connected to the Dents and the Dents to Miller’s Well, but there was the missus. Finn liked poking the missus. And she looked good. But she knew the Dents and what they’d done at Miller’s Well. Finn shook his head and grabbed another mouthful of coffee. Prolly be best to just conk her on the head and toss her down a canyon. Plenty of those around. Finn was surprised when something wet splatted on the back of his hand. Then he realized tears ran down his cheeks. What for? If she had to hit bottom in a canyon, so what? He swiped at the tears with the back of his hand. Supplies.

Todd came back. “Nother whiskey, Finn?”

Finn shook his head. “More coffee.”

Todd didn’t look happy, but he got the pot and filled Finn’s cup. “You could have another whiskey with what’s left a that cartwheel,” he said. “Prime whiskey.”

Finn stared down into the coffee cup. Another whiskey sounded downright good. Awful good. And that prime whiskey carried a powerful punch. He shook his head. “Cain’t,” he said. “The whole Dent column’s depending on me to being supplies. Gotta get through Hell’s Gate. Gotta get through Hell’s Trail. The column’s waiting.”

Todd’s ears pricked up. “Column?”

Finn nodded, his face as solemn as the prime whiskey he’d imbibed would allow.

“Lots a soldiers?”

Finn straightened. This man was asking questions about the column. Better be careful. “Nough,” he said. “Nough to handle just about any situation,” he said. “Don’t matter who’s looking for our gold, they ain’t gonna find it.”

If Todd’s ears pricked up before, they fairly wagged in the air around his head now. “Gold? Your column’s guarding gold?”

The Rim country, where the town
of Rimrock is, looks like this

Whenever you read a Stryker book, you gotta know that things ain't all as they seem. Remember Road to Rimrock, the Stryker novel published by Black Horse Westerns? Well, listen to this little turnabout, then. 

“No way we could just ride up on you, Marshal. Not with Wildman tagging along. Had to sneak up, get the drop on you, make you promise to listen.”

“I’m listening.”

Squirly stirred the coals of the little fire they’d used to brew the coffee. “Not looking for money, Marshal,” he said in a small voice.

Stryker heaved a sigh. “Then what in hell are you doing here?”

“You go, and there ain’t no reason for me to stay in Rimrock no longer,” Squirly said. “And Injun Jake bet me a dollar I couldn’t get the drop on you.” The boy-man smiled, a tentative look in his eyes. “I won,” he said.

“What’s that got to do with someone paying to have me killed?”

“Good reason to catch up with you. Good reason for you to listen. We’uns got something to say after all.”

“I wonder what it is.” Stryker’s tone was flat and hard.

“Well, it’s something, we’uns figure. It surely is.” Squirly looked up at Stryker, his little eyes wide and his broad smile showing small, pointed teeth.

Stryker’s face could have been made of stone. He said nothing.

“Tell you what, Marshal. Me and Injun Jake was up in the loft at the livery, you know. It’s a good place to catch a wink or two without we’re in someone’s way.”

Stryker nodded, showing Squirly he was listening.

“Ruben went over to Goldfinch’s store or somewhere so it was real quiet. I could even hear horses chewing their oats, it was so quiet.”

Stryker folded his arms, his face still stern.

“Then two peoples come back.”

“Come back?”

“Yeah. Come back. It was the big one’s horse what was chewing the oats. They was talking. Well, one of them was talking. He handed a pile of clothes to the big one and told him to put ‘em on. I could see ‘em over the edge of the hayloft. The one that were talking were just a little fellow, not much bigger’n me. And he were saying to the big one that new stuff would keep people in town from telling him apart. Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“Get to the point, Squirly.”

“Well, the little one gives the big one a piece of paper and some gold. I seen it shine. It were gold. And he said it were half what the big one would get for doing Matt Stryker in. Said you was worth five hundred dollars dead.”

“I know that, Squirly.”

“Here’s what’s funny, Marshal. After the big one left, the little one went back under the loft wheres we couldn’t see. And he never come out.”

“Where’d he go?”

“God only knows,” Squirly said in his deepest voice.

“You don’t have to imitate the parson.”

“Anyway, we’uns, me and Injun Jake, we climbed down from the loft after a while, but the little one was gone. And the carriage that were parked out back were gone, too. Then Ruben come back and we asked him who the young feller driving the carriage were and he said, what young feller. He said Miss Melanie Powers were the only one driving that carriage. That’s what he said, and we’uns figured you’d want to know about a little man who turns into a woman, and here we is.”

See? Women who dress like men. Now we have four men, man and sons, pretending to be a column, a column with enough men to guard a lot of gold. But wait. Four dead people in the way station. Driver and shotgun. Man. Woman. Dead horses. Burnt buildings. Burnt stagecoach. Why go to all that trouble?

This photo is of Old Tucson studios,
but the hotel could well be the
Royal, where Stryker and Paul
are talking over Hershey's body

In Tucson, Stryker finds there's a man named Elrowe Hershey, part owner of a big copper mine that also produced gold and silver. But before Stryker can talk to Hershey, he turns up dead. 

Cochise County Sheriff Bob Paul (a historical person) and Matt Stryker talk about the body.

Bob Paul scrubbed at the carpet with a shiny boot toe. “You don’t figure Hershey done himself in, then.”

 “Don’t reckon so.”

“Why’d he get killed?” 

Stryker shrugged. “No can tell. You know as well as me, Bob. Reasons to kill a person can range from adultery to jealousy to punishment.” 

“Yeah. But how’d you know it wasn’t himself?”

“Take a good look, Bob. You’ve been around more than one dead man. You’ve been to more than one hanging, too, I reckon. Even notice how the rope marks are after a hanging?” Stryker didn’t wait for an answer. “Rope usually comes across the hanged man’s throat above his Adam’s Apple and up behind the ear on one side or the other.”

He stepped over and put a finger on the rope burn that ran horizontally around Hershey’s neck. “Somebody got Hershey from behind,” he said. “Choked him to death. And the burn goes below his Adam’s Apple, see?” Then Stryker pointed at a torn nail on Hershey’s middle finger. “Looks like he hurt his own finger trying to get it under whatever they was choking him with.”

“Hmm. Makes a man think,” said Paul.

I reckon there's a lot of gold concerned here. And I reckon that's going to bring a really bad bunch of men looking for it. Which means Stryker might find himself in a pincher between two sets of baddies who want to be sole owner of all that gold. How much gold to you think that burned up stagecoach was carrying?

Word Count: 19, 305

A Western in 30 Working Days -- Ten (late report)

Weekends for a working writer in Japan are not days off. Typically, a client will call for a meeting late on Friday and ask for the work to be done by Monday morning, first thing. It's expected and commonly demanded. That's how I spent my weekend.

Stryker's Bounty, in the meantime, passed it's tenth working day--a day spent with Molly Miller and the Dents, Finn Dent in particular.

White men figured there were only two ways to get through or around the Chiricahuas—go south through Apache Pass, or go north through the foothills of Dos Cabezas. Anyone who wanted to go up into the Chiricahuas from the west had to go through Hell’s Gate and up Hell’s Trail.

A bit of Hell Hole Trail as it is today

As usual, Lester Dent headed the Dent column. That’s what he called it, the Dent column. He grinned inside, but outside, he was a stern patriarch, the guiding light to a coming generation of Dent sons. Finn and Lee Roy showed promise, although they needed upbraiding of a time. And Wee Willy. T’would never do to send him off by himself. He was good at hefting and carrying around camp or on a ranch or somewhere, but not quick enough in the head to be sent off by himself.

And the woman, Molly. Might have to change her name. Molly. She had her good points. Not many women able to cook good grub on an open fire. Molly could and Molly did. Molly did a lot of things. True, the boys used her a lot, but young men were bound to want to hump. Couldn’t let them pound on her too much. She needed to be able to do for the Dents and she couldn’t do that all bruised and broken. Yeah. Humping and hitting had to be separated. For sure.

It's not unusual in my books to have chapters or scenes in third-person POV of perps or other people who have roles to play in the story. For example. In Return to Silver Creek, protagonist Garet Havelock's wife Laura comes up missing. She's been brutally raped. (OK, so I'm hard on women) A friend gives her shelter. So for many chapters of the book, the beginning is in Laura's 3rd person POV, and the remainder is in Garet's 3rd person POV. Here's a sample. 

Mexican Hacienda, but maybe like the Pilar's

Laura Havelock opened her eyes to dim surroundings. A fragrance of old leather and juniper smoke filled the air. She felt it was morning, though the room was dark.

She had not left the room since Rita Pilar and Ramon Javez, the Pilar ranch segundo, brought her to the hacienda. Her bruised ribs didn’t hurt as much, and scabs had formed on the two vertical slits beneath her eyes. They looked like dark purple tears. Her young body was recovering quickly from the brutal attack. Her body was healing, but her heart remained deeply scarred.

Laura knew no man before her husband and now she had been violated in every way imaginable – brutalized, heart, body, and soul.

That man didn’t want a woman. He wanted to hurt. To wound me, to humiliate me, to make me feel like dirt fit only to be trod upon.

A light tap sounded on the oak door.

“Yes.” Laura forced herself to get up and remove the bar.

Rita Pilar entered with a platter of bacon, eggs, fresh salsa, and flour tortillas. “We have no sourdough biscuits, mi amiga,” she said. “Tortillas will have to do.” Rita smiled. “I did bring the crock of sourdough starter from your rancho, however. Later, perhaps, you can show me how it works.”

“Thank you, Rita. You and yours have been so kind. You saved my life, you know. Now you want me to show you how to make sourdough bread. And you already have such delicious tortillas.”

Rita smiled again. “My people came from Spain many generations ago, and from Mexico to Arizona, though we called it Nuevo Mexico then. We are also Americanos, you see. And I think we should learn everything we can about you Anglos.”

For the first time in days, Laura Havelock laughed. “Good thing my father is not here to hear you call me an Anglo,” she said. She switched to an Irish brogue, imitating her father. “Sure and it’s Irish Celts we are and we hail from Erin, the emerald isle, that we do.” 

Rita laughed with delight.

“Come, sit at the table, Laura. Let’s eat. Here.” The Mexican woman handed Laura a blouse and skirt. “You’re bigger than I am,” she said, “but Paloma is a wizard with her needle. Try these on. I wager they fit.”

“Thank you. You are a friend.” Laura used the tips of her little fingers to brush the tears away from the corners of her eyes. But it was no use. They overflowed anyway, and silently streamed down her face. She turned away from Rita, but she caught Laura’s arm and turned her back.

“Let the tears come, my friend. Let them come. When you try to hold them back, the hole in your heart just gets bigger. Let them come. So the inner wounds can heal,” she said.

“Oh, Rita.” Laura sobbed. “You bring me to your home. You clean me up and give me clothes to wear. But inside I’m so dirty. So dirty. So awfully dirty.”

Rita put her arms around Laura, pulled her close, and held her as she wept.

Not Alamo, as that town no longer exists,
but Cascabel, a town not far away from Alamo

Part way through the chapter, I make a scene change to look in on the oldest Dent son, Finn. He's been sent to Alamo for supplies to take them through Hell's Gate and Hell's Trail.

“Howdy, stranger.” The man behind the bar wore a big smile, a walrus moustache, and mutton chop sideburns that extended up the sides of his face until they disappeared into his bald pate, just above his ears. “What’ll ya have? I’m Todd. First one’s on Charley Wainwright, I might add.”

“Whiskey’d be good,” Finn said. “Really good shot of whiskey.”

“Coming up.” Todd reached for a long-necked bottle with no label and poured a generous three fingers of amber liquid into a slightly foggy glass. “Like I said, the first one’s on ol’ Charley Wainwright.” Todd put the glass on the plank bar right in front of Finn.

Saliva filled Finn’s mouth at the thought of drinking the hefty shot of whiskey sitting right there before him. Free for the drinking, too. He took the glass in his strong untrembling grasp and knocked it back.

Good. Lord. Good.

The whiskey went down in three swallows, but the sledgehammer of fire hit all at once.

Then the burning gradually settled down to stoked furnace level. Finn wiled his watering eyes. “Whew. Prime. By the almighty, prime. How much you getting for a shot of that fine whiskey?”

Word count: 17,810

Western Novel in 30 Working Days -- Nine

I was once a little boy.

Things always happen. That's the way a novel goes. Sometimes the things are dangerous to the protagonist, sometimes they are puzzling, and sometimes it's what you might expect.

Naturally, in writing my western in 30 working days, things happen. Like, I had no idea that Elijah Carpenter, who showed up while Matt Stryker was eating breakfast, was related to Molly Miller. I didn't even know that her maiden name was Carpenter. Things happen.

Matt Stryker is nothing is not pragmatic. That doesn't mean he has no feelings, not at all. But he IS a manhunter, and that means gathering information, which sometimes makes things happen.

He went to the Ridges & Hale stage line office in Tucson to see what he could find out. Any good private eye would do the same.

“I went to Sheriff Paul and told him what I found at Miller’s Well,” Stryker said. “I’d like to know if there’s any more to it.”

When McCabe didn’t answer, Stryker went on. “Seems unusual for robbers to burn the station, kill the driver and shotgun, kill the passengers, then shoot the horses. Is there anything about that stage that doesn’t meet the eye?”

“Sheriff Paul let us know of the problem only a few hours ago,” McCabe said.

“But you had a stage late, late more than a few hours, too,” Stryker said. “How long do you wait before sending a rider up the line?”

“A day. Maybe two.”

“So someone is on the way right now?”

“They are.” McCabe adjusted his weight in his chair. He looked unhappy at the direction talk was going.

“I saw four burnt bodies, McCabe. Couldn’t tell no more than that three were men and one was a woman. Like I told Sheriff Paul, I found Dodge Miller alive in the outhouse. They’d left him for dead. He heard ‘em say they was Dents. Sheriff had a flyer on the Dents.”

Carpenter broke in. “Mr. McCabe, has anyone else come asking about Miller’s Well?”

“Someone else?” McCabe said. “Anyone?”

Carpenter nodded.

“Well. Elrowe Hershey, you know, he’s a partner in the Old Dominion mine in the Globe City area.

“Heard that mine was copper,” Carpenter said.

“So it is. Along with traces of gold and silver, and some lead,” McCabe said.

“What’d Hershey want?”

“Well. The stage was long overdue, and Mr. Hershey was inquiring as to any news about when it would arrive.”

“Wonder why.”

“Mr. Hershey was not specific, but I got the impression that he was waiting for someone called Neil Bascomb.” McCabe settled back in his chair, dug a stubby pipe from a coat pocket and began filling it from a pouch.

Questioning McCabe further, they found that the man called Hershey was at the Royal Hotel. Which naturally meant that Stryker would go there to shake the tree. 

In my Black Horse Western novel Road to Rimrock, Matt Stryker is a younger man and the marshal of a town on the edge of the Mogollon Rim called, unsurprisingly, Rimrock.

He made a promise to the town drunk that he spent the whole book fulfilling. Here's how the story starts:

 The shot came as Marshal Matt Stryker started his midnight rounds of Rimrock. He drew his six-gun and trotted down Washington Way. As he passed the President saloon, he saw a crumpled shape in the shadow of the dilapidated boardwalk in front of what was once Rimrock Mercantile. No more shots.

Stryker knelt by the fallen man. He grasped a shoulder and shook it. No response. Keeping his gun ready, he levered the body over. It smelled of whiskey, and he recognized Stan Ruggart.

Lying face up now, Ruggart began to snore.

Then:


 Like the street, the lobby of the Rimrock Hotel was empty. A coal-oil lamp burned low at one end of the counter. The register lay open. Keys hung from pegs within easy reach. ‘Sign the book and take a key,’ said a sign next to the guest register. Stryker checked the signatures. Ruggart’s was last. No one else had checked in since. Stan Ruggart lived in an empty hotel and had done for nearly three months. Stryker picked up the lamp and climbed the stairs. Once the ground floor had housed a restaurant. Now it lay silent like the rest of the town.

Ruggart often said his room number brought him good fortune. Lucky Seven, he called it. Stryker raised the lamp to check the brass number over the door. No mistake – 7. He tapped on the door. Silence. He knocked. No sound. He banged. No response. He tried the knob, and the door
opened. A step into the room, Stryker raised the lamp high. Ruggart lay on his bed, fully clothed, his eyes wide as if in shock, his mouth open as if crying for help, his throat cut so deep the wound looked like a second mouth. 

‘Ah shit. Too late.’ Stryker covered the body with the spare blanket folded at the foot of the bed and went to look for Tom Hall.


Hotels are deadly. Maybe you readers should think twice before checking in to one. Especially if its full of Western authors. Matt Stryker seems to find that things happen in hotels.

Stryker and Carpenter rode side by side down Toole to where the road branched into Arizona Avenue. They followed Arizona to Congress Street, where they turned west. The Royal Hotel stood on the corner of Congress and Granada.

A group of men milled around the entrance to the Royal, talking in subdued tones. Stryker dismounted Saif at the side of the hotel where hitching rails allowed horses to stand for a while. Carpenter got off the dun and checked his Lightning. They pushed through the crowd, making their way in the front door. The first thing Stryker noticed was the huge form of Sheriff Bob Paul. From the looks of things, the sheriff wanted answers, not questions.

“Now’s not the time,” Stryker said to Carpenter. Whatever’s happened, Bob Paul don’t like it.”

Carpenter faded back into the crowd outside and Stryker waited the chance to talk to the sheriff. He sidled closer, hoping to catch some of the conversation.

“Why do you figure so, Mason?” Sheriff Paul asked.

“I have no idea, sheriff, honest to God.”

“Hmmm. Ain’t too often a man turns up dead like that. Not one like him.”

“I have no idea, sheriff,” the man called Mason repeated.

“Hanging,” Carpenter said at Stryker’s shoulder. “Man hanged himself up in Room 214. That’s what they say.”

“A man don’t usually hang himself,” Stryker said. “Usually eats his gun.”

“Lots of townies don’t carry a gun these days,” Carpenter said. “Maybe he had no gun barrel to eat.”

“Could be. Any word as to who it is hanging up there?”

“Yeah.”

Stryker gave Carpenter a sidelong glance. “Well?”

“You ain’t gonna like this.”

“Try me.”

“Them outside said the maid found a man hanging dead in his room. They say it was Elrowe Hershey.”

You see? Things happen.

Word count: 13,514

A Western in 30 working days--Eight

Dapper at the age of 19 or so

I was once a young and dapper man. But the years have added wrinkles and splotches and several feet around the waist. But still, it is good to have a challenge.

The eighth day of the Write a Western in 30 Working Days marathon is almost finished. So close, in fact, that I have decided to go ahead and do this blog entry.

A new character came upon the scene as Stryker was eating breakfast. But what happens when he meets Dodge Miller, wounded husband of poor Molly?

Let's see.

After a long minute, Miller said, “Lige Carpenter? Lige Carpenter from Higgins Bottom?”

“The same.”

“I heard you went wild,” Miller said. “Before we come west, I heard you rode with James Danby’s boys.”

“I did, but I quit. Them Dents what got my cousin Molly, they was once with Danby, too. Well, at least Lester and the two older boys was.”

“You know them bastards!”

Stryker stood to one side, interested in seeing what Dodge Miller made of Lige Carpenter.

“Not that I’m proud to say it,” Carpenter said. “Don’t like to admit it at all. To anyone but you, I’d say I didn’t know no Dents.”

“So wha’choo doing here?” Miller’s brows remained knitted in puzzlement.

“I’m here to go with Matt Stryker to get Molly back for you. If he’ll let me, that is. You can’t. Not right now. Molly deserves kin to get her away from them Dents.” Carpenter stuck out a hand. “Dodge. I figure you’re kin, too.”

In Westerns, you'll find that families mean a lot. How many Sackett novels did Louis L'Amour write? A bunch. And if you've taken the time to read my Pitchfork Justice book, you'd know how older brother Garet Havelock comes to help his younger brother Ness. At the end of Chapter 30:

"Wilson did it," Gatlin said from the door. "He likes to hurt people. Makes him feel good."

"I'd better get word to Garet Havelock," Hubbell said. "With people thinking Ness killed Prince and Cruger, all hell's liable to break loose."

Then, in Chapter 31:

"What's this about you killing Roland Prince," Garet demanded. He'd rode too long as a lawman to let serious things like murder slide. So I told my story again.

"Hubbell, you want to deputize me? I'd stand against those rowdies," Garet said. And he would, too. He'd stopped a mob of miners cold in Vulture City when he was marshal there.

"I'll stand, too, Sheriff," Sid Lyle said from where he stood outside the door. "And I got four good men. Ain't nobody gonna take Ness Havelock outta that cell while we're here."

I grinned at Sid as he walked in. "For a man who took a shot at me, you're all-fired loyal, Sid."

He grinned back. "Mistake," he said.

"All right," Hubbell said. "Garet. Lyle. Raise your right hands."

And on, until Garet and the men who stand with him are able to keep the mob from lynching Ness. Now, we have family coming together to rescue Molly Miller, if there's anything left of her body and mind to rescue when the time comes.

Miller reached for Carpenter’s hand. “Dear God, it feels good to have kin.” His eyes glittered with unshed tears.

Carpenter clapped his left hand over his handshake with Miller. “Dodge, Matt Stryker’s about the best man you could have going after your Molly. And I’ll be right with him. All the way, I’ll be there.”

“I thank you, Lige. I truly do.” He swiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “And you, Matt, what takes you out after my Molly?”

“Men like the Dents don’t deserve to run wild, Dodge. I’ll bring them in, like I said, and if they won’t come, I’ll bring them in anyway. Belly down, if that’s how it’s got to be.”

Keeping his grip on Lige Carpenter’s hand, Miller stretched his other one toward Stryker. “I’d have your hand on that,” he said.

Stryker gripped Miller’s hand.

“Kin and good friends. Sometimes that’s all that gets a man through,” he said.

Word Count: 12,224

A Western in 30 Working Days--Day Seven

Me in an earlier day. Could be a Dent, though

I KNOW. The days in the title and those in the calendar don't jibe. Still, that's what time I've been able to put in as of right now. Two days on the road didn't give me any time, and a half day reporting today evened out the time to seven working days on the novel. My count.

We know Molly Miller's in trouble. And she is. Read this.

Molly squatted not far from Wee Willy, but in the shade of a boulder. She was thirstier than she’d ever been in her life, but she refused to drink or even look at the canteens, unless told to fetch one.

“You all’ll die if’n you don’t take some water,” Wee Willy said. He spoke only loud enough for his voice to carry to Molly’s ears.

Molly shook her head. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “I just don’t care.”

“You gotta care, missus.”

“I’m just a bitch. A bitch’s an animal. No use living.”

Question: will Molly survive until someone can rescue her? Could any woman survive the sadistic treatment they'd receive from the Dents?

“Move’ut,” Leroy hollered.

She dogtrotted across the sunburnt patch of ground and halted in front of Leroy, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. Her ratty hair fell in snarls around her face.

Leroy took a roundhouse swing at her that sent his right hand splatting against the side of her face. “Bitch. When I call ya, come running.”

Molly dropped to her knees without a sound.

“You hear me, bitch?” Leroy’s voice nearly screeched.

Molly toppled forward, but caught herself with hands spread wide, elbows locked and fingers splayed. She panted. Ung. Ung. Ung. Ung. Like a child who has been told to shut up, but can’t hold the sobs back completely. 

Stryker has his problems, too. But Tucson's a populous town so privacy or not being recognized is an iffy situation. 

“Hold up, Saif,” Stryker said. The black Arabian stopped.

Carpenter pulled the dun up beside Saif. “Damn. That’s some horse you’ve got, Stryker. Never seen the like. Like he knows everything you say.”

“He hears me when he likes what I say,” Stryker said. “Where’s your friend?”

“Upton ain’t no friend of mine.”

“You don’t say.”

“He had a foot on the rail over to the Red Garter,” Carpenter said. “I stood alongside, and he bought me a drink. That’s about it.”

“Red Garter’s a ways away from Chez Bennie.”

“A man’ll go all the way across town for good food. Ever been to El Paso?”

“Passing through.”

“Ever hear of Rosa’s? Just across the bridge into Mexico? Now that’s a place men ride halfway across Texas for. Good, dark Mexican brew and the best machaca this side of San Lucas.”

“Why are you following me, Elijah?”

Why would Elijah Carpenter follow after Matt Stryker? Well, I'm not going to tell you. In fact, I may not tell you next report either. 

Until we meet again, then. Hasta la vista.