Pale Horse, Robert L. Ross [beach read book .TXT] 📗

letter, stuck firmly with a hunting knife to one of the smoothed cedar columns that supported the porch.
“Wait fella's”, he said, as he reached for the knife, dislodging the letter and retrieving it.
While Ben was reading the letter, the other two sat atop their horses, patiently waiting for him to tell them of it's contents. After he finished reading, he turned to his friends, and with a look of sheer desperation, fueled by confusion and anger, announced that,
“Temperance and Winter Crow have been kidnapped by Shane Walters, and they're being held for $100,000 ransom” !
“Walters”?!, yelled Colt, “Let me guess, he's related to the Walters we just killed,?” As he thought more about it, he asked out loud,
“Why would someone leave their name on a ransom note”? Ben looked at him, and said,
“You just asked and answered your own question, he wants us to know who he is because we killed Snake Head”! As Colt reached for the letter to examine it for himself, Pale Horse calmly pulled his Colt .45 from his holster, and spinning the wheel to check for empty chambers, returned it to it's holster, and proceeded to do the same with the one he kept tucked in front of his buckskins. Satisfied that his guns were ready for battle, he looked up at Ben, and in a voice brimming with foreboding and darkness, asked,
“Where can we find this Shane Walters?”
“I don't have any idea”, said Ben. Before Pale Horse could ask the next question, Colt said,
“It says here, that Ben's to wire the money to Denver by noon tomorrow, and when the money is received, the girls will be released unharmed.” Pale Horse immediately spoke up and said,
“It sounds to me like we need to head for Denver at first light, that's gotta be where he has the girls” A looming silence took over, each of the men realizing that the girls could be in the very next town, where one of the gang was awaiting word by telegraph to release the girls upon the others receiving the money, or, they could be as far as Denver with the rest of the gang or anywhere inbetween, or, even more grim, they could be dead. As this realization manifested itself in their minds, Pale Horse began hearing the Spirits of his ancestors call to him. He immediately spurred his horse away from the house, and as Spirit began furiously circling the imaginary fires that burned before both of them, Pale Horse began to scream the battle cries of his ancestors envisioned, and wail aloud with heavy heart, wistfully bleeding tears of misfortune for his missing sisters. Ben and Colt, staring at one another, then back at their friend, fell completely silent, both speechless and in shock at the scene that was unfolding before them. With the proper English that he spoke so well, and his Anglo-Saxon features, it was sometimes easy to forget that their friend was Comanche, raised by his father, a true warrior in his own right, Two Feathers.
Pale Horse was an infamous warrior, known and feared by Indian and white man alike, and though he was their friend, it was times like these, that even the bravest of souls encountered, that one had to quietly step aside and let him and the spirits do their bidding.
Realizing that there was nothing they could do at the moment, and not wanting to walk away from their friend, Ben and Colt sat in the chairs that adorned the front porch, drinking their whiskey's, smoking their cigars, quietly contemplating their next moves, as the warrior cries of a heart broken friend were raised to the Spirits above.
It was 2am before Pale Horse had been blessed with the solace he was seeking, and he calmly stepped off his horse and walked up to the house. Ben and Colt were still there, and Colt, with sympathy and unspoken support, leaned forward and gave him a glass of Irish Jacks, chilled by the three pieces of ice, as was requested earlier in the day. He quietly accepted the offering, swallowed it in it's entirety, and looking over to his friends, said,
“I'm riding for Denver at first light, and when I get there, I'm going to tear that town apart until I find someone that knows the whereabouts of this Shane Walters, and then I'm going to find him, then I'm going to kill him.” As he set his empty glass on the railing next to him and headed for his room, Colt turned to Ben and told him,
“I'll be riding with him”. Ben, realizing he still had to wire the money the next day, then return to the ranch, in hopes of the girls being released, told Colt,
“As soon as Temperance and Winter Crow get home, I'll be on the trail right behind you”. Colt, thinking a bit more clearly than Ben at the moment said,
“I'm sure after the experience they've been through, it would probably be better if you stayed here with them and ensure their safety until this ordeal is over.” Disappointed at not being able to join in the hunt for the culprits that had kidnapped his daughter, but realizing his friend was right, Ben reluctantly nodded his head, agreeing with him. Downing the remainder of his glass, he looked at Colt, then sat it on the wicker table and said “Goodnight.”


On the Hunt

As the morning sun began to break and was now peering over the windswept ridge, the two men, solemn yet determined, saddled up and headed for Denver.
“I'll be damned”, exclaimed Colt, breaking the reflective silence that had shadowed them thus far. “What Colt”?, his friend asked.
“Shane Walters ! “I remember him now, that snot-nosed tag-along that use to tarry in the footsteps of that reprobate!” He's the younger brother of that sons-a-bitch, now it all makes sense”, he said, finally realizing exactly how the kidnapper and Snake Head were connected.
“Makes no difference to me”, replied Pale Horse,
“Younger brother, older brother, father or son, he'll pray for a much quicker and deserved death once I get my hands on him.”
It took four days of hard riding to reach Denver, and upon reaching their destination, they tied their horses off at the Whiskey River saloon, and walked inside to wash down some of the dust that they had accumulated along the way.
“Bartender, two Irish Jacks and as many beers, if you please”, requested Pale Horse, as he swatted at the trail remnants that followed him inside on his buckskins. The bartender looked crossly at him, and with an surly demeanor said,
“We don't serve injuns in this saloon, friend” as he continued wiping the bar then walked away. Colt, after having ridden hard for the past four days, and with little tolerance for ignorance, walked to the end of the bar where the barkeep was, raised the folding gate that was the entrance to the inside of the bar, and casually removed his Colt .45 from his holster. Forcibly placing it in the vile mouth of said bartender, he said calmly,
“That “injun” as you referred to him, is my very good friend of many years, and at this very moment sir, is either contemplating on cutting your tongue out and having it as an appetizer with his whiskey, or debating on whether or not to take your Irish scalp and decorating his fine Comanche saddle with it for all the other rude and detestable bartenders such as yourself to see, so that they might not make the very same grave and foolish mistake that you've made here today.” With eyes wide, the bartender began nodding his head as to the egregious error he had just made, no doubt after the petty life nearly lost, that had just passed before him. Colt removed his pistol and wiped the spittle from it on the bartenders pin-striped shirt and returned it to its holster, after which, he returned to his position at the bar.
Pale Horse glanced over at his friend after hearing the speech he had just so eloquently given, and said, “The refreshments are on me.” The bartender, with proverbial tail tucked between his shaking legs, placed two cold and frosty beers, two freshly wiped shot glasses and the entire bottle of expensive Irish whiskey on the bar before the men, and muttered like a child caught with it's hand in the cookie jar,
“I apologize sirs, the whiskey and beers are on the house.” Pale Horse pulled the cork from the bottle, poured himself and his friend full shots of the bartender's humiliation, and toasted each other before slamming them in unison to the bar, and reaching for their beers. The bartender was quick to fill their empty beers for the rest of the short time they spent standing at the bar.
Both men soon picked up their drinks and made their way to the rear of the saloon, as to size up the patrons that were in attendance, looking for the sort that they had spent a good part of their lives chasing. Gunslingers and outlaw wanna-be's were easy to spot by the way they carried themselves, especially around others that they felt were “beneath them”. Tied down holsters and double ammunition belts were some of the common features of bandits and outlaws alike, not to mention the fact that they were seldom loners, and tend to run in groups and were much easier to spot because of such.
It didn't take long before they noticed a group playing poker that seemed to fit the very description they were looking for. Colt asked his friend how he wanted to handle the situation.
“Why don't you go over and see if you can sit in on their game of cards, and throughout the course of your game, see what information you can come up with, and I'll sit here and keep an eye on the proceedings. Colt, knowing that if any sort of situation should arise, he was adept enough to handle it, and if things got out of control in any way, his friend had his back, and would surely and quickly finish anything that was started.
“That sounds like a good plan to me”, he replied, Besides, I haven't played cards in quite awhile, and I feel the need to help some of them lighten their wallets” Pale Horse laughed and said back to his friend,
“You would be the person to do it, if I ever knew one”. He was referring to the skill and audacity that Colt had been known for in the past when it came to the game of poker. Seems Mr. Mathews was quite the card player, and truly bold at the way he approached the game, which, more often than not, had a tendency to upset those who were foolish enough to “count him in”. Due to this knowledge, Pale Horse knew it would be but a matter of time before the insults and accusations were flying as fast as the bullets that were sure to follow.
“Take it easy on them Colt, we need answers a lot more than you need their money”.
Colt walked casually back up to the bar, got him another beer and took their bottle of Jack's to lubricate the conversation between him and the players at the table. As