Here is an excerpt from page 6 to page 14 of my novel “Partners”. The reader has just ‘met’ the ‘old’ (he’s 36) educated
one, Tom Brash and he, along with the reader is about to meet the young,
boorish, impulsive one, Frank Clement.
He was well into the Cypress Hills now, and climbing. Despite the heat
and tired horses he altered his course and angled up the hill. From up on top
he might be able to see something that would indicate the location of the
lakes. Perhaps he would cross the trail of some animal going to water. Seeing a
grove of trees might also help, for many trees could not grow without some
water.
Pausing for a moment he turned and looked back toward the south east.
Although he had been in this wide open land for more than a month he still was
not used to the vastness. Distance seemed to contract, and what appeared to be
a hundred yards would prove to be five hundred.
The climb was much steeper and longer than he had anticipated, but he
did finally approach the top of the hill. Before he crested the ridge however,
he heard a murmur that he thought might be human voices.
His mount stopped when he dropped the reins. He stepped back beside the
animal and drew a Colt revolving shotgun from the scabbard that hung down from the
cantle. With the scatter gun in his hands he continued up the slope, cautiously
scanning the country as he moved forward. He knew that he might meet full blood
Indians who would not be as friendly as the Métis’ he had camped with. The Assiniboine , Cree and Blackfoot all claimed these Cypress Hills as their own. None
of them looked kindly on those who might trespass, but those who met the
Blackfoot seldom complained about poor treatment. If they did object it was
only to their captors just before they died.
The voices grew more distinguishable as he advanced, though he could
still not understand any words.
A shot rang out so close that Brash dropped to his knees thinking for
an instant that it had been aimed at him. A scream was cut short by the sound of
a blow. Tom dropped to his stomach and crawled to the top of the ridge where he
could look into the hollow beyond.
A lake lay before him, perhaps the very one he sought, one arm of it
disappearing off to the left. Directly below him on the shore of that lake were
the remains of a camp that had been destroyed. A small teepee lay torn and
scattered through the remains of a cooking fire and utensils. The body of an
Indian man lay tied to the remains of a travois frame, a hole near the center
of his bare chest, and blood staining the earth beneath him. Another form from
which Brash thought he could hear moans - and guessed was a woman by what he
could see of her dress - lay near the bound corpse. The camp was bordered by
the lake and the hill, and by thick stands of aspen and willow which gave way
near the water to wide strips of cracked and drying mud.
Two men also stood in the clearing. Each of them wore full, dark brown
beards and buckskins, the clothing showing as much grease and almost as dark as
the face hair. One wore a battered felt hat, his leggings tucked into high
topped riding boots. The other wore a fur cap, the ear lugs tied together on
top, his feet in moccasins which extended to just below his knee. The one with
the felt hat held a rifle in his left hand, and a coil of rope in his right.
Fur Hat had just finished loading his rifle and was removing the ramrod.
“Well, I reckon we isn’t gonna have any more fun with the Injun,” Felt
Hat commented.
Fur Hat cursed. “Wasn’t much fun in ‘im, Seth. Got more out o’ watchin’
his chest blow up.”
Seth poked the moaning bundle with the toe of his mule-ear adorned
boots. “Well, mayhap Mrs. Injun’ll be more entertainin’.”
“Nope!” a new voice announced.
Both men spun to see a slight figure step from the trees. From his
perch high above, Brash saw a boy of perhaps fifteen in cloths that were little
more than rags. He wore no hat and his hair was a long, snarled mess. A piece
of rope was tied around his waist to hold his pants up, but just under it was a
gun belt. The right side of his too-large coat was hooked behind the butt of a
large holstered revolver. In his hands he held a rifle, thumb on the hammer and
finger on the trigger.
“What’s yer prob’em, boy?” Seth asked.
The boy nodded at the moaning bundle. “No more hittin’,” he announced.
Fur Hat grinned. “Well, she ain’t no use then, is she?” He cocked his
rifle and swung the muzzle.
The boy cocked his rifle and swung it toward Fur Hat.
“Look out, Hank,” Seth called.
Before Brash could even realize that what he had thought was a rope was
actually a bull whip, Seth flicked it toward the boy. The very end of the
braided rawhide snapped around the barrel of the boy’s rifle. Seth jerked and
the rifle landed in the dirt.
Hank laughed. Seth grinned and brought the whip back, swinging it over
his head for another strike at the boy. A shot rang out and the whip flew from
his hand.
The boy stood with a smoking pistol in his hands.
Brash knew his eyes had been on Seth and the whip, but the appearance
of the weapon was a shock. Apparently it was also a shock for Seth and Hank.
Seth was doubled over holding his ringing right hand between his legs, eyes
large and round, and fixed on the smoking muzzle. Hank’s eyes were similarly
fixed, his thumb still holding the hammer of his rifle at half cock.
“Hammer down,” the boy instructed.
Hank gently released the hammer.
Seth took his hand from between his thighs and shook it violently. “He
ain’t fast enough to shoot us both,” he concluded. He still held his rifle in
his left hand.
On the ridge above, Brash realized that at least twenty feet separated
Seth and Hank. Even for someone as fast and accurate as the boy appeared to be
it would be difficult to stop both men before he was himself hit by someone’s
return fire. Brash also suspected that there was a great deal of luck involved
in the shot that took the whip from Seth’s hand.
“You first,” the boy announced, his revolver pointed at Seth.
Hank smiled. “Then you second,” he said swinging the muzzle around
toward the boy.
“I believe you may be second.” Brash did not know what made him call
out. One of the things that had forced him from his home was well meaning
people who, after the death of his family, constantly demanded that he
communicate with them, and here he was getting involved with people he didn’t
even know. What he had just witnessed, however, was brutal, and the boy needed
help. He shoved the muzzle of his shotgun over the hill and into view.
In the clearing, Hank had stopped the swing of his rifle. Seth had
started to raise his own weapon and the weight of it against his left wrist was
starting to make his arm tremble.
“Put ‘em down,” the boy said.
Seth and Hank leaned over and carefully placed their weapons on the
ground.
“Short guns an’ knives,” the boy said.
Two large Bowie knives, a Colt, and a Smith and Wesson revolver hit the
ground.
The boy pointed with his chin. “Over by the Injun,” he commanded.
Both men walked backward until they stood near the corpse.
Still holding his pistol, the boy retrieved the weapons. The knives he
left on the ground. One pistol he put in his own holster, the other behind his
rope belt. The rifles he picked up with one finger looped through their trigger
guards. His eyes never leaving the two men he returned to the edge of the
clearing, leaning the rifles against a tree.
The pistol at his waist was a Smith and Wesson. He broke it open,
dumped the cartridges on the ground, and then threw it to land near the knives.
“Stand,” he ordered, then exchanged his own weapon for the one that had been in
his holster. It too was a Colt, so he used the tool from his gun belt to pull
the caps from the nipples, then threw the weapon to land by the Smith.
Still facing Hank and Seth so he could keep an eye on them while he
worked, the boy turned to work on the rifles. The first was a Springfield Springfield
With his chin the boy indicated the pile of weapons, then the horses. “Mount
up,” he advised. The heel of his hand rested on his holstered Colt.
Hank and Seth looked at each other then slowly and carefully picked up
their rifles.
As he picked up the Smith and Wesson, Seth eyed the cartridges that lay
on the ground at the boy’s feet. “Them car’ ridges is hard t’ get,” he
complained.
“Rough,” the boy replied
Keeping an eye on the boy the two men moved quickly toward their
horses. In turn the boy didn’t fall too far behind them, watching to ensure
they took only their own mounts and pack horse.
On the ridge above, Tom Brash rose and returned to his own animals.
With reins in hand he led his mount over the hill and down into the campsite,
the pack animals following readily.
Having just watched the two men ride away the boy returned to the camp
site, but did not acknowledge Brash’s existence. Instead he went to the Indian
woman and rolled her over on her back. Her left eye flew open and her arm came
up over her face.
The boy squeezed her shoulder gently. “Won’t hurt yuh,” the boy said.
Tom could see a bad cut on the right side of her forehead that was
already causing that eye to swell and close. The left side of her mouth and
left cheek were also swollen and discolored.
“I have some medical supplies,” Brash announced.
The boy looked up at him and nodded.
Tom removed his bandanna and held it out to the boy. “Perhaps you could
take this to the lake and get it wet? We will need to wash her off before we
bandage her.”
The boy nodded again, took the bandanna and rose. Tom turned to his
horses to retrieve bandages.
As he reached into the pack about where he knew his medical supplies to
be, a scream came from behind him that made the horse jump. He turned to see
the woman sitting up and looking at the dead man, her hands over her mouth. The
boy was running back from the shore.
The woman jerked sideways and fell over the body of the man just before
Brash heard the sound of a shot. Both he and the boy looked to Seth and Hank,
who were in the relatively open area along the lake perhaps two hundred yards
away. Hank held his Springfield
The boy cursed, threw the wet bandana on the ground and picked up his
Spencer. Hank and Seth sprinted for their horses.
From this point on Tom and Frank have to avoid being silenced by Hank
and Seth, relatives of the victims (Blackfoot) who want to issue penalties for
the deaths, and a sociopath looking to build his own kingdom in Western Canada.
At the same time they still have to deal with the same things that all other travelers
deal with every day such as the weather and attacks that are not specifically
targeted at anyone in particular.
Can they put up with each other long enough to keep each other alive?
