"Hey, saddle tramp," said Vernon. "I don't think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men." Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. "I've had just about all the crap I'm going to take from a local loudmouth like you," Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldn't back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didn't even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldn't swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, "Ohooo, shit." .

One Bullet More

For RuthBy James Richard Langston

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 James Richard Langston
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-4500-4

Chapter One

She was unable to move, her eyes widened and she went into panic causing the adrenaline to flow through her body. Struggling, she gained the strength and presence of mind to roll him to the side so that she could stand, only to find herself facing half a dozen, ruggedly dressed men, with the sinister gleam of lust in their eyes.

It had been a normal day for the Fillmore family, the work was hard and the rewards seemed never to come. The chores were all done, she prepared supper over a hot wood burning cook stove and they sat to table, said their blessing and ate their supper with good natured talk between them, including the family's only child, a two year old, little girl, named Ruth. After supper, they watched the sun go down same as always. The three of them sat on the front porch, looking at the beautiful display of red, orange, yellow and gold, blending together like a canvas, splashed by an angry artist. Twilight fell softly on the Flying F ranch and the Fillmores retreated into the house to prepare for bed.

With no moon shining, most nights on the plains were as black as pitch. Without a light of some kind, it was hard to find one's way. That's exactly how it was with Matt's sister, her husband and their child on this fateful night. Usually, to save oil, the only light they enjoyed after sundown was firelight from the open fireplace in the side wall of their living area. Oil for lamps and candles were hard to come by and the Fillmore family could ill afford to buy them, when they were available. John's dream of building a first class cattle ranch had turned into a near nightmare of hard scrabble work, just to eke out enough money to keep food on the table. This night was no different from all the other nights that he was worn to a frazzle, except that, this night, there was a band of men waiting in an arroyo, not more than three hundred yards from the Fillmore ranch house, waiting for the darkness to close in around it, waiting for the light of the fireplace to dim.

John and his wife, Sarah, both, looked years beyond their actual age because of the hard work, hopeless worry and rough weather. He had cattle but the market was depressed, his cattle were scattered back up in the foothills of the mountain range that towered above two sides of the valley in which his land was situated and he had no money to hire riders to round up what cattle there were. He knew there were maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand head back in the hills, from natural increase but he had no way of knowing for sure. Besides, there was a tribe of savage Indians that lived back in those hills, holdouts from moving to a reservation and he was hard pressed for any solution to the complex problem. On top of all of that, as if that wasn't enough, he had been getting undercurrent threats from the Circle J bunch.

He had invested his life's savings to get the ranch and get it started and the bank held a mortgage on the place. He had no funds to hire the help he needed to make it begin to pay. He had his starter cattle, delivered to the ranch by members of the selling outfit but they all went back home after delivery and John Fillmore was left with over a thousand head of cattle and nobody to ride herd on them and they had drifted, far and wide. Leading up to the point where he was at this time, he had only been able to hire just one person, a local Indian, to help him round up enough cattle to provide each year's staples, but he had borrowed the money to buy the cattle to start with and it would be coming due, soon.

As soon as the cleaning up after supper was done, John sat by the fireplace and ran all of his problems through his mind as he smoked his pipe. The rest of the family, his wife, Sarah and his two year old daughter, Ruth retired for the night. The days were long and hard. There was much work to be done and the worry of possibly being attacked by renegade Indians or outlaws was just about as much pressure as could be stood. He sat there until the fire dwindled to just a few flames and flickers and then he finally decided to go to bed.

Matt's sister, Sarah, had married John Fillmore on the lawn of the Sherman homestead back in Louisiana. It was a beautiful time of the year with so much promise for both the weather and their future. The magnolia trees were in full bloom and the sweet aroma of the magnolia blossoms filled the air like the breath of a newborn baby. The smells of cooking, from the kitchen of the main house, were mouth watering. It turned out to be a lovely wedding with a delicious reception afterwards. Sarah was very happy, her beloved brother, Matt was there, back from one of his adventures, and the world seemed to be perfect.

The memories of that wedding day, seeming so long ago, were in the mind of Sarah as she pulled the covers up under her chin. She was twenty three and the world was young and beautiful and she was in love. John came into the room, carrying a coal oil lamp, the light casting shadows on the walls like black ghosts from a dark lagoon. He put the lamp on the table at the foot of the bed, undresses and blew out the flame.

After he was settled in bed, she smiled sweetly into the darkness and settled in for a good night's sleep, not realizing that she would never see the beauty of a bright, sunny day again. She and her husband, John, were awakened in the middle of the night by the loud crying of the livestock from the barn in back of the house. Upon awakening, they saw the bright, flickering orange glow of the barn in flames. The pounding of horses' hooves could be heard from the darkness outside along with the roar of the fire and the hoots and hollers of excited men.

"What's going on," shouted Sarah. "What's that glow?"

"I don't know," her husband said. "Something is on fire; I think it's the barn. Oh, my God, it is the barn and it sounds like the livestock are trapped inside."

They scrambled to get their clothing on while hurrying toward the rear of the house, half dressed. Their only daughter, the two year old, was standing by the curtain that surrounded her bed, separating it from the kitchen. The curtain enclosure had been christened 'her room'. She was wiping the sleep from her eyes with the back of a balled up fist, standing there in her calico nightgown that came down to her ankles, a blue ribbon laced around the neckline. She held a handmade doll under her arm.

"What is the matter, Mommy?" She asked as her mother and father ran passed, stumbling over chairs and table, in their haste to rescue the animals from the burning barn.

"Stay in your room, Ruth" cried Sarah, over her shoulder, as she went through the door, on her husband's heels, tripping on the threshold and almost falling face down on the back porch.

John Fillmore leaped from the porch, over the steps, but his feet never hit the ground. A double barreled shotgun blast from a sawed off Greener all but tore him in half as the heavy load of double naught buck shot slammed into his mid-section, picking him up and throwing him back into Sarah, on the porch. The shot put a hole in him big enough to insert a doubled fist. Sarah lay there, pinned to the porch by the dead weight of her husband, blood soaking his clothes and spilling down to cover her, also. Horror registered on her face and she was on the edge of going into shock, wide eyed and sweaty. She finally gained her feet. Now standing, she was alone and...