Concerning that last chapter, I didn’t know any of the Tollivers, and probably wouldn’t have liked them if I did. I had heard of them, though. Yeah, I would have been quite interested to hear that Ben was marshal of River Bend. And I never thought about Evan Dryer, but then I’d never been engaged to him. I had other thoughts on my mind besides crooks and lawmen.
When I left my cabin in the hills, I didn’t make a beeline for River Bend. There was some country to the northwest that I had never seen and wanted to, so I headed in that direction, figuring I’d make a circle behind the mountains north of Clearwater Valley and come in that way. Like I mentioned at the end of chapter one, I had just about decided to go back to River Bend, but something…something…was holding me back. I didn’t know, of course, that Ben had said to Kelly that I might not go back there for fear of losing—or never having—her, but if I had considered that idea, it might have made some sense to me. Pain hurts, folks, and nothing more than a heart shattered into a billion pieces. And that had happened to me with both Julie and Robin. What’s the old saying…once burned, twice shy? What does that make three times?
Quite the philosopher, aren’t you, Conners…
Well, regardless, I was in a big hurry to get nowhere as slowly as I could, so Ol’ Paint and I meandered through some rolling hills, mostly dead grass, but some pines and junipers in the elevations above us. Some folks think junipers are cedars, but they’re not. A cedar is a cedar and a juniper is a juniper. That’s about all I know about it and probably a whole lot more than the reader wanted to know.
But I saw some cedars, too. I knew the difference because I had built my cabin out of cedar. Not juniper.
That’s the sort of stuff you think about, folks, when you’re riding for hours and hours…and days and days…and never see another human being. Try it sometime.
Things got a little more interesting one fine, warm, sunshine-filled morning. I had come across a well-traveled road that obviously led to somewhere—I think I was in Idaho now, but I wasn’t really sure. Anyway, I decided to follow this road because I figured it would eventually lead to a town and I wanted to pick up some more supplies. Green ham and eggs had lost its appeal a long time ago.
Anyway, the road was windy and hilly and I felt sorry for any horses that had to pull a stage through this territory. But I happened upon a circumstance where the horses were getting some rest—although that wasn’t the intention of the Jehu driving the stagecoach.
“Happened” upon it is the proper word because if I had seen it coming I wouldn’t have happened upon it and might have avoided it entirely, though with my pension for finding, starting, stirring up, or trying to stop trouble, I probably would have stuck my nose in anyway.
I topped a rise and, lo and behold, there was a stagecoach robbery in process right there in front of me. I couldn’t avoid it; it was right there. And the fellow doing the robbing happened to see me and he was holding a rifle, so turning around and going in the other direction didn’t seem to be an option at the moment.
“What have we here?” I brilliantly articulated.
There were seven people with their hands up; five of them on the ground—passengers, I deduced—and the stagecoach driver and his shotgun rider sitting up top. There was only one felon that I could see—a young, small snot but with a big gun aimed in the general direction of the human flesh he intended to relieve of any valuables on their person. And now, with me there, it appeared he had another person to relieve valuables from.
I wasn’t particularly in the mood to have my valuables relieved, especially since I had about $2,000 worth of them in my saddlebags.
Young Small Snot spoke. “Well, it’s just your unlucky day, mister, to ride into the middle of a stagecoach robbery. I reckon I might as well take whatever of yours I want, too. Why don’t you just toss that gun you’re carrying to the ground and join these other fine folks down here where I can see you better?”
I looked at the other fine folks he was talking about. They didn’t seem too happy, in fact, most of them appeared scared to death. There was an older couple who were holding hands; she had her head pointed up to the sky, eyes closed, lips moving—a silent prayer, I suspected. There was a fat man who looked like a drummer—they always ride in stagecoaches, and they are always fat. A young fellow was among the unfortunates, maybe not out of his teens, who was dressed like a cowboy but was as white as a ghost. I couldn’t tell for sure but I do believe he might have wet his britches. I didn’t think he’d be much help. The Jehu—stagecoach driver, called “Jehu” after the Biblical king who drove his chariot like a maniac—was a small, ruddy fellow with a huge tobacco stained Fu Manchu mustache. He had beady eyes, and I got the impression he might go for a gun if he had half a chance. Which meant he’d probably get himself, or somebody else, killed. The shotgun rider was—well, I couldn’t tell what he was because he was looking straight ahead and had his back to me. All I could tell was that he was wearing a light brown jacket and dark hat with dark hair underneath. Since he apparently didn’t know where the robbery was taking place, I doubted I could rely on him in a pinch.
Oh, I forgot mention that the fifth passenger was a young woman wearing a green-patterned camp dress. They were mainly work dresses, not exactly designed for women who were concerned about a shapely waist, but this lady would have looked good in anything. Blonde hair with curls that dangled down her cheeks, soft, mellow blue eyes, lips that were asking to be kissed (at least I was ready to answer the question), and lightly tanned skin that was almost transparent. I looked at her and she looked at me, but about the only thing I could read in her eyes was “Help!”
Well, apparently, I spent too much time analyzing the ill-fated from the stagecoach, because Young Small Snot said, not kindly, “Did you hear me, mister?”
I didn’t like this guy. “Did I hear you say what?
“Oh, wiseacre, huh.” Yeah, I think I’m pretty smart, though I haven’t figured a way out of this one yet… “Well, just in case you’re a lughead, I’ll repeat myself. Once. Throw down your gun, get off the horse, and come stand next to these other people. Is that too hard for you to understand?”
I scratched the back of my head. “No, I understand. You want me to throw down my gun, get off my horse, and go stand next to those other folks down there.” I grinned real big. “Can I kiss the pretty lady while I’m down there?” I looked at her and she blushed.
“That’s between you and her, buster, just do what I told you to.”
“Hmm,” I replied, scratching my head again. “What if I say ‘no’?”
Young Small Snot swung the rifle and pointed it at me. “Then I blow you off the horse. You’re going to get off one way or the other, alive or dead, it’s your choice.”
Now I really didn’t like this guy. I gave him a perturbed look. “Why don’t you shoot that fat drummer instead? He’s worthless, anyway. Or maybe that old man over there. It doesn’t look like he’s got many years left anyway, he won’t miss a few of ‘em.”
I heard a gasp from the audience when I said that. All I was doing, of course, was stalling, waiting for that young punk to make a mistake so I could send him to clean the toilet stalls of Hades where he belonged. That’s where all stagecoach robbers belong. I know, because I once was one.
“Mister, you’ve got three seconds to get off that horse voluntarily or you’ll get off involuntarily.” My, he knows some long words…”Your choice.”
“Buddy, I’d do what he says.” That from the stagecoach driver. “Do you know who you’re dealing with there?”
“Haven’t a clue. Some young, small snot, it looks like.” Another gasp from the amen corner.
“That’s Tristy Tolliver, and he ain’t exactly particular who he buries.” I had heard of Tristy Tolliver, but the only outlaw who had ever impressed me was myself.
“Please do as he says, mister,” the young cowboy with the wet britches said. “Let him get on with his business and he’ll leave us alone. You’re going to get somebody killed if you don’t do as he says.”
“Ok, ok,” I said, “I don’t want anybody to get hurt. Especially me.” I had an idea what to do now. It was risky, but it always is when the other fellow is holding a rifle and you aren’t.
I started to dismount, but he didn’t take the bait I wanted him to take, so I said, “Oh, you wanted my gun.” So I calmly reached back and deliberately, but not with undue, frightening haste, pulled my rifle from its scabbard, and tossed it in his direction. “Here.”
“Not that gun,” he shouted, but I had distracted him for the split-second that I needed. I drew my holstered gun—and it was he who got blown off his horse.
Seven heads, including the shotgun rider—still with their hands in the air—turned their heads as one, looking first at the recently dehorsed and deceased Tristy Tolliver, then to me. Shock registered initially on most faces, then I heard somebody, the drummer I think, blow out a huge breath.
“Thank the Lord,” the older lady muttered.
I wanted my rifle back, so I said, “I guess I better do what that little runt told me to do.” I dismounted, went and picked up my rifle and headed back towards Ol’ Paint. Everybody, except the driver, still had their hands up. “You can put your hands down now, I’m not going to rob you.” Three years ago, between Julie and Robin, I might have.
I went and crawled back onto Ol’ Paint’s back and figured it was time for me to leave. I didn’t see any reason to stay. But before I left, the driver asked, “Who are you, mister? That was as slick as anything I’ve ever witnessed and I’ve never seen anybody draw a gun that fast. I think you coulda beat Tristy straight up.”
I then made a huge, huge mistake, one I usually don’t make, but one that would cost some lives. I told him my name. “I’m Rob Conners. You folks have a nice day.” I touched my hat brim to the ladies and plumb forgot about kissing the pretty one. I rode off down the trail to let those folks pick up whatever pieces needed to be picked up—including Tristy Tolliver’s body.
“So that was Rob Conners,” the driver said and he watched the man who had just saved them ride off. “Just Tristy’s bad luck. Ain’t nobody faster than Conners.”
“I thought he was a loony, the way he was acting,” the drummer said.
“Yeah, but it was all an act. He was just waitin’ for his chance. In this case, he made his own.” Then the driver stared thoughtfully at the receding figure on horseback. “But I’d shore hate to be Rob Conners when Trent Tolliver hears he killed his brother….”