I'm workin' on this one all by my lonesome. I'd like to keep it that way, if y'all don't mind. Thanks.
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Chapter 1
Four snow-crusted shadows moved through the night, the white plumes of their breath swirling away on the banshee wind. Scarves held hats on bowed heads as the riders pushed ahead into the teeth of the storm. The cold went deep, and the leader had begun to despair of ever being warm again. His feet in their leather boots were like blocks of ice, as was the gloved hand that held the reins of the exhausted horse. Rounding a shoulder of rock into the relative calm of the cove beyond, Bob Morton slipped the glove from his right hand. He reached inside the sheepskin-lined coat he wore to tuck his numb fingers into his armpit in an attempt to restore some dexterity to them.
Ahead, the welcoming glow of lantern light flickered through the early fall blizzard as the four men drew to a halt, eyes dull and watery. Morton stepped down, shucking his Winchester from the scabbard under the offside stirrup. He held the reins out toward Abel Barnes, who happened to be nearest. “Take my horse to the corral,” he said, trying to be heard over the shriek of the wind in the rocks at the top of the cove. “I’ll have a look inside, make sure we don’t have unwanted company.”
“Take your own damned horse,” Barnes replied, sneering. “I’ve got my own to look after.” He jerked the tired sorrel savagely around, turning toward the shelter of the lean-to shed that stood with its back to the swirling fingers of wind that reached into the cove. Snow had piled into drifts at the base of the wall.
Two long strides let Morton grab the headstall and stop the sorrel as Barnes cursed. “You’re the reason we’re late, Barnes. Because of you, we had to nearly kill our horses getting away from that posse. Right at the moment, I’m on the verge of shootin’ you myself, so don’t give me any lip. And if I ever see you treat a horse that way again, I’ll kick your butt into next week. Just shut up and do what you’re told.” Morton released the bridle and turned away, going back to his own horse as Abel Barnes’ hand moved stealthily toward his holstered Colt. “Don’t even think about it, Barnes,” the words drifted on the wind. “You draw that pistol, and I’ll take it away from you and make you eat it.”
Startled, Barnes could do nothing but drop his hand, and lean forward to pick up the reins Morton had let fall into the snow. Barnes’ heard a chuckle and snapped his head around, but the other two shadows were turning away. He didn’t know for sure who had found the whole situation humorous, though he had his suspicions. He would bide his time, and wait for his chance to get even. Abel Barnes was a good hater.
The snow was soft and heavy underfoot as Bob walked tiredly toward the cabin. “Hallo the house,” he called. He stood just out of reach of the light from the oilskin-covered window next to the door and waited, Winchester held down beside his leg. The door swung inward, and Max Horner lifted a lantern, its rays illuminating the hulking, snow-covered figure.
“Is that you, Bob?” Max called. The Colt in his hand gleamed dully in the lantern light, muzzle level.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Bob said, moving forward into the light. “Are you alone?”
“Just me an’ this pistol,” Max chuckled. “Come on in.” He moved back into the room, favoring his right leg. He holstered the pistol and hung the lantern from a hook on an overhead beam. Bob stopped on the stone stoop to stamp the snow from his boots, and the smell of coffee, biscuits, and beans made his knees sag. It’d been the better part of two days since he’d had a decent meal. He, Abel Barnes, Jake Carver, and Ben Terrell had spent most of the last two days dodging a very persistent posse with a very good tracker. They’d finally managed to lose the posse because of the snowstorm that had suddenly blown in and covered their trail.
The interior of the cabin was warm, almost hot, after the cold of the storm. A fire crackled merrily in the stone fireplace, and the warm glow of lantern light was in sharp contrast to the spartan furnishings. A simple plank table, flanked on both sides by rough benches, stood to one side. On the back wall, four bunks stood in pairs, with a single bunk forming an L against the side wall, under the only other window in the room. Max had obviously been using that one, as it was neatly made up. The others were merely frames laced with rope. A set of rough-hewn shelves near the fireplace held some beans, a sack of Arbuckle’s coffee, and a sack of flour. A couple of pots and a large frying pan took up most of the bottom shelf, accompanied by a stack of mismatched plates, cups, and eating utensils. A crane held a pot of beans close enough to the fire to keep warm. A large enamelware coffee pot sat on the edge of the hearth, steaming gently. A pan of biscuits was on the table along with a book laying open, face down.
Bob set the Winchester against the wall just inside the door and unbuttoned his coat. He shrugged it off, shaking the snow off before coming into the cabin. He took off his hat and slapped it against a porch post to knock the crusted snow and ice off. His coat and hat went on a peg near the fireplace and he stretched his hands out toward the fire. He rubbed them together, working the tingles out as the feeling crept back into his stiff fingers. Max was setting plates, spoons, and coffee cups on the table. “You boys are a bit late, aren’t you?” Max asked quietly.
Bob looked over at him. “We need to talk about that. That trigger-happy, wannabe gunslick you saddled me with…” Just then the door swung open, and he fell silent. The others came in, shedding coats and hats and stomping snow from their boots.
“Come on in, boys,” Max called. “Coffee’s on, and the biscuits are ready.” Smiling, he reached out to shake hands with Jake and Ben. Abel Barnes turned away from the proffered hand, grumbling to himself and moving up to the fireplace. Max gave him a thoughtful look, his green eyes narrowing, and turned toward the fireplace himself. He picked up the big coffeepot and poured for all of them. His eyes met Bob’s in silent communication; a slight nod signified that they did indeed need to talk.