Chapter 11

Frank hurried towards Silver City. It had been so named because someone thought he had discovered silver there. That hadn’t panned out, but the name had stuck. It had never grown more than the one central street, with a few dozen houses at one end, rather haphazardly built wherever somebody happened to unload their lumber, and a few merchants holding on up the street.

It boasted a population of three hundred, but it was a rare day when more than two hundred were actually in town.

Frank was surprised, therefore, to see a crowd of people in front of the Sheriff’s office. There were horses there too, perhaps a dozen, as Frank rode up. He saw the Sheriff on the porch in front of his office.

“What’s going on?” he asked of a man wearing a green eyeshade on a strap around his head. He was Mister Conklin, the banker.

“Getting a posse up,” said the man. “Been Indian trouble.” He turned toward the porch to shout.

“Hey Sheriff, got another one for your posse here maybe. He’s a little young, but he’s wearin’ guns.”

Frank looked up to see the Sheriff looking his way.

“You’re one of the Collins boys, right?” asked the lawman.

“Yessir,” answered Frank, slurring the two words together.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a man killed by Indians. One of those sheep herders that works for Rocklin.”

“That’s what I’m here about,” announced Frank.

“You know something about that, boy?” asked the Sheriff.

“Yessir. He was one of two men trying to rape my sister when the Indians stopped them,” said Frank. There were gasps from the crowd.

A strident voice rang out. “That’s a damn lie.“

Frank’s eyes widened as Buford stepped from behind two taller men. He got down off his horse as the man went on.

Buford spluttered. “I was there, boy!” he shouted. “There wasn’t nobody but me and poor old Chaps, and them savages kilt him dead!” He yelled at the crowd. “Now let’s go find them damn heathens and rid the world of them murderin’ redskins!”

Frank stalked toward Buford, and the crowd opened up like magic.

They had seen men wearing guns walking like that, with that look in their eye. People began edging even further back, some stepping up on the porch with the sheriff.

“You’re the liar,” he said as he walked. “You tried to rape my sister ... had her down in the dirt. I found the sign, and I talked to her when she was rescued from those Indians. You’re a rapist!”

Again there were gasps from the crowd and they moved back.

Things like this had happened before in this town ... maybe not about rape ... but about other things that resulted in gunplay.

“Now hold on here,” said the Sheriff

Frank watched Buford, who was standing in an aggressive posture now, his hand hovering close to his pistol grip.

“I’ll take you there,” said Frank, never looking away from Buford’s hand. “I’ll show you the sign. You can come out to the ranch and talk to my sister. She knows who tried to rape her.”

Buford panicked and went for his pistol.

Those who were fortunate enough to be watching Buford and Frank, rather than looking at the Sheriff, would tell the tale for years to come ... decades in fact. Buford went for his gun first, and he drew in what was described as an impressively fast draw. His pistol cleared the holster and, for once in his life, Buford pulled the hammer back flawlessly. He even had a grin on his face as he began to lift the weapon up. He was deciding whether or not to pull the trigger, or just hold everyone at gunpoint and try to get away, when he was stunned by a blow to his stomach like the kick of a mule. His finger tightened on the trigger spasmodically and his pistol went off. The bullet hit right between Frank Collins spread feet.

People looked to see Frank holding a smoking, pearl-handled revolver in his right hand, a stunned look on his face. Only two men had seen him draw and they described it as greased lightning, the fastest, most beautiful thing they’d ever seen ... at least involving gunplay.

Buford hit his knees and tried not to fall down. Something was terribly wrong with him, and he felt weak. The boy was still standing there, and Buford re-cocked his pistol with every ounce of strength that was left in him. He tried to lift the pistol.

Frank couldn’t believe he’d actually shot a man. His draw had been instinctive, the product of all the secret practice he’d done since winning the guns. He’d killed countless tin cans, and knotholes. He’d even killed a snake.

But he’d never shot a man.

He felt paralyzed and the pistol in his hand that he was so proud of seemed to suddenly weigh forty pounds. He couldn’t keep it pointed at the man he’d just shot. It began to fall as Buford’s pistol began to come back up.

Sheriff Matt Couffman calmly lifted his pistol and shot Buford right between his eyes. The man toppled over backwards, folding up on his lower legs and giving the impression he was suddenly a double amputee. The pistol he’d been about to shoot Frank with flopped in the dirt by his limp hand.

There was a split second of silence before everything that had happened started women screaming and men yelling. People darted this way and that, milling like spooked cattle. Just as amazingly, things calmed down within only a few minutes.

Sheriff Couffman stepped down from the porch and walked over to Buford’s body. The crowd got quiet. He turned to Frank, who still held his pistol, hanging from his hand.

“You shouldn’t have shot him, son,” he said.

Almost immediately four men began to argue with the Sheriff, who put his gun back in his holster while Frank pulled his up to look at it, still unbelieving. With a look of astonishment, his muscles did what he’d trained them to do. He opened the loading gate and pushed out the empty casing. Pulling another round from his gun belt he reloaded his weapon and put it back in the holster.

A man came up to him and stuck his hand out.

“Son, I don’t care what the Sheriff said. That was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He had you dead to rights and you got him clean.”

Frank didn’t know what to say as he was suddenly surrounded by people who had already made up their minds that he had told the truth.

The Sheriff wasn’t quite so willing to give Frank the benefit of the doubt. He shoved his way to the boy and stood in front of him.

“I’m going to need to talk to your sister, son.”

“I’ll take you there,” said Frank, his voice cracking.

“I’d better have those guns,” said the Sheriff.

Men complained, but Frank unbuckled his belt without a word and handed it to the man. He wasn’t so sure he wanted those guns any more. He felt sick at his stomach.

“Let’s go on over to the saloon before we leave, son. Looks like you could use something to revive you.

Thus it was that Frank Collins, fifteen years old, had his first shot of whiskey. When he was finished coughing, and could speak again, he was much revived, though, and was then eager to get the Sheriff back to the ranch and be done with this sorry business.

When Molly and Jonas got back to the ranch house, and Jonas actually looked at his daughter, and the injuries that still showed plainly, he sat down and listened as she told what had happened to her.

He cried during parts of it, which astonished everyone present.

Then he apologized to her and stood up.

It was all that Molly could do to keep him from going to find Buford.

“Let the Sheriff to his job,” she urged. “We need you here. I need you here.”

She took him to the bedroom to show him how much she needed him.

For once, Jonas Collins was so distracted by his anger that he couldn’t concentrate on what his wife wanted from him. It took her two hours to get through to him and distract him in other ways.

The Sheriff and Frank met Peter about ten miles out of town. When he heard he had been sent for, the Sheriff felt a little better about what had happened. When Peter heard what happened he looked at his little brother with an open mouth.

Frank suddenly gasped and faced the Sheriff. “You’re supposed to meet Beth Rocklin at their ranch, so she can take you to that man’s body and to trail Buford.”

“That doesn’t need doing any more, now does it?” commented the Sheriff.

“Well no ... I guess not. But she’s waiting there for you.

I need to go tell her it’s all over. She needs to know so she can go back to her family up in the mountains.”

“I can’t let you go off and do that,” said the Sheriff patiently.

“I still need to talk to your sister. Your folks need to know what happened too,” he said.

Frank looked at Peter. “You have to do it,” he said.

Peter thought about that for a few seconds and smiled. “All right. You tell Pa where I went. No! Wait! Don’t tell him where I went. He’s not all that hot on them sheep people right about now.” He looked confused.

“You go tell the girl what happened,” said the Sheriff. I’ll tell your Pa I sent you there.”

Peter smiled again. “I kind of wanted to see her again anyway,” he admitted.

“Be careful,” cautioned Frank. “I think she’s wanting to see you again too.” He couldn’t tell Peter anything else under the circumstances.

“Good,” said Peter cheerfully. He looked at the sky.

“Might not be able to get back before dark,” he said.

“You stay the night and you’ll have more trouble than you can imagine,” said Frank. But he smiled. Let the girl talk Peter’s ears off. That would cool him down.

When Peter rode into the Rocklin yard, everything looked deserted. He was riding past the barn when he heard a voice above him.

“Up here,” came a feminine voice.

He craned his neck and was staring down the barrel of a rifle. He knew it was a rifle, based on the appearance of the barrel, which was octagonal, but all he could think of was that it looked like the barrel was six inches across. Then his eyes went up the barrel to a smiling face with a brown pony tail hanging over the neck. Blue eyes stared into his.

“Gotcha,” said Beth sweetly. “You’re not the Sheriff.

Where’s your brother? What are you doing here?”

Peter stared at the face he had been unable to get out of his mind for two days. All the time he was on the trail with his father, all he could think about were those eyes, and that neck and the breasts he knew were under her dress, even though, in her position, he couldn’t see them.

“He’s not coming,” said Peter, breathless for some reason. “The sheriff, I mean.” He blinked. “Neither is Frank. He’s under arrest. I mean the sheriff has him ... he’s taking him to our folks. He said I had to come here.”

She frowned, and even that looked beautiful on her face. “Stay there,” she ordered.

“I’m coming down.”

The doors to the barn were open, both front and back, and the sun gleamed through motes of dust. Peter looked and saw feet begin to descend the ladder built onto one side of a post. As the feet went downward, the dress covering her legs lifted, exposing firm calves. She was barefoot. Then her body came into view, and he could see the thrust of her breasts with her arms raised above her. He sighed, seeing again what he had remembered so often these last couple of days. She managed the rifle with no trouble, holding it in one hand while she gripped the side of the ladder. She dropped the last two feet, landing softly. He couldn’t see it because now the sun was behind her, but he knew those breasts bobbed when she landed.

When she walked casually out of the barn the rifle was held hanging from her right hand, no longer pointed at him. She didn’t find him dangerous and that made him feel good.

“What do you mean the sheriff’s not coming?” She still frowned, looking up at him. The neck of her dress was open, and he could see a dark crease between her breasts - cleavage was a word he wasn’t familiar with - that made him want to wiggle.

“My brother found the man who took my sister, and killed him,” he said. His mind was on that dark crease, and what was on each side of it.

“Killed him?” the girl gasped.

“Your brother? Frank?“

That made her breasts thrust out even more as she took a deep breath.

“I have to go,” said Peter, feeling dizzy.

“What? You can’t just ride in here and tell me something like that and then turn around and ride out again. I want to hear about it!” she said excitedly.

Peter knew that if he got down she would know what he was thinking. He was wearing cotton pants this day, one of his father’s old pair, and they were loose. He could see the bulge of his stiff penis even as he sat in the saddle. He knew that if he stood it would stick out four or five inches.

“I can’t stay,” he said miserably. Right then he wanted nothing more than to stay and look at this vision of loveliness.

The rifle came up suddenly, without warning, and again he stared into the muzzle.

“You get down off that horse Peter, and I mean right now!“

“You know my name?” he asked wonderingly. It didn’t occur to him that she might remember his name from the single time they’d met, even though her name was burned in his brain.

Her hands worked the action on the rifle smoothly, and he realized it hadn’t even had a round in the chamber when she’d “threatened” him with it. Her frown had deepened.

“Okay, I’ll get down, but I have to tell you something first,” he whined.

“What?” she said, her voice low.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And a man can’t help what happens when he sees a beautiful woman.

Please don’t shoot me.”

She blinked, and the rifle muzzle wavered. Her mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again.

“And if I get down,” he went on, “you’re going to see something that’s going to really make you mad, and you’re going to want to shoot me, and it’s not my fault - honest - and please don’t shoot me.” He babbled, unable to control his voice.

“What in the world are you talking about?” she said. “You just get down or I’ll shoot you out of the saddle. I want to hear about what happened,” she said stubbornly.

Peter eased his foot over the rump of his horse, and tried to step down holding on with only one hand, so he could adjust his ... problem ... with the other hand. His weight swung him toward the head of the horse and he lost his balance. His foot got caught up in the stirrup and he flailed his loose arm. His weight was too much for his other arm and it slipped off the saddle horn. He landed with a thump in the dust, flat on his back, and the air rushed from his lungs as if sucked out by some overwhelming force.

Beth ducked under the neck of his horse and stood staring at the boy on the ground. His mouth opened and closed like a fish and his chest quivered as he tried to get a breath. Her eyes went down his body and she immediately saw the lump, which did indeed protrude four or five inches from his groin, making the front of his pants look like he had stuffed a rolled up cloth in them. His reference to her beauty, which had taken her completely by surprise, flashed through her mind and she felt almost giddy with joy. She giggled.

“Oh,” she said, giggling some more. “I see now. I won’t shoot you for that you silly man,” she said, staring at the offending lump ... which apparently wasn’t nearly as offending as Peter had thought it would be.

Peter finally got a breath of air in and rolled over onto his side, lying there and just breathing for a minute.

“You’re kind of clumsy, aren’t you?” said the girl maddeningly.

He had never felt so embarrassed in his whole life. He didn’t know what to say, so he just lay there and concentrated on breathing.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “Of course it hurts. You don’t fall off a horse and it not hurt,” he said, his voice wounded.

“I don’t mean that,” she giggled again. “I mean that.” She pointed the rifle at his privates.

He flinched and covered his groin with both hands.

“Oops,” she giggled again and moved the rifle.

“Sorry. I’m not going to shoot you, honest. So ... does it hurt when it’s ... like that?”

He looked at her again, not knowing if she was making fun of him or not. She didn’t sound like it. She was so strange, though, asking questions like that, that he didn’t know what to think.

“No,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“I don’t see how it could be like that and not hurt,” she said conversationally. “Course I don’t have one. Did you know your brother made love to my sister?”

Peter’s mind whirled. This was all so strange he didn’t have the faintest idea how to act.

“What are you talking about?” he croaked.

“I don’t want to stand in the sun while we talk,” she said.

“And I don’t want to talk to you while you’re lying in the dirt. Why don’t you get up? Let’s go inside and talk there. We can get something to drink and have a nice chat.”

Peter moaned. She was acting so normal, blathering on like he had just come for a neighborly visit. She obviously knew that he was stiff, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned or upset about it. And now she was raving about her sister.

“You promise not to shoot me?” he asked, his voice high.

She laughed. “You’re not very brave for a cowboy,” she said. But somehow it didn’t sound like she was insulting him. “Do you need help?”

That stung Peter’s masculine pride. “No, I don’t need some girl’s help to get up off the ground,” he said darkly. He levered himself up, feeling much better now, and realized his stiffness was fading. That was good. He surreptitiously re-arranged his dick so it went to one side and down into his pants leg as he stood. He dusted himself off and picked up his hat, which had fallen off when he hit the ground. He planted it firmly on his head and faced the girl. She was looking at him like he was a newborn calf, like she was evaluating whether or not he was worth keeping alive.

“It’s gone,” she said suddenly.

He couldn’t help looking at the front of his pants.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Am I suddenly not so beautiful?”

“You are the strangest girl I’ve ever met,” he said, unable to keep it inside.

“First I’m beautiful, and then I’m strange,” she said, tilting her head sideways, her green eyes looking right inside him. “I’m not so sure you have all your brain. Come on,” she said, and with that she turned and walked toward the house, leaving him standing there wondering what was happening to him. Every time he tried to deal with something she said, she said two or three more things and he couldn’t keep up. His head hurt a little and he couldn’t tell if it was because he fell off his horse, or because of her.

He followed her into the house, where she set the rifle in a corner and went to the dry sink. She worked the pump handle and held a glass under the spout as water poured out. As her elbow and arm worked, her hips swayed and the dress moved on them. She was even beautiful from the back. She turned and handed him the glass of water. Her movements were graceful, the dress hugging the curves of her body. She looked so normal, doing such a normal thing. He noticed how her hair flipped around behind her head as she moved. He saw her eyes drop and she smiled.

“Oh, it’s back!” Her eyes stayed there. “So now I’m beautiful again?” she teased.

“You’re not like other women,” he said. “Most women would be riled up by ... that.”

“I don’t know if I’m like other women or not,” she said as he took the glass gingerly. “I’m just me, and I’m like me, because that’s the only way I know how to be.” He was amazed how good that water felt going down his throat.

“So, what happened?” she asked, eager again to hear news. “Did Frank actually kill somebody? I can’t believe he’d do that.

Why I was just talking to him earlier today and he didn’t even seem to be able to carry on a simple conversation. I know he made love to Enid, but he wouldn’t admit that either. And then, you say, he just rode into town and killed somebody?”