Velda Brotherton—"Miller's Day"

WITH A GRUNT SHE dragged the half-frozen body across the icy trail and rolled it into a foot-high snow drift. The wind was no help, buffeting her about while she covered every sign of that bastard Rafe French. Squeezing her arms together for warmth she stumbled back to check her handiwork. It would do till she could return with his brother Lunsford in tow. If she had to, she’d drag them both over the ice and snow back to Muskogee.

Now to make sure she left some sort of indication… a mark she could find on her way back. Limber tree limbs nodded and danced, and she kicked her way through the snow to tie a leather strip high as she could reach. By-passers, if there chanced to be any, would not notice anything. In the wind it appeared to be a loose branch. Folks tended not to look above their heads much anyway.

With gloved fingers she adjusted the furry hood so it covered most of her face and turned to mount the patient Appaloosa. Ice fringed his eyes, and she brushed it away, then cleaned off the saddle before stepping into the slick stirrup. Heels nudging his sides, she leaned forward to get out of the wind. He spoke to her down in his throat and high stepped through the deepening snow.

“I know, buddy, it’s bad, but we’re almost there. We’ll make it, won’t we?”

His long tail and mane whipped around. Hugging his neck she thanked God, or whoever was in charge of this dreadful weather, that if the wind had to blow at least it was a tail wind sweeping them along toward Chetocah. When he had her at gunpoint, Rafe had made the mistake of bragging that his brother was probably already home in Caney Springs just south of there.

Thinking he’d kill her before moving on, he spoke too soon, for she found her chance when he turned his back to fight a frigid gust of wind. Her rifle still in its scabbard along her leg was in her hands before he knew it, and he paid the price. She shot him through the head that fast—without thinking or even aiming, just pointed the Winchester and pulled the trigger. Blood froze before it ran all the way down his face. She swore his eyes cursed her before they closed, like he might tell someone later who’d shot him down.

“Only if you meet them in hell, mister. Next time don’t just take my Colt.”

That no good brother was next.

Smoky reacted to her talking aloud, flicking his ears and trudging on. His trust in her often brought tears to her eyes. He would put up with anything if she asked him. Horses were amazing in their connection to humans who gave them love. Every breath sucked in the flavor of the buffalo hide coat and fur hood. The Deep Fork of the Canadian River on her right was all that would guide them to their destination, for the trail had long ago been snowed under—if they didn’t freeze to death during the trip.

No telling how long it was before Smoky stumbled into Chetocah, where moving wagons and horses had kept the road hammered down some so he could walk easier. Late night and nothing much moved around.

“Let’s find the livery stable and get you inside first.” Buildings on either side of the road helped cut down the wind some. Ice from her breathing fogged her vision, but there was the livery sign painted on the front of a slab building. The door had a crude direction that read Open Here above a board securing it to the wall.

Almost shouting with relief she slid to the ground, obeyed the sign, and led Smoky into the dim interior. Fastening the door on the inside, she made it by feel thru the darkness. A silence told her she’d found an empty stall. Hand on his hip she guided the exhausted horse inside, leaned on him to get her breath. Lord, she was tired. Too tired to go out and look for bed and board in this weather. Should anyone come along, she would let them in.

Dragging off saddlebags, saddle, and blanket, she wearily rubbed down the horse and dropped into the hay piled in one corner. As the hungry animal stood over her munching, she wrapped up in the buffalo hide coat and knew no more till morning. Tingling toes sent a pain that jolted her awake.S

lits of sunlight cut through cracks in the wall of the livery barn. The storm was over, but it was still colder than blue blazes. Smoky nudged her with his nose and snorted. Ever ready to be on his way, the impatient horse stomped and tossed his head.“

Okay, but I’m having breakfast inside this morning. You can stay here and eat a ration of grain while I’m gone.” Surely this town had some kind of café. She certainly hoped so. She was hungry enough to eat a bear if he stopped growling.

The odor of horses and droppings in her nose, she crawled to her feet, stretched, fingered hay from her hair, and went in search of the owner to pay for feed and get directions to the nearest café. Probably the only one.

“Ain’t one open, as such,” the small, hunched man announced. “Folks ain’t got to movin’ around much yet today. Kin get something to eat and an ale at the Broken Bow down the street.” He pointed vaguely. “You’ll see it. Jest walk that-a-way. Men always manage to get their brew.”

She nodded. “Appreciate it if you’d give my horse some grain. I’ll pay when I pick him up.”

He nodded, raised a wrinkled hand, and bent to his work forking hay into the stalls.

After she walked that-a-way for a while, several horses waited at a hitching rail marking the Broken Bow. Someone had shoveled the door clear. The old farrier was right about men always managing to get their drink. Joviality and warm air washed over her when she swung open the door. Inside on the wall were hooks for coats and hats, and she hung hers up, took off her gloves, and slipped them inside her gun belt. That she kept on. In all probability Lunsford had took shelter in this, the only place open during the blizzard. It might be he hadn’t got away yet, seeing as how he couldn’t know she was on his trail, having left Rafe behind to take care of any marshals following.

Leaning on the bar she waited her turn and ordered. “Whatever you got to eat and a mug of sweet ale. I’ll take the ale now.

Hearing her voice, the bartender glanced up, looked her over. “We don’t—”

“—serve women. I know.” She sighed, dragged the long-barreled Colt from its holster and laid it on the bar, pointed his way. “I’ll have that ale now if you don’t mind.”

He glanced up, ready to argue despite the weapon, and she pulled aside her vest to reveal the silver five-pointed star of a U.S. Deputy Marshal. “I’ll bet you serve Deputy Marshals.”

“Yes, sir.” He grinned.S

he would smack him but nodded and gave him his joke.

“Heard about you.” He set down a bowl of stew thick with potatoes and carrots.

“What’d you hear?” Before dipping up the steamy vegetables, she slipped the Colt back into its holster. Couldn’t be too careful. Inhaling the delicious fragrance she blew on the spoonful.

“Heard enough not to challenge your desire to drink ale here. You’d be F.M. Miller, if I’m right.”

“Yep, you’d be right. Wise of you. How’d you know?”

“Heered of you. Looking for anyone in particular?”

“Yep. Hungry first. Might be I’ll someday be as famous as Belle Starr, only in a good way.”

A wide grin broke the patch of dark whiskers. He made as if to gaze around the room. “Reckon he’s in here?”

She glanced up. “Maybe. Left his brother in a snow drift outside of town last night.”

Hands working fast behind the bar, he avoided looking at her for a moment.

From the back of the room came a hooting and hollering followed by gunfire. The barkeep jumped, dropped a glass that shattered on the floor.

Her spoon clattered into the bowl of stew. She slapped out the gun holstered at her hip and whirled. Another shot clipped at the collar of her shirt. Yep, he knew she was here.

Dropping to one knee she shouted, “U.S. Deputy Marshal.” She immediately returned fire into the gloom, not once but three times. Be danged if she cared who she hit. Teach them to fire on a Deputy Marshal.

She turned back to the bar where the tender had disappeared.

“What the…? Who’s back there, you know? You see where that came from?”

The top of his bald head popped up from behind the counter where he’d taken shelter. He pointed. “Yonder. Nearly got me. Reckon it’s him?”

A loud yell from the back, and all was quiet. The smell of black powder filled the room.

She faced the darkness. “Everyone back there, step forward with your hands where I can see them."

Several men shuffled forward looking pensive. One had blood dripping down his arm, but he was on his feet. She poked him with the smoking barrel. “Anyone else back there? You fire that shot?”

He looked around, wide eyed. “No’m. You shot me.”

“Too bad. Then which one of you yahoos fired that shot? You liked to got me in the head.”

He shrugged, face going white when she moved the gun barrel to his throat. “Either one of you did, or there’s someone still back there. One or the other.”

She’d bet it was Lunsford French back there. He couldn’t have gotten too far after leaving Rafe. Besides, who else would’ve shot at her?

Shaking under the gun barrel, he whimpered as if she’d spoken aloud. “Well, I didn’t do it. You shot me.”

“I didn’t ask who I shot, nor did I ask who shot at me. I asked who saw who did it.”

“I didn’t do that, neither.” He was on the verge of crying.

“Tell you what….” She grabbed his arm. “What’s your name?”

“B-b-bob.”

“Okay, Bob. I want you to go back there and clear the room for me. Can you do that?”

“N-o-o. I’m shot.”

She pressed the gun against the next one’s neck. “How about you?”

A nod nearly knocked the gun loose. “I can’t go back there. He… he’ll shoot me.”

“Well, what do you think I’m going to do? Ah, hell, I guess I’ll have to do it myself, won’t I? Seems you’re a bunch of limp pansies.”

He wilted onto the floor like a balloon that had lost its air. “Oh, that would be right.”

From behind her someone cleared his throat. She’d been a fool, hadn’t heard anyone come in.

She stiffened, readied herself to whirl and fire all in one fast movement. Never turn your back on a door or window. A rule she’d never broken, but hungry and weary and still cold, she’d forgotten it and now would pay the price. Lowering the Colt to her

side, she twisted around. Stared into the chest of a tall man. Swallowed loudly.

“Marshal?” A deep voice.

“Deputy Marshal.” Good thing she could even get the title out, but she was proud. Found herself facing a dark-haired fellow with a star on his chest that read Sheriff. She whooshed out a breath.

He grinned. “Help you, ma’am? Uh, sorry, Deputy?”

With a deep sigh she holstered the Colt. “Not sure, Sheriff. Some yokel in the back took a shot at me. We were discussing who it might be. I’ve been on the trail of a prisoner escaped from Muskogee.”

“I’m sorry about that. Must be he didn’t see the sign outside town. No firearms in the city limits. I wonder if you seen that?”

“Happens I came in on the blizzard last night and didn’t, but do you expect a deputy to turn in her gun in town? That seems unlikely.”

“It’s the law around here, all the same. You see, we don’t have a marshal and lots of backup hereabouts, so I have to set some strict rules. There’s plenty of outlaws running loose you fellas—uh— Deputy Marshals haven’t managed to drag in yet, and me being the only lawman in the county I have to be a mite careful.”

“What in thunder you think I’m doing here but enforcing that law you seem so proud of?”

Was he actually going to disarm her with chances that killer Lunsford was around somewhere, maybe even in the back of this place? How was she going to handle this? Whop this guy up to the side of the head? Time to make a quick decision.

“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call your bluff and march back there gun in hand. If the man I’m looking for is there, you’re going to have one hell of a gunfight on your hands. Maybe you could lend a hand at that point. Or you can shoot me in the back.”

Fist curled around her Colt she pushed away from him and darted toward the side of the room that was the darkest. Never heard of one lawman shooting another while doing his job. Still, her back felt like a king-sized target till she had it against the invisible wall. The sheriff shoved up beside her.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not yet. Be still. Stop breathing. Shut your eyes.”

Lunsford would shoot anyone that moved. Breath held, eyes closed, she listened and waited. Someone still hiding back there. Now she was prepared to shoot anyone who moved. They’d been warned a deputy was out here.

Eyes accustomed to the dark, she moved forward among the shadows of chairs and tables. There, in the back corner, a form shifted, lifted an arm, aimed.

She pointed the Colt, squeezed the trigger. A grunt or groan, hard to tell which, and the figure crumbled to a heap on the floor.

“He’s down. Get some light. That lamp yonder.” Mouth dry, she pointed with the gun barrel.

The sheriff did as she bid, and the two of them moved cautiously toward the still form. He

bullet had entered the side of his head. The lamp revealed what was left of Lunsford French’s features and a splatter of blood and brains.

“Good shot, Deputy. Is he who you hoped, or do I have to take you in for killing an innocent man?”

“Hmm, I aimed for his heart.” She laughed at the joke, but he didn’t get it. Took her seriously. “An innocent man wouldn’t have shot at lawmen, now would he?

“This man wasn’t one to play by any rules. He and his brother were mean as snakes that would strike when your back was turned given the chance. They butchered an entire family, cut them up with an axe, and left them scattered all over their home. They were tried before Judge Isaac Parker and sentenced to hang. Both escaped from Muskogee jail two weeks ago. A wonder they hadn’t committed more crimes before I run them down.”

“Let me buy you a brew, Deputy.” He pulled out a chair.

Sitting at the table, back to the wall, he studied her. “Didn’t know there was any women U.S. Deputy Marshals, ma’am.”

She took a long drink, wiped her mouth, and set down the glass. “First one to serve in Indian Territory. Hope there’ll beA more soon. Name’s F.M. Miller, and I work under Deputy Marshal Campbell in Guthrie. Want you to remember that.”

He smiled. “Don’t reckon I’ll forget it anytime soon.”

VELDA BROTHERTON writes from her home perched on the side of a mountain against the Ozark National Forest. Branded as Sexy, Dark and Gritty, her work embraces the lives of gutsy women and heroes who are strong enough to deserve them. After a stint writing for a New York publisher in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, she has since settled comfortably in with small publishers to produce novels in several genres. While known for her successful series work— the Twist of Poe romantic mysteries, as well as her signature Western Historical Romances—her publishing resume includes numerous standalone novels, including Once There Were Sad Songs, Wolf Song, Stoneheart’s Woman, Remembrance, and her magnum opus, Beyond the Moon. Following the tragic passing of her longtime writing partner, legendary Western author Dusty Richards, in early 2018, she took up her pen to finish several of his outstanding works, including the standalone novel Blue Roan Colt and the exciting new Texas Badge Mystery Series, including The Texas Badge and the forthcoming sequels Texas Lightning, Texas Fury, and Texas Wildling.