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Chapter II

CHAPTER

Seth Lambert strolled along the dusty street, rifle slung over his right shoulder, travel sack over his left. The day was young but the St. Louis summer was already hot. The humidity from being squarely on the river made it even more oppressive.

He saw the stagecoach beside the travel company’s offices, two human legs sticking out from under it. He approached and stopped short of the feet. He watched as they scrambled to get a hold on the ground and heard the grunt. In his mind he pictured whoever was under the coach fighting a bolt, twisting it with a wrench until it finally slipped, hands smashing--

"Ow! Oh fuck!"

Lambert chuckled. The boy that crawled out from under was younger than he was expecting. Maybe not even twenty yet.

"What the hell are you..." the boy trailed off. His eyes saw the rifle strapped to his shoulder and the two pistols at his waist and widened. "Oh, you must be--"

"Seth Lambert." He put his hand out and the boy eagerly took it.

"Longley," He blurted. "Chuck Longley."

Lambert reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"I got a work order here."

"Wilson’s in the office," Longley said. "Expecting you."

Lambert tipped the brim of his hat as thanks and turned to go into the office.

"He’s expecting you, sir, but he ain’t happy about it."

Lambert’s stride stuttered a bit as he took the comment and processed all the possible meanings. Deciding there was nothing he could do he just walked in.

He stepped up to the small ticket desk and smiled at the squat man scribbling in a ledger.

"I’m looking for Frank Wilson."

"He’s in the manager’s office right now," the squat man said not looking up. He simply jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing at the door in the corner of the room.

Lambert went to the door and knocked.

"Enter!" came the yell from the other side.

Lambert poked his head in the room and saw the man leaning over the desk, staring down at a map.

"Frank Wilson?" Lambert said stepping full into the room now.

The other man looked up, head snapping from the map. The scowl on his face wasn’t inviting but Lambert pushed on despite it.

"Seth Lambert," he said extending his hand to Wilson.

Wilson looked at the tall man, wide of shoulder, thick of chest. Thick hair covered his chin and undernose, scruff covering his cheeks. His jaw was wide and chiseled and his eyes were deep set. It was his eyes that drew the most attention, colors shifting depending on how the light hit them. Green here, blue there, brown in shadow.

Wilson hated him immediately. His eyes didn’t matter to him. The fact that he was a good foot taller than the driver was enough. That was one of the reasons his old gun Johnston and he got along: both were under six feet tall. Well under six feet tall and carrying some extra baggage around the hips to boot. Further, this new guy looked like he’d never seen a coach let alone ride one and protect one from the various threats from which a crew and passengers had to deal.

Wilson looked down at Lambert’s hand then back to his face. He didn’t move at all.

"I, uh, understand I’m your new shot gun."

Wilson tilted his head back, scrutinizing Lambert.

"Uh huh."

Lambert’s hand hung out there for a bit but Wilson didn’t make a move.

Just then a tall, skinny man pushed through the doors. Wilson turned to the lanky man and smiled.

"Good morning to you, Bud Bridges," he said, coming around the table and quickly shaking his hand.

They shook hands and hugged quickly. Lambert looked at his hand for a moment, understanding. Wilson pulled the lanky Bridges over to the table and map and tapped it.

"Long run boss," Bridges said.

Wilson stomped over to the window and pulled it open.

"Longley, get in here!" he yelled then slammed the window shut.

"Who the hell is this?"

They turned to look at Lambert, the lanky man squinting, head cocked, studying.

Lambert suddenly turned to him and stuck his hand out.

"Seth Lambert. I’m the crew’s new gun."

"Bud," the stretched out man said. "Bud Bridges. I’m the coach conductor. I didn’t know we had a new gun."

"I don’t like it any more than you do," Wilson said. "I’ve been with Johnston from my first day. Problem is line seven just lost their gun last week and the line’s been getting rougher while it’s been getting richer. Comes with the territory."

"Maybe the bastard should have boned up on his marksmanship!" Bridges said, laughing at his own joke.

"Saunders..." Wilson said.

"Oh," was all Bridges replied, soberly.

Just then Longley entered the room.

"Can happen to anybody at any time. He was going to retire in three weeks. Left a wife and five boys, two girls. Company said they’d pay for the schooling for the next year as compensation. Poor guy made sure that close to fifty million dollars worth of transfers happened for the company and all his widow and kids get is a year of school."

"Wouldn’t surprise me if one of them boys robbed a coach or two in a few years," Lambert said.

"I won’t mention you said that." Wilson and Lambert locked eyes. Lambert had the feeling this might be the longest ride of his life.

"Now that Chuckwaggon is here we can get started."

Lambert glanced at the kid and saw the flicker of his eyes and the red rise in his face. He made a mental note to never call the kid ’Chuckwaggon.’ He clearly hated it and with Wilson already predisposed to hating him, Lambert didn’t want to alienate himself more than he already was.

"This is a long run you fellas have so I wanted to go over a few things. We’ve only got five passengers but a couple of them are important passengers. One of them is an... associate of the Company, let’s say. To keep it simple. You’re all going to be making a run on a line the company hasn’t used much but is looking to make a regular run. Bring this coach in clean and safe and it’ll make me look good. Making me look good will make you look good, I promise."

He looked from each of the men and finally stopped on Lambert. This man was the wild card and the look he returned Wilson said that he knew that’s how the driver viewed him.

"Right, then. Get on with your checklists."

Bud Bridges turned and slid through the door his skinny frame barely cracking the door enough to let light from the other room in. Longley zipped after him. Lambert slung his pack over his shoulder and strode to the door.

"Lambert," Wilson called.

The gun looked over his shoulder and nodded indicating the driver had his attention.

"I got provision funds for you. First run the company stocks you up and depending on how you manage resources you can claim more down the line."

He had a roll of paper bills tied about the size of a weakly rolled stick of tobacco in his hand. Lambert crossed the room to the desk and took the tiny roll and shoved it in his pocket.

"Thank you, sir."

"Use it wisely. The company has a habit of docking pay if you go ’over budget.’"

Lambert just nodded and turned back to the door. Wilson slowly followed him out of the office and watched him walk down the street. Bridges stepped next to Wilson and stared after Lambert as well.

"I’ll keep my eye on him, you can be sure," Bridges said.

"He’s here as a favor to somebody up in the company. I don’t know how it is the suits think he needs to be here or if he’s got something on one of them but it isn’t just Saunders getting plugged that forced this move."

Bridges nodded.

"I asked around a bit, called up some folks on other lines and he ain’t never run a line before but he ain’t green either."

"Meaning?"

"He spent some time in the war. Doing what, nobody seemed to know but... he did something. What people did seem to know was in the couple years since the peace was drawn he drifted around. Drifting because he wore his welcome rather than not being able to settle, if you get me. "

"He got a record or something?"

"Not a record but he does have a reputation. Drink. Temper. A bad mix of the two. Greenfield wouldn’t tell me why he’s here but he made it clear he had to be here. Let’s just keep our eyes on him."

"If the company wants him here I guess they got their reasons."

"I don’t believe in coincidence so you’re right."

Bridges raised an eyebrow at that.

"The ’associate’ of the company I mentioned..." Wilson looked at Bridges. "He’s with Wells and Fargo. They like to check lines before they take them over."

Bridges’s eyes widened as he understood.

"And it ain’t just the passenger we got to deliver safely. We got a box of metal we got to get all the way to Los Angeles."

"And the company thinks this new gun is the guy to make sure it gets there?"

"I spent the last two nights speculating instead of sleeping," Wilson said. "Now that we’re leaving tomorrow I’ve decided I’m going to sleep tonight. I’ll let you do the speculating from here on out. Just keep an eye on him, the banker and the box."

"Let’s go over the route schedule then," Bridges said.

By the time Wilson finished with Bridges and came back out to inspect the coach Lambert was strolling up with a bag over his shoulder.

The gun sat on the back go the coach and started pulling out smaller sacks and started arranging them in various pockets of his pack. Some of them he emptied into his hand revealing various gauge shots and bullets. Wilson watched as he loaded two Colts, then a rifle, then finally a double barreled shotgun. He stuffed the few remaining cartridges into his shirt pockets and buttoned them.

"You left some of that fund for down the road, gun," Wilson asked.

Lambert looked at the driver and nodded.

"You staying on the flat route," Lambert replied.

"What difference does that make?"

"Cutting down around the Rockies, going through Arizona is longer but it’s flatter and faster. Less likely to run into hiders. But then I’m told you been driving long enough you don’t need me to tell you that."

"Damn right, gun."

Wilson racked his brain, visualizing the route he and MaGee charted. Arizona was farther south but then...

"Flatter and faster is how I run."

"You a Jesu?"

Wilson flinched. Bridges and Longley poked their heads out from under the coach to watch the exchange.

"I run a safe line, gun."

"Then I should be able to cash these back in when we get to Los Angeles."

"That fund ain’t no bonus, bullet boy. You better not hold back if we get hit."

"Seeing as how I want to get to the end of the line as much as you and everybody else riding this buggy you don’t have to worry about that."

"Good," was all Wilson could think to say. He could tell this guy was going to push his buttons all the way. "Just keep in mind that you ain’t the only one with guns on this run."

Lambert just stared at Wilson.

"Got it, boy?"

"Sure."

Wilson ground his teeth and could feel the heat radiate from his face. Lambert just stared back at him. He noticed the other two crew members watching from under the coach.

"Get out from there."

They scrambled out.

"What the hell you doing down there anyway?"

"We got a bolt not holding as tight as it should," Longley said. "I may need to pull the whole front axle off and rebuild-"

"You gonna be able to do that before we drive off in the morning?"

Longley stood rigid, nervous.

"No, sir."

"Then get it as tight as you can and make plans to baby it if you have to. We’re leaving at eight tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Longley replied.

"That means you all better be here at five, bells on and all."

They all nodded.

Wilson handed a piece of paper to Bridges.

"This is the full passenger manifest. Do what you do Bridges."

He quickly glanced at the list then whistled.

"Company got a fund for extras?"

"Talk to MaGee. Just make sure this ride starts happy and we won’t have worries. Five. Sharp."

Lambert stood and nodded to the others.

"See you bright and early, boys."

Lambert strolled off in the direction of the saloon. Drink. Temper. Bad mix of both. Wilson watched him go.

"Come morning I may need to call for a new gun," he muttered to himself. Then he snapped back and saw the other two watching Lambert walk away. Longley watched in awe for some reason. Stupid kid romanticizes everybody with a slugger on his belt. Bridges seemed more perplexed than anything.

"Make this thing solid by morning and I don’t care if we have to tie you to the back of this bucket so you can sleep in the morning."

Longely scrambled back under the coach and Bridges headed into the station office.

Wilson looked around to make sure nobody was watching then pulled the map back out. He traced his finger along the route, up and over the southern end of the Rockies. He climbed into the coach and slammed the door shut then pulled out his straight edge, compass and pencil and began recalculating the route to take them down through Arizona.

Next Chapter: Chapter III