A Knight Templar in Lincoln County
A Jacob Smith Story #1
By
Craig Gabrysch
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A Knight Templar in Lincoln County
Copyright © 2010 by Craig Gabrysch
All authors retain copyrights to the works of fiction contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address: Twit Publishing PO Box 720453 Dallas, Texas 75206.
The following works are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Author’s Note
Two things.
One: I originally published this under the pseudonym Fyodor Gutierrez, in Twit Publishing’s first book Twit Publishing Presents: PULP! Summer/Fall 2010. You can find a copy of it by following the link.
Two: This is not historical fiction. It’s more a blend of fantasy and western, with some history to color it. I know for a fact that one of the characters never lived in Lincoln County. But, like I said, this is more fantasy and western than anything else.
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A Knight Templar in Lincoln County
by Craig Gabrysch
Jacob’s horse galloped towards Lincoln, New Mexico. The sun was setting on his right. Dust filled his mouth and sweat dripped into his eyes. No one ever sent him to San Fran and no one asked for Jacob to take his time, to maintain a leisurely pace. Instead, it was always “don’t spare the horses.” Which, in the Southwestern Territories, meant “don’t spare the rider neither.” Fuck New Mexico. He put spurs to his horse, urging it onward, knowing that it probably wouldn’t make the last leg.
Two days prior, the carrier pigeon had arrived in Santa Fe. Jacob had left an hour later. He’d already spent three horses and damn near forty-eight hours on the trail. He had barely had time to perform the necessities of consuming or eliminating food. Drinking and eating while pissing and shitting made for a grumpy man. All Jacob wanted was a change of clothes, a bath, and a close shave. Just enough to make him feel human. He had a feeling, though, that he wouldn’t have a chance to meet even those simple necessities of life. Jacob probably wouldn’t catch but a few winks of shuteye before it would be off to work.
The message they’d received at the diocese had been urgent. A girl named Angela Goodnight was possessed by a demon, and a nasty sounding one at that. Jacob, lucky man that he was, was a Knight Templar. He knew the job would be hard when he signed up, but he hadn’t known it would leave him so saddle-sore.
Up ahead, the trail turned easterly and crossed the mouth of a wash in a giant mesa that sat in the middle of the desert. Luckily, it was the dry season. Had it been the wet one, there’d be no chance of making it past the crevice. The run off in the area would have collected in that one spot, turning into a torrential waterfall that tore through the desert floor. Jacob smiled grimly. He recognized the landmark from the description given to him by Bishop Jean Baptiste Lamy’s assistant. The wash’s presence meant the next stagecoach outpost would be around the corner, and that meant Lincoln was close. There would be a fresh horse waiting for him at the outpost, maybe even a piece of jerky or cup of beans. All of a sudden, arrival by morning didn’t seem completely unreasonable. He resolutely lowered his head and urged the horse onward, his mouth watering and stomach grumbling.
Jacob rode past the mouth of the wash and rounded the corner of the mesa. The setting sun barely illuminated the ramshackle stagecoach buildings up ahead. The buildings were constructed so that the main one, the stagecoach storage and office, sat near the road. A stable for fresh horses sat up the slope behind it, closer to the mesa’s base. The person manning it had the foresight of lighting a few lamps around the three buildings to make sure Jacob didn’t miss his drop-off point. As Jacob rode closer he saw movement. A short Mexican man of slight build came running out of the interior of the main building, waving his hands. His sombrero was pulled back slightly, kept secured to his body by leather thongs. Jacob reined the horse in, circling around to the man’s right.
“Woah, señor, woah,” the Mexican man said excitedly as he grabbed the reins of Jacob’s horse. “Are you señor Jacob?”
“Yep,” Jacob replied as he quickly dismounted and opened his saddle bags. He mentally inventoried his gear as he glanced inside. Jacob hadn’t felt anything come loose during the trip but he did it anyway. Better to be safe than sorry when the time came. His three leather rolls with ammo and revolvers were still inside the left saddle bag, safe from the environment and untouched. Next, Jacob checked the right pack, which contained his breastplate and chainmail coif. Everything seemed still intact and accounted for. He pulled the saddle bags from the back of the horse and set them on the dusty ground. Jacob turned to the little Mexican man, “Father Ryan have you come out this way?”
“Si, señor, Padre Ryan sent me,” he said. “My name is Jorge. I am only one out here.” Jacob nodded and turned back to the horse. He still needed to grab his bed roll and its contents before he mounted up again. Jorge scrambled around the horse’s front side and got across from Jacob. “Señor Jacob,” he said, his voice low and intense, “I’m only one here.”
Jacob glanced up from his work untying the bedroll from the saddle. He checked the protruding handle of his broadsword to see how securely inserted the scabbard was. Jacob looked up at Jorge, eyebrow raised. “So,” he said as he removed the bedroll wrapped sword from the horse’s rump by its handle and shrugged it onto his right shoulder, “what you’re saying is there’s definitely not two or three others with you? And these other men want me to get my horse on my own? Si?” Jorge nodded emphatically. Jacob nodded in agreement, said, “Well, Jorge, you go water the horse. I got it handled from here, mi amigo.”
Jacob spun on his boot heel and walked with determination to the stables. It was a secure looking fifteen by twenty foot structure, but Jacob could still see movement on the other side through gaps in the wall slats. From the way Jorge had spoke in such hushed tones, whoever was over there probably wanted to get the drop on Jacob. But he still couldn’t be sure. It could be anyone and going in with guns blazing always set the wrong tone for any conversation.
Jacob loudly set his saddle bags down and gave a good cough. Three men walked out from behind the stable, just ten or so feet away. Well, to be honest, two men and a boy. The men wore the normal cattle hand clothes of the area, roughly woven brightly colored collared shirts and tan pants. They’d eschewed their hats and chaps, but Jacob knew from their looks and bowed legs that they were cattle hands. They stood flanking the boy in the middle, dust swirling and whirling in little eddies through the lamp lit air. The man on Jacob’s right stood the closest. He wore a pistol at his right side but it wasn’t tied down like a gunfighter’s iron. The man on the left wore a six-gun holstered in the same style. In his hands he held a double barreled shotgun. Its dully gleaming barrel was pointed at the floor.
The boy in the center probably hadn’t seen much more than fifteen or sixteen years. His face was ruddy and baby-faced, framed on the top by a shock of blond hair that protruded from beneath his black porkpie hat. Two six-guns criss-crossed the boy’s waist, both tied. They were still holstered. No cattle hand, this one.
>
“Why don’t you go ahead and drop that shooting-iron, mister?” The boy said. Jacob nodded, reached his left hand down and unbuckled his gun belt. Jacob unstrapped it, held it in front of him for the three to see and coiled it on the ground. “All right, mister, now come on up here. That’s close enough. Now, you the man from Santa Fe? The one that Father Ryan sent for?”
“And what if I am?” Jacob asked as he walked closer to them. As he came to a halt, he dug the balls of his boot into the dust a little and fought the urge to tighten the grip on his sword’s handle. When it came to it, he needed to be ready. White knuckling the sword blade might just tip off the shotgun man.
“Then we’d tell you to turn and ride back on home to Santa Fe, if you knew what was good for you. Father Ryan don’t need you ‘round here no more.”
“Well,” Jacob said, his gaze on the shotgun man. Jacob exaggeratedly wiggled the fingers of his left hand at his side. “I believe if I were that man, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.” The shotgun man glanced down at Jacob’s wiggling fingers. This would probably be his only chance.
Jacob dropped into a crouch long enough to catch the shotgunner’s attention and pulled the bedroll from his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob saw him belatedly spring into action and raise the shotgun, his thumb drawing back the hammer. Jacob sprang toward the man on his right. The shotgun erupted, sending a wad of pellets where Jacob had been standing. The Templar quickly maneuvered to the right side of his target, putting the cattle hand between him and the shotgunner. The shotgunner did what Jacob had expected. The scattergun roared a second time, but this time it was accompanied by surprised screams and a gurgle.
Readjusting his grip on the sword, Jacob stepped from around the swiftly crumbling man he’d used as a barrier. The boy’s right hand was going for his revolver as Jacob swung the bedroll covered blade right between his legs. He doubled over, his hat tumbling from the crown of his head. Jacob brought the blade down on the exposed nape of his neck with as much strength as he could muster. The boy, startled and unbalanced, lost his footing and went down from the force of the blow.
A few feet away, the shotgunner was frantically fumbling with his extra shells. In his rush, he dropped one. Jacob gripped the bedroll firmly and unsheathed his broadsword. The shink of steel being exposed caught the shotgunner’s attention. He glanced up, eyes wild and staring as Jacob swiftly brought the blade in for the killing strike. The shotgun man slapped the breach closed and raised it, but Jacob was faster. Jacob’s well-trained left hand shoved the barrel of the shotgun upwards and to the side. He stabbed with the sword through the little bit of resistance a soft underbelly and weak spine can offer. Jacob slid the blade to the hilt, then twisted. The man’s eyes and mouth went wide. Blood gurgled over his lips. Jacob withdrew the blade quickly and let the man collapse to the floor.
Behind him, the boy was scrambling on the ground, his hand groping for the pistol in the right side holster. The boy was resilient. Jacob took two long steps and gave him a good kick to the ribs. “Stay down, boy!” he barked. When he kept moving, Jacob kicked him a second time. This one was aimed at the kidneys. He brought the point of the sword down into the boy’s field of vision. “Take your belt off and toss ‘em aside or I carve you up like a turkey, son.”
The boy, coughing and moaning, reached beneath him and began to unbuckle his gunbelts. “Jorge,” Jacob shouted, “come up here. It’s safe.” When the boy had finished disarming, Jacob picked up the discarded weapons. He wiped the broadsword’s blade clean with his bandanna and sheathed it. Jacob tossed the soiled bandanna aside, and picked up the shotgun and the dropped shell. Jacob loaded the shotgun and slapped the breach closed. He trained it on the boy and told him to sit up. There was only one slug in the chamber, but it would do the trick this close. Jacob looked to the side, saw the porkpie hat. He picked it up and plopped it down on the kid’s head.
“Señor?” Jorge asked from behind him. “Is it safe? I heard gunfire.”
“Si, Jorge, it’s safe. Get my horse unsaddled, if you don’t mind. When you’re finished, go in the stable and saddle a new one. Gonna need it to finish the trip.”
“Si, señor.”
“All right kid, what’s your name?”
“Fuck you, you fucking cocksuckering piece of motherfucking shit,” he said with a familiar but out of place accent.
“All right,” Jacob said, spitting to the side. “Fine. Your name doesn’t matter. I’ve had plenty of people try to murder me and I didn’t know their names neither. All I know is, you don’t look like some kind of devil-worshiper, you wear your revolvers tied down, and you don’t sound like a native to these parts. So somebody probably hired you. You work for one of the ranchers around Lincoln or something? I’ve heard there’s a range war going on round here between some of the bigger homesteads. Question is, why your boss wants to kill a church man?”
The boy didn’t reply. He kept glaring holes in Jacob from beneath the cockeye brim of his dusty porkpie. He made no move to settle the hat more comfortably. “Kid, don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you unless you do something outright stupid. I’m going to tie you up, of course, and leave you in the stables while Jorge and I go. At least you won’t be out in the open all night.” The kid hocked a good one up and spit it on Jacob’s boot. “Cute,” Jacob said, “when you’re finished with that, Jorge, tie this boy up and get out of here. I’ll head on down to the Triple P alone. You’ve probably had enough excitement for one night.”
“Si señor. Gracias.”