Amanda in the West

By Matthew Ruehlen

To be widowed young in the wild days of the American West was a tough lot. To have it happen after losing a child and seeing the Change sweep over the world and turn society on its head would leave anyone feeling that they have nothing left to live for. And someone with nothing left to live for is a dangerous person to have on your trail seeking payback--had the woman in the mask known Amanda's story, she might have just ridden on with her henchman and picked another victim, but she chose Amanda.
Now, in an even wilder West where money has become poison and anything goes, Amanda has nothing to her name except desire for revenge and the guts to go for it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Ruehlen
• Release date: Mar 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311288813

Book preview

Amanda in the West

By Matthew Ruehlen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Matthew A. Ruehlen

Contents

Chapter 1 Bad News

Chapter 2 Breaking Out

Chapter 3 On the Trail

Chapter 4 One Too Many

Chapter 5 Circles

Chapter 6 Taking Aim

Chapter 7 Subtleties Aside

Chapter 8 Paying it Off

Other Titles by this Author

Chapter 1 Bad News

The rattlesnake didn’t bother to buzz as Amanda approached the cabin door, but it turned its head to glare at her balefully. Obviously she didn’t rate a warning. When she was as close as she dared, she flung her book. The snake struck at the book as it bounced off, and then it coiled back up in the one patch of sunlight to be found--right outside the door. The snake lifted its tail and commenced buzzing. It did not take its beady eyes off of her.

Amanda watched the snake for a moment, then looked around the single room of her home. Her options for projectiles were limited. She could throw the blanket over the snake, but it might slide out from underneath. There were was the heavy cast-iron pot on the hook in the fireplace, but it was still half-full of soup. She had already rolled the washing tub out to the well before the snake had shown up. There were a few wooden bowls and cups, but all were light-weight. She was pretty sure that the broom was outside on the porch. The shovel was out by the vegetable patch. The muck fork would be out by their makeshift corral. She wondered how long it would take her to stop thinking of it as their corral.

She sighed and lifted an ornate black powder pistol from a shelf by the door, half-cocked it, dumped a small measure of powder from her horn into the pan, snapped the frizzen shut, and cocked the hammer all the way back. She squatted down, sighted along the barrel at the snake's wicked-looking triangular head, and pulled the trigger. The boom was deafening inside the cabin.

Coughing in the cloud of smoke, she stepped out onto the porch and lifted the snake by its rattle-tipped tail. She stepped back into the house and tossed it onto the table. She cleaned and reloaded the gun, and then placed it back on its shelf, ready for the next time.

She went to retrieve the book and found that it had fallen open to a concerto her father had always liked. She read the sheet music with her eyes and heard a violin in her mind. She closed the book slowly and returned it to its place on the crude shelf which Jake had mounted next to the fireplace.

Free to leave her home once again, she stepped out into the sunshine. The Arizona sun was already hot even though it had only just cleared the dusty forest of oaks, and it still flung the tree’s shadows over the well, her vegetable patch, and the parched earth in front of the porch.

In all the months that Amanda had lived in that little house, there had not been a drop of rain. Each of her steps on the way to the well threw up a small burst of fine dust that lingered in the air as if too lazy to fall.

Each step also brought on a burgeoning of the pain in her chest--an ache that grew until it felt that she must be turned inside out by it. She gave up and returned to the house and retrieved the money pouch by the door. Having it close brought on a constant draining ache, like that which you feel in your shoulders when you try to hold a bucket of water out straight in front of you, but having it close stopped the gut-wrenching pain that came with separation from it.

At the well, she pushed the ache to the background, and concentrated instead on enjoying the exertion, the feeling of strength in her arms and back as she pulled the bucket up from the well’s depths. This kind of work--hand over hand, steady progress--was satisfying. It was effort that wouldn’t be wasted, that was sure to prove worthwhile. Like knitting: each row done was done forever, and the rows mount one on the next until, without fail, sooner or later, the project is finished, and then you have that sweater, or cap, or scarf always. If you take care with it, it never disappears or falls apart--unlike so many other things.

Amanda was pouring a third bucketful of water onto the bell peppers when a man and a woman stepped out of the early morning forest gloom.

Suddenly aware of her bare feet and rumpled clothes, Amanda raised a hand to smooth her hair into place, but caught herself and turned the movement into a wave. Sarah, she said. Nathaniel. Morning.

The woman walked up to Amanda and took her hands, grimaced a bit with the nearness of the money, but looked up at her with compassion. Amanda noticed that she was wrapped in her dark crocheted shawl as if she were in mourning already. She was wearing her dark brown dress too. Amanda’s heart sank.

So, you didn’t catch up with them? Amanda asked.

We caught ‘em all right, said the man. Caught up to them south of Lochiel. Killed three. Got one alive for you, but he died before we could get him here.

A deep calm enveloped Amanda, supplanting the gnawing fear she had been living with for a week. Resignation can be such a relief. Any of the posse get hurt? she asked.

The man nodded. The McCallum boy got shot through the leg--didn’t hit the bone, though. Dave Wangate got winged. Old Parsons sprained his ankle--but he could do that on the way from his own front door to the well, the clumsy old fart. No sign of that high-society couple you mentioned. They must've gone a different way--probably up to Tucson. Maybe as far as San Francisco. Had to be in a city booming like that one to get all that money in the first place.

San Francisco--she kept hearing that name. It sounded like some kind of paradise on earth; some wilder, more exciting version of the east coast cities she grew up in. She pushed the thought away. Did that man you caught say anything about the fancy woman?

The man shook his head. Clammed up whenever we asked about her. He paused, grimaced. There’s no way to track these bandits these days. Things were easier before the Change. Back before, when these gangs where stealing money ‘stead of pushing it off on people, you could always find them spending it--living high on the hog. Any more...

Well, I’m glad everyone made it back, and I thank you for trying, she said.

Don’t give up hope. We sent their descriptions all over the territory. Sheriff had to call off the hunt for now ‘cause a bank transfer got stolen--more gems than oughtta be in one shipment--but we ain’t done yet.

The woman said, "We