Red Pines

By Michael Yowell

This epic Western tale revolves around gun-for-hire Tom Griffin. When he reluctantly decides to take one more job, he gets much more than he bargained for. The job becomes a moral dilemma, and Griffin chooses to save the target he was hired to help kill. What follows is a journey packed with action, drama, suspense, and revenge. Historically accurate and colorful, this page-turner will take you away to a violent, unforgiving, yet hopeful era of United States history

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Yowell
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490441689

Book preview

1: THE GAMBLE

The whiskey was dark and dirty in the short glass. Tom Griffin half-smiled at the drink in front of him. A fitting drink for me , he thought, while drawing the glass to his parched lips. Then he poured it down.

After swallowing, he turned to the barkeep. Hey, friend, said Griffin, with a grimace on his dusty face, you got anything better than this stuff? Surely the man had some good whiskey hidden behind that expensive carved-wood bar.

The barkeep frowned. Whiskey was whiskey, unless you were very rich or very shady – and this man did not look rich. That blend’s satisfactory for everyone else in this town, he replied, ain’t had no complaints yet. Of course he would never admit to anybody that he made the most of his whiskey supply by watering it down.

Well that, sir, is a surprise. Griffin shifted on his barstool. But that not withstandin’, surely you must have some good stuff stashed back there. And I don’t mind payin’ a little more. He then closed his eyes and grinned. After all, there are some things in life worth payin’ extra for.

Yes sir, nodded the barkeep. He then reached under the bar, just below his shotgun, and pulled out a heavy amber bottle. Griffin smiled, tossed coin to the barkeep, uncorked the bottle, and proceeded to pour.

After a satisfying sip, Griffin nodded appreciatively. That’s the stuff, mister.

The barkeep swept up the coin, studied it, and smiled in approval. Then he leaned down to address his new valued customer. Tell you the truth, you’re not the only one can’t stand the cheap stuff. I’m a bit picky about my whiskey myself. He cackled dryly. But don’t go tellin’ the other customers that.

Your secret’s safe with me, friend. Like I said, some things in life are worth payin’ extra for. Griffin emptied his glass and reflected. In this dark whirlwind of death and regret that was his life, the only joys he found anymore were women and whiskey. And he didn’t mind paying more for the best of either. Life’s simple pleasures were the only things keeping him together.

The man behind the bar probed a little. So where you from, mister?

Griffin scratched at the black stubble on his chin. From too many places... not so sure I know anymore. Then he drew his eyes from the glass to look directly at the good barkeep. And the name’s Griffin. Tom Griffin. He reached out and produced a friendly hand from inside his dirty sleeve.

Pleasure, Mr. Griffin. I’m a Tom too, name’s Tom Wesley. Owner of this gracious saloon for seven years now, since the town of Redemption was first built in 1875.

Redemption, thought Griffin with a silent laugh. Redemption was something that was not likely for a man like him to find. He gazed past the barkeep, into the mirror above the mantle, and studied himself.

He did not like what he saw. He looked like a man without a soul. His matted black hair framed his stern face, and his eyes were dark as coal. The lines on his face stood out to him like cracks on the tombstones of those he had killed.

And he had killed quite a few.

Griffin had learned to handle a six-shooter before most boys had learned to ride a horse. He had been a hired gun for as long as he could remember. Too many years, too many miles of snowy mountainside and dusty prairie, and too much blood. He had shot more men than he cared to recall – some deservedly, and some not.

He wanted it to end. He wondered how he had made it this far without taking his own life. Disgusted by his reflection, he turned his gaze away from the dirty mirror.

As if on cue, the barkeep poured a second shot of the good stuff. Griffin nodded his appreciation, and drank. The whiskey burn helped to make the guilt go away. Mr. Wesley nodded back and smiled, setting the bottle down in front of Griffin. Then he left to tend to his other thirsty customers.

A very decent fellow, thought Griffin. The nicest character he’d come across in months. All summer long Griffin rode the prairie from Texas to Colorado, and not once had he encountered a pleasant soul. Just as well, though, since he preferred to keep to himself.

Besides, he hadn’t been riding to make friends. His business was a very dark one.

But a cheerful face and sociable demeanor were always a welcome surprise. This place felt good. He had been through Colorado several times before, but had never seen Redemption before tonight. He decided he would stay the night here in this little cattle town. A full night’s sleep and a long soak at the bath house would do him good.

His focus was interrupted by a raucous fellow at one of the tables behind him.

Griffin turned and surveyed the saloon. A group of three burly men were seated about ten feet away from him. They had been there for a while, judging by the number of empty glasses and stacks of poker chips in front of them. One of the men was waving an arm above his hat, addressing Griffin with a friendly smile.

I said, would you care to join our game, mister? We could use another player.

Possibly another nice character, Griffin noted. Maybe this town Redemption really was a diamond in the rough. After a brief moment of consideration, Griffin nodded and stood. Why not? he grinned, while leaving payment for the rest of his whiskey. Much obliged to you.

The men sat back from their cards while Griffin approached the table. They were a rough-looking sort, looking as though they’d been riding for many days, much like himself. Griffin set his bottle down and draped his black frock coat over the empty chair.

Name’s Tom Griffin, he announced, taking a seat at the table. Appreciate you all lettin’ me join you.

Our pleasure, said the table host, a husky man who looked ten years Griffin’s senior. You look like a man who can appreciate a friendly game of poker.

That I can, sir, Griffin replied, while pulling table money from deep in his pocket. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a good card game. And what a nice feeling it was to feel like a fellow human being again.

My name’s Vic Grant, the table host stated, tilting his head back slightly. The light of the saloon caught him just so, and the gray hairs of his beard glistened. And this here’s Cale Hannen and Jeb White. Griffin nodded to the men.

The introductions complete, Grant proceeded to deal the cards. Griffin was looking forward to this. It was going to be a long, pleasurable evening of five-card draw. At least as long as the money lasted. Griffin poured another drink, and read his first hand.

While pondering his cards, Griffin glanced around the saloon. There were half a dozen other patrons, some at the bar and some at the other tables, and a pretty woman playing the piano in the corner. Her playing made for an enjoyable atmosphere. Smiling slightly, Griffin returned his attention to the players at his table.

So Mr. Grant, said Griffin as he laid down his two pair and collected the first pot, what brings y’all out to this here town?

Lookin’ for work, the husky man replied. Thought we might ride up to Dodge City, maybe find work on a ranch on the way to Kansas. Then he offered the same question to Griffin.

I’m doin’ the same, I reckon, Griffin replied. Except I haven’t decided which direction to travel yet. After I pick up some supplies in the morning, I’ll figure it out as I go. At this point he had no idea what the future held for him, and he was content to just play it by ear for now. At least he still had enough money from his last job to hold him for a while.

But he would have to look for something else soon, as the money always ran out.

Where ya from? asked the gambler introduced as Jeb White, a tall fellow wearing a particularly crumpled hat.

Griffin frowned in thought. New Orleans, originally. Was born there, but didn’t stay long. Been on the move out west for as long as I can remember.

I’ll drink to that, smiled Cale Hannen, the shortest and roundest of the riders. To always being on the move, wherever the sun takes us. The rest of the table joined him in yet another drink.

As the evening went on, the men played, drank, joked, and studied each other’s poker faces. There was caution at the table, but no tension or discomfort. It was a welcome feeling for Griffin, and he was really enjoying his evening.

Until two new cowboys entered the saloon.

Out of the corner of his eye, Griffin noticed the two characters. They were grimy, probably from riding for a long while. One had a dirty red beard, and the other had fashioned his dark brown mustache to curl up around the sides of his nose. They stopped at the entrance, took a moment to survey the room, then seemed to find what they were looking for.

They headed directly for the table where he was seated.

Leaning back, Griffin met the eyes of the approaching men. Were they looking for him? His hand moved slowly under the table, resting on the handle of his Colt Peacemaker. Carefully, he released the snap on his holster.

The man with the red beard began to speak just as the other players took notice of their approach. Well lookie who we finally ran into. His smile showed how many teeth he had lost.

What can we do for you, sirs? asked Grant calmly.

Don’t act the fool, Pleasant Vic, hissed Red, you know exactly who we are. And I suppose you’ll be rememberin’ our friend Ross Tyler that you killed.

Grant’s men tensed for action, but then froze when the two visitors raised their guns and commanded them to stay still in their seats. At this time the entire saloon went silent, and all eyes were cautiously focused on the situation at hand. Grant’s men could only look to their boss for direction. He had none to offer.

Look, friend, reasoned Grant. I don’t know how you think things went down, but you’re wrong. I never saw Tyler again after we’d finished our business. He rode off with your pay, and that’s the last I saw of him. I didn’t even hear he’d been killed until a week later.

That ain’t the way we see it, said the mustached man. You done killed our friend and stole our money, and now we aim to make it right.

Grant tried to speak more, but for some reason couldn’t. All he could do was stare down the barrel of the man’s pistol.

Red spat tobacco juice out the side of his mouth. His eyes got big, purposeful. Get ready to meet yer maker.

The evening was no longer fun for Griffin. His moment of enjoyment had been taken away by these ruffians, shuffling his mind back to its earlier, darker state. He once again felt the ugliness of violence and death nearby. And once again, he no longer cared if he lived or died.

Hell with it, he thought. Might as well take one last gamble.

Griffin pushed his chair back from the table and dropped to one knee. Before the ruffians could redirect their aim, Griffin drew his Peacemaker and fired. His aim was true, even for the amount of whiskey he had consumed. The bullet buried itself in the chest of the first target, knocking him backwards.

Stunned, the second man whipped a shot at Griffin. By the time it whizzed harmlessly over his shoulder, Griffin had re-cocked and fired again. The shot sent the second man reeling to the floor.

Griffin stood, rising through the thick cloud of smoke. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the saloon. A scent so familiar to Griffin that it brought a feeling of security to him. But it always took a few seconds for him to relax enough to notice it.

Grant and his men were silent for but a moment, then howled to the rafters after realizing they were saved by the gun of their new friend. Grant, chuckling, stood up to shake Griffin’s hand.

Mighty fine shootin’ there, Tom. Mighty fine indeed!

Griffin remained still, waiting for the calm to return to him. Don’t mention it, he replied smoothly. I reckon it was them or us. And I didn’t much like them.

Mr. Wesley popped his head up from behind the bar, having grabbed his shotgun a little too late. Lord, oh lord, he exclaimed, "I never could get used to anythin’ like that happenin’ in my place!

Griffin turned to face the barkeep. I do apologize for the mess, sir. Believe me, I’d rather that it didn’t happen. But they gave us no choice.

Don’t take on so, added Grant, they got what they deserved. As you can clearly see, we did nothing wrong. We were about to be killed by those bastards, and our friend here saved us. It was self-defense, unless you say you witnessed otherwise. There was almost a hint of danger in his voice.

No sir, I reckon I won’t, assured the barkeep, lowering his shotgun. As I saw it, it was indeed self defense. He then addressed the entire saloon. Just take it easy, everyone, the sheriff will be along promptly and I’ll take care of this.

Grant turned to Griffin. We’re much obliged, thank you for coming to our aid. Let me pay for your room tonight, Lord knows you deserve at least that much.

Well, I’m not even sure where I’m staying tonight. Hopefully it wouldn’t be in the town jail. But no, he would be all right based on what the barkeep was going to tell the sheriff.

Well I do know. You’re staying across the street at the same hotel we are. I’ll take care of it for you, and I won’t take no for an answer.

Griffin returned to his chair. The other three did the same, then just stared quietly at him. Griffin sniffed and reached for his prize whiskey. While pouring, he looked across the table with a sigh. Now... whose deal is it?

2: THE JOB

Araspy knocking pulled Griffin from his sleep. It took a moment for him to realize someone was knocking at the door to his room. Stirring, he let the morning sun into his eyes. This further encouraged the headache caused by last night’s whiskey. He squinted painfully.

Just a minute, he hailed, reaching for his gun on the dresser. With his weapon balanced loosely in hand, he sat up. I’m coming. Then he cautiously approached the door.

Griffin stood beside the doorway, his gun ready. Who is it?

It’s Jeb White, the voice on the other side stated. From the game last night.

Reaching down, Griffin turned the lock and slowly opened the door. He peeked through the crack to see his visitor.

Sure enough, it was one of the gamblers from the saloon last night, the tall one with the crumpled hat.

Howdy, Tom, said White. Mr. Grant would like to buy you breakfast this morning, to help show his appreciation for what you did last night.

The thought of flapjacks and coffee suddenly appealed to Griffin very much. He raised his eyebrows. Well now, that sounds like an invitation I can’t pass up.

We’ll meet you downstairs then?

I’ll be down directly.

Griffin shut the door, scratching himself through his faded union suit underwear. Then he turned to find the rest of his clothes. They were scattered across the room. His jacket and pants were on the floor, along with one boot. The other boot was atop a small table, leaning against the window. And his hat, gun, and holster were spread out on the end of the bed. He remembered placing none of it where it was.

Groaning, he reached for his trousers and pulled them on over his underwear. Then he went to the porcelain sink, cupped cold water to his face, shook his head to clear his vision, and finished dressing. Now he was ready to join the men for breakfast.

Grant and his men were waiting at the bottom of the narrow staircase. Their silhouettes stood patiently against the reflection of the sunlight on the wooden planks beneath them. Griffin greeted the men with a tip of his hat, while navigating the creaky steps. Then he followed the group across the street to the saloon where they had met the night before.

As they entered the saloon, Griffin noted how different the place looked in the daylight. The tables were covered with fancy white linen, the dark wood floor was mopped and shiny, and the sun shone a bright welcome through the thin yellow window dressing.

Quite different from the atmosphere of the previous night. There was no boisterous cacophony from rowdy, drinking card players. The pungent odor of dry cigars was gone, as was the smell of spilled beer and whiskey.

And there were no dead gunmen sprawled on the floor.

The sheriff had actually been quite agreeable last night. He arrived just moments after the shooting and got the story directly from the barkeep. Then it was just a few words with the men in question, and the sheriff was satisfied that it was indeed self-defense. Five minutes later, the dead strangers were hauled away from the saloon and its patrons. The poker game was barely delayed at all.

The group took a different table than the one they occupied last night, choosing a nice spot by one of the smaller windows. As they seated themselves, the owner of the saloon, Mr. Wesley, tentatively greeted the men.

"Good morning,