Guns and Horses: A Collection of Northern Short Stories

By Simon Tourigny

From the Arctic tundra to the forested hills of the Klondike Plateau, this collection of Northern Short Stories hurls the reader into a maelstrom of wilderness adventure and survival. From a brutal fight to the death with the wolves and bears to the streets and saloons of scattered frontier towns slinging guns with outlaws and falling in love with beautiful women.

From the early explorers to modern times, driving dog teams of half wild huskies across the windblown wastelands and riding in the saddle with a Winchester under one leg, Simon Tourigny’s raw, rough characters roam the northern wilderness, hunting, hiding, fighting, and surviving in a land of rugged mountains, swift glacial rivers, and trackless forests.

Guns and Horses will take you to the razor edge of death and back again in time for tea and bannock. A blend of Jack London and Louis L’Amour with a dash of Tarantino and his own unique flair, this collection of stories will inspire you to keep going to the final, bitter end.

After all, what is life without love? While there is love there is hope, and while there is hope there is a chance...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781647508067

Simon Tourigny

Simon Tourigny was born and raised in England. At 19, he moved to Canada where he built a log cabin in the wilderness, not far from where Jack London spent his winter in the Klondike. He lives in the bush with his team of Greenland huskies, hunting, trapping and exploring the wilderness.

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About the Author

Simon Tourigny was born and raised in England. At 19, he moved to Canada where he built a log cabin in the wilderness, not far from where Jack London spent his winter in the Klondike.

He lives in the bush with his team of Greenland huskies, hunting, trapping and exploring the wilderness.

Dedication

For Emma, my beautiful blonde friend

Copyright Information ©

Simon Tourigny 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloguing-in-Publication data

Tourigny, Simon

Guns and Horses

Artwork provided by RJ

ISBN 9781647508050 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647508067 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911888

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Kill or Be Killed

We was all sittin’ at the bar drinkin’ bourbon an’ beer when Cowboy Joe came bustin’ in through the bat wing saloon doors, all sweated up and wild eyed. His eyes quickly swept the room, then lit on me. He came right over.

Johnny, he said hoarsely. Come quick, I need your help! Young Billy Friar’s been mauled by a bear out on the claim at Two Bar creek! I couldn’t do nothin’, I swear! He’d a done us both in! I jumped in the boat an’ come to town as fast as I could!

Frank Mirsky beside me waved for a drink real quick. The bartender set a double rye on the bar in front of Cowboy who tossed it off straight away. He gasped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sat down hard on a stool.

Me, I just sat there an’ waited for that initial hullabaloo to quiet some, then turned to Cowboy an’ said slow an’ calm like. Was it a black or grizz?

Cowboy Joe was just white, he looked real shook up.

It were a grizzly, the words spilled from his mouth. Damn it, Johnny, it was a fuckin’ eight hundred pound boar, mean as hell an’ huntin’ trouble! He put a hand over his face.

Pulling my hat down low over my eyes, I pushed back from the bar and stood.

Frank, Cowboy, I said to the two men beside me. We’ll take my boat. My .308’s in the truck, take that an’ whatever else you boys got. I turned and looked at Cowboy Joe from beneath the brim of my hat. You’ll show us where it all happened. We’re gonna hunt that grizzly down an’ save young Billy, if he’s made it that long.

Leaving our half-finished drinks on the bar, we all stepped out into the hot sun and dust. Spiky green hills rose above the false fronted buildings around us. It was June and this was Dawson city, the sun wouldn’t be setting for another six weeks yet, we were that far north.

Frank took the .308 from the truck. Me, I picked up my .30-30 Winchester, checked the clip and put a few extra bullets in the pocket of my jeans.

There were three of us loaded in that boat when I pushed off from the shores of Dawson and pulled the motor over, I hoped there would be four on the way back. She coughed an’ spluttered, then roared as I turned the nose of my sixteen foot, deep hulled aluminum boat into the current and started her up the river.

We were all tense and on edge. Cowboy was the quietest, he knew what he was headin’ back into. Me, I sat with the tiller in one hand, the .30-30 propped up in the other, jaw set grimly and tryin’ to picture the scene as it might be upon landing at the Two Bar.

Low hills and bare cliffs fringed with dark, jagged spruce trees rose up before us and folded away behind as we sped up the river past islands of bushy poplars and sandbars littered with driftwood.

It was around midnight by the time we hove in around the log jam at the base of Two Bar Creek, the horizon streaked orange with the low sun. I cut the motor and put to shore near the mouth. Frank Mirsky jumped out, the .308 slung across his back, and tied us off to a drift log. Nothing moved and all was still and quiet.

None of us were in a hurry to charge up the bank into the spruce trees that loomed above us, dark and forbidding. I shucked the Winchester, the sound echoing loudly across the silent valley.

Where was Billy at when the grizz attacked? I murmured to Cowboy, eyeing the jagged tree line along the bank.

Cowboy Joe nodded up the beach. Over yonder by the creek. We was crouched over pannin’ when he came in, all teeth an’ claws. We never heard nothin’.

Alright now boys, I said to ’em in a low voice. Real easy like, we’re goin’ to walk over to the creek there an’ take a look. Keep your eyes an’ ears open, an’ if you see anythin’ big an’ furry, you just fill it with lead.

We began to creep then, slowly up the beach and into the timber, all of us wincing at the crunching of gravel beneath our boots. I was first into the timber, rifle held high an’ eyes straining through the twilight gloom.

I hissed at Cowboy, Where?

He gestured ahead some, a sickened look on his face. Nothing moved in the gloom under the dark spruce trees. Suddenly, I saw somethin’ out of place slightly ahead of us, an’ to the right. I waved the mosquitoes off my face and glanced back at my companions. There was a sheen of sweat on both their faces, mine included, and their eyes were wide an’ alert.

Swallowing, I walked forwards, real cautiously. My heart leaped as I heard a groan and the thing on the ground moved.

Good god, it’s Billy!

I moved swiftly forwards. Crouching, I turned Billy over. I recoiled with horror at the sight of his face, all mangled an’ bloody. Blood burbled from his mouth an’ nose as he coughed and tried to speak, eyes blinking furiously. I straightened up quickly, turning to Frank Mirsky an’ Cowboy Joe.

Frank, Cowboy, Billy needs a doctor, and fast! You boys take the boat an’ Billy an’ light out for town. You get him to a doctor right fast or he’s gonna die, then you come back for me.

Johnny, no… Joe started to protest. We got Billy, now let’s get outta here. You can’t go after that grizzly alone!

I shook my head. No. That grizzly done Billy in, he’s only goin’ to do it again. It could be any one of us the next time. I’m stayin’ an’ gettin’ the job done, now get Billy an’ get outta here!

I peered nervously around at the dark cathedral of spruce trees that surrounded us. The boys didn’t argue this time. They picked up young Billy, gently, an’ carried him down to the river.

Last I heard was Cowboy murmuring, It’ll be alright, Billy, you just hang in there. Then the motor roaring as they all sped off down the river, leavin’ me alone in the twilight gloom beneath the dark spruce trees.

Now my senses were doubly alert. I could hear nothin’ but the beating of my heart an’ the whine of mosquitoes clouding about my face. That grizz was out there, I knew. No doubt somewhere close by.

I crouched and inspected the loamy ground, littered with dead leaves and twigs. It was apparent where Billy had been dragged a ways through the bush by the grizzly. Earth and leaves had been disturbed and despite the dusky light, I could see spots of blood.

Wiping my palms on my thighs, I gripped the Winchester and began to follow the tracks left by that big grizzly. One thought persisted in my mind. Why had the bear left Billy as we’d found him? Maybe we’d actually disturbed him off the kid. And that meant he was close. Real close.

With that thought in my mind, I pushed on through the bushes, tracking that grizzly away from the creek. I was aware of every rustle I made as I moved through the bush. Dry branches of spruce trees scratched across my shirt and thorny rose bushes caught at my jeans.

The further I pushed into the dense thicket of spruce trees an’ willows, the more nervous I became. Though I hated to admit it, that bear had me on edge somethin’ fierce. I felt sorry for young Billy, I shuddered to think what he’d just been through. The sight of someone who’s been mauled by a bear ain’t somethin’ you really want to see again, believe me.

I paused, crouching among the thickets, pushed back my hat and waved the mosquitoes off my face. Sweat was pouring down my face and my shirt was stuck to my back. I wiped my forehead with a sleeve an’ adjusted my grip on the .30-30. I swore under my breath, I was nervous all right. Once a bear starts attacking an’ gets a taste for human blood, it never stops after the first one. Then it turns into a man hunter. It was hunt or be hunted. Kill or be killed. That was why I was here right now. Somebody had to do it.

The tracks were circling around, doubling back toward the creek. Some sense warned me, and I knew suddenly that he was close. Out of the gray gloom before me, the unmistakable hump backed form of a bear bled into view between the straight spruce trunks an’ rose bushes. Cold fear shot up my spine an’ my mouth went suddenly dry. I froze an’ brought the rifle quickly up to my shoulder. I could feel the rough bark of the spruce tree beside me, pressed against my bare cheek.

I heard a deep snort and the bear moved, turning toward me. My heart seized as brush crashed and I fired instinctively. The rifle crashed and kicked against my shoulder. I levered the action as fast as I could and fired another two shots one after the other. Gun smoke filled my nostrils.

I was pressed up, hard against that tree, ears ringing, eyes wide and knuckles white from grippin’ the rifle. Nothing moved except the gentle trembling of the bushes ahead of me where I had last seen the bear. He was nowhere to be seen. I strained my eyes through the twilight gloom, shaking my head to rid my ears of that ringing. Had I killed it? It’s the bears you think are dead, that are the ones that kill you. Now I had to go forwards and find out.

Levering the action and ejecting a spent cartridge, I slid a fresh round into the chamber. Sweat was just pouring down my face and dripping underneath my shirt. Mosquitoes whined about my face as I began to inch forwards, rifle held high, finger pressed tightly on the trigger.

My mouth was dry and I was very thirsty. Cautiously, I parted the brush with the barrel of the gun and peered into the bushes. The shrubbery was flattened and a clear trail cut through the undergrowth away from me. The bear was gone. Swearing, heart beating solidly in my chest I crouched and inspected the ground. I found blood splattered heavily on the grass and moss. I had shot that grizzly and wounded it.

Now I had to track a wounded grizzly through the bush in the middle of the night, alone. I swore viciously and wiped the sweat off my brow with my sleeve, crouched on my haunches among the thorny rose bushes.

I stayed there for a few minutes, steeling myself for what was to come next. Standing again, I began to walk forwards, real slow an’ cautious. Maybe the bear was just up ahead where it had fallen an’ died. Or maybe it was lying in wait for me, trapped and unable to walk, preparing to defend itself against its pursuer.

I pushed on through the rose bushes and spruce trees, aware of every sound, eyes darting to and fro, expecting that grizzly to come chargin’ out of the trees at me any second. Everything in me wanted to turn around and head back out onto the open riverbank and wait for my friends, but I ignored it. It was the longest walk of my life an’ I just wanted it done.

Suddenly, I got my wish. The brush ahead of me trembled slightly. I was highly alert for any sound or movement, an’ this slight shiver among the bushes fifty feet ahead tipped me off.

Adrenaline seared through my veins, imploding my brain as the brush parted ahead of me and my vision was filled with eight hundred pounds of raw savagery and grizzly flesh flattening bushes as it hurtled toward me. I threw the rifle up to my shoulder and in the same instant fired, levering the action to fire again.

I never got the chance for that second shot. I was engulfed in animal stench and rough fur. I yelled instinctively, thrusting the rifle with both hands hard into the bear’s throat as I was hurled backwards under its weight.

Screaming in a fit of mad fear, I somehow managed to claw the knife from its sheath into my hand and I found myself stabbing that grizzly repeatedly in the neck. Its full weight lay on top of me, pinning me to the ground, nostrils filled with the brutal stink of raw wildness. It simply lay there on top of me.

My heart was beating somethin’ fierce in my chest, blood pounding through my veins. Suddenly I realized that the bear was dead. It was simple. If I was not dead, then the bear must be.

Almost choking with relief, I managed to push and wriggle out from underneath the dead bulk of that huge grizzly. I mean it was really fucking big! I stood bent double, hands on my knees, staring down at that grizzly.

Its head was the size of my upper body, its claws were six inches long. One bite or swipe from those paws would have broken my neck in an instant. It was then that I saw what had killed it. That last shot of mine as it had come charging out of the trees at me had gone right through one eye, killing it instantly. I swore under my breath. There had been no margin on either side. I had saved my own life within a millimeter.

Well, once I’d quit shakin’ so bad that I could handle a knife, I set to skinning that monster grizz out, teeth, claws an’ all. I wanted somethin’ to remember this by. Somethin’ to remind me how close we all are to death at any given moment on this earth, especially in the north. I packed the hide down to the beach to wait for Frank Mirsky and Cowboy Joe.

I had a fire going down on the beach and was sat on a drift log, legs apart, elbows on knees when the boys showed up a little later. Their eyes were wide as they cut the motor an’ drifted in, staring at that huge grizzly hide that I had laid out flat on the gravel beside me, one eye socket empty an’ stained with blood.

How’s Billy? I asked when they’d landed.

Frank spat and shifted his feet. He’ll make it, he said grimly. But he’s goin’ to hate bears for the rest of his life.

Tooli’s Revenge

He woke up on the ground, head splitting with pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. Groaning, he sat up slowly, feeling gingerly of his head. His hair was caked and matted with frozen blood. Glancing down at the snow beneath him, he saw it stained red where he had lain.

His skull lanced with pain and his left shoulder was on fire. He was very cold.

His eyes swam as he staggered drunkenly to his feet and he nearly blacked out again. He pulled his caribou fur parka tighter about him, pulling the hood over his bare head. A biting wind blew off the tundra, stars shimmering brightly in the dark sky, a half-moon hanging low over the horizon.

His hands felt raw. Tooli glanced down. His bare fingers were stiff and frozen. Quickly, he cast about and found his mitts, frozen next to where he’d been lying in the snow. He must have been there for some time. The snow had melted and frozen hard where his body had lain.

Thrusting his freezing hands under his arms to warm them, Tooli crouched on the snow, blinking and trying to focus. He remembered shadowy figures. A band of white men. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly, he was frightened. Memories surged back into his befuddled brain. Where was his wife? He stood quickly, and nearly fell over again with pain. The dizziness subsided and, pulling on his mitts, he staggered to the skin tent flapping in the wind, dark spires of spruce raking the starry sky behind.

He yelled his wife’s name, Anik!

The tent stood cold and empty, the wind keening across the barren landscape.

They had taken his wife and left him for dead.

Tooli fell to his knees, a howl of anguish ripping from his lungs as he turned his face up to the heavens. His shoulder burned, and his head split sickeningly with pain but it was nothing to the pain in his heart.

Standing, he fell, staggering into the tent. There was a little wood, the ashes still held a few embers. Piling twigs on the fire, he blew flame to life and added more fuel. His left arm was burning at the shoulder. Peeling back his caribou skin parka, he found blood soaked into his wool undershirt, a ragged hole torn in his flesh, just below the collar bone.

They had shot him, missing his heart by several inches and they had beaten him over the head with something blunt and hard. He was lucky to be alive.

Painfully and with care, Tooli heated water in a copper pot and bathed the wound, sucking air sharply as he dabbed it with the wet cloth.

He flexed his left arm. It was stiff, but he could move it. Bandaging his shoulder, he shrugged painfully back into his parka. He felt nauseous and his head ached. Blinking in the light of the fire, he stood carefully, waiting for the dizziness to pass, pulled on his mitts then stumbled back out into the night.

Faint streamers of northern lights were flickering in the starry sky. The land rolled empty to the horizon, shining silver in the moonlight, dark clusters of spruce trees pointed sharply at the sky here and there. Rising low behind the tent, white, bare mountains thrust jagged teeth upwards between dark spires of spruce.

Tramping a circle through the snow about camp, he began searching for tracks. He found one trail where the white men had come, another leading off where they had gone. Inside, he was coldly furious. They had beaten and shot him, kidnapped his wife and left him for dead in the snow. He would make them pay.

They had left his dogs, their dark, shaggy forms silhouetted against the snow as they whined anxiously, watching him move around.

Tooli’s jaw was set as he went in the tent and came out with his rifle. He smiled grimly. They had not seen or taken what they thought they didn’t need. They had seen only his beautiful wife and a lone Indian in their way.

Breaking the toboggan from the drifted snow, he began catching up the dogs and throwing them into harness. He had a team of eight big huskies, known to many around for their exceptional speed and endurance. Moreover, they liked to run.

With his Winchester in a skin boot in the basket of the sled, he gripped the handle bars with mitted hands and shouted to the dogs. With a howl, the dogs strained forwards eagerly in their harnesses, shoulders humping and