The Blacksmith Read online

  The Blacksmith is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Bryan Salisbury

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or scanning into any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Meradith Kill | The Troy Book Makers

  Printed in the United States of America

  The Troy Book Makers • Troy, New York • thetroybookmakers.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61468-452-7 (Print)

  ISBN: 978-1-54394-787-8 (eBook)

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to my lovely and patient wife, Andrea, who I have always found a constant source of support. Her willingness to encourage me and all my endeavors has always been the rock on which I stand.

  Also, to Mrs. Johnson, my high school English teacher, who made me promise to write a novel someday.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Acknowledgment

  To Sue Petrie, who has been an invaluable source of information and steady guidance through the publishing process. She is a skilled editor with the wherewithal to let an author’s voice come through.

  Chapter 1

  Thinking. That’s what Blake Thorton did an awful lot of. Ever since leaving his family in New York, he had wandered and roamed to places that many men only dreamed of or read about in books. As his horse slowly walked down the dusty road, the rhythmic clopping of hooves helped to keep Blake’s mind moving, recalling experiences that made him smile, frown, and downright angry. Most were just memories, neither good nor bad, but in their own way pieced together the chart of his life.

  Blake’s mind was somewhere in the South Pacific with warm ocean breezes, sandy beaches and crystal blue water when he noticed something different in his horse’s gait.

  “Ah, dammit Bull, what have you gone and done to yourself now?” Blake asked.

  He was a big man, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips. He eased out of the saddle to examine what was going on with his horse. His horse was a Morgan, bred for endurance and the power needed for a hard day’s work. Blake named him Buliwyf for a Viking king he had once read about, and, as was the custom of the times, shortened his name to Bull.

  Bull was on the smallish side for a horse according to most westerners, but, from the first time he and Blake met, there was an immediate connection and both felt a kinship that could be difficult to explain to anybody who does not understand horses. He never let Blake down and Blake valued him far more than just about anything in his life. A lot of cowboys would laugh at this. They felt horses were a commodity, to be sold or traded, or worked until they were used up and discarded for another. But, the few who truly understood horses knew they were intelligent, loyal and many times the difference between life and death. Bull did seem to have developed a limp in his right front. Blake ran a firm but gentle hand down his shin, slightly massaging and feeling for warmth. He gently raised the hoof to discover that one of the shoes had worked its way loose and was hanging by just a couple of nails.

  “Well, that’s not good,” Blake said with a sigh. “We are going to have to find a place to get this fixed.” Normally Blake kept spare tools in his saddlebags to be able to fix this but, unfortunately, he had not been able to restock what he needed at the last town he was in. What he needed was a blacksmith, or a farm or ranch …. someplace that had the items he could make the repairs with. In the meantime, Blake took a knife from the sheath on his hip and worked the loose shoe off the rest of the way. Better no shoe than a loose one, he thought.

  “Well, old son, I guess we’re going to be walking for a while so let’s see what’s on up ahead.” Bull, who had been with Blake for a long time, shook his head almost as if he agreed with him, and then rubbed his head against Blake in an effort to get rid of the flies and sweat. “Leave it to you to make me walk,” Blake said. “You know how I hate to walk.” Bull just blew and pricked his ears looking forward up the trail as if to say, “Well, let’s get to it.”

  It was about mid-morning on the trail and there was not a cloud in the sky. Blake had drifted for some time and wasn’t exactly sure where he was. He had crossed the Mississippi River a while ago, heading west. He was just following his nose to nowhere in particular and not in any rush. The trail was fairly wide and not too stony, so Blake took his time, trying to be careful not to bruise the bottom of Bull’s foot because that could mean a great deal more walking for Blake. Scrub brush lined the trail on both sides with a few trees of good size that offered occasional shade, but the day was warm and pleasant. That “feel good” warmth that came after a hard winter was with the promise of milder more comfortable times ahead.

  Blake had enjoyed a great deal of solitude of late. Not that he didn’t care for people, it was just getting the chance to be able to get his head clear of some of his past. He had been born in upstate New York, brother to two older sisters and one older brother, with a set of twins, one boy and a girl, who came after him. His father owned a blacksmithing business which had always kept the family warm and fed. His mother was a task master, always keeping the children busy with work, her remedy for mischief. Though very tough, she could be equally as kind and loving. Blake always thought she was quicker to encourage with her hand than a kind word, but he never held that against her because he could be quite a handful sometimes.

  Blake’s father was thrilled whenever boys came along in the family because there would be help in the forge when they got old enough, and eventually, they could take over the business. Unfortunately for his father, Blake had little interest in blacksmithing, although he had a great talent for it and would use that talent to finish early with his tasks and sneak off on some young man’s adventure. The more work his father had given him, the faster he finished and the better he got.

  There was not a school where Blake grew up, but his mother held school at night after supper and taught all the children reading and writing, and his father taught them math. His father was known far and wide as a shrewd businessman and thought math was the most important skill to have so you didn’t get cheated.

  Blake was probably the best student among the children, and his mother always blamed his leaving on her teaching him to read. He was a voracious reader and read everything he could get his hands on. His favorites were sea stories, tales of adventure in faraway seas inhabited by pirates and warships in tropical settings. He knew he would go there someday, but would have to run away to do it. As he grew in size and strength, the pull of this high adventure became unbearable. The day after his sixteenth birthday, he left. He knew that it would hurt his mother and father but he felt deep inside him that he had to go. Being trapped in a forge, beating metal into submission was not ever going to satisfy
his lust for faraway lands.

  “Hopefully, we’ll find something up ahead, boy,” Blake said as he scratched behind Bull’s ears. “You get to rest for a spell and I’ll get a hot meal.” They started up the trail and had gone about half a mile when a lone figure stepped out about a hundred feet away. Bull stopped and snorted softly. “I see him, boy,” Blake said quietly. “What do you suppose he wants?”

  As they stepped closer, Blake could see a short man wearing some of the worst rags he had ever seen. The man was dirty with a sour look on his face and squinty eyes. He had a long beard that probably held many different types of vermin including lice, ticks and maybe a mouse or two. His right hand rested on the butt of a Colt Walker tucked in the belt around his waist. The gun seemed to have a lot of rust and dirt on it, more than the man himself, and did not look like it had been fired in a very long time. At twenty feet away, Blake could tell by the man’s odor that he hadn’t even had a fleeting acquaintance with soap and water for a year.

  “That there’s far enough,” the stranger growled. “This here is a stickup and I’ll thank you kindly for keeping your hand away from that pistol!”

  Amused by the man, Blake smiled at him. He always carried a Colt Peacemaker on his hip that was in immaculate condition but he felt no need to draw it at this time. “Yes, sir,” Blake replied.

  “We is going to make this simple,” snarled the stranger. “You give over your pistol, money and anything else that’s got value and I won’t blow a hole through your middle.”

  “No,” Blake said flatly.

  Flabbergasted, the stranger was taken back by Blake’s response.

  “What in tarnation is so hard to understand, you idjut?” he roared. “Do what I told you!”

  “No,” Blake said calmly.

  “Mister, you are wearin’ on my last good nerve. Just do it!” he barked.

  “Or?” Blake asked, smiling.

  “I’ll shoot you in your guts,” exclaimed the stranger his hand tightening on the grip of his pistol.

  “With what?’” Blake said.

  “What do you think? With this here pistol, you peckerwood.” No longer feeling he had control over the situation anymore, the stranger was trying to stand firm.

  “You pull the trigger on that thing you will likely blow your fool hand off,” Blake stated matter-of-factly.

  “It shoots just fine, mister,” the stranger replied slightly insulted.

  “Then you might as well get to it then,” Blake said trying to keep from laughing.

  The stranger blew an exasperated breath. “Well now you done it, mister. You forced me to play my ace in the hole.”

  “And that is?” Blake asked.

  “My friend is up in them bushes just spittin’ distance away, with a fine Greener shotgun.” Once again, the stranger seemed confident.

  Blake hadn’t expected that there might be two of them and took a quick glance around him to see if there was anyone around. The situation seemed ridiculous because if you’re going to hold someone up, you would come right out with a decent firearm. He called out, “Is there someone up in those bushes?”

  “Yup,” a small voice said.

  “Come out where I can see you.” Blake’s voice had a more commanding tone. “Now!”

  A faint rustling came from the bushes and out came a second man looking equally disheveled, very sheepish and, as Blake expected, his hands held no shotgun. His beard was slightly longer and darker than the first and his clothes were in worse condition.

  “What a fine pair of highwaymen,” Blake chuckled. “Whose bright idea was this?”

  “His,” the second man said, keeping eyes on the dirt ten feet in front of him.

  Irritated, the first man hissed, “Would have worked too if’n you could run a bluff, dummy. That’s why I’m the leader of this here outfit.”

  “I told him it weren’t gonna work,” the second man hissed right back trying to stand up for himself.

  “Do you two have names?” Blake asked.

  “I’m Avery and this here is Hap,” the first man stated. “We’re kin, but our daddy said if’n we was to use our last name he would hunt us down and whup us for bringing so much shame to the family.”

  “Can’t hardly blame him there,” Blake said. “So Avery, you’re the leader?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Avery stated proudly.

  “Well, Avery, it has been my experience that the man with the most intelligence should be the man in charge, and seeing how he said your plan wasn’t going to work, that’s you, Hap.” Hap picked up his head and looked around for a second with his eyes fixed on Blake. “And what’s more, Hap, when Avery gets one of his harebrained schemes, I want you to slap him on the back of his head to remind him of just who’s in charge.” Hap smiled broadly and stood up straighter. “Then Avery, I want you to say, I’m sorry, Hap, I’ll never do that again.” This made Hap smile even more through his crooked brown teeth and he gave a stern look at Avery.

  “The hell you say, mister” shouted Avery.

  Hap shot a glance at Blake and Blake looked at him as if to say, what are you waiting for? Hap struck Avery with enough force to knock Avery’s mangy hat into the dirt.

  “Ow, dammit, that hurt!” Avery yelled. He was not at all happy with the recent turn of events.

  “What do you say?” Blake asked.

  “No, goddammit, I won’t!” Avery screamed. Hap struck him again. “Quit it, asshole.”

  “Hap is in charge now, so just simmer down and accept it,” Blake said matter-of-factly.

  Avery’s range of emotions ran through him like a freight train. First anger, then disbelief, then he looked like he was going to cry. Finally, with a pouty look befitting a six-year-old, he said softly, “Sorry, Hap, I won’t do that again.”

  “There you go,” Blake said, pleased with the new hierarchy. Hap was pleased, too, but Blake had doubts the gang was in better hands.

  Chapter 2

  For some reason, Blake liked these two. He didn’t feel they were truly bad men, just down on their luck. He was in a quandary as to what to do with them so he stalled for time, thinking. He asked them, “Where’s the closest town?”

  Hap thought about it for a second and said, “MacIntyre is about two miles that away,” throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

  Blake said, “All right, I’m going to tell you two what we’re going to do. Seeing as you two smell so bad, you’re going to take me to that town. You’re going to walk ahead of me and you’re not going to try anything funny.”

  Avery had a worried look on his face and asked, “Are you going to take us to the sheriff and have us arrested?”

  “I’m pondering on it some, but if you two can behave yourself, there’s something I want to do. So, why don’t you two turn and get going and I’ll be upwind of you the whole time,” Blake replied.

  As they were walking, Blake considered turning them over to the sheriff but decided against it. Maybe these two just need a hand up. “What do you think, Bull?” Bull shook his head and Blake said, “Well, I’m going to try it anyway.”

  It was roughly two miles to town and Blake followed behind the two men, walking with Bull the whole way. As they crested over the rise of a small hill, Blake got his first look at MacIntyre. It was a simple little town with many false front buildings on the main street. Seemed like there were some nice houses with well-kept yards and, out in back of the main buildings, there were smaller houses that were not so well kept but still not ramshackle.

  As they neared the town, Blake hollered out to Hap and Avery, “Hold up there, let me catch up.” The two stopped with quizzical looks on their face and waited. When Blake got up to them he said, “You both pretty familiar with this town?” Whereas Hap replied, “We’ve been thrown out of that saloon a heap of times and spent some time in that jail yonder. Always for being drunk but not for robbing folks and such.”

  Blake asked, “You got a barber shop an
ywhere near here?”

  Avery replied, “There’s one next to the general mercantile. I know I smelled me some lilac water when I passed there.”

  “Do they have a bathtub?” Blake asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Avery. “Ain’t partial to them myself.”

  “Apparently,” Blake said. “Let’s go find out.”

  They walked down the street about a block and saw a sign for Dooley’s Mercantile. Right after that was a red, white and blue barber pole. Blake said, “There it is. In you go, boys.” He tied Bull to the hitching rail out front and scratched him behind the ears. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Bull hipshot his back leg and dropped his head slightly.

  It was a typical barber shop. One chair. The barber was sitting in it reading the newspaper, not very busy. He was a well-kept man with pomade in his hair, a thin mustache and a neatly starched white shirt. When they entered the barbershop, he looked up in horror at the ghastly sight of Hap and Avery. He looked at Blake and said, “May I help you gentlemen?”

  Blake, only slightly embarrassed by his company, asked the barber, “Would you happen to have bathtubs?”

  “Why, yes, sir, we do. Two real nice ones. Shipped in from St. Louis last year, and only the price of five cents per bath.”

  Avery blustered, “Ain’t taking no bath. Haven’t had one in over a year. Ain’t taking one now.”

  Blake looked at him firmly, “Would you rather have the sheriff smell you the way you are or fresh and clean?”

  Hap said, “Well, umm, I could do with a bath. Are you thinking of taking us to the sheriff?”

  Blake said, “No, I want to see how you clean up first, then I’ll decide.”

  Avery said, in a low voice, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt no one, but I just want you to know I’m against it.”

  The barber said, “If you’re intent on washing these two men, the charge will be ten cents because I’ll have to change the water.”