RDR: NO REGRETS - Chapter 346: On the Road (Patreon)

Ten days later.

Tall Trees, Manzanita Post.

Hidden deep in the forest, this trading post enjoyed a modest reputation, though few people knew much about it.

It was home to immigrants from Northern Europe. No one quite knew why they preferred to live so far into the woods. Perhaps the climate and surroundings reminded them of home.

One thing was certain, though. These northerners were excellent blacksmiths.

Their tools were known even in Blackwater for being well made, sturdy, long-lasting, and above all, inexpensive.

People willingly traveled out of their way to buy hammers, nails, daggers, and even fighting knives from them.

Over time, the little post had grown into a thriving place of trade. The residents even opened a small saloon, serving homemade liquor and whatever game they had hunted.

It was already mid-November, and winter had arrived. Even the deep forest could not escape the cold winds blowing down from the north.

The once-green trees were beginning to wither. Fallen leaves blanketed the ground like a thick carpet.

The saloon was especially busy today. Although it was only noon, a crowd of hunters and laborers from the area had already gathered inside, filling the little room with noise.

They had come to drink. Supplies at the trading post had never been plentiful, and now the owner had been forced to make an emergency trip to Blackwater for more liquor just to satisfy his thirsty customers.

The food was whatever could be scraped together: a couple of pieces of blackened roast meat, a chunk of bread hard as stone, and, at best, a bowl of vegetable stew to fill the stomach.

Fortunately, these hunters and laborers were not fussy. A place serving meat and liquor was good enough for them.

It would have been better still if the owner had charged a little less.

The wind gradually picked up, sweeping dead leaves into the air. A few even blew into the saloon, carrying away some of its welcome warmth.

A man sitting by the door watched a leaf settle into his cup of liquor. Frowning, he set the cup down and rose to shut the door.

Before he could close it, a large hand caught the door and held it open.

He looked up to find a grim-faced cowboy standing on the threshold.

“I thought you were still open.”

The newcomer raised his head, revealing a weather-beaten face. “Or am I not welcome?”

He looked exhausted, with his clothes thickly coated in road dust. Two revolvers hung at his hips, and a rifle rested across his back. He clearly spent much of his life traveling.

He was either a wandering gunslinger or a bounty hunter. Ordinary hunters knew better than to provoke men like that. There was no telling what trouble such outlaws might bring.

“I imagine the owner welcomes anyone willing to pay.”

The man shrugged and stepped aside to let Arthur through. “Just shut the door, unless you want a mouthful of dust with your drink.”

“Of course.”

Arthur stepped inside, closed the door, and surveyed the saloon.

It was his first visit. He had not expected to find a drinking establishment so deep in the forest.

Usually, a saloon hidden in a place like this had some shady business going on, whether robbing travelers, selling rumors, or dealing on the black market.

This one, however, seemed perfectly ordinary.

It looked like any other saloon in the West. Arthur could only marvel at how much more peaceful things had become.

Ten years earlier, some hotheaded fool would probably have started a fight by now.

He removed his hat, brushed away the dust, and headed toward the bar with a wry smile.

“Something to drink and something to eat.” He tossed a few bills onto the counter.

The owner had been about to tell him there was no room. At the sight of the money, though, he found a place for his generous customer.

A stool was brought out from the kitchen. Arthur sat at the end of the broad wooden counter, with enough space to be comfortable.

His meal arrived quickly: a slab of meat, blackened beyond recognition, and a slice of dark bread. Arthur took a bite. His teeth were going to have a hard time with this.

The stew was better, at least. There were few potatoes or vegetables, but plenty of broth.

Rather than break his teeth on the bread and meat, Arthur drew his knife, cut both into small pieces, and dropped them into the stew.

The hard bread and stringy meat slowly absorbed the broth. Arthur lifted the bowl and ate noisily.

The liquor was no better than the food. Arthur frowned after a sip. It tasted sour enough to make him wonder whether the owner had added vinegar.

Still, at least he had eaten his fill.

He had traveled nearly nonstop for seven or eight days and had gone a full day and night without food.

He lit a cigarette and slipped back into his thoughts.

Ever since hearing of Dutch’s death, Arthur had spent more and more time wondering what his life had meant.

He went over memories from childhood onward, again and again, hoping the recollections might ease the pain.

After resting for two or three days, he had said goodbye to Hamish and set out alone in search of Hosea.

Sean had wanted to come, but Arthur had refused.

Arthur spent the whole night talking with Sean and Karen before finally persuading them to settle somewhere safe and try to live peacefully.

Whatever lay ahead, revenge or otherwise, Arthur believed it was for him to face alone.

Sean and Karen were young, with relatively small bounties on their heads. If they kept out of trouble, no one would go out of their way to hunt them.

Dutch used to say revenge was a luxury they could not afford. Arthur believed those words applied to Sean and Karen.

But as for himself...

He could not simply overlook Dutch’s death and carry on living as before.

First, though, he had to find Hosea and the others.

If they were alive, Arthur would help Hosea settle somewhere safe before going to seek revenge alone.

If Hosea was dead, Arthur would have one more death to avenge.

He had no idea where Hosea had gone or what had happened to him. But Stephen had left with Hosea, and Arthur thought they might have gone to Strawberry.

Karen’s gunshot wound in the abdomen was still healing. She lacked Stephen’s remarkable constitution and would need at least another month to recover.

Arthur left the couple in Hamish’s care. The kind old veteran readily agreed, provided Sean helped him with chores.

That was fine. A young man like Sean could stand to do more work.

After saying his goodbyes to the couple and Hamish, Arthur mounted up and rode off alone.

He followed the Ambarino state line, skirted the snowy mountains, then headed west past the northern side of Valentine toward Strawberry.

He dearly hoped to hear news of Hosea and the others there.

Unfortunately, he found nothing. Even the land Stephen had bought was already in someone else’s hands.

He thought of asking Sheriff Sam, only to find that the town had a new sheriff.

Sam had become mayor, and a young man surnamed Edward was now the sheriff.

Arthur had not forgotten that he himself had led the attack on the Edward family’s estate and wiped out the household. How could another member of that family be sheriff now?

It was a complicated situation, one Arthur could make little sense of.

But he was now certain Stephen and the others had not come to Strawberry.

Just when he was at a loss, an old newspaper caught his eye.

He found it in a General Store. The owner liked to cut out odd news stories and paste them into a scrapbook.

Strange hobby or not, it had done Arthur a tremendous favor.

The article reported that a smuggling vessel had been spotted by a patrol on the water and sunk off the New Austin shore. The date matched. Arthur was certain it was the very ship he and Stephen had captured.

That meant Hosea, Stephen, and the others had almost certainly ended up in New Austin.

Even a slender hope was better than none. Arthur gathered his things and set off again.

The problem was that getting to New Austin meant passing through the territory around Blackwater.

Thinking of Blackwater brought a pang of grief.

Ever since that disastrous job there, everything seemed to have gone wrong.

Arthur often wondered whether things might have turned out differently if they had never attempted that robbery.

There was no way to undo the past, though, and the dead could not come back. Arthur knew that better than anyone.

He did not know whether Blackwater lawmen were still searching for them. Rather than risk the main road, he detoured west toward Lake Owanjila and followed a trail into Tall Trees.

He doubted many lawmen would venture deep into those woods to patrol.

Hiding by day and traveling by night, he took three full days to reach the trading post. He had brought little food, and by yesterday morning it was gone.

If he had not found this saloon, he would have risked venturing closer to Blackwater just to buy something to eat.

He had thought about hunting, but this was hardly the time for a wilderness survival expedition.

After draining the last of his liquor, Arthur placed two more bills on the bar.

“Say, heard any interesting news lately?”

A saloon was always one of the best places to gather information. Arthur had known that since his earliest days roaming the West.

Even here, so far from anywhere, customers came and went. Someone might know something useful.

The owner glanced sideways at the money. “This isn’t an information office.”

“But you don’t mind a few dollars, do you?”

A faint smile crossed Arthur’s tired face. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m just looking for a job that pays. It’s getting harder to make an honest living these days.”

The owner had seen enough of the world to recognize a man who lived by his gun.

The dangerous air about Arthur also made it plain he was no ordinary law-abiding traveler.

But what did that matter? As long as the stranger left his saloon alone, the owner did not care.

“Guns don’t count for as much these days as they once did.”

The owner snorted. “There’s always someone faster and more accurate than you, after all.”

“I’ll worry about that when I have to.”

Arthur shrugged and pushed the bills closer. “Come on. For a few dollars, tell me something interesting.”

“Any new gangs around? Any easy marks worth knowing about?”

The owner took the money and dropped it into the drawer beneath the counter.

Then he turned, fetched a bottle of beer, and set it before Arthur.

“On the house.”

A bottle of beer was worth little, and the owner did not want a passing outlaw to take an interest in robbing his establishment.

It was not that he was afraid. Most of the people at Manzanita Post were fellow northerners, and those men were born fighters.

Still, who actually wanted a fight?

“Ahem.”

The owner cleared his throat and said, “Lately, the Crocodile Gang from the east has been fighting the Del Lobo Gang in New Austin.”

“No one seems to know why. The Crocodile Gang says the Del Lobos betrayed them, and the Del Lobos say exactly the opposite. They’ve been tearing each other apart near the Montana River. Plenty of men have died.”

Arthur frowned. Gang fights were hardly unusual.

Yet things had changed. These days, even a gang that grew a little too powerful could draw the authorities’ attention, never mind two gangs waging open war.

He had not heard of such a large clash between gangs in a long time.

“Nobody stepping in? The police, the Pinkertons, anyone in the government?”

“Ha! They’d love to watch the two gangs wipe each other out. Why interfere?”

The owner laughed. “I’d wager they’re waiting for the two gangs to finish fighting before showing up to collect their share.”

“I also hear the Crocodile Gang has connections in Blackwater. They may even have received some help.”

“Help?”

Arthur was intrigued. What kind of help would a criminal gang get from the authorities? Were the lawmen actually supporting them?

“How would I know? I’m only a saloon owner.”

“One last question, then. What do you know about New Austin?”

At last, Arthur was asking what he had wanted to know all along.

“New Austin?”

The owner shook his head. “It’s been anything but quiet lately. Even hunters and bounty hunters have been avoiding the place, never mind ordinary people.”

He looked Arthur up and down. “For a fellow like you, though, it might be just the place.”

“Then tell me about it. You’ve got me curious.”

Arthur knew that a troubled place was more likely to shelter Hosea and the others.

Given the gang’s way of life, a peaceful town could actually be the most dangerous place to hide.

The owner smiled and opened his mouth to answer, but the door suddenly flew open.

A blast of cold wind sent dead leaves whirling inside, drawing angry curses from several customers.

Arthur turned with a frown. A huge Black man, seemingly broader than the doorway itself, was striding in.

“Charles! What the hell are you doing here?”