The Posse

Finding my Inner Louis L'Amour for this one

Image created by the Substack AI photo generator

The small cloud of dust on the distant horizon meant only one thing to him. The posse or friends of Gil Franks were on their way. The hot Arizona sun beat down on his shirtless, sweaty torso, unrelenting in it’s heat – just like those riders. Regardless of where he rode or how far he went, they always seemed to find him. He leaned forward on the shovel, watching for the riders to become more defined in the dust. How many would there be this time?

His eyes went to the gate where his gun belt, canteen and shirt hung over a post. Twenty feet away. His horse was another ten feet away, tethered in the shade. His Winchester rifle was in the scabbard there. How many times had he gone through this over the years? Looking over his shoulder, waiting to see how many were in the approaching group, gauging the distance to his guns or, if he opted for flight instead of fight, how fast he could be in the saddle and how close was an escape route?

Dust kicked up under his boots as he left the shovel stuck in the ground and walked toward the gate. Spurs jingled softly, a circling crow cawed, his horse snorted softly. For Will Landon, this was now a part of his life, part of the ebb and flow of his very existence. As he pulled his shirt on and buttoned it up, he could remember almost every time that his fear had lead to him saddle up and spur his mount toward some distant hills or a deep, brush choked ravine that would hide him from searching eyes. So many years, so many runs. There had been a few dust ups when he had chosen to stand his ground but, thinking back, he wasn’t even sure those had anything to do with the posse charging fast from the distant horizon.

Will swung his gun belt around his waist and buckled it up, tying the bottom of the holster to his leg with the leather strings. He lifted the Colt from it’s holster and spun the cylinder, making sure all six chambers were filled. His eyes went to the horizon. Shadowy figures seemed to move within the cloud of dust but they were still too indistinct to weight the odds. One thing was for sure, a betting man would not be choosing him in this potential shootout. Wild Bill Hickok himself would be no match for these guys in a stand up fight.

He gathered his canteen and walked to his sorrel gelding. He hung the canteen from the saddle horn and, placing his hand on the big horse’s rear, he walked around to the left side, where the rifle waited in it’s scabbard. With the smell of dust, horseflesh, and tack leather in his nostrils, he crossed his arms on the saddle, his blue eyes intent on the cloud of dust and the shadow figures riding within it. He eyed the shovel sticking out of the partially dug post hole and lamented that Old Man Johnson would have to find someone else to finish the job. Damn shame. He had been riding for the Circle J brand for nearly six months and that was like an eternity to a saddle tramp like him.

******************************************************

Funny, he could barely remember the romantic and sensuous moments that had led up to that fateful night ten years ago. Long moonlit walks with a beautiful lady, soft kisses, quiet conversations. In his youthful indiscretion, her marital status had not infringed on his mind or his physical desires until reality had leaped out of the darkness with a raging anger and a pointed gun. Gil Franks was supposed to be on a cattle drive but suddenly there he was. Her laughter had become a scream and her husband’s gun had spat fire and lead in the darkness.

Will Landon had pushed his lover to the ground and his right hand had moved with practiced speed. The other man had fired too quick in his anger and passion. Will’s Colt had cleared leather without thought and the palm of his left hand fanned the hammer three times. The other man jerked with the impact of each bullet, his own last shot going off into the starless night skies. His lover’s body was crumbled at his feet, her husband’s shot having found a mark after all. Gil Franks was a dark mass about fifteen feet away and the gun in Will Landon’s hand felt like an anvil in his hand.

*******************************************************

Will squinted into the sun, dropping like a red ball behind the oncoming riders. It was time for him to leave, before the past caught up to him. Another job left unfinished because of a past that would never let him go free. Will lifted his left foot into the stirrup as he pulled the reins free. Swinging onto the back of his horse, he remembered again that Bible in his saddlebags, the Good Book that promised the forgiveness of sin for all those that accepted Him. There had been an old country church with an aging pastor a few years ago where he had fallen to his knees and tearfully accepted the gift of salvation but he kept running because the Heavenly promise was not one he could embrace yet on this earth.

Will Landon, in his calmer moments, knew that the distant “posse” would never catch him. It never had. Perhaps it was not out of the realm of possibility that there was a real posse out there but he had never seen it. Gil Franks had been a rancher but was far from being a well liked man and folks would have blamed the wife as much they did Will. Still, somewhere there could be a man with a badge who wasn’t willing to accept the self defense claim without a trial.

Will turned in the saddle to look back one more time, staring back at the posse of his Conscience, a posse that would not recognize his salvation. Lead by shadowy figures known as Fear and Regret they charged through his mind with thundering hooves and eyes filled with hate. After all of these years, Will had no idea who to turn himself in to, whom to apologize to, or where to turn. He had given himself to the Lord for the next life but, for now, his world was waking up in a cold sweat and finding a way to outrace that distant posse, always out there on the fringes of his mind.