The Widow Nancy Buck

It's the old plot of a rich man trying to kill or move an old woman from her ranch, with many new twists and turns. Unlike most widows, this old woman (70 years old) is as hard as granite, with little give.

 

The Widow Nancy Buck

 

© 2008 by W. R. Benton and Dahlia Patton

 

No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the authors and/or the publisher.  This is the work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

THIS BOOK IS IN ROUGH DRAFT FORMAT AND NOT INTENDED FOR REPRODUCTION AT THIS TIME.

CHAPTER 1 

The old woman was sitting in her rocking chair working on a bushel of snap beans when the three riders rode up to her porch.  Not looking up, she asked, "What the hell do ya want now, Clemens?"

            "Ya know what we want old woman!" Clemens snapped with anger from astride his horse.

            Nancy knew Clemens as a filthy four flusher and she had little time for the man.  He was huge, maybe six feet six, 250 pounds, and wore his red hair long, as he did his nasty beard.

            "Ya ain't gettin' it and I told ya that before.  My answer is still no," Nancy said and smiled as she glanced down at her cocked shotgun.  She'd seen them riding toward her place a good half an hour before they arrived.   They were all three hired guns and she had little use for men who sold their iron to the man with the most money.

            One of the men made a move for his pistol, but her shotgun came up and she blasted him to hell and back.   Blown hard from his horse, he landed in the hard packed soil of the barnyard, and began screaming in anguish.

            "Any of ya move and ya'll join that jasper on the ground.  I still got a load in the other barrel."

            "What 'bout Frank?" Clemens asked as he met the old woman's cold gray eyes.

            "If-un that's the name of the jasper on the ground there, he's dead, or will be in a few minutes.  See, I rarely miss what I shoot at and I was surely shootin' at 'em.  Just leave 'em be and I'll see he get buried, but it won't be no Christian buryin'."

            "You're a hard old coot of a woman."  The unknown rider beside Clemens said.

            "Son, ten years ago, I would have just pulled his a*s from his hoss and beat 'em some, but I ain't as young as I used to be.  I find it easier and faster to use old Betsy here come late, she saves me a lot of time.  I fig'ered I'd have to kill 'em sooner or later and it mighten as well be sooner."

            "We're leavin', Misses Buck, be we'll be back."

            "Clemens, a word of advice heah, bring some real men with ya next time.  Oh, and the next time ya come they'll be no more talkin', 'cause I grow tired of it.  I'll shoot on sight and I'll aim to kill.  Now get!"

            The man beside Clemens laughed, but the big man asked as he looked around, "Where's that son of yours?"

            "He's 'round heah some place, but I don't need his hep to handle my small problems."

            At that moment a tall man wearing blond hair and beard, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, stepped from the barn and said, "I'm here, ma, if ya need me."

            "I don't need your help, Isaac.  Not with a small bunch of no-accounts like these."

            A large wolf of a dog stood by his side, as Isaac raised his old Sharps rifle and said, "Ma meant what she said Clemens—so get!"  The animal beside him gave a low growl in warning.

            Clemens didn't reply, but he did ride from the farm.

            Walking to the porch, Isaac placed his right boot on the top step, leaned forward and asked, "He back for the same reason as before?"

            "Yep, tryin' to talk me out of this place, but he'll not get 'er.  Not as long as I still breathe, he won't."

            Nodding toward the fallen man, Isaac asked, "Who's he dead jasper?"

            "I ain't got a name fer 'em, 'cept Frank, so we'll just plant 'em under the name of Slow.  I think Frank Slow sounds like a good name for a man like him. Put on the marker he was kilt by a seventy year old woman with white hair."

"Ma, I'm worried about all the hired thugs ridin' 'round here come late."

"They ain't much, not like back in the old days anyway.  Today all these fellers are out lookin' for big names for they selves and they're mostly just talk.  Iffen your pa was still alive, he'd clear 'em all out pronto."

Isaac cleared his throat, shook his head, and said, "Ma, it ain't like it used to be, when a man made his own law.  Now days we got law and order.  Heck, they pay Marshal Davis to keep the peace 'round here."

The old woman leaned her shotgun against the side of the house and then stood.  Leaning over the railing, she sent a long brown stream of chewing tobacco juice to the dirt before she said, "Heck fire, son, Davis is on the take or cain't ya see that?  Every time somebody has a problem, his excuses are he ain't got the time to look into right then or he'll promise to look into it later.  And, he never does a blamed thing."

"He's got a busy job, ma."

"Hogwash!  He's too damned busy a-drinkin' beer at the saloon to take the time to do his job, that's his problem."

Shrugging his shoulders, Isaac changed the subject, "What's for dinner tonight."

Ma grinned, sat back down in her rocker, and replied, "I don't know, ya ain't kilt nothin' yet."

Picking up his rifle and calling the dog, the young man moved toward the mountain with hopes of downing a deer.

 Coming Soon, the Widow Nancy Buck!

Author's Note

Ignore grammer, this is a first writing, just to get my thoughts down.