Free Miles to Little Ridge by Heath Lowrance

-ONE-
Christian and the Swede
     
     
    Lars the Swede chopped wood in the yard out front of the livery stable, and Christian, sitting on a large stump, watched him. It was fascinating, watching the Swede work. He'd heft the ax in his big hands, swing it like a piston, and cleave the logs and stumps with one powerful swoop. Wood chips would fly every which way and the two halves would drop to either side. And the Swede would take up another chunk, put it on the chopping block, and do it again, over and over, sweat shining on his thick torso and dripping down his long, square jaw.
    Truth be told, it made Christian feel kinda funny.
    He tore his eyes away, said, "You need some water, Lars?"
    The Swede grunted, shook his head, taking up another log. He didn't even slow down. He was one wood-chopping son-of-a-bitch, the Swede.
    The road through the center of Little Ridge was about fifty yards away, and Christian made his eyes stay on it, away from the Swede. It was mid-morning, and the sleepy mountain town was just waking up. People strolled up and down, doing what normal town folk did on Tuesday mornings. Across the way, he could hear the blacksmith pounding away on his anvil, almost in time to the Swede's chopping. The horses nickered in the stable behind them. Occasionally, one of the farmers or goatherds outside of town would rumble by in a rickety horse-drawn cart, hard-faced fellas who would make the trip into Little Ridge for supplies or a quick whiskey at Mr. Bly's place before heading back out to the hardscrabble life they'd made for themselves.
    Christian was damn glad he wasn't one of those farmers or herders. That was no life for an ambitious man. But then again, working at the livery stable wasn't exactly the top of the social scale either.
    He said, almost wistfully, "Lars, when we gonna get out of this goddamn town? I'm itching for another job."
    The Swede stopped chopping. He rested the ax next to him, wiped sweat from his forehead. "I'm thinking about that. Next month, the bank in Helena is receiving a deposit from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It'll be there for two days before it's transferred out."
    Christian said, "Government money? That'd be kinda ... risky, wouldn't it?"
    The Swede shrugged, and Christian knew it wasn't going to happen. They'd been in this drag of a town for almost a year now, slaving like dogs, and before that it had been Deer Lodge out in the western part of the state. They'd talked a mean streak about doing another job, but nothing had come of it.
    They'd been proper outlaws, once. Stagecoach and small bank jobs all through the Montana Territory and down into Wyoming. But that seemed a long time ago now.
    The Swede went to the trough for some water, and Christian pulled out his pouch and fashioned a couple of cigarettes for them. After the Swede drank his fill, he took a smoke from Christian, bent in for the light from Christian's lucifer. They stood there and smoked for a while, not speaking.
    They had an odd partnership, Christian thought. The Swede, enormous and hard as a boulder, a devil with the ladies, and Christian wiry and slender and homely. Folks always assumed Christian was the brains of the outfit—someone as big and handsome as the Swede couldn't possibly be the smart one—but they were wrong. The Swede called the shots.
    "Well," Christian said, "all I know is we gotta do something soon. I can't take much more of this backwater town."
    The Swede grinned around his smoke, clapped the smaller man on the back. "Patience, my good man. A job worth doing doesn't just come along every day, you know. Why—"
    He stopped talking, as if his words had hit a stone wall. Christian glanced at him just in time to see the smoke fall from between the Swede's lips. His intense blue eyes were focused on the road.
    Christian followed his gaze.
    A rider on a solid gray grullo was ambling up the road. A Negro, riding ramrod straight in the saddle. Even under the layer of trail dust, his clothes