Free .45-Caliber Firebrand by Peter Brandvold

Gallantly said, frowning, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He slid his gaze between the freighters and Trent, as though the freighters’ word alone could not be trusted. “Did the rifles make it?”
    Trent sagged into his own chair, shaking his head with annoyance. “We’ve already had this conversation, Jedediah. I’ll fill you in later.” Glancing at his guests, he said, “Gentlemen, my future son-in-law is of the Gallantly family of St. Louis, Missouri. Bricks is their trade, but young Jedediah’s father, Mortimer, has a sizable ranch in Wyoming, as well. Not far from Ute. Jed grew up in St. Louis, but he learned the ranching trade after getting a degree in land and cattle finance back East somewhere . . .”
    â€œMaryland!” Gallantly threw in with a proud grin, filling Michelle’s wineglass from a demijohn.
    â€œAnd he and Michelle are set to take over the place after they’re hitched and”—Trent chuckled raspily and threw back a long swallow of his own wine—“after I’m planted in my favorite gooseberry thicket at the foot of Old Stone Face.”
    â€œOh, Father!” Michelle admonished, pooching out her bee-stung lips. “Such talk.” She brushed her glance across Cuno, Serenity, and Snowberger. “In truth, gentlemen, Jedediah and I are simply moving onto the ranch to assist Father in his later years. Mr. Logan D. Trent, I suspect, will be bouncing around giving the orders until well after all his grandchildren are out riding the range on their own cow ponies!”
    Cuno swallowed down the dry knot in his throat and leaned forward, entwining his hands on the table and making an effort to keep his eyes off the girl’s pale, swollen bosom enhanced by the pearls. “When will you and Mr. Gallantly be married, Miss Trent?”
    â€œJune first,” Gallantly answered for his promised bride, locking a faintly challenging gaze with Cuno.
    â€œAh, a June wedding,” Cuno said, spreading a smile that he thought would crack his cheeks and break his molars.
    Just then, to Cuno’s relief, the stout oak door opened and a big man with long black hair and flat, broad Indian features rolled a cart into the room from the kitchen. He moved with a limp even more severe than Trent’s.
    â€œAh, Run!” the rancher exclaimed, clapping his big hands together. “Not a moment too soon. Michelle was about to lay into us with her wedding plans, and it’s far too early in the evening to start yawning!”
    Trent’s laughter boomed around the room.
    â€œOh, Father!”
    The big Indian in a calico shirt, duck trousers, suspenders, and a brown leather vest wheeled the cart up to the table, between Trent and Kuttner.
    Trent said, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my cook, Runs-with-the-Ponies. Run has been with me since I first came here—just me, two horses, and a half dozen longhorns, two Durham studs, and a Springfield rifle. Met in the army, we did. Run once cooked for General Sherman. Best damn grub slinger in the West, to my mind. And after you’ve enjoyed a few bites of this delectable elk, I’m sure you’ll agree!”
    Somehow, in spite of feeling sick to his stomach, Cuno was hungry. His belly grumbled and his mouth watered as the big Indian produced the platter containing the huge, smoking roast covered with dark red chokecherry sauce and surrounded with steaming potatoes, carrots, and turnips. The Indian never said a word as he dutifully carved up the roast, filled everyone’s plate in turn, then shuffled around on his moccasined feet—one of which seemed to be clubbed—and nudged his squeaking cart back into the kitchen, the oak door flapping on its springs behind him.
    â€œNow, he’ll get into the chokecherry wine, and we won’t see him for the rest of the evening,” Trent whispered, holding a hand to his mouth. The old rancher shook his head