Free .45-Caliber Firebrand by Peter Brandvold Page A

as he cut into a half-inch-thick wedge of elk, bloodred in the middle, charred around the edges, and sopping with the heavy sauce seasoned with garlic, onions, and several herbs including mint. “I don’t begrudge him. His only home is here. We, his only family.”
    Trent suddenly set down his fork and lifted his wineglass in salute. “Gentlemen, milady,” he said with a courtly nod at his daughter, “to warm fires, hot meals, and fascinating company.”
    After the toast, and favoring Cuno with a soft, blue-eyed glance, Michelle Trent said, “Speaking of fascinating company, Father informs us you’ve cut quite a path for yourself, Mr. Massey.”
    Cuno’s ears warmed slightly as he impaled a carrot chunk with his fork. “Not sure what you mean, Miss Trent. I’ve made my way as best I could, I reckon.”
    â€œOh, come now, Cuno,” Trent said with a mouthful. “You don’t mind if I use your first name, do you? It’s such a rare one, indeed!”
    â€œBeen called a lot of things, Mr. Trent.”
    Trent, well into the wine and enjoying himself, laughed overloud. “Come now, Cuno, you mustn’t be shy. I’ve told my daughter, Jedediah, and Mr. Kuttner about your exploits—those I’ve learned about via the moccasin telegraph, that is, or read about in the papers. They were quite impressed, as was I—a man so young, barely a teenager, taking to the blood trail to avenge his family.”
    â€œBlood trail, indeed, Father!” admonished Michelle. “You’ve read too many dime novels.”
    Serenity chuckled as he shoveled the delectable food into his mouth.
    â€œI have to agree with your daughter, Mr. Trent. That’s gilding the lily just a tad.”
    â€œMaybe just a tad.”
    Trent grunted as he dropped an arm to reach beneath his chair, his broad, bearded face reddening with exertion. When he raised his arm again, he was holding the yellowed newspaper he’d been reading when Cuno and the other men had first entered the room. He tossed it onto the table in front of Cuno.
    â€œBut only just a tad,” Trent added, “and no more than Mr. Hiram A. Crutchfield did in his article there in the Ute Tribune .”
    Cuno brushed at his mouth with his cloth napkin and picked up the folded paper open to page five, at the top of which large black letters boldly announced, “Man-Hunting Sprout from Nebraska Powders the Vengeance Trail!” Slightly smaller type continued: “Blood-Hungry Young Mule Skinner Straps on Six-Guns to Hunt the Killers of His Beloved Family.” And below that, in type like cursive handwriting and abutted by the sketched likenesses of two crossed Colt pistols: “Notorious Thieves and Killers Rolf Anderson and Sammy Spoon Would Rue the Day They Ruffled the Feathers of Cuno Massey!”
    There were sketches of Anderson and Spoon—mouths drawn wide in whooping, kill-crazy laughter—as well as one of Cuno himself, looking grim under his flat-brimmed plainsman hat, his young, grave features framed by his long blond hair. The sketch favored him well enough, though he’d never known himself to narrow his eyes like that, as though he were perpetually staring into the blinding sun. In both of his raised fists, a six-gun blazed.
    At the very bottom of the page, beneath four columns of dense text, there was one more sketch—of Cuno standing with his feet spread wide, crouching, his long hair blowing back behind him as he shot down Anderson and Spoon with a smoking pistol in each hand. Both outlaws looked utterly horrified and flabbergasted as Cuno’s bullets lifted them off their feet and threw them straight back toward the paper’s left fold.
    Both men had only begun to raise their own revolvers before the young firebrand, twice as fast as his foes, had triggered lead through their hearts.
    â€œWell, look there,” Serenity said, leaning over to peruse the