Free Blood Ties by Quincy J. Allen Page A

holster.
    Slipping a thick fold of bills into his pocket, he stepped out of the closet, hit the lever, and let it close. He pulled his old, battered Army officer’s cloak from off of the coat rack, draped it over his arm and placed his short leather top hat over his head, taking a moment in the mirror to make sure the turquoise stones set in the hat band lined up just right. He did, after all, have his reputation to think about. Black leather gloves slipped easily over his hands. He grabbed his saddlebags off the bedpost and draped them over his shoulder. He made it downstairs and out the back door in a flash.
    Skeeter’s workshop doors were closed, but Jake could hear her inside hammering frantically on something metal. The hammering stopped as he approached the barn. He heard a high-pitched, metallic whine and then the chattering of a machine first spinning slowly and then increasing in speed to a whirring sound. It wasn’t that much different from the sound the telegraph boy’s zeppelin motor had made, and Jake wondered what the hell Skeeter was working on this time.
    The barn doors opened and Cole came out leading Koto, an Appaloosa he’d been riding since he’d fought Apache raiders in the Free Territories before and after the Civil War. The paint had been a gift from a Comanche warrior. Cole had saved the warrior from a band of outlaws that had taken to robbing banks and killing everything in their path. As Jake understood it, the outlaws were about to butcher the bound Comanche warrior when Cole came up on them, and while there was no love lost between Cole and the Comanche raiders, he couldn’t see his way clear of sitting by and watching the man get cut to pieces.
    “Is Lumpy saddled?” Jake asked as Cole slid up onto Koto.
    “Sure is,” Cole replied and winced as he rubbed his shoulder. “But he ain’t in a good mood about it. The son-of-a-bitch shoved me into the wall when I wasn’t looking.”
    “Aww, shit.” Jake shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. Lumpy was big enough to carry Jake’s weight without a problem, but the critter could be as moody as the spinster that ran the Temperance League in Denver.
    Cole smiled as Jake stepped into the barn, thinking his partner looked like a man heading for the gallows.
    “Lumpy, don’t you give me no trouble, you hear?” Jake called into the dark barn. He opened the lid of a large, wooden box near the door, reached inside and pulled out a handful of sweet feed kept there for when Lumpy was grumpy.
    Hearing a hand in the box, Lumpy put his massive head over the stall door and flared his nostrils, sniffing at the mix of oats, barley, corn, and molasses that Jake held out as he approached. Jake undid the latch and let the door swing open. Lumpy’s tan head drifted out of the stall, followed by his massive shoulders, and Jake had to step aside to avoid the wide horns. Jake was convinced Lumpy had Longhorn in his lineage, but the man who sold him the bull had sworn up and down that Lumpy was pure Brahma. Jake put his hand up to Lumpy’s muzzle and let the huge bull lick up every last morsel. “There you go, boy. We gonna be friends today?” Jake asked suspiciously.
    Lumpy turned a big brown eye to Jake and locked gazes with him, as if to say, We’ll see about that. Jake got the message and, grabbing the bridle, led Lumpy over to the box. He reached inside and pulled out another handful of sweet feed. Lumpy sucked it up as quickly as the first.
    “How ’bout now?” Jake asked a bit sternly, with a Don’t press your luck tone of voice.
    Lumpy gave him a satisfied shake of the bridle and stepped forward, putting the stirrup directly in front of Jake.
    “Good boy,” Jake said and slipped his foot into the stirrup. “I guess we got ourselves a deal.” He pulled himself up into the brutally wide saddle, patted Lumpy’s neck, and eased him out of the barn. With slow, plodding thumps, the massive Brahma stepped out into the sunlight.
    “You sure do