Vermijo

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  CONTENTS

  About Vermijo

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Making the Film

  Photo Gallery

  Copyright

  When their no-good brother was killed in a gunfight with a young drifter who was just passing through, the sheriff and deputy of Vermijo, Arizona Territory, gathered a posse together and went after the killer. But they weren’t interested in justice. They didn’t even want vengeance. No—they figured to use the drifter as an example to keep the rest of the town in line.

  Unfortunately for them, an old man had other ideas … and when a startling secret was revealed, so did Vermijo itself.

  Nonrev Studios

  In association with

  Piccadilly Publishing

  Present

  Adam Gold ● Noah Woods ● Raymond Scott

  In

  Vermijo

  Hayden Wilson ● Tyler Burke

  and

  Sarah Berg

  as Eve Lockhart

  Heather Woods ● Jay Gammons

  Brandon Gomez ● Richard Calvert

  Music by

  Gregoire Lourme

  Sound by

  Jovany Hernandez

  Written by

  Ben Bridges

  Produced by

  Paul Vernon and Adam Gold

  Executive Producers

  Mike Stotter and David Whitehead

  Directed by

  Paul Vernon

  One

  Eve Lockhart saw the raised fist too late.

  Her husband stepped through the cabin’s gloom, pushing aside the table and chairs, scattering the plates and cups she had set out for breakfast, and was upon her in a second.

  His fist connected with the side of her head. It was the kind of punch meant for a man, not a man’s wife. But Ace Lockhart didn’t give one goddamn care. She deserved it.

  The blow produced a moment of dizziness, where her entire world spun around her out of focus. Her legs threatened to give away but her husband grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent her from falling. He wanted her on her feet. His fingers dug deeper into her shoulders, pushing hard down to the bone. He seemed pleased that it pained Eve, and he was smiling when he followed up with an equally vicious backhander.

  She saw the blow coming and moved her head slightly to avoid full contact. Even so, his knuckles drove hard against her mouth and the blow split her bottom lip. Then came the familiar taste of blood in her mouth. Then the tears she tried to mightily to contain.

  ‘Now, I’m tellin’ you again, Eve, an’ I’m tellin’ you for the last time…forget about hangin’ that damn laundry and go fix my breakfast, like I told you.’

  His voice filled the small cabin with rank viciousness. Eve put out a hand and laid it gently on his wrist.

  ‘All right, all...right, Ace... just don’t hit me again.’

  He didn’t respond. Just stood for a second looking into her eyes and then down at her hand on his wrist. ‘If you did like you was told, I wouldn’t have to,’ he said.

  Ace shoved her away from him and she stumbled, almost hit the stovepipe, just avoided it but slumped down against the wall, hugging herself. Her weakened legs gave way and she dropped to the floor. She stayed down with blood dripping from her mouth onto her skirt. She had to shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see his face.

  He turned and set an overturned chair back to rights. He dropped heavily into the seat, letting loose a loud, whiskey-smelling belch followed by a self-pitying moan. He buried his head in his hands as if it would help his hangover.

  Four years of marriage, living in a cramped cabin and a wife who was quickly becoming a nag and useless in bed. Is this what my life has come to? he thought. He was only twenty-three, right at the beginning of his life; it should have been the start of the good times he had always wanted. He was still lean, good-looking in a rugged sort of way…enough to turn the heads of one or two women in town. But that might have been down to his name. Some were attracted to power, or so he had been told. He’d never had any luck in that department.

  ‘It was awful late when you got in last night,’ she said, almost apologetically.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothin’. But it’d be nice, sometime ... if you could spend as much time with me as you do with your drinkin’ buddies.’

  He snorted as if the very idea were ridiculous. He lifted his head from out of his hands and looked at her.

  Eve sat with her knees tucked beneath her, her cotton calico skirt flowing about her. The blood was already drying to a deep brown against the grayness of the once-white material of her apron. She was a small woman with her hair tied back in a severe bun, her skin and her eyes dull and devoid of all hope. She looked far older than twenty. But even now she managed to radiate an energy, a sense of spirit, she shouldn’t have rightly had.

  He turned his eyes on her and said, ‘Isn’t it enough that I married you?’

  ‘As you say,’ she replied with resignation.

  But Ace, feeling sorry for himself, wouldn’t let it end there. ‘It’s a sorry state when a man can’t come and go as he pleases.’

  Eve held back a sigh. It was a scene they’d been through before and she had no wish to antagonize him further. But today she didn’t want to be browbeaten. She gently touched her bottom lip and took her fingers away. The tips were smeared with blood.

  ‘I never said that,’ she said. ‘All I said was …’

  Lockhart leaped from the chair, took a fistful of her hair and jerked her head back. He leaned in close enough that they were almost touching noses. She smelt his sour breath, the stale alcohol, as he breathed heavily into her face.

  ‘Look, I married you, all right?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I knocked you up, an’ I did the right thing, I stood by you. Don’t blame me if you lost the little bastard!’

  The words brought tears to her eyes. Why did he always have to bring that up? She pushed away his hand and said, ‘And what if I hadn’t? Would things have been any better between us?’

  Ace said nothing.

  ‘I wasn’t just marryin’ the father of my baby, Ace. I thought I was marryin’ a husband, as well.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong,’ he snarled. ‘Now get over it.’

  He had not expected Eve to answer him back. He stepped away and looked around him. The early morning sun was weak and just about made an impression on the interior of the cabin. A sense of depression and disappointment weighed heavily on him.

  Eve struggled to her feet, took time to brush out her skirt and apron. She glanced at Ace, then turned around and headed to the range. Halfway there she stopped, turned back around, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Why does it have to be this way, Ace?’ she asked.

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Like this. The two of us always fightin’?’

  He shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know?’

  She stood still and listened to the wind as it blew in off the prairie. It was strong enough to whistle through the growing spaces between the plank walls. The whole place was falling apart around their ears and Ace was just too damn lazy to do anything about it. He’d rather spend his money on whiskey and beer than a pound of nails and some lumber.

  She said, ‘Well, you better get washed up while I fix your vittles. You show up late for work again an’ Jim’s like to…’

  He came towards her and in two fast strides was in front of her. His body was coiled tight again, his hands held in fists at his side. She flinched away from him. She retreated until she could
go no further.

  ‘What’s Jim like to do, Eve?’ he demanded. ‘You tell me that. We’re brothers. I can do whatever the hell I like.’

  ‘Maybe you can, in your own home. But Jim, well, he don’t like you bein’ late …’

  ‘Jim, Jim, Jim!’ The anger was back in his voice. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of sayin’ that name? Or is that why you’re so all-fired keen to send me off to work today … so Jim can pay you a little call of his own?’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It seemed like something had poisoned his mind and the words dripped with venom. She said, ‘Don’t talk crazy. Jim’s family ... well, as much family as any of you Lockharts are likely to be.’

  ‘You don’t like this family, Eve, you walk, damn you.’

  He raised his hand ready to strike her again. Eve was trapped, couldn’t move any further back, so lifted her arm across her face for protection, and waited for the blow.

  Then…

  ‘You runnin’ a mite late today, Ace?’

  The low voice froze all movement in the cabin.

  Ace still had his wife in a one-handed grip; his other held high, palm opened. He turned his head toward where a man stood in the doorway dressed in gray pants and a dark town coat over a white shirt with a string tie knotted at the throat. He held a Stetson hat in his large hands. He looked big and bony, someone used to the rough life. A marshal’s tin badge sat proudly on his lapel.

  ‘Brother,’ Ace said.

  ‘Ace.’

  The newcomer looked past Ace to Eve. Relief was clear in her eyes.

  Ace shrugged and released his wife. He said, ‘It was a late night, Jim.’

  ‘I believe it,’ said Jim. He twisted the hat brim between his hands before adding, ‘You smell like a drunk Indian.’

  Not wanting to cower before his brother, but finding the instinct almost too much to resist, Ace said, ‘I was jus’ leavin’.’

  ‘Oh, is that a fact?’ He stabbed at finger at Ace. ‘Outside.’

  Eve watched them. Though they had been born to the same parents, they couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried. Despite Ace’s bravado, she knew he was clearly scared of Jim. Jim’s short temper was renowned in Vermijo. The brothers had argued and fought before, but Ace had never gotten the better of his older sibling yet.

  She waited until they left before she released her pent up breath. Then the pain came like a crushing wave that swept over her. She wished he was dead. The thought came with the pain that filled her head and she slowly slid to the floor and cried.

  ~*~

  Jim dragged Ace out of the cabin and across to the outhouse. He spun Ace around and threw him hard against the building.

  ‘Now you remember somethin’, brother,’ he said in a soft tone. ‘We got this town set up just the way we want it, y’hear? These folks, they’ll take a lot, but like folks every which way up the country, they’ll only take so much.’

  Ace followed Jim’s glance back at the cabin. He understood clearly that he was talking about Eve. At the same time, his younger brother, Carl, appeared. The contrast between him and Ace was like the difference between the sun and the moon.

  ‘So what I’m sayin’ to you, brother,’ Jim said, jabbing his finger hard into Ace’s shoulder, ‘is don’t go queerin’ it for us.’

  ‘I ain’t likely to do that.’

  Jim looked his brother in the eyes a long while before saying, ‘Then smarten yourself up. You’re a goddamn disgrace in your goddamn shitty drawers. Smarten up and get to work.’

  ‘Sure, Jim. Sure.’

  ‘Grab yourself a jacket, too. Looks like a storm rollin’ in.’

  Jim turned away and headed off.

  Carl Lockhart had watched the exchange with detached amusement. He pushed away from the cabin wall and sauntered over to Ace. Most of the time he would have sided with Jim, but now he felt some sympathy for Ace.

  He clapped his brother on the shoulder and said, ‘Don’t sweat it. You know he don’t mean all of what he says. Still, he is right about one thing … there’s times we do have to tread light around here.’

  Ace turned to look at him. ‘Yeah. But we’re kin …’

  Carl brushed off some imaginary dust from his rifle coat, removed his hat and ran his hand over his hair, brushing it back, then reset the hat with the brim just so. Carl dressed like a dandy in black from head to toe with only a satin burgundy vest and gold chain adding a dash of color. They began walking back to the cabin. He said, ‘I guess it seems that way, Ace. He’s tough on everyone. ‘Sides, who else can he depend on, huh? We’re family. That’s the way it goes.’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Sure it is.’ Carl clapped Ace on the shoulder. ‘See you in town.’

  Ace turned on his heel and stormed back into the cabin without bothering to reply. When he glared at Eve he felt even less for her than he ever had before.

  ‘You still want some breakfast, Ace?’

  He snatched his gunbelt hanging from the wall peg and strapped it on. He preferred the Cheyenne holster with its simple design. Tying the leather thong around his thigh he adjusted the holster and Colt single action .45 revolver to sit right on his hip. He jammed his hat on his head, arranged the brim and said, ‘Keep it. And if you decide to walk … good riddance. If you decide to stay, I’ll see you tonight. I wouldn’t bother waiting up, though.’

  Two

  The remains of the campfire were cold and black. The wind pushed at the dead embers, making them dance across the small circle of stones before whipping them away across the vast plateau.

  Luke Tyler looked down at the small campfire and then turned his attention to his surroundings. Lord, he thought, this is a dead country. He removed his hat and mopped his neck. It wasn’t even eight in the morning and it was at least seventy degrees already.

  ‘Get any hotter and there’ll be a storm riding its coattails,’ he said to himself.

  He had been a stranger to this area for fifteen, maybe sixteen years, but if he was on track his grandpa’s ranch, the Leaning T, shouldn’t be too far away now. It had taken three days to ride this far from the Flagstaff area and he estimated another half-day or day would get him there. His first priority was to replenish his supplies. And if a storm did come, he didn’t want to be caught out in the open. That was the deciding factor.

  He stood up and stretched, rolling his neck about his shoulders, then shaking his arms about him like he was a prize boxer. He was no boxer…all he was doing was loosening himself up from being saddle bound. He picked up his canteen and gave it a shake. It sounded as if there was just a mouthful of water left. He went across to his mount.

  ‘Ain’t got much for you, boy,’ he said. ‘Nary a drop or two ‘tween the pair of us. Promise I’ll make it up when we get to town.’

  He uncorked the canteen, took a short pull from it and poured the last few drops into his hat and offered it to the horse. The horse dipped its muzzle in without any further encouragement and took the last of their water.

  Around him, the plateau stretched away for miles to the south before dropping into a natural slope. The sun blazed from a cloudless sky, lighting the parched land with a flat, harsh radiance.

  The area seemed familiar but he needed to make sure. He couldn’t afford to miscalculate and find himself miles from where he should be, especially now that he was without water.

  He jammed his hat on his head and fetched the brass field glasses from his saddle bag. They had once belonged to his grandfather, who had owned them back in the days of the Civil War. He had been told they were older than that, dating right back to the start of the century. Whether it was true or not, it didn’t matter. It made a nice story anyway you looked at it. He raised them to his eyes.

  From the base of the plateau’s slope a valley extended away from him, boxed in by mountains to east and west. About four miles ahead he picked out a broad meadow-like expanse dotted with aspen trees and conifer groves. He smiled because now he knew
where he was. Buzzard Creek Trail wound its way through the aspens. Beyond the low-lying hills to the south and another twenty miles was the Leaning T. Moving the glasses to his left, he concentrated on an area to the southwest where he could just make out the shimmering white light reflecting from Buzzard Creek Spring at the base of the foothills. He adjusted the focus slightly. Suddenly he could see what he had hoped was there…a community of thirty or more buildings dancing crazily in the heat haze.

  He smiled faintly and said to his horse, ‘Well, boy, I’m gonna make good on that promise.’

  The horse flicked his ears towards the sound of the man’s voice. Then Luke spied the land again, waited a moment and said, ‘And if I figger it right, that’s Vermijo down there. Forget cold camp, boy. There’s some oats and straw waiting for you, yonder. Get that idea into your head and we’ll be there afore noon.’

  ~*~

  ‘And if Mrs. Hood should come by, tell her that I will be at the meeting at six o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Of course,’ came the response.

  Ruby Tucker stood in the store’s doorway, passing out her instructions to her husband, who was working inside.

  She said, ‘I’ll be heading to Mr. Ripley’s to see if that bolt of gingham has arrived from Flagstaff. I do so want to make that summer dress I saw in the catalog last fall. You know…the one with the puffed shoulders and tucked-in waist?’

  Out of sight, Hiram Tucker raised his eyes heavenwards. He said, ‘Oh, yes. That one.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you actually remember something I told you?’

  ‘Heavens, Ruby, why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you? Because it would be the very first time, that’s why.’

  From inside Tucker’s store cum barber shop Hiram Tucker, a man in his forties, overweight to the extent he was breathless most of the time, froze his hand holding the razor close to his customer’s throat. B. J. Forshaw, a retired newspaperman from Sacramento now residing in Vermijo and writing a history of the Russian-American Fur Company, sat in the chair, eyes fixed on the sharp blade hovering just inches from his jugular, praying that Mrs. Tucker would just get on with her errands and stop distracting her husband.