Tywyn's Trouble (Tales From Biders Clump Book 5) Read online

  Tywyn’s trouble

  Tales From Biders Clump

  Contents

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Tywyn Spade turned his horse down Main Street in the pale light of a new day, his gray eyes taking in everything around him. Along the far lane, a group of rowdy boys dogged old women, and a young couple moved under the shadow of the boardwalk as the light of the rising sun painted the westward buildings a lemon hue.

  The lean rider turned his attention back to his big pinto as it ducked its head after a lanky dog that had stepped into the dust, wagging its tail. Flipping his wrist negligently, the man stopped the horse's lunge, its teeth snapping closed mere inches short of the cur.

  Ears still flat, the big brown and white horse chomped his bit, shaking his head in protest and glaring at a graying man who stood on the porch of a two-story house.

  Tywyn pulled his hat low over his eyes and moved on down the street toward the sign that read “Sheriff.”

  “Behave yourself, Chip”, the dark cowboy growled, swinging down and tossing the reins around a hitching rail, shifting out of the path of the animal’s steel clad hooves as he stepped up to the office and pushed the door open.

  “Sheriff.” The tall stranger ambled into the office, his slate-colored eyes like a storm beneath the shadow of his hat.

  Sheriff Pike rose to his feet, the hair on the back of his neck prickling upright at the sight of the rough character.

  “Ferd, why don’t you run along to the Grist Mill and fetch us some of them treats Mr. Rupert makes?” The old lawman cut his eyes to his deputy, who jumped to comply.

  “What can I do for you?” Sheriff Pike asked, eyeing the man with caution.

  Silently the stranger reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheaf.

  “Everything you need to know is in there.” His voice came from deep in his chest, rumbling like a flooded stream.

  Sherriff Pike glanced down at the packet. "What's this?" The sound of the door clinking shut was the only answer to any questions the Sheriff was likely to receive.

  “Ain’t you stayin’ for coffee, mister?” Ferd drawled, walking up the boardwalk as the stranger swung into the saddle once more. “I brung scon-s.” he offered encouragingly, lifting the plate in his hand.

  The man's hard, dark eyes fell on the deputy silently before turning the horse with the bisected white and brown face down the street.

  “Well that ain’t very neighborly,” Ferd said, watching the rider move away and jumping as the big horse laid back his ears and snapped at another horse as it passed on the street. “That’s a surly beast,” he finished as the door behind him opened.

  ***

  Tywyn squeezed his knees tight on his mount, heading for the livery stable at the other end of town. He was bone-weary and dog-tired and in no mood for chit-chat. He would get his horse settled and find a warm bed away from prying eyes.

  “Howdy,” a craggy voice called as he pulled up to the big barn with the label “LIVERY” plastered over its wide doors. “You want me to take that cayuse for ya?”

  “He bites,” Tywyn replied, running a hand over his eyes and smoothing his beard. He’d pushed hard through the night to reach the backward town of Biders Clump and was feeling nearly as surly as his mount.

  The old man looked up at him and grinned, “Some of ‘em do.” He reached for Chip’s bridle as the horse reached for him, almost catching his fingers between glinting teeth.

  “I’ll put him up, just tell me where,” Tywyn said, his saddle creaking as he lowered his lean frame to the ground.

  “Any place that’s open’s will do,” the old hostler said. “I’m Byron by the way. You gonna want a feed for that critter?”

  “Whatever you’ve got.” Tywyn pushed his hat back on his head, walking into the relative darkness of the barn, leading Chip on a short rein as the gelding snapped, stomped or glared at the few horses in the stable.

  “Here ya go,” Byron said, carrying a sack of grain toward the stranger. “You gonna stay long?”

  “Depends on business,” Tywyn said, putting the horse in a stall and stripping off his rig before hefting his saddle bags over his shoulder.

  “There’s a mighty fine boarding house down the street if you need a place to put up for a while. Ms. Polly Esther and her husband George are good folks and will see you right.”

  Tywyn tipped his hat at the old man, tossed him a silver dollar and strode into the burgeoning day.

  “Ma, we got comp’ny,” George called as he watched the newcomer sidle down the road toward the front porch.

  “You reckon he’ll want breakfast?” Polly asked, walking to the front screen door to join her husband.

  “Looks kind’a like the hungry type to me,” George said, wrapping an arm around her protectively.

  The sound of boots on the boardwalk had them both ducking back into the house, but George called out even as the man lifted his hand to the door.

  “Come on in, young fella.”

  “Sir.” The lean man was tall, a rough beard covering the lower half of his face and a dusty hat covering his dark hair.

  “You want breakfast?’ George asked as he opened the screen door.

  “No sir, I’d just like a bed.”

  George studied the man a minute longer, then gestured with a hand. “This fella needs a room,” he said to Rebecca as she tidied the parlor. “I’ll take him up to the white room, you tell Polly.”

  George Olson turned toward the stairs, listening as the younger man followed him up along the polished banister. “Didn’t catch your name, young fella.” George’s voice was casual.

  “Didn’t give it,” the man replied. It was obvious the white-haired man was an old fox but the bantering game could prove useful.

  “You takin’ the train tomorrow?” George tried again.

  “No.”

  They carried on down a long hall past a modern bath and a small room full of sunlight to a dark door in the middle of the hall.

  “Well I’m Mr. Olson, and I own this here house, so let’s not have any funny business about it.” George offered, his dark eyes firm as he opened the door.

  Tywyn wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this was not it. He blinked at the soft white light that reflected from the interior of the room. White curtains filtered the morning sun, diffusing it into something soft and ethereal.

  “Perty, ain’t it?” George smiled, but his eyes were still serious.

  “Tywyn Spade,” the stranger offered, with a hint of light in his eyes. “Call me Ty.” He extended his hand, wondering if the old man would take it.

  “George.” This time the smile reached the other man's eyes as he shook Ty’s hand. “You look like a few hours of shut eye will do you a world of good,” George continued. “Sleep sweet.” he added, then closed the door and was gone.

  Tywyn grinned despite himself. The old fella had found a way to put him back a step, something no one had done in a longtime. Shrugging the saddle bags off his shoulder, he scanned the room. A wooden chair, white as a lily, sat near the door and he placed the battered leather bags on it.

  The four walls were covered in a strange white wallpaper that was stark yet somehow soft at the same time. At different angles, fine lines of embossed pr
int could be made out running vertically from floor to ceiling.

  Even the bed was white; a filigree of interwoven cast iron painted white as if a plant had twisted itself into a bed, inviting the intrepid traveler to rest.

  Stripping off his heavy duster and pushing off his boots, he fell into the white coverlet and thick down mattress with a sigh. It was like landing on a cloud, and it carried him away to blissful sleep.

  ***

  “George Olson, you gave that man my best room,” Polly groused as she poured him a cup of coffee in the kitchen below. “If he hasn’t got the decency to take off his boots, Becky here will be scrubbing those sheets for a week.”

  “Maybe,” George grinned, “but you should ‘a seen his face when he saw that room. I could have knocked him over with a feather.” He chuckled, his eyes bright as he sipped his coffee.

  “He looks like a mighty rough brute if you ask me,” Polly said. “He’d best not scuff my wallpaper.”

  George chuckled, kissing his wife's cheek. "I'm gonna head over to see Byron," he said, lifting his hat from a peg and heading out the back door. "We're still working on that game of chess we started last week."

  Polly shook her head as the door closed, smiling when the young woman who helped around the place joined her in the kitchen.

  "You don't think that man will be any trouble do you, Ms. Polly?" she asked, brushing a lock of ginger-brown hair from her eyes.

  "There's no tellin' around these parts," Polly said, moving the kettle to a hot burner. "We'll make up a nice lunch. Maybe a good feed will set the man to rights?" She grinned, making Rebecca smile.

  "I think that would work for Grady, but he's an easy-going soul anyway." She smiled, thinking of her husband.

  "You fetch me some potatoes," Polly said, filling a pot with water. "I got a letter from my daughter Althea today and I'll read it to ya over tea," she continued, her voice following the young woman as she headed for the root cellar.

  Chapter 1

  Tywyn blinked as white light infused his eyes, dragging his mind back to wakefulness. For several seconds he couldn't place where he was and he struggled upright in the pale aura of the room.

  As things finally snapped into place in his groggy mind, he stretched, yawned and scooted off the bed to rummage a clean shirt from his bags, then headed for the bathroom he'd seen down the hall.

  He smiled, padding on silent feet at the thought of a good wash. Who would have thought the little town tucked under the wing of the big mountains would offer so much luxury?

  Long miles over dusty trails and rough work had left a crust on him that ran deeper than the grime that could be washed away with lye soap and a good brush.

  Closing the bathroom door with a click, he sighed, feeling a mix of weariness and determination that had seeped into his bones. He had a job to do and he'd best be about it.

  ***

  "That you George?" Byron's muffled voice carried from the small office at the front of the stable. "Come in here and he'p me with this."

  George stepped through the little door and stopped, staring at his friend who sat in an old chair, his teeth clamped tight on a length of white cloth wrapped around his hand.

  "What happened to you?" George asked, stepping up and grasping the two ends of the bandage, pulling it tight as he tied it off.

  "That ornery mud and ice two-bit crow bait in yonder," Byron groused, cradling his injured appendage. "I poured him a nice feed of oats and corn and the blighter bit me."

  "It ain't like you to let a critter get the best of you," George said, moving to his chair, his bushy brows arched high.

  "That animal ain't natural. He's quick as a rattler and meaner 'an a bear with a sore tooth. I had to move the horses on either side of him 'cause he kicks, too. Thought he'd knock down the wall if I let him to it."

  "Can't say his rider seems much better." George shook his head, studying the pieces on the board before him. "Hard customer that one, but I got him good."

  "What'd ya do?" Byron asked, leaning forward expectantly.

  "He come over to the house looking for a place ta kip and I walked him up to the white room." George’s eyes twinkled. "Ya should'a seen his face. He did not expect them fancy togs in a place like this," he finished with a chortle.

  "That’s a mighty fine room for a rough customer," Byron said, grinning. "What do you think he wants in Biders Clump anyway?"

  "Ain't no telling," George said. "Whose turn is it, anyway?"

  "Yours," Byron snapped.

  "I saw him head into the Sheriff's office earlier, so he could be here about anyone." George lifted a piece and moved it carefully.

  "Guess only time will tell, but for now I'll make it my job to warn people away from that horse." Byron shifted in his chair, took his bishop in his hand and slid it across the board.

  ***

  Polly hustled around the kitchen, filling a large bowl with hearty beef and vegetable soup before pulling a pan of crisp corn bread from the oven. "You got any more of that apple pie with the nuts and raisins?" she asked, glancing at Rebecca and placing everything on the table along with a jar of jam.

  "In the ice-box," Rebecca replied, "unless of course George ate it." She smiled mischievously.

  "I'm sure glad you're so chipper." Polly grinned. "You'd better cut a big wedge, that fella's bound to be hungry." She lifted her head, hearing a soft tread on the stairs above. "Sounds like he's coming right now."

  Rebecca turned to see the stranger from that morning stalk into the kitchen.

  "Ma'am," he greeted in a low voice, "I'm afraid my stomach followed my nose into your kitchen." He didn't smile, but Polly welcomed him anyway.

  "I figured you'd be along pretty quick. Lunch is ready, you help yourself and I'll get you some coffee." She glanced at Rebecca, wondering how the man would proceed.

  Easing himself into the chair, the gruff character picked up a spoon in one hand and a wedge of cornbread in the other and dug in.

  Polly Esther raised an eyebrow toward her housekeeper and friend, at the lack of a prayer over the meal but said nothing, instead pouring coffee into a heavy mug and placing it on the table.

  "Thank you," the man mumbled, barely slowing as he shoveled in the food.

  Polly had dealt with hungry travelers enough that she didn't comment but Rebecca stared, making the older woman smile.

  "Looks to me like you've been a long time without a good feed," Polly commented, moving to the sink and starting the dishes. "Rebecca has pie for your dessert, but don’t be shy askin' for seconds."

  Tywyn slowed the steady rhythm of his spoon, looking around sheepishly. He'd been raised better than to sit in front of two women shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could lift a spoon, but sometimes upbringing didn't tell.

  "Sorry for being rude, Ma'am," he offered. Living rough had left him nearly as uncouth as his horse, and if he'd still had a blush left in him he was sure it would have been crawling up his neck.

  "Don't you fret, son," Polly replied. “You get your belly full, then you can worry about the niceties. I'm Polly Esther, by the way, and this here is Mrs. Gatlin."

  Ty lifted his eyes to the pretty woman, recognizing her from the street that morning. "Pleasure," he offered, his mind putting her together with the dark man from earlier.

  Grinning, Rebecca placed the large wedge of pie on the table and stepped back. "And how should we address you?" she asked in a polite but pointed tone.

  This time his neck prickled as he set his spoon down and looked at the women, his flinty eyes never wavering as he met the cold blue gaze of the old woman. "You can call me Ty," he answered as simply as he could manage.

  "Well, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Ty," Rebecca spoke once more. “We’ll leave you to your lunch." She turned and walked away, catching Polly's grin.

  "You just holler if you need anything else," Polly said, following Rebecca out of the kitchen.

  Ty shook his head. He should have remembered he wasn't at some ram
shackle stage stop or roadhouse along the trail. Too many lonely nights and long hauls seemed to have taken the polish off, but he wasn't here for the niceties; he had a job to do.

  Finishing his soup and cornbread, he tore into the pie, his taste buds dancing at the unexpected treat that he quickly washed down with strong coffee.

  He was rested, clean, and fed. Now if his luck held, he might dig up a clue to the whereabouts of the man he had been tracking for more than two years.

  For a moment Tywyn stood in the large empty room, feeling the weight of his troubles and wishing for answers. He didn’t mean to be rude, difficult or ill-mannered, but he had no time for the trappings of civilization. His job wasn't nice; it was barely even civilized.

  A clear afternoon sky blazed blue overhead as Ty stepped out of the boarding house and turned down the street. A saloon was as good a place as any to rouse gossip. His boot heels lifted little puffs of dust from the street as he turned, only to see the young man from the Sherriff’s office coming his way.

  “Mr.” The deputy, a man of around twenty-three, stepped up to him. “Sheriff Pike asked me to bring these to you.” His pale green eyes studied Ty carefully as he offered him a few papers. “It’s the report from the robbery.”

  “Thank you,” Ty replied, taking the pages. “Ferd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m Ferd, I’ve been deputy to Sheriff Pike for two years and rode out with him when all that unpleasantness happened.”

  Ty scanned the pages, then turned back to the other man. “Where’s this Janine Williams live?” he asked.

  “She’s Janine Sparak now,” Ferd grinned. “You’ll find her about two miles outside of town in a little house with yellow window boxes.” His eyes twinkled, making Ty glare at him.

  “She’s married now, but you’d best call out right quick when you see the place.” A wide smile graced Ferd’s face as he turned to walk away. “Her husband taught her to shoot and she’s as likely to plug you as offer you tea.”

  Tywyn gazed around him for a few moments, taking in the lay of the town and cataloging the most likely angle of retreat.

  The young deputy’s flippant remarks rankled, but he supposed in a small place like this, not much happened.