Doctor Who_ Peacemaker - James Swallow [1]
He found himself nodding. For a moment, Matthew thought of how sickly she had seemed, before. He saw it in his mind’s eye; Celeste 1
there on the big bed in the back of the house, lost in the crumpled sheets. Her skin as pale as milk, her breathing laboured and shallow.
He shuddered and his throat felt tight. Matthew dared not think how close the good Lord had come to taking her away from him for ever, and he promised himself that he’d do whatever he could to make sure no harm befell his wife again, not as long as there was still a breath left in his body.
If not for him, if not for that travelling man, why then Matthew would be staring not at the woman he loved but at her grave in the shadow of his house. The stranger had come from out of nowhere, drawn, so he said, by word from the folks in the town up along the valley. Oh sure, he seemed a mite peculiar, and maybe there was a way about him that in other circumstances would have flagged him wrong; but he’d done what he said he would. The fella hadn’t asked for much, not much at all when you weighed the price against the life of Matthew’s wife. And in return, he’d brought about a cure that had healed all of Celeste’s ills in a day. A single day! The thought of it still amazed Matthew; but he wasn’t a man to question good fortune. If providence had brought the stranger and his companion to the Belfield homestead, then who was a simple farmer to argue against it? Celeste’s life had been put to rights, and that was about East as far as her husband was concerned.
She glanced out of the window and saw him looking back, threw him a smile. He tipped his hat in a shallow howdy, but as he did he saw the smile slide away from his wife’s face. She was looking out past him, off down the range.
Matthew turned and stared out the same way. He saw the sign immediately, the wispy curls of trail dust etching up from the dirt road. Horses, then. Two of them, if he didn’t miss his mark, and they were coming at a pace like the devil himself was at their heels.
The farmer drew himself up and straightened. They weren’t expecting any company, and out here in the wilderness it wasn’t the manner of things to have a neighbour turn up at your door, not without good cause. Matthew tapped the pocket in his waistcoat where his Bowie knife was concealed. It never hurt to be prepared.
2
The riders slowed as they approached the Belfield house and for a moment Matthew thought he heard a sound like a swarm of flies buzzing; but the air was too cool of the morning for insects to be up and around, and he narrowed his eyes.
He studied the new arrivals and right away he felt unsettled. The horses they rode were of plain stock and he didn’t know the brand upon them, but they were damp with sweat and both animals were breathing hard. He chanced a guess that they’d been ridden swiftly for miles and with little care or attention for their wellbeing.
The riders, though; they were men the likes of which Matthew had never seen. They were gaunt figures, the pair. Long coats all dark and tight upon them, with a faint air that hung around which recalled rotting meat, or old, dried blood. It wasn’t a scent to be treasured.
Under wide, flat preacher hats that cast deep, inky shadows over their faces, he could make out grim expressions and sallow skin.
With a quick flourish, one of the men dismounted and Matthew caught a glimpse of a long eagle feather trailing from the back of the man’s hatband. He landed firmly with a clink of spurs and was still. For a brief moment the homesteader’s gaze dropped to the finely tooled gun belt that rode low on the man’s hips. A heavy iron-grey weapon sat there in a fast-draw holster. Matthew found it hard to look away from the pistol. Even at rest, the sight filled him with a cold fear.
He licked his dry lips