A Knight Templar in Lincoln County - A Jacob Smith Short Story

A Knight Templar in Lincoln County

A Jacob Smith Story

By

Craig Gabrysch

Author’s Note

Two things.

One: I originally published this under the pseudonym Fyodor Gutierrez, in Twit Publishing’s first book Twit Publishing Presents: PULP! Summer/Fall 2010. You can find a copy of it by following the link.

Two: This is not historical fiction. It’s more a blend of fantasy and western, with some history to color it. I know for a fact that one of the characters never lived in Lincoln County. But, like I said, this is more fantasy and western than anything else.

A Knight Templar in Lincoln County

by Craig Gabrysch

Jacob’s horse galloped towards Lincoln, New Mexico. The sun was setting on his right. Dust filled his mouth and sweat dripped into his eyes. No one ever sent him to San Fran and no one asked for Jacob to take his time, to maintain a leisurely pace. Instead, it was always “don’t spare the horses.” Which, in the Southwestern Territories, meant “don’t spare the rider neither.” Fuck New Mexico. He put spurs to his horse, urging it onward, knowing that it probably wouldn’t make the last leg.

Two days prior, the carrier pigeon had arrived in Santa Fe. Jacob had left an hour later. He’d already spent three horses and damn near forty-eight hours on the trail. He had barely had time to perform the necessities of consuming or eliminating food. Drinking and eating while pissing and shitting made for a grumpy man. All Jacob wanted was a change of clothes, a bath, and a close shave. Just enough to make him feel human. He had a feeling, though, that he wouldn’t have a chance to meet even those simple necessities of life. Jacob probably wouldn’t catch but a few winks of shuteye before it would be off to work.

The message they’d received at the diocese had been urgent. A girl named Angela Goodnight was possessed by a demon, and a nasty sounding one at that. Jacob, lucky man that he was, was a Knight Templar. He knew the job would be hard when he signed up, but he hadn’t known it would leave him so saddle-sore.

Up ahead, the trail turned easterly and crossed the mouth of a wash in a giant mesa that sat in the middle of the desert. Luckily, it was the dry season. Had it been the wet one, there’d be no chance of making it past the crevice. The run off in the area would have collected in that one spot, turning into a torrential waterfall that tore through the desert floor. Jacob smiled grimly. He recognized the landmark from the description given to him by Bishop Jean Baptiste Lamy’s assistant. The wash’s presence meant the next stagecoach outpost would be around the corner, and that meant Lincoln was close. There would be a fresh horse waiting for him at the outpost, maybe even a piece of jerky or cup of beans. All of a sudden, arrival by morning didn’t seem completely unreasonable. He resolutely lowered his head and urged the horse onward, his mouth watering and stomach grumbling.

Jacob rode past the mouth of the wash and rounded the corner of the mesa. The setting sun barely illuminated the ramshackle stagecoach buildings up ahead. The buildings were constructed so that the main one, the stagecoach storage and office, sat near the road. A stable for fresh horses sat up the slope behind it, closer to the mesa’s base. The person manning it had the foresight of lighting a few lamps around the three buildings to make sure Jacob didn’t miss his drop-off point. As Jacob rode closer he saw movement. A short Mexican man of slight build came running out of the interior of the main building, waving his hands. His sombrero was pulled back slightly, kept secured to his body by leather thongs. Jacob reined the horse in, circling around to the man’s right.