Chapter 50: The Encounter
When Dutch saw the scene before him, the heavy stone that had been hanging in his heart finally dropped, and he exhaled a long breath of relief.
At least for now, this young man who had recently joined the Gang showed Dutch unreserved trust and support.
Smiling, Dutch slowly reached into the satchel at his side and rummaged through it.
A moment later he pulled out two hundred-dollar bills.
He then pressed the cash and a notebook into Johnny's hands and said earnestly:
'Young Johnny, I've got an important job for you.
Take this notebook to the Post Office and mail it to our old friend Josiah in Saint Denis.
Just put his name on the recipient line—nothing else.
And keep these two hundred dollars. I want you to bring Micah back, quietly and safely.
After the uproar we caused in Blackwater Town yesterday the territory's on edge, so the lower the profile, the better.'
In the game there'd been no choice; now, with Johnny—high fire-power and no bounty—such rescue missions naturally landed on him.
After the briefing Dutch turned, gently clapped Lenny on the shoulder, and beamed:
'Hey, Lenny, good news—Sean's back!
Grab Arthur and take him to Valentine for a blow-out; let those nerves of yours unwind.
Tonight we forget our troubles and drink till we're blind!'
The three set off in different directions… Johnny rode alone toward Valentine, his mood mixed, mind flickering with images of what might happen upstairs in the saloon that night—
scenes too lurid to look at straight on.
Still, the thought that Sean would be along settled him; with that sharp kid around, Arthur shouldn't end up behind bars.
Soon Johnny reached the Post Office, walked in, and paid a dollar for express delivery.
He stepped to the ticket window to buy a train ticket, but as he turned to leave a clerk called after him:
'Sir! Sir, wait—there's a letter for you.'
Johnny stopped; the clerk carefully drew an unopened envelope from a cabinet and handed it over.
Thanking him, Johnny tore it open and read:
'Dear Mr. ODriscoll, I hope this finds you well. I'll be waiting in the Valentine saloon—around during daylight.
Come quickly. Yours, Valerie Philip.'
He folded the letter, mind racing as he planned the next moves.
Timing looked comfortable; the train would be far faster than riding.
He cancelled the ticket and headed for the saloon first—the Calloway place.
Dismounting outside, Johnny led his horse toward the door.
As he moved to tether it to the weather-worn hitch-rail, something caught his eye:
a tall, powerful thoroughbred standing nearby,
its coat jet-black, gleaming like polished obsidian in the sun.
The saddle—black leather trimmed with scarlet—contrasted boldly against the dark hide.
One glance told you the gear was expensive and the owner no common drifter.
Johnny studied the saddle and recognition struck.
It was the famous Bounty Hunter rig—the Upland saddle,
awarded only to those who've brought in notorious fugitives.
Respect and curiosity stirred in him as he wondered what kind of woman would own such kit.
He drew a breath, straightened his coat, and pushed open the half-closed door.
It creaked wide, revealing the room within.
His gaze snapped to the window where a striking figure sat.
A sleek black Stetson shaded part of her hair, but nothing could dim her presence.
Golden locks spilled over the shoulders of a tailored black tailcoat that hugged a slim waist and curved where it should.
She sat gracefully at a wooden table, sipping beer,
studying a thick notebook laid before her.
Every man in the place drank and stared, admiring the rare sight of a lady Cowboy in Valentine.
She seemed used to the attention, face calm, eyes still on her reading.
Johnny strode to the bar, flipped a twenty-cent piece onto the counter, and bought two whiskies.
Glass in hand he crossed the floor, settled opposite her,
slid one whiskey forward, smiled and asked quietly, 'Ms. Philip?'
She lifted her gaze and met his eyes—
and surprise flickered across her face.
From what she'd heard, anyone who'd spend a fortune on the pistol he carried in Blackwater Town should be either a hardened outlaw or a fat Capitalist.
Instead, a sunny, almost boyish young man sat before her.
Johnny caught the fleeting look; after a moment he guessed his Harmless trait had kicked in.
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