"Trouble In Just-Plain-Awful"
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dochermes"Trouble In Just-Plain-Awful"
3/22/1878
I.
Johnny Packard was dozing on the porch in front of the livery and harness store, with his Stetson down over his face and his worn-down boots resting on the railing in front of him. The town of Just-Plain-Awful, barely a mile from the Mexican border, did not live down to its pessimistic name. The surrounding ranchers and the homesteaders had more or less come to terms, there were no hostile Natives activew in any numbers and the coming of the railroad to the area meant occasional visitors stayed for a spell at the town's hotel to spend some money. Even the one-room schoolhouse at the end of the main street was being expanded by volunteers.
Just-Plain-Awful was a good-sized burg with its own newspaper THE HARBINGER, there was a dentist, a barber and a carpentry shop, even a music hall with dancers and baggy-pants comedians and historians doing recitations about the late War. To Johnny Packard, a few days in Just-Plain-Awful suited his mood perfectly. Even the Brimstone Kid needed time to lick wounds and put trauma behind him. That week getting through Skinwalker territory had left him shaken.
Only in his early twenties, Johnny was a wiry youth below average size, no more than five feet four and weighing maybe a hundred and forty pounds. His beat-up outfit consisted of riding boots with no spurs, Levis, a red flannel shirt with an open black vest over it. The narrow sullen face with its thick red hair and deepset green eyes was concealed beneath the black Stetson for the moment. Tucked inside the beaded Navajo hatband was the damned sigil only one other living soul knew about- the ancient Darthan coin whose curse made the Brimstone Kid a real horror rather than a gunslinger nickname.
This was a town with a no-guns ordinance. Johnny had signed over his 1873 Peacemakers at the sheriff's office promptly on arrival. He was getting increasingly used to walking around unarmed as more and more places enacted such laws. Johnny had stabled his black horse Terror at a huge barn that served as a livery. While the stallion was rubbed down and curried, then his hooves inspected and his feed bag filled, Terror seemed to accept the situation equitably enough. He gave Johnny subdued snorting to indicate all was acceptable.
They had arrived early enough that the restaurant known on its sign as CHARLIE'S RETREAT was still serving wheat flapjacks, scrambled eggs and thick backbacon. Johnny plowed through the generous serving, gulped a mug of coffee and then took more time sipping the second one. He felt more sanguine with real food tucked behind his belt. If he ever settled down and stayed in one town, he figured it would be the availability of decent cooking that would seal the decision. His bedroll and his saddle were propped up inside the livery. Next, the Kid knew he should take a room in the town hotel or one of the boarding houses for the next few days. A hot soapy bath would do him no harm, and rinsing out some of his clothes might remove enough grime to restore their original color.
For now, he wanted only to snooze and be left in peace. Then he heard the footsteps shuffling through the dry dust of the street toward him. Scowling, Johnny thumbed up the brim of his hat to watch a middle-aged cowpoke in dusty clothing trudging nearer. The man was of medium height and build, apparently in his late fifties. From the sunken appearance of the mouth under the grey beard, not many teeth had survived those years. The man wore chaps over his trousers, a baggy light brown shirt with four big pockets on its front, and a dilapidated hat cocked to one side over long grimy hair. "How dya do, son," he greeted cheerfully enough.
"I don't believe we've met, suh," Johnny managed to reply in a civil tone.
"Heh, heh, not many folks has ever heard of me," came the answer as the older man came over to lean back against the railing. "My folks baptized me Rudolph Scott, but I answers to Scruffy. Once a buffalo hunter, once a fur trapper, one time a panhandler out in Californy. But the past ten years, I been escortin' beef on the hoof from Texas to Chicago. My and my partner Southpaw."
Despite his natural surly disposition, Johnny saw no reason to rebuff this man. He sat up straighter, planted his boots on the porch before him and said, "I figger you might have somethin' you want to tell me, suh."
"I do indeed, young feller. Oh, I heard many campfire tales about you. Forgive my impudence, but a youth with red hair and green eyes, riding by hisself on a big black hoss like the one over there that's a-watchin' us now... Wayll, I suspect you ain't no greenhorn from back East."
"Heh. Sure, some folks do call me the Brimstone Kid," Johnny replied. "But I gotta warn you right now, I ain't no crusading hero like the dime novels say. And don't believe half what's told around a fire at night. A feller of yore experience has to have learned better than that."
"True words, true words," Scruffy said, crumpling up his shapeless hat to reveal a circular bald patch on the crown of his head. "But recently I happened to have crossed paths with none other than Tom Pinto. Helped him out of an embarrassing moment, you might say, and we spent a day or two traveling the opposite way the posse was headin'. He mentioned to me that you wuz no make-believe hellraiser and to treat you with respect if'n I should meet up with ya. He warned me that you and him had seen things out on the plains that weren't natural no way."
Johnny could not hold back a snort that turned into a full laugh. "Tom Pinto again. Say your piece, then. I'm a-listening."
"Fair enough, let me add that I don't ask help fer myself. Nah. It's about my partner, Southpaw. We've moved a few herds of longhorns North together and gotten work fixin' up fences and shed building in the between seasons. Southpaw's a good man, Johnny, he's got yer back and his word is solid as steel. But the dern fool gets the craziest ideas in his haid and nothin' will dislodge them. He grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, see? Dint move out here to the real country until he was fifteen. What can I tell you? Southpaw writes...well, poetry. Yeah I said it. Also essays about the joy of Spring mornings and short stories about younguns fallin' in hopeless love. They been published, too, not that he ever gets more than pennies."
The Kid was at a loss. "As a wrangler?"
"Oh, he's aces. Good with a hoss, good with cattle. He can also make solid furniture like chairs and benches, and he ain't afraid of rattlers nor Ky-otes. Decent partner. We been ridin' together eight years now. Too bad he's got such a goddam SENS-tive soul."
"I'm calculating your friend has got himself in trouble."
"Yep." Scruffy took time to launch a vile spit of chewing tobacco that killed a horsefly in mid-air. "The darn fool is gettin' played fer a darn fool, no mistake. Southpaw is a big ol' galoot but he's got a heart soft as a sofa cushion. Not in this town an hour and he tumbled like a schoolboy for that Evangeline DePuy filly. She hooked him good with some yarn about a necklace dangler shaped like some Oriental dragon."
"That lady's name don't mean anything to me," Johnny said. "Can't say I spotted any Chinese or Jap folks round these parts, how's about you?"
"Seems I recollect a gentlemen of the Asian inclination sitting by the stage office," Scruffy said. "He was settling down with the thickest newspaper I ever did see, so it's possible he's gonna be there a spell."
Johnny hopped to his feet with the easy nimbleness of youth and glanced over toward the livery. He saw Terror resting amiably beneath some trees and his gear was stowed just inside the barn door. Involuntarily, his hands dropped to where the butts of his .45s would normally be waiting, but he caught himself in time and pretended to merely be hitching up his pants. "I suggest we start with this Oriental feller. Might be he's heard of this dragon pendant, might even be he's the rightful owner. You game?"
"Lead on, amigo. I feel a whole lot more confident with a proven scrapper by my side. These bones are gettin' too worn down fer rough stuff."
As they walked off, a curtain moved in a window on the second floor of the boarding house next to the them. A single long-lashed eye of a striking violet hue could be glimpsed as the curtain closed.
II.
Heading for the stagecoach station in the center of town, Johnny got a description of Evangeline DePuy from Scruffy, and once he discarded the colorful phrasing, he pictured a woman in her late twenties, tall, slender, with long dark brown hair and an oval face. Her eyes were said to be not green nor blue, but somewhere in between.
"Sounds familiar," the Brimstone Kid commented as if to himself. "I never tangled with Felony Jones my own self, but I certainly have met folks she's swindled within an inch of their lives. They say she's the trickiest grifter West of the Mississippi, not excluding Doc Valentine."
"That figgers," said Scruffy. "She was sniffling back tears by herself in a doorway and she spun some yarn about a big owlhoot named Philo Sudlow snatchin' that dragon thingie away and she was afraid to confront him. Accordin' to her, he ain't above smacking a woman around. The sheriff and the deputy are over in Rock Ridge and she worries he'll be long gone afore they return."
"Oh, fuss and bother. I can guess how that ended up. Yore friend volunteered to go find this Philo ranny and get the doodad back. Is Southpaw useful with his knuckles?"
"Aw Hell no. He's big rag doll of a man. Funny thing is, he sometimes talks about some fool in the King Arthur stories, a feller named Galahad who went about protectin' helpless folks. Difference is, Galahad carried a sword and knew how to use it. Southpaw has trouble swattin' a moskeeter."
Johnny could not repress a chuckle. They found the station was a long frame building that also served as the town post office and Western Union telegraph service. On a shaded bench off to one side, a slight elderly man peered through octagonal-lensed eyeglasses at a newspaper. He was well dressed in a dark brown suit with a neat string tie.
"Excuse me, grandfather," Johnny began in his most polite tones. "We need to ask you something?"
The old man gave a start and looked around in panic. The thick glasses made the single eyelid fold particularly noticeable. He regarded the Kid and Scruffy as if they were growling wolves encircling him.
Surprised at this reaction, Scruffy removed his pitiful hat and held it in front of him with both hands. "Didn't mean to alarm yuh any," he said. "Mebbe you seen a friend of mine? Big hombre, got kinder a bright blue shirt on and a red bandanner?"
"Sorry, English no good," the elderly man said, messing up his attempt to fold the newspaper in his panic and ending with a bundle that had pages falling out.
"Whoa, whoa." Johnny held up both open hands and backed up a few steps. "Come on, Scruffy, we're frightening the hide off this feller fer some reason. Let's go."
Reluctantly, the grizzled cowhand moved away with the Kid. "I got a gander at his paper, it was in Chinese scribbling whatever they call that stuff. Sure weren't English. Wonder why we spooked him thataway?"
Johnny picked up his pace as he crossed the dusty main street, avoiding the numerous momentos horses had left to remember them by. "Aw, maybe he wouldn't have known about that dragon thing anyway. Maybe it ain't even a real Chinese trinket, just something cheap made over here. Come on, we'll hit the saloons and eateries and find your saddle partner."
"A shot of rotgut always sharpens my senses."
III.
Their search was slowed by the insistence of Scruffy on sampling whiskey and flirting with the women he described as "well-seasoned floozies." All sense of urgency evaporated from his agenda when booze or women were within sight. He gave the dry goods store and the barber shop much mnore cursory investigations. As they made their way up along the raised walkway which ran in front of the shops, voices from an alley caught Scruffy's attention. He raised a finger and grinned toothlessly at the Brimstone Kid.
"Oh, the Indians have exquisite craftsmanship, certainly," came a man's voice that was almost excessively mellow. "What the Arapaho do with silver and turquoise is breath-taking. Their beadwork is gorgeous. But the Asians have thousands of years of culture behind their art and it shows. May I take a closer look?"
"Wallll, I shouldn't..." rumbled a deeper voice in answer. "But yuh seem interested, why not?"
With Scruffy right behind him, Johnny advanced silently into the alley which opened to an empty lot where the various businesses apparently kept their broken chairs, buckets of murky water or barrels of debris. Two unusually large men were standing close together, intent on something they inspected. One matched the description of Southpaw. He stood an inch over six feet tall with a soft-looking gut pushing out a sky-blue shirt. His light brown hair had not been cut in some time and stuck out wildly over a doughy but amiable face. He was oblivious to the world because his full attention was on the three-inch rampant dragon made of pale gold which he held.
But it was the other man who worried Johnny. This was a sturdy brute much taller than Southpaw, and much broader, with a massive chest and shoulders, thick arms and a bull neck. Philo Sudlow. He had a wide-brimmed round-crowned hat jammed down over a wide surly face with a nose that had long forgotten its original shape. As Southpaw studied the amulet, Philo loomed up over him as ominous as a wave about to crash.
Again, Johnny caught his hands dropping down to where his pistols invariably hung. Drat the situation. And it was early afternoon, hours before sundown would bring about his demonic transformation. This was going to have to played the hard way. He cleared his throat and got their attention. "Gentlemen."
At once, Philo snatched the dragon amulet back and enveloped it within his meaty paw. Southpaw blinked myopically and took a second to react before saying, "Scruffy? Well, howdy, old son. Who's your new friend?"
"Never you mind!" snorted the older cowboy. He shook his head sadly. "Southpaw you damfool, when are yuh gonna learn? That filly batted her eyelashes and wet her lips, and yore brains flew out the window. She didn't own that gold lizard thing and yore buddy there din't swipe it off her. He's the rightful owner. That gal is the notorious Felony Jones, she's tricked shrewder men than you and me put together."
"Why, Scruffy, you surprise me," Southpaw responded. "Deceit from an angelic face like that, with no guile in those eyes or manner? I'm wounded you think I am so poor a judge of character."
"Who you foolin? She coulda told you she was the goldern Queen of England and you'd have got down on one knee. I'm tellin ya, me and the Kid here are keeping you from getting your empty head caved in."
By now, the big bruiser was regarded the two newcomers with open hostility. "Rein in there a moment, is you fellows calling me a thief?! I won't stand for that."
Johnny Packard pushed his Stetson back off his head so it hung by its cord between his shoulders. He adjusted the wrist-length cotton gloves he wore even in the heat to keep his skin from being peeled by sunburn. "Let's not be too hasty. Mr Sudlow, I reckon you got a right to say your piece?"
"Look, sonny, I won this jewelry in a poker game in a border town. I never met no 'Felony Smith' gal and I sure as hell din't take it from her. That's all I need to say!"
The Brimstone Kid glanced over to meet the uncertain gaze of both Southpaw and Scruffy. "Thunderation," he said. "I ain't so sure who's in the right here. All righty then. I want all three of y'all to go meet up with this Felony Smith mujere and we'll figger it out. Sound fair enough?"
Tucking the dragon amulet inside his sweat-stained shirt, Philo drew up a wad of phlegm and spat it onto the dirt. "Wise up, you lil runt. You barely come up to my shoulder, you ain't in no position to order me around, I'll put you over my knee and spank you like a tadpole."
As soon as the last syllable was pronounced, Philo thought a dark-clothed wildcat was pouncing on him. Johnny Packard had always had a short fuse, his Uncle Wade had said that the redheaded boy had more scrappiness than sense. The Kid dove across the courtyard behind the shops to seize the front of the big man's shirt and yank him down. Johnny slammed a wide looping roundhouse right that cracked against the man's head like a rock swung on a string. It wasn't enough. Philo swatted a backhand open slap and caught Johnny square in the face.
A foot shorter and more than a hundred pounds lighter than his opponent, the Kid should have had not the slightest chance in a prolonged fight. But he was quick on his feet, nimble and hardened by a violent life. He avoided nearly all of Philo's punches and kept dancing in to land sharp blows before leaping back out of reach. After a few minutes, it was difficult to say which of the two men was taking more punishment. Both Johnny and Philo slowed noticeably, growing more cautious, watching each other carefully for an opening. Johnny was limping and Philo was bent over as if he couldn't catch a full breath.
"Had enough?" laughed the Kid insolently, barely standing. "Whar I come from, our grannies could thrash a dummy like you. Gimme that dang amulet."
"Aw, I left bigger things than you in the outhouse!" yelled Philo just before a two by four connected with the back of his head hard enough to kill a bison. His eyes rolled up so only the whites showed and he sagged down to lie in the dirt.
Scruffy examined the two by four and whistled. "Well, hang me if it didn't crack over his thick skull! Sorry if I cut your fun short there, pardner."
"Thass... thass okay with me," Johnny gasped. His lower lip was torn so blood trickled onto his chin and his left eye was already swelling shut. He wiped sweat off his face with the back of one bruised hand. "I was afeared I was gonna have to really hurt him."
Kneeling over Philo, who had started to snore through a gaping mouth, Southpaw dug in the man's shirt and came up with a flat piece of pale gold cast as a rampant serpentine dragon with batwings. "I do believe this individual is not even badly hurt, and to be honest, I feel we should not be around when he wakes up."
"I can see how he might bear us a grudge," Scruffy admitted. "Johnny, what you say?"
By now, the Kid was breathing normally and seemed preoccupied with trying to put weight on his left leg. "Appears to me that we might as well parley with Felony Jones.. if'n that is who she is... and get this straightened out."
From the mouth of the alley, a faintly-accented voice broke in. "Excuse this intrusion, sirs. I believe I can resolve your doubts."
It was the old Chinese man from the stagecoach platform, now carrying a slim ebony cane in one gnarled hand.
"I must say your English has improved considerable like," Johnny mentioned.
"Oh, I was taken aback by you gentlemen and feared I might be robbed. Pretending to not speak your language has often saved me grief. Here, my card." He held out an embossed piece of cardboard to the three cowboys.
"Allow me," Southpaw said. " 'Dr Wu Kai-Weng, Director of the Asian Museum of Antiquities, San Francisco.' Wall, I'll be. What do you know about this trinket, doctor?"
The elderly man held out one hand with enough assumed authority that Southpaw gave it to him. "It is not particularly old nor valuable in itself. But it does have historical significance. A certain Mandarin of infamous reputation made it. I was to meet Mr Sudlow in this town of Just-Plain-Awful and purchase it from him. I see he is sleeping at the moment."
"Sorry about that," Scruffy muttered.
Johnny Packard folded his arms and fixed a dubious gaze on the Chinese man. "Dr Wu, if I got yer name right, what's the story? How'd you and that shaved bear of a man even know about each other?"
Wu Kai-Weng smiled and carefully wrapped the dragon pendant in a soft chamois cloth which he placed inside his jacket. "Mr Sudlow evidently had a friend write letters to various institutions hoping to receive the best price. As it happens, I had been hoping to find this talisman for some time, so I cabled him to meet me here..."
They were interrupted by a groan from the hulking form lying nearby. Philo rolled over, smacked his lips and moved his arms vaguely.
"I believe he is about to revive," Dr Fu said. "I will attend to him, but I suggest he would not be happy to find you men here."
"Mebbe it's time we shook the dust of Just-Plain-Awful off our boots," Johnny agreed. "So, lemme ask. What about the woman with the purty eyes everyone is smitten by? Evangeline DePuy or Felony Jones, whichever tag is her own?"
"I regret to say I have not met any woman, beautiful or otherwise, in this town," Dr Wu answered. "I cannot help you."
"Let's get going afore I haveta smash another board over that bull's head," Scruffy said. "Southpaw and me left our horses at the livery at the north end of town, Johnny."
"That's where my own Terror is waiting," the Kid said. "I'll walk with you gents and we can ride outta here. Powell City ain't far away, they got good lodgings."
As they strode away, Scruffy could be heard saying, "See, that woman was playing you like a fiddle, Southpaw. You woulda tried to talk Philo into handing over the dragon jewelry and he'd have slapped you goofy. Time you learned some sense."
"Every man has a weakness," Southpaw objected without conviction.
As he saw the three men vanish up the street, Dr Wu took a turnip-sized gold watch from his vest pocket. "The stage is due to leave within a few minutes," he announced as if to himself/
Stepping around a corner where she had been concealed from sight, a slim young woman in a plain white dress approached him. Her hair was done up under a sunbonnet but those violet eyes were still striking. "That went well, doctor. You realize that was the legendary Brimstone Kid you were talking to?"
"We must hurry. Is your luggage ready?"
"Oh, yes. I have our tickets in hand. It's unfortunate that Philo there refused to sell the trinket for any reasonable price. Do you think he suspected its true nature?"
Wu gave a sharp barking laugh. "How could he? Few Westerners have ever heard of the Dragon of Midnight, or of his ancient pendant that allows him to walk through walls. No. I think he was simply too greedy, Miss Jones."
"Oh, I think we have worked well enough together to be informal," she said. "You may call me Felony."
7/19/2019
3/22/1878
I.
Johnny Packard was dozing on the porch in front of the livery and harness store, with his Stetson down over his face and his worn-down boots resting on the railing in front of him. The town of Just-Plain-Awful, barely a mile from the Mexican border, did not live down to its pessimistic name. The surrounding ranchers and the homesteaders had more or less come to terms, there were no hostile Natives activew in any numbers and the coming of the railroad to the area meant occasional visitors stayed for a spell at the town's hotel to spend some money. Even the one-room schoolhouse at the end of the main street was being expanded by volunteers.
Just-Plain-Awful was a good-sized burg with its own newspaper THE HARBINGER, there was a dentist, a barber and a carpentry shop, even a music hall with dancers and baggy-pants comedians and historians doing recitations about the late War. To Johnny Packard, a few days in Just-Plain-Awful suited his mood perfectly. Even the Brimstone Kid needed time to lick wounds and put trauma behind him. That week getting through Skinwalker territory had left him shaken.
Only in his early twenties, Johnny was a wiry youth below average size, no more than five feet four and weighing maybe a hundred and forty pounds. His beat-up outfit consisted of riding boots with no spurs, Levis, a red flannel shirt with an open black vest over it. The narrow sullen face with its thick red hair and deepset green eyes was concealed beneath the black Stetson for the moment. Tucked inside the beaded Navajo hatband was the damned sigil only one other living soul knew about- the ancient Darthan coin whose curse made the Brimstone Kid a real horror rather than a gunslinger nickname.
This was a town with a no-guns ordinance. Johnny had signed over his 1873 Peacemakers at the sheriff's office promptly on arrival. He was getting increasingly used to walking around unarmed as more and more places enacted such laws. Johnny had stabled his black horse Terror at a huge barn that served as a livery. While the stallion was rubbed down and curried, then his hooves inspected and his feed bag filled, Terror seemed to accept the situation equitably enough. He gave Johnny subdued snorting to indicate all was acceptable.
They had arrived early enough that the restaurant known on its sign as CHARLIE'S RETREAT was still serving wheat flapjacks, scrambled eggs and thick backbacon. Johnny plowed through the generous serving, gulped a mug of coffee and then took more time sipping the second one. He felt more sanguine with real food tucked behind his belt. If he ever settled down and stayed in one town, he figured it would be the availability of decent cooking that would seal the decision. His bedroll and his saddle were propped up inside the livery. Next, the Kid knew he should take a room in the town hotel or one of the boarding houses for the next few days. A hot soapy bath would do him no harm, and rinsing out some of his clothes might remove enough grime to restore their original color.
For now, he wanted only to snooze and be left in peace. Then he heard the footsteps shuffling through the dry dust of the street toward him. Scowling, Johnny thumbed up the brim of his hat to watch a middle-aged cowpoke in dusty clothing trudging nearer. The man was of medium height and build, apparently in his late fifties. From the sunken appearance of the mouth under the grey beard, not many teeth had survived those years. The man wore chaps over his trousers, a baggy light brown shirt with four big pockets on its front, and a dilapidated hat cocked to one side over long grimy hair. "How dya do, son," he greeted cheerfully enough.
"I don't believe we've met, suh," Johnny managed to reply in a civil tone.
"Heh, heh, not many folks has ever heard of me," came the answer as the older man came over to lean back against the railing. "My folks baptized me Rudolph Scott, but I answers to Scruffy. Once a buffalo hunter, once a fur trapper, one time a panhandler out in Californy. But the past ten years, I been escortin' beef on the hoof from Texas to Chicago. My and my partner Southpaw."
Despite his natural surly disposition, Johnny saw no reason to rebuff this man. He sat up straighter, planted his boots on the porch before him and said, "I figger you might have somethin' you want to tell me, suh."
"I do indeed, young feller. Oh, I heard many campfire tales about you. Forgive my impudence, but a youth with red hair and green eyes, riding by hisself on a big black hoss like the one over there that's a-watchin' us now... Wayll, I suspect you ain't no greenhorn from back East."
"Heh. Sure, some folks do call me the Brimstone Kid," Johnny replied. "But I gotta warn you right now, I ain't no crusading hero like the dime novels say. And don't believe half what's told around a fire at night. A feller of yore experience has to have learned better than that."
"True words, true words," Scruffy said, crumpling up his shapeless hat to reveal a circular bald patch on the crown of his head. "But recently I happened to have crossed paths with none other than Tom Pinto. Helped him out of an embarrassing moment, you might say, and we spent a day or two traveling the opposite way the posse was headin'. He mentioned to me that you wuz no make-believe hellraiser and to treat you with respect if'n I should meet up with ya. He warned me that you and him had seen things out on the plains that weren't natural no way."
Johnny could not hold back a snort that turned into a full laugh. "Tom Pinto again. Say your piece, then. I'm a-listening."
"Fair enough, let me add that I don't ask help fer myself. Nah. It's about my partner, Southpaw. We've moved a few herds of longhorns North together and gotten work fixin' up fences and shed building in the between seasons. Southpaw's a good man, Johnny, he's got yer back and his word is solid as steel. But the dern fool gets the craziest ideas in his haid and nothin' will dislodge them. He grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, see? Dint move out here to the real country until he was fifteen. What can I tell you? Southpaw writes...well, poetry. Yeah I said it. Also essays about the joy of Spring mornings and short stories about younguns fallin' in hopeless love. They been published, too, not that he ever gets more than pennies."
The Kid was at a loss. "As a wrangler?"
"Oh, he's aces. Good with a hoss, good with cattle. He can also make solid furniture like chairs and benches, and he ain't afraid of rattlers nor Ky-otes. Decent partner. We been ridin' together eight years now. Too bad he's got such a goddam SENS-tive soul."
"I'm calculating your friend has got himself in trouble."
"Yep." Scruffy took time to launch a vile spit of chewing tobacco that killed a horsefly in mid-air. "The darn fool is gettin' played fer a darn fool, no mistake. Southpaw is a big ol' galoot but he's got a heart soft as a sofa cushion. Not in this town an hour and he tumbled like a schoolboy for that Evangeline DePuy filly. She hooked him good with some yarn about a necklace dangler shaped like some Oriental dragon."
"That lady's name don't mean anything to me," Johnny said. "Can't say I spotted any Chinese or Jap folks round these parts, how's about you?"
"Seems I recollect a gentlemen of the Asian inclination sitting by the stage office," Scruffy said. "He was settling down with the thickest newspaper I ever did see, so it's possible he's gonna be there a spell."
Johnny hopped to his feet with the easy nimbleness of youth and glanced over toward the livery. He saw Terror resting amiably beneath some trees and his gear was stowed just inside the barn door. Involuntarily, his hands dropped to where the butts of his .45s would normally be waiting, but he caught himself in time and pretended to merely be hitching up his pants. "I suggest we start with this Oriental feller. Might be he's heard of this dragon pendant, might even be he's the rightful owner. You game?"
"Lead on, amigo. I feel a whole lot more confident with a proven scrapper by my side. These bones are gettin' too worn down fer rough stuff."
As they walked off, a curtain moved in a window on the second floor of the boarding house next to the them. A single long-lashed eye of a striking violet hue could be glimpsed as the curtain closed.
II.
Heading for the stagecoach station in the center of town, Johnny got a description of Evangeline DePuy from Scruffy, and once he discarded the colorful phrasing, he pictured a woman in her late twenties, tall, slender, with long dark brown hair and an oval face. Her eyes were said to be not green nor blue, but somewhere in between.
"Sounds familiar," the Brimstone Kid commented as if to himself. "I never tangled with Felony Jones my own self, but I certainly have met folks she's swindled within an inch of their lives. They say she's the trickiest grifter West of the Mississippi, not excluding Doc Valentine."
"That figgers," said Scruffy. "She was sniffling back tears by herself in a doorway and she spun some yarn about a big owlhoot named Philo Sudlow snatchin' that dragon thingie away and she was afraid to confront him. Accordin' to her, he ain't above smacking a woman around. The sheriff and the deputy are over in Rock Ridge and she worries he'll be long gone afore they return."
"Oh, fuss and bother. I can guess how that ended up. Yore friend volunteered to go find this Philo ranny and get the doodad back. Is Southpaw useful with his knuckles?"
"Aw Hell no. He's big rag doll of a man. Funny thing is, he sometimes talks about some fool in the King Arthur stories, a feller named Galahad who went about protectin' helpless folks. Difference is, Galahad carried a sword and knew how to use it. Southpaw has trouble swattin' a moskeeter."
Johnny could not repress a chuckle. They found the station was a long frame building that also served as the town post office and Western Union telegraph service. On a shaded bench off to one side, a slight elderly man peered through octagonal-lensed eyeglasses at a newspaper. He was well dressed in a dark brown suit with a neat string tie.
"Excuse me, grandfather," Johnny began in his most polite tones. "We need to ask you something?"
The old man gave a start and looked around in panic. The thick glasses made the single eyelid fold particularly noticeable. He regarded the Kid and Scruffy as if they were growling wolves encircling him.
Surprised at this reaction, Scruffy removed his pitiful hat and held it in front of him with both hands. "Didn't mean to alarm yuh any," he said. "Mebbe you seen a friend of mine? Big hombre, got kinder a bright blue shirt on and a red bandanner?"
"Sorry, English no good," the elderly man said, messing up his attempt to fold the newspaper in his panic and ending with a bundle that had pages falling out.
"Whoa, whoa." Johnny held up both open hands and backed up a few steps. "Come on, Scruffy, we're frightening the hide off this feller fer some reason. Let's go."
Reluctantly, the grizzled cowhand moved away with the Kid. "I got a gander at his paper, it was in Chinese scribbling whatever they call that stuff. Sure weren't English. Wonder why we spooked him thataway?"
Johnny picked up his pace as he crossed the dusty main street, avoiding the numerous momentos horses had left to remember them by. "Aw, maybe he wouldn't have known about that dragon thing anyway. Maybe it ain't even a real Chinese trinket, just something cheap made over here. Come on, we'll hit the saloons and eateries and find your saddle partner."
"A shot of rotgut always sharpens my senses."
III.
Their search was slowed by the insistence of Scruffy on sampling whiskey and flirting with the women he described as "well-seasoned floozies." All sense of urgency evaporated from his agenda when booze or women were within sight. He gave the dry goods store and the barber shop much mnore cursory investigations. As they made their way up along the raised walkway which ran in front of the shops, voices from an alley caught Scruffy's attention. He raised a finger and grinned toothlessly at the Brimstone Kid.
"Oh, the Indians have exquisite craftsmanship, certainly," came a man's voice that was almost excessively mellow. "What the Arapaho do with silver and turquoise is breath-taking. Their beadwork is gorgeous. But the Asians have thousands of years of culture behind their art and it shows. May I take a closer look?"
"Wallll, I shouldn't..." rumbled a deeper voice in answer. "But yuh seem interested, why not?"
With Scruffy right behind him, Johnny advanced silently into the alley which opened to an empty lot where the various businesses apparently kept their broken chairs, buckets of murky water or barrels of debris. Two unusually large men were standing close together, intent on something they inspected. One matched the description of Southpaw. He stood an inch over six feet tall with a soft-looking gut pushing out a sky-blue shirt. His light brown hair had not been cut in some time and stuck out wildly over a doughy but amiable face. He was oblivious to the world because his full attention was on the three-inch rampant dragon made of pale gold which he held.
But it was the other man who worried Johnny. This was a sturdy brute much taller than Southpaw, and much broader, with a massive chest and shoulders, thick arms and a bull neck. Philo Sudlow. He had a wide-brimmed round-crowned hat jammed down over a wide surly face with a nose that had long forgotten its original shape. As Southpaw studied the amulet, Philo loomed up over him as ominous as a wave about to crash.
Again, Johnny caught his hands dropping down to where his pistols invariably hung. Drat the situation. And it was early afternoon, hours before sundown would bring about his demonic transformation. This was going to have to played the hard way. He cleared his throat and got their attention. "Gentlemen."
At once, Philo snatched the dragon amulet back and enveloped it within his meaty paw. Southpaw blinked myopically and took a second to react before saying, "Scruffy? Well, howdy, old son. Who's your new friend?"
"Never you mind!" snorted the older cowboy. He shook his head sadly. "Southpaw you damfool, when are yuh gonna learn? That filly batted her eyelashes and wet her lips, and yore brains flew out the window. She didn't own that gold lizard thing and yore buddy there din't swipe it off her. He's the rightful owner. That gal is the notorious Felony Jones, she's tricked shrewder men than you and me put together."
"Why, Scruffy, you surprise me," Southpaw responded. "Deceit from an angelic face like that, with no guile in those eyes or manner? I'm wounded you think I am so poor a judge of character."
"Who you foolin? She coulda told you she was the goldern Queen of England and you'd have got down on one knee. I'm tellin ya, me and the Kid here are keeping you from getting your empty head caved in."
By now, the big bruiser was regarded the two newcomers with open hostility. "Rein in there a moment, is you fellows calling me a thief?! I won't stand for that."
Johnny Packard pushed his Stetson back off his head so it hung by its cord between his shoulders. He adjusted the wrist-length cotton gloves he wore even in the heat to keep his skin from being peeled by sunburn. "Let's not be too hasty. Mr Sudlow, I reckon you got a right to say your piece?"
"Look, sonny, I won this jewelry in a poker game in a border town. I never met no 'Felony Smith' gal and I sure as hell din't take it from her. That's all I need to say!"
The Brimstone Kid glanced over to meet the uncertain gaze of both Southpaw and Scruffy. "Thunderation," he said. "I ain't so sure who's in the right here. All righty then. I want all three of y'all to go meet up with this Felony Smith mujere and we'll figger it out. Sound fair enough?"
Tucking the dragon amulet inside his sweat-stained shirt, Philo drew up a wad of phlegm and spat it onto the dirt. "Wise up, you lil runt. You barely come up to my shoulder, you ain't in no position to order me around, I'll put you over my knee and spank you like a tadpole."
As soon as the last syllable was pronounced, Philo thought a dark-clothed wildcat was pouncing on him. Johnny Packard had always had a short fuse, his Uncle Wade had said that the redheaded boy had more scrappiness than sense. The Kid dove across the courtyard behind the shops to seize the front of the big man's shirt and yank him down. Johnny slammed a wide looping roundhouse right that cracked against the man's head like a rock swung on a string. It wasn't enough. Philo swatted a backhand open slap and caught Johnny square in the face.
A foot shorter and more than a hundred pounds lighter than his opponent, the Kid should have had not the slightest chance in a prolonged fight. But he was quick on his feet, nimble and hardened by a violent life. He avoided nearly all of Philo's punches and kept dancing in to land sharp blows before leaping back out of reach. After a few minutes, it was difficult to say which of the two men was taking more punishment. Both Johnny and Philo slowed noticeably, growing more cautious, watching each other carefully for an opening. Johnny was limping and Philo was bent over as if he couldn't catch a full breath.
"Had enough?" laughed the Kid insolently, barely standing. "Whar I come from, our grannies could thrash a dummy like you. Gimme that dang amulet."
"Aw, I left bigger things than you in the outhouse!" yelled Philo just before a two by four connected with the back of his head hard enough to kill a bison. His eyes rolled up so only the whites showed and he sagged down to lie in the dirt.
Scruffy examined the two by four and whistled. "Well, hang me if it didn't crack over his thick skull! Sorry if I cut your fun short there, pardner."
"Thass... thass okay with me," Johnny gasped. His lower lip was torn so blood trickled onto his chin and his left eye was already swelling shut. He wiped sweat off his face with the back of one bruised hand. "I was afeared I was gonna have to really hurt him."
Kneeling over Philo, who had started to snore through a gaping mouth, Southpaw dug in the man's shirt and came up with a flat piece of pale gold cast as a rampant serpentine dragon with batwings. "I do believe this individual is not even badly hurt, and to be honest, I feel we should not be around when he wakes up."
"I can see how he might bear us a grudge," Scruffy admitted. "Johnny, what you say?"
By now, the Kid was breathing normally and seemed preoccupied with trying to put weight on his left leg. "Appears to me that we might as well parley with Felony Jones.. if'n that is who she is... and get this straightened out."
From the mouth of the alley, a faintly-accented voice broke in. "Excuse this intrusion, sirs. I believe I can resolve your doubts."
It was the old Chinese man from the stagecoach platform, now carrying a slim ebony cane in one gnarled hand.
"I must say your English has improved considerable like," Johnny mentioned.
"Oh, I was taken aback by you gentlemen and feared I might be robbed. Pretending to not speak your language has often saved me grief. Here, my card." He held out an embossed piece of cardboard to the three cowboys.
"Allow me," Southpaw said. " 'Dr Wu Kai-Weng, Director of the Asian Museum of Antiquities, San Francisco.' Wall, I'll be. What do you know about this trinket, doctor?"
The elderly man held out one hand with enough assumed authority that Southpaw gave it to him. "It is not particularly old nor valuable in itself. But it does have historical significance. A certain Mandarin of infamous reputation made it. I was to meet Mr Sudlow in this town of Just-Plain-Awful and purchase it from him. I see he is sleeping at the moment."
"Sorry about that," Scruffy muttered.
Johnny Packard folded his arms and fixed a dubious gaze on the Chinese man. "Dr Wu, if I got yer name right, what's the story? How'd you and that shaved bear of a man even know about each other?"
Wu Kai-Weng smiled and carefully wrapped the dragon pendant in a soft chamois cloth which he placed inside his jacket. "Mr Sudlow evidently had a friend write letters to various institutions hoping to receive the best price. As it happens, I had been hoping to find this talisman for some time, so I cabled him to meet me here..."
They were interrupted by a groan from the hulking form lying nearby. Philo rolled over, smacked his lips and moved his arms vaguely.
"I believe he is about to revive," Dr Fu said. "I will attend to him, but I suggest he would not be happy to find you men here."
"Mebbe it's time we shook the dust of Just-Plain-Awful off our boots," Johnny agreed. "So, lemme ask. What about the woman with the purty eyes everyone is smitten by? Evangeline DePuy or Felony Jones, whichever tag is her own?"
"I regret to say I have not met any woman, beautiful or otherwise, in this town," Dr Wu answered. "I cannot help you."
"Let's get going afore I haveta smash another board over that bull's head," Scruffy said. "Southpaw and me left our horses at the livery at the north end of town, Johnny."
"That's where my own Terror is waiting," the Kid said. "I'll walk with you gents and we can ride outta here. Powell City ain't far away, they got good lodgings."
As they strode away, Scruffy could be heard saying, "See, that woman was playing you like a fiddle, Southpaw. You woulda tried to talk Philo into handing over the dragon jewelry and he'd have slapped you goofy. Time you learned some sense."
"Every man has a weakness," Southpaw objected without conviction.
As he saw the three men vanish up the street, Dr Wu took a turnip-sized gold watch from his vest pocket. "The stage is due to leave within a few minutes," he announced as if to himself/
Stepping around a corner where she had been concealed from sight, a slim young woman in a plain white dress approached him. Her hair was done up under a sunbonnet but those violet eyes were still striking. "That went well, doctor. You realize that was the legendary Brimstone Kid you were talking to?"
"We must hurry. Is your luggage ready?"
"Oh, yes. I have our tickets in hand. It's unfortunate that Philo there refused to sell the trinket for any reasonable price. Do you think he suspected its true nature?"
Wu gave a sharp barking laugh. "How could he? Few Westerners have ever heard of the Dragon of Midnight, or of his ancient pendant that allows him to walk through walls. No. I think he was simply too greedy, Miss Jones."
"Oh, I think we have worked well enough together to be informal," she said. "You may call me Felony."
7/19/2019
