"Murdertown, USA"
May. 21st, 2022 02:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Murdertown, USA"
8/23/1875
I.
It was getting on late afternoon when Johnny Packard rode slowly down the scorching main street of Russet. This deep in the Arizona territory, towns were widely spaced apart and no telegraphs yet reached here. Both Johnny and his black horse Terror were coated with trail dust, both were weary and sore and hungry. Johnny wondered why the town seemed so deserted, with only a few idlers in one doorway watching him. But he was too tired to care. When he saw a watering trough in front of a saloon called LAST CHANCE, he steered Terror over and let the big ebony stallion drink. Johnny himself splashed handfuls of the lukewarm water over his head and face, gratefully wiping his neck of grime and dried sweat.
Not yet eighteen, Johnny was a slim short youth not more than five feet four inches tall and weighing one hundred and fifty pounds on a good day. His black Levis, red work shirt and open black vest were white with dust. The Kid dunked his head once near where Terror was slowly drinking his fill. The thick red hair slicked back by water, his deepset green eyes bleary in a narrow face, Johnny Packard did not seem imposing at first glance. He let his black Stetson hang down by its cord between his shoulders.
It was the guns that would catch any observer's eye. Low on his hips, holsters laced to his lean thigh, a matched pair of Colt Peacemakers hung. The big 45s were situated right where Johnny's hands would drop when he stood.
From across the street, a voice bellowed, "Hey! Stranger! We wanna talk to you."
The Kid paused and turned his head. He had started rubbing Terror down with handfuls of water, cooling the black hide off and easing overworked muscles. Taking care of his steed before himself was an ingrained habit by now. Johnny looked over and spotted two men standing in front of a building with a hanging sign that read SHERIFF'S OFFICE. One was a near giant in a black frock coat and flat-brimmed hat. He had thick limbs with a round paunch that looked hard as rock. The other was a puny specimen in bib overalls over a filthy undershirt. Both men had bristling unkempt beard. What really held Johnny's attention, though, was that the big man cradled a Winchester repeater across his chest.
As he strode across the dusty street with its rank horse droppings and deep ruts from coaches, Johnny watched everything around him. His eyes flickered over every doorway, every window, every corner between buildings, as warily as if he had been warned of an ambush. This was a habit he had learned the hard way the past year. Two more men had emerged from around a corner, grizzled old tough guys who dressed like prospectors. None of them were armed.
As he drew closer, Johnny asked in as mild a voice as he could managed, 'You got a piece to speak, mister?"
"That's Sheriff to you, son," rumbled the man, thumbing the metal star pinned to his flannel shirt. "I see you are new to these parts. Our ordinance says no sidearms within town limits. No exceptions. You can claim your irons when yer leaving."
The Kid mulled it over for only a few seconds. The town seemed nearly empty, the only firearm he had seen was the rifle that the sheriff was cradling. Considering he was filthy and starving, and even Terror was tired of roaming the plains, Johnny decided to go along with it. More and more, he knew towns were restricting the wearing of hoglegs in an attempt to settle things down. "All right," he said at last. "I got no problem with that, suh."
Moving his hands carefully so it could be seen he was not about to draw, the Kid unbuckled his gunbelt, folded it and handed it over to the scrawny little deputy. This fellow had a chamberpot hat pushed back on lank black hair and he took the gunbelt as if he had been handled an irritated rattler. He swung around and hurried inside the office, slamming the door shut harder than seemed necessary.
"I do like to see a law-abidin' saddletramp," sneered the sheriff.
Behind him, Johnny sensed two men moving in closer. The prospectors. They were almost within reach when Johnny said, "All I'm looking fer is a hot meal and some rest for my hoss, boys. I'm a peaceable soul."
By now, three more men had emerged from doorways and across the street. None seemed like shopkeepers or tradespeople. They were solid, rough-featured men with the flat empty glare of those who had lost most human feeling. As he saw a ring begin to form around him, Johnny Packard shifted his weight and began to choose the first opponent. When a fight was on hand, best to be ready.
"Haw haw!" bellowed one of the brutes. "Did ya ever seen a lamb go more meekly to the slaughter? Ha!"
"You're laughing now," Johnny said, "But yer gonna be cryin'." As he said the last word, he sprang at the man who had laughed and blasted a tight right hook that slewed that jaw out of its hinge. This acted as a signal for mayhem. Four men, all bigger and heavier than the redhead, rushed in on top of him. Johnny dropped to the ground, rolled and got out from under the sudden dogpile. As he leaped up, he caught the nearest cowboy right on the nose with a sharp jab.
"Get him! Get that runt!"
Despite his small size and wiry build, Johnny Packard moved like an enraged bobcat. He dropped one where the man stood with an uppercut that started down by knee level. The punch clapped the bruiser's jaws shut with toothbreaking impact. But doing this gave another thug the opening needed to seized Johnny by both arms and lift him up off the ground. Kicking and wriggling, the Kid could not escape a bruising roundhouse right that swung his head around and then a follow-up left that dazed him. The gang flung Johnny down and began kicking him with enthusiasm.
For a second, it seemed the Kid would be beaten senseless but he curled up into a ball and unexpectedly vaulted up through a gap in the crowd. It wasn't enough. One of the gang tagged him with a clubbed fist to the back of the head that flung Johnny back down face first into the dust.
"Terror, run! Take off, boy!" Johnny yelled as he tried to rise but was pinned down a heavy boot pressing on his back. He saw the black stallion swing around and gallop away toward the edge of town. Johnny knew Terror had been about to charge the crowd to protect his master and he didn't want his horse to take a few rifle bullets if it could be avoided.
"Steady there," said the sheriff. "All of ya dernfools, look alive. This squeak is a mite more dangerous than he looks."
Twisting his head, Johnny gasped, "What's the big idea, lawman? I ain't no outlaw. I ain't wanted nowhere."
"Heh heh, yer the only man in this town is ISN'T an outlaw," said the rifleman. "I took this star off the real sheriff. Men, take a good look. Ain't you heard of a little shrimp with red hair and a black hoss? Our next rope-dangler is none other than the Brimstone Kid."
II.
Thrown into a cell that stank of urine and sweat and fear, Johnny picked himself up and gripped the vertical bars of the door. "Another Outlaw Town, huh? Dang my luck."
"Whaddaya mean, another one? Never mind, it don't matter none. We call this Murdertown, boy. It started as a mining town that did all right fer a while but then the silver ran out. They was only a dozen folks left when my gang rode in. The sheriff was a coot old as the mountains, gettin' ready to retire and move on. Me and my lads helped him hurry it up, you might say."
Outside, the sun was nearing the horizon. Against his shoulder blades, Johnny felt the Darthan coin in his hatband start to grow warm. "What happened to the other townsfolk?"
"Aw, we keep a few 'em under guard. The old Dutch couple are good cooks and do the laundry. A kid named Tommy helps out with the hosses. But the deputy put up some resistance and he got his neck stretched for his attitude. The rest of the storekeeps and barbers and such wasn't no use to us, so they went inna hole too."
The Brimstone Kid's voice was as calm as if he was sitting safe at a cafe sipping coffee. "And what's yer racket, mister? You provide a hideout fer owlhoots on the run? You plannin' on gathering a bigger mob together?"
"We're moving on soon enough... Hell, never you mind, son. At dawn, my men will nail together the wooden tree in front and you will find yourself kickin' the air. Those are right pretty Colts you gave us. When yer hoss comes back, we'll sell him too and choose up for yer saddle and gear."
"Says you," snorted Johnny. "Lissen, Tiny, what's yer name?"
"Me? Why, I'm Joe Jumbo from Montana. I'm on posters all over the territory."
"Can't say the name sounds familiar," Johnny said. "But then I'm from West Texas my own self."
"Yeah, the Brimstone Kid. You are supposed to be a genyu-wine devil escaped from Perdition, or maybe the ghost of a murdered cowboy or some say a Skinwalker posin' as a human man. You look like nothin' more than a punk kid to me."
Johnny grinned. Somehow the lowered red eyebrows seemed shaggier than they had been a second earlier. "One more thing, Mr Jumbo. How many rannies you got in yer bunch?"
"Huh? Why, counting me, thirteen. Lucky number, I sez. But what does it matter to you?"
"I want to keep count," the Brimstone Kid replied.
At sunset, the deputy handed Johnny a plain cheese sandwich on a piece of paper and a tin mug of beer. "Here ya go. I figger ever condemned man deserves some gesture."
"Thanks," came the answer in a deeper, more sepulchral voice. "You might get out of this alive."
"Lord have mercy," muttered the deputy as he hurried around a corner into the office. "Say, chief, I gotta say, the prisoner looks different alla sudden."
"What's ailin' you, Gus? Getting hangman nerves?" came the impatient answer.
From the cell, Johnny listened with a wicked grin. He heard Jumbo say, "Let's cut in on the poker game the boys have got goin' on. That little Texas boy ain't going nowhere." A chair squeaked, clothing rustled and the front door closed with a click. As soon as he heard that, Johnny placed his Stetson firmly on his head. Over his forehead, the cursed token blazed up inside the beaded hatband.
He became the Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
A low laugh rumbled in his chest. Johnny glanced around the dim cell with eyes that had now a lambent red glint in their irises. He gripped the cell door, braced himself and pulled. No results. He shook the bars as fiecely as he could and tried again. The Brimstone Kid was stronger in this cursed state but not enough to yank a well-built jail cell door off its hinges. He was still getting his limits. From the narrow barred window behind him, a deep snort sounded and the Kid wheeled around with relief. He leaped across the cell and stared out the window at the gaunt black shape outside.
The transformation was affecting Terror as well. The long black head was growing nearly skeletal and that same red gleam was in his dark eyes. When the horse snorted, steam puffed out as if the air was freezing although it was a muggy night.
"That's my boy," whispered Johnny. "I swear you're smarter than most peoples we meet. Hows about getting me outta here, old soul?" He had some idea about getting hold of his lasso from where it was coiled on the saddle. If he tied a loop around the saddle horn and wrapped more of the rope around one of the bars, he felt sure that Terror could loosen a bar enough to pry it loose.
Instead, he saw the great black stallion rear up on his hind legs. Johnny swung around to flatten against the wall a few feet away. He had given up trying to predict what Terror would get in his head when the Brimstone curse was upon him. A second later, a steel-shod hoof cracked against a vertical bar and the iron rod tore loose to clatter across the cell. A second blow and a second bar were spinning onto the floor.
"GodDAM," Johnny laughed. "I admits it, Terror, yore officially the smarter of us two." In an instant, the nimble Kid scrambled up to drop through the narrow opening and land silently on his feet outside. Down the street, only one building was lit. Raucous laughter and cursing rang out through the batwing doors of the LAST CHANCE.
Taking Terror's reins, the Brimstone Kid stroked the black horse's powerful neck. "Thirteen of them murderin' skunks," he growled. "Let's get started."
III.
The stable stood at the far end of town, where only a tiny outhouse sat by itself where short grass and scrub brush marked the edge of the prairie. It had been a hot dry summer and the vegetation was dried and brittle. A single oil lantern hung on a hook outside the wide stable door, and in its yellow light a man emerged to stretch and flex his arms. "You stay put, kid," he told someone inside.
The gang member wore a colorful Mexican serape and a conical white hat. He placed a nearly empty whisky bottle on the ground with exaggerated carefulness and watched it for a second as if suspecting the bottle would try to run away. Then, fumbling at the buttons of his pants, the killer walked unsteadily around the corner of the stable while mumbling to himself.
From the shadows, a hand with hot skin tightened over the bandit's mouth and held it shut as if an iron clamp had been welded there. The gang member waved his arms frantically, but he only made one wheezing attempt as a yell before a wide knife blade slid between his left ribs into his heart. The dying man was thrown to one side to land with a dull thump on the hard ground.The Kid watched and listened in a crouch, then wiped his knife on the corpse's serape. A quick search turned up no gun on the body. Evidently big Joe Jumbo kept his men mostly unarmed between hold-ups to minimize infighting. A long thin stiletto was in the dead man's boot and Johnny secured this in the rear of his own belt.
Inside the stable, where seven horses dozed uneasily in their stalls, a blond boy in farmer's coveralls gave a wild start as a lean dark figure strode in from the night. With the influence of the Darthan coin fully upon him, the Brimstone Kid seemed taller and more angular than Johnny Packard had been. The skin of his face was flushed and under bristling brows the red-irises eyes stood out as if lit from within.
Across the front of the vest and work shirt, a wet streak of fresh blood glistened in the lamplight. Seeing this, the boy yelped and fell over backwards to land sitting up in the hay which covered the ground inside the stable.
"Tommy, right?" asked the weird newcomer in an echoing voice. "Get up. Start unfastening them hosses and leave their stalls open. I'll help you." As he spoke, the Kid went over to the nearest stall and freed the roan who stood within. The animal shrank back meekly from the stranger.
"What.. where's Paco?" asked Tommy, hurrying to obey the strange orders.
"He's number four," the Kid answered with no further explanation. "Hurry up. One of these coyotes is bound to stumble across a stiff any minute now."
"The horses will get away," the boy said as indeed one of the animals edged out of an opened stall door.
"That's the idea." The Brimstone Kid finished on his row of stalls and rushed over to the farmboy by a pencil-thin arm. "Quick now, where's the old couple? The cook and her husband?"
"Why, they'd be in the back of the saloon like always. They never get to leave. Who ARE you? Are you the Brimstone Kid?"
"Your own mouth said it," Johnny chuckled. Every move he made snapped with urgency. He shoved the confused boy toward the open wide door of the stable. "I'm stongly recommending you find a cubbyhole. Hide yourself good and don't stick yer head up until the commotion is over."
"Huh? What's going on? Are the Arizona Rangers here? Did someone gather up a posse to clean this town up?"
"Get going!" growled the Kid and shoved the boy roughly out into the night. Most of the horses were still standing uncertainly in their opened stalls, but two were edging toward the front door. Most of the animals had only been taken from their owners recently and had not been throughly acclimated to the bandits who now claimed them. Gathering armfuls of hay, Johnny strewed a layer of the dried material along the back wall, then took down the oil lamp. In another moment, he had a blaze going that filled the interior with gusting smoke and red flames. This late in the summer, the wood structure was dry as tinder.
As the terrified neighing horses stampeded out of the burning stable and out into the street, Johnny Packard remained behind for some obscure reason. A dark silhouette against the growing fire, he gave vent to a spell of mocking laughter before racing for the door himself.
The shouting and howling from the LAST CHANCE had started as he had expected. More drunk than sober, a half dozen of the Jumbo Gang reeled out and stood confused in the unsteady glare from the burning building. One or two made an effort to stop the fleeing horses with no luck. The huge bulk of their leader staggered out last, gaped at the flames roaring up and started barking out orders. "Watch that them nearby buildings don't catch, you fools! Louie, Zeke... start filling buckets from the pump. Steve, here's mah keys, grab a handful of irons and run back here with 'em. I got my Winchester in the back room. Come on, snap out of it, you rummies ain't that soused you didn't hear me!"
At the rear of the saloon, a small well had been dug when the town was first forming, and a handled cast-iron pump stood on a board platform. Hustling as best they could in their condition, two of the Jumbo Gang fetched wooden buckets from inside the kitchen and stumbled over to the pump. They never made it. Out of the darkness, a wiry dark shape pounced quick as a cougar and brought them all down in a tumble. There were three cracking noises and only one form rose again. The Brimstone Kid straightened his hat low on his forehead and felt the stinging of the white-hot Darthan coin against his skin. "Five and Six," he muttered to himself.
From around a corner of the saloon, a skeletal black head showed itself and one hoof stamped the ground impatiently. "Not yet, Terror, not yet. You jest stand by for the right moment." The stallion snorted steam and drew back again. "Darn fool critter," Johnny said with amusement. "He enjoys this whole hellish curse a bit too much if anyone was to ask me."
IV.
Silent as his own shadow, the Kid darted between buildings and got to the sheriff's office without being seen. Down the street, in the wild flickering glare of the burning building, six remaining members of the Jumbo Gang argued and cursed each other out but none seemed to have a clear plan on what to do. Johnny couldn't see any sign of the gang leader himself.
The front door of the office was wide open, and he dove through with no idea what he might find. Only the puny-looking deputy was in there, pacing back and forth, and when he saw the blood-splattered Brimstone Kid lunging at him, he screamed like a child. Fingers fierce as eagle talons closed painfully tight around his throat and he felt himself lifted bodily into the air only to be thrown down to the floor with an impact that drove the wind out of him.
"Don't make a sound," whispered a voice that sounded like an echo from the grave. "I remember you, old son. You was the only one who at least made a kindly gesture towards me. Now, where are my irons?"
"Joe Jumbo's wearin' them," came the terrified answer. The deputy felt like the Kid's bare hand was hot enough to leave blisters and those eyes were glowing red with no light nearby to cause it. "The boys took all their guns outside."
"That's unwelcome news," said the Kid, easing up slightly. "You mean to tell me that there ain't a single shooter in this place?"
"I'm... sorry. The gang took 'em. I stayed here cause my nerve's not what it used to be."
Johnny Packard was kneeling over the deputy and, without any preliminary shifting his weight or drawing his arm back, he exploded a sharp hook that rocked the man's head over as far as it would go without the neck breaking. The blow sounded like a rock hitting a slab of meat. Rising, the kid swung away and headed outside without a word. Maybe the man would survive that punch, maybe not.
He got halfway to the crowd before they saw him approaching. The fact that Johnny was visibly unarmed and yet was striding purposefully toward them confused the gang. They raised their handguns and several cocked the hammers back. Behind the Jumbo Gang, the stench of burning wood and canvas and hay stung the nose.
Ten feet away, the Brimstone Kid came to a halt and stood silently watching them.
"You did this?!" screamed a man. "Them was our hosses! The next town is forty miles away! You gotta die slow for doing that."
"They is still one hoss left in this hellhole," the Kid taunted them, and he clapped his hands sharply. Behind the outlaws, a huge dark shape reared up with a shriek like a tortured banshee. Two hooves crashed high against the backs of the nearest men, throwing them down dead before they reached the ground. The black horse Terror stamped his feet and snorted with plumes of steam from his nostrils.
As soon as his stallion had struck, Johnny Packard sprang the distance between himself and the closest Jumbo gang member, wresting the man's Navy pistol free. Dropping to one knee, the Kid swung his arm back and forth and the pistol slammed out three shots so rapidly they sounded like one continous boom. Three outlaws fell where they stood. The one whose gun had been taken started to run, but Johnny tripped him. As the final outlaw struggled to get back up, the Kid laughed. "Plenty of room in Hell, amigo." and plugged him right in the center of the face.
Down the street, the big outlaw chief coughed. "That was muh last man you just killed, you whorseon. I been finding bodies behind buildings all over town. You been busy."
"I told I meant to keep count," said the Kid. "They deserved it and so does you. You dogs murdered the townsfolk when you took over and you was all set to stretch my neck so you could keep my kit."
"You dummy. Look where I am. I can put a slug through you but I got a decent rifle. You're out of range with that hogleg."
The Brimstone Kid chuckled and took a step forward. "Keep thinking that's gonna save you. Come on, Terror, let's put a bow on this."
As if they had practiced this a thousand times, Johnny and the black horse moved to opposite sides of the main street and began approaching Joe Jumbo one step at a time. The outlaw chief backed up, then swung his Winchester up but hesitated. Terror was a nighmare figure in the unsteady light. The big horse seemed larger than before, gaunt and half-starved with ribs showing, and the crimson eyes were fixed steadily on Jumbo. Then the gang leader got a glimpse of the revolver that Johnny Packard was holding. The metal shone a dull ruddy hue as if it had been taken from a fire. Joe Jumbo yelled, "Hold it, hold it right thar! I swear I'll send to two of yuh down to the Pit!"
"Aw, don't wait up for us," drawled the Kid. He had gotten within range and he snapped off his last shot to send a .44 bullet punching deep into the outlaw's massive chest. Jumbo grunted and sank to his knees, then rolled over on one side and a rattle sounded in his throat.
Dropping the pistol at his own feet, Johnny grinned wickedly at Terror. "I gotta admit it, amigo, I think you could handle these ticklish situations by yourself."
V.
Johnny retrieved his gunbelt and buckled it around his narrow hips again, inspecting his guns to reassure himself that they were loaded and had not been damaged. Pulling Terror by the reins, he went back to the sheriff's office and went inside to look for anything that might seem useful on the trail. Emerging again, he patted the black horse on the neck and muttered, "I know you ain't hungry nor thirsty now, old friend, but come the dawn we'll be mortal again." The Kid led his horse across the street, stepping around the half dozen dead men sprawled where they had fallen. Terror remained in the street, making odd rumbling noises in his chest.
Inside the LAST CHANCE was a filthy mess of debris left by outlaws who had expected to be moving out soon. Johnny picked up a few items from the tables which were littered with greasy playing cards, cigar butts and empty bottles but there was not much he needed. In the kitchen, he found an old man and woman huddled under a table.
"You folks come on out," the Brimstone Kid said in a voice he could not make sound friendly. "It's awright, them men are beyond hurtin' you any more." After some coaxing, the couple crawled out and stood. They had evidently not washed up or changed clothes for weeks, and the dark circles under bleary eyes showed they had been living in fear all that time.The man and woman held onto each other, shrinking back from the demonic sight of Johnny.
Taking out a thick wad of paper money he had accumulated as he moved around the saloon, the Kid divided it and thrust more than half into the old man's shirt pocket. "That'll help you make a fresh start. I might suggest moving outtta this territory and never breathing a word of this whole sordid affair. Savvy?"
"We won't even want to think about it," said the man in a strong German accent. "Our own horse and buckboard are still tied up out back. Those bastard let us feed and water our animal in case one of them needed to go to Morgantown for supplies."
"Somewhere in town, that boy Tommy is hidin'," Johnny said. "You need to take him with you. I aim to gather up some vittles and fill my canteens afore I hit the road again. Maybe take some clean clothes if any look as if they might fit. You two do the same."
"We will, we will." The elderly woman raised a thin hand hesitantly. "But wait. Who ARE you? Why have you done all this?"
Strolling out of the kitchen, the Kid turned his head back to fix those red-irises eyes on the couple. "I'm nobody. Nobody at all. You two never saw me." Then he was gone.
3/11/2019
8/23/1875
I.
It was getting on late afternoon when Johnny Packard rode slowly down the scorching main street of Russet. This deep in the Arizona territory, towns were widely spaced apart and no telegraphs yet reached here. Both Johnny and his black horse Terror were coated with trail dust, both were weary and sore and hungry. Johnny wondered why the town seemed so deserted, with only a few idlers in one doorway watching him. But he was too tired to care. When he saw a watering trough in front of a saloon called LAST CHANCE, he steered Terror over and let the big ebony stallion drink. Johnny himself splashed handfuls of the lukewarm water over his head and face, gratefully wiping his neck of grime and dried sweat.
Not yet eighteen, Johnny was a slim short youth not more than five feet four inches tall and weighing one hundred and fifty pounds on a good day. His black Levis, red work shirt and open black vest were white with dust. The Kid dunked his head once near where Terror was slowly drinking his fill. The thick red hair slicked back by water, his deepset green eyes bleary in a narrow face, Johnny Packard did not seem imposing at first glance. He let his black Stetson hang down by its cord between his shoulders.
It was the guns that would catch any observer's eye. Low on his hips, holsters laced to his lean thigh, a matched pair of Colt Peacemakers hung. The big 45s were situated right where Johnny's hands would drop when he stood.
From across the street, a voice bellowed, "Hey! Stranger! We wanna talk to you."
The Kid paused and turned his head. He had started rubbing Terror down with handfuls of water, cooling the black hide off and easing overworked muscles. Taking care of his steed before himself was an ingrained habit by now. Johnny looked over and spotted two men standing in front of a building with a hanging sign that read SHERIFF'S OFFICE. One was a near giant in a black frock coat and flat-brimmed hat. He had thick limbs with a round paunch that looked hard as rock. The other was a puny specimen in bib overalls over a filthy undershirt. Both men had bristling unkempt beard. What really held Johnny's attention, though, was that the big man cradled a Winchester repeater across his chest.
As he strode across the dusty street with its rank horse droppings and deep ruts from coaches, Johnny watched everything around him. His eyes flickered over every doorway, every window, every corner between buildings, as warily as if he had been warned of an ambush. This was a habit he had learned the hard way the past year. Two more men had emerged from around a corner, grizzled old tough guys who dressed like prospectors. None of them were armed.
As he drew closer, Johnny asked in as mild a voice as he could managed, 'You got a piece to speak, mister?"
"That's Sheriff to you, son," rumbled the man, thumbing the metal star pinned to his flannel shirt. "I see you are new to these parts. Our ordinance says no sidearms within town limits. No exceptions. You can claim your irons when yer leaving."
The Kid mulled it over for only a few seconds. The town seemed nearly empty, the only firearm he had seen was the rifle that the sheriff was cradling. Considering he was filthy and starving, and even Terror was tired of roaming the plains, Johnny decided to go along with it. More and more, he knew towns were restricting the wearing of hoglegs in an attempt to settle things down. "All right," he said at last. "I got no problem with that, suh."
Moving his hands carefully so it could be seen he was not about to draw, the Kid unbuckled his gunbelt, folded it and handed it over to the scrawny little deputy. This fellow had a chamberpot hat pushed back on lank black hair and he took the gunbelt as if he had been handled an irritated rattler. He swung around and hurried inside the office, slamming the door shut harder than seemed necessary.
"I do like to see a law-abidin' saddletramp," sneered the sheriff.
Behind him, Johnny sensed two men moving in closer. The prospectors. They were almost within reach when Johnny said, "All I'm looking fer is a hot meal and some rest for my hoss, boys. I'm a peaceable soul."
By now, three more men had emerged from doorways and across the street. None seemed like shopkeepers or tradespeople. They were solid, rough-featured men with the flat empty glare of those who had lost most human feeling. As he saw a ring begin to form around him, Johnny Packard shifted his weight and began to choose the first opponent. When a fight was on hand, best to be ready.
"Haw haw!" bellowed one of the brutes. "Did ya ever seen a lamb go more meekly to the slaughter? Ha!"
"You're laughing now," Johnny said, "But yer gonna be cryin'." As he said the last word, he sprang at the man who had laughed and blasted a tight right hook that slewed that jaw out of its hinge. This acted as a signal for mayhem. Four men, all bigger and heavier than the redhead, rushed in on top of him. Johnny dropped to the ground, rolled and got out from under the sudden dogpile. As he leaped up, he caught the nearest cowboy right on the nose with a sharp jab.
"Get him! Get that runt!"
Despite his small size and wiry build, Johnny Packard moved like an enraged bobcat. He dropped one where the man stood with an uppercut that started down by knee level. The punch clapped the bruiser's jaws shut with toothbreaking impact. But doing this gave another thug the opening needed to seized Johnny by both arms and lift him up off the ground. Kicking and wriggling, the Kid could not escape a bruising roundhouse right that swung his head around and then a follow-up left that dazed him. The gang flung Johnny down and began kicking him with enthusiasm.
For a second, it seemed the Kid would be beaten senseless but he curled up into a ball and unexpectedly vaulted up through a gap in the crowd. It wasn't enough. One of the gang tagged him with a clubbed fist to the back of the head that flung Johnny back down face first into the dust.
"Terror, run! Take off, boy!" Johnny yelled as he tried to rise but was pinned down a heavy boot pressing on his back. He saw the black stallion swing around and gallop away toward the edge of town. Johnny knew Terror had been about to charge the crowd to protect his master and he didn't want his horse to take a few rifle bullets if it could be avoided.
"Steady there," said the sheriff. "All of ya dernfools, look alive. This squeak is a mite more dangerous than he looks."
Twisting his head, Johnny gasped, "What's the big idea, lawman? I ain't no outlaw. I ain't wanted nowhere."
"Heh heh, yer the only man in this town is ISN'T an outlaw," said the rifleman. "I took this star off the real sheriff. Men, take a good look. Ain't you heard of a little shrimp with red hair and a black hoss? Our next rope-dangler is none other than the Brimstone Kid."
II.
Thrown into a cell that stank of urine and sweat and fear, Johnny picked himself up and gripped the vertical bars of the door. "Another Outlaw Town, huh? Dang my luck."
"Whaddaya mean, another one? Never mind, it don't matter none. We call this Murdertown, boy. It started as a mining town that did all right fer a while but then the silver ran out. They was only a dozen folks left when my gang rode in. The sheriff was a coot old as the mountains, gettin' ready to retire and move on. Me and my lads helped him hurry it up, you might say."
Outside, the sun was nearing the horizon. Against his shoulder blades, Johnny felt the Darthan coin in his hatband start to grow warm. "What happened to the other townsfolk?"
"Aw, we keep a few 'em under guard. The old Dutch couple are good cooks and do the laundry. A kid named Tommy helps out with the hosses. But the deputy put up some resistance and he got his neck stretched for his attitude. The rest of the storekeeps and barbers and such wasn't no use to us, so they went inna hole too."
The Brimstone Kid's voice was as calm as if he was sitting safe at a cafe sipping coffee. "And what's yer racket, mister? You provide a hideout fer owlhoots on the run? You plannin' on gathering a bigger mob together?"
"We're moving on soon enough... Hell, never you mind, son. At dawn, my men will nail together the wooden tree in front and you will find yourself kickin' the air. Those are right pretty Colts you gave us. When yer hoss comes back, we'll sell him too and choose up for yer saddle and gear."
"Says you," snorted Johnny. "Lissen, Tiny, what's yer name?"
"Me? Why, I'm Joe Jumbo from Montana. I'm on posters all over the territory."
"Can't say the name sounds familiar," Johnny said. "But then I'm from West Texas my own self."
"Yeah, the Brimstone Kid. You are supposed to be a genyu-wine devil escaped from Perdition, or maybe the ghost of a murdered cowboy or some say a Skinwalker posin' as a human man. You look like nothin' more than a punk kid to me."
Johnny grinned. Somehow the lowered red eyebrows seemed shaggier than they had been a second earlier. "One more thing, Mr Jumbo. How many rannies you got in yer bunch?"
"Huh? Why, counting me, thirteen. Lucky number, I sez. But what does it matter to you?"
"I want to keep count," the Brimstone Kid replied.
At sunset, the deputy handed Johnny a plain cheese sandwich on a piece of paper and a tin mug of beer. "Here ya go. I figger ever condemned man deserves some gesture."
"Thanks," came the answer in a deeper, more sepulchral voice. "You might get out of this alive."
"Lord have mercy," muttered the deputy as he hurried around a corner into the office. "Say, chief, I gotta say, the prisoner looks different alla sudden."
"What's ailin' you, Gus? Getting hangman nerves?" came the impatient answer.
From the cell, Johnny listened with a wicked grin. He heard Jumbo say, "Let's cut in on the poker game the boys have got goin' on. That little Texas boy ain't going nowhere." A chair squeaked, clothing rustled and the front door closed with a click. As soon as he heard that, Johnny placed his Stetson firmly on his head. Over his forehead, the cursed token blazed up inside the beaded hatband.
He became the Brimstone Kid in reality as well as name.
A low laugh rumbled in his chest. Johnny glanced around the dim cell with eyes that had now a lambent red glint in their irises. He gripped the cell door, braced himself and pulled. No results. He shook the bars as fiecely as he could and tried again. The Brimstone Kid was stronger in this cursed state but not enough to yank a well-built jail cell door off its hinges. He was still getting his limits. From the narrow barred window behind him, a deep snort sounded and the Kid wheeled around with relief. He leaped across the cell and stared out the window at the gaunt black shape outside.
The transformation was affecting Terror as well. The long black head was growing nearly skeletal and that same red gleam was in his dark eyes. When the horse snorted, steam puffed out as if the air was freezing although it was a muggy night.
"That's my boy," whispered Johnny. "I swear you're smarter than most peoples we meet. Hows about getting me outta here, old soul?" He had some idea about getting hold of his lasso from where it was coiled on the saddle. If he tied a loop around the saddle horn and wrapped more of the rope around one of the bars, he felt sure that Terror could loosen a bar enough to pry it loose.
Instead, he saw the great black stallion rear up on his hind legs. Johnny swung around to flatten against the wall a few feet away. He had given up trying to predict what Terror would get in his head when the Brimstone curse was upon him. A second later, a steel-shod hoof cracked against a vertical bar and the iron rod tore loose to clatter across the cell. A second blow and a second bar were spinning onto the floor.
"GodDAM," Johnny laughed. "I admits it, Terror, yore officially the smarter of us two." In an instant, the nimble Kid scrambled up to drop through the narrow opening and land silently on his feet outside. Down the street, only one building was lit. Raucous laughter and cursing rang out through the batwing doors of the LAST CHANCE.
Taking Terror's reins, the Brimstone Kid stroked the black horse's powerful neck. "Thirteen of them murderin' skunks," he growled. "Let's get started."
III.
The stable stood at the far end of town, where only a tiny outhouse sat by itself where short grass and scrub brush marked the edge of the prairie. It had been a hot dry summer and the vegetation was dried and brittle. A single oil lantern hung on a hook outside the wide stable door, and in its yellow light a man emerged to stretch and flex his arms. "You stay put, kid," he told someone inside.
The gang member wore a colorful Mexican serape and a conical white hat. He placed a nearly empty whisky bottle on the ground with exaggerated carefulness and watched it for a second as if suspecting the bottle would try to run away. Then, fumbling at the buttons of his pants, the killer walked unsteadily around the corner of the stable while mumbling to himself.
From the shadows, a hand with hot skin tightened over the bandit's mouth and held it shut as if an iron clamp had been welded there. The gang member waved his arms frantically, but he only made one wheezing attempt as a yell before a wide knife blade slid between his left ribs into his heart. The dying man was thrown to one side to land with a dull thump on the hard ground.The Kid watched and listened in a crouch, then wiped his knife on the corpse's serape. A quick search turned up no gun on the body. Evidently big Joe Jumbo kept his men mostly unarmed between hold-ups to minimize infighting. A long thin stiletto was in the dead man's boot and Johnny secured this in the rear of his own belt.
Inside the stable, where seven horses dozed uneasily in their stalls, a blond boy in farmer's coveralls gave a wild start as a lean dark figure strode in from the night. With the influence of the Darthan coin fully upon him, the Brimstone Kid seemed taller and more angular than Johnny Packard had been. The skin of his face was flushed and under bristling brows the red-irises eyes stood out as if lit from within.
Across the front of the vest and work shirt, a wet streak of fresh blood glistened in the lamplight. Seeing this, the boy yelped and fell over backwards to land sitting up in the hay which covered the ground inside the stable.
"Tommy, right?" asked the weird newcomer in an echoing voice. "Get up. Start unfastening them hosses and leave their stalls open. I'll help you." As he spoke, the Kid went over to the nearest stall and freed the roan who stood within. The animal shrank back meekly from the stranger.
"What.. where's Paco?" asked Tommy, hurrying to obey the strange orders.
"He's number four," the Kid answered with no further explanation. "Hurry up. One of these coyotes is bound to stumble across a stiff any minute now."
"The horses will get away," the boy said as indeed one of the animals edged out of an opened stall door.
"That's the idea." The Brimstone Kid finished on his row of stalls and rushed over to the farmboy by a pencil-thin arm. "Quick now, where's the old couple? The cook and her husband?"
"Why, they'd be in the back of the saloon like always. They never get to leave. Who ARE you? Are you the Brimstone Kid?"
"Your own mouth said it," Johnny chuckled. Every move he made snapped with urgency. He shoved the confused boy toward the open wide door of the stable. "I'm stongly recommending you find a cubbyhole. Hide yourself good and don't stick yer head up until the commotion is over."
"Huh? What's going on? Are the Arizona Rangers here? Did someone gather up a posse to clean this town up?"
"Get going!" growled the Kid and shoved the boy roughly out into the night. Most of the horses were still standing uncertainly in their opened stalls, but two were edging toward the front door. Most of the animals had only been taken from their owners recently and had not been throughly acclimated to the bandits who now claimed them. Gathering armfuls of hay, Johnny strewed a layer of the dried material along the back wall, then took down the oil lamp. In another moment, he had a blaze going that filled the interior with gusting smoke and red flames. This late in the summer, the wood structure was dry as tinder.
As the terrified neighing horses stampeded out of the burning stable and out into the street, Johnny Packard remained behind for some obscure reason. A dark silhouette against the growing fire, he gave vent to a spell of mocking laughter before racing for the door himself.
The shouting and howling from the LAST CHANCE had started as he had expected. More drunk than sober, a half dozen of the Jumbo Gang reeled out and stood confused in the unsteady glare from the burning building. One or two made an effort to stop the fleeing horses with no luck. The huge bulk of their leader staggered out last, gaped at the flames roaring up and started barking out orders. "Watch that them nearby buildings don't catch, you fools! Louie, Zeke... start filling buckets from the pump. Steve, here's mah keys, grab a handful of irons and run back here with 'em. I got my Winchester in the back room. Come on, snap out of it, you rummies ain't that soused you didn't hear me!"
At the rear of the saloon, a small well had been dug when the town was first forming, and a handled cast-iron pump stood on a board platform. Hustling as best they could in their condition, two of the Jumbo Gang fetched wooden buckets from inside the kitchen and stumbled over to the pump. They never made it. Out of the darkness, a wiry dark shape pounced quick as a cougar and brought them all down in a tumble. There were three cracking noises and only one form rose again. The Brimstone Kid straightened his hat low on his forehead and felt the stinging of the white-hot Darthan coin against his skin. "Five and Six," he muttered to himself.
From around a corner of the saloon, a skeletal black head showed itself and one hoof stamped the ground impatiently. "Not yet, Terror, not yet. You jest stand by for the right moment." The stallion snorted steam and drew back again. "Darn fool critter," Johnny said with amusement. "He enjoys this whole hellish curse a bit too much if anyone was to ask me."
IV.
Silent as his own shadow, the Kid darted between buildings and got to the sheriff's office without being seen. Down the street, in the wild flickering glare of the burning building, six remaining members of the Jumbo Gang argued and cursed each other out but none seemed to have a clear plan on what to do. Johnny couldn't see any sign of the gang leader himself.
The front door of the office was wide open, and he dove through with no idea what he might find. Only the puny-looking deputy was in there, pacing back and forth, and when he saw the blood-splattered Brimstone Kid lunging at him, he screamed like a child. Fingers fierce as eagle talons closed painfully tight around his throat and he felt himself lifted bodily into the air only to be thrown down to the floor with an impact that drove the wind out of him.
"Don't make a sound," whispered a voice that sounded like an echo from the grave. "I remember you, old son. You was the only one who at least made a kindly gesture towards me. Now, where are my irons?"
"Joe Jumbo's wearin' them," came the terrified answer. The deputy felt like the Kid's bare hand was hot enough to leave blisters and those eyes were glowing red with no light nearby to cause it. "The boys took all their guns outside."
"That's unwelcome news," said the Kid, easing up slightly. "You mean to tell me that there ain't a single shooter in this place?"
"I'm... sorry. The gang took 'em. I stayed here cause my nerve's not what it used to be."
Johnny Packard was kneeling over the deputy and, without any preliminary shifting his weight or drawing his arm back, he exploded a sharp hook that rocked the man's head over as far as it would go without the neck breaking. The blow sounded like a rock hitting a slab of meat. Rising, the kid swung away and headed outside without a word. Maybe the man would survive that punch, maybe not.
He got halfway to the crowd before they saw him approaching. The fact that Johnny was visibly unarmed and yet was striding purposefully toward them confused the gang. They raised their handguns and several cocked the hammers back. Behind the Jumbo Gang, the stench of burning wood and canvas and hay stung the nose.
Ten feet away, the Brimstone Kid came to a halt and stood silently watching them.
"You did this?!" screamed a man. "Them was our hosses! The next town is forty miles away! You gotta die slow for doing that."
"They is still one hoss left in this hellhole," the Kid taunted them, and he clapped his hands sharply. Behind the outlaws, a huge dark shape reared up with a shriek like a tortured banshee. Two hooves crashed high against the backs of the nearest men, throwing them down dead before they reached the ground. The black horse Terror stamped his feet and snorted with plumes of steam from his nostrils.
As soon as his stallion had struck, Johnny Packard sprang the distance between himself and the closest Jumbo gang member, wresting the man's Navy pistol free. Dropping to one knee, the Kid swung his arm back and forth and the pistol slammed out three shots so rapidly they sounded like one continous boom. Three outlaws fell where they stood. The one whose gun had been taken started to run, but Johnny tripped him. As the final outlaw struggled to get back up, the Kid laughed. "Plenty of room in Hell, amigo." and plugged him right in the center of the face.
Down the street, the big outlaw chief coughed. "That was muh last man you just killed, you whorseon. I been finding bodies behind buildings all over town. You been busy."
"I told I meant to keep count," said the Kid. "They deserved it and so does you. You dogs murdered the townsfolk when you took over and you was all set to stretch my neck so you could keep my kit."
"You dummy. Look where I am. I can put a slug through you but I got a decent rifle. You're out of range with that hogleg."
The Brimstone Kid chuckled and took a step forward. "Keep thinking that's gonna save you. Come on, Terror, let's put a bow on this."
As if they had practiced this a thousand times, Johnny and the black horse moved to opposite sides of the main street and began approaching Joe Jumbo one step at a time. The outlaw chief backed up, then swung his Winchester up but hesitated. Terror was a nighmare figure in the unsteady light. The big horse seemed larger than before, gaunt and half-starved with ribs showing, and the crimson eyes were fixed steadily on Jumbo. Then the gang leader got a glimpse of the revolver that Johnny Packard was holding. The metal shone a dull ruddy hue as if it had been taken from a fire. Joe Jumbo yelled, "Hold it, hold it right thar! I swear I'll send to two of yuh down to the Pit!"
"Aw, don't wait up for us," drawled the Kid. He had gotten within range and he snapped off his last shot to send a .44 bullet punching deep into the outlaw's massive chest. Jumbo grunted and sank to his knees, then rolled over on one side and a rattle sounded in his throat.
Dropping the pistol at his own feet, Johnny grinned wickedly at Terror. "I gotta admit it, amigo, I think you could handle these ticklish situations by yourself."
V.
Johnny retrieved his gunbelt and buckled it around his narrow hips again, inspecting his guns to reassure himself that they were loaded and had not been damaged. Pulling Terror by the reins, he went back to the sheriff's office and went inside to look for anything that might seem useful on the trail. Emerging again, he patted the black horse on the neck and muttered, "I know you ain't hungry nor thirsty now, old friend, but come the dawn we'll be mortal again." The Kid led his horse across the street, stepping around the half dozen dead men sprawled where they had fallen. Terror remained in the street, making odd rumbling noises in his chest.
Inside the LAST CHANCE was a filthy mess of debris left by outlaws who had expected to be moving out soon. Johnny picked up a few items from the tables which were littered with greasy playing cards, cigar butts and empty bottles but there was not much he needed. In the kitchen, he found an old man and woman huddled under a table.
"You folks come on out," the Brimstone Kid said in a voice he could not make sound friendly. "It's awright, them men are beyond hurtin' you any more." After some coaxing, the couple crawled out and stood. They had evidently not washed up or changed clothes for weeks, and the dark circles under bleary eyes showed they had been living in fear all that time.The man and woman held onto each other, shrinking back from the demonic sight of Johnny.
Taking out a thick wad of paper money he had accumulated as he moved around the saloon, the Kid divided it and thrust more than half into the old man's shirt pocket. "That'll help you make a fresh start. I might suggest moving outtta this territory and never breathing a word of this whole sordid affair. Savvy?"
"We won't even want to think about it," said the man in a strong German accent. "Our own horse and buckboard are still tied up out back. Those bastard let us feed and water our animal in case one of them needed to go to Morgantown for supplies."
"Somewhere in town, that boy Tommy is hidin'," Johnny said. "You need to take him with you. I aim to gather up some vittles and fill my canteens afore I hit the road again. Maybe take some clean clothes if any look as if they might fit. You two do the same."
"We will, we will." The elderly woman raised a thin hand hesitantly. "But wait. Who ARE you? Why have you done all this?"
Strolling out of the kitchen, the Kid turned his head back to fix those red-irises eyes on the couple. "I'm nobody. Nobody at all. You two never saw me." Then he was gone.
3/11/2019
