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"Three Polecats"
May. 19th, 2022 09:48 pm"Three Polecats"
10/22/1877
I.
Still stiff and sore from the beating, Johnny Packard crept up on the shack in the woods with infinite patience. Now and then, a bit of dried blood broke off and fell from inside his nose. Keeping behind trees and crawling behind bushes, the Kid took an hour to get within sight.
This was the most shameful excuse for a shack he had yet seen, thought the Kid. Boards nailed together so thoughtlessly that sunlight showed in the gaps. An open window with no glass or oilcloth, only a flannel shirt hanging down over the opening. In front of the wide open door were scraps of burnt food and indistinguishable debris. From within echoed racuous laughter and foul language.
As he had circled the hovel, Johnny had seen two horses tied over by a creek where they could drink if they had a mind to. No weapons on those horses, though. He had seen the scabbard which would have held a longarm was empty.
Near as he dared approach, the Brimstone Kid got up on one knee, wincing at the twinges of pain, and listened. Still in his early twenties, a small wiry youth not more than five feet four, Johnny was barefoot and hatless. The twin holsters on his gunbelt lacked the usual pair of Peacemakers he carried. His horse Terror was stabled fifteen miles away in the town Lackluster.
Even for a young man used to desperate situations, the Kid fretted over the tight spot he was in now. Those men in there, the Collier Brothers, could have no idea what danger they had put themselves in, or the danger one of them might soon menace the countryside with.
In the beaded hatband of Johnny's black Stetson was tucked a strange coin of deep red metal. Smaller than a silver dollar, marked with esoteric symbols no living man could read, that Darthan token was older than the West itself. At nightfall, when he wore it, Johnny was transformed into the demonic Brimstone Kid in truth as well as name. If one of those killers was touching the Darthan coin when the sun set....
The Colliers had stolen his Colts, his jackknife, the small roll of bills in his vest pocket and his boots. All that could be replaced in time. But when they made off with his hat and its cursed token, they had guaranteed their deaths if he could manage it.
For an hour, Johnny watched and waiting, coming up with one plan after another and discarding them. The Collier Brothers had each been wearing a six-shooter, and they had his Colts as well. Even if he had thought he could thrash two big bruisers like them, he'd be perforated at once. The Kid thought of starting a fire at the back of the hovel, maybe panicking the boys. But it had been rainy for three days and wood at hand was too wet to burn.
Damnation. Beneath the red eyebrows, green eyes were narrowed from the swelling. One of the Colliers had managed to grab Johnny's arms from behind that morning while the other one had taken his time striking the young wanderer until he was too tired. They had looted Johnny, rolled him over by the side of the trail, but they hadn't killed him.
Ten feet away, a nearly straight elm branch lay in the mud. It was as long as his leg, thick enough to serve as a weapon. Moving so slowly he seemed to have frozen, Johnny reached for the end of that stick and drew it back to where he was concealed. Even if somehow one of the outlaws had been looking in that direction, they might not have noticed the action. Now the Kid felt slightly better.
The sun was getting low over the hills to the west. Shadows stretched out long and distorted. The Brimstone Kid fought down despair. When darkness fell, the Darthan coin would grow hot to the touch. If a Collier was wearing the Stetson or holding the token in his hand, he would become tougher and fiercer than any mortal should be. Twitching at bullets which stung but couldn't break his skin, roaring in a hollow sepulchral voice, red eyes gleaming with their own lambent light, a new Brimstone would rush out into the night craving murder the way a starving man craves food.
Something small moved by the open door. Johnny got up on both knees to watch. A possum? No. The glossy black fur with its white stripe was unmistakable. Nosing around in the litter of burned pork rinds and old coffee beans and flapjacks that had gone sour, the skunk nibbled daintily. As he watched the polecat, Johnny repressed an urge to snap his fingers. The idea had formed instantly what to do.
When the animal waddled around near the doorway, the Brimstone Kid took a deep breath and plunged forward. There would only be one chance at this. He shoved the stick under the skunk and flipped it up through the opening, then leaped to grab the plain latch and slam the door shut.
Screams and howling echoed for miles in the woods. The pungent odor poured out through the many chinks and cracks in the shack's construction. Letting go of the door, Johnny Packard crouched and held the elm branch out in front of him. The older Collier brother, a big-bellied brute in overalls, rushed out to trip over that branch and slam facedown into the dirt. The other one came hurtling right behind him, stumbled over the flailing form and fell on top of him.
Even outside at arm's length, the stench was appalling. Johnny forced himself closer. From the corner of an eye pouring tears, he saw a small black form scurry off. That critter and these rannies, he thought, three polecats. The Brimstone Kid raised the elm branch and struck down hard as he could at the men's heads. They were dazed by the blows, choking on the stink and unable to think straight.
Johnny turned his head, took a breath and held it, then darted in to yank the revolvers from the brother's gunbelts. One was a battered old Smith & Wesson Number Three, the other a massive Webley with a short barrel. Neither of the men was wearing his hat.
It took a while before the Colliers could even manage to figure out what had happened. They pawed at their faces and coughed until their throats were raw. One of them made out the dim figure of a slim young face facing them.
"Water," he gasped. "Gimme some water."
"I don't think that's in my best interests, amigo," Johnny said. He checked that the Smith & Wesson had a bullet in the chamber and raised it to chest level. The Webley he stuck in his belt for the moment. "You got my hat?"
"Yore HAT? What the hayll would you want with a hat at a time like this? Eben, Eben, come on, we gots to get to the creek. We can wash this off'n us afore we choke to death."
The younger of the Collier brothers was wheezing like a steam calliope. He dug blindly in his shirt pocket and came up with the Darthan token. "Is it this you want, mister? You can have it."
"Toss it here, thank you kindly." Johnny snatched the ancient talisman out of the air as it tumbled forward and felt relief. Sometimes he hated the curse he was under, sometimes he revelled in it. But for now at least, the spell would only fall on him.
The older and bigger of the Colliers had gotten up and was tugging at his brother's arm. "Come on, Eben. Let's wash so we can breathe."
"You boys remember me?" Johnny asked in a low even tone. "Early this morning. By the trail outside'a town? You two beat me like a mule that won't haul."
"You!" the bigger one got out between coughing spasms. He was wiping futilely as his eyes with the tail of his shirt. "You done this to us? I swear I'll skin you..."
"You boys know too much. That coin you found in the hatband has to be secret." The Brimstone Kid extended his gunhand, steadying it with his other arm. "Heh. I cain't say I'm sorry."
Four shots exploded in that clearing, the black cordite's smell unnoticed in the miasma left by the skunk. Each of the Colliers caught a bullet square in the chest and then a second slug in the head as Johnny double tapped to make sure they were dead.
Ironically, when their coughing ceased, a silence fell over the woods. There wasn't even a breeze. Johnny lowered the pistol and then tossed it to land near the bigger corpse. He dropped the Webley by the other body. Those men had no friends in those parts. When their bodies were discovered at some point, everyone might think what they would. Johnny would be out of the Arizona territory by then.
Now another unpleasant task. The red kerchief around his neck was stiff with dried sweat from the day's long walk but he unfolded it and tied it around his lower face. His Colts were expensive, 1873 single-action and he was used to them. He needed his boots of course and if his hat was convenient, he'd grab that too. Then Johnny figured he would spend the rest of the daylight scrubbing everything in the nearby creek and drying them as best as he could. Before he got ready to race in an out of the shack, the Kid twirled the Darthan coin and jammed it down deep in the front pocket of his Levis. Even in daylight hours, he thought, that damned piece of red metal brought death everywhere it went.
5/12/2020
10/22/1877
I.
Still stiff and sore from the beating, Johnny Packard crept up on the shack in the woods with infinite patience. Now and then, a bit of dried blood broke off and fell from inside his nose. Keeping behind trees and crawling behind bushes, the Kid took an hour to get within sight.
This was the most shameful excuse for a shack he had yet seen, thought the Kid. Boards nailed together so thoughtlessly that sunlight showed in the gaps. An open window with no glass or oilcloth, only a flannel shirt hanging down over the opening. In front of the wide open door were scraps of burnt food and indistinguishable debris. From within echoed racuous laughter and foul language.
As he had circled the hovel, Johnny had seen two horses tied over by a creek where they could drink if they had a mind to. No weapons on those horses, though. He had seen the scabbard which would have held a longarm was empty.
Near as he dared approach, the Brimstone Kid got up on one knee, wincing at the twinges of pain, and listened. Still in his early twenties, a small wiry youth not more than five feet four, Johnny was barefoot and hatless. The twin holsters on his gunbelt lacked the usual pair of Peacemakers he carried. His horse Terror was stabled fifteen miles away in the town Lackluster.
Even for a young man used to desperate situations, the Kid fretted over the tight spot he was in now. Those men in there, the Collier Brothers, could have no idea what danger they had put themselves in, or the danger one of them might soon menace the countryside with.
In the beaded hatband of Johnny's black Stetson was tucked a strange coin of deep red metal. Smaller than a silver dollar, marked with esoteric symbols no living man could read, that Darthan token was older than the West itself. At nightfall, when he wore it, Johnny was transformed into the demonic Brimstone Kid in truth as well as name. If one of those killers was touching the Darthan coin when the sun set....
The Colliers had stolen his Colts, his jackknife, the small roll of bills in his vest pocket and his boots. All that could be replaced in time. But when they made off with his hat and its cursed token, they had guaranteed their deaths if he could manage it.
For an hour, Johnny watched and waiting, coming up with one plan after another and discarding them. The Collier Brothers had each been wearing a six-shooter, and they had his Colts as well. Even if he had thought he could thrash two big bruisers like them, he'd be perforated at once. The Kid thought of starting a fire at the back of the hovel, maybe panicking the boys. But it had been rainy for three days and wood at hand was too wet to burn.
Damnation. Beneath the red eyebrows, green eyes were narrowed from the swelling. One of the Colliers had managed to grab Johnny's arms from behind that morning while the other one had taken his time striking the young wanderer until he was too tired. They had looted Johnny, rolled him over by the side of the trail, but they hadn't killed him.
Ten feet away, a nearly straight elm branch lay in the mud. It was as long as his leg, thick enough to serve as a weapon. Moving so slowly he seemed to have frozen, Johnny reached for the end of that stick and drew it back to where he was concealed. Even if somehow one of the outlaws had been looking in that direction, they might not have noticed the action. Now the Kid felt slightly better.
The sun was getting low over the hills to the west. Shadows stretched out long and distorted. The Brimstone Kid fought down despair. When darkness fell, the Darthan coin would grow hot to the touch. If a Collier was wearing the Stetson or holding the token in his hand, he would become tougher and fiercer than any mortal should be. Twitching at bullets which stung but couldn't break his skin, roaring in a hollow sepulchral voice, red eyes gleaming with their own lambent light, a new Brimstone would rush out into the night craving murder the way a starving man craves food.
Something small moved by the open door. Johnny got up on both knees to watch. A possum? No. The glossy black fur with its white stripe was unmistakable. Nosing around in the litter of burned pork rinds and old coffee beans and flapjacks that had gone sour, the skunk nibbled daintily. As he watched the polecat, Johnny repressed an urge to snap his fingers. The idea had formed instantly what to do.
When the animal waddled around near the doorway, the Brimstone Kid took a deep breath and plunged forward. There would only be one chance at this. He shoved the stick under the skunk and flipped it up through the opening, then leaped to grab the plain latch and slam the door shut.
Screams and howling echoed for miles in the woods. The pungent odor poured out through the many chinks and cracks in the shack's construction. Letting go of the door, Johnny Packard crouched and held the elm branch out in front of him. The older Collier brother, a big-bellied brute in overalls, rushed out to trip over that branch and slam facedown into the dirt. The other one came hurtling right behind him, stumbled over the flailing form and fell on top of him.
Even outside at arm's length, the stench was appalling. Johnny forced himself closer. From the corner of an eye pouring tears, he saw a small black form scurry off. That critter and these rannies, he thought, three polecats. The Brimstone Kid raised the elm branch and struck down hard as he could at the men's heads. They were dazed by the blows, choking on the stink and unable to think straight.
Johnny turned his head, took a breath and held it, then darted in to yank the revolvers from the brother's gunbelts. One was a battered old Smith & Wesson Number Three, the other a massive Webley with a short barrel. Neither of the men was wearing his hat.
It took a while before the Colliers could even manage to figure out what had happened. They pawed at their faces and coughed until their throats were raw. One of them made out the dim figure of a slim young face facing them.
"Water," he gasped. "Gimme some water."
"I don't think that's in my best interests, amigo," Johnny said. He checked that the Smith & Wesson had a bullet in the chamber and raised it to chest level. The Webley he stuck in his belt for the moment. "You got my hat?"
"Yore HAT? What the hayll would you want with a hat at a time like this? Eben, Eben, come on, we gots to get to the creek. We can wash this off'n us afore we choke to death."
The younger of the Collier brothers was wheezing like a steam calliope. He dug blindly in his shirt pocket and came up with the Darthan token. "Is it this you want, mister? You can have it."
"Toss it here, thank you kindly." Johnny snatched the ancient talisman out of the air as it tumbled forward and felt relief. Sometimes he hated the curse he was under, sometimes he revelled in it. But for now at least, the spell would only fall on him.
The older and bigger of the Colliers had gotten up and was tugging at his brother's arm. "Come on, Eben. Let's wash so we can breathe."
"You boys remember me?" Johnny asked in a low even tone. "Early this morning. By the trail outside'a town? You two beat me like a mule that won't haul."
"You!" the bigger one got out between coughing spasms. He was wiping futilely as his eyes with the tail of his shirt. "You done this to us? I swear I'll skin you..."
"You boys know too much. That coin you found in the hatband has to be secret." The Brimstone Kid extended his gunhand, steadying it with his other arm. "Heh. I cain't say I'm sorry."
Four shots exploded in that clearing, the black cordite's smell unnoticed in the miasma left by the skunk. Each of the Colliers caught a bullet square in the chest and then a second slug in the head as Johnny double tapped to make sure they were dead.
Ironically, when their coughing ceased, a silence fell over the woods. There wasn't even a breeze. Johnny lowered the pistol and then tossed it to land near the bigger corpse. He dropped the Webley by the other body. Those men had no friends in those parts. When their bodies were discovered at some point, everyone might think what they would. Johnny would be out of the Arizona territory by then.
Now another unpleasant task. The red kerchief around his neck was stiff with dried sweat from the day's long walk but he unfolded it and tied it around his lower face. His Colts were expensive, 1873 single-action and he was used to them. He needed his boots of course and if his hat was convenient, he'd grab that too. Then Johnny figured he would spend the rest of the daylight scrubbing everything in the nearby creek and drying them as best as he could. Before he got ready to race in an out of the shack, the Kid twirled the Darthan coin and jammed it down deep in the front pocket of his Levis. Even in daylight hours, he thought, that damned piece of red metal brought death everywhere it went.
5/12/2020
