dochermes | Entries tagged with 1878

"An Actual, Genuine Shoot-Out"

10/3/1878

I.

Johnny Packard's horse fixed a look of bitter reproach on him. The young cowboy had finished with the stiff-bristled curry brush and felt the animal should at least be slightly thankful for the care. But no. The great black stallion glared at him and then stamped a front hoof hard enough to express his displeasure.

"Don't be that way, Terror," Johnny said as he closed the neck-high door of that stall. In his early twenties, with his thick red hair and clean-shaven face Johnny looked a bit younger still, so the 'Kid' part of his nickname made sense. He was breaking in new boots he had bought the day before, and the black Levi's and red flannel work shirt were not well used yet either. Working on the fences and doing yardwork at Old Man Schoeber's farm had put him in the position of owning more than one full set of clothes for the first time since he had been cursed.

The one item which never changed of course was the unthinkably ancient coin of red metal tucked into the beaded band of his black Stetson. That was the source of his curse. Every nightfall, he felt that talisman calling to him, whispering, urging him to place it against his forehead and free the real Brimstone Kid.

After almost a year in Just-Plain-Awful, a town placid as a still life painting, Johnny Packard was getting used to having his gun belt with the matched Peacemakers holstered on each hip stored at the sheriff's office. That was the ordinance, no firearms within town limits. He hadn't needed to clear leather in months, and he hadn't even kept up target practice shooting empty tin cans off railings for a while either. Working hard doing chores and carpentry for the townsfolk earned him a comfortable room above old Bedelia Thorpe's general store and he ate three solid meals every day without fail. The town even got a bundle of newspapers from as far as Tucson every week or so, and Johnny devoured them. It was the longest stretch he hadn't been on the run, he wasn't struggling to survive a blizzard out on the plains or scrabbling for water in sunbaked desert dirt. He wasn't facing down a half-dozen murderous outlaws or riding up to parlay with hostile Comanche. Johnny should have been contented as a fat old cat curled up by a fireplace.

And yet...

The Brimstone Kid went back to press his forehead against the stallion's muzzle. "I know how you feel, hoss. The curse is on you as much as it's on me. You want to gallop hellbent under the moon, you want to greet the sunrise all sore and bloody and tore up. God help me, I want it too. This ain't proper livin' for the likes of us."

Terror snorted more gently and nuzzled up against the cowboy. In the neighboring stall, a painted pony made a grunting noise that lacked the undertones of the sounds the black stallion made.

"We'll head out when it's dark," Johnny said. "We'll seize the night and make the stars tremble, I promise you that."

Moving outside, the Kid nodded to the wiry black youth who acted as stablehand. "Talk to you later, Tobias."

"That's the finest cayuse I ever did see, Mistuh Johnny," said the boy. "You could win the Hadleyburg races hands down with Terror."

That made Johnny laugh. "Terror don't hold by rules, Tobias. He'd be kickin' and bitin' any hosses that got ahead of him. He's muy loco."

The youth was hauling a coil of rope nearly as big as he was. "I'd surely like to see him gallop all-out as fast as he can pound the dirt, Mistuh Johnny. It must be a sight."

"I'll give you a ride sometime when your daddy's in a good mood. Tarnation, look at that sky. Them clouds are gonna bust wide open any time now."

After an oppressively humid stagnant day, heavy thunderclouds had been moving in from the West and now the daylight was an eerie grey without shadows. A stiff breeze was starting to whip dust up in little eddies. The two of them watched the clouds visibly approach. And rolling into town drawn by four horses came the noon stage, late as usual.

Johnny and Tobias watched out of curiosity as the black and gold coach pulled up to a halt in front of the SILVER DOLLAR saloon and cafe, right in the middle of town. The driver and his shotgun assistant started hauling down luggage strapped to the top, including a canvas sack of mail from all points east up to the Arizona Territory border. Four passengers disembarked. The stout lady in a neat blue dress and bonnet was Mrs Klein, the mayor's wife, back from visiting kinfolk in Bear Claw. The thin man with a frock coat and beaver hat was the gambler, Sly Stewart, back to try his luck again. But the final two who disembarked were strangers and that naturally drew everyone's attention.

A thick-middled man in his fifties, well dressed with a long tan coat, floral vest and derby hat, had bright yellow sideburns that reached to his chin and a matching handlebar mustache. He grinned as if completely satisfied with the world and everything in it.

Right behind him was the most sinister figure to hit Just-Plain-Awful in living memory. Very tall, more than six inches above six feet and broad as a blacksmith, he was wearing all black except for a brightly patterned poncho of heavy wool which hung down to his waist. Under a flat-brimmed hat was a hard, angry face that glared in all directions as if eager to fight. He was chewing on a thin black cheroot.

And yet... watching closely, Johnny Packard's finely honed sense of danger did not feel alarmed. He could spot gunslingers, desperadoes and banditos as soon as he saw them. He felt nothing when he spotted this ominous stranger. And that made him extremely interested.

( the rest of the story )

"The White Savages of Bad Medicine Mountain"

9/13/1878

I.

"Johnny Packard, just where do you think you are going?" demanded the white-haired scarecrow of a woman.

Reining in his black horse Terror on the muddy main street of Just-Plain-Awful, the Brimstone Kid felt his heart sink. He feared neither man nor beast nor act of nature. Old women, though, were a problem since he had been brought up to respect and defer to them. He saw Bedelia Thorpe standing on the porch of the town's general store, bony hands clutching her broom as if wanting to strangle it, and something truculent in her pose alarmed him.

"I'm takin' Terror out to stretch his legs," the young cowboy replied. Even outside, he lifted his black Stetson to the lady when first addressing her. "Him and me been cooped up two days on account of the rain."

Her basilisk stare finally wore him down and he reined up alongside the porch and asked, "What is it you want, Miz Bedelia?"

The old woman give him a scornful snort, and put her hands onto her bony hips and sniffed at him as if he had stepped in one of the numerous horse piles left in the street.

"I want you should go git my brother Reuben and bring him home," she said at last. "He's off on one of his idiotic prospectin' sprees again. He snuck out before daylight with the mare and a pack mule. You bring him back if you have to lasso him and tie him to his saddle. Old fool! Off huntin' treasure when they's work to be done stocking shelves and fixing the back door hinges. You git goin'."

"Ain't my place to go chasin' him all over Bad Medicine Mountain," Johnny Packard protested. "Gramps is no kin of mine. Get together a posse."

But Bedelia would have nothing of that. As she explained her grievances, her voice getting louder and shriller all the time until dogs started howling in pain. She was still ranting as Johnny rode up the trail toward Bad Medicine Mountain Gap, and he seemed to hear echoes long after he couldn't see her any more. She had quite a shrillness. Birds flew off in fear when she raised her voice.

Once they were out of town, the stallion Terror obviously wanted to gallop so badly that Johnny let him. They had been too long in one spot, the Kid reflected. Townsfolk of Just-Plain-Awful had become used to him and treated him like any other cowboy. Even those who had witnessed the horrifying transformation into the true Brimstone Kid somehow had come to accept it. Johnny was making decent money working at the Schoeber ranch but he definitely knew it was time to move on.

Long hours later, Johnny was riding up the long rise that led up to the Gap, looking and listening. A sharp crack sounded up ahead and his hat flew off his head. The Kid reacted with an alacrity born of too many shootouts. He quickly reined Terror behind a chest-high clump of brush, and leaped down to lie flat in the dirt with one of his Peacemakers in his right hand. He glared up toward the Gap, and spotted the unlovely rear of a mule sticking from behind a cluster of boulders.

"You quit that shootin' at me, Gramps!" Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. Inwardly, he was relieved that it was not a serious ambush. There were far too many men riding the West with deadly grudges against him.

"Stay right whar you be," an older voice called back. "I figger Bedelia sent you after me, but I ain't goin' home. I'm onto somethin' big at last!"

"What could you mean?" the Kid demanded.

"Keep back or I'll ventilate you," he promised. "I'm goin' for the Dago Silver Mine."

"Aw, you been huntin' that thing for thirty years," Johnny scoffed. "You might as well run toward a rainbow fer the pot of gold."

"This time it's a sure bet," Gramps said. "I bought a map off'n a drunk Mexican over in Three Corners. One of his ancestors was a Injun which helped pile up the rocks to hide the mouth of the cave where it is."

"Why didn't he go find it his own self and git the gold?" Johnny asked.

"He said he's skeered of ghosts," said Gramps. "I personally think it's just too much work to suit him. They's a fortune in the Dago Silver Mine. Now will you go on back peaceable like, or will you throw in with me? I might need you, in case of bandits or renegade Comanche."

"I'll come with you," Johnny said, not at all eager to return to town and face Miz Bedelia. "Maybe you have got somethin', at that. Put up yore Winchester. I'm coming soon as I fetch my hat." The Kid scowled at the ragged hole in the crown of his black Stetson but he reassured himself that the cursed Gremthom coin in the band had not been damaged.

Gramps emerged from his rocks, a skinny leathery old cuss, and he said: "What about Bedelia? If you don't come back with me, she'll foller us out here herself. She's that strong-minded. And this is rough territory for a lady to traverse."

"I'll leave a note for her," the Kid said. "Joe Blodgett always comes down through the Gap once a week on his way to town. He's due through here today. I'll stick the note on a tree, where he'll see it and take it to her."

Johnny had a pencil-stub in his saddle-bag, so he tore a piece of wrapping paper from a can of tomatoes Gramps had in his pack, and carefully wrote:

'Dear Miz Bedelia
'I am takin Gramps way up in the mountains. Don't send anyone to follow us, it wouldn't be healthy. You'll hear from us. Respectfully, Johnny.'
He folded the scrap and wrote on the outside:

'Dear Joe: please take this here note to Miz Bedelia Thorpe back in town.'

Johnny Packard was as proud of knowing his letters and how to do arithmetic as he was of any other skill. In every town he passed through, he made a point to read the local newspaper and he often picked up a dime novel when he could.

Then Johnny and Gramps set out for the higher ranges, and he started reciting all about the Dago Mine again, like he'd already done many times before. The tale told of an Italian prospector named Vito Spinelli who had stumbled onto a cave almost thirty years earlier. The walls had veins of gleaming silver thick as ropes. But the Indians jumped him and run him out and he got lost and nearly starved in the desert, and went crazy. When he come to a settlement and finally regained his mind, he tried to lead a party back to it, but never could find it. Gramps said the Indians had used rocks and brush to conceal the mouth of the cave so nobody could tell it was there.

Johnny reasonably asked how he knew the Indians had done that, and Gramps said it was common knowledge. Any fool oughta know that's just what they done.

"This-here mine," says Doc Valentine, "is located in a hidden valley which lies away up amongst the high ranges. I ain't never seen it, and I thought I'd explored these mountains plenty. Ain't nobody more familiar with 'em than me except Noah Chadwick. But it stands to reason that the cave is awful hard to find, or somebody'd already found it. Accordin' to this here map, that lost valley must lie just beyond Dead-End Canyon. Ain't many white men knows whar that even is. We're headin' there."

We had left the Gap far behind us, and was moving along the slanting side of a sharp-angled crag whilst he was talking. As we passed it, we seen two shadowy figures with horses emerge from the other side, heading in the same direction we was, so our trails converged. Gramps glared and reached for his Winchester.

"Who's that?" he snarled.

"The big un's Sheb Hartline," Johnny said. "I never seen the other one."

"And nobody else has, outside of a traveling sideshow, " growled Gramps.

( the rest of the story )

"Valley of the Thunderbirds"

8/12-8/15/1878

I.

Bouton's Pinto came galloping toward them in complete panic. Its eyes rolled wildly and its head was down as it tore past the rescue party faster than it had ever moved before in its life. Seeing the animal gallop by so closely spooked the other horses and four men fought to keep their mounts from breaking away and running off in all directions.

Only the black horse named Terror did not react. He watched the Pinto hurtle by without moving other than to turn his head to follow its path. Leaning forward in his saddle, Johnny Packard stroked the great neck of the stallion. "Good fella there, that's my Terror," he said quietly. In a louder tone for the other men, Johnny added, "Let him go. There's only the one way in and out of this valley and he's too spooked to manage it by himself. He'll calm down in a mite."

"Yeah, I don't think so," answered Benitez. The veteran scout had calmed his own horse and was pointing with a thumb behind them. "Take a look."

The Pinto had collapsed in a heap not far from where they stood, lying on its side with its ribs not moving to show any breath. Johnny swung down from the saddle and led Terror by the reins to investigate. Still a youth not even twenty years old yet, the Brimstone Kid was small and wiry, active as a bobcat. He was the only clean-shaven man there, which just emphasized his age. Just five feet six and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, the Kid was wearing all black except a red work shirt he had just bought in town while the rescue party was stocking up. His black stetson was pulled low over sullen green eyes. In the beaded band of that hat was tucked a copper-colored coin older than the West itself, the curse of his life.

Behind him, the other four men of the rescue party followed, still on their mounts. Franklin, Dutchie, Benitez and Scott. They had quickly accepted Johnny as their natural leader despite his youth. The ominous reputation of the Brimstone Kid had spread over the Southwest in just a few years and to be honest the four men were uneasy around him. They saw the matched Colt 45s in holsters worn low on his hips. Johnny let the reins drop from his hand as he approached the unfotunate Pinto.

The animal was dead, all right. There was red foam on its mouth. "I figger the poor boy busted his own heart in fear," he said. "Ain't a cut or scrape on his own self, but there's blood all over the saddle. Still wet, too..." He bent and lifted up a well-worn boot. "This was still a-hangin' in one stirrup."

"God save us," Benitez breathed and crossed himself. "What could have happened?"

"Hanged if I know," answered Johnny. He placed the boot down next to the carcass. "Bouton was one tough hombre. He served in the War Between the States and he had been a deputy in a few cow towns before heading out this way." The Kid tilted his black Stetson back to reveal a shock of thick red hair and watched his four companions thoughtfully. "I can't say exactly what befell him."

The man called Dutchie was actually from a German family and his last name was Reinhard. He was the biggest man there, several inches over six feet tall and stocky, with a thick waist. Dutchie had not spoken much so far but now he rubbed his stubble-covered jaw and said, "Appears to me that something took him out of the saddle. Something snatched him up!"

"Paiutes call this the Valley of the Thunderbirds," added Benitez. "Remember that brave we saw in town? He warned us not to come here. He said we would end up in the bellies of the Thunderbirds."

( the rest of the story )

"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.

( the rest of the story )