dochermes

"A Knife Flashed In the Darkness"


3/11/1890

I.

The Brimstone Kid was getting drowsy. The tiny library was both warm and stuffy, and he had been sitting in the overstuffed easy chair all day. The buzzing of a horsefly circling his head irritated Johnny enough to roust himself. He blinked and looked around. The librarian was a prim old schoolmarm who was paying him no attention.

Stifling a yawn, Johnny Packard folded up all the copies of LONDON ILLUSTRATED NEWS and returned them to their spot on the shelves that filled one wall. Even though the papers were more than a year old, he had been following a series of crimes that fascinated him. Some lunatic in London had slaughtered a half-dozen street whores and cut them up like a butcher dressing a hog. The killer had not been caught, and his final atrocity appeared to have been committed in December of the preceding year.

The fact that the crimes had no resolution was preying on his mind. He wanted stories to have a proper ending. The Brimstone Kid nodded politely to the librarian and received a grudging half-smile in return as he stepped back outside. It was a beautiful crisp clear October afternoon and he had spent it bent over old periodicals straining his eyes. Sometimes Johnny wondered why he was so contrary.

At thirty-one, Johnny was still short and thin to the point where his nickname 'Kid' did not seem inappropriate. Wearing beat-up boots, faded jeans and a blue flannel shirt with a black denim vest, he would not have drawn a second look except for the guns. Hung low on his hips was a double-holstered gunbelt that held matched Peacemakers. He was on his fourth pair of the big single-action Colt 45s, and he hadn't found any other shooting irons that suited him as well.

Hanging down on its cord between his shoulder blades was his black Stetson. Tucked inside the beaded hatband, the cursed Darthan coin remained cold and inert during the daytime. He had hours yet before that damn coin would transform him. Johnny strolled over to where his black stallion Terror was tethered to a horizontal rail set up under a sour apple tree.

Terror raised his head and snorted through his nostrils. After their years together, Johnny knew the horse's moods. Terror wanted excitement and danger, hard riding under the moon, gunfire and chases and close calls. He could tell.

"Dang fool hoss," Johnny said amiably and stroking the powerful neck. "I swear, you love trouble more than any animal I ever heard tell of."

Seeing that Terror was comfortable was first in Johnny's priorities. He had groomed and rubbed down the black horse, given him the right amount of water and oats, and seen that the stallion was tied in a spot that would be shaded that afternoon. This was before he had gone into the County Public Library for the second day.

Instincts honed by more than a decade of living on the edge flared up in him. Johnny snapped his head around and spotted a tall thin man striding quickly toward him from the main street. Little Clay Hawk! The Kid turned further around to face the famous lawman but he was careful not to bring his hands any closer to his pistols. A shootout with Little Clay Hawk of all people was not on his list of activities to try.

The lawman was well past forty by now. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Little Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes.

Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Little Clay Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. "Johnny? It IS you, then."

"Little Clay Hawk," said the Kid, shaking the offered hand with relief that no showdown seemed to be in the immediate future.

"Aw, just Clay Hawk now. I got myself hitched to a gal from back East and she belabored me into actin' more white than red. We're expecting our first little one in a few months."

"Really? I'll be roped, thrown and branded if I expected that. My best wishes, then, Hawk. Long and happy life to y'all. You still a Federal marshall?"

Hawk took off his hat and swung it idly to fan himself. "Strictly speakin', I'm not a marshall. I'm a Marshall Agent, sorta like a Deputy. I report to the genuine Marshall and he sends me out to poke around wherever there's been reports of trouble. Most times I resolve the situation by myself if I can."

"Sounds like it's still a mite risky occupation, if'n you don't mind me sayin' so."

"Naw, you got a point. What with a new wife in the family way, I intend to take the desk job they keep offering me. Leaving a widow and an orphan ain't right if I can avoid it."

In that late afternoon sunlight, Johnny's dark red hair gleamed like copper. Under shaggy brows, his green eyes were wary. "How is it you chanced to ride into the little town where I been staying?"

"Oh, I've been searching for you," Hawk admitted. "I heard over in South Fork that you had been seen here. How busy are you these days, Johnny?"

"Hah! Truth be told, I squandered all yesterday and today sittin' in that library yonder. My Uncle Saul raised me to know my letters. Ever chance I get, I grab me some newspapers and journals and find out what's brewin' in the wide world."

"Good to hear. A peaceful spell holed up in a sleepy town never hurts." Hawk placed his hat back on his head and adjusted its angle precisely. The dark eyes with a hint of an epicanthic fold regarded the Kid with careful scrutiny. "I been ordered back to the station to report but there's some grief goin' on in South Fork that I wondered if you might want to investigate your own self."

"You got me tagged, all right," Johnny said. "I can't stay peaceable for too long a spell. What exactly is the problem in that town?"

"Murder and nothing less. Two folks killed by knifepoint in the past two weeks," replied Clay Hawk.

( the rest of the story )