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"Showdown On Sunset Ridge"
May. 28th, 2022 10:04 pm"Showdown On Sunset Ridge"
10/30/1896
I.
Reining in his black horse high on a rise, Johnny Packard paused to watch the men working on the telegraph line. One youngster climbed nimbly up the prongs on a pole, tools dangling from a belt slung over one shoulder, and the foreman was cursing at him to be more careful. "Slow down. Those lines ain't a-going nowhere!"
Looking down, the Brimstone Kid felt a twinge of unprecedented melancholy. 1896. Hard to believe it was only another few years until a new century would start. The West was changing. The frontier was almost tamed now, with railroads and state lines dividing up the old territories into neat boxes. It wasn't like the raw savage country he remembered from when he had first left Brimstone, Texas. And that hadn't been so long ago, to tell the honest truth. He had been seventeen at that gunfight that had veered him into the dark life and he was thirty-eight already. Change had come like a tornado over the plains, leaving wreckage of lives that had to be rebuilt in new ways.
Rubbing the great stallion's neck affectionately, he realized too that Terror was getting awful old for a horse but still ran strongly and effortlessly all day if called upon. It was the cursed token Johnny wore under his hatband that kept the animal young, he was sure of that. The red metal coin that old Machingtok had gifted him with so long ago, it had changed both him and Terror beyond redemption. Across seven states, the story of the Brimstone Kid had been told and retold, growing more fanciful and unlikely over the years until he had to laugh when bits of it reached him.
No more than five feet four and one hundred and forty pounds, Johnny remained lean and quick as a puma, hardened by years of wandering through inhospitable terrain and among unfriendly peoples. His black boots and Levis were well-worn with miles of riding, but his red flannel shirt was almost new. Worn over it was the dark denim vest whose four pockets held most of his personal items; when a man spent so much time in the saddle and pants pockets were difficult to reach, a vest was practical. Pulled down over his shaggy red hair was a black Stetson with red trim and it was under the band around that hat that the curse of his life was carried.
Low on his hips, tied with thongs to his thighs, two molded leather holsters held matched Colt 45 revolvers... the 1875 Peacemakers. Now, during the day, they seemed no more than normal guns but then Johnny also seemed no more than a normal cowboy. He was seeing fewer and fewer men with irons on their hip these days. The need for it had ebbed.
The Kid shook himself from his reverie, tugged at the reins and clicked his tongue to get Terror moving. The sun was past its high point in the sky, it was already after twelve noon. "Come on, big fella, Cabot City is not that far away." They moved away, down the other side of the rise and found a well-marked road worn down by thousands of wagon wheels and steel horseshoes until it might as well have been paved. Johnny urged Terror to pick up the pace, and the big black horse eagerly leaped forward to gallop with the enjoyment of a two-year-old.
Only six miles from Cabot City, a side road turned off, rutted deeply by wagon tracks. Where the two paths diverged was a head-high wooden post supporting a sign into which had been hand-burned THE DOWLINGS - WELCOME. Johnny pushed his hat well back on his head and studied the name thoughtfully. His eyes were bright Kelly green, deepset in a bony weathered face. Dowling was not the name by which he had known Victoria Elliot. He smiled grimly. Many in this land went by names other than which they had been baptized. He guided Terror along the path, avoiding the ruts and trotting through the dry grass of late October.
The homestead was small, just a few cows grazing within a fenced-in field, some chickens scratching around and a half-dozen pigs in a mud wallow. Behind a long low plank building and next to a barn was a cultivated garden of vegetables, some melons and a bit of corn. Enough for two people to live comfortably, he gathered. The house was well-crafted, he decided as he rode up, great care had got into its making.
A shaded porch ran through the front of the building with windows on either side of the front door that was marked by a mounted buffalo skull. Two boxes along the railing stood empty, meant for flowers that had long faded this time of year.
Watching him approach, a tall handsome woman in a blue and white gingham dress with a white apron opened the front door and emerged onto the porch. Long dark blonde hair was tied up under a kerchief. She smiled a flash of perfect teeth and waved to him. "Hello there, Johnny. I had no idea if my message would reach you down by the border."
Dismounting and leaving Terror untethered, Johnny took off his hat to let it hang down his back by its cord. Without the Darthan coin near his brow, he felt more relaxed and human. "It's a sure enough pleasure to meet again, Victoria.. or should I call yuh by yore hitched handle, Mrs Boone?"
"We're going by 'Dowling' now," she answered as she waited for him to approach. She had been drying her hands on a cloth which she now put on the window ledge beside her. "George and Elizabeth Dowling are our names."
"I thought yuh might be tickled to see this item here. I found it for sale down in San Jorge, good two hundred miles from here." He handed over a battered dime novel he had been carrying in his saddle bags and she took it with a wry grin.
"Why, mercy on my soul, that illustration does not resemble me in the slightest!" she exclaimed in mock outrage. "I never ever used a rifle and certainly never on horseback. And that title is a right disgrace. 'The Lawless Exploits of Her Highness Victoria Sanders, the Queen of the Outlaws.' "
( the rest of the story )
10/30/1896
I.
Reining in his black horse high on a rise, Johnny Packard paused to watch the men working on the telegraph line. One youngster climbed nimbly up the prongs on a pole, tools dangling from a belt slung over one shoulder, and the foreman was cursing at him to be more careful. "Slow down. Those lines ain't a-going nowhere!"
Looking down, the Brimstone Kid felt a twinge of unprecedented melancholy. 1896. Hard to believe it was only another few years until a new century would start. The West was changing. The frontier was almost tamed now, with railroads and state lines dividing up the old territories into neat boxes. It wasn't like the raw savage country he remembered from when he had first left Brimstone, Texas. And that hadn't been so long ago, to tell the honest truth. He had been seventeen at that gunfight that had veered him into the dark life and he was thirty-eight already. Change had come like a tornado over the plains, leaving wreckage of lives that had to be rebuilt in new ways.
Rubbing the great stallion's neck affectionately, he realized too that Terror was getting awful old for a horse but still ran strongly and effortlessly all day if called upon. It was the cursed token Johnny wore under his hatband that kept the animal young, he was sure of that. The red metal coin that old Machingtok had gifted him with so long ago, it had changed both him and Terror beyond redemption. Across seven states, the story of the Brimstone Kid had been told and retold, growing more fanciful and unlikely over the years until he had to laugh when bits of it reached him.
No more than five feet four and one hundred and forty pounds, Johnny remained lean and quick as a puma, hardened by years of wandering through inhospitable terrain and among unfriendly peoples. His black boots and Levis were well-worn with miles of riding, but his red flannel shirt was almost new. Worn over it was the dark denim vest whose four pockets held most of his personal items; when a man spent so much time in the saddle and pants pockets were difficult to reach, a vest was practical. Pulled down over his shaggy red hair was a black Stetson with red trim and it was under the band around that hat that the curse of his life was carried.
Low on his hips, tied with thongs to his thighs, two molded leather holsters held matched Colt 45 revolvers... the 1875 Peacemakers. Now, during the day, they seemed no more than normal guns but then Johnny also seemed no more than a normal cowboy. He was seeing fewer and fewer men with irons on their hip these days. The need for it had ebbed.
The Kid shook himself from his reverie, tugged at the reins and clicked his tongue to get Terror moving. The sun was past its high point in the sky, it was already after twelve noon. "Come on, big fella, Cabot City is not that far away." They moved away, down the other side of the rise and found a well-marked road worn down by thousands of wagon wheels and steel horseshoes until it might as well have been paved. Johnny urged Terror to pick up the pace, and the big black horse eagerly leaped forward to gallop with the enjoyment of a two-year-old.
Only six miles from Cabot City, a side road turned off, rutted deeply by wagon tracks. Where the two paths diverged was a head-high wooden post supporting a sign into which had been hand-burned THE DOWLINGS - WELCOME. Johnny pushed his hat well back on his head and studied the name thoughtfully. His eyes were bright Kelly green, deepset in a bony weathered face. Dowling was not the name by which he had known Victoria Elliot. He smiled grimly. Many in this land went by names other than which they had been baptized. He guided Terror along the path, avoiding the ruts and trotting through the dry grass of late October.
The homestead was small, just a few cows grazing within a fenced-in field, some chickens scratching around and a half-dozen pigs in a mud wallow. Behind a long low plank building and next to a barn was a cultivated garden of vegetables, some melons and a bit of corn. Enough for two people to live comfortably, he gathered. The house was well-crafted, he decided as he rode up, great care had got into its making.
A shaded porch ran through the front of the building with windows on either side of the front door that was marked by a mounted buffalo skull. Two boxes along the railing stood empty, meant for flowers that had long faded this time of year.
Watching him approach, a tall handsome woman in a blue and white gingham dress with a white apron opened the front door and emerged onto the porch. Long dark blonde hair was tied up under a kerchief. She smiled a flash of perfect teeth and waved to him. "Hello there, Johnny. I had no idea if my message would reach you down by the border."
Dismounting and leaving Terror untethered, Johnny took off his hat to let it hang down his back by its cord. Without the Darthan coin near his brow, he felt more relaxed and human. "It's a sure enough pleasure to meet again, Victoria.. or should I call yuh by yore hitched handle, Mrs Boone?"
"We're going by 'Dowling' now," she answered as she waited for him to approach. She had been drying her hands on a cloth which she now put on the window ledge beside her. "George and Elizabeth Dowling are our names."
"I thought yuh might be tickled to see this item here. I found it for sale down in San Jorge, good two hundred miles from here." He handed over a battered dime novel he had been carrying in his saddle bags and she took it with a wry grin.
"Why, mercy on my soul, that illustration does not resemble me in the slightest!" she exclaimed in mock outrage. "I never ever used a rifle and certainly never on horseback. And that title is a right disgrace. 'The Lawless Exploits of Her Highness Victoria Sanders, the Queen of the Outlaws.' "
( the rest of the story )
