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"An Actual, Genuine Shoot-Out"
Nov. 29th, 2024 09:42 pm"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 )
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 )
