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"Trouble In Just-Plain-Awful"
May. 15th, 2022 09:19 pm"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 )
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 )
