MUSTANG JUSTICE
Book Four of The
Arkansas Valley Series
by
r. William. Rogers
*
PUBLISHED BY:
Robert W. Rogers on Smashwords
*
MUSTANG JUSTICE
Book Four of The
Arkansas Valley Series
Copyright © 2011 by Robert W. Rogers
ebooks ISBN: 978-1-658-3707-3
Cover Design Copyright © 2011 by:
(http://DigitalDonna.com)
Smashwords Edition License Notes:
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All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of Smashwords.
Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1989 by Thomas Nelson Inc.
Chapter 1
The young gunman stood poised in a spraddle-legged crouch. He didn’t appear to have much more than a hundred and twenty or twenty-five pounds stretched over his spindly frame. He appeared to be of an almost frail nature. He occupied a spot in the street just short of the steps that led to the dress shop. His right hand hovered menacingly within easy reach of the butt end of a bone-handled sixgun. He wore his holster in a low-slung, tied-down fashion that was common with most gunfighters. His eyes were deep-set and dark. He showed a twisted snarl to the gent who stood out near the middle of the street facing him.
The setting sun hovered barely two fingers above the western horizon. An unseen dog barked somewhere off in the distance. A gust of wind kicked up a dust devil that rattled a loose shutter on the mercantile adjacent to the east side of the bank.
Despite first impressions, not everyone present was buying into what the gunman was selling.
Clint Blackman sat atop the black stallion and looked on with more than just a passing interest. The youngster appeared to be about seventeen, eighteen tops, judging from the lightly-whiskered features that the truth be known, weren’t about to intimidate any man who fancied himself as havin’ even the slightest bit of skill when it came right down to pullin’ a hogleg in a big quick hurry.
In stark contrast, the older gent was easily more’n twice the kid’s age--maybe even three times. He was a good bit past heavy-set. In fact, it’d be more to the point to say that he was right on the verge of being fat. However, all that was easy to overlook as, despite the accumulation of years, an unmistakable air of confidence shown in the lawman’s steady gaze and shoulder-width stance.
A glint of late-afternoon sunlight ricocheted off the badge that was pinned on the upper left side of his weather-worn, dust-covered vest. He raised a hand and aimed a cautioning, stubby finger straight at his opponent’s chest. “You just unhook that gunbelt Lawton an’ let ’er drop!” the sheriff said sternly. While he spoke, he redirected the authoritative finger to first indicate the six-shooter on Lawton’s thigh, then the dirt at the youngster’s feet. “Ain’t no good reason for anyone dyin’ here today. Just come on in peaceable like an’ I’ll see to it that ya get a fair enough trial.”
The kid’s eyes darted nervously as he took in the scattering of faces that had assembled at a safe distance from the two combatants. Young Lawton straightened himself to his full height as the snarl was forgotten and a transformation of sorts began to set in. His narrow chest puffed out noticeably. “Hah! That’s a laugh!” His gaunt, sunken eyes suddenly narrowed and quickly grew steady. “No, old man…you might wanna rethink yer way a thinkin’,” he added coldly, “cuz I ain’t unhookin’ this gunbelt fer no body, no way. Ain’t no tinhorn lawman ever been able to tell me what ta do an’ it sure ain’t a gonna start up now.” Lawton allowed the hint of a thin, crooked grin to leak out. He then licked his lips and resumed his attempt at coming across as stoic and deadly.
“Suit yerself, boy. But I’m takin’ ya in…one way or t’other.”
Clint patted Shiloh lightly along his neck. The stallion sidestepped and softly nickered his approval. Even from his perch atop the black stallion, Clint could easily make out the nearly insignificant squint that signaled the youngster’s intent.
In a blurred flash of movement, the kid cleared leather, fanning off a shot that shattered the tension that had hung heavily in the air between the two combatants.
The slug took the sheriff high in the left shoulder before he was able to effectively defend himself.
Startled, Shiloh sidestepped and snorted.
He’s fast. Maybe even too fast, Clint thought. He had known more than one gunnie who’d mistakenly put way too much store in being fast instead of giving the importance of accuracy its due.
The force of the bullet impacted the sheriff savagely, jolting him backwards a couple of half steps. The old man dropped heavily onto his left knee, his face quickly twisted in agony from the searing hot pain.
A split second of indecision on the kid’s part allowed the old man time enough to force his pain aside and recover well enough to finish drawing his own hogleg and toss some lead of his own.
By the time the kid had figured things out, it was too late. The sheriff’s bullet took him in the left side of his chest. At nearly the same instant a glass pane at the front of the dress shop shattered as the slug missed bone and went clean through. The force of the bullet hastily twisted Lawton around about a half turn and deposited the unfortunate youngster against a hitchrail that until then had been minding its own business directly behind him.
Shiloh shied again and shook his head, rattling the bridle while he chomped the bit repeatedly. An unseen crow cawed and a far-off rumble of thunder signaled an almost eerie finality to the life that had ceased to be.
A slight tug or two on the rein and Shiloh settled some. Clint reassured the big black, “Whoa now. Take it easy boy.” He then worked at further calming the high-spirited animal with a few comforting strokes along the side of his sleek neck.
The hitchrail had caught the youngster right about the middle. Despite its rickety appearance, it stood up to the weight as Lawton folded in half and teetered a couple of times before finally coming to rest. He remained draped over the rail with his sixshooter dangling from his now lifeless trigger finger. Clint easily made out the splotch of red on the back of the youngster’s dust-colored vest. Blood dripped onto the brim of the sweat-stained, trail-worn hat that had found a spot in the dirt directly under the gunman.
With the kid no longer a threat, Clint turned his full attention to the old sheriff who was now situated squarely on his back pockets. The palm he held pressed hard against his shoulder did little to stem the flow of blood that leaked out from between his fingers and disappeared under the cuff of his plaid shirt, turning the sleeve from mostly blue to red nearly all the way down to the elbow.
The stillness that had descended was gradually being chased away by the distant faint sounds of doors opening and closing as the townsfolk emerged from their places of safety. In ones and twos they meandered tentatively toward the aftermath.
Clint eased himself down from the back of the stallion and let the rein trail.
It didn’t take long for the folks to find enough courage to move closer and form tight circles around both men, with the sheriff getting the bulk of the attention.
“Good job, Sheriff! That youngster was fast alright, but I reckon just didn’t lay claim to enough God-given abilities ta shoot straight!”
“Shut yer pie hole, Jake! He shot straight enough. In case you ain’t noticed, this ain’t no skeeter bite I got here!”
The sheriff’s hat lay in the dirt beside him, exposing his graying hair. What there was left of it, anyways, formed a ring around the sides and back of his head to a height that was in line with just about the top edges of his ears. His face was rotund and a mite on the rosy side. He had somehow managed to retain a generous helping of bushy, salt-and-pepper-colored eyebrows that matched his prominent graying mustache. His down-turned eyes and furrowed brow continued to show the pain he was being forced to deal with.
“Daddy!” a female voice called anxiously as its owner brushed past Clint and slid to a stop on both knees beside the sheriff.
Suddenly, Clint caught a whiff of the tantalizingly soft aroma of lilacs as it filled the air around him. Although hampered somewhat by just a side view, he could readily see that this new addition was a right-handsome woman.
“What am I going to do with you?” she moaned. “You promised you wouldn’t--”
“I know, honey, but he didn’t give me no choice.”
“Oh fiddlesticks! You could always do like the Good Book says and turn the other cheek instead of fighting every trigger-happy gunman that comes along. If the good Lord wasn’t looking out for you, you’d have been dead long ago.”
“Well now, Jason…looks like ya got yerself another little scratch there.”
Clint looked up to see a white-haired, elderly gent who was attired in a dark, dusty suit and lugging a time-worn, black satchel at his side.
“Confound eyeglasses,” he said and left-index-fingered the offending spectacles back to their rightful place atop the bridge of his nose. Satisfied that they would stay put for a spell, he let the satchel fall unceremoniously to the dirt beside Jason, amid a metallic clank and a slight puff of dust. He then expertly eyeballed the crowd as he again repositioned the spectacles. “Some of you fellas back off a ways so’s I can have me an unhampered look-see,” he said with the wave of an authoritative hand. “Move aside so’s what’s left of the day’s sunlight can make its way in here.”
The girl stayed put while everyone else gave way.
“It’s my left shoulder.”
“I can see that you old coot. Just hush up and let me get this here bleedin’ stopped while there’s still some of it left inside a ya,” the doc said. He then probed lightly around the wound before taking ahold of both sides of the shirtfront. In one swift motion, he pulled it apart, popping the buttons off in the process.
The sheriff grunted and winced in pain, but managed to keep what he was of a mind to say under wraps. The doc then fumbled briefly with the clasp before opening the satchel.He reached in and after a bit more two-handed fumbling, came out with the smallest pair of scissors that Clint had ever layed eyes on. The doc wedged them onto his stubby fingers and set about cutting a generous circle of the sheriff’s bloody redflannels away from around the wounded area.
Clint looked on quietly as the doc and the girl set about cleaning and patching the shoulder. But, the truth be known, they could have been preparing a turkey carcass for Thanksgiving dinner for all he knew. Clint’s attention was elsewhere.
He guessed her to be in her early twenties. Her hair was long and fiery red. It was pulled back and tied with a bright yellow ribbon. She wore britches, a red and black flannel shirt and dust-covered black riding boots, with the pantlegs tucked inside the tops of the boots. Watching her, Clint had the distinct impression that she was every bit of a lady forced into a man’s roll. One thing was for sure, though, his first impression had been right a rain; she was indeed very beautiful.
“Well, I reckon the bleedin’s stopped well enough now ta get ya over to the office,” the doc announced. After using the sheriff’s shirttail to wipe some of the blood off the utensils, he tossed them into the satchel and followed them with the bandging supplies before closing it and snaping the clasp shut. He then pushed a hand against his knee and grunted as he struggled to his feet. “A couple a you fellas help this old geezer over to the saloon,” he said and picked up the case of doctorin’ tools by its handle.
One of the fellas stepped forward and tucked an arm under the armpit on the sheriff’s good side while at the same time motioning for one of the other boys to give him a hand.
The sheriff’s daughter held a halting palm up toward the spindly fella who had stepped forward in response. “That won’t be necessary, Will. I’m sure Jake and I can manage.” She smiled pleasantly at the drover and turned her full attention to helping Jake, who’d already managed to get the sheriff to an upright, albeit unsteady, standing position of sorts.
They supported him between them as they half-carried, half-walked the sheriff toward the false-fronted, unpainted saloon that lay directly across the street.
They hadn’t made it more than about a third of the way before the sheriff had managed to convince them to hold up. He gingerly edged around to face the gathering of townsfolk and squinted as a stab of pain made itself known. “S-Someone take a gander inside that youngster’s pockets an’ see if he’s got any money on him! Then one a you fellas head on down to the livery an’ tell Ol’ Mose that he’s got hisself a customer fer buryin’! Any money he’s apt ta have on him will pay fer the coffin buildin’ ’n grave diggin’!”
The girl interrupted his order givin’, “You just hush up now. I’m quite sure they can figure out what needs doin’. You just leave it alone and get on over to the doctor’s office.”
“Oh…alright, but--”
“Shush now!” she said forcefully.
He conceded and, without another word, gingerly turned back around and allowed them to assist him the rest of the way across the street.
Clint continued to watch them complete the crossing.
The handpainted sign on the front of the building they entered read:
LAS ANIMAS SALOON
CAFE & DOCTOR’S OFFICE
DOC RILEY - PROP
Clint shifted his attention back to where the deadman had just been pulled off the rail and now lay crumpled in the street. The sixgun had lost its precarious hold on the trigger finger and was lying in the soft dirt. Two gents grabbed ahold of Lawton’s legs and dragged him a few feet away from the hitchrail. They then layed him out with his crumpled, blood-spotted hat resting across his thighs and his arms folded across his chest in peaceful repose.
One of the men patted Lawton’s pockets and came up with a sack of makin’s, which he unashamedly slipped into his own shirt pocket, along with the papers for rollin’. A closer inspection of the deadman’s right front jeans pocket produced a grand total of eighteen dollars and thirty-five cents in paper money and gold and silver coins.
A boy of about twelve or thirteen ran off to inform Ol’ Mose of his latest customer.
Clint spied another youngster who had been watching the proceedings from nearby. “Hey, boy!”
“Yes sir!”
“You wanna make two-bits?”
The boy’s eyes lit up, as did the rest of his face. “You bet!” he beamed widely.
“See that black stallion over yonder?” Clint gestured to where he had left Shiloh.
The boy shielded his eyes against the yellow glare of the lowering sun. “Yes sir…I kin see him alright enough.”
Clint dug into his front rightside jeans pocket. “Lead him down to the livery, unsaddle him, dry him off, rub him down and see that he gets his face stuck into a feedbag of oats.”
“Yes sir!” the boy said excitedly. “What’s his name?”
“Shiloh…here’s your quarter.” Clint flipped the coin off his thumb.
The boy reached out as the shiny, silvery coin fluttered and glinted in the waning sunlight. He caught the treasure between the palms of both hands. Looking at first one side then the other, his face nearly disappeared in the gap-toothed smile. “Thanks, Mister,” he said gratefully and pushed the coin deep into his front pants pocket. Still beaming, he placed a hand against it from the outside. He then whirled and headed out to do the job he had just been hired for.
Nice kid, Clint thought. Despite his efforts against it, a sad remembrance crept into his head. Kinda reminds me of Chad when he was just about that same age. He brushed at his eye and hastily glanced around to make sure no one had noticed. Satisfied, he headed off in the direction of the…
LAS ANIMAS SALOON
CAFE & DOCTOR’S OFFICE
DOC RILEY - PROP
Chapter 2
From the moment Clint entered the room, he continued to have a tough time keeping his eyes off the sheriff’s daughter. He managed to find a table toward the center of the room, mostly by stumbling right into it. He lowered himself into one of the chairs, where he now sat silently and took in the scene that was being played out across the room.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Wha--” Clint uttered with a start.
“I s-said, wh-what can I get cha, Mister?”
Clint looked up and quickly judged the stuttering fella to be right about seventeen…that is if he was of a mind to stretch his way a thinkin’ a mite. The youngster was tall, skinny and sported a head of bushy red hair and a passel of dark freckles that covered most of his face. Clint flicked a comparing glance at the girl across the room and decided that the youngster’s hair was just a shade or two lighter than hers.
“You-you-you just gonna sit there ga-gawkin’ or you-you wa-wa-wanna order somethin’?”
“Oh…eh…yeah. Ahh…I guess I could use me some grub. What cha got in the back room?”
“I ra-ra-reckon we got s-steak ’n b-b-beans, is all.”
“That’ll do just fine. A steak, some beans an’ a cup a black coffee would surely take the edge off.”
“Coming ri-ri-right…c-c-coming ri-ri-ri…” He was stuck. He closed his mouth and thought for a few seconds. Clint waited patiently as the waiter took a deep breath, exhaled and tried again, “Coming right up,” he finally said without a hitch and spun around to leave.
“Wait a second, boy!” Clint said, a tad bit louder than he had intended.
The youngster stopped, paused momentarily and finally turned around.
Clint saw an unmistakable flash of defiance, and maybe even a hint of anger in his lightly shaded green eyes as he spoke, “Name’s Ja-Jeremy. Jeremy O’D-Donnell…an’ I ain’t no b-b-boy, Mister.”
“Sorry, Jeremy. My mistake.” Clint motioned back over his shoulder with a thumb. “You got any idea what went on out there in the street?”
Jeremy’s eyes had returned to normal. “Near’s I can figure, the sh-sheriff there,” he pointed, “run across J-J-John Lawton. Seems he’s a…seems he wa-wa-was a ga-ga-gunfighter and was wa-wanted by the law. I don’t know wh-what he was wanted for, b-b-but…” he paused, “b-but anyway, the sh-sh…the sh-sh…” he paused again, “he wa-was r-r-recognized from a wa-wanted poster.” Jeremy took the time to suck in a new breath before continuing, “When the sh-sh-sheriff tried ta arrest him, La-Lawton forced a ga-ga-ga…Lawton forced a fight.”
“Thanks, Jeremy. Sounds like ya got it all figgered pretty good.”
“I’ll go get yer s-s-steak started c-cookin’ and bring yer coffee soon’s I can. The beans are already hot.”
After Jeremy left, Clint returned his attention to the goin’s-on across the room.
“Now durn it, Sue,” the sheriff was saying, “I ain’t no little kid an’ I surely don’t need you naggin’ on me!”
“No, you’re not a little kid!,” she was scolding him, wagging her finger in front of his face. “You’re a hardheaded old man…” The wagging finger and reprimanding words slowed as she must’ve realized just how truly thankful she was that her daddy had not been any more seriously hurt than he was, “who I love very much,” she concluded. She placed a palm on each side of his face. “Daddy, please.” She could hold the tears back no longer.
She rose and, after turning away from her daddy, took a few steps toward the table where Clint sat watching her every move. “What are you looking at?” she fired at him, while smearing a tear across her cheek with the meaty part of an index finger.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Clint apologized as he touched a fingertip to the brim of his hat. “Just couldn’t help but overhearin’.”
Her expression immediately softened. She then wordlessly passed on by the table and continued around behind the bar where she found a towel and set about drying her eyes.
Jeremy returned with the coffee. After placing it on the table, he leaned down. “Wa-watch out fer her,” he warned in a hoarse whisper. “Sh-sh-she’s got that r-r-red hair for a r-r-reason. Sh-sh-she’ll speak her mind at the drop of a hat…if the need ari-rises.”
“Tell me a little bit about her.”
“Li-like what?”
“How about like…who she is, for starters?”
“Well…her name’s Sue…Sue Bar-Bar…Sue Bartlett. Sh-she’s Sheriff Hobbs’ daughter. She has a ra-ra-ranch about a couple a miles out to the southw-w-west a town. Used ta belong to her an’ her husband, T-Tom. He c-come up dead ’bout five er six months back. Nobody’s ri-ri-rightly s-sure what happened to him. F-Found him all b-busted up at the bottom of a cliff. Don’t know if he just fell or wa-what happened. Found him a c-c-couple a da-days after the fact.” Jeremy thought some before continuing, “S-Some folks around here figure that from the way things looked there mi-mi-mighta been foul p-p-play…me included.” He paused again to let that sink in before continuing, “Sh-she runs horses…s-s-sells ’em to the army over ta F-F-Fort Lyon. She’s been try-tryin’ hard ta get the sh-sh-sheriff ta quit sh-sh-sheriffin’ and come live with her out on the ra-ra-ranch…I better go check on your s-s-steak.”
“Thanks, Jeremy. That’s a sight more’n a little, but I surely do appreciate the information.”
Jeremy left and Clint zeroed in on the cup of coffee and his thoughts. It tasted real good and warmed his innards as it hit bottom. He thought about the shooting and what it meant. He had heard some of John Lawton, but not much. Mainly he knew of his older brother, Cary. As the story went, John was just startin’ out on the gunnie ladder--wantin’ to become a famous gunfighter like his brother. But now his short gunfightin’ career was over. Trouble was, rumor had it that Cary Lawton was one of the two or three fastest guns around these parts. A fella like that wouldn’t hesitate to go after revenge as soon as he got wind of his younger brother getting himself killed.
“Excuse me.”
Clint stopped studying his cup and looked up into the face of Sue Bartlett. She was even prettier up close. She had soft, high cheekbones, a narrow jaw-line and green eyes that just about matched his own. Her nose was small and turned up a mite right on the end. Her mouth was perfect. He watched it as she formed the words. “I owe you an apology.”
“I-I…eh…” he stammered, “Th-that ain’t necessary, ma’am.”
“Well, necessary or not, I’m not usually accustomed to jumping down the throats of complete strangers.”
“Ma’am, I can understand your predicament…what with your daddy gettin’ hisself shot an’ all. I ain’t takin’ no offense, ma’am.” Somehow managing to remember his manners, he hastily got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “My name’s Clint Blackman.”
“I’m Sue Bartlett,” she countered as she accepted the outstretched offering, while at the same time showing him a wonderful smile that sent a kinda fluttering feeling ricocheting around inside his stomach.
“Pleased to make yer acquaintance, ma’am,” he managed. He could tell by the feel of her hand that she was use to doing her share of hard work. “Sorry about yer pa; he’s mighty lucky to be alive.”
“Why do you say that?”
He reluctantly released her hand, wishing he could hold it a good while longer. “If you’d care to sit a spell,” he gestured across the table toward the two remaining chairs, “I’ll fill you in on what I know about that gunfighter…and his kind.”
She settled into the chair opposite him; a puzzled expression narrowed her eyes. “Go ahead…fill me in.”
He lowered himself and began telling her about the likes of John Lawton and, more importantly, his brother, Cary. No sooner had he gotten started than Jeremy appeared with his plate of steak and beans. Clint fell silent as they watched Jeremy set the plate of grub down on the table. His stomach made a low rumbling noise as the aroma of a fresh-cooked meal wafted up to Clint’s nostrils and he remembered just how hungry he really was.
Jeremy reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a knife and fork. He placed them down beside the plate. “Hope this is to yer li-li-likin’, Mister.”
“Name’s Clint, an’ I’m sure it’ll do just fine.”
“Anything else I can g-get cha?”
“No thanks. This’ll do just--”
“Could I please have a cup of black coffee, Jeremy?” Sue interrupted.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I…I wasn’t thinking,” Clint apologized.
“Comin’ ri-ri-right up, Miss. B-Bartlett,” Jeremy said and left.
Turning her attention back to Clint, she said a bit curtly, “Call me Sue…and I don’t expect you to be concerned about any of my needs.” She immediately realized the terseness of her remark. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still a little on edge.” She lowered her gaze.
Clint felt a bit of satisfaction that she wanted him to use her given name. A kind of warmth seemed to surround him. “That’s okay, eh…Sue.”
“Please continue. You were telling me about the Lawton brothers.”
No sooner had Clint resumed his account about how Cary would be looking to avenge his brother’s death, than Jeremy showed up again, this time carrying her coffee. Clint waited for him to finish serving it.
While he ate his meal and she drank her coffee, he completed the unpleasant truth about the misfortune her father had gotten himself into. He then summed it all up, “I’m sorry to upset ya, ma’am, eh…Sue. But I felt you needed to know what your pa’s up against.”
“That settles it. Come with me.” She started to rise. “Wait a minute.” She settled back down. “How do you know so much about gunfighters?”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned a thing or two over the years.”
“Sounds to me like you might know more than just a thing or two about their kind,” she pried.
He ignored her attempt at drawing him out and rose.
She didn’t much like being ignored, but rationalized that he must have a good reason for his withdrawal. She rose also and they crossed the room to where Doc Riley was just putting the finishing touches on his handiwork.
After being introduced, Clint told the sheriff what he knew about the Lawton brothers. Jason didn’t seem overly concerned about the threat he would surely find himself faced with someday. Clint admired the old man’s courage, but knew Cary Lawton would kill the old sheriff when the time came. Clint felt a pang of sorrow for him, as well as Sue. He glanced at her and then quickly averted his eyes.
The conversation then switched to her concern for her father’s recovery. She was able to convince him that he needed to come out to the ranch until his shoulder healed some. His deputy, Wylie Gaines, could handle things here in town. Besides, the ranch was certainly close enough so that Wylie could send someone out if there was a need. The only problem being, Deputy Gaines was out of town settling a dispute between two of the local cattle ranchers--something about ownership of a couple of newborn calves…or some such nonsense.
Doc Riley had remained silent until now, seemingly engrossed in patching up the sheriff’s shoulder. “There, all done!” he announced as he gave a final tug to the massive white bandage that covered nearly all of the sheriff’s shoulder. “Seems ta me a little lookin’ after wouldn’t hurt cha none, Jason. It’s gettin’ kinda late so I ’spect Sue might wanna get a room at the hotel and take ya out to the ranch in the morning after Wylie gets back. You can stay here the night with me. That way I can check periodically ta see how my patchin’ job holds up.”
Sheriff Hobbs started to protest, “Now Doc…I don’t know…”
Doc Riley lowered his chin and peered over the top edge of the eyeglasses. “Them’s doctor’s orders! And that’s the end of it!”
Clint took note of Sue’s slight smile. He figured the matter had no doubt just been settled to her liking.
“Great. That settles it then,” she said with obvious relief and turned to face Clint. “Clint, where are you staying? Do you have a room at the hotel?”
“Well…eh…no…I hadn’t had time to--”
“Come with me. I’ll take you over there and we’ll get a couple of rooms for the night. Will you be okay, Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I’ll do just fine. I’d a whole lot rather have you here lookin’ after me than this old buzzard, but I’ll make out. You two go on and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see ya bright ’n early.”
“I’ll pray for you tonight and thank the good Lord for sparing you today,” she said sincerely. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead, then affectionately touched her cheek to his. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, honey. I love you, too.”
Clint and the sheriff shook hands while they said their goodnights. When they had finished, he and Sue started for the door. They paused long enough for Clint to flip Jeremy a silver dollar. “That should more’n cover the meal. It was mighty good eatin’.”
Jeremy showed his silent thanks with a smile and a nod. He then resumed the task of wiping the table with a damp bar towel.
Clint and Sue strolled out onto the boardwalk as the cool night air closed in around them, sending a calming sense of contentment through them that made all of the late afternoon’s happenings seem insignificant by comparison. The moon had not yet risen, allowing the stars to shine like brilliant twinkling diamonds. Clint reached inside his black frock coat and fished a cheroot from an inside pocket. He stuck it into the corner of his mouth. After scratching a match against the concho on his holster, he touched the orange flame to the tip of the cigar.
They continued to stroll in silence as Clint leisurely blew smoke into the dark night air. He wanted to talk to her, find out all about her, but could not come up with the exact right words to begin.
Just when he had figured the best way of going about it and, had opened his mouth to speak, she broke the silence. “Clint?”
“Wha…yeah?”
“How do you know so much about those gunfighters?” Before he had time to respond, she continued, “I noticed that you wear your gun tied-down.” There was a slight pause as she formed her next question. Stopping, she turned toward him. “Clint, are you a gunfighter?”
Clint turned to face her. “You don’t mince words, do ya?”
“Why should I? Either you are or you aren’t. Seems like an easy enough question to me.”
“I wish it had an easy enough answer. Until about a month ago the answer would have been yes, but lately I’ve been havin’ some second thoughts about it.”
“Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“What did you say?”
“I said the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“I’ve been hearing that lately. What’dya mean by it?”
“It means that maybe Satan has had ahold of you long enough and the Lord has decided to get tough with him and intervene on your behalf.” She watched as his face took on a thoughtful look. “Have you ever been a religious man, Clint?”
“By religious…do you mean have I ever gone to church?”
“For starters, yes.”
“A long time ago,” he said almost wistfully. “A long time ago,” he repeated. “If you don’t mind, Sue, I-I’d like to change the subject.”
It was easy to see that he was uneasy, so she elected not to press the issue.
“I need to stop off over to the livery and check on my horse. I can find the hotel on my own…unless of course you’d like to tag along?”
“I do have a soft spot for horses; I’d love to come along.”
They made their way to the livery where Mose was putting the final touches on a harness that needed mending. “Howdy, mistah,” he said pleasantly as they entered. He set the harness aside, and rose. “Name’s Augustas Moses, but folks just calls me Ol’ Mose. What kin I do for ya?”
Clint looked into the friendly, smiling face of the Negro smithy. The smile was genuine, even though the two gold teeth in front were not. He rightfully suspected that Ol’ Mose would be a pretty good fella to have on your side in a scrap. He was a might taller than Clint, and much wider. He was barrel-chested with huge muscular arms.
“Just dropped by to check on my horse…had a yellow-haired boy bring him in earlier for a rub and a feedbag.”
“That black stallion yourn? Oh, howdy, Miss. Sue. Mostly didn’t see ya standin’ back a this big fella here.” He gestured toward Clint with the awl he still held.
“Hello, Moses. This is Clint…ah…Blackman, right?”
Clint smiled, pleased that she had remembered his last name. “Yes…that’s right.”
“Pleasure makin’ yer acquaintance, sir.” Moses switched the awl to his left hand and extended the huge ham of a right.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Mose.” Clint felt the power in the man’s grip before releasing the hand. “So, how’s that raggedy horse of mine doin’?”
Mose grinned knowingly. “I’d say there surely ain’t a speck a nothin’ raggedy ’bout that big fella, and I ’spect he’s doin’ just about as fine as the hair on a frog’s hind leg. Come see fer yerself.”
They made their way toward the back of the livery.
Shiloh stood placidly in the next to last stall; his nose was buried in a feedbag.
“Well, big fella, looks like ya don’t have a care in the world,” Clint said as he affectionately scratched the black stallion behind the ears.
Shiloh bobbed his head and nickered in response.
“Oh Clint, what a beautiful stallion,” Sue said.
“Shh…not so loud. He thinks he’s handsome.”
She reached for the top of the gate and gave Clint an inquisitive look.
“Suit yerself,” he said and gestured toward the stall.
She pulled the gate open and went inside.
“Oh…he is handsome,” she breathed. She ran her hand across his rump and down a hind leg. “This is the finest looking animal I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen my share. Is he as fast as he looks?”
Clint was pleased as he watched his friend withstand Sue’s touch without much opposition. Shiloh was typical of most stallions in that he was unpredictable.
“Tell you what…I’ll make a deal with you. If I find cause to stay in town awhile, an’ he’s willin’, how about I let cha ride him sometime and you can make that assessment for yourself?”
“Oh Clint, could I?”
“Well, mostly I reckon it’d be up to him. He’s more’n just a mite particular about who he lets get on his back.” Clint curled his arm under Shiloh’s neck and gave him a couple of lingering pats on the opposite side. “Well big fella, looks like you’re all settled in for the night. Reckon I’ll go turn in as well.”
Clint untied his bedroll from behind the saddle that had been draped over the side of the stall, tossed it over a shoulder and picked up the saddlebags that had also been draped over the stall. “Looks like he’s in good hands, Mose. I’ll be back in the morning to settle up with ya.” He looked at Sue. “You ’bout ready to go?” He slung the saddlebags over his other shoulder.
“Clint, he’s magnificent.”
“Come on. Let’s get outta here. It’s already tough enough livin’ with him without you givin’ him a swelled head…leastways any bigger’n it already is.”
As they made their way toward the hotel, she couldn’t stop talking about Shiloh. Clint was pleased that someone else besides him realized the qualities of the stallion. He came to the conclusion that he needed to figure a way to stick around so she could experience the pleasures of being on his back.
When they reached the hotel, the clerk was just closing up.
“Evening, Silas. We need a couple of rooms for the night.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Bartlett. Just sign the register and I’ll fix the both of you right up.” He turned toward an array of cubbyhole boxes that lined a portion of the wall behind him. “Soon’s I find the right keys, that is,” he said and began a systematic rummaging of the small compartments.
“Silas…this is my new friend, Clint Blackman.”
Clint extended his hand. “Pleased to meet cha,” he said to the man’s back.
Silas interrupted his search, turned and squinted through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He adjusted them for a better fit. “Oh…eh…yes,” he said, noticing Clint’s hand and taking it. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blackstone,” he said from behind an extremely limp, and brief handshake.
“That’s…Blackman.”
“Oh yes, of course. So it is. Eh…my name’s Silas. But then, Mrs. Bartlett already said that, didn’t she?”
“Yes…I believe she did.”
“Well, welcome to our town in general and the Miramount Hotel in particular. Hope you enjoy your stay. You two signed the register yet?” He then resumed his search.
Once she finished entering her name in the register, Sue handed the quill to Clint. He accepted it in his right hand and dipped it into the well. He wrote his name on the line under Sue’s name and returned the pen to its holder next to the well.
Silas had by then located the proper keys and handed them to Clint. “That’ll be two dollars apiece for the rooms.”
“Oh darn,” Sue said, feeling the outsides of her britches pockets. “This is a little embarrassing, but I don’t seem to have any money with me.” Looking at Clint, she asked, “Do you have enough to pay for the rooms and I’ll repay you later?”
Silas quickly took note of her dilemma. “That’s alright, Mrs. Bartlett. You can pay me some other--”
“My pleasure ma’am, and don’t worry about repayin’ me,” Clint said hurriedly. He pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Silas. Silas handed Clint his change and he stuffed it in his pocket, happy to be of service.
“Rooms two ’n three, top of the stairs, to the left. You decide who gets what…whichever suits ya. You folks have yourselves a good night’s sleep.”
Clint picked up his belongings and followed her up the stairs. They stopped in front of the door to room number two. He tried the key with the matching number marked on the oversized wooden tag. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. He then handed her the key.
They stood there in the hallway for a few moments, surrounded by an awkward silence. Finally, she spoke, “Clint, I noticed you wear a left-handed holster but you signed your name with your right hand. Come to think of it…you ate your dinner right-handed as well.”
“You don’t miss much, do ya?” It was evident he was impressed with her ability to notice such things. He continued, “Seein’ the kind of life I’ve been livin’, I took the time necessary to teach myself equal use of both hands when it comes to handling a sixgun. A man in my line needs his gunhand free most all the time. Never know when some fool might try to catch you off guard, or decide to shoot you in the back and claim he beat you in a fair fight.”
She felt a twinge of remorse tug at her insides. “Oh Clint…that truly sounds like a terrible way to go through life.”
“Like I said earlier, Sue…I been havin’ second thoughts.”
They said their goodnights and she slid past the door and entered the room. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned her back against it. “The Lord surely needs to put His hand on that man,” she murmured. She then crossed to the table beside the bed and, thankful for the silvery moonlight that now bathed the room, set about lighting the lamp.
Clint walked along the hallway to the next room. He unlocked the door and went inside. He built a heap in the corner with his saddlebags, bedroll and hat. After removing his gunbelt, he draped it on the bedpost and lit the lamp that rested on the table next to the bed. He then settled onto the edge of the bed and went through the usual struggle associated with pulling off his boots…eventually dropping each of them to the floor with a loud…THUMP!
He lay back across the feather bed…dead tired. “What a day this has turned out to be,” he said outloud.
He let his mind wander back to the events of the past couple of hours. He thought of the unfortunate young gunfighter whose luck had run out and wondered how long it would be before Cary Lawton showed up. He remembered how the lilac scent had filled the air around him as he’d caught first sight of Sue. He grinned as he relived the impact her loveliness had had on him. He was unable to remember ever having felt that way about anyone. She was just about the prettiest gal he’d ever laid eyes on. Plus the fact that she seemed to be levelheaded as well.
The grin transformed into a gentle smile as it graced his lips. The thought of her seemed to fill the room. He could again smell the soft aroma of lilacs. Despite the soft illumination provided by the lamp, the cracks in the ceiling slowly faded and he dropped off.
*
Sue scooted more toward the center of the bed, drew her knees up against her chest and hugged them to her. She shuddered and began to sob softly. She buried her face against her knees while she let it all out.
After a while, she managed to gather herself, wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and got down beside the bed. Resting her elbows on the edge, she curled her fingers together. Drawing them to her chin, she paused to collect her thoughts. “Dear Lord,” she began to pray, “please forgive my daddy for what he had to do today. Bless him and watch over him. He is a good, God-loving man and a blessing to me. And Lord…please help me find a way to protect him when it comes time to deal with Cary Lawton.”
Her thoughts then just naturally settled on Clint Blackman.
“Lord…I don’t know why You sent this gunfighter to our town, but I think he is under conviction to do right. Bless him, Father, and keep Your hand on him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a decent sort…amen.”
She got to her feet, turned down the bedclothes, undressed down to her undergarments and crawled in bed, pulling the quilt tightly up under her chin. After a moment or two, she pulled down the covers, leaned over and blew out the lamp. She then settled back into the comforts of the quilt.
She grew drowsy thinking mostly about the plight that had befallen her daddy. Her final thoughts before dropping off were of the magnificence of the black stallion.
Chapter 3
Clint awoke with a start.
He quickly sat up on the edge of the bed and glanced around the room, trying as best he could to remember where he was. As he took in the heap of belongings he’d piled in the corner, the realization finally set in and he relaxed. He then noticed that the lamp still burned an orange flame. He leaned over, cupped a hand above the chimney and blew it out. His Colt was still in its holster on the bedpost. He reached out and touched it, reassuringly. His attention then centered on the feather bed. He immediately realized he had fallen asleep across it while still in his clothes. Oh well, ain’t the first time and surely won’t be the last, he admitted.
“Clint, are you awake?”
She wasn’t a dream. That’s Sue’s voice. He smiled at the thought of seeing her again. “Yeah, Sue, I’m awake. Been that way for awhile,” he lied as he realized that it must have been her knock on the door that had awaken him. “I’ll just get dressed and meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Sounds like a plan. Don’t be too long, though. The days nearly half gone as it is.”
Clint glanced at the window. From the amount of sunlight that filtered in through the threadbare curtain, she was most likely right. That, along with the sound of receding footsteps, told him that he’d best be getting a move on.
He stood, pushed the palms of his hands into the small of his back and tried as best he could to stretch and twist the kinks out. For sleeping crossways on the bed, he figured he had gotten a decent enough night’s sleep. He worked the stretching and twisting just about right and the kinks eased some. Looking down at the bed, he decided it wasn’t so bad after all and made a favorable observation, Sometimes it might even beat sleepin’ out under the stars.
He spied a white and pink-flowered water pitcher resting in a matching basin on the dresser and crossed to it. He poured a sufficient amount of the pitcher’s contents into the basin and lightly splashed some of the liquid onto his face. He found the towel by groping for it on the dresser top and rubbed his face dry before tossing the cloth back onto the dresser top next to the basin. He then went back to the bed, sat on the edge and tugged his boots on. He remained seated while he went over the previous day’s developments.
He figured he would have to stick around town for a spell…leastways until after Cary Lawton showed up gunning for the sheriff. He had mixed emotions about that, but felt he would have a hard time looking in the mirror if he just rode away and let Lawton have his way with Sue’s pa. He glanced at the mirror atop the dresser, rose and stamped the boots into a proper fit. He then snatched up his gunbelt from the bedpost and returned to the dresser.
He looked at his image in the mirror and liked what he saw. He knew that Lawton had killed Seth Adams, Tyler Smith and Kid Blake. And most likely a few more that he hadn’t even heard about.
There was no doubt in Clint’s mind that Lawton would handle the sheriff same as swatting a pesky fly. Clint also knew that he could take Lawton, but felt concern about how Sue would feel toward him if he killed the gunfighter. He then rationalized, Surely she’d realize that I’d done it to protect her pa.
He tossed the gunbelt onto the bed and braced himself against the dresser top with both fists. His thoughts then wandered to the happenings of just two days back…
*
It was close to noon--judging from the shortness of the shadow cast by the hitchrail in front of the Bulldog waterin’ hole. Clint was tipped back in a straight-backed chair and enjoying the comforts afforded by having his shoulders resting against the front wall of the Bulldog Saloon. Even though his black, flat-brimmed hat was pretty much resting down over his eyes, he could still make out the toes of the rattlesnake-skin-covered boots as they shuffled to a stop in front of him.
Clint didn’t budge.
“Yer name Blackman?”
The tone of the voice was nothing new; Clint had heard it more times then he cared to remember, but this time it sounded younger than ever before. “Might be. Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Slater, and I hear yer fast with that there gun a yours.”
“You heard right, boy.”
To the boy’s credit, he didn’t mince his words. “Well, I’m figgerin’ I’m a mite faster an’ I’m callin’ ya out.”
Clint paused for a moment or two and then rocked forward until all four legs of the chair were square on the planks of the wooden porch. He thumbed his hat up onto his brow where it was more accustomed to being. He then started with the toes of the snakeskin boots and slowly moved his gaze upwards.
The gunnie wore striped blue trousers with the legs tucked neatly into the tops of the snakeskin boots. Draped around his hips were black, studded, crossed gunbelts. The tied-down holsters each held what looked to Clint to be Colt Navy .36’s. Above the waist he wore a light blue shirt, buttoned all the way up to the collar. His hat was similar to Clint’s and was setting back on his head, revealing a pretty good shock of sandy-blonde hair. There was a bit of light-colored fuzz on his face, but anyone with just half an eye could see that he hadn’t found the need to start shaving yet…leastways not on a regular basis. The kid’s eyes were a light blue and showed a darting nervousness as they did their darndest to not miss anything.
Clint wondered if he could be more’n fifteen or sixteen. “How old are you, boy?”
“I’m eighteen…’n a half. What’s it to ya?”
The boy certainly didn’t look eighteen and Clint doubted that he was. Clint judged him to be about five-seven or eight and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds…soaking wet. “Well now…” Clint responded, “if you wanna see nineteen you best turn around and walk away, boy.”
“I’ll walk away alright,” the youngster vowed around the distain-filled sneer he’d assumed, “soon’s I finish takin’ care a business.” He then started backing into the street, his fists clenching and unclenching as he hovered them just above the bone handles of the matched Colts. “What’s the matter, you yella?” he challenged.
A few of the townspeople had stopped to listen in. Clint didn’t much cotton to being pushed, especially in front of bystanders. “Where do you know me from, boy? Why do you figger you need a fight with me?”
The sneer disappeared as he smiled by way of a nervous, twitching smirk. “Ain’t never laid eyes on ya before…just heard you was in town an’ got me a hankerin’ ta add ta my rep.” The kid’s voice was unsteady as he repeated his challenge, “So quit palabberin’ and fill yer hand.” The sneer returned as the kid gained some courage. “Or are ya yella?”
Clint had long since learned the rules of the deadly game. Most gunmen rode from town to town looking for another gunnie who he felt had a bigger reputation. Once he came across one, he would call him out. If he was lucky he would add the dead man’s rep to his own. If it turned out to be the other way around, well…that didn’t much matter to a dead man anyways. It was that simple.
Clint was feeling mighty sure that the kid was having second thoughts about what he had started. And to Clint’s way a thinkin’ that was all the edge he needed. “You got yourself a rep, do ya, boy?”
“Yeah, as a matter a fact I reckon I do,” Slater lied. “So get yerself up off yer backside an’ let’s get this over with. Or do ya plan on just sittin’ there so’s you kin hide that yella streak?”
“No kid…I ain’t got no yella streak to hide,” Clint replied with a deadly seriousness.
As Slater looked on Blackman pulled himself up out of the chair. It seemed to Jimmy Slater that it took forever for the legendary gunfighter to rise. Once he had finally straightened to his full height he stood about three inches above six-foot and had immensely broad shoulders that in comparison narrowed down to nearly no waist at all.
He had a handsome face with a strong chin. His eyes were a deadly green that didn’t come anywhere near matching his dark brown hair. The combination provided an uncommon contrast that drew attention to the steadiness of his gaze. By anyone’s standards it was plain to see that Clint Blackman was not someone to be taken lightly.
Slater swallowed the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat as he watched Blackman slide out of his black frock coat and fold it neatly. He then meticulously laid it across the back of the chair, using a fingertip to flick away something unseen by Jimmy.
Jimmy fought against the urge to wipe the sweat that had collected across his brow as Blackman calmly unbuttoned the sleeves of his cream-colored shirt and with measured familiarity rolled each up two turns. “Quit yer stallin’, Blackman,” he growled through clenched teeth. “What’s the matter? You in no hurry ta face a real gunhawk?”
Clint was in no rush to prove his abilities and continued with the ritual--it was one that usually made his opponents a mite impatient and more than just a little bit on the jumpy side.
Without so much as a glance at the kid, Clint reached down and first untied then retied the leather thong that secured the holster that was home to his Colt Dragoon. Finally, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cheroot. He stuck it in the right corner of his mouth and squared to face the kid. “Okay, boy, now I’m ready,” he announced coldly, around the cigar.
Clint allowed himself a slight smile as he watched the kid finally wipe the sweat that had collected on his forehead. A fleeting thought crossed his mind as he remembered himself in the same predicament a few years back. The difference was a significant one. This youngster was calling out a seasoned gunfighter. Clint’s first three killings were no-account, murderin’ drunks who needed killing.
The sound of Slater’s voice brought Clint back to the issue at hand.
“It’s about time…I-I was startin’ ta think I would die of old age waitin’ for you ta work up yer nerve.” Slater sleeved the sweat again, this time by ducking into the crook of an elbow.
“That a fact? Well now, let’s see just how much nerve you have, boy,” Clint said from behind a determined expression. He then slowly made his way down the three steps. After reaching the bottom, he continued into the street toward the spot where the kid had decided to make his stand.
Slater forced his gaze to remain steady as another lump rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, managing to force the lump back down. Hoping to keep his voice from cracking, he took a deep breath and said, “That’s far enough, Blackman.”
Clint ignored the pleading request and continued toward the kid.
“I said…that’s far enough!” This time his voice was a bit more under control.
Stopping about ten feet from the young gun, Clint exhaled heavily. “I thought you wanted to see who had nerve an’ who didn’t.”
“I got nerve enough ta handle the likes a you.” The sweat was again about to run into Jimmy’s eyes. He desperately wanted to wipe his forehead again, but didn’t dare make any move that was out of the ordinary, or could mistakenly be taken as aggressive…not just yet, anyways.
“Well then…what say we get real close so’s we can’t miss.” Clint started forward again.
Jimmy stood his ground with feet spread about shoulder width--which wasn’t all that far apart in his case. His hands hovered expectantly just above the butts of the matched Colts. His fingers twitched nervously,and his bottom lip quivered noticeably.
When Clint was barely an arm’s length from the kid, he stopped, fixed his steady gaze between the youngster’s panicky eyes and said with measured intimacy, “How’s this for nerve, boy? Now neither one of us could miss, even if we tried.”
Before Slater could get even a single word out, Clint’s pistol appeared almost magically in his left hand and, in one swift motion, he clubbed the kid along the side of his head.
Jimmy Slater collapsed like a cornfield scarecrow that had just had its sticks removed.
“Glad to see you have some compassion in you.” The voice came from behind Clint and slightly off to his right.
Clint turned to see a slight man. He was dressed in a black suit with a sparkling white shirt that seemed wholly out of place in the dingy surroundings of the sleepy little town. His attire was complete with a loose-fitting collar and black bow tie. He wore a black vest and a flat-brimmed black hat. In his right hand he cradled a Bible against his chest.
Clint replaced his Dragoon into its holster, fished into his shirt pocket and, using two fingers, drew out a stick match. He scratched it against the concho on the holster. It flared into life and he shielded the flame inside cupped hands as he touched it to the end of the cigar. “Call it compassion if you want, Preacher,” he said after blowing a cloud of smoke. “I call it tired a killin’.” Clint waved the matchstick in the air and flicked it into the dirt at his feet.