by A. W. Hart
“He might already be pretty mad,” the deputy said.
“Well,” Reno began, “let’s go to the magistrate and add another crime to his history. We won’t get paid for it when we take him down, though.”
“Yes, we will. I will be paid in satisfaction. Won’t you?” Sara asked.
Wild Bill Hickok was riding the army mule in the desolate and uninhabited part of the northeast Arizona Territory.
Even though they were just at a comfortable trot, the fall was catastrophic when the mule stepped in a prairie dog hole.
Both went down. The mule broke his leg, and the man was unconscious. He had problems seeing when he first came to, but his vision came back. He suspected he had broken a rib when he landed on his right-hand revolver.
The mule was bleating, and the scout could immediately tell why. He promptly shot the beast with his Army carbine, then reloaded the carbine, slung the saddlebags and two canteens over his shoulder, and started walking in the direction he had been heading.
He was an accomplished outdoorsman. The only worry he had about his situation was getting to Prescott in time to take on Holmes before the twins tried.
A week later, he came upon a wagon train. They recognized him and welcomed him as a scout and guide to Prescott. There were a couple of free horses in the remuda, and he was loaned one for the remainder of his journey.
Sara and Reno moved into the cottage several miles down the road from Prescott. He had never seen his sister happier, though he knew she did not have a domestic bone in her body.
She did a little sweeping, but Reno did the cooking, cleaning, and firewood. The heat, which they did not need yet, would come from the fireplace. So did the cooking, which was done with an iron swing-arm for brewing coffee and cooking stews in a suspended pot.
Reno cut up potatoes, carrots, and onions from the general mercantile and added water from the well. One they started simmering, he told Sara he and Apache were going hunting, and to keep a gun close at hand. His admonition was unnecessary. Sara Marie Bass always had a gun close at hand. Or several.
She went out back and leaned her Winchester against the house. She put on her dancing chemise. She had escaped in it from Hermosillo. Without music, she began to dance with grace in free form, floating and whirling as the spirit moved her. She heard one shot. It was from Reno’s rifle and surely meant rabbit for the stew. She liked rabbit better than squirrel. She danced on.
Reno and Apache headed back. He saw his sister dancing in the show chemise. The sun caught her hair and showed through the thin material.
Reno called for her to give warning, in case she might want to put something on or just not shoot him with the rifle leaning against the house.
She waved gaily and danced on. She was really good, he thought. And truly beautiful. He might have to shoot somebody because of her one day. Well, somebody else was more accurate, he corrected himself.
He skinned and cleaned the rabbit outside while she finished dancing.
“Do you enjoy my dancing, Reno?” she asked.
“Sure. You have a lot of talent. You move well and really seem to get into it. It’s more artistic than square dancing.”
“Am I beautiful when I’m dancing, Brother? I feel like it is the only time I am,” she said.
“Sara, you are more beautiful than anyone in the world. Dancing or riding or shooting,” he responded.
“Thank you, Reno. Your thinking and saying I am means so much to me.” She pulled the black trousers and boots on, and they went in and put the portions of the rabbit in the stewpot.
Reno measured some coffee into the old black pot, added water, and hung it on the swing-arm over the fire too.
After dinner, Sara was quiet. She was sitting at the table in the cottage’s main room. Reno was not paying any attention and figured she was reading or something.
Actually, she was writing. She had bought an envelope and paper and a pencil in the general mercantile when they were getting groceries.
Sara addressed the envelope to Cudgel Holmes, c/o General Delivery, Sonora, Mexico.
The letter read as follows.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I was so sorry to have left Hermosillo without killing you as my brother and I set out to do. I am sure you are missing some friends down there. Their bodies were left so you could find them. We have moved to Prescott. Let us know next time you come this way.
Sincerely,
La Pelirroja, or Sara Bass
Reno grinned at her.
“Sometimes, you have to make the bear mad to get him into range to kill him. It’s dangerous, but then, bear hunting is a dangerous thing,” he said.
“Hopefully, this honey will draw in our bear. We have to be careful every minute once this is posted,” she said. Her brother nodded.
“Reno, I have something to ask you. You came and rescued me, even though you did not recognize me for the longest time. What helped you finally know it was me dancing?”
“The arrow wound in your bottom. The long red hair threw me. The movements seemed familiar. You have a smooth, graceful way of walking, except when you are trying to kill somebody. I admit I enjoyed watching you a whole lot more before I recognized you. I felt a little guilty after I knew it was you,” he admitted.
“What a silly way to look at it. I was the same person performing the same way both before and after you knew it was me,” she said, “but I’m glad you think I have a graceful way of walking. So here is your little reward. I got it a while back.”
She handed him a second, larger book of poems from a variety of poets.
“Maybe sometime you can read me some of these and save the Scriptures for later?” she asked.
“I will, “ he said. She smiled.
“First, I should go out and check on the horses and Thunder. They are still in the corral. I’m hesitant to put them in the stable, it being so nice out.”
He picked up the Winchester and walked out the door. He was back ten minutes later, and Sara was in bed asleep, Apache beside her. Reno sat at the table and turned up the oil lamp. He read many of the poems, but knew right off which Sara liked—more of Lord Byron’s love poems to his half-sister.
Reno threw the latch on the door and went to bed. Unlike the land he had called home, no wind was storming across a prairie, just a gentle breeze blowing the muslin curtains at the windows where the sash was raised. Though close to town, he heard a coyote’s plaintive call in the distance. He thought about the letter to Holmes. Was it too bold? Did they wish for the right thing?
As he fell asleep, he thought of Psalm 37:4. Also delight yourself in Yahweh, and he will give you the desires of your heart.
James Butler Hickok was suffering with every hoofbeat as he began to lead the small wagon train on the long pull to Prescott. Stalwart though he was, he would have turned back and sought an Army doctor. He was coughing up a bit of blood, so he figured he might have nicked a lung when his rib fractured. Several days later, he was lying in the back of one of the Conestogas instead of riding a horse. This was more than his salve could cure. He would get to Prescott maybe in time, or maybe not. But would he be of any use to his young friends?
Holmes sent his cousin Thaddeus to Prescott after getting Sara Bass’s letter. Thad did not have any warrants, and the only person there who would likely recognize him was Sara.
He rode in, turned along the main drag, Gurley Street, and found a restaurant. He tied up his horse. It was the one he had ridden for the Confederacy as a lieutenant under his cousin the major. His sympathies were given away any time someone with a knowledge of firearms saw him. Thad wore a LeMat Confederate revolver. It was a huge gun, weighing over four pounds. It held nine rounds of .42 caliber balls and one twenty-gauge shotgun shell in an under-barrel. Perhaps a hefty holster gun for the belt, it packed a lot of firepower in its four pounds.
Due to the LeMat’s weight, Thad wore it under his coat in a hybrid holster hooked on his belt and a shoulder strap both. The cro
ss-draw angle made for a quick draw, but the hand cannon was so darned large he had to wear a size larger coat just to hide it.
Sara and Reno rode into town shortly after Thad Holmes did. They went to the general mercantile store for dried beans, coffee and a side of bacon.
Sara had almost worn a hole in her black trousers, so she walked down the street to a clothing store. Women’s stores did not offer trousers. She had to buy boys’ trousers and alter them.
As she walked down the street, she saw a familiar figure. It was Thad Holmes. He had helped hold her when she was kidnapped by his cousin. At the very least, he was guilty of being an accessory to kidnapping.
She lifted and dropped the .36 Remington revolvers in their holsters, making sure they were loose and ready for action. Reno was a block behind her, inside the general mercantile. She was on her own.
Holmes had not seen her yet, giving her a slight advantage. She swung her jacket back behind her twin revolvers.
When they got within thirty feet, he saw her and stopped.
“Thaddeus Holmes, you kidnapped me in Hardyville, Arizona Territory. Take your gun out of its holster and set it on the street. I’m taking you in,” Sara said.
“The hell you say, girlie!”
He threw his coat back with his left hand and reached for the hand cannon with his right.
Sara pulled both Remington revolvers and fired. The right went off a half-second before the left. Holmes was struck by two balls an inch apart in his vest. His LeMat was not half out of its holster as he crumpled into the street.
She walked toward him, both guns cocked. There was no need. He was dead.
Reno came running behind her, yelling so she would not instinctively turn and shoot him. A deputy stepped out of the sheriff’s office and approached, as did one of the town’s doctors.
A crowd began to gather in a circle around the two people, one standing, the other prone in the dust. Sara eased the hammers down on her revolvers and holstered them. The legend of the Beautiful Angel of Death grew as a journalist took notes in the street.
“I was coming out of the office. I saw him draw first. It was a clear case of self- defense,” the deputy said.
“More like an accessory to kidnapping resisting being taken into custody by a bounty hunter,” Sara said between clenched teeth.
The deputy was the one who had taken the report of the kidnapping. He knew it was true both ways, and having seen her in action, he was not about to argue the point. She was calm and collected. Most people who had just drawn down on somebody and killed him would be shaky. Not this one.
The newspaperman approached, but Reno put his arm around his sister and turned her away.
“Some other time,” he told the journalist. “She’s had a busy day.”
“C’mon, Sara. Let’s go home. You can get your black pants another day.”
“If I don’t get them soon, everybody in Prescott’s gonna see my arrow scar,” she said.
“If they want to see it, they either got to sit in a theater and pay money, or they got to get past me,” he told her.
“Now you’re talking,” she said as they mounted their horses and rode home.
At home, Reno fried some of the new bacon and put it into the pinto bean soup he’d had simmering for the past few hours. By morning, it would be right, but they would wait for lunch. “Who wants bean soup for breakfast?” he asked himself.
“You all right with the shooting today?” Reno asked Sara as she got ready for bed
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be? Are you up for reading a poem out of your book tonight?”
“Yes. Let me pick one.” He had not figured out her odd mood and feared this might not be the best time to read another of Lord Byron’s love poems to his half-sister, Augusta. He knew she liked those. He thumbed through the book and stopped on one. She was propped up in bed, and he sat on the edge.
“This is another by Lord Byron,” Reno said
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
Before he could read the ending two stanzas later, “A heart whose love is innocent,” she was asleep, smiling.
He slid her down prone, covered her, and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
My baby sister. Stone-cold killer. She has gotten a lot faster without even practicing, he thought.
The Yavapai County sheriff’s office sent a notice of death for Thaddeus Holmes to his only known next of kin. It was his cousin in Mexico. Mail being what it was, it arrived the same day as Sara’s letter. A copy of the local paper was taken on the steamboat and delivered to Cudgel Holmes. It all caused the effect Sara intended. Holmes began to plan his revenge on the teenage girl and her brother.
Things were quiet in Arizona Territory for now. The revolution continued south of the border. Maximillian was out, and either Juarez or Diaz was in. No one knew for sure. Several armies were still marching around the country, shooting at each other. Since both had artillery, Mexico was a dangerous place to live or visit.
The raid on the second night in Hermosillo had caused Holmes’s business to soar. Sally did not have Sara’s grace or natural abilities, but nobody cared. The audience was not there for dancing expertise. Most of the audience would not have gone to the Bolshoi if it had been next door.
Reno wore leather gloves as he split wood, at Hickok’s suggestion. He remembered the scout’s admonition to protect those gunfighter hands. Reno thought it might be a good time for Sara to follow suit.
The wagon train finally made it to Prescott. It dropped off a passenger at the infirmary at Army Fort Whipple. He was in pain and still coughing blood from his broken rib. The Army sent a courier to find the Bass twins and tell them their friend was in Prescott and a patient at the fort.
Reno and Sara immediately saddled Jack and Grace and left for Fort Whipple. They were directed to the infirmary and to the single ward, where James Butler Hickok was flat on his back and feeling very bad.
“What on earth happened, Wild Bill?” Sara asked.
“I was hotfooting it down here, and my mule stepped in a prairie dog mound and broke his leg. I went down with him and got a concussion, and the fractured rib poked a hole in my lung.”
“We are glad to see you, my friend, though not in these circumstances,” Reno said. “What was bringing you to this area?”
“You and Sara were. When you wrote me about going after Cudgel Holmes, I knew I had to get here and help you,” Hickok said.
“He’s basically a businessman who also kills the odd woman after sex and burns her house down. It doesn’t make him a gunfighter,” Sara noted.
Their bedridden friend pulled the side of his army hospital gown off his shoulder. He pointed to a bullet hole in his chest, just above a lung.
“Cudgel Holmes was one of the best and deadliest spies the Confederacy had. He and his cousin Thaddeus caused a lot of anxiety for the Union. He could use his Confederate revolver like a rattler striking. He put the hole in me after out-drawing me.”
“He out-drew Wild Bill Hickok?” Reno asked incredulously.
“Yes, but not so loud, Reno.”
“How fast was his cousin Thaddeus?” Sara asked
“Good. Real good, but not as fast. As I remember, he carried a damn hand cannon. A LeMat. It held nine balls and had a shotgun under-barrel. Once he got the LeMat in action, he could send death downrange for a long time,” he said.
“Not anymore,” Sara said. Wild Bill looked at her quizzically, nodding for her to continue.
“We had a walkdown on Gurley Street the other day. I killed him,” she said.
“The hell you say. You walked down Thad Holmes and outdrew him and killed him?”
“She did. Used both revolvers and put the balls next to each other in
his chest,” Reno said.
“Well, Thaddeus was a dangerous man who killed his fair share in the war. You did well, Miss Sara. You surely did. But I hate to tell you both, Thaddeus couldn’t hold a candle to his cousin. Cudgel is the fastest man I ever saw pull a gun, and I got the hole here in my chest as proof.”
He then started coughing from all the talking and spat blood into his handkerchief.
After a few seconds, he said in a hoarse voice, “You better go back from when you talked with the chief deputy in Santa Fe and bring me up to date. Sounds like a lot has happened.”
It took them half an hour to bring him up to date with the tracking, the fights, the kidnapping, Sara being in his show, Reno rescuing her, and up to the gunfight with Thad Holmes.
“You have been busy. I’m still glad I came, though. Cudgel Holmes is a professional pistoleer and killer, and he and I have unfinished business. I won’t get in the way of your bounty. I just want him to get in the way of my bullet. It’s all I ask. And I don’t want either of you hurt in the process,” Hickok said.
The Army doctor came in and asked them to leave so his patient could be given his medicine and get some rest. They promised to return tomorrow.
They chatted as they rode home.
“He does not look good. He’s lost weight, and coughing up blood is bad,” Reno said.
“Yes. I noticed you didn’t tell him about my letter to Holmes,” Sara replied.
“Right. I didn’t. Neither did you. I wonder, as good as we are, if we’ve stepped out of our class on this one, Sara. I couldn’t live if anything happened to you. How about you get out of the saddle on this one and let me handle it? And James, if he gets well in time?”
“Reno, do you really think I’d consider letting you go it alone? I could not live without you either. We are all either of us has left. You are the faster gun, but I have always had your back. And I always will.”
“Let’s practice drawing and firing every single day until we meet up with Holmes. We have to be at our best. I am thinking of going back to those Colt Navies I got to replace the lost guns. They are a little lighter and allow a faster second shot. James could pick any gun he wanted, and Navies are what he carries. He told me they are the best-balanced revolver ever made, and he is Wild Bill Hickok,” Reno said.
