"I reckon," said Matt.
They finished their vittles in silence. This early the saloon was fairly quiet except for some cattlemen and a few farmers in town for supplies and whatnot. Hunter was lighting up a smoke when Zeke ducked under the saloon doors and walked up to their table, his hat in hand.
"What can I do for you, son?" asked Hunter.
"I have some news on that lady, Mister."
"Well, let's hear what you got," replied Hunter, puffing on his newly rolled cigar.
The boy stood at attention like a little soldier and spoke quietly. "Her name is Lilith Montgomery. She's the daughter of Richard Montgomery, a gold miner that struck it rich in Denver, Colorado. She was sent down here by her father, for her safety, 'cause of the war brewin' between the states. That's all I heard this time."
"Thank ya, son. Run along now, but let me know if you hear more."
"Yes sir," Zeke said as he ran off, ducking back under the front swinging doors, the same way he had entered.
Hunter pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table with a sigh. He struck a match on the table and relit his cigar that had gone out. This tobacco is too wet, I need to lay them in the sun for a bit, thought Hunter.
A long silence was broken when the gunslinger made a comment, followed by a question, "This war between the states is gonna' be a bad one, Matt. A lot of Americans will die, and there doesn't look to be any way around it. What do you think?"
"Yup, this war is gonna' divide families right down the middle, brother against brother, father against son."
There was a pause as they both blew out smoke, then Hunter asked Matt, "Where do you stand on the slavery issue?"
"Well, I see it this way, people fled England to be free in America, so how is it right to have slaves of any kind in this country? But, then again, I also understand men fightin' for a way of life that's been goin' on for a hundred years. Make no mistake, this war isn't just about slavery, it's about power and government." Matt paused for a moment then leaned in closer toward Hunter.
"These swamps in this Florida peninsula is gonna' possibly be a safe haven for deserters, slaves, renegade Indians, and anyone else who wants to stay out of the bloodshed. That could be good for business."
"Well, I tend to agree with you, Matt, for the most part, but where there's more people, there's more trouble."
Matt put his hands up in the air. "Well, that's what I have you here for, Hunter James."
"I reckon so," said Hunter with a smile, stood, and shuffled on out of the building. He stood on the front steps of Matt's place with the now unlit stub of a cigar between his teeth. He was wondering if it was too early for a beer, when he heard the crack of the whips and the beating hooves of running cattle. The sound was off in the distance, but getting closer from the North. The crackers were coming.
He hurriedly walked around to the back of the saloon, where they came out of a cloud of dust. There must have been, he figured, at least a thousand head of cattle. They were twenty or so wide, and fifty or sixty deep. There were cowboys with bullwhips up front, on the sides, and toward the back, six, maybe eight, total. They all had bandanas tied around their nose and mouth to keep the dirt cloud out. They looked like grimy bank robbers.
He spotted several black mouth curs, these were cowherding dogs, and they were moving them quick, picking up the slack between the gaps. The herd's numbers were great, taking them several minutes to pass.
The crackers were getting close to home and they were on the downhill side of their long journey. They didn't notice Hunter standing there, watching them, until the last rider at the back rolled up. Even with a bandana over his face, and his body covered with dust, Hunter sensed he was the elder and the leader of these men.
The older, dusty man pulled on the reins, the horse stopped and reared. The horse did a 360 degree turn, and reared again, then settled down on all four hooves.
Their eyes met for a moment. Hunter saw the face of a man who had just seen a ghost. Then those eyes suddenly narrowed to a look of cold heartlessness. The drover's legs kicked, spurring the horse into action, and he took off after the dust cloud of the diminishing cattle.
Hunter heard a boot shuffle behind him to his left. With lightning speed, he pulled his pistols simultaneously as he spun around, hammers cocked.
There stood Matt, staring down Hunter's two gun barrels, eyes wide open, and his hands palm out.
"Easy simmer, easy simmer, son! It's just me."
"Damn it, Matt, don't sneak up on me like that! You tryin' to get yourself killed?"
The gunslinger twirled his guns back into their holsters, and took a deep breath. He felt like he had forgotten to breathe for a while.
"Who was that, Matt?"
"That was Frank Lugar. In a day or so, him and his men will be hittin' town, gittin' drunk, and lookin' for trouble. Maybe you should go hang out at that cabin of yours for a while."
Hunter walked up to Matt, put his arm around him, and steered him toward the front of the saloon. "Come on, old man. If there's trouble brewin' in a few days, then we better get drunk this day."
Matt replied with a smile, "Well, if you're gonna' arm twist, why the hell not?"
Chapter Five
Frank Lugar and his boys had been running cattle for many weeks. They were finally home, corralling the herd on three, maybe as much as four hundred acres known to the locals as Lugar's Ranch.
Florida was an open range, but Frank spent some time in Texas and knew the advantages of holding and branding cattle. His ranch was the first fenced pasture in the state.
During the summer months, the herds grazed on the green luscious grasses in north Florida, up near the Georgia border. In the winter months, they would bring the cattle back home to Myakka, away from the cold and onto better grazing.
Lugar's ranch was impressive, completely fenced off with a hundred acres in the back, two hundred acres on the sides and the front, all surrounding the main house. There was cross-fencing around grazing areas, with patches of cypress forests throughout. At the entrance, a large wood-burned sign hung from a log beam supported by log posts and held up by rusty chains. It read Big L Ranch. The twenty-foot wide dirt road stretching to the two-story house was an eighth of a mile long. To the left of the house, facing east was a large red barn. The bunkhouse was on the west side where the working hands of the ranch bedded down during the night. The five room, two-story house was where Frank and his two boys lived.
Their momma had passed long ago; she had died at Johnny's birth. In the back of Frank's mind, he blamed Johnny for his wife's death. Frank would beat little Johnny on occasion when he drank too much; this was just the way it was.
Frank and his boys were already cleaned up and waiting on supper at the kitchen table, when the big man named Gator, entered through the side door.
He was Frank's number one. Gator was six-foot-four, weighed two hundred-sixty-five pounds, and was as ferocious as a grizzly bear with an attitude. His mother and father disappeared when he was ten, and he had raised himself in the swamps. Some said he killed his parents out of pure meanness, but no one knew for sure, and no one dared to ask.
Gator had to duck under the doorjamb as he entered the room.
"Mr. Lugar, all the cattle are out to pasture. The boys are eatin' stew that the Chinaman brung um. We'll be turnin' in, if you don't need us no mores."
The Chinaman's name was Chinn Yang; he cooked at the ranch, did the wash, and anything else Frank Lugar told him to. He was, after all, Frank's property – bought and paid for.
"Yeah, Gator, you get some grub, turn in. At sunup, I want two big long-horned cracker cows slaughtered and cooked for the men out there. I want them to get a proper meal, and then we'll go from there."
"Yessir," said Gator, then he ducked on his way out through a different door at the back of the kitchen.
Chinn entered from the cooking area with three bowls, wood spoons, and a big pot of stew. Jake and little Johnny were already seated
at the table on one side, Frank sat down on the other. Chinn Yang scooped out the three bowls of beef and potato soup. He then set the pot on the table next to two bottles of whiskey and three glasses he'd put there earlier.
The Lugers ate and drank in silence, except for the lip smacking and belching, until Frank remembered a question he was meaning to ask.
"Did you boys see the man standin' behind Matt's place when we run the herd through the back of town?"
"No, sir, I didn't see no one," said little Johnny.
Frank looked at Jake. "What about you?"
"No sir; I couldn't see nothin'. Hell, my eyes were caked with road dust."
"Who'd you see, pa?" asked little Johnny.
Frank had to swallow a big chunk of stew meat before he could answer Johnny's question. "At first glance, I saw a long haired half-breed, and then I looked into his eyes and thought I seen James Dolin starin' back at me."
"Shit!" said little Johnny, eyes and mouth wide open expressing his shock and fear.
"Then I reckoned it must be his boy, Hunter."
Jake took a swig off the bottle wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, before asking a troubling question. "Do you think he knows, Pa?"
"I bet hell or high water that old jackass Matt told him what most people suspect 'round here, that we killed him."
Jake pushed his plate to the middle of the table, looking like he just lost his appetite.
"You know, pa, Hunter Dolin was seen with Huey and his crew at the Cracker Saloon, three days before we found them gutted and shot on the back trail. They—"
Little Johnny perked up, interrupting Jake. "Well, that means we're even then, right, pa?"
"No, dummy, he killed men that worked for me. We shot his old man in the back. Means we ain't even, not in his mind, 'til he kills us. He's part savage, and you know 'bout them."
"What do we do?" asked Jake.
Frank leaned back in his chair, and took a swig off the whiskey bottle he'd been holding in his hand.
"Tomorrow night we'll take Gator and some of the boys to Matt's for some drinkin'. We'll find out what that half-breed's up to. Now let's eat up, get some rest; we got another long day tomorrow."
* * * * *
A cold front came through the panhandle that night, and the northern dry air temporarily beat down the southern swamp's constant flow of humidity. The next morning was a chilly 49 degrees. The sun rose slowly through the pine trees, bright, glaring, and yellow. The seagulls and turkey buzzards circled up in the sky, intertwined together, searching for their next meal.
A beautiful start to a beautiful day except for the commotion coming from the fourth floor of the Jackson Hotel. There was yelling, followed by broken glass, and a woman's voice carrying through the cold crisp air.
"Stay away from me, you heartless jackal! I told you never again! I'm through with you!"
"Know your place woman!" boomed a man's voice in reply.
Hunter had just pulled his head up out of the horse's watering trough when he heard a woman's scream, and once again the sound of shattering glass. Hangover and all, Hunter ran across the dirt road and through the doors of the hotel where he was confronted by two large, armed men.
Like the trees flow when the wind blows, he put a right upper cut to the left man's ribs, and with his right foot, Hunter snapped the knee of the man on his right. He then showed the man on the left more attention by grabbing the back of his head with both hands and introducing his face to a left knee, shattering his jawbone.
Hunter recovered quickly, straightened his hat, and headed toward the staircase. He had both hands on the rails, ready to catapult himself upward, when he saw her, standing halfway down the steps.
She looked even more beautiful than she had a few days ago. She wore a lovely, low-cut, green dress that seemed to be made of silk. Her breasts were heaving, and her neck was slender and graceful. They were ten-feet apart, staring at each other; it was only for a moment, but seemed like an eternity. Finally, Hunter was able to muster a question.
"Are you okay, ma'am?" he asked, gazing up from the bottom of the staircase.
"Sir, I am nineteen years old, I'm hardly a ma'am," said she, clearly with some disgust.
"All right," Bitch, thought Hunter. "I did not mean to offend. Are you all right, my lady?"
"That's better. I'm fine. I am just having a discussion with my father, Richard Montgomery. And if you don't want to be hurt, you must leave these premises immediately."
With a slight grin, Hunter turned and pointed toward the floor of the foyer. "You mean hurt, like those two? Looks like they're layin' down on the job."
"Well, we have more men," she replied in her most uppity voice.
"Is that right, Ma'am?" he returned with a bit of condescension of his own.
"Yes that's right, Mister...?"
"Hunter James Dolin," he replied, "And I hope, for your sake, your father's other men are tougher than them two."
"I assure you, Mr. Dolin—"
At that moment, Richard Montgomery walked down the stairs to Lilith's side, and put his arm around her shoulders. "Who is this man that cannot seem to mind his own business?"
"He calls himself Hunter; a savage sort of name, don't you think, father?"
Hunter stared at them for a moment through his bloodshot eyes. Yeah, I can see were this is goin', Hunter thought to himself, nowhere good.
He turned on his heel, stepped over and around the two men groaning on the foyer floor, and exited out the front doors without looking back.
Calm and serene when he walked out of the Jackson Hotel, it took approximately ten steps into the horse dung, ridden road before he became furious. He walked up to the first cowboy he saw and clocked him right in the jaw. The man went down face first in the dirt, losing consciousness.
Before he came across any more innocent victims, Matt showed up out of nowhere and swooped Hunter up, grabbing him by the arm.
"What the hell are you doin', son?" Matt asked in what he thought was his best fatherly demeanor.
"I'm pissed off! What the hell does it look like? Now let go of me!"
Matt let go immediately – when a Dolin tells you to let go, you let go, or you might never touch anyone again.
Meeting up with his horse, Hunter unwound the reins from the hitching post, spun the Appaloosa, and mounted. He looked back over his shoulder to Matt.
"I'm goin' to the cabin, old man, before someone gets hurt."
In a cloud of dust, the gunslinger and his eager steed sped south out of town. He gave his horse his head, galloping down the road 'til he could feel the solitude radiating from the swamps around him.
He slowed the App to a walk, thinking silently, What the hell am I doin' here, livin' amongst these people? What am I searchin' for?
A loner for most of his life, living off the land, he was more like an Indian than a white man. Now the white man in him was taking over like a disease. After all, he was more his father as a man than like his Indian mother, a woman. He must make a choice about the war brewing inside of him.
At that moment, Hunter made a decision. He would live like a white man, for his father was a white man; and his mother was just a warm body for his father on a cold night. Life was cruel, and then some. It was now settled. He would make the cabin his home.
Chapter Six
Hunter settled in for a stay. He caught small fish with a hook and line baited with rattlesnake meat, and relined bigger rigs with the small fish, catching bigger ones. He hunted the long grasses for pheasant, and used the wing-bones tied to a long raw hide line to lure the blue crabs in close, to be gigged with a stick sharpened to a point. Hunter James Dolin was living the life. He had plenty of food, whiskey, and tobacco.
It had been five, maybe six days since his little incident with the Montgomery family, and everything was hunky-dory. Then Frank and his men showed up for a chat. They rode in on their horses quickly from the southeast, catching Hunter down by the riverbank. He was wearing his Co
lts and his Bowie knife was tucked in his belt, but his rifle and shotgun were carelessly left up at the cabin. Hunter heard them a little way off, but he didn't have enough time to react; besides he was feeling serene this morning, and really didn't give a shit.
They lined up behind him, the five of them in a row. Hunter slowly dropped his crab line, picked up his legs from the downed cypress log he was seated on, and spun around on his backside 'til he faced the gunmen. His thumbs were hooked in the front of his belt, putting his hands inches away from his loaded Colt Walkers. He stared at Frank for a moment, and then went down the line, left to right, staring into the eyes of each man on horseback, one at a time.
They weren't scared, but they were waiting for orders. Hunter especially noticed a huge man at the end who had crazy eyes. He figured him to make the first move, if things went bad.
Hunter looked back to Frank. "You all are trespassin' on Dolin land."
Most of the five grinned and looked towards Frank, who never took his eyes off Hunter James Dolin's hands. Frank knew how dangerous this man was.
"Me and the boys here came by Matt's place the other night to give our condolences to you, for your father's accidental death."
"My father was shot in the back. I wouldn't call that an accident."
Frank paused for a time, apparently sizing up his opponent.
"Well, there's renegade Indians, fools, and outlaws in these parts, lots a' accidents can happen," explained Frank.
Hunter stood, and took a step forward.
"You're talkin' like a lawyer, Frank. Good thing for men like you and me, this town don't have no courtroom, or any law for that matter."
"What are you doin' back here in these parts, half-breed?" asked Frank.
"My father left this land to me. I plan to settle down here. You got a problem with that, Frank?"
"No, son, as long as you doesn't interfer' with my business. I don't run the town, yet, but I sure run the lands around it."
Hunter didn't reply. He just stood there with his thumbs in his belt, with his back facing the river, carefully watching these men for the slightest movement.
The Half-Breed Gunslinger Page 4
