Hunter James Dolin

by Bret Lee Hart

  All the killings were justified in his eyes, and would be for most men of these times, but maybe not in the law's – for he knew the 'good old boy' network was alive and well. He grew tired of these thoughts, and pushed them from his mind as they didn't matter anyhow; the objective was to clear his name so he could stop running.

  But first, he must kill that son-of-a-dog who got away, the cowardly liar from his haunted past. He would have to be cautious, with the War Between the States in full bore; he didn't know what side the coward was on. After more thought, he wished he had gotten a name from the old men who had joined him on his rock island.

  Hunter slowly pulled back on the reins, bringing Zeke to a trot. He began zig-zagging the horse back and forth 'til he spotted what he sought; Jebediah and Walt's tracks, right where it made sense for them to be. The gunslinger followed, hoping they could answer the question he would ask once he caught up.

  The gunslinger tracked the two old men easily, for the soil was wet making the hoof prints deep. The sun was approaching straight up when he came across their horses in front of a small honky-tonk. There were three other mounts tied to the same post, signs of many miles of travel covering their matted and sweaty, short hair.

  Hunter dismounted and tied Zeke to the far end of the hitching post putting the other animals between his horse and the front door. The last thing he needed was for Zeke to catch a bullet, leaving him at the mercy of his boots. As he approached the saloon he fought the urge to check his guns before entering, and he did so successfully, for he knew they were ready. He had just gone through them on the road less than an hour ago.

  The front door to the building was wood and propped open with a sand filled spittoon, making for an easy entrance. The bright sun coming through the door did not reveal Hunter's identity until he made it to the far end of the bar where he placed his back against the wall. Sunlight beamed from two small barred windows at the rear, and there were a few candles lit here and there on tables in the middle.

  As his eyes adjusted to the room, he located Walt and Jebediah playing poker with another man at a far table. Jebediah spotted Hunter. As he did, he put his hand on Walt's arm and stared in that direction. Walt looked up to see the gunslinger being served a beer and a bottle by the portly, unshaved bartender.

  Walt and Hunter's eyes met; Walt nodded his head toward the three men drinking at the middle of the bar. They were positioned in-between them and so far the men were paying the gunslinger no mind. They arrived just twenty minutes before he had and were indulging in their drinks.

  Hunter sized them up; he had seen bounty hunters before and these three certainly fit the bill. He slammed back his beer and filled his empty shot glass with whiskey from his bottle, which he emptied in one gulp.

  "Want more beer?" asked the barkeep.

  "I reckin'." replied Hunter.

  The fat man grabbed his glass and waddled over to a large barrel, refilling the mug 'til the foam over flowed, dripping on the dirt floor. On his return, he asked a question Hunter had been asked before.

  "You part Injun?" This talk was heard by the man closest to Hunter, who was now giving him some attention.

  "Say what?" replied Hunter.

  "I make the Injuns drink out back," explained the bartender. "They seems to have trouble holdin' their liquor."

  "Well, I take after my white father, he could out drink most."

  The big man at the center of the bar, with chin whiskers that ran down to his exaggerated belly interrupted their conversation.

  "And who might your father be, there, half-breed?" he asked as he turned to face Hunter, the distance between them about five paces.

  "Since you're not from 'round here," replied Hunter, "I don't think you'd know him."

  "You're right, half-Injun man, we ain't from 'round here. But we done heard of a half-breed runnin' a gang of savages. Do you know they killed fifty good men and burned down a whole town? Know anythin' 'bout that?"

  The other two men realized what was going on; they stepped back from the bar and looked at Hunter, just over and around their big partner's shoulder.

  "Yup, I heard that bullshit story," said Hunter, before slamming back a shot. "Those Indians the blue coats executed had nothin' to do with it. The half-breed done it all on his own, and those good men, you call 'em, had it comin'."

  "Well, boys," said the big man as he laughed an evil, gargled sort of laugh.

  "I think we has found the man weez' been lookin' fer. There's five-hundred dollars on your head, half-breed, dead or alive."

  The three bounty hunters slowly put their hands on the butts of their guns.

  Hunter did not make a move; He had one advantage, he was at the corner of the bar which had a three-foot wing made of hardwood plank between him and the three gunmen.

  "I ain't much for livin' these days, so I guess it will have to be dead," said Hunter in a calm voice. There was a two-second pause, and then the half-breed gunslinger went into action. He dropped down out of sight behind the three-foot wing of the bar as the bounty hunters were drawing their pistols. Hunter pulled the double-barrel shotgun from its side-shoulder holster. He then side-stepped around the corner, front leg forward in a squatting position, and blasted both barrels at their knees.

  The buckshot took out the legs of the fat man, putting him to the ground; the second man caught some shrapnel as well and he tried to hobble quickly to the center of the saloon. The third man was making a move, but he was slow.

  After dropping the shotgun, Hunter pulled his Colt and shot him in the heart, making the man's finger go slack, disabling him from pulling the trigger; he fell dead on his face.

  The hobbling man decided to run for the door, but he didn't make it; the gunslinger shot him in the back of the head, eliminating his concerns about the small lead balls lodged in his thighs as he fell forward through the open doorway.

  The sudden silence in the room seemed to be louder than the booms of the gunfire until the fat man woke. With both legs missing from the knee down, he lay on his stomach yelling in pain. To Hunter's surprise, the front half of the man attempted to crawl toward the front door, leaving his bloody legs behind. The half-breed would have none of that; he pulled out his thirteen-inch bowie knife, walked over and buried it to the hilt in the man's back, piercing the heart and stopping all movement.

  "The Seminoles are right," said Jebediah, from the back of the room. "He does have a black spirit."

  Hunter was on one knee, wiping the blade of his knife on the fat, half man's shirt, and looking around the saloon. The barkeep and the man playing poker had fled. Jebediah and Walt were still seated at their table, cards in their hands, like nothing had happened. The gunslinger grabbed his bottle off the bar and moseyed on over, sitting down across from the old men.

  "Are you all up or down?" asked Hunter, as he filled all their glasses with whiskey.

  "'Bout even, and that's all we're gonna' be. You done killed or run off all the players from this fine establishment."

  "Sorry 'bout that," said Hunter. "Did it ever cross your minds that I coulda used some help?"

  "Hell, son," said Jebediah, "there was only three of um."

  Walt chimed in, "You know, Hunter James, at our age we find sometimes its best fer us just to stay out of it."

  They all slammed back the shots then stood at the same time. "I think it's time to git," said Hunter.

  "I'm outta here," said Walt.

  "You don't hafta' tell me twice," agreed Jebediah.

  The two old men gathered their belongings while Hunter reloaded the shotgun and changed out the Colt's cylinder for full ones. Walt snatched a couple of full bottles from the bar for the long road, sporting a big grin as he did so.

  Jebediah and Walt knew where they were headed and they wished the half-breed would come with them, but they knew he had unfinished business and, more importantly, a black heart to feed.

  Chapter Three

  The gunslinger and the old men rode together for a shor
t time, soon saying their good-byes in a short and not so sweet manner. Men of these times did not live long. Jebediah and Walt were considered lucky for avoiding the six-foot-under rule for so many years.

  It just goes to show, only the good die young, the old coots would say, but Hunter knew this saying was false. A lot of bad men died young at his hand, not too long ago. And that was where he was headed, back to Myakka, in search of the one who got away. The old men knew the name of this man, and now, so did he.

  Jebediah and Walt were moving to the northeast to hunt black bear near Indian Town, on the east side of Lake Okeechobee. Hunter was heading toward Myakka, northwest on the other side of the lake and far beyond. They all had many days riding ahead of them, and only God new where they would end up.

  Mid-summer and hotter than Hades, the sun had set into the glades twice since Hunter said good-bye to the only two people he knew on this Earth. As depressing as that sounds, it was much worse than that. For the first time in almost a year, Hunter allowed himself to think of Lilith, Matt, and the boy.

  He sat at a small fire under the stars of a clear, southern night sky. There were no tears or sounds of sadness, there was only the thickness of the air from the need for revenge, once again building up inside of him. A man can keep devastating thoughts from his mind for only so long before he must act. The frog legs he was eating began to sour in his stomach, so with a grimace he threw his supper into the fire, turning to the bottle of whiskey calling to him from inside his saddlebag.

  He sat there drinking and staring into the flames, settling him down just a bit. He knew he would finish off most of the bottle after the first sip; not wise being passed out drunk out here in hostile country with a bounty on your head, in the middle of a war. After a while, he began dozing off… in and out… in again… Right now, he didn't give a shit, and that would be his last thought of this night.

  He was awakened by the morning sun and Zeke's wet nostrils blowing air on his face. Hunter rolled away, wiping animal snot from his cheek.

  "Dammit, horse."

  Zeke whinnied, moving his head and neck up and down, followed by a hoof scrape.

  Hunter looked around; luckily there were no threats upon him. He got to his feet and rubbed the Appaloosa's long face.

  "Good boy. You knew I was in danger, you knew my inner clock was broke. You know what, boy? You're the only one I got left."

  Hunter suddenly had an urge to get moving, not to mention a serious urge to piss. The day was wasting away and he had business to attend to in Myakka. After relieving himself, Hunter packed up camp. What a beautiful day, he thought, as he headed down the trail.

  He hadn't been in the saddle for more than ten minutes when he found himself face to face with twelve Seminole Indian warriors.

  The gunslinger's head had a slight bourbon pain to it, but it quickly went away. He was out-numbered, and would only see another day if these red men decided to allow it. The trail was narrow and there was nothing but Cypress trees and swamp all around.

  They instantly surrounded him on all sides. He could take out four or five at most, before being killed. He knew he would not leave this place.

  The elder and clear leader of this party, with deeply leathered lines in his face and scars of wars of the past, spoke to him in broken English.

  "I am Apayaka Hadjo, war chief of the Miccosukee. The blue coats call me Sam Jones. Why you here on our land?"

  "This trail is as good as any," replied Hunter. "It's between where I'm comin' from, and where I must go. There is no why."

  Hunter and Sam Jones stared into each other's eyes for a moment looking for fear; there was none to be seen. This did not surprise Hunter, but it did surprise the chief, though he did not show it. The gunslinger knew this game they were playing very well; it was like poker, the problem was no one here was bluffing.

  "You have red blood," said Apayaka, this was a statement not a question.

  "My mother was lower Creek, my father an outlaw."

  "Yes, half-breed, what they call bastard; this will not save you," said Sam Jones.

  "No," said Hunter. "My blood won't save me, but my destiny will, for my black heart speaks to me so." A warrior to Hunter's left spoke to the chief in their native tongue.

  The gunslinger understood the language from his childhood but he did not let on, because now was the time for bluffing.

  "Lus-tee Manito Nak-nee?" said the chief. "What is your Christian name?"

  Hunter suddenly felt a twinge of hope that he might just get out of this unlucky predicament. "Hunter James Dolin."

  "I have heard of this. You bad medicine, James Dolin," said the chief. "You may go; my people have suffered much, bad magic we do not want. If we kill you, bad spirit will release over our lands – this cannot be."

  "I reckin not," replied Hunter, as he tipped his hat to the Chief, immediately pushing the Appaloosa forward before they changed their minds.

  The Indians moved aside reluctantly, allowing him to pass.

  The gunslinger rode on down the trail without looking back, leaving the brave but superstitious warriors behind.

  Chapter Four

  Scooter Johnson was a convincing man, he'd had lots of practice over the years for he had been a scoundrel and a liar all his life. He had convinced the Army that a small band of Indians, led by a half-breed named Hunter James Dolin, had committed atrocities against the Myakka City and the state of Florida. He claimed they murdered the white ranchers and burned the town to the ground. Since there was no one left alive to dispute his claims, this was an easy sell.

  For his fortitude, he was rewarded land in Myakka, the very same plot of land where Matt's saloon once stood. Scooter had rebuilt the hotel and saloon damn near exactly as it was before. A well-stocked trading post was also rebuilt across the dirt road, by the same man that had occupied it before; his name was Chuck Lamb. He had known Matt for a long time, and he knew the truth of what had happened to the city a little over one year ago.

  But Chuck was a survivor and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. That's why he was still alive and once again back in business at the ripe old age of fifty-two. He did not like the new owner of Matt's saloon, but business was business, and he had goods for sale to anyone who had the coin to buy. If he only sold to good men that he liked, he would damn near have zero customers.

  Chuck Lamb was no fool and Scooter Johnson wasn't a fool either. He had five gunmen under his hire for one purpose and one purpose only, to protect him and his establishment from a vengeful savage. He had feared from day one that the half-breed would seek him out and kill him, or worse. But as time went on, Scooter became more comfortable in his surroundings, even though he had not heard any news of Hunter's capture or killing. The blue coats had left Florida to fight the Bushwhackers up in east Tennessee and northern Virginia. Scooter figured with all that was going on there was more than a good chance the half-breed was dead or gone.

  While Myakka City was up and running again, and the past basked in the glow of forgotten denial, a rider and his Appaloosa horse was coming, bringing with him the rain.

  * * * * *

  The storm hit hard at first, as lightning lit up the dark sky followed by claps of thunder. The wind finally stopped blowing the rain sideways and the drops were now coming straight down, light but steady. Hunter wore the long coat he kept buried in his saddlebags during the dry weather. The coat was made of buffalo leather and waterproofed with oil from the animal that was melted down from its fat; this kept the gunslinger's weapons dry as the coat went down to the tops of his boots. The last thing he wanted was wet powder causing a misfire in the middle of a gun battle. Something as simple as the luxury of a rain-shedding coat was as important to a fighting man as the guns he carried.

  With the rain steadily dripping from the brim of his hat, Hunter dismounted in front of Scooter's saloon tethering Zeke to the hitching post. He stopped and stared at that wood post for a moment, recognizing it even in the darkness. Plainly, it had sur
vived the fire of Myakka. He then looked to the front porch, remembering Matt; many times, they sat there drinking and talking through the smoke of their cigars.

  At his right were three other horses hitched beside him. One of them blew air from its nose, getting Hunter's attention and directing his gaze to the north. There, in the shadows, was a partial staircase left from the very barn where his old friend Matt had died. It also reminded him of the stable boy, Zeke, who he met right here on this very ground, for the first time.

  His anger grew as he pushed all thoughts of Lilith, the only woman he had ever loved, from creeping into his mind. Hunter walked up the three steps onto the porch. Now that he was under the roof and out of the rain; he removed his trench coat and hung it on a nail that was jutting out from the building. He pulled the double-barrel sawed-off shotgun from his side-shoulder holster, breaking it and checking the shells for moisture. Satisfied, he flicked his arm in an upward motion, snapping it shut. With the barrels facing forward and held firmly in both hands, the gunslinger entered the saloon through the swinging doors.

  The sound of the constant downpour of the rain concealed any noise of his entrance into the drinking establishment. He stood just inside the doorway looking around quickly with his eyes, barely moving his head. His steel blue eyes took in the room and every man in it. There was a tall skinny man behind the bar and two roughnecks at the counter, drinking with their backs to him.

  He saw that they had quick-draw holsters, which gave away their profession without their admission. There were three more men playing cards at a back table; they were the only ones safe from the scatter-gun, due to their distance.

  The bartender, the first to spot the gunslinger, immediately looked terrified.

  "By the look on your face, you must be Scooter," stated Hunter.

  The two men at the bar turned, their hands going to the butts of their guns in chorus. What they saw standing before them was a tall man with long jet-black hair, wearing a hat that matched it perfectly, raindrops dripping from its brim. He was holding a shotgun with the two large barrel holes aimed right at them, no more than ten paces away.