by Bill Fawcett
I didn’t see him again until a Texas Book Fair several years later. The year 2000 marked the first time the TBF made an effort to recognize the genre of science fiction, and Gene, Elizabeth Moon, and I were among the guests. Again, Gene was erudite and gracious, as welcoming to fans and aspiring writers as he was to colleagues.
And, sadly, those are my only two protracted direct encounters with Gene. They’ve been just enough to answer something I’m curious about with every writer. Some writers are good at their craft, others indifferent or bad. Some writers are rotten human beings, or average, or fine folk. And there’s often no correspondence between being good as a person and good as a writer or bad as both. I’m delighted to say that Gene deserves every accolade he’s received as a fine writer and a great guy.
April 14, 1891
From Thaddeus Hobart, Salt Creek, Republic of Texas
To Chester Lamb, Chicago, Illinois, United States
Dear Chet:
By the time you read these words I will be dead and in Hell.
I don’t begrudge my place in Hell. I earned it fair and square, and I’ll be in fine company. But as for being dead, I will confess to being resentful of my fate.
I came to Salt Creek to do some gambling. There are no warrants out for me in the Republic, and this is the kind of town where cattlemen find themselves anxious for a last night or two of diversion before driving their livestock across the Red River and into Indian Territory. It is also a place where the Frenchies, soldiers and inspectors who come across the river to enjoy the entertainments their fort does not provide, are as willing to part with their Louisiana francs as the locals are to lose their Texas dollars.
Three nights ago, in a saloon named Bust, I joined a poker game with four cattlemen and a Spaniard named Rey. From his French manners and dress, this Rey showed himself to be a sissy. He had two ladies who were his companions, Frenchwomen, and one was with him that night. Rey had a poker face and a poker mind, and unlike the cattlemen he did not drink a drop. He and I cleaned the cattlemen out, and then I cleaned Rey out.
He did not take kindly to losing. He stared at me with eyes like they belonged on an alligator, and then he and his lady left without saying another word.
I did not know then that he began asking questions about me that very night. I learned soon enough that he had found out about the bounties on my head, including the big dead-or- alive bounty from Kansas. I decided then to leave town, only to find that I was being watched and followed. It was not rummies working for drinks or farm boys anxious for a little fame keeping their eye on me. Money was not Rey’s concern, and he had hired French soldiers, riflemen made hard in their battles with the Indians, to keep me in town. I can’t ride to the edge of Salt Creek without having a rifle pointed at me by a damned Frenchman, and the town marshal has no interest in offering me aid on account of my reputation.
I don’t know what Rey has in store for me. I’m not the shot I was when I knew you, and I don’t think I’m in for a fair fight anyway.
So I’m asking you—no, let me be truthful. The promise you made to me back in ’76, I’m holding you to that. If you find that I have met my end through treachery, I call on you to avenge me, so that as I sit among my fellows in Hell’s halls I will be content in the knowledge that Rey will soon join me.
You know I am not a man of letters. I have been helped with the writing of this note by Cletus Simmons, a farmer hereabouts. If I do not write again, you will know that I am dead. When you come to Salt Creek, enquire of Cletus Simmons concerning my fate and he will set you on the right trail.
I think I will not see you again.
Your friend,
Thaddeus
June 1, 1891
From Chester Lamb, Salt Creek, Republic of Texas
To Morris Levitt, Chicago, Illinois, United States
Dear Morris:
In the event that my previous letters have not all reached you yet, I will summarize my travels reported in that correspondence. After receiving your telegram and its terse explanation of Thaddeus’s letter, I did depart New Orleans in haste. I traveled by boat to Houston. From there I secured passage by coach to San Antonio, then northward as far as Dallas, a journey of some days. It was from Dallas that I dispatched my last letter to you. I also confirmed, by telegram, that there was still no sign of Thaddeus in Salt Creek.
No stagecoach service exists from Dallas to Salt Creek, so I secured a horse and a mule. The horse, a palomino, which is, I confess, a bit of a nag, is named Becky and is of good disposition. The mule is neither a Becky nor a gentle soul.
I traveled the route of the Chisholm cattle trail northeast toward my destination. I had no company at first. This proved a blessing as it allowed me to issue complaints, sometimes in the most profane terms, as my backside, out of practice with the saddle, ached abominably.
My appreciation for solitude ebbed as I neared the Red River, however, since that waterway marks the boundary between the Republic of Texas and Indian Territory. The Indians settled on this side of the river, chiefly Cherokee, are considered allies of Texas, and those on the other side enemies of the French. So there is fair safety for English speakers in these parts, but young bucks on a cattle raid can make any encounter a dangerous one.
To my relief, though, two days out from Salt Creek, I overtook a longhorn cattle herd, that belonging to a Mr. Danton of San Antonio. His son, Young Mr. Danton, was trail boss. His cowboys were moving about two thousand head, and he was congenial. I contrived to ride with his crew for the sake of safety. The territory, lightly settled, alternated between grasslands good for grazing and piney woods around which we navigated, and we did not once encounter a band of rustlers or marauders of any stripe. Only the summer heat, growing daily, contributed to misery.
We were one day out from Salt Creek when two more riders bound for the same destination overtook us and elected to ride with us.
One was a younger man, perhaps one or two years past twenty, lean and hardy-looking as rope. He had an affable smile, yet he dressed in black from his crisp cowboy hat to his boots, and he wore a two-pistol rig about his waist. I took all these affectations as signs pointing toward a career, or at least ambitions, as a gunman. He rode a chestnut stallion with lovely lines and a large white spot shaped like a diamond on his chest, but the man had no relief horse.
The other man was forty or older, my age at least, a leathery mestizo with drooping mustachios. His features and eyes gave away no indication of what he might be thinking. He was dressed in less ostentatious garments than his companion; his duster coat, shirt, trousers, chaps all in varying shades of tan or brown, and his accoutrements, including cowboy hat, gun belt, and boots were all worn but well maintained. His gun belt carried only a single holster, on his left hip, and he had a fringed buckskin sheath for his carbine tied off to his saddle. He rode a compact gray mare, heavily spotted along its haunches, and its near twin trotted along in docile fashion a short distance behind, requiring no lead rope.
Over time, this villainous-looking pair chose to gravitate toward me. They drew abreast of me, the younger man to my left and the older to my right.
The younger man was the first to speak. “Headed up to Salt Creek, are you?”
I nodded. “I am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lamb. Chester Lamb of Chicago.”
Our conversation was delayed for several moments as he laughed. His merriment engaged his whole body and he was forced to wipe tears from his eyes. “Lamb?”
“That is my name.” I was well used to his sort of humor.
“Well, I suspect you’re a right tough hombre, then, because you must have been set on all your life by folks amused by your name.”
I gave him a companionable nod but did not elaborate. “What’s your name?”
“I am the Baghdad Kid.”
Now it was my turn to laugh, but I did a much more manful job of suppressing the urge. “You’re not claiming to be from Mesopotamia,
I trust.”
His expression became one of scorn. “Naw, not that Baghdad. Baghdad, Republic of Texas. Down Austin way. I’m the most famous man ever to come out of Baghdad.”
“I am happy to acknowledge the truth of that.” I turned to the other rider and found him staring intently at me.
He spoke before I could. “You are the Chester Lamb who wrote accounts of the Kaiser’s War against France?” He spoke with only the slightest trace of a Spanish accent.
“Yes. I returned home less than a year ago.”
“I enjoyed your dispatches.” He urged his horse nearer, leaned my way, and extended a hand for me to shake. “Luis Vasquez of Laredo.”
Morris, there might be an infinite number of Luis Vasquezes from Laredo, but there is only one with any reputation of consequence, which prompted my return question as I shook his hand: “Captain Vasquez of the Texas Rangers?”
He shrugged. “I am no longer with the Rangers.”
As dangerous as the Baghdad Kid might believe himself to be, Vasquez was more so in actuality. It was a testament to his skill that after so many years of his violent way of life, he still possessed the majority of his own teeth.
He pressed on, “Why do you come to Salt Creek? It is not a town for news.”
I took a moment to compose my reply. “I’m not here on assignment. I took leave from covering the centennial celebration of the end of the French Civil War to come here. I’ve come to enquire after an old friend. He sent me a letter suggesting his life might be in danger.”
Vasquez looked past me at the Kid. I found him staring back at Vasquez, his expression startled.
Then the Kid fastened his attention back on me. “You don’t mean Thad Hobart.”
“I do.”
“I’ll be damned. How do you know him?”
“I owe him a debt. I met him on the occasion of my first visit to the Republic, fifteen years ago. I had written an account of murders a gunman named Dexter Trout had committed. Trout sought me out and found me on the streets of Fort Worth. I am not a proficient pistol duelist, but fortunately for me, Thad shot Trout. Thad’s intent was not entirely altruistic, for there had been bad blood between them, but I swore to repay him if need ever arose.”
The Kid nodded. “He’s my uncle.”
“So you’re a Hobart?”
“Naw, I’m a Pfluger. Henry Pfluger. But my ma was a Hobart before she married my pa.”
I turned to Vasquez to see if he would grace me with an explanation of his relationship to Thaddeus, but he merely stared at me with his emotionless, earth-colored eyes and said nothing.
So Thad had written each of us, and perhaps more individuals besides, to call in markers. I wondered how many of us it would take to avenge him.
[Omitted.]
Morris, Salt Creek is a cow town whose sole geo graphical feature of merit is a broad fordable spot in the Red River. Picture a thick cluster of wooden buildings, the oldest of them built forty years ago, spreading southward from the river, with beaten-earth streets for livestock and wagons, wooden sidewalks for men and women. Those buildings that are not homes for the town’s citizens are chiefly businesses catering to the tastes of cowmen and soldiers: bars and gambling halls, hotels and barber shops, houses of ill repute, shops and dining establishments, bathhouses and stables. There is a telegraph office but no newspaper, a school but no library. Surrounding the town are broad pastures where the cattle may be rested and grazed before crossing into Indian Territory, and beyond them are outlying farms.
At first, it seems to be an unremarkable town, but it is actually a place of some tension.
The river is the border between the Republic of Texas and the French-controlled Indian Territory. Though technically a part of the vast Province of Louisiana, the Territory is a lightly settled and lawless place, most of its occupants being red men driven out of the United States after enactment of the Indian Expulsion Act of the 1830s. Possessing no affection for the Americans or the French, the Indians get along tolerably well with the Texans and do not visit much violence on this side of the border or against cowmen driving their herds up to the Kansas railheads. But the presence of that uncontrolled population does mean occasional danger for the townsfolk.
More tension derives from the two camps just downstream from the town, one on either side of the river. On the far side lies a French fortification properly named Fort Beauchamp but referred to by the Texans as Fort Cow. A squat and homely thing of wooden palisades and buildings made of uneven stones and mortar, it safeguards the French inspectors who levy tariffs on cattle entering Indian Territory; the French take possession of one cow per two hundred in a herd. This practice often produces conflict, for the French choose when they wish to examine a herd and can keep a trail boss and his cowboys waiting for days. A trail boss out of favor with the French can be the regular victim of this tactic. Delays might also be brought on by inspectors accepting bribes from one trail boss to inconvenience another. Coali tions of businessmen in Salt Creek, it is rumored, bribe the inspectors to hinder a herd’s progress to promote the town’s economy. On the other hand, trail bosses might offer bribes of cash or cattle to the inspectors to speed things along. It is a complicated business.
The cattle taken by the French are collected at intervals and sent along the same Chisholm Trail to Kansas for sale by the French. Those herds are preyed upon by rustlers of all stripes, especially Texans and Cherokee.
Nor could the French have a fort here without incurring a Texan response. On the near side of the river, directly opposite Fort Cow, lies Fort Montague, similarly an architectural tragedy, its Texan garrison charged with eyeing the French while the French eye them. So a state of mounting agitation exists between the French and the Texans here.
[Omitted.]
We arrived in Salt Creek the day following my introduction to the Baghdad Kid and Vasquez. We three and Young Mr. Danton rode ahead of the herd. As we reached the town’s outermost buildings, Danton made his farewells and rode on alone to visit the office where he would request an inspection of the herd.
The three of us continued, making, I am sure, an unusual picture: a raw-boned youth intent on achieving fame as a killer, a sleepy-eyed vaquero whose passivity concealed a history of mayhem, and a Northerner who might most charitably be described as a “dude.” Astride my swaybacked nag, in civilized dress, a leather duster coat thrown over it all, a bowler hat atop my head and goldrimmed spectacles before my eyes, my hair graying and my features mild, I was, I am certain, the least dangerous-looking man in Salt Creek that day.
We enquired after the location of the saloon named Bust and rode there. Contrary to my expectations, it was a reputable-looking wooden building of sound construction, one story in height but spacious, with glass in the windows. Dark orange curtains within shielded patrons from the sun, the building front being west facing. We watered our horses and mule from the trough outside, then hitched the beasts and entered through swinging wooden doors.
In the main room beyond, a massive, dark wood bar dominated the left wall. Square tables lined the other walls. Wooden partitions separated the tables along the back wall, and curtains, matching those of the windows, on rods allowed those tables to be screened off for privacy individually. None was so shrouded at this hour.
There were more tables in the center of the floor, but widely spaced, and I suspected that the spaciousness was meant to accommodate dancing. Against the right wall, where a table might otherwise rest, was an upright piano, its surface scraped and scoured, suggesting that it dated back to the Texas Revolution or earlier.
The business was lightly occupied at this hour. Seated at one table beside the piano, French soldiers argued in their own language about the virtues, real or imagined, of a young lady named Sally. Their red pants and blue coats made them the most colorful patrons present. Three cowboys, none of them young and all of them surly of manner, held cards and exchanged silent looks around a central table. The bar itself was unoccupied exce
pt for its keeper, a round-bellied man, his whiskers nearly white.
As we entered, I heard a growl from near my right foot. There lay a hound dog, dirty yellow in color, eyeing us as if considering whom to bite first. But it did not so much as stir a muscle as we passed, and ceased growling when we were a few steps beyond.
We moved to the bar and took stools there. I set my bowler on the bar beside me, while the Kid and Vasquez kept their hats atop their heads in the fashion of Texans.
I engaged the bartender’s attention. “Your maître d’ is not entirely friendly.”
He left off polishing a glass mug. “My what? Oh, Mustard. He don’t mean nothing. He loves all ladies and hates all men, but he don’t actually bite. What’ll you gentlemen have?”
Vasquez and I chose beer. The Kid ordered a white mule. Perhaps he considered rough, unaged whisky the drink of mean-spirited gunmen. I saw Vasquez suppress a laugh as the Kid made his demand.
My companions, perhaps trusting that my profession would afford me some ease in investigative conversation, left it to me to begin enquiries. When the bartender returned with our drinks, I asked, “Why is this establishment called ‘Bust’?”
He smiled, clearly happy to answer a question he’d dealt with many times before. “It’s where you end up. You know, Kansas or Bust, Nuevo Mexico or Bust, Florida or Bust. This is Bust.”
“I’m Chester. This is Vasquez, and that’s the Baghdad Kid.”
The bartender did not react to that last name, so it appeared that the fame of the Kid had not yet spread as far north as the Red River. The bartender merely nodded. “I’m Tubb. Edgar Tubb, owner and proprietor. You here with Danton’s drive? You don’t look like a cowpoke.”
“I’m here looking for an old friend. By chance, are you acquainted with a man named Thaddeus Hobart?”
He nodded again. “Spent some time here and in the gambling halls. He left awhile back, I think. Haven’t seen him in nearly a month. That your friend?”
