The Black Horse Westerns

by Abe Dancer

  Cole was seated at his desk, writing up some reports for the town council when a shadow darkened his doorway. The dusty cowboy stood there, framed by the bright sunlight from the street, no more than a blurred outline to the sheriff.

  Recognizing the ploy, Cole was immediately alert and laid down his pen. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘I’ll do my talkin’ from here.’

  Cole nodded and thrust slowly to his feet. ‘Then I better come across and get a look at you.’

  As he stepped around the desk and approached the doorway the man smiled crookedly. ‘They call me Flash Jack Cotton.’

  Cole stopped, leaning one hand on the edge of the door. He nodded. ‘Expected you earlier.’

  Cotton blinked. ‘You don’t know me!’

  ‘And don’t want to. But you’re no different from any other two-bit pistolero who figures he’s the fastest gun alive and aims to prove it by outdrawing me.’

  Cotton smiled again. ‘You’re lookin’ right at him, Cole. Make it good, ’cause I’m gonna be the last thing you ever see.’

  ‘Getting right down to it, huh?’ Cole sighed. ‘Well, guess that’s the best way. OK. Let’s get it done.’

  Then he slammed the door closed and heard the muffled cry of agony through the heavy woodwork and the clatter as Cotton was smashed back against the porch rail. It gave way and the cowboy sprawled on his back in the street, warbag flying into the slush of the gutter.

  By that time Cole was standing on the landing, looking down at the man who now had a bloody face and was struggling to stand. Cole held up a hand – his left. ‘Be wise to stay put, friend. Unless you’re gonna make a run for the depot. You’ll just about make the stage turn-around.’

  Flash Jack Cotton had other ideas, as Cole knew he would; the man hadn’t come all this way to be knocked down by a swinging door. He thrust to his feet, stooped over and half-turned towards Cole as if making an effort to push upright. Instead, his Colt left leather with a deadly whisper and flame spurted from the barrel as he spun, fully facing Cole now.

  Not for long. Cole’s lead took him in the crook of his gun arm and he screamed as he floundered back, his arm jerking violently, bone splinters tearing through the bloody flesh. Cotton’s smoking Colt spun from his fingers, which could no longer hold its weight.

  And never would again.

  A crowd gathered in moments, folk running up from all directions. Cole picked out the sweating stage clerk.

  ‘Billy, have someone help you get him to Doc Partridge. This fool’s got money jangling in his pocket so he can pay for whatever attention Doc gives him. Put the rest towards a stage ticket back to Banjo Springs – or as far as it’ll take him.’ He swung his bleak gaze to the writhing, sobbing would-be gunfighter. ‘He won’t be coming back to this town.’

  CHAPTER 3

  ULTIMATUMS

  Ten days later the second challenger arrived, coming in from the north.

  He rode a dust-spattered paint with a sidekick forking a shaggy roan alongside. The one who turned out to be the challenger was a small man, no more than five feet four or five. He wore two guns on a buscadero rig with plenty of fancy carving in the leatherwork. Spanish, most folk said, recognizing the style as coming from below the Border.

  Someone with better eyes than the others and more knowledge of guns pointed out that the Colts’ handles had been shaved down to allow a better fit in the man’s small hands.

  The men rode straight past the law office, not even glancing in its direction, and dismounted outside Mannering’s Delta saloon.

  Inside they ordered whiskey and the taller one pushed a coin towards the barkeep from the change pile.

  ‘Have one yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, amigo, but boss don’t allow it. You boys from up north?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ demanded the small man, sounding irritated.

  ‘That yaller dust all over you. Has to be from the Canary Desert.’

  ‘Everyone a smart-ass in this town or just you?’ the aggressive man cracked. The barkeep straightened and moved away down the counter. The small man slapped a hand down hard on the scarred woodwork. ‘Hey, you! I asked you a question!’

  The tall man placed a hand on the other’s arm. ‘Easy, Frankie, we don’t need trouble here.’

  ‘Why not? It’ll bring Cole, won’t it?’

  ‘That ain’t how we planned it!’

  ‘Trouble with you, Biff, you’re bigger’n me but your brain’s smaller. You can’t adapt to a change in plans.’ And as he spoke he whipped up one of his guns, the left one, and shot out the bar mirror. Glass and bottles leapt in a wild cascade, cutting the cringing barkeep. The man held a grey bar towel to his bleeding face.

  ‘The hell you doin’?’

  ‘Gettin’ your attention – or your sheriff’s. If he ain’t too busy, or somethin’, to come see what’s happenin’.’

  Biff groaned, seeing it was way too late to stop his smaller pard now.

  ‘You might be sorry if Cole does come!’

  The barkeep yelped and jumped as Frankie fired over the counter, his bullet taking the already bleeding man in the foot. He collapsed, gritting his teeth, stifling a howl of pain.

  Mannering, watching from his office doorway, spoke quietly over his shoulder to someone behind him. ‘Go get Cole.’

  ‘No need, boss.’ A hand came over Mannering’s shoulder, pointing in the direction of the batwings which had just slapped back. Cole entered, gun still in holster, but eyes darting around the smoke-dimmed room, his body tense, his movements catlike and alert.

  He soon saw the source of the trouble, and identified it immediately as Frankie bared his teeth, holstering his six-gun.

  ‘Biff, I b’lieve we are now honoured with the presence of Sheriff Adam Cole, self-styled fastest gun alive – the poor bastard!’

  ‘You’re Frankie Delgado.’

  ‘Glad you recognize me.’ The pigeon chest puffed out some.

  ‘Saw you once in Fort Griffin. You shot a half-drunk buffalo runner, wounded him, made him crawl along the street and howl like a dog, shooting at him all the time. Till you finished him off. Thing is, one of those bullets ricocheted and killed a lady on a hotel balcony, knitting a shawl for the baby she hoped to have in a few weeks.’

  Delgado wasn’t pleased at the accusation but didn’t deny it. ‘Main thing was, you seen how fast I am. That buff-runner was really Hi-Spade Hunnicutt, hidin’-out after killin’ a man in El Paso. Man he killed was a pard of mine. Hi-Spade deserved to die.’

  ‘The pregnant woman didn’t.’

  Delgado sobered, then shrugged. ‘OK, you wanna make that the excuse to try to take me in,’s OK by me.’ He set his short legs firmly and the crowd pressed back – but not too far. Everyone wanted to see this. ‘But I ain’t goin’ with you!’

  Biff leaned against the bar after moving along a little way, putting some distance between Frankie Delgado and himself. But just far enough along so that he was slightly to the rear of the sheriff, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the small man.

  ‘Guess you’re not too confident, Frankie. Having Biff there ready to cover you in case you’re not as fast as you figure.’

  Delgado looked fit to bust. ‘The hell I ain’t!’

  And that was it: no more talk. It was put up or shut up time.

  He was damned near as fast as he believed. Frankie’s guns seemed to snap into line with his hands braced against his small hips as they blazed.

  Cole staggered even as he fired. One shot. It almost took Delgado’s head off, snapping it back as if his neck was made of wet cardboard. The impact lifted his small feet from the sawdusted floor, hurling his body against the bar. He was still falling towards the floor when Biff triggered and Cole’s second bullet took him through the heart.

  And, to the surprise and consternation of the drinkers, their sheriff was down on one knee, head hanging, gun hand on the floor, the arm supporting his weight.

  *

  A few weeks af
ter the bank robbery attempt, Bess floored Linus with her announcement over dinner:

  ‘I’m thinking of taking a trip to the West Coast, Linus. I know you can’t get away from the bank at this time of year, so it will be just Donny and me. It’s time he met his Uncle Carl.’

  Charlton almost choked on the last boiled potato and had to snatch at the water jug to fill his glass, but Donny, with an innocent smile, reached the jug first. He not only pulled it quickly towards him but knocked it over, spilling its contents.

  ‘Gee, Linus,’ he refused to call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’, even ‘Pop’ – ‘I’m sorry. I – I’ll go pump some more in a minute and fill the jug. You be OK till I get back? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to choke or anything—’

  ‘Donny!’ shouted Bess, half-rising, eyes narrowed. ‘Get through to the kitchen and pump that water! Hurry, you little devil!’ She lunged towards her gagging husband and clapped him between the shoulders as Donny strolled towards the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Move, damn you!’ It was the first time Linus had heard her use a cuss-word and Donny sure looked surprised. He started to run.

  After Linus had settled down and was massaging his flabby throat, she made the boy apologize, which Donny did – with the worst possible grace. He was sent to bed without any more supper, but Linus knew she would sneak him a piece of pie or some kind of sweetmeat later.

  ‘So. You’ve timed your holiday to coincide with the busiest part of the year for my bank! The land sales, reassessment of mortgages, my inspection of outlying farms we have loaned money on—’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear. You know I’m impulsive, and once I get an idea in my head—’

  ‘Oh, yes! I know, all right! But dammit, Bess, I’d love to see San Francisco.’ They had great gambling halls there, he had been told, the stakes sky-high: why, some of the richest land-and-cattle owners in the US had gotten their start in the ’Frisco gaming halls.

  ‘Well, it’ll be better if we go now, before Donny starts the more serious side of his education. I wouldn’t want to interrupt his schooling.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, no! That would be unthinkable. How long do you estimate to be away?’

  ‘I haven’t given it much thought – a few weeks, I daresay. I might even spend the winter there. Carl says it’s much milder and there are no blizzards like the ones that sweep this God-forsaken hole….’

  ‘Months! And what the hell am I going to do? Who’s going to keep house for me? Make my meals, wash my clothes…?’

  Of course, Bess didn’t do those things now: they had a live-in cook and maid-of-all-work, and Bess coolly reminded him of that now. ‘You’ll be well looked after, Linus, dear.’

  ‘Your mind’s made up, I see.’

  ‘Yes. It just … came to me. All detailed and everything. I need some decent clothes. I’m sick of mail order and never getting exactly what I expect. Curtis sent me to New York once, and Philadelphia and it was marvellous. I will, naturally, use my own money. You won’t be out of pocket.’

  ‘I would not expect to be! Damnit, Bess, Curtis didn’t have the responsibility of running a bank!’ growled Linus, knowing it was no use throwing one of his tantrums: she was too damn hard for that to work. ‘He could afford to pamper you and….’ He let the words trail off. What was the use? She was immovable.

  But, by God, he would throw a spanner in the works if he could. Just the thought of that smirking little swine enjoying the sights of an exciting town like ’Frisco while he slaved away at all the problems this time of year seemed to magnify…!

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he announced abruptly.

  ‘Would you like my company, dear?’ Bess asked sweetly. ‘It’s a balmy might and—’

  ‘My own company is all I can stand right now!’

  ‘Of course, dear. I agree wholeheartedly.’

  He grunted as he jammed on his hat and strode angrily out into the night.

  He hadn’t gone half a block before he stopped dead on the boardwalk.

  My God! That sneaky damn Jezebel! Curtis’s brother, Carl was a lawyer and executor of his brother’s will. He took care of the estate, advised Bess how she should spend or invest her money. Audited the books….

  He knew she had received a letter from Carl a couple of weeks ago. Now she had impulsively decided to make the long, arduous trip to California, taking Donny with her. That part was OK, but why was she going now and what was she taking with her?

  ‘Oh, blast!’ Linus hissed, unaware of the beauty of the star-studded evening and a couple of passers-by wishing him ‘Good night’.

  He felt sick to his stomach.

  He turned and hurried back towards the large house on the hill at the end of Lavender Street.

  He had just remembered he had left the keys to the house safe on his bedside table; there were things in there she shouldn’t see!

  Linus began to run.

  CHAPTER 4

  INDEPENDENCE

  DAY

  Cole had set up a chair with footrest on the Front Street balcony of the Star Hotel where he had booked a room after receiving his ‘appreciation bonus’ from the town committee. Prior to that, he had slept in the small room out back of the law office, even, on one occasion, spent a night in one of the cells, trying out the bunks: no feather bed.

  Now he figured he could afford a little luxury so why not enjoy it?

  The footrest had been designed by Doc Partridge and consisted of cushions placed in the top part of two crosspieces of wood forming two ‘Xs’ and connected by slats of timber. It formed a kind of cup and supported Cole’s foot and lower leg. And he needed it; Delgado’s bullet had creased his left hip and it still hurt enough after a couple of weeks for him to have to use a stick when getting around.

  At least there had been no more challengers since Delgado and Biff had taken up residence in the Barberry Boot Hill. He had decided that if any more drifters came in and wanted to test his gun speed, he would pull up stakes. He was reluctant to do that, because he liked Barberry and its folk. It was a town that would have a good future when this part of the country was opened up by more railroads; but he would probably move out before then.

  He was a small-town man, always had been. Luckily, Alice had shared his liking for such places and if things had been different….

  He reined in his thoughts right there. Nothing could change it now so what was the point in thinking about it?

  But he knew the present date, July 1, and that meant the time he dreaded was drawing close. Not the Fourth, with its planned celebrations, but the Seventh, which had a different kind of meaning for him.

  ‘How’s the leg, Cole?’

  He started a little at the enquiring voice, hitched around and saw Banker Charlton coming towards him along the balcony. The man’s left hand was heavily bandaged and he held it level across his waist as if to ease its discomfort.

  Cole stared at it as he answered slowly, ‘Gonna throw away this damn stick in another day, whether I fall flat on my face or not.’

  Linus smiled, sat down in a wicker chair and lit one of his cigars, awkwardly, mostly using his right hand and the two unbandaged fingers. He offered the case to Cole, who shook his head and rolled a cigarette.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  The banker waved his cigar, trying to be casual but there was tension there and an abruptness to his words that made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it in detail.

  ‘Tripped on one of Bess’s confounded mail-order floor rugs in my office. Put my hands out to save myself and cracked a couple of fingers. Painful but more of a nuisance than anything.’ He drew quickly on his cigar and exhaled the smoke, speaking as he did so. ‘The committee’s arranged for the Miller brothers to be on call if you need them to lend a hand on the Fourth’s celebrations. Satisfactory, Cole?’

  Cole nodded curtly. ‘Hope they won’t be needed.’

  ‘We-ell, it is Independence Day. Folk might get carried away some. Kids are always a bit of a probl
em, letting off fireworks with no thought of where they light them or where they might land.’

  Cole’s face suddenly straightened out. ‘If kids are the biggest problem, that’ll suit me,’ he said curtly. ‘With all that home-brewed rotgut being handed round, though, there’s going to be a slew of drunks.’

  Charlton frowned. ‘Well, folk have to let their hair down now and again. Er – can I ask you a favour? Keep a special eye on young Donny? He’s an irritating kid and I confess I don’t get along too well with him, but – well, he’s Bess’s son and I wouldn’t want any real harm to come to him.’

  ‘Just a little harm’ll be OK, though, eh?’

  Linus blinked, sat up straighter. ‘I didn’t mean it that way! I – Oh! You’re joshing me.’

  ‘Trying to. That’s how bored I am, Linus, amusing myself with feeble jokes.’

  ‘Once you get back onto your feet and have a few celebratory drinks on the Fourth, you’ll perk up. Will you watch out for Donny?’

  For a moment the banker thought the sheriff was going to refuse, but he nodded jerkily. ‘Sure. But I guess I’ll have plenty to do so don’t expect me to follow him around and wipe his nose for him.’

  ‘Of course not. He can wipe his own nose, anyway. But he admires you, like all the kids in town, following you around, playing “Sheriff Cole” with wooden guns and so on. I’ll be obliged, Cole.’

  ‘I’ll see he doesn’t get into any trouble.’ Struggling some, Cole got his stick and used it to lever himself out of the chair, putting his left foot down gingerly, transferring the weight a little at a time. ‘Ah! Feels better than it did yesterday. Think I’m getting there, Linus.’

  He leaned on the stick, looking steadily at the banker’s bandaged hand, then lifted his gaze to Linus’s face. The man seemed uncomfortable under that stare. ‘Haven’t had much to do except sit up here and watch the street and passing parade for a few days, Linus.’ The hard eyes seemed to bore into Charlton. ‘See folk come and go.’