This Violent Land

by William W. Johnstone

  Holder stepped away from the bar. He wore his gun low and kicked out, too. He smiled a cold, evil smile. “Well, Mr. Kingsley, you brought me to the ball, so . . .”

  Although Kingsley had lost the advantage of surprise, he had been in shoot-outs before and he was fast. In fact, he was very fast, especially if he had the edge of drawing first. Without another word he made his move, pulling his pistol in the blink of an eye.

  But Holder, whether reacting to Kingsley’s draw or anticipating it, had his own pistol out just a split second faster, pulling the hammer back and firing in one fluid motion. In the close confines of the barroom, the gunshot sounded like a clap of thunder.

  Kingsley’s eyes grew wide with surprise at how fast Holder had his gun up and firing. He tried hard to beat the bullet with his own draw but he couldn’t do it. Holder’s shot caught Kingsley in the chest and the bounty hunter’s eyes glazed over even as he staggered backward, crashing through the batwing doors and falling flat on his back on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. His gun arm was thrown to one side and the still unfired pistol was in his hand.

  There was a moment of silence, then one of the patrons nearest the door ventured a peek over the top of the batwings. He turned and shouted back to the others, “He’s dead, folks. He’s deader than a doornail.”

  “Bartender,” Holder said.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Holder?”

  “Set up drinks for the house.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Holder.”

  With a happy shout, everyone in the saloon rushed to the bar to give their order.

  * * *

  It was close to eleven o’clock that same night when Smoke arrived in town. Unlike his trip to Red Cliff, which had been by train, he had ridden on horseback to Running Creek after riding from Preacher’s cabin to Schemerhorn’s Trading Post, then from the trading post to Denver, and from Denver to Running Creek. In addition, he had risen at sunrise, which had occurred at about five o’clock. It had been one very long day.

  He didn’t make an attempt to contact the sheriff; he would look him up in the morning. All he wanted was a drink and a bed. A beer wouldn’t do it. He wanted a stiff drink.

  The Black Jack was the most substantial looking saloon in a row of saloons. He tied his horse at the hitch rail in front, stepped over a drunk who was passed out on the steps in front of the place, and went inside.

  Stepping immediately to the side as usual, he looked around. The chimneys of all the lanterns were covered with soot, making the light dingy and filtered through drifting smoke. The place smelled of whiskey, stale beer, pungent tobacco, and unwashed bodies. A long bar on the left had dirty towels hanging on hooks about every five feet along the front. A large mirror was behind the bar, but like everything else in the saloon, it was so dirty Smoke could scarcely see any images in it. What he could see was distorted by imperfections in the glass.

  Against the back wall, near the foot of the stairs, a baldheaded musician was playing a cigar-scarred and beer-stained upright piano. In the center of the saloon were eight or ten tables, nearly all of them occupied. A half dozen or so soiled doves were flitting about, pushing drinks and promising more if the price was right. A few card games were in progress, but most of the patrons were just drinking and talking. The subject of their conversation was the gunfight that had taken place in the saloon earlier in the day.

  Most had heard of the gunfight in Red Cliff a few weeks ago. The killing that afternoon had roused speculation as to which of the two gunfighters was best.

  “In my mind there ain’t no doubt,” said one of the men at a table. “This feller Smoke Jensen took on three men at the same time, and he kilt all three of ’em. You can’t compare that with what Holder done just killin’ one man.”

  “The hell you can’t,” another man contended. “Them three wasn’t gunfighters. They was just cattle rustlers. They thought because there was three of ’em they could take ’im on. Holder called Kingsley out and stood up to ’im, face-to-face. And did you see Holder’s draw? Faster’n greased lightnin’ it was. Why, it was so quick I never seen nothin’ more’n a jump of his shoulder and the gun was in his hand. In his hand and blazin’, it was, and Kingsley was graspin’ his chest and fallin’ back through the door without gettin’ off even one shot.”

  “Still, three to one,” one of the others said, and the argument continued.

  “You’re both forgettin’ the one who’s the fastest of ’em all. Faster than Holder or Jensen.”

  “Who would that be? You ain’t goin’ to say Hickok are you? ’Cause I seen him oncet, and I don’t think he could hold a candle to either Jensen or Holder.”

  “Clell Dawson, that’s who. He kilt The Concho Kid, and The Concho Kid was maybe faster than either Jensen or Holder.”

  “I heard o’ him.”

  “I’d sure like to see a couple o’ them fellas go up ag’in each other,” another said, putting voice to what all were thinking.

  “Whoowee! Wouldn’t that be somethin’ pure-dee, though?”

  The bartender was pouring the residue from abandoned whiskey glasses back into a bottle when Smoke stepped up to the bar. The barkeep pulled a soggy cigar butt from one glass, laid the butt aside, then poured the whiskey back into the bottle without qualms.

  Smoke held up his finger.

  “Yeah?” the bartender responded.

  “Whiskey.”

  The bartender picked up the bottle he had just poured whiskey into.

  “Not that bottle. A clean bottle.”

  “You’re some kind of particular, ain’t you?” the bartender asked.

  “If I want a cigar I’ll smoke it, not drink it,” Smoke replied.

  The bartender chuckled. “Most of the drinkers in here don’t never even notice I’m here, let alone what I’m doin’. But since you called me out on it, I’ll get you another bottle.”

  The bartender took a bottle from one of the glass shelves behind him, pulled the cork, poured a drink, and handed it to Smoke, who examined the liquor for any possible residue before he paid for it.

  “Go ahead. Check it out if you want. This here is a clean bottle,” the bartender said.

  Smoke tossed the drink down without answering, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I didn’t see a hotel when I rode in.”

  “That’s ’cause the onliest one we had burnt down a couple months ago. We got rooms upstairs, though.”

  “All right. I’ll take one.”

  “With or without.”

  Smoke frowned. “With or without what?”

  The bartender looked up in surprise. “Are you kiddin’ me, mister? With or without a woman.”

  “Without.”

  “Six bits.”

  “Six bits? Isn’t that a little expensive?”

  “If we left it empty so the girls could use it for their customers, we could make three, maybe four times that,” the bartender said. “Six bits, take it or leave it.”

  Smoke had been in the saddle a long time. Six bits? Hell, he thought, I’d pay six bucks to get a little sleep. “Here.” He slapped the coins on the bar. “Tell your girls and their customers not to come into my room by mistake. If they do, they just might get shot.”

  “Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are, but it ain’t healthy to go around making threats you can’t back up,” the bartender growled. He picked up the silver and took it over to the money box, then reached for a key. “Here you go. It’s Room Two, right at the top of the stairs. You’ll have a good view of the street from there.”

  “Thanks.” Smoke picked up his key.

  “Yes, sir,” he heard someone behind him say as he started up the stairs. “Dawson, Holder, and Jensen, goin’ at one another. That would be somethin’ to behold. Folks would come from miles around to see somethin’ like that.”

  When he got to Room Two he lit the lamp, then had a look around. The room had one high-sprung, cast-iron bed, a chest, and a small table with a pitcher and basin.On the wall was a
neatly lettered sign. DO NOT SPIT ON THE FLOOR. GENTLEMEN, PLEASE REMOVE SPURS WHILE IN BED.

  CHAPTER 13

  Snyder, Summit County

  As Smoke crawled into bed that night, some fifty miles away, three men sat astride their horses on a hill, looking down to the town. The breath of men and horses alike frosted in the cold air. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before them. A big white house stood at the outer edge on the near side of town. The edifice was resplendent with cupolas, dormers, balconies, porches, and gingerbread trim, all shining brightly in the moonlight. The property was surrounded by a white picket fence which enclosed not only the house, but a carriage house and stable, as well.

  “There it is,” Pete said, pointing to the house.

  “You sure that’s where the banker lives?” Eddie asked.

  “You see any house in town that’s any bigger than that one? Hell, there ain’t even no buildin’ that is bigger than that house.” Pete’s declaration was accurate, for not even the hotel was as large as the house he had pointed out to the others.

  Neither Eddie nor Merlin challenged his statement.

  “All right. Come on, then. We’ll leave the horses in the stable at the back of the property. That way no one will notice any strange horses hangin’ around the house.” Pete headed down the hill.

  The three men rode slowly into town, the hoofbeats sounding exceptionally loud in the quiet of the night. They avoided the main street and followed one of the back streets. Approaching that way gave them an angle least likely to be noticed in the event that someone in town was actually awake.

  The high-pitched yap of a dog came from somewhere nearby, and his bark was answered by another dog some distance away. A baby, perhaps awakened by the barking dogs, began to cry. A wind came up, and as it passed over a loose piece of tin on the roof of the small house they were passing, it made a clanking sound.

  “What’s that?” Eddie asked, startled. He twisted around in the saddle to search for the source.

  “Quiet. It’s nothing. Just the wind,” Pete told him.

  Closer to the big white house, they turned their horses into the alley and rode up behind the banker’s carriage house. There, they dismounted.

  “Lookie here at this brougham,” Merlin said, pointing to the elegant carriage. “This sum’bitch must do pretty well.”

  One of the stabled horses snorted as if questioning the uninvited guests, but the interrogation died with one whicker.

  Pistols drawn, the three men moved from the shadows of the stable across the backyard and up onto the back porch. The locked back door did nothing to impede their entry into the house. The door opened into the kitchen with the faint but still discernable aroma of the pork that had been the family’s supper.

  The outlaws moved through a spill of moonlight to the bottom of the stairs, then climbed them quietly, stepping on the carpet at the center to silence their approach. At the top of the stairs, they moved toward the nearest bedroom, the carpet muffling any sound.

  Pete slowly opened the door. The same splash of moonlight illuminating the parlor also lit up the bedroom where a man and woman were sleeping. The man was snoring.

  Pete put his pistol away and pulled a knife, while at the same time clamping his hand over the woman’s mouth. Startled, she opened her eyes but was unable to cry out.

  “Woman, if you scream I’m going to cut your throat.” He showed her the knife in the moonlight.

  She looked up at him with her eyes open wide in terror.

  “Damn. What does it take to wake that guy up?” Pete asked, looking toward the sleeping man. “Wake ’im up, Merlin.”

  “Hey you. Wake up.”

  The snoring continued.

  “I said wake up!” Merlin’s admonition was much louder and was accompanied by a rough shaking of the man’s shoulder. The effort was successful.

  “What is this?” The man gasped, sitting up quickly.

  “Just sit still till we tell you to move.” Pete’s warning was augmented by the pistol Merlin was holding just inches from the man’s head.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” The man tried to muster a little bravado in his voice as he made the demand, but he failed miserably.

  “We’re arranging a little loan,” Pete said, adding with a chuckle, “Only we ain’t never gonna pay it back.” He sheathed the knife, then drew his gun and pointed it toward the woman’s head.

  “If you don’t want to see your woman’s brains scattered all over the bed, you’ll rattle your hocks down there to your bank, take out one hundred thousand dollars, and bring it here.”

  “Mommy? Daddy? Who are these men?”

  At that unexpected question, Eddie exclaimed, “Son of a—” and twisted around, thrusting his revolver out in front of him ready to shoot. His finger was taut on the trigger, but he managed not to fire when he realized the questioner was a little girl, no older than four or five, standing in the doorway of the bedroom holding a rag doll.

  The woman in the bed struggled to sit up and tried to let out a terrified scream, but Pete still had his hand over her mouth.

  He pushed her back down and said between clenched teeth to Eddie, “Grab that kid and bring her here so we’re all together.”

  Eddie didn’t look happy about the order. He was already shaken because he had almost shot the little girl. He knew from reading stories in the newspaper about the stagecoach robbery that a kid had been killed in that explosion, but that wasn’t quite the same as shooting an innocent little girl standing just a few feet away from him.

  He knew he had to do what Pete told him. Jamming his gun back in its holster, he leaped toward the girl, who whirled around, yelled in fright, and tried to run. Eddie snagged the back of her nightdress, jerked her toward him, and swept her up in his arms. He clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming.

  “And now you, Mister Banker,” Pete said in a satisfied voice. “You go get us that hundred thousand dollars like I told you to.”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t do as you ask. We don’t have a hundred thousand dollars in the bank right now.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Just over thirty thousand.”

  “Well then, go get the thirty thousand and bring it back. And don’t get any idea ’bout goin’ to the law or anything. The only person I want to see here is you, and you had better be carrying a bag of money. If anyone besides you shows up, we kill the woman and kid. And if you ain’t back in half an hour, we kill the woman and the kid, anyway.” Pete took his hand away from the woman’s mouth and urged, “You better make sure your husband knows we ain’t foolin’.”

  “Filbert, please. For heavens’ sake, just do it.” Her voice quavered with terror.

  “Don’t be so alarmed, Beth.” Obviously, he was trying to summon up some courage again. “I don’t believe they really mean you any harm.”

  Pete nipped that in the bud. “Tell you what. Just to show you we’re serious, if you ain’t back in twenty minutes, me an’ my friends here are gonna start havin’ a little fun with your wife, if you know what I mean. Then, after we’ve had our fun with her, if you still ain’t back with the money, we’re gonna kill her and the little girl.”

  “All right, all right,” the banker said. “Please don’t hurt anyone. I’ll get the money.”

  “Now you’re gettin’ smart.”

  Quickly, the banker got dressed, then started toward the door.

  “Remember, be back here with the money before twenty minutes is up, or we start on your woman.” Pete reached over to grab one of Beth’s breasts, squeezing it hard enough for her to gasp with pain. “This is just to show you that we’re serious.”

  “I beg of you, don’t do anything to hurt my family,” the banker pleaded, thoroughly cowed. “I’ll do what you say.”

  The little girl had become quite heavy. Since she had stopped struggling, Eddie set her
down.

  She immediately ran over to hit Pete on the leg. “Don’t you hurt my mommy!” she demanded.

  “Ha,” Merlin said. “Your little girl has more courage than either of you.”

  “Suzie, come here!” Beth called.

  The girl crawled into the bed and huddled next to her.

  After the banker left, the three men stared at Beth. Her eyes reflected her terror, but she was fighting hard to keep herself under control.

  “How come you ain’t cryin’?” Eddie asked. “Most women would be cryin’.”

  “Would it do me any good to cry?” Beth replied.

  Eddie laughed and shook his head. “I reckon you’ve got a point there. No, it wouldn’t do you no good to cry.”

  “Why don’t we just all go down into the parlor and have a seat?” Pete suggested. “It’ll be more comfortable, and there ain’t no sense in us gettin’ tired while we’re waitin’, now is there?”

  “Suzie should go back to bed. She’s just a little girl.”

  “Maybe she can find a place to sleep down there. Surely somebody as rich as you folks are have a sofa.”

  “Yes, we have a sofa.”

  “Then let’s just all go down there and relax while we wait.”

  They went downstairs and into the moonlit parlor. Beth started over toward one of the tables.

  “What are you doin’?” Pete asked.

  “I’m going to light a lamp.”

  “No, you ain’t. We don’t want anyone comin’ over wonderin’ why there’s a light on at this time of night.”

  “Why don’t you let ’er light one, Pete?” Eddie asked. “I’ll bet she’s one fine-lookin’ woman, and I’d like to get me a good look.”

  “You can see her good enough.”

  Suddenly there was a whirr, then a gong.

  “What the hell was that?” Merlin asked.

  Pete laughed. “Damn, Merlin. You’re so jumpy that a clock scares you? That was just the half hour chime, is all.”

  “Yeah, I knew that,” Merlin said, trying to recover some of his composure.