Kid Palomino

by Michael D George

  For a moment the ancient lawman had no idea where he was or how long he had been there. Summers opened his eyes and pushed the brim of his battered old hat off his eyes and squinted at a buckboard as it squeaked along the street. There were a few of the town’s womenfolk strolling toward the heart of Fargo with baskets hanging over their arms and brightly coloured parasols resting upon their shoulders.

  The elderly lawman blinked several times to clear his eyes and then sat upright. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and spat at the boardwalk.

  ‘That wagon sure needs oiling,’ he grumbled as he vainly sucked and blew into the stem of the pipe trying to rekindle it. As was usual with even the finest of tobaccos, it had stopped burning. Old Charlie gave the pipe bowl a frustrated look and then thrust it into his vest pocket.

  He was about to stretch his ancient bones when he caught sight of two dusty horsemen moving slowly through the heat haze. Charlie rubbed his tired eyes and stood as he vainly tried to focus clearly on the riders.

  ‘Now who in tarnation are them varmints?’ he asked himself cautiously as he rested the palm of his hand on the gun in its holster. ‘Whoever they are they sure don’t look peaceable.’

  Charlie raised a thin arm, rested the palm of his hand on the porch upright and rubbed his old eyes again. ‘Why in hell is everyone so blurred nowadays?’

  The words had barely had time to leave his lips when he noticed that the riders had tugged on their long leathers and were headed in his direction.

  ‘Ah, hell,’ Charlie cursed and stared at the shimmering horsemen. ‘They’re heading here.’

  Just as Charlie thought, the riders were indeed guiding their mounts toward the sheriff’s office and the old man who was watching them. Summers nervously scratched his whiskered chin and then polished the tin star he wore with his shirt cuff. He dropped his hand until his finger curled around the holstered trigger of his trusty .44.

  Summoning every last ounce of his courage, Charlie walked down the boardwalk until he was at the edge of the porch. He held his hand up in an attempt to stop the riders.

  ‘Hold on there, boys,’ Charlie said in his deepest and most authoritative of tones. ‘Who are you and how come you’re in Fargo?’

  The horse continued on toward the valiant old timer. Then the riders drew rein and halted beside the hitching rail.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, Charlie,’ one of the horsemen chuckled as he swung his leg over his cantle and lowered himself to the ground.

  ‘Which one of you varmints said that?’ Charlie Summers took another step and then grabbed hold of the wooden upright as one of his boots over-stepped the edge of the boardwalk.

  ‘Careful there, Charlie,’ the youthful voice of the rider sat astride the high-shouldered palomino stallion said before adding, ‘You don’t wanna break that scrawny neck of yours, do you?’

  Summers looked at Red Rivers as he looped his reins over the hitching pole and secured it. He then looked up at the rider straddling the stallion. A smile erupted on the old timer’s face.

  ‘I knew it was you boys, Kid,’ he chortled. ‘I knew it was you boys all the time.’

  ‘No you didn’t, Charlie,’ Red Rivers argued. ‘You thought we were a couple of desperadoes ready to start shooting up the town.’

  Summers looked at Red as he stepped up beside him.

  ‘The sun was in my eyes, Red boy. I’d have figured out who you was soon enough.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Sure you would.’ Kid Palomino smiled as he slid to the ground beside his mount. He tied his long leathers to the twisted pole beside Red’s quarter horse and then rested his knuckles on his gun grips. He stared up at the two men.

  Charlie looked uneasy at the handsome young deputy. He turned to Red. ‘What’s the Kid looking at, Red boy?’

  ‘He’s looking at you.’ Red replied.

  ‘I know that,’ Charlie croaked, ‘but why?’

  Red shook his head. ‘Damned if I know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why I’m looking at you, Charlie.’ Palomino stepped up on to the boardwalk and placed a hand on the skinny shoulder of the retired sheriff. ‘I’m plumb thirsty, Charlie. I sure hope you’ve got the coffee brewing.’

  The eyes of the older man sparkled. ‘You like my coffee, Kid?’

  ‘I sure do.’ Palomino walked with his two companions into the office. Steam was rising from the blackened pot on top of the pot-belly stove. ‘Besides it’s too early to go to the café and get a decent cup.’

  Summers rustled up three tin cups and spread them out on the desk. He stared at the pot and scratched his beard. ‘I must have bin asleep longer than I figured.’

  Red glanced at the wall clock. ‘It’s twenty after eight.’

  ‘Holy crackers,’ Old Charlie gasped as he used a cloth to pick up the coffee pot off the stove top. ‘Time sure does fly.’

  ‘I guess it flies even faster when you’re getting some shuteye,’ the Kid remarked as he watched all three cups being filled.

  Charlie started to chuckle. ‘Reckon it does.’

  Palomino picked up a tin cup and went to the open door and leaned a shoulder against the frame. As he raised the cup to his lips something at the far end of the street caught his attention.

  ‘What did you say the time was, Red?’ he asked as he stared through the steam of his beverage.

  ‘I said that it’s twenty after eight, Kid,’ Red repeated as he took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. ‘Why’d you ask?’

  Palomino glanced at the two lawmen and then returned his eyes to what had intrigued him along the street. ‘What time does Hardwick open that big old bank of his?’

  Charlie Summers shook his head and glanced at Palomino.

  ‘You know perfectly well that Stan never opens the bank before ten in the morning, Kid.’ Charlie sighed. ‘What you asking such a dumb question for?’

  Palomino downed his coffee and then tossed the empty cup at his pals. Red caught the tin cup and placed it down on the desk.

  ‘What’s eating you, Palomino?’ Red asked.

  Kid Palomino looked at his companions. ‘If Hardwick doesn’t open up his bank until ten in the morning, what’s he doing with three hombres coming out of the place right now?’

  ‘You’re imagining things, Kid,’ Summers scoffed.

  ‘Hell, I’ve never seen that rich old dude at this time of the morning, Palomino,’ Red agreed with the elderly Summers. ‘Bankers don’t get up early like regular folks.’

  Kid Palomino tilted his head. ‘Well he’s up and walking this morning. Come take a looksee if you don’t believe me.’

  Intrigued by Palomino’s insistence, Red and Charlie moved to the side of the younger lawman and watched as the four men made their way from the red brick edifice and started heading back toward the corner on their way to Hardwick’s house.

  ‘Ain’t that Hardwick?’ Palomino asked.

  ‘It sure is and he ain’t on his lonesome,’ Red agreed.

  Palomino pushed the brim of his Stetson back. ‘I don’t like the look of them three hombres with him. They’re packing too much iron for my liking.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Red agreed as he scratched his cheek thoughtfully. ‘They’re also carrying saddle-bags, Kid.’

  ‘Mighty swollen saddle-bags by the looks of them, Red,’ Palomino added before raising his eyebrows. ‘Now what do you reckon them three hombres got in them bags?’

  Charlie looked at Red and Palomino in turn. ‘I can’t see a damn thing, boys. Are you sure that’s Stan Hardwick?’

  ‘We’re sure, Charlie,’ Red nodded.

  ‘Unlock the rifle rack and get me a Winchester, old timer,’ the Kid told Summers.

  Summers nodded. ‘Sure enough, Kid.’

  As the old man scooped a bunch of keys off the desk and moved to the padlock dangling from the line of secured rifles, Red glanced at him.

  ‘You’d best get me one as well, Charlie,’ he said.

  ‘Make sure they’re loaded, Charlie,’ Palomino added
. ‘I’d hate to confront them hombres with empty guns.’

  Old Charlie pulled a few repeating rifles off the rack and checked them in turn. The rifles’ magazines were all fully loaded.

  ‘Hurry up, Charlie,’ Palomino urged. ‘They’ve turned the corner. We can’t see them anymore.’

  ‘I couldn’t even see them when they was there,’ Summers muttered as he staggered to the pair of deputies with three repeating rifles in his thin arms. Palomino took one as Red lifted another. Both men cranked the weapons’ mechanisms.

  ‘What’s the other rifle for, Charlie?’ Palomino asked.

  An impish smile etched the whiskered face as the veteran lawman cranked the hand guard of the third Winchester sending a spent casing over his shoulder.

  ‘This’uns for me, Kid,’ he winked.

  Palomino smiled at the feisty old man.

  ‘C’mon,’ he told them. ‘Let’s go find out what Hardwick and them hombres are up to.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No riverboat gambler could have looked more the part, but the man in the frilly shirt with its black lace tie hanging down to the silk vest was not what he appeared to be. The white wide-brimmed hat and tailored blue frock coat seemed to scream out that this was a man who made his living at the gaming tables but it was all a well-devised illusion. He was not what he pretended to be.

  Everything about him was calculated to deceive, for in reality the gambler was probably one of the most dangerous of people who had ever existed.

  Danby Deacon had never done an honest day’s work in his entire forty-nine years of existence. Men like Deacon had always shunned anything remotely resembling work and found other ways to make their living. He exercised his brain power rather than his muscles.

  Although Deacon was never close to the brutal activities he had masterminded, he was never too far away. As long as there was a telegraph office close, Deacon would keep in touch with his underlings.

  Deacon had come a long way from the shady streets of his native New York. They had helped to sharpen his skills as a con artist and trickster. Once he realized that he could make more money by planning jobs for others, he had ventured out into the quickly growing West. As towns sprang up and spread like cancers across the vast land, Deacon was usually there.

  To most he was just another gambler.

  In reality he was something far more lethal. For Deacon had the knack of listening while others talked. When folks talked, they betrayed themselves and others. They allowed men of an unscrupulous nature to work out what was the truth and what was exaggeration.

  Years of practice had made him the best there was at his hideous profession. As he silently played cards he absorbed everything his fellow gamblers said.

  Deacon would discover names, addresses and anything else he thought vital to perfecting his plan. Then he would relay the details to the ruthless outlaws who relied upon his detailed information in order to execute his outrageous plan with the least amount of opposition.

  It had worked perfectly for years.

  Yet even though the meticulous mastermind had made both Bill Carson and himself wealthy men, they had never actually met. Deacon preferred it that way. He knew that those who seek glory seldom live long enough to actually enjoy the fruits of their labours. Yet although Carson knew nothing about Deacon apart from calling him ‘the Deacon’, the vastly more intelligent Deacon knew everything there was to know about his cohort.

  Every scrap of information concerning the notorious outlaw was branded into Deacon’s memory. The wild streets of his youth had taught him that knowledge was power and when you were dealing with men like Carson, you needed to be in total control.

  Deacon would mail letters to pre-arranged places for Carson to read and obey. All other messages between the two men were sent via the telegraph.

  That had proven to be a lucrative arrangement for both parties and meant that Deacon was always well away from the action when it erupted.

  For years he had provided some of the deadliest outlaws with vital information that they then used. It was Deacon who had weighed up the banker Stanley Hardwick and discovered what made him tick. He had passed this information on to Bill Carson for a share of the takings the outlaw could get from the banker’s seemingly impregnable establishment.

  Deacon had passed through Fargo a week earlier and visited every saloon and gambling house in the town until he had gathered all the information he needed.

  His habit of quietly playing poker had once again paid dividends. Men talked freely as they drank whiskey and won hand after hand to Deacon. Their excitement only loosened their tongues more as the card games stretched on into the night and their stacks of gaming chips grew taller and taller.

  It was exactly the same in every town Deacon visited.

  Deacon had lost count how many times he had repeated the beneficial act. And none of them had ever realized that they were being used. All they could see was the money they were winning from the stranger in their midst.

  Deacon would be gracious and bow out when he had discovered everything he wanted to know, and then depart. The victorious gamblers would mock him with no idea that they had just had their mutual knowledge stripped by the best trickster any of them would ever meet.

  Satisfied that he had discovered every minute detail concerning the owner of the impressive red brick bank, Deacon had taken the next stagecoach from Fargo and travelled to where he had instructed Carson to wire him.

  The small town of Cherokee Springs sat at the very edge of an unnamed desert. It was one of those sun-bleached places that few men ever visited unless they had reason to hole up for a while. Even the law shied away from making the perilous trip across the arid terrain to Cherokee Springs.

  Deacon though, knew that it was perfect for his needs. It was an ideal spot to wait for Carson and his hirelings to rob the bank at Fargo. Deacon had alighted from the stagecoach a few days before and rented the best room in the ramshackle hotel.

  As agreed, he would send meaningless telegraph wires to Carson in the next town along the stagecoach route and wait for the reply that would confirm the job had done his bidding for him.

  Cherokee Springs was twenty hard-bitten miles from Dry Gulch. Deacon was a man who favoured good cigars and even better whiskey. The solitary saloon in the small settlement provided both as well as female company.

  Danby Deacon would willingly indulge heavily in all the temptations the town offered as he waited for news that Carson had fulfilled his part of the bargain.

  Once he had been paid, he would set off for the next large town and start his methodical work all over again. Deacon knew that Bill Carson was a dangerous outlaw who seldom shared out the spoils of his endeavours with any of the numerous men he hired. Only Deacon had always received his cut of the take because even Carson realized that the man who he had never seen was invaluable.

  Before responding to a mysterious message from Deacon, years earlier, Carson had been fortunate to survive his attempts at train and bank robbery.

  Although he hated to admit it, Carson knew that he could not plan his jobs as masterly as his unknown benefactor. He needed the mysterious Deacon.

  They both knew it.

  As he waited in Cherokee Springs, Deacon rested his freshly shaven chin on the heaving bosom of one of the town’s working girls who straddled his lap. He took a sip of whiskey and savoured its warming glow as it burned a trail down into his gullet.

  ‘What do you do, Danby?’ the soiled dove asked as she pressed her heaving flesh into his welcoming face. ‘I mean, what do you do for a job?’

  There was a long silence as the man who masqueraded as a common gambler considered the question. Her heavily scented flesh filled his flared nostrils as his eyes darted at her powdered face. A wry smile etched his features as her finger curled his side-whiskers. Deacon looked her straight in the eyes and offered her a tumbler of his fine whiskey. She downed the hard liquor with expertise.

  ‘I think and wait, hon
ey-child,’ he sighed.

  ‘What do you think and wait for, Danby darling?’ she purred into his ear as she nibbled upon it.

  ‘Money, honey-child,’ he answered. ‘I think about money.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  A scattering of trees flanked both sides of the street on the way to the half-hidden lane that led to where the banker’s elegant residence stood. Bill Carson and his two cohorts were laden down under the weight of their fully filled saddle-bags as they strode through the leafy enclave. With every stride the wanted men kept pushing Hardwick forward as their eyes darted at the neighbouring buildings for any sign of impending trouble.

  They need not have troubled themselves. It was still early and the wealthy people who lived in this small section of Fargo did not rise at this ungodly hour.

  The four men closed in on the end structure and moved to the rear of the building. Steam rose from their four horses as they walked past them and entered the banker’s home.

  A blood-chilling sound met their ears as they crossed the tiled floor of the kitchen. It was the noise that signals the final gasps of life as they succumb to death.

  The pitiful body of the maid was still exactly where they had left it. The pool of blood had grown larger and stickier since Carson had ended Elvira’s existence. Yet it was not the sight of the brutally murdered female that had drawn the banker’s attention. It was what had happened to his womenfolk that enraged the normally peaceful man. Hardwick clenched both his fists in helpless fury when he saw what had occurred in his absence.

  His wife and daughter had been brutally assaulted and lay where the two outlaws had left them. Hardwick stared in horror at the bruised throats of both females as they draped the long couch lifelessly.

  They looked like porcelain dolls. Every scrap of life and been mercilessly ripped from them. Dignity had been replaced by shock on their dead faces.