Kill Crazy

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re surrounded!” Elmer shouted, urging his horse onto the road from the boulders that were right alongside. He leveled his pistol at the soldiers. “Throw down your guns and put up your hands.”

  “Mercenaries!” one of the soldiers shouted, and he threw down his rifle. The other soldiers, perhaps taking their cue from him, threw their weapons down as well. Only the British captain refused the order. He brought his pistol up, pointed it at Elmer, then pulled the trigger. Elmer saw the cylinder turn and heard the hammer click, but the cartridge misfired.

  Elmer aimed at the officer. “Drop your gun, Captain! Do it now! Don’t make me kill you!”

  The captain lowered his pistol, then let it drop into the mud.

  “Good Lord! That accent. Are you a Yank?”

  “Don’t be callin’ me a Yankee, damn you. I fought agin’ them Yankee bastards for four years.”

  “You are! You are an American! What are you doing fighting on the side of the savages?”

  “They’re payin’ me. You ain’t,” Elmer said. “Now, I want all you boys to get down off your horses.”

  Grumbling, the men got down. As soon as they did, a couple of Elmer’s men, all of whom were Afghans, began gathering up the horses.

  “You’re stealing our horses?” the British officer asked.

  “It ain’t called stealin’, Sonny,” Elmer explained. “It’s called confiscating enemy assets. You’re the enemy of these boys, and these here horses are assets. And, speaking of assets, I’ll take the money satchel.”

  “What makes you think we are carrying money?”

  “Because you are delivering the payroll.” Elmer chuckled. “But I’ll bet you didn’t know that you were delivering the payroll to my boys.” He pointed his pistol at the captain. “Now tell the pay officer inside the coach to throw out the money satchel, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “Lieutenant Fitzsimmons, please, deliver the satchel,” the captain called.

  A canvas bag was tossed out through the coach window. Sajadi retrieved it, then, using his Khyber sword, whacked off the top part of the bag. He let out a little chortle, then reached down inside to pick up a handful of gold coins. He showed off the gold coins to a round to cheers; then he dropped them back into the bag.

  “You’re making a big mistake, mister,” the captain said. “That money belongs to Her Majesty.”

  “Does it now?” Elmer asked, sarcastically. “Well, I’ll just bet the old bag has a lot more where this came from.”

  At that moment, Elmer saw the end of a pistol poke out from the passenger window. He fired at the stagecoach, not to hit whoever was inside, but merely to get his attention.

  “Get out of the coach now, friend,” Elmer ordered, “or the next time I’ll shoot to kill.”

  The coach door opened and the pay officer stepped down. He was an overweight man, wearing a red jacket with white lapels.

  “You bloody bastard Yank!” the pay officer swore angrily.

  “I done told this other feller, I ain’t no damn Yankee,” Elmer said.

  By now, his men had loaded all the money into two other sacks. They tied the necks of the sacks together, then handed them to Elmer, who lay them across his saddle in such a way as to allow one bag to hang down on each side of the horse.

  “Captain, would you and your boys be so kind as to shuck out of them clothes right now?” Elmer asked.

  “Shuck out?” the captain replied, not understanding the term.

  “Take ’em off,” Elmer said. “All of you. Take off your clothes. Strip down to your long johns.”

  “Now, just a damn minute, sir,” one of the soldiers, a sergeant said. “I have no intention of taking off my clothes.”

  Elmer made a signal with his pistol. “Get out of them.”

  Grumbling and protesting, the soldiers began undressing. A few moments later all of them, including the captain and the pay officer, were standing in the mud in their long johns. This was in accordance with the plan, since Elmer believed that a lack of clothing and horses would preclude any chase. The two men Elmer had assigned to pick up the uniforms now did so.

  “Look at these here officers, men,” Elmer said. “Without them fancy uniforms and all that brass and braid, they don’t look all that highfalutin, do they?”

  “You bloody bastard. You’ve no right to demean our officers like that.”

  Elmer recognized the man who spoke as one who, a moment earlier, had been wearing the stripes of a sergeant.

  “You are a good man, Sergeant,” he said with what, to the sergeant and the other British soldiers, seemed to be a surprising amount of respect. He turned to the driver. “Unhitch the team.”

  “What’s the reason for that?” the driver asked.

  “No reason,” Elmer replied. “I just want to keep you folks busy for a few minutes after we’re gone, that’s all. It’ll take you that long to get back into harness. By then we’ll be gone. Oh, and you’ll find your clothes in a big heap, about a mile down the road.”

  It was easy now to recall that day, for that was the day he had decided to quit being a mercenary. Fighting on the side of people whose language he couldn’t understand, against people who spoke his same language, hadn’t seemed right to him. At least during the Civil War everyone had spoken the same language.

  Elmer had left Afghanistan with over two thousand dollars in cash. He’d returned to New York, where he’d spent every cent he had in less than two months.

  At that moment, Duff came out onto the porch, interrupting Elmer’s reverie. Although Duff wasn’t particularly dressed up, he had cleaned up, shaved, and dabbed his face with a bit of bay rum.

  “Looks to me like you’re plannin’ on doin’ a little courtin’,” Elmer said.

  “Elmer, you know why an Englishman wears a monocle?”

  “Hell, Duff, I don’t even know what a monocle is.”

  “It’s an eyepiece that you wear in one eye.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen them things,” Elmer said. “The feller that’s wearin’ ’em has to kinda squint down on ’em to hold ’em in place.”

  “Aye.”

  “So why does an Englishman wear a monocle?”

  “He wears a monocle so that he will only see half of what he can nae understand. Sure, and you remind me of that Englishman, Elmer. You see only half of what you can nae understand.”

  “Just ’cause I said it looks to me like you’re goin’ to do a little courtin’?”

  Duff made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then held to his eye as if it were a monocle. He laughed, then started toward the barn to saddle Sky.

  Chapter Six

  Burt Kennedy was a cowboy from the Bar H Bar, a ranch that was located about three miles north of Chugwater. Kennedy had a six-foot-three-inch frame, upon which was well distributed two hundred and twenty-five pounds of mostly muscle. He was smitten with Biff Johnson’s recently arrived red-haired beauty, and had put on his finest clothes to come into town this afternoon.

  He brought twenty dollars with him, and intended to use as much of the money as was necessary to entice Cindy Boyce to spend all her time, just with him.

  He had been waiting patiently for her to leave the table where she was sitting with Schumacher and some other man, a short, sandy-haired man whom he didn’t recognize.

  Finally, after waiting for at least half an hour, he walked over to the table.

  “Cindy, I been here for half an hour,” Kennedy said. “I wish you would keep me company. I got me some money to spend, and I aim to spend it on you, which you should like, ’cause I ain’t seen either one of these fellers buy you so much as one drink in all the time I been here.”

  Cindy smiled up at Kennedy.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know you were waiting for me. Of course I’ll spend some time with you.

  Kennedy grinned broadly, but the grin left his face when he saw the little sandy-haired man reach out and pull Cindy back down in her chair.

  “Yo
u ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said. “You’ll be stayin’ right here with me.”

  “Mister, if you don’t get your hands offen her, I’m goin’ to mop up this floor with your scrawny little ass,” Kennedy said angrily.

  “He’s right, Emile. I have been with you long enough,” Cindy said. “I need to spend a little time with some of my other friends, now.”

  Emile smiled as well, but his smile was totally without mirth.

  “Cowboy, I don’t believe I know your name,” Emile said.

  “It’s Burt Kennedy. Not that it makes any difference to you.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. It does make a difference to me, Kennedy. You see, me an’ you are about to have us a fight.”

  Kennedy grinned broadly. “A fight? Yeah,” he said. “But you’re a little scrawny to be fightin’ me all by yourself, ain’t you? What about you, Schumacher? You aimin’ to join in? That would make two of you and one of me. That might even the odds up a bit.”

  “Kennedy, I don’t think you know what you are getting into here,” Schumacher said.

  Kennedy laughed. “Yeah, I do. Come on, I think I’m goin’ to enjoy this.” He made his hands into fists, then held them out in front of his face, moving his right hand in tiny circles. “Come on,” he said. “I’m goin’ to put the lights out for both of you.”

  “Huh-uh,” Emile said. “That ain’t the kind of fight I’m talkin’ about. We’re goin’ to fight with guns ’cause I plan to make this permanent.”

  “No, I ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you or anyone else,” Kennedy said.

  “I ain’t in this fight,” Schumacher said, getting up from the table and walking away.

  “Well, that just leaves me an’ you now, don’t it?” Emile said.

  “That’s right, just me an’ you,” Kennedy said. He smiled. “But don’t worry, I’ll make it quick for you.”

  “How quick? This quick?” Emile replied.

  Emile drew his pistol, pointed it at Kennedy’s head, then put it back in his holster.

  “Was that quick enough for you?”

  The speed of Emile’s draw, as well as the unexpectedness of it, caused Kennedy to react in shock. He held his hand out toward Emile.

  “This here argument don’t have nothin’ to do with guns.”

  “I’ll let you draw first,” Emilie said.

  “I told you, there ain’t goin’ to be no gunfight.” Kennedy doubled up his fists again. “But if you’d like to come over here and take your beatin’ like a man, I’d be glad to oblige you.”

  “I said draw,” Emile repeated in a cold, flat, voice.

  By now, everyone in the saloon knew Kennedy had stepped into a situation that he hadn’t planned for. They began, quietly but deliberately, to get out of the way of any flying lead.

  It wasn’t until that moment, seeing the others move out of the way, that Kennedy began to worry that he might actually be losing control of the situation. He was still holding his fists in front of him, and he lowered them, then stared at Emile incredulously. “Are you blind, mister? Ain’t you noticed that I’m not even wearin’ a gun? If you’re figurin’ on forcin’ me into a fight, you can just figure again, ’cause I ain’t goin’ to do it.”

  “I’ll give you time to get yourself heeled,” Emile offered.

  “I told you, I ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you.”

  “If you ain’t goin’ to fight, then get out of here. Get out of this saloon, out of this town, and out of this valley.”

  “No, I ain’t doin’ that, either,” Kennedy said. “I got a right to live where I want and to say what I want. And I’ll be damn if I let some sawed-off runt like you talk to me that way. Now if you ain’t a complete lily-livered coward, you’ll shuck out of that gun belt and face me like a man.”

  “Mister, the only rights you have are the rights I let you have,” Emile growled. “Now, you got two choices. You either walk through that door right now, or you pull a gun. Which one is it goin’ to be?”

  “I told you, I’m not packin’ a gun.”

  “Somebody give him one,” Emile said coldly. He pulled his lips into a sinister smile. “This fella seems to have come to a gunfight without a gun.”

  “I told you, there ain’t goin’ to be no gunfight, and I don’t want a gun.”

  When no one offered Kennedy a gun, Emile pointed to Schumacher. “Give him your gun,” Emile ordered. “You aren’t going to be using it.”

  “You heard the man, Emile. He don’t want a gun,” Schumacher said.

  “Oh, I think he does.”

  “Emile, leave him be,” Cindy said.

  “You’re sweet on him, are you, Cindy?” Emile asked.

  “No, I’m not sweet on him. But he’s a nice man, and he’s always real friendly when he comes in.”

  “Schumacher, I said give him your gun.”

  “No,” Schumacher said. “If I give him a gun, you’ll kill him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t want no part of it.”

  “There ain’t no call in gettin’ him into this,” Kennedy said. “This is between you ’n’ me. Now if you are really interested in fighting, shuck out of that gun belt and face me like a man.”

  Again, in a lightning move, Emile snatched his gun from his holster. This time he cocked it, the sound of the sear as it engaged and turned the cylinder making a loud double click in the now-quiet room.

  “No!” Kennedy said. He held both hands out in front of him. “No, please,” he begged.

  Emile smiled at him, a slow, evil smile. Then he put his pistol back in his holster.

  “Give him your gun, Schumacher,” Emile said.

  Schumacher hesitated for a moment. Then he took his gun out of the holster and lay it on the bar.

  “I’ll turn it so’s the handle is toward you,” Schumacher said. “That’ll make it easier for you to pick up.”

  “It’s—it’s on my left. I’m right handed.”

  “No problem, go ahead and pick it up. I’ll let you do it,” Emile said.

  Kennedy paused for a moment.

  “Pick it up,” Emile said again, his voice low, but demanding.

  Kennedy looked at the pistol. A vein was jumping in his neck and those who were close enough to him could see his hands shaking.

  “Do it,” Emile said again.

  “No, I ain’t goin’ to. You ain’t goin’ to get me in no gunfight.”

  Again, Emile jerked his pistol from his holster, and using it as a club, brought it across Kennedy’s face. The blow cut Kennedy’s lip, and it began to swell.

  “You ready to pick up the gun?”

  “No.”

  This time Emile slapped Kennedy in the face, but Kennedy did nothing.

  “Now, look at this. You are almost twice as big as me. But you stood there like a lily-livered coward and let me slap you in the face. I wonder, just what is it going to take to get you to fight?” Emile asked.

  “Take off the gun,” Kennedy said, only now it was no longer a demand—it was a plea. “Take off the gun and we will fight.”

  “Huh-uh. You opened this ball, that means we’ll fight the way I want to fight.”

  Again, in a lightning draw, the pistol was in Emile’s hand, and this time he brought it so hard against Kennedy’s face that his knees were buckled. Now Kennedy’s lip was bleeding and his left eye was swollen shut.

  “Pick up the gun.”

  “No.”

  “Mister, for God’s sake, that’s enough!” Woodward called.

  Emile drew his pistol again, and pointed it toward Woodward. “You want in on this do you, cowboy?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “There ain’t no buts. You are either a part of it, or you keep your mouth shut.”

  Emile turned his attention back to Kennedy. “Pick up the gun.”

  “Please,” Kennedy said, his voice a whimper, almost a sob. “Please.”

  “Cindy,” Em
ile called. “I want you to look at your boyfriend now. He ain’t so big and strong now, is he?”

  “Emile, please, stop,” Cindy said.

  “I’m tired of playing with you,” Emile said. Again, he pointed his pistol at Kennedy, and drew the hammer back.

  Kennedy began to shake visibly, and he lost control of his bladder. A stain appeared on the front of his pants.

  “Well, look here, folks,” Emile said derisively. “This big, strong cowboy just peed in his pants.”

  Not one other person in the saloon said a word, shamed as they were by what they had just witnessed.

  “Get out of here,” Emile said, dismissively. “Get out of here and don’t come back. Next time I see you, I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  Kennedy looked around the saloon, tears of shame and humiliation in his eyes.

  “I—I,” he started, but he couldn’t finish whatever he was going to say.

  “I, I, I,” Emile mimicked.

  Kennedy turned and hurried out of the saloon.

  “Ha! Did everyone see that?” Emile shouted.

  Not one other person in the saloon responded.

  “Cindy, come on back over here, girl. Come sit with us again.” Even as he was speaking to Cindy, he made a motion with his hand to invite Schumacher to rejoin him at his table.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Emile,” Cindy scolded. “He didn’t do anything to you.”

  “He didn’t do anything to me because I had a gun. But you saw him. He is, what? Six-feet-two, six-three, maybe. He’s got eight or nine inches on me in height, and at least seventy-five pounds in weight. I’ve seen his kind before. Muscled-up bullies who love to beat up on smaller men. If I had been unarmed, he would have beaten me to a pulp.”

  “I have to admit, Cindy, that Emile is right,” Schumacher said. “I’ve known Kennedy for over two years now. He has always been quick to fight, as long as he knows he has the advantage.”

  “Nevertheless, I think what Emile did was wrong.”

  “You know, Schumacher is right,” Ben said. “Kennedy always has been a bully. Maybe it was about time he got his comeuppance.”

  “No,” Woodward said. “Nobody needs to be belittled like that. I’m ashamed of myself for backing down. I should have tried harder to stop it.”