Ten Guns from Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  Both young men laughed.

  From his end of the bar, Quinn had been watching and listening to the two loud young men. “Now, that wasn’t very nice of you two boys,” he said, speaking for the first time.

  The two glanced at him for just a second, then turned their attention back to each other.

  “What are you tellin’ me? Are you tellin’ me that feller really did pee in his pants?” Jake asked.

  “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’,” Titus replied.

  “Funny you would say somethin’ like that,” Quinn said. “Seein’ as both you boys will prob’ly be dyin’ just real soon.”

  Titus turned back toward Quinn with an angry expression on his face. “Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are ’n I don’t really care, but if I was you, I’d not be pokin’ my nose into other people’s business.”

  “Oh, but you ain’t me,” Quinn replied. “And I think you should apologize for makin’ that poor man make water in his pants.”

  “What? Are you crazy? You don’t even know the man.”

  Quinn’s smile was little more than a sardonic smear across his face. “Oh, I don’t have to know someone in order to know what’s right. I’d say the way you two were treatin’ the man you’re a-talkin’ about tells me you don’t have no regard for your fellow man. Now, I’m goin’ to have to ask the two of you again to apologize for what you done. But this is the last time I’m goin’ to ask.”

  “Apologize?” Titus replied. “Apologize for what? In the first place, the feller we’re talkin’ about ain’t nowhere aroun’, so how ’n the hell are we supposed to apologize to him? Even if we was goin’ to, which we ain’t. In the second place, even if he was aroun’, you can believe I wouldn’t be doin’ no apologizin’ to ’im.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to apologize to him. You have to apologize to me.”

  “What? Now, that don’t make no sense at all. Why the hell should we apologize to you?”

  “Because just listenin’ to how you made that poor man suffer has upset me somethin’ terrible. Now, I’ll be takin’ that apology from you.”

  “The hell you say. You’ll play the devil gettin’ an apology from either one of us.”

  “Then, like I said, you two are goin’ to have to die.”

  “Mister, what’s wrong with you? This here ain’t none of your affair. ’N maybe you ain’t noticed it, but they’s two of us, ’n they’s only one of you. You’re takin’ a bigger bite than you can chew, ’cause we’re both pretty good with our guns.”

  “Are you now?”

  “Yeah, we are. Now back off before it’s too late,” Jake said.

  “What if I don’t want to back off?”

  “Bartender,” Jake said. “I want you as the witness. You’ve heard me ’n Titus try ’n be nice to this feller. So if it comes down to us havin’ to kill ’im, we’ll be wantin’ you to tell the sheriff we was pushed into it.”

  “Well now, boys, you see, that’s a problem.” The bartender shook his head. “We ain’t got no sheriff nor town marshal, neither. We sorta make our own law, if you understand what I mean. So you ’n Mr. Quinn are goin’ to have to work this out between you.”

  “Quinn?” Titus questioned. He turned back toward the man who had been harassing them. “Your name is Quinn?”

  “That’s right.”

  The confident smile on Titus’s face faded. “Would that be, uh, Ethan Quinn?”

  “You’ve heard of me, I see.”

  “Uh, Mr. Quinn, listen, there ain’t no need in this a-goin’ no further,” Titus said. “Me ’n Jake was just funnin’ is all. ’N you’re right, we didn’t have no call in embarrassin’ that feller like we done. So I reckon I will be apologizin’ for what we done.”

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Jake asked. “Don’t be apologizin’ to anybody.”

  “Jake, that’s Ethan Quinn. Don’t you know who Ethan Quinn is?”

  “No.”

  “Well I do, and believe me, we don’t want to be a-messin’ none with the likes of Ethan Quinn.”

  Jake nodded, then turned toward Quinn. “All right, Quinn, maybe we was gettin’ a little out of line here. My friend’s right. This don’t need to go no further. Why don’t you let us buy you a drink ’n we’ll forget any words that was said.”

  “Sure,” Quinn replied easily. “As soon as the two of you bow to me, and confess to ever’one in here that you are cowards.”

  “What?” Jake said. “Hell no, we ain’t goin’ to do that.”

  “Well, boys, if you don’t do that, you’re both goin’ to die.”

  “Draw!” Jake shouted, reaching for his pistol even as he shouted the challenge.

  Jake’s reaction took Titus by surprise, but not Quinn. He had survived many gunfights by being able to anticipate what the other person was about to do, and a split second before Jake shouted his challenge, Quinn’s hand was already dipping toward his gun. He had it out in lightning speed. Jake managed to get his pistol out of his holster, but when he shot, it was the final reflexive action before he died, and the bullet went into the floor. Although Titus went for his own gun, he wasn’t even able to clear leather before the second shot from Quinn’s gun punched through his heart.

  Glitter and the girl with her screamed.

  Quinn held the smoking pistol for a moment as he looked down at the bodies of the two men he had just killed. Both had left unfinished drinks on the bar.

  “Weasel,” Quinn said, addressing the bartender.

  “Yeah?”

  “No sense in lettin’ their drinks go to waste. Bring ’em down here.”

  Weasel picked the two drinks up, and handed them to Quinn, who drank them one after the other.

  “You . . . you killed them!” Glitter said.

  “What’s the matter, girly? You upset because you didn’t get the drink they promised?” Quinn asked. “Don’t worry about it. You come on up here, and I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll buy both of you a drink.”

  “No!” Glitter said. “Why would I want to drink with you?”

  “Because I told you to,” Quinn said, his voice low and menacing.

  “Go on, Glitter,” the other girl said. “I don’t think he’ll hurt you.”

  With fear and loathing, Glitter moved hesitantly to the bar.

  * * *

  Although the Fence Busters had a place on the Blanco River, many of them spent a lot of time in Blowout, and Kendrick kept a room in the Del Rey Hotel, where he often spent the night. He was in town and having dinner at the Rustic Rock Restaurant when Peabody came over to his table.

  “Just thought you’d like to know that there was a killin’ down at the Pair of Kings,” Peabody said.

  “The man killed. Was he one of ours?”

  “No, it was a couple cowboys that was just comin’ through. They said their names was Titus Ford and Jake Adams, but there warn’t nobody that had heard of ’em. Quinn, he’s the one that kilt ’em.”

  “Was the killing justified?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was Quinn defending himself? Did the two men draw on him?”

  “Well, yeah, they did, sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of? Did they or did they not draw on him?”

  “Yeah, they did. But to be honest now, Quinn, well, he kinda prodded ’em in to it. He just kept a-pokin’ at ’em, if you know what I mean, ’n the next thing you know, why the two men draw’d on ’im, ’n he shot ’em both down. Quinn’s fast with a gun, ’bout the fastest I ever seen.”

  “So I have heard,” Kendrick said as he cut off a piece of steak.

  “It might be good to have someone like Quinn in the Fence Busters.”

  “Are you saying that if you were in charge, you would ask him to become a member?” Kendrick asked.

  “Well, yeah, I would.”

  “Then it is a good thing you aren’t in charge,” Kendrick replied. “Quinn strikes me as a person who is infused with a degree of self-importance. If
I ask him to join us, he would always think, because he had been asked, that he would have the superior position. I’ll not give him that opportunity.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Peabody agreed. “I was just thinkin’ when you run across somebody like Quinn, well, it’s better to have ’im on your side, than to have ’im ag’in you.”

  “We will have him on our side,” Kendrick said. “But only on our terms. And that means when he asks.”

  Kendrick wasn’t a Texan, and unlike the others in the Fence Busters, he wasn’t even a Westerner, having arrived no more than two years earlier. He was originally from New York, and from time to time he would look at his surroundings, and recall his past.

  * * *

  Behind Dirk Kendrick, a train roared by on the elevated railroad over Sixth Avenue, between 42nd and 43rd Streets in Manhattan.

  He looked at Paddy O’Malley, his “enforcer.” “Are you ready, Mr. O’Malley?”

  “Yeah,” O’Malley replied, pulling from his pocket specially made brass knuckles. They were different from most brass knuckles because a spike protruded between the middle and index fingers.

  Kendrick pushed open the door to the bakery, and the little announcement bell attached to the door jingled. The owner, Gavriel Cohen, looked up to greet his customer with a smile. The smile left his face when he saw who it was.

  “Hello, Mr. Cohen,” Kendrick said.

  “You!” Cohen said, pointing at him. “Coming here will do you no good. I have told you that I am not interested in your insurance. Not one penny will you get from me!”

  “But Mr. Cohen, wouldn’t you like to know that you, your store, and your family will be safe from anyone who wishes to do you harm?” Kendrick asked.

  “Harm? The only harm will come from you and the thugs and crooks with you. You call yourselves a legal service and insurance agency, but are no such thing! You are all hoodlums.”

  “Why, Mr. Cohen, I greatly resent your implication,” Kendrick said. “This is strictly a business proposition. I’m sure you are aware that I am a member of the bar and a practicing attorney. If you would sign up for our program, that would also entitle you to my legal services, should they be required.”

  “Bah! The only bar you are a member of is Tony’s Bar down the street! You are the biggest gangster of them all. If it is bread or a bagel you wish to buy, you have come to the right place. But if it is to sell me your insurance, I tell you now to leave my bakery.”

  “Is that your last word on the subject?” Kendrick asked, his voice agonizingly calm.

  “Yes, it is absolutely my last word.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that.” Kendrick nodded at O’Malley, who, with one quick thrust, poked the spike into Cohen’s eye. The baker cried out and covered his socket with his hand as blood spilled through his fingers.

  “We control all of Manhattan,” Kendrick said. “When I come back, you will buy the insurance or you will lose your other eye.”

  Sarah Cohen, who had been in the back of the bakery, came out front when she heard Gavriel cry out. When she saw blood running from her husband’s eye, she began to scream.

  Chapter Eleven

  Since Blowout was without city government of any kind, people looked to Kendrick to act as mayor and sheriff. Acting in that capacity, as soon as he finished his lunch, he strolled down Stoddard Street to the Pair of Kings, where he saw two young men lying on the wooden porch in front of the saloon. He looked down at them for just a moment. There was a single bullet hole in each and flies were buzzing around the wounds.

  He stepped inside.

  “Hello, Mr. Kendrick,” the bartender said.

  “Hello, Weasel,” Kendrick replied, addressing the bartender by the only name he had ever heard used. “I hear you had a little excitement down here.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you seen them two boys lyin’ out front,” Weasel replied. “They got into an argument with Mr. Quinn.”

  Kendrick saw Quinn standing at the far end of the counter with a smug expression on his face and his arm around Glitter. Her expression could only be described as one of perturbation.

  “You killed them, did you, Quinn?” Kendrick asked.

  “Yeah, I killed them.”

  “Glitter, find someplace else to be,” Kendrick said with a nod of his head. “Mr. Quinn and I are in a discussion, and you’re just in the way.”

  “Yes, sir!” Glitter replied, thankful that she was being ordered away.

  “Not much for us to discuss,” Quinn said with a confident smile. “Ask Weasel what happened, and he’ll tell you that both of ’em went for their guns first.”

  “Oh, I believe it,” Kendrick said.

  The smile on Quinn’s face grew broader. “Then me ’n you don’t really have nothin’ to talk about, do we? Unless, maybe, you’re wantin’ to ask me if I would be interested in somethin’.”

  “No, nothing,” Kendrick replied. “As I’m sure you know, I am the de facto law in town and—”

  “The fac what?”

  “The de facto law,” Kendrick repeated. “That means that I am the law.”

  “Yeah, well, why didn’t you say so?”

  “I was pretty sure you already knew that. Anyway, as the de facto law, anytime a citizen of this town is killed, it is my job to see that justice is served.”

  “Yeah, well, there you go, Kendrick,” Quinn replied. “Them two draw’d on me, ’n I kilt ’em. That seems like justice enough to me.”

  “Are you saying you had no choice?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’. Leastwise, once the two started to draw their guns. Then there warn’t nothin’ I could do but draw back ag’in ’em.”

  “You are a loose cannon on deck, Quinn.”

  “A loose cannon? What does that mean?” Quinn asked, clearly not familiar with the term.

  “It means that people like you quite frequently wind up in deep trouble. And the problem with that is, when you get into trouble, you more often than not get the people around you in trouble, as well. So do me a favor, will you? Try and stay out of trouble as long as you are here in my town.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn replied, the expression on his face one of obvious disappointment over not being invited to join the Fence Busters. “Yeah,” he repeated. “I’ll just do that.”

  Kendrick nodded and left the saloon. For the rest of the day, he acted just as a real sheriff or mayor would. He “made the rounds,” calling upon the merchants of the town, telling them that even though the town was without any official capacity, they could count on him, and they should report any shoplifting or outright robberies to him. He would find the thieves and administer whatever punishment fit the crime.

  What he didn’t say, but what everyone knew, was that if the perpetrator was a member of the Fence Busters, they would get off with a verbal reprimand unless their transgression was a particularly egregious one, and then, only if the offense affected Kendrick in some way.

  Later, he and Peabody took their supper at Rosita’s Cocina, after which, they each took a harlot to a crib behind the restaurant.

  * * *

  When Kendrick opened his eyes the next morning he knew he wasn’t in his own hotel room and, for a moment, wondered where he was. Then he was aware of two things; one, he was in a crib behind Rosalita’s, and two, he had a raging need to urinate. The prostitute was still asleep beside him. She had the bedcover askew, exposing one rather large, heavily blue-veined breast and one leg dangled over the edge of the bed. She was snoring loudly and a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Kendrick crawled over her to get out of bed.

  Outside, an outhouse stood twenty feet behind the little adobe crib, but he disdained its use, going against the wall of the crib instead.

  “Peabody,” he called through the wall as he relieved himself. “Peabody, are you still in there?”

  A moment later, he heard a sound, then Peabody appeared in the doorway wearing his boots, hat, and lo
ng johns. He stepped up beside Kendrick and like him, began peeing on the wall.

  “I want you to round up three good men.” Kendrick shook himself, then put it away. “New men, I don’t want anyone from the Fence Busters.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m recruiting new members. I’m goin’ over to the saloon to have breakfast. Bring ’em there.”

  “Do you want Quinn as one of the men?”

  “No, I most definitely do not want Quinn.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Where ’m I s’posed to get these men?”

  “That’s your problem.” Kendrick looked back at the bed. The harlot had thrown all the covers off and was sprawled naked on the bed. Her mouth was open, she was snoring with each intake of breath, and her bottom lip was flapping like a reed as she exhaled.

  “Damn,” Kendrick said. “I can’t believe I was blind enough to choose her last night.”

  Peabody chuckled. “You should see the one I got stuck with. Compared to her, this one is a real beauty.”

  Kendrick laughed as well, then the two men walked away as urine dribbled down the wall and formed a pool on the ground behind them.

  * * *

  In the Pair of Kings, Kendrick sopped up the yellow of a runny egg with a biscuit. He washed it down with a drink of coffee, then rolled and lit a cigarette as Peabody came over to his table, leading three men.

  “Here they are, Kendrick. I got us three good men, just like you said.”

  Kendrick looked at the three, then he frowned.

  “I said get good men. That one appears to be a Mexican.”

  The Mexican had obsidian eyes, a dark, brooding face, and a black mustache that curved down around either side of his mouth. He was wearing an oversized sombrero and registered no expression in response to Kendrick’s disparaging remark.

  “José is a good man,” Peabody said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Before I joined up with the Fence Busters, me ’n him done a couple jobs together.” Peabody chuckled. “Besides, you slept with his sister last night.”

  “I did?” Kendrick studied the Mexican. “Well, I have to tell you, José, the fact that I was with your sister last night doesn’t say that much for you. She wasn’t that good.”