Ten Guns from Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  “How come you talk like that?” Simmons asked.

  Elmer chuckled. “He does talk funny, don’t he? He’s from Scotland.”

  “Scotland? Where’s that? Somewhere in New York?”

  “Damn, he’s still cuttin’ weeds,” Decker said. “I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t a-goin’ to eat no weeds.”

  Kelly, Decker, and Simmons watched curiously as Wang wandered along the bank of the creek, then moved out to gather plants from beneath the trees and farther out in open prairie.

  Half an hour later, gleaming orange sparks rode a column of heated air to add their brilliance to the stars, lighting the darkness. The night was perfumed with the aroma of fried bacon. Into the bacon grease, Wang dropped cattail, fireweed, field pennycress, wild onion stems, and wild mushrooms. As that concoction was cooking, he made a dough of flour and water, and rolled it out into one large circle. Laying the cooked vegetable ingredients, as well as crumbled bacon bits, into a single line all the way across the circle of dough, he folded it up into one long roll, then cut it into several smaller pieces. Using chopsticks, he dropped them into the hot bacon grease.

  Kelly, Decker and Simmons watched in curiosity as Wang worked.

  “What the hell are you a-makin’ there, Chinaman?” Decker asked.

  “Do not worry, Laowai, If you do not wish to eat, I think Gleason Xian shen will eat it.”

  Elmer laughed. “You’re damn right, I’ll eat it.”

  “What’s that you called me, Chinaman? Loywee? That ain’t my name.

  “Indeed,” Wang said. “And Chinaman is not my name.”

  “Laowai is Chinese for anyone who ain’t Chinese,” Elmer said. “And it ain’t all that good of a thing to be called.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean he insulted me?”

  “Yeah, you might say that,” Elmer said. “But then, you insulted him, so you could call it even.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to stand here ’n let some Chinaman insult me. Why don’t I just knock him on his scrawny little ass. Then we’ll call it even.” Decker suggested.

  “Go ahead. Be my guest,” Duff said.

  “I hate to do this, Chinaman,” Decker said, “but you need to learn how to deal with your betters.”

  Wang, who was using his chopsticks to move the cooking rolls around in the grease, was seemingly paying no attention to Decker.

  “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, Chinaman!” Decker said angrily.

  Wang continued to tend to the cooking rolls.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Decker said loudly as he sent his right hand toward Wang.

  Wang didn’t look up from the skillet, but he caught Decker’s fist in his left hand, then jerked it down. The momentum supplied by the punch caused Decker to tumble head over heels. He rolled down the hill, stopping just short of landing in the creek.

  The others laughed.

  When Decker stood up, he saw that Wang was still paying no attention to him. “How the hell did you do that?” he asked as he climbed back up the hill.

  Wang didn’t answer, but he picked up one of the rolls with his chopsticks and held it out. “Decker taste first. If you do not like, you do not have to eat.”

  Warily, Decker took the proffered fried roll. It was hot, and he tossed it from hand to hand for a moment, then he took a bite. “Damn!” he said as a broad smile spread across his face. “Damn, this is good!”

  Wang nodded.

  “Wang, you’re all right by me. You’re a man I’d be willin’ to ride to the river with.”

  “I will ride to the river with you, Decker Xian shen.”

  “What is this shinshang?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Decker, it’s the same thing as mister, only maybe just a little bit more,” Elmer said. “He only uses that word for people that he respects.”

  “Yeah, now that I think about it, he called you that, too, didn’t he? Hey, Gleason, how come you know his lingo? Did he teach it to you?”

  “No, I learned some of it while I was in China.”

  “You was in China?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be damned. You’re the first person I’ve ever knowed who was ever actual in China.”

  Kelly laughed. “Decker, you don’t reckon this here feller, Wang, come from St. Louis, do you?”

  The others laughed as well.

  “Hey, MacCallister,” Kelly said. “Don’t you think now might be a good time for you to tell us what this here job is all about?”

  “I’ll tell you as we are eating our supper,” Duff replied.

  “Yeah, let’s eat,” Decker said. “This is damn good. What do you call these things?”

  “They are called egg rolls, but they are without eggs because we have none,” Wang said.

  As the six men sat around the fire, enjoying the meal Wang had prepared for them, Duff told them about their mission to rescue the governor’s daughter.

  “Wow, the governor’s daughter?” Simmons asked. “That’d be kinda like them stories I’ve heard about where a knight rescues the princess.”

  “This here ain’t no princess,” Decker said.

  “Sure she is. What is a princess?” Simmons asked. “A princess is the daughter of a king, ain’t she? Well, when you think about it, a governor is kind of like a king, ain’t he? So that makes this here girl . . . what did you say her name was?”

  “Miss Ireland,” Elmer said.

  “Yeah, but don’t she have another name besides Miss?”

  “Rosalie,” Duff said.

  “Yeah, well, her bein’ the governor’s daughter ’n all, that sorta makes her a princess. Princess Rosalie.” Simmons smiled broadly at his analogy.

  Slash Bell Ranch

  Duff and the others reached the big house and were greeted by Bellefontaine and Sam Post.

  “Have you located the governor’s daughter?” the rancher asked.

  “No, not yet. If you would nae mind, Mr. Bellefontaine, could I be for parking my men with you for a short while? I plan to go into Merrill Town and do a bit o’ reconnoitering,” Duff said. “Perhaps I can pick up some intelligence on the young lass.”

  “Sure. I’d be happy to put them up,” Bellefontaine said.

  “MacCallister Xian shen, I will come as well if you will have me,” Wang said. “I can be invisible.”

  “What the hell? Wang, are you telling me a Chinamen can really be invisible?” Kelly asked.

  “Shi,” Wang replied.

  “She? She who?”

  “I do not mean lady. Shi means yes. I can be invisible.”

  “Now I know you are just foolin’ me. Hell, they can’t nobody make hisself invisible.”

  “What Wang means is, people pay no attention to a Chinaman who doesn’t draw attention to himself,” Duff said. “Most people think that they either can’t understand what is being said or they are so detached that it doesn’t matter to a Chinaman what anyone is saying. It makes such a person a very valuable tool for gathering information.”

  “Huh. I ain’t never thought of that, but it’s most likely true, ain’t it? It’s like talkin’ aroun’ Injuns when you know they don’t know our lingo,” Kelly said.

  “Mr. MacCallister,” Post said. “If you’re wantin’ to find out somethin’, you’re more likely to hear it at the Hog Pen than you would at the Alabama. They don’t never wear them blue kerchiefs when they come to town, but I know damn well they’s Fence Busters that come into Merrill Town pretty often, ’n when they do, they most of the time hang out in the Hog Pen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Post. That is the establishment I shall visit.”

  Merrill Town

  Jug Bitters was in Walker’s Grocery when he saw Muley Ledbetter with a sack of beans, a side of bacon, flour, and coffee on the counter in front of him.

  “Damn, Muley. You hungry?” Jug teased.

  “This ain’t all for me.”

  “I thought you boys done all your shoppin’ in Blowout.”
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  “Yeah, well, that ain’t the cabin I’m a-goin’ to. Some of us is stayin’ up at Miller Creek Draw.”

  “What are you doin’ up there?”

  “We got . . . uh . . . some business up there,” Muley said. “I ain’t s’posed to talk about it.”

  Jug looked around to make certain there was no one close enough to overhear their conversation.

  “I heard the governor’s daughter got took. Is that where you’re keepin’ ’er?”

  “Who told you that?” Muley snapped. “There ain’t nobody except Fence Busters that’s s’posed to know that’s where at we’re a-keepin’ ’er.”

  “You can trust me, Muley. I used to be in the Fence Busters, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you ain’t no more, so I can’t tell you nothin’ ’bout anything. Beside which, if Kendrick even know’d I was talkin’ to you ’bout this, he’d be on me like a duck on a june bug.”

  Jug held both his hands up. “You don’t have to worry none. I won’t say a word to Kendrick.”

  * * *

  Duff had been to the CSS Alabama Saloon several times since he first arrived in town, but it was his first visit to the Hog Pen Saloon. As soon as he was inside, he stepped away from the door, then pressed his back against the wall, thus providing a target to no one that he couldn’t see. He had been taught the maneuver by his cousin, Falcon, shortly after arriving in America, and it had served him well ever since.

  Although the Hog Pen was just as large and just as busy as the CSS Alabama, the similarity in the two saloons stopped there. In the CSS Alabama, shining, cut-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the lights were brightly burning gas flames.

  The “chandeliers” of the Hog Pen were wagon wheels, from which hung kerosene lanterns. The bar was filled with patrons who hooked a boot onto the foot rail, which was wood, unlike the brass rail at the CSS Alabama. They leaned across their drinks protectively. A dozen or more painted women drifted through the room, working the patrons for drinks.

  “What can I get ya?”

  “Tell me, barkeep, and would you have a decent Scotch now?”

  “What kinda accent is that you got?” the bartender asked.

  “Ah, ’tis nae an accent, lad. ’Tis the music of Scotland, m’ homeland.”

  “Only kind of whiskey we got is Old Overholt.”

  “Then I’ll be troublin’ you for a beer.”

  * * *

  Woodson and Jenkins were standing at the other end of the bar when Duff ordered his drink.

  “Lou, you know who that is?” Woodson asked.

  “You think that’s the Scotsman that’s been causin’ all the trouble?”

  “Yeah. I’d be willin’ to bet that’s MacCallister.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jenkins replied.

  Woodson frowned. “Why leave?”

  “So we can tell Kendrick where he is.”

  “I got a better idea. How much do you think Kendrick would pay us to make his trouble go away?”

  Jenkins answered quickly. “Quite a bit, I would say.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ maybe as much as five hunnert dollars apiece.”

  “All right. What do you have in mind?”

  “You’re a better shot than I am, but I’m a bit faster ’n you, so this is how we’ll do it. You go upstairs, have your gun out, and keep an eye open. I’m goin’ to prod this feller into drawin’ his gun, but you’ll already have your gun out, so as soon as you see him start to draw, shoot ’im. I’ll be shootin’ ’bout the same time, ’n ever’one will be watchin’ me ’n him. Nobody will even see you. Once he goes down, you put your gun away and just come down the stairs real casual like. Ever’one will think I’m the one that done it.”

  “So you’ll get all the credit,” Jenkins said.

  “What difference does it make who gets all the credit? We’ll both get the money.” Woodson said.

  “Yeah.” Jenkins smiled. “Yeah, we will.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Duff had been watching the two men at the other end of the bar from the moment he came in. He was almost positive that they had been with the rustlers who had cut the fence and tried to run off the cattle after they were delivered to the Slash Bell. He was observing them surreptitiously, watching in the mirror as they were engaged in some sort of intense conversation.

  His curiosity deepened when one of them walked away, leaving half a mug of beer and going upstairs. That, in itself, wouldn’t have aroused much suspicion had he gone up with a woman. But he went upstairs alone. The suspicion changed to absolute certainty when Duff saw the man draw his pistol once he reached the top of the stairs. Not realizing he was being watched, the man held his pistol down by his side so that it wasn’t noticeable, then he stepped up to the railing to study the floor below.

  Slowly and unobtrusively, Duff drew his pistol, then mimicking the man at the top of the stairs, he held the pistol down by his leg. He moved closer to the bar so that the gun was hidden between the bar and his leg. Not even the person standing closest to him had any idea what he had done.

  He didn’t have to wait long to see what the next step would be.

  “Hey, you!” shouted the man who had stayed at the far end of the bar.

  A few others in the saloon, alerted by the harshness and challenge of the voice, looked around to see what was going on.

  “And would you be addressing me now?” Duff asked.

  “No, I ain’t dressin’ you, you idjit. I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “Indeed,” Duff replied. “And what would be the subject of your interest in me?”

  “Is your name MacCallister?”

  “Aye, MacCallister is my name. How is it that you know me? Have we met?”

  “No, we ain’t met. You’re a damn ferriner, ain’t ya?”

  “Oh I dinnae think I have been condemned to eternal perdition, so I wouldn’t say that I’m damned. But since I came to this country from Scotland, aye, you could call me a foreigner.”

  Woodson blinked, not sure that he understood what Duff had said. “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, mister. We don’t like ferriners in this town, so you got two choices. You can either leave town now with your tail between your legs or you can stay here and get yourself kilt.”

  “And would you be for killing a person just because he is a foreigner?” Duff asked.

  “Yeah,” Woodson said. “Yeah, I would. What do you think about that?”

  “Oh, I dinnae think I would like to be killed,” Duff said. “I think if it came right down to it, I would have to kill you.”

  “You think you can beat me to the draw, do you?” Woodson challenged.

  “Probably not,” Duff said. “I have never really had to develop the proficiency of a rapid extraction of my weapon from its holster.”

  “Mister, why the hell don’t you speak English? You’re in Texas now.”

  “Well now, feller, just what lingo is that you are a-wantin’ me to speak, anyhow? Do you want me to speak Texan, slow enough so that even a dumb sumbitch like you can understand me? Or do you want me speak English?” Sounding no different from any cowboy in Texas, Duff asked the question in the same flat drawl that Woodson was using.

  “What the hell? Are you a-funnin’ me?” Woodson asked in exasperation.

  “Well, now that you mention it, pardner, I reckon I just might be a-funnin’ you at that,” Duff said, continuing with the Texas drawl.

  “Now, that’s just the kinda thing that can get a feller like you kilt,” Woodson said.

  “Is it now? ’N here I thought you said it was bein’ a ferriner that was a-gonna get me kilt.”

  “Whether it’s ’cause you are a ferriner or you got yourself a smart mouth, it don’t matter which. The thing is, I’m about to kill you, right where you stand,” Woodson said.

  “Oh, I dinnae think so,” Duff said, dropping back into the Scottish brogue. “You see, as it turns out, I am quite an excellent marksman and will have nae trouble in sho
oting your friend, who even now is waiting on the balcony for the opportunity to shoot me. Of course, as you are much closer, shooting you will be even easier.”

  “What the hell, Woodson? He knows what you got planned!” Jenkins shouted from the balcony, raising his pistol and punctuating his shout by squeezing the trigger. In his shock and haste, his bullet broke the beer mug from which Duff had been drinking, missing Duff by several inches.

  Duff raised the pistol already in his hand and returned Jenkins’s fire. He didn’t miss. Jenkins, with a black hole right in the middle of his forehead, tumbled over the railing, then came crashing through a table right below. Cards and poker chips scattered as the players, startled by the sudden turn of events, just managed to get out of the way of the falling body.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Woodson started for his gun, but because he hadn’t been able to call the move, he was a beat slower than he would have been.

  Duff, who already had the pistol in his hand, turned his gun on Woodson. Both men fired at the same time, but the bullet from Woodson’s gun whizzed by Duff’s ear and smashed through the window behind him. Duff returned fire and Woodson dropped his gun to slap his hands over the middle of his chest. He looked down in disbelief as blood oozed through his fingers.

  “You . . . you. . . .” Woodson never got beyond the repeated word. Whatever he was going to say remained unspoken as he collapsed on the floor.

  “Damn, Slim!” someone said. “Did you see that?”

  “Hell yeah, I seen it,” Slim replied. “We all seen it. We’re here, too.”

  “Mister, I ain’t never seen no one as fast as you,” the first man said. “I never even seen you draw.”

  Duff kept a bit of information to himself—that he hadn’t drawn because it wasn’t necessary and that he had been holding the pistol in his hand from the moment he saw the first man climb the stairs to the overlook.

  With the still smoking pistol in his hand, Duff looked around the saloon to see if there was any further threat. Ascertaining none, he put his pistol away, then turned back to the bar. He looked toward what was left of his beer. “Barkeep, I think perhaps I will have a whiskey after all.”