by Lee Pierce
“It looks like we got seven of you left,” Hack said, blowing a great puff of smoke. “I recognize some of you. Y’all know you can’t beat me on your best day, and I ain’t near as good as the Kid. Plus we got one more gun on our side and he’s a stone cold killer.” Hack puffed again, blowing a huge cloud of smoke in the direction of the Quarry hired guns.
The Quarry bunch were not cowards by nature, but they were, in their own way, businessmen who were paid to use their guns. To most of them this did not look like a money-paying proposition. The tension was as thick as raw cane sorghum, and sweat poured off of the men like waterfalls. Somebody had to make a move.
“By the saints, that’s enough.” Stretch Cassidy stood at the bar, a little ways away from everyone so he could see the whole crowd. “I have gotten shot twice in these last few days and I killed a feller yesterday. I’m tired and sore and just about as mad as a man can get. I want all of you yahoos out of my saloon right now. You might think an old scattergun like this won’t do much damage at this range, but this one is filled with double ought buckshot and it will take out some eyes, ears, and such. Plus, while you nitwits were jawin’, I sent my bartender over to the doc’s office to fetch my other shotgun. He’s outside the door right now ready to come in blastin’ if he even so much as hears a mouse sneeze.”
The sight of two short barrels peeking through the swinging doors gave credence to what Stretch had just said.
“Bonner, you and yours back out of here now. Don’t stop until you get across the street. When they’re gone, then the rest of you can go.”
Hack, the Kid, and Carlyle wasted no time in backing out of the saloon and hurrying across the street. The bartender gave the word and the Quarry gunmen backed out of the saloon in single file. When they were all gone, Max O’Hara, the bartender, a man as Irish as the day is long, stepped inside and sauntered over to his boss.
“Well, there, Stretch, me lad, I reckon we showed those ruffians who can and who can’t. Reminds me of the time I stared down those Indians back in ’68.”
“What does this have to do with an Indian fight?” said Stretch, leaning against the bar and gulping deep breaths.
“Well, me boy,” said O’Hara, twisting the end of his thick red moustache. “On that day, I had no bullets in my gun, either.”
Chapter 22
Badger had been lounging in front of the hotel collecting his thoughts when he saw Max O’Hara sprint from the saloon into the doctor’s office. He started toward the doc’s, but had only taken a few steps when O’Hara burst back out of the office carrying Stretch’s shotgun. Badger watched as the bartender ran up to the saloon doors and stopped.
Easing across the street, Badger worked his way close enough to the Golden Ace to hear what was going on inside. He was standing ready to join the ball when Stretch took control of the situation. When Hack and the other two advanced across the street, Badger trotted over to join them.
Jim approached Hack and Cormac. He gave the third man a cursory glance but did not recognize him. “Hack, what happened?”
Ott Carlyle’s hand went to his front holster. It was empty. The side holster, likewise, held no pistol. His head jerked around searching for his six-guns. He found the weapons sticking in the Irish Kid’s gun belt. He showed no expression as he looked at the Kid’s smiling face, but his eyes glared out what was on his mind.
Cormac winked at him. “We almost got our bacon fried, Jimmy, boy, but thanks to your old friend here, we still got our scalps.”
“My friend, Hack?” For the first time, Badger got a good look at the walking cadaver. “I don’t believe I know this man, but I sure thank you, amigo, for helpin’ my compadres out of a jam.” Badger stuck his hand out to the man.
“Has it been so long that you don’t remember me, Butler? I might have changed a little, but one thing hasn’t changed at all.” Carlyle turned to his side, showing Badger his lame arm.
Badger gaped at the man as realization struck him. “Ott Carlyle? You’re Ott Carlyle? Good Lord, man! What happened to you?”
Carlyle’s lips split into a mirthless grin. “I’ve been chasing you ever since I recovered from my gunshot wounds.” He looked down at his lifeless arm. “A man doesn’t need a whole lot to survive on when he’s got hate keeping him going. All I could think about for all these years was finding you and killing you on the spot.”
Badger tensed up. “Why didn’t you make your play when I walked up?”
“Because this grinning baboon here took my pistols.”
Badger and Hack looked at the Irish Kid. Cormac rubbed the butt of Carlyle’s guns and winked again.
The Quarry gunmen began to spill out of the Golden Ace. At the same time, Dude Miller showed up with Charlie Pratt in tow, as well as four more gunslicks. Miller went straight to the men in front of the saloon and began to palaver with them. After a few moments, he turned toward Badger and the others. Miller started across the street at a slow walk. The other twelve Quarry gunfighters spread out in a semi-circle around the Armstrong group. Charlie Pratt was not among them.
“Are you a man of your word, Ott?” asked Badger.
“Yeah, why?”
“If we give you your guns back, will you swear to not try and kill me until this brouhaha is over with?”
“Doesn’t look like I have a choice,” he said with a sour grimace. “I’ll lay off of you until this thing is done, but if I live through it, all bets are off.”
“Give him his guns, Cormac,” Jim said as he started walking toward Dude Miller.
The Kid handed Ott Carlyle the pistols, barrels first. This time he didn’t wink. Carlyle took the guns, spun the chambers to check for cartridges, and holstered the weapons. All three men spread out behind Badger and stood loose.
In the meantime, Charley Pratt had snuck around behind the saloon and entered the place through the back entryway. He sneaked through the storeroom until he reached the door leading into the bar. Edging the door open, he could see Stretch Cassidy and his bartender peering over the swinging doors, shotguns in hand. Charley crept up to within a few feet of the two men.
“Boys, drop them shotguns,” said Charley, through clenched teeth. “And do it real easy-like. I’d plumb hate it if we lost both of our bartenders at the same time.”
Charley sauntered up closer to the door so he could be heard outside. “Dude!” he yelled. “Everything is hunky-dory in the saloon. These boys are quiet as church mice.” He laughed again, and prodded Stretch Cassidy on his injured shoulder with the barrel of his six-gun.
The saloon owner yelled and dropped to his knees.
Max O’Hara twisted around to face Charley and got a rap on his head for the effort. O’Hara staggered back against the wall, but he didn’t go down.
“Be still and shut up,” said Charley.
“Miller, this is between me and you,” said Badger. “Let’s leave everybody else out of it. We go head to head. One of us dies; the other rides out of Two Bucks City forever.”
“What makes you think I will leave after I kill you, Butler?”
“My name ain’t Butler, it’s Bale Armstrong, Jr., and I’ll take your word on leavin’.”
“My word? Why, sure, I’ll give you my word. And it don’t make no difference who you are. I’m going to kill you, anyway.” Dude raised his voice so all could hear him. “Quarry men, listen up, if this hombre kills me, you boys go on back in the saloon and have a drink in my honor. Mr. Quarry has about run his string out here in this country, anyway, and it’s time you hardcases drifted.”
“Watch yourselves, boys,” Badger said to his men. “There ain’t no honor on this street, today.”
Mort Quarry had heard the commotion and stood just inside his office with the door cracked. He could hear everything that was being said. “How dare Dude say I’m through in Two Bucks City?” Quarry whispered to himself. “If th
e Armstrong brat doesn’t kill him, I will, and then I will take direct charge of my men. This county will be mine, yet.”
Badger Armstrong pursed his lips and breathed easy. He could feel the sun bearing down upon him and it felt good. He tasted the dust, blown up from a slight breeze. The particles mixed with the sweat pouring down his face, forming a salty gray paste at the corners of his mouth. Salty, thought Badger. He hoped he would still be alive to enjoy the simple pleasures of life when this was done.
‘We ain’t got all day, Miller, pull iron or leave town.”
“Well, Armstrong, I been thinking about that.” Dude Miller’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe, we could talk this out. What do you think?” Miller blinked and grabbed for his pistol. He fired before he was ready; the bullet flew wide.
Badger’s draw was smooth, and his aim was accurate. His six-gun barked twice, and two finger-sized holes materialized on Dude Miller’s shirt. Before the blood could flow from the wounds, Miller was face down in the street.
When the gunshots went off, Charley Pratt jumped like he had been hit by one of the rounds. He took his eyes off of Max O’Hara for an instant to see who had been shot. The big bartender slammed his right fist square into Pratt’s mouth; his front teeth shot out like bats leaving a cave.
The breeze had died, and the silence roared in Badger’s ears. The count was still four guns to twelve, and none of the Quarry gunmen had shown any inclination to head inside the saloon. It was still bad odds for him and his bunch.
All at once a man came running down the street. It was Mort Quarry, and he was yelling to beat the band.
“Hold it right there!” Quarry hollered. “Don’t let that murderer get away. Stop him!”
The Quarry gunslingers opened up and let their boss get through. He stopped in front of his men.
“We all saw what happened. The Armstrong boy shot and killed Dude Miller in cold blood. You’ll hang for this, Armstrong. As the first citizen of Two Bucks City, I demand you hand your guns over to me. That goes for the rest of your gang, too. That man that’s down, someone check on him. If he’s alive, get his weapons too.”
“Man down?” said Badger. He gave a quick look behind him to find the Irish Kid and Hack Bonner still standing. Ott Carlyle was not so lucky. He was on the street sitting with his back to a watering trough. Blood leaked from just below his breastbone. Odd wheezing sounds escaped from his open mouth. His quest for Jim Butler was done.
Badger turned back to face Mort Quarry and his men. “Quarry, you’re finished in this county. I’ve sent for a Texas Ranger. He ought to be ridin’ in here any day now. You have nothing left to fight for, Quarry. Your segundo is dead. Your cowhands have pulled up stakes, and what gunfighters you have left don’t know whether to whittle or spit. Give it up, man.”
Mort Quarry’s right hand shot inside his coat, clutching for the .41 caliber pocket pistol concealed there. The deafening blast of two twelve gauge shot guns being fired simultaneously caused him to drop the revolver to the ground and duck for cover.
“That’ll be enough of that,” said Shank Halsey, cracking a long-barreled twelve gauge Colt shotgun. He popped the empty shell casings out and reloaded in one deft movement. Beside him, Rusty Puckett did the same.
Behind the two Double-A-Slash riders rode a half dozen more. What they may have lacked in skill, they more than compensated for with weaponry. Each man carried a shotgun or a rifle as well as a short gun.
Following close behind the riders was a wagon loaded down with Mexican farmers. Three people crowded the wagon seat. Maria held the reins, and Miguel sat opposite her. Between the two and holding on to them rode Bale Armstrong, Sr.
Maria guided the wagon close to Badger and halted the horses. The Mexican men jumped from the wagon and formed a cordon around it. Each man was armed with a pitchfork or an axe.
Bale Armstrong looked straight at Mort Quarry. His voice was weak, but loud enough to be heard. “Quarry, you took one of my sons away, but you brought one back to me, too.” He glanced at Badger, then back at Quarry.
“You stole my cattle, you threatened my hands, and you insulted my companion, Maria. I should kill you, but the West is changing. The time of the gun is almost over. Men like you and me, we’re history. I’ll let the law take care of you.” He paused, looking at Maria and the Mexican farmers surrounding the wagon. “No, we’ll let the law take care of you. We’ll hold you until the Rangers get here; then Two Bucks City will be done with you.”
Mort Quarry turned in a circle, looking for someone to side with him. His gunmen were mounting their horses and riding away. The townspeople stood and watched, doing nothing. Each one turned their eyes away when Mort Quarry looked in their direction.
Quarry raised his hands and started walking toward Badger. “Son, you beat me,” he said. “I give up. You’re the better man, today. Let me shake the hand of my conqueror; it’s the least you can do.”
Badger glanced down at the offered hand. It was a mistake. He caught the blur in his peripheral vision and dived backwards. Quarry’s roundhouse left hook caught the brim of Badger’s hat and sent it flying.
Jumping back caused Badger to lose his footing. Quarry jumped on him like a crazed maniac, stomping and kicking at Badger’s ribs. Badger rolled up in a ball trying to lessen the blows. One well-placed kick struck pay dirt, cracking a rib and causing Badger to yell out. The pain was agonizing, and Badger quit moving.
Confident he had the Armstrong boy down for the count, Mort Quarry raised his foot to crush Badger’s temple. When he did, Badger sprang from his balled-up position, driving his head flush into Mort Quarry’s groin. The huge man grunted and dropped to his knees.
Badger scrambled to his feet and, in spite of the pain, began to throw wicked left hooks and whistling right crosses to the body of the kneeling man. Quarry was beaten, but still Badger pounded him. He grabbed the bloody man by the throat and drew back his right hand to hit him one more time.
Melissa’s face jumped into his mind, and he turned loose of Mort Quarry. The banker’s unconscious body leaned to one side and toppled into the dirt.
Epilogue
Badger sat on the edge of the bed as Doc Withers wrapped his cracked ribs. Hack and the Irish Kid stood to the side. “I ain’t sayin’ that hombre don’t deserve killin’,” said the Kid, “but your daddy was right. Let the law hang him.”
Badger winced every time the doctor wrapped the bandage around the cracked part of his ribs. “My daddy,” he said. “Who’d have thought it.”
Mort Quarry was locked up in a small room in the saloon. Double-A-Slash hands were to guard the prisoner twenty-four hours a day until the Rangers came for him. Charley Pratt, minus his front teeth, was willing to tell everything he knew about his ex-boss if it would save him from the gallows. Bale, Sr., and Maria had gone back to the ranch to prepare a place for Badger.
Bale was still shaken by the return of his oldest son but, with Maria’s persuasion, he was willing to give Badger a chance.
“Doc,” said Badger. “What’s gonna happen to Melissa?”
“Well, son,” said the doctor, his face stretching into a grin. “Why don’t you ask her.”
Badger turned to see Melissa step in through the front door. He struggled off of the table and hobbled to her side. “Melissa, are you okay?”
She nodded her head and hugged Badger. “I’m hurting, but I will get over it. It’s hard to believe what my father had become. I realize now that he wasn’t the man I thought he was.”
“I’m sorry,” said Badger, not knowing what else to say.
“I have much to do to try and rectify what my father did. I have to start right away.”
As Melissa moved to exit the office, she turned and looked at Badger. “I am going to need assistance in rebuilding my company’s reputation. Will you consider helping me?”
Badger gave her his best poss
um grin. “Anything you need, Melissa, just call on me.”
“Good,” she said. “When your ribs heal, come see me. My ranch house is in dreadful condition and I am going to need a handyman to fix it up.” She closed the door and was gone.
Badger turned and looked at the doctor and his friends. All three had blank looks on their faces. So did he.
-The End-
Also from Lee Pierce
Bounty Hunter’s Moon
Treasure of Peta Nocona
Rough Justice
www.LeePierce.Info
Lee Pierce Biography
Lee Pierce is the author of Bounty Hunter’s Moon, Armstrong’s War and Rough Justice. He was born and raised in north central Texas. He grew up with a deep appreciation of the land, and living on small farms and one-horse ranches as a youth taught him the value of hard work. After high school, Lee joined the U. S. Army and eventually graduated from The University of Texas at Arlington after attending part and full time for nine years on the G.I. Bill. He has written and performed songs and cowboy poetry for many years. Lee lives with his wife, Cathy, three cats, two dogs, and three horses in Dos Caballos, New Mexico.
www.leepierce.info
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