by Lou Cameron
How friendly he still felt towards any infernal frog, with the possible exception of Claudette, was up for grabs. They’d made him late as hell and damned near gotten him killed. His only consolation was that had he not been along, even pretty Claudette could have wound up dead. They obviously needed someone who knew the territory better to watch over them. But where in the U.S. Constitution did it say it was his duty? He didn’t work for Pathe and, at the rate things were going, never wanted to. But he never let on as he kissed Claudette adios on the rear platform and just told her he meant to scout the town a mite. Covering past events like these had taught him that finding a hotel room or even a pool table to lie down on after your legs gave out could be an expensive if not impossible proposition. So, there was just no telling how he might feel about old Claudette, and that cozy sleeping compartment, once he’d stretched his legs a mite.
It didn’t take much leg stretching to get from one end of the town to the other. But everything in between called for a wary eye as drunks staggered out, or got thrown out, of the spanking new saloons that had been feed stores, hat shops and such a few days back. Under normal conditions there just weren’t enough folk in Columbus or working on the outlying spreads to justify more than one saloon, even if they served Indians. There were likely more Indians about, than anyone else during normal times. Stringer hadn’t made his mind up about the Luna Indians. They were said to be Christians assimilated to Spanish culture, and so no better or worse than Mexicans in the eyes of most local Anglos. Stringer knew how he felt about the Apaches to the north or the Yaqui to the south. Everyone felt much the same about Apaches, and Yaquis scared hell out of that truculent breed. The Apaches had been acting sensible for the last few summers and the Yaquis hardly ever left their home range in the Sierra Madres, so what the hell. He doubted even one of those two Mex armies would show up.
A lot of other folk must have. As he strode the streets of Columbus, Stringer saw more dudes than you could shake a stick at.
He now felt better about those French dudes back on the siding. Men sporting derbies and high button shoes had the cowfolk of Columbus clearly outnumbered ten or more to one, even though the way some obvious cowhands wore their hats indicated the big show had drawn good old boys from near and far. You could generally tell a rider’s home range from the way he crushed the crown of his hat. Hardly anyone but Texans favored high crowned ten gallons creased down the front, while Arizona riders copied their own Arizona Rangers by having four dimples and a flat brim, Canadian Mounty style. Riders from north of Santa Fe wore their hats telescoped in the Colorado Crush that made them look Spanish from any distance. The many army men he passed had their cavalry hats creased on top and dimpled on either side, just as Stringer wore his own old army hat. Some of the troopers were colored. That meant the old Tenth Cav was in town. That, in turn, made Stringer suspect he’d been sent on a snipe hunt. Staging a battle smack on the border under the watchful eye of at least two cavalry regiments, white and black, made no sense at all.
To confirm his suspicions, Stringer paused to admire a black staff sergeant watering his bay at a public trough. His first try for a howdy was met with wary silence. White strangers dressed cow and wearing a six-gun could have that effect on colored troopers. He got a slight smile out of the cuss when he asked if he had the honor of addressing a member of the Buffalo Soldier Regiment. The sergeant nodded soberly and replied, “That’s what Mister Lo called us when we was whupping his Comanche ass, Sir.”
Stringer nodded knowingly and said, “I met up with the Tenth Cav down Cuba way one time. It was atop San Juan Hill. I came up along with Colonel Roosevelt and the other white boys who sort of followed your outfit up the slope.”
The burly sergeant suddenly grinned widely and decided, “You was there, if that’s how you remembers it. Most folk seem to think you Rough Riders took that hill whilst us shines tagged along to tidy up after your chargers, which would have been a chore, since everyone charged up that hill on foot, at a slow walk indeed. Wasn’t that smokeless powder the Spanish used a bitch?”
Stringer nodded and said, “I didn’t like their British shrapnel, either. I wasn’t with the Rough Riders, exactly. I was covering the fighting for my newspaper. I’m called Stringer MacKail, by the way.”
The sergeant turned out to be Calvin Green. Stringer asked what the Tenth was doing in these parts, the Luna being so sedate, and Green went wary again as he answered, “We just go where they sends us.” Then he suddenly brightened and asked, “Say, might you be the same MacKail who put it in the papers that it was us, the colored troops, as really took San Juan Hill that time?”
Stringer shrugged modestly and said, “I had to. A good newspaper man is supposed to call things as he sees ‘em, not as they read better. Colonel Roosevelt wasn’t the one who screwed you boys out of the glory. He told me so when we met up in the Yellowstone park a while back. Another reporter called Richard Harding Davis filed that story about the Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill without asking anyone who’d been there. He was the same cuss who allowed it had been a splendid little war.”
The black sergeant looked disgusted and said, “He must not have seen much of it, then. There’s no such thing as a splendid war and I reckon all wars seem just as big to the men who die in ‘em. What are you doing here in Columbus, Mister MacKail?”
Stringer said, “The same as you, I suspicion. We don’t have to talk about Pancho Villa if you have orders not to.”
But Green just grinned and said, “Shoot, that was before I knew who you was. We just have units from four or five regiments here, making up about a brigade in all, if them Mex boys gets foolish about the border. My officer talks to me just as natural as you do, Mister MacKail, and he says nothing’s fixing to happen. Neither Mex side has any military training. But nobody who can tell his ass from his elbow would ever tell the other side just where to meet him and then tell him what time! Our looie says that if one fool Mex shows up it’ll just be a made up show for the tourists, like a bullfight, see?”
Stringer shrugged and said, “I’ve seen some mighty messy bullfights. Nobody but the bull is supposed to get killed, as a rule, but some old boys do get fired up once they know the gals are watching and that they’ll get extra points for acting sort of stupid. Do you mind my asking just what your orders are, should things get out of hand, Sergeant?”
Green shook his head and said, “Our orders are simple. As long as they keeps whatever they think they’re up to outside the borders of These United States, we ain’t supposed to do nothing. But if one Mex, or one Mex bullet invades the peace and tranquility of our country, we gets to mow the sons of bitches down. We got us a mess of them new Maxim machine guns. They’ll be set up to cover the fool grandstand and all the fools sitting in ‘em. I wish we’d had guns like that when I was fighting Mister Lo in my younger days. Ain’t no uppity Mex gonna invade this country with Mister Maxim telling him he can’t!”
Stringer agreed even Mex federales, or regular army, would be unlikely to try that in defiance of U.S. troops armed with automatic weapons. So they shook on it and he moved on.
Stringer knew there’d be more local gossip in any one of the saloons. But for now he decided to just get the feel of the place in case he ever wanted to leave it in a hurry.
Stringer’s next encounter was less friendly. A few doors up, he noticed the dimly illuminated sign of an all-night Western Union office. He’d never understood why that particular company seemed out to hide its offices behind such discreet, dull yellow and locomotive black signs. Everyone else agreed it paid to advertise. The dentist across the street was easier to find, having hung out a big gold tooth. But, having found the infernal telegraph office, through no effort on their part, Stringer was reminded that he’d arrived over a day late and that even if he didn’t have anything to report, yet, Sam Barca often wired him instructions on those occasions when Sam knew where the hell he was. Neither of them bothered with the Bell System’s newfangled long di
stance telephone lines unless they just had to. Bell Telephone did advertise, a lot, but so far they had a heap of wires to string before they’d ever make good on that mighty wild promise to have every housewife in the country swapping cake recipes and gossip on one big party line. Western Union left you with a written record as well, and Sam fussed when it cost a nickel a word.
Stringer didn’t notice his route to the glass door of the telegraph office was being blocked by a burly gent wearing an undertaker’s dark suit and a brace of cross-draw Colt .45s until he tried to politely step around the stranger, only to be rudely blocked and told, “You don’t want to send no wires, MacKail.”
Stringer stared back just as hard, smiled just as unfriendly, and said, “Sure I do. Since you seem to know my name, you seem to have the advantage on me, amigo.”
The stranger replied, “Sure I have the advantage on you. I make it at least one extra gun and considerable experience in matters involving such weaponry. You don’t want to know my name. You already know more than a boy your size ought to mess with. They tell me there’s a westbound train coming through just after midnight. You can board it on your own two feet, or catch yourself a later one, in a box. So what’s your pleasure, pencil pusher?”
Stringer considered the options offered before he chuckled fondly and said, “It won’t work. I’ve had some experience as well. When a sober man’s words make no sense I have learned to consider what he’s trying to get me to do.”
The gunslick scowled harder and replied, “There’s no mystery as to what I want you to do, MacKail. I want you to get out of town or, if that don’t tickle your fancy, feel free to go for your gun any time you like.”
Stringer shook his head and said, “You really must have me down as a city boy. Nobody would send a newspaper man back to his pressroom with a secret they didn’t want to read in banner headlines, even if he had one. I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to have on your present employers, but anyone can see they sent you to shut me up, permanently. You likely have one of those mail order private licenses, but you don’t want to gun anyone in cold blood in the middle of even a small incorporated township with its own law. So you’re trying to get me to draw first, or try to. You must think you’re pretty good, cocksucker.”
The hired gun gasped and it almost worked. Then he laughed in a surprisingly boyish way and replied, “You’ve been around a mite as well, I see. Did you really think you could get that .38 out ahead of me? It ain’t even tied down, and you’re so right about me being good.”
Stringer shrugged and replied, “At the rate we’re going, we’ll just never know, will we? I’m here to cover that Mexican hoedown, not to be interviewed by a coroner’s jury. I fear your chosen profession is about to go the way of the beaver trade, you poor cuss. This is a brand new century and the days when one gent could gun another and just swagger off are about over. Have you considered making buggy whips for fun and profit? You’re just going to get yourself shot by another asshole or hung by the law at the rate you’re going.”
The older gunslick looked hurt and replied in an injured tone, “There will always be a demand for my sort of services as long as fresh-mouthed pests like you draw breath, and let it out so indiscreet. Might I persuade you to slap leather if I was to say something mean about your mother or your manhood?”
Stringer asked, “Do I look like a Mex matador? I ain’t worried about a cocksucker’s opinion of my manhood, since he’d hardly be in a position to know. If you’d like to call me a son of a bitch I’d be proud to accompany you to Fist City, though.”
The burlier but now bewildered professional bully protested, “Hold on, I’m a hired gun, not a damned old prize fighter. You must be as loco as they say. Whoever heard of challenging a dangerous cuss like me to a fist fight?”
Stringer shrugged again and said, “Well, I won’t make you meet me after school if you’re too sissy. I was only offering to settle this argument in a way the Columbus law might overlook. With this many drunks in town tonight, I doubt they have a tank big enough to hold everyone who throws less than fatal punches before the night is over, do you?”
The gunslick growled, “I wasn’t told to treat you less than fatal. I’m counting to ten. Then I’m going to go for my guns. You can do whatever you’ve a mind to.”
Stringer stood there as his tormentor slowly got to nine and added, “No shit, now… ten!”
Then Stringer observed, “If you want to take your boots off I’d sure like to see if you can count to twenty.”
The gunslick roared, “You mule-headed young son of a bitch!” So Stringer hit him, hard, with the vicious left hook. Then he threw his right to further ruin the bigger man’s bridge work and send him crashing back through the glass door of the Western Union office.
The shattered glass didn’t do the gunslinger much good, either, as he wound up with his knees draped over the wooden bottom of the door with the rest of him inside, knocked galley west on the floor tiles with considerable amounts of his blood mixing with the shiny shards of broken glass all over the place. Stringer ducked through the remains of the door and hunkered down to empty the gent’s two holsters as well as a vest pocket stuffed with a .32 whore pistol. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered out front, and the Western Union clerk behind the counter was calling hellfire and damnation down on both their heads.
Stringer got back to his feet and ambled over to the counter, saying, “Buenos noches. I’d be Stringer MacKail if you have any wires for me, yet.”
The clerk protested, “Are you out of your mind? You just now busted twenty dollars worth of glass and littered our fresh-mopped floor with the mangled results! I’m going to have the law on you, cowboy!”
Stringer replied in the same calm tone, “Simmer down. I’m not a cowboy and the law ought to be here any minute. Meanwhile, do you have any messages for me or not?”
The clerk insisted he’d never heard of anyone called MacKail until someone by that name had shoved another drunk through his doorglass. So Stringer reached for a pad of yellow telegram forms on the counter between them and said, “I’d best let my home office know where I am, while I still can. Do you have a pencil handy?”
When the outraged clerk suggested they might have one at the lunatic asylum he’d escaped from, Stringer rummaged about in his denim jacket, got out his own pencil stub, and proceeded to fill in Sam Barca on his recent misadventures, muttering, “I got to pick up some tobacco while I’m about it. I hope you and the saloons ain’t all that’s open at this hour.”
He’d just finished his terse message when a skinny old gent with a tin star pinned to his vest ducked through the shattered door, nudged the unconscious man on the floor with a boottip for signs of life and, being rewarded by a groan, came over to the counter to nod at both of them and say, “Evening. I don’t suppose either of you gents would like to tell me how that other poor cuss wound up in such obvious distress?”
As the clerk pointed at him, Stringer slid the three guns he’d helped himself to along the counter toward the lawman, saying, “I cannot tell a lie, Marshal. I hit him twice, with my fists. He was wearing this artillery at the time and he called me a son of a bitch.”
The old timer glanced soberly down at the six-gun Stringer was wearing, nodded, and opined, “I have seen such remarks turn out more fatal.” Then he turned to the clerk to mildly ask, “Did you hear the passing of such a remark, Hiram?” To which the clerk flatly replied, “The first I knew, the one on the floor came flying in here, backwards, glass and all. This one says his name’s MacKail, Marshal.”
The older man turned back to Stringer, his bony right hand resting casually on the grips of his own side-draw Peacemaker, as he mildly observed, “You really ought to have at least one witness at times like these, and I’d sort of like to see some personal identification, Mister MacKail.”
Stringer carefully got out his billfold, making no sudden moves as he opened it and handed it over. The old man took it with his left hand, leaving his gun ha
nd right where it was, as he scanned Stringer’s press pass, California gun permit, and other papers. As he handed it back with a curt nod he said, “I’ve read your stuff. Our Columbus paper buys its outside news from your syndicate. Now what can you tell me about the other disturber of the peace, old son?”
Stringer said, “He allowed to being a hired gun. He tried to get me to draw first. I thought it made more sense to just hit him a few good licks.”
The marshal nodded soberly and said, “You thought right. We don’t hold with homicide in this town and I’ve always been of the opinion that a man who picks fights for money is lower than a sheep herder. Do you know why he was out to cause you harm or injury, Mister MacKail?”
Stringer answered, truthfully, “You’ll have to ask him when he wakes up. I’ll be switched with snakes if I can think of a sensible reason to have me put out of business so rudely. I’m only here to cover that brawl between Villa and Terrazas. I can’t be the only newspaper man in town, and if someone was out to keep it a secret I don’t see what good gunning just me would do. I only mean to fill one seat in the stands when and if the battle comes off.”
The old lawman sighed and said, “It ain’t no secret. They’ve put up posters. Let’s see who the jasper might be.”
Stringer stayed put, leaning against the counter, as the town law moved over to the unconscious form on the floor, hunkered down to go through the gent’s duds, and when the gunslick asked what happened and where he was, the older man muttered, “Go back to sleep. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, letting another man knock you on your ass whilst you was packing three guns.”
The marshal found a wallet, pulled out a voter registration card, and muttered, “I wish they didn’t hand these out to just any cuss who asks for one. I sort of doubt anyone named Walker votes all that regular in Flagstaff, Arizona Territory, but we got the alias on file and such handy cards are almost the trademark of an owlhoot who don’t like to get picked up for vagrancy.”
