by L. J. Martin
“Si, Señor.” He hustled into the shack and retrieved it.
With some hesitation, I took it from him and walked around the side of the shack and sat and leaned back against a cedar, opened the small leather bound book, and began to read.
The first thing I found, somewhat a surprise, was another letter from Ignacio Sanchez senior, addressed to me.
And the first sentence, in his poor handwriting and spelling said, ‘Señor, by the time you red this, I will probly be muerta, murdered.’
Chapter Twelve
I took a deep breath with that one. Ignacio was a soothsayer, or at least was well aware what he was up against.
The letter went on with the old man’s bad spelling and grammar, which, as bad as it was, was better by far than my Spanish:
*
When the caballeros from the Lazy Snak find out I was alive, and had most likely seen the evil they had done, I know it just a mater of time.
I have decide to test if there was any truth to this Amercan justice that is talked about, so I am gone into town to make sure all the honest citizens of Nemesis know that I am alive, and what I have seen. If I am killed there, at lest there are those who can testfy as to my murder.
So, if this letter reches you, after my death, this is my dying decliration that Shank Cavanaugh, the Lazy Snake riders known as Lamb, I think, and Willy Star, Tat, and the Indian known as Croked Arm, as well as two others I only know by sight, but who ride for the Lazy Snak, rode into the McIntosh ranch, the Bar M, and shot and killed suhermana, and her man, and set the fire that killed the muchachas. It was murder.
As God is my witnes, I hope they roast in hell and Diablo picks his fangs with ther bones, for what they did.
If God is willing, I will live to urnate on their graves. If not, via con dios, Señor McBain.
Ignacio Sanchez
*
So, there are seven, not six. The job has grown. By the time I finished the letter, I could taste the bile in my throat and mouth, and my neck and ears were hot with anger. I took a long moment to remind myself that I had a long row to hoe, a field full of tough oak stumps to uproot, before I was through with this terrible task, and going at it with anger would get me killed or incarcerated long before I have slashed and shot and trapped my way through the lot of them.
Calm deliberation is my friend, I reminded myself, as I watched a redtail hawk circle above, his eyes filtering every movement on the meadow below. I must be as patient.
I sat and listened to the meadowlarks, the occasional screech of the hawk, and the chatter of a covey of Gambel’s quail with their short-long-short distinctive cry while admiring the distant cedar covered hills, until my breathing was even and I’d calmed myself, then I went to talk with Angel Sanchez.
Finding him at the rough plank table in the cabin, I joined him, after first pouring myself a cup of black-as-tar coffee from atop his little pot bellied stove.
“So, did your father discuss this killing at his old place of employment…the Bar M?” I asked.
“Si, Señor. It was a terrible thing, and he was afraid that he would be killed for seeing what he saw, and who he saw.”
“And he was, you believe? …Murdered, I mean.”
“He would not let me accompany him to town, when he finally decided to ride in. Riders from the Lazy Snake had been to Señor Henderson’s ranch three times, looking for my father, but Señor Henderson put them on a false trail, telling them my father had returned to Mexico.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“My father was an honorable man, and he cared for the two McIntosh girls as if they were his own.” The boy smiled sadly. “He always wished he had a girl or two of his own, mi madre died giving birth to Iggy.”
“I’m going back to sit in the shade of the tree and read the journal. I thank you, Angel.”
“For what, Señor. I have done nothing.”
“You went to avenge your father, and that is something. Family, I have come to believe, is about all we have out here. I kept myself in the high lonely too long. I’m going to tell you something that you must swear to keep to yourself.”
He shrugged, and I repeated myself. “You must swear.”
“Si, I swear.”
“On your father’s grave.”
“Si, I swear.”
“I am Mrs. McIntosh’s brother. The uncle to the girls your father was so fond of.”
“You are a McIntosh?”
“Her married name. I’m a McBain, as she was.”
“Not Stark?”
“McBain, but that’s the last time you’ll think on the name, at least until my job is finished.”
“Your job?”
“I plan to avenge my sister and her family. I don’t trust the law hereabouts, so I will be judge and jury.”
“And hangman?” he asked, with some encouragement.
“Yes, and executioner.”
“Then we are on the same path.”
“No, Angel. You’re young. I’m pretty near used up, in miles if not in years. You have a lot to live for—“
“I live for my family, now only my brother, and I will avenge mi padre, it is the path I have chosen.”
I looked at him for a long moment, seeing the dedication in his continence. He meant what he said, but he was only a boy. “You are but seventeen, Angel.”
He smiled tightly. “I know my age, Señor. I kill rabbits on the run, and birds in flight. I can fade into the brush as well as any Shoshone or Piute. And I will do this job, for my sainted madre, and my murdered padre. I will help you, or I will do it alone.”
“You did a fine job escaping jail. You did just as I instructed. So, then, you can help me, but you must take my orders, so we work together, and get the job done.”
“You were in the war?”
“I was a captain, with many soldiers in my command.”
“Then I will take your orders…so long as we get the work at hand done.”
“I’m going to read the journal now.”
“And I will check to see if Iggy nears. He should arrive here before nightfall, if he has had no trouble on the drive.”
“Be careful, others search for you. You won’t be any help if you’re back behind bars…or shot dead.”
His old 43 Spanish Remington rolling block was on a rack over the door. He took it, and left at a brisk stride, I presume to climb a nearby rise where he could look into the distance.
I sat under the tallest cedar near the cabin, took a deep breath, and, with some trepidation, began to read my sisters most private thoughts.
And I read quickly, as it was Saturday, and I wanted to get back to town by early evening.
Before I was done with it, and it being over fifty pages, I was glad Angel had business elsewhere, as the tears were lining my dusty cheeks. It seems my sister had nothing but, in her own words, love and admiration for me, and was worried sick that she knew not where I was hanging my hat. And she had plenty of suspicions that she was in for trouble with the Lazy Snake riders. She also was worried that Shank Cavanaugh had an eye for her, as he’d dropped around more than once, but luckily Jake, her husband, had been near at hand every time Shank had come calling. She feared the day he wouldn’t be, as Shank had studied her with lascivious eyes.
Right then and there, through the tears, I made up my mind that it would have to be something very special for Shank Cavanaugh, and I was glad I’d already had the chance to shame him in front of his boss and his cohorts.
I finished my reading, and lay my head back for a moment to collect myself, and my thoughts.
Saturday night. I was sure the Lazy Snake boys would be coming in to hoo’ra the town, to play a little poker or faro, and to pleasure the sportin’ ladies.
Saturday night and they’d be filling their gullets with cheap whiskey. And I damn sure wanted to be at hand, if for nothing else, to see whom the players were.
*
It was just after nine on a starless, overcast night when I
tied Dusty and the steel gray to the rail in front of the jail, then stuck my head in to see Shorty sawing logs, his mouth hanging open like a fly trap, his feet up on Wentworth’s desk. I went on in and turned the lamp up enough to check the loads in my Colt’s Army model, to pull my cut down saber out and thread my belt though it’s scabbard, and slip my 44 two shot belly gun into my boot.
Taking a deep breath, I closed Ranger in the office to stand guard, trusting that Shorty would fear my wrath should he harm him, and headed to Sally’s Salacious Parlor of Fine Food and Folderol. The place was packed, cigar smoke hanging down to head high, smelling of sweaty cowhands and drovers and the perfume of pleasure ladies, spittoons filled to overflowing, just as I suspected it would be on a Saturday night.
Brighid Fimple was working the tables, Lizzy Perlmutter sat in a high stool at the rear overseeing her domain. Sheriff Wentworth hunkered like an old bear at a poker table with three other men who looked to be cowhands, and even the stud horse of the country, Mace Dillon, looking like a Prussian general with his nicely trimmed Van Dyck, sat at a faro table, where both his ramrod, Tobin ‘Curly’ Stewart, and his attack dog, Shank Cavanaugh, played the card game.
A second card table, near the rear where Lizzy Perlmutter surveyed the action, held three cowhands, a fellow looking like a drummer, and Mayor John Pointer. Even the Chinese laundry man, Wong Lee, sat at the bar, sipping a whiskey—which surprised me as Chinamen normally weren’t welcome in other than Celestial gambling houses or Opium dens. Maybe two dozen others, including a couple of working girls I hadn’t seen before, occupied the rest of the stools and tables.
I stood for a moment at the swinging bat wing doors, studying the place over the top. Then I hoisted the Army Colt’s, making sure it rode free and easy, and pushed my way inside.
Only a couple of patrons, including Shank Cavanaugh, seemed to take notice. I locked eyes with the snake, and he looked quickly away. He still showed his bruises. With that I surmised this wouldn’t be the night I’d have to trade shots with him.
I stopped at the bar and ordered three fingers of rye from Polkinghorn, then purposefully slopped some of it on my shirtfront in order to smell as if I had long been at the bottle, drank the last finger’s worth, and ordered another, then moved to the table with the three cowhands, the drummer, and John Pointer, as it held an empty seat and they were playing draw poker. I figured a sixth would be welcome. It was a game at which many lonely nights encamped with other Union soldiers had given me some proficiency.
Feigning drunkenness, I stumbled a little when trying to gain the seat. Pointer eyed me with interest.
“You got the rest of my twenty, so I can sit in?” I asked the mayor, slightly slurring my words.
He cleared his throat. “Well, no, but I’ll spot you to a ten if you want to join in. How was the hunt?”
“Long, tiring, butt blistering, unproductive,” I said with a frown, “good thing I took a bottle of whiskey along,” then added, “who are these gents?”
Pointer went around the table, nodding at each man in turn as he introduced them, and I shook.
“Willy Stark, Tate Jorgensen,” Pointer began, “Liam…what’s your last name, Liam?”
“Toole.”
I laughed, again purposefully to be irritating, although I was already seething inside, knowing in my heart of hearts that Liam was mistaken for Lamb by Ignacio, then said, “Like a wagon wrench? That kinda tool.”
He didn’t smile. “No,” and he spelled it out, slowly, a letter at a time, “T O O L E,” he said.
The drummer’s name was Elias something or other, but I paid him little attention.
I’d hit a bulls eye with the first shot. Three of my sister’s killers at the first table at which I plopped down. I turned to the next man, a swarthy, sallow faced fellow, with a wicked scar on his left cheek. “And I suppose you’re a knife fighter, so your name would be Blade?” I was seated between Toole and Stark, with Jorgenson across the table, which was not to my liking, but I didn’t have much choice as it was the only seat left at the table. The good news was it had my back to the wall.
Scar-face started to rise, but Toole put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back in the chair. “He’s the town marshal,” he said, and I wondered how he knew as I was not wearing my copper badge. I guess the word had gone around the Lazy Snake bunkhouse, putting the boys on notice about the man who’d beaten the hell out of their big gun, Cavanaugh.
I did note that Toole sported a cut-away holster for the nickel plated pistol he wore, with the tie down now cast off the hammer, and his leather looked to be greased slick with tallow. He was more than a mere cowhand, but then I figured most of the Lazy Snake riders were likely to be as handy with the gun as were with a reata.
“Maybe,” the swarthy, scarred one said through clenched teeth, “but he’s a rude polecat.”
I laughed, and shook him with him hard enough to crush bone. He didn’t give an inch, which also didn’t surprise me. “So, you got a name?” I asked, still giving him a stupid grin. “I’m Slade. My friends call me Tag…you can call me Slade.” I guffawed again.
“I’m Willy Stark, in case you didn’t catch it the first time. You playing or just drop by to be insulting and interrupt the game?”
Pointer passed a ten dollar liberty eagle gold piece my way, and Lizzy, sitting near by and watching the exchange, quickly dismounted her stool and changed the gold for a pile of silver.
“You all right?” she asked quietly as she did so.
“Fine as frogs hair,” I said, and laughed stupidly, then slugged down half the three fingers of rye. “Deal me in,” I said, ignoring her as the last thing I wanted was her near what I figured was going to come down, and we played several hands after she retreated to her stool.
Polkinghorn climbed atop the bar and rapped a spoon alongside a bottle, gaining the attention of everyone in the room.
“Miss Lizzy,” he said, by way of introduction, and everyone turned to her as she rose.
“I got something a little special for y’all tonight,” she announced. “Mr. Andre Renee from New Orleans is on a layover on a trip west, and has agreed to entertain with his banjo for our mutual pleasure. Tips would be accepted.”
Everyone applauded, and the fat banjo player mounted atop an upright piano along the rear wall, next to the door to the cribs, sucked down a mug of beer, leaving himself with a white foam mustache, then tuned up and struck a lively tune.
It was my turn to deal, and I took the opportunity of Lizzy’s distraction to palm a couple of aces, then slip them under my leg. I dealt a hand, then passed the deck to Toole, on my left, after scar-face, Stark, on my right, won a hand. And in passing the cards, I clumsily brushed a couple of my coins off the table.
Toole’s coat hung loosely on his thin frame, and while bent and rummaging around on the floor gathering up the coins I slipped the aces into his coat pocket, at the same time fishing the belly gun out of my boot and into my own coat pocket, which I still wore, even though the place was a little on the warm side.
After a few more hands, when I’d lost five of the ten dollars, and downed the rest of the whiskey, Toole, who was a fair poker player, won a big hand with several dollars in the pot.
“Damned if you’re not a lucky son of a gun,” Pointer said to Toole, as he raked in the pot.
“Either damned lucky,” I said, with a low growl, “or a damned cheat.”
Toole stood so quickly he knocked the chair back and over, crashing to the floor, and drew his weapon in a flash. He was fast, as I had a suspicion he would be. The room silenced as all heads turned toward the sound.
“You calling me a cheat?” he snarled. The muzzle of his nickel plated revolver was dead center on my chest, and the hammer full cocked. I was seconds from being toes up, and leaving my sister un-avenged.
Chapter Thirteen
I placed both my hands flat on the table, and stood slowly. “Look friend, I’m a little into my cups.” I spread my hands
to the side. “And my gun is holstered, and yours is in hand. You shoot me and it’ll be murder.”
Slowly, I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, and opened it wide. “See, the gun’s holstered.”
He stared at the cut down saber hanging from my belt, then looked even harder at me.
“Tough shit,” he said, but he cut his eyes toward where his boss, Colonel Dillon, had risen, and as he did so, shifted the muzzle of the nickel platted pistol just enough that it cleared my right side.
The shot from the belly gun in my pocket took him dead center in the chest, and his pistol discharged as he reeled back, but holed the plank wall an inch from my side.
The drummer who was seated across the table between Pointer and Tate Jorgenson, bolted for the front door. I spun to face Willy Stark, who looked as if he was considering drawing his weapon. I smiled stupidly at both he and Jorgenson, waggling the barrel of the belly gun, still in my now holed and slightly smoldering coat pocket, at them, having to cut my own eyes away for a split second due to the sound of footfalls. But it was only some wise pilgrims making for the bat wing doors.
“One left in this nasty little belly gun,” I said, “should either of you care to taste it,” and Stark looked as if he might doubt it. And I hoped he would. But Stark, who seemed the most agitated and consequently had most my attention, moved carefully and buttoned his coat, a clear indication that he was not about to defend Toole’s honor, as the herringbone wool shielded his weapon from a draw.
Jorgenson gathered up his mug of beer in both hands, and kept his eyes off me. He would be no trouble, at least not this day.
Quickly, I scanned the rest of the saloon, looking for where another shooter might be. All looked innocent, quiet, and harmless as church mice, except for Sheriff Wentworth and Colonel Dillon. Both of them were on their feet, snarling, but had not palmed a weapon.
Toole, having dropped the nickel plated pistol, was flat on his back, no threat, clutching his chest with both hands, his weapon at his side, pink lung blood now oozing between his fingers and trickling from the side of his mouth, while his eyes slowly glazed.
