by Zoe Blake
“He’s going by Silas Bullinger now. He’s in Vulture City. Seems there was some trouble there with a partner of his. Man named Jacob Waltze, who got himself killed over some business with his daughter.
Horn just smiled.
Laster picked at the mud crusted under his manicured nails. “The thing is, Horn,” he hemmed. “He knows you’re coming for him.”
Horn just pinned the man with a cold, black stare.
“I had too! You don’t understand!” stammered Laster. “I’m as afraid of him as I am of you! More even! I had to tell him!”
Horn stood and walked out without a word.
“It’s damn foolishness, that’s what it is, damn foolishness!” exclaimed Sheriff Doolin.
“You don’t even know what I’m about,” groused Horn.
“And I don’t need to know. You think I don’t know the look of revenge in a man’s eye when I see it, boy! I tell you it’s damn foolishness! Why would you want to go and chase after some old grudge! Not when you got yourself a pretty girl and warm bed here.”
Horn turned a hard look on him.
“What, just because I’m an old man, you don’t think I hear the gossip? I hear what they are saying about you and that pretty school teacher. Rumor is you holed up with her during the storm.”
“My business is my own.”
Sheriff Doolin shook his head disapprovingly. “Horn, you know better. You can’t be doing shenanigans like that in a town like this. You’ve ruined that gal’s reputation. You know you have.”
Horn placed a hand on the old man’s stooped shoulder. “Don’t worry, Doolin. I’ll make it right when I return.”
Tearing off a piece of an old wanted poster, he penciled a quick note. “I would be much obliged if you would do two things for me.”
“Name it, Horn.”
Reaching into his pocket, Horn withdrew several coins. “A few months back, there was a robbery at the New River Stage Coach Station.”
“I remember.”
“There was a young man killed. He was buried in the pauper’s grave outside of town.”
“Yep.”
“Here’s some coin. I want you to see he gets a proper headstone. Name’s Ezra Fairfax. Have a Holy Joe say a few words.”
“Friend of yours?”
Horn didn’t respond.
“And the other thing?” asked Doolin.
“See that this note gets delivered to the school teacher.”
Taking the folded small scrap of paper, Doolin said, “Are you sure you don’t want to tell her yourself?”
“No time,” Horn said gruffly. If Silas Bullinger knew he was after him, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Horn needed to get to Vulture City. This was the closet he had to ever gotten to the man who framed him for murder. He couldn’t waste the opportunity.
Doolin just shook his head.
Horn was out the door and on his horse, racing down the street which took you out of town the very next moment.
“Barnaby!” shouted Doolin. “Get your lazy ass in here.”
Barnaby came shuffling in. “Yeah, Sheriff.”
“Take this note out to the school teacher, Ms. Emma,” instructed Doolin as he handed Barnaby the small, folded piece of paper.
“Ah, Sheriff. That’s a long ways! Then I’d have to ride all the way back and get my wages,” whined the good-for-nothing Deputy.
“Fine. Here are your wages. Now git!”
Barnaby grabbed the few coins in his grubby hand and shuffled back out of the cabin. On his way to find his horse, he heard his name in a high-pitched sing song.
“Oh, Barnaby,” came the siren’s song from the town brothel. The girls always seemed to know when he got paid. “Why don’t you come over and say hello?”
“Can’t. I have to run an errand for the sheriff,” complained Barnaby.
“Not even for a quick kiss?” pouted one of the girls as she leaned forward, displaying her generous bosom to his avarice gaze.
“Well…okay…he didn’t say it was important or anything.”
Barnaby crossed the muddy street. Happily on his way to an afternoon of fornication and spent wages in the arms of a soiled dove. Never noticing the note which dropped from his careless hand. It went unnoticed by the tradesman who trampled it deeper into the mud. And the horse who trampled it even further.
Emma,
I must go out of town on business. I will return for you. Wait for me.
Horn
Chapter 9
San Francisco, California. Five weeks later.
“I heard he has killed at least two hundred men,” said the first man with a knowing smirk.
“I heard he has a whore in every town from here to the Mississippi. I’ve already seen him. Not the sort of man I’d want to cross swords with, I’ll tell you that,” said the second, a look of warning in his eyes.
Not to be out-done, the first offered, “Well, did you hear why he is in town?”
“Yes,” said the second smugly. “He’s tracking down a bounty, of course.”
“Humph, wrong! Hugh Camus who is friends with Bowman Batty who knows Judas Snook who worked with Barnaby Yarborough who was the deputy on Horn’s last bounty says he’s done with that job,” prattled the first with a knowing smirk. “He’s chasing down some robber baron. Word is the man framed Horn for murder years back. Now Horn’s out for blood. Don’t envy that man.”
Silas Bullinger knocked over a small stack of faro chips. The men turned from their cards at the commotion.
Running a sweaty hand down the ruffles of his handkerchief linen shirt, Silas rose awkwardly from the faro table. Turning in confused circles, he searched the room blindly. “I need to get out of here,” he mumbled.
“Sir? Sir? Your chips,” said the dealer.
“Keep them. Keep them,” fretted Silas as he waved the man away with an agitated hand.
Walking on unsteady feet, he stumbled out the door of the saloon and into the commotion of the busy San Francisco street. Dodging horse carts and carriages, he made his way across the street and down several small alleys till he arrived at a grubby, ramshackle hotel.
Wrinkling his nose against the distasteful smell of stale body odor and dust, he made his way up the rickety wooden staircase to his rooms. With his hand shaking with fear, it took several tries to get the brass key into the lock. The moment the door opened, he was hit with a cold, dank blast of air. Staring into the dark shadows of the room, he didn’t see the point in lighting a lamp. Reaching under the bed, he retrieved his carpet bag and started to fill it with his belongings.
Cursing Horn and his relentless pursuit.
If it weren’t for Horn, Silas would be staying at a hotel near Nob Hill instead of this hovel on Stockton Street. He would have a suite of lavishly furnished rooms. The fires would have been lit anticipating his return. There would have been a stocked bar and a box of his preferred cigars. Damn the man!
For over two decades he had been running his schemes in obscurity. Land scams with the railroads. Fake gold and silver mine deeds when the gold rush hit. Press gangs when the navy needed men. Each scheme more lucrative than the last. And always. Always. He stayed in the background. A shadow. Untouched by the law. Ensuring there was just enough documentation to get him his money but never enough to show any wrongdoing or to trace it back to him.
He knew Jackson Horn would be trouble from the moment he met him. That’s why he had the man framed for murder. It was pathetically easy to do. Enough coin in the right pockets and you can get the supposed law to do your dirty work for you. Silas lost track of how many problematic men he had gotten rid of that way. Until Horn. If it hadn’t been for that blasted war, the man would be dead by now. The man was relentless. Picking up on the slightest clue. Sensing his patterns even when Silas himself didn’t know he had any. Somehow he had finally tracked him down through that imbecile Laster.
Horn had been a dog at his heels ever since.
Whereas before he was a nuisance
, always a bothersome loose end that needed to be taken care of, now he was a real danger. He was too powerful and too well-connected for Silas to get away with framing him for murder again. He tried hiring someone to kill him, but each time the person learned Horn was the target, they backed off. No one wanted to come up against a man like Horn. So now Silas had taken to running. Hiding in hovels like a rat till he could come up with a new scheme to get rid of Horn.
It seems Horn had found him again. It was time to move on.
There was a scraping, scratching sound in the silence of the room.
The unmistakable sour smell of sulfur.
A small burst of orange light.
Then the room was filled with the soft glow from an oil lamp.
Horn sat in a corner chair. One ankle crossed over his knee. A Colt resting on his thigh. Cocked and ready.
Silas stumbled backward, hand over his heart.
“You…bastard! How dare you enter my rooms!” Silas raged. Lunging for his bag, he pulled free a polished, Collier’s flintlock, five shooter.
Horn smirked with derision. It would just figure this crow bait would have a pretty gun more known for its engraved swirls than its practical purpose.
Silas pointed the gun straight at Horn and fired. Nothing.
Horn sighed, unconcerned. “Your flint is dull and not properly napped. You’ve also fouled the barrel with old gunpowder.”
Silas let out a high-pitched scream and fired again. Nothing.
“As entertaining as this is, you and I have business to discuss.”
In desperation, Silas threw the gun at Horn and lunged for the door. Pulling on the handle with all his might, it wouldn’t budge. Silas threw a frightened look over his shoulder.
Horn rose. “You’ll find that way blocked, I’m afraid. Turns out there are a lot of disgruntled men in San Francisco who claim you sold then non-existent gold mines. They were…let’s say enthusiastic…to assist me in tracking you here.”
“I’ve got money, Horn. Name your price.”
“No.”
“Don’t act like you don’t have a price,” sneered Silas. “Every man has a price.”
“Oh, I have a price,” ground out Horn. His threat clear.
Silas put up his hands in defense. “Be reasonable, Horn. I’m sure we can come to some agreement!”
“Where are the deeds?”
“What deeds?”
“The deeds from all the land you stole from all those hard-working people over the years.”
“Now see here! I’ve never been accused…” huffed Silas.
Horn raised his second Colt and cocked it.
“Fine. Fine. I took the land from those imbeciles and changed the deeds before selling them to the railroad. Happy?” spat out Silas, bitterly. Maybe if he gave Horn the information he wanted, he would let him go. He could change his name. Flee to Europe. Make more money. It was easy to make money when all you had to do was take it from others. What did he care about a bunch of dusty old deeds when he was across the ocean? He would just have to convince Horn not to kill him. He had convinced countless people to hand over their livelihoods…he could do this. He would be on a steamer to Europe by dawn. “The original deeds are in a bank in New York. A deposit box.”
Horn motioned to some scraps of paper on the writing desk with the barrel of his gun. “Write it down.”
Silas slowly moved to do his bidding.
“And while you’re at it. Write a full confession. How you accused me of murder. How you swindled those people out of their land and money.”
“That could take a while,” whined Silas.
Horn gave him a crack on the head with the butt of his gun. “Do it.”
Silas scribbled a signed confession and handed it to Horn.
It was brief with no details but it contained what he needed. The name and number of the deposit box that would help scores of families get their land back or at least get the restitution they deserved from the wealthy railroads and an admission that he did not kill that fourteen-year-old boy.
Horn held the note high over his shoulder. “What do you think, Judge? Good enough?”
A portly gentleman stepped into the light from deep in the shadows, taking the note he observed, “Good enough for a hanging I’d say.”
“See here! What’s going on?” demanded an outraged Silas.
“Judge Herrig was kind enough to leave his faro game long enough to witness your confession,” drawled Horn. Judge Herrig was a fellow soldier from the war. Horn asked him along to make sure Silas’ confession stuck. Horn having saved the Judge’s life at the Battle of Blackburn’s Ford, he was more than happy to oblige.
“Judge! Judge! You need to arrest this man! He is wanted for murder! He held me at gunpoint! He threatened my life! Everything I said was a lie. I was just telling him what he wanted to hear to help spare my life!” pleaded Silas.
Judge Herrig turned to Horn as he casually pulled a cigar from an inner pocket of his coat. Biting off the tip, he lit it by the flame from the lamp. “This is tiresome, Horn. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just shoot him? I’d back your story of self-defense.”
Silas’ eyes bulged as spittle formed in the corner of his mouth.
“Shooting is too good for him. I want to see him hang,” said Horn fiercely. He leaned in closer to Silas. “I want to watch as his body twitches in the final throes as he gasps for air. I want to see his legs kick. His eyes roll back into his head…”
“You mean kind of like what is happening to the sorry chap now?” amused the Judge.
Silas had collapsed onto his knees and looked as if he were in the throes of some sort of seizure.
Horn spared a smirk for his friend. In that moment, Silas reached for a small knife he kept in his boot. Rising up with an unholy shriek, he lunged for Horn, sinking the small pen blade into Horn’s shoulder. There was the loud report of a gun. Silas collapsed backwards. Falling in an inglorious heap onto the dirt and grease darkened carpet.
Dead. It was over. Finally, over.
Horn stared at the lifeless body of the man who ruined his life and felt…nothing. No sense of relief. No satisfaction. No feeling of retribution. Just nothing. A hollow emptiness.
He missed Emma. Missed her warmth. Her sass. The shy way she smiled. Their fights. The feel of her skin. The rose water smell of her hair. It was as if a haze was clearing from his eyes. The sole-driving purpose of his life had been to find this worthless piece of immoral trash. He was so driven on setting the past to right he had ignored the present and possibly sacrificed his future. He had left the side of a beautiful, sweet woman who loved him…well, she had never actually said so, but between her several attempts to kill him and toss him out, Horn was fairly certain she had fallen for his undeniable charms…and for what? For this shallow victory?
“I have to go,” said Horn as he stepped over Silas’ body.
“So I guess I’ll just take care of this?” asked Judge Herrig sardonically as he waved a hand around the disordered room.
He said it to an empty room. Horn was already downstairs calling for his horse. He needed to get back to Arizona.
She was being silly, Emma chided herself. This was the smart thing to do. Her only real option.
After losing her school teacher position in Wickenburg once the rumors about Horn started, she moved on. Part of her did it just to punish Horn for leaving, secretly hoping he would return later to find her gone. Then she wised up and realized that he probably had never cared and never even returned. She took the stage to the New Mexico Territory. Her money just about ran out in Santa Fe. There she took a position as a clerk in a General Store.
“Well, Emma?”
For the last few weeks she worked in the store and lived in a small room at a boarding house a few doors down. Life was dreary, monotonous and routine. After the excitement of Horn, Emma preferred it that way.
“Emma?”
Even now she felt a sharp pang at just the thought of
his name. How could she have been so naive as to fall in love with a notorious gunfighter? She can’t even claim she was swept up in the moment. Every step of the way she was aware of the danger. Aware of the pitfalls. Aware of the sheer stupidity. And yet…yet she did it anyway. She fell for his charm. Fell for the promise of protection and safety in his arms. Fell for him. And then after those few days of excitement and other things that, to this day, still caused her to blush, he was gone. Walked right out her door. No note. No goodbye. Nothing. As if she had meant nothing.
“Emma, please!” whined the man at her side.
He was the rather boring son of the owner of the General Store.
He didn’t love you. Never loved you. He is a gunfighter with a woman in every town west of the Mississippi! Don’t throw away the rest of your life pining after a man you will never see again! Mrs. Notorious Gunfighter! Stuff and nonsense!
“Yes, Gerald. I’ll marry you.”
Emma choked back the tears as he hugged her and cried out for his parents to join them in the parlor.
“What the hell to you mean she’s not here?” raged Horn.
“What did you expect, Horn? You left the girl. The whole town was talking. She couldn’t stay,” complained Sheriff Doolin.
“I told her to stay,” growled Horn as he paced the small shack which served as the sheriff’s office like a caged animal.
“And how was she supposed to do that? No job or money? The derision of the whole town?” scoffed Doolin.
Horn grabbed his hat and charged toward the door.
“Where are you going now?” asked Doolin.
“Tracking.”
Horn would find her. And when he did, she wasn’t going to be able to sit for a week.
Chapter 10
Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. One month later.
Emma stood in front of a large, oval mirror staring at the reflection. Well, she supposed it was her reflection. Although it didn’t feel like it. It was almost as if she were staring at a dressmaker’s doll.
