by Ralph Cotton
Sam stood and kicked Bonsell’s Colt and rifle out of reach. He only nodded in reply.
Watching, Bonsell couldn’t stand it.
“You’re both making me sick!” he spat. “This lawdog ain’t that good with a rifle—nobody is!” He spun a harsh look at Sam. “Are you, lawdog? Tell the truth.”
Sam didn’t answer. He only stared down at Bonsell. He had aimed at Bonsell’s gun belt, but hitting Cleary’s belt buckle was a fluke. He’d aimed at his belly. Yet, Sam knew that the less he told these men about his intentions, the better.
“Speaking of telling the truth, Cutthroat . . . ,” he said, reaching down to help Bonsell to his feet. “You and I are going to talk some about Braxton Kane and his pals—”
“Ha! You won’t have to go looking for Brax, Ranger,” Bonsell sneered, cutting him off. “Soon as he hears you killed his brother Cordy, he’ll come looking for you. Him, the Garlets, Buford Barnes and all the rest.” He started to point his bloody wrapped index finger at Sam before he realized it was missing. “So there’s no need in you talking to me—I’ll tell you nothing!”
Sam just stared at him for a moment. That’s a good start, Sam told himself. Cutthroat Teddy was already giving him names before he even asked. He’d heard of Buford Barnes, knew him to be one of Braxton Kane’s regular gunmen. But the Garlets was a name he’d heard only a couple of times. Were they newcomers to the craft of robbing and killing? Maybe, he supposed, or they could be coming farther west having worn out their welcome somewhere else. Either way, he had their names. Now that he heard from Cutthroat Teddy that they were part of Kane’s Golden Gang, he wanted them. He knew better than to get in too big of a hurry. He would get them all rounded up just like this, one, two and three at a time. The rest of the time he would be tracking them, watching, waiting and being there when the time was right.
“Have it your way, Cutthroat Teddy,” he said quietly, and he nodded toward the horses. “Let’s get on our way.”
Chapter 2
Midland Settlement, Arizona Badlands
The Garlets—Foz, Tillman and John—rode into Midland Settlement in the heat of the blazing Arizona sun. John, the eldest, had a long-barreled shotgun standing propped up on his thigh. A long dusty beard hung to the middle of a faded bib-front shirt. The high crown of his hat had long fallen victim to the harsh desert heat and lay flattened down one side of his head. Tillman, the middle brother, also wore a faded blue bib-front shirt. Over his shirt he wore a ragged long riding duster. His headwear, a roomy frayed bowler held down by a strip of rawhide, rocked back and forth with each step on his big buckskin barb. A big Colt Dragon stood in a saddle holster above his right knee.
On Tillman’s right, Foz Garlet, the youngest, sat atop a surly head-tossing blaze-faced roan that appeared on the verge of bolting out from under him. John tossed his younger brother and his horse a disdainful look.
“Settle that flea-bitten cayuse before I bend a pistol barrel between his eyes,” he warned.
“I don’t know what in the devil’s hell has gotten into him,” said Foz, not about to take such a warning without reply. “But I expect any pistol barrel that gets bent on my horse’s head will come from my hand and no other.” He gave a tough, broken-toothed grin and patted the ornery roan’s withers. “Ain’t that right, ole buzzard-bait?” he said to the horse. “Yes sir, that’s right,” he said, speaking in a gravely mock tone that was meant to be the horse answering him.
John and Tillman looked at each other and shook their heads, riding on.
“You’ve never been worth a damn with horses, truth be told, little brother,” said John, the three of them steering their horses over to a long, iron hitch rail outside a weathered plank-and-timber saloon.
“Is this going to be a day full of your opinions?” Foz asked flatly, stopping his horse between his brothers and swinging down from his saddle. His brothers slid down and the three men tied their reins. “If it is I need to get as drunk as I can as fast as I can and stay there until you run out of sour wind.” He slid a rifle up from his boot, then seeing the look on both his brothers’ faces, he caught himself, stopped and slid the rifle back down.
“A drink or two, fine, but this is not a day for getting slack-jawed drunk,” John whispered. “Remember our plan. Like always we’re going to play it real quiet and sly. Nobody’s going to know why we’re here, until we’re done and gone.”
“I know that,” Foz whispered in reply. “Sly and quiet, just like always.”
The brothers nodded in agreement and stood among their horses for a moment and gazed off along the dusty street toward the new Midland Bank building, still under construction. John gave the other two a coy smile and lowered his tone.
“There she is, boys,” he whispered.
“Damned if she ain’t,” said Tillman. “I’ll drink to banks and all that’s in them.”
John dusted his long beard with both hands and slipped his shotgun into his bedroll behind his saddle.
“You and me both,” he said, stepping from between the horses, Tillman right behind him.
Foz looked back and forth along the street, and then he stepped out, following his brothers onto a short plank boardwalk. The three walked single file across the boardwalk to the open door of the saloon. They stepped through a waft of stale beer, whiskey and cigar smoke and walked to a long bar where a row of drinkers readjusted and made room for them.
“What’ll it be, fellows?” asked a short, stoop-shouldered bartender wearing a sweat-soaked white shirt. A black ribbon-style necktie hung wet against his chest. He wiped the bar top in front of the three men as he spoke. “I’ve got Saint Louis whiskey, Pilgrim beer and an oversupply of loaded mescal made by a fellow right across the border. He is now deceased. Some say he was hacked to pieces by the very ones who harvested his agave for him. Others say he drank his mescal and kilt himself flat out.”
The Garlets showed no interest in the mescal maker’s tragic misfortune.
“Oversupply meaning it’s cheap?” John inquired with a straightforward stare. “Cheap meaning nobody’s buying it?”
“I prefer to say adequately priced,” said the bartender, “since there’ll be no more of it coming from this distiller’s hands. As far as folks buying it, some do. But I caution them to only take a short sip, then let it alone for a while. Too much at once . . . whew! It’s hard on a man.”
“Either hacked to death or killed himself you say?” said John, only now taking an interest in the distiller’s fate.
“Those are the two more reliable stories,” the barkeep said with slight shrug. “There’re others, but they get more sad and gruesome I’m afraid. One says he cut his own tongue out, but I find that a little far-fetched.” His face beamed with a smile.
“You’re a hell of salesman,” said John with a mocking grin.
“Take serious note, please,” the bartender said, his smile fading, “This is a special, powerful brew. Very, very powerful. I’d be an odious fool not to warn folks.”
Standing near the three brothers, a grizzled prospector spat a stream on tobacco into a brass spittoon.
“Special, ha . . . Don’t let Eland here josh you,” he said with a sidelong glance at John. “Every Mex who can swing a machete makes mescal this time of year. The only difference is what they put in it.”
The short bartender, Eland Fehrs, cocked his bald head toward the dusty old prospector.
“I’ll advise you to keep your nose out of other people’s conversations, Old Time,” he snapped. “I’m trying to tell these men about this loaded mescal. I will sell it to no man unawares.”
The prospector grunted and looked away.
“Well, now that you’ve scared us all to death,” John Garlet said with sarcasm, “pull some up, we’ll see how strong it is. I can’t resist anything that would get a man hacked to pieces or make him kill himself. If it won’t stagge
r a bull ram, we don’t want to waste our time with it.” He dropped a gold coin on the bar top.
“Oh, it’s strong,” the bartender cautioned, “very strong, meant to be sipped slowly, like I said, over a long period of time.” He pulled a clay jug from under the bar and jerked out a small rag and a short stick that held it corked. “I don’t recommend it to just anybody who comes along. The deceased was known for his liberal use of red peppers, ground peyote buttons and cocaine to give it both body and a visual experience that—”
“Do you talk this much all the damned time?” asked Tillman, cutting the bartender short. “I’m starting to think you’re out of mescal.”
“My apologies,” the bartender said meekly. He set three wooden cups on the bar, filled them from the jug and started to remove the jug. But John grabbed his wrist.
“Leave it,” he said.
The bartender gave him a wary look. But upon seeing it would do no good to argue, he swiped up the gold coin and left the jug sitting.
“If you have any questions, feel free to summon me,” he said, moving away down the bar.
“Lord!” said Tillman, “I thought he wouldn’t shut up until we all three got saved.” He raised the jug and took a long swig while the other two held their wooden cups out to be filled.
“What about us, Brother Till?” Foz said coolly.
Tillman let out a blast of hot breath and spoke in a strained voice as he set the jug down atop the bar.
“It ain’t weak . . . I’ll give it that,” he said, his voice shutting down on him even as he spoke. He patted the clay jug; his face glowed a boiling bright red. A sliver of steam curled atop the open jug.
“Maybe we should have heard the bartender out,” said Foz staring at the jug. “I’ve heard of this stuff but I’ve never drank any.”
“How strong can it be?” said John, lifting the jug and filling the cups.
The prospector, Casey “Old Time” Stans, turned sidelong to them again, overhearing their words.
“It ain’t so much how strong it is, as how blind-staggering wild-eyed loco it makes a man, real prontolike,” he said. He watched the three drink from their wooden cups and let out a rasping hiss. “It’s fast, awfully fast,” he added. “You almost need to hold on to something when you drink it. I believe that’s what Eland would’ve said once he finally got around to it.”
“You ask me, he’s just too mouthy to work a bar,” Tillman said, raising his cup for another sip. “We come from Kaintuck and Tennessee stock. We don’t need telling how or what to drink.” He tipped his cup toward his brothers. The three drank.
“There ain’t nothing under cork that’s too strong for a Garlet to muzzle up to,” said John. His voice had already started to take on extra effort. He took another, deeper drink as if to prove his point. “Whoooiee,” he shouted. “Boys, if this makes me want to kill myself, hand me a rope I’m ready to die!”
“Again,” said the prospector amid the laughter, “not wishing to belabor the matter. It’s not the kind of strong a man gets from whiskey. It’s different. If you’ve got business that needs doing you need to get it done first, is all I’m saying. You don’t want to—”
“You going to start now?” Foz interrupted with a shiny stare. His cheeks were rosy red. “See . . . I’m starting to understand how a man would drink this and want to chop some fool to pieces.” He glanced around as if searching for a machete.
“No sir, I’m not going to start in,” said the prospector, “and I beg your pardon. But as one man to another, I have to give warning. The first, and only, time I ever drank it I lost the use of this eye for near a month.” He tapped a finger to his left eye. “I could not stand the smell of live chickens, linen, cotton or spun wool going on six weeks.” He gave a slight shrug. “There. That said, I wish the three of you nothing but the best.”
“No offense, prospector, and I am not a doctor,” Tillman said with a slight chuckle, “but it sounds like maybe your eye was a bit on the wane to begin with.” He slid the jug to the prospector and nodded at it. “If you want to jump back in the saddle, have at it. If you go wild-eyed blind we’ll lead you out of here and set you the right direction.”
The old prospector thought about it.
“I’d better not,” he said. “I was on the Sonora sand flats last time, thinking I was lost in the Rockies.”
“It’s up to you,” said John Garlet. He looked around and laughed and said, “Where’s my rope? I’m ready to hang.”
“That’s not funny, John,” said Foz.
“Hanging never is,” John replied, grinning. “But it is a fact of life.”
The prospector reflected for a moment longer.
“Well, what’s one drink I always say.” He grinned and wrapped his hand around the jug handle.
John Garlet still held his grin.
“Have you got a name, prospec-tor, or do you just conjure in off the desert and let the dust settle around you?” He chuckled at his sudden cleverness.
“Casey Stans is my name,” said the prospector, “But you can call me Old Time, like everybody else.” He raised the jug to his lips and took a long swig. As he lowered it, he heard Foz Garlet let out a strange hooting sound. Other drinkers along the bar turned and watched as Foz high-stepped in place, his hands up under his arms, crowing like some demented rooster.
“Holy God, this stuff is fast,” John Garlet said in amazement. “I don’t have any toes on my right foot. My left is about gone too!”
“You ain’t alone, brother,” Tillman said after a nasty belch.
As the Garlets passed the big jug around among themselves for the next half hour, the barkeeper stood marveling at their drinking prowess. When they weren’t taking a swig they were staring waxy-faced at whatever grabbed their attention. Finally, after a long silence, Foz cleared his throat and spoke in a restrained voice.
“I can see what you mean about smelling stuff,” he said to the prospector. Foz sniffed the air all around like a curious hunting dog. “I can smell”—he paused thinking about it; finally it came to him—“stars!” he blurted out with a strange laugh. “I smell stars, and it’s still broad daylight out!” He laughed toward his brothers as if asking them to join in with him. Drinkers along the bar laughed along with them.
John and Tillman just stared at their brother. So did the prospector.
“I got to go,” the prospector said in a strained voice. He started to turn away, but Tillman caught him by the shoulder of his fringed buckskin jacket.
“What’s the hurry, Old Time?” he said, the black pupils in his eyes looking large, wet and shiny.
“Nothing,” said Casey. He stopped and looked at each Garlet brother in turn. “Can’t I leave if I’ve a mind to?” he asked meekly.
“You can . . . ,” said Tillman. As he spoke he raised a Colt from his holster. He cocked the big gun, turned it around and stared down into the barrel as if checking whether it was loaded. Then he turned it toward Casey Stans. “Or, you can stand right there hospitable-like until the music stops.” He grinned and slid the jug back to the prospector.
“What music?” Stans asked, looking all around. He was already feeling the slight effects of the powerful mescal.
“That’s up to you,” said Tillman. He nodded down at the jug again.
Chapter 3
Sheriff Dave Schaffer had already risen from the bunk in one of the empty cells and strapped on his gun belt as the first sounds of gunshots and horses’ hooves thundered from down the dirt street. He walked along the short hallway connecting the cells to his office at a calm measured pace. By the time he stepped into his office, and grabbed a rifle from the gun rack and checked it, the front door flew open and Eland Fehrs ran in. Sweaty and out of breath, Fehrs skidded to a stop and motioned the sheriff toward the open door.
“Sheriff Dave, come running!” he shouted. “They are robb
ing our new bank right this minute!”
Dave Schaffer kept his same measured pace toward the door. He knew the danger of a lawman getting into too big a hurry before he had an idea what was going on.
“Who’s robbing it?” he said moving along steadily, but not yet fast enough to please the excited bartender.
“Three men calling themselves Garlets,” Fehrs panted. “They’ve drank a lot of loaded mescal and gone out of their minds. But they started bragging bold as brass that they’d come here to rob the bank, and by thunder that’s what they’re doing.”
Sheriff Dave eyed Fehrs as he walked past him and out onto the front boardwalk. Down the street the gunfire continued. A woman screamed; men shouted back and forth. Two armed riders rode away in opposite directions and disappeared around the two far corners of the street. Gunfire marked their locations as they circled the block into a long back alley.
“Loaded mescal, huh?” the sheriff said, levering a round up into the rifle chamber. “I thought I told you to stop selling that poison, Eland, before you got somebody killed.”
“What you said was, ‘take it easy selling it,’” said the sweaty, short bartender. “And I have, that’s the gospel truth. I warn everybody—anybody who’ll listen, that is. But these three would not hear of any warning. No sir, they knew they could handle that damnable stuff.” He struggled to catch his breath. “So I shut up and sold it to them.”
The sheriff looked along the street and saw a remaining rider spinning in the street on a blaze-faced roan, firing a long revolver in every direction. Gray smoke loomed.
“And you’re sure it’s these Garlets doing the robbing?” he asked, hesitant to advance into the gunfire.
“Hell yes, I’m sure,” said the bartender. “They got wild-eyed and admitted that was why they were here. Said they come to be the first men to rob our brand-new bank.”
“Well then . . . ,” said the sheriff letting out an exasperated breath. “I expect that’s all I need to know.” He started walking purposefully toward the single circling shooting rider as people watched from behind whatever cover they could find. “How bad a shape are they in?” he asked.
