by Dale Graham
‘Well if’n it ain’t that poor sap who nearly caused my horse to bolt,’ Brazos slurred. ‘What you doing in here, mister? Well past your bedtime, I’d say.’ The guy was so drunk he hadn’t even noticed the revered star.
‘You tell him, Brazos,’ echoed one of his buddies.
Cal fastened a warning gaze onto the cocky braggart. ‘I’ll take that gun, fella,’ he voiced in a low yet meaningful utterance. ‘Reckon it’s a mite too dangerous for a wet-nosed kid like you to be toting around.’ He held out his hand.
Brazos growled. Suddenly this was no jovial piece of banter. ‘And who the hell are you to order me around, buster?’
Cal tapped his chest. ‘I’m the new marshal. And you’re disturbing the peace. Now I’d be obliged for that peashooter.’
‘You want it? Then come take it. That is if’n you’ve gotten the nerve,’ was the snarled response. The gun swung towards the menacing presence.
Without uttering any further warnings, the marshal quickly stepped forward and let rip a punishing right fist that slammed into the exposed jaw. The Kid never saw it coming. His head snapped back, blood pouring from a split lip. Before he slumped to the ground, Cal grabbed the falling body and slung it over his shoulder. Only then did he realize that his retreat had been cut off by the Kid’s pals.
‘Hey, fella, you can’t do that,’ shouted one, brandishing his own hogleg.
‘I just did, now step aside or you’ll be joining this lump of dog dirt in the hoosegow.’ With bold aplomb, Bear River Cal stamped down the full length of the saloon towards the hunched figures of the Texan cowboys. His left arm supported the limp body; his right held one of the Navy Colts. ‘I ain’t funning, boys. One false move and death comes a-calling.’
The marshal’s audacious manner caused the young punks to hold back, uncertain of their response. Such bald-faced affrontery was something they had never previously encountered. The cowboys knew that any retaliation on their part in the form of gunplay could be curtains for the Brazos Kid, whose inert form was protecting the lawman’s back. A purposeful yet measured tread echoed on the floorboards as men quickly stepped aside to let the marshal pass.
Before leaving the Troubadour, Cal turned round to address the now silent crowd. ‘As of tomorrow, the wearing of guns within the town limits is banned. Hand your rigs to the bartender and collect them when you leave town.’
A brief pause followed allowing the patrons to digest this momentous declaration. Guys looked at one another in astonishment, unsure they had heard right. Buckling on your shooting iron was as much a part of a guy’s daily routine as stepping into his trousers. Every cowboy felt naked without one.
‘You can pick this jigger up in the morning for a fine of ten dollars,’ the marshal declared now that he had their full attention. ‘And there’ll be another ten charged for laundering those pants of mine you messed up earlier. The name’s Cal Bonner. Some folks call me Bear River. Remember it if’n you decide to cause any more trouble in Wichita. Cos I’m here to stay.’
And with that parting shot he was gone. For a full minute, no words were uttered. Then a surge of noise erupted as men eagerly tossed views around regarding the recent incident. The bulldogging of the Brazos Kid in the Troubadour spread around town with the speed of a rampant prairie fire. Only one day into the job, and already Cal had made his presence felt in no uncertain terms.
The name of Bear River Cal Bonner was on everybody’s lips. Some were more than pleased to have a tough enforcer to curb the excesses that had threatened to overrun the town. Others, however, were less than eager to add their support. Cody Meek was one such guy. Arrows of hatred bore into the tinstar’s back as he sauntered off back to the jailhouse.
CHAPTER TWO
A Surprise for Browny
That had been six months before.
Cal stirred. Some kind of noise had interrupted the delightful slumber. He shook off the unwanted disturbance and turned over. The blankets were pulled over his head so as to resurrect the dreamy image of the enticing Candy Flowers.
A loud hammering on the outside door of the jailhouse jerked the marshal from his sweet deliberations. Always a light sleeper – in this job it was an essential prerequisite – he was instantly awake. His pair of Navy Colts dangled from a hook beside the cot. He grabbed one and was on his feet in an instant. Although a weak sun was just about peeping through the window blinds, it was still far too early for social calls.
Had those darned cowpokes decided on an early raid to free their incarcerated buddies? That was his first thought. Their leader, the ramrod called Wyoming Bill, had laid down a warning that no hick tinstar was going to hold any of his boys. Cal had ignored the idle threat regarding it as nothing more than drink talk. Those fellas had been at the hard stuff all the previous night. They ought to have been sleeping it off at this hour.
Another blow rattled the door frame. This time it was accompanied by a panic-stricken cry. ‘You in there, Marshal?’ The crackling voice was that of Nightjar, the ostler from the livery stable who only seemed to come alive after dark. ‘Let me in quick. I have something important to tell you.’
Bonner opened the door and let the guy in. ‘What’s this all about?’ he said rubbing the grit from his eyes.
‘There’s a jasper down at the stable been asking after you,’ Nightjar blurted out. ‘And he sure didn’t look the friendly sort. A troublemaker if’n you ask me. I’d say he had Mex blood in him mixed with a dose of Indian. A real shifty character.’
‘So did this guy have a name?’
Nightjar paused to draw breath. He had clearly run all the way from the bottom end of town. ‘Any chance of a snort, Marshal?’ he enquired hopefully. Doleful eyes leaned towards the half empty bottle of whiskey on the lawman’s desk. ‘Just to clear my head you understand.’
Bonner’s response was a wry smirk. ‘Help yourself.’
The livery man imbibed a hefty swig, breathed out a sigh of delight, and sat down on the marshal’s cot. ‘The guy looked like he’d ridden a long way. His horse was all lathered up and covered in dust. But that pistol on his hip was well-oiled. It sure didn’t look like it was there for show.’
‘The name, Nightjar. That’s what I need to know.’
‘Calls himself Browny Jagus. Queer name for a half-breed,’ replied the ostler taking another snort before hurrying on, ‘but I said you had been called out of town on business and wouldn’t be back until later in the day. Did I do right, Marshal?’
‘Browny Jagus,’ Bonner muttered under his breath. ‘So you’ve showed up after all this time.’ The lawman’s eyes misted over as he recalled the last time he had set eyes on the gunman.
That had been when he had been marshal of Crested Butte. Jagus had been caught cheating in a faro game. He had pulled a gun and threatened to shoot the dealer. It was a piece of skulduggery intended to shift the blame away from Jagus himself. Only Cal’s swift use of his meaty fists had prevented a murder charge being laid at the braggart’s door. Such was the intense furore among the regular patrons, that Jagus was made to suffer the indignity of being tarred and feathered, then run out of town on a rail. He had sworn to get even with the man he blamed for his humiliation.
That was not the last he had heard of the killer. Jagus had gone on to become a noted gunslinger said to have nine notches carved on his gun butts. He clearly had Bear River Cal in mind to make it into double figures and earn himself a solid reputation at the same time. So here he was in Wichita. At least it saved Cal the trouble of going in search of the lamebrain.
‘You all right, Marshal? Looks like some ghost just walked over your grave,’ muttered the anxious ostler.
‘Just some guy I had dealings with in a past life, is all. You sure did the right thing telling me, Nightjar,’ the lawman praised the ostler, ‘but keep it under your hat. We don’t want the good citizens of Wichita getting themselves in a lather knowing that a guy like Jagus is in their midst.’
‘You got my word on it,’ t
he old guy promised. ‘Watch your step though, Marshal, that skunk has a reputation for catching his marks unawares. I heard he ain’t averse to backshooting if’n the chance arises.’
‘Much obliged for the advice, old timer,’ Cal acknowledged with a nod, even though he knew all about the sneaky tricks pulled by Browny Jagus. ‘I sure will keep a sharp lookout.’ Cal called the ostler back as he was about to leave. ‘If’n you see him skulking around, you could drop the hint that I got back earlier than planned and he’ll find me at the barber’s shop when it opens at nine o’clock. Meanwhile I have me a dream to catch up on.’
And with that he settled down, the wistful smile once again suffusing his features.
He and Candy Flowers had been walking out for the last month. They had become kind of close and Cal was hoping to invite her to the theatre this coming Saturday. There was a travelling show arriving direct from Abilene with an ‘internationally renowned sensation’ topping the bill. Advertisements had been plastered all over town. It wasn’t often that such high-quality entertainment was on offer in a cow town like Wichita. It promised to be a well-attended event. So Cal would need to buy tickets soon before they ran out. How to ask the lady in question if she would accompany him had been taxing his thoughts all week.
But first there was the matter of dealing with Browny Jagus.
Cal was in no hurry. Let the guy think he had the upper hand. It would make him careless and give Cal the break he needed to take him down. After an early breakfast in Polly Jayne’s Pancake Parlour, he was walking down the boardwalk past the entrance to the Prairie Dog saloon when the proprietor stepped outside. ‘Howdy there, Marshal,’ Cody Meek proclaimed with breezy good nature that failed to reach the flinty gaze. ‘You seem in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Just minding my own business, Cody,’ came back the caustic retort. These two men were not best buddies. ‘You should try it sometime.’
The saloon owner ignored the jibe. ‘I hear that Browny Jagus is on the prod. Word’s out that the betting shop is offering six to four odds he takes you out. But I ain’t so sure. Reckon a smart guy like you will come out the winner. So I’m backing you, Marshal. Don’t disappoint me. I’m a poor loser.’ The malignant smirk was lost on the lawman who had walked on past.
‘I’m touched by your faith in me, Cody.’ The marshal’s reply was chock full of disdain. ‘I’ll do my best to help fill your pockets. It’ll make up for the extra rental I hear the town council is recommending.’
Meek sneered at the disappearing back. ‘I’ll get you one day, mister,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘That’s a promise. And I’ll even pay for your tombstone.’
The clock was striking the ninth hour of the new day when the marshal entered Clipper Jim’s barbering emporium. The variety of aromas that filled the small room were in stark contrast to those imbibed in the saloons. The man himself was sharpening his razor on a leather strop. A fussy little dude with red suspenders over a white shirt, Jim Wicket fixed a wide eye onto his first customer. ‘Surprised to see you in here so early, Marshal,’ he declared, indicating for Cal to take the only seat.
‘I have some unfinished business that needs settling,’ the newcomer said without any elaboration. ‘A guy always has the edge when he’s smart, don’t you think?’
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ enthused the little guy. ‘A smart fella always catches the early bird.’ Wicket scratched his bald pate. ‘Or something like that.’
Cal laughed as he unbuckled his rig and hung it on a hook. ‘Guess that has to be me then.’ He sat down allowing Clipper to sling a white cloth over him. ‘Mind if’n I face the door while you do the business?’ he added.
Jim gave the unusual request a puzzled frown. Most guys like to see what’s happening on top through the mirror. But as they say, the customer is always right. So he swung the chair around on its pivot as requested, making no comment.
‘What’s it to be then, Marshal? Hair cut and shave?’ asked the barber getting down to business. ‘I have some fine new hair lotion just arrived from Kansas City. Rumour has it the gals go crazy over a fella wearing this stuff.’ He held the bottle to Cal’s nose. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Smells a mite too tarty for me. I’ll stick with my usual.’
‘Please yourself,’ came back the rather miffed response.
Cal settled back while the barber slapped lather on his face. Jim took up the sharpened razor and began the delicate process of stubble removal. No more than half way through, his hand began to tremble.
‘Some’n bothering you, Clipper?’ Cal asked. His eyes were closed while he enjoyed the barber’s expert ministrations. But his mind was wholly focused on what he knew was about to happen.
‘Th-there’s a g-guy just c-come in and h-he’s pointing a g-g-g . . .’ That was as far as the stuttered warning got before a shot rang out. The sharp report blasted off the walls of the enclosed space, startling a lazy cat occupying the window ledge. It shot out the open door.
But the gunshot had not originated from the Remington clutched in Browny Jagus’s right hand. The outlaw thought he had the marshal at his mercy. He had watched from the far side of the street as Bonner had strolled down to Clipper Jim’s. The leery grin on his ugly mush pointed to this particular gun-down being a piece of cake. The marshal’s gunbelt hanging up out of reach gave Jagus the false assumption that his victim was unarmed.
But Cal Bonner knew exactly how the shifty mind of this varmint operated, and he was ready. Calling a guy out for a one-to-one showdown was not his style. Too dangerous by far.
So the wily town tamer adopted similar tactics. When the underhanded critter made his move, Cal knew the barber would splutter out a garbled warning. Although truth be told, the guy’s sour reek gave him away. Browny was not known for his bodily hygiene. Cal’s eyes remained firmly closed when the danger arrived. The hidden gun bucked in his hand beneath the white sheet. Jagus clutched at his shoulder and staggered back into the street. Total surprise at this unexpected outcome was written across the brutish contours.
The intended victim threw aside the barber’s cloth, which now had a charred hole in the middle. Beneath was a small .41 calibre Deringer almost hidden in the meaty fist. Smoke dribbled from the single-shot weapon. Tiny compared to the Navy Colts, it could still pack a lethal punch at close quarters.
The bullet disabling the failed killer was not a killing shot. Jagus would survive to stand trial. Cal grabbed one of the Colts to cover the sneaky rat. A crowd had quickly gathered outside Clipper Jim’s. Shooting in Wichita was still common enough when cowpokes first hit town and from those who chose to ignore the no-gun ruling. But never this early in the day.
‘Played you at your own game, Browny. It’s lucky for you I had my eyes closed else you’ve have been worm food by now. On your feet, buster. I have a nice itchy cell ready and waiting for a conniving rat like you. Now shift your ass.’
The marshal and his groaning prisoner shambled off up Kingman towards the jailhouse followed by the muttering crowd. ‘One of you fellas go bring Doc Bailey to the hoosegow. I don’t want this jasper bleeding to death afore he gets to stand trial.’
‘Much obliged for that, Marshal,’ Meek said, lighting up a cigar. ‘You sure know how to look after yourself. And this town as well.’ The compliment was double-edged with more than a hint of mordancy.
The lawman was not taken in. ‘And don’t you forget it,’ he growled out. Then in a lighter vein declared to the crowd, ‘Mr Meek here has just pocketed a heap of dough after backing the winner of this fracas. And I heard him promise that all drinks were on the house if’n he won the bet. That right, Cody?’
The smile on Meek’s face slipped being replaced by a scowl colder than a mountain stream. His fists clenched. He would dearly have loved to stuff those words down Cal Bonner’s throat. But he could not deny it now. That would be bad for business. He had been given no option other than to accede to the marshal’s blatant falsehood.
Cal’s smile matched
that of the saloon owner for frostiness. The two adversaries held each other’s gaze. But it was Meek who broke the mould first. ‘That’s right, folks. Honest Cody Meek never welches on a deal. You’re all welcome at the Prairie Dog.’ Roars of approval greeted the announcement. Free drinks were a rare occurrence in Wichita. A surge of early drinkers hurried across the street anxious to stake their claim just in case it all proved to be a chimera.
‘One up to you, Bonner,’ the saloon owner snarled out, though in a low voice so nobody else could hear. ‘But you best watch your back. Browny Jagus was nought but an incompetent asshole. Didn’t know one end of a gun from the other. But others will likely turn up who can finish the job properly.’
‘You threatening me, Cody?’ the marshal hissed, taking a step forward.
‘Take it any way you want, mister.’ Meek stood his ground drawing hard on the cigar. ‘Tough guys like you always end up on Boot Hill.’ He paused, delivering a sneering grimace. ‘One way or another.’
Tight-lipped, Cal held himself in check. No purpose would be served rising to the varmint’s bait. He was given no further time to consider the saloon johnny’s waspish retorts. A cloud of dust from the far end of Kingman heralded the arrival of the weekly stage from Abilene. It was always a welcome diversion for everybody. The town marshal was no different. But he especially liked to check out new arrivals and apprise any suspicious characters of the no-guns ruling.
The team of six was wrestled to a thundering halt by a grey-bearded old muleskinner called Cannonball Coolidge. He was supported up top by a much younger guy, clutching a shotgun.
Along with a host of other curious residents, Cal wandered across to the Butterfield depot. Cody Meek speared his back with an odious look that spoke of dire tidings should the chance ever arise. He lit up another cigar and drew hard to assuage a mutinous inner turmoil. Another man joined him. One who was similarly ill-disposed towards the town’s stringent lawman.
