by W. R. Benton
“What about the boys?”
“To hell with the boys, we don't owe them nothin'. I'm tellin' you that loud mouth John will get 'em caught and they'll squeal loud to avoid jail time. I only want you and Sam because I'v e known the two of you for years. Besides, you're both partisan men and I trust both of you with my life.”
“Well, uh, sure, I'll go. Let me get to my room, gather my stuff and we can walk to the livery together.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Bill left and returned a few minutes later with his gear. His trail gear, like all the others, was stored at the livery stables.
He knocked softly on Dutch's door and grinned when the man opened it slightly, to look him over. He picked up his stuff and moved into the hallway with Bill. They then walked down the hall and downstairs. They turned their keys into a sleepy night clerk who was used to late night check-ins and outs. He gave both men a receipt that read, 'paid in full'.
“Well now, what in the hell is this? Leavin' us, Dutch?” the vo ice of John Hale asked.
Turning, Dutch saw the man and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we are.”
“What about me and the boys?” Hale held the half empty whiskey bottle by the long neck.
“What about yo u and the boys? Are you afraid to be on your own?”
His eyes narrowed and then Hale asked, “What about the money ya won from me?”
“What about it? I won it fair and square. It's not my problem you can't play cards worth a shit.”
“I don't like you runnin' out on us. You could have said somethin' to us, but instead you sneak out in the middle the night like a coward. Is that what you are, Dutch? Are you a coward?”
“You're drunk, John, so go to bed like a good boy before I'm forced to kill you.”
“Dutch Davis, the big partisan ranger is a coward. I think yer sc ared of me, Dutch. You know deep down inside I'm a better man than you. Hell, we both know I'm faster with a gun than you.”
Dutch gave a dry laugh, met John's eyes and said, “That's at least the third time you've called me a coward, John, there won't be a fourth time.”
“Hell, Davis, ain't a day I can't shoot the buttons off yer shirt and never touch ya, iffen I wanted to do the job.”
“You're drunk, pard, so go to bed. Pull in your horns, let all of this go, and wake up tomorrow to a new day. You keep this up and you'll wake up dead.”
“Damn you, I'm not yer kid and you ain't my pa. I'll go to bed when I damned well feel like it and I don't need you wet nursing me.”
“What's the real problem here, John.? It's not because I asked you to go to bed, is it?”
Slurring his words, John replied, “No, it ain't. You rule over us like ya know everything and yer so damned smart. We'll I'm sick of followin' a cow ard for a leader.”
Dutch dropped his gear to the floor, Bill stepped out of the way, and the clerk lowered his head behind the thick oak counter.
“What did I tell you if you called me a coward again?”
“Ya said there would be no fourth time, but I just did it. Oh, do you plan on killin' me? Hell, even drunk I'm a better shot than you are.”
“Don't make me do this. Why don' t you just leave me alone and we'll go our way? I don't want to have to kill you, especially after you've been in the panther piss so heavy.”
“I'm goin' to kill you, Dutch Davis, then take over the boys. Hell, they'll follow me, because I'm twice the man you are.”
“You can have the boys, because I'm leaving, remember? There's no need for a fight, John. Let it go and the boys are yours.” As he gazed into John's eyes, Dutch slipped the leather thongs from his pistol hammers. He wore a double holster rig, with a .44 Colt in each holster.
“Well, now that's all nice and dandy, except I'd planned on killin' you one day anyway. Since yer a coward and runnin', right now —” At the word 'now', John went for his pistol.
Before the drunk even cleared leather, Dutch's pistols coughed once and the third button down from the collar was pushed through John's chest and out his back. As a long finger of bright red blood shot out from near his spine, a se cond bullet struck him. The second shot hit the tag on the string to his tobacco sack, and before it came out his back, John was falling and screaming. His pistol discharged, striking him in the right calf. Once on the floor, the fatally injured man began to kick and scream as his life's blood puddled under him.
“Clerk, it's over, but you'd better fetch a doctor and an undertaker. Seems Mister John Hale will not be needing his room tonight. He's in the process now of checking out.” Dutch said as he slipped his pistol back in his holster. “You'll find enough money on him and make enough from the sale of his gear to bury 'em in the bone orchard.”
No sooner had the clerk left than Davis handed the key on the floor to Bill and said, “Go to Hale's room and get the money we both know is there. Ain't no need to leave it for the law. Meet me out back, by the outhouse, because I ain't hangin' around to be questioned by no law dog. Now, move.”
Minutes later, Bill just stepped from the stairs when a lawman, who was speaking with the clerk, turned to him and asked, “Haven't I seen you some place before?”
Bill, said, “I don't think so. I've never seen you be fore in my life.” He felt uncomfortable with three thousand dollars from the bank robbery in his coat pocket.
The deputy thought for a moment and when his hand moved for his pistol, Bill pulled his first and fired two rounds into the cop. He fell, a bullet in his shoulder and another in his knee cap. Crews never missed a beat as he holstered his pistol and ran out the door of the hotel. The cop lay on the floor, blood seeping into the new carpet, as he screamed in pain.
Bill suspected the copper would at least lose his leg and he'd be as sore as a w hore the day after payday, but he'd live. Bill had been trying to kill the man, but it'd happened so fast his aim was off a mite. And after the first shot hit him, he'd twisted and turned to the point Bill was lucky just to get the second slug into the man.
Back near the outhouse, he met Dutch and said, “We need to move, because I had to shoot a deputy on the way out. I think he recognized me from a dodger the prison sent out.”
“I heard the shots. We go straight to the livery and if Samuel isn't there, we'll leave without him. Did you kill the cop?”
“No, b ut he won't be at no square dances for a good six months or so.”
They didn't run; that would make people remember them or even draw the cops to them. They simply walked at a fast rate. When they ne ared the livery, the owner was outside talking to Samuel. The two men pulled their horses, paid the man, and then saddled up. Within ten minutes they were riding east.
“When do we change directions?” Sam asked.
“In about another mile. We'll swing north for about a mile or so, then go west. ”
“Sounds good, and are you still plannin' on moving to up around Omaha?”
“Yep, I am. It's a big railroad town, with lots of money in it, so I intend for us to get our share.”
Smiling, Bill said, “I can go for that. I ain't never had as much money as I do now. Seems like the harder I worked, the less I ma de. Oh, Hale had three thousand dollars and some pocket change, so tonight we'll all be a thousand dollars richer.”
Dutch nodded in response to the additional money.
Sam said, “I ain't never had no real job. I was sixteen when the war come along and I was a soldier for four bloody-ass long years. All I know how to do real good is kill and shoot. I learned to do that riding under the black flag with 'Bloody Bill' Anderson.”
“Well,” Dutch said, “you'll get plenty of chances near Omaha to use your skills.”
The days turned into weeks and finally, after a slow and easy trip, they rode into Omaha. The morning was warm, the sun bright, and birds were chirping as they dismounted and tied their reins to a hitching post. It was a little after 7 am, according to the old pocket watch Dutch had taken off a dead man in Lawrence, Kansas, during the war.
He remembered the attack, led by William Quantrill, on August 21, 1863, as if it happened yesterday and was, in his opinion, a real goat roping affair.
“Where first?” Sam asked.
Dutch said, “We'll have a hot breakfast, a couple of drinks, and get a room for the night. Tomorrow I'll start to line up some work for us.”
“Sounds good, in both cases.” Bill said.
Snickering, Sam said, “I need some hot food. Yer both nice fellers, but ya cain't boil water without burnin' it. As cooks, ain't neither of ya worth a shit.”
“Hell, Sam, you're worse th an both of us. You don't even keep the fur or bones out of most of the stuff you cook.”
“Spit the pieces out ya cain't eat, that's what my momma used to say.”
“Yer momma still alive?” Dutch ask as they moved for the boardwalk.
“Naw, I come home drunk one night and she started naggin' my ass 'bout gettin' a job, so I kilt her with my skinnin' knife. Best thing I ever did fer myself was killin' that bitch.”
Dutch and Bill exchanged looks and Bill said, “She was your mother .”
“My momma was a whore. She didn't even know who my daddy was, 'cept he may've b een one of her reg'lar customers. She beat my ass all the time, kept me about half starved, and rarely showed any kindness and that was only when I had a little money. No, the world is a better place since I kilt momma.”
Wanting to change the subject, Dutch said, “I'll buy the first round of drinks.”
The saloon only had two other men in the place, so the three moved to the far table against the wall. Written on a chalkboard, was a menu. Knowing Sam couldn't read well, Dutch said, “I'm gonna have the breakfast special, with eggs, country ham, flapjacks, taters, biscuits and gravy. Hell, it's only a dime.”
“Sounds good to me.” Bill said and t hen waved to the bartender.
“Oh, sounds good to me, too.” Sam said as he tucked a napkin in the front collar of his shirt.
“What will you have?” the bartender asked when he neared.
“Bottle of rye and three breakfast specials.”
“How do you want your eggs?”
Sam grinned and said, “After ridin' with these two ya hoos, make mine cooked, but not burnt. Other than that, I don't care.”
“Over easy.” both Dutch a nd Bill replied.
None of the men talked during the meal, with all three eating fast and not taking the time to enjoy their food. Less than ten minutes later, with the meal behind them, Dutch pulled the cork from a quart of rye whiskey.
After a couple of drinks each, Bill pulled three expensive cigars out and handed one to each of his friends. Biting the end off, he spat the tobacco to his plate, and struck a Lucifer.
It was then a man wearing a black duster entered the saloon, walked to the bar and ordered a whiskey. He seemed to be eyeing Dutch and the r est from the big mirror behind the bar.
“Shit,” Samuel said, “I did some time with that feller at the bar. Me and him ain't never got along. His name is Ben Dupree.”
“How long back?” Dutch asked.
“Right after the war. We got nailed passin' homemade greenbacks.”
“He might not remember you, because you've changed a mite.”
“I squealed on 'em, so I only did a half a year, but he got five. He threatened then to kill me some day.”
“Get yer pistols ready, 'cause he's eyeing you pretty good and the thongs are off his hammers.” Bill said as he took a sip of his whiskey.
“Just make sure the bartender and anyone else in this building knows you don't want to fight, but that's only to cover your ass. After tryin' to avoid the fight, kill his ass dead.”
“That's the onliest way I fight, to kill.”
The man at the bar turned, with a drink in his right hand, and looked right at Sam. He gave a fake smile and said, “Well, well, well, iffen it ain't Samuel Brewer. Hey, do you remember my last words to you, Sam?”
Sam stood and spread his legs, had his hands dangling near his pistols, and replied, “You threatened to kill me, Ben.”
Throwing back his drink, Ben assumed a gunfighter’s stance, and smiled. His hand was near his pistol as he said, “I'm going to kill you right now.”
“Ain't no need to fight, 'cause that was years ago. It was a long time past. I don't want to fight ya, Ben.”
“You'll either fight or I'll kill ya where you stand, ya sonofabitch!”
“Don't make me kill ya, I don't want to do this.” Sam replied, his voice loud.
“Kill me? Hell, you ain't no shootist. You can't hit the broadside of a barn with a handgun. What's the matter, did ya turn coward since I saw ya last?”
“I'm warnin' ya, if I pull my iron, you'll die. Think on this a spell.”
“I've thought ab out it and —” Ben pulled his right pistol and just as he brought it up level there came the sound of two shots.
The first bullet hit Dup ree high in the right shoulder, the second hit not an inch lower. The man was knocked back against the bar, but before he fell, he managed to squeeze off two rounds.
Chapter 3
LEW found Oaks awake and he looked up in fear as the doctor entered the room. Myers moved to the man, felt his head for fever, smiled and nodded.
“This is a preacher, and his name is Lew Stuart. He's also the husband to the woman and the father to the girls y'all raped and then killed. It was his family that lived on the farm.”
“I don't want nothin' to do with 'em, so get 'em the hell out of here!” Oaks screamed, expecting Lew to shoot him any second.
“Son, I've not come to speak of my family, but of salvation through Jesus Christ.” Lew said, his tone soft and easy.
“Huh? Are you a nut or somethin'? How come ya don't want to kill me after what we did?”
“God will punish all of you in time, as is His wa y, but I offer you eternal life if you'll turn from your sinful ways and accept God into your heart.”
Doctor Myers said, “When you're finished, Lew, let yourself out. I have to ride out to the Lister place, because Myrtle had twins last night, and one of the little boys is having trouble breathing.”
“I'll do that, Doc.”
Oaks relaxed a bit now, assuming Lew was just another crazy Bible thumper, and he'd play the game just to get rid of the man. He took two long snorts from a whiskey bottle on a small table beside his bed.
“I ain't a drunk, in case yer wonderin', bu t I need to drink to kill the pain.”
Lew began talking about accepting Christ and the word of Jesus. He spoke for a good ten minutes and then asked, “Shall we pray?”
Oaks nodded, knowing once they prayed he'd confess to having found Jesus, and the preacher man would leave him alone.
“Lord,” Lew began when he saw Oaks close his eyes and bow his head, “You tell us in Your Holy Bible, that the only way to heaven is through our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” As he spoke, he pulled the big butcher knife from his coat.
Opening his eyes, Lew saw Oaks still had his eyes closed. He quickly placed his l eft hand over the man's mouth and stuck the long blade of the knife up and under the man's rib cage. He twisted and jerked the blade from side-to-side violently. He heard muffled screams from behind his hand.
Then screaming, Lew said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Die, you sinful sonofabitch and go with Satan, your Lord and Master. Die! Do you hear me?”
When Oaks raised his head to scream, his eyes huge in fear, Lew slid the razor sharp blade over the man's throat. Blood, a bright crimson, shot from the severed throat and went high into the air with each beat of his heart.
Lew, still holding the bloody knife in his right hand, placed his hands on his narrow hips and began laughing. He didn't notice the blood dripping from the long sharp blade onto the floor. He found Oaks funny, as he jerked and twitched, while blood spurted into the air, his eyes full of fear and his feet kicking the bed. Blood soaked the blankets and sheets, and as it struck the walls, the ho t cerise fluid
made a mad run for the floor. Less than three minutes later, Oaks stopped moving and his open eyes were unseeing.
The room looked like a slaughter house with blood all over the bed an d dripping from the walls.
“Please judge this man as the worthless piece of trash he was, God, unworthy of entering your kingdom. That's one down and about nineteen left to go. Please forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and broken one of your commandments. I ask you to look deep in my heart, Lord, and understand my reason for killing this man.”
For no particular reason at all, Lew reached over and removed Oaks' right ear. He placed the gory trophy in his coat pocket, next to the knife and whiskey. He then made his way outside, mounted his horse and rode for his place, figuring to tell his family goodbye; he h ad started his vengeance trail. He had some supplies there, his trail gear, and one more thing he wanted to retrieve.
On the ride back he felt better having lashed out at Oaks, but realized his family was still dead. He knew he would never be able to bring them back, but Lewis Stuart had committed his life to avenging his dead family now. Pulling the ear from his pocket it, he tossed it to the grasses. He prayed to God for guidance, as well as for forgiveness, but regardless of what the Good Lord thought, he was determined the men who killed his family would die.
At his old place, he took his Bowie knife and began digging twenty-three steps behind his burned outhouse. He had no shovel, but the soil was damp and easy to dig in. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled a metal box from the dark loam that was about the size of a shoe box. He removed the lid and pulled a set of matching .45 Colts, still in their brown leather holsters, from the tin. The whole rig was covered in grease, to prevent rust, and was in perfect condition. He'd not worn them in five years, since just before the war ended. He'd originally taken the Colts from a Yankee Colonel he'd killed near Jackson, Mississippi, late in the war. He'd turned to preaching with the end of the conflict, feeling c lose to God at the time. Slowly, he placed them around his hips, buckled the holster, and slipped the thongs over the hammers. He'd clean them later. He pulled out two boxes of ammunition as well, putting them in his pocket.