by W. R. Benton
“No, and I could use the business.” The man laughed.
“We'll move off away from y'all and make camp near some water. We don't want to be no bother.”
“Iffen ya want some good cooking, be at the saloon after four this afternoon. Oh, they have a great menu and the food is fantastic, too. Low prices.”
“We'd been to Hell Town; the prices there are insane.”
“Yep, they're high there, but here you can get fried chicken, mashed taters, chicken gravy, peas and biscuits for twenty cents at the saloon.”
“That sounds good. Who owns the place?”
“Me.” The storekeeper broke out laughing and said, “I own most of the town. Ain't but ten or so families around, so I make a fair living. ”
“Well, by God, I'll be there for supper. Can ya fix me up a couple of plates to take to my hurt buddies?”
“Sure, and at no extra charge either.”
“I got to rush, my men are in some serious pain. We'll talk again later at the saloon.” The same brass bell tinkled when he left the store.
The businesses were all on the south side of the tracks, so they made camp on the north side near a narrow, but fairly deep stream. After all of them dismounted, Dutch tossed a bottle to both and then fed each of the hurting men a half a teaspoon of laudanum. Within minutes the pain was gone and then he explained that he had fried chicken coming for supper. While neither man was hungry, both promised they'd try to eat later. Both soon turned to their bottle so they could sleep, but the deep pain was gone.
He passed the day repairing gear, hunting and then at supper time he made his way to the saloon. He ate his supper of fried chicken and the works, an d as he relaxed at the bar, a number of men walked in and started filling tables. They looked like a rough bunch to him, so he said nothing.
A few minutes later one of the new men bumped into him and spilled most of his beer. Dutch turned and said, “Excuse me, sir, but you owe me the price of a drink.”
Pushing his tan hat back, a rather young looking man wearing a set of .45 Colts said, “I don't reckon I owe you a damned thing, old man. You backed into me.”
“I disagree, young man. But, before we talk much longer, understand, I was killing men before you were born. Now, pull in your horns, buy me another beer, and all is forgotten.”
“No beer. Now, as for you killin' men, you may have, when you were younger. But your age tells me you ain't shit these days.”
“Is your ma or pa in this group? If so, they sure didn't raise you properly. Now, buy me a beer and then I think you need to leave, it's way past your bedtime.”
The younger man took a wild swing at Dutch, who ducked and came up inside the punch to drive a hard right into the man's stomach and a left to his jaw. He dropped like he'd been hit with an ax handle. Dutch reached into the man’s pocket, took out a dime and ordered another beer. He then showed his contempt for the young man by turning his back on him, but all the while watching him in the big mirror behind the bar.
He was about half way done with his beer when he spotted movement in the mirror and someone yelled, “Knife!”
Dutch always carried a knife and in a flash it was twirling in the air toward the younger man. His target screamed, dropped his knife and grabbed his left leg. The knife was hand-guard deep in the man's thigh. Dutch walked to the man, bent over and pulled his knife from his leg, which resulted in another scream.
Wiping the blood from the blade on the injured man's shirt, he said, “Son, I don't know what line of work you're in, but maybe you should change jobs. I think you'd do well working in a library, general store, or maybe an eatin' place. You give it some thought, because if you keep carrying knives and guns, one of these days they'll have to bur y your slow ass.”
“Do ya know who this boy is you just stuck?” an older man asked.
“Nope, and I really don't give a damn either.”
“He's the Montana Kid.”
Dutch broke out laughing and then grew deathly quiet and said with all seriousness, “I never heard of 'em. Hell, this kid ain't no gunfighter. Montana Kid, now ain't that rich.”
“That's what he's known as.” the old er man said with a flushed face.
“Well, Kid, I suggest you keep your ass away from me, because the next time you anger me — I'll kill you.” He was looking in the boy's eyes when he said it and the young man quickly broke eye contact.
“Now, bartender, I need them two fried chicken meals to go with me now.”
“Oh, he's bleeding a lot.” one of the m ake believe toughs said from beside the young man.
“The knife must have cut a main artery. Iffen you don't get it to stop, he'll bleed to death.” Dutch said and gulped the rest of his whiskey down.
“I can't fix nothin' like this.” the man on the floor said as he met the eyes of the men in the room.
“Damn me,” Dutch said, “put a big pig sticker in the stove and let me know when it's red hot.”
The Montana Kid looked up and said, “I d on't want you touchin' me.”
“Fine with me. One of y'all take t hat knife from the fire when the blade is glowing red hot and cauterize his wound.”
“What's that word mean, caulter-ize?” the man beside the Kid asked.
“Burn it shut. He'll go ape-shit on you at the time too, so some of y'all need to hold 'em down.”
The bartender handed Dutch some Mason jars filled with food and then he said, “Go on, get out of here before that food gets cold.”
As he left, the Montana Kid yelled out, “I'm gonna kill you some day for this, you old sumbitch!”
“First, dip shit, you have to survive this injury.” Dutch said and noticed another brass bell announced his departure from the saloon.
Chapter 7
LEW soon left the state of Missouri as he traveled, and found he was moving much faster out of the trees and valleys found in most of the state. The only serious problem of traveling on the plains was the fact he could be easily seen. He knew a man traveling alone would be a dead duck if any of the tribes saw him. He was carrying great wealth, not just the money from selling his land either, but his weapons, clothing, horse, and other gear he had. By comparison, using the white man's standards, the Injuns were a dirt poor people, but they made it up by being a very spiritual people. Injuns he knew, also from the war, because many of them fought for the South.
Three days later, he ran into three men moving the same direction he was, and it was near noon when he ran into them. They'd stopped for their “nooning,” or lunch break, which was typical of most people on a trail.
“That's close enough, mister.” a young man holding a cocked shotgun said as he stood from a dry stream bed. “Who ya be and why are you on our asses?”
Holding his hands up, palms open, L ew said, “I'm Reverend Stoner and I'm heading to a revival up near Kansas City. As for trailing you, I wasn't, and had no idea you were even in the area.”
“Throw all your weapons to the ground and do it now. Once you're disarmed, I'll take you to the boys and we'll decide if you're a threat or not.” the guar d ordered.
Since the day had been misting rain, Lew was carrying his shotgun under his rain coat, up against his chest and it was loaded. He tossed his twin Colts to the ground, a small derringer and the big butchers knife he'd used to kill Oaks.
The guard was a fairly short man, closer to five feet than six, about a hundred and forty pounds, with long nasty brown hair and a rat's nest for a beard. His eyes, a steel gray, warned Lew he was a born killer.
“Leave the Henry in the sheath and where's the other long gun that I see a sheath for?”
“I ran into rough times in Springfield, Missouri and had to sell it for some cash to complete my trip. It was a Sharps.”
“That's a damned good gun. Now, dismount and do it where you're always in my view. If you get your horse between you and me, you'll be shy a critter, understand?”
“Yep, completely.” He dismounted and then asked, “What
next?”
“Come with me to meet the boys.”
When they neared a small campfire, his horse was tied to a picket line and he was made to sit on the other side of the fire, opposite of two grungy looking men. His guns were tossed to the ground near a big filthy man wearing dirty homespun.
The guard simply said, “I caught this feller ri din' our asses. Y'all decide what to do with 'em.” He then left, obviously going back to guard.
“What's yer name, mister?” one of them asked. It was the fat man nearest Lew's guns.
“The Reverend John Stoner. I'm on my way to a church revival near Kansas City.”
“Sit down, preacher man, and let's talk.” the ma n said. Like his friend, the guard, he needed a serious washing; the sour smell of his unwashed body made Lew gag.
“I'm Newton Willows and this other yahoo is Joseph Cotton.”
“Howdy-do.”
“There's a fork by the bacon, so why don't you turn it for us?” Newton said.
As Lew turned the hog meat, he heard a noise, looked up and saw Newton now holding an 1861 Navy Colt, a seriously rusted pistol and Joseph was holding a huge Bowie knife.
“Awww, hell, you're going to rob me, aren't you?” Lew asked.
“We'll take what we want from ya, after Joe gets done carving on yer ass. He's pure hell with a sharp knife, don't ya know? Ya'll be the first he's cut on since we broke o ut of prison back in Missouri.” Newton said.
“No , I don't know he's hell with a knife, but guess I'll find out, huh? Can I have some coffee before he gets to carving on me?” So , Lew thought, you bastards might have been the ones who killed Edna and my kids.
“Yer fixin' to be carved on and ya want coffee? Help yerself mister, because it'll be yer last cup in this lifetime.”
Lew reached for the coffee pot on the flames as he held the tin cup in his hand. He picked the pot up with an old rag by the fire and then said, “Here, catch.”
He tossed the pot to Newton, who tried to move out of the way, of course.
Dropping his tin cup, Lew pulled the shotgun out from under his unbuttoned fish and fired one shot into the chest of Newton. The filthy fat man was knocked backward where he screeched and his feet beat a fast tattoo on the ground.
When Joseph screamed and ran toward him, he fired the other barrel, striking the dirty man in the head, which was blown to small pieces of bone, blood, and gore, and a fine mist filled the air. His head, most of it, from the neck up was gone, blown to the ground someplace behind him.
He moved quickly to Newton's spot, picked up the Colt and waited for the guard to appear. Less than a minute later the man ran into camp with his rifle at the ready. Three shots from the old horse pistol and the guard was down — forever.
“The Lord giveth and He taketh away.” Lew said, and then broke out laughing. He dropped the rusted gun to the dirt and picked up his weapons.
The first man he shot was still screaming, but his volume was getting weaker by the minute.
It's hard to beat a man with a sawed off shotgun , he thought.
Shaking his head, Lew thought, only a fool would try to rob a preacher, because ain't a one that has more than two dollars in his pocket on a good day. I guess, since I was forced to kill these fools, I need to see what they have I might need.
“Not too bad,” he said aloud, “I've already killed five of those who broke out of jail. Keep this up and I'll be finished in a couple of months. But, then what? My days of preaching are over. I'm ashamed of what I've become, but God left me little choice.”
He found some foods, which he left, because it all looked nasty and smelled off a bit, some old guns, which he'd sell or trad e, knives, and bedding. He tossed the bedding away after seeing it was crawling with fleas and lice.
He discovered Newton still alive and squatted beside the man. Grinning, Lew asked, “Were you part of the men who killed and raped my wife, and my daughters in Missouri? Ya then fought with my boys, but y'all killed them too. Do you remember the family you used and then killed?”
Newton nodded and then met the eyes of Lew. He was scared but knew he was a dead man, no matter his response.
Lew grabbed the man's filthy hair and pulled his head back, which exposed his throat. Taking the knife that Joseph had planned to use on him, the preacher cut the injured man's throat with one quick flash. Newton began to choke on his own blood. The dying man flipped and flopped around like a fish on a creek bank, but minutes later, bled dry, all movement stopped. Newton's eyes were open, but unseeing.
Ain't much here for three lives. Some old guns, not sure if anyone will buy them or not, skinning knives, and three pocketknives. Two plugs of chewing tobacco, small pouch of smoking tobacco, three gallons of whiskey , he thought. After going through the pockets of the men he had six dollars and seven cents.
He pulled an old gunny sack from his horse, threw the gear in there, mounted and once again moved north, but this time he kept his eyes open.
It was a couple of hours before dusk, when he noticed some riders off his left side, but some distance away, and then suddenly they were gone.
“That's kind of strange, horse. There one minute and gone the next. I know it wasn't my eyes, so they must have ridden into a stream bed or something.” Like most solitary men, when traveling, he talked to his horse.
Suddenly, two Sioux warriors were in front of him and when he glanced behind, he saw two more. I'm starting to think this just isn't my day , he thought as he raised his right hand to show he was unarmed. He brought his horse to a stop.
“Why you on land of the Sioux?” a yo ung warrior with only one feather asked in fair English.
“I am a holy man and I travel. I have not come to stay.” Lew replied and held his Bible up high in the air. He knew a little Sioux from the time, a few years past, when he worked with the tribe as a missionary of sorts. As a matter of fact, he'd might've even taught this warrior to sp eak English. He added, “I'm a wicasa wakan.”
“You are a shaman?”
“No, I am teacher of Wakan Tanka.” Lew replied, feeling nervous now.
“A holy man of Wakan Tanka?”
“Yes.” Lew replied and then prayed, God, don't let these savages torture me, please. If you want to take me Lord, do so, but please make it fast.
The warrior said something in Sioux and the other warriors all nodded, but not a one smiled or threatened him. He was unsure if they would kill him or not.
After some minutes, a man on the right, wearing a head full of feathers, said something and the young brave asked a question. Finally, the younger man said, “You may go, but it is not a good day to be on our lands if your skin is white. Running Buffalo, my chief, thinks you need to ride all day and night, because the next warriors that catch you may kill you. You need to leave the lands of my people.”
“Why all the anger with the white man?”
“The white man takes our land, but gives nothing in return. We have much anger, because the bones of our ancestors are buried in the soil of our lands. Do the white eyes not see the land is the land of my people?”
Careful how you answer the man , Lew thought and then said, “As you can see, I do not come to stay on your lands, because I have my own lands to live and hunt on. I travel only to meet with other holy men in Kansas City. I think the white man rides onto Sioux lands, looks and does not see your people. He then takes the land as his.”
“I do not know of this place you go. No one can take Sioux land, no one. Much blood will soon flow from one side of our land to the other. We will kill all white people we see on our lands. Our shaman has had a vision from Wakan Tanka and white men will fall like leaves before us.”
Now feeling his fear getting the best of him, Lew asked, “Can I go now? I must hurry to meet the other holy men.”
“Yes, you may go , but tell all the white eyes you see that if they come on Sioux lands to live, we will kill them.”
“I will tell them. May Wakan Tanka bless you and your peop
le.”
“Go in peace, wicasa wakan.” the young warrior said. He then pulled his pony around and rode away, the chief beside him.
Once they left, Lew pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the sweat from his brow. It wasn't hot, but he discovered he was sweating profusely. Fear, I reckon, but justified to my way of thinkin' , he thought.
After taking a quick snort of whiskey to settle his nerves, he tapped his horse in the ribs and they moved off at a walk. As he moved, he gave thought to his family, one member at a time, and minutes later tears ran down his soiled cheeks as his body shuddered with grief.
Kansas City was nothing like he thought it would be, and he could see the sin in the place. Hookers stood on every corner the night he rode into town. Pistol shots were heard off in the distance, and he was appalled to see a whore servicing a man in an alley.
Looks as if I've found a city with all the sins of both Sodom and Gomorrah. I cannot believe that people will let themselves get so low. What of their spirits and life after death? Do they not consider the consequences of their actions? he thought as he looked for a hotel. Seeing one on the right, he made his way to the place.
When he dismounted, he pulled out his reverend collar and placed it on his shirt. He tied his horse to the hitching post, made his way up the steps to the boardwalk, and entered. A small bell announced his entering.
He walked to the front desk, where a thin, squirrelly loo king man asked, “Uh, may I help you, reverend?”
“How much are your rooms for clergy? I'm afraid I have limited funds on this trip.”
The clerk smiled and said, “Our usual rate of a dollar a night is cut in half for men of God and since I'm having a slow night, I can give you a single for thirty-five cents. How's that?”
“Oh, bless you, son, and do you know of an inexpensive place I might eat?”
Big Mikes is down the block and you can get a complete meal for around a dime.”
Pulling out thirty-five cents, he paid the man and asked, “Is the food good?”
“I eat there at times when the misses is gone visitin' family. While it's not the best food in town, it'll do. Just basic foods, like stew, beans, fried chicken, pork chops or a pot roast. Mike's dead now but his eldest boy, Little Mike, owns the place.”