by Bill Brooks
But it was more than trees and rivers and plants that was taking the heart out of Carter Biggs. It was more than missing the sound of rooting hogs and the smell of wood smoke and curing hams. It was more than the lonely journey that carried him further and farther from home. What was weighing on the big man’s shoulders more than anything was a desperately wounded brother left in the hands of a black-eyed Cajun swamp woman.
Carter Biggs was a man who prided himself in taking care of his own. It was a matter of honor.
But he had abandoned the boy in favor of some foolish vow he had clung to. That vow had not brought him any closer to Johnny Montana than it had the man in the moon.
It was stubbornness that had made him go on. He knew it. Stubbornness, like a pistol at his head, giving him no choice, pushing him on and on and on.
Poor ol’ Lowell. Baby brother, Lowell. Probably lying dead under a mossy sod right now—chickens pecking on his grave.
He thought of the swamp woman, the Cajun. Marie, she called herself. Strange woman that both frightened and attracted him. Hell, he had to leave. Strange woman! Stood right up to him, though. Stood up and talked him down. Thinking of her made him anxious.
The town of Tascosa appeared through the haze of heat, a distant outline of low-lying buildings. He had no idea what town it was, nor did he care. He was weary and sore and his mount was lathered, its head bent low to the ground.
Every board of lumber on every building was gray and weathered and curled, every nail head rusted. A few tents, a few buildings—that was Tascosa, he saw the name on several of the buildings painted in dull black letters a long time ago.
BEER & WHISKEY was one of the faded scripts above a narrow little shebang that seemed near ready to collapse inwardly upon itself. It would do, he told himself as he turned the animal’s head in toward the hitch rail.
He didn’t bother slapping the dust from his person, and out of habit, he looked around to see if Johnny Montana was among any of the patrons—he wasn’t, nor did Carter Biggs expect him to be. It didn’t seem to matter as much as it had in the last town, nor the town before that.
He ordered a whiskey and a beer chaser and the bardog announced that such purchase earned him the right to the free lunch that set at the end of the bar.
Flies circled and landed on the stacks of sliced beef, bread and pickles. Stalks of celery stood in a glass of water. He brushed away the flies and made a sandwich, then a second and found a table at which to sit where he did not feel so crowded by others.
The bartender brought over another glass of beer and without protest, Carter paid him a nickel for it.
As he ate, he noticed several men coming and going through the rear door of the place, heard some commotion, paid it idle curiosity.
A man stopped briefly at his table, leaned on it with both hands and with a twist of his mouth asked: “Hey there, stranger, are you gettin’ in on the dog fight out back? It is about to start and they are laying bets now.” Carter gave him the eye until he moved on.
In the next few moments, the entire population of the bar headed out the back door. His curiosity got the better of him.
Picking up a sandwich in one hand and a glass ofbeer in the other, he walked toward the back of the building and stepped outside.
A crowd had gathered in a circle. They were all men and excited. He worked his way into a position to be able to observe exactly what was taking place.
Heavy wagering was going on. Men with paper money in their fists hooted and yelled to place down their bets.
Across the far part of the circle, Carter saw a red-bearded man holding the leash on a stout gray bull terrier. Nearer to where he stood eating the sandwich, Carter saw a slightly built man, who wore a derby, pencil-thin moustache and nice looking suit of clothes. The man was holding the collar of a shaggy black animal that more nearly resembled a wolf than a dog.
“Come’n Coorigan,” shouted the dandy across the ring to the red-bearded man with the gray bull. “You surely don’t believe that little pup of yours will be much more than a good meal for Sampson here, der ya?” The dandy flashed a smile that lifted the ends of his thin moustache.
Red Beard gritted his reply though the bush of beard that flowed nearly to his belt buckle.
“That black bastard of yours won’t know what hit him once’t Buck’s jaws get locked down on his throat! And maybe when he’s done with that mangy critter of yours, I’ll let him have a taste of you as well!”
The crowd roared with delight over the open hostility that flowed between the two dog handlers.
“All bets in!” shouted a man carrying two fistfuls of money and clutching a ledger book under his arm.
“Let ’em rip!” he ordered the dog handlers.
The gray terrier shot across the pit on short muscled legs almost before the dandy had loosed the shaggy black. The snarl and growl of each animal ripped the air, the black’s lips curled back over the large canine teeth.
The bull barely missed black’s throat as the black twisted sideways just in time to miss the fatal bite. Each cur raised itself on hind legs and lunged at the other. The bull was lightening fast and relentless. The black drew first blood just behind the bull’s head, but it only seemed to inflame the attack of the smaller dog.
The bull caught the exposed flank of the black and its jaws snapped shut causing the black to yelp and howl. The hound’s anguish drew a chorus of shouts and curses from some, laughter from others.
Somehow, the black managed to spin away from the snapping jaws of the terrier and began to inflict its own damage by raking its fangs across the rock-like head of the bull, tearing part of one ear off, leaving it a bloody flap.
The two fighting beasts worked their way back and forth across the man-made ring, each trying to secure a death hold on the other. Flecks of foam and blood dripped from their jaws and splattered in the dirt and on the toes of the men’s boots.
The slashing fangs of the black scored a sudden but brief victory as they blinded one eye of the terrier—the only point at which the bull seemed hurt and gave ground.
Each draw of blood, each new wound, excited the crowd and men whistled and hooted and stomped their feet.
For all its size and power, however, the black was losing ground to the muscled fury of the bull. The fatal mistake came when the terrier rolled the black up, causing the animal to loose its feet and fall over onto its back.
The bull’s fangs closed suddenly and solidly on the black’s throat, the sharp fangs buried themselves deeply, and the might jaws clamped shut with such brutal force that the black’s throat was crushed.
A desperate flurry of hind legs, and then the black went limp. The bull shook its head furiously swinging the body of the black as though it were a rag doll.
A mixture of groans and cheers rose from the spectators.
“Call him off, God damn it!” shouted the dandy, the handler of the black. “Call him off now, or I’ll blow his bastard head off!” A small pistol, a nickel-plated pocket gun, flashed sunlight in his hand.
Red beard looked across the ring at the dandy, the broad grin of satisfaction leaving his face as his eyes dropped to the small pistol in the dandy’s fist.
“You shoot my dog you little priss, I’ll bust your head open with a board.”
“I mean it,” shouted the dandy. “It’s over—you’ve won your bet, now call him off!”
“When he’s done, is when I’ll call him off!”
Carter saw the dandy step forward, step into the ring and fire the pistol into the bull’s head. Five shots, like the pop of firecrackers filled the air. The dog flopped over on its side, the black still locked in its jaws.
“You darty son of a bitch!” The Irishman’s face burned red with anger, his fists balled into meaty knots as he charged from the crowd, charged across the earthen ring toward the dandy.
The dandy raised the shiny pistol, held it at arm’s length, and without so much as a waver or a flinch, pulled the trigger, and h
is sixth and final shot drilled a neat hole into the center of red beard’s forehead. The man fell face forward into the dust, fell as though poleaxed.
“I asked him to do the right thing,” said the dandy. “Asked him to call off his hound.” The crowd had fallen as silent as novitiates on Sunday morning.
“He had his chance, damn him. You all saw that!” Several heads nodded in mute agreement.
The dandy stood, feet apart, his derby cocked slightly over his forehead, his jaw jutted forth, stood as though he was expecting a challenge from someone in the crowd, a friend of the dead man’s, perhaps. But no one stepped forward.
“Well then, it looks as though I’m the winner after all. That being the case, then the drinks are on Ian McDuff,” he said, jabbing a thumb into his chest. “And may the Scots always prove the Irish are nothin’ more than durty little potato farmers.”
It was a high insult, but if there were any other Irish in the crowd, none took offense at the remark as everyone filed back inside the tavern on the heels of the Scot, who waved a fistfull of dollars in one hand and the spent nickel revolver in the other.
Carter Biggs found himself standing alone, staring at the bodies of the dead man and the two fighting dogs. It was a pitiful callous sight on which to rest his gaze.
It was what Texas and the frontier had come to represent to him: sudden violence, death, uncertainty.
He stood for a long time staring at the bodies before turning away. He had decided. He would return to learn the fate of his brother, Lowell. His quest for Johnny Montana was over. He no longer had the heart for it.
He took off the pistol he wore and stuffed it in his saddlebags and then he found a livery, sold his horse and saddle and found the train station. He purchased a ticket east with connections through to New Orleans. And when he finished paying the teller, he went outside and sat on the platform and smoked a cigarette and waited for his train to come.
Never again would he return to Texas, and never would he know just how close he had come. Johnny Montana was riding a buckskin horse less than one hundred miles from where he sat and waited for the Lone Star Flyer.
Chapter Twenty-two
Johnny Montana rode the mare hard, too hard. After several miles, the animal began to falter. Reluctantly, the outlaw slowed his pace. He estimated that he had maybe eighty miles in all to cover in returning to the spot where they had been attacked by the Comanches.
It had been four days since he had ridden away from the buffalo wallow, maybe five, he wasn’t sure—hadn’t kept accurate count. He wanted to find them. He wanted to find them more that anything in the world. He wanted back what was his.
He rode in anger, seething anger. The anger that had been building in him ever since the Ranger had “shown him up” in front of Katie. But, she was part of it too, he reasoned. She had fawned and played coy around the kid lawman. She had turned her loyalties, had sided with the Ranger over him.
They had stepped all over his pride, the two of them. He wasn’t going to just let a thing like that go. The reasons for going back, for seeking revenge kept snapping through his mind like banners in a wind.
It would be an easy enough task once he caught up with them. He’d dust the lawman in front of her, and then he’d take from her what he had been missing a long time, and after that ... well, he wasn’t sure exactly what he would do after that.
The thought of her and the lawman together galled him. He was anxious to use the gun on the ranger. No matter how he killed the kid, it somehow wouldn’t seem enough the way he thought about it. It could never be enough for the humiliation he had suffered.
The dusky rose sky of evening lay before him. He’d have to make camp soon—one more night on this godforsaken prairie in this godforsaken Texas. Texas had proved to be the worst decision he had ever made in his life. Once he settled score with Katie and the Ranger, he’d leave for sure, he told himself. Maybe California. He heard things were good in California. He’d heard a fellow couldn’t go wrong in California.
Henry Dollar felt the gripping ache of broken ribs and the pounding pain of his swollen face with every step the animal beneath him took. Still, he kept the horse at a steady and deliberate pace.
He had swallowed some of the laudanum and after twenty minutes, it began to take effect. It was like the physician that had given it to him said: It took the edge off the pain, but made everything suddenly seem slow and lazy, and he found himself having to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.
Ahead of him somewhere rode the outlaw.
The wagon of Billy Bear Killer and Sister McKnight rolled to a halt near the banks of a wide river that flowed smooth and brown.
“Well, here we are, children,” announced Billy in a happy voice. Sister McKnight sat at her usual place on the wagon seat next to Billy. Pete and Katie rode in the back, protected from the sun by the canvas cover stretched over the iron ribs like old skin.
The pair climbed out of the wagon to a late afternoon sky that glowed copper. The jolt of the wagon had been harsh and uncomfortable, but not nearly as much as was being afoot in such country.
“What’s she called?” asked Pete, pointing to the river.
“Don’t reckon I know her proper name,” said Billy Bear Killer. “I call her the Big Muddy. I’ve seen her swoll up so big she’s carried dead cattle, trees, wagons, and boulders down through her. When it sometimes rains a lot early part of the year, she can be fiercesome. Right now, she’s near as peaceful as a baby. Except for the quicksands in her bottom.”
Billy had a chaw of tobacco in his cheek and a bottle of Sister McKnight’s elixir in his back pocket, which he pulled out and offered to Pete with a cautious glance at Katie.
“Jus’ medicine, ma’am,” he assured.
Pete declined. “I’m feeling better, Billy.”
“Suit yerself, youngster,” said the squaw man, tipping the bottle up to his lips. And after a long hard swallow that saw Billy’s Adam’s apple bob up and down like a cork in water, he wiped his lips and said, “Preventative medicine, the best kind.”
Billy set about taking care of the mules while Sister prepared a fire, took down several of her pots and pans hanging off the wagon, and began preparations for the evening meal. Katie offered to help, but Sister only acted like she didn’t understand.
“She’s kinda fussy about her kitchen,” explained Billy. “Indian’s got certain ways about ’em. Sometimes even I don’t understand. Best to just stand back and let her do it. Why I remember once I had this ol’ dog and he come up missing one day. Tunes was hard for me and Sister back then. I still think that maybe Sister cooked up that dog of mine in her pot. I don’t know to this day whether or not I ate my own dog. I never did have the spunk to ask Sister about it.” Katie swallowed hard over the story, unsure as to whether Billy was fooling her.
Pete offered to help with the mules and Billy gave a toothy grin.
“Me, I ain’t so particular when it comes to getting help with the work. Take them traces off that far one, but watch his rear ’cause he’ll sure kick the bejezzus outta you if he gets the chance.”
Billy allowed Pete to help him water the mules before putting on their hobbles. Then, taking his double barreled shotgun, he walked upstream and disappeared. Half and hour later, Pete heard the boom of the gun go off, and a half hour after that, Billy walked into camp carrying a pair of sage hens.
“Sister loves these,” he said, holding the birds up in the air. “I love ’em too. Sister has a special way when it comes to cooking birds.”
Later, they ate. It was true. Sister did have a special way with cooking birds. Pete and Katie both paid their compliments to Sister for the delicious fare. Sister lowered her eyes at such comments, but it was plain to see that she enjoyed their attention over her.
“It sure seems like you and Sister have a good life,” said Pete. “Although I would find it hard to survive in such a place as this.”
“Well, me an’ Sister don’t mind, and it ai
n’t as harsh and desperate as it seems at first glance. Fer one thing, Sister could cook a bush and it’d make yer mouth water. And me and this old scattergun can shoot purty straight when it comes to putting game in the pot. Once every while, an antelope or a muley pays us a visit, that’s when Sister really shines.” Billy grinned and spat into the fire.
“As far as the rest,” continued Billy. “Whenever me and Sister hit us a town, we sell her Sorrowful Prairie Elixir. Folks have come to expect us. They pay a dollar a bottle and swear it cures their rhemuatiz, flux, dropsy, and memory. One old feller told me it even cured his plumbin ...” Billy remembered the presence of Katie and said, “Sorry ma’am, I did not mean to offend.”
“It’s all right, Billy, no offence taken.”
“What’s in Sister’s Elixir that makes it work on so many ailments?” asked Pete, genuinely curious, for the liquid had seemed to have had somewhat of a curative effect on the pain in his shoulder.
“Can’t say,” answered Billy. “Sister keeps her recipe a secret, even from me. Which is alright, because maybe if I knew what she put in it, I wouldn’t drink it.” Billy’s laugh wheezed like a bad bellows and he took a swallow of the Sister’s elixir to his own delight.
“How far are we from the nearest town?” asked Pete, staring off at the brown river.
“That’d be Mormon Springs—’bout forty some odd miles.”
“I need you to take us there, Billy.”
“Sure, me and Sister was headed that way anyhow. We’re running low on sugar. I get grumpy when I don’t have sugar in my coffee.”
“I’ll see that you get reimbursed fur your trouble, Billy.”
“Well consider it done,” said Billy. “I reckon I better fix you up a night shelter a’fore it gets dark.”
Pete offered to help, but Billy said he could do it easy. Billy made a lean-to out of a tarp and some branches he hacked from one of the cottonwoods lining the river’s edge. Then, he spread a pair of bedrolls and announced it home fur Pete and Katie. Each looked at the other, but made no comment.