Hunter James Dolin

by Bret Lee Hart

  "Ah, shit," complained the young man as he threw his empty bean plate at the fire before grabbing his rifle and moving toward the corner of the camp.

  "And stay awake," yelled the man after him. "I don't want no surprises."

  The Red Legs were chuckling at the young man as they settled down into their bedrolls. They didn't like taking orders from these southern boys, but they were far from home and needed them to get where they were going, so they would eat crow for now.

  Hunter James was a patient man, making it fairly easy for him to stay where he was and wait for these men to sleep. He passed the time in thought; Montgomery knew he was coming. This was unfortunate, but changed nothing.

  The gunslinger was going to kill Richard Montgomery, and anyone else who got in his way, starting with these five men.

  Chapter Ten

  She walked down the gang plank with her head held high, wearing a beautiful low cut, white summer dress, the little frilly matching umbrella spinning above her long auburn hair. A green pearl necklace that matched her eyes perfectly lay upon her heaving bosom. The captain was standing behind her in the doorway and, for a brief moment, he actually thought he saw a gentle smile on Montgomery's face – something he had never seen before.

  Her birth name was Helen Beckum, she was born in Kansas nineteen years ago, to a poor pig farmer. Her mother had died from fever when she was twelve, and her father died two days after her sixteenth birthday. Helen lived and kept up the farm as long as she could, until the food ran out. Helen took the few belongings she had and walked for days to the only other place she knew, the town of Topeka. Being a beautiful young girl, she soon found a job at the local whorehouse.

  That was where Richard Montgomery found her. He could not believe the resemblance; this girl could be Lilith's twin. With his power and wealth, Richard gave the proprietor of the brothel an offer he could not refuse; one Helen was unable to refuse, as well.

  They were soon married and changed her name to Lilith Montgomery. She did not understand why her first name must also be changed, and dared not ask. Richard treated her well enough for the times, though she felt like a prisoner. At least now, she only had to sleep with one man, and he was rich and clean. So she played along, filling her china doll role until something better might come along.

  Richard took her hand as she reached out and stepped onto the dock from the ship's plank.

  "Thank you, my husband," Helen said, like an actress playing her part.

  "You look beautiful, my dear, I take it your voyage was uneventful?" Montgomery glared at the captain as he said this.

  "I assure you," said the captain, "other than some rough seas, she's in the same shape as when you saw her last, like I said."

  "I'm fine," replied Lilith. "Just a little cabin fever, and having been surrounded by those drunken sailors. I could use a hot bath, though."

  "Certainly, my dear, come with me. Captain, you and your men stay on the boat tonight. We'll make other arrangements in the morn."

  "Bring your purse with yah, we need to settle up payment before one box is unloaded off this here steamer," spouted the captain.

  "In the mornin', Captain, in the mornin'." With a wave of his hand, Richard and Lilith walked up the dock toward the main house as the sun was setting to the west.

  "Yes sir, Mr. Montgomery," yelled the captain after them as they moved along. He then spoke quietly to himself, "For now, Monty, I'll play along, for now."

  * * * * *

  An hour had passed, bringing on full dark. A cloudy night, which kept any light from the moon and stars from breaking through, gave Hunter an advantage for his sneak attack. He had not moved from his position, staying totally silent. He could barely hear the drunken snores coming from the sleeping men lying around the campfire through the loud chatter of the crickets.

  The half-breed firmly gripped the thirteen-inch Bowie knife as he removed it from his belt and quietly began moving through the brush. He must take out the young man unlucky enough to pull first watch without waking the others, or his little ambush could turn bad. All hell was eventually going to break loose either way.

  Hunter moved in the direction where the cowhand had gone over an hour ago, stopping in his tracks only once to the sounds of the whippoorwill. He came around a large pine tree where he spotted the lookout sitting on a fallen tree log, head down, dozing on and off. With his back to Hunter and his head bobbing up and down to fight off sleep, the gunslinger snuck up behind him, timing it perfectly. As the man's head came up in his battle against nodding off, Hunter covered his mouth with his left hand and cut his throat with the big knife, all in one swift motion.

  The man moaned and struggled for a few seconds as the warm blood spewed from his jugular vein. His body went completely slack; Hunter laid him down gently and respectfully, face-first into the mud that was mixed with his own warm fluid.

  The gunslinger wiped the red smear from his knife on the back of the dead man's shirt before moving toward the others who lay by the fire. With the blade in his right fist, he pulled his left-handed Colt, and using his thumb, he pulled back the hammer. With the speed and skill of a warrior, the gunslinger went to the closest sleeping man.

  One horizontal thrust buried the knife in his ear – the man lived long enough to let out a short cry which woke two of the others. As they scrambled to their feet, the half-breed gunned them down without hesitation. The four bangs of the Colt 44 spooked some of the horses from their tethers. Hunter had to sidestep one as they scampered past him and through the woods.

  The flash from the igniting powder affected his night vision for just a moment. As his sight came back to him, he noticed an empty bedroll to his right.

  At that instant, he heard a stick snap behind him. The gunslinger turned and fired his last two bullets into the chest of a shadow appearing through the brush. As the man was falling, he fired his revolver hitting Hunter in the side, dropping him to one knee. Hunter yelled out as pain shot through his belly, only the tail-end of his outcry being heard over the sound of the gunfire. He pushed to his feet; holding his side, he walked over to the dead man who was lying on his back.

  "You son-of-a-bitch!" he scolded, along with a swift kick to the man's body. "Dammit," he exclaimed, wincing from the movement.

  Hunter took notice that the old cowhand's pants were hanging half way down his thigh, his finger still holding onto the belt loop. Just bad luck, he thought. Obviously, this fellow went to relieve himself while Hunter was relieving the guard of his life.

  The gunslinger walked carefully over to the fire, reloading the Colt with a new cartridge as he went. Using the light from the flames, he removed his shirt to inspect the gunshot wound. Lucky for him, the bullet went all the way through, but he was bleeding badly. He shoved his Bowie knife into the hot coals of the fire with the one hand; with the other, he held pressure on the bullet hole, the blood still poured over his fingers and ran down his back.

  The wound was about two and a half inches in and off the hipbone, and just above the beltline; the slug had missed any vital organs. The gunslinger knew he would survive, since this new injury was about an inch away from a scar he had received some years back from a disgruntled gambler. The memory reminded him of the pain he was about to endure.

  He began rummaging around the camp until he found what he was looking for. Popping the cork, he chugged the whiskey several times until he depleted half the bottle. Hunter took several deep breaths then dowsed the front and the back of the wound with the alcohol. The sting forced a growl to escape between his clenched teeth, dropping him to his knees at the fire. He fought the dizziness by taking another long swig from the bottle. Then he removed the red glowing knife from the coals and slapped the flat part to the exit hole in his back – the growls became screams, as he fought to stay conscious.

  He quickly turned the blade and slapped it to the front, where the bullet had entered. The sizzle of his skin could be heard. He lacked the energy to manage another scream on hi
s way to unconsciousness; but before blacking out, his last memory would be the smell of his own burning flesh.

  Chapter Eleven

  The blue moonlight shone through the cross-shaped slits carved in the wooden shutters onto her lovely face as she slept. Hunter never felt more blessed than he did at this moment, as he admired her beauty. They had made love many times that night, each time more intense than the last. It seemed that everything was going to be all right, until the rifles poked through the cross-slits in every window. The order to fire rang out, just before the bullets shredded her to a bloody death.

  Hunter woke up suddenly, jumping violently to his feet, instantaneously pulling both revolvers from their holsters ready to kill. He had no idea where he was or how the blazes he got there.

  "Easy simmer, easy simmer, son," said a voice.

  Hunter could now see someone sitting by a small fire through the sweat running down his brow, "Matt? Is that you?"

  "It's Jebediah, good to see you up and about."

  Hunter looked around for the bodies of the men he had killed as his memory came flashing back to him, along with the pain from his wound. He then realized he was in a camp, but not in the same part of the woods where the battle had taken place. He turned, suddenly cocking his pistols, as a branch snapped behind him.

  Walt came out of the darkness into the fire light, messing with his belt being smothered underneath his belly. "Don't shoot me, Hunter James. I'm stopped up, and if you shoot me in the gut, I warn yah, it'll be messy," said the old coot with a chuckle as he sat down in front of the fire with a groan.

  Hunter put his guns away then wiped the sweat from his face. "What the hell are you guys doin' here?" Hunter winced and grabbed his side.

  "Pure luck," said Jebediah. "We just happened to come across yah."

  The gunslinger took a few steps and sat down easily by Jebediah. Walt leaned across the fire and handed him a jug. Hunter took a long draw, the shine made his head tighten and shake from side to side. "What in God's name is this?"

  "That's Okeechobee whiskey right there; good ain't it?" Walt said proudly with a smile. "That's my special brew. Drink up; I got plenty more where that comes from."

  Hunter took another draw. "Damn, that's better than moonshine."

  "Better than sunshine," replied Jeb.

  "Sure better than a rainy day," added Walt.

  The three men broke out in laughter; Hunter instantly grabbed his side as pain shot through it, making them laugh even harder. All three men were feeling right good being together again. Jebediah and Walt had been friends for many years and now they felt that same camaraderie with the young half-breed.

  To Hunter, the two old coots reminded him of his friend Matt; but the violins didn't last long; it was back to the real world and the job at hand.

  "All right, enough," said Hunter. "Tell me about it."

  Jebediah and Walt looked at each other in hesitation.

  Hunter told them, "I don't give a damn who tells the story; I just need to know if I got to go back there and clean up that mess."

  Jebediah spoke up, like a kid seeking approval, "Well, the horses were long gone when we come across ya; we sunk the bodies in a sinking hole along with the saddles on top for weight. We took what food they had and a few other things, but nothin' with no markins' on it."

  Hunter smiled a little; he was really enjoying the company of these two like usual. After a slight pause, he said, "I don't have the…words."

  "No need," said Walt, "I just hope we did ya a goodin'. By the time anyone finds them, this whole thing will be over."

  "What's for supper?" Hunter asked.

  "Well we already et," answered Walt, "but I got some bear meat, and a story to go along with it that you ain't gonna' believe."

  The weathered old timers told Hunter all about the grizzly they tracked and killed in the swamps. They went on and on, laughing, drinking shine, and eating bear steaks. It was the most fun these boys could remember having in a long time. The Okeechobee whiskey was a natural pain-killer and was doing its job on Hunter's wound; his temperature felt normal and his gut feeling told him there was no infection. The gunslinger had so many scars at this time in his life he could not count them all if he were standing naked in a room with mirrored walls.

  The worst of these healed wounds was his left middle finger, a quarter of an inch shorter than the other; it had been shot off two years back in a gunfight on a trail in north Florida. It had been a fair trade, the tip of his finger for the lives of five bad men. The Colt revolver no longer noticed his left hand's disability, for it now shot as straight and true as it did before its misfortune. The only time Hunter noticed his missing nub was when it itched, bringing back limited memories.

  When a man had killed as many men as Hunter James Dolin, he could surely not keep them straight. Knowing that every man he killed was justified, he no longer gave his actions a second thought. Life was tough, most men were evil, and he would act accordingly.

  Hunter was the first to sleep and the whiskey would not allow him to dream, which was a good thing for his dreams usually turned to nightmares.

  The old coots drifted off shortly afterward and only luck kept them from being slaughtered in their sleep. As diligent as these men were, the alcohol diluted their senses this night, catching them with their guard down to give them the best rest they'd had in weeks.

  * * * * *

  Jebidiah and Walt woke at the crack of dawn to the smell of frying lard.

  Hunter had arisen earlier and raided a few Mallard nests built among the cattails on the edge of a small lake, located less than a mile from their camp. He did not take all the eggs from the momma ducks; he took only a few from each as was normal practice for hunters and gatherers of the land. Most men who live off the land instinctively know their survival depends on conservation.

  The three men drank coffee with their eggs, conversing not at all until their heads cleared from the night's drink.

  Jebediah was the first to speak, "So tell me son, back in Myakka did you find Scooter?"

  The gunslinger pulled three hand-rolled cigarillos from his pouch and tossed them one after the other over to his friends.

  In return they nodded a thank ya'.

  "I found him. Justice was done."

  "That's good," said Walt, "That mealy mouth weasel deserved whatever he got comin' to him."

  "So where does that leave yah, son?" asked Jebediah. "Have you come to peace?"

  "No, not at all," replied Hunter. "In fact, it's worse than that, before I dropped Scooter head first into a gator pit, he told me a little tale."

  "Jesus," whispered Walt. "Lus-tee Manito Nak-nee."

  "Say what?" asked Hunter with a glare.

  Walt showed signs of embarrassment for a moment. "Lus-tee Manito Nak-nee... You know, black spirit man... Oh, never mind."

  "Anyways," Hunter continued, "Richard Montgomery lives; and those dead bodies you two sunk back there in the swamp proves that."

  "Holy shit!" said Walt

  "Damn!" said Jebediah, in unison.

  "Knowin' Montgomery, I'm sure he's got a small army in that lake house, and he knows I'm alive."

  "Son, I can't even begin to know what you're feelin', but I know what you're thinkin'. Why don't you just ride on out a here? North Carolina's got swamp fit to live in, if you don't mind a little cold."

  "Ever been to Louisiana, Hunter James? They gots beautiful swamp there, son. We'll go with yah," chimed in Walt.

  Hunter stared at the old men seated across from him for a time. Then he stood and began packing his gear, before he replied, "You know I can't and won't do that. There are debts to be paid, and destiny has made me the collector."

  Jebediah stood and began packing his things; Walt did the same. They all did this in silence until their camp was cleaned up, and they were in the saddle.

  "This is my fight. You all don't need to be doin' this."

  The old timers just stared at the gunslinger without utt
ering a word.

  "Damned old fools," said Hunter as he led them from the woods toward the trail. Only God knew how they would end up, and the Lord surely cared more than they did.

  Chapter Twelve

  Montgomery's home front was at a full buzz, now that The Miss Lilly and her cargo had arrived. The ship was built primarily to transport Richard's belongings from the north; he had sold all his land in the Dakotas, acres and acres of mining camps. The claims were played out, but he purposely put some gold back into the ground and spread it along the streams and banks, giving the impression of richness. He had pulled a wagon of gold out of the claims and then sold the barren land for a good price.

  Richard Montgomery was nothing but an evil killer, disguised as a businessman. He had acquired the lands by force, making the miners and tin pans sell at a cheap price, or else. The ones that would not relent had met with horrible accidents or simply disappeared, but somehow always seemed to sign over their claims to Montgomery just prior.

  That morning, Montgomery settled up with the captain as promised. The captain took his payment and stowed the iron box of coins away in his quarters, that man was assuredly all about gold.

  "Stick with me, Captain," boasted Richard from his seat in the ship's galley. "If you live through this war, you could retire a very rich man."

  "Oh, I plan on livin' and I plan on bein' rich. But which war you talkin' bout, the one between the States or with Hunter James Dolin?"

  The two men stared at each other for a time. The captain walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He sat down across from Richard and poured them both half-full.

  "I don't know how you came by that information, but I had hoped to keep a lid on it until I was ready."

  "Word travels fast in these parts. I heard about a man named Scooter Johnson, then I saw you pullin' all your men back here. I said to myself the War Between the States ain't comin' this far south, hell, they got no interest in any swamp, anyhow. So I put two and two together, and it had that half-breed written all over it."