The man smiled. “Well, Mr. Jones, my name is Foster. This here is my boy, Ira. If food is all you’re worryin’ about, we’d be real pleased to have you share breakfast with us. I’ll just throw on another few pieces of bacon, and we’ll be just fine. I was makin’ some extra biscuits anyway, just to carry along with us.”
“Mr. Foster, that’s just real generous of you,” Jaco said.
“Whooee. How come it is that you two men is stinkin’ so?” the boy asked.
“Ira!” Foster said sharply. “That’s no way to talk to a person.”
“But Pa, they both stink,” Ira said. “For sure you can smell ’em, can’t you?”
Jaco laughed. “Don’t be angry with the boy, Mr. Foster. I reckon we do stink at that, seein’ as the wagon we was havin’ to ride in was also the wagon that hauls away the slop from the kitchen. They don’t give us freed prisoners our own carriage. No sir, we got to take a ride on whatever wagon it is that’s a-leavin’ the prison at the time. This here wagon was carryin’ fish scraps. I reckon we’ll have to take us a bath a-fore we put on any new clothes.”
“I suppose so. But again, let me apologize for my son,” Foster said.
As the four ate their breakfast, Foster told Jaco and Putt how he and the boy were on the way back home from having been in Santa Fe for the last few days.
“Is that far from here? Your home, I mean,” Jaco asked.
“It isn’t too terrible far. I reckon we’ll be back by late tomorrow, sometime.” Foster looked over at his son and smiled. “We drove ten head of beeves to Santa Fe and sold ’em.”
“One of’em was mine,” Ira said proudly. “And I got thirty-five dollars for it.”
“The boy’s right. He raised ’im his ownself from when it was a calf. I figure it ain’t never too early to learn the power of hard work,” Foster said.
“You got that right, Mr. Foster. Iffen I’ da had someone like you to keep me straight, more ’n likely I woulda never got myself in trouble in the first place. It ain’t never too late to learn, neither. I mean, look at me ’n Jones. Yesterday we was in prison. Today we’re free men.”
“I thought you said his name was Smith.”
“It is Smith. Bein’ so excited ’bout bein’ free again, I reckon I just got a little too excited, and misspoke. If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’m just goin’ to step over there ’n take a leak. I don’t want to be pissin’ in a man’s camp.
“Smith, why don’t you tell ’em that funny story about Lewis, ’n how when he was bein’ hung, he asked them to tie the noose real tight so’s he wouldn’t fall, seein’ as he was a-scared o’ heights.”
Putt, as if not realizing that Jaco had already given away his punch line, started the story. That did exactly what Jaco wanted it to do; it kept the attention of Foster and his son, allowing Jaco to step up behind them with a large stone. It took only two blows with the rock, and both Foster and Jimmy were dead.
“You’re smaller ’n I am, and the boy was right big for his age,” Jaco said. “See if you can fit into his clothes.”
“Damn,” Putt said. “There ain’t neither one of ’em carryin’ a gun. What kind of man would go off on a trip like this ’n not even have no gun with ’im?”
“Looks like there’s a shotgun in one o’ the saddle sheaths,” Jaco said.
Rifling through the saddlebags of Foster and his son Ira, they found an extra change of clothes, then the two outlaws bathed in the nearby stream.
Half an hour later, cleaned up, wearing different clothes, armed with a shotgun, and riding horses, Jaco and Putt were heading east. They also had three hundred and fifty dollars, the money Foster and Ira had made from selling their cattle.
“What are we goin’ to do now?” Putt asked.
“First, I’m goin’ to take care of some business,” Jaco said.
“What kind of business?”
“Killin’ a sheriff kind of business.”
Putt smiled. “You’re talkin’ about killin’ Baxter, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m talkin’ about killin’ Baxter. After that’s done, I aim to put together a gang of men that we can trust, and make up for some of that time we lost while we was in prison.”
“Yeah!” Putt said. “Yeah, that sounds like a fine idea.”
Chaperito
At three o’clock in the morning, the two men rode into the small, quiet town. The only sounds were night-singing crickets and frogs and the gentle squeak of a sign moving slightly in the breeze.
“Stop here,” Jaco said. “If we ride all the way up to the jail, we’ll more ’n likely be heard.”
They tied the horses off in front of the feed store. Jaco pulled the double-barreled gun from the saddle holster, broke it open to check the loads, then snapped it shut. He and Putt moved quietly, staying in the shadows until they reached the jail. A soft golden glow shined through the window. Creeping up to the window, they looked inside and saw a deputy leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, his arms folded across his chest, and a hat tipped down over his eyes.
Opening the front door of the jail, they stepped in quietly. Holding the shotgun so as to be able to use it in a butt stroke, Jaco walked toward the deputy.
Something awakened him and he pushed his hat back and looked up just in time for his eyes to register fear. Jaco slammed the butt of the shotgun between his eyes before the deputy could make a sound.
Rifling quickly through the desk, Jaco found a pistol and holster and handed it to Putt. With that one and the one Jaco took off the dead deputy, they were now armed.
They went into the apartment attached to the back of the jail where Sheriff Baxter lived with his wife and his elderly mother-in-law. Loud snoring was coming from one of the two bedrooms.
“Go in there and kill whoever you find,” Jaco ordered, pointing to one of the rooms. “I’ll take this one.” He indicated the room from which the loud snoring was coming.
Jaco had chosen the right room for his personal wish for vengeance. Sheriff Baxter was lying on his back, his mouth open, snoring loudly. Jaco held the end of the pistol one inch from the sheriff’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
The sheriff’s wife sat up with a start, but Jaco killed her before she could make a sound. He heard a gunshot coming from the other room.
“Let’s get out of here,” Putt said, meeting Jaco in the living room.
“Not until we let the prisoners go,” Jaco said.
“Why should we let the prisoners go? What the hell do we care about them?”
“We don’t care,” Jaco said. “But, if the deputy and the sheriff are both dead, and the prisoners escaped, who are people going to blame for the killing?”
Putt laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a great idea!”
A minute later, Jaco and Putt hurried back into the jail, where they unlocked the cell doors to let out the two prisoners.
“What’s happening?” one of the prisoners asked.
“You’re free,” Jaco said. “But you’d better get out of here fast.”
“Gee, thanks, mister!”
“I’d go down the alley if I was you,” Jaco said.
The two men ran out back as Jaco and Putt went out front, then moved quickly back to their horses. Dogs were barking and they could hear some shouting.
“What is it?” a man carrying a shotgun asked. “What was the shooting?”
“Jailbreak,” Jaco said. “They killed the deputy, the sheriff, and his entire family. They’re runnin’ north down the alley.”
“Tom!” the man shouted down the street toward another man. “Jailbreak! They killed the sheriff and his family. In the alley!”
Other armed men had appeared outside, and they started running toward the north end of town. Jaco and Putt mounted their horses as they heard shooting.
“There they are!” someone shouted. “They’ve run into the stable!”
“Don’t let ’em get away!” another voice called. “Good Lord, they just kilt the s
heriff ’n his whole family!”
“They ain’t goin’ to get away. I know exactly where they are.”
As Jaco and Putt rode out of town, they heard shouts and more shooting.
“We got ’em, by God!” someone yelled. “We kilt both of ’em!”
“I got to hand it to you, Jaco,” Putt said. “That was real smart, what you done.”
Chapter Thirteen
Chugwater
“There’s that English feller,” Elmer said, pointing to Cal Hanson. Duff and Elmer had just taken a table at Fiddlers’ Green. Hanson was sitting at a table with Biff and Fred Matthews.
“Ain’t he s’posed to be buyin’ some cows from you?”
“Aye.”
“Well, how come it is that he ain’t bought ’em yet?”
“He sent a message to his backers in England. I think they are waiting to decide how many head they want.”
“You woulda thought he’d have that all figured out by now. I know he’s got the money. I seen the story about it in the newspaper.”
“Oh, yes, he has the money all right,” Duff replied.
Biff said something which neither Duff nor Elmer were able to hear, but whatever it was, it made everyone laugh.
“Duff,” Biff called, waving to him. “Why don’t you ’n Elmer bring your drinks and come on over. We’re havin’ a fine conversation, and Mr. Hanson is a-fixin’ to tell us a joke.”
“An Englishman is going to tell a joke, is he? Well, that would be most interesting. Sure now, and I was nae aware the English even had a sense of humor. But do give it a try.” Although Duff had lost much of his Scottish brogue in the years he had been in America, he purposely let the words roll from his tongue as he spoke to the Englishman.
“I know a joke or two, but it will require a bit of intelligence to comprehend, and you, being a Scotsman, may have some difficulty in seeing the humor.”
“Here now, and would you tell the joke and not bang your gums so and apologizing before you even tell it, for it not being funny,” Duff said. Though they were deriding each other, it was obvious to their friends that it was all in good fun.
“All right,” Hanson said. “A Scotsman and an Englishman met in a posh pub in London, in order to do some business. I expect it would be much like us, meeting here in this posh pub,” he continued, taking in Fiddlers’ Green with a sweep of his hand.
“A waiter approaches. ‘May I get you something?’ he asks. ‘Aye, I’ll have scotch,’ the Scotsman replies. The waiter pours the drink, then turns to the Englishman. ‘And will it be a scotch for you as well?’ he asks.
“The Englishman glares at the waiter. ‘Never!’ the Englishman says. ‘Why, I’d rather be raped and ravished by bad women than drink scotch whisky!’
“The Scotsman hands the drink back to the waiter. ‘Och,’ he says. ‘I didnae ken there wuz a choice!’”
The others, including Duff, laughed.
“Duff, my boy, it looks like the Englishman got you with that one. Do you have one for the English?”
“Aye, ’n ’tis one you might enjoy, Biff, being as you’re an old soldier. This one is about the English army in Egypt. I can speak from experience, as I served in the Sahara alongside Englishmen.”
“Careful now, I was with the Sussex Regiment in Egypt,” Hanson said.
“Aye, and ’tis just a coincidence, I’m sure, that the story I’m about to tell is about the Sussex Regiment.” Duff settled in his chair for the telling. “The Sussex Regiment had a large pile of discards in the middle of the Sahara. An English brigadier, with a monocle stuck in his eye”—he made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and held it up to his eye, to the enjoyment of the others—“performed an inspection and gave his report. ‘Improper Security,’ he said. ‘I strongly recommend four guards to be utilized so that the discards can be watched over, day and night.’
“So, because the Sussex listens to their brigadiers, they appointed four guards to watch over the trash heap. Then the brigadier said, ‘there are no written orders for the guards to follow.’
“So, the Sussex Regiment created a planning section and staffed it with two corporals to write a set of orders and guidelines.
“The brigadier then pointed out that there were no supervisors to make certain that the guards and the two corporals were doing their jobs properly, so the regiment assigned two sergeants to look over the corporals and the guards.
“The general then pointed out that there was no company of soldiers provided to maintain the facility, so the army provided an entire infantry company with a captain in command, a leftenant as executive officer, a sergeant major, a first sergeant, five sergeants, and five corporals, along with one hundred privates.
“When that was done the brigadier said that the unit was now overstaffed and should cut back on some of its personnel. So, the army eliminated the four guard positions.”
The others laughed.
“Upon my word,” Hanson said. “I do believe that I was the commanding officer of that company.”
After the exchange of a few more stories, Hanson excused himself, explaining that he had some business to take care of at the bank before it closed for the day.
“He seems like a good enough feller,” Elmer said after Hanson left.
“Aye, he does,” Duff agreed.
“What is it with the English and the Scots?” Elmer asked. “Why don’t y’all like each other?
“What is it between the group you call Yankees and your Rebels?” Duff replied.
“Damn. You mean y’all fought a war agin one another?”
“Aye,” Duff said. “What the Battle of Gettysburg was to the American Confederacy, the Battle of Flodden was to Scotland.”
“Who won?”
“King James of Scotland was killed. And now, Scotland is part of Great Britain.”
“Sorta like the South is still part of the Union?” Elmer asked.
“You might say that, aye.”
“But you and that feller seem to be gettin’ on, all right.”
“Are there any Yankees that you like?”
“Well, yeah, sure. Biff is a Yankee, ’n I like him.”
“The idea of nationality might separate England from Scotland, but individual Englishmen and Scotsmen can transcend that separation to become friends, much like you and Biff.”
“I’ll be damned,” Elmer said. “You sure got a way of explainin’ things so that folks can understand.”
At that moment someone came running into the saloon. “There’s somethin’ goin’ on down at the bank!” he shouted.
“What is it?” Biff asked.
“It’s a bank robbery. Or at least that’s how it started out. Only now it’s a standoff between Marshal Ferrell and the bank robber, an’ that English feller is right in the middle of it.”
“Are you for telling us, lad, that Mr. Hanson is one of the bank robbers?” Duff asked.
“No, he ain’t the robber. He’s the hostage.”
Several of the patrons of Fiddlers’ Green, including Duff and Elmer, rushed out front to see what was going on. At the far end of the block Bill Ferrell, the city marshal, and Hanson were standing in the street in the front of the bank. A man was standing behind Hanson, holding a pistol against the back of his head.
Marshal Ferrell was also holding his pistol, but there was nothing he could do with it under the circumstances. “You may as well put down that gun and give yourself up. You can’t get to your horse, and you sure as hell can’t walk out of here.”
“You think that was smart, runnin’ my horse off, do you? You’d better get me another horse right now, or I’m goin’ to kill this here foreign fella,” the bank robber said.
“Then what?” Marshal Ferrell asked.
“What do you mean, then what? He’ll be dead.”
“You won’t have the advantage anymore, will you?” Ferrell asked calmly. “If you kill him, I’ll kill you.”
As Ferrell continued to argue with the bank r
obber, Duff stepped out to his horse and pulled the Creedmoor rifle from its sheath. He was standing on the side of Sky opposite the three people in the street. Even if the would-be bank robber happened to glance toward Duff, he was far enough away and blocked by his horse. The bank robber wouldn’t be able to see what Duff was doing.
He slipped a shell into the chamber, then, using the saddle as a rest, aimed at the bank robber. He put the crosshairs of the scope, not on the bank robber himself, but on the gun the robber was holding, and pulled the trigger.
The loud bang of the rifle rushed down the street at the speed of sound, but the bullet was even faster. It struck the pistol, knocking it out of the bank robber’s hand with a spray of blood at the point of impact. The bullet had traumatically amputated two fingers.
The bank robber let out a howl of pain and, grabbing his mutilated right hand with his left, bent over on the street. Hanson moved fast to get out of the way, and Ferrell closed the distance between himself and the would-be thief just as quickly.
Duff, his movement slow and casual, put the rifle back into the saddle holster. Not until then did he walk down to join Marshal Ferrell and the man who, but a moment earlier, had been holding Hanson hostage.
“Nice shot,” Ferrell said.
Duff nodded toward the man holding his bloody left hand over the bleeding stubs of the two fingers that had been shot away. “Better get those fingers bandaged before you lose too much blood.”
“What were you thinkin’ shootin’ from that far away?” the outlaw shouted. “You coulda kilt me.”
“Nae, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have killed you,” Duff said.
“I want to thank you for this, Mr. MacCallister,” Hanson said, and although he had been terribly frightened a few minutes earlier, he was able to summon a smile. “I say, I shall never speak harshly of a Scotsman again.”
“Och, you’ll nae be holding me to the same standard, would ye now, Mr. Hanson? For ’tis one of a Scotsman’s dearest pleasures to speak ill o’ the English.”
Hanson chuckled. “After what you did here today, Mr. MacCallister, you may say anything about the English you want. I may even join you.”
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