by B. S. Dunn
Jordan smiled at himself and his reflection smiled back.
He was a young man at twenty-six, and the Prince was what they called him. The King in waiting. He was sure that it wouldn’t be much longer before he would be at the top, and his brother could walk in his shadow. If Lucas was still alive.
He knew the day would come when he faced his brother over blazing six-guns. He would win of course, of that he was sure.
For now, he had a job to complete. He was in the town of Berry, Colorado, population 876, soon to be 875. He’d been hired by a local rancher having trouble with smaller homesteads refusing to sell. The sheriff was sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted so Jordan was hired to cut that nose off.
There was a knock and Jordan turned to face the door. ‘Yeah what?’
The door swung open and a diminutive man stood on the threshold. He instantly cowered at the sight of two Colts pointed in his direction.
‘Don’t shoot me!’ he cried out.
Jordan smiled coldly and holstered his six-guns. ‘Don’t go frettin’ none, little man, if I was goin’ to shoot you, you would already be dead. Now, what do you want?’
‘My name is T . . . Teague, I have a t . . . telegram for you,’ the man stammered.
Jordan motioned to an old, scarred side table against the far wall. ‘Put it over there and get out.’
Teague’s hand trembled as he placed the folded piece of paper on the dark table top. He turned back to the killer and waited expectantly.
‘Is there somethin’ else you want?’
‘Well . . . um normally . . . when I. . . .’ He stopped again.
‘Oh, you want a tip. A little somethin’ for your trouble, is that it?’
A nervous smile accompanied a slight nod.
Jordan drew his right side Colt and aimed at Teague.
The telegraphist paled noticeably and screeched, ‘No wait! Don’t!’
Teague turned and stumbled from the room; the harsh laughter of Jordan Kane followed him along the hotel’s hallway.
The killer kicked the door shut and walked across to the table. He scooped up the note and read the scrawl through twice just to make sure he understood the content.
He was to go to a town called Buford then out to a ranch called the B-L connected. It seemed the owner was willing to pay him a thousand dollars to solve a problem.
He decided that he would pay the rancher a visit, but if the man wanted his services, they would cost him more than a thousand dollars. After all, if you need the best, you pay for it. Now for the other matter.
Frank Alexander cursed himself for letting things get this far out of hand. He knew from experience that quicker action should have been taken and now he had to go up against a cold-blooded killer with an almost insurmountable reputation.
He walked across his office to the gun cabinet and took out a sawed-off Greener. He opened a box of shells loaded with double-ought buckshot and stuffed two of the shells into the twin barrels. He snapped it closed and cursed himself again.
‘You’re a damned old fool.’
Alexander had been a sheriff for thirty years, and at fifty-five had slowed down some and made the decision to give it away soon. As he picked up his sweat-stained Stetson and jammed it down on his grey hair, he thought that maybe yesterday would have been the perfect day to do just that.
He hitched his pants around his bulging middle and took one last look around the jail. After this was over, he thought that he might get one of the town ladies to come in and do a little cleaning for him. Yeah, maybe he’d ask widow Jones or Jenny the mayor’s daughter to do it for him.
As Alexander closed the door, somewhere deep inside him knew that it was the last time.
He didn’t have far to go to find the man he was looking for. As luck would have it, Jordan Kane was coming down the street.
The townsfolk of Berry knew something was imminent as whispers had begun circulation upon the Prince’s arrival in town. On the deeply rutted main street, in full view of the town’s citizens, some on the boardwalks, others tucked away inside the many false-front stores, the time for that something to happen had arrived.
Alexander swung the scattergun up and thumbed back both hammers.
‘Hold it right there Kane!’ he called loudly.
Jordan stopped, twenty feet from the sheriff. He dropped his gaze to the gaping barrels, then back at the man pointing them. ‘Can I do somethin’ for you, sheriff?’
His aged face set hard, Alexander nodded. ‘You can get the hell out of Berry and not come back. That’s what you can do for me, killer.’
Hands on the ivory handles of his guns, Jordan shook his head. ‘Now that ain’t right friendly, sheriff, tryin’ to run a feller out of town on what – his third day here. And having done nothing wrong.’
‘I don’t care. We don’t want your type here. So you can saddle up and ride.’
Jordan’s face remained passive and he shook his head again. ‘Nope, can’t.’
Alexander’s right eye began to twitch nervously. ‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘I’ve a job to do, sheriff. Already been paid so I guess this is it.’
‘What?’
Jordan smiled mirthlessly. ‘I guess this is where we find out if I can beat the drop of them hammers on that scattergun you’re holdin’ on me.’
Alexander’s eyes grew wide in disbelief and uncertainty. It was the distraction Jordan needed and he drew. People swore later that they didn’t see what happened. One instant the Prince was standing there relaxed and the next, his hands were full of six-guns, bellowing out their throaty roar.
Both bullets hit Alexander dead centre, no more than two fingers’ width apart. The lawman was dead before he realized it. The unfired shotgun fell from lifeless hands and clattered to the hard-packed earth. Alexander’s legs gave out and he slumped to the ground beside the gun.
Jordan twirled his six-guns in a display of arrogance and flipped them back into their holsters. He smiled and boasted, ‘Damn, I’m good.’
A heavy downpour had passed over Buford just prior to Lucas Kane’s arrival and his buckskin mare splashed through the mud and brown water puddles in the main street. His slicker was still damp and he looked forward to getting dry.
Townsfolk stared, curious as to whether the stranger would stop in town or pass right through. A buckboard rumbled past with a load of supplies accompanied by a couple of cowhands on their way out of town.
It was shortly before noon so Kane decided to stable the mare, have something to eat, then later in the day, ride out to the B-L connected ranch and meet the owner.
Further along the street, he found what he wanted. Nestled amongst the false-front stores and other businesses was a livery where he could leave the mare.
After seeing to his horse, he found a hotel for the night and changed into some dry clothes. There was a small cafe two doors from the Cattleman’s Bank, beside a boarding house and Kane decided to get a feed.
The sign above the door said, ‘Lisa’s kitchen, travellers welcome’. Kane pushed the door open and entered. Square tables sat in neat rows. They were adorned simply with white cloths and clean cutlery.
The establishment looked clean and well patronized and a few lunch clientele sat around, finishing their meals, several of whom looked up, the rest paid him no mind. Kane found an empty table and sat down.
He hadn’t been seated long before a slim young lady, with long black hair and a pleasant smile emerged from the kitchen to take his order of steak, fried potatoes, gravy, and coffee. She apologized that there was no dessert but explained that it was an evening thing and if he wanted apple pie, he’d have to come back at supper time. He smiled and watched her walk off.
Next, the town sheriff arrived and sat on the chair opposite Kane at the table. He was a man of about middle age, average build, and height, with dark hair and grey eyes.
‘Can I help you, sheriff?’ he enquired.
‘Well Kane, that depends on y
ou,’ the man explained. ‘My name is Thomas Brooks and as you can see I’m the sheriff of Buford.’
‘Do I know you?’ Kane asked.
‘No,’ Brooks allowed, ‘but I know you. I’ve seen you in action and I know your type. Your kind attracts trouble where ever you go.’
‘So what is it you want from me?’ Kane asked patiently.
‘Honestly? I want you gone from my town. Stay the night if you must but be gone by mornin’.’
‘Well that’s mighty generous of you, sheriff,’ Kane said evenly. ‘But you see, I happen to be here about a job out at the B-L connected. So at this time, I’m goin’ nowhere.’
Kane let Brooks digest the information and could see the man’s mind tick over.
‘Damn ornery son of a bitch,’ he burst out, ‘I knew there was goin’ to be trouble when that old buzzard found out.’
Kane was puzzled. ‘How’s that?’
Brooks lurched up from his seat. ‘You’ll find out. I just hope that when it all happens, you’re on the right side of the law.’
Kane remained silent and watched the lawman leave.
When Kane stopped on the low hill, he saw the B-L connected ranch headquarters up ahead on a flat rise a mile distant. It was set amongst tall trees to the rear and sides, and the front had a steep embankment of some thirty feet in height. It was a prime position to sit and look out over their range.
At the base of the embankment, a shallow stream followed the contour then disappeared into a stand of cottonwoods.
Kane kneed his buckskin forward off the hill and out on to the large flat tract of grazing land, where numerous cattle fed lazily on sweet grass. At the stream, the trail dipped through the water and out the other side. It curved away to the left and followed a cut up through the embankment until it levelled out at the top.
From there, it went straight on for thirty yards until a grandiose arch over a large gate allowed access into the main ranch yard. Kane rode through the gate and looked around as he crossed to the house.
The set-up was impressive. The main ranch house was a magnificent double-storey timber affair with white walls, mullioned windows and a large veranda that wrapped around the whole building. The second-storey veranda only covered the front of the house. It had a hand-tooled balustrade painted white, and two sets of French doors that opened from the front bedrooms. There were three stone chimneys and a peaked slate roof.
To Kane’s left stood a large timber-planked barn and bunk house. In the shade of a large pine and set back right of the bunkhouse, was a corral with a couple of horses. Long stables stood off to the right with a water trough out front and a hand pump on one end.
Kane noticed the horse tethered at the hitch rail near the trough. It was a big black stallion, with a silver concho-studded Mexican saddle on his back. Kane knew immediately whose horse it was as he’d seen it before. He cursed under his breath and turned the buckskin toward the other mount.
He dismounted and tied it to the rail. He glanced once more at the black then turned to walk across to the house, but found someone blocking his way.
‘Can I help you stranger?’ Chuck asked.
‘I’m here to see your boss. The name is Lucas Kane.’
The foreman nodded. ‘Follow me.’
The inside of the ranch house appeared to be as grand as the outside. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of plantation houses from the deep south. Through the large double hardwood doors was a staircase, wide at the base and tapered all the way to the top. The reception room floors were marble, freighted in especially for the project.
The rooms were luxuriously appointed and everywhere that Kane looked, it was evident that masses of money had been spent on every fixture, fitting, painting, and rug.
‘Follow me, Kane,’ Chuck said.
They walked along the hall to the third door where the foreman knocked, then entered. Kane followed him in. The room was well lit with natural light from a large mullion window. The floor was covered in carpet and throughout the room was a scattering of hand-made furniture. A grey-haired man who was seated in a brown leather-backed chair rose to greet him.
‘At last,’ he said warmly. ‘You made it. I’m Buford Lance.’
The cattleman stepped forward with his right hand extended. Kane hesitated before he took it in his firm grip. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Lance.’
Lance could read the puzzled expression on the gunfighter’s face and said, ‘Yes, Kane, the town is named after me. I came here when it was just wilderness and now they’re tryin’ to take it away from me.’
‘I see,’ Kane said seriously.
‘Damn homesteaders, Kane,’ Lance explained. He gestured towards a man who leaned against a red cedar mantle over an open fireplace. ‘I believe you two know each other.’
Kane turned to see the mirthless smile of the man standing there holding a glass of whiskey. Still the same Jordy, he thought. Same clothes, same fancy gun rig.
‘What are you doin’ here, Jordy?’ he asked in a hollow voice, devoid of emotion.
‘Hell Luke, is that any way to greet your long-lost brother?’ Jordan asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
‘I couldn’t care less if I never saw you again, Jordy. Plain and simple,’ Kane informed his brother.
Jordan clenched his hands and his eyes narrowed. ‘Damn you, Lucas, still playin’ at bein’ the king. No time for anyone else but you.’
Kane ignored the comment and turned to face the rancher. ‘What’s he doin’ here, Lance?’
‘He’s here because he’s one of the best,’ Lance answered, ‘just like you. And for this job, I need the best. You see, there is a wagon train of homesteaders coming here to put down roots on some of my best range. Land that I fought for over many years.’
‘What about the Homestead Act, Lance?’ Kane asked. ‘Do you have title to that range or is it free graze? Because if it’s free graze, there’s nothin’ to say they can’t homestead it.’
The rancher’s eyes blazed. ‘It’s what I say, damn it. They’ll not turn one sod, put up one damn home on that land. They are not wanted here and you two are goin’ to make that happen.’
‘What about the ones who are already here? I saw at least one on my ride out here.’
‘They go too,’ Lance explained. ‘I’ve been too soft on them so I want them run off as well.’
‘And the law? I met the sheriff in town. What about him?’
Lance set his jaw firm. ‘If he gets in the way he’ll have to be dealt with. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘I don’t,’ Jordan assured Lance.
Kane stared at the rancher for a long time before Jordan broke the uneasy silence. ‘What about money, Lance? How much are you payin’?’
‘One thousand, like it said in the telegram.’
Jordan shook his head. ‘Nope. If you want me to kill the sheriff, you’re goin’ to have to come up with more than that. Besides, I wouldn’t even get out of bed for that amount.’
‘Fine,’ Lance snapped. ‘How much?’
‘Five thousand.’
The rancher’s face remained passive as he considered the amount, then he said, ‘Done. Both of you will get five thousand upon completion of the job. Satisfied?’
Jordan smiled and took a sip of whiskey from the glass he held.
‘No.’
They both looked at Kane.
‘What?’ snapped the rancher, who showed obvious distaste at the answer he’d been given. ‘What do you mean, no?’
Kane stared into the man’s eyes and refused to be intimidated. ‘Exactly how it sounds.’
Jordan laughed loudly. ‘Hell, Lance, I almost forgot. You see my brother has a conscience. Imagine that, a killer with a conscience.’
‘Is that true?’ Lance asked.
‘If not wantin’ to commit murder for the likes of you means that, then yeah, it’s true,’ replied Kane evenly. ‘And the other problem I have is that I don’t work with killers. That’s exactly wha
t my brother is. A stone cold killer.’
‘Wow, brother,’ Jordan sneered, ‘that’s mighty rich comin’ from a man who’s killed more than me.’
Kane rested his hand on the butt of his Peacemaker. ‘At least I can say that every man who died by my gun was facin’ me, little brother. Can you say that?’
A dark cloud of rage settled on the younger Kane’s face. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘Better watch your mouth, Lucas.’
Without taking his eyes from his brother, Kane spoke clearly. ‘I’m leavin’ now, Lance. You can keep your money. But if you want my advice, forget what you’re about to do. No good can come of it. And most of all, don’t hire my brother. If you do, you’re just askin’ for trouble.’
Without another word, Kane backed out of the room and closed the door.
The furious rancher swung his head to look at Jordan. ‘Well, are you stayin’ or goin’?’
‘I’m stayin’.’ A cold smile spread across the killer’s face. ‘Unlike my brother, I don’t much care who I have to kill.’
‘Good, get squared away then I’ll fill you in on what I want done.’
‘Sure.’
Lance watched Jordan Kane leave then waited a few minutes before he called his foreman into the room. ‘Bring in the other one.’
Several minutes later a new man entered the room. He wore jeans, a blue shirt, leather boots and a grey Stetson. A tied-down holster on his right hip housed a Colt Army model. Adorned on the holster was a single concho.
Concho Bell was another gunfighter in the elite league. He was six feet tall and was as slim as a rail.
‘Are you ready to start earnin’ your money, Concho?’ the old rancher asked.
Concho Bell nodded. ‘Just tell me what you want done.’
‘I want you to kill Lucas Kane,’ Lance announced. ‘Can you do it?’
‘Yeah I can do it,’ answered Concho, ‘but not straight up. I’m not goin’ to take that chance. He’s not called the Gun King for nothing.’
Lance nodded. ‘Come over here.’
The rancher crossed the room and stood in front of a large map which hung on the wall. ‘See this here? This is where we are. This here,’ he continued, ‘is the main trail into town. Now if you ride this way through here. . . .’