Diehard

by Tony Masero

  Then she was gone and Diehard quickly lost sight of her amongst the milling crowd.

  He leaned down and found the sack beside his boot; unlacing the string he peeked in and noted the glint of milled-edged coins inside. He spilled them out and counted fifty dollars in gold.

  ‘Well, dang me!’ he smiled, looking up to see if he could find Lilly amongst the mob and thank her. But she was gone and Diehard had to content himself with moving on and finding some stabling for the mules and mare.

  Later, Diehard strolled the street searching everywhere for sign of Aaron Carter and Lorn Betterman. There were hundreds of people, all of them determined to have a good time and Diehard was jostled and shouldered as he made his way along the boardwalk that fronted the many shops and street venders. Bookies bellowed at him offering odds on their chalk-boarded runners in the Sweepstake. A list of the main contenders was written up and Diehard read off the names: Ruthless, Darkie, Peak, Eclipse and Montague. Five horses that were obviously the top livestock favored to win.

  ‘Come on, young fellow,’ urged the bookmaker, a rotund man with a fake Uncle Sam beard tied on his chin, a stovepipe hat and waistcoat extravagantly colored in bright red, white and blue stripes. ‘I’ll give you two to one on Eclipse.’

  ‘He the favorite?’ asked Diehard.

  ‘Could be,’ said the bookmaker cannily. ‘Yet to be seen, ain’t it? But get your bet in now for a good price.’

  ‘How these fellows all go about getting into this race?’

  ‘They sign on, of course. Down at the race office, you got two hundred dollars and you can ride yourself. But better to place a few of your hard earned dollars with me first, who knows, you might make more money than the winner without even running.’

  ‘Where they keep them runners? Appears to me I’d best take a look at the livestock before betting good money.’

  ‘Smart boy,’ said the bookie, rubbing a finger appreciatively along the side of his button nose. ‘You head up to the army post, they got a corral up there set aside special for all the animals running in the race.’

  Diehard was brushed aside as a man with a fistful of notes came up to make a bet.

  ‘I got a hundred dollars here,’ said the man, sweat beading his anxious brow. ‘I want to put it all on the damned nose of the certain winner. What you giving on Montague?’

  ‘Three to one,’ said the bookie with a quick sidelong glance at Diehard. ‘Come on back here when you made your choice, young fellow. Now, sir, a hundred dollars on Montague, was it?’

  Diehard turned away and pushed a path through the crowd, determinedly heading for the fort corral.

  He was brushed and bumped in the swirling crowd and in passing a busy saloon smelt the tang of beer issuing from inside the swing doors. Still dry after his crossing of the salt plain, Diehard decided that maybe a drink was in order before he fought his way over to the corral. He had Lilly’s gift nestling in his pocket and was glad to part with a little for a cooling beer right then and so he stepped through the swing doors.

  There was a deafening racket inside. A singing pianist and his companion, a solo trumpet player were playing barely discernable music over the racket. Men crowded the bar and filled the saloon with loud conversation and tobacco smoke. Stumbling drunks loomed around and painted bar girls screeched laughter uproariously as they leaned hopefully on customer’s shoulders. It was all noise and confusion.

  Diehard tried to lever his way to the bar and catch the eye of one of the busy bar tenders.

  ‘Step in here, why don’t you?’ offered a slender and calm looking young man as he cleared a space at the bar. He was not that much older than Diehard and wore the common clothes and leather chaps of a cowboy. There was nothing remarkable about him but he bore the easy attitude of a cool and forthright personality. His features were steady and composed amidst the furor going on around them and Diehard saw how the other men at the bar moved readily aside and treated him with an attitude of respect.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Diehard, breasting the bar at last.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ asked the man.

  Diehard studied on the cowboy and decided he liked what he saw, ‘I’ll take me a long beer,’ he said. ‘Name’s Diehard Charlie Wexford.’

  The cowboy grinned, ‘Pleased to meet you Diehard Charlie. You’re finding me flush, so that’s why I’m buying. I’m Chance Hopkins, maybe you heard of me?’

  Diehard nodded noncommittally as he did not know the name. They shook and Chance raised a hand that brought immediate attention from the bartender.

  ‘Set us up a couple of beers, will you?’

  ‘I surely will, Mister Hopkins,’ said the bartender, obviously only too keen to oblige.

  ‘I take it you’re someone of note,’ said Diehard, studying on the attention.

  Chance snorted a laugh, ‘Not so it counts. It ain’t me so much me as the riding I do.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you one of them jockey fellows?’

  ‘No, sir. I ain’t in it for the short haul, I go in for the longer rides.’

  ‘That right? I heard of that endurance run coming up from Galveston they got going, due in any time now.’

  Chance smiled, ‘That’s the one, although I done finished that two days back. Licked all the opposition with time to spare and that’s how come I’m in the money.’

  Their drinks arrived and they clinked glasses.

  ‘Here’s to you,’ said Chance.

  Diehard took his time savoring the long cool draught. He smacked his lips when the schooner was drained.

  ‘By God! That tasted good,’ he said, setting the empty glass down on the bar.

  ‘Looks like you need another,’ grinned Chance, wagging a finger at the bartender.

  ‘This one’s on me. We came in over the flats and that stuff will dry you out and pickle like salted codfish.’

  ‘Yeah, I seen you ride in with that white mare you got. That is one perfect piece of horseflesh, Diehard. You running her in the Sweepstake?’

  ‘She’s a winner alright,’ Diehard agreed. ‘But I don’t have enough readies to step up, besides I got other fish to fry.’

  ‘That so?’ Chance frowned. ‘I’d have thought with an animal like that you were onto a sure thing.’

  ‘I never trained her for it. She was one of a string I broke and then had stolen off me, right now I traced the thieves to this burg and hope to exact some recompense from the toadies who took ‘em off me.’

  Chance chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, ‘Sounds like a raw deal, Diehard. I can’t abide a body takes a man’s horse.’

  Diehard nodded in agreement and lifted his refill in toast.

  ‘What do you call that white?’ asked Chance.

  ‘Her name’s….’ Diehard paused, and then a thought came to him. ‘Wind Horse, she’s called Wind Horse.’

  ‘Wind Horse, huh? Fitting name, I reckon. Well, look here, Diehard. I’ve a mind to back you in this race. I got me a potful of win money and if that critter does well then I’ve a thought to make you an offer on buying her.’

  Diehard was taken aback, ‘Really?’ he gasped. ‘That’s real generous.’

  ‘Back in the day, Diehard, I rode dispatch for the army, that’s what got me going on these long races. Now, I’ve a mind to start up my own strain. I’m a mustang man myself, I ain’t never seen a better nor hardier critter that can carry thirty-five pounds of saddle, blanket and slicker and still cover fifty miles a day without problem. So, I’m setting out to get me a new line going and maybe that mare of yours could make for good breeding stock. Sort of combine the rugged with the classic, if you get my meaning?’

  ‘That so?’ said Diehard, a little stunned by this sudden change in his fortunes.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Chance assured him. ‘Like my racing, Diehard. I’m in for the long haul; I got me a real long one coming up, eighteen hundred mile run up to Rutland, Wyoming. You ask around, Diehard, you’ll see I’m a straight arrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Die
hard agreed. ‘I will.’

  ‘You do that. The race is run first thing tomorrow and you’ll see Wind Horse’s name up on the board. Do well, my friend, we’ll split the winnings and talk some more.’

  ‘Got to say, Chance. I’m a little stunned, you sure about this?’

  ‘Never surer. I took me a good look at that pony of yours and she’s real prime livestock, so I’ll back up what I say. Run me a race, Diehard.’

  ‘Maybe I will, long as I can tend to my business first.’

  ‘As you will,’ Chance agreed. ‘I seen you come in with a lady, that your wife?’

  ‘No, sir. She was a travelling companion that I gave a ride to but I got me a girl waiting on me. Least I hope she still is.’

  ‘Be sure of it,’ grinned Chance.

  They talked some more before Diehard decided it was time to take his leave and go and see the other horses destined to run in the Sweepstake. Bidding farewell to each other they agreed to meet up the next day after the race.

  Evening was fast approaching as Diehard made his way across to the corral. The crowds had subsided as people went off to find their supper and only a few were gathered at the bars of the corral. A military guard had been posted to protect the animals and make sure that none were tampered with and the two soldiers leaned casually at the gate, a sergeant smoking a hooked pipe and a private with a canteen that he often sipped from surreptitiously.

  Diehard hitched himself up onto the top rail and studied on the ponies as they milled peacefully in the dust of the corral.

  The light was fast going and the gathered men around the corral took on the form of silhouettes in the gathering gloom but when two men walked out of the darkness and into the dim light it was very clear to Diehard just who they were.

  He recognized the draped buckskin coat of Aaron Carter with its beads and Indian threadwork, beside him limped the smaller form of Lorn Betterman, his high-crowned black hat, still hole-shot from Nosey’s bullet and the heavily bushed mustache that almost blended the man’s face with the shadows.

  One of the soldiers struck a match and lit an oil lamp that he hung from a nail on the corral gatepost. By its light, Diehard eased himself down from the rail and watched the two men circumnavigate the corral and work their way casually towards him. They were deep in conversation and paid no attention to those around them so they did not notice the cowboy in the gloom.

  Diehard drew his Schofield, cocked the hammer and held the weapon down by his side. He determined he was taking no chances and giving no advantage now he had finally come up on the two horse thieves.

  ‘Howdy boys,’ he said softly as the two drew near.

  Both men stopped abruptly, unsure of who stood before them in the coming darkness.

  ‘We know you?’ asked Carter.

  ‘Sure you do. Diehard Charlie Wexford, remember?’

  ‘Goddamn!’ husked Betterman. ‘You don’t give up, do you, cowboy?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Diehard agreed.

  Both men moved slightly apart and Diehard sensed the tension in the dark shapes before him.

  ‘Well, what you want with us?’ asked Carter.

  ‘You know what I want. I want recompense for them horses of mine you stole.’

  Carter smiled and Diehard saw his teeth glint in the shadows.

  ‘You’ll have some problem proving that….’

  ‘You killed my friend,’ Diehard cut him off.

  ‘That’s down to you, fella, you took us to task,’ snapped Carter. ‘Came up on us in that Preacher’s camp and called us out.’

  ‘He got what he had coming,’ whispered Betterman venomously. ‘Put a damned slug in my leg. You want some of it, fella? We’ll be glad to oblige.’

  Others around the corral were beginning to take an interest as voices were raised and the confrontation became more obvious.

  ‘What’s going on?’ called the sergeant from the gate. ‘You boys all right over there?’

  ‘Mind your affairs, soldier boy,’ growled Betterman, not taking his eyes from Diehard. ‘This ain’t your problem.’

  ‘Hey!’ called the sergeant. ‘We don’t want no trouble here. No upsetting the horses, you got complications, you take ‘em elsewhere.’

  ‘Shut your mouth and stay out of it,’ snapped Carter. ‘This don’t concern you.’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ ordered the sergeant, tucking away his pipe and coming around the corral towards the three men who crouched facing each other, tense and ready.

  ‘You want it here and now?’ leered Betterman. ‘Right here, in front of these army boys?’

  ‘I’ll take on low-lying scum like you wherever I find them,’ Diehard growled back. There was blood in his eye and all the troubles caused by these two were boiling in his chest.

  ‘Then pull your weapon and let’s have at it,’ said Betterman, going for his sidearm.

  As his hand touched the butt of his pistol, Diehard raised up his cocked pistol and fired. The Schofield spat flame and filled the corral with a crack of sound. At the pistol shot, the watching men dived for cover and the coming sergeant ducked in surprise. The horses inside the corral started and bolted away, racing anxiously to the far side of the fenced area.

  ‘Hell!’ growled Betterman, folding over as he felt the slug hit him in the stomach with the force of a hammer. ‘I’m damned well shot through.’

  Diehard spun his gun arm around to face Carter who already had his pistol out. Both guns fired at once and the reports followed one another loudly.

  Carter snapped around, his left arm flying out and his body slamming against the corral rails behind him. He still held his pistol hand up and cocked and fired immediately but hitting the reverberating pine poles upset his aim and the shot went wild.

  Still straight-armed, Diehard let him have another bullet. The .45 blew a hole in his opponents face, ripping through both of Carter’s cheeks, taking a flap of skin away and a few teeth from his jaw and leaving the outlaw gargling wetly in shock and pain.

  Diehard took a quick glance at Betterman, whose legs had given way and he had dropped, sitting spread legged in the dust with one hand on his gut and the other raising and leveling his pistol.

  Diehard gritted his teeth and loosed off two shots fast, one after the other. He screamed unnoticed by himself as he fired, all his anger and frustration focused on his trigger finger and the hot gun barrel’s direction. Blood flew in a dark spray from Betterman, the exploding jet flying skywards in a black loop cast by the light from the oil lamp behind. He rocked where he sat, then crumpled over backwards and flopped down with a rusty sigh, his pistol firing off as his dying fingers twitched.

  Diehard turned to face his other opponent.

  Carter sagged against the corral rails, half hanging by his wounded arm; desperately he fired a wild shot at Diehard’s approaching form. His pain filled jaw was dripping blood and had dropped to his chest and the wounded shoulder was all that kept him upright. He spluttered and gargled through the blood filling his mouth and when his gun clicked on empty shells, he dropped his gun hand and stared balefully at Diehard as the cowboy came up to stand before him.

  Diehard raised his pistol, he knew he had one bullet left in the chamber and he placed the barrel against Carter’s forehead right between the dull eyes.

  ‘You caused me one whole heap of grief,’ Diehard whispered hard into his face.

  Carter only stared back at him balefully.

  ‘What?’ asked Diehard, with a touch of cynicism. ‘Cat got your tongue.’

  Carter spat a stream of blood from his ruined mouth, ‘Go to hell,’ he blubbered.

  ‘You first,’ said Diehard, cocking the hammer on the Schofield.

  ‘Hold it right there!’

  Diehard looked over Carter’s shoulder and saw the two soldiers approaching, both of them with rifles raised and aimed straight at him.

  ‘Lower your weapon,’ ordered the sergeant. ‘You do it or we’ll let you have it, young man.’

  Die
hard saw he had no chance and reluctantly did as he was told.

  He had wanted it, had wanted to spread Carter’s brains all over the corral as he remembered the beating he had suffered at the man’s hands. Rivers of thrilling excitement and nervous tension ran through him, he could feel the tautness of his tendons and the anger and hate that coursed through his blood along with the adrenalin.

  Carter staggered and slipped away from him and unmoving Diehard watched him crumple and fall with eyes like ice and a face frozen in stone.

  ‘Give it here,’ said the sergeant, prodding his rifle in Diehard’s chest and holding out a hand for the Schofield.

  Diehard lowered the hammer then rolled the pistol’s trigger guard around his finger and handed over the gun to the soldier.

  ‘Private,’ the sergeant ordered. ‘See to this wounded man. You,’ he ordered Diehard. ‘Come along of me. We’re going to the commanding officer to figure this out.’

  It was only then that Diehard felt the sting in his left arm and saw that his shirtsleeve was ripped open and a weal of blood trickled down his arm from a flesh wound.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The post surgeon bandaged Diehard’s arm and the sergeant placed him in a solitary cell in the fort guardhouse. It was there that Diehard sat alone as the night wore on and in darkness he solemnly contemplated his fate.

  He considered the flood of resentment and hate that had run through him, the terrible wish only to harm and kill. He felt that there had been an alien part of himself at play then and he did not recognize the character who had been so willing to coldly blow out another man’s brains without a second’s thought.

  Diehard anguished over the right and wrong of it, his hand holding the rosary at his neck, the cross clenched tightly in his fist.

  Should he pray? He wondered. Ask God for forgiveness?

  He sighed over the dilemma of what a peaceable man should do when confronted by abuse and danger? Turn tail and run? Back down and walk away?

  It did not sit right with Diehard. He could not see himself as more than an injured party in all of this, brutally set upon and robbed. Surely it was right to ask for some justice but even so he fretted over the level of restitution he had demanded. Had it called for a man’s death and another’s grievous wounding?