Wild Boys: Six Shooters and Fangs

by catt dahman

  “Hello, Quinn,” Pete said.

  If Quinn had known Paris’ story, he would have shivered with the similarities. Few land disputes went this far, and yet, here was another.

  “I’m wantin' to settle this.”

  Quinn shrugged. “If you won't fence, then I can't help it if your cattle come onto my land.”

  "Maybe you're keeping my cows on purpose.”

  "You know I’m not…I am not a thief." It was clear to Quinn that Pete Lorrance wanted to push for a fight.

  "One of your hands took a shot at one of my men the other day; it was that damned Perry Creek."

  "Your man was trying to rustle my cows. If the wind hadn't been blowing, Perry Creek would have killed your man with that shot."

  Lorrance's eyes narrowed as he said, "I'm here to put an end to this."

  "I agree it's gone on too long," said Quinn; he was about to jump out of his skin; he didn't have the nerves for this anymore.

  Lorrance shifted, and Quinn reached for his gun but stopped short of pulling it.

  But one of the Lorrance boys, inexperienced, yanked his gun out and fired. Quinn took the lead in his shoulder as he dived behind the neatly stacked cord of firewood on the porch. Simultaneously, the glass in the windows behind him shattered outwards as the men inside broke out places to shoot from. Men out in the yard went running for cover.

  Two of the Lorrance boys took shots in the back as they ran. Inside the house, one of the hands took a gut-shot from a bullet that came through the window. Frannie crawled over to him and looked up at the others, begging for one of them to get her father in to safety.

  Ford opened the door to go after his father, but shots peppered the wood, and he was forced to slam it again.

  “What are we gonna do?” Joshua yelled.

  Ford grimaced. “Pray,” he called back.

  In town, Reps rode in hard to get help; his mount was lathered and foaming around the bit. In the hotel, he was on his way to Doc’s room when the clerk stopped him.

  “Please," Reps breathed hard and said, "I have to see Dr. Holliday."

  "He doesn't get up this early; go on."

  "I can't go on. What room is he in?"

  "You aren't going to bother him." The clerk looked at Reps with distaste.

  Reps, however, knew that he couldn't wait; lives depended on him. "Tell me his room number or else.”

  The clerk could see the panic and something else that told him that this boy would not be pushed away. "He'll kill you for wakin' him this early.”

  “It’s life or death either way.”

  "Room seventeen."

  Reps went up the stairs in a flash and beat on the door as hard as he could. Doc swung the door open swearing, "What the hell is it?" His face was pale and shining with oily sweat. He held his gun threateningly.

  "Quinn Masterson sent me, sir.”

  Doc coughed painfully and asked, “Why?”

  “Pete Lorrance and his men are headed to the ranch for some kind of showdown. There ain't no way Mr. Masterson can hold them, sir, Dr. Holliday. He needs you."

  It was more than clear to Doc that if Quinn sent for help, then it was indeed a dire situation. "Shit fire,” he bellowed. He was suddenly wide-awake, strapping on his gun belt and retrieving his shortened-barrel shotgun.

  Doc told Reps, "Go get Marshal Starr. Tell him to meet me in front of the hotel. I’ll get some more boys to help. Go on."

  Doc walked quickly to Kit and Fallon’s rooms. Kit came out cursing, ready for a fight. Fallon drew on his long coat that was similar to Doc's, strapped on his matching six-shooters, stuck his knife in his boot, and picked up his sawed-off Winchester .12 gauge shotgun.

  "Hell of a way to begin a morning," Tell grumbled as he joined them in front of the hotel, but despite the danger and his words, his eyes twinkled with interest in the fight. "How many are out at that ranch?"

  "Twenty maybe. Mr. Masterson has eight with him."

  "Well then, this ought to even out the odds,” Kit said as he swung into his saddle with an easy, practiced motion. “Tell and I could take the bunch of ‘em; you boys could go have a nice breakfast,” Kit teased them. The five rode out with dust billowing thickly behind them.

  Reps was young and inexperienced, so Doc ordered him to remain a distance away from the raging battle. The yard of the ranch was normally a sprawling, elegant feature with shrubs and flowers around big trees and grass that was emerald in warm weather. Now, men broke the peace by running around or diving for cover or shooting at one another.

  The four rode directly into the mayhem with their guns blazing; so surprised were Lorrance's men that they fired ineffectively long enough for Kit to slide behind a barrel beside Doc. They both reloaded. Paris and Tell fired wildly before they went for cover behind a wood box.

  Quinn took a second bullet, this one in his shoulder. Paris crawled close to the man and found him not mortally wounded, but bleeding profusely. Paris reloaded in a flash and leaped out to fire both pistols. Then, he kicked at the front door and tried to keep Quinn covered with his own body as the older man dove through the doorway.

  Quinn took a third bullet, this one in the back.

  Frannie fell next to her father and ordered, “Do something; turn him over.”

  “Leave him alone," Paris ordered as he kicked the door closed again and then knelt. He shook his head.

  “Do something.”

  “Hold his hand; don't move him." Paris couldn't deal with Frannie right then as he leaned out the window to shoot again.

  Kit took advantage of all the confusion and managed to kill Pete Lorrance. That signaled the end: all the cowboys threw their arms into the air to surrender.

  “We’re finished,” one of the cowboys, Brian Blaylock said, as he stood beside Cato Hastings, his riding partner, and Daniel and Jim, Pete Lorrance’s sons.

  “Damn, right you are,”Tell announced.

  “We ain't dropping our irons, but we're gonna ride out now. It’s all over,” Daniel Lorrance called. One of his hands covered a wound on his arm.

  “’Sides, Masterson drew first.” Jim Lorrance sneered.

  Tell glared. “That don’t matter. Your daddy started this.”

  The cowboys glowered. They looked at Pete Lorrance’s fallen, lifeless body. “We came peaceful,” Cato Hastings piped up.

  “You came lookin' for trouble, and I guess these boys gave it to you," Tell added with a sigh.

  Hastings was blazing mad. "If we'd had Fallon and Holliday and Darling, this would've gone different. All of you come in and messed up the odds.”

  The other cowboys nodded.

  The other men had come out, and Daniel glared at Ford and Joshua Masterson. “We outta have a sister bumpin'bellies with Holliday so we get help in a fight."

  Before Doc could react, Fallon moved. All at once, his six-shooter was against Daniel’s forehead. No one moved.

  The only thing that kept Fallen from pulling the trigger was the knowledge that if he squeezed the trigger, then all hell would break loose, and at this close a distance, some of his friends might die.

  Still, his control wavered. A muscle in his tense jaw twitched.

  It would be a bloodbath, Tell thought. “Paris, hey....” He was aware that he spent a lot of time talking his friend out of killing, “come on.”

  Kit licked his lips nervously, seeing that the cowboys were as ready to draw as he was.

  Paris' eyes had gone dark and had become empty pools; no one doubted that Paris was about to kill the man.

  Doc was coughing, but when he stopped, he spoke softly, "Paris, this man deserves to be shot for his poor manners, I agree, but allow me to do it another time." He had another terrible fit of coughing that choked him.

  It distracted Paris.

  Tell took hope; Doc could always get through to their friend. "Paris," Doc continued, "he insulted my fiancé, and I would like to be the one to defend her honor. It would be the correct thing, don't you think?”

&
nbsp; Paris took a deep breath. He was thinking it over.

  Doc shrugged. "I'll do it when l feel better.”

  Jim Lorrance was pale, but he curled his lip. "You don't look well, Doc.”

  "Well now, Jim, I guess I'll be looking better when I kill your brother."

  Jim was furious. "Daniel and I will be lookin' for you, Holliday and for Fallon, too.”

  Paris took it as a kind of challenge. He holstered his gun with a snap.

  Daniel rubbed the indention on his forehead that the gun barrel had left. “I won't forget this.” He spat.

  “Nor will I,” Fallon said.

  Had he caught the scent of a bloodsucker, he would have killed all of them.

  Tell ordered the cowboys to take their dead and to clear out.

  He, like the others, had their own casualties to worry over, but the situation was still too deadly to do anything but stand and wait for the cowboys to leave the ranch. It was a volatile situation that could explode at any second. "It ain't over," Daniel yelled back at them.

  "I ‘spect it ain't,” Tell said quietly. Reps rode in with a guilty look, but everyone knew he probably would have been shot if he had made it back earlier. Tell patted him wordlessly on the arm.

  Joshua's face was pale with shock. "My father...he took some shots."

  "Three of them...one in the back," Paris said meaningfully.

  Doc turned in a fit of coughing but paused as Frannie came out onto the porch; her face was grey, her dress covered with gore. "He’s gone."

  "Frannie?" Tell swore to himself. He knew why Paris had been ready to fire.

  They would have to be hunted down and hanged. What a waste of time: vampyres and outlaws.

  "Daddy's gone," said Frannie as she took a step forward; her eyes focused somewhere else. She went even paler, reached unsteadily for the porch railing, staring into the pool of blood at her feet. She kind of frowned and then looked up to see Doc's eyes.

  She tried to focus, but then her face took on a horrified look. She crumpled. Although Doc ran for her, she fell on the porch. Kit reacted first and went to her. The house lady helped put Frannie to bed after Kit scooped her up and carried her upstairs as Doc coughed weakly.

  Quinn was dead, and his sons were holding up well, but Frannie was inconsolable. Her way of life had gone with her father’s life. Doc refused to leave her, asking Fallon and Kit to move to the ranch in case they should have to lend a hand again. With all the bloodshed, vampyres might be attracted to the ranch.

  Tell told Kit to keep it under control while he went back to patrol the town on his rounds and swear out a complaint to bring the other boys in for murder so they could have their trial and get the hanging over with. "Doc is sick, and Fallon is in a mood. Someone has to be in control and responsible, and I guess it has to be you.”

  Kit only nodded.

  "I aim to tell the judge that he needs to find another marshal. I’m through with it...it ain't my style anymore," Tell admitted to Kit.

  "Then what?”

  Tell shrugged. “Guess I’ll tag along with you fellows. I’m tired of keeping the peace, and we have a clan of blood suckers to destroy.”

  Kit grinned. "Ready to raise hell a while?"

  "That's for you and Doc and Fallon. I just clean up the messes you fellows make." They chuckled.

  Upstairs, Frannie only wept. When she looked at her hands, she could see little traces of her father's blood in the creases of her skin. She kept trying to pull herself together, trying to be a real Masterson, but it wasn't possible; she just couldn't face her father's death.

  Really it was easier to sleep, to lie in her soft bed and sleep. She sipped at a whiskey. When she awakened, Doc was always there to comfort her. Sometimes Kit or her brothers or Paris would check on her. She would wake up and look over at the chair, and there he would be, sitting and sipping whiskey.

  Patrick could not be there for the burial of Quinn, and neither could any of the other Masterson clan. They sent the telegrams but decided to go on with the burial since they knew that Frannie could take little more with her raw nerves.

  As it was, Joshua and Doc had to hold Frannie on her feet for the funeral service; it was short and simple out of consideration for her. Afterward, she went back to her room to lock herself away in the dark where she refused food and sipped more whiskey to dull her pain. One night she clung to Doc in fear and despair, feeling that nothing was real or safe anymore.

  Slowly the weeks passed, and only gradually did Frannie begin coming out again. At first, all she did was sit and stare as Paris and Kit pitched in to work the ranch, and she recalled her father doing those chores just as easily.

  It worried Doc to see her just looking out into nothing.

  Doc found her sitting the same way in her room that night, just staring out at the moonlit night. He was well drunk by then, and Frannie had been sipping stolen bottles of whiskey to dull the pain she felt. Her father had given her away and died before she could change his mind. This man was supposed to become her husband. She didn’t even care that she was in her undergarments in front of him and being immodest.

  “I can't bear death. Swear to me that I won’t have to see any more….”

  "Frannie, I live by the gun; I can't promise you that. The boys and I, you know what we do. It’s what we have to do."

  "Swear it," she began to cry again. He held her and drunkenly led her to bed.

  "I swear it. You don’t have to see any more deaths. You'll never watch me die.

  She nodded.

  And in those words, he sealed both of their fates.

  Chapter 16

  Winter

  November came in with the customary chilly rains, pewter-grey skies, and an unnatural quietness. Frannie went around much like a beautiful, pale ghost who was hanging onto life by a thread; the general atmosphere was solemn.

  On her left hand, Frannie wore the golden ring that Doc had given her, a lovely ruby ring that had belonged to Doc's mother, Alice Holliday. She was resigned to her wedding now that her father was gone but was more reserved than ever before. While she might have gotten over the loss of her father and stopped mourning him, she could not stop the terrible fear that nagged at her, the fear that she might again lose someone dear to her. She had only her cousin, Bat Masterson, her three brothers, and Doc left in the world.

  Paris worked hard and avoided being alone with her, and she appreciated that Doc had been by her side constantly. Appreciation, tenderness, caring…they were like love, and she decided that she would make the best of a marriage, and that love might come in time since Doc was so attentive.

  Although Doc managed with a great deal of trouble to hide his illness from her, he often woke coughing so hard that he couldn't catch his breath; blood streaked his spittle often. He told Frannie that he had a terrible cold, and she believed him since there was no reason to suspect a lie.

  Doc bitterly accepted that his illness was upon him with a vengeance, that it was a miracle for him to have cheated death for this long. He was numb. He was reminded that it was too late to think of himself. He had to think of Frannie.

  He would not die in front of her.

  One night, Doc called Fallon into his room.

  It was late; most everyone was asleep except for the men playing cards. Doc had been staying in his room more and more, claiming a debilitating cold, but for more reasons than just Doc’s missing a card game, Fallon knew that his friend rapidly was growing more seriously ill.

  Paris entered Doc's room, stayed awhile, and then came back out with his eyes shining wetly. Kit watched the man stare out the window for a little while, and then Paris vanished into the night.

  It was a few days later that Paris sat quietly on the back porch. It was only mid-morning, but Paris had already opened a bottle of whiskey that he was drinking as if it were water; it did little as a balm.

  Frannie walked out onto the perch almost silently, her face more pale than usual, her steps unsure. She sat down close
to Paris but didn't look at him as she spoke, “I went to check on John before I came downstairs. He has had such a terrible fever."

  Paris glanced at her in mid-drink and saw her lips trembling; his jaw clenched.

  "He wasn't in his room; that surprised me since he's been so ill,” she said as she sighed. "I found a letter.”

  Paris didn't answer.

  "He explained the truth about his illness." She wiped a tear away. "He told me that he is going to die. He isn't coming back, is he? I won't see him again, will I?"

  "I guess he won't be back," Paris finally said.

  “You have known about this for a while, haven't you?" she asked him.

  "Yes. “

  "You knew he was going to die?"

  "Yes."

  Frannie struggled not to cry. "And he's gone off to do it?”

  "He prefers to be alone; he doesn't want you to go through anymore heartache."

  “I see.” Now she understood Doc, and she understood Paris.

  He hated saying it; the words burned in his throat, “He loves you beyond life or death."

  "But he has left all his friends behind.”

  Paris was in his own pain, but he shrugged. “He doesn't want anyone to see. He is putting your welfare before his own. But Fran, Doc isn’t who you think his is, anyway. This was like he was clinging to a hope: if he walked the right side and settled down, maybe he could beat this, but it came back and was worse. This is who Doc is…violent, unable to stop rambling. He’s not the type to settle down even when he is facing death at his door."

  “So he said in his letter. He wants me to go on, to find someone else. He thinks I will find happiness and that I am not ready for marriage. Have you ever been in love, Paris?'

  "Yes.”

  “How many times?"

  "Once," he said.

  "Did she love you very much?"

  He was speaking clench-jawed. “No, she belonged to another man.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Yeh.”