“But, Mr. Jackson—”
“Not interested,” Jackson repeated. He turned away from the bar and started slowly toward the batwing doors that led out onto the plank sidewalk.
Everett Sidney Howard took a deep breath and followed him. The byplay between the two of them had drawn the attention of nearly everyone in the saloon. The only one not watching them was the piano player, a thin, doughy-faced man in white shirt, checked vest, and sleeve gaiters. He kept playing in a sort of trance. Piano players saw it all, and sooner or later they stopped giving notice to any of it. But the bartender, bald and burly in a smudged apron, was watching. He knew Jackson, or at least had heard stories about him, and he didn’t want any trouble starting here. There was nothing more difficult to get up off a hardwood floor than bloodstains.
There were half-a-dozen other people in the long, narrow room, two cowhands leaning against the bar and four townsmen grouped around one of the card tables. The hands paused in their drinking and the townies in their play to watch the dude from back East chase after Jackson. They were looking forward to being entertained by the results. On the railed balcony that ran in front of the second-floor rooms, a woman in a trailing, loosely belted robe wandered out of one of the rooms and looked down at the proceedings. It was too early in the day for much trade, and she was bored.
Jackson was almost to the batwings when two men appeared there and pushed them open. The men stepped into the saloon and stopped, blocking the doorway.
Jackson came to a halt, and behind him so did the young newspaper reporter. Without taking his eyes off the newcomers, Jackson asked, “Friends of yours, Everett?”
Everett shook his head. “No, sir,” he said to Jackson’s back.
“Good.” Jackson smiled peacefully at the men standing in front of him. “You gents want something?”
“Yeah,” the one on the right said. He was medium height and had the narrow, pinched face of a weasel. “We want a murderin’ son of a bitch named Jackson.”
“That’s right,” the other one added. He was shorter and stockier than the first man, with colorless hair under his Stetson. A scar on his cheek drew his mouth into a permanent leering smile. “Murderin’ sumbitch,” he chuckled.
“Well . . . my name’s Jackson. Never killed nobody unless they drew on me first, though. Or tried to anyway.”
“You’re the one we want,” the first man said. “Killed some friends of ours, you did. Ambushed ’em and then tortured an old man who was with ’em until he died. You deny that, Jackson?”
Jackson nodded his head. “I surely do. It was your friends who were killing the old man. They didn’t like it when I told ’em to stop.”
One of the townsmen motioned to the piano player and finally got his attention. The tinkling strains fell silent, and the room was suddenly very quiet.
“Mr. Jackson,” Everett said into the silence, “is there going to be a gunfight?”
“Looks like it, Everett. Looks like it.”
“Lyin’ bastard!” the leering man snarled. He grabbed for his gun.
Jackson’s hand moved in a blur, but not toward the butt of his own gun. His long fingers clamped around the leering man’s wrist and jerked. The man let out a surprised yelp as he was pulled over in front of his companion. His line of fire blocked, the other man cursed and tried to angle a shot toward Jackson.
Pausing just long enough to lift a booted foot into the leering man’s groin, Jackson shoved him backward as hard as he could. The legs of both men tangled up as they stumbled backward. They hit the batwings and knocked them open; then a boot heel caught on one of the planks outside. The men fell heavily, and several townspeople walking nearby jumped for cover as Jackson appeared in the doorway, pistol held casually in his hand.
Jackson drew the hammer back, and the click cut through the string of profanity that was flowing from the two men. They stared up at the barrel for a long moment. Then both of them dropped their guns to the sidewalk.
Stepping out onto the walk, Jackson kicked the weapons into the dust of the street. “I don’t think I’m going to kill you boys,” he said. “Don’t make me regret that decision later, all right?”
Under the gun, the two men scrambled to their feet and turned away shamefaced. They went into the street to pick up their guns, but they made no move toward Jackson. Instead, they holstered the pistols, strode angrily to two horses that were hitched at the rail, and swung into the saddles. With a last glance of fury and embarrassment, they spurred away from the saloon. Not until they had vanished into the dust cloud that their horses caused did Jackson slide his Colt back into its holster.
“Very impressive,” Everett Sidney Howard said from the saloon’s entrance. “And you said you weren’t a gunslinger. I would like to know, though, why you didn’t kill them.”
“Stupidity,” Jackson answered. He was watching the dust settle back onto the parched street. “I should have. Because one day one of those bastards will try to put a rifle bullet in me. They strike me as the type that might miss, though.” Jackson brushed past Everett and entered the saloon again. The piano player went back to the ivories as Jackson signaled the bartender for another drink.
Everett stepped up to the bar beside him. “Why did you ask me if I knew them, if they were friends of mine?”
Jackson glanced over at him, an unreadable expression on his lean face. “Because if you were working with them and trying to divert my attention, I did plan to kill you.”
“Oh.” Everett swallowed and stood silently for a moment, then lifted a hand to the bartender. “I believe I’d like a drink too, please.”
Jackson sipped his whiskey and said, “Still want to interview me?”
Everett picked up the shot glass the bartender placed in front of him, drank the amber contents, and paled visibly. A shudder ran through him. “More than ever,” he answered when he was able to speak again. “You seem to be a fascinating man, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson nodded. “All right. You can ask me your questions. Ain’t promising that I’ll answer all of them, though.”
“Fair enough.”
They left the bar and walked side by side toward the door. As they emerged onto the sidewalk, Reverend Driscoll walked quickly toward them.
“Ah, Mr. Howard,” the newcomer said to Everett, “I see you found him.” He turned to Jackson. “I told this young gentleman where you would most likely be, Mr. Jackson. Frequenting a saloon.”
“And good afternoon to you too, Reverend,” Jackson said.
Everett was more polite to Driscoll. “Thank you for your help, Reverend. I didn’t have any trouble finding Mr. Jackson.”
“Yes, but you almost found more than you wanted, didn’t you? I heard that there was some trouble.”
Jackson smiled without humor. “Not much trouble. No dead bodies for you to pray over, Reverend.” He turned on his heel and stalked away down the sidewalk.
Everett looked at Jackson’s retreating back, glanced at the preacher, and said, “Thanks again, sir.” Then he hurried after Jackson. “Reverend Driscoll doesn’t seem to like you,” he said when he caught up.
“He makes judgments quickly,” Jackson returned. “I’ve been here less than a week. I suspect it’s my name he doesn’t care for.”
“Your name? What’s wrong with Jackson?”
“Hell.”
Everett frowned. “What?”
“That’s my name. Hell Jackson.”
“Oh.” As in the bar a few minutes earlier, after being told casually that he would have been killed if he had been working with the two hardcases, Everett was at a momentary loss for words. He wondered if he dared to ask the question that was uppermost in his mind. Well, he told himself, I am a newspaperman. It’s my job to ask tough questions.
“That’s an unusual name,” he said, taking the plunge. “Do you mind if I ask how you got it?”
“My old man,” Jackson answered without looking at him. “My mother died when I was born. My father
figured I was putting him through hell, so he might as well call me that.”
The words were calm and quiet, but an iciness touched them. Everett glanced at Jackson, saw no sign of any emotion.
Even a reporter knows there are times to leave something alone, and Everett suspected this was one of those times. He decided to change the subject.
“Those men in the saloon . . . they said something about some friends of theirs that you’re supposed to . . . supposed to have—”
“Killed,” Jackson said, supplying the word for him. “That much is true. But they were drawing on me, and like I said, they tortured an old man until he was nearly dead by the time I got there.”
“What happened to him?”
“Died a few minutes later. My mistake once I got to town was telling a few folks about it so’s they could go out and get the bodies, give them a decent burial. Word must’ve got back to those other fellows.”
“Do you know what it was all about? Why they were torturing him, I mean?” Everett’s voice showed that he accepted Jackson’s version of the story.
Jackson stopped and looked over at the younger man. “I know,” he said. “If I tell you, you planning to write about it?”
Everett took a deep breath and gathered his courage in the face of this scrutiny by the hard-featured man. “If it’s a good story,” he said, and hoped that his voice didn’t shake.
After an eternity, Jackson shrugged. “You’re the reporter,” he said. “Come on. I want to introduce you to somebody.”
Chapter 4
“Philomena, this is Mr. Everett Sidney Howard. You know what a reporter is?”
One of the loveliest girls that Everett had ever seen shook her head and smiled sweetly.
“He writes stories for a newspaper,” Jackson went on. “He wants to know about your grandfather.”
The smile threatened to leave Philomena’s face. “Whatever you wish,” she said in such a quiet voice that Everett could barely make out the words.
Jackson waved a hand at the rough table in the center of the room. “Have a seat, Everett,” he said, “and I’ll tell you a story.”
They were in the one-room adobe hut on the outskirts of Death Head Crossing, a hut rudely furnished but scrupulously clean. As Jackson and Everett sat down on opposite sides of the table, Philomena went to the area of the room that served as kitchen and pantry and took a clay jug from a basket. She brought it to the table and set it between them.
Jackson pulled the cork, took a swig, and pushed the jug over to Everett. There was a glint of amusement in his blue eyes as the young man lifted the jug with some trepidation and put it to his lips. As he swallowed, his eyes grew large, and he returned the jug to the tabletop with a thump.
“Mescal,” Jackson explained. “Got a little kick to it.”
Everett jerked his head in a nod. “I’d say so,” he gasped. The liquid seemed to have started fires all the way from his throat to his stomach. On top of the whiskey he had downed earlier in the saloon, the effect was potent.
“Probably should’ve warned you,” Jackson drawled.
“No . . . no, it’s fine.” Everett blinked away the tears that threatened to overflow his eyes and run down his cheeks.
Jackson took his hat off and scaled it onto the bunk in the corner of the room. He drank from the jug once more, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Philomena’s the granddaughter of the old man I found being tortured,” he began. “Before he died, he . . . gave me a mission, you might say. He told me about her and sent me to her.”
Everett’s eyes went to the girl, and again he was struck by her beauty. Her hair, parted simply in the center of her head, was long and fine and as dark as midnight, hanging nearly to her waist. The long-lashed eyes that looked shyly back at him were nearly as dark, and they were set off by skin the color of honey. She wore a plain white linen blouse, cut low in the neck to reveal the swell of young breasts. A small crucifix dangled from a plain gold chain in the soft hollow of her throat. A long red skirt, decorated with ornate embroidery, fell in sweeping folds to her bare feet. Perhaps she was just a simple peasant girl, Everett thought, but there was an earthy appeal to her that was stronger than anything the pale society ladies of New York could conjure up.
He pulled his attention back to Jackson. There was a hint of possessiveness in the gunman’s manner, and the last thing Everett wanted was to make him jealous . . . or angry.
“Seems the old man had talked too much in a cantina and mentioned a treasure he had hidden,” Jackson was saying. “These three fellas overheard him and trailed him out of there. They jumped him, took him out to a dry wash a few miles from here, and started working him over, trying to make him tell them where the treasure was.”
Everett had to glance at the girl again. Philomena was listening to the story with a look of sadness on her face, and he was sure it was hard for her to hear about the death of her grandfather like this. “I suppose . . . you could tell me about this later,” he suggested to Jackson.
“No,” Philomena said, as if sensing that it was her feelings he was concerned about. “I grieve for my grandfather, but I glory in the death of his murderers.” She looked up as she spoke, and ancient savagery danced in her dark eyes.
“I took care of those three bastards,” Jackson went on, “and then before the old man died, he told me where to find his treasure. Told me to get it and bring it to Philomena.”
“Did you?” Everett asked, caught up now in the story.
Jackson gestured to a shelf on the wall. It was cluttered with all sorts of knickknacks, most of them cheap religious ornaments. “Treasure,” Jackson said.
Everett stared at the collection. “But that’s—”
“Junk? Not to the old man.”
Everett looked at the girl. “I’m sorry, Philomena, I didn’t mean—”
She reached out and gestured for him to stop. “It is all right, Mr. Howard. Those things meant much to my grandfather. Enough for him to die rather than reveal their hiding place. Different things are important to different people. But at the same time I know they have no real value.”
“Think that’ll make a good story for your paper, Everett?” Jackson asked.
Everett took a deep breath, his mind racing. He sensed that the question wasn’t as simple as it seemed. After a moment, he said, “It would make a wonderful human interest story, and I’m sure the readers of the Universe would enjoy it. But I don’t think I’ll include it in my dispatches.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve no desire to intrude on anyone’s privacy. The death of Philomena’s grandfather should be remembered with dignity, not as just another story to be filed.”
And just how much of that noble statement was true? Everett asked himself. He himself wasn’t sure of the answer. Was he trying to do the right thing, or was he angling for some other objective? The look in Jackson’s eyes told him that the gunman was considering the same questions.
“So you brought the treasure to Philomena,” Everett went on. “I just want to make sure I’ve got everything clear, for my own understanding.”
“That’s right. The stuff was buried under the old man’s shack. Once I had it, finding her was easy. Your friend Reverend Driscoll knew where she lived.”
“He’s not my friend,” Everett protested, knowing the coolness that Jackson felt toward the preacher. “I’ve found that the local minister usually knows everything that’s going on in a town.”
“Comes from being a damn busybody,” Jackson snorted. He nipped at the jug again. The mescal seemed to be having no effect on him. “You said you had some other questions to ask?”
“Yes.” Everett reached into his coat and took out a sheaf of paper and a pencil. He looked inquiringly at Jackson, got a nod in answer. Pencil poised over the paper, he asked, “What’s it like to be a famous gunslinger?”
“I told you, all the famous ones are dead. And I don’t consider myself a gunslin
ger either.”
“What do you consider yourself?”
Jackson considered before answering. “A man who doesn’t want any trouble.”
“Rather contradictory, wouldn’t you say, considering your reputation?”
“Sometimes causing a little bit of trouble can prevent a lot of it later on.”
“Tell me about your life,” Everett prodded. “The places you’ve been and the things you’ve done.”
Jackson smiled. “Out here, that might be considered a rude question, my young friend, the kind that can lead to all sorts of problems.”
Everett was afraid he had overstepped himself. Quickly, he started to apologize, but Jackson stopped him with a negligent wave of his hand. “Forget it. I don’t mind telling you about some things. I was in the army during the War Between the States. First time I got to travel much. Then I drifted out here to the West. Was a deputy a few places, even sheriff a time or two. Went back to work for the army as a civilian scout for a while. Some called me a bounty hunter after that because I collected a few rewards, but that was all accidental. I never went out looking for hardcases, but I crossed paths with a few. Can work cattle or horses, and I’ve spent time as a ranch hand.”
“You do hire your gun out, though, don’t you?”
Jackson inclined his head and shrugged. “As a guide or a bodyguard, yes. You can’t hire me to go shoot somebody just because you and the other fella have some sort of argument going.”
Everett’s pencil moved rapidly over the paper as he made notes for the story he would send back to New York. “How many men have you killed?” he asked without looking up.
“I don’t keep count.”
“Really? I thought you probably cut notches on your gun handle or something.”
Jackson leaned forward, face intent. “Nope. And if I find out that you called me something like a Dashing Daredevil of the Plains or some other dime-novel shit, you and me are gonna have another little talk, Everett.”
“Yes, sir,” Everett replied, not meeting Jackson’s eyes.
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