by JJ Zep
“You’ll settle up now,” Murphy said, “or you’ll walk away empty-handed.”
Chisholm stepped away from the counter and his hand drifted wide of his pistol butt. I saw his fingers twitch and for one crazy moment I thought he might draw on Murphy. Not that Murphy seemed too concerned, he looked back at Chisholm with a smirk on his face and slowly and deliberately folded his arms.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Draw on the Hellfire Kid, the fastest gun in New Mexico.”
Chisholm looked past Murphy to me and I just prayed that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, especially not after my pathetic attempt at a quick draw earlier in the day.
It was Cecelia who broke the deadlock, “Come father,” she said. “We’ll get our supplies down in Lincoln.”
“You do that in future,” Murphy said. “I’m not in the habit of doing business with your sort.”
“What sort would that be then?” Chisholm said.
“The sort that shoots up my employees for no good reason,” Murphy said.
“Well, maybe if your employees kept their hands off steers that don’t belong to them, they wouldn’t get shot,” Chisholm said, looking directly at me.
“Father,” Cecelia said and tugged at Chisholm sleeve. The big man followed his daughter from the store like a puppy dog. She, however, walked proudly and shot me a venomous look as she passed. In the doorway, she turned and faced Murphy.
“You sir,” Cecelia said, “are no gentleman. Good day to you both.” Then she turned on her heel and left and I felt just as bad as I could ever remember.
seven
I spent the rest of my day getting a handle on my surroundings. Devil’s Gulch wasn’t much of a town, but one thing was certain, Paddy Murphy owned it lock, stock and barrel. Aside from the hotel and general store, Murphy owned Arbuckle’s, the livery, and had a majority share of the barber shop, and a piece of Bob Bailey’s funeral parlor. In fact, the only establishment in town that Murphy didn’t own a piece of was the bathhouse, and that was only because by his own admission he, ‘didn’t care much for no Chinese’.
Late that afternoon a stage arrived in Devil’s Gulch and two passengers alighted. The first was a Mr. Alasdair Pringle, a reporter with the Lincoln Gazette, who had somehow got to hear about the miraculous survival of Zeke Blake and wanted to do a story, the other, was an old acquaintance of mine. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Pandora Jain had tracked me down so quickly, but I was amazed that she was tracking me at all.
Pandora had once told me that she never did work for Hades Correctional because Abaddon refused to hire private contractors. But if she wasn’t working for Hades, who exactly was she working for? The other firms were hardly likely to pay a worthwhile bounty on a suicide like myself. Certainly not enough to interest a big hitter like Pandora.
It was all very mysterious, but I’d have to wait to find out the answer because for now Pandora was playing her cover to the hilt, complete with a somewhat hilarious southern accent. She introduced herself to Paddy Murphy as Pandora O’ Hara, a traveling cabaret artiste, and enquired whether the Kilkenny Saloon might be interested in acquiring her services for a ‘limited season’.
Pandora, of course, looked absolutely stunning. Paddy Murphy was instantly smitten and hired her on the spot, putting her up in the Kilkenny’s ‘Royal Suite’.
Alasdair Pringle also took a room at the Kilkenny and once he got himself settled in, he tracked me down to the bar. “Mr. Blake,” he said, extending a hand and favoring me with a toothy smile, “I wonder if I might introduce myself, Alasdair Pringle, of the…”
“I know who you are,” I said, “and I’ll save you the trouble. I’m not interested.”
“I see,” he said, the smile instantly dissipating. “I had been led to believe…”
“Well, whoever led you, misled you,” I said. “I’m not interested in talking to the Lincoln Gazette. You print your story and every gunslinger from Texas to California will descend on Devil’s Gulch for a crack at the invincible Hellfire Kid.”
“I follow your meaning,” Pringle said, “but your employer, Mr. Murphy, had rather indicated…”
“Ah, I see you two fellers have made each other’s acquaintance,” Paddy Murphy bellowed from across the room. “This’ll show that dry gulchin’, yellow-belly, Chisholm up for what he is. Come on through to my office fellers, let’s have ourselves a sit down in private.”
I followed Pringle across to the office, where Murphy pointed us to a couple of chairs and produced a bottle of Kentucky whiskey.
“Save this for special occasions only,” he said, “and this is one such. One of my boys featured in a big city tabloid.”
“Mr. Murphy, I’d just as soon…” I started to say.
“Nonsense!” Murphy boomed. “This is no time to be bashful. You deserve some credit. Standing up to Chisholm’s murdering vaqueros single-handed the way you did. This will make your reputation lad, they’ll be talking about you alongside Jesse James and Billy the Kid.”
“Quite, quite,” Pringle said. “Now if we might start some background information. Where were you born?”
“New York City,” I said.
“And on what date?”
“July fourteenth.”
“The year?”
I did a quick calculation in my head, “1860,” I said. That would make Zeke Blake twenty-eight years old, which I figured was about right.
“If we can now address some of the legend that your reputation has thrown up. Is it true that you are quicker on the draw than John Wesley Hardin?”
“Who?”
“John Wesley Hardin, the renowned gunslinger out of Bonham, Texas. Folks say he’s the fastest gun in the west.”
“Then that’s likely true.”
“Aren’t you faster?”
“I guess there’s only one way to find that out,” I said, and Pringle scrawled furiously in his notepad.
“I hear tell also that you once twisted Wild Bill Hickok’s moustaches and called him a pansy in buckskins.”
“Now that’s one I haven’t heard,” I said.
“And is it true that you’ve killed more men than smallpox?”
“Certainly more than constipation,” I said.
“Can I quote you on that?” Pringle said eagerly.
“Be my guest,” I said.
“Look,” Murphy growled, “Is all of this really necessary? Can’t we just get to the part about that possum-eatin’, snake-bellied varmint, Chisholm.”
“Yes, why don’t we get to that now,” Pringle said. “In your own words, Mr. Blake, tell us what happened?”
“Well,” I said. “Me and two other fellers…”
“That’s Turkey Creek Johnson and Littlebury Shoot, two of my other employees,” Murphy cut in.
“The three of us was out riding by Diablo Creek when I took a bullet in the chest. I must have blacked out because when I came too, Turk and Shoot was gone and so was my horse, so I walked back here to Devil’s Creek.”
“Most interesting,” Pringle said. “Well, I’m sure our readers are going to be fascinated by your story.” He rose to go.
“That’s it?” Murphy said. “You don’t want to know who was behind it. Henry Chisholm, that’s who. Now that’s C-H-I-S-H-O-L-M, so be sure to get it right. You want to see the bullet wound? Show him the wound Jake.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Pringle said. “Good day gentlemen.”
“That’s Henry Chisholm of the Double C ranch,” Murphy called after him.
eight
The first appearance of Miss Pandora O’ Hara was later that evening, and was ‘standing room only’ in the Kilkenny Saloon. Pandora took the stage to a stunned silence. She was wearing a low-cut, red and black number with copious petticoats. Underneath she wore fishnet stockings and a pair of cowboy boots complete with spurs. She had feathers in her hair and a jeweled choker around her neck.
“Why, I do declare,” Pandora said in an accent t
hat was part Atlanta, Georgia, part Bombay, India, “so many handsome gentlemen in one place. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
A collective sigh went up from the gathered cowboys and then someone shouted, “Ma’am, if you ain’t the purtiest little thang in tarnation”, and the place erupted.
Pandora launched into her opening number, a tuneless, nails-across-a-blackboard rendition of Dolly Parton’s ‘I Will Always Love You’, and followed that up with a version of ‘Poker Face’ by Lady Gaga that was only slightly worse than the original. The rest of her repertoire was a hodge-podge compilation of pop songs and show tunes that included Abba’s ‘Money, Money, Money’ and a bizarre up-tempo rendition of ‘Memory’ from ‘Cats’.
Not that the cowpokes minded. They clapped and cheered as though they were witnessing a reunion concert by the Beatles, with Elvis on backing vocals.
After Pandora’s set she stepped off the stage and worked her way through the crowd to where I was standing at the bar.
“What’ll it be Miss O’ Hara?” the barkeep said.
“I‘ll just have a Perrier,” Pandora said.
“All we got is whiskey and beer, ma’am.”
“A whiskey then.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender said and hustled off.
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you, Pandora.” I said under my breath, “That’ll burn a hole right through your belly.”
“I’ve had worse. Must say I’m surprised to see you here, Johnny Black. How’d you get on this so fast?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t be coy with me, Johnny. We both know you’re here for…”
“Here you go, ma’am,” the bartender said placing a shot glass of amber liquid on the counter.
“Here for who?” I said. “I thought you were after me.”
“Drop the act, Johnny, why would I be after you? Come on admit it, you’re here for the same reason I am.”
“And what would that be?”
“Only the biggest soul-chasing gig out west in the last hundred years. Only the hottest fugitive since Dr. Richard Kimble.”
“So who is it?” I said.
She looked at me and a little smile played on her lips, “Come on, Johnny,” she said, “you know I’m not that dumb. Are you trying to tell me your not here after…”
“There she is now!” Paddy Murphy’s voice boomed. “The lady of the hour!” He pushed in between us. “I’ve got to tell you my dear that your performance was the bettermost of the bettermost! That voice! I could-a sworn I was hearin’ an angel.”
“Why, thank you sir.” Pandora said.
“What’s this sir, malarkey? You’ll call me Paddy, I insist. And you’re not drinkin’ that rotgut are you? Barney, champagne for the lady! On second thoughts, have a bottle sent through to my office.” Murphy crooked his arm and Pandora slotted hers through. “Shall we?” he said and led her towards the back of the room.
“Bitch,” a voice said from behind me and I turned to see Murphy’s wife, whose name I now knew was Lily.
“You ain’t falling for that snake-eyed hussy are you, Zeke?”
“Hell no,” I said immediately. “You know you’re the only one for me, Lil.”
“Good,” she said. “Cause if I thought she was making the eyes at you I’d shoot her down soon as I’d swat a fly. Southern floozy comin’ in her shakin’ her bits at my man. And why was she calling you, Johnny?”
“She obviously has me confused with someone else.”
“You make sure it stays that way, Zeke. And keep that six-shooter of yours holstered around her if you know what’s good for you.”
After the cabaret, the crowd had thinned out a bit and I spotted some of Chisholm’s men at the bar. One of them was Bill, the Double C’s trail boss who I’d run into at Diablo Creek the previous day. He’d obviously been drinking, and now staggered across the saloon towards me.
“Well, if it ain’t the dead man,” he slurred and immediately everyone in the room fell silent and shuffled out of the way. “You listenin’ to me Blake? I’m callin’ you out like the yeller belly, chislin’ Yankee thrash, you are.”
I looked over at Bill and saw him swaying on his feet in the middle of the floor, his hand hovering close to the butt of his six-shooter. I had no desire to fight him, partly because I had nothing against the man, and partly because even in his inebriated state he was likely to beat me.
“Go back to the Double C, Bill,” I said. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m sober enough to whip the hide off the likes of you,” he said
“Well, I ain’t fightin’ ya, so you can just saddle up and head on home.”
“I’ll go when I’m good a ready. But I tell you what, since you’re too much of a yellow belly to engage me with pistols. How about we have us a punch up?”
He started to unbuckle his gun belt, fumbling with the buckle before finally working it loose. Then he turned theatrically towards the patrons and made an elaborate show of dropping his guns to the ground. The minute he did, a shot went off and I instinctively threw myself to the floor. I heard somebody scream and then a door was thrown open.
I got back on my feet just in time to see Paddy Murphy burst into the barroom from his office.
“Who fired that shot?” he demanded.
“It was Curly Bill,” Littlebury Shoot said. “He took a shot at Zeke.”
Murphy looked over at me and his rugged features broke into the approximation of a smile. “Well, what are you waitin’ for, man?” Murphy said to me. “Shoot the mangy dog down where he stands.”
“But he’s unarmed,” I said.
“He took a shot at you,” Murphy said. “That gives you the right to fire back. Ain’t a court in the country that could hang you for it.”
I looked over at Bill, who seemed to have sobered up quickly, and realized the stupidity of what he’d done, picking a gunfight with the fastest gun in New Mexico.
“I ain’t doing it,” I said.
“What!” Murphy yelled.
“I said I ain’t doing it. I ain’t shooting no drunken fool. Especially one that ain’t even armed.”
Murphy glared at me for a while and then turned towards Shoot. “Fetch me that idiot sheriff,” he said. “I want this man placed under arrest for attempted murder.”
nine
After Curly Bill was placed under arrest and marched off to the jailhouse, I headed upstairs to my room. I had just gotten under the covers and turned out the lamp when the door suddenly flew open and Paddy Murphy stood in the doorway framed by the light from outside.
“I’m gonna let what happened downstairs slide, on account of I’m in a good mood tonight. In the future, when I tell you to shoot someone, the only question I want to hear from you is, how many times. Got that?”
“Sure boss,” I said. It just wasn’t worth getting into an argument over.
“You be sure to remember that, who’s the boss I mean. You ever disobey me again and you’re going to wish Chisholm’s men finished you off down by Diablo Creek. Now, I got me a date with little Miss O’ Hara, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”
The door swung shut and despite myself I felt a sudden sharp twinge of jealousy. Don’t ask me why, there was nothing between Pandora and me and I was pretty sure that Pandora would do just about anything to succeed in her soul chasing business. Still, the thought of her and Murphy together, made me shudder.
“Is he gone yet?”
“What?”
“I said is he gone yet,” Pandora said and slid out from under the bed.
“Pandora, what the hell are you doing in my room?”
“Hiding from that amorous Irishman,” Pandora said. “A girl has her standards to maintain, you know. Now scoot up.”
“What?”
“I said scoot up, I’m staying here tonight.”
“You can’t stay here!”
“Oh, don’t be such and old stick in the mud. I won’t try to seduce you or a
nything.”
I scooted up as ordered and Pandora Jain, the most beautiful woman in the known universes, slipped into my bed. I have to admit that I’d often fantasized about this moment. But now that it was here, far from being aroused or excited, I was absolutely terrified.
“So,” Pandora said after a while, “This is some case we’ve got here.”
“I told you Pandora, I’m not on a case.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “You’re on the run from Hades Correctional. That has to be the lamest cover story I’ve ever heard. I’d have thought Dope could come up with something more original than that. Even, Jitterbug…hey, where is Jit, by the way?”
“Back at Hades, I expect.”
“Yeah, right.”
“And I suppose you’re going to try and tell me that Ringo’s not with you.”
“Haven’t seen him since Paris,” Pandora said, which was almost certainly a lie.
“So you were telling me earlier at the bar,” I said, “about why you’re here. You said you were tracking…”
“William H. Bonney,” Pandora said.
“Who the hell is William H. Bonney?”
“So you want to continue playing this game, do you? Okay, I’ll tell you, just for telling you, William H. Bonney is better known as Billy the Kid.”
“You’re tracking Billy the Kid?”
“Uh huh, he escaped from Underworld a couple of weeks, ago. The whole place is in a tizz, they’ve got Onslow on the case, Walter Retlaw, plus quite a few freelancers, like yours truly. You can also bet that the other firms will be desperate to bag him. There’s a lot of prestige attached to tracking down such I high profile runner. I imagine that why Hades Correctional have you, their best man, on the case.”
“Firstly, I am not their best man, and secondly, I’m not on any case.”
“Whatever. As long as you believe that.”
“So what makes you think he’s here in this backwater, anyway?” I said.
“A bit of information I managed to malficium it out of a clairvoyant pixie. I admit I was a bit dubious myself at first, but finding you here working the case, proves that the information was solid.”