Johnny Black, Soul Chaser: The Complete Series (Johnny Black, Soul Chaser Series)

by JJ Zep

  “Now that’s gratitude for you,” Jitterbug said, lighting up one of his cigars.

  “I think the man said no smoking.”

  “He said, no smoking a peace pipe. This is a Montecristo.”

  “Okay, so why are you here again?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “It’s not to track me is it?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Or maybe it’s to track Billy the Kid?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “An old friend of yours.”

  “The bitch, Pandora.” Jitterbug snapped. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Doing a cabaret stint over at the Kilkenny Saloon,” I said.

  “Cabaret! That no-good slapper is about as tuneful as a concrete mixer.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Jitterbug, are you here to track Billy the Kid, or aren’t you?”

  “I’m more like a spotter.”

  “A spotter for who?”

  “For whom,” Jitterbug corrected. “And I really couldn’t say.”

  “Good to have you here anyway, buddy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, say it for the dames, Dexter. I’m going to get some shut-eye.”

  “One other thing,” I said.

  “What now?” he grumbled.

  “How is it that Feng Shui could see you, even when you were invisible?”

  “These celestials are an ancient people, well versed in the dark arts, they can spot a bobbitless imp at twenty paces.”

  “So why aren’t you wearing your bobbit? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it again.”

  “No chance of that happening,” Jitterbug said. “I’ve got it locked away in my safe deposit box at First National Hades.”

  fourteen

  With Jitterbug snoring away on the bunk I appraised my situation. Things were hotting up in Devil’s Gulch, with first Pandora showing up and now Jitterbug, who was apparently ‘spotting’ for some unknown party. Pandora had also said that Onslow Foster and Walter Retlaw, both Underworld soul chasers, were on the case, and she’d mentioned something about free lancers. How long before they showed up?

  If I had any sense at all, I’d slap a saddle on Bucko and head out west to California. Problem was, I ‘d be leaving Cecelia Chisholm to the tender mercies of Murphy and his hoodlums, and I wasn’t prepared to do that. Don’t ask me what I planned to do to keep her safe. I was no gunfighter, that much was certain. Then again, I didn’t need to be, the Hellfire Kid had a reputation that would cause most men to back down. As long as no hotshot gunslinger showed up in town hoping to make a reputation for himself, I figured I’d be okay. I’d just have to wait for Henry Chisholm to recover from his wounds. Perhaps then I could persuade him and Cecelia to join me in heading west. For some reason that idea really appealed to me.

  For now though I needed to stock up on supplies, so while Jitterbug was snoring away I sneaked out and headed for the general store. I had to pass Bob Bailey’s Funeral Parlor on the way and as I approached that establishment, a small man, dressed all in black, stepped out of the doorway, and into my path.

  “Mr. Blake?” he said, extending a hand and favoring me with a toothy grin. “Bob Bailey. We’ve never been formally introduced, although I daresay you’ve supplied me with a fair bit of business these past months. I was wondering if I might have a word?”

  “What’s this about?” I said. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  “Won’t take but a minute,” Bailey assured me. “Would you mind stepping into my office?”

  I followed him through the door into a large, single room. There was a desk at one end and a couple of chairs facing it. Behind the desk were framed photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings, most of them featuring Mr. Bailey’s customers reclining in caskets. Lining the walls and arranged across much of the floor space were coffins of every size and description.

  “Forgive the unruly nature of my establishment, Mr. Blake. I had been building up stock in anticipation of a war between Mr. Murphy and Mr. Chisholm. Sadly, it appears Mr. Chisholm’s men have fled the jurisdiction, so I find myself somewhat overstocked. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” I said.

  “Have you spent any time considering your conveyance to the afterlife, Mr. Blake?” Bailey said eagerly, “When the time arrives, of course.”

  “I haven’t really given much thought to it, no.”

  “Oh, but you should Mr. Blake, and right now, on account of the amount of excess stock I’m carrying, I’m prepared to offer you a generous fifteen percent discount, seventeen percent if you opt for brass handles.”

  “That’s a very tempting offer Mr. Bailey, but I’m not really interested.”

  “Tell you what Mr. Blake, on account of all the business you’ve thrown my way recently, I’m prepared to go to eighteen and a half percent. That’s trade price right there, you won’t get better in the entire county.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s an excellent deal,” I said. “But I’m just not in the market for a coffin at this time. I thank you for your interest though.” I rose to leave.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Blake,” Bailey said. “Twenty percent, but that really is as low as I can go. I’m taking food out of my children’s mouths making you this offer, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Still, no thanks.”

  “Well, perhaps you’d prefer some time to consider my proposal. Although, I’d urge you not to wait too long, especially with John Wesley Hardin in town.”

  “John Wesley Hardin’s here?”

  “Oh yes,” Bailey said, with a look bordering ecstasy on his face, “He rode in on the afternoon stage. Who’d have thought it, the Hellfire Kid and John Wesley Hardin, both here in our little burg?”

  fifteen

  “There you are, you goose! Thought you’d given me the slip, did you?”

  I stepped out of the funeral parlor and was immediately confronted by Pandora, sauntering towards me in an elaborate turquoise get up, long white gloves and with a parasol clutched in her hand.

  “Where have you been, Johnny? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’ve been kind of busy, Pandora.”

  “Of course you have,” she said. “You’ve been working the Billy the Kid case, haven’t you?”

  “I told you before, Pandora, I’m not working any case.”

  “Whatever,” Pandora said. “You’re too late anyway. I know where that scoundrel’s hiding. Only a matter of time before I jar him.”

  “I’m very glad for you.”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm,” Pandora said. “I’m pretty sure that John Wesley Hardin is Billy the Kid.”

  Of course, coming from Pandora, this meant exactly the opposite, there was no way on God’s green earth that Billy the Kid was hiding out in John Wesley Hardin.

  “Well, thanks for letting me know Pandora, now if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Don’t you go using that information now, you hear? It was given to you in confidence.”

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t, thank you.”

  “One last thing,” she said. “If I were you I’d keep a low profile. In fact, if I were you, I’d saddle up and go west, Johnny Black.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “That Mr. Hardin’s been looking for you, and after what you said about him I don’t think it’s to swap campfire stories, if you get my meaning.”

  “What I said about him? I’ve never spoken to the man in my life.”

  “Well, it’s all over the newspaper,” Pandora said.

  The newspaper! I’d forgotten about that. Alasdair Pringle had obviously printed his story, and god only knows what comments he’d attributed to the Hellfire Kid.

  I left Pandora standing on the boardwalk and dashed into Dale Cutts’ Barbershop, where a patron sat in the chair with his face l
athered up. The man had a jagged scar running from his forehead towards his chin, and I recognized him right away - Walter Retlaw, Underworld soul chaser. I’d last seen Retlaw in Chicago 1927 and on that occasion, I’d doubled-crossed him, so he had good reason to harbor a grudge. But if he recognized me he gave no indication of it. Not that I had time to worry about that anyway, I needed to get a look at the Lincoln Gazette and see what kind of trouble I was in.

  “Well, if it ain’t our local celebrity,” the barber said. “Welcome to my humble salon, sir. I’ll attend to you forthwith.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not here for a shave. I just wondered if you had a copy of the Lincoln Gazette.”

  “Of yes, bought three copies this morning. Planning on sending one to my cousin in Waco, Texas to show him some of my famous clientele. There’s a copy over by the register if you want a gander.”

  I walked quickly to the cash register and picked up the newspaper. My story was the main feature. Under a banner headline that said, “Hell on Wheels,” was a story that said I claimed to be the fastest gun alive, and that I was prepared to meet John Wesley Hardin anywhere, any time. It also said that I claimed to have killed more men that consumption and repeated the story about me twisting Wild Bill Hickok’s moustaches and calling him a pansy, even though I had denied that. Accompanied the article was a stylized illustration of the Hellfire Kid gunning down some defenseless cowboy.

  I left the barbershop at a run. If I had harbored any doubts about leaving town before, they were gone now. All I had to do was stop by the bathhouse to pick up my stuff, and then fetch Bucko from the livery. Then I had to swing by Vera McCauley’s house and convince Cecelia to go with me to California. I wasn’t even prepared to consider her refusing.

  I reached the bathhouse and skirted around towards the tent out back. Even as I approached I could hear some sort of commotion going on.

  “Give that back!” I heard Jitterbug growl.

  “Me tell ‘um little chief no smoke peace pipe in teepee.”

  “That’s no peace pipe you celestial clown. Those are hand rolled Cubans. Now give them back before I go nuclear on your ass.”

  “What’s going on here?” I said as I entered the tent.

  “Jackie Chan here won’t give my Montecristos back!” Jitterbug said.

  “Small, ugly Indian trying to burn down my ten,” Feng Shui said.

  “I told you before,” Jitterbug shouted. “I ain’t no Indian.”

  “Then why you dress like Pocahontas,” said Feng Shui.

  “That’s it,” Jitterbug said, “The chink’s Chop Suey.”

  “Whoa, hold up one minute,” I shouted, then to Feng Shui, “Mr. Shui, I regret to inform you that my friend and I will be leaving these accommodations immediately, so you can give him back his cigars. He won’t be smoking them on your premises any longer.”

  “Why you go so soon?” Feng Shui said, sounding genuinely heartbroken, “You no like ten?”

  “Maybe he’s just got us a real house with walls and a roof and stuff,” Jitterbug said. “Oh well, maybe you can rent this place out to a troop of performing fleas or something, seen as their family is already here.”

  “No flea in my ten,” Feng Shui insisted.

  “That’s tent,” Jitterbug said with heavy emphasis on the t, “How many letters you got in your alphabet, seven?”

  “I kick your ass, Indian!” Feng Shui shouted.

  “Give it your best shot, cookie boy!” Jitterbug growled.

  Eventually, I got them to calm down, and after Feng Shui went back to the bathhouse I told Jitterbug I was heading out.

  “By rights you know I should call this in, Dexter. But on account of we got some history between us I’m prepared to look the other way.”

  “What’ll you do?” I said.

  “I’ll hang around for now,” Jitterbug said. “I’ve still got a job to do.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Your spotting job. So you weren’t looking for me after all.”

  “No offence, Dexter, but they don’t usually send an experienced agent like myself after the likes of you.”

  “No offence taken,” I said. “So who is it you’re after then?”

  “I couldn’t say. But believe me when I tell you, he’s close, very close.”

  “Well, good luck with that Jit. I’ll be going then.”

  “Yeah, yeah, spare me the long, lingering goodbyes,” he growled.

  sixteen

  After I fetched Bucko from the livery, I skirted the town and headed to the McCauley house, a small wood-frame with a picket fence that stood at the end of town’s smaller street. I dismounted the horse and walked up a narrow path towards the door, which swung open when I was a few yards away. A man and a woman stepped through, he trying to shrug her off, she clinging to him.

  “But Henry you can’t go after them, not in your condition.” the woman cried.

  “Condition be damned, Vera, they’ve got my little girl, and I’ll be…”

  At that moment, Henry Chisholm noticed me, and his eyes narrowed, “You a part of this?” he demanded.

  “A part of what?”

  “Murphy’s boys took Cecelia,” he said and the hard resolve on his face his face softened. His bottom lip started to quiver and I could see that he was close to tears.

  “Oh please, Mr. Blake,” Vera McCauley sobbed. “Talk some sense into him. He shouldn’t even be on his feet, let alone picking a fight with Murphy.”

  As if to confirm this Chisholm slumped against her and slid to his knees and I could see blood seeping through his shirtfront.

  “Murphy’s boys took Cecelia?” I said, “When?”

  “Not ten minutes ago,” Vera said. “They said they want Henry to sign over the deeds to the Double C, and they’re holding her to ransom until he does.”

  “I’ll give them a ransom,” Henry Chisholm growled. He tried to get to his feet but collapsed to the floor again. “They’ve got my little girl,” he said and then started sobbing.

  “Will you help me get him back inside, Mr. Blake?” Vera said.

  “I ain’t goin’ inside,” Henry said, “I’m going…”

  “You ain’t going nowhere,” I said. “I’ll get Cecelia.”

  “You will?” Henry said. “You’ll help us?”

  “Soon as we get you back to bed.”

  Between Vera and me, we helped Henry back inside and got him settled in. “You’d better get Doc Moses in to have a look at those wounds,” I said. “Looks like they’ve opened up.” Vera nodded and then rushed from the room as I rose to leave.

  “You will get her back, won’t you?” Henry said, taking my sleeve in a weak grip.

  “I’ll get her back,” I assured him.

  “Thank you, Zeke Blake,” he said. “I know some folks call you a cheating, thieving, murdering, varmint. But I think you’re basically a good man.”

  “Don’t say that too loud,” I said. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  seventeen

  I’d promised to get Cecelia back, but I had no idea how I was going to do it. I’d be going up against the entire Murphy gang, these days augmented by the considerable gun-fighting skills of John Wesley Hardin. The Hellfire Kid may have stood a slim chance, Johnny Black, who couldn’t even pull a six-shooter from a holster without fumbling it, had no chance at all.

  Still, I’ve always believed that the best way to tackle a problem is head on, so I walked over to the Kilkenny Saloon, strode up to the bar and ordered a whiskey I had no intention of drinking. There were a few patrons in the bar and even as I stood with my back to them, I could hear them scurrying for the corners or slipping out through the batwing doors. Even the bartender, standing in front of me seemed ready to dive for cover at the first sign of trouble.

  To my right I saw the door to Paddy Murphy’s office swing slowly open and Paddy stepped into the room accompanied by a small, dark-haired man with a handsome face and lush moustaches.

  “Well, if it ain’t that b
ack-stabbin’ coyote, Zeke Blake. Careful boys, don’t get to close, he’s apt to stick a pen knife in your back sure as look at ya.”

  I turned to face Paddy and his sidekick and saw right away that they weren’t alone. In the shadows to the back of the barroom I saw Pancho Daniels lurking, Littlebury Shoot and Chunk Colbert were pretending to play cards at one of the tables, and Turkey Creek Johnson was standing over by the piano.

  I was seriously outnumbered but this was no time to panic, so I pushed away from the bar and turned towards Murphy. I sucked in my cheeks and gave him my best Clint Eastwood glare and then in the deepest voice I could muster, I said, “I’ve come for the girl, Murphy.”

  “Ain’t that sweet,” Murphy chuckled turning towards his men, “he’s come for the girl. Ain’t love grand.” He turned back to me and his voice took on a more menacing tone. “And what makes you think I’m about to hand her over to you, boyo?”

  “Because if you don’t,” I said, “I’m going to have to shoot you down right here in front of your men, on the floor of your own saloon.” Up until now, I’d been bluffing but as I said those words I suddenly felt confidence well up in me, as though I really could take them, all of them, including John Wesley Hardin.

  “Now don’t go writin’ checks you can’t cash, boyo,” Murphy said. “You know who this is?” He placed a hand on Hardin’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, I know who that is,” I said. “Does he do any of his own talking or are you two a ventriloquist act?”

  “I do talk some,” Hardin said stepping forward, “But mostly I let my irons do my talking for me.” He adopted a classic gunfighter’s pose, legs apart, eyes squinting, hands twitching inches away from his pistol butts. For one crazy moment I thought he was going to draw on me. I had to buy myself some time, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “I can see you’re itchin’ for a fight, mister. But you didn’t come all the way down from Abilene for a shootout with only a handful of people watching. What say we give the folks of Devil’s Gulch a proper showdown? You and me out front of the saloon at high noon tomorrow.”