by JJ Zep
“Mister, I’ll meet you any time, any where, any how,” Hardin said.
“It’s settled then,” I said, “on one condition.”
“You don’t get to make conditions,” Murphy protested.
“This one’s to your advantage,” I said, “So listen up.”
“I’m listening” Murphy said grudgingly.
“You let the girl go…”
“No chance of that.”
“You let the girl go and we wager everything on the outcome of tomorrow’s gun duel. Hardin wins and Henry Chisholm will sign over the Double C to you, I win and you sign over the Kilkenny and your other business interests to Henry Chisholm.”
Murphy looked at me, and his expression gradually morphed from a scowl to a smile. “I believe you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said to me, then to his men, “Go fetch the little princess. Tell her, her knight in shining armor’s here.”
eighteen
“You had no right to do that,” Cecelia said. “The Double C is our home, you had no right to wager it on some gunfight.”
“I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” I said, “Do you really think there’s any way that Murphy is going to let you keep your ranch, even if I win tomorrow? At least this way you have a chance to get away.”
“Zeke’s right,” Henry Chisholm said. “It’s just a piece of land, not worth dying over. We can always head out west and start over.”
“No!” Cecelia said. “I refuse to give in to that bully. I say we take things up with the sheriff.”
“Wayne Earp?” Henry Chisholm said. “He’s so deep in Murphy’s pocket he’s rattling around with the loose change. You should just be grateful Zeke managed to get you out of the clutches of that miscreant.”
“I’m a grateful, thank you Zeke, but…”
“Hush CC, what’s done is done. We’ll find a way…”
“I’ll be heading to California, when this is done,” I said. “Maybe you’d consider going with me.”
“Good country out there,” Henry said. “Worth thinking about…”
“Oh, I can’t believe you’re so naïve, Zeke Blake. Win or lose tomorrow, do you really think Paddy Murphy’s going to let you just saddle up and ride out of Devil’s Gulch?” She rushed from the room.
“She always was just about as stubborn as a prospector’s mule,” Henry chuckled. “She has a point though. You thought about contingencies in case Paddy Murphy don’t stick to his side of the bargain? You do know that’s likely to be the case, don’t you?”
“I do and I haven’t thought of contingencies. I’m pretty much making this up as I go along.”
I left Henry Chisholm and found Cecelia out on the porch. “Sorry for what I said back there,” she mumbled.
“No reason to apologize for being truthful,” I said and she suddenly rushed into my arms.
“Oh Zeke,” she said, “what will I do if you’re killed tomorrow?”
“I don’t intend on dying,” I said.
“Well, see that you don’t, or you’ll have me to answer to, mister.”
She cried then, and I held her until her tears subsided and then I kissed her. I walked away from the McCauley house feeling like I was stepping on air.
I needed to find Jitterbug, so I headed back to the last place I’d seen him, and found him playing checkers with Feng Shui.
“You chee, Indian,” Feng Shui said.
“I ain’t cheating,” Jitterbug grumbled. “And if you’d open your eyes more than a crack, you’d see that.” He looked up from the board game and saw me standing in the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing here, Dexter?” Jitterbug said. “I thought you’d be sipping cocktails in Malibu by now.”
“Jit, you got a minute?”
“I’m kinda in the middle of something right now.”
“This is important.”
“Yeah, yeah, what is it?”
“You any good with a six-shooter?”
“Am I any good with a six-shooter?” Jitterbug said and seemed to contemplate the question. “Hand me your gun-belt,” he said eventually.
I unbuckled the belt and passed it to him and he strapped it on and made the necessary adjustments. The barrels of the twin six-shooters reached almost to his knees, and they looked quite comical. I could feel another bout of laughter coming on but then Jitterbug drew, removing both six-shooters from their holsters in a flash. He spun the pistols by the trigger guards in an elaborate set of maneuvers so fast that they became nothing more that a silver blur, and then slotted them neatly back into the holsters and folded him arms.
“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” I said.
“My uncle, Bronco Pavarotti, was a trick shootist with Wild Bill Cody’s Traveling Show. He showed me a couple of moves.”
“This Indian not bad cowboy,” Feng Shui said.
nineteen
“No, no, no!” Jitterbug shouted. We were out at the back of the bathhouse and I was going through a fast draw routine for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time my efforts did not meet with the approval of my impish instructor.
“Don’t look down at the gun when you draw, Dexter! How are you going to fire at your opponent if you’re looking down?”
“But how can I draw the pistol if I can’t see where the butt is?” I protested.
“You’ve got to feel it, sense it,” Jitterbug said.
“Sorry, but I don’t sense anything.”
“Oh bother,” Jitterbug said.
“He get shot tomorrow for sure,” Feng Shui said.
“Okay, let’s forget about the quick draw for now,” Jitterbug said. “Being quick on the draw is one thing, but it’s much more important to shoot straight. How’s your target shooting skills, Dexter?”
“Not too bad,” I said. “Creepy Karpis rated me a C minus back at Hades Correctional.”
“Well, that’s not good enough out here,” Jitterbug said. “We need practice. Feng, you got any old tins lying around?”
“Five cent a tin,” Feng said.
“Why you money-grabbing mongol,” Jitterbug growled.
“Okay, okay, two cent, only because you friend for Feng Shui.” He hustled off and came back with a crate containing rusted tins of various sizes. Jitterbug lined six tins up in a row then marked out twenty paces. He picked up one of the pistols and emptied the cylinder, hitting a tin with every shot.
“Now you,” he said, passing the other pistol to me and lining up a new set of targets. My results were somewhat less impressive than Jitterbug’s, I hit only one of the tins.
“Excellent shooting there, Dexter, someone better warn John Wesley Hardin that he’s in for a real fight tomorrow.”
Jitterug lined up the tins for me again while I reloaded the six-shooters. “Right,” he said. “This time I want you to think of the pistol as an extension of your hand. Pretend the barrel is your finger and you’re pointing at the target. Then when you have the target lined up in your sights squeeze the trigger. Squeeze, don’t pull, mind.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference, believe me. Just pretend you’re holding hands with one of your hotsy-totsy dames.”
I followed Jitterbug’s advice to the letter, and this time hit a grand total of zero, out of six tins.
And so we continued throughout the afternoon with me missing the targets and Jitterbug responding with his usual sarcasm. But the time the light was too bad to continue I was hitting the target maybe three times out of six.
“Oh well,” I said. “At least I’ve got fives lives.”
“Yeah,” Jitterbug said. “But John Wesley Hardin has a six-shooter.”
twenty
On the day of the duel, I woke early, washed and dressed and walked into the brush out back. I tried a few quick draws the way Jitterbug had shown me, and although I was better than I had been yesterday, I knew I was nowhere near fast enough to outdraw John Wesley Hardin.
Which left me to
consider what would happen after he killed me. I, of course, would lose one of my lives, which meant I’d have four left. They’d cart me off to Boot Hill and bury me, and when it was dark I’d dig myself out and head for California, and no one would be any the wiser.
That was all good and well, but what about Cecelia and Henry Chisholm? Well, I had to hope that once Paddy Murphy had his hands on the Double C, he’d have no further reason to harm them. I had to hope that once Henry healed, he and Cecelia would head out west. Maybe, I could try and find them and maybe if I could switch to a new host I might even court Cecelia Chisholm.
Of course, there was another option. I could saddle up Bucko right now, and while most of Devil’s Gulch was still asleep, I could slip out of town and head west. But that would mean that Chisholm would forfeit his ranch and, for the rest of her days, Cecelia would think of me as a coward. I wasn’t prepared to let that happen, so there’d be no running out. At noon today, I was going to be facing John Wesley Hardin across twenty yards of dirt in front of the Kilkenny Saloon.
I walked back to the tent where I found Jitterbug sitting on his cot rubbing his eyes, “You ready to get shot, Dexter,” he yawned.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jitterbug.”
“Just calling it as I see it. I did what I could. Not my fault you’re a klutz with a gun.”
The rest of the morning passed as slowly as a week in hell. I spent it playing checkers with Jitterbug and consulting my pocket watch every few minutes. At one point I suggested that we should work a bit on my quick draw, but Jitterbug replied that the time might be better spent having Bob Bailey measure me for a casket.
Eventually, at ten before twelve, I strapped on my gun-belt and headed for the Kilkenny. The six-guns felt heavy on my belt and I approached the saloon at a languid pace, trying to imitate the gunfighters I’d seen in movies. The day was hot and still, and although there was already a crowd gathered - on the boardwalks, peering out from storefronts and at upper windows - it was deathly quiet. I could see Pandora standing in the shade of the Kilkenny’s veranda, pretty in pink and looking like a peacock among a covey of grouse. On the opposite sidewalk I spotted Henry Chisholm, supported by Cecelia and Vera McCauley. Henry gave me a nod, while Cecelia looked on, her tanned face pale and lovely.
I didn’t see Hardin, but Murphy’s boys were hanging around outside the saloon. There was Turkey Creek Johnson, Littlebury Shoot, Chunk Colbert, and Russian Bill. I could also see Sherriff Wayne Earp leaning against a wall, but no Pancho Daniels. My guess was that Pancho was in position on the roof of the Kilkenny with his rifle, just in case I won the gunfight.
I came to a halt in the intersection and looked towards the saloon where Hardin had just stepped through the batwing doors with Murphy close behind him. Hardin was wearing a pale, cream-colored suit and vest, with a matching Stetson. He stood a while on the boardwalk, stretching and squinting, no doubt adjusting his eyes to the light. Then he sauntered to the steps and took them slowly, enjoying the moment. He walked out into the middle of the road without looking in my direction, and then turned to face me.
“If you was planning on backing out, now’s the time,” Hardin said. “I’ll take an apology and an acknowledgement of my superior gun fighting skills. I’ll also ask you to retract what you said about Wild Bill Hickok, who happens to be a friend of mine.”
“Did we come here for a parley or a shootout?” I said, not knowing where that particular line of repartee was coming from, but feeling that strange, and probably unfounded, confidence well up in me again.
Hardin shifted into his gun-fighting posture and I imitated him, widening my stance and dropping my hands towards my pistol butts. I could almost feel the crowd snatch a collective breath from the stagnant air and hold it. I saw Hardin’s eyes narrow and his fingers twitch and then he went for his gun. He was not quite as fast as Jitterbug but he was quick nonetheless. Before I’d even made a move, the gun was in his hand and he was bringing it up with a grin on his face. I moved for my gun and felt my hand close on the pistol grip as he lined up on me. I braced myself for the bullet, but then, inexplicably, the gun flew from Hardin’s hand and landed in the dust. He seemed momentarily surprised as I brought my gun up and fired. “High and wide,” I could almost hear Jitterbug’s voice admonishing me.
Hardin meanwhile had reached, left-handed, for his second pistol and now trained it on me. I saw his figure tighten on the trigger as though he was doing it in slow motion, and then I heard a loud click, as the gun misfired.
“Damn!” Hardin shouted and pulled again with the same result. He kept pulling the trigger until he realized that the gun was not going to fire and then threw it into the dirt in disgust.
John Wesley Hardin looked up to where I had my pistol pointed at him and in credit to him he never flinched. “You got me dead to rights, Kid.” he said. “Finish it.”
I held the gun on him and felt my finger tighten on the trigger. The Hellfire Kid was about to write his name into the history books, as one of the greatest gunfighters of all time. But I had no desire to kill Hardin, his end would come years later in another gun fight. I relaxed my trigger finger, did a little spin of the pistol that Jitterbug would have been proud of, and then re-holstered.
“I ain’t going shoot you, John,” I said. “But I am going to ask you to leave town forthwith.”
Hardin looked back at me, and after a while he nodded slightly and turned towards the saloon, where Paddy Murphy stood glowering.
“Well what are you waiting for, Pancho!” Murphy suddenly shouted. “Cut the son of a bitch, down!”
At the edge of my vision I saw a flash of movement in one of the upstairs windows of the Kilkenny, and then a shot rang out and Pancho Daniels burst through the glass pane, rolled across the short expanse of roof, and plunged from there into the dusty street below.
For a moment, I was unsure where the shot had come from but then I saw two men approaching from the direction of the general store. They were dressed in identical ankle length coats over black suits with white shirts and black ties. Each wore a matching homburg hat. One of them had his coat pushed back, exposing his six-shooters, the other had a long-barreled rifle with a large scope, its butt resting against his hip. I recognized them immediately.
“Who are you guys?” Murphy said as they approached.
“Agent Barnes, Agent Noble, Soul Pursuit And Apprehension Agency, Hades Correctional. We’re taking this man into custody.”
Barnes looked to me. “How you doing, Johnny?”
“Been better.”
“Nothing personal,” Barnes said. “Just doing our job, so we’ll ask you to come quietly.”
“Now wait, just a goddamn minute,” somebody said. “Who gives you fellers the right to claim jurisdiction?” A man was making his way across the dirt road and I recognized him as Alasdair Pringle, the reporter for the Lincoln Gazette.
“Onslow Foster,” Barnes said, breaking into a smile. “Thought we might find you here. Sorry old chap, this man’s a runner from Hades Correctional, we have dibs.”
“The hell you do!” Pringle/Foster said. “This is William H. Bonney, a.k.a. Billy the Kid, on the run from Underworld. He’s my collar.”
“Our collar,” Walter Retlaw cut in, working his way towards us. “We’re working this together, remember.”
“Walter!” Barnes said, “they let you out early, I see.”
“I still owe you fellers one for Chicago,” Retlaw grumbled.
“Excuse me gentlemen?”
“Well if it ain’t, Pandora Jain, lovely as ever,” Barnes said. “And I see you’ve got Ringo with you.”
I could see Pandora’s imp sidekick now, dressed in leather chaps and a plaid shirt and wearing a Stetson that looked like it came from a kid’s cowboy set. He had a side holster with what looked like a Derringer pistol in it, and wore his usual scowl. “Erm, alright?” Ringo said.
“Some gathering we’ve got here,” Barnes continued. “I haven’t
seen this many soul chasers in one place since our last convention in Vegas.”
“Good to see you too, Bobby,” Pandora said. “Now, if I might have everyone’s attention, I believe we can get this resolved quickly and fairly.”
“It’s already been resolved,” Retlaw said. “Billy the Kid is a fugitive from Underworld, therefore he’s coming with us.”
“In your dreams,” Pandora said. “As a private contractor working for Underworld I have the same rights as you, and I saw him first, so I get to bring him in.”
“Fat chance,” Retlaw said.
“Oh, yeah, are you going to stop me?” Pandora said.
“Me and Onslow here.” Retlaw said.
“Speak for yourself,” said Onslow. “I’d never rough up a lady.”
“Thank you Onslow, that’s very gentlemanly of…”
“Excuse me, everyone,” I said and that at least got them to shut up. “As the subject of your squabble, I think I can help you resolve the jurisdiction issue.”
“Well, spit it out then,” Retlaw growled.
“You’re all wasting your time,” I said. “I’m not Billy the Kid, I’m Johnny Black, SPAA soul chaser for Hades Correctional.”
twenty one
“Liar!” Retlaw shouted.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “If you’re looking for Billy the Kid, you’re going to have to look elsewhere. I’m not him.”
“Of course, he’d say that,” Retlaw insisted. “He’s an SPAA agent. They’re in this together.”
“I assure you…”
“Your assurances mean nothing.”
“Look,” Barnes said. “Why don’t you let us take him in? If he then turns out to be Billy the Kid after all, you can take it to a tribunal, and…”
“Pah, tribunals,” Retlaw said.
“Excuse me fellers,” Paddy Murphy said walking towards us. “Might I ask what this discussion is about?”