by Taylor Lee
“You’re right about the people who despise him, Grant. We got half the investors in New Mexico lined up ready to give you money to beat the unlucky son of a bitch Wyatt decides to support.” Clarence grinned at the thought. “Every one of them knows it’ll be a new game in town for us all when you’re elected.”
“Hell, Grant, I think your campaign slogan ought to be ‘Vote for me and I’ll send the redskin back to the reservation where he belongs!’” said Will. “I counted up the other day – felt like making myself puke. I discovered I’ve lost at least a million dollars to that fuckin’ half-breed in potential returns alone. That doesn’t count the real money I lost in non-refundable deposits. Goddamn, Grant, I think the first thing you do as governor is to put in a seventy five per cent tax on anyone who isn’t a full blooded American.”
“Will, that is a hell of an idea, once we figure a way to skim at least seventy percent of it off the top for us!” Grant chortled.
Grant was quiet for a moment contemplating the certain spoils of victory. He turned to his friends with a salacious grin.
“Do you know what’s gonna be one of the best parts of taking Wyatt down? Taking that haughty yellow bitch of his down with him!”
His friends unanimously agreed. Talk turned to Lei. Over the years they had watched as Wyatt brought her into polite company, to elite social events, as if breaking the taboo against Chinese was acceptable. And she was allowed in, her head dismissively in the air, because no one dared take Wyatt on. It was bad enough he rubbed their noses in his red skin. Lei was one insult too many for Grant and the bigoted men who surrounded him. After one scandalous remark after another, Grant summed up their feelings.
Raising his glass of beer in the air, he said, “I tell you what. Let’s make one of our victory celebrations a cluster fuck of that stuck up cunt. How about it? I propose we take turns fucking her in every hole of her body and open up a few new ones. Underneath all that disdain is nothing but a Chink cunt. We know better than most what they’re good for, right, fellas?”
There was a roar of approval as they clinked glasses. In descriptive terms, each man laid out his specific plans for Lei.
~~~
If anyone looked like a politician, it was Grant Forrester. He’d fit in with any machine politician from New York’s Tammany Hall or the mean streets of Chicago. His smarmy grin was plastered on. An unlit cigar lived in his mouth. It dripped with spit by the end of the day. His beady eyes, buried in rolls of skin, were hard and bright. Grant was a lot of unpleasant things, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes told the tale. No matter how big his grin or how loud his ingratiating laugh, his eyes rarely smiled. Rather, they darted around looking for the weakness in his opponent or in his supporters, whoever he was hitting up at the moment. You could expect a lot of things from Grant. Loyalty wasn’t one of them.
He was almost as wide as he was tall. His gut jutted out from his pants causing him to lean back when he walked—more of a waddle than a walk. He always wore suspenders in case his belt gave up. He added a vest in a vain attempt to hide his girth. His trademark was a white cowboy hat that he never took off—inside or out. He said he always wore it because that’s what Western men did. In truth, it was to cover up his bald head and add several inches to his height.
If Grant looked like a politician, he also acted like one. He knew every potential supporter and how much it would cost to keep him satisfied. He knew which skeletons were hidden in which closets. He kept the keys to those closets on an invisible keychain, using as much pressure –blackmail, some might say – as was necessary to keep his prospective supporters in line. He had been in the political game for thirty years, but never in a position of acknowledged power. He’d always worked from the backroom, under the table. He’d been a legislator, committee member, head of this commission or that, any position he could buy that gave him access to potential deals going down. He also had spent a lot of those years putting others in power, then making them pay for the privilege. Being a governor would change all that. He’d be front and center; the boss, not the fixit man. People would respect him for who he was, his position. Grant wanted that respect. He wanted it bad. And when he got it, he thought with a wolfish grin, the first thing he was going to do was run Wyatt McManus’s ass in the ground.
~~~
By Noon, the Back Door was filling up with Forrester supporters and curious townsfolk. Everyone had heard about Grant’s braggadocio-laced announcement claiming to be kicking off the winning campaign for governor of Wyoming. Politics was a spectator sport in Cheyenne. What with the governor likely to have been murdered a few days earlier, more people flocked to Grant’s party than might otherwise have come. Without a doubt, the main draw was the free beer promised on the bottom of the campaign flier.
Grant greeted each newcomer as though he was a long lost relative. With his big campaign smile and hearty laugh, he made the rounds. Slapping each man on the back, he moved in closer to whisper a special secret to some. It was clear, his campaign persona was up and running.
Bert Flagger, the editor of the Cheyenne Express, stepped up with a pen and pad in hand. “Okay, Grant, we all know you are running. But why the hell are you running? I gotta say something in this article more than that you enticed half the town to the Back Door for free beer. Or is that gonna be one of the planks in your platform?”
Someone from the back of the room yelled, “Can’t think of a better platform, Grant. Promise that and you’ve got my vote!” The crowd roared.
Mark Peters, a longtime farmer, yelled out, “Know anything about how Bernie died? Do you think he was murdered? Who do you think did it?”
Grant responded soberly. He put his hand over his heart, as though out of respect to the dead governor. “Mark, I do believe the coroner said our friend Bernie died of natural causes. I do not believe he was murdered. He was too good a man. Who would of wanted to hurt Bernie?”
There were a number of guffaws and belly laughs openly questioning Grant’s sincerity.
To change the topic, Grant turned to Mike Peters, one of his supporters, and asked if he had a question. Before the planted question could be asked, someone called out, “How come you’re running in Wyoming, Grant? Don’t you live in New Mexico?”
“No, Pete, I split my time evenly between Wyoming and New Mexico. It just so happens that New Mexico has good leaders right now. I think we can all agree that Wyoming doesn’t.”
Frank Kendrick, a long time rancher and friend of Wyatt’s, hollered out, “Don’t you mean that you got one of your cronies appointed territorial governor in New Mexico? Now that you control that territory, are you’re lookin’ to add Wyoming to your pisspot?”
“Hey, Frank, not so cynical, friend. You need a governor in Wyoming that has the needs of the ranchers at heart. I’m sure you and I agree on that.”
A number of men in the crowd shouted, “here, here” and the conversation continued. Reporters for newspapers from around the state jumped in, attempting to pin down his platform. There were some serious questions from the crowd. But, for the most part, people were there to have a good time and enjoy the free beer. After a while, Grant stopped trying to get everyone’s attention. He did what he did best, went from person to person, treating each man as his newest best friend.
There was a shuffling from the back of the room and the crowd opened up as a group of men entered. Several people called out, “Hey, Wyatt’s here.”
Wyatt was without question the best known person in Cheyenne, probably in Wyoming. He was a consistent presence in Cheyenne. Few people didn’t know the tall lean handsome man with the ready smile and twinkle in his eye, either as a businessman, or someone they turned to for help with their horses, or when bad luck hit their family. Even men who had lost out to him respected him. Most people liked him, as well.
Grant looked up, surprised to see Wyatt and his men enter. He never thought Wyatt would show up. It was disconcerting to see him in the flesh, instead of the bogeyman that haunte
d most of his thoughts and much of his conversation. Also disturbing was the way the attention of the crowd immediately shifted to Wyatt. Most of the people greeted him personally. Many reached out attempting to shake his hand. Dismayed, Grant admitted to himself that Wyatt had what every candidate wanted and what every opponent feared—presence. When Wyatt entered a room, he captured it.
Wyatt nodded politely, but didn’t speak to anyone. The crowd separated as he walked in. He wore tight pants and a blue and grey checkered shirt open at the neck. His customary black cowboy hat was tipped back at an angle. His easy powerful gait, strong muscular body, and casual clothes all spoke to the authenticity of who he was—a Wyoming rancher and businessman.
He walked up to Grant with a half smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Heard you were having a party, Grant. Also heard there’s free beer. Hell, that’s something I can support.”
The crowd laughed. A buzz of excitement flickered around the room. For the first time, there was a level of interest, a sense this meeting could be interesting, after all. The physical comparison between the two men was striking. And, damnit, Grant thought, not to his benefit. Christ, he mused, Clarence is right. I need to get some of those boots with a built in lift. No way with any authority can I confront a guy who is six inches taller! Christ, especially when he had to tip his head back to look him in the eye.
Determined to claim the offensive, Grant smiled his most unctuous smile., “Drink up, Wyatt. I’m always pleased to buy a beer for a friend. Especially one who has the good political sense you do.”
Eager to taunt him in front of the crowd, Grant plastered an insincere grin on his face. His chest tightened with anticipation.
“Tell me, Wyatt, which of the stellar candidates who has thrown his hat in the ring to contest me have you decided to support? Is it gonna be Slem Phillips? Or are you throwing your support to Pete Carter? Hell, Wyatt, either one of them could use your help. From what I hear, Slem’s hardware store went broke this year, and Pete’s ranch has gone to hell. Why not put all those management skills to work running Wyoming, right? Or maybe you’re hankering to fund Dickey Peters. I hear he is graduating to long pants in a month or so. At least he’d be a fresh face, right Wyatt?”
Good natured chuckles and some downright mean-spirited laughter greeted Grant’s analysis of the competition. Goaded on by what he read as support from the crowd, Grant continued, “So who’s it gonna be Wyatt? Which of these fine men are you gonna try and beat me with?”
Taking a drag off his cigarette, Wyatt said with an exaggerated sigh, “I don’t know, Grant. I tend to agree with your analysis. The field isn’t looking all that strong.”
Grant was surprised at Wyatt’s apparent agreement. He couldn’t tell if he was sincere or making fun of him. But Wyatt continued.
“Nope, I think you’re right, Grant. We need some fresh blood.”
“I agree,” said Grant. “But where you gonna find that, Wyatt? Everyone who is willing to come up against me has thrown his hat in the ring. There doesn’t seem to be a long line of undeclared candidates looking to take your money. No, I think you’re stuck with the current field, Wyatt. Everybody who is getting in, is already in.”
Wyatt took another long drag off his cigarette and looked him in the eye. “Well not everybody, Grant. I have someone else in mind.”
“Really, and who might that be, Wyatt?”
“Someone who is gonna whip your ass, Grant.”
There was an interested murmur throughout the room.
“Yeah? Just who is this mystery man who is going to whip my ass?”
“Me.”
Grant’s face blanched. There was an immediate roar from around the room. Everyone began talking at once. People were surprised, excited. Up to this point, the most exciting thing about the potential race had been the free beer. Grant was not well known in Wyoming. Certainly not beloved, or even a person who was all that well liked. But, most people in the know had conceded that there was no way that one of the declared opponents could beat him, even if he had Wyatt’s backing.
But Wyatt himself? Now, that was a different story. He was an exciting man. There was an aura about him that attracted people to him. It had been that way all of his life. No question that being a half-breed would be a problem for many, but people who knew him had long ago put that aside. The question was: even if they liked and respected him, would they vote for him?
Those questions would be raised down the line. None of them were part of the buzz at Grant’s party. A shot of energy flashed through the room. People were keyed up. Now this was a race to talk about, argue about and, yes, get involved in. It was the last thing that Grant Forrester had planned or wanted. And it was precisely what Tom and Wyatt intended to happen when they tossed their bombshell announcement in the middle of Grant’s party.
The immediate reaction settled down. The room quieted. Everyone looked to the two men squaring off in the front of the room. Once again, the contrast was striking. Grant’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. Visible rings of moisture were spreading under his armpits. His face was flushed. He made a concerted effort to appear unconcerned, but clearly was caught off guard.
In contrast, Wyatt was relaxed. He leaned against the bar, grinning, smoking his cigarette, and studying Grant through half-closed eyes.
Grant struggled to regain his composure. He said in a voice that was meant to be confident but had a bit of a squeak to it, “Christ, you’re going to run, Wyatt? I thought you just bought offices for others. You’re gonna try and buy it for yourself?”
Wyatt grinned. “Oh, I get it, Grant. You thought this office was for sale. That’s why you’re running. If that’s the case, hmm, might cost you a little more than you thought it would.”
At that, the room erupted into raucous laughter. The excitement was palpable. When it was clear he had lost the attention of the crowd, Grant said in a loud voice, “Thank you for coming everyone. Looks like we are going to have a good contest for governor. I for one am looking forward to it.”
Most people ignored him. He was barely heard over the animated din as people pressed forward to talk to Wyatt. To Grant’s dismay, every one of the reporters was now huddled in front of Wyatt, peppering him with questions. It was clear that the story was no longer Grant, it was Wyatt. Just as Wyatt and Tom had intended.
Making one more effort to gain control, Grant said, “Wyatt, why don’t you and I go to the back of the room and let these news people get their questions in?”
Wyatt grinned. “Hey, it’s your party, Grant. I’m just a guest mooching off the free beer like everyone else here.”
With difficulty, Grant’s people managed to clear the room. They thanked people for coming and for their interest in the campaign. The crowd slowly moved outside where the keyed up conversations continued.
Inside, Grant did his best to take charge. He and his cronies sat at one of the large tables in the back of the room. He invited Wyatt and the reporters to join them. Tom and Wyatt agreed, and sat across from Grant and his campaign team. Chief, Alono, and four other Caballeros stood discreetly against the wall. After several minutes of questions from the reporters, all directed to Wyatt, Grant admitted he had lost his audience. He stood up, thanked the reporters for coming, and moved them toward the door. Wyatt stayed seated, nodding politely to the reporters as they left. Tom got up and walked to the door, a calendar in hand, arranging for one-on-one interviews with each of the eager newsmen.
Wyatt sat back in his chair, casually smoking a cigarette. He looked at Grant with a sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Words weren’t necessary. He didn’t speak any. His victory was complete. They both knew it. Grant was flushed with anger and turned away to hide his fury. His friends continued to sit at the table with Wyatt, because, like Grant, they were immobilized by the turn of events and Wyatt’s presence. The room was silent.
At that moment, Lei came in. She had come to town with Wyatt and the group, but declined to go in to the
crowded saloon with Wyatt. Instead she had gone to a small shop up the street and made several purchases for the children. When she saw the crowd leaving the saloon, she waited until the entrance was clear, and then quietly walked in to find Wyatt.
No one could see Lei without being stunned by her beauty. She was an extraordinary woman. While Grant and his men disparaged her Chinese heritage, what they didn’t admit was how beautiful her combined white and Oriental features were. Add to that her voluptuous body and proud bearing, and everyone who saw her remarked on her beauty, aloud or to themselves.
When she saw Grant, a disdainful grimace crossed her face. Something snapped in Grant. Her open distaste, coupled with her beauty, underscored the magnitude of the disaster with Wyatt. Smarting from the debacle, he threw caution aside and walked up to Lei with a sneer on his unpleasant face. “Well, hello, Mrs. McManus. Oh that’s right, that’s not your name. You and Wyatt aren’t married, are you? What should I call you?”
“You may call me anything you like, Grant. As I am sure you do,” Lei said with a dismissive smile. “My name is Lei Chang.”
The words weren’t out of her mouth when Wyatt was at her side. Cold anger replaced the easy smile that had tormented Grant for the last hour. Grant paled. He tried to move away, but Wyatt grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. With his other hand, Wyatt drove his thumb into Grant’s shoulder in a kung fu pressure lock. It was a move that brought experienced fighters to their knees. Grant would have fallen to the floor, but Wyatt held him up by the arm he’d bent behind his back. He intensified the pressure as Grant screamed in shock.
There were six audible clicks as Alono, Chief, and the four Caballeros drew and cocked their guns—in the event Grant’s supporters were foolish enough to try to help him.
They didn’t need to worry. Grant was on his own. His cronies backed away, wide-eyed, startled to see their leader in tears, begging Wyatt to let him go. Like all cowards who were brave in the abstract, they were frozen with fear when confronted with real danger.