By the Horns

by Ralph Compton

  If Grutt heard the jingling of spurs, he did not look around. The first inkling he had that he had made a mistake he would regret came when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he was roughly spun into the street. “What the hell—?” he blurted.

  Owen punched him, a hard right jab to the mouth that rocked Grutt on his high boot heels. “Don’t ever lay a hand on her again.”

  “Owen, no!” Cynthia Langstrom cried.

  Grutt touched a hand to his lips and stared in disbelief at the blood on his fingers. “You hit me, you son of a bitch!”

  So mad he could not speak, Owen stood with both big fists clenched and his jaw muscles twitching.

  “I should pistol-whip you, cowboy!” Grutt growled. Suiting action to his wish, he clawed for the six-shooter at his hip, a new-model Smith and Wesson that was the only article on his person he kept clean.

  Owen punched him again, a solid left to the gut that would have doubled most men over, but Grutt was solid muscle. All it did was back him up a step and elicit a grunt. Owen followed with a right cross to the jaw but Grutt brought both arms up to ward the blow off, then planted himself and smirked.

  “No gunplay? That’s fine by me. I’ve busted more than a few heads with my fists and my feet.”

  Cynthia placed a hand on Owen’s arm. “Let it be. No real harm was done. I don’t want you to fight on my account.”

  Owen took her hand and gently removed it. “I would be a sorry excuse for a man if I let this pass. Some insults can’t be abided.” He glared at Grutt. “And those without manners need to learn some.”

  “Reckon you can teach me?” Grutt taunted.

  “Let’s find out.”

  The cowboy tore into the other like a tornado into a wheat field. Grutt tried to block the swings but he was driven back several feet by a hail of powerful blows. Then Grutt set himself and would not be moved.

  Pitney became aware of upraised voices, of shouts of “Fight! Fight!” and people running from all directions. Harry Anderson materialized at his elbow. Toothless vacated his rocking chair and excitedly crossed the street.

  Out of the saloon rushed its patrons, Luke Deal and Bronk foremost among them. Bronk swore and made as if to go to Grutt’s aid, but Luke Deal grabbed him and shook his head.

  Owen and Grutt were circling, flicking punches, countering, Owen ablaze with wrath, Grutt sneering in contempt. There was nothing refined or chivalrous about their fistic exchange; it was violence for violence’s sake, brutal, fierce, and savage.

  Onlookers began to yell and whoop, urging the cowboy on. No one cheered for Grutt except Bronk.

  The cowboy slipped an uppercut and retaliated with a jab to Grutt’s cheek that split it like overripe fruit.

  Alfred Pitney cried, “Bloody good show!” and blinked in surprise at his own vulgarity.

  Blood smeared Grutt’s lower lip and chin. Scarlet drops were trickling down his cheek. His hat had been knocked off and his right eyebrow was swelling. But judging by the set of his features, the blood and the pain meant little to him. He was focused on Owen like a bull on a rival, a portrait of hatred.

  The cowboy moved with a fluid ease that spoke of whipcord sinews and razor reflexes. He was always in motion, throwing a punch, avoiding a punch, dodging, ducking. Grutt drove a straight left at Owen’s throat, which Owen narrowly avoided. A second later Grutt arched a foot at Owen’s groin, sparking insults from the watchers.

  Then Owen feinted right and went left, and his fist, aimed at Grutt’s chin, smashed into Grutt’s ear instead when Grutt tried to duck. At the crunch, Grutt staggered, quickly recovered, and stepped back, shaking his head.

  “Learned your manners yet?” Owen asked.

  “Go to hell.”

  The fight might have continued had Luke Deal not unexpectedly stepped between them. “Enough,” he told Grutt. “Come and have a drink.”

  “I don’t want redeye. I want his skull split and his brains oozing out,” Grutt snarled.

  “It’s not the time nor the place,” Luke Deal responded with a meaningful gesture.

  The ring of onlookers had escaped Grutt’s notice. Straightening, he slowly lowered his arms. “What are all of you gawking at?” he demanded. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “Not me,” Toothless said. “Watchin’ the dog lick itself ain’t near as much fun as seein’ you have your ears boxed.”

  “It’s over,” Luke Deal said.

  Something in his tone caused Grutt to blink. He uncoiled and said sullenly to Owen, “You hear me, cowpoke? We’ll settle this another time.”

  “Just say the word.”

  “And count us in,” said a newcomer, “so we can watch my pard’s back.”

  Three riders sat their mounts in the middle of the street. Their dusty clothes and boots marked them as cowhands. The spokesman had sandy hair, tufts of which poked from under his hat like fingers. On his right was a broomstick whose homespun shirt and Levi’s were a couple of sizes too large. On his left sat a puncher whose nose resembled a baling hook and whose ears were wide enough for a prairie dog to hide behind.

  Owen beamed and went to greet them. He did not have a drop of blood on him from the fight, nor was he breathing heavily. “Lon! What in blazes are you shiftless varmints doin’ in town? If the big sugar hears you snuck away from the herd, he’ll have you skinned alive.”

  “Who you do reckon sent us?” the cowboy called Lon responded. “Mr. Bartholomew figured you’d need someone to hold your hand.”

  “It’s a good thing we came along when we did,” grinned the toothpick, “or you’d have folks thinkin’ Bar 40 hands are a pack of good-for-nothin’ rowdies.”

  “That’s right,” the last cowboy declared. “When Mr. B hears about you brawling in the street, you’ll be the one he skins and brands.”

  Owen introduced Alfred Pitney.

  The broomstick, whose nickname, appropriately enough, proved to be Slim, nodded. “Right pleased to make your acquaintance, mister. It isn’t every day we get to meet a foreigner.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call England a foreign country,” Pitney protested. “America was a colony of ours once.”

  “You have to forgive Slim,” said the cowhand with the hook nose and big ears, whom Owen introduced as Cleveland. “He’s a fourth-generation Texican. To him, anyone who isn’t from Texas might as well be from the moon.”

  “Says the brush thumper from Ohio,” Slim retorted, and grinned at Pitney. “Which is why we named him after the town where he was born. As a reminder he’s not a real cowhand.”

  Cleveland took the gibe good-naturedly. “What galls Slim is that a galoot from back East can ride and rope as good as he can.”

  “You must need spectacles.”

  The onlookers were dispersing except for Toothless, who was regarding the new arrivals as a miner might the mother lode. “Say, if you boys are stickin’ around a spell, how about buyin’ an old man a drink?”

  “What’s the occasion?” Lon asked.

  “At my age,” Toothless replied, “breathin’ counts as occasion enough. But if you need a better one, how about you made Deal and his shadows turn tail.”

  “Luke is no coward,” Owen said. “There were too many witnesses, is all. Luke will bide his time and get even when the mood strikes him.” He rubbed his palms together. “Now then. Who is for some conversation fluid and a game or three of stud poker?”

  “Just so the fluid is first,” Slim said. “I swear, I’m dry enough to be mistook for a desert.”

  “You’re always dry,” Owen said. “A bottomless well in britches is what you are.”

  The three hands gigged their mounts to a hitch rail and dismounted. Lon arched his back and pressed a hand to it. Slim noticed his reflection in the saloon window and adjusted his hat and bandanna. Cleveland produced a pipe and tobacco pouch from his saddlebags and filled the pipe bowl, carefully tamping the tobacco down so as not to lose any.

  Pitney politely stood to one side. When
Owen led them in, after whispering a few words to Cynthia, he brought up the rear. The transition from the bright glare of the afternoon sun to the dim interior was striking. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.

  The cowboys wound among the tables to a far corner. They claimed an empty one that had only four chairs. Owen helped himself to an extra from an adjoining table and placed it to his left. “Here you go, Al.”

  “Barkeep!” Lon hollered. “A bottle of coffin varnish and five glasses and a deck of cards!”

  “I really don’t want a drink,” Alfred Pitney said, but soon found a full glass in front of him anyway. By then he had noticed the three men at a table across the room. “I say, Mr. Owen, aren’t those the three weasels you had words with?”

  “Just call me Owen,” the broad-shouldered cowboy said. “And yes, that’s them. They have as much right to be here as we do.”

  “The looks they are giving you do not bode well,” Pitney remarked. “You told me earlier they are murderers many times over. What is to stop them from doing the same to you?”

  “Grutt and Bronk would like to,” Owen said. “But like most coyotes, they won’t jump me unless they have an edge. I don’t aim to give it to them.”

  “Enough about those lunkheads,” Lon said, refilling his glass. He had already quaffed his first in a single gulp. “Let’s have us some fun.”

  Slim picked up the deck and shuffled the cards. He had talent. He would riffle them and flip them between and around and over and under his fingers with the most remarkable dexterity.

  “Show-off,” Cleveland said.

  Pitney took too large a sip and promptly regretted it. Liquid fire burned a path from his mouth to the pit of his stomach. He had the illusion he was being fried alive from the inside out. Choking back a cough, he commented, “Potent liquor, this so-called whiskey of yours.”

  “You think this is somethin’, you should try tequila,” Lon suggested. “A couple of glasses and you’re seein’ twins everywhere you look.”

  “I can drink a whole bottle of that Mex snake poison and not bat an eye,” Slim boasted while offering the deck to Cleveland to cut.

  “Only because you can’t hold it in,” Lon said. “You’re the only hombre I know who has to wet the mesquite between swallows.”

  Owen and Cleveland chuckled.

  “I can’t help it I was born with a bladder the size of a chicken’s,” Slim said in defense of his manhood.

  “Chicken, hell,” Lon scoffed. “A flea can hold more water than you.”

  Alfred Pitney laughed when the cowboys did, and in the relaxed silence that ensued, he said, “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I don’t believe any of you have mentioned your last names. What would they be?”

  The genial atmosphere evaporated under four less than friendly stares. “Why in hell did you go and ask a thing like that?” Lon demanded.

  “Easy now,” Owen said. “He’s not from our neck of the woods. Where he comes from, folks wear their last names on their sleeves.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pitney admitted. “It’s merely proper manners to fully introduce oneself.”

  “Not in Texas,” Lon said. “Here a man’s name is as personal as his war bag. Those who aren’t on the cuidado usually have some other reason for not shoutin’ it from the rooftops.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Cleveland said. “My last name is Hearns.”

  “I’ve plumb forgot mine,” Slim joked.

  Lon refilled his glass again. “I wish I could. But all it takes is to use a smoke wagon reckless and you’re dodgin’ tin stars until the cows come home.”

  Owen said, “There aren’t any lookin’ for you after all this time. Besides, you never shot anyone in the back.”

  “There are two things I don’t ever take lightly,” Lon intoned. “One is the Almighty. The other is Texas Rangers. Those boys shoot first and cuff you after, and I never have been partial to bracelets.”

  “The Rangers,” Slim said, in the same reverent tone he might say “earthquake” or “flood.”

  Lon was about to add more but suddenly he grinned and declared, “Enough about me. Look at who just came through the door. Storm clouds are brewin’ for our foreman, I reckon.”

  “Oh hell,” Owen said.

  3

  Of Doves and Drummers

  Into the Nose Paint Saloon had sashayed a raven-haired woman in a red dress. The dress was so tight, it was a wonder she could move her legs. Cut low at the top, it displayed ample cleavage. Her hair was done up in curls that jiggled as she walked. Her lips, like her fingernails, were as red as cherries. A face that once had been beautiful was now marred by the early signs of dissipation—lines around the eyes and mouth, bags under the eyes, and that slight sagging of the cheeks that was a sure sign of someone on the cusp of the long slide into old age.

  Several of the men whistled and grinned. The woman smiled but the smile did not touch her eyes. She had a great weariness about her and she moved with a certain wooden quality, as if she were going through the motions of life instead of living.

  There was a yell of “Welcome to work, Carmody!” that brought another of those listless smiles.

  Then the woman’s gaze fell on the corner table and she broke stride. Placing her hands on her hips, she came over, saying, “Well, look at this. They let the inmates out of the sanitarium early today.”

  “How do, Carmody,” Lon greeted her. “You are lookin’ as fine as ever.”

  “That’s not sayin’ a lot,” was the dove’s retort. She came to a halt between Owen’s chair and Pitney’s. Nodding at each of the cowboys, she studied the addition to their group. “Who is the new lunatic?”

  The Britisher rose and bent in a slight bow. “Alfred Lloyd Pitney, at your humble service, madam. It is a genuine pleasure to meet a lady such as yourself.”

  “Lady?” Carmody scoffed, and laughed. “Brother, I don’t know about where you come from, but hereabouts I am anything but.”

  Pitney noted that once again her eyes did not light with her humor. He had the impression she had seen it all and done it all and found it wanting. “I beg to differ. Even a barmaid may be a lady at heart.”

  “What a nice thing to say.” Genuine warmth briefly lit her features. “What an awful nice thing to say.”

  Pitney sat back down.

  Carmody placed a hand on his shoulder and declared, “Gents, take a good gander at my new favorite customer.”

  “I am honored,” Pitney said.

  She looked at Owen and her icy reserve returned. “How is my former favorite customer doin’ today?”

  “Don’t start,” the cowboy said.

  “Why, whatever do you mean?” Carmody asked sarcastically. “Can’t a gal say howdy to the man who used to be her beau?”

  Owen was staring intently at the table. “I was never any such thing and you blessed well know it.”

  “That is the first lie I have ever heard you tell.” Carmody motioned at Lon. “Tell him how it was.”

  “Leave me out of this,” the sandy-haired cowboy said. Then, to Slim, a trifle gruffly, “Quit playin’ with the damn cards and deal them.”

  “I should have known,” Carmody said. “All you cow lovers stick together. Fine, Owen. Treat me as if I was never more than a rut in the road. But I know better and you know better.” Her voice took on a tone of reproach. “Don’t worry. I won’t make a scene. It doesn’t hardly matter anymore now that I’ve taken up with someone else.”

  Owen glanced up. “You didn’t.”

  “Why in hell not? Ever since that schoolmarm showed up, you can’t be bothered to give me the time of day. Well, a girl can’t wait forever. Now I’m with someone who appreciates what a gal like me has to offer. Someone who doesn’t think he’s above the common herd.”

  “I think no such thing.”

  “That’s the second lie,” Carmody said. “You used to be one of us. Then an angel came to earth and now you walk on the clouds.”

 
“Careful,” Owen said.

  “Or what? You’ll slap me? A great respecter of womanhood like yourself?” Carmody’s laugh was vicious. “I don’t have blinders on anymore. I see you for what you are.”

  “We shouldn’t talk about it here,” Owen said, with a gesture at the Nose Paint’s other patrons.

  “I disagree. If you can’t talk freely in front of your best friends and the woman you were fixin’ to marry but jilted, who can you talk freely in front of?”

  Owen started to come up out of his chair but sat back down. “I never mentioned marriage. That was your notion.”

  “You didn’t exactly balk at the idea.”

  “I didn’t exactly leap at the chance either.”

  Carmody’s lips pinched together. “But you never flat out said no, did you? It’s wrong to give a girl like me hope. Doves tend to clutch at straws.”

  “The only thing wrong with you is the low opinion you have of yourself,” Owen said.

  “Now why would that be? Could it be because in the scheme of things, doves fall somewhere between whores and patent medicine salesmen?”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Like how? Oh. That’s right. I’m supposed to be as pure as the driven snow. Like your schoolmarm.”

  The look Owen fixed on her was a mix of hurt and an apology. “You are not helpin’ your case any.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I gave up on you. My new beau doesn’t require nearly as much stoking.” Carmody paused. “Wouldn’t you like to know who it is?”

  “I already know.”

  “And it sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?” Carmody taunted. “It eats at your innards to where you want to throw down on him.”

  “Not over you,” Owen said.

  Carmody recoiled as if he had slapped her, then made straight for the table in the opposite corner. She moved around it and stopped beside Luke Deal and bent and kissed him on the cheek.

  Lon swore. “She didn’t.”

  “She did,” Owen said sadly. “I heard about it this mornin’. He’s been stayin’ at her shack nights.”

  “Oh hell,” Lon said. “Why doesn’t she do it quick and just shoot you?”