Hell's Half Acre

by William W. Johnstone

  This drew a cheer and a woman yelled, “Good for you, Horny Harry.”

  “This will be an Irish Stand Down contest between, in the corner to my left, the Black Bull of Boston, the Sable Sultan of Slaughter, the Prince of Darkness himself, the one and the only . . . Zeus!”

  Cheers. Jeers. And another “Good for you, Horny Harry!”

  The man called Zeus raised his muscular left arm and was awarded a scattering of mild applause.

  “And in the corner to my right,” Stout proclaimed, “that Mauling Master of Mayhem, that Bullying Baron of Brutality, that Savage Son of the Seven Seas. I give you Fort Worth’s very own . . . Dave . . . Killer . . . Kick!”

  The crowd exploded into wild cheers and Kick bounced up and down and threw mighty punches at the air, his broken-nosed face contorted in an expression of the most alarming ferocity.

  “Toe the line, gentlemen,” Stout yelled. “The time for talking is done.”

  Kick came up to scratch roaring, grinning, his arms pumping. The onlookers went hysterical as they cheered their hirsute champion and odds-on favorite. That meant that their nickel and dime bets would earn them little but they didn’t seem to care. And Dave was a white man, there was always that.

  Zeus remained stoical and stood like an ebony statue, a mahogany-skinned Greek god, his black hair cropped close to his head.

  “Irish Stand Down rules apply,” Stout said. “The first pugilist to step back from scratch or hit the ground loses.” He stood between the fighters. “Gentlemen, do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear enough,” Kick said. “Let’s get on with the fight.” He glared at Zeus. “I’m gonna pound you into a red jelly.” That bold statement drew frenzied cheers and Kick lightly punched Zeus on the chin and said, “Now are you ready to take your lickin’, boy?”

  Stout withdrew a white handkerchief from his pocket and let it flutter between the fighters.

  “The battle is on!” he yelled.

  Kick had been waiting for that moment.

  He landed a right uppercut to Zeus’s chin that rocked the black man to his heels. Kick followed up fast, a roundhouse left that landed high on Zeus’s right cheek and split the tight skin of his cheekbone, spraying blood. The black staggered back a step and the crowd cheered, but he got back to scratch and the two men lowered their heads and stood toe-to-toe and battered each other with driving fists, Zeus effectively looping punches with his left. A cut opened up above Kick’s right eye. He was a bleeder and instantly the man’s face was a crimson mask of gore. But Kick shook his head, blood spraying from him, and bored in, landing heavy punches to the black man’s body. Zeus, his teeth bared, countered with a hard left to the side of Kick’s head, and then another. His hard knuckles split open Kick’s right ear and the white man immediately broke loose, feinted, then clubbed a left to Zeus’s face that cut him over the eye. Kick came close and his and Zeus’s sweat mingled as he again went for the body, pounding the black man’s ribs until Zeus’s mouth was forced wide open as he fought to catch a breath.

  Zeus pushed Kick away with his left hand. The white man lurched back, but quickly came back to scratch. Zeus met him with a straight left to the face that smashed into Kick’s already-broken nose. Lightning in his left fist, Zeus slammed a punch into Kick’s ribs. Hurt, Kick cried out in pain and then clinched.

  For a moment the two men clung to each other, their gaping mouths gasping for breath. But then Zeus drew back his arm and smashed an elbow into Kick’s face. The man dropped, rolled and lay on his back, his face a mask of blood. The crowd roared at him to get back to scratch. Hurt bad, Kick was still in the fight. He staggered to the line and he and Zeus exchanged a flurry of punches. But the crowd could see that Kick’s blows were losing power. He was blinded by the blood that streamed from cuts above both his eyes where the skin of his heavy brow ridge was stretched thin and every time he tried to brush the blood away, Zeus landed his punishing left.

  The crowd bayed at Kick to end it.

  His punches had lost much of their power and Kick tried a new tack. His hands came up fast and his massive, thick-nailed thumbs, filed into points, stabbed for Zeus’s eyes. The black man saw the danger. He swept downward with his left and forced Kick to drop his arms. Zeus stepped in quickly and head-butted the bridge of Kick’s destroyed nose. Kick staggered back and hit the canvas hard. He struggled onto his hands and knees and stared up at Zeus.

  The black man spoke for the first time. “You’re done,” he said. “Stay down.”

  Through split lips Kick said, “The hell I am.”

  He crawled to scratch and started to rise to his feet. Zeus met him coming up with a magnificent uppercut that caught Kick perfectly on the point of the chin. The punch sent the white man sprawling, but he rolled over and made a dive for Zeus’s feet. The black man stepped back as all the fight suddenly left Kick and he slowly sank onto the canvas.

  Now he was done.

  At first the crowd was silent, but then as the mindless rage of the mob possessed them they roared their anger. All of them had lost money, and the sight of an uppity black man standing victorious in the ring as his Jewish manager accepted a fat roll of notes from the mayor, drove them insane. Lynching is the creature of the moment, and that moment had come.

  Jess Casey saw the danger. Just a day before he would have considered it no business of his and walked away. But the star on his shirt made it his business and however reluctantly he accepted its dictate.

  He quickly scrambled into the ring, drew his gun and stood near Zeus and his manager. Around him the angry crowd was a many-headed beast baying for blood. Jess caught a glimpse of Kurt Koenig. The big man was staring at him, a slightly concerned look on his face, but he made no move to calm the people around him.

  Mayor Stout walked into the middle of the ring and held up his arms for silence. “Listen!” he yelled. “Listen to me! Please leave the premises in an orderly fashion.”

  But he beat a hasty retreat when he was bombarded with bottles and glasses. He turned a brief, frightened glance on Jess and said, “It’s all yours, Sheriff.”

  A few drunk roosters tried to climb into the ring and Jess booted them away, but there were more right behind them. He saw Nate Levy push Zeus into a corner and try to shield him from flying missiles.

  Jess, his heart hammering in his chest, decided that this was a hell of a time to play lawman.

  He drew his gun, fired a shot into the air, then yelled, “I’ll kill any man who sets foot in this ring.” Jess knew he sounded like a two-bit version of Ed Masterson or one of those gunslinging town tamers, but right then a show of force was all he had.

  Maybe it was the star on his chest or perhaps the crowd figured the tall, loose-geared man with the big hat and spurs meant business, but Jess’s warning worked. The crowd hushed a little and men drew back from the ring out of the way of the field of fire. Then Kurt Koenig put the clincher on things.

  With a laugh in his voice he said, “All right, boys, let’s git over to the Silver Garter and we’ll drown our sorrows. The first drink is on me.”

  Koenig owned the Silver Garter, one of the Acre’s more luxurious saloons, and his suggestion went over well with the crowd. People drifted away but Koenig remained for a few moments, his eyes on Jess.

  “I’m obliged to you,” Jess said.

  The big man nodded then said, “You’re trying too hard, cowboy. That could be dangerous.”

  He turned and stepped away and Jess watched him go and wondered what he’d meant by those words. It was a warning certainly. Was his stopping a sure lynching trying too hard?

  Nate Levy, small and stooped, with a crafty face and the luminous dark eyes of a poet, stepped beside Jess and said, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  Jess nodded. “Better get Zeus out of here. A lot of people lost money tonight because of him.”

  “He’s good, isn’t he?” Levy said. “I’ve helped train some of the best, Paddy Ryan and John L. Sullivan among them, but Zeus will make h
is mark as the greatest prizefighter the world has ever seen.”

  “If you keep tying an arm behind his back, he’ll make his mark in the graveyard,” Jess said.

  Levy threw up his hands in horror. “No more of this bare-knuckle stuff for my boy. From now on it’s Marquess of Queensberry rules all the way.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jess said. He bent under the rope and accepted a wad of notes from the bookmaker. “Is it all here?” he said.

  “Two hundred and twenty dollars, cash on the barrelhead, Sheriff. They don’t call me Honest John Jennings for nothing.”

  “Made a killing tonight, huh?” Jess said.

  “A few bucks, Sheriff. When a man’s got as many hungry mouths to feed as I do he has to scrape. Make do or do without, that’s the motto of the Jennings family.”

  The little bookmaker turned and walked away, the diamond rings on his fingers glittering. Zeus and his manager were gone and Jess was alone in the ring.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” a burly man said, looking up at him. “We got to take this ring down and get set up for dancing, so move your ass.”

  Jess smiled. “Would you say that to Ed Masterson?”

  “Huh?” the man said.

  Jess shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll get out of your way.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jess Casey lingered and watched the boxing ring dismantled and then as white, slippery stuff was scattered onto the wood floor. One by one the musicians stepped inside carrying their instruments and the bartenders had cleaned up for the dancers. The men began to arrive first, then the girls. Unlike saloon girls the dance partners dressed as demurely as schoolmarms, but their calculating eyes made it clear they were chasing the same thing . . . the mark and his buck.

  Jess stepped out of the hall and into a street still thronged with people. Here and there visitors from outside the Acre, mostly couples, made stately promenades along the boardwalks, taking in the sights.

  Jess was tired, used up, the killing of Porry McTurk and the close call in the dance hall weighing on him. All in all, his first day as sheriff of Fort Worth had been almighty busy.

  Hank Henley would have told Jess that he’d just experienced what was a routine day in Hell’s Acre and that much worse was waiting in the wings. But Henley was dead and Jess Casey had no way of knowing what was to come.

  Jess stood to the side of the dance hall door and built and lit a cigarette. Men, most of them half drunk, streamed inside, and one belligerent ranny decided to take exception to Jess’s lawman’s star.

  “Why don’t you take the gun off and we’ll see how tough you are, law dog,” the man said, putting up his dukes. He was a dapper, aggressive little banty rooster who obviously had something to prove.

  “Git away from me,” Jess said. “Go inside, get a drink and cool off.”

  “Scared, huh?” the runt said.

  “Yeah, that’s right. You scare me,” Jess said. “Now go away and leave me the hell alone.”

  A few people had gathered to watch the fun and this emboldened the little man, who giggled, unbuttoned and proceeded to piss all over Jess’s boots. Now by nature Jess Casey was an easygoing man, but even he had his limits. As soon as the little man’s amber stream drummed on Jess’s boots it drew a laugh—and the sheriff’s Colt.

  Jess reached out, removed the man’s plug hat, then whacked him on the side of the head with the big revolver. Before the glassy-eyed little man dropped, Jess had time to replace his hat and then he watched him fall.

  “Here, that won’t do,” one of the onlookers said, outraged. “That man has friends here.”

  “And he was drunk,” another man said. “You shouldn’t buffalo a drunk.”

  “He’d been notified,” Jess said.

  Then he remembered. Ed Masterson had said those same words as he dragged Jess, semiconscious and bleeding, to the hoosegow. All at once Ed grew in Jess’s estimation. He hadn’t pissed on Masterson’s boots, but he’d watered the mayor’s pumpkins and in Dodge that was as heinous an offense as the other.

  Jess holstered his gun and said, “If you boys are his friends, take him inside until he recovers.”

  “Mister, you’ve made a bad enemy,” a serious-looking man with an English accent said. “Do you know who you just clocked?”

  “No,” Jess said. “And I don’t much care. He pissed on my boots.”

  “My dear fellow, that’s Luke Short,” the serious man said. “The next time you see him he’ll have a gun in his hand.”

  Short was sitting now, rubbing the side of his head. He seemed groggy and unfocused. Jess saw no sign of a gun, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying one. This was the man Jess suspected of ordering him killed, and he wanted to take no chances with him. By all accounts Luke Short was a deadly gunman and a killer.

  The serious Englishman and another helped the reeling little man to his feet and Jess spotted a sagging weight in the back pocket of Short’s pants. He told the men to hold up and took a short-barreled Colt from the leather-lined pocket. “Tell him he can come collect this at the sheriff’s office when he sobers up,” Jess said.

  The Colt was beautifully engraved and had ivory grips, the kind of weapon a man would not want to lose.

  “A real hardnose, ain’t you, copper?” This from the Englishman’s companion, another belligerent runt, though well turned out and prosperous.

  Jess’s honest reply would have been, “No, I’m not. I’m just a stove-up cowboy and one way or the other I’ve been scared since I rode into town.”

  Instead he said, “Just don’t try my patience and find out just how hard-nosed I can be, mister.”

  The prosperous man’s smile was nasty. “No, I’ll leave that to Mr. Short. He’ll find out when he comes for you.”

  After the trio disappeared into the dance hall, where the orchestra was playing “Polly Wolly Doodle” and the girls were laughing, Jess shoved Short’s Colt into his waistband and decided to call it a night. He was dog-tired and even the mean bed in the sheriff’s office all at once seemed inviting.

  But often when a man makes a decision, fate immediately conspires to prevent it. And so it was with Jess Casey.

  Walking with the horseman’s short-gaited stride, lanky Jess Casey made his way along the jostling boardwalk. Noting the star on Jess’s shirt, a young man and woman hurried their pace toward him.

  The couple was of the more respectable sort. The man looked like a clerk of some kind and the girl was pretty and wore a dress of rustling silver silk with a huge bustle. A small heart-shaped hat was perched on top of her swept-up amber hair and when she drew closer Jess noticed a diamond brooch above her breast that spelled out in emeralds around the glittering stone, Toi et Nul Autre.

  Seeing the dazzlingly pretty girl was the only pleasant thing that had happened to Jess all day and he touched his hat and greeted her with a smile. But it soon slipped as she said, “Sheriff! They’re killing a man in the alley.” She pointed behind her. “Down there!”

  “I’ll go take a look,” Jess said. He touched his hat to the girl, pulled his gun and stepped toward the alley entrance. A white moth fluttered briefly around an oil lamp outside the apothecary that formed one wall of the alley and then fell scorched and dead at Jess’s feet. He was too concerned about what lay ahead of him to take it as an ill omen.

  His heart hammering again, an occurrence that was becoming all too familiar to Jess Casey, he held his Colt high and quickly ducked his head around the corner of the apothecary building. Somewhere close a woman yelled, “Here, what goes on?”

  Jess ignored her, his attention riveted on the sprawled form of Nate Levy on the ground. Ahead of him in the gloom he heard punches slam home into a human body, like the thudding of an ax on the trunk of an oak. Jess had still not been seen and he bent over in the darkness and felt the little manager’s chest. Levy was still breathing but was in a bad way.

  The sound of vicious blows landing went on, the groans of a man in pain providing a cruel counte
rpoint. His mouth dry, Jess advanced slowly into the alley. He still hadn’t been seen. Now as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw two men holding another against the wall of the building to his left. The third, a big man with bulging arm muscles, pounded punches into the pinioned man’s ribs and belly.

  “You! Get the hell away from him!” Jess yelled. He sounded more confident than he felt.

  Suddenly the muscular man moved. Something gleamed in the darkness then a gun flared. Jess felt a bullet cut across the meat of his right shoulder, searing like a branding iron. He thumbed off two shots fast and then heard a shriek followed by the fall of a heavy body.

  The two men, vague shadows in the darkness who’d been holding the beaten man’s arms, let go and beat a hasty retreat into the waste ground behind the alley. Then orange lantern light bobbed along the walls on either side of Jess and he heard a woman’s voice say, “Are you all right, Sheriff?”

  Jess turned and saw the girl in the silk dress. Her companion held the lantern and behind him several men were silhouettes in the gloom.

  “Just fine,” Jess said. He felt sick to his stomach.

  He grabbed the lantern and stepped to the rear of the alley.

  Zeus sat with his back against the wall. His face was swollen and bruised, both his eyes battered shut and blood streamed from his nose. Jess reckoned he had other injuries he couldn’t see.

  Through broken lips, Zeus said, “Who were they?”

  Jess said, “I don’t know. Sore losers, I guess.”

  The man he’d shot was dead with two bullet wounds in his chest, so close together Jess could have covered them with a playing card.

  It seemed to Jess that he had a natural talent for revolver shooting, a skill he didn’t know he possessed. A few men, probably not more than two or three in a thousand, are born with fast hands and the ability to use a firearm well under duress, the reason that though many men carried guns in the West very few became skilled shootists.

  Jess Casey was one of them and he’d discovered the skill by accident.