by Phil Dunlap
When they arrived at the back of the small, whitewashed church at the west edge of town, Diablo dismounted, then helped Lenore to the ground. He went to the small house that stood adjacent, across a dirt yard. He knocked on the door. Finally, after a few minutes, a light shown through the dusty pane of glass in a window off to the side. He heard shuffling of feet and a grumpy voice that sounded decidedly less than pleased at being awakened at such a late hour.
“Who is it and what do you want? Don’t you know what time it is?”
“It’s me, Diablo Smith, preacher, and I have a woman with me. We need your help.”
The door creaked open an inch and a weary eye peeked out. Recognizing the grizzled tracker, the preacher opened the door and waved the pair inside.
“What the devil are you doing traipsing around at this time of night? I’ve never known you to be one of those that shuns sleep.” A slight grin accompanied the preacher’s question.
“Preacher, this here lady is Lenore Kurtz. She was kidnapped and held a ways out in the scrublands. She was near to dyin’ when I came upon her. Her husband hired me to find her, but after hearing her story, I doubt returning her to her home would be in her best interest.”
“Mercy sakes, let’s get the lady settled in. This here is always a place of refuge for the weak and the weary, young lady. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like, or at least until Mr. Smith has time to wrap up the particulars of your situation, which I have no doubt he’ll achieve soon.”
“Thank you, preacher. She isn’t in the best of condition, not having anything to eat for several days, no heat at night in the flimsy cabin she was kept in, and no clothing other than what she has on. A despicable set of circumstances, I’d say.”
“Merciful heavens, young lady, it sounds like you’ve been visited by Satan hisself. I have a few things in the armoire that might fit. They were items of clothing left to the church to give to the needy. Haven’t had much opportunity to distribute them, but I’d have to say you qualify for their intended use.” The preacher pointed to a room off to his right, shaking his head in disgust as Lenore slipped through a curtained doorway “You’ll find what you need in there.”
“Thanks for your help, preacher. I’ll stop by tomorrow right after I set to making an enemy or two.”
The preacher snickered at Diablo’s reference to his well-known distrust of most folks in general and a strong disdain for anything smacking of treachery in particular. The tracker slipped out and walked his mare to the livery to get the animal bedded down for the night. He planned to visit Joshua Kurtz the next morning, very early.
***
As planned, at the break of dawn, Diablo Smith sat astride his horse not twenty feet from Kurtz’s front door. He shouted, “Kurtz, Joshua Kurtz. Get your soul-less ass out here and do it now!”
When the door creaked open a few minutes later, Kurtz stepped out buttoning his pants and tucking in his rumpled shirt. He shaded his eyes against the early sun, blinking to identify the stranger.
“Is that you, Smith? What are you doin’ here so early? And where is my wife? You failed to find her, didn’t you? I knew it. All that talk I heard about you bein’ the best tracker in the state was hogwash.”
“Shut up, you damned fool! Get the rest of your clothes on, saddle a horse and do it quickly. I’m in no mood to put up with your crap, today.”
“Where we goin’?”
“To see your wife. That’s what you hired me to do, wasn’t it? Oh, and you better dig up some of that money you been hoardin’ to pay my fee.”
“Wha–how’d you know about that?”
“I didn’t until you just told me. I just figured a tightwad bastard like you–one who wouldn’t even buy your lovely wife a pair of shoes–would have a hidden stash. Now, get my fee or get a bullet!”
“How do I know you found Lenore?”
“Only way you’re gonna know is by doin’ what I said. Get the damned horse!”
Joshua scurried back inside to reappear two minutes later with a jacket, shoes, and a gun belt. He finished dressing and strapping on his sidearm as he hurried to the barn. Diablo watched the man like a hawk watches its prey. He wasn’t sure what Kurtz had in mind for him, but he was taking no chances. He coaxed his mare to back up about twenty feet so Kurtz would be surprised he wasn’t where he’d last seen him. That split second of searching would be enough time for Diablo to assess the situation and bring the man down if he happened to emerge with gun in hand. But, Kurtz came out of the barn already astride his pony and walked the animal to where Diablo was.
“Follow me,” the tracker commanded, as he spun the mare around. Kurtz complied.
The ride to town was filled with silence. Diablo wasn’t certain why the usually mouthy Kurtz hadn’t uttered a word. Was it because he feared what Diablo was taking him to see. He hadn’t told the man that his wife was alive. He did that on purpose, of course. He wanted to find out how deeply involved into his own wife’s disappearance Kurtz was. When they rode up the main street, Diablo quickly reined his mare in front of the sheriff’s office, but stayed in his saddle. Kurtz looked him with a scowl.
“What’re you tryin’ to pull, Smith? You ain’t gonna blame Lenore’s kidnapping on me, if that’s what you’ve a mind to do.”
Diablo narrowed his eyes and pointed to Kurtz. “Get off your horse. Go inside and wait for me. Make certain the two deputies are there with the sheriff.”
The tracker walked his mare down the street toward the outskirts of town. When he got to the church, he dismounted and casually went inside. The preacher was down on his hands and knees scrubbing the wooden floor. Alongside him was Lenore Kurtz, smiling.
“Ahh, Diablo, you have brought me some wonderful help. Thank you my friend.”
“Well, preacher, I’m goin’ to need to burrow her for a few minutes. Lenore, I want you to come identify someone for me.”
The lady’s expression turned from joy to despair. Her lip trembled as she slowly rose to her feet. She was obviously scared of facing either her husband or her kidnappers. She didn’t know which one was soon to be her fate, but she wasn’t eager for either to come about.
“You needn’t be afraid of anything, Lenore. I’m here to protect you. I’ll not let anything bad happen to you. You’re simply goin’ to help me clean out a nest of vipers.” He held out his hand and she stepped forward and took it.
As they started down the boardwalk toward the jail, he stopped to pull a Winchester rifle from his saddle scabbard. He levered in a cartridge and continued along at a leisurely pace. He was aware of her reluctance to accompany him into the presence of her hated husband, which is who she was convinced the tracker was heading for. When it looked as if they were headed for the jail, she began to silently question why. Finally, unable to stand the lack of any explanation, she blurted out, “Joshua is an evil man, but he didn’t do anything illegal did he? Why would he be at the jail?”
“No, nothing exactly illegal, just immoral. However, he is going to be a witness to justice being served.”
***
Diablo stopped short of entering the door to the jail. A loud argument was ensuing inside. Heated words were being exchanged.
“What the hell is it you want with me, Kurtz. I told you before that whore wife of yours probably run off to get away from an asshole like you. Now get out of here before I find a reason the shoot you.” The sheriff’s angry shouts could be heard a half-block away. People in the street had noticed and were beginning to gather in the street. That was Diablo’s cue to step inside. He held Lenore slightly to his side and behind him, clear of his gun hand.
“In a shaky voice, Lenore whispered, “That’s him. That’s the man who forced me to do his will, then tied me up and dropped me in that horrible cabin to die. I’d know that voice anywhere.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Well, well, come on in tracker. You’re all I need to make the party complete. Who’s that you got with you?” the
sheriff bellowed. When Lenore stepped from behind Diablo, the sheriff gasped, his jaw dropped, and he started for his gun. That was probably his biggest mistake of the day. Diablo’s hand was full of Colt .45 before the sheriff could even clear leather. That stopped the sheriff’s hand from completing his draw.
Just then the two deputies came in from out back. They looked at each other and tried to run back out the way they’d come in. Diablo fired a shot over their heads. They stopped in their tracks.
“Come on back, boys, we’ve a little mystery to iron out. I’m assuming these two were the others who grabbed you at your ranch and took you into the brush lands to starve to death, after having their way with you, Lenore. That right?”
“Y-yessir. That’s the three of them. Took me for their despicable pleasure. They left me to starve. And I would have if it hadn’t been for you.”
Joshua Kurtz was dumbfounded by the revelation that his wife hadn’t run off and had actually been kidnapped and raped, but not for ransom. The sheriff wanted to make sure she didn’t tell her story to the whole community of sexual misconduct by the county’s highest ranking lawman. That’s when Kurtz did the unthinkable. Since the sheriff’s attention was focused on Diablo, he failed to notice the rancher drawing his Remington .44. The smoky blast shocked everyone in the room as Sheriff Granville’s head exploded. Kurtz then hung his head, dropping the gun. But one of the deputies drew and fired, killing Kurtz with one shot. Diablo didn’t hesitate. He killed the deputy as the other one held his hands in the air.
Lenore screamed in horror at the sight that lay before her. Three men lay dead in pools of their own blood. She turned and buried her face in Diablo’s chest, sobbing hysterically. He pulled her close to comfort her. The remaining deputy was shaking as he held his hands well away from any weapons. He didn’t want to give the impression he was intent on doing anything foolish.
***
After the whole story made the rounds and the town was resigned to finding a new sheriff, a job Diablo turned down, twice, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Diablo gave the deputy the option of jail or run for the hills. He took the latter. The tracker had also unearthed the location of Joshua’s hidden treasure. It was discovered that the insufferably greedy man, upon figuring his Lenore would never return traded all her jewelry and clothing to a village of Arapaho in exchange for some horses, which he then sold to the Army. Lenore Kurtz stayed on at the church, helping an overworked preacher keep his flock together. She was quickly accepted into society and even found a job three days a week at a dress shop. It didn’t take her long to sell the ranch, which, by rights, fell to her after her husband’s death.
Diablo Smith returned to his table at the rear of the saloon, only he no longer had to pay for his own beers. He sipped and waited for someone to offer him a tracking job. He doubted he would have to wait long. He never had. A man doesn’t get a reputation for being the best at anything just by sitting around.
***
LONG SHOT
If Brazos Boone had any endearing quality it was that whenever he shot someone, he did it with a smile. “Good natured fella,” one old timer was quoted as saying. Doubtless, that particular old timer was never in the line of fire whenever Boone’s Remington spit out smoke and death. Any man who was, probably wouldn’t have approved the accolade, unless he’d lived. Though few did.
Brazos Boone was a cold-blooded killer, and that’s the truth of it. Everybody agreed somebody should do something about the situation. They would have, too, had even one of the better bred of Chesterfield had enough gumption to arm themselves and step outside whenever Boone ventured into town, which was, for most, way too often. The only ones who appeared tolerant of the gunslinger’s quixotic ways were the several drunks who inhabited the town’s only saloon from morning to night.
In desperation, the town fathers met and decided on a course of action; they would put out a call for a gunslinger to remedy their problem–their Brazos Boone problem. Pay him good money, too, put up a thousand dollars to plug Boone, who was seen as the one impediment to the town’s growth. Send out telegrams, tack up posters, buy space in newspapers all over the region. Get their own gunslinger.
Seemed like a rational thing to do, at first. A well-considered plan to rid the community of filth. The plan was put into action, funds were committed, and the town fathers sat back and waited for results. They didn’t have to wait long. Within a week, Chesterfield was frothing with rough looking men carrying well-oiled guns, and a penchant for stirring up trouble. The sheriff was overwhelmed by the influx of leather-slappers and tinhorns. He appealed to the Town Council for help. But they claimed they had no money left in the coffers to add deputies, since they knew they’d have to shell out a grand when the deed got done. They were most assuredly betting against the come, which any professional pasteboard artist would say was foolish.
As they all stood at the front window of the general store, observing the many sleazy opportunists that had crawled inside the town limits, the mayor couldn’t help making an astute observation.
“Gentlemen, you see before you the power of advertising. I predict that by plying these same tactics to attracting folks to Chesterfield, each and every one eager for opportunity–after Boone has been properly disposed of, naturally–we shall be privileged to observe the birth of a metropolis the likes of which have been seen only back east. And development means cash in the coffers.”
“Hmm,” was all that the County Clerk, Harry Barnes, could muster, and he did it in such a tone as to invite a scornful look from Mayor Billings. A crusty pragmatist, Barnes wasn’t so easily drawn into the schemes of others, particularly the mayor, who was of an opposing party affiliation.
“Harry, pessimists don’t make towns grow and flourish. A man must have vision to succeed in today’s economy. If you’re goin’ to reap part of this potential windfall, you’d better cinch up your belt real tight and prepare for the new prosperity; or your drawers are liable to fall down around your ankles with all the money you’ll be totin’ around,” said the mayor, with a mighty grin. “Like all the rest of us, you’ll be getting’ rich, so you best be jumpin’ on the bandwagon before it leaves without you.”
That brought a chuckle from the other men standing at the window.
“Mebbe, so, Mayor, but I still don’t like the idea of all that trash you’ve invited in to clutter up our streets. I tell you it ain’t safe to walk around at night, what with all the drunks and gun-happy owlhoots,” Harry Barnes said, with a ‘you’d better pay me some heed’ nod.
But Mayor Billings just waived him off like he was shooing a fly. Barnes wasn’t through, however, not by a long shot.
“Mark my words, Mayor, before you know it you’ll have to scrounge up money to pay some gunslinger to come in here and clean out all the other gunslingers. All that money you figure we’re goin’ to make will go up in smoke. You’ll see,” said Barnes, just as he stormed out of the room to return to his ledgers, see if he couldn’t protect some of the town’s money before it was all spent funding the Mayor’s foolhardy scheme.
Back at the Clerk’s office, an unsettled Harry Barnes flipped through several large ledger pages, dipped his pen in a cut-glass inkwell, and was about to settle himself on his stool, when he heard gunshots, several of them. He rushed outside to see what was happening. There sprawled in the dirt were two of the town’s latest gun-toting arrivals, deader than fence posts. And up on the plank walk, in the shadow of the overhang, looking quite satisfied with himself as he casually leaned one hand on the saloon’s batwing door, stood a grinning Brazos Boone, his Colt still oozing smoke from its barrel. Boone slipped his revolver back into his holster and returned to the saloon where a cheer went up that could be heard all the way down the street. And all this while the mayor and his committee of citizens stood staring in amazement at what they’d just seen.
The town’s barber and part-time dentist, Horace Beebe, cast a startled look at the mayor, who was nervously scratch
ing an apparent itch on his chin. “Uh, Mayor, that don’t appear to me to have gone the way we planned.”
“Horace, you got to give these things time. Can’t rush to judgment just ‘cause you don’t come up all aces on the first deal. Got to be patient.”
Horace decided it was time to retreat to his own shop, where he felt safer being separated from the mayor and his other cohorts. Horace figured it wouldn’t be too long before Brazos figured it out, saw through the hastily construed plan to draw him into a gunfight with someone faster than him. There’d be hell to pay when he came looking for his revenge. He jumped as the little bell over the front door tinkled and the sheriff slipped in, looking around as if to be sure he hadn’t been seen.
“Oh, it’s you, Sheriff Blanding. Need a trim, do you?”
“W-why, er, yeah, reckon that’s just what I need. Won’t hurt none if I can’t be found for awhile, either,” said the sheriff.
“Don’t blame you one bit for wantin’ to stay out of Brazos’ way. Sit yourself down and I’ll get you lathered up.” Horace, too, was showing signs of nervousness as he stropped the razor with all the fervor of a man chopping wood.
Horace and the sheriff both glanced through the window as two riders moved slowly down the street. They were rough looking strangers, both wearing dusters. One, tall and heavyset, wore his floppy-brimmed hat low over his forehead, and held a Henry rifle across his saddle. His dark, high-cheeked features suggested a half-breed heritage. The other, skinny and long-whiskered, rode stooped in the saddle, his deep-set eyes in full shadow from a round, Amish-style black hat. The two reined in front of the saloon, dismounted, and slapped the dust off their clothes before entering.
Horace and the sheriff glanced at each other with similar expressions of dismay. Horace just shook his head and brushed some lather on the sheriff’s cheeks.
“What do you make of this scheme of the mayor’s to bring gunfighters to kill a gunfighter, Horace?”