Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  His steel blue eyes were slitted and focused on the singer. He was interested in the song. It was a popular one of the day but he’d never heard the lyrics all the way through. He turned his head to catch the last words. Something about a dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard, laying poor Jesse in his grave.

  A lie gets around the world while the truth is still pulling on its boots. He smiled, emptied his glass––and said nothing.

  (The informed reader will know that history books cite one of the Ford cousins as the killer of Jesse; not Jonathan Grimm. But we know better, don’t we? And if your appetites have been wetted for more on our Mr. Grimm then seek out the seven consecutive books that chronicle his life––from his days of youth, army days which saw him dragged into the Civil War and how he was forced by circumstance to become a bounty hunter [“Comes the Reaper”] through to his old age and final days [“Trail of the Reaper”]. Does he live happily ever after that last book I hear you asking yourselves. You really think I’m going to tell you here and now? [Especially after the fandango I had with the publisher over the ending.]

  For those readers who take the trouble to unearth the books and read them [in chronological order!] I hope you get some enjoyment out of them along with some surprises! They’re all available in ebook from Piccadilly Publishing.

  Autumn Gun

  They still talk today in a certain Western town of the day of the gun and of its being over. The phrase “the day of the gun” is normally used in a figurative sense to describe some past era when violent anarchy prevailed. These particular townsfolk mean it in that sense––but they also mean it in a very literal sense…the day of a very specific gun is over. A specific day, a specific gun. It happened like this…

  John S. Queenan turned away from the window. The monotony of the flat mid-Western landscape streaking by was having an unwelcome soporific effect on him. He looked up and down the thirty feet of coach. Most of the seats were occupied. How many would disembark at Wodensburg? he thought. Not many. In its unrelenting push westward through Omaha and Cheyenne, The Union Pacific Railroad was now nearing Salt Lake City. Most of the car’s passengers would off-load near the railhead to stake their claim in a new life in the wilderness.

  But that was not his purpose.

  He readjusted his tall frame in the seat and watched the heads of the other passengers moving in rhythm with the swaying of the car. Occasionally one or two would rise and walk to the rear platform to stretch their legs or to get a breath of fresh air.

  Lines began to streak across the window as it started to rain. Then he saw a young man rise and make his way down the aisle. In his three-piece suit he didn’t have the look of a pioneer. The man reciprocated Queenan’s nod as he passed. Queenan thought for a while. The man could be useful.

  Queenan pulled himself to his feet and immediately felt the benefit of moving cramped muscles. Then he too lurched down the aisle.

  The young man was leaning on the rail with the wind catching his hair as Queenan joined him. ‘Rain’s good for some folks, I suppose,’ the tall man said, taking out a pack of cheroots.

  ‘Farmers have been waiting for it.’

  Queenan offered him a cheroot. ‘You local, then?’

  The man took one. ‘Thanks.Yeah. Been visiting kin in Kansas City.’

  They took it in turns in the corner of the doorway to light up their smokes.

  ‘When you say you’re local, you mean Wodensburg?’ Queenan pressed for precision.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  Just what Queenan had hoped. ‘No. I’m a city man. Got business––financial business in Wodensburg.’ With his dark suit and gun-less hips he had the appearance of a businessman. The grey hair and good cut of cloth indicated a high level, too––bank manager maybe. Indeed, every aspect reflected this image, down to the manicured fingernails. He extended his hand. ‘The name’s Queenan’.

  The other took it. ‘Glad to meet you. Ray Ward.’

  Queenan had made a contact and learned a name––that was all he wanted for now. They chewed over inconsequential topics until their smokes were finished and then they returned inside.

  Queenan took up his seat again. He could use Ward––but he’d let it simmer for a while. He didn’t want to seem pushy.

  Half an hour later the track took on a gentle curve, rare for the terrain. But enough curvature for Queenan to catch sight of a settlement in the distance before the bell stacker up front straightened out again. It had to be Wodensburg.

  He took out the letter––the last one he had received––which finished: ‘Ask the reception clerk at The Star and Garter hotel for a message from me. It will enclose the next payment––Jeremy Blackwell.’ He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He gripped the back of the seat in front of him and pulled himself up again. He turned to face the side of the car and heaved his case down from the rack.

  Within minutes he heard the brakemen clambering along the catwalk above him as they attempted to brake the cars in synchronization. The whistle blasted to inform the town’s occupants the only westward through-train of the day was approaching and the machine came to a standstill with bell clanging. He looked out of the window. A sign proclaiming WODENSBURG in large simple letters hung from the edge of the station roof. The booking clerk in Omaha had said something about the town having undergone a change of name. That would have explained the newness of the sign. But he had given it no mind. Nothing was as ephemeral as a name this far west of the Appalachians.

  He moved quickly down the aisle ensuring that he stepped down from the car immediately after the guy called Ward. The conductor took their tickets and they walked together from the depot to the Main Street.

  He looked like a businessman. He could pass as one because he always wore good clothes and he didn’t wear his guns––ordinarily. No one in this neck of the woods would recognize him as of the most notorious contract gunnies in the State. He could afford good clothes because his fees were the highest. And they were the highest because he was good. And he was good because it had taken him thirty years to perfect his skills. This year he’d upped his fee to a basic thousand dollars a contract. Now he was comfortable and could afford to pick

  In January he’d dropped some guy called Tyree who had been trying to form a labor union against the wishes of a very rich mine owner. Normally Queenan did not let emotions get in the way of his job––but his heart was in that one. After all, unionism was a death-watch beetle to the structure of capitalism. He didn’t know Tyree, didn’t know if he had wife and kids. That was immaterial; all he knew was that he was being paid to eradicate somebody, and that that somebody was guilty––through his damned unionism––of trying to import foreign doctrines such as the evil communism and socialism–– to the US of A, the bastion of freedom. The price he was being paid he would have done it anyway. To remove a social evil––a trade union man–– was a bonus.

  Next, two months ago, he’d sent Snake-Eyes Minelli, the hold-up man, up that trail that led to the pearly gates. Wells Fargo footed that bill. Then he’d received a letter from this Jeremy Blackwell in Wodensburg. Wanted to place a contract on some trouble-maker. Money seemed no object––which was the important thing. Two hundred dollars had been enclosed. Another two hundred would be paid on his arrival. And a thousand dollars was promised when the contract was completed.

  During the train journey he had mused over the thought of his assets. Totaling over twelve grand with this job. He wasn’t getting any younger. He was in the autumn of his life. But even if he lived well beyond the Biblical three-score and ten he could still live like a king. Yes, he had thought, he may well make this the last contract––and then it would be pipe and slippers.

  ‘Say, Ray,’ Queenan said, full of bonhomie, as they neared the hotel ‘Do me a favor, sport.’

  The young man looked at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘See if there’s a message for me at the desk in The Star and Garter. I’m in a bit of a hurry and I wann
a check into the hotel down the street.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr. Queenan. And put that dollar away.’

  The man called Ward bounded up onto the raised boardwalk while the elder man pushed on down the street.

  Minutes later Queenan booked a room in The Golden Spur Hotel. The Star and Garter was more convenient for the railroad stop but he had a rule about making his own arrangements during a job. He sat in an easy chair in the hotel lounge waiting for Ward. He lit another cheroot but, after the first draw, his eyes closed and it lay smoldering between the fingers of his resting hand. Eventually the young man came in. He pushed an envelope into the seated man’s hand.

  ‘There was a message for you.’ He touched his forehead with his finger as he was thanked. ‘Don’t mention it. Glad to be of service, Mr. Queenan. Enjoy your stay in our little town.’ And with a smile he was gone.

  Queenan congratulated himself as he ripped open the letter. By getting Ward to collect it, he had avoided exposing himself on his first day in town. Two ‘C’ bills fell out. He looked up to check no one was watching him as he tucked the notes into his pocket. Then he read the notes. ‘Two hundred dollars as promised. Further instructions will be forthcoming. But in the meantime, take heed that the deal between us is subject to one condition: that you do not go near Room 14.’

  He recognized the signature of Jeremy Blackwell at the bottom. ‘Further instructions, eh ?’ he thought. He didn’t like that. His style was to get in and out quick. Still the money was good for merely sitting on your ass. He thought nothing of the odd condition at the time. He was curious only about who he had to kill to get his final thousand bucks. Moreover, he had no interest in any hotel room other than his own––never mind the mysterious No. 14––and there he retired for the time being to sleep off the train journey from Kansas.

  He awoke refreshed. After a wash-up he sat on the bed and opened his case. He took out the tools of his trade. First the belt and holster, plain but custom-built and expensive. Years of experience were in the instructions he’d given the leatherworker making the rig. Holsters precision-cut at the rear providing maximum accessibility to the triggers for a master’s fingers. The belt exactly notched to give the right lay on the hips. He pulled the rig around him, buckled the belt and tied down the holsters.

  Then the guns. He’d started his professional life with a single .40 Paterson Colt. Primitive by today’s standards, he reminisced, but over the years he’d changed his weapons as models improved until now he carried two Schofields. In his experience the 1875 model, single-action revolver made by Smith and Wesson was the best in the world. The one and only drawback was the .45 ammunition was not interchangeable with that of the Colt. That meant refills could be hard to come by so he always carried half-a-dozen full cardboard boxes.

  He hinged open the black weapons in turn and emptied out the six shots from each. He snapped them shut and zipped them into leather. For ten minutes he practiced his draw. Numerous though the permutations were, they were the standard ones he repeated every day in the same, polished sequence. Turning to the right, dropping onto alternate knees––but always fast.

  Hours had passed. Queenan parted the curtains and looked down at the Main Street. It was getting dark. His curiosity regarding the identity of Blackwell was beginning to deepen. The best place to ask casual questions at night is a saloon. He peered up and down the street––it appeared Wodensburg had two.

  So that evening, with the Schofields safely back in their case, Queenan joined the imbibers of the town. He would sit at a table and, after buying superficial camaraderie with a few drinks he would ask his question.

  By the way, he would start, as though it was of relative unimportance. ‘Any of you guys heard of a poke called Blackwell ?’ Duly his drinking companions would put on thinking faces but come up with negative answers before resuming their conversations.

  It took half the evening to work his way in an apparently-undesigned fashion around the drinking parlor. As wise as at the start and a little the worse for drink he strolled down to the second saloon and repeated the exercise. But no one had heard of this Blackwell.

  Around eleven he stood on the boardwalk. The small town was bathed in moonlight

  He could see the railroad stop, the saloons, the false fronts of stores along the street, the shacks sprawling around the periphery that constituted the town’s suburbs. Someone here knew of Blackwell, he was sure.

  The bordello––the focal point of town night life––maybe someone there had the answer. Its girls should be familiar with most of the male population––the long, the short and the tall. He returned to the last saloon he’d been in. He pushed his way through the throng at the bar and beckoned with his head at the barkeep. His height and authority of bearing demanded attention. As the barkeep came up to him and leaned over the counter, Queenan breathed alcohol laden fumes into his ear.

  ‘Where can a guy get a woman at this time of night?’

  The barkeep touched his nose with his finger and winked knowingly. ‘You’ll find what you want at Maisy’s, I’ll be thinking, sir.’ He gave instructions how to get to the establishment as Queenan pushed a silver dollar across the counter.

  He lay on his back in an alcoholic stupor. The madam had given him the choice of three and he’d picked out Babette. Her name was French––a tradition of her profession––but her accent was pure Mid-West. She’d led him upstairs and, an expert at the task, she’d helped him take off his clothes. Now she was undressing herself at the end of the bed.

  Within seconds her naked body was straddling him. She smiled downwards as she bounced her round, soft breasts over his face. His head rose instinctively as he pressed his nose between them sensing the cologne that pervaded her body and feeling the warmth of the fleshy orbs against his cheeks. She rolled them over, compressing them against his chest. He closed his eyes as her hair fell over his face. Like pliable water melons they pushed against his stomach and manhood.

  Despite the alcohol he was finally aroused. His hands moved down to grip the flesh behind her thighs and force her upwards so his rising solidness could find the temporary home he was paying for. His body arched as he reacted to her gentle but increasing rhythm. She spread-eagled on top of him as he reached his climax.

  She lay by his side as he recovered his breath. Then her mouth sought to arouse him again but he pulled her away. ‘Maybe it’s the drink––or my age––but I couldn’t manage another,’ he whispered. ‘Not yet.’

  She turned her head still resting on his stomach and looked at him. ‘You’re not old.’

  ‘I’m fifty seven, my young miss.’.

  ‘That’s not old,’ she said knowingly. ‘No, it’s not your age, pardner. I get guys in here on repeat performances twice your age.’

  He smiled at the thought of a decrepit panhandler going through his paces. ‘Not twice as old,’ he admonished. ‘No, another night perhaps.’ He didn’t mean it. He’d come in here for one purpose and one purpose only. He felt her head nod silently. Then she crossed the room and began dressing. Clumsily he followed suit. He was a little annoyed with himself. He didn’t usually partake of alcohol when there was an unfinished job at hand. He had paid the Madame the standard fee of one dollar fifty downstairs but he dropped two dollars noisily on the dressing table.

  ‘How long have you been in town, Babette?’ he asked as he made a final adjustment to his clothing.

  ‘A year. Maybe more.’

  ‘Ever hear of a guy called Blackwell?’

  ‘Get a lotta guys in here,’ she reflected. ‘But can’t recall one with that label.’

  He opened the door for her. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he added as he accompanied her down the ornate staircase. He’d enjoyed the experience, there was no denying that, but––while he was on a contract––business came before pleasure. So he felt as though he’d wasted his money,

  Fifteen minutes later back in his own room, he pla
ced one of the Schofields under his pillow––between two sheets of newspaper so its oil would not mark the linen––and he was asleep.

  After breakfast he went across to The Star and Garter.

  ‘Any message for me today?’ he asked the reception clerk, who was allocating letters to pigeon-holes. The young man thumbed through the envelopes remaining in his hand. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Queenan.’

  Queenan snorted with impatience. What a pig’s ass this was turning out to be. He walked outside and stood on the sidewalk watching the townsfolk going about their business. This was definitely going to be his last job. Why, he could buy out half these tame sod-busters as it was!

  He strolled along the street till he came to the mayor’s office. He had already located it from his hotel window. He pushed through the door. A young girl was pounding away at a typewriter. As his eyes took in her tightly corseted form he momentarily remembered Babette and the night before.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, breaking his reverie.

  ‘Mornin’, ma’am. You have a copy of the electoral roll I could look through?’ In a democratic society everyone had a right to see the list without question.

  ‘Why, yes, sir.’ Her bell tinged as she finished a line of typing and she fetched a sheet of paper from a drawer.

  He took the proffered document. ‘Is this all?’ he asked. There were little more than sixty names listed.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s right up-to-date.’ There was no Blackwell, he could see that right away. There was a Tyree but he had no reason to notice it. He handed the paper back to the girl. There was a sudden apprehension in her eyes and she was biting her lip but he didn’t comment.