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

by BJ Holmes

  ‘And several others. One could not survive in the wild forests of this vast land without being able to communicate with whomever one haps upon. Just as, although they are not Apache, they understand Winnetou’s speech. They know what he is saying.’

  ‘You believe what he says? He may be being coerced.’

  ‘No, I believe him. Now get your gun and take cover beside the window yonder. I shall set the window slightly ajar, thus.’ Keeping low he moved his hand slowly up the wall, then very slowly unlatched the lock and very slowly pushed the window out a little. ‘There you are they didn’t see that. You stand beside the window without being seen. When the shooting starts, as it will, you go for any targets to the right. I’ll handle the middle and left. It can overcome anxiety if you concentrate your action on a limited objective.’

  ‘But you said they told Winnetou they were friendly.’

  ‘Despite what he says they are not friendly. No time to explain. When this business is over, as it will be, I shall tell.’ When he returned to the veranda the party were half way across the clearing. Despite the fact that they were apparently being welcomed and none of them had any obvious malicious intent, they still approached with care.

  When within comfortable hailing distance they stopped. ‘Raise your arms,’ the leading Indian ordered the trapper. ‘We come in peace but we do not trust you, white eyes. We mean you know harm.’

  ‘That’s right, Shatterhand,’ Winnetou said in a slow Apache so that even his captors could hear his words clearly. ‘They mean no harm. They come in peace. They are merely showing caution.’

  ‘I know.’

  Shatterhand’s right hand, lying against his trouser leg, made barely discernible signals slightly right, slightly left, then momentarily he kept three fingers apart. The movements were so insignificant that he was sure they hadn’t been noticed; but he knew Winnetou’s eyes would be highly focused on the fingers and the redman’s brain would be fast interpreting the signals.

  ‘Well, famed Shoh-tah-hey,’ the chief bellowed, using one of the labels the Indians used for the man, ‘raise your arms and trust us.’

  ‘Of course,’ Shatterhand said as his arms rose. ‘See, they’re way out of trouble.’ Being tall his hands disappeared into the roof.

  To the surprise of the advancing party, Shatterhand shouted.

  In English: One, two, three. On the count of three his hands snatched the barentoter in the roof bringing it down and blasting with it. The massive missile from the gigantic firearm which had more in common with a cannon than a rifle, split the leader in half.

  From the window the Widow McCool downed a second man.

  Shatterhand dropped, rolled across the floor taking the upright Martini-Henry from the stanchion. In the same flowing movement he continued rolling, came to his knees and fired to the right.

  In the meantime Winnetou’s hidden knife had dispatched the Indian at his side. Shatterhand rolled straight back across the veranda to clasp the remaining Martini-Henry, came up and methodically killed the remaining Indians.

  For seconds it was quiet save for the dying echoes of the explosions.

  ‘Is it over?’ the woman whispered.

  ‘It’s over,’ Shatterhand said.

  Mrs. McCool dropped to her knees whimpering.

  Winnetou checked all the men around him were well on the way to the happy hunting grounds, then joined Shatterhand at the cabin.

  ‘It worked again.’

  ‘Doesn’t it always?’ Shatterhand said,’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the woman said. ‘Everything your friend said pointed to them being friendly. How did you know they had evil intent?

  Winnetou smiled.

  ‘Because,’ Shatterhand said, ‘he did tell me.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We have this arrangement. If we are in a tight spot we use placating words but we deliver them in Winnetou’s tongue, namely Apache. The use of that language itself is the signal that it is a pack of lies! If in English––and he can speak English better than me––only then are the words to be taken literally.’

  The woman shook her head in wonderment.

  Then: ‘Should we not bury the dead before we go?’ she asked.

  ‘Like hell we shall,’ Winnetou said. ‘Excuse my language, ma’am.’

  ‘Your use of the vernacular is getting better,’ the old trapper said. ‘Especially in the presence of the gentle sex. Before I meet my maker I might have you speaking the King’s English like a native.’

  ‘Like that’s something I want––just as I also want a hole in my head!’

  ‘This is a veritable one-hoss shay,’ Mrs. McCool said, patting the travois, as they set out for Fort Kenton. ‘It’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever travelled in. It is so highly sprung and smooth so as to seem we are not moving at all’

  ‘Well it has one-hoss,’ Shatterhand said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’

  They were utilizing the McColl’s single piece of remaining livestock, the donkey; and the travois on cross boughs with carpeting and blankets suspended between them made for a smooth glide.

  ‘I think you misunderstand me.’

  ‘I understand all right, Mrs. McCool, but I don’t see the relevance to things.’

  ‘The great American philosopher, Oliver Wendell Holmes, wrote about how manufactured things fall apart and cease to be functional very quickly. The man who could invent the wonderful one-shay which lasted all in one piece as long as you needed it––he would make a fortune. I think your Indian friend might be that fellow making such a one-hoss shay.’

  ‘Thank you ma’am,’ Winnetou said. Then to his companion: ‘You didn’t know about Oliver Wendell Holmes, did you, my dear erudite gentleman.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, we learned about him at Missionary school. See the white eyes doesn’t know everything. He can learn from a simple country lady and a humble redskin!’

  Shatterhand mock-punched his arm with a grin and they continued along the trail to Fort Kenton.

  ‘By the way,’ Shatterhand suddenly said. ‘Just before we left the cabin you both started laughing. What was that about?’

  ‘Sho-tah-hay does not want to know.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘It was when she kissed us both. You know, spontaneously with relief.’

  ‘I remember, yes. And?’

  ‘Well, she looked very coy. And knowing how she felt about Indians I asked was she taken aback by kissing an Indian. She said no.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘She said: trouble was she’d never kissed an old man before!’

  Shatterhand grunted.

  For a moment it went quiet until Winnetou said, ‘I’m glad I’m not riding a horse.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Smart-Ass, why’s that, pray?’ Shatterhand growled.

  ‘Because I’m laughing so much I’d fall off.’

  Shatterhand (along with his alter egos Firehand and Surehand) and his Apache comrade Winnetou were created by classical German writer Karl May. German westerns featuring the May characters with Hollywood stars such as Lex Barker and Stewart Granger in the lead, were unexpectedly successful in the 1950s to 1960s prompting the Italians to make their own versions – which have now gone down in cinema history as “spaghetti” westerns. The present author made his contributions to the European genre with A Legend Called Shatterhand (1990) and Shatterhand and the People (1992), both available in ebook from Piccadilly Publishing.

  The Word and the Gun

  ‘What we gonna do about him, Jed ?’

  Jedidiah Dent studied the chess-pieces locked in mortal combat before them. Lewis and Jed played chess every Friday night.

  ‘Who, Lewis?’ Jedidiah asked, moving his threatened queen.

  ‘The Colonel. What we gonna do about the Colonel?’

  Lewis pushed a knight forward to attack the queen further. Lonsdale was a small farming community. It had been a quiet place to live but that was befor
e the Colonel moved in with his four sons. Offered a service, they claimed, to protect Lonsdale from outside elements. Protection was needed, they had said, there being no official law office and all. The Colonel and his men would protect property for a small fee. Their business prospered enough for them to move into a big two-storey building a year ago, at the quiet end of town near the church and its cemetery. Then they began to solicit business more aggressively. Specifically they made the ante compulsory and raised it to 10% of the turnover of every business in the area.

  At first those who refused to pay found themselves the victims of almost immediate vandalism. Then those who wouldn’t cooperate began to disappear or have fatal accidents. The folks living around Lonsdale were peaceful; they led ordinary work-filled lives. They toiled all week and went to church on Sundays. No, that wasn’t strictly true; at least not at the moment. The preacher had died of a heart attack three weeks ago––the whisper around town was that it was the strain of events––and the church had remained empty pending the arrival of a new preacher. As tillers of the land the folk of Lonsdale didn’t know about guns. And so they didn’t know how to handle the Colonel. And things were getting worse. Within the last month, two homelanders had refused to pay the premium and had been openly killed.

  Jed moved his queen yet again. ‘How much do you think we could raise from the folk to hire ourselves an outside gun?’

  Lewis made a calculation on his fingers before moving one of the roughly-carved pawns. ‘I think we could pull $2000 together.’

  ‘OK, you check out that figure. Let me know something solid. Then tell the townsfolk not to worry. We’ll get someone into handle the Colonel and his boys.’

  Jedidiah smiled as he swept a bishop across the board. ‘Checkmate.’

  Abe Hanley knocked the fourth tack into a bottom corner of the notice and stepped back to check that the thing was straight.

  NEW PREACHER TO ARRIVE NEXT WEEK – GOD WILLING

  read the message. He returned the tack hammer to the tool box and shut the lid. He was just walking down the path from the whiteboard church when he saw the tall frame of Harry Orme making his way down Main Street with a double bore shotgun held aggressively forward.

  Orme was a quiet sort of fellow. One of the few locals with cattle, he had a small spread to the south. No one knew until later that, the day before, Orme had refused to pay the Colonel’s protection premium. That morning he had woken up to find his small herd had been taken during the night and driven over the cliff at Blueberry Canyon. It could only have been on the Colonel’s instruction. Despite the protestations of his wife, the usually passive Orme had decided he had a score to settle.

  Abe closed the white-painted gate and watched the tall figure pressing determinedly on.

  ‘Stop him, somebody!’ It was Mrs. Orme at the end of the street, wringing her hands in vain appeal. Folks began to appear at windows on the boardwalk. Whatever Orme was going to do he had an audience.

  He stopped at the Colonel’s two-storey mansion that squared off the end of the town’s thoroughfare. He kicked open the gate and leveled the huge hunting gun at the door.

  ‘Colonel!’ he shouted in a tone of voice no one had ever heard him use before. Dogs could be heard barking in the building.

  Mrs. Orme had collapsed against the façade of the hardware store. ‘No, no…’ she repeated incessantly.

  ‘Colonel!’ Orme bellowed again.

  Momentarily there was silence. Then for five seconds guns crackled from the upstairs windows of the Colonel’s residence. There must have been six shots in all and Orme’s body took every one. Mrs. Orme didn’t see the body fall. In a crumpling moaning heap on the boardwalk by this time, her mind seemed to be elsewhere. Knowing what had been her husband’s intention she had no need to witness the inevitable being played out. It had already happened in her imagination.

  The front door of the big building was pulled open to reveal the Colonel. The long, white hair was thinning. The only clue to the location of the eyes, virtually obscured by shaggy eyebrows, were the deep grooves radiating outwards from them like the rays of the sun in a reddish-fleshed face. Likewise nearly absent was the chin, a family characteristic.

  The opening of the door allowed the ex-army man’s two dogs to push past his leather leggings.

  ‘Somebody asking after me?’ the Colonel asked, loud enough for the gathered townsfolk to hear. ‘Eh?’ he continued, pretending not to see the bloody remains of a human being which had been impacted back into the street. He walked down the path, closed the gate, still ignoring the body and returned to the house. He clicked his fingers and the dogs followed him obediently.

  At that moment Jed rode into town. He sensed something was wrong. There were so many people, yet the place was quiet. And he’d thought he’d heard gunfire minutes before. He reined in near the church where Abe Hanley, the churchwarden, was standing and looking down the street, his face as white as the church he looked after.

  ‘What’s the matter, Abe? he asked.

  ‘The Colonel’s men have just gunned down Harry Orme.’

  Jedidiah looked in the direction that Abe had nodded in, and saw the body at the end of the street. He was quiet for a moment and then he said, ‘It won’t last much longer. There’s someone being brung in to see to those bastards.’

  Some distance out of Lonsdale three men were positioned on a bluff overlooking the trail into town. Two were lying prostrate on the rocky surface, the one holding a cocked carbine at the ready while the other periodically put field-glasses to his eyes. The third man was back with the horses making sure the animals remained out of sight. They were brothers and the fourth had stayed back in town with their father.

  One spoke. ‘We’re gonna fry if we stay out on this rock much longer, Kinch.’

  It was Slack, the Colonel’s second youngest. Kinch put down the glasses. ‘Oh, quit bellyaching. Ain’t we got a job to do?’

  The nearest point that the railroad came to Lonsdale was Plains Halt. The train had stopped there this morning and only one person had disembarked. A paid lookout of the Colonel’s at Plains had telegraphed through with the information that the passenger had hired a blue roan and had taken the trail to Lonsdale. It was the message the Colonel had been waiting for. The description was enough for him to send his boys out to make sure the stranger never reached his destination. Little happened in the town without the Colonel’s knowing; and he was well aware of their little plan to hire a gunslinger.

  Slack took his hand from the carbine and pointed. ‘Ain’t that someone coming now, Kinch?’

  Kinch steadied the glasses with his elbows and squinted through the apertures. ‘Sure thing, Slack. You can see better without glasses than I can with ‘em, I reckon. Some poke dressed in black. Blue roan. It’s the gunslinger all right.’

  It took ten minutes for the rider to get unknowingly into range. While Kinch signaled unobtrusively to the third member of the group, Slack took a bead on the unsuspecting stranger and pulled the trigger. There was an uncanny delay between the sound of the rifle crack and the sight of the rider below them whipping backwards out of his saddle as though lassoed.

  ‘Serves him right for poking his nose where he hadn’t oughta,’ Slack grunted as he stood up. ‘First shot, too,’ he added, proud of his demonstrated prowess at sharp-shooting. No need to look through them glasses again, Kinch. He’s dead all right. Come on, Curt, Kinch, let’s go and tell pa “mission accomplished”.’

  ‘We got him, pa,’ said Slack some twenty minutes later as they walked into the Colonel’s study. ‘Just like you wanted.’

  As they stood there hats in hand, the dogs sniffed their boots, tails a-wagging.

  The youngster brother, Ritchie, had stayed with their father and was sitting at the table playing solitaire. Sometimes the others resented the way their father doted on him. Always had him at his side like one of the dogs. A strong condemner of the sins of the flesh, their father was even blind top Ritchie’s regul
ar brothelizing in the nearby town. “Pa thinks the sun shines out of his ass-hole” was a favorite saying of Slack’s.

  The Colonel had been waiting by the window for his boys to come back. ‘You checked? You checked you got him?’

  ‘Sure thing, pa.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Through the glasses you leant me,’ explained Kinch, taking the leather case from his shoulder and placing it on the table.

  ‘Through the glasses ?’ snapped the Colonel, picking up the case and shaking it. ‘That ain’t the way to check you got a man. You don’t know the liquor’s drunk until the bottle’s been turned upside down! Let’s get out there and make sure he’s dead and stays dead.’

  Half a mile from the bluff they came across a riderless blue roan grazing at the trailside.

  ‘That’s his horse,’ chuckled Slack.

  ‘Take a look-see in the saddlebags,’ ordered the Colonel as they reined in.

  Slack pulled alongside. He tugged at the buckle of one and flipped up the lid. He thrust his hand inside and fetched out a leatherbound book.

  ‘Nothing more dangerous that a big book, pa,’ he sneered holding up the weighty tome in his hand. The Colonel grabbed it and examined the gold embossing on the spine.

  ‘Sacred Mother of Mary,’ he exclaimed, making the sign of the cross over his body with his free hand. ‘Saints preserve us! You’ve killed a man of God!’ He thrust the book back at Slack who replaced it back in the bag.

  ‘Looks like we made a mistake,’ Slack whined, ‘but, shucks, I didn’t know you’d got religion, pa.’

  ‘Ain’t I tried to bring you boys up right?’ his gather snapped. ‘There’s three kinds you just don’t kill: women, kids and priests! Come on, let ‘s have a look at the man.’

  Three of them spurred onwards to follow the Colonel while the fourth leant down to gather the reins of the stray horse. The man lay exactly where Slack had blown him out of the saddle. A black flat wide-brimmed hat lay near the head and blood glistened against the blackness of the jacket on the right shoulder.