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

by BJ Holmes

  ‘There’ll come a time––mighty soon––when my name will be on every store and business. Rimmer will be spread all over town, on every sign, nameboard and deed,’

  ‘We’re gonna share in the good times, ain’t we, boss?’ It was Benito, the man leaning on the stanchion to his side. Much bigger in longitude and latitude than his leader, he carried a bandolero Mexican-fashion across his barrel chest, He was becoming a mite concerned over his boss’s continual use of words like “I” and “my” ––where is the “we”?.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rimmer said, ‘And there is gonna be good times.’

  The third man, seated between them, was silent. One look at the shape he cut with his elbows on his knees, and shoulders hunched, and you could see why he bore the nickname of Toad. He never said much, just listening to the conversation of the other two stretched his intellectual capabilities to the limit.

  None of the trio paid much attention to the horse and rider, moving slowly into town. He passed them on the other side, casting a long evening shadow down the street. His lethargic, dust-covered figure––and especially the tall hat not depressed at the crown in the style currently favored by Anglos––had all the appearance of a peasant. Not worthy of comment.

  Their boss continued in his megalomaniac reverie as though watching his own private lantern slide show of the future, ‘Yeah, ‘ he said quietly. ‘Rimmer––all over town––wherever you look.’

  Jess Churchman scurried into the barber shop. He was the leader of the unofficial town council. In normal circumstances he would have been mayor. But Rimmer had appointed himself to all the important positions in town, with the exception of sheriff. That position was held by Seth Payne; but he was on Rimmer’s ticket by dint of fear.

  ‘Say, Ethan,’ Jess blurted to the barber, alone in his shop. ‘Have you seen whose bedding down in the hotel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A gunslinger,’`

  ‘Do you think Rimmer’s called him in?’

  ‘Naw. Him and Rimmer ain’t had no truck with each other since the stranger rode in last night and took a room at Wilf’s. Besides, Rimmer can handle us with the two gunnies he’s already got on his payroll. You know the Napoleon that Rimmer is. Taking over the town the way he is, he wouldn’t want to divvy up more than necessary. But that ain’t the point. This stranger, Wilf tells me, signed in as Jonathan Grimm. Wilf figures he’s some hombre that folks call the Reaper.’

  Ethan put down his broom. ‘Grimm––the Reaper,’ he chuckled, ‘that’s good.’

  ‘Never mind its humorous side, have you heard of him?’

  Ethan resumed his sweeping. ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Well, he’s a bounty hunter as I recall, Operating down in the border country. Wilf pegs him the same way.’

  ‘So what, Jess?’

  ‘Don’t you see? A bounty hunter ain’t exactly law, but he don’t work agin it. What’s more, he works for cash, don’t he? That’s the name of his game. I was thinking, maybe, if we all chipped in enough, this feller would take out Rimmer and his cronies for us.’

  Ethan sat in one of his own barber chairs. ‘Jeez:’ Then: ‘What if Rimmer found out? He ‘d skin us alive.’

  ‘We gotta make sure he don’t find out. Like working fast, for starters. Round up the boys. We’ll call a meeting.’

  Making sure that no Rimmer men saw them, the six representatives of the town’s trades met half an hour later at the back of Ethan’s barber shop. There was a long discussion in whispered tones about violence only begetting violence, about violence having to be met with violence and other––what Jess called ‘sanctimonious chickenshit’––before they eventually agreed on their move.

  Furtively, mouse-like, they scurried from one store to another, holding hushed conversations with proprietors so they could get some idea of the availability of cash. After a final meeting on the matter’s financial aspects, three were delegated to present the proposition to the tall stranger.

  Jess, as the leader, led the way up the stairs and knocked quietly on the door of outlander’s hotel room. After a moment, the lock clicked and a voice said ‘Come in,’ The stranger was sitting on his bed, His black frock coat was draped on the back of a chair with his tall uncreased hat; but his Colts were still on his hips, his hands not too far away.

  There was something about him, difficult to put in words. It may have been caused by the rumors they’d heard. He’d earned bounties on a hundred desperadoes. Or was it the man’s mere presence? Despite the effete appearance of the emaciated body, the deathly pallor to the face it was like being close to a caged circus lion. There was the same animal power in the expressionless eyes,

  Jess licked his lips. ‘Pardon the intrusion, stranger.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘We’d like to welcome you to our town,’ Jess went on. Again the stranger nodded. Jess coughed and began setting the ground for their proposition. ‘Er, you believe in law an’ order, don’t you, sir?’

  The man sighed deeply. He knew what was coming. The opener signposted a trail he’d ridden before; although he’d only been in this town less than twelve hours, he’d sensed the set-up. He’d seen the fear in the eyes of the populace and been aware of the confidence of gunnies strutting around town.

  ‘Tell me details,’ he suggested, almost wearily. Jess retailed the story of how Rimmer and his two men were scaring proprietors into selling out cheap. How people who had proved awkward had ended in the funeral parlor with a surfeit of lead. And how there was nobody left to stand up to him, all those remaining being simple traders.

  Jonathan Grimm never could figure why the traders in these situation––and it was a very common situation indeed along the frontier at that time––didn’t take advantage of their sheer numbers and shoot down the interlopers. It would be bloody but it could be done––with a morsel of guts and a modicum of planning, But he liked it the way it panned out: money could be made in such situations.

  ‘Anyways,’ Jess concluded. ‘We formed a town council. Unofficial, that is. ‘

  ‘Unofficial?’

  ‘Nothing can be out in the open while Rimmer’s around.’

  ‘And who’s we?’

  ‘The tradesmen in the town.’

  ‘And what’s all this got to do with me?’ As if he didn’t know.

  ‘Well, we’ve had a meeting and decided to offer $500 to anyone who’ll rid the town of Rimmer.’

  Still there was no sign of expression on the tall one’s pale face.

  ‘And,’ Jess went on, ‘we decided to ask you if you’ll take on the contract.’

  ‘ Why me?’

  ‘We pegged you for Jonathan Grimm, the bounty hunter. You are, ain’t you?’

  The tall man didn’t answer. If there were thoughts in his head he didn’t show it. ‘You say you’ll pay anyone to undertake this Pied Piper of Hamelin caper. Yet, I don’t see anybody else around this burg who’d do the job. No, the way I see it––the world is divided into two: there are buyers and sellers. The means that the nature of the market is one of being seller’s market or a buyer’s market. It is my reading of the circumstances, that you and your pain-in-the-ass committee are buyers in a sellers’ market.’

  ‘What’s your implication, Tar Grimm?’

  ‘My implication is this: I was planning on moving on. I been busy lately and I’m tired. What is more––I got places to go. The upshot of all these considerations is––you gotta up the ante as an incentive for me to do otherwise. The price is $1000 for Rimmer and $500 each for his sidekicks.

  Jess ‘s jaw dropped.

  ‘It’s called economics,’ the hunter explained.

  Jess looked at his two colleagues. Then they went into a whispered huddle a few paces away. After a minute, Jess turned. ‘We reckon we could meet that.’

  ‘Reckon?’ the hunter queried. ‘Could? I don’t cotton to them words. They ain’t positive enough. You’re asking me to risk my life. It’s gotta be a certain deal. With a har
d $500 in advance,’

  Again, side whispers. Then, ‘It’s a bona fide deal, mister. But, above all, you gotta get Rimmer. You’ll have the $500 tonight.’

  Jonathan Grimm nodded as they left. Then he felt around his cartridge belt. His last job had taken a lot of ammunition. He needed to restock.

  Rimmer was taking liquor with Toad in the backroom of the saloon, Benito came in as Rimmer was talking. Benito poured himself a drink and stood against the door, hesitant to interrupt his master’s flow.

  ‘Yes, sirree. It ain’t gonna be long before I got the lot. The whole town, lock, stock and barrel.’ Rimmer looked into the whiskey swirling at the bottom of his shot class. ‘Think I’ll call it Rimmerville, Or Rimmer City. Which do you think is the better?’

  The fire heading for Benito’s stomach gave him courage to interrupt his paymaster’s dreamings, ‘We got ourselves a problem, boss.’

  ‘Problem?’ Rimmer snapped, ‘What problem?’

  ‘Just heard from the sheriff,’ Benito went on, ‘He tells me there’s a rumor the town’s traders have got together. Chipped in and are buying themselves a gun.’

  ‘Gun? Who?’

  ‘That loner that came in last night.’

  ‘That shidypoke don’t look much to me.’ Rimmer sniffed.

  Benito’s face was serious. ‘You know who they say he is? The Reaper,’

  ‘The Reaper? Never heard of him,’ Rimmer snorted, slamming the dregs of his glass against his throat. ‘Man who ain’t got the sand to carry a proper name don’t sound to me like he’s got much by way of guts,’

  ‘I heard of him, boss,’ Toad put in. ‘And if it’s who I heard of––he’s got a proper name all right. Jonathan Grimm. Something of a legend down south.’

  Rimmer sniggered. ‘Legends, myths, pah. You know what they’re made of? Rumor, exaggeration, old wife’s tales.’

  Benito poured himself another glass. ‘I heard of a bounty hunter with that label, too, boss, got a rep for drawing a fast iron.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rimmer said with a smile. ‘Fast iron, eh? In that case we’ll fix his wagon afore he even gits started.’

  It was morning. The hunter had the $500 ante in his pocket but he wasn’t rushing the job. He had to get the lie of the land. Spend a little time getting to know his adversaries. What they looked like, assess their capabilities. He was having breakfast in the hotel, back to the wall, face to the door when he heard shots. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved panther-like to the door. He eased partway out, hand hidden under the frock coat. There was a small crowd at the end of the street.

  The gunfire was slow and regular; there didn’t seem to be any trouble. His pace was casual as he made his approach. Nearing the crowd he realized what was going on. A shooting competition.

  He glanced at the false fronts making up Main Street. Here and there, red, white and blue streamers decorated buildings. Of course, it was the fourth of July! He’d been so busy lately, he’d lost track of the calendar.

  He squinted his eyes to take in details of the contest. Planks were propped up as targets against wagons twenty yards from the firers. Rimmer was prominent in the activities, not taking part in the actual shooting, but giving orders and supervising. He caught sight of the hunter. ‘Say, stranger, come on in and test your skill.’

  The pale-faced hunter mulled it over. Why not? Give him get close to Rimmer and his men, weigh them up.

  There were about twenty men in the line-up, using a variety of hand weapons. Jonathan Grimm joined their ranks and took his turn in firing. After each round the targets were drawn back a further ten yards. Those participants not getting into a prescribed painted area had to withdraw. After fifteen minutes, they were down to ten men. Another fifteen minutes on there were only three competitors left. Jess whispered in the hunter’s ear as he bent his head to reload that the other remaining pistol-artists were Toad and Benito,

  Jonathan Grimm, the Reaper, had seen all he wanted. He was familiar with the three men and, seeing them in action, he knew the gunnies were good. As the targets were pulled back even further he deliberately misaimed to eliminate himself from the competition.

  He bowed his head to the remaining two, feigning acknowledgement that he had been bettered, and surreptitiously withdrew. He could feel Rimmer’s eyes on him as he strolled back to the hotel. Did Rimmer know about the contract?

  Behind closed doors he ejected the cases from his .44 and felt round his belt for a reload. Damn. He was out. That was negligence. He’d meant to restock earlier. That he’d had a busy week was no excuse. He’d tried the town store but it had been closed. And he’d wasted an armory of ordinance on thar damn fool competition. Whatever the circumstances, for him in his profession to be without ammunition was unpardonable,

  Out in the street he made for the Gunsmith’s sign. As he approached it, it had the appearance of still being closed. He guessed for the festivities. Up close however, with his hand against the glass to cut reflections he could see it was now devoid of stock.

  Rimmer did know of his contract he reckoned. That whole competition could have been a charade for him to use up ammo: Did they know how effective their ploy had been? He had no ammo at all! He’d have to get some from the council members.

  As he started to walk back up the street he could see some new activity was taking the interest of the crowd. But more important, three figures had broken away and were advancing, one in the middle of the street, and one on each of the boardwalks. He didn’t need to see their faces to know who they’d be.

  His pace quickened. So did theirs.

  The first bullet thudded into the jamb as he dived through the hotel doorway. Three on the prod for him––and he had no weapon: His mind raced. He loped through the deserted lobby into the kitchen, The only instrument with any potential that he could grab quickly was a meat cleaver hanging from the whitewashed wall, he could have done worse.

  ‘There ain’t no escape, bounty:’ he heard Rimmer yell. ‘We know what you’re being paid to do. But you ain’t gonna get round to earning your fee. Hah! Cover the back, Benito.’

  The Reaper retraced his steps as a bullet shattered a window, he proned himself against the papered wall as he saw a shadow fall across the frosted glass of the hotel entrance.

  ‘It’s all right, Toad:’ Rimmer shouted. ‘Get in after the son-of a-bitch. He ain’t got no bullets––or he’d a-fired afore now.’

  Grimm hefted the cleaver. It was bigger than a throwing axe but it had a similar balance. He raised it and waited. Spurred on by his boss’s conclusion the ugly squat figure of Toad burst through the door, two guns at the ready.

  In the situation as it was, Jonathan Grimm had one, and only one, chance. He hurled the cleaver. Its vertical rotations whooshed the air rhythmically. It split the reptilian gunny at the neck as easy as opening a melon; and just as messy as that action could be. With no noise other than an ugly gurgle, Toad staggered back and collapsed in a bloody heap..

  Bullets started slamming non-stop into the building from back and front. With torso bent, the Reaper loped across the glass-littered floor and made for the stairs. At the top he kicked open the first door. It was a bedroom with the usual fittings. And those included a pitcher––and a wash basin, a huge, heavy one. He slopped out the water from the latter, lugged it back to the landing.

  Shots zinged past fired by someone ascending the stairs. He found rungs leading to the roof, and hauled himself up. His arms acing from the weight of the basin, he scanned the perimeter of the flat roof. There below, in an alley, he espied Benito, peering cautiously in at windows. The Reaper waited till the unsuspecting giant was immediately below then he dropped the basin. He only waited to make sure the basin made contact, No matter how thick, no skull could withstand such a weight dropped from such a height.

  The sound of gunfire coming from the skylight was getting louder. Rimmer!

  Unarmed and with no cover, Grimm stood little chance if he rushed the approaching gun
man. He went to the far edge. There was a gap of ten feet to the next building. Not considerable distance to jump––but at that height?

  His was not the luxury to contemplate probabilities––he stepped back, ran and leapt. As he scrabbled to maintain his balance on landing, bullets began to come his way. He crashed through a loft, tumbled across a floor and dashed down flights of stairs till he reached ground level. There was one store that would hold a commodity that could be used as a weapon. He slammed through the door and sprinted across the street.

  At the Miners’ Supply Store he tried the door. Locked. He gathered his frock coat around his head and, making sure his arms were covered, he leapt through the window. With glass crunching he forward-rolled across the store floor coming up onto his feet. He ran round the store pushing aside lamps and helmets. He pulled out drawers which crashed to the floor, scattering candles and ropes. Then he found what he was looking for: dynamite! But there was only one stick. It would have to count. Head down he dived for cover behind the counter as Rimmer appeared at the glassless window and fired through.

  Damn; the only door out was locked and he couldn’t stand erect to force it because the gunman was now standing openly at the window skidding bullets off the counter surface every time Jonathan Grimm made a move,

  ‘You gotta come out sometime, bounty. Might as well come out now and get it over with quick,’ Rimmer roared. ‘There ain’t no escape.’

  Grimm didn’t reply.

  ‘You’re gonna get it as hard as I can give it to you for what you done to my two compadres. Toad’s head is nearly off and Benito’s head is unrecognizable––being crushed downwards into his spine.’

  The Reaper paid no attention to the caterwauling and took a match from his vest pocket. He thumbed it alight, and lighted the fuse. He muffled its flaring in a cupboard until there was only a few inches of fuse left. He put the deadly object inside his belt at his back under his frock coat,