“Whew, thank God you’re an even-tempered shootist.”
“Fred, can you keep quiet about who I am? If it gets around, one of your gunslicks might take a notion to put me down and get himself killed. It happens all the time because all of these young rannies know that whoever kills me will have the bragging rights. So there’s no end to the young men wanting to take me on. In a way, being Kid Utah—although I don’t hold to that name—is a curse.”
“I’ll keep mum. But when you’ve been gone for a few days, I’ll want to tell my friends. Would that be okay? We are hard put in these parts for fresh things to talk about.”
“Sure, Fred, after I’ve cleared out of this area, tell whoever you want that I rode through here.”
Suddenly, another man entered the General Store. He had a cloth strip wrapped around his upper arm and it was blood-soaked. He was caked in dirt and mud from head to toe. But under all that grime, it was obvious he was a fancy- dressing gunslick. He was wearing a gray Stetson with conchos circling the brim, a black shirt (a stupid thing to wear in Utah’s desert heat), and black trousers tucked into beautifully tooled Western boots. He was also sporting twin Colts nestled into tooled holsters. The Colts had pearl handles.
The man disregarded Bryan by cutting in front of him. “Hey, you old sumbitch, I need a lot of supplies.”
“Calling me names will get you nothin’,” Fred said.
“Now listen here, I haven’t the patience to mess around with you. I want supplies—and I want them now.” He cut his eyes to Bryan. “This hombre can wait.”
“You’ll wait your turn,” Bryan said.
“What’d you say?”
“Are you deaf or just plain stupid? I said you will wait your turn. Oh, and you will also apologize to Fred here for calling him a sumbitch.”
The gunslick fixed his eyes on Bryan. “Do you know who you are talking to?”
“Yes, some ignoramus who thinks he’s tough.”
“Ignoramus,” Fred said as he laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
“You know what, I think I will load up my supplies onto a mule and a horse the livery operator said was named Cayuse. Then I think I just might kill the both of you. They call me Storm because I’ve been known to cloud up and storm all over a fellow or two over the last few years. You see, when I’m riled, I get really sudden with a short gun.”
“So you think you will kill us? Do you know who this man is?” Fred asked, pointing to Bryan.
Bryan interrupted, “No, Fred, don’t tell him my name. Just fill his order and send him on his way. We don’t want any gunplay here in Bluff that is infested with Mormons.”
Fred gave him a searching look. You could see disbelief in his eyes and a sort of disappointment because he was wondering if Kid Utah had turned yellow. “All right, I’ll fill his order.” He went to the back of the store to get the gunslick’s supplies.
“What happened to your arm, Storm?” Bryan asked.
“I got jumped by three Indians. They took everything I own. If I hadn’t climbed into a pile of rocks, they would have killed me. But after a three-hour standoff, they decided rousting me out of those rocks wasn’t worth it and they left.”
“Did they have two young girls with them?”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“Those were Apaches, and I was trailing them to try and save those girls.”
“It would take someone with the bark on to fight those Injuns, and you don’t look like you are up to the task.”
“So it would call for someone like you? Didn’t you just say you were hiding from them in a pile of rocks?”
“Well, yeah, but they came on me sudden-like, and I didn’t have a choice.”
“Where were you heading when those Apaches attacked you?” Bryan asked as he lit a Quirly.
“Wyoming.”
“Yeah?”
The gunslick took a pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket, rolled a Quirly, and lit it with a torpedo match. “Yeah, Wyoming, if it’s anything to you. I have hired out my guns to help run some sheepmen and sodbusters off a cattle spread up near Cheyenne. Have you ever heard of the Double-Triangle Ranch?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. But I’ll bet you a dollar, it’s one of those outfits run by some emperor-like owner, increasing the size of his ranch by running roughshod over peace-loving citizens on the smaller spreads. And I’ll just bet the ranch owner up there is the sort who hires scum like you to do his dirty work.”
Storm took a drag off his Quirly and let the smoke seep out of his nose. “You know, son, I’d decided to let you and old Fred live, but now I’m having second thoughts.”
Tension was building, and the gunslick seemed to be getting more agitated as time went by. “Hey, back there, hurry it up because I’m thinking seriously about killing this younger fellow out here, and then I will come back and kill you as well.”
Fred called from the back room. “I’ll be out in just a minute. These things take time.”
Before long, Fred emerged from the back room, carrying a gunnysack full of Storm’s supplies. “I added it up, and it comes to eleven dollars and sixteen cents.”
Storm laughed. “Are you just stupid or what? What makes you think I am paying for this grub?”
Fred pulled a four-shot, Colt Cloverleaf pocket revolver from his apron pocket and aimed it at Storm. “Then I’ll just kill you,” he said.
Storm drew his right-hand Colt and cracked Fred in the head with the barrel. It struck Fred just above his left ear, and he went down like he had been poleaxed. After doing that to Fred, he turned his Colt on Bryan. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “I could have killed him, you know, and I could kill you, too, but I’ve decided not to because I don’t want a posse after me.”
Bryan raised his eyebrows. “You’ll have one anyway for buffaloing this old man, stealing grub from him, and stealing Mule and Cayuse from me. In case you didn’t know, those are my animals.”
“I had to buffalo the old fool; he was fixin’ to shoot me. Now grab that gunnysack, follow me out, and load that mule.”
Bryan did as he was told. Looking into the dark and forbidding hole of a Colt will just naturally make a man compliant.
Bryan loaded the gunnysack onto Mule so Storm could climb aboard Cayuse.
“One last thing,” Storm said. “Pull out that revolver on your hip and chuck it across the street. We wouldn’t want you shooting me in the back as I ride away, now would we?”
Bryan did as he was told. “No, of course not,” he said.
Storm started out at a short-lope, leading Mule behind. He wanted to put some real estate between him and Bryan to make certain Bryan wouldn’t run over, grab his pistol, and shoot him in the back. But before he got fifty paces, Bryan whistled and Cayuse started bucking. He broke in half and landed stiff-legged, and that jarred Storm’s eyeteeth. Then he set to spinning and sun fishing with a determination and ferocity calculated to unseat Storm. It worked. Storm left the hurricane deck, and his body described a surprisingly high arc and then hit the ground with great force. It knocked the wind out of him, and it didn’t do his back a whole lot of good, either. He lay panting for a bit, and that gave Bryan time to retrieve his pistol.
Bryan took a few steps closer to Storm and gave him a chance to recover.
Before long, Storm got to his feet and managed to gasp, “So you taught this ugly horse a few tricks, did you?”
“Yeah, isn’t he a corker?”
Storm took a few short and wheezing breaths, trying to equalize his breathing. “He might be a corker, all right, but I’m still going to ride him out of here. But first, I’m going to have to kill you so you can’t whistle again and get him to bucking.”
Bryan had cleaned the dirt off his pistol while he talked with Storm and shoved it back in its holster. “Storm, you’ve never seen the day when you could shade me with a revolver. If you really must, go ahead and try it. I’m sort of looking forward to killing you and doing the
world a favor because you are the lowest form of humanity—you are like pond scum.”
Storm scrunched up his face and shook his head in disbelief. “You must be some kind of danged fool. Haven’t you heard of me? I’ve killed fifteen men.”
“Is that right. And how many of those did you shoot in the back?” Bryan asked.
“Not a one. I stood face-to-face with every one of them and gave them a chance.”
“Okay, Storm, if you say so. What would you like on your gravestone? Do you want to give me the name given to you at your christening, or should I just go with Storm? One last item, I don’t suppose you’d want any scriptures read over your grave?”
Storm had heard enough, so he edged his hand down close to the butt of his Colt. “I’m going to take pleasure shutting that yap of yours,” he said as he clawed for his gun. But things didn’t go like he’d planned because before he even cleared leather, something struck him in the neck, and it hit like the kick of a mule. Then the realization hit him—Bryan had beat him to the draw and had shot him in the neck.
“I warned you,” Bryan said.
Storm put his hand over his neck. Blood seeped out between his fingers and gushed from his mouth. His eyes went wide with the realization that he had finally been beaten to the draw and was going to die. It was a horrifying revelation and not to be believed. He, the fabled Storm, had been shaded by . . . by? Who had shaded him? “Who are you?” he asked.
“They call me Kid Utah, but I don’t hold to that name. I prefer just being called Bryan Kohler.”
“You, you are Kid Utah? But . . . but . . . why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked.”
Bryan had to hand it to him. He stood there with half of his throat shot away and refused to go down. In fact, he not only refused to die, but he went for his Colt again, hoping to take Bryan with him. That was his second mistake because he caught another round right between his eyes, and this time, it put him down. It sent him sailing back, and he landed in the dust—a heap of lifeless flesh and bone.
Bryan stood there for a moment, looking at his grim handiwork and liking none of it. He knew Storm was an evil man and that he very much deserved being killed, but it didn’t make it any easier. He never took away any man’s life that he didn’t greatly regret. He shook his head to clear the fog, then he emptied the spent cartridges from his pistol and shoved in a couple of fresh rounds. That was a routine he learned long ago, and it had served him well over the years. An empty cylinder can get a man killed.
Fred stepped out of his store, rubbing the side of his head. It hurts like the dickens to get buffaloed, and he was feeling the effects of it. “I saw the whole thing, Kid Utah. You are everythin’ they say you are. I have never seen such blindin’ speed, and I was in Dodge City years back and watched Dan Bogan pull down on Kid Curry. He put lead into Kid, but he pulled through after a couple weeks in bed. And I thought Bogan was fast.”
“Fred, I don’t hold to comparing myself to other gunmen. I don’t consider it a competition. I just simply shuck my gun as fast as I can to try and stay alive.”
“Okay, have it your way. But, from my point of view, it was quite a spectacle. And to think I thought you had turned yellow.”
“Fred, I’m not yellow, but to say I am not scared facing a man down would be a lie. I fully expect that some time or other, I am going to catch a bullet—and that scares the dickens out of me. That’s why I never rest on my laurels. I try to practice with my pistol every day. It would be foolish not to. I make a living with this short gun.”
Fred looked over at Storm. “Is he dead?”
“Oh yes, very much so. There’s never been a man to catch lead centered in the throat or between the eye peepers who lived to tell about it.”
Fred scratched his head. “What are we gonna do with him? We can’t just leave him here in the streets for the hogs. That wouldn’t be civilized.”
Bryan smiled. “Do you have a coroner in this here burg?”
“No.”
“What do you do with the deceased and dearly beloved?”
“The families take care of their own.”
“What about strangers? Do they get left in the streets for the hogs?”
Fred laughed. “No, that wouldn’t be right. Somebody always sees fit to plant a deceased stranger. It gets done.”
“Fred, what if I were to grease your palm with a ten-spot? Could you see fit to plant Storm? Oh, and you can have his fancy pistols, holsters, and whatever money and jewelry he was carrying.”
“Yeah, I’ll put him under the grass for that. Uh, I’ll plant him for that because we don’t have much grass around here to reckon with.”
“Fred, you’re a prince among men. Uh, Fred, what about the law around here? Will a law dog come along to question me about this shooting?”
“Nah, we’re talkin’ about electin’ a sheriff, but we ain’t got ’er done yet.”
Bryan put a match to a Quirly, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, and let it dribble out through his nose and mouth. “Good, I ain’t much for talking with law dogs.”
Fred glanced at Bryan with a questioning look in his eyes. “Kid, I don’t suppose I could impose on you to carry that gunnysack full of grub back into my store. I’m not feelin’ so good. That knock on the noggin hasn’t done me a whole lot of good.”
“Sure thing, Fred. In fact, don’t put the stuff back on the shelves. I’ll buy it all from you in the morning. That will save you some time and give that old beezer of yours time to mend itself.”
“Kid, you are a square shooter, you truly are, and there ain’t a lot of them left these days. Even some of these Mormons ain’t always on the square. They’ll sit in the front row of the church on a Sunday, partake of the sacrament, bear their testimony, pay a ten percent tithe, and then on a Monday cut your danged throat for four bits.”
Somebody wielded a hammer off in the distance, and two cur dogs got into a scuffle down the street a ways. Their battle was accompanied by growling, snarling, snapping, and yelping in pain. “Fred, those Mormons are just people. They are kind of like a bushel of apples—there will always be a rotten one in every basket.”
Bryan carried the gunnysack full of grub back into the store and laid it on the counter.
“Thanks,” Fred said.
“Now I’m going to take my animals back to the livery stable and settle them in. Then I’ll get me that bath, shave, and some decent grub in a restaurant. After all that, I’m going to settle these weary bones into a feather bed for the night. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning. If you’re not awake, I am going to roust you because I want to get on the trail just before sunrise.”
“Before sunrise? That’s an ungodly hour. I take back all those nice things I said about you earlier.”
Bryan laughed. “Just get up when I knock. I am going to buy some other stuff from you, so I’ll make it worth your time. Now Fred, old son, if you don’t get up and unlock the door, I am going to get upset.”
“Well, we can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t,” Bryan said.
“Uh, Kid, I’ve got to go lie down. I’m nauseated and about to blow my beets.”
“You do that, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good, tomorrow then. Oh, Kid, do you want a woman tonight because I can arrange it for you?”
“Fred, you old scoundrel. No, I don’t want a woman. I’ve never paid for a woman, and I am not about to start now.”
“Well, okay, you don’t need to get all huffy about it.” Speaking of women— fallen angels specifically—Fred decided he’d need a couple more on retainer and he’d have to use some of the money Kid Utah gave him to ship them in from up in Salt Lake. Then there was the matter of the bar there in his general store. He decided he’d need to upgrade it some. A plank across two whiskey barrels wasn’t cutting it. He planned all these things because he knew when word got out that Kid Utah had killed an outlaw slap in front of his general store/b
ar, business would pick up. Who knows, even some of Bluff’s Mormons might sneak in for a snort or two from time to time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, Bryan rousted Fred out of bed at five a.m. and managed to hit the trail at six. Bluff’s one restaurant wasn’t open, so Bryan talked Fred into rustling up eggs, bacon, and coffee. Fred complained the whole time, but Bryan convinced him he should just put a cork in it and cook, or he just might take his trade across the Arizona border to Kayenta. That was enough to convince Fred to continue cooking and shut his mouth. The breakfast wasn’t very good, but it fueled Bryan and prepared him for a long foray into scorching desert country.
Once the breakfast was over, Bryan paid Fred for the contents of the gunnysack and headed for the door. “Hey, last night, you promised to buy more wares from me—and I just cooked you breakfast at an ungodly hour.”
Bryan winked at him. “I’m sorry, Fred, I’ve changed my mind. See, that breakfast you cooked wasn’t very good, and it is liable to give me heartburn.”
“Heartburn, or whatever, you said you would buy some stuff from me. If you weren’t Kid Utah, I’d haul down on you with my Cloverleaf pocket pistol . . . dagnabbit. I thought you was a man of your word.”
Bryan laughed until he gagged. “Keep your pants on, old timer, I’m just funning you. Where’s your sense of humor? Of course I’m going to buy some stuff from you.”
“I ain’t got a sense of humor when I think on starvin’ to death here in Bluff. Whew, Kid, I’m glad you were jokin’ me because I dearly need the trade, I surely do. These Mormons will squeeze a nickel ’til the buffalo bellars.”
Bryan fished through a vest pocket and pulled out a list. “Fill it in a hurry, or I’ll ride out of here,” Bryan said.
Fred filled the order on the dead run. Bryan paid him and slipped him an extra Golden Eagle.”
“What’s this for?” Fred asked.
“If you’re having trouble making ends meet, that should help you some.”
“Well, if you ain’t somethin’ else. Thank you. Thank you. I should put a big slobbery kiss slap on your lips.”
Murder in Mushroom Valley Page 13