Friday, October 2, 2015

Saddle Row - Part Two

Not so far out of town, the three robbers (though Chance would never have referred to them as such) sat by a fire recounting the events of the evening. Not all members of this small posse were as happy as Chance.
            Chance giggled. “I thought dear Mr. Fairer was going to drop out of shock there for a minute. Wife and kids, clearly he has so much to live for.” The recollection at his own joke echoed and fell away abruptly, and with it so did the humor.
            Mr. Kettle sat eating rabbit off a spit above a dying fire. “Your reputation will suffer for that. I’m apt to guess that they won’t even blame you for that one.”
            “They will. Glenn struck me as a reliable fella.”
            “You’re so concerned about your reputation?” Hotah asked.
            “My reputation is the difference between gettin’ kil’t by some nobody and that nobody thinkin’ twice before coming after me.”
            “Your reputation is the difference between getting shot in a fair fight and shot in the back.”
            Mr. Kettle spoke up, “Now hold on a moment, any man that shoots another man from behind is as low a scoundrel as there can be.”
            “If a man wants you dead, and thinks you are a big enough threat, he won’t hesitate to do it anyway he sees fit.”
            Chance saw where this was going, “Hotah, my reputation is the threat. The biggest drawback it has had so far is small boys wanting autographs, grown men offering to buy me a beer, and women wanting me to buy them a ring.”
            Mr. Kettle laughed, “Not so bad really.”
            Hotah stared coolly at Mr. Kettle. “We need more wood.” He walked away from the fire into the dark.
            “Stoic Indian. You know I often ponder how you can maintain friendship with he and I.”
            Chance grinned, “You too? Ahh I am not sure but I feel like you two complement each other nicely.”
            Mr. Kettle apparently grew tired of the topic, “Where we headed to next?”
            “I hear the nearest boomtown is Urbs, Wyoming.”
            Hotah returned, “Wouldn’t it be wiser to avoid the ‘boomtowns’ as you say, and stick with towns where they may not be expecting you?”
            “Wiser yes, but nowhere near as excitin’.”
            Hotah said, “I hate it when you smile like that.”

*

            “Once you’ve had your first gun fight you’re guaranteed at least one more- usually it’s the one where they kill you.” James Harbaugh told me that the first time I met him.  He later would add to that initial quote but I’ll get to more about that later.
           
                                                                                    *
URBS, WYOMING

            It was neither a quick nor friendly journey from Texas to Wyoming. However it was far away from trouble, so far in fact it was unlikely to follow. Chance felt that if the group traveled a great enough distance away, his reputation, and the sour luck they’d had in Texas would remain far behind them.
            The men could see the town just a few miles ahead. Urbs was no different than the ones they had passed through before, except maybe colder. There horses reacted poorly to the cold, being stubborn and slow as if they weren’t horses at all but asses in disguise.
            The men reacted poorly as well, save for Hotah who seemed not to feel the chilly air at all.
            Ahead they saw snow floating in thin wisps, a main street rose out of the dirt, climaxing in a church steeple that looked like faith was all that was holding it together. It was near dark, and light spilled out from the only places that were open in town; the saloon, the gambling hall and the bordello. Chance figured that in a pinch each could pass for the other, as they would likely have each service for sale.
            “Evenin’ gentlemen,” a stranger rode past the trio.
            Chance eyed him, his hand instantly tensing around his six shooter. The wind and the cold had proved to be a great distraction. Had the lone man wished to, he could’ve killed them.
            “Easy stranger, just passing by,” the man tipped his hat, and held out his hands palms up to show them empty.
Then on second glance Chance realized the man wasn’t addressing him at all. To his side and slightly behind him Hotah had a rifle steadied across his arm, ready to fire.
“Something more than human,” Mr. Kettle muttered.
The stranger slapped the reigns of his horse and speed up and out of talking distance.
“Thank ya Hotah.”
Hotah nodded almost imperceptibly.
They passed by a deserted tack shop and feed store. Chance made a mental note that they’d have to drop in there in the morning. They continued into town and Mr. Kettle diverted, heading for a rowdy place that was called O’ Grady’s Saloon.
When the trio got to town Chance had Mr. Kettle check out the local gambling scene, while he and Hotah headed to find a place to bunk for the night.
“The cold weather doesn’t suit me Hotah. Let’s see if this man has any rooms.”
The two men stood outside a hotel, the sign read Averall Hotel, which meant nothing to either of them. They entered after tethering their horses.

                                                                        *

At the saloon, Mr. Kettle surveyed the surroundings as he approached its entrance. Before he was able to push aside one half of the doorway, two men- engaged in a scuffle- tumbled out. The rolled down the plank steps and into the dirt.
The two cowboys scrambled to stand, one drawing a knife from his side. The other man begged off waving his hands in the air. The cowpoke with the knife lunged forward, missing once, twice. The third swipe would prove fatal. It caught the unarmed man in the upper chest, the blade was then drug downward and perforated the belly. The lower the blade went the deeper it went. Soon, the white snow flurries weren’t the only color decorating the ground.
The stabbed man cried out and clutched his chest in a death throe.
Concerned citizens pushed through the batwing doors. An older gent with a bowtie stopped and stared at Mr. Kettle- who had watched the entire scene unfold without so much as a whisper of warning.
“You just stood there?” the old man was bewildered.
“Not my quarrel old timer.” Mr. Kettle said. In one fluid motion he had tipped his hat, removed it, and then stepped inside.
The scene was crowded with both people and smoke. Men were seated and stood two deep around card tables. The men’s faces bore only concern, not much in the way of excitement.
The men wore dirt stained rancher clothes and had the sheen of filthy sweat caked to their brow, temples and necks. The bar reeked of humanity, spilled drinks, and vomit. Mr. Kettle knew it was the type of place that would also smell of blood before the average night was done.
            Women clad in the naughtiest whores’ outfits had the haughtiest looks covering their faces. Mr. Kettle liked what he saw but wondered why they carried themselves in such a fashion. He gave up contemplation and stepped to the bar.
            Kindly, he asked the men surrounding an open space of it was taken. The man to his right, dressed in the crimson suit of a dandy, shook his head. The man to his left spoke up quickly, and of other things.
            “Howdy there feller. I believe we crossed paths at the edge o’ town.”
            Mr. Kettle nodded. It was the sneaky bastard what snuck up behind them on the road into Urbs.
            “Name’s Jim Harbuagh, but most call me Bullshit Jim.” He thrust out a hand, reluctantly Mr. Kettle took it. “I’ll get ya a whickey. Let me show ya there’s no hard feelings about me rattling you and yer pals.” Bullshit signaled a quick one with his forefinger to the barkeep.
            “Who said we were rattled?” Mr. Kettle smiled and downed the drink before Bullshit could answer.
            Bullshit laughed, “Hey pal you sure are thirsty, how’s about another?”
            Mr. Kettle sized up Bullshit Jim, first by his name, then by his age, then by his stature. “Listen young man; you seem like a bright enough bairn but I’m going ta let ya in on a secret. You’re lucky to be alive right now. Ya any one of the three of us could’ve right easily sent you to an early grave out there.”
            “Is that so mister?” Bullshit Jim laughed and tossed back a drink of his own.
            Mr. Kettle moved in closer. “Listen to me; I don’t normally do favors for fyessy fyuls like you. Do you know what would’ve happened out there if my men and I had decided to fire on ya?”
            Bullshit’s eyes glazed over from drunkenness, or the maniacal tone of Mr. Kettle’s voice.  “No.”
            “Absolutely nothing. Your mum wouldn’t even have known her baby boy died outside of the town- outside of the protection of town law. We wouldn’t have even buried ya. Ya ken bairn?”
            Bullshit Jim smiled politely and swallowed. He hoped his nerves weren’t showing, though he had a feeling they were. “I think I understand. Sorry sir. Umm, about that second tumbler of whiskey?”
            “Yes, you’ll be buying me another one.” Mr. Kettle answered matter-of-factly.
            Bullshit Jim got the bartender’s attention once more, threw down a handful of bills and asked him to leave the bottle of whiskey.
            “What are you some kind of hot shit limey?” the man in the crimson suit spoke up.
            Mr. Kettle already having doled out a rare and generous speech had spent what patience he had this evening. “Are ya daft man? Did you not hear what I’ve just finished saying to the baby-face?”
            “Maybe I heard wrong, but to me it sounded like you dressin’ down a guy younger, smaller and with less experience of the world than you. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were takin’ advantage.”
            Mr. Kettle sighed in disgust, and then narrowed his eyes at the stranger in red. “Ms. Nancy in her red dress. I don’t see what concern I’m ta have with ya. Me an’ the kid here had business that needed concluded. You say one more word to me about it and it’ll be your last.”
            “Well-“ the man in red tried to finish but Mr. Kettle had crushed his whiskey glass against the side of his head before another word was uttered. Red was struggling to get up off the floor as Mr. Kettle grabbed him. Red swung, catching Mr. Kettle in the gut. This move gave him just enough time to pull a pistol from his belt.
            This finally drew the attention of the crowd- the raucous of a fist fight was far too common.  Most backed up, but some wished to bear witness even though it meant they might be in danger of catching a stray bullet.
Mr. Kettle was cowed; he raised his hands in surrender. Although the look on his face showed no signs of giving up. “Good sir, would you really want this entire establishment to know without a doubt that the only way you could finish a fist fight is with a gun?”
“Throw up your hands!” a voice shouted from the entryway.
Someone from the crowd shouted, “The sheriff’s here!”
“Far from it,” Chance’s boots clapped on the wood floor. He steadied his revolver at Red. “You there fancy dresser, may I ask why you have a pistol aimed at my associate?”
Mr. Kettle looked relieved, though he wouldn’t for long.
Red looked like a child being disciplined by his paw. “Why, he blindsided me in the noggin’ with his glass.”
“This true Mr. Kettle?”
Mr. Kettle nodded.
“Ok man in red…Why, after getting a shot in the head with a glass, do you think the appropriate response is shooting a man?”
“Well I…”
“Unrefined, simply barbaric on your part. And Mr. Kettle in a friendly (or even not so friendly) chat at the bar, how is it you came to smash a glass against this man’s skull? Did you give no concern at all for his impeccable and refined suit?”
“Mr. Kettle looked confused, “Well I…”
“Hmm how can we settle this fairly?” Chance walked the floor for a moment, tugging at his chin while he thought. “Ahh, I have it. Barkeep- a glass for Mr. Red here.”
The barkeep filled a tumbler with whiskey and slid it towards the man in red.
“No sir, my apologies. An empty glass.”
Mr. Kettle’s eyes perked up.
Bullshit Jim seized the tumbler, drained it and then handed it to Red.
“Alright Mr. Red, smash away. What’s fair is fair.”
Mr. Kettle shouted, “Chance what in God’s name-”
Red brought the glass against the side of Kettle’s face while he was distracted. It made a glorious ringing sound as it shattered. Mr. Kettle stumbled backwards, but didn’t fall completely. The crowd gasped at the display, then applauded. Apparently, in their estimation, justice had been served.



Chance proclaimed, “Alright Red, I trust you feel we’re square?”