SEVEN POUCHES - A WESTERN NOVEL SERIALISED
This is my attempt at a western novel. If you like it or not, let me know.
Contact: joecushnan@aol.com
Seven Pouches
A Western
By
Joe Cushnan
Drifter Willard Gammon returns home to find his father dead and his mother grieving. He embarks on a journey of revenge to track the seven men responsible, to deliver his own brand of justice and to retrieve the seven pouches used to divide up his family’s gold.
Chapter 1 (of 22)
The ranch looked quieter than normal. Any time he had visited before, there had always been movement. Horses, chickens and just general lived-in activity. But today nothing to catch the eye. Nothing to catch the ear either. Silence. He carried on riding towards the house, looking left and right for anything, a sign, a threat. Nothing. He got off his horse slower than usual, looked at the house and then scanned to the left, to the country behind him and to the right. In most worlds, peace and quiet are good things, he thought. In this open country, they were strange. He tied the reins to a post and walked up the steps to the door. His boots on the boards broke the silence.
He prepared to knock but noticed that the door was opened about an inch. He thought he heard something coming from inside. He drew his gun and used it to ease the door. He thought he heard crying, sobbing. He pushed the door fully open and saw that the room was a mess, furniture upended and all the domestic inventory had been scattered or broken or both.
In one corner he saw his father, sitting, head back and enough red patches to chill the soul. He started towards him but was distracted by his mother in another corner, huddled up and whimpering. He went to her first.
“What happened?” She looked at him and then looked at her husband.
“They killed him right in front of me. Made me look. Seven of them, each one in turn shot him. Said if I didn’t look, they’d skin me slow.” She was weeping.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Only my heart and soul,” she said.
“Did they touch you?’
“No.”
“Ma, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“They pushed me a little but didn’t do anything, well, intimate, if that’s what you mean.” She looked away.
He went over to his father. He was dead alright. He counted the seven wounds. This was no way for a hard-working man to end his days, he thought, especially this man who broke his back providing for his wife and child. He turned to his mother.
“What were they doing here?”
“Big black beard one said he’d heard we had some gold. Didn’t say where he heard it. But he was right. You know your Pa kept it under the floor. Dust and nuggets in a cloth bag. They beat him ‘til he told them. They found the bag and then took their turns. A grey hair sat at the supper table, tipped the contents onto the top, used a knife to divide the gold into seven, took out as many small pouches from his ass pocket, filled them and handed one each to the others. Thought his bag looked a shade bigger than the others, but they didn’t notice. Gold drunk.”
She made to stand up. He helped her to a chair. She stared at her husband and shook her head. “Told him that gold would do us no good unless we spent it,” she said. “Told him, Will, told him a hundred times.”
Will Gammon held his mother for a few moments before kissing her on the forehead.
“When did all this happen?”
“About sun up. They’ve been gone about six hours, I reckon. Headed east, I think. I heard the horses.”
“I’ll bury Pa and then I’ll take you to the Andrews place. They’ll look after you. I’ll go on to town to inform the sheriff and get Doc to come and check you over. And then, I’ll go away for a while.”
She held his face, looked deep into his eyes and sighed.
“Will, please don’t………” Her voice faded. He looked at her and kissed her again. Then he looked at his father. He took a long, deep breath to delay any tears and set to preparing the body for the best burial he could manage.
It took him an hour or so to dig a decent-size hole and about half that time to fill it in again. He stood with his mother in silence, although he was sure she was barely whispering a prayer or something. His Ma and Pa had struggled like just about everybody else to build a homestead and survive. They had loved each other but had gotten to that stage in their long marriage where words became less and glances, instincts and movement took over most of the communication. Will recalled a teacher once saying: “Sometimes words can serve us
well and sometimes words can go to hell for all that they do.” Seemed even educators got sick of words every once in a while.
Will helped his mother tidy up the house. She packed a few things in a bag while her son assembled the wagon.
It was early evening when they set off to the Andrews place. Will worked out that the seven bastards had about half a day’s start. By the time he delivered his mother and sidetracked into town, it would be dark before he set out to track them down. Seven dead men. Seven pouches of gold. That was his job for however long it took.
The Andrews family were as true to the Gospel love-thy-neighbour ideal and took Will’s mother in with open arms and loving hearts.
“I gotta go, Ma,” said Will.
“I know. I know.”
“I gave Mr Andrews some money. He didn’t want to take it but I slipped it into his coat pocket.”
“Thank you.”
“Mrs Andrews gave me a bag of provisions to keep me going for at least a few days.”
“She’s a kindly one.”
“I’ll be back soon.” Gammon hugged his mother.
“With blood on your hands?”
“I’ve never lied to you, Ma.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“I love you, Ma.”
“I love you too.”
Will Gammon rode out of the Andrews property in half-moonlight. He loved his mother, grieved about his father’s passing and felt the devil’s wrath as he began his hunt for the men that killed him, widowed his wife and stole his gold.
Chapter 2 (of 22)
Gammon knew this country well. He had grown up at the ranch but when he turned sixteen he decided to become a drifter, a man for hire to do anything but killing, although he knew how to kill. He liked doing a job for a week or so, a month at the most, and then moving on. He felt free. He felt it right that a man should do whatever he wanted to in life, earn his keep as honestly as possible and stay within the law and the boundaries of common sense.
He calculated the time since the men arrived at the ranch to this moment when he was resting against a tree about twenty miles into his journey east. He knew of a small town, Cave Creek, a couple of miles further and reckoned he would get there by first light. Of course, the killers could have veered off in any direction. They could have split up and be scattered far and wide. But Gammon just wanted to catch up with one of them, any one, and start gouging information out of him about the others. He might get lucky and get them all in one ambush.
Before he left the Andrews place, Gammon’s mother had tried to describe the seven men. The black beard man was the biggest, in the tallest, fattest sense. He had a two or three inch scar on the back of his left hand. The grey haired gold divider didn’t seem to have a tooth in his head. Around his neck was a leather string with a gold crucifix attached. A third just looked like a sixteen-year-old boy with an ass-fluff, sorry-as-hell moustache. A fourth wore a necktie on a filthy white shirt. He had a Derby hat and a holster with a dragon on it. A fifth looked like a half-breed. A sixth, a scrawny runt, had a habit of licking his lips every few seconds, like he was about to eat something or had just finished eating something. The seventh man was the one that did all the punching and kicking. He had fired the first shot. He was dressed in black, including tight black gloves and had a permanent sneer on his ugly face. Gammon had scribbled the descriptions on a piece of paper, like a checklist of grocery supplies. He looked ahead to drawing lines through each man’s notes as they went on their way to meet their maker. He wasn’t a killer by nature or by trade but he knew how to kill.
He took a job one time as a Deputy in a posse that gave chase to a bunch of bank robbers. There was a shoot-out in some open country near Tucson, robbers behind trees, posse behind rocks. It lasted about an afternoon. Gammon had crawled up a slope and along a ridge to get behind at least two of the gang. He called on them to drop their guns. They didn’t and he let them have it. In a matter of seconds, they were both lying dead. The others surrendered. He took his pay and refused to let his conscience bleed for the men he killed. They had a choice. Yes, he knew what it felt like to kill.
When night fell, Gammon built a small fire inside a collection of rocks he’d gathered to dull the glow a little. This was rough country and he didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention of the two or four-legged kind. He felt exhausted, but before he attempted sleep, he looked up at the clear, starry sky and said out loud: “Rest in peace, Pa. I love you Ma.” Then he closed his eyes.
Cave Creek wasn’t much of a town but it had all the basic facilities – saloon, hotel, stables, blacksmith, a few ramshackle houses and a Sheriff’s office. Gammon rode to the stables and got off his horse. A slight man of advanced age was rearranging some tackle inside.
“Morning,” said Gammon.
“Morning, son. What can I do for you?”
“Looking for some men. Wondered if they passed this way.”
“Oh. A lot of men pass through Cave Creek.”
“Seven men. Yesterday.”
“Come to think of it, a bunch did ride in. Can’t say if it was seven. Could have been. None of them stopped at the stables. I think it was a saloon stop and then they rode on.”
“Big man with a black beard among them?”
“That seems right.”
“Man in black? Black gloves?”
“Yeah, I saw him. Reminded me of a Preacherman. But something about him told me he was no man of God.”
“What about the others?”
“Didn’t really take much notice of them.”
“Money help your memory.”
“No sir. I ain’t that kind of man. If I remembered, I would tell you. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Sorry. Sometimes I meet people who……”
“Well, I ain’t one of them. No, sir.”
“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
“You fixin’ to tussle with them.”
“Adios.” Gammon smiled at the stable man and walked over to the saloon.
“I think one of them was a half-breed,” called the man.
Gammon stopped and looked back. “Obliged.”
The saloon stank of sweat, piss and stale beer. There were about half a dozen people in the room, none of them matching any hint of Ma Gammon’s descriptions. The bartender eyed up his new customer.
“What’ll it be?”
“Coffee. A bit early for anything else.”
“Coming right up.”
“I’m looking for seven men. I think they spent some time in here yesterday. Afternoon, evening, night.
Not sure how long.”
The bartender put the coffee cup on the bar.
“Yeah, seven did come in. Spent a few hours drinking and talking loud.”
“Big man with a black beard among them?”
“He was the loudest. Big laugh. Talked with a growl. Belched and farted loud too. But, if they pay, they can laugh, talk, belch, fart all they want.”
“Man in black, wearing black gloves?”
“He was a scary one. Had this look on his face as if he’d just smelled a skunk.”
“What about the others?”
“One of them couldn’t keep his tongue under control. I don’t mean talking, I mean licking his lips like a cat cleaning it’s whiskers. He was funny but I wasn’t gonna laugh at him. They looked a mean bunch.”
“Anything else?”
“Half-Indian, I guess. He was the quietest. Sat at a table on his own. Seemed to be fondling a bag most of the time.”
“A bag. Like a money pouch?”
“I suppose.”
“Any idea where they headed when they left?”
“Can’t say for sure. From the window, they seemed to ride east out of town. But one went the other way.”
“I saw one of them walking into the hotel,” came a voice near the stairs. Gammon looked round at the drinker standing at the end of the bar. “Man with a Derby hat.”
The woman at the reception desk in the hotel was reading a newspaper. Gammon noticed she was good-looking.
“Morning,” he said, removing his hat.
“Well, hello stranger. Room?”
“Not sure yet. I’m looking for a man who came here yesterday. Was wearing a Derby hat. Necktie. He might have been wearing a holster with a dragon on it.”
The woman thought for a moment.
“Yes, he came in here. Wanted a bath. Someone to wash and freshen his clothes.”
“How long did he stay?”
“What’s it to you?”
“How long did he stay?”
The woman thought for a moment and decided this was not going to develop into a friendly discussion.
“He’s still here.”
“He stayed the night?”
“This is a hotel, Mister, it’s allowed.”
Gammon blushed for the first time since he was a teenager.
“Sorry. What room?”
“What’s your business?”
“What room?”
“Now look………”
“He’s one of a gang that killed my father.”
“My God.”
Gammon grabbed her wrist and mustered as stern a face as an undertaker’s.
“What room?”
“Four.”
The stairs were covered with threadbare carpet, helpful to muffle the sound of hard-heeled boots. Halfway up there were no creaks and groans from the timbers. One step from the top gave out a painful creak. Gammon paused. At the top, he walked along and stopped just short of room four. He drew his gun slowly and quietly. He took two more steps then kicked the door in. A figure in the bed jolted upright. It had a pistol in its hand. Gammon shot three times, certain that at least two hit the torso. The man fell back. Gammon approached him.
“Who are you?” The near-dead man’s lips hardly moved as he spoke.
“Willard Gammon. You helped kill my father yesterday and scared my mother shitless.”
“I, I…….”
“Shut up trying to deny it. Where were your friends heading? And don’t make me ask twice.”
The dying man beckoned Gammon closer. Gammon’s ear was about three inches from the man’s mouth.
“Fuck you.”
“Where were they heading?” Gammon stuck his gun-end into one of the wounds. The man howled.
“I can get you a doctor. But first, tell me where they went.”
“Okay. Okay. They’re going to Globe.”
“What’s the one with the black beard called?”
“Turner.”
“And the grey-haired one?”
“Vine.”
Gammon locked eyes with the man.
“And what’s your name?”
“Bleak. Dan Bleak.”
Gammon tried to stifle a smile at the name and the man’s fate. He holstered his gun and looked away.
“Are you getting me a doctor?”
“Fuck you.”
The man started a wheezing laugh and breathed his last breath. Gammon sat on the bed and closed his eyes to regain composure. When he opened them, the hotel receptionist was standing in the doorway.
“I sent for the Sheriff,” she said. “Undertaker too.”
“I don’t blame you. I’ll pay for the room damage. I’m sorry about earlier but I’ve no time to be polite.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Gammon shook his head.
“Do you want a drink?”
He nodded. He stood up and looked long and hard at the dead man.
“Son of a bitch,” he spat. He walked to the dressing table and picked up the Derby hat. Underneath he found a pouch. He loosened the tie and looked inside. Gold. He tightened the tie and put the pouch into his shirt pocket.
“Are you stealing a dead man’s belongings?” asked the woman.
“Just taking what ain’t his.”
Gammon picked up the man’s holster and tore the dragon badge off it. A souvenir of sorts. He threw the holster on the floor. As he passed the woman to leave the room, he
held up the dragon.
“Now that’s stealing,” he said, “but it ain’t no use to him anymore.”
It wasn’t long before the Sheriff arrived.
“I’m Sheriff Connor. You are?”
“Willard Gammon.”
“Well, Willard Gammon, what’s the story behind this mess?”
They moved to some chairs by a window.
Gammon related the story from the beginning. The Sheriff smoked a cigar and listened without interrupting.
“I’m sorry to hear about your Pa, son. But that is not a licence for you to become Satan’s avenger.”
“Well, Sheriff, we won’t agree on everything.”
“I could lock you up now and call it murder but Mags here said she’d swear it was self-defence. And her word has always been good enough for me.”
The hotel door opened and in walked a rather urgent gentleman.
“Ethan Smith, undertaker,” said the Sheriff, “meet Willard Gammon who’s just steered some business your way. Mags will show you.”
“Very kind, Mr Gammon. Very kind.”
The Sheriff turned back to Gammon.
“So, you’re on your way to track the other six.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Which way are you aiming?”
“I think they’re still going east. So, I’ll try that way.”
“This could be a life’s work.”
“So be it, Sheriff, so be it.”
“I can’t condone what you’ve done or what you’re planning to do. But I can understand it.”
“I’m not looking for approval or reason, Sheriff. My head and gut are telling me what needs to be done. I’ll take the consequences if needs be. But I know what needs to be done. And how it needs to be done.”
The Sheriff stood up, sniffed a long nostril drag and took a few more puffs of his cigar.
“So long, son. Hope never to see you again in Cave Creek.”
Before he got on his horse, Gammon leaned the piece of paper with the gang list on the saddle and put a line through the man with the Derby Hat.
“Six,” he heard himself say out loud.
He rode east out of Cave Creek, aware that he had had little or no sleep, food or drink in the past day or so. His hunger to catch the killers was greater than anything his body might crave. He was also aware that he kept thinking about Mags, the hotel owner and what his body had not felt for a long, long time.
Chapter 4 (of 22)
A drifter is no more important in a wide and breathtaking landscape as a ball of tumbling tumbleweed. He – for it is almost always a man – travels according to instinct, at times to satisfy needs but mostly he just drifts as a drifter is prone to do. Sometimes a drifter can drift for hours, days at a time, without seeing anything that walks, crawls or slithers. Every now and then, a drifter comes across some other human soul out for good or evil. It was such a big country that to see anyone or anything was a rare event but today was one of those days.
Gammon had been aware of the figure on the ridge ahead for some time. It was too far away to say what it was. But a drifter develops a cautious streak. He checked his gun. Fully loaded. He checked his rifle. Fully loaded. He took a swig of water and spat out a long streak. At times like this, he wished he’d replaced the broken eyeglass that got busted in a bar fight a month or so back. He rode on.
Distance. Time. Always two things hard to equate. Only experience in open country over many years can help to work the arithmetic. Gammon reckoned he was now about five miles and a couple of hours to getting close to this figure. He was close to assuming it was a man.
Benign or hostile was still a throw of the dice. As a drifter, he tried to avoid trouble but if trouble stood in his way, he would deal with it. At best, the man ahead would tip his hat and pass by. At worst, he would start shooting. Somewhere in-between, he might be a decent rover looking for nothing but a peaceful encounter and corresponding day.
Whoever or whatever the figure was, Gammon never lost sight of him. The figure might have been wondering the same about what he was seeing in the distance. Gammon had no intention of changing course or hiding and nor did the rider up ahead. The distance was now a couple of miles. The easy breeze carried little sound from the landscape but it did carry the rifle shots, two echoing cracks breaking the near-silence. Gammon’s horse jolted. Gammon steadied him. The figure ahead was on the move, gaining speed and heading Gammon’s way. Over the ridge came several other riders whooping and shooting as they chased the stranger. Gammon rode over to a clump of rocks, dismounted, grabbed his rifle and dropped down to take cover.
The lone rider was whipping the reins from side to side to accelerate his horse. Behind him, the three Comanches in pursuit were stirring up clouds of dust. Gammon hated being forced into someone else’s business but three on one was not a fair fight. He took aim at one of the Indians, squinting for accuracy. It wasn’t easy hitting a moving man, especially one riding hard. The shimmers of heat distorted distance and increased the odds against precision but Gammon lined up his target and slowly squeezed the trigger. The Comanche in the middle of the three fell backwards off his horse. The horse veered off to the left, leaving the other two to think about what just happened. But if they were stunned at all, they didn’t show it. They just kept coming, raising dust like a sandstorm.
Gammon waved his rifle to signal his position to the lone rider. His two pursuers were riding harder than ever. Gammon took aim again and shot the one on the left. He stayed mounted but his horse slowed considerably. Gammon took aim again and finished the job. The Comanche fell forward onto his horse’s head and then to the ground. Now it was one chasing and one being chased. Fairer. The one being chased reached the rocks, slid off his horse and fell next to Gammon. The last Comanche stopped suddenly. He looked around, saw the two dead bodies in the distance behind him and decided to ride away from certain death.
The man turned onto his back and exhaled for a long time before looking at Gammon.
“Much obliged, Mister,” he said.
“Sometimes you gotta help a man.”
“Not everybody has an inkling for helping strangers.”
“Well, sometimes you see things and you have to get involved or get out of the way,” said Gammon. “Those Comanches, they been tailing you?”
“No, not that I was aware. Came out of nowhere. Ambush. Thought I was a goner.”
“I thought you were too.”
“Name’s Ellis.”
“Willard Gammon”. The two men shook hands.
“Where were you heading?” asked Gammon.
“Oh, I was just drifting.”
“Seems like we’re in the same business. Drifting.” Gammon was glancing every now and then at the country before them. Comanches liked to see things through, he was thinking. But all was clear, no sign of movement or sun gleam off rifles.
“Just finished some work“, said Ellis, “ and got a good payday. Thought I’d ride for a couple of days to think what I’ll do with the money. I know I’ll blow it but I just want to savour it.”
“Sounds good.” Gammon was watching to see if the lone Comanche had any intentions of coming back for a last hurrah. There was no sign of him.
“Anyway, it’s not spending money yet. I need to cash in this gold.” Ellis held up a pouch. Gammon resisted the urge to flinch.
“Unusual to be paid in gold,” said Gammon.
“It was the only currency available at the time.”
“What kind of work was it?”
“Oh, ranch work, you might say.”
Gammon’s gut turned over.
“Where was this ranch?”
”Why does that matter,” asked Ellis.
“I might try to get some work there myself.”
“It was backaways, but I don’t think there’s much going on there now.”
Gammon studied the man’s face and noticed that he was young, probably less than twenty years old. He also noticed that under the trail dust on his face, there was an ass-fluff, sorry-as-hell moustache.
Chapter 5 (of 22)
When he was a kid, Gammon remembered a preacher at Sunday school talking about man’s inhumanity to man. He also spoke about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, not agreeing with those notions but encouraging forgiveness rather than revenge. Preachers were like that. Learning words and phrases and ideas and things to make people feel guilty about, and shouting as loud as they could from their pulpits to frighten people into believing. He talked about the paradise of heaven and the pits of hell. Glory and resting in peace or fire and damnation. Gammon grew up remembering those sermons but the older he got, the more he
tended to believe in himself. Instinct. He was a decent enough boy but not as good a man as he should have been. The trail did that to the human spirit. Some of the things he’d seen and done warped any clear division between right and wrong.
Along the way, he had done a lot of good work, helped people out and felt decent about it. He had also done some things that would make the Lord himself avert his gaze. The death of his father in such a wicked, vicious, cruel, cold-blooded manner was a point of no return. Gammon was intent on revenge. The Derby hat man’s killing was a first step. Yes, it was self-defence in a situation he had provoked by kicking in the hotel room door. But Gammon knew he would have shot the man dead anyway, even if it meant in the back.
Now, the young man with the ass-fluff moustache was staked out on the ground beside the rocks. There had been a fight but Gammon knocked him unconscious with a sweet left hook and then cut branches to make stakes, hacked lengths of rope from his lasso and secured him. When he woke up, the kid realised his plight and struggled to break free but it was hopeless. The stakes had been beaten deep into the ground and the ropes were pulled tight.
“What the hell…..?” The kid assessed his situation.
Gammon stood over him.
“What’s your full name, kid?”
“Why am I tied up like this?”
“What’s your full name?”
“Who are you?”
“What’s your full name?”
“You want my gold. That’s it.” The kid struggled again.
“What’s your full name?”
“Cut these ropes now.”
Gammon drew his gun and fired a shot into the ground by the kid’s right ear.
“Alright. Alright. Ellis Drummond from Kentucky way.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen. Who are you?”
“Name’s Willard Gammon. You and six other men killed my father and stole his gold a day or so back.”
The kid’s face seemed to drain of colour in an instant.
“So, I’m taking the gold because it isn’t yours to begin with.” Gammon held up the pouch and then put it in his pocket.
“Are you going to kill me?” asked the kid.
“Maybe. Already shot and killed your friend Bleak. So, I’m in the mood for whatever my head tells me. Big man, black beard. Turner. Tell me about him.”
The kid coughed and tried to spit dust from his lips.
“Turner is a mean one. Seen him pick a man up once and crush him to death in a bear hug just because the man bumped into him on the street.”
“What happened after you left my father’s ranch?”
“We rode to Cave Creek. Had a few drinks. Food. And then six of us left. Bleak chose to go his own way. Guess he didn’t get far.”
“Then what happened?”
“Can you loosen these ropes?”
Gammon shook his head.
“Keep talking, kid.”
“Well, we rode out of town and camped that night about five miles away. Turner said it was time to split up. He said he and Vine would head for the town of Clifton. He didn’t much care where the rest of us went but he told us all to be careful and not brag about the gold. Not to wave the pouches around, for a while anyway. Guess, I was a little stupid when I met you.”
“There was a lip licker. Tell me about him.”
“Got any water?”
Gammon took a canteen from the kid’s horse, pulled the stopper and bent down to wet the boy’s mouth.
“Now, the lip licker.”
“Only know him as Sliva. Kinda fast way of saying saliva, I suppose. He gives me the creeps. I think he said he was going to find some whores in Lordsburg. I think that’s what he said. Breed joked that maybe he’d find the Lord in Whoresburg. Sliva slapped him. Breed reached for his blade but Sliva cut him down with all six bullets from his pistol. Even then Breed tried to crawl towards Sliva. Sliva cool as mountain water just took the blade and stuck it into his heart. Breed gushed blood and then lay still. Turner laughed forever at all that commotion.”
Gammon stood up and sucked his teeth.
“So, the half-breed is dead.”
“He couldn’t be more dead.”
“What happened to his pouch of gold?”
“Turner took it. Divided the contents between us. Mean man but every now and then he’d do something out of character. Sorta kindness, if you know what I mean.”
“What happened to the half-breed’s body?”
“Buried him back there, about three of four miles that way.” He pointed roughy north-east.
“Sliva, for a joke,” said Drummond, still wriggling, “put together a cross of branches and screwed it into the ground upside down. He said it wasn’t pointing to Jesus in the sky but to Satan in the fires of hell. I couldn’t see the joke but everyone laughed for what seemed like all night.”
“The man in black. What do you know about him?”
The kid squirmed.
“Can’t you untie me? I can talk as good sitting up as I can lying here.
“The man in black.”
“Called himself Abel. He joined the gang last. Liked fighting. He wasn’t too kindly to your Pa. Punching and kicking. But he got answers.”
Gammon stamped on the kid’s right hand. He yelled like a trapped coyote.
“Each of you shot my father. In what order did it happen?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Gammon kicked the kid in the ribs. He yelled again.
“What were you? Number one? Three? Six? Which?”
“I can’t remember. Three or four.”
Gammon stood up, drew his gun and shot the kid in the right thigh. His howling yell echoed across the plain. Gammon took a step and shot the kid in the left thigh and then holstered his gun. Another yell. Gammon wondered what that Comanche or anyone else for that matter would have made of those noises.
“Just kill me outright, you bastard,” sobbed the kid.
Gammon took out his knife and knelt on one knee.
“Now don’t quirm and fuss, boy. I just need something from you.” And with a swift action, Gammon sliced the left moustache from the kid’s lip, taking a little skin and blood in the process. The kid screamed and shook his head violently from side to side, partly in disbelief and partly to deal with the pain. Gammon wrapped the souvenir in a cloth and put it in the same pocket as the dragon badge.
He wiped the knife blade on the boy’s shirt and walked to his horse. He mounted and looked down at the kid.
“Here’s what I reckon. The sun might just burn you to pork crackling. Slow death but you’ll have time to think about it and pray to Jesus. Or some hungry wolf might just like the look of you for supper. Or that Comanche might come back with some more Comanches and deal with you their way. They might take your hair but they might just leave you with that other half of ass-fluff growth on your top lip. Or I could just finish you off myself. The last option is that you might find a way to break free. That would disappoint me. But, for reasons best known to God Almighty, I’m going to bet that even if you do break loose, those two busted legs will not carry you too far.”
“Please kill me.” The boy sounded like his heart was breaking.
“Well, ‘ said Gammon, “if that’s what you really want then that’s the very last thing I’m willing to give you. So long, you sorry son of a bitch.”
As Gammon rode away and even when he was some distance from the kid, he could hear shouts, pleas, begging and cursing until he was so far away that the kid’s voice was lost in the growing moans of the wind.
Chapter 6 (of 22)
That night, Gammon camped in amongst some trees, again attempting to shield the fire glow as much as possible. He ate some more of the provisions that Mrs Andrews had given him and drank two cups of thick coffee. He could have done with a couple of shots of hooch but that would have to wait until the next town and the next saloon.
The night was like most nights in this beautiful and dangerous country, black shapes, blue shimmers, white stars and a yellow moon. He liked being alone, but he seldom felt lonely. He liked company on his own terms.
Random thoughts jockeyed in his head about life, death, guilt, innocence, right, wrong and
the whole point of existence. He had no time for maudlin thoughts, but he did like to think about things that happened, the here and now and what might or will happen in the future. It was like meditating, sometimes like praying but it wasn’t as deep as that. He recalled working on a ranch and befriending an old-timer who loved telling stories and yammering on about the rules of life, codes that men especially should live by in the wildernesses that occupied large parts of this country. Some called it the code of the west but who’s to say who has the authority to make rules in such an untamed land. The politicians and big landowners set laws and built fences, but most ordinary people had an inkling for freedom and the decency, honesty and truth that goes with it. Gammon had his hat over his eyes. Otherwise, he would just become distracted by the stars.
The old-timer was nicknamed Grizzle for reasons that were never explained. He would say that the code of the west is not written in stone and is always subject to changing words and notions. The words might alter but the spirit and common sense of live and let live never shift, unless something truly awful happens to drive a man over the edge.
“Live with humility and show respect”, wheezed Grizzle, while roasting a rabbit on a cattle drive once. “The first part is easier than the second. Showing respect is a lot more complicated if you’re face to face with a badass intent on crushing your head like a
watermelon. But most of the time it’s possible to hear the other fella’s story and understand where he’s come from and where he’d like to head next.”
Gammon didn’t always look as if he was listening, but he was listening alright. He liked the man’s thinking. He liked his sandpaper voice too.
“Keeping your word is important to man, woman and child, even to your dog and God. If your words don’t always tie up with your actions, then that’s on you and no one else. Family and friends need your loyalty and trust as much as you need theirs. Don’t shit on them, ever. And keep your language appropriate too.” Grizzle would puff away on a broken pipe as he spoke. His tobacco smell and warm smoke were as welcome as friendship in an ambush.
“Whatever you’re hired to do or whatever you set out to do, get it done. Finish the job. Tie those ends up in a tight knot so that not too much of your past can unravel. The past is done. Make it as tidy as you can. The one that pays you is paying you to do something, so when you take the money, make sure you earned it and earned it good.”
Gammon could hear his horse getting a little restless. He raised his hat, looked over to where it was tethered, then scanned left to right. Nothing obvious. He put his hat back over his face and his hand on the handle of his gun.
“I’m an old one now, Willard,” said Grizzle on an occasion, “and as you can tell, I like
talking. I like words. When I was a younger buck, I preferred actions. Wasn’t much of a chatterbox. That’s what tired old bones do to you. Slow you down with all that physical stuff. But you, young Willard Gammon, you are a man who needs activity. I can tell that. Yes sir, I can tell that. Before I grew into this bent, spent-up body, I stood tall, I was brave, I was firm in my intentions and fair to those that warranted a second thought. I have
done many good things in my life and many more that would make a sister of mercy run for the hills. But I always knew when enough was enough. I was always mindful that veerything has a price and not always to do with money. Integrity. That’s a pot of gold in my world.”
Grizzle passed away about two years ago. That old body of his just gave up. Gammon
reckoned that apart from his father, the old coot was the wisest man he ever knew. He carried the old man’s words with him as a kind of common sense alternative Bible.
Gammon unwrapped the cloth and looked at the kid’s top lip. He wondered if the kid was still alive. He also wondered why he didn’t just kill him outright. He couldn’t answer that question, at least not on this night anyway. Then he ran his thumb over the dragon badge. He felt no remorse. He would try to find where they buried the half-breed in the morning. He patted the two gold pouches in his pocket. He thought of his father and mother. Said some things quietly to himself in their direction and then eased himself into a lying position. He covered himself to the shoulder with his blanket.
The horse had settled down, except for the occasional heavy breathing snort. There was a bright moon. The night was peaceful. That is until something or someone snapped a branch on the ground about thirty feet away.
Chapter 7 (of 22)
Gammon sat upright. Then in a clean movement stood up just as a massive shadow lunged at him. But this was no wispy apparition, this was a hard-muscled solid bulk of a man. Gammon was slammed into a tree and a searing pain seemed to travel up and down his spinal cord. He swung his arms hoping his clenched fists would connect with something. The third swing was the lucky one. The big man went reeling backwards as Gammon instantly followed up with a kick to the underpart of his chin. He splayed on the ground for a few moments as Gammon gathered his breath and wits. But soon the big man was back on his feet and pacing towards Gammon. He grabbed Gammon by the throat with a hand as big as a frying pan and began squeezing. With his free hand, the big man tried to grab Gammon’s crotch but Gammon managed to raise a hard knee to the man’s own balls making him yelp like a beaten hound. The big man, now doubled up and bent forward, charged like a raging bull but Gammon side-stepped the oncoming threat. The big man’s head hit the tree and he fell to the ground like a sack of corn cobs. Gammon walked over to him only to feel his foot grabbed. He was pulled to the ground. The big man rolled on top of him and Gammon felt pinned and helpless. He could also feel a knife blade at his throat.
“Food,” spat the big man. “All I want is a little food. That’s all.”
Gammon could feel the man’s warm saliva-spit on his face.
“I can give you some food, if you get the hell off me.”
The big man put his face within two inches of Gammon’s. His breath was a rancid combination of whiskey, tobacco and rotten meat.
“No tricks or I’ll kill you.”
The big man rolled off Gammon and stood up with the knife still in his hand. Gammon eased himself onto his knees, kept his head still but let his eyes search for his gun. It was somewhere close but he couldn’t see it.
“I’m getting up now. I’ll get you some food from my bag. Not much but you’ll have to make it last.” Gammon stood up and stretched.
“Who the hell are you and why do you think it necessary to attack a man if all you want is his kindness?”
“Just the food,” growled the big man. “Then I’ll be out of your way.”
Gammon walked to his saddle on the ground and grabbed the bag next to it. As he turned, he spotted his gun nestling in a clump of grass. He didn’t like this man. His instincts told him that he wouldn’t be happy with a few salt and pepper biscuits and a bite of dried ham.
“Here,” said Gammon handing the bag to him. “All I got.”
The man grabbed the bag, opened it and started stuffing the food into his mouth. Gammon watched him for a moment before diving for the gun.
The startled man had no chance to react.
“Who are you?” barked Gammon.
The big man stopped chewing, wiped his sleeve over his crumbed lips.
“Just a simple man trying to get through this miserable life any way I can.”
“Name?”
“Cole. Just Cole.”
“You attack people often? Try to kill them? Steal their food?”
“Way I was brung up. Nobody took care of me. Been a scavenger all my life. Only way I know. Want something I take it. Easy or hard, it don’t matter much to me.”
Gammon was looking at this bear of a human being and thinking at the same time. What should he do with him? Kill him? Let him go?
“Need that horse too,” growled Cole.
“Not gonna happen,” said Gammon, cocking his pistol.
“I’m taking that animal, Mister, and if I get killed trying, then so be it.”
Gammon had set out to find and kill the seven men that had murdered his father. Some might call that a murdering spree but he didn’t want to kill anyone else for the sake of it, unless provoked. This was a situation, he considered, that happens every so often in this wild country, encountering a man with no morals, scavenging his way through life, surviving on taking and never giving in return. What’s a reasonably decent man to
do?
“You are not getting my horse,” said Gammon firmly.
“Well, then you and me have a problem.” Cole had finished the morsels of food. He threw the bag away, reached into his pocket and threw something. In a flash, Gammon felt a knife stab his shoulder.
“Thought I was dumb enough to only carry one knife. I’m smart when I want to be.”
Cole took his chance and rushed at Gammon, but Gammon had clung to his gun. The first shot hit Cole’s chest, to the left of his heart region. The second shot caught him in the throat. He fell with a thud. Gammon studied the body for any movement or any flinch. It was no longer breathing.
“Shit,” he heard himself say out loud as he pulled the knife from his shoulder. The wound wasn’t too deep, so healing would come soon. He took off his shirt and checked, doused water on the cut and stuffed a torn piece of cloth into the crevice to slow the bleeding. He had to deal with it, quicken the healing. Old Grizzle had explained a method to him that was both unsavoury and risky. Gammon stoked up the fire and placed the knife blade in the flame. Grizzle said that the best time to remove the knife from the fire was just before it turned red. The blade was just about at that point. Gammon removed the cloth stopper, refolded it and put it between his teeth. He knew the pain to come would be almost unbearable. He clenched his teeth and raised the knife to the wound. He pressed down and instantly there was the smell of burning flesh, and excruciating agony. After about five seconds, he lifted the blade and checked the wound. One more press would seal it. He placed the knife back on the fire and prepared to repeat the treatment. When he was done, he spat out the cloth, doused the wound with more water and put his shirt back on.
He looked at the dead man. This was a drifter’s hazard, he thought. What the hell now? If he left him, something would drag him away for a fresh meat feast or in a month or so the snows would cover him, or he would rot from natural causes. Gammon had no compunction to bury Cole. Too much sweat and for what? He thought about setting him on fire, but that would have been a beacon to anyone and anything for miles. He decided to leave him where he fell, but reckoned the big man was worth searching.
He had no money, no possessions to speak of. There was a plug of tobacco and another knife, but no gun. Gammon threw the tobacco away, tucked the knife into his belt and then felt something underneath Cole’s shirt. He ripped the buttons and heard himself chuckle. An eyeglass.
“Thank you, Lord,’ he said looking to the sky. “You sure do work in mysterious ways.” Then he lay down by the tree and fell asleep.
Chapter 8 (of 22)
As signalled by Dan Bleak before he checked out of his life back at the hotel, Gammon was heading for Globe. But he took a detour to explore some territory north-east suggested by Ellis Drummond. He wanted to find the half-breed’s grave or at least have a damn good try at locating it. He wasn’t planning to waste too much time but it was part of his mission to see all seven men before he decided to kill them or make them pay in whatever way he chose.
He rode for a couple of hours, his shoulder still aching from the knife wound and his cack-handed medical treatment. When he got to Globe he reckoned on letting a doctor take a look.
Around noon, Gammon rested under the lip of a ridge. After chewing on a stiff piece of ham, he remembered the eyeglass. He took it from his coat, cleaned the lenses at both ends with his thumb and scanned the land before him. At first, it was a scattergun look at specific things in the distance, clumps of trees, rock formations, birds flying, maybe a wolf or coyote way off on top of a hill, general things to amuse himself. But he soon settled down into a slow scan from left to right looking for nothing in particular. On the second, slow sweep back from right to left, he did a double-take before lowering the glass from his eye. He wiped sweat from his forehead, rubbed his thumb on the front lens and had another look. It was quite a distance away but Gammon was certain he could see an upturned cross sticking out of a mound of earth.
As he approached the mound, his horse slowed down. It was nothing to do with control of the reins. Gammon was aware that horses sometimes have instincts about dead things close by. Looking down at the grave, Gammon studied it for a few moments before dismounting. He pulled the makeshift cross out and threw it aside. Using his gloved hands, he started clearing and digging. He reckoned that if this was the half-breed’s last resting place, then it would be a shallow pit. And he was right. About a foot down, he scraped away some dust and pebbles and began to see parts of a face. He scraped some more and there was the face of a dead man. It was the half-breed for sure. Gammon took a knife from his belt and cut a long strand of hair from the corpse’s head. He stood up, drew his gun and fired all six shots into the dead man’s face. He knew there was no point in killing someone that had already been killed but it made a kind of sense to Gammon, even if it was the kind that God himself would struggle to understand.
He walked around for a short time, noticing the scant trace of the gang’s campfire. Then he spotted a discarded pouch clinging to some brush. He pulled it free and looked inside. It was empty, of course, but it was important to him to retrieve it.
Gammon sat in the shade of a tree and took stock of what he had done and considered what he still had to do. Seven men set out on a killing and stealing run. Five men were left. Maybe four if Ellis Drummond had gone to meet his Maker. He still couldn’t reason with himself as to why he left Drummond alive. But he did and tangling with the thought and decision was not going to change things. If Drummond was dead, then praise the Lord, thought Gammon. If he managed to break free and hobble for help, his time would come somewhere, somehow.
He thought about his mother and hoped she was coping well with the grief at losing her husband and the worry she had for her son. He would double back maybe in a week or so to the Andrews place to check that she was okay.
Apart from the names pencil-lined on his list, Gammon had also gained two extra knives
and an eyeglass from the big man, Cole. He didn’t give him any thought beyond that.
Finally, before he mounted and got on his way to Globe, he looked at the dragon badge, the scrap of lip-fluff and the length of hair, wrapped them back in a cloth and put the cloth in his saddle bag. He had three of the seven pouches too.
He left the face of the half-breed uncovered. It was all shot to hell and come nightfall scavenging packs of the wild and wicked would feast on the corpse right down to the bones.
Globe was much the same as Cave Creek and a hundred other towns, not a lot going on, just enough. Gammon stopped for a while at a bathhouse where he washed, shaved and dabbed some free cologne on his shoulders and chest. He visited a doctor who sniffed at the rough surgery done to the stab wound on his shoulder but declared that while an ugly mess of skin would be there forever, there was no sign of infection.
Later Gammon ate two plates of stew and drank two beers at a hotel dining room. He was aware that he was being observed by a man chewing his way through steak and potatoes and drinking several cups of coffee. The man’s star indicated he was a lawman. In a corner of the room sat the third of the three lone diners. The man had his back to Gammon and was facing the wall.
“Mind if I join you?” asked the lawman.
“No,” answered Gammon.
“I’m Sheriff Antonio Brennan,” said the lawman, extending his hand. Gammon shook it.
“That’s a cocktail of a name,” said Gammon.
“Mexican mother and Irish father. Let’s just say I grew up in a house of much shouting and plate throwing. It could have been worse. I could have been Pablo Kelly.”
Gammon laughed to be polite. Brennan was fat and greasy. His lips glistened from the food he’d just eaten. The underarms of his shirt were damp and the bristles on his chin showed a man not too concerned with personal hygiene.
“Passing through?”
“Yes. Passing through. But I’m on business.”
Brennan leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips and squinted at Gammon.
“What kind of business?”
“Personal business.”
“All legal and above board, I hope, at least until you get out of this jurisdiction.”
“Well, Sheriff, I’d rather not go into that right now.”
Brennan motioned forward, put his elbows on the table, then his hand to his mouth before wagging a finger at Gammon.
“No need to get all mysterious or smart with me, son. Something tells me that underneath that sweet scent of cologne there’s a bad smell.”
“Well, that might be the case.”
“Gotta name?”
“Willard Gammon.”
“Well, Willard,” said Brennan sucking his teeth, “I hope you and I can get along.”
“I hope so too, Sheriff. I’m not planning to stay here much beyond today. I’m looking for some people and someone told me they might have come this way a day or so ago.”
“Is this a trouble thing?”
“Could be.”
Brennan leaned back again and stared into Gammon’s eyes. Gammon decided to mention a few things to enlighten the Sheriff and to avoid any unnecessary rancour.
“Some men killed my father without mercy. They scared my mother almost to death. They took some saved gold and spread out across various places and towns. I aim to catch up with each of them and…….well, make them face the consequences of their sins.”
Brennan took a deep breath but said nothing in return.
Gammon looked over at the man facing the wall. Then he looked back at Brennan.
“Sheriff, I’m going to walk around town for a leg-stretch. I trust that fits in with your approval.”
“If you’re no trouble to me, then I’ll be no trouble to you.”
Gammon got up, put on his hat and threw a couple of coins onto the table. Brennan followed, put on his hat and tidied the belt on his fat belly.
“No charge for me. Sheriff’s perks.”
The two men left the hotel. Gammon walked along the boards to the left. The Sheriff watched him for a couple of seconds and then headed right towards his office.
Inside the dining room, the last diner stood and placed his money on the table. He slipped on his tight black gloves, patted his gun and walked into the street. Gammon stopped at a store and sat on a chair outside. He tipped his hat back and watched the comings and goings around the town. It was early evening and still light, the slowly setting sun causing a warm, comforting golden glow across the roofs of the buildings opposite. He took out his gun with a smooth motion, checked that it was fully loaded and eased it back into the holster. The fact was not lost on him that the man in the dining room had a pair of black gloves next to his plate. Black gloves were not conclusive evidence of the man called Abel, but if he was Abel then he would have heard the conversation with the Sheriff. Gammon wanted to be ready. He put his boot up against a support post just as a shot rang out and caused a spray of wooden splinters to rain on his leg. As he fell to the ground, another bullet hit the chair. Gammon took cover behind a barrel. A third shot struck the barrel front. He had worked out roughly where the shots had come from. He peered above the barrel but saw nothing, only a street clear of people.
“Willard Gammon? You there?”
The Sheriff was calling from across the street by the newspaper office.
“I’m here. Not you doing the shooting I hope.”
“Not me. Can you see anything?”
“I’m pinned down Sheriff but I think I know where he is. Not sure where you are exactly but if my ears are accurate, I think you can cover me while I cross the street to the corner of the saloon.”
“Here I go,” shouted the Sheriff before firing several shots. Gammon ran from behind the barrel to the saloon wall. On his way, two bullets hit the dust around his feet. He was guessing that his ambusher had backed into the saloon.
“Much obliged, Sheriff.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. What now?”
“Well,” shouted Gammon, “I’d prefer if you turned a blind eye.”
“I can’t do that, son. Conscience and job rules and all that. But I do have some pressing business at the end of the street that’ll take about fifteen minutes.”
“I’d better let you get on with that.”
Gammon heard footsteps and rustling that he assumed were associated with the Sheriff walking away and laying low for a while. He sidled up to the saloon window but could not see the man with the black gloves. He moved towards the swinging doors and holstered his gun. There was no sign of his man as he peered over the curve of the entrance. He pushed the door and walked in. He was used to sudden silences in saloons. A stranger can almost always quieten a place at least until the regulars take a few moments to assess the situation. About a dozen people watched him and then went about their drinking, talking and gambling.
Gammon approached the bar. The bartender eyed him up.
“What’ll it be, Mister?”
“Looking for a man. I think he just came in here. Fellow with black gloves. Might have been a little excitable as he just took a couple of shots at me.”
The bartender straightened up and stood tall.
“Mister, I just want you to know that this here mirror behind me is new. It cost me a lot of money after a bar fight a month or so ago. Got it shipped out from San Francisco. Now, I would hate to see it shattered.”
“The man.” Gammon stared straight into the bartender’s eyes.
“A man came in and went out the back way. Can’t recall gloves.”
Gammon walked towards some velveteen curtains. He drew his gun and slowly eased an opening. Suddenly, something hit him in the stomach and knocked him flying back. The man with the black gloves leapt out from behind the curtains and landed on Gammon. He started punching and gouging before Gammon broke free. This was Abel. This was the man with the permanent sneer on his face. Gammon rushed him and connected three or four solid punches to his face. Abel fell onto a table and bounced back hitting Gammon with two blows to the ribs, then an uppercut to the chin. Gammon fell backwards onto a piano keyboard causing a tuneless clang. Abel was coming at him again with a raised chair. Gammon ducked and dodged as the chair clattered against a wall. He grabbed Abel by the throat with two hands, but Abel kneed Gammon in the groin and ran for the front doors. Gammon was too winded and in pain to react immediately. He hobbled awkwardly and peered outside into the street just as a bullet seared past his ear. He heard a galloping horse and presumed Abel was on it and on the road out of town. He also heard the bartender’s mirror shatter as the stray bullet did it’s worst.
Gammon straightened up and went outside. As luck would have it, he saw Sheriff
Brennan riding slowly up the street. His gun was out pointing at Abel on a horse in front of him.
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