January, 2012

Issue #28

A Good Day at Black Ridge
by David Jacob

The New Mexico sun blasted his lean, wind-burned face, But he ignored the heat, the dank air, and the trickles of running sweat on his damp forehead. Even the gawking faces that peered out from the store front windows blurred in his sight. Instead his focus was sharp as a saber, steel-grey eyes fixed on the wanted fugitive who stood like a mirage in the middle of the empty dirt street.

The outlaw wore dusty trousers, a cotton shirt, was half a hat shorter, lanky built, and fidgeted, changing his weight from one scuffed boot to the next. A floppy farmer's hat was perched jauntily on his straw-colored blond head. But, he was packing costly shooting irons — twin silver-plated revolvers. The grips peeked out from the leather belted holster that was strapped snugly around the lawbreaker's narrow hips.

"You're gonna die," the fugitive called.

"The name is Joshua Barlow," he answered. "Yah ought to know who's fixin' to kill you."

"You know who I am?" the gunslinger asked.

"Don't matter nairn," he said. "What matters is that yah're wanted by the law. You can come peacefully, or over the back of a hoss. It's your call."

The young lawbreaker spat tobacco juice on the street. "I'm the crack shot from here to the Cimarron. When I'm done, there won't be enough left of you to snore." The gunslinger's lips curled up into a crooked smile. "And after your stinking carcass is dead meat, you know what I'm gonna do? I'm going to...."

He ignored the taunting remarks of the young outlaw's last words. The youth's obscene rant didn't disturb him. He had heard similar threats before. They all acted alike, airin' the lungs with brave words to appear tough in front of their good-time friends. When the gunplay ended and the smoke cleared they all looked alike too — with shocked, opaque stares on their pain-riddled faces.

Instead he stayed focused on the gunslinger's hands. He saw the way the outlaw flexed his fingers before his hands strayed near the twin pistols. He noticed a change from the gunman, a swagger of self-confidence. The gunslinger's slitted eyes betrayed the spot as he glanced to the right at the shadowed alleyway that led to the livery stables.

Barlow's eyes followed and he spotted the dark silhouette of someone crouched behind the buckboard wagon. The bushwhacker held something in his hands, and it was long and thin.

As Barlow moved his actions were spontaneous, honed by the war, and by the countless hard-fought battles he'd survived in the intervening years. He smoothly drew the heavy Colt revolver from the leather holster, and as the barrel centered on the target's white-shirted chest — he fired. The pistol bucked upwards from the recoil but he held it steadfast in a tight grip. Smoke and the hot flash of ignited gun powder briefly hid the gunslinger from his sight. Then the wounded outlaw staggered backward as a crimson flood covered his punctured chest.

Barlow kicked up the dust as he sprinted toward the safety of a large brown saddle horse. Reaching the chestnut's rear flank, the smell of fresh horse dung and sweaty horse flesh hit his nose. He moved forward to the front of the big animal. As he moved the strident voice of Sergeant Struck echoed in his head. "Never presume the enemy is dead until they are buried under six feet of dirt."

He emerged out from the front of the four-legged shield with leveled, cocked revolver at the ready. He steadied the pistol and the large barrel spit out angry fire and death.

The second bullet caught the wounded gunslinger high on the right shoulder, whirling him upon wobbly legs like a spinning top. He collapsed on his face upon the street.

"One down," Barlow thought.

By moving swiftly behind the horse he had positioned himself in a parallel line across from the concealed ambusher, well to the side of the killer's line of sight. But, with the armed bushwhacker still protected behind the wagon he knew that he would have to flush the gunman out or risk taking a bullet in the ensuing gunfight.

He took careful aim and fired.

The bullets ricocheted against the buckboard wagon's wooden planking, spitting sharp wood splinters into the surprised man's face and eyes. As Barlow had expected, instead of staying behind cover the startled man rose up and exposed his large torso. The heavyset man spotted him beside the horse and whirled, leveling leveling the Winchester rifle, and fired. But, caught by surprise, his shots were well off the mark.

In answer Barlow's bullets struck the big man's large skull. And in a violent red spray of blood, flesh, and bone the man's hat-covered head disappeared. The force of the impact pitched his heavy body backward. He struck the side of the livery stable and the rifle in his plump hand fired. But, the stray bullet ricocheted harmlessly against the building's wooden planking.

Barlow steadied the pistol, sweeping the area, as he watched for any more threats But, the horrified, fearful faces that peered out the store front and upper story windows told him that all the fugitives had been killed. As he relaxed his previous tense, high- strung demeanor faded away. His breathing slowed and the pounding in his chest quit.

Out of habit he reloaded the Colt revolver before sliding it back into the leather holster, He adjusted his kerchief, retied the holster strap around his trousered thigh then stood to his full standing height. He patted the solid, muscular neck of the chestnut mare. Her big black eyes looked unmoved by his gesture of gratitude. Instead she snorted then dipped her nose into the water trough and took a long and noisy drink.

Sergeant Struck had taught him that the emotions that gripped a man during times of extreme danger hit him the most after the danger had passed. What the learned man had called "the nerves" affected his body, although he wasn't beset by the wobbly knees or the onset of trembling fingers as in the past. Still, it took a lot of effort to stop the churning in his belly from spilling out on top of his worn boots.

Removing his hat he dipped it into the water trough then bowed his head over the water and dumped the hat's contents on his exposed head. He ran a calloused hand through his shock of wet, coal-black hair. Then he stood straight and used his palm to wipe the remains of water from his rugged, beard-stubbled face. He resettled the hat back tightly upon his head and studied the near-empty street.

As he stared at the sprawled body of the dead gunslinger he removed a yellowed slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded the paper and glanced down at the artist's sketch of the dead outlaw. The poster also had a short description of the fugitive's many offenses.

But, what caught his interest was the amount of money he'd recieve after the lawbreaker's body was delivered to the town's sheriff. It would be enough to purchase more supplies. And maybe, just maybe if he watched his spending, enough to buy into a high stakes game of poker. He had always been lucky with cards, so stood a good chance to double the money he'd earned that day.

~Remembrances~

The creaking of the leather saddle mixed with the steady gait of the slow-moving pack horse as he led the burdened animal by a loose rein. He glanced backward to ensure the dead outlaws were still secure. Their tightly bound bodies, trussed up like trophy bucks, swayed with the rhythmic movement of the pack horse.

He guided his horse and the trailing chestnut mare toward the front of a squat, crudely-built lumbered building. A star-shaped sign hung under its shadowed wooden roof. The sign swayed gently in the light breeze. He dismounted, tied the two horses's reins to the outside hitching post and then walked up to the front door.

He had slung the dead outlaw's fancy cowhide pistol belt over his shoulder. His intention was to sell the belt and twin silver-plated revolvers, then use that money to buy some shells for the rifle he'd pried from the fat man's lifeless fingers.

He knew of other hunters without any respect for the dead. They acted like vultures, stripping the corpses of anything they could sell. Afterwards they left the bodies as bare as the day they'd come into this world. But, he firmly believed that regardless of how many offenses a man had against him, he still deserved to be buried with his boots on his feet.

As he stepped inside the room a shaft of yellow sunlight streamed through a back window. The natural light helped his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness of the small room. After his eyes had adjusted he studied the interior of the cramped space. It was hard to believe the small room could function as a jail, but, pidgeon-holed off to the right side of the room stood the vertical steel bars of the holding cell.

Inside the tiny cell sat a narrow cot with a worn, thin mattress stuffed with straw. Pillows were not provided to cushion a prisoner's sleeping head, but only a musky, threadbare horsehair blanket was given to ward off the cold night air.

The strong odor of stale piss hit his nose. He spied the slop bucket that sat on the wooden floor. By the smell that still lingered in the cell, it hadn't been emptied in a while. He had to admit the living conditions were not pleasant. But, compared to some jails he'd seen, this one was a luxury hotel. He recalled one town he'd visited had became so fed up with prisoners escaping from custody that they'd constructed a new type of jail. Using dynamite they placed charges to blow a series of deep holes along a nearby mountain's cliff face. Then they fitted the hollow holes with steel bars, confining the criminals inside the escape-proof solid rock cells. Riding out of town he'd seen them. The tattered-dressed prisoners were standing inside their dark, tomb-like cells. Underfed and sick with disease their bone-thin fingers gripped the vertical steel bars. He had felt uneasy as the entire mountainside of gaunt, black-streaked faces stared at him as he rode past the cliffside jail.

~Revelations~

He still stood in the room when the door behind him opened. He whirled around with his ready hand near his revolver as he faced the open doorway. But he was surprised to see a crippled man hobble inside. The hobbling man seemed practiced with the crutch, manuevering it easily upon the planked floor. With his free hand the heavy-built gimp-legged stranger carried a wooden bucket. As he moved across the floor the water inside the bucket sloshed and spilled out upon the wood-planked floor.

"Howdy," the stranger said.

He relaxed his hand from the side of his Colt revolver, raised it upward to tip a finger against the brim of his own hat. "Afternoon," he said.

"Sorry," the man said, "but I didn't see you ride up. I had to step out and fetch somewater so I could clean the place up. Hanged the last feller this morning ... horse thief. Shame too, 'cause he was just a boy — hadn't grow'd a full beard yet."

The man motioned toward the open doorway with his hat-covered head. "Them your horses outside?" he asked.

"Yep."

The crippled stranger's blue eyes met Barlow's own. "You done the world a lot of good, mister, sending them Reed boys to their rightful reward."

"I come for the bounty," he answered.

"Sure, you earned every cent," the man said. "And as soon I can find a spot to set this bucket down I be might obliged to sign all the paperwork — make it all nice and legal — so you can get your money."

As he continued to talk the big-bellied man balanced his heavy weight upon the support of the forward-leaning crutch. To Barlow's appraising eyes the fat-bellied, one-legged man did not look or act like a lawman. Lawmen were expected to be lean, ornery, and unfriendly. Hard-as-nails hombres who were tough as wet-leather and mean enough to fight a rattler and give him the first bite.

When a man put on the badge of a town's peacekeeper he risked his life every day. Cattle-rustlers and dangerous gunslingers were a daily hazard of the job. In addition to dealing with that extreme danger, he could be assured that knife-wielding whores and drunken, gun-happy cowboys would always pose a threat. So, to his way of thinking it seemed natural that lawmen would develop an unfriendly disposition when dealing with a untrustworthy public.

In contrast the one-legged man acted too friendly. His full, well-fed face was out of character — and his gut too soft. And his bushy moustache bucked upwards like a frisky white colt when he talked.

But, as the fat man sat the bucket of water down Barlow noticed the glint of metal shine from a badge pinned to the man's broad chest. Shaped like a star, that thin piece of metal carried a lot of weight, giving the wearer the full authority of the position — regardless of his appearance, any physical limitations, or strange, friendly ways.

The Sheriff stuck out his hand. "Didn't get your name, mister."

"Joshua Barlow." he answered.

"Well, Joshua," the sheriff said, "as I was saying you saved me a heap of paperwork. You would be surprised how much paperwork is involved just to give low-life scalawags like them Reed boys a proper necktie party. "

The sheriff then motioned to a small desk tucked in a far corner. "I'll be right happy to sign the death certificates, and then I will give you a legal note. In legal terms, it's a promissory note, good as any money — you can take it to the bank. See Charlie, he's the bank president. You give him that note and tell him Sheriff Joe gave it to you. He'll pony up the reward."

"Much obliged, Sheriff," Barlow answered. He settled his large brimmed hat tighter upon his head, readjusted the dead cowboy's pistol belt hanging from his shoulder then walked toward the open doorway.

"And Joshua," the sheriff said.

He stopped and turned to face the crippled lawman. "Yeah, somehing else yah wanted, Sheriff?"

"After your finished with your business at the bank, I'd be mighty obliged if you came back to see me. "

"Why?" he asked. "Way I see it, Sheriff, I suspect our business would be done."

Sheriff Joe said. "Yes, normally that would be true. But, the way you handled them Reed boys, Joshua, I think you're just the sort of man I've been looking for."

"What for?"

"I got a job offer for you," the sheriff said. "I"ll tell you all the details later. But, you stand to make a fistful more money than bounty hunting could ever bring. And just to sweeten the offer, there's a nice room up at The Silver Dollar boarding house. The owner keeps it empty for me. It's clean with a real bed. Beats sleeping on a horsehair blanket on the cold, hard ground. Or sharing a two-bit room with a bunch of snoring cowboys. I'll throw it into the deal too. Whatta you say, Joshua? You interested?"

Barlow rubbed a calloused hand over his beard-stubbled cheek. His mind whirled in thought as his strong fingers made a fist and scratched beneath his firm, sunbaked chin. "Sheriff," he said, "I make it a point to never fold my hand till I've first peeked at my cards. So, I'll listen to your offer and will give yah my answer."

Sheriff Joe's full, white-moustached face broke into a wide, happy smile. He stuck out his free palm to shake the deadly hunter's hand. "I knew it!" the sheriff said. "Second I laid eyes on you, had you pegged as a right smart fella."

Barlow hesitated to meet the lawman's outstretched hand. "Now wait a minute, Sheriff," he protested. "I didn't say I would agree, only that I would hear you out."

Sheriff Joe's inviting hand didn't budge. His blue eyes twinkled as he stood there patiently waiting for the bounty hunter to grip his outstretched hand. "But, you will, Joshua. You will agree. Of that I have no doubts," he said with a knowing smile.

"Sheriff, I've got a mind to turn yah down," Barlow said. "I don't cotton to any man think'n he's got me figured out. Way I see it a man's future should be left for him to decide. Not for a feller, no matter the properness of his intentions, to decide such matters for him."

If he expected his harsh words to have any effect upon the crippled man, he was sorely disappointed. Instead the lawman was grinning like a weasel in a hen house. The sheriff suddenly broke out into a conniption fit. As he howled his peals of laughter echoed off the cramped walls. Laughing, the paunch-bellied, red-faced lawman swayed back and forth like a drunkard upon the point of his planted wooden crutch. Finally, the fat man was able to constrain his emotions. He dug out a large handkerchief from a pocket and wiped away the traces of spit from the ends of his wide white moustache.

"He said you was full of piss and vinegar. That you'd most likely tell me to mind my own business. Not in those same words, mind you. But, the meanings the same." As he spoke again the sheriff's blue eyes twinkled.

"Who said?" Barlow demanded.

"Struck."

"You know of Sergeant Struck?"

"Know of him, Joshua? Why he and I served in the same regiment in '61 — the start of the great war. He told me you served under him when he was later transferred to the 19th."

"Yes, sir, the 19th Kentucky Infantry. I owe a lot to Sergeant Struck. More than I can ever repay. If not for him, our regiment would never had made it through those bloody battles alive. I survived that war, but only by the skin of my teeth —"

"Yes, Joshua, I know," the sheriff said. "Struck told me. I received a telegram from him two weeks ago. He told me to be on the look out. That you'd most likely be riding this way. He also said you was right handy with a Peacemaker. Seeing's how you licked them Reed boys, I reckon he was right."

The crippled lawman paused and used his arm to point toward his missing leg. "And now that I got myself busted up, Struck said you could be a valuable asset to me, should our paths cross."

"If yah don't mind me asking, Sheriff? How'd that happen?" he asked.

"Horse crushed it. I was uncorkin' a Bangtail, when the dang thing went loco and ran my leg into the side of the corral. Doc Penny tried to save it, but infection set in and he had to cut it off at the knee. Funny thing, even though I know they're missing I still get a hankering to scratch my toes now and then. Anyway, all my cards are on the table. My offer stands. Whatta you say, Joshua? You interested?"

For the first time Barlow smiled. The expression helped to soften his granite-hard grey eyes. He gripped the lawman's outstetched hand. "Sheriff," he said, "if you'd told me all this before, you'd have saved us both a good deal of misunderstandin's."

"What, and miss a good ribbing?" the sheriff asked. The happy lawman looked down at the sight of their two hands joined and smiled. "I take it this means you've decided to incline reason to my very generous offer?"

"Sure do," he said. "Any man Sergeant Struck would call a friend I would be right proud to work for."

The sheriff interrupted. "Way I see it, Joshua, even though I wear the badge, we both got our parts to do to keep peace in this town."

"Sounds about right as rain to me, Sheriff," he said. He walked toward the open doorway and called over his shoulder. "Time's awasting. I'll see to unloading the horses, then finish my business with the bank. Afterwards, I'll return and yah can fill me in on the particulars of yahr proposition."

The sheriff started to move across the room. "I almost forgot, you will need me to sign those death certificates so you can collect your reward." The big-bellied peacekeeper hobbled toward the small desk that sat in the far corner of the room. Reaching the desk, he propped the wood crutch against the wall before plopping down upon a tall wooden stool.

The sheriff dug a match from his vest pocket and used it to light the oil lamp sitting on the desk. A warm spreading glow of yellowish light lit up the room, casting long moving shadows upon the adjacent walls. He tossed the spent match on the floor. "Did Struck ever tell you what he did before the war?" he asked.

Barlow stopped in the open doorway and turned to face the sheriff perched in the corner. "What?" he asked.

"He was a teacher, a professor at Boston College. Apparently, he's a Big Bug back east, 'cause he signed the telegram all proper."

Sheriff Joe paused to rifle through some papers lying upon his cluttered desk before selecting a small crumpled slip of paper which he held up in his large hand. The lawman studied the telegram, silently lip-reading the words before finally reaching the desired part. "Here it is," Sheriff Joe said, "Professor Charles Abijah Struck."

"Abijah?" Barlow repeated. "I don't recollect him telling me that name."

Sheriff Joe waved the telegram he clutched in his hand. "I must confess, Joshua, to my way of thinkin' Abijah's not rightly a fit brand for a man like Struck."

"It surely taint, Sheriff," he said. "Just goes to show, that no matter the degree a man reckons he knows the other. He can always slip the loop."

The lawman paused with a pen in his hand. He glanced over toward him. "There's a lot of weight behind them words, Joshua," Sheriff Joe said.

He tipped his hat toward the sheriff, turned and walked through the doorway. Once outside he paused under the swaying star-shaped sign. Removing his hat he scratched the back of his head. He'd ridden into town thinking he knew the lay of the land. But, the transpired events betwixt the sheriff and him had proven he was still acting like a tenderfoot when assaying the true worth of a man.

He fished out his makings from a pocket and quickly rolled a cigarette. He struck a lit match to the end and drew the smoke deep into his lungs before letting it roll out his nose. As he stood on the planked sidewalk enjoying his first smoke of the day, the pungent white cloud drifted across the dirt street and was carried away by the hot, blowing Santa Ana winds.

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