Dealing From the Bottom
by Stuart Suffel

The swirl of dry dust which funneled up from the ground caused Jarak's colt to snort in distaste. Jarak patted its neck, partly to calm the animal, partly to calm himself.

"Easy Jade," he whispered to the nervous horse. The colt gave a soft neigh. He patted it again. He could not blame the colt. There was a taste to the dust. A taste of death and decay. The Deadlands outside Bolton favored neither man nor beast. It treated all with the same contempt.

He pulled his neckerchief up over his mouth, raised a hand to shade away the brightness and peered across the wide expanse. Nothing yet. He lifted the Henry out of its scabbard and gave it a quick inspection for any mud. There was none. Or if there had been, it had frazzled up in the heat on the way over from the river bed. He was tempted to open it up, check it all again. But that was foolishness. Nervousness, if he was honest. The rifle was as clean as it could be.

He looked again out to the wide open plain. Whatever died out here would eventually dissolve in the heat of the sun, or be picked clean by buzzards. The Deadlands might be an uncaring killer, but it cleaned up after itself. He only hoped it didn't take his prey.

He slid the repeater back into its holder. Six of them. One handgun between them, if old man Rudy was to be believed. Knife carriers the rest. Scum. Low-life, raping scum.

Old man Rudy. Skin as leathery as a lizard's and eyes to match, one of them blue and swollen, like a blue-bottle fly trapped in a hardboiled egg. Ancient, decrepit and half blind, he practically lived on the porch outside Lucy's Bordello. But he identified each one of them – right down to their boots. And for that Jarak was grateful.

For sure Sheriff Olsen took down all the details in his book. Their names, how they looked, how they dressed, how they rode. The old man was thorough. Jarak watched the sheriff write it all down, every word. And that's where it stayed. In the book.

He'd most likely hang for this. If they caught him, and they most likely would. Not too many half breeds in this part of the county. They'd hang him, but they'd beat him bad first. Indians don't kill white men. No matter what.

The horse neighed loudly. He realized he was holding the reins with a clenched fist. He quickly released his grip. Jade was all he owned in the world. That and the Henry. One earned, the other stolen. He'd never be allowed back to work with the smith. Not now. Not after stealing his rifle. Hanson was a fair enough man, once you worked hard and didn't answer back. But that was all over. A 'wild un' Jarak was now. 'Nothin' worse than an Injun turned' the white folks often said.

They were wrong. There was. Someone who was bought and sold like cattle. Less than a slave. A thing. To be used and abused as men chose. She did not choose. She did not choose then men who called at her room. No.

He did not pretend to know what love was. He had never known a woman's touch, felt a woman's breath upon his neck. But he knew kindness, and she was the only one who had ever looked at him with any. And he knew wrong. Yes. He knew that. And justice.

A pistol was useless against a rifle. A rifle he used every time the smithy let him, which was often enough to make shooting dead six desert-weary riders an easy task. It wasn't fair. There was no honor in it. But then, they didn't deserve any.

A form shimmered in the distance. A ball of black with a trail of smoky dust around it. He stared at the approaching shape - a mile at most away. It was them.

Would she know? Would someone tell her? They'd have to. The whole damned town would know. The whole damned county.

He clipped the colt over into the shadows of a nearby half-roofed stall. The afternoon sun still had some bite to it and so the horse neighed its thanks. He dismounted, threw the reins over a post and lifted the repeater out of its scabbard again. He felt its weight. It was already loaded. He ran his hand along the base of the barrel. It felt cool against his now-slightly-wet palm.

Mister Landon, the smithy, loved the Henry and Jarak understood why. It was beautiful. Elegant. And it did what was asked of it. Without question. Just as Jarak had these many years. With his free hand, he took the ragged cushion from under his saddle and set it down on a wooden post that ran along the roofed corral. He rested the Henry on the cushion and carefully jutted his shoulder against the butt to judge the height and the hold. It was perfect. He wiped his palm dry. Another five minutes at most.

Six men. Barrett, a red-haired drunk and the leader of the gang. Roberson, a known Army deserter and wife beater. Gerard, a thief, a liar and a slanderous cur, and his brother Jake, the same. The other two were hangers-on, Brant and Bakerfield, both convicted horse thieves. Always together, like the pack of dogs they were. Low-lifes all of them. But not as low as the girl they violated – not as far as Sheriff Olsen was concerned.

The black cloud drew closer. They were riding hard. Big poker game tonight, twenty tables. If they didn't arrive back in Bolton by sunset, they'd get no seat. Jarak smiled to himself. It was that piece of information, supplied by old man Rudy, that had sealed their fate. He carefully balanced the rifle on the cushion and walked over to his horse. He loosened the canteen from its satchel and took a long swig.

"Man should never leave his piece unattended," a voice said.

Jarak swung around, eyes wide with shock. But then he quickly relaxed. "What you doing here Rudy?" he asked. "I don't need no help."

The old man who had given him so much information gave a toothless grin back. The musket he held was an old one. Be lucky if it could reach ten paces. Jarak nodded to the musket with a smirk. "You'll be lucky to hit your own foot with that."

The old man grinned wider. "Ain't aiming for my feet young 'un." He lifted the rifle level to Jarak's stomach and fired. Jarak's middle exploded into a red mess. He hit the ground. The pain sent a wave of shock through his body, but not as much as the shock he felt in his mind. He sat and stared at the old man, his look a desperate question.

"Them six is customers, Injun. Good customers. Good 'nuff for Lucy to pay me a month's drinking money. Sheriff too."

Jarak drew in a breath, but it was his last. He slumped to the ground. Dead.

Some minutes later six horsemen pulled up to a half-roofed stall to see a face they knew.

"Hey, Rudy, what brings you out here?" the red-haired one asked the old man.

Rudy smiled. "Afternoon Barrett. A wild one," he said, pointing to a nearby young colt. "Escaped early this morning. Lucy asked me to tame it."

Barrett looked at the horse, then at the old man. The colt was saddled. The old man wasn't making sense. But then he never did. It was none of his business either way.

"Sure Rudy. You wanna ride back to Bolton with us?"

Rudy shook his head. "You boys ride on. Ye don't wanna be late. Tables are all set up. I've to do a bit of tiding up here first."

It was then Barrett noticed the spade leaning against the stall post. "You doing a bit of gardening Rudy?"

Rudy grinned. "Bit of weeding be more precise."

Barrett looked at the other riders. None seemed particularly interested in the conversation. Bakerfield spoke up. "What the hell Red, we gonna make this game or not?"

Barrett nodded. He saluted the old man, and clipped his horse forward. The old man waved as they moved of into the distance.

A squawk sounded from above. Rudy watched the bird hover. Soon there would be others.

"Easy buzzard," he called out. "Gotta let the desert tame him a little first." He patted the colt who was marking the ground nervously at the presence of the buzzards. "More than a month's money you'll bring my lovely."

He walked behind the wooden wall were Jarak's corpse was slumped. He picked up the rifle he had left on the corpse's chest, giving it an admiring look. He glanced back to the dead man. "Well Injun, your whore gave me this." He took a small medallion out of his pocket and shoved it into the dead man's tunic. "I'll be sure an' tell her how you escaped with your life from the Barrett gang when I come back next week. She'll like that. Might even like it enough to give me a free ride."

A while later Rudy kicked the hard clay off his spade and tied it to his mount. He cantered off, the colt tied behind him. He rode in the direction the six men had come from, away from Bolton town. He weren't much of a card player anyway.