Dust Devils, Part 3 of 4
by P.B. Hampton

When did he have children? Slade couldn't recall their births but there they were, a big boy and a tiny blonde girl, playing in the yard. He and his . . . wife? . . . damn, he didn't recall a wedding either . . . sit in their chairs on the porch, holding hands as they watch their children playing. Slade feels happiness, as free as he has ever felt. He wears a soft pair of pants without a gun belted to his waist. The children dance around a giant sunflower that stretches out of sight into the clouds. His wife squeezes his hand and he turns his head to her. She has nice hair, a curly sort of do, but she has no face. Where her face should be is a white blob and yet words come from it, clear words which ring inside his head: "They're here, Amos!" she says. Her voice grows deeper: "Amos!" His chair becomes hard and uncomfortable –

"Amos, wake up, the Kimbroughs are here!" Jacob is standing over him as he comes fully awake. "It's just like you called 'em, a derby hat and a gaucho."

Slade comes to his feet as well as to his senses. Damned frilly dreams! What woman would ever have him? "Where are they?"

"They split up. Derby hat went across the street, the other'n is comin down this side. They come in from the west, like you, and left their mounts at the edge of town."

Slade and Jacob stand in the pitch black of the hotel lobby with Slade straining to sharpen his night vision while he ponders. "That means they know somebody's here or they would have rode on in. Damned George must have seen my trail."

"He caught your trail after that storm?" Jacob asks doubtfully.

"Hell yes! I must have turned over a rock or two in the creek bed out there or some shit! I told you, Jacob, those buzzards are good at what they do." Slade settles on a plan of action. "Jacob, you hustle out the back and beat Jim down to the livery. He'll smell our horseflesh in there because there is no chance of the blind son-of-a-bitch seeing anything in this darkness. He'll come in, and he's got senses like a damned bat, so don't think he won't know you're in there unless you tuck yourself away real good. Wait until he is well inside so he can't bolt without you being able to get off one good shot and then give him a chance to drop his piece. Like I said, he'll home in on your voice in a flash so be ready to put him down if he don't obey and turns your way. I mean it, Jacob, he can shoot, so you have got to be willing to lay him down if you want to see Pennsylvania with that little family of yours! Now, are you up to that?"

"I am, for a fact. What about his brother? You got a plan for him?" Jacob's voice is hissing with excitement and Slade does not detect any fear. In fact, it takes him back to those days during the war when voices, young and old, were stretched by anticipation.

"If you hear shooting up this way, and Jim has laid down his gun, then wait a minute to see who hollers. If it's me, bring Jim on out. If you hear George Kimbrough yelling for his brother, well, then you're on your own and would do better to use Jim as a hostage. If it comes to that, Jacob, you have got to get your head around the fact that you need to plant both of those bastards to protect your family."

"Damn you, Amos, don't you go gittin yourself kilt on me now!"

Slade chuckles lightly, being overtaken by the amazing calm he always feels when it is nearing time to fight. "I sure don't aim to, Jacob, but that damned George is right handy with a piece himself."

"But he ain't as good as you, Amos, tell me he ain't as good!"

"No," Slade replies steadily, "he ain't that good. Now go, just think of Ruthie and those twins when the time comes."

Jacob, who has obviously kept his word regarding his intention to stay awake, has excellent night vision as he deftly dodges furniture and a spittoon on his way out the back door. He moves quickly and quietly, with a determined grip on his Winchester, a thing which pleases Slade all the way down to his toes.

He moves himself, stepping lightly onto the wooden walk which fronts the hotel. He is wide awake now, his senses on full alert, and the formerly stormy sky has given way to the glow from a half-moon. He neither sees nor hears anything, remaining very still as he listens to the sound of the night.

Slade worries about Jacob, about the man's lack of pure devil meanness. Jim Kimbrough will shoot that new father down like he is a rabid dog if Jacob's soft heart hesitates to accept a normal pulse. He shakes away those frets, realizing he has his own business which will require his full attention. He moves, staying in the shadow of the crooked roof above the walk. A board creaks beneath his weight and he immediately springs from the walk to hunker in the muddy street.

Where is that back-shooting son-of-a-bitch? Even if George started at the very end of this raggedy town he should be this far by now! Slade wants Kimbrough in his line of sight if gunfire should erupt from down around the livery stable. A rain-barrel sets across the alley which runs between the hotel and a caved-in dry goods store. Slade dashes for it, stealing a quick glance down the alley as he crosses.

Everything becomes real calm. The whole world seems to stop in the way it does before a big storm breaks open.

No gunfire is heard nor does George Kimbrough loom into view, but a great disturbance shatters the night – a baby begins to complain, long and loud, soon joined by the determined wailing of its sibling.

Shit! Those little rascals have no idea what a problem they have just caused! Slade moves without another thought, splashing as noisily as he can to the center of the soppy street. "George Kimbrough, show yourself you yellow-bellied piece of horseshit!" He does not stand upright but dips and bobs and weaves in order to offer a very poor target . . . .and gets what he wants: shot at by George Kimbrough! He has seen the Kimbrough brothers shoot, out behind the Diamond Creek Saloon in Fulton's Crossing during a drunken, impromptu shooting match. Jim shot from the hip, not bothering to extend his arm because the blind bastard couldn't see past his hand anyway. George, on the other hand, turned slightly sideways and stuck out his arm, having no trouble at all seeing the target. The loud-mouthed braggart won the damned contest, too.

All these thoughts go through Slade's head faster than the bullet George Kimbrough fires at him from the darkest corner of the hotel. Slade, who has yet to pull his Colt, sees the yellow flash as a bullet nicks the collar of his shirt. Only then does he respond, whipping out his pistol and sending two quick shots just low and right of the muzzle-flash. Amos Slade is always more comfortable, more confident, when he draws and fires thoughtlessly. Two years of flaming combat tends to instill certain qualities in a man, certain habits, and one of Slade's is accuracy born from quick reactions.

Kimbrough yowls far louder than a couple of crying babies, and at that precise instant gunfire sounds from down inside the livery. Slade hears Jacob's Winchester, two rapid reports from Jim Kimbrough's dragoon and then Jacob's rifle again.

Slade runs, zigzagging toward the corner of the hotel. He hears his foe before he sees him as a long moan rattles from the gloom: "Ohhhhh . . . .ah, God!"

"Better call on somebody who knows you a little better, George." Slade is close enough to see that Kimbrough's brand-new Schofield .44 has been dropped to the ground next to the bounty hunter's writhing body.

"Slade! You lucky sumbitch, nobody can shoot that good! Ohhhhh . . . ." He has received the worst kind of lick, a gut-shot, but his evil little eyes search for the Schofield even as he gasps in terrible pain.

"No, George, you can't shoot that good. You're done for, Kimbrough, with nothing to hope for but suffering through the next few hours or so. Now, I'll do for you because I'm not in the mood to hear you crying. You tried to kill me and would have done worse by the woman who is mothering those babies you heard bawling. For that, you son-of-a-bitch, and considering you're going to bleed out anyway . . . George Kimbrough, do you have any last words?"

"Jim will do for you, you goddamned murderer!"

"Nope, sorry to inform you but Jim has been done for himself. You couldn't hear it, what with a bullet cutting you in two and all, but my partner laid Jim to rest down in the livery at the same time you got hit."

For just an instant, a tiny blink in time, Slade thinks he sees sadness cross George Kimbrough's face. Then, just as quickly, the monstrous look returns to his features and he snarls: "I'll tell the devil to save you a place near the head of his table!"

"I appreciate that." And Amos Slade puts a bullet right between George Kimbrough's eyes. His blood is up, roaring in his ears, and oh, how he wishes for McCarson and his gang right then. He spits a gob on Kimbrough's limp body, a terrible yearning in the pit of his stomach to do more killing.

He hears splashing, long strides coming up the street, peers around the corner to see Jacob Mueller's ungainly form coming his way. "Amos! Amos!"

"Over here, Jacob." Slade calls evenly.

Jacob is wide-eyed, jerking with excitement. Slade has seen the look before. It is the appearance of a man who has realized the dreadful power he holds to take another man's life. "I give him a chance, Amos, just like you said, but he didn't take it! When I saw him turnin that big ol' pistol my way my mind got ahead of my hands, just like you said, and I missed by a mile. He got off a couple that splintered wood near my ears so I forced my mind to slow itself down, took dead aim, and done for that sorry bastard!"

"I bet you wish McCarson and them was here right now." Slade suggests.

"Hell yes, damned straight I do! I'd blow the one you name right out of his saddle! By God, Amos, I protected my family, stood up like a man for them I did!"

"Jacob, listen to me now. You planted a row of corn tonight, that's what you've done, and I don't imagine you'll be running to Ruthie to brag about killing a man."

Jacob sobers immediately at the mentioning of his sanctimonious wife. "No, God, I couldn't do that." He has calmed a great deal in just a few seconds. "I would, though, be proud to tell her over supper one night that I set out some 'maters and sowed some corn and beans."

"There you go." Slade agrees.

"Jacob! Jacob!" Ruth Mueller has made her way to a window on the second floor. "Dear God, Jacob, please let me know you are well!"

"Right here, Ruthie! Me and Amos are both fine, honey. We run them what come huntin for me off, we sent them buzzards packin!"

"Oh, thank you Father, thank you. Jacob, please, hurry up here so these babies and I can see your face."

"Be right there, honey." He turns to Slade, his face beaming brighter than a full moon. "I know I ain't supposed to feel giddy over what I done, Amos, but God save my soul how I want to go out and meet McCarson and them right this here minute!"

"Your blood is up, Jacob, and it's a natural enough thing, I reckon, but right now you need to go up there and fill your heart up with your wife and those babies. You're going to need that love when you come down to keep from crying your eyes out."

"You mean for a polecat that would have done evil to my family? I got me no tears for the likes of him, nossir!" He pauses to look at George Kimbrough curled on the ground. "By damned, Amos, he's nailed right between the eyes! Are you that good?"

"No," Slade replies immediately, "I'm that bad." He bends to roll Kimbrough's body about, rifling the dead man's pockets, coming up with a ten-dollar gold piece and a scrap of silver coins. "You rustle Jim's pockets?"

Jacob appears a bit shocked, taking a step back. "No, it never crossed my mind to do such a thang."

"I'm not a ghoul, Jacob. Their money won't spend in hell, will it?"

"No, no, I reckon it won't."

"Jacob! Please, darling, come to me!"

"You go on now; I got a little idea working in my head. You go be with your family, I'll be in there directly."

"All right, if you say so." The new killer starts away, stops, and turns back. "You gonna bury, 'em, Amos?"

"No, they're not fit to bury!" Amos answers brusquely. "I'm going to display them, maybe take a little starch out of those that will be coming very soon."

"I'll do my part."

"No, Jacob, see to your family. What I'm about is shit-heel business and you don't need such as that rubbing off on those fresh babies. Go on, now."

"All right, then. Amos, if you was a different sort of man than you are I'd be strapped across a saddle by now and them young'uns wou'unt even have a daddy."

"But I'm not and you're not and they do, so don't be pondering anymore on that because we still got us a ruckus to get through. There comes a time, Jacob Mueller, when enough has been said."

Slade sees Jacob nod in the darkness. The new father, who is still quaking from his first kill, departs without another word.