September, 2014

 
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Issue #60



All The Tales
Lily Belle and the Pistoleer
by Steve Myers

Gil and I were headed to southern California. We didn't feel like spending another winter freezing in a line shack and Gil's older brother Henry wrote that he'd found the land of milk and dark-eyed honeys. That was enough to put us on the trail.

In Carson City we heard about a redhead honey named Lily Belle Walker who ran a saloon in a place called Felicity, where there were gold and silver mines. So, since it was on the way, we decided to take a look.

We got there around noon. The town was lined up on both sides of the road with nothing much behind the few buildings except for some sheds and a corral for the stage horses. Most of the places had wood sides and canvas roofs, even the blacksmith's. He had his forge outside and he was forming a set of horse shoes, his hammer ringing on the anvil, as we rode by. There were men walking around, some with whiskey bottles in their hands, and wagons parked by a two story building with the sign "All U Want Food, Wisky, Wimmen." Then there was a low building with wood coffins displayed on both sides of the door and, next to it, the marshal's office. At the far end of town there stood a new two story building with a wide porch, two big double doors now opened, and swinging doors in the opening. A large sign on the top of the porch read: "The Lily Belle."

Gil said, "I figure that's where she be."

"Most likely."

"Well, if she's all they say she is, I better put something solid in my gut before I take her on."

I pointed to the "All U Want Food" building and we rode over, tied up our horses, and went in. There was a bar at the far end and two ladies past their prime drinking with four miners. Of the five tables in the front, the one by the window had two empty places. The two men there were dressed in sack suits and clean shaven, unlike the other customers who were bearded and dirty miners or prospectors.

We went over to the table and I asked, "Would you two gents mind sharing your table?"

Gil said, "We don't bite . . . unless you're a steak."

One man stood up and said, "I'm leaving anyway. Slim here won't mind."

Slim nodded and said, "Sure, men, have a seat. I'll catch you later, Foster."

The waiter came over and we ordered steaks and he brought a pot of coffee.

Slim asked, "I can see you two aren't from around here. Come to hunt for gold?"

"No," I said, "we're on our way to California."

Gil said, "We just stopped here to see if all we heard was true about a lady in this town."

Slim smiled. "You have to mean Lily Belle Walker. I have to agree she's worth seeing."

"I'd like to know if the lady's available or is she locked up, somebody's woman?"

"She's not exactly available, if you know what I mean, but nobody's got her locked up . . . not yet. She used to be Sam Stone's woman."

"Sudden Sam Stone?" I asked. "The Sam Stone that killed twenty men?"

"The same. Stone built that saloon for her and he left her a ranch too. But you don't need to worry about him. It'll be three years now that Stone got shot in the back."

"What happened to the man that shot Stone?"

"He dropped the body off at the undertakers and rode out of town. Before he shot Stone he'd gone into The Lily Belle and shot Stone's partner. Nobody had a mind to mess with him, and we didn't have any law back then."

"Three years is a long dry spell," Gil said. "I'm thinking she might need some comfort of a night."

"A lot of men have thought the same, but with no result. Only man she'll sit and drink with is the marshal and that's all they do. Of course, he's married. Still, that wouldn't stop most men, but Ed Morgan is as straight as they come."

Our steaks showed and we concentrated on cutting them into pieces you could swallow because there was no way you could chew that meat.

"The strange part of it all is people say Lily knew the shooter, that he was the man she really loved, and she's still hoping he'll come back for her."

Suddenly Slim jumped up and looked out the window. Three men were riding by. He yelled to the waiter: "Tom, send a boy for the marshal. One of those riders is Clay Barnes."

A man from a table next to us asked, "You sure?"

Slim said, "It's him all right. Tom, send a boy."

"What the hell would Clay Barnes be doing here?"

"Who knows? But the marshal has to know. It could be over that ruckus last month."

Gil asked, "Who's this Barnes character?"

"He's a pistoleer. He makes his living killing. He was in that little war around Fort Worth, then down there in New Mexico, in Colfax County. He gets around. I saw him shoot three men in Dallas and walk away cold as could be."

A man at one of the tables said, "They say he's the one shot 'Bear River' Smith in Abilene."

Someone else said, "He's a mean son of a bitch, I'll tell you that."

Tom, the waiter, came over. "I sent Pintsize to the marshal's office. Do you think it's about that trouble?"

Slim nodded. "Most likely."

"What trouble?" Gil asked.

"About six weeks ago four drovers come through here and stopped to party some. All that's fine, but they went too far. There was one, a young man whose father runs the Double C ranch and cattle company, and he was the worst. He got drunk and started shooting up The Lily Belle. One of his bullets hit a bartender. The marshal and his deputy came, took their guns, and busted a few heads and chased them out of town. In the fight, the marshal broke the young man's jaw and dislocated his arm. That arm hung there like a wet rag."

Just then the man Foster came back. He said, "Slim, Clay Barnes is here."

"I saw him. Tom sent Pintsize to warn Ed."

"Ed ain't here. He took his boy fishing. They passed me this morning when I was coming in. He said they were going to make a day of it."

"His wife with him?"

"No. She's staying close to home now with her ma so bad off."

Tom said, "Maybe we should send somebody out after him."

"Why?" Foster asked.

"Because he needs to know about Barnes."

"No, he doesn't. Let him have a good day with his son. There won't be anymore of them."

The boy Pintsize came from the kitchen and tugged on Tom's apron.

"What is it, boy?"

"The marshal ain't there. I told the deputy. When I left those three stopped in front of the office."

Gil grabbed me and said, "I got to see this. I never saw a real shootout." He went out the door and I followed.

The marshal's office was just down the street from us and we had a good look at Barnes and his men. Barnes was tall and lean, his face hard and shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. He wore a fancy black shirt and black trousers and shiny boots. His horse was black and as fine a gelding as I'd ever seen and I'd run horses since I was ten. The two men with him were grubby in worn clothes and unwashed faces.

Barnes called: "Hey in there! Marshal, come on out and go to meet your Maker."

The door opened and a man, wearing a deputy badge and carrying a Winchester, stepped out. "The Marshal's not here. He won't be back till evening."

"That's a damn shame, deputy. I come all this way to see the marshal and he ain't here. Guess I'll have to wait. I hear he has a pretty little wife. Maybe I should visit her for a spell while I wait and she can keep me company."

"I think the best thing for you is to turn around and ride off."

"Now, deputy, I know you ain't ordering me out of town. I don't think that's even half way polite."

The deputy worked the lever to put a round in the chamber, but before he brought the rifle to his shoulder Barnes's cocked Colt cleared the holster. A blast of flame and smoke and the deputy dropped his rifle, grabbed his chest, and fell back into the office. Barnes looked our way, paused, and then put his pistol back in the holster.

The three rode by us slowly. They went up the street and stopped in front of The Lily Belle, got off their horses, and went inside — Barnes strutting across the porch like the cock of the walk.

Foster, Slim, and two other men came out and ran down to the marshal's office. I saw the undertaker come out of his place and join the others.

Gil said, "I don't think I much like that Barnes character. What about you?"

"Well, he's somebody to stay clear of," I said.

"You know, I think we should do something about him. I mean, he didn't give that deputy much of a chance. I wouldn't call that a fair fight at all."

"You're not thinking of going up against him, are you?"

"Somebody should."

"Gil, you can't shoot worth a damn. You're worse than me with that pistol."

"I got a Winchester."

"So did the deputy."

"I get your point." He thought a spell, then: "Let's pay our feed bill and then drift down to The Lily Belle for a drink and a look-see. I'm not leaving town without I see that redhead."

* * *

The Lily Belle must have a back door because when we went in the only people there were two bartenders, a drunk passed out on the floor in the back by the dice table, and Barnes with his two men standing at the bar drinking whiskey. There was a balcony across the back wall with steps at the far right. I could see the doors to four rooms off the balcony. I figured that's where the customers took the fancy ladies, when there were ladies.

We went up to the near end of the bar and ordered two beers.

Barnes called to us: "Hell with beer, boys, join us and drink a man's drink." He came to us with a bottle of whiskey. "Bartender, two glasses for these boys."

The bartender set us glasses and Barnes poured them overflowing. "Drink it down, boys. Unless you don't feel friendly enough to drink with me."

Gil and I downed the shots and he poured us two more.

"I seen you two watching me out there. Why was that?"

Gil said, "I never saw a shootout before. I was curious."

"Well, boys, that sure warn't much of a shootout. Hell, it was just a dumb deputy. I shoot deputies for free. Marshals is where I make my money. I expect to make five hundred this evening. Hey, Frank, Pete come down here and meet the boys. They was curious. They're just two curious boys."

The two men came down to our end of the bar and got on the other side of us so we were boxed in. Barnes poured us two more drinks and then poured himself and his men drinks. "Bottoms up, boys."

We all drank.

"So you never saw a shooting before? Well, stick around and you'll see another. I see you carry pistols. What do you do with them . . . wipe your ass?"

Pete and Frank laughed.

"Well?" Barnes asked.

"They're for snakes and rats and such," Gil said.

"Hear that, Pete? That's what the boys do with their pistols. What do you think?"

Pete, the man behind Gil, said, "I think you're right, Clay, they use them to wipe their ass. I think they should show us how."

Frank said, "Maybe they should drop their trousers."

Barnes said, "All right, boys, put your pistols up on the bar. Now!"

I laid mine on the bar but Gil held back.

Pete poked Gil in the back and Barnes had his Colt out and stuck it in Gil's face. Gil slowly put his revolver on the bar.

"Good boys," Barnes said. "You two are good boys." He holstered the Colt.

Just then Frank said, "What the hell is that?"

We all looked over at the balcony and coming down the stairs was a redhead in a bright green gown that was cut so low it barely covered her breasts. She seemed to glide down in an easy flowing motion. She walked slowly across the saloon and stopped in front of Barnes. She was something: red hair, shining gray eyes, white skin, bright red lips, and perfect teeth when she smiled.

"Hello, boys," she said. "May I share a drink with you?"

Barnes smiled to her smile and said, "You can share all I have and then some."

"Have I the pleasure to be talking to the notorious Clay Barnes?"

"You sure have. Are you the famous Lily Belle?"

"I am Lily Belle Walker."

"The Lily Belle that was Sam Stone's whore?"

For a second something flashed across her face but she smiled. "I was Sam's woman."

"Whose woman are you now?"

"The man man enough to take me."

Barnes downed his drink and threw the glass across the saloon. "Lily, you found your man."

"You think you carry enough pistol to satisfy me?"

Barnes laughed. "Lady, you'll get more pistol than you ever dreamed of."

"Is that all talk . . . or is there some action behind it?"

Barnes grabbed her arm and said, "Well, let me show you right now. Pete, Frank, you two wait here with these little boys. Me and the lady are about to have another kind of shootout."

Frank and Pete laughed and Barnes held Lily's arm as she led him across the saloon and up the stairs. They crossed the balcony and entered one of the rooms.

"I tell you," Pete said, "I wish I was that lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," Frank said. "Clay always gets the women."

"I guess so. Now, what're we going to do with these little boys?"

Gil grabbed his gun off the bar, spun around, and cracked Pete over the head with the barrel. I stuck both my thumbs into Frank's eyes and then hit him as low as I could. He groaned and went down. Gil kicked him hard in the side of the head and he was out.

Gil said, "Go git our Winchesters and when the son of a bitch comes out we'll cut him down."

Both bartenders pulled up scatter guns and one said, "We'll help."

I ran out to the horses and came back with our rifles. Gil had taken the pistols and gun belts from Pete and Frank and now he was removing their trousers. The two were out cold on the floor and laying there in their dirty yellow-stained drawers.

Then we heard the shot. We all looked up at the balcony. Another shot sounded from up there. Gil and me worked rounds into our Winchesters. I raised mine to my shoulder. We waited.

A door opened and Lily Belle came out. She carried a Colt in her right hand as she slowly walked down the stairs. She crossed the saloon, came up to the bar, and set the pistol down next to the whiskey bottle Barnes had been holding.

She said to the bartender: "Get Bill or someone to clear that body out of the upstairs room. Put him in a hole somewhere out back. Don't bother with a marker." She poured herself a shot of whiskey, drank it straight down, and said, "Sam always said the best time to shoot a man is when he has his pants down."

The bartender asked, "What do you want to do with those two on the floor?"

"Tie them up until the marshal gets here. I suppose they'll be hanged if Charlie died." She turned to me and Gil: "Sorry about the trouble, boys. I see you did all right."

"No trouble, Lily," Gil said. "Would you have a drink with us?"

"I don't really like whiskey. I needed that drink, but my preference was always champagne. Now you two have whatever you want . . . on the house, on me."

"What if it's you I want?"

She laughed and reached out to touch Gil on the shoulder.

"I don't know if I'm man enough, but I sure would like to try," he said.

She stood there looking at him and considered it. She sort of cocked her head and smiled. "What about your friend?"

I said, "I'm in no hurry to get to California."

She laughed hard at that.

"Is that where you two are going?"

"Yes," I said.

"I'm half tempted to go with you."

The bartenders dragged Pete and Frank into the back. Two men carried a body wrapped in a carpet down the stairs and out the back.

"I wish you would," Gil said.

"No, too late to begin again. Anyway, you two . . .  I don't know why, but I must be getting soft hearted." She touched Gil again, touched him lightly on his cheek and smiled. "And you remind me of a man I once knew. So, all right, before you begin your journey, one at a time. Who's first?"

"Me," Gil said.

She laughed again, an easy rich full-throated laugh. "You are desperate, aren't you?"

She winked at me and took Gil's arm and led him upstairs.

The End

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Death Comes Quickly
by Nelan McMichael

Déjà vu. That's what I was thinking as I stepped down from the train a few blocks south of the courthouse in Waco, Texas. A dusting of soot fell on my hat and shoulders, as steam from the noisy engine enveloped me.

Twenty years ago, when Bill Overton and I were young, hot-shot deputies here, Waco was still wild and woolly, east of the river anyway. Often known as "Six-shooter Junction", Waco was a crossroads for drovers, outlaws, gamblers, prostitutes, liquor peddlers, thieves, and renegades. Back then Waco was the edge of the Texas frontier.

Today, the frontier has moved much farther west, and the law and church-going people have settled things down quite a bit. Waco has changed.

Striding toward the Santa Fe Depot with my stuffed saddlebags and bulging bedroll slung over my shoulder, I was on the lookout for Bill. He'd sent me a telegram in Corsicana saying that he needed my help. After spending fifteen years partnering with him in law enforcement, first in McLennan County, and then with Pinkerton down in Temple, I knew he would fill in the particulars when we met. A few days later I wired him back my estimated arrival date.

There are only two things that can break up a partnership like we had: death and women. In our case it was, of course, women. Bill met one that hooked him right through the heart and reeled him in. After that, I wandered up to Corsicana and set myself up as a private detective and security agent. For me, there was no hesitation about answering Bill's summons . . . he wouldn't ask if he wasn't in trouble.

Suddenly, I saw him coming through the doors of the station, chewing on his mustache as he scanned the crowd for me. He looked a little frayed around the edges, his jacket worn and shiny at the elbows and his baggy pants stuffed sloppily into his boots. His hat looked like it had been sat on, or run over by the train behind me. Seeing me, he held up a finger as a signal and met me halfway.

"Hey, Mack. How you been?"

"Good. You?"

"Been better."

"Katy?" His eyes lit up when I asked.

"Oh, she's fine, Mack," he replied with a grin that completely changed his face. "I've got horses waiting, but let's have a bite to eat first, before we head out," he continued, reminding me that we had a twenty-mile ride west to McGregor ahead of us. "We'll give the horses a breather at Harris Creek, then I'll tell you what's going on."

Summers in Texas are always hot and generally miserable. Although I appreciated the difference in humidity between Corsicana and Waco, hot is hot. Prudently we hadn't pushed our mounts very hard when we reached Harris Creek, about halfway to McGregor. Finding a trickle of water for the horses and relishing the shade of the trees along the creek, we dismounted and untied our canteens.

"So, you ready to fill in the blanks for me?" I asked. I had assumed he didn't want to have this conversation where other ears could overhear.

"Yeah. First I want you to know that I appreciate your coming." He paused to gather himself. When Bill and Katy got married, they settled in McGregor where he has been sheriff for the last four years.

"Two years ago the young daughter of a colored family was raped and murdered. My investigation led me to a pair of brothers who were the sons of Elton Ross, one of our more prominent citizens. Not only is the man prominent here, but his money and influence carry a bit of weight around Waco as well. I found one witness who, after a few minutes alone with me, told me what he saw and identified the two brothers. So, I arrested them. Two days later that witness was seen at the depot in McGregor, where he caught a train bound for Galveston. That's when their daddy personally emphasized to me that it was in my best interest to release his boys and drop the charges. Given I no longer had a witness or proof, I really had no choice anyway." Bill paused for a sip of water from his canteen.

"Well, not long after that, the bank informed me that the note on our place north of town had been paid in full. When I asked by whom, the bank said they assumed it was a relative of Katy, but beyond that, they were bound by client confidentiality. I could guess where the money came from, and it certainly wasn't a relative of Katy, but I had no proof. When I asked the suspected man directly, he smiled, congratulated me on being the recipient of 'manna from heaven.' That, of course, didn't confirm or deny my suspicions."

"Sounds like "Daddy" wants you indebted to him." Bill gave a nod as I spoke.

"The two brothers have continued their rowdy ways, knowing they can always run and hide behind their papa when things get too hot. They've been known to pick fights, run off livestock, destroy property, that sort of thing. I've always been left with no proof, or charges that were dropped after money changed hands.

"Well, recently another colored girl has been raped and murdered, and my first suspects are those two boys. I'm also up to my ears with some cattle rustling west of town. I'm at the end of my rope on this murder case, and of course, the old man alibied for his miscreant boys, but I could tell he was lying. However, he told me, in no uncertain terms, that I should stay clear of them or pay the price."

"Any witnesses?" I asked, tipping my own canteen.

"No. Nobody here's going to go against Elton Ross and his boys for the sake of a colored girl."

"Where do I come in?"

"I want to deputize you as a special investigator to see if you can get anything solid on those Ross boys, so I can get them behind bars, or out of Texas. I'll have to pay you out of my own pocket when I can."

"If we can convict them, I'll get my money from Mr. Ross."

"How you going to do that?"

"I'll think of something. Maybe I'll offer to drop the charges of interfering with an officer of the law in a murder investigation for a small sum of cash. I'm sure he's familiar with bribe money."

"No question there!"

Needing to push on, we took a last sip from our canteens and mounted up. A few miles farther west, we swung to the north to circumnavigate town, and went to Bill's place.

The next morning I rode with Bill into town. I had spent a delightful evening, thanks to Katy's hospitality and charm, but Bill and I agreed that I should stay in town to keep our relationship as separate and professional as possible. I found a room at the hotel on Main Street, which lies parallel to, and west of the railroad tracks about four blocks away.

Our next stop was the Drug Emporium, where Bill pitched his proposal to a reluctant, but agreeable mayor. He, in turn, summoned the Justice of the Peace, who swore me in. The fact that I was not costing the city any money had swung the mayor's decision, but I could see that he had grave reservations about going against Mr. Ross and his money and influence.

My first order of business, as a newly installed deputy, was to talk to the family of the murdered girl. Bill took me to their home southeast of town and across the tracks. It took some serious talking and my sincerest look to convince them that it would do any good talking to a white man, but they finally came around and told all they knew. Clearly the Ross brothers were the leading suspects, but I needed some irrefutable proof.

"The girl came down here alone?" I asked Bill as he took me to the spot near a vine-choked dry creek where the body was found.

"Apparently so. She was going for water at the well here." He gestured to the wooden well curb, some distance from the house, as we passed. It was probably out of sight from the house.

"No dogs to go with her?"

"If they did, they must have been off chasing jack rabbits."

It was slightly cooler as we stepped into the shade of the trees and vines, and crossed the dry creek bed. A room-sized natural clearing was carpeted with heavily-trodden grasses.

"This is where she was found," Bill said.

I walked around the site, as much as I could, to get a mental picture of the scene, looking for anything Bill might have missed, but not expecting to find anything that I could use from a three-week-old crime scene. I followed what looked to be a deer trail out of the trees and into a grassy meadow full of Texas sunflowers.

After clearing the trees a few paces, I wondered if the boys had approached from this direction. Bill confirmed that it was probably so. I ducked to avoid a mesquite limb, and spotted something behind a clump of blue-stem grass.

The crumpled handkerchief was gray linen with the initials CR embroidered in one corner. Way too fancy for a farmer, colored or white. A few dark spots here and there looked like dried blood.

"Bill, what are the names of those two boys?"

"One's Charlie, the other's David. Why?"

"Come look at this."

"Well, I'll be damned! That looks like dried blood, too. The girl had a cut on her lip and broken fingernails that had been bleeding. How did I miss that?"

"Easy to miss if you were looking elsewhere at the time. They probably stuffed this in her mouth to keep her quiet."

"This is the kind of evidence I've been looking for, but I guess a good lawyer could have it thrown out of court as inconclusive."

"Most likely."

"If I could get my hands on those two right now, we wouldn't need no court!"

"My, my, Bill!" I grinned at him. "And you an officer of the law."

"Yeah, well, I could do for some frontier justice about now. Those live oaks over there is where I found fresh road apples."

"Let's have a look." The dried road apples were still there, but again, inconclusive evidence.

When we got back to town, there was a colored fellow waiting for us in the sheriff's office. He gave his name as Jeramiah Washington.

"What can I do for you?" asked Bill.

"Well, suh, I heerd you was lookin' into the death of one of our young sisters again."

"Still," Bill corrected. "I've asked this gentleman for his help in the matter."

"Well, suh, I'm a swamper over at the Silver Dollar, and I heerd them Ross boys talking' about how they'd had a real good time with a certain colored girl, but she didn't have such a good time."

"When was this?"

"Last week."

"The Ross brothers regulars at the Silver Dollar?"

"Every week."

"They have a regular night?"

"Usually Saturday night."

"That's tomorrow, Bill," I said.

"Sure is."

"Care to introduce me to them, Bill?"

"I think maybe it's time."

"It must have taken some courage on your part to come in Mr. Washington. What made you decide?" Bill asked.

"The colored folks hereabouts is scared and angry. An' the white folks is goin' to mind their own business. So, I decided to make it some of my business." he replied.

"I want to thank you for coming in, Mr. Washington," said Bill. "We'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow night."

"Yes suh, I'll surly be lookin' for you."

The Silver Dollar was in the last building on a street that dead-ended near the tracks. The saloon itself was entered through the lobby of a hotel of sorts. There were rooms to rent on the second floor, but nobody expected to do any sleeping in them . . . at least not at night. Saturday evening we seated ourselves in a couple of chairs on the front boardwalk near the front door to the hotel entrance, two tall doors with painted glass panes. This Saturday night promised to be a lively one, judging by the piano music emanating from within and the number of patrons that passed through the doors.

In the waning daylight, Bill spotted the Ross boys as they rode down the street and proceeded to tie their horses in the lot across the street, along with other patrons. We stepped apart and back into the shadows.

As the brothers entered the street, Bill stepped forward and said, "Evening boys. We need to have a chat."

With that, the two brothers did the totally unexpected: they drew their pistols and fired. I saw Bill go down as I returned fire. Both brothers went down and the sudden silence that followed was just as startling as the unexpected gunfire. Then I heard several footsteps behind me coming from the saloon.

I secured the Ross brothers' weapons and went to check on Bill.

"Bill, where you hit?"

After a moment when I wondered if he were dead, he replied, "Right smack in the middle. We get 'em?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Tell Katy I'm sorry I got in the front of one."

"You tell her." But I could tell by the red froth coming from his mouth that he wouldn't get the chance. That unpleasant chore would be left to me, and I dreaded it.

I dreaded telling Katy that Bill was gone from her life, and I hated the thought that he was gone from mine. Sometimes in life you only get one best friend.

The End

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First Night on the Job
by RLB Hartmann

"I don't think you'll have any trouble." Sheriff Mitchell picked up his saddlebags from his desk. "But if you do, you know how to use that Colt."

"Yes, sir." The weight of the loaded forty-five against Morgan's thigh filled him with assurance. He'd been practicing with it for months.

Dan, Morgan's brother and Mitchell's only deputy, leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Don't shoot any peaceful citizens while we're gone."

"Aw, get outta here." Morgan struck the doorpost near his head with a wadded-up wanted poster, and they departed, laughing.

He stood on the plank walk, watching them swing into their saddles and lope leisurely out the east road. A buckboard delivering goods from the mercantile left an erratic trail along the wide, dusty street. Cane-bottom chairs in front of the barber shop stood empty under the noon sun.

"Sheriff's left you in charge awhile, has he?"

Morgan jumped at the words, unexpected behind him. He turned to face a wizened man dressed in a faded blue shirt with ragged sleeves, stained brown vest and trousers, and boots that must leak during the rainy season.

Greasy Tanner, a fixture in Indianbush, liked his whiskey; so Morgan neglected to tell him that Mitchell and Dan had gone to Mason and wouldn't be back for two days. No need for everybody to know he was holding the fort alone for the first time. Some of his friends weren't above playing jokes.

"Yeah," Morgan said. "I'm in charge."

"Quiet around town now," Greasy observed. "But, when I first come out here—"

Morgan had heard all the stories before. He started sidling away, saying, "I promised Ellen I'd join her for dinner."

Greasy called after him, "You two plannin' on marryin'?"

"I'm going to ask her the minute I'm on regular salary."

"Do a good job," Greasy advised, spitting tobacco juice into the street, "and Sheriff'll sign you on for sure."

Morgan hoped so. He was twenty-two, and law enforcement was more to his liking than riding herd on longhorns. Only one incident had marred the peace since Mitchell and a score of deputies cleaned out Kimble County ten years ago. Dan, he remembered, had wounded and captured an army deserter who went to prison for burning a sheepherder's tent and killing the man's wife and child. These musings were diverted by a cheery greeting.

Ellen came toward him, lovely in a flowered cotton dress. "Mister Jennings gave me an hour off." She kept the ledgers at the First Cattlemen's Bank, but Morgan knew she wanted to change her line of work. He wanted to change it, too, but first he must assure his own future.

He drew her into the shelter of the church doorway and kissed her. "I thought we'd lunch at Cora's. Mitchell gave me a little advance."

"Cora's for supper. I packed a picnic for lunch."

They spread their tablecloth under shade trees in the front yard of the Lawson place. Almost within calling distance of the court house, it was up for sale. Soon as Mitchell put him on payroll, he planned to buy it.

"Fried chicken, baked potato, biscuits, and chocolate cake for dessert." Ellen handed him a napkin. "All your favorites."

After they'd eaten, they strolled through the two-story house hand in hand. "Plenty of room for a piano," she commented. "And children?" he asked, his proposal hovering unspoken. He'd vowed not to ask until he could support a wife. She hugged him, and he breathed in the fragrance of her freshly-washed hair.

When he returned to the sheriff's office, he paused on the threshold to look around with satisfaction. Mitchell had left all his paperwork neatly filed away in the desk drawers. A railroad spike weighted down a thin sheaf of wanted posters. The single cell door stood open, the ring of keys hung on a nail behind the potbellied stove. He knew their routine inside out, from following Dan on the nightly rounds.

He killed an hour reading the statute book, but on top of his meal with Ellen, that activity made his eyelids grow heavy. Jumping up, he put on his hat and went out to visit the merchants along main street. Talk of crops, cattle, business, and a checker game lasting half a dozen sets took up his afternoon.

"Are you bored?" Ellen asked over supper at Cora's Cafe.

"Without Dan in the office to chew me out about something every minute, it's pretty dull," he admitted. Mitchell never gave him a hard time, but the corners of the older man's mouth often twitched in silent amusement, like he might be remembering Dan's youthful mishaps.

"Want me to come over and keep you company?"

"Better not." The offer was tempting, but reputation in a small town like Indianbush was something to be guarded. He walked her the long way home, leaving her on the porch after a few hungry kisses. "Good night," he whispered. He suspected at least three of her eight brothers and sisters peeked at them from between the curtains.

Returning to the office, he checked doors along the way, to be sure each merchant had remembered to lock up for the night. Some of them were careless about that. The saloon was open. Out of habit, he glanced over the bat wings. Since the gun ordinance had been put into effect, only lawmen were permitted to wear firearms, so differences of opinion were settled by arm wrestling or a trip to court. No one had started a brawl for as long as Morgan could remember.

A face at the Catamount bar made him take a step back for a second look. He couldn't recall where he'd seen this one, a dark haired, lean-jawed man whose name he didn't know.

A stranger, but a familiar one. It puzzled him. Was he a rancher from neighboring Iron Hill? Menardville? Mason? He had an unsavory aspect which Morgan distrusted. The eyes were no more narrowed than those of waddies used to working in the elements. The skin was no more scarred than several unfortunate pockmarked—but law-abiding—townfolk. The hunched shoulders showed no more ill temper than did Greasy Tanner's when no one would buy him a drink.

What, then? That uncanny feeling of having seen the man in questionable circumstances. And a pallor uncommon even to bankers and merchants whose indoor work left them unburned by wind and sun. "Prison," he decided.

"Evenin,' Deputy."

He whirled, his hand falling to the butt of his Colt.

"Got the jitters?"

Two of the Rocking W riders stepped past him on the walk, on their way in for refreshment. The doors swung together and he heard one of them give a short laugh. It stung him. They thought he was a scared young fool who couldn't handle the job.

Hurrying back to the jail, he dug deep into a bottom desk drawer and brought out a handful of posters. Yellowed with age, most were voided, the men caught and sent up—or hanged—years ago. Then the sketch of a face halted his search.

Familiar. A stranger. The man at the Catamount bar. 'Roy Hardin, alias Rance Booker, alias Thomas North,' stated the faded, uneven print.

This was the man convicted of murdering the sheepherder's family. The man sent to prison by Morgan's older brother. "He's escaped!" Morgan cried softly. "He's here to get Dan!" The realization set his teeth to chattering. A good thing Dan was out of town. He might have been ambushed by now.

Morgan had to do something. But what? If he waltzed into the Catamount with his .45 drawn, the man might panic and shoot him. Or some innocent customer. Going in with the gun holstered could be even more dangerous. He favored Dan enough to be mistaken for him, by someone who hadn't seen either of them for ten years. He needed help. Who could he count on? No one came to mind. Cowhands were expert with rope and branding iron, not pistols.

He took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and cleared his throat as if preparing to give a speech. His teeth were clenched so hard his head hurt. "Loose," he muttered. "Gotta be loose." He did a few practice swipes with the gun, his fingers cold and stiff. Then he tied the holster tighter, leaving the leather hammer thong unfastened. He pinned the deputy's badge to the inside of his vest. No need to announce his authority with a target like that.

When he pushed open the saloon doors, the stranger was gone. Morgan blinked in the dim light. Had he been mistaken? "Give me a beer, George," he said, tossing a coin to the bar tender. Greasy Tanner appeared at his elbow. "I'm not buying a bottle," Morgan told him. "Just a beer."

Greasy made an impatient sound. "Not after a handout. Thought I'd better warn you—Roy Hardin is in town."

Then he wasn't seeing things. "I know. What do you think I should do?"

"Get on the telegraph. Find out if he's been pardoned."

Kicking himself for not thinking of that, Morgan left his beer and went to the telegraph office. If Hardin was free legally, there was no need for immediate action. All he had to do was warn Dan with a telegram to Mason. Forty-five minutes passed before he got his answer : 'Roy Hardin broke out last week. Armed and dangerous.'

"Oh, Lord," he groaned. "Where could he be now?"

Greasy scratched his frowzy head. "If he's lookin' for Dan, he might go out to the Flannagan."

That was the boarding house where Morgan and his brother lived. "If he hasn't found out Dan's not here."

"Who knowed that for sure but you and me?"

"Nobody. So he'll think Dan's still in town."

"You better find him, 'fore he finds you." Greasy squinted at him. "You sure as hell look a lot like Dan."

"Don't remind me."

He could hear his own heartbeat over the sound of barroom piano music as they walked up the alley toward the Flannagan. He checked the ponies at the hitching rails. As far as he could see, up and down the streets beneath flickering gaslights, he knew them all, several by name. "Where could he have gone?"

"You can bet he ain't left. Not with a grudge to settle."

Morgan halted so abruptly that Greasy bumped into him. "Why don't you go back to the Catamount? I can handle this all right."

"You crazy, or somethin'? You never shot at a man in your life. Rabbit huntin' ain't nothing like it. Why, when I was in—"

"Shhh!" He gripped the old man's bony arm. But it was only the restless stamp of a cowpony's hoof.

At the Flannagan, he peered through a window at the lighted kitchen, where Josie was clearing away after the boarders' meal. Rapping on the doorpost, he went inside. "Jo, has anyone been here looking for Dan?"

"No, but he wasn't here for supper."

"If a stranger comes asking about him, let me know."

"Oh, there's a stranger here now. He's in the parlor, with Ellen."

"Ellen!" he cried. "By heaven, what's she doing here?"

Josie's lips pouted at his brusque words. "Visiting me, of course. But she answered his knock, and now they're getting acquainted." She grinned, teasing, "Are you jealous? I still love you."

Ignoring her statement, though he knew it was more true than not, he ruffled his hair in exasperation. "Go get her out of there." He grabbed her arm above the elbow and launched her toward the door. "But don't make him suspicious."

She flounced away, rubbing her arm where his grasp had hurt.

When the girls returned, he said, "You and Josie stay in the kitchen until I come back."

"Why?" they both demanded together. Josie added, "What's going—" but Morgan didn't hear the rest.

Circling the Flannagan, he saw the man's horse tied to the porch post. Edging up to a window, he could see two elderly gents dozing by the stove, which was unfired at this time of year and bore a pot of geraniums. Mrs. Flannagan herself sat in her rocker with her lap full of quilting. The stranger was no longer in the parlor.

Hurriedly tiptoeing across the porch, he drew his .45 and opened the front screen, laying one finger to his lips to shush the widow Flannagan's startled questions. In spite of his care, the stairs creaked under his weight, and the thrumming of his heart in his ears sounded loud enough to alert an enemy to his approach.

He checked Dan's room, and the other three bedrooms upstairs, and found nothing amiss. He checked all the rooms downstairs. Nothing. When he went through the dining room, then the kitchen, the girls sitting at the table solemnly watched him without speaking.

Stepping into the dark night, he wondered where Greasy had gone. "Damned old idiot," he muttered. "Liable to get himself shot, wandering around out here."

Eyes searched the back yard, ears strained to hear the clop of hooves in the street. He leaned against the rough boards of the privy and detected the scrape of a boot on the floor. Flinging open the door, he jammed his pistol barrel into a soft stomach, and nearly wet his trousers when Greasy cried, "Don't shoot!"

Fumbling with his clothes, the old man stepped out, peevish. "Can't have a minute's privacy anywhere these days." In a whisper, he added, "I think he's in the barn."

"Go in the house," Morgan said quietly. "No argument."

Greasy Tanner obeyed, leaving him to walk the short distance alone. The wide barn door hung ajar. Hardin had to be inside, in the dark, waiting for Dan to come home and stable his horse.

Morgan knew if he stormed the place, he was likely to take a slug. He wondered whether Ellen would marry Jeff Sigmon if he ended up with a bullet hole or two in his gut.

Standing well back, he decided to ask for a surrender. "You there—in the barn. You are trespassing. Come out peaceable."

No answer. If he let this man get away, there'd be no promotion, and he'd never hear the end of it. And those were the least serious consequences. "I said, come out. With your hands over your head."

There was a sudden almost simultaneous report-whine-thud, and a bullet implanted itself in the corner of the privy about a foot over his head. From the house came girls' excited chatter. "Keep away from the window!" he ordered, and sprinted zig-zag across the back yard. Gripping the Colt, he dived through the doorway, scraping his arm, banging his knees, kicking up dirt with his boot heels.

Resting against the front wall, he made himself breathe slowly, softly. In the darkness, sounds were magnified.

"You took your sweet time finding me, Danny."

"I'm not Dan," he said. "You better throw out your gun."

The man laughed. "I'll throw lead—your way, Dan. You can't fool me. I know your voice."

Another slug splintered the wall above him. He clamped his teeth tight and, crouching, cat-walked toward the first stall partition. He had often stabled Dan's horse and knew the layout. From the position of Hardin's voice, and the pistol shots, the outlaw must be hiding there, inches away.

Holding his breath, Morgan lay down on his back, prone along the base of the stall, and felt the boards with his free hand. No room between them to stick a gun barrel through. He didn't dare stand up and shoot blindly. If he was wrong, a move like that would draw the man's fire.

Muscles tense, arms steadied against his ribs and holding the gun in both hands, he pointed it toward the rafters. He pulled back the hammer. The click was loud. A silent shadow leaped up, towering over him. He squeezed the trigger.

A flash of light, the blast of two pistols, the Colt's recoil, an engulfing mist of smoke and black powder—and Hardin tumbled over the stall and sprawled on top of him. He scrambled from under the limber body, losing the Colt, bruising his shoulder on a plowshare.

Shaken, he located his gun, managed to reholster it, and walked outside. Three torches carried by men coming toward him. Screaming in the house. "Ellen—?" he asked, fearing she might have been hit.

"Josie," explained one of the men. "She's just upset." The men went on toward the barn, their lights casting his shadow ahead of him as he hurried to the house.

Entering the kitchen, he was nearly knocked off his feet by arms thrown around his neck. "Morgan! Thank God!" Josie sobbed against his chest. Knowing how emotional his future sister-in-law could be, he looked over her head at his sweetheart, who stood pale and straight, but smiling. In proving himself tonight, he knew he'd earned Dan's gratitude and Mitchell's trust, and the promotion that he'd been waiting for.

He asked, "Ellen, will you marry me?"

"Of course," she answered. "Deputy."

The End

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Little Lou from Mizzou
by Tom Sheehan

Like a stark comma out of place in a short sentence he was. Every person in the saloon had earlier taken note of him because of his size, representing more of weakness than strength, and appearing to be no more than a boy not yet fully grown. His pale green eyes, as if gentled by a caring person's palm, carried the innocence of a colt. And he drank in a dignified manner, sparingly and deliberately.

Only a few patrons at the time knew much about him. One of them, Herb Goznoski, was spending his weekend break time from a ranching job, playing cards with a big man, Junker Whitzel, who was very curious about the little man at the far end of the bar he'd noticed occasionally looking his way.

Whitzel, with a wide smile on his face and a full house in his hand, was ready to lay down his cards, when sharp-eyed Goznoski across from him said, "I bet I got your full house beat, Junker. You're smiling like you just kayoed the champion in the territorial match that Bat Masterson was pushing all over the territory and making money with every punch tossed. Almost made that Grubbins famous but that Irish punching bag had the old tunes beat clean out of him."

Junker said, "Not a chance, Herb, my friend. Only one card beats me. And what I was smilin' at was wonderin' how much the little guy down there at the end of the bar weighs." He nodded toward the bartender serving up a beer for the small man, barely taller than the bar he was leaning on. "I bet he ain't weighin' what my saddle weighs, that little fella down there gettin' a drink. You sure raise 'em small around here. I bet he's the second shrimpy gent I've seen in my two days here. Maybe I'm seein' him for the second time. Who's he? He work here in town?" He tucked his cards against his shirt, the usual move when jumpy card players suspect collusion reigns around them.

Herb Goznoski said, "You got none like him in Texas, Junker?" Beat Junker on his own grounds was tough to do. Best do it with brains.

"Hell, no. They wouldn't last for one drive with longhorns. We run 'em all out with the Comanche."

"You didn't run him out of Texas," came the retort. Quick repartee was good ammunition: run him into foreign ground.

"Is that so? Who's he?"

"Oh, we call him Little Lou from Mizzou." And a little humor, too, might be appreciated.

"Sounds like a kid's story coming with the cards." His accompanying smile was authentic, relaxing his table opponent.

Herb Goznoski smiled in return and gave off a nod. "He's little, he's bowlegged, he's scrawny, but he can see through a keyhole from 10 feet, his eyes are so sharp." He paused to let that sneak in, gather more information, arrange it and say, "His name, his real name, is Edward Joseph Wozni, gunman. People in Missouri have always called him Little Lou from Mizzou. At least the people around Jefferson City call him Little Lou from Mizzou, the ones alive I mean. That's where he came into this world, in a wagon on the edge of the road when his mother called out to her husband to get ready for the baby. Everybody knows the story out my way, at least all the Polska folk. They were on the trail and the mother said, 'Lepsza przerwa (zatrzymanie si?) wagon, Walter. dziecko spieszy si?. On jest prawie tutaj.' She said it twice. 'Lepsza przerwa (zatrzymanie si?) wagon, Walter. dziecko spieszy si?. On jest prawie tutaj.'"

"Walter Wozni, the father, heard it as, 'Better stop the wagon, Walter. The baby is in a hurry. He is almost here.' He knew it was to be a small baby, for Maria had shown very little change in her body. The baby came as quickly as possible, and Maria was back at work before the day was over, the three of them on their way to Jefferson City to see her brother Pauli, on the north side of town. They stayed at her brother's place, mind you, doin' what newcomers got to do, until Edward Joseph was 15 years old. He was called Edjo at first and then renamed Little Lou from Mizzou by his Uncle Pauli because he hadn't grown much at all. Little Lou by then was expert with a pistol hangin' on his belt like a bodily weight. But his hand, from exercise, long use, constant practice, became so adept at handlin' the weapon it frightens his mother who keeps having visions of what's to come to him, as it does to all gunmen."

"I bet he don't weigh no 90 pounds."

"You'll never know."

"Hell, I won't. I'll pick him up by the neck and stick him on the scale. They got one here?"

"Out back, but you won't get to use it, not with Little Lou."

"C'mon, Herb, you're not gonna scare me off like that. Talk don't do none of that."

"It's funny you say that," Herb said, "way you talk."

"You sayin' I'm too mouthy, Herb? We go too far back for that." The statement was understood by those who heard it.

"I'm sayin', don't mess with him, Junker. It won't pay." A word of warning to the wise ought to carry the day; for those who don't see enough of the big picture, it should be sufficient, or they're really dumb as Hell.

"Is this some of that 'I'm from Missouri' stuff? Hell, you can't beat us Texans with your own Mizzou stuff. We're one shot ahead of you all the time and one hard ride finished before you rub your horse down."

Whitzel apparently was puffed up for a reason, so it was only fair he should be warned. Goznoski said, "What I ought to do, Junker, is rush you out of here right now, before the guns come out. It'll be best for all of us." One eyebrow was raised and his head was tipped, in the manner of saying, "Don't lose what I'm saying to you, if you know what's good for you."

"Herb, you play that alarm bugle all over the place. It ain't in my band. I never stood down from no gunman and no midget at that, not once in the whole Texas territory, so go jam all that stuff in one box and ship it out with the next freighter. I don't need none of that. Fact is, it's gettin' a little bothersome where I'm sittin' right now. Time's ripe for action."

"You keep comin' at me like the dumb card player you are, Junker, givin' it all away all along the line, from the first card you get that's got the first dab of color on it."

And at that, Little Lou from Mizzou, keen of ear and having heard the whole conversation, turned about and looked back along the bar, directly at Junkers Whitzel.

Escalation, with some people, takes minor seconds and with others takes long simmering and slow recall of something just heard but set aside for weighing, for evaluation.

Little Lou had already queried the bartender, "Al, who's that big fella down there with Herbie who keeps looking at me like he knows me from somewhere else?"

"Don't know him, Lou, but he came in first time like he was a hero born just at the edge of town. Noisy as hell. Brash as a new gold piece or a gun ain't fired yet. Like he's loaded with the promise of Hell itself."

"Stares like he ain't seen a small man with a quick trigger. Ought to know better."

"I'd say that's a fact, Lou, seeing as he's pretty new around here in his new diggin's. Ain't been here a week yet and some folks got a good idea of what he's like. I just serve 'em and roll 'em out when they got no more dough or no more dust."

"You never did that to me, Al," Little Lou said.

The bartender said, "You ain't the type, Lou. You're as smart as that gun of yours . . . which is nothin' more than good business for you and for me." He managed a friendly smile that would last some folks for a month or more.

So it happened in the first instance that night in the Miner's Saloon, for Junker Whitzel, tired of the banter, tired of the mouthy exercises and no proper action deemed of manhood, "Texas manhood" from where he sat, stood up, shifted the weight of his gun belt, and started to walk down alongside the bar. He was a Texan in New Mexico and would act accordingly, his mind bent by a stance odd to begin with.

It is so well-known and yet so hidden, especially to us in later days, how some men of the west were aware of the first steps of death . . . when they saw them from a good observation post and when those observations were loaded or fueled with a wealth of experience in murder, mayhem, death all around. War, since forever, has been like that, whole battalions at it, or squad or patrol-size encounters of men in seemingly insignificant small-size combat battles, or the entry of a single bullet into the heart and soul of one man caught up in any kind of duel with another man, life hanging in the balance on one end of a see-saw life, death hanging on the other end.

Little Lou from Mizzou knew it all from the beginning, that the first infraction of a contest in wills or beliefs was enough to throw life's balance to the will of the wind, to the interminable dust, to the engorging fleets or armies or colonies of ants waiting on man to come underground, to come to them who seemingly had been in the Earth forever waiting on the next meal. Such fates, destinies, queries, realizations come to the smallest of all creatures called man. A quick trigger made the difference in some such destinies.

Junker Whitzel, moving cautiously, but steadily to the other end of the saloon, bravado in his mien, bravado in his intentions, appeared to be the biggest man in the Miner's Saloon where he hoped one day to unload a sack of nuggets on the bar and buy the saloon as a favorite toy. A part-time dreamy miner now, the traits of a Texas longhorn driver stood out on him; his shoulders were barn-wide, his arms were like limbs off a full grown tree, and his legs appeared strong enough to carry any horse he rode. The bearded jaw he toted made him look wider, bigger, and somewhat fearsome. Nobody called him "Dude" or "Pard" or "Old Pal of Mine" unless he was a friend of long standing, had done a great favor, or was related by trade, blood or marriage. He was brute strength on the move, even as chairs shifted on the bare floor of the saloon, boots pushed for room, breaths held on many counts, scoundrels all knowing the drill of a Hell-on-the-go Texas cowboy filling big britches.

Little Lou from Mizzou had seen him before or, rather, his type, the ones who carried a big wagging tongue in a big wagging mouth, who made noise when it was best to be quiet, who spoke before spoken to, and who knew how to spoil a nice quiet time in a nice quiet saloon after a long day of work . . . or looking for work, as such things go in cow towns, miner's towns, near-ghost towns where it only takes one trick to make a town pass itself on to eventual dust. He was well-versed, since he was 15 and went about packing a gun on his small belt, with men who looked upon size as spectacular marks of manhood… If you had size, you made a ready difference. If you did not have size, were too small, miniature in presentation, did not measure up to the standards of normal men, you therefore had to be less than a normal man, did not carry sufficient manhood about with you . . . and were fair game for taunting.

Little Lou from Mizzou, as it was, was actively seeking a new job and had simply been pondering his options when the voice, the loud voice of the braggart Whitzel, traversed the width and length of the saloon, and sat with a sting on his ears. He hated to be bothered by the tomfoolery of a big mouth when his own serious considerations were of another kind of survival, food to feed his appetite, a place to bunk under suitable cover, all as payment for tasks he was very capable of handling: he was a cowboy.

Of course, he'd rather work with cattle than dig in the earth, but all this in front of him in Hatfield, New Mexico was in between those two options where shovels and picks, and guns and ropes were tools of the trade. Choices were part of life, except for the beginning, where a person had no options about where and when he came to this life . . . not at all like the opposite end, often full of choices, or slight deviations in the matter of time.

Little Lou from Mizzou never feared his choices, for his size made him adamant as much as it caused him the endless taunting. The choices in a man's life paved the way to the end of all things.

The silence in the saloon fell on his ears as sharp as cannon fire. He believed those patrons holding their breaths seemed as loaded as those cannons he imagined. When the itch started at the back of his neck, whole images of other encounters came back to him as sharp as the painting of a woman on the wall behind the bar. Coming again was the remembered line of men he'd known in those mini-wars: Jackson Frostly falling in front of him and dead forever, as did Pug Manders and Brittan Coszlet, both who once had been taunting friends, and other big mouths, braggarts, quick guns, gunmen with and without badges, who had accosted him one way or another about his size, or his lack of size, and paid for it.

The trade-offs, the restitutions, the payments, were costly; and all that was left of those quick-minded and slow-handed gunmen were the slim crosses stuck on odd hillsides in the occasional shade of a few cottonwood trees. They could have been, if publicized, a parade owing to a small man in a big man's world.

Whitzel was pointing at him, his insufferable voice, deep as the bottom of a cave, saying, "Hey, Shorty, they tell me you own a quick gun, ride a big horse, and knows his way around a duel. I'm gonna throw my gun at your little feet and if I pick it up again, you better go for your gun. I don't like little guys who pretend they're big men. What do you say to that?"

He tossed his pistol on the floor at Little Lou's feet.

"If you dare to pick it up," Little Lou said, "Big Mouth that you are, don't aim it at me or you're dead." Little Lou was spread-legged, looking like a toy cowboy, his boots tiny on the floor compared to the gun laying there big as life itself. His bandy-looking legs poked up out of his boots thin as twigs, his poised hands at his waist looking like a baby's hands in a crib. He was poised as harmless to the young men in the throng, like a kid out of his sandbox, lost in the neighborhood.

Whitzel looked around the saloon with amazement on his face and in his voice as he spoke. "You gents believe the little tot, the way he talks to a much bigger man? Do you? Speak up. Tell me how surprised you are."

But the older patrons, the long-toothed ones, the ones who might have been there from the beginning, different from the young in the crowd, heard and saw the crack in the lines of the big man. They heard the doubt in is voice. Saw the shaking difference in a man as it began its development.

"C'mon," Whitzel said, "tell me what you're thinkin'. Spill it. He worth it, this little man?"

"All you gotta do," said an older voice, surety abounding, Fate holding onto each syllable, "is pick up that gun you dropped there and see what he can do. That's simple to all of us."

Whitzel, in amazement, looked around to see who had spoken, but could not pick him out. And even as he could not pick out the speaker, Little Lou kicked his gun closer to his feet.

It all hung in the balance of one motion that might have come, that might have been measured, that might have been contemplated.

But reason, even when lost, buried in character, buried in braggart noise, buried in doubt, sometimes has a mind unto itself, and it spoke to Junkers Whitzel who dared not pick up his gun.

That's why this story, whatever way you take it, came down the family line right to where I caught it, heard it all, saw it just the way my distant uncle Little Lou from Mizzou left it for one of us to find, and repeat, all because I once noted a twitch in my index finger, right hand, as I passed westerly through Missouri and then again in New Mexico on a trip to the Far East in uniform with another uncle, this one named Sam.

The End

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The Siege at Fort Gnip Gnop
by John Duncklee

"General, I appreciate the commission of Colonel you have given me, but I really need to know why you have done this and ordered me here to consult with you," Rose Brazear said as she stood in front of General Arnold Newsance as he sat at his large walnut desk puffing a cigar.

"Rosie, you and I have known one another for some time. In fact we met just after this Civil War began. I know that commissioning you, as a colonel in the United States Cavalry, is somewhat out of the ordinary. However, when you hear about my plans for your creative energies, you will understand my decision more fully."

"If this has anything to do with me following you from battle to battle all over this country, I don't see why a colonel's commission is appropriate."

"Just listen to me and I guarantee you will understand my reasoning," Newsance said. "Major Haliburton, the commandant of Fort Gnip Gnop, sent me a carrier pigeon that arrived late yesterday afternoon. It carried a message that he is stymied by three companies of Confederate troopers that are dug in just beyond reach of his artillery and he does not have the strength of numbers in order to dislodge and capture them. I cannot spare any of my troopers to send to Fort Gnip Gnop. This is a dilemma for which I have been trying to arrive at a reasonable solution. I reached a conclusion just after breakfast this morning and that is when I decided to call for your services. They could be at least part of the solution, if you can think of some tactic that, when employed on that rolling northern Wyoming hill country will result in the defeat of those Rebels."

"So, I am supposed to become some sort of instant military genius to devise a plan to do your work for you?"

"In some ways you are correct with that assumption. Since you are a very crafty woman, and have been self-employed as a wonderful woman of the night for this entire war, I have complete faith in your ability to arrive at a plan that will successfully bring this dilemma to a speedy conclusion. I am sure that you know that I am aware that you have at least sixteen ladies of the night in your entourage. I want you to enlist them to accompany you on this delicate mission. I will guarantee their salaries will more than equal what they would otherwise earn in their usual occupation. Do I make myself clear?"

"Absolutely, General. I kind of like the sound of "Colonel Rosie Brazear. The girls will have a lot of fun with that. What do I do about uniforms for my so-called troopers? Your usual tunics will need adjustments for their mammary systems."

"Go tell the supply sergeant what you need and tell him that you are acting under my orders."

"Fort Gnip Gnop is fifty miles up river from here," Rosie said." We will need either horses or mules to get there in good time."

"Go to the stables and tell them what you need, and again tell them you are requisitioning for your company under my orders."

"Arnie, or should I call you General from now on, you haven't told me what I should do once I arrive at Fort Gnip Gnop."

"Rosie, Colonel Brazear, I am just sending you to the fort. You must assess the situation and make up your own mind what tactic you will employ in order to accomplish our mission. And, don't forget to take along plenty of supplies. And, if I know your girls and you, make sure you have plenty of good whiskey. I think at least a keg would be appropriate."

"Where do I get the whiskey, General?"

Newsance pulled out the top drawer of his desk and took a requisition slip from a stack of them. He t ook the pen from its holder, scribbled on the slip, and handed it to Rosie.

"Take this to Bison Booze in town and get your whiskey. They will honor the requisition slip, as they always do. By the way, get the storekeeper busy on those tunic adjustments right way because I want you at Fort Gnip Gnop four days from tomorrow."

"What do you want me to do, kill the horses?"

Newsance exhaled in exasperation.

"Dammit, Rose, just get your butt up there as soon as you can before those rebels decide to attack Fort Gnip Gnop. It is August Fourth, 1865, Rosie. Do you think it is too much to ask that you reach Fort Gnip Gnop by mid-month? Before you leave, I want to see how your tunic fits."

"For heaven's sake, why, Arnie? You already know what will be under the tunic."

"Get busy, Colonel Brazear, before I bust you down to Corporal."

"I should be so lucky," Rose said. "Let's see if I can do an 'about face' without falling on my butt."

Rosie Brasear left General Newsance's headquarters, mounted her sorrel gelding and went directly into the nearby town where the sixteen ladies of the night had been in residence since their arrival eight months prior to this strange assignment. Rose assembled them into the living room of the rustic frontier hotel and told them what had happened and what they needed to do to get ready for the ride to Fort Gnip Gnop.

Two of the girls questioned Rose about the amount of their wages for the assignment. Rose assured them that General Newsance would make it more than worth their while, especially if they accomplished the mission to capture the rebel companies. The two girls calmed down after Rosie's explanations.

Next in the preparations was to take the girls to the supply sergeant and have them measured for their uniforms. That done, Rose took a team and wagon to the Bison Booze liquor store and bought a keg of the best bourbon they had on hand. She returned to Fort Big Little Horn after leaving the wagon and its cargo at the stables next to their hotel. Back at the fort, she went again to the supply sergeant and ordered enough food to get them to Fort Gnip Gnop. While there the sergeant showed her the first three tunics he had made adjustments to in order to accommodate the girls' mammary systems. Rosie gave her approval and requested a finish time for the following day.

"I can get them done by evening tomorrow," the sergeant said. "I can get two troopers to work on them because they are fascinated by the adjustments."

Next, Rose went to the stables and put in her request for fifteen horses for the girls to ride to Fort Gnip Gnop. The barn sergeant, an old timer with lots of gray hair and wrinkles showing his years, told her that he would wrangle the horses in from the pastures early in the morning of the following day. With all her business taken care of, Rose rode back to the hotel where she sought relaxation with a glass of bourbon whiskey from the keg that was out in the wagon. It had been more work than she was used to in getting ready for her first assignment as Colonel Brazear.

The following morning she harnessed the team and hooked them to the wagon to load enough grain for all the horses for the trip to Fort Gnip Gnop. At mid-afternoon she assembled all the girls at the supply sergeant's building where they tried on their uniforms. The supply sergeant was proud of the work he and his crew had done with the adjustments to the tunics. Only one girl's tunic needed further fixing due to her large bosoms that made her look top-heavy. The sergeant outfitted them all with the rest of the clothing including the regulation cavalry hats, which, with their short brims, seemed useless in keeping the sun or rain out of the wearers' faces. From there they went to the stables where the stableman assigned them all mounts for the trip

Rosie dismissed the girls, admonishing them to be ready to start before dawn the next morning. Rosie drove the wagon to the commissary where she filled her food requisition. By that time it was late afternoon. She went to General Newsance's quarters where she found him sitting in his stuffed easy chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand.

"Rose, I must say that you look like quite a colonel," he said. "I put a pair of silver colonel birds on top of my dresser that I once wore. Go on in to the bedroom and get them. I'll help you pin them onto your tunic."

Rosie did as Newsance asked and then looked in the mirror to see how they looked on her tunic.

"I reckon this makes me ready to lead my troopers to Fort Gnip Gnop. I can tell you, Arnie, all the preparations have been accomplished. The girls seemed excited wearing those tunics that are fitted to accommodate their breasts. The supply sergeant had to make Thelma's adjustments larger. That poor girl can never sleep on her stomach."

Rosie left the General's quarters two hours after sundown, checked the team and wagon, and went to bed to get a good night's sleep before starting the trip to Fort Gnip Gnop. Prior to falling asleep, Rosie pondered her assignment and being against war, especially the current Civil War, she tried to figure out a way to carry out her so-called orders without causing any loss of life on either side. Just before sleep came to her, Rosie convinced herself that the best way to accomplish the mission was to use the girl "troopers" in the most effective way. She decided to think about it during the two-day trip to Fort Gnip Gnop.

The team of mules kept the pace of the saddle horses without any problem. They were a sturdy team of prime Missouri mules and had been trained well. The girls chattered a lot as they rode toward the destination. By the time they made camp for the night near the banks of the Tongue River, they were all quite saddle sore. The evening meal was hurried so that they could curl up in their bedrolls as quickly as possible.

The following morning, before taking the hobbles off their horses, most of the girls took advantage of the time and the clear water in the river to bathe hastily before eating breakfast and saddling their horses. The cool water in the Tongue River rejuvenated them and they started the day's ride in good spirits. Rosie was happy to see that the trip was going well because once at Fort Gnip Gnop, the girls would be called upon to perform an unusual spectacle that might go down in the annals of cavalry history as a once only event accomplished by the mounted military.

As they rode toward Fort Gnip Gnop along the Tongue River, the girls chattered away about events in their lives and the wonderings about what the Army was going to order them to do at Fort Gnip Gnop. The sun was sinking slowly in the west when Rosie called a halt to the column after she spotted the fort buildings a quarter of a mile ahead.

"All right, girls, before we arrive at the fort all of you must take off all of your underclothes and put them in the wagon. I don't know what will happen once we arrive, but we need to be ready just in case we have to spring into action with my plan before sunset. You will be wearing your army uniforms and nothing more. My plan is to march toward the Confederate line, ourselves in a parallel line to theirs. When we get far enough toward them so that they will see us, we will unbutton our tunics and display our femininity for them to goggle at. Hopefully they will drop their weapons and come toward us with their eyes and minds glued to our bosoms. Knowing soldiers, I know they will have lust in their minds. Without their weapons the fort soldiers will be able to encircle the Rebels easily and capture them without firing a shot. My plan calls for nobody on either side getting wounded. When we ride into the compound, you will remain where I call a halt to this column. You will wait until I have talked with the commandant and explained my plan to him. The General has told me that me a colonel will outrank the Commandant, who is a mere major. He will have to obey my orders. I think I will enjoy watching a man obey my orders for a change. Are there any questions?"

None of the girls spoke.

"All right, get out of your underclothing," Rosie said, and proceeded to undress.

After a twenty-minute ride, they arrived at the entrance to Fort Gnip Gnop. The sentry had a look of doubt on his face when Rosie identified herself and asked for the directions to the Commandant's office. The girls, still mounted, waited on the parade ground as Rosie rode up and dismounted in front of the Commandant's office that displayed an American flag and a guidon banner designating the company in residence. She entered the office when the major answered her knock on his office door with a "Come in".

Standing in front of the major, Rosie announced her arrival as being in command of the company of sixteen women soldiers with orders to capture the Confederate companies that were threatening Fort Gnip Gnop.

"Major Haliburton," Rosie said. "I have an excellent plan that should accomplish the mission General Newsance has assigned to me."

"I have planned a charge that should bring those Rebels to their knees. Your women troopers will ride 'follow up' to the rear of my troopers and keep their rifles trained on any captives that my troopers take during the battle."

"Major Haliburton, I suppose I need to remind you that I am a colonel and thus I outrank you, Major," Rosie said. "Your family might be big important industrialists, but I must also remind you that you are in the Army and therefore must obey the orders of your superiors. Now, let's see if you understand. Who gives orders, a colonel or a major?"

"Colonel Brazear, I find this quite unordinary."

"Find it however you want to, Major Haliburton. But here is what you will do as soon as I return to my troopers. You will assemble your company and have them hide and remain hidden behind the trees that seem to be flourishing beyond the parade ground in front of the Confederate line. My troopers will advance on the Rebels and you will see them look with amazement at my troopers as the Rebels drop their weapons on the ground and come walking toward my line of attack. Once my troopers have gathered the Rebels, You order you troopers to surround the Rebels and I will order my troopers to hand over the captives to your men. Do I make myself clear, Major?"

"Yes, Colonel, but I cannot for the life of me see how this tactic will work."

"You are not supposed to know how it will work. You are a mere major, and you probably don't know horse manure from boot polish. Just follow my orders and we should get along quite well."

"Very well, Colonel," Major Haliburton said, and saluted Rosie.

Rosie came close to laughing out loud when the major saluted her. She had to turn toward the door before she did laugh, and she forgot to return the salute. Outside the office door Rosie stood looking at the area where the Confederates had dug in. She turned around and went back to the office, opened the major's door and stood there like a statue.

"Major, You are still sitting at your desk! I thought I told you to assemble your company to join this mission. Where the hell are they?"

Haliburton jumped up and hurried out of the door. Rosie watched him running to the barracks. Then, she returned to the waiting girl troopers.

All right Troopers," she said. "As soon as you see the Fort Gnip Gnop garrison leave their barracks you will follow me onto the battle field. As soon as we get strung out parallel to the Rebels, start unbuttoning your tunics. Wait until I call out the command, 'FLASH', before you open those tunics. We might have more fun than a barrel of monkeys capturing these boys that are so far away from home that they are growing horns on their heads.

The regular troopers, following the major's frantic orders, rushed to formation outside of their barracks. As Haliburton explained what part they were to perform in the battle, Rosie's troopers started riding across the plain in front to the Rebel line. Once their line was stretched across the field, Rosie called, "Halt! Dismount!"

Rosie and the girls dismounted, and began walking, leading their horses, toward the dug-in Rebel soldiers. Keeping their eyes on the top of the entrenchment as they walked, the girls saw the Rebel soldiers climb out of their trench and stand looking at them as they approached.

Seeing that they were within good sighting range, Rosie called out, "Flash!". The girls threw open their tunics exposing their breasts to the eyes of the Rebel soldiers. Almost in unison, the Confederate line dropped their rifles to the ground and started walking quickly toward the bare breasted women. Rosie looked back and saw that the Union troopers were advancing so as to encircle the Rebels that were concentrating, not on a battle, but on a vast array of female mammary systems, gawking as they came.

Suddenly, from across the eastern plain heading straight for the field where the action was taking place, two soldiers came at a fast gallop. One held a Confederate flag; the other held an American flag. They charged up to between the two lines and reined in their sweating horses. The Confederate officer reined his horse around to face the Rebel soldiers that had halted their advance toward the bare breasted women. The Union officer turned toward the woman and sat speechless on his horse.

The Confederate officer yelled at the soldiers. "The war is over, why are you still fighting the war? This is August. The war ended on April 9th. It is time to go home!"

"You heard the Rebel officer," the Union officer yelled. "The war is over. Word came back that you troopers were still fighting, so the two of us were ordered here to inform you that you no longer have to fight and kill each other."

The girls screamed in happiness. The Rebel soldiers continued toward the girls, who had not yet buttoned up their tunics.

Civil War military historians, in spite of several of them searching every document available, have never discovered any letters or documents telling what had happened at Fort Gnip Gnop. One historian concluded that there were never any adequate words to describe the incident.

The following day, Rosie left Fort Gnip Gnop and returned to Fort Big Little Horn. She reported to General Newsance about what had happened.

"Arnie, the girls seemed to be in seventh heaven with all those soldier boys. I left as soon as I got things settled up with that idiot Major Haliburton. But I need to know why you never knew that the war was over before you sent me and the girls out on that mission."

"Rosie, I am truly sorry about that, but they haven't built the towers far enough westward, and my cell phone does not work out here."

The End

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