"A Knife Flashed In the Darkness"
"A Knife Flashed In the Darkness"
3/11/1890
I.
The Brimstone Kid was getting drowsy. The tiny library was both warm and stuffy, and he had been sitting in the overstuffed easy chair all day. The buzzing of a horsefly circling his head irritated Johnny enough to roust himself. He blinked and looked around. The librarian was a prim old schoolmarm who was paying him no attention.
Stifling a yawn, Johnny Packard folded up all the copies of LONDON ILLUSTRATED NEWS and returned them to their spot on the shelves that filled one wall. Even though the papers were more than a year old, he had been following a series of crimes that fascinated him. Some lunatic in London had slaughtered a half-dozen street whores and cut them up like a butcher dressing a hog. The killer had not been caught, and his final atrocity appeared to have been committed in December of the preceding year.
The fact that the crimes had no resolution was preying on his mind. He wanted stories to have a proper ending. The Brimstone Kid nodded politely to the librarian and received a grudging half-smile in return as he stepped back outside. It was a beautiful crisp clear October afternoon and he had spent it bent over old periodicals straining his eyes. Sometimes Johnny wondered why he was so contrary.
At thirty-one, Johnny was still short and thin to the point where his nickname 'Kid' did not seem inappropriate. Wearing beat-up boots, faded jeans and a blue flannel shirt with a black denim vest, he would not have drawn a second look except for the guns. Hung low on his hips was a double-holstered gunbelt that held matched Peacemakers. He was on his fourth pair of the big single-action Colt 45s, and he hadn't found any other shooting irons that suited him as well.
Hanging down on its cord between his shoulder blades was his black Stetson. Tucked inside the beaded hatband, the cursed Darthan coin remained cold and inert during the daytime. He had hours yet before that damn coin would transform him. Johnny strolled over to where his black stallion Terror was tethered to a horizontal rail set up under a sour apple tree.
Terror raised his head and snorted through his nostrils. After their years together, Johnny knew the horse's moods. Terror wanted excitement and danger, hard riding under the moon, gunfire and chases and close calls. He could tell.
"Dang fool hoss," Johnny said amiably and stroking the powerful neck. "I swear, you love trouble more than any animal I ever heard tell of."
Seeing that Terror was comfortable was first in Johnny's priorities. He had groomed and rubbed down the black horse, given him the right amount of water and oats, and seen that the stallion was tied in a spot that would be shaded that afternoon. This was before he had gone into the County Public Library for the second day.
Instincts honed by more than a decade of living on the edge flared up in him. Johnny snapped his head around and spotted a tall thin man striding quickly toward him from the main street. Little Clay Hawk! The Kid turned further around to face the famous lawman but he was careful not to bring his hands any closer to his pistols. A shootout with Little Clay Hawk of all people was not on his list of activities to try.
The lawman was well past forty by now. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Little Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes.
Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Little Clay Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. "Johnny? It IS you, then."
"Little Clay Hawk," said the Kid, shaking the offered hand with relief that no showdown seemed to be in the immediate future.
"Aw, just Clay Hawk now. I got myself hitched to a gal from back East and she belabored me into actin' more white than red. We're expecting our first little one in a few months."
"Really? I'll be roped, thrown and branded if I expected that. My best wishes, then, Hawk. Long and happy life to y'all. You still a Federal marshall?"
Hawk took off his hat and swung it idly to fan himself. "Strictly speakin', I'm not a marshall. I'm a Marshall Agent, sorta like a Deputy. I report to the genuine Marshall and he sends me out to poke around wherever there's been reports of trouble. Most times I resolve the situation by myself if you can."
"Sounds like it's still a mite risky occupation, if'n you don't mind me sayin' so."
"Naw, you got a point. What with a new wife in the family way, I intend to take the desk job they keep offering me. Leaving a widow and an orphan ain't right if I can avoid it."
In that late afternoon sunlight, Johnny's dark red hair gleamed like copper. Under shaggy brows, his green eyes were wary. "How is it you chanced to ride into the little town where I been staying?"
"Oh, I've been searching for you," Hawk admitted. "I heard over in South Fork that you had been seen here. How busy are you these days, Johnny?"
"Hah! Truth be told, I squandered all yesterday and today sittin' in that library yonder. My Uncle Saul raised me to know my letters. Ever chance I get, I grab me some newspapers and journals and find out what's brewin' in the wide world."
"Good to hear. A peaceful spell holed up in a sleepy town never hurts." Hawk placed his hat back on his head and adjusted its angle precisely. The dark eyes with a hint of an epicanthic fold regarded the Kid with careful scrutiny. "I been ordered back to the station to report but there's some grief goin' on in South Fork that I wondered if you might want to investigate your own self."
"You got me tagged, all right," Johnny said. "I can't stay peaceable for too long a spell. What exactly is the problem in that town?"
"Murder and nothing less. Two folks killed by knifepoint in the past two weeks," replied Clay Hawk.
I.
The men went over to sit on a bench next to the small brick building where Johnny had been reading about London knife murders. He mentioned this casually to Hawk, who whistled.
Stretching out his legs in front of him, the lawman shook his head. "If that don't beat all. If I could fetch the odds like that when playin' poker, I'd be a rich man. But I reckon it's a big old world and somewhere some poor soul is a'getting knifed in the gizzard as we speak."
"Afore I ride into South Fork, I'd best know what there is to know, Hawk."
The lawman launched into all he had learned from two days of asking questions of everyone in that town. The first victim was a dancehall gal name of Jenny Diver. She lived and worked on the second floor of the LUCKY HORSESHOE. Ten days later, they found the second lamb lyin between two buildings. Woman named Lucy Brown. She was employed in the kitchen at the steak house next door to the saloon. Townsfolk confide in me that she was not above earning a few dollars the old-fashioned way."
"GodDAM," Johnny said. "This is sendin' a shiver up from my tailbone to my head and no foolin'. Has America got its own Jack the Ripper or what?"
"I can't rightly say. I need to be in the saddle, Johnny. The telegram directed me to report back and leave the killings for the town sheriff to handle. But I thought you might be curious."
"Surely I am," said the Brimstone Kid. As Clay Hawk rose and stretched, Johnny got up as well. "I believe I might head over to South Fork today. I do believe I have read enough of last year's news from a country I ain't likely to ever visit anyway."
"Glad to hear it, son." Hawk touched the brim of his hat. "I got my own hoss in the stable at the other side of town. Be seeing you."
"Hold on a tick," Johnny said. "I want to be sure that there ain't no hard feelings about the last time we crossed paths. We each took some damage but I figgered we parted on amiable terms."
Starting toward the main street, Hawk grinned. "I'm not one to nurse a grudge over a small misunderstanding, kid. I hardly limp anymore." With that, he started walking away.
Watching the former Arizona Ranger and ex-gambler stride away, Johnny Packard felt unreasonably anxious. The murders in London a year earlier and now these similar killings here in Texas. They couldn't be connected. Could they? Suddenly it seemed urgent to go see for himself.
He had been camping in his bedroll outside of time, paying for a meal or two and for a bath at the hotel the previous day. Nothing was holding him here. Johnny unfastened Terror's reins, tightened the cinch on the saddle and checked all his gear. He placed his toe in the stirrup and vaulted up into the saddle, then urged the big stallion east, toward the town of South Fork.
Along the way, Johnny saw a glint of the Agua Rojo river in the distance and rode past a sign at a crossroads that held a wooden arrow QUINLEN FARMS. Someone had nailed a coyote skull to the sign and he took this as one more bad omen.
As dusk approached, the Kid urged his mount up a small hill which was topped by a cluster of trees. Dismounting, Johnny tended to Terror and let the black stallion graze at will. He himself built a small fire using flint and steel, brewed strong tea without sugar and warmed up some pemmican he kept in his saddlebags.
As he chewed and sipped, the redheaded cowboy watched the lurid orange sun touch the horizon. Hawk had said it was a two day's ride to South Fork. Maybe it was for a normal rider on a normal steed. Darkness began to spread around him. Johnny put out the fire and stowed away his meager gear, then stirred the ashes and assured himself no sparks remained.
The time was approaching. Terror had drawn closer and was watching him. Johnny had examined his Peacemakers that morning as a matter of routine and now he loosened them in his holsters and leaping nimbly back up into the saddle.
Between his shoulder blades, an unpleasant warmth was stinging him. Johnny drew the black Stetson on and tugged it firmly into place. At his forehead, beneath the beaded band, the Darthan coin burned hotter. That copper-colored token was older than the West, it had been struck and cursed before even the Indians had come into this land.
The great horse Terror began to transform. His long face grew skeletal, the dark eyes glinted with a red spark. Seeing this, Johnny felt restless with unnatural vitality. He knew his own face was getting more angular and bony, his eyebrows were spiky and that same red gleam was supplanting the green of his irises. He chuckled and broke out into wicked laughter as night fell. The true Brimstone Kid galloped off into the darkness.
III.
At mid-morning, Johnny woke up curled in a ball lying next to some brush. He sat up, yawned and spat to clear a sticky mouth, and forced his eyes open.Not far away, reins tied to a scrub tree, Terror was sleeping standing up with his head down. The Kid struggled up onto his feet and saw the dusty road was on the other side of a small rise.
Memory came back to him, vague as if last night had somehow been years ago. All he remembered was riding full tilt mile after mile, laughing and hoping for trouble. Johnny pulled out his irons and saw they were both still loaded. His clothes didn't stink of gunpowder. So it seemed last night had not seen any action.
Taking off his hat and placing it on his saddlehorn so as to get what distance he could from the Darthan coin, he stepped quietly to not wake his horse. His canteen hung on a strap from his saddlebag and he swirled a mouthful of lukewarm water around before letting it dribble out. He felt sore and weary, but that was a normal morning for him.
A tiny creek, not much more than a hand's-width across, ran nearby. It was a welcome sight. Johnny knelt beside it, sniffed a handful of the running water and took a tentative sip. He filled his canteen and drank some of its contents, then refilled it and put it aside. Keeping an ear cocked for anything approached, the Kid rinsed off his hands and wiped his face and the back of his neck with the icy water. That helped wake him up.
As long as he had some time, the Kid tugged off his boots and socks. He rinsed his feet off, enjoying cold water over the sweaty skin. Then he rubbed the heavy wool socks in the little stream and wrung them out. As he stretched the socks in the morning sun to dry, he began pondering what Little Clay Hawk had told him the day before.
For a moment, Johnny wondered how much Hawk suspected about his nightly transformations. Their clash a few years earlier had all taken place in a single afternoon. Maybe Hawk had heard rumors of the hellish night rider called the Brimstone Kid, it was hard to say.
Kneeling, Johnny rinsed out his bandana and squeezed it as dry as he could, then picked up his socks and boots and strolled barefoot through the grass up to where Terror still dozed. It was time to get rolling. Getting his spare socks from hi saddlebags, he pulled them on and then his boots. He rousted the big horse and gave him a minute to settle down, then rode on.
South Fork was a good-sized town, he discovered, about twenty buildings on the main strip with private homes on side streets and on a nearby hill. There was a barber shop, an apothecary, a leather goods and blacksmithery, a bank, two saloons and a restaurant, even a local paper THE CITIZEN-HERALD. Johnny immediately felt the weight of hostile eyes on him as he rode along the main street. Curtains in windows were pulled aside and then drawn closed as he glanced up. Three idlers lounging on chairs in front of the general store sat up straighter and openly stared as he went past.
The Brimstone Kid brought Terror to a halt in front of the building with a plate glass window that read THE CITIZEN-HERALD - NEWS HONEST AND TRUE in ornate script. Tying the reins to a hitching post where an older roan already stood patiently, Johnny hopped down to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement and he turned his head an inch to see an elderly man with a white beard still speckled with black. Easily two hundred and seventy pounds with a round belly, the man had no gun visible and both hands were empty.
Moving to face the man while still being able to keep an eye on the office door, Johnny said, "Howdy, mister," in an even tone.
The old man tapped the brim of his battered hat in greeting and replied in an odd squeaky voice, "Morning, son. I confess I ain't seen you round these parts afore."
"No. I come from up by Merrril City. Would you know if the editor of this paper is in?"
"That would be myself," wheezed the bearded man. "Publisher, editor, reporter, typesetter and floor sweeper, that's me. Ernest J Colby, sir."
"John Packard here, Texas boy born and raised. I'd like to chew the fat if'n you got time. It appears to me you know more of what goes down in this burg than any other soul."
"You got that right. Sure I got time to palaver. A few rewrites and an advertisement from the BERRYMAN FUNERAL HOME to paste in, that's my schedule today. Come in and unburden your mind." The combination of obesity and age gave Colby some difficulty mounting the steps to the office door and Johnny politely stood by until he was done.
Inside was a cluttered jumble of two desks and three chairs, all stacked with precariously balanced piles of loose papers. Every inch of the walls had either a framed photo of some local dignitary or a scribbled reminder of something that had to be attended to urgently. There was a map of the immediate area pinned up where light from the windows fell directly on it. Through an open door in the corner could be seen the massive printing press with its metal drum of ink and a cabinet full of tools such as scissors, rulers, pastepots and dozens of pens and lead pencils.
The reek of cigar smoke clung to everything. It was soaked into the room and Johnny vaguely wondered if the newspaper itself smelled of cigar smoke.
"Feel free to clear off that chair," the newspaperman said in his reedy voice. He himself plopped down behind his desk and began trying to bring order to chaos.
Carefully relocating a stack of ledgers and notebooks to a rare clear spot on the floor, Johnny moved his chair closer to the desk. He looked up to find Colby smiling at him.
The old man began as if greatly amused, "The one time I heard the name Johnny Packard, it was tied to a legendary character who hailed from the border town of Brimstone near El Paso. Folks naturally called him the Brimstone Kid. You care to hear some tall tales regarding him?"
Despite himself, Johnny grinned back. "I much prefer to learn about this here town. A saddle tramp I encountered warned me not to wander over here. He said a fiend walked these streets at night. He said a knife flashed in the darkness and women gave up their sad lives to its edge."
"Lord have mercy on us. Yes. I knew those women of course. Not that I ever dropped penny in their hands for their services, I am at an age where such a dalliance is best observed in memory. But they both came to me with scandals and gossip which their peculiar trade fitted them to learn."
The Kid kept his voice polite and free of insolence. "I hear tell of atrocious treatment of the bodies. I understand that no arrests have been made and that none are in the offing?"
"All too true," Colby said, resting his chin in an upturned palm with his elbow on the desk. "Sheriff O'Rourke is reasonably honest and reasonably competent, my boy. He is certainly an improvement over his two predecessors. But I have to say that he has made no progress in finding who wielded the blade that sent those fallen ladies into Eternity."
Johnny listened to the newspaperman for another half hour, taking in details of when the bodies had been found and how horribly they had been cut up. He memorized the names of a dozen South Fork denizens who were worth knowing about before venturing into town affairs.
"Then there's our new sawbones, Dr Emmett and his assistant Mack. They arrived here three months ago to take over the late Dr Langston. Interesting pair. English, you know. They came to these shores from London last year."
Hearing that was like having ice water poured down his back. Johnny sat up straighter and clenched his black Stetson in both hands. "London, you say?"
"Yes indeed. Does that have some significance to you, Mr Packard?"
"No. How would it mean anything?" said the Brimstone Kid.
IV.
Hearing boots coming up the steps outside, Johnny automatically moved to the edge of his chair and shifted around. His hand resting on the arm of the chair was within an inch of his right Peacemaker. The green eyes narrowed warily.
Knocking on the doorjamb, a thin man held his hat in his free hand. He had a full beard and longish untended hair which had not been washed in some time. "Scuse me, Mr Colby. I hates to butt in but the Sheriff would like to speak with the newcomer."
Johnny scowled. "And you might be?"
"Me? Aw, I'm just Weston. I help out with chores and messages for the Sheriff. If'n you got a moment, we should go see him now."
Colby gave the Kid a reassuring look. "Most likely it's yore hoglegs, son. South Fork don't allow handguns within town limits."
Johnny rose to his feet and visibly untensed. "I reckon I'd best speak with your Sheriff, then. I thank you kindly for your patience, Mr Colby."
"Drop by again." Colby laughed in his high-pitched tones. "I purely love explaining things 'cause it makes me feel intelligent. It's the only flattery I get."
Following the man outside, Johnny glanced around at the townsfolk who were going about their business. It was true that none of them were armed. He had spent so much of his time in the rougher towns where the law was not well established that he was accustomed to seeing most men with a pistol either in a holster or stuck in their belt.
The Sheriff's office was a whitewashed brick building near the end of the main street. A wagon stood near the corner of the structure with a slightly mature roan munching grass alongside it. The man Weston escorted into the front office, again rapping with his knuckles on the doorjam as he entered.
The big room was the same as many law offices that Johnny had seen. A glass-fronted cabinet holding a dozen Winchesters. A wood-burning pot-bellied stove in one corner. A board on the wall with WANTED posters and legal notices tacked to it. At the rear, the steel barred door of a holding cell could be seen.
Sitting behind a desk, writing laboriously in a journal, sat a rather nondescript man in a dark brown shirt with a leather vest on which was pinned a star. Sam O'Rourke was middle-aged and weathered, dark hair brushed back and with a droopy handlebar mustache covering his mouth. He looked up as the two men entered, not unfriendly but businesslike.
"What's yore business in South Fork?" he began bluntly enough.
"Passing through. I been working at a ranch up by Merril City the past year. Headin' south to find work."
The Sheriff studied him thoughtfully. "You got callused hands, I see you are no stranger to real labor. All right. We don't allow firearms within town limits. You're welcome here but you gotta surrender yore irons."
With only the slightest hesitation, Johnny took his guns out. He moved slowly and deliberately, holding them by the barrels and placing them on the desk in front of O'Rourke, then stepping back.
"There you go, sir. I hadn't heard about this rule when I rode in."
"Thass all right. Looky, I'm locking them in this bottom drawer here. You want a receipt?"
The Brimstone Kid thought it would be best not to seem distrustful of the lawman. "No, Sheriff. I don't see where that's necessary."
"Good man. Before you go, I feel I should mention that I seem to recognize you from descriptions. Five feet six, one hunnerd and fifty pounds, red hair and green eyes. Clean-shaven. You're not wanted anywhere I know of, Packard."
"No, sir, I'm not. There ain't never been a price on my head," the Kid replied with just a trace of resentment.
"I figger the stories about you are tall tales. You seem well-spoken and with good manners. You can rent a room at the LONGHORN down by the livery stable. It's clean and quiet and you can get meals there as well."
Johny nodded and turned to go. "I thank you, Sheriff. I expect to be moving on in a short spell. I'll be back for my irons then."
"Good. This is a settled town. We like it peaceful."
"I understand. Good day to you, gentlemen." Feeling as vulnerable as if he wasn't wearing any clothes at all, the Kid went back outside with empty holsters. The lack of the familiar weight at his sides bothered him. He hadn't expected to be disarmed like this. Suddenly the prospect of facing a killer with a knife seemed more daunting than when he had a brace of heavy Colts at hand.
So be it, he thought and turned his thoughts to more practical matters. If he was planning on holing up in this town for a few days, he'd better get Terror a berth in the livery stable and a room for himself. Johnny had a good amount of money sewn in the lining of his saddlebags. Unexpectedly, he had been offered reward money not long earlier when he had brought in the notorious horse thief Jeb Stephens. There had been no reason not to accept it.
Getting Terror set up at the stable didn't take long. The black stallion had been through this procedure before and understood he would be safe. Johnny left the heavy saddle and bedroll with the owner, but he unstrapped the saddlebags and slung them over one shoulder before heading out into the street again.
Directly opposite him stood a two-story building with the sign hanging over its front door that read LONGHORN HOTEL - ROOMS AVAILABLE. Johnny trudged into the lobby and met a surprisingly young Mexican woman behind the counter. She took his money and escorted him up the stairs to his room. It was fine. There was nothing fancy about the iron-framed bed or the dresser with its wide mirror or the table in one corner, but it smelled clean and a fresh breeze blew in through the open window.
This certainly beats another night sleeping on the ground with his arm for a pillow, he thought. Johnny thanked the woman courteously and told her he would likely be back at seven that night when supper was served in the dining room. She seemed inclined to linger and chat with the young redhead but the Kid's thoughts were obviously far away.
Left alone, Johnny Packard stood by the open window and gazed down at the people in the street. This whole business with Jack the Ripper a year ago and similar slaughter here in the West and a doctor from London.... He shivered. The connection seemed so obvious. Surely the Sheriff had thought the same. Had he questioned this doctor?
Or had he thought that as long as the infamous Brimstone Kid was in town, maybe two menaces would eliminate each other? Others had tried to use Johnny as a weapon.
The situation was gnawing at him. He had to find out what the facts were. Johnny went to his saddlebags. Most of what they held were not remarkable. A spare shirt, a straight razor and its whetstone, a piece of flint for starting fires, a hairbrush and a few crumpled maps. Opening a seam in the underside, he reached in and drew out two hundred and five dollars in the large bills of that era. There were also six silver dollars and a few two-bit pieces.
The Kid stowed his savings in his jeans pockets and then reluctantly unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it across the belt. He felt strange. He was so used to its weight that its absence troubled him. But he realized someone might see it and mistake it to mean he was carrying guns, which could lead to fatal consequences.
In one pocket of his denim vest was a folding knife with a white horn handle. It had a three-inch blade and was a utility tool rather than a weapon. Aw hell, he thought, I still got my fists and my feet if it comes down to that.
Heading back downstairs, Johnny smiled at the woman in the lobby and headed outside. Overhead, the sun shone in a clear deep blue sky and he realized it was getting near noon. His stomach rumbled. Before he found a place to eat though, the Kid intended to get a look at this doctor from London.
Walking along the boardwalk through town, he passed the saloon where the first woman had been killed. He would have to dig around in there soon enough. Just ahead was a barber shop with the striped red, white and blue pole, Beyond that, a board hung over a door with the words OLIVER EMMETT, M.D. painted across it.
The window next to the door was heavily curtained. Johnny thought he saw movement in those curtains. He stepped up and grasped the brass knocker shaped like a lion's head, but before he could use it, the doorknob turned. The Kid stepped back as the door stood open. Filling the doorway completely was one of the biggest men he had ever seen.
V.
The open hostility in that brutal face was frightening. A nose that had been flattened, a cranium with only stubble from having been shaved days earlier, angry dark eyes under brows that nearly met, a thin-lipped mouth pressed shut as if trying to hold back curses... it was not a face anyone would want to be surprised by when a door opened.
Instead of being intimidated, though, Johnny reacted with defiance. This hulk was at least a foot taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier than he was, but the Kid met that glare without weakening. "I take it you ain't the doctor," he said insolently.
The brute was wearing heavy work boots, black trousers and a white undershirt that could have benefitted from a laundry. Broad pectoral muscles and round biceps stretched the cotton of that shirt. Before he could answer, a man's voice called from within, "Mack? Who is it?"
The man called Mack spoke over his shoulder into the office, "I don't know, doc." His voice was not as deep as expected and had a definite accent that Johnny had never heard before. "You want I should show him in?"
"Yes, of course."
Grudgingly, giving the redheaded cowboy a furious stare the entire time, the brute stepped aside. Johnny walked in past him with complete disregard. He was holding his hat in his left hand. For a second, his right hand strayed to where the butt of his Peacemaker usually hung.
The office was well furnished, with a deep burgundy rug and solid curtains of the same color. Bookshelves were filled with thick reference tomes. In one corner, an examination table could be glimpsed behind a folding screen. Johnny took this all in at a glance but his attention was fixed on the man behind the desk.
Dr Emmett sat in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap. Middle-aged, with receding white hair and a prominent bony nose, he peered up at Johnny through nearly-opaque spectacles. "Yes? What is it, young man?" The doctor's accent was also British, the Kid thought, but more educated and refined. Posh.
"Tain't fer me," Johnny lied blithely. "A friend of mine got a complaint. He's an older man, got to be a-hittin' seventy. Lately he whines all the time about passin' water. Says it takes forever and just dribbles out. I told him I'd ask ?if you wanted to see him."
The doctor adjusted the glasses. "Hmmph. That is by now means an uncommon problem for man past maturity. Perhaps a diuretic in his drinks would help. If necessary, a catheter might be called for. But I would have see him for myself of course."
"Right. I thank you kindly, doctor. I will tell 'im what you said and hope he comes in to see yuh." Johnny leaned toward a polished human skull that sat on a shelf. As he did not leave immediately, a massive meaty hand thumped down on his shoulder.
The Brimstone Kid spoke in an ominously gentle tone. "Big as you may be, get that paw off me before I break its fingers."
"Yeah? You and who else?"
"Just me." The quiet confidence in Johnny's manner had an effect. Mack released him and swung aside.
"Please excuse Mack," said the doctor. "I'm sorry. He has been a tireless assistant and an invaluable valet for someone in my condition. But he comes from lower circumstances and his manners are not polished, I fear."
Moving toward the door, the Kid said, "A strong man can afford to be gentle. Oh, I wanted to ask something else, doctor. You hail from London over in England, don't you?"
"Yes. I suppose our accents betrayed our origins. Both Mack and I are from the West End. We relocated here to your wonderful country for a fresh start after my... accident."
Setting himself where he could watch both of their faces, Johnny continued, "Reason I asked if 'cause I been readin' about the Whitechapel Horrors of last year. Gave me the willies. Then I rides into this burg and what do I find but killings of the same nature have been taking place here."
Mack made a deep rumbling voice in his broad chest and took a menacing step forward, but Johnny went on undeterred, "It seems to me that two former residents of London might have somethin' useful to say about this unlikely coincidence."
"Young man," hissed the doctor as he lowered his glasses. "This is no matter for jest."
"Oh, I ain't joking, doc. Be seein' yuh." Johnny stepped outside and closed the door right in Mack's enraged face. Out in the fresh air, the Brimstone Kid let out a deep relieved breath. He had been within a heartbeat of taking a swung at a man twice his size. That never ended well.
Lost in thought, Johnny walked through town until he came upon a building with a gaudy red and green sign that said SPINELLI BROTHERS RESTAURANT. Propped up against the outside wall was a blackboard with foods and prices chalked in. He didn't bother to read it, suddenly nothing was more important than filling his stomach.
The interior was crowded with round tables topped by red and white cloths. Along the far way was a bar with its stools and rows of liquor bottles. Johnny counted eleven men in there, a few drinking at the bar but the majority happily shoveling platefuls of food into their faces.
As he stood there, a youth not even out of his teens hurried up to him. "Good afternoon, sir. Will you be having a meal?"
"Absolutely. How about that table right here?"
"Very good. Here is a menu. If I might, I was just in the kitchen and Cookie has extra lamb chops on the grill. They'll be ready right away."
"That would suit me right to the ground," Johnny said. "Gimme the usual taters and greens on the side. Any beer?"
"Yes. We have a brewer in the hills who sells us his own brand. It's dark and tart, if you like that."
"I'll give it a try," the Kid told him. As the waiter rushed off, Johny took a chair at his table and unobtrusively looked around. As he had entered, silence had filled the restaurant and only now did conversations reluctantly start up again.
They don't cotton to strangers in their town, he thought. Considering the goings-on of late, he couldn't blame them. Minutes later, a steaming hot china plate piled with lamp chops, boiled potatoes and whole kernel corn was set in front of him. The waiter added a glass of beer and asked if that would be all.
"Yes indeed, thank you." Johnny attacked the meal but then forced himself to chew slowly and make the treat last. Too many days on the prairie meant going hungry, too many other days getting by on cornmeal flapjacks or boiled beans. When he settled down for a proper meal, he intended to enjoy it.
By the time he was gnawing on the last bone which had meat on it, Johnny was feeling more sanguine. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. His right hand dropped automatically to his side but found no Colt and his heart sank for a second before he remembered this was a no-packing town.
A remarkably seedy individual came up to him and raised a hand in friendly salute. "Good afternoon, mister. Mind if if I sit?"
"Help yourself," the Kid said. The stranger was a grizzled man of medium build but he was wearing two shirts, a light jacket and a heavy winter coat all at the same time. Slung over one shoulder was a rucksack crammed with more clothing. Under a shapeless battered hat, an equally battered face peeped out above a bristly brown beard. But the eyes were open and direct, and Johnny instinctively felt at ease with this man.
"Permit my introduction," said the stranger. "Louie Miller originally from Arkansas. Despite my present reduced state, I have been flush at various points. The life of a prospector is uncertain at best."
"True enough," Johnny agreed.
"I see you are finishing a glass of Old Man Morton's homebrew. Do you like it? I find it has a sharp bite that is refreshing."
Taking the hint, the Kid raised his glass and asked the young waiter for a refill as well as a glass for his new acquaintance. When the beer arrived, the two men toasted each other.
"I thank you, sir," said Miller. "It's not the custom out here to inquire into a man's past or his future, but if you are inclined to speak, I would be pleased to listen."
Despite his normal sullen demeanour, Johnny smiled at this man. "Seems I am merely breezing through South Fork for a day or three. I spent the summer working at a ranch up by the border and now I feel like moving on." He watched for Miller's reaction and went on, "I heard about what happened here."
That struck the man hard. He gazed down at his folded hands and took a moment to reply. "Abominable acts! Despoite their unfortunate situations, Lucy and Jenny were local gals. Both were born here when the town was founded at the end of the War. No one deserves to be treated after death the way those women were."
"Excuse my bold words," Johnny said, "But I heard tell that they was cut up. Their innards were taken out neat as you please. Or so I was told."
"That's what has shaken everyone in town to their core. The heart, the liver, the kidneys, all sliced out perfectly and laid in rows next to the remains. Terrible, terrible."
The Kid regarded the last sip of beer in his glass and downed it. "I believe a butcher might have skill in that area. He would be experienced in slicing up animals to keep the various cuts separate."
"There is another possibility," said Miller. "I am certain it has crossed your mind as it has mine. A doctor, particularly one skilled in surgery, knows well where a person's internal organs are located. And he is accustomed to cutting into folks without hesitation."
Johnny was watching Miller's face, trying to read it and to catch undertones in the man's voice. "That there Dr Emmett, the Englishman, he's in one of them invalid chairs ain't he?"
"True that. No one has ever seen him even stand up, much less take a step. The idea that he might be able to chase down and overpower a healthy young filly like Lucy or Jenny is hard to credit."
"What if he had that gorilla Mack helping him?" asked Johnny. "Catching the gal and holdin' her down while the doctor 'operates,' so to speak?"
"That possibility has bothered me," Louie Miller admitted. "But there were no tracks in the mud of that chair's wheels. Plenty big ol' bootprints but no sign of that chair."
"It's a puzzlement," Johnny said as he waved the waiter over and settled his tab. He left a tip for good service under the plate and then placed a few silver dollars on the table near Miller without comment. The Kid rose and stretched, then made for the door. "Pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miller."
Not getting up himself, the seeming vagrJoant shrugged. "Let it be said, I've heard wild yarns of a rider about your size and age, with hair and eyes like yours, who came from a Texas town called Brimstone."
Johnny Packard did not react. "This land's got more than its share of folks who might be real and might be just tall tales. Tom Pinto. Copperhair the Killer Squaw. Little Clay Hawk. One never knows. Be seeing you."
"Take care," the man said as he gathered up the coins off the table and tucked them into a pocket.
VIII.
It was still only mid-afternoon. There were long hours yet before nightfall would bring about his transformation. Johnny Packard stood on the boardwalk as a stray yellow dog sauntered by. He decided to poke around the LUCKY HORSESHOE saloon next.
Crossing the dusty street with its deep hardened ruts left by wagon wheels, the Kid had a rare moment of self-doubt. Why in thunder was he doing this? There was no money in it for him, yet he felt hellbent on tracking down someone who had already committed two murders. And he was doing it while disarmed.
Ah well, there's no explaining these things, he thought. It's just the way he was made. Even before he had become the Brimstone Kid, Johnny had thrived on confrontation and getting in fights. Uncle Saul had said Johnny as a child was as scrappy as a wildcat challenging a grizzly.
Taking his time, getting the layout of the town clear in his mind, he walked the length of the main street. The last building was the . In the distance, he saw the spires of a church with a cemetery visible beside it.
As he explored South Fork, Johnny sensed the townsfolk getting used to him. He bet that gossip from the livery stable and hotel and restaurant had spread quickly. His small size and non-swaggering demeanour helped ease their fears. If only they could see how he looked after dark, he thought.
Heading back up on the opposite side of the street, he paused in front of the LUCKY HORSESHOE. True to its name, the saloon had a large wooden replica of a horseshoe hanging from its roof. The sliding inner doors were open, and only the two batwing swinging doors blocked the entrance. Johnny automatically reached down to adjust his gunbelt before realizing he wasn't wearing it. Damn.
Inside was a typical watering hole, almost empty in late afternoon. Seated at tables, playing cards or simply kibitzing, were four men. In the corner sat a battered piano but no one was manning it. Spittoons decorated with dried tobacco spittle added to the pungent atmosphere of smoke and sweat and whiskey.
On either side of the main room, stairs led up to a railed walkway with a row of closed doors on the second floor. That had been where the late Jenny Diver had lived and earned her keep, he figured. Holding his hat in his hand, the Kid stepped up to the bar where a stout blonde woman in an ornate white dress with a scoop neckline stood watching him.
"What'll it be?" she asked, wiping the counter with a damp rag.
"I already had a beer, reckon I'll stick with that."
As she filled a glass from the tap, the barmaid said, "This is no rowdy honkytonk, mister. We try not to draw attention to ourselves."
"I'm a peaceable soul," he replied, taking a sip and putting a few coins on the bar. "You don't have to worry about me."
From around the corner of the bar, a slender woman about forty poked her head. She was wearing a light flower-patterned sundress and had her hair done up with a wooden skewer holding it in place She gave him a huge smile that showed excellent teeth between pouty red lips. "Howdy there, stranger."
"Hello to you, ma'am," Johnny answered. Seeing she was waiting for him to saying something more, he put down his glass and told her, "I regret to say I'm only stoppin' here for a few minutes."
"Oh. Very well. Perhaps if you come back later, you might ask for Suky?"
"I'll certainly keep that in mind, thank you kindly." Johnny said. He finished his beer and nodded to both women. "Be seeing you." The Kid had a strong sense he would not get much information out of them. His best bet so far seemed to be that old prospector Louie Miller.
IX.
On his way back to the stable, the Brimstone Kid went back to his hotel room and washed up from the pitcher on his dresser. As he dried his hands and face, he saw his gunbelt on the bed and couldn't stand it any longer. He buckled it on. Even without the Colts in the holsters, the weight of the belt with its looped cartridges had become the norm for him. He felt better immediately.
Johnny snatched up his saddlebags and trotted down the stairs. When the women behind the counter asked if he was checking out, he replied that he was just thinking of getting his horse to stretch its legs a bit.
Reching the stable, he found the five horses were still out in the open corral. The rest of the afternoon, Johnny stayed near Terror, talking to the big stallion, examnining his hooves and ears, making sure the animal was comfortable. As it grew dark, a warm spot developed between Johnny's shoulder blades. It was that ancient disc of red metal tucked between the Navajo beaded hatband.
If he placed the hat on his head, Johnny knew, he would transform at nightfall. If he kept that hat outside of reach, he would remain mortal flesh and blood. Leaving it near him this way only left him irritable and uncomfortable. There was a strong tugging sensation in his mind urging him to tug that Stetson on... to unleash the real Brimstone Kid.
And Terror could sense it. As darkness fell, the black stallion paced and stamped his hooves and snorted angrily. Terror wanted the transformation.
"Dang fool critter," Johnny whispered to the beast. "For a hoss, yer a regular daredevil. You just love the fear and the excitement, don't ya?"
The owner of the livery stable had begun bringing the horses in from the corral to their berths inside the stable itself. He limped over to where Johnny stood with Terror, carrying a copy of the town newspaper. "I'm a-headin' home, amigo. My wife will be stirrin' the stewpot and watching at the door for me."
"You gonna lock up then?" asked Johnny, still watching Terror's impatient strutting around the corral. "I'd prefer my hoss stay outside. He likes it best that way."
"If that's yer wish. Truth be told, I got me an arrangement with a local man. He sleeps in the barn over there and keeps an eye on things for me. If'n anybody wants to claim their hoss or gear, Louie writes down the details for me. This way, I gets me a night watchman and he has a warm dry place to sleep."
Even as the man spoke, the old prospector rounded a corner. "Here I am, Foster. I ate already, I'm go to settle down for the evening. Well, hey there, I didn't expect to see you here, Johnny."
The Kid grinned at the owner. "Louie Miller and I made acquaintance earlier today."
"Wallll, that's right copacetic," said the livery master. He started walking away down the main street. "Take care, boys."
As Miller went into the barn with its harnesses and tackle and tools hanging, he began arranging loose straw up against one wall, Johnny fiddled with the cord that held his hat. He retied it so the Stetson was dangling behind him down at belt level. Just those few extra inches away from his head made resisting the Darthan token easier.
"Whew, I'm done for the night," Miller said. "As it happens, I got rousted at dawn because of two dogs fightin' and I'm plain tuckered. What about you?"
"I spose I'm gonna spend an hour or two at that LUCKY HORSESHOE joint," answered Johnny. "I don't gamble and I hardly drink but I reckon someone will be pounding the eighty-eights and some pretty girls will be acting as if they like me."
"Haw haw, no matter how cynical you may be, it's not hardly enough," Miller told him. "The sporting ladies may be a tad reluctant to take customers after what happened to poor Lucy and Jenny but after all they gots to make a living."
"Ain't that true of all of us?" Johnny said. "Say, amigo, if'n you want, I could bring you a bottle from the restaurant."
"As much as I appreciate the kindness, I must decline." Miller dug in a pocket and came out with a tin harmonica. "Lemme tell you a secret, Kid. I am not as bereft of funds as I may appear., I've cashed in all my strikes over the years and stashed them away. When my grouch bag is filled enough, I'm catchin' a train back to St Louis."
"Aren't you full of surprises? I wish you well, friend. I ain't never been east of the Mississippi myself but I figger someday I ought to see New York and Chicago and Philadelphia fer my own sake. Right then, you take care. Mebbe I'll come back to see how my hoss afore I turn in myself."
Walking down the main street, Johnny grew increasingly on edge. Shops had all closed at dusk. All the residential buildings had their curtains drawn and only a stray townsman passed by. He could understand the way these people felt.
As he entered the LUCKY HORSEHOE, the Brimstone Kid felt his heart sink. At the piano, a man wearing a derby and smoking a thick vile cigar was plinking out some Stephen Foster tearjerker song. Two cowboys were throwing cards down on the table between them, but the lack of chips showed they weren't gambling. The atmosphere was depressing.
Sitting in his wheelchair at the bar was Dr Emmett. He had an open bottle of red wine in front of him. Judging by the hostile stare he was giving his glass, the Englishman was unhappy with the selection. He glanced up as Johnny entered and fixed the same unwelcoming glare on the redheaded cowboy.
Out of sheer contrariness, Johnny Packard started moving toward the doctor to force a hearty greeting on the sour-faced man. He slowed in mid-stride, though, as a gigantic bulk stomped heavily down the staircase almost at his hand. The Kid stepped to one side without thinking.
Wearing a dressier outfit than he had that morning, Mack was buttoning the front of a black broadcloth coat over a white shirt with a ruffled front. He had a round-crowned hat tucked under one arm and he paused as Suky followed him down.
"I'm content as can be," the big man rumbled. "We both benefitted. I don't see where you got cause for complaint."
"Vigor is one thing. Enthusiasm is fine," grumbled Suky. "But there's no need to be so rough. Next time I swear I'm a-gonna hand you over to the new gal."
"One dollymop's good as another in the dark," he said.
Ignoring her as she flounced back up the staircase, Mack turned his attention to the doctor. "You fixed to head back, doc?"
"Ah, no. Thank you, Mack, but I'm beginning to see some merit to this vintage. It's got presumption. You may go about your business, I am sure I can find someone to help me into the street."
"Suit yerself," Mack said. He wheeled the doctor sideways, tugged off the blanket and rearranged it over the man's lap. From where he stood, Johnny saw with a jolt that both of the doctor's legs were missing below the knee.
That sinks my thoughts that the doctor really could walk and was pretending to be crippled so nobody would suspect him, thought Johnny. There's no faking those stumps.
Seeing the Kid's eyes on him, Dr Emmett made a disgusted noise. "Do you MIND, young man?"
"Sorry, doc," Johnny said. "I meant no offense."
Coming near to tower over the Kid, Mack tapped him in the chest with a thick finger. "Sometime you and me are going to have a heartfelt talk, bucky."
Johnny met his glare steadily. He wasn't pretending to not be afraid, he actually wasn't. In his mind, the Kid was planning the fight. Kick this monster in the forward knee, get him down off-balance a little and then give him a rabbit punch to the back of the neck....
Seeing the calm calculating expression in the Kid's eyes, Mack passed on the confrontation. "If'n you do need me, doc, send word. I'll be getting my walk for exercise." He gave Johnny a final parting glower and muttered "Bleedin' wanker" as he left.
As soon as the hulking man passed though the swingin doors into the night, everyone seemed to draw a relieved breath. The piano player cracked his knuckles and launched into a more spirited "Camptown Races." The two men playing cards shuffled the deck and one said, "Hell, James, let's try some 21 for a change."
Johnny strolled around the saloon for a few minutes. He inspected some of the prints on the wall, several were engravings of historical events and one was a newspaper clipping of a shootout between the notorious Tom Pinto and a Mexican bandit. There was a mounted deer head on the wall and some wag had inserted a thin black cheroot between the animal's lips. As he passed the piano player, Johnny dropped a few coins into the jar and requested his old favorite, "Loch Lomond."
Eventually stepping up to the bar, not too close to the doctor, Johnny said to the barmaid, "I took a shine to that local brew earlier. If I could have another glass?"
"Mr Packard?" asked the doctor.
"Yeah? I got to declare, sir, I did not mean to stare at your misfortune. I was off-guard, thass all."
"It's not that." The doctor finished the wine in his glass and studied it. "I am mulling over your words in my office. I can assure you that you fears are groundless, young man."
Receiving a chilled mug of beer and dropping a silver dollar on the bar, Johnny replied, "I wish that was a comfort, sir."
"I can state for a fact that I obviously am not the criminal that the tabloids are pleased to call Jack the Ripper. Nor is Mack." The doctor leaned closer and bestowed a remarkably unsettling smile. "Mack is actually someone much worse!"
That took a second to fully sink in. Johnny dropped his mug on the bar and rushed from the saloon, breaking into a run as he hit the street. In a minute, he was sprinting toward the livery stable where the dozing horses stirred at his approach. The door of the nearby barn was wide open.
Peering inside, the Kid started to call, "Louie?" but stopped as he saw the body lying on a heap of straw. The eyes and the mouth were both wide open and the stain covering the front of his shirt was still crimson and hadn't darkened yet.
Johnny froze. He thought, time to get in the Sheriff's office one way or another and fetch his guns. He turned and saw light flickering from the other end of town. The church was on fire. How had that happened? While he was distracted, a vicious pain flared deep into his right side. A powerful open hand cuffed the back of his hand and knocked him to the ground, then a heavy boot crashed into his chest and drove the wind out of him. The Kid struggled to keep hold of his senses.
X.
Flung into the barn with bone-breaking force, Johnny Packard bounced hard off the wall and fell face down in damp hay. His chest ached where he had been kicked and his left side burned down by the lower ribs. Struggling to get into a seated position on the ground, the Kid pressed fingers to the wound in his side and felt hot wetness seeping through.
Closing the barn door, Mack bent over and placed the oil lamp on the dirt. Underlit by its flickering flame, the English thug loomed up gigantic and monstrous. He cleaned the blade of his flick knife with a rag which he tucked back into his rear pocket.
Watching the brute grinning down at him, Johnny felt dizzy and weak. He would have to act now. He was only stalling another few minutes to get the answers he had been looking for all day.
"No use in your screaming for help," rumbled Mack. "Every fool in this miserable town is trying to put out the church. They'll be scurrying to and fro with buckets of water all night."
"It's hard to believe," Johnny said. "Jack the Ripper here on the frontier."
"Jack? JACK?! You think that's who I am? Why, you pewling babe, you could not be more wrong if you tried. You make me laugh, you do. Saucy Jack was only a dilettante. He dabbled in the red game until the peelers got too close and he buggered off. Me, now... I'm the real thing. I'm bricky enough to spit in a tiger's eye."
"I'm lost and no mistake," the Kid gasped. "You did come to this country from England at the same time the Ripper killings stopped. And here in this burg, the same sort of abominations started up!"
"I came to your uncivilized wilderness cause I was exiled. Listen to me, boy. They were fixing to hang me. I was being marched up those forever steps where the noose was waiting, then someone from the Royal Family sent a command that I woud be pardoned if I left the Isles never to return."
"I don't get it, I'm purely confused." Johnny had propped himself up against the barn wall, but he didn't think he'd be able to stand at this point.
"Strangely enough," Mack added, "the same thing happened to my direct ancestor. Way back in 1729, the King's soldiers had the first MacHeath standing with a rope around his neck when word came to let him go. He only escaped because his gang came up with enough of a bribe."
With his free hand, the Kid fumbled for the cord around his throat from which his Stetson dangled. "Then who the hell are you?"
"Macheath. Edmond Henry MacHeath. I'm best known as Mack the Knife," chuckled the big man. He began tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. "Terror of the East End, don't ya know. I've claimed Louie's savings to tide me over so I believe I will be moving on. Dr Emmett will have to fend for himself."
As the lifelong murderer snapped his wrist and the flick knife opened, Johnny Packard clenched his own free hand on his hat. He settled the black Stetson down on top of his head and felt the Darthan coin burning hot as a white coal against his forehead.
Pain and weakness were washed away by a surge of demonic vitality. Every detail of the barn's interior was suddenly visible to his night vision. His blood felt like boiling water rushing through his body. Johnny had seldom been more grateful to feel his curse manifest itself.
Even in the uncertain illumination, Mack the Knife could see something ominous had come into that barn. Johnny's eyes caught the light like a cat's, flashing a red glare that no normal Human ever showed.
"What are you pulling? Is this some kind of trickery?" the killer demanded.
Standing up easily, adjusting his hat brim low over his eyes, Johnny said, "We have our own legendary characters in this country, friend. You're dealing with the Brimstone Kid now."
Mack roared and took one quick step forward, lunging with the blade extended and ready to gut this puny cowboy. Johnny Packard caught that attacking arm by the wrist and stopped it in mid-stroke as if it had slammed into a stone wall. The bones in Mack the Knife's wrist broke with an audible crack.
"Arrghh! Damn you!" yelled the big man.
"Mebbe so," the Kid replied as he wrested the flick knife from a nerveless hand. "If any man is damned, it might well be me."
The hulking killer snatched at Johnny's arm with his good hand and tugged furiously to get free but he could not budge the smaller man. Mack the Knife cursed with a dozen words that Johnny had never heard.
"Do you think I'll beg for mercy? Do you think I'll fall to my knees and humiliate myself?" yelled the killer. "You got another think coming."
Johnny yanked the giant closer. "I don't care if you put on a minstrel show, mister." With one backhand stroke, he drew the knife deeply across Mack's throat to sever the windpipe.
Gagging and wheezing with a strange whistling from an open trachea, the murderer fell straight down to the ground. He was dead within another minute. The Brimstone Kid tossed the flick knife down next to the huge body. Outside he heard the yells of the townspeople as they fought the church fire.
The Kid touched his side absently. The deep wound in his side had closed up entirely. Perhaps it would remain healed come the dawn when he reverted to Human. That didn't seem important now.
Before he left, the demonic cowboy remembered something. He went through the pockets of the dead man's coat and found a thick roll of bills held together with a piece of twine. All that the late Louie Miller had amassed over decades of prospecting. I'll put it to good use, Johnny thought as he confiscated it.
Peeking out of the barn door, the Brimstone Kid saw none of the townspeople nearby. At the other end of town, the church had almost burned down despite all efforts.
Lights were on in the windows of the Sheriff's office and the door gaped wide open. The Kid rushed in, found the bottom drawer was locked and ripped it open with a single savage motion. There was no way to tell exactly how strong he was when the Darthan curse was burning in his veins.
Johnny gave his Colts a brief examination and shoved them into the well-worn holsters of his gunbelt. In the back of his mind, he realized it might make him look guilty as hell for breaking into the desk to reclaim his guns and then fleeing the town. There were two dead men in the livery stable, killed by the same knife. Johnny should have stayed to arrange an alibi. But at the moment he didn't care about any of that. When he was fully the Brimstone Kid, he became feverish and impulsive, and consquences seemed far away.
Johnny ran up back the open corral where Terror was mingling with the other horses. Sensing the presence of his master, the black stallion whinnied and swung around to leap over the corral. He easily cleared the top rail intended to hold the horses in.
Johnny had snatched up his saddle and he quickly fastened it on the black horse. As he tightened the cinch, the nearness of the Darthan token had its effect on Terror. The stallion's long face grew skeletal. Red glints showed in his eyes and steam snorted from his nostrils. The Kid grabbed his saddlebags and bedroll and lashed them into place.
In another instant, Johnny had leaped up in the saddle without even putting a toe in the stirrup. The black horse shot away at a full gallop without waiting for any urging. Under a dark cloudless sky, as a church burned and a corpse grew cold on the floor of a barn, the Brimstone Kid rode wildly away into the night.
1/26/2018
[Arthur Hawk born in 1891, is 29 when son Michael is born in 1919. Michael's uncle Robert starts him on lifetime of training to be criminologist. Michael serves in OSS 1942 to 1945, learns about Robert's career as the Sting after the war.]
3/11/1890
I.
The Brimstone Kid was getting drowsy. The tiny library was both warm and stuffy, and he had been sitting in the overstuffed easy chair all day. The buzzing of a horsefly circling his head irritated Johnny enough to roust himself. He blinked and looked around. The librarian was a prim old schoolmarm who was paying him no attention.
Stifling a yawn, Johnny Packard folded up all the copies of LONDON ILLUSTRATED NEWS and returned them to their spot on the shelves that filled one wall. Even though the papers were more than a year old, he had been following a series of crimes that fascinated him. Some lunatic in London had slaughtered a half-dozen street whores and cut them up like a butcher dressing a hog. The killer had not been caught, and his final atrocity appeared to have been committed in December of the preceding year.
The fact that the crimes had no resolution was preying on his mind. He wanted stories to have a proper ending. The Brimstone Kid nodded politely to the librarian and received a grudging half-smile in return as he stepped back outside. It was a beautiful crisp clear October afternoon and he had spent it bent over old periodicals straining his eyes. Sometimes Johnny wondered why he was so contrary.
At thirty-one, Johnny was still short and thin to the point where his nickname 'Kid' did not seem inappropriate. Wearing beat-up boots, faded jeans and a blue flannel shirt with a black denim vest, he would not have drawn a second look except for the guns. Hung low on his hips was a double-holstered gunbelt that held matched Peacemakers. He was on his fourth pair of the big single-action Colt 45s, and he hadn't found any other shooting irons that suited him as well.
Hanging down on its cord between his shoulder blades was his black Stetson. Tucked inside the beaded hatband, the cursed Darthan coin remained cold and inert during the daytime. He had hours yet before that damn coin would transform him. Johnny strolled over to where his black stallion Terror was tethered to a horizontal rail set up under a sour apple tree.
Terror raised his head and snorted through his nostrils. After their years together, Johnny knew the horse's moods. Terror wanted excitement and danger, hard riding under the moon, gunfire and chases and close calls. He could tell.
"Dang fool hoss," Johnny said amiably and stroking the powerful neck. "I swear, you love trouble more than any animal I ever heard tell of."
Seeing that Terror was comfortable was first in Johnny's priorities. He had groomed and rubbed down the black horse, given him the right amount of water and oats, and seen that the stallion was tied in a spot that would be shaded that afternoon. This was before he had gone into the County Public Library for the second day.
Instincts honed by more than a decade of living on the edge flared up in him. Johnny snapped his head around and spotted a tall thin man striding quickly toward him from the main street. Little Clay Hawk! The Kid turned further around to face the famous lawman but he was careful not to bring his hands any closer to his pistols. A shootout with Little Clay Hawk of all people was not on his list of activities to try.
The lawman was well past forty by now. Dressed in formal townsfolk clothing, black trousers and a white shirt with a floral-pattern vest and a string tie, Little Clay Hawk wore a flat-brimmed low-crowned hat. His Indian blood showed clearly in the glossy black hair, the strong eagle-beak nose and the deepset eyes.
Strapped to his right hip was an old-fashioned Navy revolver. Little Clay Hawk swung his arms in a casual way as he walked, not keeping his hands near the gun butt more than was natural. "Johnny? It IS you, then."
"Little Clay Hawk," said the Kid, shaking the offered hand with relief that no showdown seemed to be in the immediate future.
"Aw, just Clay Hawk now. I got myself hitched to a gal from back East and she belabored me into actin' more white than red. We're expecting our first little one in a few months."
"Really? I'll be roped, thrown and branded if I expected that. My best wishes, then, Hawk. Long and happy life to y'all. You still a Federal marshall?"
Hawk took off his hat and swung it idly to fan himself. "Strictly speakin', I'm not a marshall. I'm a Marshall Agent, sorta like a Deputy. I report to the genuine Marshall and he sends me out to poke around wherever there's been reports of trouble. Most times I resolve the situation by myself if you can."
"Sounds like it's still a mite risky occupation, if'n you don't mind me sayin' so."
"Naw, you got a point. What with a new wife in the family way, I intend to take the desk job they keep offering me. Leaving a widow and an orphan ain't right if I can avoid it."
In that late afternoon sunlight, Johnny's dark red hair gleamed like copper. Under shaggy brows, his green eyes were wary. "How is it you chanced to ride into the little town where I been staying?"
"Oh, I've been searching for you," Hawk admitted. "I heard over in South Fork that you had been seen here. How busy are you these days, Johnny?"
"Hah! Truth be told, I squandered all yesterday and today sittin' in that library yonder. My Uncle Saul raised me to know my letters. Ever chance I get, I grab me some newspapers and journals and find out what's brewin' in the wide world."
"Good to hear. A peaceful spell holed up in a sleepy town never hurts." Hawk placed his hat back on his head and adjusted its angle precisely. The dark eyes with a hint of an epicanthic fold regarded the Kid with careful scrutiny. "I been ordered back to the station to report but there's some grief goin' on in South Fork that I wondered if you might want to investigate your own self."
"You got me tagged, all right," Johnny said. "I can't stay peaceable for too long a spell. What exactly is the problem in that town?"
"Murder and nothing less. Two folks killed by knifepoint in the past two weeks," replied Clay Hawk.
I.
The men went over to sit on a bench next to the small brick building where Johnny had been reading about London knife murders. He mentioned this casually to Hawk, who whistled.
Stretching out his legs in front of him, the lawman shook his head. "If that don't beat all. If I could fetch the odds like that when playin' poker, I'd be a rich man. But I reckon it's a big old world and somewhere some poor soul is a'getting knifed in the gizzard as we speak."
"Afore I ride into South Fork, I'd best know what there is to know, Hawk."
The lawman launched into all he had learned from two days of asking questions of everyone in that town. The first victim was a dancehall gal name of Jenny Diver. She lived and worked on the second floor of the LUCKY HORSESHOE. Ten days later, they found the second lamb lyin between two buildings. Woman named Lucy Brown. She was employed in the kitchen at the steak house next door to the saloon. Townsfolk confide in me that she was not above earning a few dollars the old-fashioned way."
"GodDAM," Johnny said. "This is sendin' a shiver up from my tailbone to my head and no foolin'. Has America got its own Jack the Ripper or what?"
"I can't rightly say. I need to be in the saddle, Johnny. The telegram directed me to report back and leave the killings for the town sheriff to handle. But I thought you might be curious."
"Surely I am," said the Brimstone Kid. As Clay Hawk rose and stretched, Johnny got up as well. "I believe I might head over to South Fork today. I do believe I have read enough of last year's news from a country I ain't likely to ever visit anyway."
"Glad to hear it, son." Hawk touched the brim of his hat. "I got my own hoss in the stable at the other side of town. Be seeing you."
"Hold on a tick," Johnny said. "I want to be sure that there ain't no hard feelings about the last time we crossed paths. We each took some damage but I figgered we parted on amiable terms."
Starting toward the main street, Hawk grinned. "I'm not one to nurse a grudge over a small misunderstanding, kid. I hardly limp anymore." With that, he started walking away.
Watching the former Arizona Ranger and ex-gambler stride away, Johnny Packard felt unreasonably anxious. The murders in London a year earlier and now these similar killings here in Texas. They couldn't be connected. Could they? Suddenly it seemed urgent to go see for himself.
He had been camping in his bedroll outside of time, paying for a meal or two and for a bath at the hotel the previous day. Nothing was holding him here. Johnny unfastened Terror's reins, tightened the cinch on the saddle and checked all his gear. He placed his toe in the stirrup and vaulted up into the saddle, then urged the big stallion east, toward the town of South Fork.
Along the way, Johnny saw a glint of the Agua Rojo river in the distance and rode past a sign at a crossroads that held a wooden arrow QUINLEN FARMS. Someone had nailed a coyote skull to the sign and he took this as one more bad omen.
As dusk approached, the Kid urged his mount up a small hill which was topped by a cluster of trees. Dismounting, Johnny tended to Terror and let the black stallion graze at will. He himself built a small fire using flint and steel, brewed strong tea without sugar and warmed up some pemmican he kept in his saddlebags.
As he chewed and sipped, the redheaded cowboy watched the lurid orange sun touch the horizon. Hawk had said it was a two day's ride to South Fork. Maybe it was for a normal rider on a normal steed. Darkness began to spread around him. Johnny put out the fire and stowed away his meager gear, then stirred the ashes and assured himself no sparks remained.
The time was approaching. Terror had drawn closer and was watching him. Johnny had examined his Peacemakers that morning as a matter of routine and now he loosened them in his holsters and leaping nimbly back up into the saddle.
Between his shoulder blades, an unpleasant warmth was stinging him. Johnny drew the black Stetson on and tugged it firmly into place. At his forehead, beneath the beaded band, the Darthan coin burned hotter. That copper-colored token was older than the West, it had been struck and cursed before even the Indians had come into this land.
The great horse Terror began to transform. His long face grew skeletal, the dark eyes glinted with a red spark. Seeing this, Johnny felt restless with unnatural vitality. He knew his own face was getting more angular and bony, his eyebrows were spiky and that same red gleam was supplanting the green of his irises. He chuckled and broke out into wicked laughter as night fell. The true Brimstone Kid galloped off into the darkness.
III.
At mid-morning, Johnny woke up curled in a ball lying next to some brush. He sat up, yawned and spat to clear a sticky mouth, and forced his eyes open.Not far away, reins tied to a scrub tree, Terror was sleeping standing up with his head down. The Kid struggled up onto his feet and saw the dusty road was on the other side of a small rise.
Memory came back to him, vague as if last night had somehow been years ago. All he remembered was riding full tilt mile after mile, laughing and hoping for trouble. Johnny pulled out his irons and saw they were both still loaded. His clothes didn't stink of gunpowder. So it seemed last night had not seen any action.
Taking off his hat and placing it on his saddlehorn so as to get what distance he could from the Darthan coin, he stepped quietly to not wake his horse. His canteen hung on a strap from his saddlebag and he swirled a mouthful of lukewarm water around before letting it dribble out. He felt sore and weary, but that was a normal morning for him.
A tiny creek, not much more than a hand's-width across, ran nearby. It was a welcome sight. Johnny knelt beside it, sniffed a handful of the running water and took a tentative sip. He filled his canteen and drank some of its contents, then refilled it and put it aside. Keeping an ear cocked for anything approached, the Kid rinsed off his hands and wiped his face and the back of his neck with the icy water. That helped wake him up.
As long as he had some time, the Kid tugged off his boots and socks. He rinsed his feet off, enjoying cold water over the sweaty skin. Then he rubbed the heavy wool socks in the little stream and wrung them out. As he stretched the socks in the morning sun to dry, he began pondering what Little Clay Hawk had told him the day before.
For a moment, Johnny wondered how much Hawk suspected about his nightly transformations. Their clash a few years earlier had all taken place in a single afternoon. Maybe Hawk had heard rumors of the hellish night rider called the Brimstone Kid, it was hard to say.
Kneeling, Johnny rinsed out his bandana and squeezed it as dry as he could, then picked up his socks and boots and strolled barefoot through the grass up to where Terror still dozed. It was time to get rolling. Getting his spare socks from hi saddlebags, he pulled them on and then his boots. He rousted the big horse and gave him a minute to settle down, then rode on.
South Fork was a good-sized town, he discovered, about twenty buildings on the main strip with private homes on side streets and on a nearby hill. There was a barber shop, an apothecary, a leather goods and blacksmithery, a bank, two saloons and a restaurant, even a local paper THE CITIZEN-HERALD. Johnny immediately felt the weight of hostile eyes on him as he rode along the main street. Curtains in windows were pulled aside and then drawn closed as he glanced up. Three idlers lounging on chairs in front of the general store sat up straighter and openly stared as he went past.
The Brimstone Kid brought Terror to a halt in front of the building with a plate glass window that read THE CITIZEN-HERALD - NEWS HONEST AND TRUE in ornate script. Tying the reins to a hitching post where an older roan already stood patiently, Johnny hopped down to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement and he turned his head an inch to see an elderly man with a white beard still speckled with black. Easily two hundred and seventy pounds with a round belly, the man had no gun visible and both hands were empty.
Moving to face the man while still being able to keep an eye on the office door, Johnny said, "Howdy, mister," in an even tone.
The old man tapped the brim of his battered hat in greeting and replied in an odd squeaky voice, "Morning, son. I confess I ain't seen you round these parts afore."
"No. I come from up by Merrril City. Would you know if the editor of this paper is in?"
"That would be myself," wheezed the bearded man. "Publisher, editor, reporter, typesetter and floor sweeper, that's me. Ernest J Colby, sir."
"John Packard here, Texas boy born and raised. I'd like to chew the fat if'n you got time. It appears to me you know more of what goes down in this burg than any other soul."
"You got that right. Sure I got time to palaver. A few rewrites and an advertisement from the BERRYMAN FUNERAL HOME to paste in, that's my schedule today. Come in and unburden your mind." The combination of obesity and age gave Colby some difficulty mounting the steps to the office door and Johnny politely stood by until he was done.
Inside was a cluttered jumble of two desks and three chairs, all stacked with precariously balanced piles of loose papers. Every inch of the walls had either a framed photo of some local dignitary or a scribbled reminder of something that had to be attended to urgently. There was a map of the immediate area pinned up where light from the windows fell directly on it. Through an open door in the corner could be seen the massive printing press with its metal drum of ink and a cabinet full of tools such as scissors, rulers, pastepots and dozens of pens and lead pencils.
The reek of cigar smoke clung to everything. It was soaked into the room and Johnny vaguely wondered if the newspaper itself smelled of cigar smoke.
"Feel free to clear off that chair," the newspaperman said in his reedy voice. He himself plopped down behind his desk and began trying to bring order to chaos.
Carefully relocating a stack of ledgers and notebooks to a rare clear spot on the floor, Johnny moved his chair closer to the desk. He looked up to find Colby smiling at him.
The old man began as if greatly amused, "The one time I heard the name Johnny Packard, it was tied to a legendary character who hailed from the border town of Brimstone near El Paso. Folks naturally called him the Brimstone Kid. You care to hear some tall tales regarding him?"
Despite himself, Johnny grinned back. "I much prefer to learn about this here town. A saddle tramp I encountered warned me not to wander over here. He said a fiend walked these streets at night. He said a knife flashed in the darkness and women gave up their sad lives to its edge."
"Lord have mercy on us. Yes. I knew those women of course. Not that I ever dropped penny in their hands for their services, I am at an age where such a dalliance is best observed in memory. But they both came to me with scandals and gossip which their peculiar trade fitted them to learn."
The Kid kept his voice polite and free of insolence. "I hear tell of atrocious treatment of the bodies. I understand that no arrests have been made and that none are in the offing?"
"All too true," Colby said, resting his chin in an upturned palm with his elbow on the desk. "Sheriff O'Rourke is reasonably honest and reasonably competent, my boy. He is certainly an improvement over his two predecessors. But I have to say that he has made no progress in finding who wielded the blade that sent those fallen ladies into Eternity."
Johnny listened to the newspaperman for another half hour, taking in details of when the bodies had been found and how horribly they had been cut up. He memorized the names of a dozen South Fork denizens who were worth knowing about before venturing into town affairs.
"Then there's our new sawbones, Dr Emmett and his assistant Mack. They arrived here three months ago to take over the late Dr Langston. Interesting pair. English, you know. They came to these shores from London last year."
Hearing that was like having ice water poured down his back. Johnny sat up straighter and clenched his black Stetson in both hands. "London, you say?"
"Yes indeed. Does that have some significance to you, Mr Packard?"
"No. How would it mean anything?" said the Brimstone Kid.
IV.
Hearing boots coming up the steps outside, Johnny automatically moved to the edge of his chair and shifted around. His hand resting on the arm of the chair was within an inch of his right Peacemaker. The green eyes narrowed warily.
Knocking on the doorjamb, a thin man held his hat in his free hand. He had a full beard and longish untended hair which had not been washed in some time. "Scuse me, Mr Colby. I hates to butt in but the Sheriff would like to speak with the newcomer."
Johnny scowled. "And you might be?"
"Me? Aw, I'm just Weston. I help out with chores and messages for the Sheriff. If'n you got a moment, we should go see him now."
Colby gave the Kid a reassuring look. "Most likely it's yore hoglegs, son. South Fork don't allow handguns within town limits."
Johnny rose to his feet and visibly untensed. "I reckon I'd best speak with your Sheriff, then. I thank you kindly for your patience, Mr Colby."
"Drop by again." Colby laughed in his high-pitched tones. "I purely love explaining things 'cause it makes me feel intelligent. It's the only flattery I get."
Following the man outside, Johnny glanced around at the townsfolk who were going about their business. It was true that none of them were armed. He had spent so much of his time in the rougher towns where the law was not well established that he was accustomed to seeing most men with a pistol either in a holster or stuck in their belt.
The Sheriff's office was a whitewashed brick building near the end of the main street. A wagon stood near the corner of the structure with a slightly mature roan munching grass alongside it. The man Weston escorted into the front office, again rapping with his knuckles on the doorjam as he entered.
The big room was the same as many law offices that Johnny had seen. A glass-fronted cabinet holding a dozen Winchesters. A wood-burning pot-bellied stove in one corner. A board on the wall with WANTED posters and legal notices tacked to it. At the rear, the steel barred door of a holding cell could be seen.
Sitting behind a desk, writing laboriously in a journal, sat a rather nondescript man in a dark brown shirt with a leather vest on which was pinned a star. Sam O'Rourke was middle-aged and weathered, dark hair brushed back and with a droopy handlebar mustache covering his mouth. He looked up as the two men entered, not unfriendly but businesslike.
"What's yore business in South Fork?" he began bluntly enough.
"Passing through. I been working at a ranch up by Merril City the past year. Headin' south to find work."
The Sheriff studied him thoughtfully. "You got callused hands, I see you are no stranger to real labor. All right. We don't allow firearms within town limits. You're welcome here but you gotta surrender yore irons."
With only the slightest hesitation, Johnny took his guns out. He moved slowly and deliberately, holding them by the barrels and placing them on the desk in front of O'Rourke, then stepping back.
"There you go, sir. I hadn't heard about this rule when I rode in."
"Thass all right. Looky, I'm locking them in this bottom drawer here. You want a receipt?"
The Brimstone Kid thought it would be best not to seem distrustful of the lawman. "No, Sheriff. I don't see where that's necessary."
"Good man. Before you go, I feel I should mention that I seem to recognize you from descriptions. Five feet six, one hunnerd and fifty pounds, red hair and green eyes. Clean-shaven. You're not wanted anywhere I know of, Packard."
"No, sir, I'm not. There ain't never been a price on my head," the Kid replied with just a trace of resentment.
"I figger the stories about you are tall tales. You seem well-spoken and with good manners. You can rent a room at the LONGHORN down by the livery stable. It's clean and quiet and you can get meals there as well."
Johny nodded and turned to go. "I thank you, Sheriff. I expect to be moving on in a short spell. I'll be back for my irons then."
"Good. This is a settled town. We like it peaceful."
"I understand. Good day to you, gentlemen." Feeling as vulnerable as if he wasn't wearing any clothes at all, the Kid went back outside with empty holsters. The lack of the familiar weight at his sides bothered him. He hadn't expected to be disarmed like this. Suddenly the prospect of facing a killer with a knife seemed more daunting than when he had a brace of heavy Colts at hand.
So be it, he thought and turned his thoughts to more practical matters. If he was planning on holing up in this town for a few days, he'd better get Terror a berth in the livery stable and a room for himself. Johnny had a good amount of money sewn in the lining of his saddlebags. Unexpectedly, he had been offered reward money not long earlier when he had brought in the notorious horse thief Jeb Stephens. There had been no reason not to accept it.
Getting Terror set up at the stable didn't take long. The black stallion had been through this procedure before and understood he would be safe. Johnny left the heavy saddle and bedroll with the owner, but he unstrapped the saddlebags and slung them over one shoulder before heading out into the street again.
Directly opposite him stood a two-story building with the sign hanging over its front door that read LONGHORN HOTEL - ROOMS AVAILABLE. Johnny trudged into the lobby and met a surprisingly young Mexican woman behind the counter. She took his money and escorted him up the stairs to his room. It was fine. There was nothing fancy about the iron-framed bed or the dresser with its wide mirror or the table in one corner, but it smelled clean and a fresh breeze blew in through the open window.
This certainly beats another night sleeping on the ground with his arm for a pillow, he thought. Johnny thanked the woman courteously and told her he would likely be back at seven that night when supper was served in the dining room. She seemed inclined to linger and chat with the young redhead but the Kid's thoughts were obviously far away.
Left alone, Johnny Packard stood by the open window and gazed down at the people in the street. This whole business with Jack the Ripper a year ago and similar slaughter here in the West and a doctor from London.... He shivered. The connection seemed so obvious. Surely the Sheriff had thought the same. Had he questioned this doctor?
Or had he thought that as long as the infamous Brimstone Kid was in town, maybe two menaces would eliminate each other? Others had tried to use Johnny as a weapon.
The situation was gnawing at him. He had to find out what the facts were. Johnny went to his saddlebags. Most of what they held were not remarkable. A spare shirt, a straight razor and its whetstone, a piece of flint for starting fires, a hairbrush and a few crumpled maps. Opening a seam in the underside, he reached in and drew out two hundred and five dollars in the large bills of that era. There were also six silver dollars and a few two-bit pieces.
The Kid stowed his savings in his jeans pockets and then reluctantly unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it across the belt. He felt strange. He was so used to its weight that its absence troubled him. But he realized someone might see it and mistake it to mean he was carrying guns, which could lead to fatal consequences.
In one pocket of his denim vest was a folding knife with a white horn handle. It had a three-inch blade and was a utility tool rather than a weapon. Aw hell, he thought, I still got my fists and my feet if it comes down to that.
Heading back downstairs, Johnny smiled at the woman in the lobby and headed outside. Overhead, the sun shone in a clear deep blue sky and he realized it was getting near noon. His stomach rumbled. Before he found a place to eat though, the Kid intended to get a look at this doctor from London.
Walking along the boardwalk through town, he passed the saloon where the first woman had been killed. He would have to dig around in there soon enough. Just ahead was a barber shop with the striped red, white and blue pole, Beyond that, a board hung over a door with the words OLIVER EMMETT, M.D. painted across it.
The window next to the door was heavily curtained. Johnny thought he saw movement in those curtains. He stepped up and grasped the brass knocker shaped like a lion's head, but before he could use it, the doorknob turned. The Kid stepped back as the door stood open. Filling the doorway completely was one of the biggest men he had ever seen.
V.
The open hostility in that brutal face was frightening. A nose that had been flattened, a cranium with only stubble from having been shaved days earlier, angry dark eyes under brows that nearly met, a thin-lipped mouth pressed shut as if trying to hold back curses... it was not a face anyone would want to be surprised by when a door opened.
Instead of being intimidated, though, Johnny reacted with defiance. This hulk was at least a foot taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier than he was, but the Kid met that glare without weakening. "I take it you ain't the doctor," he said insolently.
The brute was wearing heavy work boots, black trousers and a white undershirt that could have benefitted from a laundry. Broad pectoral muscles and round biceps stretched the cotton of that shirt. Before he could answer, a man's voice called from within, "Mack? Who is it?"
The man called Mack spoke over his shoulder into the office, "I don't know, doc." His voice was not as deep as expected and had a definite accent that Johnny had never heard before. "You want I should show him in?"
"Yes, of course."
Grudgingly, giving the redheaded cowboy a furious stare the entire time, the brute stepped aside. Johnny walked in past him with complete disregard. He was holding his hat in his left hand. For a second, his right hand strayed to where the butt of his Peacemaker usually hung.
The office was well furnished, with a deep burgundy rug and solid curtains of the same color. Bookshelves were filled with thick reference tomes. In one corner, an examination table could be glimpsed behind a folding screen. Johnny took this all in at a glance but his attention was fixed on the man behind the desk.
Dr Emmett sat in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap. Middle-aged, with receding white hair and a prominent bony nose, he peered up at Johnny through nearly-opaque spectacles. "Yes? What is it, young man?" The doctor's accent was also British, the Kid thought, but more educated and refined. Posh.
"Tain't fer me," Johnny lied blithely. "A friend of mine got a complaint. He's an older man, got to be a-hittin' seventy. Lately he whines all the time about passin' water. Says it takes forever and just dribbles out. I told him I'd ask ?if you wanted to see him."
The doctor adjusted the glasses. "Hmmph. That is by now means an uncommon problem for man past maturity. Perhaps a diuretic in his drinks would help. If necessary, a catheter might be called for. But I would have see him for myself of course."
"Right. I thank you kindly, doctor. I will tell 'im what you said and hope he comes in to see yuh." Johnny leaned toward a polished human skull that sat on a shelf. As he did not leave immediately, a massive meaty hand thumped down on his shoulder.
The Brimstone Kid spoke in an ominously gentle tone. "Big as you may be, get that paw off me before I break its fingers."
"Yeah? You and who else?"
"Just me." The quiet confidence in Johnny's manner had an effect. Mack released him and swung aside.
"Please excuse Mack," said the doctor. "I'm sorry. He has been a tireless assistant and an invaluable valet for someone in my condition. But he comes from lower circumstances and his manners are not polished, I fear."
Moving toward the door, the Kid said, "A strong man can afford to be gentle. Oh, I wanted to ask something else, doctor. You hail from London over in England, don't you?"
"Yes. I suppose our accents betrayed our origins. Both Mack and I are from the West End. We relocated here to your wonderful country for a fresh start after my... accident."
Setting himself where he could watch both of their faces, Johnny continued, "Reason I asked if 'cause I been readin' about the Whitechapel Horrors of last year. Gave me the willies. Then I rides into this burg and what do I find but killings of the same nature have been taking place here."
Mack made a deep rumbling voice in his broad chest and took a menacing step forward, but Johnny went on undeterred, "It seems to me that two former residents of London might have somethin' useful to say about this unlikely coincidence."
"Young man," hissed the doctor as he lowered his glasses. "This is no matter for jest."
"Oh, I ain't joking, doc. Be seein' yuh." Johnny stepped outside and closed the door right in Mack's enraged face. Out in the fresh air, the Brimstone Kid let out a deep relieved breath. He had been within a heartbeat of taking a swung at a man twice his size. That never ended well.
Lost in thought, Johnny walked through town until he came upon a building with a gaudy red and green sign that said SPINELLI BROTHERS RESTAURANT. Propped up against the outside wall was a blackboard with foods and prices chalked in. He didn't bother to read it, suddenly nothing was more important than filling his stomach.
The interior was crowded with round tables topped by red and white cloths. Along the far way was a bar with its stools and rows of liquor bottles. Johnny counted eleven men in there, a few drinking at the bar but the majority happily shoveling platefuls of food into their faces.
As he stood there, a youth not even out of his teens hurried up to him. "Good afternoon, sir. Will you be having a meal?"
"Absolutely. How about that table right here?"
"Very good. Here is a menu. If I might, I was just in the kitchen and Cookie has extra lamb chops on the grill. They'll be ready right away."
"That would suit me right to the ground," Johnny said. "Gimme the usual taters and greens on the side. Any beer?"
"Yes. We have a brewer in the hills who sells us his own brand. It's dark and tart, if you like that."
"I'll give it a try," the Kid told him. As the waiter rushed off, Johny took a chair at his table and unobtrusively looked around. As he had entered, silence had filled the restaurant and only now did conversations reluctantly start up again.
They don't cotton to strangers in their town, he thought. Considering the goings-on of late, he couldn't blame them. Minutes later, a steaming hot china plate piled with lamp chops, boiled potatoes and whole kernel corn was set in front of him. The waiter added a glass of beer and asked if that would be all.
"Yes indeed, thank you." Johnny attacked the meal but then forced himself to chew slowly and make the treat last. Too many days on the prairie meant going hungry, too many other days getting by on cornmeal flapjacks or boiled beans. When he settled down for a proper meal, he intended to enjoy it.
By the time he was gnawing on the last bone which had meat on it, Johnny was feeling more sanguine. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. His right hand dropped automatically to his side but found no Colt and his heart sank for a second before he remembered this was a no-packing town.
A remarkably seedy individual came up to him and raised a hand in friendly salute. "Good afternoon, mister. Mind if if I sit?"
"Help yourself," the Kid said. The stranger was a grizzled man of medium build but he was wearing two shirts, a light jacket and a heavy winter coat all at the same time. Slung over one shoulder was a rucksack crammed with more clothing. Under a shapeless battered hat, an equally battered face peeped out above a bristly brown beard. But the eyes were open and direct, and Johnny instinctively felt at ease with this man.
"Permit my introduction," said the stranger. "Louie Miller originally from Arkansas. Despite my present reduced state, I have been flush at various points. The life of a prospector is uncertain at best."
"True enough," Johnny agreed.
"I see you are finishing a glass of Old Man Morton's homebrew. Do you like it? I find it has a sharp bite that is refreshing."
Taking the hint, the Kid raised his glass and asked the young waiter for a refill as well as a glass for his new acquaintance. When the beer arrived, the two men toasted each other.
"I thank you, sir," said Miller. "It's not the custom out here to inquire into a man's past or his future, but if you are inclined to speak, I would be pleased to listen."
Despite his normal sullen demeanour, Johnny smiled at this man. "Seems I am merely breezing through South Fork for a day or three. I spent the summer working at a ranch up by the border and now I feel like moving on." He watched for Miller's reaction and went on, "I heard about what happened here."
That struck the man hard. He gazed down at his folded hands and took a moment to reply. "Abominable acts! Despoite their unfortunate situations, Lucy and Jenny were local gals. Both were born here when the town was founded at the end of the War. No one deserves to be treated after death the way those women were."
"Excuse my bold words," Johnny said, "But I heard tell that they was cut up. Their innards were taken out neat as you please. Or so I was told."
"That's what has shaken everyone in town to their core. The heart, the liver, the kidneys, all sliced out perfectly and laid in rows next to the remains. Terrible, terrible."
The Kid regarded the last sip of beer in his glass and downed it. "I believe a butcher might have skill in that area. He would be experienced in slicing up animals to keep the various cuts separate."
"There is another possibility," said Miller. "I am certain it has crossed your mind as it has mine. A doctor, particularly one skilled in surgery, knows well where a person's internal organs are located. And he is accustomed to cutting into folks without hesitation."
Johnny was watching Miller's face, trying to read it and to catch undertones in the man's voice. "That there Dr Emmett, the Englishman, he's in one of them invalid chairs ain't he?"
"True that. No one has ever seen him even stand up, much less take a step. The idea that he might be able to chase down and overpower a healthy young filly like Lucy or Jenny is hard to credit."
"What if he had that gorilla Mack helping him?" asked Johnny. "Catching the gal and holdin' her down while the doctor 'operates,' so to speak?"
"That possibility has bothered me," Louie Miller admitted. "But there were no tracks in the mud of that chair's wheels. Plenty big ol' bootprints but no sign of that chair."
"It's a puzzlement," Johnny said as he waved the waiter over and settled his tab. He left a tip for good service under the plate and then placed a few silver dollars on the table near Miller without comment. The Kid rose and stretched, then made for the door. "Pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miller."
Not getting up himself, the seeming vagrJoant shrugged. "Let it be said, I've heard wild yarns of a rider about your size and age, with hair and eyes like yours, who came from a Texas town called Brimstone."
Johnny Packard did not react. "This land's got more than its share of folks who might be real and might be just tall tales. Tom Pinto. Copperhair the Killer Squaw. Little Clay Hawk. One never knows. Be seeing you."
"Take care," the man said as he gathered up the coins off the table and tucked them into a pocket.
VIII.
It was still only mid-afternoon. There were long hours yet before nightfall would bring about his transformation. Johnny Packard stood on the boardwalk as a stray yellow dog sauntered by. He decided to poke around the LUCKY HORSESHOE saloon next.
Crossing the dusty street with its deep hardened ruts left by wagon wheels, the Kid had a rare moment of self-doubt. Why in thunder was he doing this? There was no money in it for him, yet he felt hellbent on tracking down someone who had already committed two murders. And he was doing it while disarmed.
Ah well, there's no explaining these things, he thought. It's just the way he was made. Even before he had become the Brimstone Kid, Johnny had thrived on confrontation and getting in fights. Uncle Saul had said Johnny as a child was as scrappy as a wildcat challenging a grizzly.
Taking his time, getting the layout of the town clear in his mind, he walked the length of the main street. The last building was the . In the distance, he saw the spires of a church with a cemetery visible beside it.
As he explored South Fork, Johnny sensed the townsfolk getting used to him. He bet that gossip from the livery stable and hotel and restaurant had spread quickly. His small size and non-swaggering demeanour helped ease their fears. If only they could see how he looked after dark, he thought.
Heading back up on the opposite side of the street, he paused in front of the LUCKY HORSESHOE. True to its name, the saloon had a large wooden replica of a horseshoe hanging from its roof. The sliding inner doors were open, and only the two batwing swinging doors blocked the entrance. Johnny automatically reached down to adjust his gunbelt before realizing he wasn't wearing it. Damn.
Inside was a typical watering hole, almost empty in late afternoon. Seated at tables, playing cards or simply kibitzing, were four men. In the corner sat a battered piano but no one was manning it. Spittoons decorated with dried tobacco spittle added to the pungent atmosphere of smoke and sweat and whiskey.
On either side of the main room, stairs led up to a railed walkway with a row of closed doors on the second floor. That had been where the late Jenny Diver had lived and earned her keep, he figured. Holding his hat in his hand, the Kid stepped up to the bar where a stout blonde woman in an ornate white dress with a scoop neckline stood watching him.
"What'll it be?" she asked, wiping the counter with a damp rag.
"I already had a beer, reckon I'll stick with that."
As she filled a glass from the tap, the barmaid said, "This is no rowdy honkytonk, mister. We try not to draw attention to ourselves."
"I'm a peaceable soul," he replied, taking a sip and putting a few coins on the bar. "You don't have to worry about me."
From around the corner of the bar, a slender woman about forty poked her head. She was wearing a light flower-patterned sundress and had her hair done up with a wooden skewer holding it in place She gave him a huge smile that showed excellent teeth between pouty red lips. "Howdy there, stranger."
"Hello to you, ma'am," Johnny answered. Seeing she was waiting for him to saying something more, he put down his glass and told her, "I regret to say I'm only stoppin' here for a few minutes."
"Oh. Very well. Perhaps if you come back later, you might ask for Suky?"
"I'll certainly keep that in mind, thank you kindly." Johnny said. He finished his beer and nodded to both women. "Be seeing you." The Kid had a strong sense he would not get much information out of them. His best bet so far seemed to be that old prospector Louie Miller.
IX.
On his way back to the stable, the Brimstone Kid went back to his hotel room and washed up from the pitcher on his dresser. As he dried his hands and face, he saw his gunbelt on the bed and couldn't stand it any longer. He buckled it on. Even without the Colts in the holsters, the weight of the belt with its looped cartridges had become the norm for him. He felt better immediately.
Johnny snatched up his saddlebags and trotted down the stairs. When the women behind the counter asked if he was checking out, he replied that he was just thinking of getting his horse to stretch its legs a bit.
Reching the stable, he found the five horses were still out in the open corral. The rest of the afternoon, Johnny stayed near Terror, talking to the big stallion, examnining his hooves and ears, making sure the animal was comfortable. As it grew dark, a warm spot developed between Johnny's shoulder blades. It was that ancient disc of red metal tucked between the Navajo beaded hatband.
If he placed the hat on his head, Johnny knew, he would transform at nightfall. If he kept that hat outside of reach, he would remain mortal flesh and blood. Leaving it near him this way only left him irritable and uncomfortable. There was a strong tugging sensation in his mind urging him to tug that Stetson on... to unleash the real Brimstone Kid.
And Terror could sense it. As darkness fell, the black stallion paced and stamped his hooves and snorted angrily. Terror wanted the transformation.
"Dang fool critter," Johnny whispered to the beast. "For a hoss, yer a regular daredevil. You just love the fear and the excitement, don't ya?"
The owner of the livery stable had begun bringing the horses in from the corral to their berths inside the stable itself. He limped over to where Johnny stood with Terror, carrying a copy of the town newspaper. "I'm a-headin' home, amigo. My wife will be stirrin' the stewpot and watching at the door for me."
"You gonna lock up then?" asked Johnny, still watching Terror's impatient strutting around the corral. "I'd prefer my hoss stay outside. He likes it best that way."
"If that's yer wish. Truth be told, I got me an arrangement with a local man. He sleeps in the barn over there and keeps an eye on things for me. If'n anybody wants to claim their hoss or gear, Louie writes down the details for me. This way, I gets me a night watchman and he has a warm dry place to sleep."
Even as the man spoke, the old prospector rounded a corner. "Here I am, Foster. I ate already, I'm go to settle down for the evening. Well, hey there, I didn't expect to see you here, Johnny."
The Kid grinned at the owner. "Louie Miller and I made acquaintance earlier today."
"Wallll, that's right copacetic," said the livery master. He started walking away down the main street. "Take care, boys."
As Miller went into the barn with its harnesses and tackle and tools hanging, he began arranging loose straw up against one wall, Johnny fiddled with the cord that held his hat. He retied it so the Stetson was dangling behind him down at belt level. Just those few extra inches away from his head made resisting the Darthan token easier.
"Whew, I'm done for the night," Miller said. "As it happens, I got rousted at dawn because of two dogs fightin' and I'm plain tuckered. What about you?"
"I spose I'm gonna spend an hour or two at that LUCKY HORSESHOE joint," answered Johnny. "I don't gamble and I hardly drink but I reckon someone will be pounding the eighty-eights and some pretty girls will be acting as if they like me."
"Haw haw, no matter how cynical you may be, it's not hardly enough," Miller told him. "The sporting ladies may be a tad reluctant to take customers after what happened to poor Lucy and Jenny but after all they gots to make a living."
"Ain't that true of all of us?" Johnny said. "Say, amigo, if'n you want, I could bring you a bottle from the restaurant."
"As much as I appreciate the kindness, I must decline." Miller dug in a pocket and came out with a tin harmonica. "Lemme tell you a secret, Kid. I am not as bereft of funds as I may appear., I've cashed in all my strikes over the years and stashed them away. When my grouch bag is filled enough, I'm catchin' a train back to St Louis."
"Aren't you full of surprises? I wish you well, friend. I ain't never been east of the Mississippi myself but I figger someday I ought to see New York and Chicago and Philadelphia fer my own sake. Right then, you take care. Mebbe I'll come back to see how my hoss afore I turn in myself."
Walking down the main street, Johnny grew increasingly on edge. Shops had all closed at dusk. All the residential buildings had their curtains drawn and only a stray townsman passed by. He could understand the way these people felt.
As he entered the LUCKY HORSEHOE, the Brimstone Kid felt his heart sink. At the piano, a man wearing a derby and smoking a thick vile cigar was plinking out some Stephen Foster tearjerker song. Two cowboys were throwing cards down on the table between them, but the lack of chips showed they weren't gambling. The atmosphere was depressing.
Sitting in his wheelchair at the bar was Dr Emmett. He had an open bottle of red wine in front of him. Judging by the hostile stare he was giving his glass, the Englishman was unhappy with the selection. He glanced up as Johnny entered and fixed the same unwelcoming glare on the redheaded cowboy.
Out of sheer contrariness, Johnny Packard started moving toward the doctor to force a hearty greeting on the sour-faced man. He slowed in mid-stride, though, as a gigantic bulk stomped heavily down the staircase almost at his hand. The Kid stepped to one side without thinking.
Wearing a dressier outfit than he had that morning, Mack was buttoning the front of a black broadcloth coat over a white shirt with a ruffled front. He had a round-crowned hat tucked under one arm and he paused as Suky followed him down.
"I'm content as can be," the big man rumbled. "We both benefitted. I don't see where you got cause for complaint."
"Vigor is one thing. Enthusiasm is fine," grumbled Suky. "But there's no need to be so rough. Next time I swear I'm a-gonna hand you over to the new gal."
"One dollymop's good as another in the dark," he said.
Ignoring her as she flounced back up the staircase, Mack turned his attention to the doctor. "You fixed to head back, doc?"
"Ah, no. Thank you, Mack, but I'm beginning to see some merit to this vintage. It's got presumption. You may go about your business, I am sure I can find someone to help me into the street."
"Suit yerself," Mack said. He wheeled the doctor sideways, tugged off the blanket and rearranged it over the man's lap. From where he stood, Johnny saw with a jolt that both of the doctor's legs were missing below the knee.
That sinks my thoughts that the doctor really could walk and was pretending to be crippled so nobody would suspect him, thought Johnny. There's no faking those stumps.
Seeing the Kid's eyes on him, Dr Emmett made a disgusted noise. "Do you MIND, young man?"
"Sorry, doc," Johnny said. "I meant no offense."
Coming near to tower over the Kid, Mack tapped him in the chest with a thick finger. "Sometime you and me are going to have a heartfelt talk, bucky."
Johnny met his glare steadily. He wasn't pretending to not be afraid, he actually wasn't. In his mind, the Kid was planning the fight. Kick this monster in the forward knee, get him down off-balance a little and then give him a rabbit punch to the back of the neck....
Seeing the calm calculating expression in the Kid's eyes, Mack passed on the confrontation. "If'n you do need me, doc, send word. I'll be getting my walk for exercise." He gave Johnny a final parting glower and muttered "Bleedin' wanker" as he left.
As soon as the hulking man passed though the swingin doors into the night, everyone seemed to draw a relieved breath. The piano player cracked his knuckles and launched into a more spirited "Camptown Races." The two men playing cards shuffled the deck and one said, "Hell, James, let's try some 21 for a change."
Johnny strolled around the saloon for a few minutes. He inspected some of the prints on the wall, several were engravings of historical events and one was a newspaper clipping of a shootout between the notorious Tom Pinto and a Mexican bandit. There was a mounted deer head on the wall and some wag had inserted a thin black cheroot between the animal's lips. As he passed the piano player, Johnny dropped a few coins into the jar and requested his old favorite, "Loch Lomond."
Eventually stepping up to the bar, not too close to the doctor, Johnny said to the barmaid, "I took a shine to that local brew earlier. If I could have another glass?"
"Mr Packard?" asked the doctor.
"Yeah? I got to declare, sir, I did not mean to stare at your misfortune. I was off-guard, thass all."
"It's not that." The doctor finished the wine in his glass and studied it. "I am mulling over your words in my office. I can assure you that you fears are groundless, young man."
Receiving a chilled mug of beer and dropping a silver dollar on the bar, Johnny replied, "I wish that was a comfort, sir."
"I can state for a fact that I obviously am not the criminal that the tabloids are pleased to call Jack the Ripper. Nor is Mack." The doctor leaned closer and bestowed a remarkably unsettling smile. "Mack is actually someone much worse!"
That took a second to fully sink in. Johnny dropped his mug on the bar and rushed from the saloon, breaking into a run as he hit the street. In a minute, he was sprinting toward the livery stable where the dozing horses stirred at his approach. The door of the nearby barn was wide open.
Peering inside, the Kid started to call, "Louie?" but stopped as he saw the body lying on a heap of straw. The eyes and the mouth were both wide open and the stain covering the front of his shirt was still crimson and hadn't darkened yet.
Johnny froze. He thought, time to get in the Sheriff's office one way or another and fetch his guns. He turned and saw light flickering from the other end of town. The church was on fire. How had that happened? While he was distracted, a vicious pain flared deep into his right side. A powerful open hand cuffed the back of his hand and knocked him to the ground, then a heavy boot crashed into his chest and drove the wind out of him. The Kid struggled to keep hold of his senses.
X.
Flung into the barn with bone-breaking force, Johnny Packard bounced hard off the wall and fell face down in damp hay. His chest ached where he had been kicked and his left side burned down by the lower ribs. Struggling to get into a seated position on the ground, the Kid pressed fingers to the wound in his side and felt hot wetness seeping through.
Closing the barn door, Mack bent over and placed the oil lamp on the dirt. Underlit by its flickering flame, the English thug loomed up gigantic and monstrous. He cleaned the blade of his flick knife with a rag which he tucked back into his rear pocket.
Watching the brute grinning down at him, Johnny felt dizzy and weak. He would have to act now. He was only stalling another few minutes to get the answers he had been looking for all day.
"No use in your screaming for help," rumbled Mack. "Every fool in this miserable town is trying to put out the church. They'll be scurrying to and fro with buckets of water all night."
"It's hard to believe," Johnny said. "Jack the Ripper here on the frontier."
"Jack? JACK?! You think that's who I am? Why, you pewling babe, you could not be more wrong if you tried. You make me laugh, you do. Saucy Jack was only a dilettante. He dabbled in the red game until the peelers got too close and he buggered off. Me, now... I'm the real thing. I'm bricky enough to spit in a tiger's eye."
"I'm lost and no mistake," the Kid gasped. "You did come to this country from England at the same time the Ripper killings stopped. And here in this burg, the same sort of abominations started up!"
"I came to your uncivilized wilderness cause I was exiled. Listen to me, boy. They were fixing to hang me. I was being marched up those forever steps where the noose was waiting, then someone from the Royal Family sent a command that I woud be pardoned if I left the Isles never to return."
"I don't get it, I'm purely confused." Johnny had propped himself up against the barn wall, but he didn't think he'd be able to stand at this point.
"Strangely enough," Mack added, "the same thing happened to my direct ancestor. Way back in 1729, the King's soldiers had the first MacHeath standing with a rope around his neck when word came to let him go. He only escaped because his gang came up with enough of a bribe."
With his free hand, the Kid fumbled for the cord around his throat from which his Stetson dangled. "Then who the hell are you?"
"Macheath. Edmond Henry MacHeath. I'm best known as Mack the Knife," chuckled the big man. He began tossing his weapon from one hand to the other. "Terror of the East End, don't ya know. I've claimed Louie's savings to tide me over so I believe I will be moving on. Dr Emmett will have to fend for himself."
As the lifelong murderer snapped his wrist and the flick knife opened, Johnny Packard clenched his own free hand on his hat. He settled the black Stetson down on top of his head and felt the Darthan coin burning hot as a white coal against his forehead.
Pain and weakness were washed away by a surge of demonic vitality. Every detail of the barn's interior was suddenly visible to his night vision. His blood felt like boiling water rushing through his body. Johnny had seldom been more grateful to feel his curse manifest itself.
Even in the uncertain illumination, Mack the Knife could see something ominous had come into that barn. Johnny's eyes caught the light like a cat's, flashing a red glare that no normal Human ever showed.
"What are you pulling? Is this some kind of trickery?" the killer demanded.
Standing up easily, adjusting his hat brim low over his eyes, Johnny said, "We have our own legendary characters in this country, friend. You're dealing with the Brimstone Kid now."
Mack roared and took one quick step forward, lunging with the blade extended and ready to gut this puny cowboy. Johnny Packard caught that attacking arm by the wrist and stopped it in mid-stroke as if it had slammed into a stone wall. The bones in Mack the Knife's wrist broke with an audible crack.
"Arrghh! Damn you!" yelled the big man.
"Mebbe so," the Kid replied as he wrested the flick knife from a nerveless hand. "If any man is damned, it might well be me."
The hulking killer snatched at Johnny's arm with his good hand and tugged furiously to get free but he could not budge the smaller man. Mack the Knife cursed with a dozen words that Johnny had never heard.
"Do you think I'll beg for mercy? Do you think I'll fall to my knees and humiliate myself?" yelled the killer. "You got another think coming."
Johnny yanked the giant closer. "I don't care if you put on a minstrel show, mister." With one backhand stroke, he drew the knife deeply across Mack's throat to sever the windpipe.
Gagging and wheezing with a strange whistling from an open trachea, the murderer fell straight down to the ground. He was dead within another minute. The Brimstone Kid tossed the flick knife down next to the huge body. Outside he heard the yells of the townspeople as they fought the church fire.
The Kid touched his side absently. The deep wound in his side had closed up entirely. Perhaps it would remain healed come the dawn when he reverted to Human. That didn't seem important now.
Before he left, the demonic cowboy remembered something. He went through the pockets of the dead man's coat and found a thick roll of bills held together with a piece of twine. All that the late Louie Miller had amassed over decades of prospecting. I'll put it to good use, Johnny thought as he confiscated it.
Peeking out of the barn door, the Brimstone Kid saw none of the townspeople nearby. At the other end of town, the church had almost burned down despite all efforts.
Lights were on in the windows of the Sheriff's office and the door gaped wide open. The Kid rushed in, found the bottom drawer was locked and ripped it open with a single savage motion. There was no way to tell exactly how strong he was when the Darthan curse was burning in his veins.
Johnny gave his Colts a brief examination and shoved them into the well-worn holsters of his gunbelt. In the back of his mind, he realized it might make him look guilty as hell for breaking into the desk to reclaim his guns and then fleeing the town. There were two dead men in the livery stable, killed by the same knife. Johnny should have stayed to arrange an alibi. But at the moment he didn't care about any of that. When he was fully the Brimstone Kid, he became feverish and impulsive, and consquences seemed far away.
Johnny ran up back the open corral where Terror was mingling with the other horses. Sensing the presence of his master, the black stallion whinnied and swung around to leap over the corral. He easily cleared the top rail intended to hold the horses in.
Johnny had snatched up his saddle and he quickly fastened it on the black horse. As he tightened the cinch, the nearness of the Darthan token had its effect on Terror. The stallion's long face grew skeletal. Red glints showed in his eyes and steam snorted from his nostrils. The Kid grabbed his saddlebags and bedroll and lashed them into place.
In another instant, Johnny had leaped up in the saddle without even putting a toe in the stirrup. The black horse shot away at a full gallop without waiting for any urging. Under a dark cloudless sky, as a church burned and a corpse grew cold on the floor of a barn, the Brimstone Kid rode wildly away into the night.
1/26/2018
[Arthur Hawk born in 1891, is 29 when son Michael is born in 1919. Michael's uncle Robert starts him on lifetime of training to be criminologist. Michael serves in OSS 1942 to 1945, learns about Robert's career as the Sting after the war.]