"Red, Yellow, Black"
"Red, Yellow, Black"
12/6/1883
I.
Freezing rain had started falling at dawn. Now, as the sun neared the horizon to the West, the crust was thick enough that even the black horse's weight had trouble breaking it. Riding Terror, Johnny Packard was huddled low over the reins. It took all his will to stay in the saddle. Soaked clean through, chilled to where life was ebbing out of him, the Kid could not keep doom filled thoughts from his head.
No shelter anywhere. This far north in the Dakotas, trees were rare. It was mile after mile of ice-covered snow. If they could last until nightfall, the ancient curse from the Darthan token in his hatband would kick in. As the demonic Brimstone Kid, with Terror also affected, they would survive this. But that was hours away.
Doggedly trudging along the vague hint of a trail, Johnny saw the ruts where a stagecoach must have passed no more than a day earlier. Yeah, a six horse team judging by the track left. The footing was a little easier as Terror began following it. Even the great black stallion seemed to know Death was near as he struggled along.
Ahead of them, a dark silhouette loomed up out of the mist. A single large structure big enough to make two cabins, with the edge of a stable behind it. Black smoke rose from a stovepipe chimney, never a more welcome sight. Johnny dropped down from the saddle, lost his footing and fell smack on his face. Despite the bruising impact, he was up again and leading his mount toward the rough double door of the stable. Gratitude such as he had seldom felt rushed over him. Even though it was not much warmer inside, at least they were not getting covered with more sleet.
There were four other horses in the row of stalls, all dozing while standing with their knees locked. By the light of an oil lantern hanging from a hook near the door, the Kid spotted a pile of heavy blankets lying on a platform. He was exhausted but taking care of Terror came before his own comfort. Removing the saddle, Johnny rubbed the big stallion dry with one blanket and then draped a second one over Terror's back.
Dropping down to sit with his back against the rough-hewn wall, Johnny panted and waited to regain his strength. That damn stubbornness had nearly killed him this time. He had been warned about the coming storm, he could have easily stayed in town and watched it from the boarding house window. But no. He had been restless and impatient, and had given in to his urge to wander. Maybe this time would teach him a lesson but he doubted it.
Wrapping one of the coarse blankets around himself, he recovered with the quickness of youth. In his early twenties, not more than five feet five and barely a hundred and sixty pounds, Johnny had been toughened by a life spent in wilderness and at war. After ten minutes or so, he rousted himself before he could drop off into the exhausted slumber his body craved. In one corner of the stable was a half-empty burlap sack of oats. Johnny fetched the feed bag from where it was tied to his saddle, filled it and fastened it over Terror's lower face.
He had to go back out again, there was no use putting it off. He needed something to help him walk over the thick ice out there. Hanging from nails were shovel, a billhook and a pitchfork. Using the pitchfork to break up the crust on the ground, Johnny struggled around the side of the building and got up on the front porch on his hands and knees to keep from sliding off. Painted on a board over the door was LAST CHANCE TRADING POST in uneven letters.
Getting up, still using the pitchfork for support, he rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. The wind was spraying freezing rain in his eyes and up his nose. There had to be people in there! The Kid drew back his fist to pound where the door was flung open with a crash. Right in the opening stood a big black man in a long coat, jabbing a Navy revolver in his face. Behind him were two other armed men, scowling as if eager to shoot.
II.
Weariness evaporated off the Kid, his pulse raced and his senses sharpened to vivid clarity. The black man was the oldest of the three, with plenty of grey in his mustache. Ten feet behind and to his right was an Apache with a colorful robe drawn tight around him, pointing a long-barreled Sharps rifle. Over to the left was a small stout Asian man bundled in a coat with a fur collar, and he held a snub Webley revolver in both hands.
All three men were grim and intense, lips pressed tightly and eyes narrowed. Johnny knew his limits. If he went for his own matched Peacemarkers on his hips, he'd be dead instantly. So he froze in position and quietly said, "I don't mean no harm, mister. Only seeking shelter afore I freeze to death."
"How did you end up out here? What's your business?" demanded the older man.
"Name's Johnny Packard, formerly of West Texas. I been doing ranch work for a few months but decided to spend some time a'wandering. Believe me, I was purely glad to see this trading post."
"Hmm. I s'pose. Tell you what, redhead. You keep those hands up high, don't flinch. Mantis, you get his irons."
"Sure thing, Major." The Asian man kept his own gun ready as he moved toward Johnny and cautiously drew each of the Colt's from its holster to place them within his thick robe, then stepped quickly back. Even though he did not resist, Johnny's tense stance radiated resentment.
From where he stood, the Apache made a disgusted sound. "Brothers, do you not know this youth? A runt with red hair and green eyes? From Texas? Twin Peacemakers? It makes me laugh. I will bet a fifty dollar gold piece he rides a big black horse?"
"I believe you're right, Billy." The man addressed as Major gestured for Johnny to come in. "The infamous Brimstone Kid. Quite the romantic figure in many a campfire tale and even a dime novel or two."
Despite the muzzles following him, Johnny was relieved to feel warm dry heat at least. The trading post had three walls lined with shelves holding goods, as well as boxes piled on the bare planks. But the far wall displayed a raging fireplace under a stone mantle, and the crackle of the flames was a welcome sound.
Over in one corner was a long wooden table with china plates and tin coffee mugs scattered across its surface. A long loaf of hard sourdough bread sat next to a dish of butter, and an empty wine bottle was lying on one of the chairs. But all of this only registered in the back of Johnny's awareness. He was stunned at seeing the blonde man with the red shirt and black and white spotted vest who sat at that table with his wrists shackled together.
The eyes of Tom Pinto and Johnny Packard met but they were both wary enough to give no sign of recognition. Not seeming interested in the prisoner, the Kid gingerly lowered his hands to shoulder level. "So I'm disarmed and no threat. How's about some of that coffee to raise my spirits, Major?"
"I don't see why not," came the answer. "But we're still watching you. I am actually an ex-Major, Caleb Prewitt, formerly of the US Seventh Calvary. Before that I served in the Union Army during the late unpleasantness. I was had the satisfaction of killing some of the men who had whipped me while I was in chains."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." Johnny walked slowly over to a cast iron stove on which a coffee pot sat, picked up a tin mug off a shelf and helped himself. He sipped tentatively, then drained the contents with satisfaction. "I was ten when the war ended. We lived down by the border and never saw any of the fighting."
"Better for your soul that you didn't," said the Major. "This man is Billy Shoots-Far. Mescalero. He was a scout and hunter for the Seventh, that's how I met him. And the other fellow we call Mantis, but his real name is Feng Liu-Da. He started working with us a month ago."
"Howdy, gents." Johnny took a second serving but sipped it more slowly. "I expect the hombre at the table has a story to tell, too?"
"That he does." The Major finally lowered his gun and slid it into a holster held at an angle across his abdomen. This prompted the other two men to also reduce their vigil. "This hellion is worth twenty thousand dollars dead or alive, even split three ways he's worth the trouble of hauling him in. I daresay he's as notorious as you, Mr Packard. You must have heard of Tom Pinto?"
Keeping his best poker face, the Kid replied, "The name's familiar. Outlaw, I believe?"
"And a rightly feared one," said the Major. "We were fortunate enough to find him when he was sick with fever, lying upstairs over a blacksmith and mumbling nonsense to himself. Turned out he had a gash in his leg that got infected. When the fever broke, he found himself slung over a horse on his way to being turned in."
"That's some hard luck for him," the Kid commented without much interest. He picked up a chair from near the table and brought it over to settle down next to the fire. Against his shoulder blades, that familiar ominous stinging began. Nightfall was near. The mystic Darthan token in the band of his hat hanging on his back was growing more potent, ready to begin his transformation. Considering the imminent threat of being killed that he could feel hanging over him, Johnny was for once grateful for the curse he lived under.
"So you fellas are bounty hunters, I take it?" he asked as he watched the three men come over to encircle him again.
Major Prewitt lowered himself to a more comfortable padded armchair facing the fireplace. "It's a living. Billy and I been riding together night three years now. We met Mantis at a festival and he seems to have the right attitude to join us. Tom Pinto over there is the first badman we brought down together."
Johnny Packard sat gazing down at his boots, considering and rejecting plans. He had not the slightest doubt that these three men were stone cold killers and not legitimate bounty hunters. Although he dared not mention it, he had of course wondered what had happened to the family who ran this trading post.
III.
"I have been searching my memory, son," Major Prewitt said. "I don't recall ever seeing a handbill or poster with your name on it."
"That'd be because they ain't none." Johnny slowly reached behind him to get his black Stetson and hold it in his lap. Within the beaded band, the Darthan coin was calling him to him, tempting him with visions of strength and ferocity, whispering in an inflammatory prehuman voice. The narrow windows of the trading center were quite dark now. "I never had a price on my head, Major."
"Beans are ready." Over by the stove, Billy Shoots-Far examined the steaming pot without enthusiasm. "We have hot sauce. Vinegar. Mustard."
"Do me a favor, Billy, prepare a plate for our new guest." The Major did not rise himself, he remained seated with his feet well apart. His big right hand rested on the arm of the chair within inches of his Navy revolver. "As well as a plate for the prisoner."
Reluctantly leaning the long rifle against the wall far in the corner, the Apache bounty hunter ladled generous pyramids of beans on two flimsy tin plates. He jammed a fork into each plate and sniffed the contents. Billy placed one plate on the table while remaining out of reach of the blond man and shoved it over toward him.
"Much obliged, chief," said Tom Pinto, speaking for the first time. "Might it not be too much to get a mug of that Joe?"
"Give it to him in a minute," the Major called over. "Mantis, will you dine as well?"
"With gusto," replied the Chinese man, heaping a ladle full of the beans onto his own plate and slathering hot sauce from a glass bottle that read JOY'S FIERY all over it. Taking a wide-bladed knife from within his robe, he hacked off two chunks of the dark bread as well before settling back down in his chair. "My stomach was so empty it spoke out loud."
"Hah." Major Prewitt watched Johnny receive his serving from the Apache, and as the young redhead dug in, the older man sighed. "I must admit I was glad to find our prisoner so incapacitated. Trying to take him at gunpoint was not an endeavor I regarded without enthusiasm. Tom Pinto! They say he drew and killed a rattler that was already lunging at him. They say he can shoot a man's hat off when they're both on horses at full gallop. Not mere tall tales, either. Court records and newspaper accounts testify he is likely the most dangerous gunman on the frontier."
"You're too kind," Pinto mumbled through a mouthful of beans.
"The peculiar thing about the man is that he seems so particular in his shootings," Major Prewitt went on. "I keep reading about him having battles with gangs of desperados and bandits, shootouts with hardened killers, defending remote settlements against Indian attacks. But he doesn't seem to take innocent lives. He's like an outlaw that preys on other outlaws. Never heard of the like."
Eating while standing up, regarding Johnny from an angle, Billy Shoots-Far interrupted, "Better to not make heroes of men. You will only be disappointed."
"Fair enough," Prewitt admitted. Seeing that Johnny was still being watched, he got to his feet with a grunt to prepare his own plate. Outside a sudden gust of wind drove freezing air through some of the chinks in the roughly constructed walls.
"I got to ask something," Johnny Packard said as he finished the meager meal. "Meaning no offense, gentlemen, but it's striking that the three of you are working together at all."
From over by the table, Tom Pinto gave a sharp barking laugh. "Like one of them editorial cartoons in the newspaper, ain't it? The white man brought down by an Injun, a Chinaman and a black. I expect to see a little word balloon by each of you men explaining your grievances."
Settling back in the easy chair, the Major pulled over his heavy white gauntlets and began to eat. "Oh, that has amused us many times. But there is no deep meaning to our partnership. Billy and I recognized each other's abilities and decided we could make more money bringing in badmen together. Of course, watching each other's backs gives us better chances of survival. And Mantis has suffered at the hands of the white man but that's not why he collects heads either."
"The world is an ugly place," commented the Chinese man over by the stove. "Every land has injustice. I take life as it is, and money in the hand is always good."
"Red, Yellow, Black," added Billy Shoots-Far with a derisive snort. "Our skins are not our hearts. That is what makes us good... or bad."
Johnny was feeling bolder, knowing that night had fallen. "It 'pears to me that you folks need a Mexican to make it all complete."
Finshed with his beans and wiping his mouth with his red bandana despite the wrist shackles, Tom Pinto said, "We got here after dawn. The sleet was coming down hard then and their hosses was a'slipping. While the Major and Billy tied their animals up in the stable, little Mantis there went inside to announce us."
"I think you'd best be quiet unless you want a beating," the Major cautioned.
Disregarding that, Pinto continued, "He said the trading post was empty. Not a soul to be seen. So we all made ourselves comfortable anyway. And here we've been sitting, eating a few soda crackers while the bounty hunters play poker. But, a fellow looking out the window might notice that the two-horse wagon is still sittin' by the side of this building."
Rising to his feet, Major Prewitt pointed a finger. "Hold your tongue, white boy! Your mangy hide is worth as much as your living body to me. It would save a hanging."
While all eyes were on Tom Pinto, Johnny had quietly gotten to his feet with his hat in both hands. He said nothing. A sinister feral glint had come into those green eyes.
"Now, Mr Brimstone Kid," Pinto said. "You secured your hoss out in the stable. These men came in on three mounts, taking turns hauling me up behind them on the saddle. I'm gonna bet there were two hosses already in there. Wasn't it so? The two hosses that belonged to the couple who ran this insitution."
As the three killers wheeled around to raise their weapons, they were already too late. Johnny Packard lowered his Stetson down on his head and felt the electric thrill course through his body.
IV.
Everyone stood paralyzed with fundamental terror they had never known before.
The Brimstone Kid swelled up to be several inches taller. His face sharpened to a gaunt mask with sunken cheeks and the brick-red hair bristled upright. Beneath suddenly shaggy brows, his eyes gleamed from within with a lambent crimson light. The demonic figure growled deep in his chest and took a single menacing step forward.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and--" began Major Prewitt before a gnarled fist struck him in the chest to fling him bodily across the room and crash up against the table where Tom Pinto sat. In much less than a second, a single long peal rang out that was actually four gunshots spaced so closely that they sounded like one.
As echoes bounced back and forth from the walls, Billy Shoots-Far and Mantis fell heavily to the planks. The Major was dead as well. At that close range, blood from his neck wound had splattered up over Pinto's own face.
The Brimstone Kid chuckled, then broke into full mocking laughter. He stalked over to where the body of Mantis sprawled, retrieved his Peacemakers and holstered them.
"Steady on there, amigo," Tom Pinto said. "You remember me, dontcha? We rode together many a mile, Johnny."
"You are in no danger from me," came the rasping reply. The Kid seized Pinto's wrists and snapped the shackles apart without any seeming effort, then bent over the Major's corpse. He came up with a folded sheet of stiff paper. "Here is the warrant to bring you in. Twenty thousand dollars so you might be hanged for what you did not do."
Getting up, Pinto reloaded the Navy revolver with slugs from the Major's gunbelt, then thumbed out the rest of the bullets and pocketed them. "That was so long ago, old friend. Sheriff John Brown always hated me. Even dead all these years, his lies have ruined my life."
The Kid was moving from window to window, peering out at the ice storm. "We will leave here while it is still dark. Terror's hooves will be hot enough to melt the ice and leave a path your own horse will be able to use. By dawn, we will at the next town, Red Rock."
"All righty then. I'm sure these swine murdered the family that ran this place. The Chinese fella carried a few big ol' fighting daggers, I seen him sharpening them with a hone. My bet is that there are bodies lying out there behind the stable."
"I will go see. The cold cannot affect me now." The Brimstone Kid turned over a corpse with his boot. "Why did they keep you alive? Why kill the owners?"
"I don't reckon we'll ever know," said Tom Pinto. "These dogs took their intentions with them into Hell."
5/26/2021
12/6/1883
I.
Freezing rain had started falling at dawn. Now, as the sun neared the horizon to the West, the crust was thick enough that even the black horse's weight had trouble breaking it. Riding Terror, Johnny Packard was huddled low over the reins. It took all his will to stay in the saddle. Soaked clean through, chilled to where life was ebbing out of him, the Kid could not keep doom filled thoughts from his head.
No shelter anywhere. This far north in the Dakotas, trees were rare. It was mile after mile of ice-covered snow. If they could last until nightfall, the ancient curse from the Darthan token in his hatband would kick in. As the demonic Brimstone Kid, with Terror also affected, they would survive this. But that was hours away.
Doggedly trudging along the vague hint of a trail, Johnny saw the ruts where a stagecoach must have passed no more than a day earlier. Yeah, a six horse team judging by the track left. The footing was a little easier as Terror began following it. Even the great black stallion seemed to know Death was near as he struggled along.
Ahead of them, a dark silhouette loomed up out of the mist. A single large structure big enough to make two cabins, with the edge of a stable behind it. Black smoke rose from a stovepipe chimney, never a more welcome sight. Johnny dropped down from the saddle, lost his footing and fell smack on his face. Despite the bruising impact, he was up again and leading his mount toward the rough double door of the stable. Gratitude such as he had seldom felt rushed over him. Even though it was not much warmer inside, at least they were not getting covered with more sleet.
There were four other horses in the row of stalls, all dozing while standing with their knees locked. By the light of an oil lantern hanging from a hook near the door, the Kid spotted a pile of heavy blankets lying on a platform. He was exhausted but taking care of Terror came before his own comfort. Removing the saddle, Johnny rubbed the big stallion dry with one blanket and then draped a second one over Terror's back.
Dropping down to sit with his back against the rough-hewn wall, Johnny panted and waited to regain his strength. That damn stubbornness had nearly killed him this time. He had been warned about the coming storm, he could have easily stayed in town and watched it from the boarding house window. But no. He had been restless and impatient, and had given in to his urge to wander. Maybe this time would teach him a lesson but he doubted it.
Wrapping one of the coarse blankets around himself, he recovered with the quickness of youth. In his early twenties, not more than five feet five and barely a hundred and sixty pounds, Johnny had been toughened by a life spent in wilderness and at war. After ten minutes or so, he rousted himself before he could drop off into the exhausted slumber his body craved. In one corner of the stable was a half-empty burlap sack of oats. Johnny fetched the feed bag from where it was tied to his saddle, filled it and fastened it over Terror's lower face.
He had to go back out again, there was no use putting it off. He needed something to help him walk over the thick ice out there. Hanging from nails were shovel, a billhook and a pitchfork. Using the pitchfork to break up the crust on the ground, Johnny struggled around the side of the building and got up on the front porch on his hands and knees to keep from sliding off. Painted on a board over the door was LAST CHANCE TRADING POST in uneven letters.
Getting up, still using the pitchfork for support, he rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. The wind was spraying freezing rain in his eyes and up his nose. There had to be people in there! The Kid drew back his fist to pound where the door was flung open with a crash. Right in the opening stood a big black man in a long coat, jabbing a Navy revolver in his face. Behind him were two other armed men, scowling as if eager to shoot.
II.
Weariness evaporated off the Kid, his pulse raced and his senses sharpened to vivid clarity. The black man was the oldest of the three, with plenty of grey in his mustache. Ten feet behind and to his right was an Apache with a colorful robe drawn tight around him, pointing a long-barreled Sharps rifle. Over to the left was a small stout Asian man bundled in a coat with a fur collar, and he held a snub Webley revolver in both hands.
All three men were grim and intense, lips pressed tightly and eyes narrowed. Johnny knew his limits. If he went for his own matched Peacemarkers on his hips, he'd be dead instantly. So he froze in position and quietly said, "I don't mean no harm, mister. Only seeking shelter afore I freeze to death."
"How did you end up out here? What's your business?" demanded the older man.
"Name's Johnny Packard, formerly of West Texas. I been doing ranch work for a few months but decided to spend some time a'wandering. Believe me, I was purely glad to see this trading post."
"Hmm. I s'pose. Tell you what, redhead. You keep those hands up high, don't flinch. Mantis, you get his irons."
"Sure thing, Major." The Asian man kept his own gun ready as he moved toward Johnny and cautiously drew each of the Colt's from its holster to place them within his thick robe, then stepped quickly back. Even though he did not resist, Johnny's tense stance radiated resentment.
From where he stood, the Apache made a disgusted sound. "Brothers, do you not know this youth? A runt with red hair and green eyes? From Texas? Twin Peacemakers? It makes me laugh. I will bet a fifty dollar gold piece he rides a big black horse?"
"I believe you're right, Billy." The man addressed as Major gestured for Johnny to come in. "The infamous Brimstone Kid. Quite the romantic figure in many a campfire tale and even a dime novel or two."
Despite the muzzles following him, Johnny was relieved to feel warm dry heat at least. The trading post had three walls lined with shelves holding goods, as well as boxes piled on the bare planks. But the far wall displayed a raging fireplace under a stone mantle, and the crackle of the flames was a welcome sound.
Over in one corner was a long wooden table with china plates and tin coffee mugs scattered across its surface. A long loaf of hard sourdough bread sat next to a dish of butter, and an empty wine bottle was lying on one of the chairs. But all of this only registered in the back of Johnny's awareness. He was stunned at seeing the blonde man with the red shirt and black and white spotted vest who sat at that table with his wrists shackled together.
The eyes of Tom Pinto and Johnny Packard met but they were both wary enough to give no sign of recognition. Not seeming interested in the prisoner, the Kid gingerly lowered his hands to shoulder level. "So I'm disarmed and no threat. How's about some of that coffee to raise my spirits, Major?"
"I don't see why not," came the answer. "But we're still watching you. I am actually an ex-Major, Caleb Prewitt, formerly of the US Seventh Calvary. Before that I served in the Union Army during the late unpleasantness. I was had the satisfaction of killing some of the men who had whipped me while I was in chains."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." Johnny walked slowly over to a cast iron stove on which a coffee pot sat, picked up a tin mug off a shelf and helped himself. He sipped tentatively, then drained the contents with satisfaction. "I was ten when the war ended. We lived down by the border and never saw any of the fighting."
"Better for your soul that you didn't," said the Major. "This man is Billy Shoots-Far. Mescalero. He was a scout and hunter for the Seventh, that's how I met him. And the other fellow we call Mantis, but his real name is Feng Liu-Da. He started working with us a month ago."
"Howdy, gents." Johnny took a second serving but sipped it more slowly. "I expect the hombre at the table has a story to tell, too?"
"That he does." The Major finally lowered his gun and slid it into a holster held at an angle across his abdomen. This prompted the other two men to also reduce their vigil. "This hellion is worth twenty thousand dollars dead or alive, even split three ways he's worth the trouble of hauling him in. I daresay he's as notorious as you, Mr Packard. You must have heard of Tom Pinto?"
Keeping his best poker face, the Kid replied, "The name's familiar. Outlaw, I believe?"
"And a rightly feared one," said the Major. "We were fortunate enough to find him when he was sick with fever, lying upstairs over a blacksmith and mumbling nonsense to himself. Turned out he had a gash in his leg that got infected. When the fever broke, he found himself slung over a horse on his way to being turned in."
"That's some hard luck for him," the Kid commented without much interest. He picked up a chair from near the table and brought it over to settle down next to the fire. Against his shoulder blades, that familiar ominous stinging began. Nightfall was near. The mystic Darthan token in the band of his hat hanging on his back was growing more potent, ready to begin his transformation. Considering the imminent threat of being killed that he could feel hanging over him, Johnny was for once grateful for the curse he lived under.
"So you fellas are bounty hunters, I take it?" he asked as he watched the three men come over to encircle him again.
Major Prewitt lowered himself to a more comfortable padded armchair facing the fireplace. "It's a living. Billy and I been riding together night three years now. We met Mantis at a festival and he seems to have the right attitude to join us. Tom Pinto over there is the first badman we brought down together."
Johnny Packard sat gazing down at his boots, considering and rejecting plans. He had not the slightest doubt that these three men were stone cold killers and not legitimate bounty hunters. Although he dared not mention it, he had of course wondered what had happened to the family who ran this trading post.
III.
"I have been searching my memory, son," Major Prewitt said. "I don't recall ever seeing a handbill or poster with your name on it."
"That'd be because they ain't none." Johnny slowly reached behind him to get his black Stetson and hold it in his lap. Within the beaded band, the Darthan coin was calling him to him, tempting him with visions of strength and ferocity, whispering in an inflammatory prehuman voice. The narrow windows of the trading center were quite dark now. "I never had a price on my head, Major."
"Beans are ready." Over by the stove, Billy Shoots-Far examined the steaming pot without enthusiasm. "We have hot sauce. Vinegar. Mustard."
"Do me a favor, Billy, prepare a plate for our new guest." The Major did not rise himself, he remained seated with his feet well apart. His big right hand rested on the arm of the chair within inches of his Navy revolver. "As well as a plate for the prisoner."
Reluctantly leaning the long rifle against the wall far in the corner, the Apache bounty hunter ladled generous pyramids of beans on two flimsy tin plates. He jammed a fork into each plate and sniffed the contents. Billy placed one plate on the table while remaining out of reach of the blond man and shoved it over toward him.
"Much obliged, chief," said Tom Pinto, speaking for the first time. "Might it not be too much to get a mug of that Joe?"
"Give it to him in a minute," the Major called over. "Mantis, will you dine as well?"
"With gusto," replied the Chinese man, heaping a ladle full of the beans onto his own plate and slathering hot sauce from a glass bottle that read JOY'S FIERY all over it. Taking a wide-bladed knife from within his robe, he hacked off two chunks of the dark bread as well before settling back down in his chair. "My stomach was so empty it spoke out loud."
"Hah." Major Prewitt watched Johnny receive his serving from the Apache, and as the young redhead dug in, the older man sighed. "I must admit I was glad to find our prisoner so incapacitated. Trying to take him at gunpoint was not an endeavor I regarded without enthusiasm. Tom Pinto! They say he drew and killed a rattler that was already lunging at him. They say he can shoot a man's hat off when they're both on horses at full gallop. Not mere tall tales, either. Court records and newspaper accounts testify he is likely the most dangerous gunman on the frontier."
"You're too kind," Pinto mumbled through a mouthful of beans.
"The peculiar thing about the man is that he seems so particular in his shootings," Major Prewitt went on. "I keep reading about him having battles with gangs of desperados and bandits, shootouts with hardened killers, defending remote settlements against Indian attacks. But he doesn't seem to take innocent lives. He's like an outlaw that preys on other outlaws. Never heard of the like."
Eating while standing up, regarding Johnny from an angle, Billy Shoots-Far interrupted, "Better to not make heroes of men. You will only be disappointed."
"Fair enough," Prewitt admitted. Seeing that Johnny was still being watched, he got to his feet with a grunt to prepare his own plate. Outside a sudden gust of wind drove freezing air through some of the chinks in the roughly constructed walls.
"I got to ask something," Johnny Packard said as he finished the meager meal. "Meaning no offense, gentlemen, but it's striking that the three of you are working together at all."
From over by the table, Tom Pinto gave a sharp barking laugh. "Like one of them editorial cartoons in the newspaper, ain't it? The white man brought down by an Injun, a Chinaman and a black. I expect to see a little word balloon by each of you men explaining your grievances."
Settling back in the easy chair, the Major pulled over his heavy white gauntlets and began to eat. "Oh, that has amused us many times. But there is no deep meaning to our partnership. Billy and I recognized each other's abilities and decided we could make more money bringing in badmen together. Of course, watching each other's backs gives us better chances of survival. And Mantis has suffered at the hands of the white man but that's not why he collects heads either."
"The world is an ugly place," commented the Chinese man over by the stove. "Every land has injustice. I take life as it is, and money in the hand is always good."
"Red, Yellow, Black," added Billy Shoots-Far with a derisive snort. "Our skins are not our hearts. That is what makes us good... or bad."
Johnny was feeling bolder, knowing that night had fallen. "It 'pears to me that you folks need a Mexican to make it all complete."
Finshed with his beans and wiping his mouth with his red bandana despite the wrist shackles, Tom Pinto said, "We got here after dawn. The sleet was coming down hard then and their hosses was a'slipping. While the Major and Billy tied their animals up in the stable, little Mantis there went inside to announce us."
"I think you'd best be quiet unless you want a beating," the Major cautioned.
Disregarding that, Pinto continued, "He said the trading post was empty. Not a soul to be seen. So we all made ourselves comfortable anyway. And here we've been sitting, eating a few soda crackers while the bounty hunters play poker. But, a fellow looking out the window might notice that the two-horse wagon is still sittin' by the side of this building."
Rising to his feet, Major Prewitt pointed a finger. "Hold your tongue, white boy! Your mangy hide is worth as much as your living body to me. It would save a hanging."
While all eyes were on Tom Pinto, Johnny had quietly gotten to his feet with his hat in both hands. He said nothing. A sinister feral glint had come into those green eyes.
"Now, Mr Brimstone Kid," Pinto said. "You secured your hoss out in the stable. These men came in on three mounts, taking turns hauling me up behind them on the saddle. I'm gonna bet there were two hosses already in there. Wasn't it so? The two hosses that belonged to the couple who ran this insitution."
As the three killers wheeled around to raise their weapons, they were already too late. Johnny Packard lowered his Stetson down on his head and felt the electric thrill course through his body.
IV.
Everyone stood paralyzed with fundamental terror they had never known before.
The Brimstone Kid swelled up to be several inches taller. His face sharpened to a gaunt mask with sunken cheeks and the brick-red hair bristled upright. Beneath suddenly shaggy brows, his eyes gleamed from within with a lambent crimson light. The demonic figure growled deep in his chest and took a single menacing step forward.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and--" began Major Prewitt before a gnarled fist struck him in the chest to fling him bodily across the room and crash up against the table where Tom Pinto sat. In much less than a second, a single long peal rang out that was actually four gunshots spaced so closely that they sounded like one.
As echoes bounced back and forth from the walls, Billy Shoots-Far and Mantis fell heavily to the planks. The Major was dead as well. At that close range, blood from his neck wound had splattered up over Pinto's own face.
The Brimstone Kid chuckled, then broke into full mocking laughter. He stalked over to where the body of Mantis sprawled, retrieved his Peacemakers and holstered them.
"Steady on there, amigo," Tom Pinto said. "You remember me, dontcha? We rode together many a mile, Johnny."
"You are in no danger from me," came the rasping reply. The Kid seized Pinto's wrists and snapped the shackles apart without any seeming effort, then bent over the Major's corpse. He came up with a folded sheet of stiff paper. "Here is the warrant to bring you in. Twenty thousand dollars so you might be hanged for what you did not do."
Getting up, Pinto reloaded the Navy revolver with slugs from the Major's gunbelt, then thumbed out the rest of the bullets and pocketed them. "That was so long ago, old friend. Sheriff John Brown always hated me. Even dead all these years, his lies have ruined my life."
The Kid was moving from window to window, peering out at the ice storm. "We will leave here while it is still dark. Terror's hooves will be hot enough to melt the ice and leave a path your own horse will be able to use. By dawn, we will at the next town, Red Rock."
"All righty then. I'm sure these swine murdered the family that ran this place. The Chinese fella carried a few big ol' fighting daggers, I seen him sharpening them with a hone. My bet is that there are bodies lying out there behind the stable."
"I will go see. The cold cannot affect me now." The Brimstone Kid turned over a corpse with his boot. "Why did they keep you alive? Why kill the owners?"
"I don't reckon we'll ever know," said Tom Pinto. "These dogs took their intentions with them into Hell."
5/26/2021