Vengeance Trail (23 page)

A crowd had gathered in a circle. They were all men and excited. He worked his way into a position to be able to observe exactly
what was taking place.

Heavy wagering was going on. Men with paper money in their fists hooted and yelled to place down their bets.

Across the far part of the circle, Carter saw a red-bearded man holding the leash on a stout gray bull terrier. Nearer to
where he stood eating the sandwich, Carter saw a slightly built man, who wore a derby, pencil-thin moustache and nice looking
suit of clothes. The man was holding the collar of a shaggy black animal that more nearly resembled a wolf than a dog.

“Come’n Coorigan,” shouted the dandy across the ring to the red-bearded man with the gray bull. “You surely don’t believe
that little pup of yours will be much more than a good meal for Sampson here, der ya?” The dandy flashed a smile that lifted
the ends of his thin moustache.

Red Beard gritted his reply though the bush of beard that flowed nearly to his belt buckle.

“That black bastard of yours won’t know what hit him once’t Buck’s jaws get locked down on his throat! And maybe when he’s
done with that mangy critter of yours, I’ll let him have a taste of you as well!”

The crowd roared with delight over the open hostility that flowed between the two dog handlers.

“All bets in!” shouted a man carrying two fistfuls of money and clutching a ledger book under his arm.

“Let ’em rip!” he ordered the dog handlers.

The gray terrier shot across the pit on short muscled legs almost before the dandy had loosed the shaggy black. The snarl
and growl of each animal ripped the air, the black’s lips curled back over the large canine teeth.

The bull barely missed black’s throat as the black twisted sideways just in time to miss the fatal bite. Each cur raised itself
on hind legs and lunged at the other. The bull was lightening fast and relentless. The black drew first blood just behind
the bull’s head, but it only seemed to inflame the attack of the smaller dog.

The bull caught the exposed flank of the black and its jaws snapped shut causing the black to yelp and howl. The hound’s anguish
drew a chorus of shouts and curses from some, laughter from others.

Somehow, the black managed to spin away from the snapping jaws of the terrier and began to inflict its own damage by raking
its fangs across the rock-like head of the bull, tearing part of one ear off, leaving it a bloody flap.

The two fighting beasts worked their way back and forth across the man-made ring, each trying to secure a death hold on the
other. Flecks of foam and blood dripped from their jaws and splattered in the dirt and on the toes of the men’s boots.

The slashing fangs of the black scored a sudden but brief victory as they blinded one eye of the terrier—the only point at
which the bull seemed hurt and gave ground.

Each draw of blood, each new wound, excited the
crowd and men whistled and hooted and stomped their feet.

For all its size and power, however, the black was losing ground to the muscled fury of the bull. The fatal mistake came when
the terrier rolled the black up, causing the animal to loose its feet and fall over onto its back.

The bull’s fangs closed suddenly and solidly on the black’s throat, the sharp fangs buried themselves deeply, and the might
jaws clamped shut with such brutal force that the black’s throat was crushed.

A desperate flurry of hind legs, and then the black went limp. The bull shook its head furiously swinging the body of the
black as though it were a rag doll.

A mixture of groans and cheers rose from the spectators.

“Call him off, God damn it!” shouted the dandy, the handler of the black. “Call him off now, or I’ll blow his bastard head
off!” A small pistol, a nickel-plated pocket gun, flashed sunlight in his hand.

Red beard looked across the ring at the dandy, the broad grin of satisfaction leaving his face as his eyes dropped to the
small pistol in the dandy’s fist.

“You shoot my dog you little priss, I’ll bust your head open with a board.”

“I mean it,” shouted the dandy. “It’s over—you’ve won your bet, now call him off!”

“When he’s done, is when I’ll call him off!”

Carter saw the dandy step forward, step into the ring and fire the pistol into the bull’s head. Five shots, like the pop of
firecrackers filled the air. The dog flopped over on its side, the black still locked in its jaws.

“You darty son of a bitch!” The Irishman’s face burned red with anger, his fists balled into meaty knots as he charged from
the crowd, charged across the earthen ring toward the dandy.

The dandy raised the shiny pistol, held it at arm’s length, and without so much as a waver or a flinch, pulled the trigger,
and his sixth and final shot drilled a neat hole into the center of red beard’s forehead. The man fell face forward into the
dust, fell as though poleaxed.

“I asked him to do the right thing,” said the dandy. “Asked him to call off his hound.” The crowd had fallen as silent as
novitiates on Sunday morning.

“He had his chance, damn him. You all saw that!” Several heads nodded in mute agreement.

The dandy stood, feet apart, his derby cocked slightly over his forehead, his jaw jutted forth, stood as though he was expecting
a challenge from someone in the crowd, a friend of the dead man’s, perhaps. But no one stepped forward.

“Well then, it looks as though I’m the winner after all. That being the case, then the drinks are on Ian McDuff,” he said,
jabbing a thumb into his chest.

“And may the Scots always prove the Irish are nothin’ more than durty little potato farmers.”

It was a high insult, but if there were any other Irish in the crowd, none took offense at the remark as everyone filed back
inside the tavern on the heels of the Scot, who waved a fistfull of dollars in one hand and the spent nickel revolver in the
other.

Carter Biggs found himself standing alone, staring at the bodies of the dead man and the two fighting dogs. It was a pitiful
callous sight on which to rest his gaze.

It was what Texas and the frontier had come to represent to him: sudden violence, death, uncertainty.

He stood for a long time staring at the bodies before turning away. He had decided. He would return to learn the fate of his
brother, Lowell. His quest for Johnny Montana was over. He no longer had the heart for it.

He took off the pistol he wore and stuffed it in his saddlebags and then he found a livery, sold his horse and saddle and
found the train station. He purchased a ticket east with connections through to New Orleans. And when he finished paying the
teller, he went outside and sat on the platform and smoked a cigarette and waited for his train to come.

Never again would he return to Texas, and never would he know just how close he had come. Johnny Montana was riding a buckskin
horse less than one hundred miles from where he sat and waited for the Lone Star Flyer.

Johnny Montana rode the mare hard, too hard. After several miles, the animal began to falter. Reluctantly, the outlaw slowed
his pace. He estimated that he had maybe eighty miles in all to cover in returning to the spot where they had been attacked
by the Comanches.

It had been four days since he had ridden away from the buffalo wallow, maybe five, he wasn’t sure—hadn’t kept accurate count.
He wanted to find them. He wanted to find them more that anything in the world. He wanted back what was his.

He rode in anger, seething anger. The anger that had been building in him ever since the Ranger had “shown him up” in front
of Katie. But, she was part of it too, he reasoned. She had fawned and played coy around the kid lawman. She had turned her
loyalties, had sided with the Ranger over him.

They had stepped all over his pride, the two of them. He wasn’t going to just let a thing like that go. The reasons for going
back, for seeking revenge kept snapping through his mind like banners in a wind.

It would be an easy enough task once he caught up with them. He’d dust the lawman in front of her, and then he’d take from
her what he had been missinging
a long time, and after that…well, he wasn’t sure exactly what he would do after that.

The thought of her and the lawman together galled him. He was anxious to use the gun on the ranger. No matter how he killed
the kid, it somehow wouldn’t seem enough the way he thought about it. It could never be enough for the humiliation he had
suffered.

The dusky rose sky of evening lay before him. He’d have to make camp soon—one more night on this godforsaken prairie in this
godforsaken Texas. Texas had proved to be the worst decision he had ever made in his life. Once he settled score with Katie
and the Ranger, he’d leave for sure, he told himself.
Maybe California.
He heard things were good in California. He’d heard a fellow couldn’t go wrong in California.

Henry Dollar felt the gripping ache of broken ribs and the pounding pain of his swollen face with every step the animal beneath
him took. Still, he kept the horse at a steady and deliberate pace.

He had swallowed some of the laudanum and after twenty minutes, it began to take effect. It was like the physician that had
given it to him said: It took the edge off the pain, but made everything suddenly seem slow and lazy, and he found himself
having to hold onto the saddle horn with both hands.

Ahead of him somewhere rode the outlaw.

The wagon of Billy Bear Killer and Sister McKnight rolled to a halt near the banks of a wide river that flowed smooth and
brown.

“Well, here we are, children,” announced Billy in a happy voice. Sister McKnight sat at her usual place
on the wagon seat next to Billy. Pete and Katie rode in the back, protected from the sun by the canvas cover stretched over
the iron ribs like old skin.

The pair climbed out of the wagon to a late afternoon sky that glowed copper. The jolt of the wagon had been harsh and uncomfortable,
but not nearly as much as was being afoot in such country.

“What’s she called?” asked Pete, pointing to the river.

“Don’t reckon I know her proper name,” said Billy Bear Killer. “I call her the Big Muddy. I’ve seen her swoll up so big she’s
carried dead cattle, trees, wagons, and boulders down through her. When it sometimes rains a lot early part of the year, she
can be fiercesome. Right now, she’s near as peaceful as a baby. Except for the quicksands in her bottom.”

Billy had a chaw of tobacco in his cheek and a bottle of Sister McKnight’s elixir in his back pocket, which he pulled out
and offered to Pete with a cautious glance at Katie.

“Jus’ medicine, ma’am,” he assured.

Pete declined. “I’m feeling better, Billy.”

“Suit yerself, youngster,” said the squaw man, tipping the bottle up to his lips. And after a long hard swallow that saw Billy’s
Adam’s apple bob up and down like a cork in water, he wiped his lips and said, “Preventative medicine, the best kind.”

Billy set about taking care of the mules while Sister prepared a fire, took down several of her pots and pans hanging off
the wagon, and began preparations for the evening meal. Katie offered to help, but Sister only acted like she didn’t understand.

“She’s kinda fussy about her kitchen,” explained Billy. “Indian’s got certain ways about ’em. Sometimes
even I don’t understand. Best to just stand back and let her do it. Why I remember once I had this ol’ dog and he come up
missing one day. Times was hard for me and Sister back then. I still think that maybe Sister cooked up that dog of mine in
her pot. I don’t know to this day whether or not I ate my own dog. I never did have the spunk to ask Sister about it.” Katie
swallowed hard over the story, unsure as to whether Billy was fooling her.

Pete offered to help with the mules and Billy gave a toothy grin.

“Me, I ain’t so particular when it comes to getting help with the work. Take them traces off that far one, but watch his rear
’cause he’ll sure kick the be-jezzus outta you if he gets the chance.”

Billy allowed Pete to help him water the mules before putting on their hobbles. Then, taking his double barreled shotgun,
he walked upstream and disappeared. Half and hour later, Pete heard the boom of the gun go off, and a half hour after that,
Billy walked into camp carrying a pair of sage hens.

“Sister loves these,” he said, holding the birds up in the air. “I love ’em too. Sister has a special way when it comes to
cooking birds.”

Later, they ate. It was true. Sister did have a special way with cooking birds. Pete and Katie both paid their compliments
to Sister for the delicious fare. Sister lowered her eyes at such comments, but it was plain to see that she enjoyed their
attention over her.

“It sure seems like you and Sister have a good life,” said Pete. “Although I would find it hard to survive in such a place
as this.”

“Well, me an’ Sister don’t mind, and it ain’t as harsh and desperate as it seems at first glance. Fer
one thing, Sister could cook a bush and it’d make yer mouth water. And me and this old scattergun can shoot purty straight
when it comes to putting game in the pot. Once every while, an antelope or a muley pays us a visit, that’s when Sister really
shines.” Billy grinned and spat into the fire.

“As far as the rest,” continued Billy. “Whenever me and Sister hit us a town, we sell her Sorrowful Prairie Elixir. Folks
have come to expect us. They pay a dollar a bottle and swear it cures their rhemuatiz, flux, dropsy, and memory. One old feller
told me it even cured his plumbin…” Billy remembered the presence of Katie and said, “Sorry ma’am, I did not mean to
offend.”

“It’s all right, Billy, no offence taken.”

“What’s in Sister’s Elixir that makes it work on so many ailments?” asked Pete, genuinely curious, for the liquid had seemed
to have had somewhat of a curative effect on the pain in his shoulder.

“Can’t say,” answered Billy. “Sister keeps her recipe a secret, even from me. Which is alright, because maybe if I knew what
she put in it, I wouldn’t drink it.” Billy’s laugh wheezed like a bad bellows and he took a swallow of the Sister’s elixir
to his own delight.