John Lee Johnson and the Gunslingers

Copyright © 2013 Conn Hamlett.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1130-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1129-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1128-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915595

Abbott Press rev. date: 8/29/2013

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Dedicated to Bud Henderson. He was not very tall but he cast a long shadow.

CHAPTER 1

R USSELL JOHNSON STOOD six four and weighed about 215 pounds. He remembered very well when he was the same height but weighed only 150 pounds. He had traveled all the way from Texas to search for his cousin who was serving with General Buford in Tennessee.

The Purvis brothers had illegally taken over their ranch and had killed their fathers. Russell thought back on how upset and afraid he was, and the terrible ordeals he endured on the trip. But he had found John, and his stalwart cousin had come back with him and settled matters with the Purvis brothers in blazing gunfire. John had his way of getting things done. He was an unrelenting force as the Purvis brothers found out. Today Russell was in great need of his cousin again. He had never felt as dependent on John as he did now.

While awaiting word from his celebrated cousin who was on his journey back from Ironton, Ohio, Russell was in a terrible fix. For the last month the rustling had become epidemic, and he felt beleaguered by forces he could not control. He had sent a telegram to Levi Brown, a government official with whom John was working, but had not received a response.

The Mexican rustler Johnny Rios and his gang of rustlers were raiding him hard on one side of the ranch. Rios was from South Texas but had moved his operation to North Texas because he could steal cattle and sell them quickly into New Mexico territory. He was rustling all the ranches, but Russell was easy pickings because had more cattle and fewer men to protect them.

When Rios lost men in skirmishes, he replenished them very quickly with border trash who came out of the woodwork to work for him and the easy money. The ranchers found it harder to find available and capable men. With each day that passed, the rustlers were growing stronger and the ranchers were becoming weaker in this war of attrition.

On the western side of the ranch Bushrod Elkins, who had his ass branded by Seth Johnson and Harley Rawlins, was also rustling cattle. Bushrod had an undying hatred of the Johnsons.

This burning animosity had caused him to take up rustling in hopes of breaking the Johnsons, and he concentrated his rustling exclusively against Russell’s brand. Every damn cow he stole was a strike against the family he hoped to drive into the ground.

Bushrod Elkins had far fewer men than Rios and his gang was better suited for bank and coach robberies, but nevertheless they had adapted to purloining cattle and had gotten very skilled at it. His take of cattle was always smaller than Rios but he was consistent and it was enough for the present to keep his men from becoming discontented.

Russell and his overtaxed ranch hands were trying to simultaneously cover the far end of the western and eastern parts of his large ranch. They were frustrated and unsuccessful. Fifty thousand acres covered a lot of territory and he could never concentrate successfully on just one range with the two gangs slowly draining him.

In addition to that problem, the cattle had to be moved regularly for grass and water. His understaffed cowhands had found it impossible to stop the elusive rustlers while attending to the necessary chores to make the ranch successful. He faced a very realistic possibility that he could lose the ranch before John could return.

He and his burly ramrod, Harley Rawlins, were in the front yard discussing the situation. Both stood grim-faced while deciding what tack they would use the ensuing week, when they caught sight of a stranger riding down the ranch road.

He was a singular individual. He had hard dark eyes that were shadowed by a wide and sloped, dusted-black hat brim. His black mustache curved over his lips and formed into a stark spade beard that covered his strong chin. He was as tall as Russell but a lot larger in body size.

He wore a black coat crusted in alkali and trail dust and a singular Colt .44 on his hip. It was encased in a simple black holster, which looked slick leather used and another Colt was stuck in his belt.

He rode his tired blazed-face sorrel into the yard and up to Russell and Harley. He nodded solemnly, took off his hat and dusted it off. He took his time in putting it back on and then looked down at both men watching him.

I’m looking for work.

Russell nodded thoughtfully. He gave a quick look at Harley and then up at the stranger, My name’s Russell and this is Harley. I’m sort of running the place until my cousin gets back.

The stranger, who was practiced at choosing his words rather than quiet by nature, took his time in answering,My name is SJ Moloch. Now, I ain’t much use with cattle but I’ll do my best. But if you got a rustling problem, I can take care of it.

Russell nodded thoughtfully and looked the stranger over more fully. He thought it was nervy of the stranger to open up with such straightforward confidence. He studied SJ through narrowed eyes and then looked over at Harley to catch his expression.

Harley squinted his eyes and looked up at SJ, How did you know we had rustler problems?

SJ shrugged and answered, Everyone’s got rustler problems. The war is shutting down and everyone and his brother knows there’s going to be a cattle boom. He sighed and ran his large hand tiredly over his face, It just stands to reason.

Russell’s eyebrows moved up and he rocked on his heels,SJ, I frankly don’t know you from Adam. For all we know, he paused and looked over at Harley wanting support,you could be a rustler.

SJ let a smile move across his face,Well, if I am, I ain’t doing so damned well.

Harley looked up at the flinty looking man and back at Russell. He nodded his head at SJ and said,Give us a moment.

He pulled Russell aside and out of ear range of the stranger and said, What the hell? Let’s give him a chance. I’ll take him with me and my group and if he’s a damned rustler or connected with either Rio or Bushrod Elkins, I’ll guarantee you that I’ll pick up on it.

Russell looked down at his boots and back up at Harley, Just watch him. He don’t look like a cowhand to me.

Harley widened his eyes and said, Well, out of your own mouth you said it. He probably ain’t a rustler then.

Russell exhaled and nodded, Okay, you handle it, Harley, just be careful. He’s one mean looking son of a bitch.

The next day at sunrise, SJ was in line to get his chow when one of the boys named Sandy, a tall lanky cowhand, tapped him on the shoulder.

SJ turned around and looked at him. Sandy, who featured himself as tough, looked into those soulless eyes and then blanched. He swallowed and nodded, Just wanted to say howdy and welcome you to the ranch.

SJ nodded and wordlessly turned around. Sandy exhaled and gave a look of relief that he had not offended the hard-faced stranger. Sandy never went to college or even high school, but it did not take a genius to realize that horsing around with SJ could send you six feet under real fast.

The other cowhands who were privy to Sandy’s usual hazing of newcomers chuckled among themselves. It was obvious to every single rider that SJ was not a man to mess with.

The next two days were uneventful in that the rustling had slackened and the moving of the cattle was equally as dull.

SJ proved to be a good cowhand although he never professed to be. He could handle a rope and he never complained or said anything harsh to anyone. He kept to himself and even ate by himself. He was cordial enough but always distant.

Harley did not mind SJ’s solitary ways. He had gotten to like his work ethic and the way he handled himself. He never spouted off around the campfire and he would answer when spoken to but never initiated a conversation.

Harley placed him and Sandy and two other new men on guard duty around the south end of the herd. That was the direction that Johnny Rios has used in his last two wholesale attempts.

Russell put SJ and Sandy on night watch, and that night they had been riding watch for more than three hours. The moon was in the quarter phase and the whole area was drenched in silvery black. The mesquite trees laid soft but crooked moonlit shadows on the yellow sand. The sound of insects filled the air as the cattle milled and occasionally bawled.

Sandy was humming a song and the other two younger men were fighting slumber with their heads nodding. The cattle were moving slowly and the night sounds were even soothing. It seemed like another night of more of the same.

SJ, however, was not slumbering or humming. He had thought he heard the sound of horses. He turned his horse sideways and pulled out his .44.

A dozen riders broke from the shadows. Their wide sombreros were silhouetted in the wan moonlight. He could see their pistols held in their hands and he could hear the sound of their horses pounding on the sand. Their quick appearance startled the other riders.

SJ calmly sighted his weapon and began firing. He fired five shots, jetting a hot orange flash from his weapon and each time a Mexican whirled from his saddle either wounded or dead. He quickly holstered his empty weapon and pulled up another .44 and it began barking, sending more yellow-orange flames bleaching the night air. He was sending Mexicans down to the ground faster than Sandy could count.

The remaining rustlers shot back hurriedly but harmlessly. They quickly realized they had walked into a hornet’s nest and whirled their horses around. They looked back in fear as they saw the large looming shadowy figure level out his Colt.

Sandy and the other two crew members fired at the fleeing backs of the fleeting shadows but they missed.

Sandy looked over in the moonlight at the grim SJ Moloch. His eyes widened in shock and in admiration. He thanked the saints for giving him the brains to leave this man alone and not prod him as he was inclined to do.

SJ never looked flustered nor did he make a fuss about dropping eight outlaws. He calmly reloaded his weapons and holstered them. The cattle had milled agitatedly but soon settled. Sandy was further surprised when SJ began singing to the cattle in a voice that sounded trained and experienced.

Sandy and his two comrades quickly dismounted and dragged the Mexican rustlers out of the mesquite shadows and lined them up on the sand. They eventually found them all and lit matches to examine the faces and search for identification. Seeing none they recognized, they robbed the bodies of silver and gold coins. Two, who were still barely alive, were left unattended but they were likewise robbed of any money they possessed. They buried the dead hurriedly and left the wounded to their own damned fate. Their calloused attitude reflected the same terms the rustlers had used when they had brutally left wounded ranch hands to God and nature in past skirmishes.

SJ did not partake nor did he act interested in any of the loot found on the bodies. He merely kept to himself and kept singing in that strong voice of his.

The next day, the whole ranch had heard of SJ’s exploits. At the chow line, the cowhands looked at him out of the corner of their eyes with respect and even a measure of fear. SJ, as usual kept to himself and did not respond to the huddled men around him talking about his decimating Johnny Rio’s gang.

Miles away that same morning Johnny Rios, the Mexican rustler, was in a small cantina. He had just uncorked a green bottle covered in wicker and was pouring the tinkling wine into a clay mug when he heard horses ride up to the cantina.

His eyes moved up when he did not hear the sound of many horses and it alarmed him. His dark eyes moved under his oily eyebrows on his moon face. His pupils moved to the batwings. He saw four of his men enter with sheepish looks.

He ran a hand across his greasy features and slid the bottle aside with the side of his hand. He spoke in rapid Spanish to them and asked where the others were and where were the cattle.

Pedro Molinas, his second in command, spread his hands out palms up and gave a lugubrious look, They are dead, Juan.

Johnny Rios beguiling his thick girth, jumped from the table and shouted, Dead?

Pedro, fearing Johnny’s wrath, let the question linger in the air. He finally built up enough courage and he answered, Si, they are dead.

Johnny stood there and his features melted into this reality. He asked, Was the man shooting tall and with large shoulders? He spread his hands wide to make his point.

I could not see this hombre, only the barrel of his weapon.

Johnny sank back in his chair and shook his head, It could not be John Johnson. He is too far away. He let a smile move across the whisker stubble of his face, We will see who this hombre is. He slammed his fist on the table and gulped his wine. He sleeved the excess off and added, And we will kill him.

The Johnson ranch hands took Sunday off except for a skeleton crew and SJ rode into Baileysboro. He ate a small meal and later sat in a tilted chair on the broad boardwalk in front of the hotel.

Sheriff Nelson, the old but rawhide-tough constable of the town, was in the jailhouse. As SJ was walking by his window, he caught a glimpse of the dark and somber figure. Then he noticed how SJ appeared to be napping but something about him reminded him of a panther. He had druthers whether the man was really sleeping. He just looked dangerous.

The sheriff kept walking but stopped and returned to the window for a longer look. He knew he had seen that face before but he could not place it. He fingered his chin in thought and then made his way to his desk. He looked through some reward posters and had no luck. He leaned back in his chair and studied on the man. He finally shrugged and gave up, and started oiling his weapons.

The Sunday stage pulled in and stopped at the hotel. The stage line rented a small part of the lobby for business. The clerk, a runty man named Dexter, came out and stood by the stage door and opened it.

The street dust was still billowing and Dexter fanned the air with his small station hat. He opened the door and a feisty boy about eleven years old jumped from the stage and whirled around in nervous energy in the street.

His mother, a plump lady holding a carpetbag, stepped down and called to the rambunctious youngster to stop kicking up dust. The boy named Chester jumped up on the boardwalk and continued whirling around inadvertently stumbling into the outstretched legs of SJ Moloch.

SJ moved his legs some and then readjusted his hat over his forehead. Chester pushed his face closer to SJ’s and said, Why don’t you watch your feet, you ass.

SJ reached out quickly, grabbed Chester’s cheap shirt and pulled him closer. He opened his mouth and bit Chester’s nose hard.

Chester screamed in agony and his feet danced while SJ bit down on his pudgy nose. SJ released him with a shove and Chester stood and cried holding his bloody nose.

His mother stood with an open mouth watching all of this. Then she tossed her carpetbag aside, walked stridently up onto the boardwalk, kicked at SJ’s legs and shouted, I dare you, you savage.

SJ reached up, grabbed the front of her blouse, pulled her down and bit her nose. He really showered down with his teeth and she screamed in anguish and jumped back holding her nose.

Dexter, seeing what was transpiring jumped up on the boardwalk and walked up to SJ shaking his bony finger, See here, Mister, we don’t allow that sort of thing.

SJ sent his arm up, grabbed Dexter, pulled him close and bit him on the nose. He cut down hard on Dexter’s banana nose and Dexter shouted and his feet also danced.

SJ finally released him and shoved him back.

All three people entered the hotel with bloody noses. They never said another word to SJ Moloch. Instead they morosely looked at each other and dabbed at their noses.

The sheriff heard shouting but the breadth of the coach occluded his view as he peered out the window. Hearing the shouting and crying stop, he made his way back to his desk, pulled his hat brim over his eyes and took a siesta.

Sandy and his chubby buddy Moe were watching the whole episode from the large porch in front of the saloon. Sandy looked at Moe and Moe looked back. They both shook their heads and entered the saloon to tell the others about what had transpired.

Down the street, the Baptist church was singing and the words to ‘Amazing Grace’ swept down the way. SJ took his hat off and listening to the words, began to sing the bass part of the chorus. His strong voice carried over to the sheriff’s office.

Sheriff Nelson straightened from his nap and went to the door. When he opened it he looked at the sinister-looking man singing without inhibition.

The sheriff walked across the street and up on the boardwalk. He looked at SJ, whereupon SJ stopped singing and put his hat back on. Then he tilted his head up at the sheriff and apologized.

The sheriff shrugged his bony shoulders and said, There’s no law about singing church songs, Stranger.

SJ nodded, pulled his hat back off and began singing the second verse with the church. He totally ignored the sheriff.

Sheriff Nelson pushed up his hat in chagrin and walked past him toward the saloon.

The saloon was almost empty except for the Johnson ranch hands. Sheriff Nelson caught Sandy and Moe standing at the bar, walked up to them and pointed a thumb over his shoulder,Who is that bird singing out on the boardwalk?

Sandy smiled and took a slug of beer, That would be SJ Moloch.

Sheriff Nelson fingered his chin and looked at each one of the faces looking at him, Who is he? He caught himself and added, besides being SJ Moloch?

Sandy explained how he had single-handedly driven off Johnny Rio’s band of rustlers and he also added the ‘nose biting’ incident he had witnessed on the street. He added, He’s hell with a pistol. He took another hearty gulp and added, I seriously doubt if John Johnson hisself could have done better.

The sheriff’s jaw dropped,That’s saying a whole lot, Sandy.

Sandy shrugged and answered, I ain’t ever seen John shoot but have heard he’s damned good but this bird ain’t ordinary.

Sheriff Nelson tapped his fingers on the bar. He stood pensively for a second and nodded, Where did he come from?

Moe said, I heard him say something about Santa Fe but I can’t be sure.

Sandy catching the look on Sheriff Nelson’s face said, You don’t think he’s wanted by the law do you?

The sheriff shook his head ‘no,’ He don’t act wanted and if I was guessing which I am, I think he’s a gunfighter.

Both Sandy and Moe dropped their mugs hard on the bar in unison.

The hell you say. He can handle cows too damn good to be a gunfighter, Moe quickly added.

Sandy arched his eyebrows and said, He sure shot the hell out of them rustlers, I can tell you.

Moe tilted his head to one side in thought, Yeah, he did at that.

That night in the bunkhouse, Sandy was observing SJ undressing. He watched him lay his holster and weapon close to his bed. Sandy, who had had four beers, was feeling froggy. He caught SJ’s eyes as he turned back his sheet.

Sandy pointed at the holster and .44, Is that the only thing you are good at?

SJ ran his finger over his mustache and he walked straight toward Sandy. He did not act irritated or ruffled. He slammed a right cross into Sandy’s mouth and the cowhand crashed into the wall rattling the boards that housed the shaving mugs and coffee cups.

Sandy slithered down the wall and settled on his haunches. He shook his head trying to ascertain what size boulder had fallen out of the sky.

Moe walked over nonchalantly and looked down at Sandy. He pushed his hat up and a smile eased across his chubby face, If I was you, I think I’d keep my questions to myself.

Sandy reached up and touched his busted lips and spit out a tooth. He nodded and sighed, I reckon.

CHAPTER 2

A MONTH EARLIER IN Fort Smith, Arkansas, Marilla, the beautiful wife of Indian Melvin, conferred with her husband in a small room attached to the small cell to which he was confined. They sat at a small crude wooden table with their faces close together.

The three guards in the room held Spencer rifles and their eyes were fastened on the couple as they talked. They were on high alert about anything that Marilla might pass her husband. But they could not help but admire the overwhelmingly beautiful Marilla.

Marilla, although an Osage princess, looked more Italian than Indian. She had an olive complexion and dark and brooding eyes and she was dressed in all black with the exception of her stark white blouse. She wore a stylish black gaucho style hat with her lustrous black hair splayed on her back.

Her husband, Indian Melvin, was blonde and tall. He had limpid blue eyes that seemed innocent at first glance, but they betrayed a violent and sinister past. He had been the kingpin of a criminal empire in the Nations since 1860.

John Lee Johnson and Sheriff Buchanan, the sheriff of Fort Smith, Arkansas, had led a contingent of soldiers and Federal deputies into the Nations and had arrested him. He had been unceremoniously sent in shackles to Fort Smith in a caged wagon. The opprobrium of that arrest weighed heavily on his mind.

Indian Melvin reached across the table, placed his hands on his wife’s hands and leaned closer making it clear he wanted to talk low enough that the guards could not hear.

Marilla, they’re going to hang me and there is no way I can escape. I have looked this damn place over from every angle. He patted her hand and continued, And you and all the men I got can’t get me out of here. He lifted a finger to make a point all the while looking at the nearest guard. Satisfied the guard could not hear he began again, So, don’t try anything foolish and get yourself killed.

Marilla removed her hands from the bottom and placed them on top of his and squeezed, You’re my life, cara mia. If you die, I die.

He sighed, swallowed, and fought tears. He fought through her vows of love, although he knew them to be true. We don’t have much time. He glanced at the guards and then leaned closer, I love you, Marilla. He paused and added, I love you enough that I don’t want you to try and get me out of here. You would either die or get caught yourself. He raised his finger again to make a point, Go back home. You have a fortune in the bank in San Francisco. His eyes narrowed as he continued, But take twenty five thousand of it and hire the best gunman or gunmen you can buy and kill Sheriff Buchanan and John Johnson.

She nodded and looked lovingly into his face, I’ll go home and do as you request. She squeezed his hands and looked with her dark eyes boring into his, No man will ever touch me, cara mia. Her eyes misted, as she hissed more emphatically, No one.

He squeezed her hand back and nodded, fighting tears. He caught the forward motion of the nearest guard and stood mouthing the words ’I love you’ as he was marched out the room and back to his cell.

Marilla watched his back and looked at the shackles around his feet. She sat at the table a while longer until she caught sight of a imperious hand beckoning from one of the guards. She stood and gave all the guards a vacant look and then exited.

She and her ten-man and two-woman entourage traveled to Star City. She could not bear to see her husband hang so she decided to act on his wishes for revenge. It would take her nine days to get to Star City, but she wanted to confer with Sunset Tarver, who had recently taken over the criminal activity of that area.

The disastrous demise of Shadow Thomas had pushed Sunset into a leadership role. He had been a faithful follower of Shadow’s but he had assumed his new responsibility quite admirably. He had stopped robbing from the locals and began to spread his operations farther from home. He had also hired new and better men than the ones that had worked for him and Shadow.

Sunset was a broad and thick man wearing a dust encrusted black hat with a brim that went out forever. He was seated playing poker in the Star City Saloon. He sat looking at his bad hand, tossed it in and pushed aside the small silver he had lost.

He was about to rise from his seat when he caught the sight of King Dutton, one of the right hand men of Indian Melvin’s, enter the saloon. King was tall and gangly which belied his dexterity with a pistol. He looked through the fog of cigar smoke in the room and finally his eyes landed on Sunset.

Sunset hailed him and watched him angle through the maze of poker tables and hazy smoke to the bar. Sunset rose from his chair and moved toward him. They both placed their elbows on the counter and Sunset sent a crash of coins toward the bartender holding up two fingers.

He and King made small talk and then Sunset turned his stomach to the bar and looked over at the gunman, What’s happened to Indian Melvin?

King gave a pained look as he pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and placed it in his mouth, struck a match on the edge of the bar and torched his smoke. He inhaled and exhaled loudly a sigh mixed with exasperation and sorrow, I think they hanged him this morning. He paused and shrugged, We didn’t wait around. None of us wanted to see that.

Sunset did not respond for a long while. He stood watching the side profile of the outlaw. The loud rinky-dink music and the wafting blue cigar smoke made the scene a dime novel cover. Sunset turned his back to the bar and said, Marilla sent you to see me?

King nodded and sighed audibly, She wants to see you over at the hotel in her room. She’s got a deal for you.

The bartender placed two beers in front of them and quickly got lost when he caught the hard eyes of both men. Sunset lifted his schooner and took a hearty swallow, She wants revenge on John Johnson. It was more a statement than a question.

King lifted his mug and looked over at Sunset, I think there’s more, but yes she wants revenge.

An hour later, Sunset sat across from Marilla at a small table in the most spacious room the hotel had to offer. Marilla’s maid Yellow Bird, an Osage cousin, was standing behind her. Yellow Bird, like her cousin, was attractive and attentive but not to the degree Marilla was. However in the lambent light of the oil lamp they both looked like storybook women.

Sunset took immediate notice of their beauty, but he knew they were also dangerous. The heavy .44 in Yellow Bird’s ornamented Indian belt let him know this was a business meeting.

Marilla leaned forward with her dark eyes on him. He had to look away because her eyes were both prepossessing and disturbing. He noticed that most people had pupils that would flicker and move around when they talked. Her eyes moved slowly like a pearl in oil: slow and calculating.

She was so beautiful that she did not appear human. She might have possessed overpowering comeliness, but he knew her heart was as black and cold as a polar night.

My husband was hanged today, she uttered matter-of-factly.

Sunset licked his lips and nodded, Yeah, King told me. He did not say he was sorry because he was not. He figured a woman as savvy as Marilla could pick up on his insincerity. Indian Melvin had run roughshod over the whole territory, killing easily and quickly any rival or enemy whether real or supposed.

Sunset merely sighed and said, What do you have in mind?

She leaned back and pushed a black tendril of hair from her face and thought. I want John Johnson killed. I want Sheriff Buchanan of Fort Smith killed.

Sunset nodded and shrugged his shoulders. He did not want to be beguiled by her beauty and commit himself to something he knew he could not finish. He also knew that John Johnson would not be easily killed, and any man who tried to kill Sheriff Buchanan in Fort Smith would be sought after all the way to China. He knew he was being roped into a situation he would rather avoid. He looked at her building up courage. He decided to be quite candid. John Johnson rode through here sometime back like a cyclone. He killed my whole outfit except one and took Shadow Thomas down like a cheap pair of underwear. He’s in with the Union government too. He was riding with a deputy marshal, and they seemed damned close. He paused as he fidgeted under her steady gaze. Any man who goes after him will have to be a whole better than the men we had around here then.

Do you have any men now that can handle him?

Sunset straightened. He said in a voice that lacked conviction, I have two men who might be able to handle him, yes.

Who are they?

Sunset sighed and twisted uncomfortably in his chair. Billy Six is damned good and I have another man named Lard Ass Lawson who is pretty good.

She made a dismissal motion with her fingers and shook her head in disgust. She sighed and looked away. Billy Six is not good enough and I never heard of Lard Ass Lawson.

Sunset responded, What if they were together?

She rejected that thought with another dismissive wave of her hand. He leaned back and began fishing for a cigar. He was feeling very stressed.

Marilla leaned forward. Her eyes were burning intently on him. Who is the best gunman you have ever heard of?

While he fidgeted and tried to think, she turned her hand so she could better examine her cuticles. She gave him glances from over her hand from time to time. She seemed calm but Sunset’s mind was racing.

He sighed and placed one of his hands on the table. The best man I ever heard of lives in Santa Fe. His name is SJ Moloch. He is absolutely the best that lives on planet Earth. He placed a cigar in the corner of his mouth, lit it and tossed the match to the carpet. He then added, There may be another in South Texas who is very good, but not sure he hires out.

She dropped the bored look and brought her hands to the table. She looked down at the discarded match and up at Yellow Bird, who quickly retrieved it and tossed it disdainfully into the metal wastebasket. Her eyes returned to Sunset who sat sheepishly.

How much? She asked. Her fascinating eyes searched his features to detect falsehood or weakness.

He licked his lips and inhaled. A whole lot of money.

I have a whole lot of money.

He rose from his chair and nodded. I’ll see what I can do. He looked at her impassive face. She seemed to look through him as though he were nothing. He turned to go to the door. As he turned the knob and opened the door, he knew that it was incumbent on him to act quickly in this matter or face her disfavor, which was not a good thing. She had the money and the ability to transplant him and his whole gang for one of her own. When he crisply closed the door, he exhaled and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

Later that night, Marilla stepped from her bath and toweled off in front of the dresser. She was not oblivious to the fact that she was beautiful: the raven hair, the goddess-shaped oval face, the dark and alluring eyes, the pouting bee-stung lips. Her eyes moved sleepily beneath wispy dark eyebrows. They moved easily in her sockets but they were alert.

Her breasts were large and crowned with coppery aureoles. Her shoulders were wide and athletically shaped. She paused and looked at