The nightlife of Austin, Texas, in the late 1870s, was nothing to get excited about. There were hotels of varying quality that served dinner, sometimes of dubious quality, in surroundings that ranged from romantic and sedate, right down to the downright bawdy and sleazy. There was one first-class restaurant in Palma Plaza that imported opera singers from the eastern states and, once, from as far away as England, but it was frequented mainly by the Austin high society and given a wide berth by the majority of Austinites looking for an evening’s entertainment.
There were the saloons along Front Street, and some of the ‘social set’ often wound up the night by visiting this area. It was normally frequented by cowboys and trailsmen, the lonely riders from the deserts and mountains, sometimes men with the law only a step or two behind. In this area, it was practically guaranteed that there would be at least one brawl each night in any one saloon. Occasionally, there was violence in the form of a gunfight and if some of the ‘social set’ were witnesses, then this was a topic of conversation until such time as another more worthy incident overtook it.
Between these two extremes of opera singers and gunfighters, there were any number of reasonably clean cafes and hotels with dining rooms that also provided entertainment in the form of jugglers, illusionists, a chorus line, and vaudeville acts that were popular back east. In the summer evenings, the Lone Star Brass Band would play the old Confederate war songs in the latticed bandstand at the south corner of Houston Park. Usually they played until about eight o’clock, sometimes stretching it till almost nine, when the light was good enough. It was a reasonable time to finish and allowed the listeners then to move on to the rest of the evening, usually starting with dinner and more entertainment at one of the hotels that had a ‘show’ advertised.
On that late June evening in 1878, this is what Yancey Bannerman and Kate Dukes figured on doing. They had been listening to the Lone Star Band’s music for the best part of an hour and now, as the band gathered up its instruments and music sheets in the stand, Yancey handed Kate down from the trestle seats, steadied her as she reached ground level, perhaps keeping his hands on her slim waist a little longer than he needed to. Kate was aware of this and smiled up into his tanned, lean face, with the gray eyes startlingly pale against his skin in the evening glow.
“Which show do you fancy?” Yancey asked in his deep voice. “The ‘Chinese Master Illusionist’ who catches bullets between his teeth, or the ‘Acrobatic Troupe from Albania’ ... wherever that is ...” He sorted through the handbills he held. “Or maybe you’d like to see the Bearded Lady and the Twin-Headed Dwarf ... Or the Siamese Twins joined at the hip ...?”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “Not with my dinner, thank you! I think the acrobatic troupe. And Albania is a country in southern Europe, for your information.”
Yancey grinned. “Come to think of it, my maternal grandmother came from there.”
“Oh, you!” Kate smiled good-naturedly, taking his arm. They walked along the street, smelling the flowers from the botanical section of the park ... an innovation of her father’s. Lester Dukes was governor of Texas, and he was determined that Austin was going to be a worthy capital and that Texas itself would be the greatest state in the union by the time his rule came to an end. Which could be at any time, for Dukes had a heart ailment that required constant care and his workload was ably guided by Kate’s hand with some help from Dr. Boles who constantly despaired at the pace the governor set himself. Dukes insisted that if he was going to die, then he would die in a way of his choosing: he couldn’t think of a better way than going down fighting to make Texas a mighty state ...
“It’s good to have an evening off,” Kate said suddenly. “My first in six weeks. I think I appreciate the break more than if I had regular times to relax, Yancey.”
“Maybe. But I sure would appreciate you having more time to yourself.”
She laughed briefly. “Why? You’re hardly ever here yourself ... Father’s always sending you off on some assignment that takes you out of Austin for weeks at a time. Look at that last one that took you to the Indian Territory … You were gone over two months—” i
“In the company of a young blonde woman all the way from Sweden,” he teased.
“I think Anya Johansen was more interested in finding the killers of her parents than any romantic notions you may have had.”
“Mmmmm ...” Yancey said enigmatically, then grinned widely when he saw the sudden uncertainty on her face. He laughed outright and she punched him lightly on the arm.
“Seriously, though, Yancey,” she said. “I don’t want you ever to feel that you’re ... tied to me ... I mean, you know my situation. I promised mother on her deathbed that I’d care for pa for the rest of his life, or mine. I’m bound by that vow. It wouldn’t be fair to expect ... well, any man to feel—obligated to me.”
“You hear me complaining?”
She looked up at him as they walked along, smiled faintly and tightened her grip on his arm. After they had gone another half block they turned into Shoal Greek Boulevard—a grandiose name for a log-cobbled walkway along the banks of the narrow but picturesque creek cutting through the center of town, Kate asked, “Is Johnny Cato joining us tonight?”
Yancey shook his head. “He likes the ladies, but not with beards or two heads ... No. He’ll be prowling the saloon area tonight.”
She looked up at him. “You’re more at home there, too, aren’t you, Yancey? I mean, I have no complaints. You know how to behave wherever you are. Oh, that sounds stuffy. What I mean is, your manners are impeccable, either in the dining room of the Golden Pheasant or the back room of the Long Branch ...”
Yancey raised his eyebrows. “And what d’you know about the back room of the Long Branch?”
“I know they have gambling there. Girls, too, I suppose. But what I was trying to say is, you really prefer the company of trailsmen and cowboys to politicians and businessmen, don’t you?”
Yancey shrugged. “I find folks a mite more real on the workaday level. One reason why I never took a legal adviser’s job in my father’s business empire, even though I’m a qualified attorney. I guess I was meant to be more at ease with a gun in my hand than a pen.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You thrive on danger.”
Yancey figured he didn’t need to reply to that, because it was true sure enough. It was one reason why he had taken on the job of enforcer and special agent for Governor Dukes. Another reason, of course, was Kate Dukes herself.
He figured that was something else that didn’t need to be explained.
They turned into Kingsbury Street, opposite the wilderness that would one day be known as Peace Park, and strolled on towards La Piedrose Hotel and the dinner-show. Yancey figured it should be a quiet, pleasant evening ...
Johnny Cato intended to have a quiet night, too. He felt like a few drinks and a good meal, and was then prepared to let the night bring whatever it would ... as long as it included a woman somewhere along the line. She didn’t necessarily have to be handsome—though he didn’t want any mule faced hag—but she did need to have an exciting figure and a certain willingness to display it at the appropriate place and time. While it wasn’t absolutely mandatory that she be single, Cato preferred it: he had had encounters with irate husbands before and, at thirty-five, he figured he was getting a little too old for the gymnastics required to escape by leaping out of second floor windows or from roof to roof.
It was through such an incident that he had first met Yancey Bannerman, in some godforsaken Mexican hellhole called Los Moros ... Seemed a long time ago now, though it couldn’t have been more than six months. ii
As he leaned on the bar in the Sundown Saloon and sipped at his drink, he thought that he and Yancey made a good team. They sure didn’t look like a pair of hellbusters when they got around together, Yancey being head and shoulders over Cato who only stood five-eight with his high heel riding boots on. And Cato tended to dress neater than Yancey who favored the easy-going clothes of the trail rider. He figured they most likely looked an ill-assorted pair but they’d been through some scrapes together that would have turned an ordinary man’s hair snow white.
He moved his left arm experimentally, as he thought of one such incident, wincing a little at the stab of pain along the nerves that ran up into his neck. He was lucky to have that arm still attached to his shoulder so the pain was something he could live with. An outlaw’s blade had taken him there, way out in the badlands of the Indian Territory, and if Yancey hadn’t forced the pace back to a sawbones on the Red River in northern Texas, he would have lost the arm, for sure. Yancey and that Swedish girl had bullied him all the way, dragged him, literally, over miles of hostile, barren country when he was delirious with fever, raging, almost insane ... Yes, he owed that arm to Yancey ...
“Well, hell almighty!” a rough voice said behind him. “If it ain’t Colt Cato himself.”
Cato turned slowly, already reasoning that the owner of the voice had to come from up Wyoming way. For, only in Laramie had he been known as ‘Colt’ Cato ... a nickname earned because of his prowess at converting percussion Colt pistols to cartridge-firing ones, in his trade as a gunsmith. Cato dropped his right hand casually to the butt of the big, heavy-looking gun resting against his thigh in its fat holster. It was a twin-barreled gun known as the Manstopper, firing eight .45 caliber cartridges, with the lower barrel also firing a twelve-gauge shot shell. What Cato lacked in height and size was more than compensated for by the huge gun and his expertise in using it.
He recognized the man now: Jethro Kidd, a wild-living renegade who had run a lawless bunch up in Wyoming Territory and had tried once to steal a case of Colt Peacemakers from Cato’s gun shop. Cato had caught him and put his mark on him: he had nicked the man’s ears with bullets, cutting small crescents out of each one, just above the lobes. He had told Kidd that if he ever caught him stealing again he would put a bullet through each of his hands. He had never seen Kidd from that day until now, and the man still wore Cato’s brand on each ear.
The brand didn’t add to Kidd’s looks for he was a horse-faced man with bushy eyebrows and lank hair that was thin on top and allowed a glimpse of a scurfy scalp. He sported a gold eyetooth on the left side and word was that he had taken it from the mouth of a rich Mormon he had murdered along a lonely trail up in Utah. Cato didn’t know whether it was true or not but, when he faced Kidd now and saw the two hard eyed, gun hung men either side of him, he figured he could be in bad trouble ...
“Howdy, Jethro,” Cato said neutrally, alert but leaning his elbows on the bar edge in a casual manner.
Kidd stared at him soberly for a long minute and a couple of other patrons, thinking they read the trouble signs, moved further along the bar. Then, abruptly, Kidd grinned and stepped forward to the bar, signaling the barkeep.
“Set up four redeyes, for me and my pards,” he ordered.
“I’m no pard of yours, Jethro,” Cato said quietly.
Kidd shrugged, still grinning, though his eyes were flinty now. “No, guess we never were too friendly, Colt ... Meet a couple of compadres of mine ... Big one with the moustache is known as Arnie, other feller with the hare-lip we call Hackamore, Hack for short. He’s the best hoss thief north of the Rio.”
The man didn’t seem to mind being openly branded as a horse thief and nodded affably enough to Cato, reaching past him to pick up his glass of redeye and toss it down his throat in one motion. He was reaching for the bottle when Cato picked up the drink Kidd had ordered for him and held it out towards Hack.
“Have mine ... I don’t drink with Jethro Kidd.”
Now, in those days that kind of thing was a straight insult and, as luck would have it, there was a lull in the conversation at the bar just as Cato spoke. The three-fingered piano player had stopped belting his tinny instrument long enough to gulp down his mug of beer, and the painted girl who had been screeching the words of ‘Dixie’ stopped to lubricate her vocal chords with some whisky straight from a bottle. Conversation and gambling talk seemed to fade away so that Cato’s words dropped into the center of this pool of sudden silence and the ripples they made spread clear to the walls.
Men were moving instantly: chairs scraped back, glasses fell to the floor and smashed, the barkeep snatched bottles from the counter, and men stepped away to leave Cato and the three hardcases alone. Cato was mildly surprised, for he hadn’t said the words in a fighting tone and, in truth, didn’t want to fight Kidd, but he didn’t want to drink with the man either. It looked like he couldn’t do one without the other and Kidd didn’t seem to mind. He gave Cato a crooked grin as he straightened and motioned for Arnie and Hack to move aside. Leaning his left elbow on the bar, he moved close to Cato now. The smaller man still held the glass of redeye. Kidd nodded to it.
“Colt, you’re gonna drink that if I have to pour it down your throat ... which I hope I do have to do!”
Cato said nothing and didn’t move.
“You made it easy, Colt,” Kidd went on in a conversational tone. “A mite too easy, but I ain’t complainin’ ... When I recognized you, both my ears began to kind of twitch, you know? Just on these here crescent scars ... I had to quit LarArnie with a lawman’s lead kickin’ dust around my feet, and I’ve covered a lot of territory since but I ain’t never forgot what you did to me, Colt ...”
“At the time you had a choice: my brand, or the law,” Cato reminded him.
Kidd’s affability faded and he straightened, towering over Cato. “Drink that redeye, you son of a bitch!”
Cato looked him steadily in the eye and deliberately upended the glass, pouring out the whisky.
Kidd reacted instantly, catching Cato unawares, even though he was prepared for some kind of attack from the horse-faced man. Kidd’s fist slammed him on the side of the head and the man leapt forward and rammed a knee hard into Cato’s midriff, crushing him back against the bar. Cato felt the zinc edge of the counter grind into his back and the breath gusted from him, bright lights bursting in front of his eyes. As he doubled up, that knee slammed into his forehead and lifted him bodily off his feet. He arched backwards and fell half across the bar. Kidd grabbed Cato’s legs and heaved, yanking him clear off the bar. He smashed into the floor and the back of his head rapped the brass foot rail. Consciousness began to whirl away from Cato and his body jerked with the impact of a heavy boot in the ribs. He felt himself falling into oblivion, fighting it, knowing it would be fatal, that Kidd would stomp him to a pulp ... but he was too weak to fight back and though he tried to get up, he no more than lifted his head away from the brass rail. Kidd kicked him again and Cato lay there, doubled up, bleeding, thinking this was a hell of a way to die: on the filthy floor of a saloon, under the boots of a two-bit outlaw ...
He gasped as icy-cold water smashed into him like a solid wall and he shook his head, hands squeezing it from his eyes. Another cascade of water hit him and he clawed at his face, blinking, the scene gradually coming into focus. He couldn’t believe it when he looked up and saw he was still on the floor of the saloon and Jethro Kidd and Arnie were standing over him, holding dripping, but now empty, wooden pails. They’d sluiced water over him, to bring him back to consciousness ...
And Johnny Cato knew that his ordeal was far from over.
Kidd was going to exact his revenge to the limit. He didn’t want Cato passing out too swiftly, and escaping all the pain he had planned for the ex-gunsmith who had scarred him for life. He aimed to chop Cato to pieces slowly and methodically, inflicting as much agony and injury as possible. Maybe he’d kill Cato then, or maybe he’d let him linger on as a cripple. Either way, Cato knew that hell stretched before him ...
If Cato’s size looked like contributing to his downfall, Kidd and his pards were in for a shock; there was one thing they hadn’t considered. Cato might be smaller than Kidd, and at a disadvantage as far as weight and height and reach were concerned, but his smaller figure and tight muscles gave him an agility that tipped the odds more in his favor.
Having swiftly figured what he was in for, Johnny Cato did not waste any more time. He brought up both legs in a wide arc, kicking the heavy wooden pail from Arnie’s hands and into Kidd. The horse-faced man staggered to the side and Cato bounced to his feet, had to reach out fast to steady himself against the bar, but came around with beautiful timing to hook an elbow into Arnie’s throat as the man rushed him. He fell back, gagging, stumbling into Hack who was trying to get close.
Jethro Kidd swung his own pail and Cato leaped aside and away from the bar, at the same time slamming a fist into Arnie, doubling the man over. Cato didn’t hesitate. He used Arnie as a vaulting stool and landed on the bar top on all fours. He jumped to his feet as Kidd rushed in, grabbing at him. Cato dodged, stomped on the man’s forearm and then kicked him in the side of the head. Kidd reeled backwards and Hack roared a curse as he lunged forward, pushing the still doubled-over Arnie aside. Hack clawed at Cato’s legs and Cato did a little dance along the bar, drawing the cursing horse thief after him. Hack launched himself half across the bar in an effort to grab Cato’s fast-moving legs and Cato leapt high into the air, coming down on the man’s shoulders with both feet. He drove Hack’s face into the bar top and the man skidded back, blood streaking the bar top as he got a shaking hand up to his mashed nose.
Kidd was waiting. As soon as he saw Cato leap on Hack, he went in fast and swept up a chair, swinging it at Cato’s legs. The smaller man wasn’t quite nimble enough to get out of the way and the chair swept his legs from under him. He crashed down onto the bar top, the breath jarring out of him. But he had wits enough to roll off the bar on the opposite side to Kidd. The barkeep, who had been standing back, protecting his stock, charged forward to get Cato out from behind the counter before Kidd threw the chair at him. He was too slow. Jethro Kidd hurled the chair and Cato ducked. The chair slammed into the barkeep’s chest, sending him staggering back, arms flung wide for balance.
His flailing arms swept bottles and glasses off his shelves and the chair bounced into the mirror and shattered it into fragments. The barkeep went down as Cato pushed him roughly aside, ran down the bar and vaulted over the end as Kidd lunged at him. Cato clamped both boots together and drove them full into Kidd’s chest. The big man staggered back and Cato landed nimbly on his feet, panting. He shook his head and went after Kidd, driving blow after blow at the man’s head. And then he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye as Arnie came in, thick arms wrapping around Cato to lift him bodily off the floor. Cato hacked at Arnie’s shins with his heels and the man released him. But Hack, face bloody, mouth working, came in fast and hit Cato across the side of the head. The smaller man spun and slammed back into a table and chairs. He went down amongst the splintering furniture and the three hardcases came lumbering after him, kicking and hurling tables and chairs aside.
Cato started to get up but Kidd hooked him on the jaw, and sent him sprawling. Then Arnie and Hack grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet, holding him tightly while Kidd wiped some blood from his nostrils, then started slugging away at Cato’s belly. A few onlookers muttered in protest but no one drew cards in the roughhouse. The three men looked like they knew how to use the guns they carried.
Cato was jack-knifed, face bloodied, and Kidd showed no signs of letting up. He planted his boots wide, sucked a split knuckle, and then started in with renewed vigor, slugging and slamming, baring his teeth with the effort. Cato soon lost interest in the proceedings, his body jerking with the hammering blows, his senses reeling as consciousness slowly drained from him ...
Then he heard a noise like a rampaging buffalo smashing through a timber wall and he blinked his eyes open to see Kidd reeling as a chair smashed across his head and shoulders. Then a big hand reached forward and plucked Hack almost off his feet, Hack’s head snapping back on his neck because of the force with which he was jerked. There was a sickening crunch and Hack’s body twitched and he crumpled to the floor. Arnie lunged past Cato whose legs collapsed and he fell to his knees. Arnie had his fists cocked but was brought up short as a big foot snapped up and took him in the groin. He went green and retched and then a fist clubbed him behind the ear and spread him out on his face. Hack, starting to get up, collapsed under the weight of Arnie’s body.
Jethro Kidd, recovering from the blow from the chair, came staggering back to meet his attacker and Cato’s vision cleared sufficiently to see who his rescuer was.
“Yance, old pard!” he grunted, as Yancey, immaculate in broadcloth suit and ready for a quiet dinner with Kate Dukes, blocked Kidd’s clumsy blow, snapped three fast lefts into the middle of the man’s face and then hooked with his right, turning his body behind the blow.
Jethro Kidd’s boots completely left the floor and he fell in a heap beside his moaning pards. Yancey walked over and kicked him in the head, putting him out completely. Then, hardly breathing harder than normal, he leaned down and yanked Cato to his feet. Cato’s legs were rubbery and Yancey steadied him as he moved towards the door through the now silent barroom crowd.
“How ...?” stammered Cato.
“Ridin’ by in a hired surrey when I heard a brawl,” Yancey said casually, “I said to Kate, I’ll bet that Johnny has found himself some action ... So I stopped to look in to see who you were beating up this time ...”
Cato squinted out of one swelling and blackened eye as Yancey thrust him through the batwings into the night.
“Guess you saw how I was givin’ ’em hell, huh?”
Yancey grinned and helped him across the boardwalk to the surrey where Kate waited, her face concerned as she saw the battered Cato. She started to get down to help but Yancey waved her back, heaved Cato almost bodily onto the seat beside her.
“Johnny, I swear I’ve never known a man to get into so much trouble as you,” Kate said, handing the bleeding Cato a delicate-looking kerchief. “What was it about this time? A woman again?”
Cato managed to look hurt through his cuts and bruises. Yancey chuckled as he got into the driving seat and set the surrey moving again.
“No!” Cato said thickly. “I was enjoyin’ a quiet drink when an old enemy happened to spot me. He had two sidekicks.”
Kate looked surprised. “You fought three of them?”
Cato shrugged, brushing it off: nothing at all.
“There were three of ’em,” Yancey said quietly, “but he wasn’t exactly fightin’ ’em when I went in ...”
“Wasn’t exactly huggin’ and kissin’, either!” Cato retorted, working at a loosened tooth. “Tell you what, Yance ... That hombre you hit with a chair was Jethro Kidd. He’s a prime hardcase. And you can bet your boots that if he’s in town, there’s somethin’ brewin’ ... And it sure won’t be legal.”
Yancey looked thoughtful as the surrey jolted on down the street ...