CHAPTER 8
Millions of soldiers who had worn the blue and the gray had laid down their arms and picked up where they had left off. Families split by the war were reunited. Friendships were renewed, crops were put in, men and women were married, children were born.
But it was not so for all men. For some, the wounds had cut too deeply and the price had been too dear. Families, fortunes, and dreams were consumed in flames and drowned in blood. So it was for Kirby and Emmett. They had only each other, along with their guns and their courage.
After leaving Baxter Springs, they headed west for a bit, then turned south through Indian Territory, heading for Texas.
“Do you think we need to be wary of the Indians, Pa?”
“No need. All the Indians here is civilized. They got their own towns, their own laws. Most even like white men. Lots of ’em even fought ’n the war. It’s farther out West that we got to be wary of ’em. Out there, I hear tell that Indians is notional folks. The same bands that would leave you alone today might try to kill you tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say. It’s hard for the average white man to understand the Indians’ way of life. But I’m sure there are white men livin’ in the mountains, prob’ly been there thirty or forty years or more, who can understand them better ’n whites can now, them bein’ gone so long from civilization ’n all.”
Every night as they camped, Kirby would practice shooting, though he limited his practice to no more than three shots each day. They were a long way from any chance of buying new bullets.
On the seventh day, he fired three shots, thinking his bullets into the targets all three times. “Did you see that, Pa?”
“Can you do it again?”
Kirby repeated his performance, again hitting his targets with all three bullets.
“All right. Instead of shooting one at a time, I want you to fire three times, one shot right on top of another, and hit these three targets.” Emmett put pine cones on three rocks, the two farthest rocks separated by at least ten yards. He came back to stand beside Kirby.
“Now?” Kirby asked.
“Not yet. I’m going to add something to it.” Emmett took a mess skillet from his pack and put it on the ground in front of him, then he picked up a rock. “When I say, ‘now,’ I want you to start shooting. At the same time, I’ll drop this rock, and I want to hear all three shots before the rock hits the skillet. Do you think you can do that?”
“I can get all three shots off, yes sir.”
“And hit all three targets,” Emmett said.
“I don’t know, Pa. That’s askin’ quite a lot.”
“Wrong answer. Do you think you can do that?”
Kirby smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Emmett returned the smile. “That’s my boy. Now!” he shouted without further notice.
Using his left hand to fan the hammer, Kirby fired three shots so close that it sounded like one. Then clank—the rock hit the skillet. All three targets had been hit.
“You didn’t give me any warning,” Kirby complained.
“I didn’t, did I? Well, you don’t always get a warning. I think the time has come to teach you the quick draw. And this won’t be costin’ us any bullets at all.”
“I’m ready,” Kirby said with a broad smile.
“All right. Empty your pistol before we begin. I wouldn’t want the damn thing to go off accidental while you’re tryin’ to learn.”
Kirby pulled his pistol, poked all the shells out of the cylinder, and stuck it back down into the holster.
“Now, look down at the shank of your holster. That’s the part that’s attached to the belt. It should have a little kink in it, so that it causes the butt of the pistol to stick out just a little. You can adjust it, but we may have to make a little modification later on, so that the pistol sticks out far enough all the time so there won’t be anything to get in the way of your draw.”
Kirby made a few adjustments to the shank and finally, after examining it closely, Emmett announced that it was ready and continued with his instructions. “Let your arm hang down completely limp and natural along your side. Don’t crook the elbow . . . don’t stiffen your arm. Don’t do nothin’ but just let it hang there.”
Kirby did as he was instructed.
“Now, without drawing the gun, bend your arm at the elbow until your hand has come up level with the ground. Stick out your trigger finger. Where is it pointing?”
“It’s pointing in the same direction as my arm,” Kirby said.
“All right, now what I want you to do is, move the gun belt until the gun is exactly under your hand. The butt of the pistol should be poking out away from your body just a little. That was why we adjusted the shank a while ago. Remember?”
Kirby adjusted the holster as directed, and Emmett inspected the position of the gun.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Just like that. And the holster should be at the same angle as your arm was a while ago when you lifted it. Do that.”
Kirby repositioned the holster.
“Move your hips forward real slow and bring your shoulders back, grabbing the gun as your hips and shoulders move. But don’t grab it with your whole hand. Curl your middle finger, ring finger, and little finger around the butt of the gun. If you’ve got your holster positioned right, that will put the gun in your hand before you even start to draw it.”
Kirby reacted to the directions, and as Emmett had pointed out, his hand fell naturally to the butt of the pistol. He smiled at the result. “Pa, my hand went right where you said it would.”
“Good. That’s very good. Keep your holster there, and do it that way every time, so that when the gun comes out of the holster, it will just naturally be pointed in the right direction. Now, when you make the draw, make sure you bring the barrel up level, ’cause if you don’t, you’ll shoot low ever’ time.”
Kirby nodded, indicating that he understood the instructions.
“All right. Good. Now, it’s time to cock the gun as you draw it. What you want to do is, pull your thumb across the hammer to cock the gun at the same time you are drawing. The thumb should be moving the hammer back all the while you are bringing the gun up. You got that?”
“Yes, Pa. I got it.”
Emmett chuckled. “So you say. We’ll just see if you listened to anything I said. I want you to draw the gun just the way I told you. But I want you to draw it real slow, so I can see it, and make sure you’re doing everything the right way. Go ahead and draw it now.”
Kirby made the draw, doing it slowly and exactly as he had been instructed. Emmett smiled.
“How did you like that?” Kirby asked.
“Don’t go getting all smug on me now,” Emmett said.
“I did it perfectly.”
“How do you know you did?”
“Because, if I hadn’t done it perfectly, you wouldn’t have called me smug,” Kirby said with a pleased smile.
“Right. Now . . . pick out something to shoot at and draw as fast as you can.”
Kirby frowned. “I don’t have any bullets in the gun.”
“You don’t need any bullets right now. All you need to do is what I told you. Now, I want you to pick out a target.”
“What about that leaf there?”
“What leaf? There are hundreds of leaves. How do I know you won’t just shoot, then claim the leaf you hit is the one you wanted to hit?”
Kirby walked over to a nearby tree and put his finger on one of the leaves. “This one.”
“All right. Draw your pistol as fast as you can and shoot at it.”
Still confused, Kirby asked, “How can I shoot if I don’t have any bullets?”
“Just do what I tell you, Kirby. If I want questions, I’ll ask for them.”
Kirby returned to his original position, drew his pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“Did you hit the leaf?” Emmett asked.
Kirby started to ask his father again how he could hit the leaf if he had no bullets in his gun but checked the question and smiled instead. “Yeah, I hit the leaf.”
“Good. Now, put some bullets in your gun and do it again.”
Kirby loaded the pistol and put it in his holster. He got ready to make his draw—
“Wait.” Emmett stopped him. He picked up the rock.
“You’re goin’ to drop the rock on the skillet again?” Kirby asked.
“No. This time you’re goin’ to drop the rock. What I want you to do is hold it out in front of you. When I tell you to, drop the rock, draw your pistol, and shoot at that leaf.”
Kirby held the rock out in front of him, shoulder high.
“Now!” Emmett shouted.
Kirby dropped the rock, drew his pistol, and fired. Not until after the gun fired, was there the clank of the rock hitting the skillet. The leaf, cut from the tree, fluttered down. Kirby looked over at Emmett and smiled.
“Not bad,” Emmett said.
“Not bad? What do you mean, not bad?”
“You had your hand shoulder high. I want you to be able to do that when your hand is no higher than this.” Emmett demonstrated, holding his hand lower than Kirby’s waist.
“Nobody can do that.” Kirby shook his head.
“You can,” Emmett said. “And better.”
“If you think so,” Kirby said.
“No, Kirby, it’s not what I think. It’s what you think. Actually, it’s not what you think, it’s what you know. You have to know that you can do this.”
Kirby picked up the rock and held it just below his waist. Then, with a confident grin, he moved the rock even lower. Taking a deep breath, he dropped the rock, drew the pistol, and fired . . . before the rock clanked against the skillet. And he hit the target.
* * *
As Kirby bedded down that night next to glowing embers of the fire that had cooked their supper, he let his mind pass over events that had brought him and his father near the Cherokee town of Tahlequah in the Indian Territory. He had grown up thinking he would be a farmer like his father. Once he and Luke had even discussed buying acreage just across Shoal Creek from the family farm. If they bought 40 acres apiece, they could farm all the land jointly . . . 120 acres, which would make it one of the biggest farms in Stone County. And because all the land had access to a year-round supply of water, it could be the best farm in the county.
But none of that was to be. His mother was dead. Luke was dead. Janey had run off, who knows where, and his pa had come back from the war no longer interested in farming. If Kirby was truthful with himself, he was no longer interested in it, either.
How strange life was that it could start out in one direction, then make a turn in a completely different direction.
Emmett had another bad coughing spell in his sleep.
Kirby sat up and looked over toward him. “Pa?”
Emmett coughed again. “I’m all right, son. I’ve just got a cough I can’t shake, is all. Go back to sleep.”
Kirby lay back down. He hadn’t been asleep so there was no going back to sleep, but as he lay there, his eyelids began to grow heavy, and finally sleep pushed away all the thoughts tumbling through his mind.
* * *
Over the next several days Kirby continued to practice. His draw became so fast that it was a blur, too fast for the eye to follow. His shooting was deadly accurate, as well.
Emmett, having handled guns all his life, was a very good shooter. As he watched, he realized that Kirby was exceptionally good—already better than his pa. Emmett smiled, proud.
He had once been the city marshal of a small town in Missouri, and had found it necessary, in defense of his own life, to kill two men during his tenure in office. God alone knew how many more men he had killed during the war.
Emmett was glad that the boy could handle himself. He had not told Kirby everything—that he would have gone West whether Pearl was dead or alive, and whether or not Kirby had come with him; that his journey was not one of pure impulse; that he had given his word to Mosby that if it took him forever, he would find and kill the men who had murdered Luke and stolen the gold he was carrying to the Confederate government in Georgia.
In this, he was like his son. Kirby had taken his own oath to kill someone. Ideally, they would be together when they encountered the men they were after.
Crossing into Texas, they came across a few stage stops and trading posts along the way but didn’t ride into any towns until they reached Dallas.
Emmett looked around. “This is it, boy. Dallas, Texas.”
“Wow, this is purt’ nigh as large as Springfield,” Kirby said, taking it all in.
The main street was cut with wheel ruts and hoof marks, and covered with enough horse apples to permeate the air with strong odor. A busy town, it was filled with buckboards, surreys, carriages, and wagons, as well as riders on horseback. Boardwalks ran the entire length of each block and were filled with the citizens of the town, many of them women who walked around holding handkerchiefs to their nose to blot out the smell.
“We might want to stop here, first,” Emmett said, pointing to a gun store. “I expect you’re about out of ammunition, ain’t you?”
“I could sure use some more,” Kirby replied.
Tying their four horses off, the two men went inside.
A clerk sitting behind the counter in a wooden chair leaning against the wall was the only person in the store. He stood up when they entered. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“I need some thirty-six caliber shells,” Kirby said.
“Very good sir. How many do you need?”
“I’d say about two hundred.”
The clerk whistled. “Two hundred? My, that’s a lot of ammunition. I do hope you aren’t planning on restarting the war.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Got no intention of doin’ that,” Kirby said. “But travelin’ like we are, you don’t always find a place where you can get it.”
“I understand.” The man took four boxes from a case, then opened one of the boxes. “As you can see there are fifty bullets in each little box. Four times fifty is two hundred.”
“Open all four boxes,” Emmett said.
“Do you really think that is necessary?”
“Open all four boxes,” Emmett said again.
The man started to put one of the boxes back in the case, but Emmett reached out to grab his wrist. “What’s wrong with that box?”
“To tell the truth, it felt a little light to me, so I . . .”
Before he could finish his statement, Emmett opened the box. It was only about half full. “A little light, you said?”
“Yes. You did notice that I was putting it back,” the clerk said self-righteously. He put four boxes on the counter and opened them. “Two dollars.”
Satisfied that the boxes were full, Kirby paid for the ammunition, and he and Emmett went back outside.
“How’d you know he was plannin’ to cheat me, Pa?”
Emmett put his finger alongside his nose. “I smelled it.”
“You smelled it?” Kirby asked incredulously.
“You don’t actually smell it,” Emmett explained. “It’s just something that you say when you have a feelin’ that somethin’ ain’t quite right. And I had a feelin’ that somethin’ wasn’t quite right.”
“How do you learn to have them feelin’s?”
“It’s not somethin’ you learn. It’s somethin’ that just sort of comes to you as you get older. I expect it’ll come over you, too, eventually.”
Looking around, they spotted the Lone Star Hotel.
“What do you say we spend the night in a bed instead of on the ground?” Emmett asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Kirby agreed.
After checking into the hotel and boarding their horses, they walked up the wide, sunbaked street, hurrying from the shade of one building to the next, taking every opportunity to get out of the sun. After walking a few blocks, they were drenched with sweat, and the cool interior of the Yellow Dog Saloon beckoned them.
Pushing their way through the bat wing doors, they stepped inside and stood in the dark for a moment or two until their eyes adjusted to the dim light. Unlike the rather coarse establishment in Baxter Springs, this place was rather elegant. Made of burnished mahogany, the bar had a highly polished brass foot rail. Crisp, clean white towels hung from hooks on the customers’ side of the bar, spaced every four feet. A mirror behind the bar was flanked on each side by a small statue of a nude woman set back in a special niche. A row of whiskey bottles sat in front of the mirror, reflected in the glass so that the row of bottles seemed to be two deep. A bartender with pomaded black hair and a waxed handlebar moustache stood behind the bar. A towel was draped across his shoulders, and his arms were folded across his chest.
“Is the beer cool?” Emmett asked.
“It’s cooler than horse piss,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Emmett chuckled. “Good enough. We’ll have a couple.”
The bartender drew the beers and set them in front of Kirby and Emmett.
Kirby picked up the beer and took a drink.
“What do you think?” Emmett asked. “Is the second one better?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a lot better.”
“It’s good to be able to enjoy a beer now ’n again but, what with you just startin’ out to drink, I need to tell you to be careful about drinkin’.”
“Careful? What do you mean? Why do I have to be careful?”
“I say that ’cause some folks start to likin’ their liquor too much, ’n the next thing they know, ’bout the only important things in their life is the next drink ’n where it’s comin’ from. I sure don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“I don’t neither. I promise you, I will take care.” Kirby turned to look around the place. Nearly every table was occupied.
One of the tables was near enough to where they were standing that Emmett could quite easily listen in on the conversation that was taking place between three men.
“Her name is Lil. Fancy Lil,” one of the men was saying. “She works down at the Palace Princess Emporium.”
“That ain’t her real name, is it, Doc?”
“I’m sure that Fancy is not a part of her sobriquet, though Lil might be. Young ladies who find themselves in such occupations, however, rarely use their real names.”
“She must be somethin’,” said the man in a blue shirt. “I heard that iffen you want to choose her, it’s goin’ to cost you a hunnert dollars. Maybe even more.”
The man with a bushy mustache shook his head. “There ain’t no woman worth a hunnert dollars.”
“Oh, believe me, this young lady is,” replied the one called Doc.
Bushy Mustache couldn’t believe it. “Doc, don’t tell me you spend a hunnert dollars on her.”
“I have not, but only because I don’t have a hundred dollars to spare. But if I did, I would do so without a moment’s hesitation.”
“The Palace Princess Emporium. That’s Chicago Sue’s place, ain’t it?” Blue Shirt asked.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, well, mayhaps that’s why I ain’t never seen this here Fancy Lil that you’re talking about. I ain’t never been to Chicago Sue’s establishment. They ain’t any of them at Chicago Sue’s place that’s cheap.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t complain. Those at the Palace Princess Emporium are different,” Doc said.
“What do you mean, different? They’s same as saloon girls, ain’t they?”
“No, they are ladies that entertain.”
“Does it cost money to be entertained?” Bushy Mustache wanted to know.
“Yes.”
Blue Shirt wasn’t convinced. “And, does that entertainment include sleepin’ with ’em?”
“Yes.”
Blue Shirt crossed his arms. “If a woman will go to bed with you for money, she’s same as a saloon girl, no matter how much it costs.”
“I’m sure that as dissipation takes its toll, some of the young ladies who work there will slip down the scale until you can rightly throw them in with saloon girls, but not now. And you certainly can’t say that for Fancy Lil. Anyone who can command one hundred dollars for her services is certainly more than a common saloon girl.”
Bushy Mustache didn’t believe it. “This Fancy Lil must be some kind of woman.”
“She is,” Doc replied. “Perhaps Christopher Marlowe expressed it best.”
“Christopher Marlowe? Hmm, I don’t think I know him.”
“That wouldn’t be likely, since he died almost two hundred years ago,” Doc said.
Bushy Mustache was more confused than ever. “What? Then how could he say anything about Fancy Lil?”
“He was actually speaking of Helen of Troy, but it could have been Fancy Lil.” Doc cleared his throat, then, in dramatic fashion, said the words, “Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships . . . And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? . . . Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.”
His table mates were stunned.
Bushy Mustache grinned. “Doc, you’re the smartest man I’ve ever knowed. You must be. Hell, I don’t understand half of what you say.”
“I have established the idea that this lady, Fancy Lil, is a person of rare beauty, haven’t I?”
“Oh, yeah, you’ve done that all right. Only I’ll never get to see her. A hunnert dollars? I ain’t never had that much money at one time in my whole life.”
“It doesn’t cost a hundred dollars just to see her. For five dollars, you can visit the parlor of the Palace Princess Emporium, enjoy food, drink, and conversation with beautiful women and a convivial atmosphere,” Doc pointed out.
“Five dollars? But that don’t get you no woman, does it?”
“Only in friendly conversation.”
Blue Shirt looked at Bushy Mustache. “Will Fancy Lil be there?”
“She often is, when she isn’t otherwise engaged.”
“You mean with someone?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmph. If it cost one hunnert dollars to be with her, I can’t imagine she’s with someone all that much.”
“She is very selective,” Doc replied.
* * *
Kirby had been listening intently to the conversation. He turned to Emmett, who was staring into his glass. “You know what, Pa? I’d like to see this woman they’re talkin’ about.”
“Why?”
“You heard what Doc said. That she is the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Wouldn’t you like to see such a woman?”
“Boy, what do you know about such things? Have you ever been to such a place?” Emmett’s question was pointed, but not challenging.
Kirby had never been, but he had seen one . . . once. It had been pointed out by Elmer Gleason. He couldn’t share that information with his father, though, without sharing that he had ridden with Asa Briggs.
“No, sir, I ain’t never been to one. But I know what one is. Some of the other boys in school was talkin’ ’bout ’em one day.” That was true. The subject had come up, but none of the boys who’d been discussing it knew exactly what went on there.
“Yeah, I reckon there are some things you can learn at school that ain’t really all that good.”
Kirby chuckled. “I never heard that till I was in the seventh grade. And remember, I wanted to quit soon as I finished the fifth grade.”
Emmett chuckled, then took another drink. “Well now, ain’t you glad I made you stay?”
At that moment, the back door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man wearing a badge stepped through the door and looked around. For a long moment, he scrutinized Kirby and Emmett, obviously aware that they were new in town, then continued his perusal of the room until he saw a man who caught his attention.
“You,” he said, pointing. “We got a telegram sayin’ you was comin’ to Dallas. I didn’t think you was actually that dumb, Cox.”
The man stood up slowly, then turned to face the lawman. “Yeah? Why shouldn’t I come to Dallas? Am I supposed to be afraid of some piss-ant deputy?”
The situation had the look of an impending gunfight. The others at the table stood up and moved out of the way. All other conversation within the saloon ceased.
“Unbuckle your gun belt,” the lawman said, making a motion with the gun he was holding. “And do it slow and easy, so’s I don’t get the idea you’re tryin’ anything.”
Cox shook his head no. “I don’t think so, Deputy. I think me an’ you’s goin’ to have to settle this thing, right here and right now.”
Kirby had heard stories about deadly gunfights between men, but not in all the time he had been riding with Briggs had he ever seen one. The shooting he had experienced was from a distance, and it was always one group of men against another group. He had never seen a one-on-one confrontation.
“Are you crazy, Cox?” the deputy asked. “I’ve already got you covered.”
“Do you now?” Cox asked with a mysterious smile on his face.
Kirby was watching intently, wondering why the man called Cox didn’t seem to be worrying about the gun that was pointing toward him. When he saw a man standing up in the corner, aiming his pistol at the lawman, he shouted, “Deputy, look out! There’s a gun behind you!”
The man in the corner turned the pistol toward the Jensens.
Kirby acted instinctively. Dropping his beer, he pulled his pistol and fired just as the man in the corner pulled the trigger on his own gun. The would-be assailant’s bullet hit the mirror behind the bar, and it fell with a crash, leaving nothing but a few jagged shards hanging in place to reflect twisting images of the dramatic scene.
Just like in all of his practicing, Kirby’s bullet had gone true . . . only his target had been a man . . . who dropped his weapon and grabbed his neck. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell backward.
The two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention to that exchange. Cox took the opportunity to go for his own gun. Suddenly, the saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as he fired at the deputy, whose attention had also been diverted by the gunplay between Kirby and the man in the corner. Cox’s bullet struck the deputy in the back of the head.
Making a fatal mistake, Cox swung his pistol toward Kirby.
Emmett’s bullet caught Cox in the center of his chest, and he went down. He sat on the floor, leaning back against the table, his gun lying on the floor beside him. “Who . . . who the hell are you?” he asked, gasping out the question. “What did you get involved for?”
“It seemed the thing to do,” Emmett said.
One more gasp, and Cox was dead.