Chapter 15

What is it about the New Guy that every kid and layabout just feels it’s their duty to try him on? Hmmm?

I wasn’t looking for trouble ... well ... I was ... just not here. I needed a horse and the livery was just at the head of the street. The clothing ... leather and fur ... from the bank box probably had something to do with it.

I don’t know where my bank box goes when it gets shut. But ... where ever that is ... they don’t like the smell. They do something about it.

My leathers were patch free and clean. Even better ... the sheaths, knife and sword, sparkled. I looked like money. Smelled like money. You could hear the pinches and quads chink together in the belt pouch. I hadn’t stepped in shit ... yet ... so my boots were clean.

And I’m just a kid.

Eighteen ... and alone.

Now ... I’m the first to admit ... I ain’t pretty. Kinda craggy and unfinished and my outfit was mostly loose so there wasn’t anything to give away the body that lurked beneath. But ... most of the outlaws and ne’er-do-wells and their ilk and minions had been born here and they were used to the place. Swinging an eight pound smith made sword or even a good club helped supply a certain definition to the man ... and damn few of them were kids. They didn’t get to be the bad guys of the neighborhood by accident. They made a living by taking and I looked worth taking.

Paint a bullseye on my back and call me target.

I didn’t think anybody noticed. That’ll see what you get for thinking. I hit the first cross-street and two elderly gentlemen stepped outta the shadows ... elderly ... as in 25 or 6 and pretty well set up.

I was looking where I was stepping ... although I don’t know why ... the crossing was shit from kerb ... if there had been a kerb ... to kerb. I could see sharp edged cow tracks in the cow shit slowly filling with cow piss. Slimy, slippery, smelly and fresh. Just ahead on Bank Street was a small herd of sorry looking cows being driven from somewhere to somewhere else.

“We’ll take that there belt pouch and them boots and you can be on your way,” the smallest of the pair said. He had that look that small folks get when they have the advantage ... and a big buddy.

“Uh Huh,” said the other larger feller. I could see right off that the sparkle in his eye was the sun shining through the back of his head.

The little guy had a sword in his belt, hand resting on the pommel ... not gripping it ... just sitting there.

The big one was resting a porterhouse palm on the small end of a big club. The big end was splattered in a fresh cowpie.

“I hope you wipe that club before you swing it,” I said.

And he looked down.

“Never leave a live enemy behind you,” Colonel Kahne, USMC (Ret.) always said, holding forth at the barbershop every Saturday. That usually signaled the beginning of a new adventure.

The big guy looked back up ... or would have if that leather-handled belt knife hadn’t been in his eye ... he did bring his head up but the leather hilt obstructed his view. Must be the shits seeing something like that just before the lights went out.

His short ... shorter ... companion did manage to get his sword out ... but not up. That bit of bravado left him standing ... just a couple three four seconds while his head splatted on the road. I left ‘em.

What?

You expected me to stick my hand in the shit just to see if they were successful bandits?

I did wipe the blood and gristle from my sword off on the short ... shorter ... gentleman’s shirt ... the back. And I did retrieve my belt knife ... but only because the big one fell on his back.

I did look down the cross street and saw a couple of horses standing. There was a ragged small figure holding the halters. I moseyed.

“Them horses belong to that pair?” I nodded in the direction of the deceased.

“No, Sir,” the rags said.

“No?” I asked.

“No, Sir. These are your horses ... sir.”

“Take ‘em to the stable for a pinch?”

“Yes, Sir.” A slight hesitation. “You going to retrieve their goods?”

“Have at it,” I said.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell the livery man I’ll pay after I eat.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The rags stood.

“Well? Get after it.”

“Yes, Sir.

I’d like to say the rag pile raised a dust getting to the stable ... but not in that street, No Sir ... not in that street.

I went to the inn.