Chapter 5

I didn't stand up until I was sure that there was nobody around waiting to take a pot shot at me. Apparently, this town was not overly populated with nosy parkers, because not a single person came running to see what the commotion was all about. Of course, it could be that they expected more shots to be fired and didn't want to be in the way of a stray bullet. If that was the case, I had to admire their perspicacity.

I figured that the coast was clear after a few minutes of nothing happening, so I made a quick examination of Hank, the gut-shot galoot who had tried to kill me. He was fading fast, and there was nothing that I could possibly do for him, since I had no morphine with me. I will admit that I didn't worry all that much about somebody who made a practice of shooting other people without warning.

Henry was the one I was really interested in. I put compression bandages on his wounds so that he would not bleed to death before I could question him. He was one of the rapists, so I did not plan to let him live out the day, but I did have some questions for him before he kicked the bucket. I had not made any effort to move either of the men from the edge of the street where they were lying, and I sat on the lip of the sidewalk while I waited for Henry to regain consciousness. Finally, he did.

I asked him, "Henry Tuttle, why did ya try ta kill me?"

"Cuz ya're the one who killed my friend, Archy Brown."

"OK, that's reasonable. Beyond that, do ya know who I am?"

"Got no idee. Git me a doctor afore I bleed ta death."

"I'm a doctor, an' ya ain't gonna bleed ta death right now. I got other plans fer ya. Do ya remember a few months ago murderin' a doctor and rapin' a woman over in Willow Run?"

"Shore I do. I wouldn't fergit a prime piece of cunt like that. So what?"

"Well, I know ya can't tell it from the clothes I'm wearin', but I'm that woman! An' I plan ta hurt ya worse than ya hurt me, unless ya answer some question I aim ta ask ya. So, what'll it be?"

Henry Tuttle blanched under his tan! "Don't hurt me, we was only funnin'!"

"Ya call that "funnin," do ya? Well, in that case, ya're gonna split yer sides laughing at what I do ta ya."

Tuttle actually started to cry! "Please don't hurt me. I'll do anythin' ya ask."

"OK, ya kin start out by tellin' me the names of the men in the gang what are still alive, cuz I ain't kilt all of them, yet."

"Ezra Hawkins, what used ta be called Sam Elliot, Pinky Jones, an' me."

"Where kin I find Hawkins and Jones?"

"I don't know where they are right now. They left fer Laredo, yesterday. I ain't sure when they're comin' back. I'm s'posed ta meet them in Willow Run at the Double Eagle Saloon on the last Friday or Saturday of next month."

"What are they doin' in Laredo?"

"They were gonna meet some more men 'bout joinin' our gang. I don't know how many, but there's at least 3 of 'em. Ezra wants ta replace the ones what was killed in the last few weeks. Was that really yer doin'?"

"Yep, it were me. An' I enjoyed doin' it, too."

"Ya gonna kill me?"

"Yep, I shore am. An' ya kin bet I'll enjoy it. Now, how do ya want it, short and quick or long drawn out?"

"That ain't no choice! I'll take it short and quick, ifen ya please. How ya gonna do it?"

"Well, I did promise not to make it too painful, soz I'll just cut yer throat. Hold still, and it won't hurt a bit."

Henry Tuttle squeezed his eyes closed, and I made a quick slit in his carotid artery. It wasn't as much fun as I had expected, but I was relieved when he was finally dead. I washed my hands in a convenient horse trough and asked at the saloon which horses belonged to Hank and Henry. The swamper pointed them out to me, and I tipped him a nickel; he was right grateful for the money. I tied the bodies across their saddles and headed back toward Willow Run.

About half way home, I dumped Hank's body in a dry wash after relieving him of his few valuables; I figured to get more than that when I sold his horse and tack. On my way home, I stopped by the jail and got a receipt for Henry Tuttle from the marshal; I would drop by the courthouse and collect my money when I could get to Trinity.

I had no appointments scheduled for Monday, so I dressed as Jake and rode to a town that he had never before visited. I'd had so much fun visiting those saloons in my search for the damyankee murderers that I thought that I would continue to do the same thing and look for men on my wanted list.

I had visited Princeton a couple of times as Amy, but, of course, I had never been into any of the 4 saloons. Jake was welcome, so I marched into the first one I came to and ordered a Mexican beer. I figured that someone who could afford to drink Mexican beer would not likely be a bounty hunter and could get people to talk more freely to him. It seemed to work, the bartender and a couple of patrons at the bar were free with their conversation. I picked up a lot of local gossip, including a warning to watch out for a certain Greasy Bob Jenkins. He was called Greasy Bob because he liked to slick down his hair with axle grease.

Greasy Bob sounded like one of the faces on a wanted poster I had picked up the last time, so I asked what made him a problem. It seemed that he liked to pick on strangers, especially those who were smaller than him. Now, I only stand 5-foot, 4-inches tall in my riding boots, so most men are taller than me; therefore, I could expect trouble from Greasy Bob, who was 6-foot, 4-inches tall, if I did run into him. I thanked the men for the warning and promised to be on the lookout for Greasy Bob. I finished my beer without getting any more leads, so I left for the next saloon down the street.

I had just taken my first sip from the mug of Mexican beer I had ordered in the new saloon when I was bumped very hard from the rear. A voice snarled, "Make room fer a real man, ya scrawny runt!" I looked up into the bar mirror and saw Greasy Bob, himself. I decided to take on a conciliatory air to see what would happen.

I whined, "Now, whyfer did ya bump me like that, Mister? There's plenty of room all along the bar."

"Shut up, runt! I don't take no sass from midgets like ya. Now, git outa my sight afore I git rough."

That was all I was going to take! It was a waste of good beer, but I whirled around and splashed what little beer was left in my mug into the bully's face, particularly his eyes. Greasy Bob let out a bellow of anguish and went for his gun, as I expected. The fool didn't take the time to wipe the beer out of his eyes, so he had to be having trouble seeing. That was the edge I was looking for!

Greasy Bob was not as fast on the draw as either one of us thought he was, so, since my eyes were clear, I was easily able to see what was happening. I actually was able to get my LeMat drawn from my shoulder holster before he got his Colt pulled from his thigh holster. He was right next to me, so I jammed the pistol into his belly and fired off the shotgun.

Nobody can withstand six .30 caliber lead balls fired into his belly from such a short range! I wasn't worried about hurting anyone else, since there was nobody standing close behind him; the nearest man was a good 10 feet away. In any case, only one ball made it all the way through Greasy Bob's body, and it was caught by his shirt. Needless to say, Greasy Bob was dead within 30 seconds of being gut-shot by my LeMat.

I kept the gun in my hand as I flipped the hammer back to standard pistol operation and looked around, just in case somebody had taken exception to my actions. There were only 6 other patrons in the saloon at the time; after all, it was still morning. All of them looked stunned, and then they all began to cheer! I was the hero of the hour; I had rid the town of a hated bully, and this got me a free replacement beer from the bartender.