Chapter 6

Well, that was a wasted winter! We only managed to collect $50 between the two of us the whole five months we were in South Texas. Sheeesh! That was one trip that wasn't worth the effort. Where did all the crooks go? They sure as hell weren't where we were. Oh, well, now that we were back in Oklahoma, we could look to better times. A new set of wanted posters was what it took to pick up our spirits, so we were happy and full of ginger.

Our plan this year was to work our way north through the Oklahoma panhandle 'til we came to the Kansas border. We figured to cross over into Kansas to pick up wanted posters and then drop back into Oklahoma to see who we could find. Our first stop in Oklahoma was in a little town called Fire Storm. I was a little curious where that name came from, since I associated that name with a forest fire, and it didn't look to me like there was enough trees around here to make a decent toothpick.

I was dressed as a man and was wearing my hair that way, so I wasn't worried about no trouble when I waltzed up to the bartender in a saloon and asked the reason for the name. He asked, "Where are ya from, Mister?" and I answered that I was from Central Texas.

He said, "OK, now I understand. I'll bet ya ain't never seen a prairie fire, have ya?" I shook my head "no," and he said, "Well, back in the summer of '39 or '40, I fergit which, it was a damned awful dry year an' the prairie grass was dead an' brown. Some damned fool Injun got careless with his campfire, an' a spark set off the worst prairie fire what ya could imagine. The wind was blowin', an' it fanned a little fire inta a ragin' storm of flames. The story is that the fire blew across the prairie faster than a horse could run, an' the flames was 40 feet high. The fire burned all the way ta the Kiowa River, an' it stopped there 'cause the wind had died and the sparks weren't blown across ta the other side. Anyhow, that fire started right near here, an' that's how this here town got its name."

I didn't know if that story was true or not, but I sure was impressed by it, so I bought the bartender a beer fer telling it to me. He dropped the seven cents in his pocket and said that he would drink the beer after he got off duty.

Bob and I looked around, but we didn't see any money on the hoof what we recognized, so we ambled to another saloon down the street. There, we saw a $40 prize, but we didn't want to settle fer that, so we just ignored him. There wasn't anything else interesting in that saloon, so we moved on to the next one in line. That's where we ran into a spot of bother.

We walked into a saloon what was so dim inside that I had trouble seeing where I was going fer a minute or so after coming out of the bright sun. My eyes was getting adjusted pretty fast, but not fast enough to prevent a dumb accident. I bumped into a gent at the bar just as he was taking a sip from his mug of beer. This galoot was a bear of a man, he must of been 6'-6" tall and weighed over 300 pounds. Now, I ain't tiny, but I felt like I was, standing beside him.

The jostle of his elbow caused him to spill a little of his beer on his shirt. I would have been annoyed if it had happened to me, so I was not surprised by his negative reaction, but I was not prepared for what happened. He swung around and hit me in the chest with his beer mug. The force of the blow threw me four or five feet through the air and completely knocked my breath out. He shouted, "WATCH WHERE YA'RE GOIN', YA DAMNED PIPSQUEAK!"

I was still lying on the floor, dazed and trying to get my breath, when he drew his foot back to kick me in the ribs. Surely, that would have cracked some ribs and possibly killed me from internal injuries. Fortunately for me, Bob stepped in at that point and saved me from a painful, if not fatal, fate. The bear had his foot drawn back for the kick when Bob drew his gun and shot him in the knee that he was balanced on. The bear collapsed immediately, and let me tell y'all, the whole building shook when he hit the floor.

The bullet went through the kneecap, so the galoot was going to be lucky if all he lost was his leg. If he didn't get that leg taken off pretty damned soon, he was going to die of gangrene. Normally, I would feel sorry for somebody facing that prospect, but he never would of been in that pickle if he hadn't tried to bully me the way he did.

I had gotten my breath back by then, so I was ready when Bob reached down to help me to my feet. He said, "Let's get out of this town. I think we just wore out our welcome."

Bob was still holding his gun in his hand, so nobody acted unfriendly right then, but he pushed me out the door and then backed out, keeping his eye on the saloon patrons as he did. Once we were out the door, we walked the few feet to our horses and mounted up. I had just seated myself in the saddle, and Bob was about half way through his mounting motions when I happened to glance at the saloon doorway.

All I could see fer sure was a hand poking between the butterfly doors, and the hand was holding a cocked Colt Navy. I didn't take time to think, I just drew and fired. Somehow, I noticed that it was a left hand holding the pistol, so I aimed fer the place I figured the gunman's chest would be. I have no idea why the gunman was waiting so long to shoot, but my bullet got to him before he had a chance to get off an aimed shot. The bullet went plowing through the louvers on the door like they wasn't there, and it did a right good job of spoiling the gunman's aim. He pulled the trigger as he fell back, and the bullet went flying who knows where. The crazy thing was, when he fell back, he pulled the doors closed on his wrist, so that he was left hanging by the wrist as he died.

We didn't fool around, but rode away at a right smart clip. As we rode out of town, I said to Bob, "Thanks, Honey, ya saved my life back there. I'll show ya how much I appreciate that in bed tonight." I grinned when Bob actually blushed. My goodness, don't men just beat all!

Well, we didn't make any money out of our visit to Fire Storm, but maybe the next town with bring better luck. This country was pretty deserted, so we didn't see nobody until we reached the next town, Dead On. I was kind of afraid to ask where that name came from.

Yep, our luck was running a hell of a lot better this time. There was The Sagebrush Kid walking into that there saloon. Bob spotted him the same time I did, and we headed there to see what we could do fer ourselves. Well, we were in for a surprise when we entered the saloon. Sagebrush was waiting just inside the door with a drawn gun pointing at us. "I knew the Rangers wuz after me, Newsome, but I didn't expect 'em ta come all the way ta Oklahoma. Well, no matter, I'm fixin' ta blow ya ta hell, anyway."

Apparently, he was ignoring me, so I took full advantage of the opportunity. I drew my crossdraw pistol and shot him in the chest, and I put a second ball into him when he was lying on the floor. Anybody as shifty as that wasn't to be trusted to stay dead! Naturally, his pistol went off from a convulsive jerk of his trigger finger when my first bullet hit him. Luckily, the bullet only ran along Bob's ribs without doing more than scraping the skin. I went to the bartender and got a bottle of whiskey to use to clean the wound and a clean towel to bind it up. Other than being a little sore for a few days, Bob was going to be OK. The same could not be said for The Sagebrush Kid.

I tipped the swamper two bits fer helping me to git the Kid onto his horse and tied there. We immediately headed back to Texas fer the reward. The Sagebrush Kid was worth $2,000 fer pulling a series of bank robberies, and we was anxious to collect the reward. It took three days of hard travel to git to a Texas town with a marshal where we could dump the body. The Kid was already starting to smell pretty bad by then, but Bob said that all he could smell was the shit the Kid had dumped when he died. Well, I could smell the first stages of decomposition, and I wasn't happy with the aroma!