To Kill A Man Collection

Chapter 2

Gus Ritter leaned on the bar counter, idly turning the beer glass in his palms, lost in thought.

He"d ridden for three days straight, sleeping as best he could in the saddle, forced to stop and camp only once on the journey. More for his horse"s sake rather than his own, he"d decided to rest up for a while, found a slit in a rocky outcrop and managed to grab a few fitful hours. The horse ate oats, gulped down water and seemed, in the morning at least, renewed. He did his best not to push the mare too hard. If it were to die out there, in the wide, open prairie, he"d be rich pickings for the buzzards within a day.

And now he was here. Archangel. He pondered why anyone would choose such a name. Wasn"t it something to do with God, or religion, or some such hokum? He never could fathom those stories as his old mom had never forced him to attend Sunday School, owing to her being drunk most days, and especially on the Sabbath. He chuckled at the memory. Poor old Mom. She"d been kicked in the head by their mule whilst cussing the animal and thrashing it across the rump with a stick. She got paid her dues when it lashed out with its hooves and broke her skull. Ritter never shed a tear.

He was eleven years old.

Thoughts of church and Bible stories seemed apt at that moment, as the batwing doors burst open and a heavy-set man in a long brown robe of coarse cloth strode in, his face a mask of pure fury. A couple of old men in the corner took one look and, cards and drinks forgotten, made a quick exit.

“Now, padre—” said the barkeep sharply. He quickly put down the glass he had been polishing and strode over to the swing hatch at the end of the counter.

“You hold your tongue, Wilbur,” snapped the padre and moved to the far end, where a fat, slovenly-looking individual bent over the counter, spittle drooling from thick lips, a whisky tumbler before him, almost empty.

The padre stepped up to this miserable-looking individual and jabbed him in the arm with a thick finger. The man groaned, muttering some indecipherable garbage from his slack mouth, and peered at the padre with narrow, unblinking eyes. “Ah, s**t, Father. What the hell are you—”

Moving fast for such a big man, the padre gripped the fat man by the shoulder and swung him around, slamming his knee upwards into the crotch. The man squawked, and the padre swung a looping left into the man"s temple, smashing him against the edge of the counter. Crying out again, the man retched as if he were about to vomit before the padre sent him reeling backwards with a tremendous right punch straight into his nose.

Crashing against the far wall, the man slid to the floor, blood leaking from his face like beer from the barroom tap to mix with a stream of puke covering his shirt front. In a blur, the padre was on him as if possessed, raining down punches, the screams of the fat man drowned by the sound of smashing bones and the squelch of blood.

Ritter saw it, but didn"t believe it. A man of God? A padre? He was certainly not like any country parson Ritter had ever laid eyes on. He sighed, returned to his beer and drained the glass.

“Padre, you needn"t have done any of that,” said the barkeep, moving across the barroom towards the blubbering fat man on the ground. “I try to keep a decent establishment and you"ve just about undone six months of good house-keeping right here with all of this bullshit.” He got down on his haunches and studied the semi-conscious man"s face. “Dear God, you sure bust him up real good. What the hell is all this about?”

The padre, breathing hard, struggled to control the anger in his voice. “You tell that bastard when he wakes up, he has until sunup to get out of town. If he ain"t gone by then, I"m gonna come a-calling.”

“That still don"t tell me what this is about.”

“Wilbur, is you an old woman, or is you an old woman? Just do what I damn well say.”

Shaking his head, Wilbur stood up, placing his hands on his hips. “He"s got friends.”

“If they are anything like him, then I"ll kick their butts, too.”

“I don"t know what in hell has gone on here, padre, but something tells me it ain"t gonna end well.”

“He took the Parker girl into a barn and he had his way with her.”

Gaping, Wilbur looked from the priest and back to the fat man. “Nati Parker?”

“No, her younger sister, Florence.”

“s**t. She ain"t but—”

“She"s thirteen, Wilbur. This bastard violated her.”

“s**t…”

“Her sister found her in a dreadful state. This bastard had beaten her, torn off her dress and had his way. I won"t tolerate that, not from anyone. You understand me, Wilbur – I will not tolerate it. So, you tell this miserable piece of filth, if he ain"t gone by tomorrow, I"ll see he hangs.”

And with that, the padre whirled around and stomped out of the bar.

Gus Ritter watched him go and whistled silently through pursed lips. “Damn, that man is hell on wheels.”

“He sure is,” said Wilbur, prodding the fat man with his boot. By now, he was fully unconscious. “I don"t think I"ve ever seen him so riled.”

“Ain"t you got no sheriff to sort such troubles out?”

“No. Sheriff Herbert fell down and died not six or seven weeks ago from a failed heart. We ain"t had the necessary to swear in a replacement yet. There"s supposed to be a marshal coming down from Cheyenne to oversee it all, but we ain"t heard nothin" from anyone. Nobody gives a good damn about Archangel, not even those of us who live here.”

“You said he has friends.”

“Yes…” Wilbur ruminated around in his empty mouth. “I can see trouble coming. There is old Silas, the uncle, his two boys, and a couple of firebrand working partners called Jessup and Martindale. They is trouble, mister. Been a-hootin" and a-hollerin" every Saturday night for weeks, shooting up bars, dance halls and the like. I had a set-to with "em, fired my sawn-off and scared the s**t out of "em. They don"t bother me no more. But this …” He shook his head again, gazing down at the fat man. “This here is Tobias Scrimshaw and his uncle, old Silas, owns a cattle ranch not more than ten miles from here. He has more money than sense, that old bastard, but he is meaner than a hornet with a toothache.”

“I didn"t know hornets had any teeth.”

Wilbur gave him a look. “Mister, if you is fixing on buying another beer, then do it. If not, you take your clever remarks someplace else. I ain"t in the mood.”

Ritter shrugged and pushed the empty glass away. “I"s about finished, anyway.” He swung around and returned Wilbur"s scowl. “And don"t be thinking I"m like those two boys you scared with your sawn-off, Mister barkeep, "cause I ain"t. I don"t take kindly to being spoken to like some rat in a barrel.” He patted the Colt Cavalry at his hip. “My journey has been long and hard and it ain"t finished yet. Aggravation, I can do without.”

Mister“Journey? What journey?” Wilbur frowned, eyes dropping to the revolver for the first time. “You wear that g*n like you is capable of using it.”

“Don"t see no point in having a firearm if you can"t use it.”

“Yeah, but… Mister, what is your business here?”

“I"m lookin" for someone, is all.”

“Someone important?”

“You could say.” Ritter drew in a deep breath. “But he ain"t here, and that has pissed me off some.”

“Who is it you is looking for?”

“I wanted to ask you the same thing, but then the padre arrived and shot everything to pieces.”

“Well, I might know. I tend to know everyone in this here town. If I don"t, Cable Hughes over in the Wishing Bone saloon will know, but he rarely opens nowadays, thanks to those Jessup and Martindale bastards.”

“Maybe you can help.”

“Maybe I can.” Wilbur tilted his head to one side. “For a price.”

Ritter smiled, fished inside his waistcoat pocket and snapped a silver dollar on the counter top. “That should do it.”

“Yes,” said Wilbur, l*****g his lips. “A second might get you even more.”

“Don"t push it, barkeep.”

Something changed in Wilbur"s demeanour, his previous bravado swiftly replaced by a tremor of fear running across his lips. Perhaps he saw something he hadn"t seen before, thought Ritter, and drew comfort from the fact. The barkeep gulped, his eyes flickering from the dollar to Ritter"s Colt. “What"s this person"s name?”

“John Wesley Hardin.”