A day of reckoning comes for the Buchanan Boys. Judge Sampson comes to town and is hankering to pass out some hangings.
But “simple country lawyer” Henry Allan Blythe and his werewolf lackeys have other plans in mind.
Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
Inside the Marshal’s office, Slade picked up the only two possessions he had in the world that he cared about. A box of cigars and a wrinkled, grainy old photograph of his parents, who stared solemnly at the camera as was the custom at time.
Gunther reached into the desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two shots.
“Might I propose a plan since yours failed so unceremoniously?”
Slade nodded. Gunther tossed his shot back and poured another one.
“F%&k it,” Gunther said, pushing Slade’s shot closer to him. “Keep up, boy.”
Slade drank his then stared at Gunther, waiting. Finally, he asked. “What’s the plan?”
“That is the plan. F&*k….it.”
Gunther tossed another back then set himself and Slade up again. “Son, in all the years I’ve been at this, one thing has never changed. All the money in the West flows East and absolutely nothing but shit flows back this way. You got your fancy pants politicians preaching about manifest destiny, how the country is going to shine from sea to shining sea but if you walk into any town all they’re willing to pay for is one or two assholes to protect it all.”
Slade and Gunther threw back another round.
“And you know what their response to everything is?” Gunther asked.
“What?” Slade asked.
“‘Figure it out, assholes!’” Gunther said. “Don’t matter what. Tornadoes. Floods. Famine. Injuns. Criminals. Don’t matter at all. ‘Just figure it out, you two assholes we pay a pittance to!’”
“Sounds about right,” Slade said.
“It’s exactly right,” Gunther said. “They aren’t willing to pay the cost of what it will take to enforce the law proper in this Godforsaken land and men like Jack Buchanan know it. And everyone who lives here is too preoccupied with their own lives to bother to stand up and ask the political types to do right by us so honestly…f%$k it. F%$k them. F$%k Highwater. F%$k everything.”
“That’s not my way,” Slade said.
“Yeah,” Gunther said. “I know that. I knew you were different the first day I met you. I said to myself, ‘Son of a bitch, they sent a man that’s going to expect me to work for a living.’ But son you know the reason why I always try to talk you out of this shit isn’t because I don’t believe in you but because I don’t believe in the powers that be. The last two people who should have to die are the two assholes paid a pittance to protect the place just because Washington won’t ante up to provide enough manpower to send the Jack Buchanans of the world to the grave.”
Slade had always looked at Gunther as lazy and cowardly but in that moment he started to make a lot of sense. Gunther poured another round. The glasses clinked.
“Here’s to f%&king it,” Gunther said.
“F$%k it,” Slade said.
“Now you’re talking,” Gunther said.
The two men drank then sat in silence for a moment.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Slade said.
“You don’t know what to do?” Gunther asked. “Jesus Christ, you got two women after you and God knows why on account of I seen rattle snakes with better personalities. Pick one of ‘em already.”
Slade locked his hands behind his head and sat back. “I did.”
“You did?” Gunther asked. “Shit. Yet another piece of vital information withheld from your Deputy. Which one?”
“Sarah.”
“Ahh,” Gunther said. “The Widow Farquhar. A lovely woman. You’ll…you’ll make a fine couple.”
Slade noticed the hesitation. The whiskey loosened up his tongue. “What?”
“Nothing,” Gunther said.
“You said she was pretty and rich and desperate and I shouldn’t f$%k it up,” Slade said.
“I did,” Gunther said. “That was before…”
Gunther didn’t want to say it.
“What?” Slade asked.
“Before I became aware that Miss Bonnie wanted to be all over you like stink on a skunk.”
“She doesn’t,” Slade said.
“Oh you didn’t see the look in her eyes that I did, boy,” Gunther said. “The only thing stopping her from scratching out the Widow Farquhar’s eyes was fear of the gallows. She wants you and she wants you bad.”
“Yeah,” Slade said. He poured out two shots this time. “She had her chance.”
Gunther cleared his throat. “Did she really though?”
The boys drank again. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t really ask her,” Gunther said.
“No,” Slade said. “No I reckon I didn’t.”
“Sooo….”
“Doesn’t matter,” Slade said as he stood up. “I made a promise.”
Gunther got out of his chair. “You actually proposed to the Widow Farquhar?”
“Yup.”
“Shit,” Gunther said. “Well, that’s not something easily wiggled out of.”
“I don’t want to wiggle out of it,” Slade said.
“Whatever you say,” Gunther said.
The men shook hands.
“Where are you off to?” Gunther asked.
“To see if Sarah will let me sleep on her floor,” Slade said.
“Gosh,” Gunther said. “Such a whirlwind romance.”
“You got somewhere to go?” Slade asked.
“Oh sure,” Gunther said. “Don’t you worry about me none.”
“See you around, Gunth.”
“See you.”
Truth be told, Gunther’s only real plan was to keep living in the Marshal’s office until some bureaucrat got around to filling the position.
Unbeknownst to him, a body had laid perfectly still underneath a blanket inside the cage throughout the entire conversation. A hand clawed its way out between the bars and grabbed the old man’s shoulder.
“What the?!”
It was Leo Fitzpatrick, local harmless drunk, sleeping another one off.
“Shit Leo,” Gunther said. “Scared me half to death.”
“Sorry,” Leo said. “I let myself in. Maureen threw me out again.”
“Well that’s a good way to get yourself shot,” Gunther replied.
“Can I get some of that?” Leo asked, pointing to the bottle.
Gunther handed it to him. “I thought you were trying to dry out.”
“A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.”
Joe found Miles inside the church, drawing away. A grizzly bear this time.
“Go.”
“What?” Miles asked.
“Get up and go,” Joe said. “Right now. Start walking. Anywhere. I’ll find you.”
Miles stood up. “What’s going on?”
“I am your father and you will do as I say!”
Miles sniffed the air. “Blythe! He’s in town.”
“Now you know,” Joe said. “Get out of here.”
“No,” Miles said.
“Miles you know what he does,” Joe said. “He’ll use you to make me suffer.”
“I’m not going,” Miles said.
Joe grabbed his son by the shirt collar and dragged him toward the door. Miles dug his heels in and slapped at his father’s hand.
“If she were here she’d want you to go,” Joe said.
“BUT SHE’S NOT IS SHE?” Miles yelled as he struggled with his old man before finally clocking him a good one upside the head.
That didn’t go over well. Joe’s eyes turned yellow. His muscles bulged out, ripping his shirt apart. Louder than a lion’s roar he bellowed, “I…SAID…GO!!!!”
Miles wasn’t going to argue with that.
“Fine,” the kid said as he walked away. “Do your breathing.”
Joe fell flat on his back and did just that.
“Rain!”
Halfway down the main drag, Gunther caught up with his now ex-boss. Slade was on fire and making a beeline for the Bonnie Lass, outside of which Blythe and his new gaggle of employees were congregating.
“God damn it son, will you hold up?”
Slade kept walking.
“You think you could have run that stunt you pulled back there by me first?” Gunther asked.
No response.
“I’ve had this job before you were even born and now I gotta up and leave it because of some slick sleazy lawyer?”
“No one asked you to,” Slade replied.
“Shit boy,” Gunther said. “Forty years I’ve never not once had a Marshal’s back and I’m not about to start now. Do you at least got some sort of plan?”
As Slade drew near, Jack rubbed his eyes and cried some crocodile tears. “Boo hoo hoo those poor Injuns!!!”
WAM! Slade’s right cross knocked out three of Jack’s teeth. And he needed those. He didn’t have many left to begin with.
Like clockwork, Hewett and Becker had their guns drawn and trained on Slade. The Buchanan Boys had yet to have their hardware returned to them, but they didn’t take kindly to seeing their favorite brother-cousin decked and looked ready to tear Slade apart.
“That was a horrible plan,” Gunther said.
Blythe raised a hand. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen, simmer down now. As our dear Lord and Savior Jesus Christ once said, ‘If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.”
Jack wasn’t interested in a scripture lesson. “YOU’RE A DEAD MAN SLADE!”
The counselor stepped in front of the former Marshal and flashed his red eyes Jack’s way.
“Mr. Slade is lucky you’re a good Christian, Mr. Buchanan. You won’t stoop to his level. It’s time for you and your family to celebrate.”
Jack shook to and fro like he was dizzy. He caught his bearings and pointed at Slade. “Shit Slade, if I weren’t a good Christian, I would bust you up!”
That reaction met with loud cries of disappointment from the various and sundry Buchanans. Jack quelled all dissent by yelling, “Come on, boys! Let’s get f$%ked up!”
They filed into the saloon. Miss Bonnie’s protest could be heard on the street.
Blythe turned around. “Mr. Slade. We’ve got off on the wrong foot.”
“F$%k you,” was all Slade had to say to that.
“Gentlemen,” Blythe said to Hewett and Becker, a cue for them to holster their steel. “Mr. Slade, I surely hope you won’t take this personally. Business is business and I am but a cog in the great machine that is the Legion Corporation. My superiors tell me to acquire the services of brutish men and I have no choice but to abide.”
“I’ll bring every last one of you down,” Slade said.
Blythe gave Slade a glimpse of his red peepers. “This matter no longer interests you. You’ll never give it a second thought.”
Like a confused puppy dog, Slade cocked his head to one side. “What…are you?”
The counselor was taken aback. His eyes returned to normal. “Goodness me. I could ask you the same question.”
Blythe and his bodyguards headed through the double doors.
“You know,” Gunther said. “I could use a drink myself.”
Do we like Joe?
I like him but I mean this is Slade’s jam and there can’t be two heroes, right?
Yet I’m picturing a scene where a cowboy rides a werewolf instead of a horse. Joe’s an upright walking werewolf, the traditional kind vs the new kind where a guy just turns into an actual wolf.
But I picture upright walking werewolves running on all fours, sort of in a gallop when they want to go fast.
A cowboy riding piggyback on a werewolf walking on two feet would just be ridiculous.
Together they chase after the bad guy who’s getting away.
I’m pretty sure someone will say its racist for a cowboy to ride a black guy that turns into a werewolf but I mean, it’d be like they’re working together with a common goal to fight evil.
What do you think? You like him and want to keep him? He’s adding too much to the storyline and nix him?
Thoughts for the future: If people like this enough to merit a sequel, I’m not entirely sure the next book would be about Slade. He’s fun to write but I’m not sure how much I can do with a guy that doesn’t talk.
So who knows Joe could have his own book. I have a few cowboy types in mind that could be fighting zombies.
My purpose for Joe was that he had a run in with the villain (Blythe) in the past and now he can tell Slade what Blythe is all about.
The other option is that Blythe just blurts out his master plan like an idiot.
But now my worry is when the zombies come, I mean, shit, Slade has a werewolf friend who’ll just slash up all the zombies and this is a Zombie Western. You want cowboys shooting up zombies don’t you?
Oh God writing is so hard. The things you have to think about.
Input please, 3.5 readers.
After the courtroom cleared out, Slade confronted Sampson.
“What the hell are you doing?” Slade asked, his voice raspier than ever.
“Marshal, I hate this as much as you do but the Governor has the right to issue pardons and once he does there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Take it up with him.”
Slade, man of action that he was, ripped the star off his shirt, slammed it down on the Judge’s bench, and stormed out of the courtroom.
“Slade!” the Judge called after him. “Don’t be ridiculous! This town needs you!!!”
Gunther’s stomach churned. The idea of leaving a job he held most of his life was unsettling, as was the idea of being disloyal to Slade.
“I don’t reckon there’s some kind of generous retirement payment for a man who’s held the position of Deputy Marshal for over forty years, is there?”
“Not that I know of,” the Judge replied.
“I figured as much,” Gunther said as he tugged at his star. “Oh well, here’s mud in your eye.”
Gunther tugged and tugged but the star wouldn’t budge.
“Deputy,” Sampson said. “I don’t have all day.”
“Now hold your horses,” Gunther said as he continued to fumble around, “I don’t want to rip my vest. My wife made this for me…ah…here we go.”
Gunther slammed his star down next to Slade’s.
“Gunther, don’t do this,” Sampson said. “You could take Slade’s place and become the Marshal yourself.”
“What?” Gunther asked. “And be the man who has to make all the decisions and be responsible for everything? No thank you. I’d rather be hung upside down by my toes and beaten with a wet noodle.”
“What will you do now?” Sampson asked.
“I don’t know,” Gunther said. “Get even older and die I guess.”
From the moment Blythe walked into the courtroom, Joe felt the beast surge within him. Under his shirt, he felt his chest hair grow. His fingernails started to jut out. But he took a deep breath and held his alternate form at bay.
He and Blythe had met before. Joe positioned himself outside the door and grabbed the counselor’s arm as he walked out into the hallway.
Hewett and Becker drew their weapons instantly. Joe released his grip.
“Joseph!” Blythe said. “So lovely to see you again.”
“We have unfinished business.”
“Do we?” Blythe asked. “My, my. You never learned your lesson, did you?”
Blythe patted his hand against Joe’s cheek. “So much sorrow written all over your face. Such a pathetic inability to let trivial matters go. How dreadfully unkind time has been to you.”
“I will end you,” Joe said. “The biggest mistake you ever made was not killing me.”
“You know that’s not my way, Joseph,” Blythe said. “If I kill my underlings, how will they ever learn?”
A brief staredown.
“How’s that son of yours?” Blythe asked. “Goodness, he must be a strapping young man now.”
A guttural growl poured out of Joe’s mouth. Growls followed from Hewett and Becker.
Blythe released Joe’s throat. His agents holstered their weapons.
“To be continued I suspect,” Blythe said as he and his men left the building.
Joe breathed heavily in order to bring himself under control.
Out came Gunther. “Can you believe this horse shit? Help me unchain these assholes, will ya’? I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Judge Sampson was not a man to be trifled with.
“The Legion Corporation? This case has nothing to do with your company!”
Blythe had a prominent Southern accent. So flamboyant was his drawl that it was almost as if he spent a lot of time working on it. The only thing he was missing was the mint julep.
“Your honor, may it please the court…”
“It does not please the court!” the Judge shouted. “The court is very displeased!”
The doors opened again and two men entered.
“Now who are these two peckerwoods?” the Judge so astutely inquired.
“Apologies,” Blythe said. “Where are my manners?”
The counselor pointed to his left, toward a man with a high widow’s peak, a square jaw and a stern face.
“This is Mr. Dalton Hewett.”
Blythe shifted his attention to his right, toward a man with short brown hair and a handlebar mustache. This man looked as though he might have been handsome once, until his nose was broken and reset one too many times.
“And this is Mr. Travis Becker. They’re my security agents, your honor. Professionals trained in the art of gunslinging and paid to safeguard my person from all the dangers the world has to offer. Coincidentally, Judge, security is what I’ve come to talk to you about today.”
“How’s that?” Sampson asked.
“This is all just a big misunderstanding, your honor,” Blythe said. “Mr. Buchanan and his bundle of hayseeds have recently been hired as security agents of the Legion Corporation”
“We have?!” Jack asked.
Blythe slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder, then knelt down to whisper in the defendant’s ear.
“Do you want to get off the hook and make a few bucks?” Blythe asked.
“Hell yeah!” Jack said.
“Then shut up.”
“Bullshit,” Sampson said. “I don’t know what your angle is, counselor, but I know bullshit when I smell it and I’m fixing to pull up my boots.”
“It’s all perfectly legitimate, Judge,” Blythe said as he popped open a briefcase and handed a stack of papers to Hewett, who in turn walked them over to Sampson. “You’ll find all the necessary documentation right there. These men were hired a month ago and were ordered to report to Highwater last week to assist in safeguarding the operations of the Legion Line.”
Sampson studied the paperwork. “Why should I give a shit?”
“Because, your honor, as you’re well aware, Highwater Station is the last stop on our transcontinental express before it crosses the Mississippi River by way of the Sturtevant Bridge. Back East, demand is higher than ever for the minerals, resources, and raw materials that the West provides in abundance and we can’t allow this precious cargo to be shipped without protection from Injuns and bandits can we? That’s why the board of directors of the Legion Corporation have enlisted me to oversee this important hub of activity and my very first act was to hire these upstanding citizens.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Sampson said. “As much as you snooty city folk like to pretend like the whole world revolves around you, your employees are not afforded a free pass for criminal misconduct.”
“I should say not, your honor,” Blythe said. “Tell me, what is the immediate allegation that led to these men becoming embroiled in such hot water?”
“An attempted attack on Highwater,” Sampson said.
“Come now, Judge,” Blythe said. “Is an attempt really a crime?”
“That’s what I said!” Jack shouted.
Blythe carried on. “Was anyone hurt? Injured? Maimed? Was anything stolen? It seems to me that all that happened was that these fine, upstanding men showed up for work and were mistaken for common thugs.”
“They are common thugs!” Sampson hollered. “I could throw out the Highwater charges and there’d still be enough to hang ’em high for any one of the crimes they committed across the country!”
Jack raised his finger to make a point. “Clarification, your honor. Armadillo molestation isn’t a hanging offense in Texas. Usually, the sheriff just lets you off with a warning as long as you put the armadillo back where you found him.”
“YOU! SHUT UP!” Sampson screamed. “Counselor, these men have been accused of one long crime spree that’s gone on for years.”
“I see,” Blythe said. “And where are the witnesses?”
“The what?” Sampson asked.
“The witnesses,” Blythe said. “The people who were allegedly harmed. Why are they not here to take the stand and profess to the injuries they claim to have suffered at the hands of the Buchanans?”
“They’re all dead,” Sampson said.
Blythe stretched his arms out and said, Rather convenient, isn’t it? Now your honor, I may be just a simple country lawyer, but during my copious study of jurisprudence, I determined that the accused has a right to face his accusers.”
Slade raised his hand and was acknowledged by the Judge. The Marshal despised public speaking as much as he did private, but he forced himself. “These boys have been attacking the Injun lands outside town for awhile now.”
“Really, your honor?” Blythe asked. “Is that where we are now? Secondhand heresay based on the word of heathen savages?”
Without a gavel, Sampson pounded his fist down on his desk. “I’ve heard enough. Counselor, your motion is denied. The verdict stands. Get the f%$k out.”
Blythe rifled through his briefcase. “Silly me, I almost forgot I have one more thing to show you, your honor. Governor Montgomery has issued a fall pardon to every last Buchanan for these so-called crimes.”
“Bullshit,” Sampson said.
B”It took some doing,” Blythe said. “But our dear Governor was so moved by the plight of these noble, downtrodden men that he felt compelled to intervene.”
The counselor approached the bench and handed a single, blank sheet of paper to the Judge.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Sampson asked.
With his back turned to the room, Blythe’s eyes turned a dark glowing red. Sampson couldn’t help but stare at them. He found them so…alluring.
“No your honor,” Blythe said. “As you can see, everything is in order and these men are free to go.”
Blythe’s eyes returned to their regular blue. Sampson cleared his throat.
“I can’t believe that Governor Montgomery would exercise his power in such a reckless manner,” the Judge said. “But everything is in order. These men are free to go.”
The outraged citizenry who showed up hurled every insult they could think of at the Judge.
“My hands are tied! A pardon from the Governor trumps all! The verdict is vacated! Case dismissed!”
The courtroom buzzed as the Right Honorable Mortdecai Sampson took his seat. Bald with the exception of the white hair that grew out of his ears like unruly haystacks. Ugly teeth. A perpetually angry face. And a pair of wire rimmed spectacles he was always using to look down over his crooked nose at people with.
The Judge slammed his gavel down with enough force to crack a walnut. “ORDER!”
Everyone went silent. Smelly Jack sat at a small table, to which he was chained. His brother-cousins took up most of the seats. Slade and Gunther stood watch toward the front of the room. Joe and Knox were on either side. As usual, the younger Knoxes were in the back.
“Smelly Jack Buchanan…”
“HANDSOME JACK!”
Sampson pointed his gavel at the defendant. “SHUT UP! Smelly Jack Buchanan, you and your inbred family stand accused of committing a litany of heinous deeds all across the Western states and territories.”
Jack held his hat over his heart. “Lies your honor. We’re being framed and persecuted on account of us being poor illiterates.”
Sampson read from a document. “Murder. Rape. Arson. Theft. Property Damage. Am I reading this right? You shit bags pillaged and burned down eleven cities between New Mexico and Missouri?”
“Case of mistaken identity,” Jack said. “There’s another handsome shit bag out there that you’ve confused me with.”
“Shot a barber because he didn’t cut your hair straight. Shot a cook because he didn’t fix your dinner right. Shot a man because he looked at you funny…”
“I like to help people better themselves,” Jack said.
“Robbed twenty-three banks. Shot fourteen Sheriffs, seven U.S. Marshalls, and you and your boys are suspected in the disappearance of twelve more officers of the law…”
“They’re probably in the last place you’d thing of looking for them,” Jack quipped.
“What the hell is this about molesting an armadillo outside Houston?”
Jack coughed. “Your honor, that armadillo came on to me…”
“And finally, the attempted attack on Highwater, the crime that finally did you boys in.”
“Judge, is it really a crime to attempt something?” Jack asked. “Piss or get off the pot my beloved Ma used to say.”
Gavel slap. “SHUT UP! Do you have anything to say for yourself before I render a just and unbiased verdict, you stupid asshole?”
“Your honor,” Jack said. “I do believe the Greek philosophizer Soc-ro-tees once said, ‘Hickory dickory dock…suck my big ole…”
Sampson smashed his gavel down. “ENOUGH! Smelly Jack Buchanan. You and your brothers, and your cousins, and your brother-cousins and whatever else are by far the most putrid, vile, disgusting sacks of buffalo shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life. You’re not even good enough to be buffalo shit. You are the mold that grows on the fungus that grows on a steamy pile of buffalo shit after its sat out in the hot sun for three days and then a pig walks by and takes a shit on that shit…”
“It’s not our fault, Judge. Pa used to beat us somethin’ awful so now none of us are responsible for anything we do.”
The Judge banged his gavel so hard it broke in half, sending the hammer part flying across the room.
“Buchanans, on behalf of all the lives you cut short, and on behalf of all the people you’ve caused suffering too, I find you GUILTY! And furthermore, it is my pleasure to sentence you all to….DEATH…BY HANGING!”
Jack made a motion like he was jerking himself off. “Whatever.”
The courtroom doors swung open. Everyone craned their necks to see who dared disturb Judge Sampson’s sentencing.
In walked a stranger. He was slender and handsome. Not ruggedly handsome but a womanly, pretty kind of handsome. He was dressed as though he were a customer to the finest tailors in the world. He wore a black suit to match his black hair. Hanging over his necktie was a bright, shiny gold medallion.
“Your honor, pardon my interruption. Henry Allan Blythe and on behalf of the Legion Corporation, I move to set aside that verdict.”
A full week had passed since the capture of Smelly Jack and his villainous brood. Rifle in hand, Slade led the processional. The town’s nosey citizens poured out of their shops and homes to watch the chained up criminals march toward the courthouse.
Knox took the left flank. Gunther and Joe took the right. The young Knoxes brought up the rear.
Jack was performing for the crowd. “What a crying shame that an innocent man and his kin get railroaded just for passin’ through town!”
An old lady pelt him in the head with a rotten tomato. He laughed it off.
“You people aint much on hospitality, I’ll tell you that!”
Swears, insults, obscene gestures and all kinds of abuse were heaped on the Buchanan Boys. Jack reveled in it. He even broke out into song.
“Nobody knows…the trouble I seen! Nobody knows…my sorrow!”
Jack eyeballed Joe. “Hey boy! BOY! That’s that song you people would sing whenever the mass gave you a good whuppin?”
Joe was too classy to respond.
“Swing low…sweet chariot…comin’ for to carry me home! Oh the massa whupped my balls good and now I swing low….”
“That’s enough,” Gunther said.
“HEY MARSHAL!” Jack shouted.
Slade just kept on walking.
“Marshal! Aint it enough to run a man up the river on false accusations?! You gotta have me watched by a dirty nig…”
Gunther stuck his foot in front of Jack’s, tripping the bigmouth up and launching him into the ground face first, taking a few of his brother-cousins with him.
“Damn Jack,” Gunther said with a wink to Joe. “Better watch your step.”
Bookshelf Battle 