Since the hanging, Macy Ludlow has been frequenting saloons. Keen watchers could easily see that, though she lets cowboys buy her beverages, she imbibes just enough to redden her cheeks – but no one ever notices her lithe hands dump steins onto sticky hickory floorboards. They’re too entranced by her rouge-tinted lips and amiable chatter. Though wealthy (through marriage), Macy was never like the others in Abilene’s church-crowd – she knows the names of her late husband’s riders and lets anyone dine at her table – and had been innocently pure, so her new coquettishness interests all. Even the gruffest bachelors, who’ve swore off women and never stay in place for too long, put on their newest digs hoping to catch her eye; this childless beauty is set to inherit Kansas’ largest cattle outfit and would free them from their laborious lives. But, though Macy gallivants around handing out rounds and rounds of liquor, she doesn’t pick one admirer – which only arouses more advances. After her first night out, her landowning neighbors’ wives had called on her but, unable to deter her nighttime revelry, they now declare that the devil’s ahold of poor Macy.
But reason guides Macy’s actions and, thirteen days after her husband was taken from their bed and strung up in the square, a stranger in all-black rides into Abilene past midnight on a snowy horse. A wide-brimmed black hat hides this lean man’s features, though no one’s around to witness him enter Abilene’s seediest inn; anyone up is courting Macy. From his room he hears the drunken rioting but, beat from his journey, he sleeps at once.
The next morning, in a forgettable fit of denim and his charcoal-black hat, the stranger calls the innkeeper to his table: “What was that ruckus?”
“Ah,” the innkeeper refills his coffee mug. “Ludlow’s widow’s on the prowl.” He pauses to study his guest once he discerns the man’s confusion. As the last stop on the Chisholm Trail and the base of a major railroad uniting America’s coastlines, Abilene’s used to dodgy people but when the stranger had rode in on an exhausted steed and bought a room for one night, the innkeeper’d assumed he was bland. He looks no older than thirty but, despite that, the innkeeper suppresses a flinch, for this tanned frontiersman’s brown eyes have the weary wisdom of a killer. “What brought ya? Scouts say we ain’t set to git a run fer ‘nother week.”
“Just ridin’ through.”
“Where ya headed?”
“East.”
“You?” Snorting, the innkeeper waves his calloused hand at the shiny guns in the stranger’s well-worn black holsters. “Hell, you’d fit in there like a tenderfoot roping a mustang. Who’d you go and rile up?” The man’s subsequent scowl chills the innkeeper, who hurriedly backtracks. “I’m only ridin’ you! I can point you to the station but, if you’re gonna linger, you need to savvy Abilene ‘cause we ain’t like the gunslingin’ hellhole I reckon you got run outta.”
Pausing to make sure he’s not gonna get shot, he’s stunned speechless as the stranger, upon pondering, extracts two tenners from a thick billfold: five times the cost of his room. “Mind givin’ me the lowdown?”
Though incredulous, the innkeeper pockets the cash and launches into a monologue. “Well, this here’s flat country where beef trails end and cattle get slaughtered or shipped to peckish Yanks. Ain’t a soul can scratch outta livin’ for hisself, neither. Everyone works for the Graces, the Hewitts, or the Ludlows. Each o’ them outfits got ‘nough land to fit millions o’ heads and hire top shooters to guard their just-bought stock. They butcher faster’n the famous Texas Jack draws! Ol’ Grace was a mountain of a feller, but his heart gave out year last. His sons cashed out to the Hewitts. The Hewitt’s granddaddy had twelve young’uns and them bred like jackrabbits in spring, but don’t let them fool ya. Them countless cousins shore as hell ain’t folks you wanna cross.”
“And the Ludlows?”
“Elder Ludlow’s strong as an ox and owns more land’n the Graces or Hewitts, ‘cludin’ this inn. When times are hard, he lets me off on credit. Fair fella. But ‘bout a month back a mean Hewitt who goes by name of Loco Lester caught Ludlow’s boy rustlin’ cattle to his pa’s range. Loco took the matter to court and ‘fore long Little Ludlow was a-swingin’.”
The stranger sets down his ceramic mug with a clang. “Jon Ludlow? Hung?”
“Yup.” The innkeeper’s lips purse at his guest’s shock, but he keeps on. “Ludlow only ever had the one. When his missus passed years ago, he retired ‘n left everythin’ to Little Ludlow. Truth be told, thet boy was doin’ a fine job runnin’ things, but Loco Lester found Little Ludlow’s gun on Hewitt land and even Ludlow’s riders said they seen him at night reekin’ of cow. ‘Tis a shame, fer he was a straight shooter and now his widow Macy’s drinkin’ herself blind. I hear Ol’ Ludlow’s fixin’ to boot her ‘n I reckon when he does she’ll turn Hewitt, for she near got hitched to Loco way back when. He and Little Ludlow drew iron over it, if memory serves.”
The stranger thanks the innkeeper, downs his coffee, and overpays for his room. He fastens his pack to his horse, smears mud on its vivacious pearl-colored coat to turn it brown, and asks a nearby saloonkeeper for directions to Ludlow’s estate. Heading west, he promptly spots a massive three-floor house and four brick factories. Pointing his dirty mare at the complex, he finds himself trotting alongside a sturdy fence. The fence’s gate, yards ahead, is bordered by lounging cowboys who, as he approaches, call out leeringly:
“Reckon yor ride’d gag a maggot!”
“Know how to use those shiny guns, hombre?”
“What business you got with them Ludlows?”
The stranger ignores them. As he moves through the gate, he notes their matching mousy-brown hair and well-bred steeds; though hardworking cattlemen, they’re kicking back outside the Ludlow’s domain waiting for something or, the man soliloquizes, someone – like the dainty blonde on the house’s porch. Her ankle-length cotton dress and shawl (meant for cooler weather) make her seem meek, but her bright blue eyes stare him down with predatorial poise as he advances.
When he slows his mare but doesn’t dismount, she crosses her arms. “What’s yor name?”
“You outta know better’n to ask a cowboy that.”
Her eyebrows meet as she dissects him: the patches of fabric used to mend his denim pants, the muscles badly concealed by his long-sleeved copper-toned shirt, the black hat hiding his brunet curls but not his sun-weathered skin and knowing avian eyes which are as dark as dusk, the content horse beneath his wiry torso who looks like she just wrestled a bull, and the guns on his hips. Then, at last, she nears him. She wipes muck off his horse’s snout with her pristine shawl, revealing her chalk-colored pelt, and she smiles. “Jon said a black cowboy would come on a white horse.”
He tries not to focus on her logic-defying floral scent. “Didn’t want ‘er spookin’ the fellers at yor gate.”
She snorts. “You’re welcome to scare ‘em.”
“Oh? ‘Ssumed they were welcome. Herd yore lookin’ to replace yor thievein’ husband.”
Her amusement evaporates. “My husband was no thief!”
He blinks, not expecting her ardor, before hopping off his horse. “I know. Wish I’d heard’a Jon’s charges while he was breathin’, or least got here to see him laid to rest.”
Silence ensues before Macy takes his reins and leads the mare to a pasture behind her house that already holds a strong black stallion. The stallion nickers but doesn’t hassle the majestic mare, who instantly starts grazing as the humans set off. The stranger follows Macy as she walks around hundreds of overfed cows about to be killed or shipped (the fields have to be empty when the next run arrives) to a patch of dirt marked by a sandstone. Her throat convulses as she stops beside the grave, but she doesn’t crumble beneath her grief and instead faces the stranger.
Beckoned, he removes his hat and stands with her. They stare at white flowers and a sandy rock, their minds claimed by memories they wish were reality, until at last he pulls a bullet out of his pocket and places it next to the petals.
Macy laughs. “You meant’a kill him?”
“Yor husband swore if we crossed paths ‘gain he’d put me in the ground. Took that outta his gun.” Facing Macy, the stranger finds himself fascinated; wearing her grief like a cattle’s brand, she’s not the hussy the innkeeper’d portrayed. “Jon once came down to Texas to check on his pa’s partner who oughtta send word of stock goin’ North but was skimmin’ profit. He was usin’ a fake name aimin’ to sniff out the truth quiet-like, but soon as he stepped into a saloon he got into a fight. Yor husband lost but held his own and afterwards I bought him a drink. We had no clue who the other was ‘n he was green as Sam’s bills but we took to each other right quick. We were pals ‘til, well, ain’t no sense borin’ you—”
“Tell me.”
They stared at each other.
“I need to know why Jon spoke of you when he died.”
“What did he say?”
She crosses her arms. “What do you do for a livin’?”
“Anything, for the right price.”
“Jon must’ve hated that.” Macy laughs sadly.
“He shore was righteous.” The stranger nods. “The fight he got into, thet feller was as large as a burro and could’ve knocked him dead, but he didn’t bolt. I admire anyone willin’ to die for their morals. I helped out with his crooked cattleman and as he was leavin’ he came ‘round to see if I’d be his pa’s new Texan foreman and learnt who I was. He called me a coward ‘n I made him hurt for sayin’ that but ‘stead of fightin’ back, Jon staggered to his feet and gave me that slug. He swore if we met ‘gain ‘n I was still stealin’ he’d lick me proper.”
“And? Are you still stealin’?” The stranger doesn’t answer, but her ocean-blue eyes narrow. “You aren’t here fer Jon, are ya? You didn’t know ‘bout his charges.”
“I got in some trouble back home and had to split. You needn’t worry ‘bout the particulars. Figured I’d drift somewhere not a soul knows me, mebbe go East. Start fresh.”
“So it’s just lucky you’re here?”
“Ain’t nothin’ in life left to luck.” Shaking his scalp like a wet dog getting dry, he puts his hat back on. “But you ain’t Jon. I reckon yore the sorta gal who don’t mind what path I’m walkin’.”
“Follow me.” With a final look at the grave, she leads him into the house. Men dressed for toil like the cowboys at Ludlow’s border are resting in the entrance hall. They jump up from comfy couches as Macy strolls in. She ignores them, so he does too, and soon enough they’re alone in a study. She points to the larger desk, but approaches the smaller one. “That’s where I work.”
“You work?”
“I balance the books: make shore we can buy and sell and make a profit. I met Jon workin’ for his pa.”
“They trust a woman with their business?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” As they stop by Jon’s desk, Macy glares at him.
The desk holds only one sheet of paper. The stranger, not minding Macy’s fury, picks it up and unfolds it. “I ain’t meant’a insult you. I’m just surprised folks as prosperous as them would take any mind to a woman’s worth.” It’s a letter:
They say I was caught, that my gun was in the wrong place, which is true: the Hewitts, led by Loco Lester (who you’ll know by the scar I gave him when he tried to run off with my girl), found me at their slaughterhouse and planted my gun. I dyed my cattles’ feet and tracked em there. After how it’s rumored they murdered Rupert Grace and scared his sons into selling, it’s no wonder they want to get rid of me publicly. I’m happy you came. Macy’s an angel on earth but she’s no warrior and a fight will come if it hasn’t already. I told her to never be alone, so Abilene will know if she’s kidnapped, but she can only fend Loco off for so long. I wish you luck, on this and onwards, for the Hewitts will run you off the Chisholm Trail for what you’re boutta do. But if you came, there shore is good in you – like I knew all along!
Jon Ludlow
The stranger crumples the note up. Though his countenance darkens, he regards the woman beside him sympathetically. “Ma’am, you won’t like what I aim to do—”
“I will.”
“Even if I—”
“I prayed for you. Even Jon’s pa didn’t believe in him. He’s promised his riders bonuses if they get me to marry Lester.”
The stranger frowns. “Loco already proposed?”
“At the funeral. He ain’t even wait.” The stranger’s hands move to his guns, but he doesn’t go exact justice like he yearns to. “Ain’t the first time neither. When I started workin’ fer the Ludlows, he carried me off. If not fer Jon I’d be a Hewitt.” Macy’s eyes zero in on this picture of his bloodlust but after a breath she nods. “Help me. Please.”
So the stranger checks back into the inn, much to the innkeeper’s interest. He scrubs down his horse, throws a blanket over her, and heads to a saloon. He eats dinner beside rowdy cowmen wanting to learn his story, which he doesn’t tell, and as he’s finishing everyone sprints across the street; he glimpses Macy’s flaxen hair as she’s engulfed by a manly mob.
Leaving the men to their wooing, he returns to his room and changes into his leather-black duds. Then, back outside the saloon, he unties a docile-seeming auburn horse from a post. He rides to Ludlow’s with his torso pressed against the horse’s flank so he’s not seen. He figured the outer cowboys were the innumerable Hewitts and sure enough the only riders he finds are the ones who’d been in the house; he recognizes the getups of the men sprawled out on the porch in front of a fire and, knowing they would’ve noted his coming, he dismounts and, with a thump, sends the stolen steed onwards. As their dialog restarts (once they see what they think is a wild horse go by), he soundlessly scales the gate and crawls forwards on his hands and knees.
“Jest a horse. Thought thet was that feller Miss Macy brought to ‘er office.”
“Nah, he checked outta town. Reckon he tried to sweet-talk ‘er like the rest of ‘em.”
“Fool.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t mind takin’ my chances.”
“Oh, c’mon!”
“She wouldn’t look twice at yor sour mug!”
“Now hold awn, I take offense to that there—”
“Hey!” The stranger had slithered to the house’s side and hunkered down by a prickly bush but, with his face against Earth, he’s unable to see the man who just barked. He can, however, feel tremors as what he guesses are ten galloping mounts near the fire, which makes him frown; these callers don’t mind being seen on Ludlow land at night. “We found a horse with a saddle!”
“We saw it come up.” One of Ludlow’s cowboys spits. “Swore it had no rider.”
“A drunken cowboy must’ve forgot to hobble it.”
“Keep yor voices down!”
“Why?” The low-toned male who interrupts the cowboys’ bickering sounds more polished than the others, who quiet abruptly; the stranger knows at once he’s in charge. “Everyone but Ol’ Ludlow is with Macy ‘n he ain’t got any strength left. Now, can we git?”
“Shore thing, Loco. The boys’ll direct ya. I’ll stay here and holler if anyone comes. See ya tomorrow too?”
Clinks accompany Loco’s drawling threat. “‘Less you go back on our deal.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it! Get a move on, y’all!”
The stranger waits until he can’t feel horse movements to lift his head. The man who stayed behind has his head down as he rolls up a smoke, so the stranger runs after the others unseen. Their tracks are as wide as a lane so, though they got a head start, the stranger easily finds them outside the brick factory closest to the house. They’re yelling to be heard over the din of screaming cows about to be processed:
“—in there—”
“—‘n we cut off the alarm ‘n sent home the others so you oughtta have no problems—”
“—so just get ‘em goin’! They’ll do the work fer ya!”
“Same as last time!”
The men disperse: some head inside and start whooping to round up the cattle while others, who the stranger tracks, round the factory and raze its back wall with hammers. Soon as they open the building, beeves pour into dim fields. The cowboys expertly guide them off. Instead of chasing them, the stranger sneaks into the factory and tackles a calf. Thanks to the general ruckus, no one sees him slice open his palm and coat the creature’s hooves in blood. Tearing fabric off his sleeve, he wraps his wound (so sanguine droplets don’t expose him) and hides in hay.
The stranger waits until the giant factory is eerily silent to emerge. He ropes Macy’s black horse and follows red tracks for miles. The stranger can’t study his dark surroundings but, knowing he’s moving away from Abilene across flat land, he rides hard; come morning, he’ll be found. Eventually, his panting horse slows. He coaxes the tired stallion to follow the calf’s bloody steps to a locked gate attached to a seemingly endless wire fence. Knowing he can’t cajole an unfamiliar horse to jump, he dismounts and, by hand, unearths the gate’s posts. The gate could fit five cows side-by-side – thus its destruction would be detected at first light; this thought troubles the stranger, but he doesn’t slow. Entering Hewitt land, it doesn’t take him long to hear pleading livestock. It’s rare for men like him who move cattle to see their work’s results and he sickens at the thought of the millions he’s brought to this sobbing end – but, staunch, he strains his ears. Unlike the Ludlow’s factory, these yelps are being cut short and, as he sees gleeful men smoking in the front of a brick plant, he realizes Ludlow’s stock is being murdered before anyone realizes it’s missing.
The stranger hobbles Macy’s horse. Eyeing the ecstatic rustlers, he thinks. He can’t sneak off and accuse them tomorrow – he couldn’t repair the gate that quickly and this medley of Hewitt and Ludlow riders would overwhelm any court – and he briefly considers hiding behind a haystack and picking them off like they’re grazing turkeys, but then he remembers Jon: as honest as the day is long. Jon tracked these men with red too but he confronted them and, though the stranger knows better than to do that, he rejects his savagery and stares at the men until he cooks up a way to defeat them, if not legally, then eternally.
Then, like a rattler, the stranger slinks onwards. A horse snorts as he passes, but no humans shout; they’re too arrogant to watch for an invader. As he sneaks around the building, he pops his head up every so often and sees cattle streaming into chutes that lead to a duo on a platform with mallets they’re regularly smashing into skulls. This factory’s back is as feeble as Ludlow’s – these moguls don’t expect rustlers or care about the resilience of buildings they often rebuild – so it takes mere minutes for him to dislodge enough bricks to free the stolen herd. The cattle frantically flee into the fields.
As the cowboys inside call out, the stranger pulls a lighter from his pocket and alights some of the haystacks littered around the land for feed. Thanks to a breeze, the fire swiftly expands onto the parched grass and grows into something so ruinous that Abilene’s males will be forced to leave Macy to quell it – only to find Ludlow-branded cattle on Hewitt land.
The flames illuminate the flanks of sprinting, spitting cows, but also the stranger, and he’s promptly shot at. He gets to Macy’s horse untouched and, lowering the brim of his hat, runs off.
~
The next morning, the innkeeper hands the stranger a plate of eggs and slabs of salty ham. “You hear ‘bout the fire?” The stranger picks up a fork and starts eating as the innkeeper continues. “Someone went ‘n blew up a Hewitt canner last night.”
He swallows. “Who?”
“No one knows but, well,” the innkeeper leans forwards. “As the water wagons was fightin’ the flames, they seen Ludlow cattle runnin’ wild! Looked mighty sketchy, but Sheriff came right out and found a stretch of the Ludlow/Hewitt fence busted clean through. He booked the Hewitts fer butchering what ain’t theirs but they swore they ain’t notice the mixed herds and they wouldn’t burn their own shop, so he finally made ‘em pay fer what they killed and let ‘em go.” The innkeeper pauses; the denim-clad outsider sets down his fork and looks up. “Where were you last night?”
“Sleepin’.”
As soon as his fierce brown-eyed gaze sets on the innkeeper, he regrets probing but, having begun, carries on. “I herd you seen Macy. Figured you would’ve gone to flirt with ‘er more.”
“You seen my horse, ain’t you? Girl never left the stables.”
“Shore, thet beauty grazed the whole night.” As the innkeeper backtracks, his voice speeds up as his nerves overtake his mouth. “I told them that, who came askin’.”
“Who came askin’?”
“Well, Sheriff stopped by ‘bout an hour ago. He overheard the Hewitts in jail talkin’ ‘bout a horse they seen run by thet had a saddle but no man and was seein’ if any of my guests were the sort to ride alone. ‘N Loco came by last night, fresh outta jail over them cattle, ‘n asked ‘bout you. I told him same thing I told Sheriff, that pretty horse o’ yors ain’t move from sundown to sunup, but still, I figured I’d best ask you meeself. You fixin’ to leave today?”
“Mebbe. I don’t mind this town.”
“Yeah?”
“Still as a graveyard.”
“Wait ‘til next week when a drive comes in. My rooms’ll be packed tighter’n a cattle pen.”
The stranger gulps down the last of his breakfast and takes three tens out of his jacket. The innkeeper gapes, as he did yesterday, at the abundance and dips his head, as he did yesterday, when the stranger hands it to him. “Think I’ll stay for a day or two more.”
“You shore are welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“Much obliged.” Standing, the stranger dons his black hat and goes outside. He doesn’t get far down Abilene’s main street before he hears shrill whistles and, when he looks around and spots six brown-haired men nearing him, he smiles. They range from balding to pimpled, but the stranger focuses on the shortest one; this scowling bloke, with a mean-looking scar bisecting his nose and splitting his lip, is the only one touching his pistol. The stranger’s instincts scream at him to draw and not give the identical Hewitts a chance to hurt him, but he knows joy will unnerve them more than anger, so he widens his smile into a beam. “Figured I’d see you today, Loco.”
The scarred man scoffs. “Did you?”
His happiness dies off quick as a wink. “You ain’t strike me as the sort to dilly dally.”
Loco seems unsure of how to take the blunt statement, but after a few breaths of him staring down this black-haired stranger in a denim fit which fits fine but looks wrong when partnered with his hat and holsters, he sneers. “Think it’s best you come with us.”
“Where?”
“To our ranch. We’ve got some things to talk out.”
“Alright. Lemme git my horse.” The stranger is flanked – two men behind him, two beside him including Loco, and two ahead of him – on the way to the inn’s stables. He moves nimbly into his pale mare’s saddle and is soon surrounded by horses once more, which makes the pale creature neigh unhappily. As they set off, the stranger pats her mane to assuage her claustrophobia.
“Thet’s a fine horse.” Loco speaks. “Where’d you get her?”
“Took ‘er from someone who ain’t need ‘er no more.” The innkeeper rushes into the street, but the stranger turns and shakes his head, so he returns to his morning without raising any alarm. Other onlookers eye their procession, but no one defends the aloof stranger who’s made no friends since he’s been in Kansas – not when faced with the deadly Hewitts.
“I’ve only herd tale of Texas Jack havin’ a mare that white.” Another man mumbles.
“They say his is white as a cloud.” Loco adds. “Yors ain’t far off.”
The stranger doesn’t respond but Loco, never one to thrive in silence, doesn’t let him brood for long. “What’s yor name?”
“What’s yors?”
“You already used my name, partner.”
“I shore did, but a name’s story’s as important as the name.”
“Well, when I was young I went a bit loco fer a pretty little girl who had eyes bluer ‘n water ‘n smelled of flowers. She didn’t like me much, but the ones who fight taste sweetest! I finally had ‘er in my arms cryin’ fer God ‘n a hombre ridin’ by decided to play hero. He weren’t man ‘nough to challenge me ‘n came at me with a blade ‘n my back turned.” As they trot on, the stranger studies Ludlow’s ranch where dozens of riders are running about conjuring clouds. He wonders if it was Macy or Ol’ Ludlow who had the prudence to do a round-up to see what they lost – and remembers how the cowboys’d mentioned other times they’d raided the factories; there’ll finally be proof of rustling once they’re done, like Jon wanted all along. “Left me with a scar nastier’n an unwashed drunk.”
“Jon told thet story different.” The men in front whirl around in their saddles as the stranger turns his gaze to Loco, whose jaw clenches. “Said thet since you was treatin’ Macy like cattle you earned yoreself a brand.”
One of the frontmen pipes up. “Little Ludlow’s name ain’t often used in these parts.”
“I ain’t make his acquaintance in these parts. We met in Dodge.”
“In Texas?” Loco snorts as their caravan veers right and heads towards a wire-coated fence that the stranger remembers from last night. “Little Ludlow went thet far South?”
“Years back.” Moving through a spiky gate into Hewitt land, they pass a phalanx of brunets with loaded rifles and murderous scowls. Ignoring them, the stranger watches his scarred foe – for that’s the Hewitt who’ll decide his fate. “It was the first time Jon’s pa put him in charge ‘n he was a tenderfoot ‘n trusted the first feller he met. I reckon you’d fare better down there.”
“Even when yore praisin’ me it sounds like insultin’.”
“Take my talk how you like.” The others peel off and hang back with their kin by the gate, no longer expecting the stranger to run since he’s penned in. Loco turns left. The stranger follows him past six brick factories. The furthest building is the only one that isn’t screeching and is black with soot. They stop next to it. Internally, the stranger admires his handiwork; the copper building didn’t collapse (so no cattle were unnecessarily hurt), but the chutes look like giants used them as toothpicks and the ground’s as lifelessly grey as a twilight cemetery. “Shore is a mess.”
“Shore is, ‘n done by one man too. Had a hat jest like yors.”
“You ‘ccusin’ me of something?” The stranger turns toward Loco. Their hands don’t move, but a practiced eye would see them quaking with energy that would burst if the other went to arm himself. “It ain’t smart to make an enemy of a stranger.”
“I gave you many chances not to be a stranger. I been honest. I asked fer yer name—”
“You ain’t been honest.” Loco’s eyes narrow as the stranger continues. “‘Cause you know Jon was once seen ‘round Dodge. He went ‘n roped the wrong calf there, ‘n yore a smart ‘nough feller to hear ‘bout that.”
The scarred man frowns, but then guffaws. “Yore talkin’ ‘bout Little Ludlow handin’ Texas Jack a bullet? Thet story’s got more holes than a screen door! I bet thet outlaw’s made-up, besides, with his horse from Heaven ‘n his garments from Hell. Texans surely use him as an excuse – fore you can’t arrest someone who don’t exist.”
“You ain’t wrong. Lots of them stories are just thet, stories. Have you herd the one ‘bout his mare?” The stranger waits for Loco’s mouth to open to go on. “He calls her Luna,” under him, his mare snorts. “On ‘ccount of ‘er pelt. A feller he sold cattle to sold ‘em to a traveler ‘n told him they got stolen. The feller split, but Texas Jack tracked him to a San Antonio brothel, hauled him outside with his pecker still out, and scalped him: showin’ thet anyone who offends Texas Jack gets got. The feller’s mare charged him once he was done ‘n he was nearly bucked. He shot at her, but she was too quick fer even his lightnin’-fast gun.” Last night as the stranger’d galloped off, the sunset-hued flames would’ve disfigured his black-encased figure and his horse hadn’t been ghostly white, but Loco’s eyes widen as he puts two and two together. “It took days to track ‘er ‘n win ‘er over, but he ain’t been seen without Luna since. People say that mare’s the only creature he shows any kindness to.”
The shrieks of steers being massacred fills the silence until Loco speaks. The cowboy isn’t as cool as he was before, but his eyes still gleam – and the stranger gets why, for a yell would bring a brown-haired army to his side. “Yor quarrel ain’t with me.”
“Yor quarrel ain’t with me neither.”
“Then ride off. No Hewitt will harm you. You have my word.”
“Yor word ain’t mean much, Loco. Ain’t you lied to the law? With yor cousins ‘n Ludlow’s traitors, even Ol’ Ludlow thought his son stole.” Jack recalls when, years ago, Jon burst in on him telling his riders about a wagonful of army wages heading through Dodge he wanted to swipe. Jon had stormed up to the larger man and berated him, which made one of Jack’s men laugh: Yer lettin’ this little feller squawk at ya, Texas Jack? Instead of being scared, the foolhardy heir had doubled down and, after Jack beat him, had lobbed him a bullet: Yor heart’s as gold as a Spanish Armada ‘n yore the finest shot I ever seen, but yore livin’ a coward’s life! Yore better than this, Texas Jack, ‘n if I see you ‘gain ‘n you’re still wastin’ away, I’ll put that in yor chest! As a renowned gunslinger known from Montana’s forested peaks to New York’s skyscrapers, Texas Jack has heard his share of insults, but he’d never been so affected by words – and it took him years to realize it was because Jon was right; hiding behind an angelic horse and guns, Jack was a coward. He was smart, but he’d never gotten anywhere in life without causing pain. “Jon was the only man to ever see good in me. He was the salt o’ the Earth, ‘n you’ve made everyone think otherwise.”
“So you came to avenge him?”
“Three weeks ago some sheriffs down South got their heads together ‘n tried to reason out where I rest my head. They rounded up some men who used to ride fer me ‘n one turncoated. They ambushed me ‘fore I knew I was bein’ hunted. I would’ve died if not fer Luna hearin’ ‘em. Most gunslingers who call it quits buy a place away from anyone else where they only need their own two hands, but I’ll be chased ‘til I’m dead, so I’m goin’ to the last place anyone thinks Texas Jack would go: East. I came to Abilene fer the railroad, though I’m shore Jon’s spirit is happy I stopped by.”
“You know how peaceful Jon was?” Loco again tries to appeal to him. “His spirit wouldn’t want you to spill blood.”
“But I ain’t here for him. I’m here fer Macy. She asked fer my help.” Jack can see in Loco’s hastening breathing that he knows arguing is futile, but he gives the scarred man a chance. Seconds later when he goes for his pistol, Jack’s guns go off. Luna takes off as the bullets land, sprinting into Hewitt land, and Jack turns around. He aims for the others’ legs and sees some of them fall but, knowing every Hewitt will soon be chomping at the bit for his demise, he spurs Luna. She’s quick enough for every shot meant for Jack to land short, but Kansas is too flat for him to feel safe – for he can always see someone on the horizon.
It isn’t until the sun sets that he guides Luna to the fence dividing the Hewitts and Ludlows’ land. The mare readily jumps it and, once he sets a course for town, Jack sighs. Looking up at the darkening sky, he promises whoever’s up there that Loco Lester Hewitt will be the last creature he’ll kill – even if that means his own death. Luna snorts loud enough for him to notice and, when he looks down, he realizes she’s gone to Jon’s grave. He stares at the sandstone headstone, wishing he’d come while Jon was alive, before insisting there’s still time to prove him right; if he makes it out of Abilene, he’ll somehow even the scale on the hundreds of thousands of fatalities he’s caused: animal and human.
As he turns Luna towards town, he notices a bundle atop the grave. He gets off Luna and, as he squats, his nose fills with Macy’s floral scent. He speedily unpacks her gift and finds a linen suit, collared shirt, dress shoes, tie and felt bowler hat. All but the shirt, which is the blue of a clear afternoon, is gravelly grey and, after goggling the dress for minutes, Jack dons it. He folds his old clothes and places them, along with his guns and hat, by Jon’s bullet. Then, he turns to Luna and brushes her mane. Mournfully whining, she doesn’t move – for she’ll stand with him long as he lets her – but time isn’t infinite and at last he squeezes his feet into too-small dress shoes, tucks in his shirt, and walks on.
Looking like an Easterner, no one in Abilene pays him any mind: not the brunets lingering by the inn or the bald man with a sheriff’s star patrolling the streets. A tired clerk sells him a ticket for a coach enroute to Philadelphia that’s boarding. He runs to the track. Relaxing in a seat, he tries to get some much-needed shut-eye, but is plagued by the sound of stock being handled in time for the next run – which is due to arrive any day.
Bela Seitz has never met a gunslinger or a wrathful widow. She spends her time in NYC as far from cattle herds as possible, working on Broadway and writing in buildings taller than the entire state of Kansas.