Passing Through Desert Rose

It was a wide, baked plain west of the Badlands, deep in the heart of the Arizona Country. Against the pitiless, brassy glare of the mid-afternoon sun, the striking white of the settlement walls could be seen like a haze against the barren landscape. A few fingers of cacti and clumps of mesquite grass grew in the harsh soil, if soil it could be termed, otherwise for miles the desert stretched on, north, south and east of the Badlands, like an ocean of white against the pale blue of the sky.

“Shore is a one-eyed burg, Ol’ Hoss,” a young rider observed to his stallion who flung its head up as if in answer to his slow, drawled speech. He then reached for the ‘makings’ to roll a smoke and in that moment, the sun caught its sharp reflection on a hidden lawman’s star pinned to his shirt.

In one deft movement, the rider struck a match against his pommel and lit up.

“Well, we’re only passin’ through, so don’t get too attached,” he muttered to himself. “We have one hellava long way to go,” and he recalled his orders he received from the Governor, and his job ahead of him.

“There’s muck in there,” the Governor had said. “Get rid of it. And clean up any town that needs a cleanin’ in between. I’ve given you a free hand – and a badge.”

“C’mawn you ol’ bag of devilry,” he added affectionately to his horse. “You don’t get yore hooves glued to this spot or you’ll have me roasted alive!” And with a gentle nudge of his blunted stirrups, the bay began to trot toward the walls of the settlement beyond.

The town was certainly the ‘one eyed burg’ that the rider had predicted to his horse, for the only road that it boasted was the one that the rider stood on, and this ran right through the town, ending at the door of the Polar Ice Cap – the only saloon that the town boasted. It was a two-storied structure, and the upper floor looked fairly more recent than the one below. A hitching rail beside was occupied by a line of horses and the rider quickly guessed, with a smile where the male population of the town had holed up.

“Right smart too,” he muttered, “an’ that’s where I should be headed to get me outa this heat.

The rest of the town was ‘not much of a sight to rest one’s eyes on,’ for in some of the alleyways that crept out onto the main street, there were heaps of rubbish and stray dogs wandering around in search of scraps. Crude dwellings made of adobe and unlovely shapes of hovels that some called ‘homes’ were some of the sights along the narrow, dark alleyways. The only other imposing structure was the jail, and this stood at right angles to the Polar Ice Cap. Otherwise, Desert Rose, which was the town’s whimsical name, was as unlovely as any wayside settlement that stood between two extremes of nothing.

The rider had reached the hitching rails outside the Polar Ice Cap by this time and despite the heat, took his time to look around. From where he sat upon his bay stallion, the entrance of the town and also its exit opened to the vast desert where a line of blue hills in the distance merged with the hazy horizon. The adobe shacks along the main street were white against the pale blue sky, and the dark alleys in-between were in stark contrast.

When he vaulted off the bay stallion, tying him to the hitching rails, one could observe that he was a tall man, lithe and supple of body, lean of hips and broad of shoulder. The rider was aware that he was the subject of attention, for he had noticed some heads peep out of the ‘holes’ along the unpleasant hovels, and from the two windows of the Polar Ice Cap.

A young, blond man of not more than nineteen or twenty sat by the rails, under a crude shelter, and gawked at him in boyish wonder. The rider looked at him, noted that something was not right with the young man and softened his eyes into a smile

“You work here?” came the question gently and the boy nodded quickly, standing and hobbling up to the rider and his horse. The tall newcomer pulled out a dollar and placed it in the man’s palm. “See that the hoss is watered and fed and rubbed down good an’ proper,” were his instructions.

Typically, the boy would have had to be told twice, and normally, he would have had a perpetual smile mixed with some wonder on his dull features. Usually, he would have had to be gently threatened before he got to work, but the low tied twin-guns that hung easily upon the rider’s hips filled him with a kind of amazement, the feeling that this was the kind of man he always dreamed of becoming. Nodding quickly and wiping the dribble from his gawking mouth, he set about to do his chore.

When the rider pushed through the bat wing doors of the saloon, there was a sound of a sudden rush and drawing of chairs and he smiled to himself. The saloon was dark and cool and quiet and the tables were occupied with men seated around with drinks or games of chance, but behind the feigned interest in their activities, the rider detected that they were curious. He took one glance around and then draped himself around the bar, calling for a drink and pushing a Golden Eagle forward. While the drink was being conjured up by the fat bar owner, who wore a white apron around his ample middle, the rider looked out beyond the bat wing doors at the young boy, rubbing the bay down.

“The kid’s crazy,” said the bartender following the new-comer’s gaze. “Crazy but harmless. He has the mind of a five-year-old.” He pushed the bottle and glass forward and continued softly, resting his fat, hairy arms across the smooth, polished mahogany bar. “He was improving real, young Jack was, but it’s a mon’ now since his grand-daddy passed away an’ Jack’s not got over it yet. He’s on’y gawt wurse.”

“No other family huh?” the rider seemed disinterested as he sipped his drink.

“None that we know of. The ol’ man didn’t talk much an’ I dint ask. They rode in a coupla years back and the ol’ man needed a job. Well, I needed someone to take care of the hosses.” The bartender looked beyond the batwing doors at the subject of their conversation hobbling around. “Jack ain’t as fast or as good as his gran’paw, but he’ll larn I reckin.” He thrust a fat hand forward. “Call me Mike; Mike O’Malley is my name.”

“The stranger nodded. “Kane Savern,” he said and O’Malley’s mind worked quickly. No, he told himself. This name was not familiar, but names meant nothing in the West. Savern spoke again, “anyplace here I cin get a room?”

“Shore can. Right here,” said the barman with a smile. “A dollar a night with food. Jack’ll see to the hoss.”

“Sounds good to me,” the rider commented and pushed another dollar forward.

At that moment the hoof beats of horses were heard riding up and stopping at the hitching rails. There were a few low grated words and then a bellow of thunderous, deriding laughter.

“Sounds like Sim Hart and his deppities is here.” He looked concerned and shook his balding head. “A bad bunch ‘cept fer Bob Walker. He’s white. The Sheriff calls hisself Black Hart and I ain’t never known of a moniker that’s more apt…”

A sudden sound of a slap cut through the quiet afternoon and Jack who’d been rubbing down Ol’ Hoss was sent sprawling into the horse trough beyond. There was another bellow of rough laughter followed by a deep, booming voice:

“First come, first served huh you little, half-wit runt. That’d larn you some.”

“There was no call for that Sim,” another voice said levelly and there was another roar of laughter. “The kids jes’ a half-wit.”

The bat wing doors swung open and three rough looking men entered. The biggest, a sneering individual in the lead, had a shiny star pinned to his vest and a smooth butted colt thrust into its holster on the left. The other two, although smaller by comparison were big men nevertheless, followed, one of whom, a scar-face glared challengingly around the room. The other looked back at the fallen boy, his face drawn up in lines mixed with deep pity and disgust, and his friends laughed harshly at him.

“Since when you started to dry nurse him Bob?” the scar face laughed. “You got the heart of a skirt sometimes.”

“Bah he’s jest a useless piece of dirt,” the sheriff dismissed the subject of their conversation from his mind and boomed at the gritting bar-tender, “set ‘im up you old Irish buzzard,” and glasses and a bottle were presently set before them. He looked around, insolently, as if challenging anyone in the room to question him about the attack on the mentally challenged young man outside. His gaze fell on Savern sitting at the bar cuddling his drink, and in one movement of the eye, noted the twin gun-belt and the smooth butts of the pistols they held.

“Well, well, a stranger in town,” he said aloud.

“Leave him be Sim,” Bob Walker softly said. “He ain’t bothering nobody.”

The Sheriff whirled upon his deputy and for a long moment stared at him, the tiny muscle in his jaw bobbing up and down.

“When I want yore advice Walker, I’ll ask fer it,” he seethed. “Now I run thisyer town and no twin-gun hombre is gonna ride in and ride out as he pleases, yu got that softie?”

“I wear two guns Sim,” came Walker’s level response. “Yu wanna test how much of a softie I am?”

For a long moment Black Hart stared at his Deputy and then, when the room had hushed to a deathly silence, he raised his two fingers and jabbed Bob Walker backward, as if to dismiss him.

“I’ll deal with you Walker…later,” he grated. “But for now,” he turned, the black anger in his face vanishing into a slippery smile. “Now where wuz we?” he looked at the young rider and added, “sports two guns.”

“Tied down low,” supplemented Scar Face.

The young man turned, faced them, laconically rolled a cigarette and lit up. He leaned his left elbow against the bar counter and tipped his Stetson back on his head.

“You will also note that there’s a tiny scratch on the left holster,” he added whimsically with the cigarette between his lips and a curtain of smoke in front of him.

There was a snicker from the quiet gathering in the saloon and the Sheriff’s face turned ugly. His glare around the room ended the merriment the instant it began, and he averted his attention back to the rider. Mike O’Malley stepped forward and a laid gentle but restraining hand on his huge shoulder; the hand was instantly shrugged off with a warning to the bartender to mind his own.

“Trying to be funny huh,” he then grated at Savern. “Well, you shore won’t laff at this! Pull yore own you bastard!” and with those words the big man’s left hand clawed for his gun. There was a hush in the room; the sheriff was considered lightning fast, but he had hardly cleared leather when there was a sharp retort followed by a crash of metal on the floor. He gazed in amazement at Savern and then looked at his own bloody hand which only a second ago had held a now useless gun. Behind the curtain of smoke, the young gunman sat laconically, the cigarette still dangling at his lips and his left elbow still rested against the bar. Only thing, palmed as if by magic in his right hand low at his hip was a menacing six-shooter, smoking thinly from the barrel.

“Yore right Mister. You shore won’t laff at this,” he said coolly. “Now,” He stood up, dropped the cigarette to the sanded floor and snuffed it out with the toe of his boot. “Turn around,” and with his gun he beckoned to the Sheriff and his scar faced deputy, “and march!”

“Where…where to?” asked the Sheriff, his bloody hand thrust up and his voice strangely hoarse.

“You gotta larn some Mister,” came the reply as Scar Face hesitantly pushed the batwing door open. Jack had been rubbing a big paint down, wiping away a trickle of blood from the side of his lip. When his eyes fell on the two bullies, he cowered and rubbed the horse even more vigorously. When Kane Savern and Bob Walker stepped out from behind them, he hesitated, glanced at Ol’ Hoss standing unattended and then looked helplessly at Mike O’Malley, who had followed the group. From out of the door and the windows heads poked curiously to watch the proceedings. The street turned still as folks, sitting in the shade along the side-walks sat up to take notice.

“Please Mister,” Jack stammered at Savern. “I’s a-gonna tend yore hoss right after thisyer paint…and fer f-free. Yu cin have yer dollar back…”

“No Jack,” Savern replied. “Yore gonna tend to Ol’ Hoss for that dollar I gave you. But first,” he turned to the two sullen men and wavered his gun at them, “which one of these cowards cuffed you just now?”

“Dunno,” the boy hesitated and looked down shaking his head. “Dunno.”

At that moment there was a shuffle and Bob Walker placed himself between the boy and the Sheriff. His fist pivoted forward, carrying with it all the power of his big, muscled shoulders and landed it square on the Sheriff’s jaw, with a dull, heavy thud. The lawman’s head snapped back; he rocked on his heels and in a windmill of arms, he fell back into the dust, dazed. Walker stepped down and ripped off the star pinned to the Sheriff’s vest, handing it to O’Malley.

“Yu ain’t worth the metal it’s made from Hart,” he grated. “An’ yu,” he turned to Scar Face. “There ain’t no place for a yeller bellied dawg like yu in Desert Rose. Punch the breeze, both of you or there’ll be a double funeral today.”

“You heard him,” Savern said waving his gun as the big lawman, stripped of his star slowly got to his feet. “Now slope!”

Bob Walker gripped Jack’s shoulder, nodded at Kane Savern and both turned insolently towards the batwing doors. A movement sounded behind them and Kane Savern had been ready for it. Half a second after he turned Desert Rose was silenced by a sharp gun report and Sim Hart slumped to the ground, a bullet clean through his heart. At that moment there was another report, followed by Savern’s gun firing a second time, and Scar face was flung back ward in the dust, a bloody hole, the size of a nickel between his eyes. Beside Savern, Bob Walker was thrown against the wall of the saloon, a small blood patch flowering on his arm.

“Reckin he winged me,” he muttered with a grin, as at least twenty pairs of hands eagerly him carried past the batwing doors of the Polar Ice Cap.

Someone from the group who had examined the wound commented that the bullet had gone clean through, and another added that the missile was now wedged in the wall outside. Someone else suggested that the town doctor be roused from his drunken slumber and a fourth remarked that Bob Walker had been very lucky indeed.

Jack only hobbled forward, tore off his bandanna and placed it against Bob Walker’s arm. “With both o’ em plugged, would that make you Sheriff now Mr. Walker?” he asked innocently.

Kane Savern smiled at the question. The Law, he knew was now come to Desert Rose. He reloaded his gun, turned to O’Malley and said, “Now what wuz you sayin’ ‘bout that room Mike?”