Love Sure is Strange, Ain’t it?

Kickapoo, Kansas

1882

Kickapoo was a booming town with a bright future, thanks to a silver strike. That future was dimmed four months ago when three outlaws rode into town. What Blade Barker, Bryce Bader, and Misty Morgan didn’t steal, drink, or eat, they destroyed. Thriving off the townspeople’s lack of resistance, the trio took up permanent residence in the High Noon Saloon.

When outlaw Grizzly Grant heard the bank was unguarded, he and his gang rode in, taking $25,000. Barker didn’t object. If there was one person in Kansas who was meaner and more murderous than him, it was Grizzly.  

But there may be hope for Kickapoo. Someone has answered their ad for a town Marshal. The four members of the Town Council have convened an emergency meeting to interview him.

Mayor Dawson Delaney is an imposing six feet tall and almost three hundred pounds, distinguished by a bulldog jaw and a large mustache. But the battles of Shilo, Bull Run, and Gettysburg took the fight out of him, and he’s now sixtyish, compassionate, and cautious. A Vermont native, twenty-eight-year-old Martin Rainsbury, owner of the general store, was gung-ho to rid the town of Blade Barker until the outlaw pistol-whipped his handsome features. Nearing seventy, reedy Reverend Montague Love tried reasoning with Barker. Barker demonstrated his savagery by toppling the church’s ten-foot cross and spitting on it. At twenty-four, Porter Hodge, the boyish owner of the livery stable, worries about his business and two young children. He fears his wife is already lost to him.

A well-dressed man enters the Town Hall’s boardroom.

The man is Black.

“I’m here to answer the job posting for Marshal.”

The men burst out laughing.

“We don’t have time for jokes, son,” Mayor Delaney says.

“When it comes to handling a gun, I don’t joke.”

Mayor Delaney sizes up the man’s pearl-handled pistols and considers the brush of grey at his temples, the determination in his dark eyes, and his coiled physique.

“You’re articulate…”

“A wise man in San Francisco educated me. I learned a lot about life while serving with the Ninth Cavalry, fighting against the Mescalero Apaches.”

“So, you were a Buffalo Soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There was a Sergeant I heard about, a hard man named Crawford Collins, who was supposed to be a dead shot. You wouldn’t happen to be him, would you?”

“Come on, Dawson. He’d pretend to be Robert E. Lee if it got him a hundred a month,” Martin protests.

Crawford takes off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeve.

He has a red dragon tattoo on his right forearm.

“It’s him all right.”

“So, he’s got an intimidating tattoo,” Martin remarks. “How do you plan to bring Barker and his two roughnecks to heal?”

“Like the man said, I’m a dead shot.”

“If you’re ain’t, you’ll just be dead,” Porter comments. “You should know the calamity you’re signin’ up for.”

“Our problems stem from Blade Barker, Grizzly Grant, and their boys.” Mayor Delaney says. “Barker runs with Bryce Bader and Misty Morgan. All three are as crooked as a Virginia fence. Barker’s a road agent wanted in three states for robbery and murder. He’s fast with a gun, is deadly with a Bowie Knife, and has no qualms about killing. The first Marshal he faced, George Jackson, was a fine man but a pitiful shot.”

“Lord, Lord, they cut George Jackson down,” Reverend Love laments.

“The next Marshal, Kane Jackson, stood tall like an oak in the center of town,” Mayor Delaney continues. “Bader shot him in the back. Jackson’s Deputy, Turkey Thompson, then took over. The day we buried Kane, Turkey walked into the saloon bold as brass, and we followed him. When Barker showed Turkey the knife he was going to filet him with, Turkey dropped his gun. They plucked Turkey’s clothes, put a sign on him that read ‘coward,’ and rode him out of town on his horse. I can still hear Bryce Bader’s annoying cackle.”

“Bader ain’t nothin’ but a blowhard rummy,” Porter says. “I gave him a job muckin’ out my stables. He thanked me by stealin’ four of my horses. He’s got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide and wants to see Kickapoo suffer.”

“He lived outside of town for a while with Mo Morgan and her boy, Misty, the third desperado,” Reverend Love notes.

“Misty?”

“His Cheyenne grandmother brought him into the world,” Reverend Love replies. “Cheyennes name their children after the first thing they see when the child is born. Misty was born on a foggy morning.”

“Then he’s lucky he wasn’t named Foggy.”

“He’s luckier than his grandma was,” Reverend Love adds. “Blade Barker killed her when he met Mo. He might have killed her and the boy, too, except they don’t have the features of a Cheyenne, so he feels they can’t shame him. Mo lost her husband, Misty’s father, at the Battle of Glorieta Pass in New Mexico during the war, but she was a bitter pill long before then. She needed a man for her farm and her boy, and I guess she thought Bader was good enough. Their bitterness and sloth ruined that child.”

“I’ve seen lots of able-bodied men around here,” Crawford notes. “Why didn’t you assemble a militia and storm the saloon?”

Porter covers his face in shame. “They’ve got my wife. Martin’s, too. And they also took the undertaker’s girls. God knows what they’ve done to them.”

“So, there you are,” Mayor Delaney says. “The job is yours if you pass a test. Bring in Barker dead or alive.”

“And dead as a door nail’s fine with me,” Porter adds. 

“So, do you want the job?” Mayor Delaney asks.

Crawford picks the Marshal’s badge up off the table.

Bryce Bader looks up from his cards. “Criminy, what we got here?”

“Guess we killed so many Marshals they run outta real men,” Blade Barker says, puffing on a cigar.

Crawford takes off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“I’m here to arrest you.”

The portly outlaw leader gags on his cigar. Reaching for his Bowie Knife, Barker licks the blade. “Innerestin’ tattoo, but it don’t vex me. Your kind ain’t allowed in here, and I ain’t referring to you bein’ a lawman.”

Anticipating trouble, a group of grizzled cowboys rush out.

Crawford scans the room. The bartender twitches nervously. A short man with ruddy skin wearing a bowler hat looks away. A shifty-looking blonde-haired young man with baggy clothes moves away from Barker and Bader.

“You don’t understand, boy. I rode with Quantrill,” Barker brags. “We hung a dozen of your kind before breakfast.”

“I rode with the Buffalo Soldiers, and we jailed a dozen of your kind before dinner.”

Barker scoffs. “What’s a Buffalo Soldier?”

Bader cackles.  “Got plenty of sand for a dead man, don’t he, Blade?”

“Where are the women you kidnapped?”

“Upstairs.”

“Let’s see them.”

“Yep. A mountain full of sand,” Bader laughs.

“Bring ‘em down, Misty,” Barker commands. “If this rip of a lawman’s gonna die, let him see who he’s dyin’ for.”

Crawford and Barker cooly stare each other down, with neither man looking away.

Misty leads the women down the stairs, ushering them toward the back of the saloon. Crawford notices their bruises and black eyes.

“See? Fresh as daisies. Now what?”

“It’s your choice, Barker. Jail or hell.”

“Bottom line is, boy, I can’t throw up the sponge to the likes of you. It’d be bad for my reputation… So, hell, it is, then.”

Barker and Bader jump to their feet.

Barker barely touches his weapons before Crawford’s bullets knock the guns out of his hands.

Cackling, Bader draws his gun. Crawford takes him out with a single shot between the eyes.

Barker reaches for his Bowie knife. Crawford fires, his bullet passing through Barker’s heart. The cigar slips from his mouth. Dropping the knife, Barker falls to his knees. Looking at Crawford with surprise, he mutters, “…So that’s a Buffalo Soldier…,” falling forward.

Misty creeps toward the back door. No one notices his escape as the shrieking quartet of captives runs out the front door and into the arms of their loved ones.  

Misty ties his horse up in front of his mother’s house.

The modest wooden house is lopsided and in need of repair. Wearing tattered clothes with her stiff blonde hair pulled back in a bun, Mo Morgan is sweeping the dirt off the porch’s rotted steps.

She looks up at Misty, frowning.

“Where’s your father?”

“He ain’t my father. Least not no more.”

“So, after all them months livin’ the fast life with them fallen frails, he’s moved on, tossin’ me aside like an old plow horse.”

Misty kicks at the dirt.

“It’s worse, ain’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, ‘fraid so. A colored man shot Bryce and Blade dead.”

“What? Most of them folk don’t even own guns.”

“This one does, and he knows how to use ‘em. He’s the new Marshal.”

Mo scratches her head. “Well, I don’t care if Benjamin Harrison hisself shot ‘em. You’re gonna be my rod of vengeance.”

“I know where the Marshall gets his power. It come from his dragon.”

Bewildered, Mo smacks her son on the back of his head. “You tell me my man is dead, and now you’re funnin’ me?”

“No, Mama, I mean it. He’s got a dragon tattoo. You remember when them travelin’ gypsies came through here a few years ago? One of ‘em had a tattoo just like the Marshal. The gypsy told me it’s a symbol of immortality.”

“In-more what?”

“He can’t die.”

“Don’t blaspheme, boy. The Lord’ll strike you dead. Nevertheless, you got a score to settle before you’re free to burn in hell. So, how you plan to kill someone who can’t die?”

“You remember the story of Sampson and Delilah? How Sampson lost his strength when she cut his hair?”

“So?”

“I’m gonna find us a Delilah.”

Martin interrupts his conversation with Porter to investigate the tapping noise outside his general store. Picking up his bag of feed, Porter follows him.

Crawford is nailing a wanted notice to a post. It has an unflattering rendering of Grizzly Grant.

“A twenty-five-dollar reward? I heard it’s two thousand in Missouri,” Martin says. “He’s going to be real mad when he hears about this.”

“That’s the point.”

“Never did get to thank you for savin’ my darlin’ Clementine,” Porter says. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“I had my doubts about you two days ago,” Martin admits. “But you not only saved my wife, you also saved this town. Maybe we’ll find a way to thank you someday.”

An Asian woman in a decorative Chinese outfit passes them. Stunned by her almond-shaped blue eyes, ivory skin, and silky black hair, Crawford stops his hammering.

She turns around, their stares intertwining. Smiling seductively, she walks away.

“Whoa. I’ve never seen her smile at anybody,” Porter says.

“Who is that?”

“That’s Rong. She’s the proprietor of the, um, den of pleasure,” Martin answers.

“I heard Misty Morgan might be hiding out at her establishment,” Crawford replies. “I need to investigate.”

Crawford is awed by the ostentatious decorations in Rong’s room.

“Those vases…”

“Ming dynasty. Handed down from my mother’s mother to my mother to me.”

“And the chandeliers, the hand-crafted furniture, the Afghan rugs, the lace curtains?”

“Antiques, shipped from San Francisco.”

Rong pours him a cup of tea from a silver tea set.

“Jasmine?”

She looks at him with surprise.

“I’m familiar with your customs,” he says.

“And I’m aware of yours.”

Rong reaches for a bottle of whiskey on the table, adding some to the tea.

“So, is this visit for business or pleasure?”

 “The latter.”

“I thought so. Do you believe in destiny?” Rong asks.

Moving to her dresser, she picks up a small ivory sculpture of a man and a woman holding hands.

The man and the woman bear a striking resemblance to Crawford and Rong.

Crawford notices the male figure only has one arm.

“A man named Yaun Shi Kai gave it to me when I was a girl in San Francisco,” Rong says.

Rong shudders when Crawford takes off his shirt, staring at his tattoo.

“You got that from Yaun Shi Kai, didn’t you?”

“Small world, isn’t it? He was my teacher. I got pretty drunk with him one night, and when I woke up, there it was. We said some mumbo jumbo together, and he told me that bullets couldn’t harm me.”

“Have they?” Rong asks.

“Strangely enough, no. Some men in Laramie had their minds set on lynching me. I rode off, certain I’d die anyway. They must’ve shot at me a dozen times. Not one bullet hit me… Another time, a shootist in Reno beat me to the draw. He fired two shots at my head. I just figured he was a lousy shot.”  

“The dragon protects you. I’ll die, your children will die, but you’ll live forever as long as that tattoo is part of you. Do you want to live forever?”

“Only if you’re by my side.”

“HOW MUCH?” Grizzly Grant bellows, pounding the table.

Taking off his bowler hat, Bevy Plantier meekly replies, “Twenty-five dollars.”

With his towering height, slender frame, bald head, and large droopy owl-like eyes, Grizzly Grant is as much feared for his looks as his ill-tempered personality.

“That snapperhead will pay for disrespectin’ me!”

“I was in the High Noon Saloon when Collins killed Barker and Bader. He was lightnin’ personified.”

“I helped chase the Cheyennes outta Kansas, and they was as fierce as Satan sittin’ on a pitchfork. I ain’t gonna let a single man, colored or white, soil my reputation. Let’s ride!”

Crawford takes a deep breath when he sees five riders storming down the street toward his office.

A crowd cautiously gathers nearby.

Grant steps down from his horse.

“I got eighteen thousand of your bank’s money left in my saddle bags,” Grant announces. “And I’ll throw in your twenty-five-dollar reward. I’ll bet the money against your life.”

“I’ll take those odds,” Crawford replies. “Drop your guns. You’re under arrest.”

Grant is still reaching for his holster when he feels Crawford’s bullet part his skull. As Grant falls dead, a second man fires at Crawford, hitting his office window. Crawford pumps two bullets into his chest.

Unsheathing his rifle, Bevy Plantier draws a bead on Crawford. Two lassos wrap around Plantier’s small frame, yanking him from his horse.

“It’s time to repent, brother,” Reverend Love says as Bevy hits the ground. He and Mayor Delaney finish trussing Plantier up.

Porter, Martin, and a group of men point shotguns at the two remaining outlaws, who quickly surrender.

“We like to pay our debts around here,” Martin says to Crawford.

Shifting several parcels in her hands, Rong stops short when Misty Morgan blocks her path.

“Marshal Collins will come running if I scream.”

Misty pulls out a Bowie knife.

“So don’t scream, and everythin’ will be hunky-dory. I gotta job for you.”

The dresser drawer creaks as Rong opens it. Crawford stirs in his sleep. Muttering her name, he smiles, remaining in a blissful slumber.

Crossing the floor, Rong hesitates, praying she has the strength to do what must be done.

She reaches for Crawford’s right arm.

Crawford wakes up screaming.

Rong holds up his severed right arm. His blood covers the image of the red dragon tattoo.

“What have you done to me!”

Weeping, Rong replies, “I had to do it. He threatened to kill me and all my girls… Besides, it’s wrong for a man to be invincible.”

Crawford tries to get out of bed. The excruciating pain blurs his vision, and he passes out.

Days later, when Crawford regains his senses, Porter is standing over him holding bandages, his shirt stained with blood.

“The regular doc’s outta town deliverin’ a baby. I’ve done some doctorin’ before, so I stepped in.”

Crawford looks at his bandaged shoulder.

“Looks like you did a good job.”

“So did Rong. She cut your arm off neat, like a surgeon. You gonna kill her?”

“I can’t. I love her. And she loves me. We’re destined to be together.”

“Guess so. She’s the one who sent for me. But she sure has a strange way of showin’ her affection.”

“Looks like my days as Marshal are numbered.”

Porter’s expression darkens. “Misty’s in town, braggin’ that he’s gonna gun you. He’s a runt. A dangerous one, but he needs to be stopped. He’s the type who won’t stop killin’ once he gets a taste for it. But don’t fret. We’ll take care of him for you.”

“No. No matter how many parts I’m missing, I’m still the Marshal,” Crawford replies, slowly rising from the bed.

Crawford’s gait is unsteady as he walks toward the High Noon Saloon.

A young boy gasps at the sight of Crawford darting inside.

Misty emerges, grinning broadly.

He strides into the street as a crowd of muttering townspeople gather.

Crawford tries to draw his gun. He realizes too late that he’s trying to move a limb that’s no longer there.

Crawford looks at Misty, who is pointing his Colt .44 at his head.

“My Ma wants you dead, Marshal. So, dead you gotta be.”

A blast from a shotgun cuts through Misty’s side. He turns to look at Rong before falling dead.

Porter helps Crawford get into the buckboard.

“You should stay. Folks have grown right fond of you.”

“Where are you going?” Martin asks.

“San Francisco,” Rong answers.

“We’re following our destiny,” Crawford adds.

A crowd of people led by the Town Council cheers their departure.

“Are they cheering because they’re happy he’s leaving or because he’s a hero?” Martin wonders.

“Bit of both, I guess,” Porter replies. “I still don’t understand how he could forgive the woman who maimed him. Love sure is strange, ain’t it?”