by Pat Nolan
“I’m dead, old boy, all this chin wagging has me exhausted.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t expect more from a literary novice such as yourself. To be a true scribe, you have to have a fire in the belly, a passion to pen words, and once you get rolling, like a locomotive, you have a hell of a time coming to a stop. I figure if we keep up this pace, we’ll have to buy the ink by the pound. . .”
“And the whiskey by the barrel.”
“A writer needs fuel, a little liquid inspiration, and the distilled kind burns brighter and hotter than coal oil.”
“Hell, I hope you’re not thinking of drinking that, too!”
“You misjudge me, sir, and the refinement of my tastes. I will admit to having imbibed in drink that was as vile though never that whose purpose was to fuel a lamp.”
“All the same, I don’t know how you do it. I’m having a hard time understanding why. I’m no book writer.”
“Pat, we have to get our version of the events before the public in a credible, verifiable manner, and we must put to rest the claims of your critics who say that you are nothing more than a hired assassin.”
“That’s a damn lie!”
He took me by surprise. Had I known he was due, I would have done what any man in his right mind would have done.
“I showed you the editorial in the Messila Democrat, the one they reprinted from that San Francisco paper. The writer was of the opinion that you should have been brought up on charges. . . .”
“I was performing my duties as a sworn officer of the law! I knew when I went after him that I might have to kill him. I can only humbly apologize, at this late hour, for not having consulted with that San Francisco editor!”
“You know as well as I do, Pat, the scribblers live for scandal and controversy. It butters their bread, and assures that the bottle will always be close to their elbow. They are a low-down, cynical, vituperative, disparaging, backbiting, slanderous lot who wield a lurid and poisonous pen with no regard for veracity, fairness, honor, and integrity. They defame your person in print, and in illustration, by portraying you as shooting him from behind the bed, from under the bed, among other places of concealment.”
“Hell, I wasn’t behind the bed for the simple reason I couldn’t fit there. A bible leaf couldn’t have fit there! I wasn’t under the bed either. I could have been under the bed but that would assume that I was expecting him, and I wasn’t. He took me by surprise. Had I known he was due, I would have done what any man in his right mind would have done.”
“Exactly my point, and then they charge that you are writing an account of the ordeal with the nefarious object of making money! They are continually astounded by the obvious and do their best to cast it in a malicious light. They are a mongrel pack of asinine pencil pushers. What in the Hell do they suppose your object to be? Do they really believe that you should not attempt to make money out of what they are calling a lucky shot? Scribblers of every ilk who have never been to New Mexico and have never got within a thousand miles of their subject can compile newspaper rumors and pen as many lies about you and about him as they please—I have counted eight ‘authentic’ biographies to date—and make as much money out of their bogus, unreliable heroics as can be exhorted from a gullible public, and they are acclaimed! Yet, our truthful, factual history should be suppressed because you were paid for ridding the countryside of an outlaw! How do these impertinent meddlers, these penny-a-line hacks know how much money you have made by this accident or incident or whatever name they choose to designate it? You had to petition the Territorial Legislature just to get the reward money that was rightfully yours! How many thousands of dollars worth of stock and property did you save the citizens of this Territory by accomplishing your sworn duty? If they were reasonable men, they might be swayed by these considerations, but they are not. They are nigglers, parasites, pasquinaders of dubious parentage, sneering traducers who elevate the mangiest of curs to a lofty position by comparison!”
“Now where were we? Ah, yes, you had dogged those boys and cornered them in an abandoned line shack at Stinking Springs. How did you know where to find them?”
“I followed their trail from Wilcox’s place. I could see by the direction the tracks were taking that they had made for Stinking Springs.”
“After that gun fray in Fort Sumner, you’d figure they’d make a bee line for Mexico”
“When we rode up to within half a mile of the shack, I knew we had them trapped. I divided the men up in two groups, and led my boys, Tip and Barney, up an arroyo to where we were able to get in close.”
“How could you be sure it was them? What led you to suspect that it was actually them and not some local sheepherders who had taken shelter from the weather?”
“The tracks led right up to where there were three horses tied to the projecting rafters of the adobe hut. I knew there to be five of them. They were all mounted, and so I concluded that two of the horses were inside.”
“Of course, an elementary deduction, old boy. We have the horses, but what about the criminals? How could you pick out the leader from among his mangy cohorts?”
“I had an accurate description of his outfit, especially his hat, a green bowler. I told my men that should he show himself, I intended to kill him then and there. With their chief dead, I was positive that the others would surrender.
“You don’t think that he could have been taken alive?”
“He had sworn that he would never give up, that he would die fighting, a pistol at each ear. In regards to this tendency, I knew him to be good to his word.”
“He could be reckless, I would attest.”
“I informed the men that the signal would be when I brought my rifle up to my shoulder. We would all rise and fire.”
“This had to be in the wee hours of the morning, six feet of snow on the ground, not able to light a fire to keep warm. How long did you have to wait?”
“Just before daylight a man appeared in the door-way. His size and dress, especially his hat, matched exactly the description I had of him. I raised my rifle and fired. The men did the same.”
“I’ll assume that at least one of that volley found its mark.”
“He turned and reeled back into the adobe. Billy Wilson called out. I could tell it was him by that Yankee accent. He said we’d killed Charlie Bowdre and that he was sending him out. I replied that he could come out with his hands up.”
“I heard that someone instructed him when they pushed him to the doorway. Who do you suppose it was?”
“It would be impossible to tell. We were in shouting distance but still a ways from where we might be able to eavesdrop.”
“Could he have said something like, ‘They murdered you, Charlie, but you can get revenge, kill some of those sons of bitches before you die?’ That sentiment would be in keeping with his ruthlessness, even in the aftermath of his close chum’s mortal wounds.”
“We can only speculate as to what was said. All the same, Charlie stumbled out, his pistol still in its scabbard, and when he recognized me, he came straight at me.”
“Did he go for his gun? Did he speak? What did he say?”
“He motioned with his hand toward the shack. I think he was trying to say something.”
“He didn’t offer any regret?”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps he expressed remorse over not accepting your offer of leniency when you had met with him a fortnight previous. Or sorrow over leaving a young wife and child unprovided for. He might have said something like ‘I wish, I wish’ by way of repentance.”
“No. He keeled over and I caught him as he fell. I laid him down on the ground and he died right then, that green bowler pulled down over his ears.”
“I guess you could say that he died with his boots and his hat on. Did he gasp, ‘I’m dying’ or anything to that effect?”
“He was gargling and choking on his blood even if he had wanted to say something.”
“Gargling on his blood, you say.”
“It wasn’t whiskey.”
“I propose a toast, sir, to the completion of our noble effort. This modest volume is as fine a book as has ever been writ on the subject, and whose exposition sets the record straight once and for all.
No finer endeavor can man put forth than the edification of the populace, especially when they are accustomed to the fallacious assumptions advanced by the partisan press and in the crimson screed of penny dreadfuls. I hold in my hand history, pure and simple. I am confident that you share in the assessment of our triumph.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that it is a coup. The title itself constitutes quite a mouthful.”
“The truth, my good fellow, is always a mouthful. I could have pandered to the crowd with a lurid nomination but for my sense of dignity, my sense of correctness in the pursuit of literary style, my sense of history, and above all, my sense of righteousness. Would I dare sully our genuine enterprise with such florid designations as ‘King of The American Highwaymen’ or ‘The Great Detective’s Chase’ or the supercilious puffery by that pseudonymic author who borrows on the exalted heritage of Spanish ancestry to give himself a mere hint of veracity, ‘The True Life of Billy The Kid’? I can go him one better if one equals a hundred. What I hold here, my good friend, is the authentic life of that noted desperado of the Southwest, whose deeds of daring and blood made his name a terror in New Mexico, Arizona, and Northern Mexico. It is a faithful narrative unlike the fabrications emanating from the mephitic crypt of the Atlantic literary syndicate!”
“It appears that the truth, like a new rope, can always stand some stretching.”
“To what are you referring, sir? I stand by the sincerity of our account. True, I did engage in hyperbole when dealing with the formative years of this hellion. But this is merely a literary device to engage the reader. In a duel, you don’t start off with a knife when your opponent has a revolver. We are in a contest with mendacious mongrels who slash the truth to shreds with their rabid nibs. I speak with authority on this subject as I have numbered among their rank and am aware of the crude inventions tendered as fact just to entice the reader into another month’s subscription. I have excised that pecuniary coarseness from my literary character. Truth is my mistress! I serve only her!”
“Consuela will be very disappointed to hear that.”
“Don’t try to sidetrack me, Pat, I am offended that you suspect my motivation. In the attempt to make an honorable yet marketable presentation, I have had to tread the same terrain as the purveyors of cheap cowboy claptrap. However, what I bring to the poker table is a sophisticated sense of style, wide erudition, and the simple fact that I’ve looked in the eyes of many of the participants of this chronicle. I’d say that’s akin to a royal flush!
“The entire length of our collaboration, I had as my compass the shining example of the inimitable Walter Scott. His rousing sagas of medieval times transposed to the dusty arroyos of the Southwest, this was the object of my elevated style. As for the verses in the early chapters, they announce to the reader that they have entered a domain in which the Muse is honored. Poetry is edifying, it sings to the soul. Even the most delicate of readers of this rugged yarn will take heart that they are in the company of educated sensibilities. The very ink with which all of history is written is merely fluid prejudice! I, sir, am simply diverting the flow to a higher ground!”
“The problem is that my name on it says I wrote it.”
“Your name is your contribution and testament to the legitimacy of the account. You are the hero of this narrative. I am Boswell to your Johnson, a mere quill driver, a scrivener of tolerable skill, a shade, a genial hack. I put into words your experience, your man hunting savvy, your dogged determination in apprehending this rabid, murdering cur!”
“I was just doing my job.”
“And you’re too modest a man to flaunt your accomplishments. Yet your due is denied you. You are disrespected in the press by politicians who puff themselves up by disparaging you. Your decency is an anathema to them.”
“Another jolt?”
“My pleasure. But to reiterate, this book is a testament to a man who put himself in harm’s way to bring law and order to the decent folks of Lincoln County and the New Mexico Territory. And it is our endeavor to set the record straight.”
“Still, I am troubled.”
“Pat, I’m all ears.”
“This is not about your physical appearance, Ash.”
“Touché, old man. Continue.”
“It’s been bothering me ever since we corrected the galleys. Now I know my part was mainly in relating the facts of my hunting him down, capturing him at Stinking Springs, going after him when he escaped from jail, and flushing him out back in Fort Sumner. You wrote everything else. . . .”
“Tut, tut, old fellow, I’ll get my due just in knowing that in tandem we pulled together to create an opus of unparalleled authenticity.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at.”
“Open the sluice gates then, I’m anxious to glimpse the glint of your precious mettle.”
“You puffed up this no-account son of a bitch and made him appear thrilling and romantic just like some character in a novel. But that’s not him. He never saved a wagon train from Indians, or rode a horse eighty-one miles in six hours. If twenty Indians had chased him as you say, he would have left a trail of yellow shit a mile wide from here to Santa Fe. He wasn’t reckless and daring, he was cunning and deceitful. He always watched his back. The time he dropped his guard was the night I killed him.”
“Now, Pat, I fully appreciate your concerns. But for the thoroughness of our account, I could not have a man of your substance and very real stature go against a flimsy stick figure villain. That would not have played well, either. He had to be someone with enough flesh to give blood to the chase. If I had not allowed myself the license to elaborate as I did, he would have been nothing more than a lifeless scarecrow. I believe I made him a worthy opponent.”
“All the same, I come off badly, more like that Sheriff in England. . . .”
“Nottingham?”
“That’s the one, and that other fellow. . . .”
“Robin Hood.”
“That’s right, that’s the way you made him out to be. And I look like a damn fool. . . .”
“Whoa up, old man. It’s time to dismount and rest the horses. What you forget is that you are the hero. He is the one who killed twenty-one men by the time he had reached that very age.”
“He was lucky if he killed half a dozen.”
“Be that as it may. He was a cold-blooded killer. He could never elicit sympathy from the public. You represent justice. He represents the miscreant who must pay the toll on the road to Hell. Justice has been done. In the final verdict, my good man, the truth rests on your side of the scale. The facts speak for themselves. Everything that has bearing on this episode in the history of the Southwest is contained in this volume. Everything!”
“Not everything.”
“You don’t say. Now then, enlighten me as to my omissions.”
I have no regrets in ending the life of such a treacherous, double-dealing coward.
“When I told you John Poe had found out that our man was still skulking about in Fort Sumner, I was protecting the identity of the true informant.”
“Who was?”
“Ash, this cannot go beyond this room.”
“You have my word as a gentleman and an author.”
“It was Pete Maxwell. He was concerned that his little sister, Rosalina, was much too deeply involved with our man, and if it went on much longer that she would calf his desperate breed.”
“Pat, that news is about as fresh as last week’s El Paso Herald. Everyone knows John Poe is inept at anything but being a politician. He’s more interested in shaking hands than putting irons on them. What else?”
“As you’ll recall, when I explained what occurred at Stinking Springs, I was certain that I had him in my sights because I had been given an exact description of his apparel, right down to that green bowler.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I was sorely disappointed when it turned out that it was Charlie Bowdre I killed. When we passed back by the Wilcox ranch with our prisoners, I mentioned this to old man Wilcox, and he told me something quite surprising. He said that the night we caught that bunch off guard in Fort Sumner and killed Tom Folliard, they held a pow-wow at the ranch in which they reviled me and my posse.”
“Understandable.”
“He also told me that at one point our man made a big show of giving Charlie his vest and his hat, the two distinguishing items of clothing by which he could be identified. Charlie, it appeared to Wilcox, was genuinely touched by his chum’s generosity. Little did he know that he was being set up as a target. I have no regrets in ending the life of such a treacherous, double-dealing coward.”
“And rightfully so. History will judge you fairly, my friend. We can include that conjecture in the second edition, if you wish.”
“You think there will be a second edition?”
“Without a doubt. I’m already at work on a sequel of sorts. ‘Colorful Characters of the Southwest.’ It will be an omnibus of facts and fancy regarding our corner of the world. Pioneers like Chisum and his clan, celebrities such as Governor Wallace. . .it will include sketches of all the denizens of our locality, ranchers and sodbusters alike, brush poppers and snoozers, and wild Indians, a rich panoply of life on the frontier. It will play big back East where they are hungry for the rustic. While you are tending your peach orchards, I will be plying my pen to the work of history!”
“Did you say ‘Indians’?”
“Why, yes, I did.”
“I could tell you a story.”
In late February of 1908, a one-time drover, buffalo hunter, saloon owner, hog farmer, peach grower, horse rancher, US Customs inspector, private investigator, county sheriff, and Deputy US Marshal set out from his adobe home on the mesa above Organ, New Mexico accompanied by a young man in a black buggy on the journey to Las Cruces. He would never arrive. This is the story of that journey, a novel account of the last day in the life of a legendary lawman.
In March of 1892, a Scotsman by the name of Arthur C. “Artie” Doyle was hanged by the neck until dead after being found guilty of a string of grisly murders of prostitutes in Whitechapel. At that moment, history veered off its presumed course and headed in a direction all its own in which the Great War never happened because the Kaiser was afraid of offending his grandmother, Queen Victoria, whose life has been prolonged by the wonders of biology. The peace of her reign, known as the Pax Victoriana, despite some major environmental disasters, has lasted 180 years keeping as many Victorian airs as possible while making accommodations to bio technology. Cheése Stands Alone poses a steampunk question, can Captain Lydia Cheése find her father, the antigovernment turncoat and radical, Commodore Jack “Wild Goose” Cheése. And furthermore, will her quest take her around the globe and through alternate world histories in the requisite 80 days or is it the beginning of a lifelong journey?
In Just Coincidence, a privileged young man with the unremarkable name of Wayne Bruce returns to the site where his father once had his business, a battery manufacturing plant, and where he often spent his childhood days hanging around the factory and the neighborhood. His return is haunted by the mysterious circumstances surrounding his father’s death and the vague feeling that his uncle is somehow involved. Appalled by the poverty and crime of the place he remembers fondly, he is moved to resolve the injustice of the socially marginalized and to wreak vengeance on those he believes are responsible for the death of his father. A personal coincidence brings together dark prince and dark knight joined in a fateful and tragic quest for justice.
She was pointing at the two armchairs and the table with the radio between them. She stumbled back with her hand held over her mouth and in doing so knocked the banker’s lamp off its perch with a shattering crash. “The radio!” she gasped.
doorframe buckled, coughing out bits of brick and plaster. I dropped to one knee to keep from toppling over. My ears were ringing from the explosion. Dust and acrid smoke filled my nostrils. When I got over the initial shock I looked over at Rebecca. She was gone.
The funeral was huge and, not surprisingly, resembled a business convention. The social occasion of old Bruce’s death itself required accommodations for those who had come to pay their respects. Politicians, local dignitaries from various denominations, prominent financiers and corporate honchos crowded the large assembly hall. Harold Bruce had made the arrangements with the exclusive Green Cove Country Club for the post interment reception which was beginning to have the air of a celebration on the verge of a cocktail party. Moderate words of tribute were spoken, tearfully, by Trish, his mother, huskily, by Harold, his uncle. Respectful, ardent words by others who had known and worked for and with him, a saint, a devoted father. When it came his turn, as the younger generation should have the final word, he had been as gracious as a psychopath, echoing their praise with a chorus of his own to the gathering of family, friends, and business associates, yet all the while considering that among them was his father’s murderer.
“But wasn’t it an emergency?”
“Crazy,” Wayne smiled, tucking the card into his inside jacket pocket, and glanced back at the tee box now in darkness and imagined the red canvas roof of the golf cart dropping down behind the mound and heading for the fairway. A silent vow welled up and tightened his jaw. Justice. Justice for old Dad. If it’s the last thing.
Lydia crouched in a defensive stance, the training she had received as a young officer in the Admiralty’s Aerocorps returning to her tensed body like a remembered presence. She faced the bear, turning warily, sensing others in the shadows of the oil lamp’s mute orange glow. The flower girl sat on a very large ornately decorated trunk, feet dangling in picturesque innocence. She was the one Lydia wanted. About to demand her wallet back, she caught a third figure at the periphery, moving toward her. Tall, muscular, a dark skinned man with a crop of white hair and narrow, also white, iron jaw whiskers held his hand palm up in the universal gesture of no harm. On her guard, she turned to keep all three of them in her field of vision.
Lydia was immobile, paralyzed, her entire body coursed with a fiery itch yet conscious of being lowered into a musty smelling box and a mesh cloth placed over her. Then snakes, a tangle of slithering vipers, were dumped on top of her prostrate form. She tried to scream but her vocal cords were affected as well. She heard Serre-Pain’s voice, a soft soothing whisper, “Please forgive me, Lydia, but it was necessary to prick you with a small dose of octopus venom. You will be immobilized for about twelve hours. You will remain conscious but unable to speak though you will be able to move your eyes. Don’t fret about the snakes. Since you can’t move, they won’t bother you though they will be attracted to your body heat. The mesh will protect you. Now I must deal with our visitors.”
Chief Inspector? Lydia’s eyes snapped open. IOTA! IOTA was out there beyond the glass. Bright biotorches cast large shadows flickering at her peripheral vision. She could hear the scrapping and shuffling of large objects being moved around accompanied by Serre-Pain’s pleas for caution.
“Interesting. I see by your papers you are proprietor of Madame Ophelia’s Ophidiarium and Traveling Medicine Show.”
Adams, his green bowler clutched to his chest, took his seat in the chair next to the magistrate’s table.
“And Pete was in his bed.”
“Sir, your wit is like prairie lightning, bright and dry. Allow me to top your glass off with another jolt. But, please, please, continue. . .I apologize for my interjections.”
“Dirty Dave Rudabaugh, Billy Wilson. . .”
“Folliard was crying and moaning. He had received his death. He managed to wheel his horse and ride back toward me. He called out, ‘Don’t shoot me, Garrett, I’m killed!’ One of my men ran out toward him, yelling, ‘Take your medicine, old boy, take your medicine.’ I warned him off. ‘He may be killed but he’s still heeled and liable to spit lead!’ I stuck to the shadows. ‘Throw up your hands, Tom, I’m not going to give you the chance to shoot me,’ I said. His horse stopped right in front of where I was standing.”
“That’s quite an antique.” A square shouldered black man on the step leading up into the store spoke the words. He was referring to the black sedan parked at the curb.
“The Battery Man. I remember the billboards. Nobody Beats A Bruce! You that kid? I heard about you. Come on, come on in.” He pushed the door open and the hinge squeaked like a cry for help. “He’s in the back, come on.”
Wayne paused to recall. “A quarter.” And then, “But I remember when they went up to fifty cents because I came in one day and all I had was twenty five cents, two dimes and a nickel, and you told me that the price had gone up. But you sold it to me anyway, that I could pay the rest next time.”
Wet occupied the air and chilled it. In the yellow-brown light of the doorway to Quinn’s Tavern, the rain striking the concrete jumped like sparks off a hot griddle. The door opened quietly, disturbing neither the wide shouldered man with the bar towel over his shoulder, gaze intent on the square of color TV mounted above the bar, who laughed along with the track, a rheumy asthmatic rasp, or the other two hunched over in the shadows of a back booth, laughing, giggling, but not at the TV, a sitcom about people who frequent a bar similar to this one although certainly less sinister.
Dime Pulp 