"Kincade's Blood" A gift to the good people of SASS

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

The days and nights Kincade raced to Benson were a lurid nightmare. The ghostlike stare from Cissy Dye’s vacant eyes haunted him. The pain she had suffered tortured Kincade as he imagined the peril in which he had placed Josephine. What could he have possibly been thinking? Logan knew from their childhood together that attacking anything or anyone Kincade cared about was as brutally effective as bludgeoning Kincade himself. If Logan grabbed Josephine, he would have Kincade at his mercy.

 

“I should have never left her!”

 

Five agonizing days after Kincade left The Dry Head Canyon, a thoroughly exhausted Gold Digger approached the outskirts of Benson. But Kincade knew immediately that something was wrong. He smelled it before he actually saw it.

 

There, at the center of Benson, lay the very cold remains of The Proud Cat Saloon and Hotel. It had been burned to the ground! Only the charred ruins of a few walls stood like black ghosts in a cemetery of gray ashes.

Kincade grabbed the first person who passed by. “My God, man! What happened here?”

“Proud Cat got set afire about a month back.”

“Miss Josephine? What about her?”

“Mr. Finley got Miss Josie and they ran outside. She just had on her nightdress, but he helped her jump on her black horse and she took off in the dark.”

“Then she’s safe!” Kincade breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you know who set the fire?”

 

“Mr. Finley recognized ‘em. It was a gang of five outlaws, led by a huge ugly man. They set the place on fire. The flames and smoke was everywhere. You could barely see.

 

“The biggest outlaw kept yellin’ ‘Kincade, you in there?! Kincade!!’ That was when Finley recognized him: Wil Logan.”

 

Kincade knew it. “Did Finley see his face on the Wanted posters?”

 

“No. This Logan fella was the killer who murdered Finley’s wife and boy. He’s the same fella burned Josie’s station on the Cherokee.”

 

“Oh God!” Kincade couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

 

“Logan’s gang grabbed Mr. Finley, took their shooters and blew off both his knees. Then, they threw him back into the flames. Whole building was goin’ up. Logan was laughin’ like he was crazy. Said ‘Tell ‘yer wife and kid you’ll see ‘em in hell!’ Mr. Finley, he got burned up.”

 

Kincade was out of his mind in rage.

 

“Logan and his gang got back on their horses. They was ridin’ back and forth in front of everybody. They shot two fellas who was tryin’ to throw water on the fire. He yelled at everybody, ‘I’m Wil Logan. Tell Kincade it was me. Logan, you understand?’ Then they galloped off. Nobody here dared follow ‘um.”

Kincade clenched his fists. “Do you know where Josephine went?”

“There’s rumor she’s in Tombstone. But I don’t know for sure.”

“Tombstone? Why there?”

 

“She knew a fella owned a big hotel on Allen Street. Place called The Cosmopolitan. He’s real rich. Been tryin’ to get Josephine to leave The Proud Cat for a long time, open up a new saloon in The Cosmopolitan. Finley said the fella offered to give her half ownership. Knew he’d make a lot ‘a money off her if she’d do it. But she kept sayin’ no.” The man looked at the ruins of The Proud Cat. “Logan changed all that. Rumor has it she’s in Tombstone. But I don’t know for sure.”

Kincade galloped out of town with guilt following him like a shadow. “I should have stayed to protect her from Logan. Instead I rode away hoping he wouldn’t reach her. Or was I just a coward? Now look what’s happened. The Proud Cat gone, Finley dead, Josephine on the run. Oh God! Why didn’t I stay in Benson?! Well, I’m gonna make up for it now.”

He put his spurs to Digger and ate up the miles he’d just covered. “I’ll pick up Whiskey Pete in Gypsy just in case there’s trouble in Tombstone. I can count on him.” He rode day and night with only brief stops to let Gold Digger rest. Sleep was impossible for him.

It was early and there were no girls on the porch when Kincade pulled up in front of the Dove Nest and jumped down from his saddle. He bounded up the steps and banged on the door. In a moment a yawning, tousled girl opened the door.

“Where’s Whiskey Pete? Get him! It’s important.”

“You new in town, Mister?”

“What difference does that make? Call Whiskey Pete!”

“He ain’t here, Mister. Whiskey Pete’s dead,”

“He’s what?!’’’

“Oh yes. He’s very much dead. Me and the girls bought his coffin and laid him in the cemetery a couple ‘a weeks ago. Had him a nice grave marker too.”

Kincade was in the middle of a living hell. “How’d he die?”

 

“Outlaws - that’s how. In the middle of the night five of ‘em yanked him out of bed. Didn’t even let him put his britches on before they dragged him away. His dog Little Blue followed ‘em, barkin’ and nippin’ at their horses’ legs. They had a camp outside town with a hot fire. Four of ‘em tied Whiskey Pete to a tree. Then some fella... name’a Logan, got right up inta’ Whiskey Pete’s face. He was yellin’ ‘Where’s Kincade? I know you was ridin’ with him. You know where he is. Better tell us if you know what’s good for you.’ But Whiskey Pete wouldn’t say nothin’. He spit in Logan’s face.”

Kincade felt dizzy, gulping air to steady himself. “How do you know all this?”

“The boy that sweeps our floors heard the racket – the dog barkin’ ‘n all. He followed but not too close. He hid in the trees. He was damn lucky not to get caught.”

“How did Whiskey Pete die?”

“Well you know that dog of his, Little Blue? The leader - you know, that Logan fellow - hit the dog over the head with the butt of his shotgun. Then his boys skinned Little Blue and put him on a spit. Roasted him over their fire like he was a pig right in front of Whiskey Pete, who was crying like a baby.”

“No! No! God, no!” Kincade screamed.

“Oh they did it alright. Then, Logan tried to make Whiskey Pete eat the meat! The boy said Whiskey Pete locked his mouth shut until his lips bled. The big fella - this Logan – put heavy leather gloves on and pulled a white hot stick from the campfire and waved it in front of Whiskey Pete, laughing like some rabid wolf. Then he said, ‘Time is over, Cookie, for you and for that friend ‘a yours. I’ll find Kincade. Roast him next. Goodbye, Cookie.’ Then he jammed about a half foot ‘a that searing wood through Whiskey Pete’s right eye. Went clear into his brain. That’s exactly what happened. The boy swears it was just like that.”

Kincade could stand no more. He bolted off the porch and leaped into the saddle without touching the stirrups. He pulled Gold Digger from the rail and sped like the wind down the street. Block after block of the town passed like leaves in a high wind. He bent low over the saddle horn and streaked across the country crazed, unable to slow down. As Gold Digger lathered, Kincade pulled himself up and came to a slow halt. With great effort he turned and headed back to Gypsy.

 

He found Boot Hill on the outskirts of town. He tied Digger to the picket fence and went through the open gate. There was only one new grave, still fresh with black earth. A simple marker stood at its head. “Whiskey Pete and Little Blue - a good man – a good dog”

Kincade fell to his knees, covered his face and wailed. The lowest depths of Purgatory could be no worse than this. “I swear on this grave, Logan, I’ll never forget this, not till my dying day. I can look like a gunfighter and sometimes I’ve been one. But I’ve always tried to avoid a showdown with you. No more! I’m coming for you Logan. I’ll blow your guts straight to hell! I’ll never stop looking for you, not until vengeance is mine.”

The confrontation of a lifetime was about to begin.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

The saloon doors slammed open. Five men, looking like monstrous black bats straight out of hell, strode in. The snarl on their faces was somewhere between ferocious and jubilant. They looked dark. Not a hint of any color whatsoever. Simply dark... like shadows tucked into deep corners. Four of them headed for a small table near the back. The biggest and meanest looking one went to the bar.

“Gimme two bottles and they’d better be your best.”

The shaking barkeep took two whiskey bottles from the shelf and put them on the bar. “That’ll be.... Never mind. Take whatever you want - on the house.”

The leader tossed one bottle to a side-kick named Snake. “Pass it around.” He kept the second for himself.

From the moment the five entered the saloon, those who had been gambling or drinking gradually slipped out the doors. “Well, well, look at that. We got the place all to ourselves. And here I was hoping to pick ‘em off one by one - like shootin’ ducks in a pond.” He pointed his finger like a gun at one table after another and then at the bar. “Bang! You’re dead!” The bartender made a dash to the back room. This seemed very amusing to the four. They cheered and the one holding the bottle raised it in salute to Wil Logan.

 

Wil Logan had organized his gang with himself at the top, of course. Below him were four hand-picked segundos. He changed them from time to time, depending on their loyalty and ability to live. Occasionally more riders were recruited for bigger jobs. Logan confided in his segundos as little as possible. They were to follow his orders.

“So where is he, boss?” Snake asked. “Where’s Kincade? Come on...let’s find ‘em and get on with this turkey shoot.” The others snorted agreement.

There was quiet...what seemed an interminable quiet...as Logan looked at the four. “Don’t have to find Kincade, Snake” said Logan.

“What?”

“I said we don’t have to find him. He’ll come to us. Which is a good thing, Snake. You couldn’t even get hold of that damn cowdog before we roasted him, let alone handle someone like Kincade. All we have to do is wait," snarled Logan.

“Here?” asked Snake.

“No.”

“Where then?”

 

“We’re gonna set a trap for him up Montana way.” Spittle spewed down Logan’s chin as he barked at Snake. “What I got planned in Montana is surefire. When we’s done, Kincade’ll be wolf bait and we’ll be rollin’ in gold.”

“How the hell is Kincade gonna know where we’re waitin’ for him in
Montana?” Snake shot back.

“Cause you’re gonna tell him! After what we did in Benson and Gypsy, he’s already trackin’ me, you can be sure ‘a that. All you gotta do is point him in the right direction. He’ll drop into my trap like a plucked chicken in a pot.”

Logan went to the bar and took five bottles of the good stuff from the stock in front of the mirror. “Drink up, boys. This is all workin’ out better than I ever hoped.”

 

"I don't think so Logan." Snake slithered up from the table. The bandit next to him, name ’a Buck Sloan, knew that in the next few seconds, someone would have a window put in their skull.

"I'm more interested in Josephine than in this Kincade ‘a yours. I couldn’t care less about your boy. And I don’t need you to introduce me to your Josie neither,” hissed Snake, who drew his shooter and pointed it squarely at Logan’s chest.

The volcanic fire deep within Logan’s gut erupted. With a quick snap of his right hand, Logan withdrew the enormous Bowie knife from beneath his duster, and with a blurring motion threw it into the bone between Snake’s eyes, burying the handle to the hilt. The outlaw’s head opened like a floodgate, spewing brains and blood over the outlaws at his side. Snake’s body shot over backwards, landing with a thud on the barroom floor.

"Anybody else?" whispered Logan. Nobody moved. “Sloan, you’ll be the one baitin’ Kincade now. Snake’s busy rotting in hell’.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Weeks passed as Kincade tracked Wil Logan, filled with the grief and guilt of Whiskey Pete’s, Little Blue’s and Finley’s deaths. He should have never left. With The Proud Cat incinerated, rumor was that Josephine was somewhere around Tombstone. Kincade was torn between his concern for Josephine’s life and his hate for Wil Logan. If Josie were in Tombstone, their Marshal... a Wyatt Earp... would see to her safety. Kincade would find Logan.

The old Indian had taught Kincade so well, the gunfighter could follow a woodtick on solid rock. Logan’s slime left a trail, and theirs headed north toward Montana, covering hundreds of miles. Kincade’s determination to find and kill Logan drove him forward. The time it would take was of little concern. This was a life quest for him.

His only respite was an occasional stop in a saloon to quickly rest and eat. Both were an elixir for the knot between his shoulder blades. Soft haze filling the room, the smell of tobacco, the give and take of men at the bar, the laughter of Doves as their hands slowly caressed the necks of men bent over closely-guarded fists full of playing cards. It all pulled him back from the abyss of losing his mind from his nearly uncontrollable anger. Kincade needed a good saloon, and he found one just after entering Montana.

 

Kincade took a table away from the doors, his back to the wall and began The Wait. Looking towards the bar, Kincade nodded to himself ever so slightly. There was a large man seated with his wide back to Kincade. The big fellow’s feet were as large as loading chutes and his buckaroo boots were covered with dried cow manure. His spurs sported Mexican rowels as big as soup plates.

Kincade knew that this very large and very muscular fellow, seated on the fourth barstool from the right, had to be a working bulldogger, big enough to stop a twenty-mule-team freight wagon.

The man hunkered down over a cold beer, with a pard at each side, left and right. The three probably had their barstools named after them, as comfortable and at home as they seemed.

 

Kincade continued The Wait, taking in table by table all those who filled the room. Halfway through his look-see, Kincade’s eyes came to a dead stop. The knot between his shoulders retook its position quicker than the first rattler out of the box. There, not thirty feet away, staring at Kincade, was one of Logan’s men Kincade recognized from the Wanted posters: Buck Sloan.

 

Kincade’s hands slowly left the tabletop, almost imperceptibly, each hand landing on the grip of his pearl handle Colts. His thumbs found the hammers.

Sloan picked up his glass, and took a pull, making absolutely sure that Kincade could see both his hands clearly. Pushing back his chair so slowly that it sent a scraping chill down the spines of those nearby, Buck Sloan stood, eyes never leaving Kincade, and began a measured walk straight towards the man Sloan knew was capable of killing him dead as a can of corned beef.

 

“Take it easy Kincade,” Sloan said. “It wasn’t me that set the fire in Benson.”

 

Slowly, hands out front, easy to see, easy to judge, Buck Sloan continued to walk forward. Kincade reduced himself to what he’d learned best, whether or not he was proud of it: a gunfighter who could pull and fire twin smokewagons with such lightning fast accuracy and speed, that any man would be permanently driven into the ground like a stake. And that included Buck Sloan.

“And it wasn’t me that planned the killin’ of your pard at Gypsy neither.” Sloan continued. “Just let me sit. I got somethin’ you’re gonna want to hear.”

Kincade knew Sloan had snake blood in him, and was tough enough to eat off the same plate as a Diamondback.

“Take it easy...” Sloan said.

Sloan slowly pulled out the chair directly across the table from Kincade, knowing full-well that the gunfighter’s shooters were leveled at his gut. Lowering himself into the seat, Sloan kept both palms facedown on the tabletop. He knew that if he so much as blinked wrong, Kincade would split his head like kindling.

“Word has it you been lookin’ fer somebody we both know. You may be able to track a bear through running water,” continued Sloan, “but I can save you a step or two.”

 

You could barely see Kincade breathe, he was so focused on folding Sloan up like an empty purse.

“Full day’s ride from here there’s a mining town named Helena. Rough and tumble place.” He wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hairy paw.

 

"There’s a man waitin’ for you there Kincade.” Sloan moved his hands, palm up, as though about to give an offering, staring into Kincade's blue eyes. “That man is your Wil Logan.” And with that, a slight smile crept over Buck Sloan’s chipped teeth.

A thousand images flooded Kincade. Bile rose in his throat. His fists knotted ‘round the pistol grips, the jaw clenched. For an instant, he pictured the remains of The Proud Cat, imagined the screams from Finley as he burned alive, and the agony Whiskey Pete felt seeing Little Blue skewered and broiled.

Kincade didn’t return the smile. “Why are you telling me this? You’re one of his men.”

“WAS one of them. Logan cheated me out of a payroll job. I’ve lit out on my own.”

Slowly, deliberately, Kincade said “You’re a liar.”

Sloan blinked. He knew that Kincade could sense treachery. Sloan’s eyes were giving him away. Another slip like that and the bandit would be so full of lead he couldn’t walk uphill. Sloan knew that Kincade wore his holsters tied down because when it came to business, the gunfighter didn’t do much talking with his mouth.

“Take it easy...”

Kincade remained silent, watching Buck Sloan. The anger at that table completely stilled the room. Those in the saloon knew they were near enough to hell to smell smoke. One false move on the part of Buck Sloan and Kincade would dig out his blue-lightning and unravel some cartridges.

 

Sloan spoke. “It wasn’t me who tried to kill your Josephine...”

 

That was the final straw.

 

Every man, every bar belle in the saloon froze. Every face looked at Kincade. At his eyes. The man was literally on fire. Kincade rose up to his full height, pushing the chair behind him away with the tops of his boots. Then, with a sudden rise of his right knee nearly to his chest, Kincade slingshot his heel into the edge of the round table, sending it fifteen feet across the room where it smashed into a wall, shattering into pieces.

“Git up, you gutter trash.” And Sloan did.

“You ever say her name again, I’ll cut you in half.”

Sloan didn’t move.

“You’re real close to dying Sloan,” Kincade whispered. “You’re standing at hell’s gate.” His eyes tore into Sloan, who raised his arms out to each side, palms facing Kincade.

“Go on, you scum-sucking pig. Get yourself back to Logan,” said Kincade. “You tell him I’ll see him… I’ll see him real soon.”

Sloan backed up, slowly turned, and began to gradually walk towards the saloon’s front doors. Kincade drew his hands away from the Colts, turning away from Sloan. And in that split second, Logan’s man withdrew a dagger from his shirt, swirled towards Kincade, raising his arm to throw the knife into Kincade’s back.

At the same moment, the cowboy bulldogger leapt from his barstool and charged Sloan like an enraged steer, crashing into Sloan, who plunged the knife into the cowboy’s beefy left shoulder. Kincade pivoted, yanking his right shooter from its holster, bringing his left palm down on the hammer while holding the trigger down. In less than 2 seconds, Kincade fanned six into the skull of Buck Sloan, whose head exploded like a melon.

He slowly returned the gun to its holster and walked over to the cowboy, who was now kneeling on the floor. Kincade removed the silk wildrag from his neck, placing it over the knife wound. He helped the huge man to his feet.

“I owe you my life,” Kincade said to the man.

“Oh… didn’t seem fair, you gettin’ it in the back,” the cowboy smiled, placing his right hand over the kerchief to hold back the blood. “I’ve been speared a number of times by mean bulls when I wasn’t lookin’.”

The bulldogger’s simple comment allowed Kincade to breathe. The knot between his shoulders began to slowly loosen. “I’ll bet,” said Kincade. “But why is it that your enemies come with four legs and mine with two?” And Kincade smiled.

 

The two walked back to the bar. “Tequila bartender. Beer alongside. And whatever my friend wants.”

 

Helena, eh? Buck Sloan was a low life, lying, son-of-a-bitch. But it might not hurt to head toward Helena.

[Amos Dumas, SASS #8447 L]

Still keeping up, but why the font change???

[Kincade 79985]

Amos,

 

The Wire Saloon is randomly changing the fonts on me. I'm writing in Bookman Old Style, 12 point. I think the saloon just wants to be part of the action.

 

What do you think?

 

Kincade

[hambone]

I'm still with you Kincade. Where can I find your books to purchase? Hambone

[Kincade 79985]

Thanks Pard. The action of this story is on the edge of really heating up.

 

You can find all my novels, including the complete series of Kincade western adventures, by logging on to amazon.com. If you type in Kincade's Blood, or Kincade's Fear, you'll see the series pop up. You may also add in my name, Michael Chandler, and they'll come up. They're in hardback or on Kindle, or Nook from Barnes and Noble. But for now, I'm giving SASS Kincade's Blood, which you're reading now, as a gift.

 

'Cause Josephine and I like the bunch 'a you!

 

Kincade

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY

 

 

Gold strikes turned the town of Helena, Montana into a treasure trove. Smelters refined the ore into bars and what wasn’t processed there was packed into canvas bags spilling over with the glittering dust. These were loaded onto stagecoaches bound for the railheads at Corinne. Two burly shotgun riders rode atop each one of these stagecoaches, one seated next to the driver, and the second astride the canvas sheet covering the luggage compartment. These were dangerous, highly trained guards, men who were hard as whetstones. They were paid well and expected to defend their cargoes without hesitation or fear.

 

Logan had watched the Wells Fargo stagecoaches come and go for weeks, learning their schedules, the loading process, and ways of each of the guards. He shadowed them as they traveled the road to Corinne, memorizing river crossings, the grades that slowed the horses to a crawl, the narrow sections, and way stations. He rode the valleys north and south, determining which offered the fastest escape to robbers.

 

Wil Logan was no ordinary bandit. Early in his youth, he’d lost interest in looking for hogs to kick or store windows to break. The years had honed and refined his tastes for mayhem. Inflicting pain on others fueled him, and doing it had become as easy as lickin’ butter off a knife. It wasn’t just the money, though Logan had stolen and squandered enormous amounts of it over the years. It was the thrill of terrorizing the souls of others that brought Logan a reason for living. The man had become utterly depraved and fearless of death. He’d been its instrument for years.

 

Logan’s years of lawlessness also made him cunning. He had no intention of rotting in some jail like other bandits he’d crossed paths with who pretended to know what they were doing but in reality were so dumb they couldn’t hit a bull’s xxx with a banjo. No, Wil Logan was weasel smart. He took his time trolling the back alleys of Helena, finding exactly the right gunmen to replace Snake and Buck Sloan.

 

When Logan first hatched his plan, it was only to rob a stagecoach. But since Josephine’s escape in Benson, and Whiskey Pete’s refusal to give up Kincade, he’d come up a scheme that boiled with malevolent pleasure. His robbery of the Wells Fargo stage to Corinne would get Kincade killed, either by himself or a shotgun rider.

 

Kincade had always wanted to do the right thing - a fatal weakness in Logan’s estimation. That weakness would assure Logan’s own clean getaway after robbing the stage to Corinne. Wil Logan was ready to make his move on the morning of July the 8th.

 

Logan knew that when Kincade first entered Helena, he would hit the best saloon. Not only because such places boiled with information, but because saloons were Kincade’s weakness. Logan told a couple of booze-blinded saddle-tramps that drinks would be on him and to tell any tall, two-gun stranger there was a rumor that Logan and his gang were laying in ambush for the stage. Word was the robbery would be ‘round noon as it neared Corinne that very same day. It was as easy as handing Kincade an engraved invitation to a barn dance. He’d take the bait surefire.

 

The trick was for Logan and his trash to pick off the two guards while they were sittin’ on their gun hands and get the stage stopped. Two of the segundos would take care of the driver and passengers while the other two loaded the gold into saddlebags. They all would make sure that the travelers overheard them giving full credit for the holdup to their boss, a gunfighter named Kincade, who was certain to be riding up at any moment.

 

And once he did, Logan himself would put a bullet into Kincade, claiming the money for himself and the rest of the gang.

 

But from where the passengers sat and the chatter they’d overheard, it was their leader, Kincade, who had masterminded the robbery from the start. It would be too bad that the rest of the scum had gotten away, but with Kincade dead in the dirt, at least the Wells Fargo Stage Company could have some satisfaction in the death of their leader.

 

It all would have worked, just as Logan had planned, had the one lady passenger not gotten all high and mighty, telling the robbers they were sure to burn in hell for what they were doing. Listening to psalms and exhortations on sin wasn’t Wil Logan’s bowl of soup.

 

Which is why Logan had that very same lady yanked back by the neck with his right hand, tearing her blouse away with his left as he sadistically howled with pleasure, just as Kincade rode over the rise near Corinne at a full gallop.

 

Gold Digger could run like the wind. That speed nearly caused Kincade to trample the body of a large man sprawled in the road, whose right chest was completely missing from an enormous gunshot wound, probably a twelve gauge slug.

 

Ahead, Kincade could see the Wells Fargo coach, the driver’s hands held high. Another man was hanging backwards off the rear of the coach, his feet tangled in the canvas, half of his head blown off. At the side of the road, two rather well-dressed men with their hands above their heads followed the orders of two masked bandits. Two others of the gang were heaving the gold shipment from the stage. A fifth outlaw stood behind a woman, obviously a passenger, who desperately struggled against the huge arm of the man choking the life from her.

 

Kincade took it all in within two seconds as Gold Digger charged forward. But something didn’t make sense.

 

Why weren’t they shooting at him? The lot of them should be scattering like roaches. But no, it was almost as though they were waiting for Kincade to join them in completing the stick-up. He released both hammer tie-downs in order to jerk both pistols the moment Gold Digger pulled up short.

 

Amazingly, three of the bandits turned to him, waving their hands as though all were good friends. “Kincade, what took you so long?!” said one. “You got here just in time,” said a second. “Boss, you planned this one perfect!” a third.

 

As Kincade approached, the passengers and driver looked at him with eyes filled with fear, not because of the robbery they were smack in the midst of, but of Kincade himself. It was as if each of them believed they were seconds away from Kincade skinning their flesh.

 

The fifth outlaw spun the female passenger in order to bring her body between Kincade’s and his own, leveling his own shooter up and under the jaw of the woman. “Change of plans, Kincade. This may have been your robbery, but we’re taking the money for ourselves!”

 

“Logan!” Kincade pulled his left six-gun, pointing it straight at the man. “Let her go!”

 

Logan yanked her head back, and the scum discharged his pistol into the woman’s throat. The shock of seeing her brutal murder stopped Kincade, and in those two missing seconds, Logan re-cocked his gun and put his next bullet squarely into Kincade’s left shoulder. The tremendous impact twisted Kincade backwards, the lead hotter than the hubs of hell. Gold Digger reared up, hooves flailing at the air.

 

Logan dropped the woman, foam now spewing from her missing jaw, leapt to his horse and spurred, the rest of his gang hot on his heels.

 

“You!” yelled the stage driver. “You’ll get yours Kincade!” He yanked a rifle from beneath the coach seat, and fanned the lever in an attempt to rack and fire.

 

“No! I wasn’t...” Kincade regained control of Gold Digger just as the driver let a round fly past Kincade’s head. A quick snap of his wrist, and the Wells Fargo man prepared to fire a second round. Spinning Digger, Kincade jammed his spurs deep into the stallion’s sides, and the horse charged after Logan and his men. Three more rifle shots whined past Kincade’s head. A fourth slammed into a tree, shattering a limb into pieces as Gold Digger galloped beneath.

 

The pain in Kincade’s shoulder felt like a white-hot branding iron had been pressed into the bone. He bent low over the saddle horn, letting his palomino run like the wind.

 

But Logan and his men were gone. No chance to catch and bring them back. Now it was Kincade who would be accused of masterminding the Wells Fargo stagecoach robbery east of Helena near a little town called Corinne, Montana.

 

Logan’s planned double-cross had worked. Kincade was alive but running for his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The white-hot sun scorched the rimrock one last time before making its retreat below the western horizon. Off to the east a dust-devil swirled up, whipping the mesquite, suddenly choking off the diminishing rays of the setting sun and filtering its remains into smoky shafts of light.

 

Something green and prehistoric crawled onto a nearby boulder, its forked tongue smelling the air.

 

Kincade’s eyes snapped open. Had he fallen asleep from exhaustion or passed out from pain? Either way, he must guard against it happening again.

 

He raised himself on one elbow. God, how that hurt! His deep blue eyes slowly scanned the horizon. No sign of riders. The Sheriff’s posse tracking him must have been fooled when he crossed the slick rock and doubled back into the arroyo. He collapsed back onto the sand and slowly closed his eyes again. He couldn’t have been out long, for the coals of the campfire he’d struggled to build had just reached the temperature for the job that had to be done.

 

The searing pain in his left shoulder triggered an involuntary grinding of teeth and clenching of fists. How bad was it? He tore open his bloodied shirt which was caked with red soil and stared at the wound. He’d seen bullet holes that were smaller and bigger but none more fatal. Blood oozed from the torn flesh. Kincade knew if he didn’t get that bullet out he’d die.

 

“What’s it gonna’ be, Kincade?” he thought to himself. “You can’t get Logan if your bones are bleaching in this desert. Get on with it.”

 

Kincade whistled to his palomino, Gold Digger, who obediently trotted to his side. He grimaced as he pulled down the worn saddle bags and rummaged inside for the surgeon’s tool. The instrument, once shiny but now blackened with use, measured a foot long. One end held two steel ovals, the first for a thumb, and the second for an index finger - much like a seamstress scissor. At the other end of the shaft, two tiny claws faced each other, each half the size of one of the buttons on Kincade’s shirt. The surgeon’s tool was meant to probe, to root around, and to grab hold. He had used it on others but this would be a first on himself.

 

Kincade jammed the device into the red-hot coals of the campfire. Whatever microscopic bugs made their home on that steel, were now in the process of meeting their maker. As the coals crackled, the green reptile scurried across the boulder, disappearing into a deep crack. Within minutes, the steel glowed with the same heat and intensity as the fire itself.

 

Reaching out with his right hand, Kincade slowly withdrew the tool from the glowing embers, throwing a small shower of sparks. He opened the claws to the width of a 45 caliber Colt slug. With his left hand, Kincade jammed the rein of Gold Digger’s bridle between his jaws, and bit down hard.

 

“Damn Logan,” thought Kincade. “Damn him to hell.” His hatred of his mortal enemy was now deeper, uglier, more vicious than the bullet that hid three inches beneath his skin where it had slammed into the bone. But this was not the time for revenge. It would come; Kincade promised himself... it would come.

 

Seconds after the twin claws disappeared into the jagged wound, moments after Kincade’s teeth bit deep into the latigo, Gold Digger’s nostrils flared wide at the smell of burning flesh. The palomino’s head instinctively jerked back. But not a sound from Kincade as the probe went deeper, seeking Logan’s bullet, its lead head now flared from target impact.

 

The claw hands bumped into the spent bullet, nudging it deeper into the wound by a fraction of an inch, just enough to send any man into convulsions. But not Kincade. The hate-filled fire in his gut for what Wil Logan had done to him far outstripped the unimaginable pain now coursing through his left shoulder.

 

His fingers parted, the claws parted, the fingers closed, the claws closed, and the disfigured bullet began to back out of the torn muscle. The palomino jerked again as the smell became even stronger.

 

And then, it was out.

 

Kincade spit the rein from his mouth, dropped the tool, and with his right hand, reached for and cracked open the container of spoiled meat that had been in his saddlebags one week too long. He jammed his fingers into a squirming knot of freshly hatched white maggots, retrieving a palm-sized colony, brought the nest across his chest and spilled the wriggling mass of larva into the open bullet wound. The grubs would clean the gash, just as the old Indian had taught him so long ago.

 

The sun disappeared. The light-shafts vaporized. The air went still.

“You’ve slowed me, but you haven’t stopped me. I’ll get you Logan. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you.”

[Kincade 79985]

[ a note to my friends at SASS: With Chapter 20, you've gone full circle in what's happened to Kincade, and what's brought him to this junction in his life. Now, you're about to join him, and Josephine, in The Reckoning ]

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

 

 

Logan and his segundos were in high spirits as they rode away from Corinne. They didn’t stop until a secluded grove of trees afforded them protection to divide the loot they had in their saddle bags.

 

“Here’s your share,” said Logan. “I’m keepin’ half ‘cause it was my idea. But there’s plenty left over for you to split.”

 

Under their breath the four grumbled, but letting Logan know would be like signing their own death warrants. Only Chico Fernandez, who had been with Logan the longest, dared a criticism.

 

“Thought you was gonna kill Kincade.”

 

“Leavin’ him in the dirt to take all the blame is even better, you dumb xxx. Now he’s wanted Dead or Alive. I’m only sorry I won’t be there to see him hang.”

 

“Right,” Chico agreed nervously. “You’re always right, Wil.”

 

As was his habit, Logan put his finger alongside his right nostril, inhaled deeply, and blew a glob of snot onto the ground. “Mount up! We’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s toss around some of that Montana gold we’re packing’. Another two hours of ridin’ and we’ll all be gamblin’ and drinkin’ and whorin’!”

 

The four cheered and they all swung into their saddles eager to let the Corinne affair be forgotten.

Silver Spike was a town which grew because those who built the railroad had to have a place to spend their wages. In time it changed from a hell-on-wheels camp to a respectable community of business and trades people and one which welcomed settlers and travelers.

 

The Logan gang sized up the town as they rode in. Folks had put up wood houses, some with curtains in the parlor windows and flowers planted in the yards. The stores had glass fronts for looking inside. Three restaurants sported large sandwich boards by their doors to ballyhoo their specialties. There were two churches, both with steeples.

 

All in all, Silver Spike was not the kind of town that catered to the likes of Logan’s garbage. The gang felt edgy to find a saloon and get on with the celebrating.

 

As they rode further they came upon a red school house. Younger boys and girls were in recess while older students labored inside. The children were laughing and playing simple games. There was a teeter-totter and a tipped-over molasses barrel for hide and seek. A willow tree stood out front. A frayed rope tied to a high and sturdy limb, held a wooden swing the size of a dinner plate on its opposite end.

 

As Logan approached, he felt the angers and jealousies of his own childhood boil up. Drawing his pistol, he fired at the wooden swing, shattering the wood into pieces.

 

The children screamed and began running back to the school house.

 

“Let’s round ‘em up boys!” Logan shouted, and he cut his horse back and forth to chase the frightened youngsters. His gang followed pursuit, laughing and shouting, viciously reining their mounts which snorted and whinnied and tore up the dirt.

 

The school marm and older students rushed to the window and, seeing the mayhem, their teacher dashed out the door. Like a mother hen gathering her chicks under her wings, she rushed hither and thither, arms flailing, trying to protect and direct the youngest ones.

 

“Inside, darlings! Hurry! Hurry!” This only made the five rogues laugh and ride harder.

 

When all children were finally safe in the school, she stood at the door and shook her fist at Logan’s men. “You beasts!” she shouted. “Leave - you hear me? Leave before I get the Sheriff!”

 

Logan pulled to a stop right in front of her and reared his horse on its hind legs, the front hooves pawing the air. “Just how you think you’re gonna get the Sheriff when we got you surrounded?” He bellowed. Then he winked. “Give me a kiss, teacher, and we’ll be on our way.”

 

The school marm looked horrified. She turned, slamming and bolting the door behind her.

 

Logan swung off his horse and mounted the step. With one big kick he smashed open the door. He grabbed the terrified lady, “I said give me a kiss!”

 

He threw her back and planted his fat, wet lips tight on hers, his greasy mustache stuffed up her nose. She fainted. He dropped her to the floor and stormed out as the frightened children ran to her side.

 

“Come on, boys. I got what I was after. I’m hungry. Let’s get some grub.” They galloped down the street with the sounds of loud weeping coming from the school house.

 

“That was fun,” the four were saying, but Logan was grim as he looked for the nearest saloon that served food.

 

“God, I hate kids!” he said as he slumped into a chair at a big round table. “Snot nose show-offs. Think they’re smarter than me just ‘cause they can read and write and do figurin'. If I had my way they’d all be lined up and turned into a shootin’ gallery.” He pointed his finger like a gun. “Bang! Bang! Bang! Runts are good for nothin’ but target practice!”

 

“Place your order, gents,” a man behind the bar said.

 

Logan looked questioningly at the four who shrugged. “Steak, eggs, tatters, pie. And five beers while we’re waitin.” The mugs were brought to the table and Logan took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He sighed and grinned.

 

“You know, I went to school once - one day that is.” They laughed and saluted their mugs to him. “Teacher told me never to come again just ‘cause I stole a kid’s lunch pail and beat him up when he tried to get it back.”

 

Logan picked up his mug, twisting it in his hands. “Kincade can read, you know. That same teacher gave him lessons after school in her own house.” He downed the last of the brew and slammed the mug hard enough to break it.

 

“Bring me another! And hurry up with that grub!” he shouted toward the bar.

 

Chico Fernandez gulped his beer and gave a silly laugh. “Then Kincade won’t have no trouble readin’ those Wanted posters with his name in big letters. KINCADE DEAD OR ALIVE!”

 

Logan guffawed and slapped him on the back. “You got that right, pard.”

 

Chico gave a silent sigh of relief. The crisis was past. “Where we gonna go now, Wil?”

 

 

“Well, I been thinkin’ Colorado. Ain’t been there for awhile so it’s ripe for our pickin. Okay with you?” He looked at the four and they all nodded. “I thought so. You idiots never had a plan of your own in your lives.”

 

The food was placed on the table. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”

 

Logan tossed the barkeep a gold piece. “Where do we find the cheapest whores in town?” Then, a sick smile crossed his face. “Hey, where’s that school teacher live?”

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Kincade slowly made his way back to the Sabin ranch. The owner welcomed him like a son. Of course he could stay there while his wound healed.

 

“There are a lot of chores I can still do, Mr. Sabin, and I’m eager to get back the full use of my arm.”

 

“I’ll keep you busy. Get your gear into the bunkhouse, and welcome home.”

 

The old nightmare of young Wil Logan slashing Kincade’s throat was joined by two others that haunted him nearly every night. In one Whiskey Pete was being roasted on a spit over a huge fire and Logan was trying to make Little Blue eat the flesh. In the other Logan lashed Josephine to the front of The Proud Cat, setting her on fire, howling from the street as she writhed in agony.

 

The first time Kincade had one of these nightmares in the bunk house he woke up screaming. The other hands knew Kincade was recovering from a bullet wound, and that his nightmares had to be part of it. But Kincade knew he’d have to sleep somewhere by himself. He moved his bedroll into the stable and slept by Gold Digger. His only recourse after a nightmare was to swing onto his horse bareback, lean over the warmth of Digger’s neck and hang onto the silky mane. They would walk quietly around the yard until Kincade calmed down and could return to the stable. It was pure hell - over and over again.

 

One of Kincade’s jobs was to go to the post office in the nearest town to send and pick up mail for the ranch. He’d pull his hat low over his brow and keep to himself, never mentioning his own name to others. Wanted posters lined the walls of the front entry, and Kincade knew that his own face would soon join the gallery of rogues. One wall held the worst of the lot, the killers Wanted Dead or Alive. An entire row was filled with grainy photos of Wil Logan, and grisly accounts of the horrific crimes he’d committed. One poster told the story of a desperate father looking for his kidnapped daughter. “Five hundred dollar reward for the return of six year old Melissa Wilcox, believed to have been abducted by Wil Logan outside of Julesburg Colorado this July.” Kincade shook his head in disgust. That would have meant that Logan had taken the little girl after the Montana stage robbery where Kincade had been shot. Would the man’s thirst for blood never end?!

By late August, Kincade’s shoulder was almost like new. His ability to pull both shooters with blazing accuracy and speed not only returned, but were even better than before he’d taken Logan’s bullet. Sabin approached him towards month-end. “You goin’ on the fall drive with us, Kincade? We’re headin’ for Benson and that was a favorite stomping ground of yours.”

 

“Not any more, Mr. Sabin. What I liked best there is gone. But I’ll go as far southwest as you’re headed, if that’s all right.”

 

“I need you on drag.”

 

“What other spot is there?”

 

So Kincade and Gold Digger once again entered the world of choking dust and bawling cattle. On the trail he became lost in memories consuming him with anger. He would ride for miles thinking about the devastation at Benson, the atrocity at Gypsy, the deadly robbery and double-cross outside of Corinne.

 

Sometimes at the end of a day he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. He wondered if he’d herded cattle at all that day, or was he just riding on Digger in search of Logan. But no one reprimanded him for his work so he must have done what was necessary without thinking. The herd moved too slowly for him. The days passed in torment. He was eager to start his search for Logan once again.

 

When Mr. Sabin paid Kincade his final wages he held out his hand. “I know what you’re gonna do now, and I don’t blame you. Good luck finding this Logan.”

 

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

 

“Well, if you ever want to come back the job’s open.”

 

Kincade smiled at Sabin, appreciating the offer. “Probably not. When I get this thing with Logan settled, I may go into the saloon business in Tombstone. There’s a partnership waiting and she’s a lot prettier than you.”

 

Sabin laughed. “S’long, Kincade.” They rode off in opposite directions.

 

Logan’s trail was laid out by the Wanted posters showing up in more and more post offices across the west. The gang had ridden south from Montana and into Colorado, where the Wilcox girl had been kidnapped. From there, another stage holdup and rape in Fort Garland; wanted for murder in Santa Fe; wanted for pillage and burning in Silver City; wanted for bank robbery in Cochise. Logan and his badmen were heading southwest to Arizona Territory. But even without the posters, Kincade knew that Wil Logan was bound for Tombstone. If the scum had Josephine, he had Kincade.

 

Kincade never saw a Wanted flyer for himself, but he knew they were beginning to appear. As he rode southwest following Logan’s path of destruction, he’d hear his name in saloons. “Oh yeah, Kincade,” he’d hear. “He’s the fella shot Buck Sloan” or “He’s the man who robbed the Wells Fargo outside ‘a Corinne where that lady got killed... rode away with his gang afterwards.” Wearing his two-gun rig as he always did, men would eye Kincade carefully and keep their distance.

 

But at a saloon on the border of the Arizona Territory an encounter took place that would change Kincade’s life.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

 

It happened in Chiricahua.

 

That day, Kincade had ridden fourteen hours. After seeing to Gold Digger, he headed for the town saloon. He stepped up to the bar, and leaned onto the weathered top. “Two fingers of that mescal you have there behind you. ‘N a beer.”

 

Kincade watched the golden liquid fill his glass, anticipating the warmth in his veins. Looking into the mirrored glass of the back-bar, Kincade began The Wait, letting his eyes come to rest on each patron one by one, learning, sizing up, and watching. It was like Kincade was drinking in people so he could get a read on staying, or leaving. More than once, Kincade had discovered cruelty and deception in people's hearts. The Wait always revealed them both. That was the biggest reason Kincade would never stop his search for Wil Logan. He reeked of both.

 

Kincade slowly raised the shot glass, letting the tequila barely touch his lips, looking over the rim and into the mirror’s reflection, searching for signs of Logan or any of his gang. Across the room, two men sat playing cards.

 

“Hey, mister, you in or out?” the one dealing asked. It had been a heated game ever since this gunman had come in an hour earlier. The man’s eyes bored into the dealer’s skull, reading the dealer’s intentions as clearly as through he was looking directly at his cards. Then the gunman looked over the dealer’s shoulder to the bar. The hair went up on the back of his neck. If the shot glass in his right hand were any less stout, he would have smashed the thing without even knowing it.

 

"I don't believe it. It’s Kincade, in the flesh!” the man said to himself. Without thinking, he fingered his shooters like they were his second skin.

 

"Hey!... you in or out?!" asked the one with the deck, as his armpits filled with the sweaty anticipation of losing his shirt.

 

Even though the two players’ relationship had been limited to just over sixty minutes, the dealer’s question was tempered with a great deal of restraint. He’d already surmised that no sane person would ever treat this man with anything but respect. Not unless you wanted to be plowed six feet under in less than three seconds.

 

“Kincade... so you've found your way here,” thought the gunman. “I wonder how your bullet wound healed, after what happened to you up Montana...” He slowly spun the shot glass in his right hand. “I’ll sit out a hand,” he told the dealer. He shoved his chair back a foot or two, and leaned back to watch Kincade who was talking to a cowboy who’d just come in from the street. "I wonder if that fella knows who he's mixing up with.” The man smiled to himself.

 

The saloon’s card dealer felt the intense stare of the man across from him, now directed towards Kincade. The gunman stood up from the table, keeping his eyes fixed on Kincade. The dealer had seen eyes like that before. They were reserved for those who had evolved into skilled predators. But he hushed his mouth, frightened to say, or think anything further.

 

Fear began to extend beyond their table. Even as intoxicated as many of the saloon’s customers were, they too began to watch this young shooter, festooned in a bullet-filled gunbelt that held a blued six-shooter jammed behind it. He just stood there, staring at Kincade from across the room. All could see that the man’s body was rigid, almost frozen, engrossed in Kincade’s every move.

 

Like a small break in an earthen dam, discomfort began to flow through the crowd as more and more of them began looking at the gunman’s fascination with Kincade, wondering what the intentions of the young cowboy were. They were about to find out.

 

Kincade placed both his hands flat on the bar, and continued to stare straight ahead, beyond the rows of bottles and into the mirror behind. Crossing to Kincade's left, the stranger approached the bar. Man by man, he moved closer to Kincade. Some of the customers made a hurried exit out the saloon’s front door. Others who were seated quietly placed their pistols in their laps, figuring if lead was going to fly between the two of them, they’d best be ready. He moved closer still, until he was side by side, no more than a whisper away from Kincade. A floor board creaked, ever so slightly, at his feet.

 

"Jess...” said Kincade, eyes still fixed on the backbar’s mirror, “one of these days, I'm going to have to send you to charm school. Walking lightly was never your forte.”

 

Jessie Keller smiled and shook his head realizing that once again, Kincade had him cold. "Hello Kincade. It's been too long."

 

"Never too long for blood brothers!" And the two men embraced in an alliance that had lasted since childhood.

 

"Jess, have you looked around this room?” asked Kincade. “There are more shooters ready to split you up the backside then there are spines on prickly pear cactus!”

 

"And here I'm such a nice guy," said Jessie.

 

"Well then, you owe these nervous folks an apology."

 

"You're right. I may be upsetting some stomachs as we speak.”

 

Kincade reached for the bottle of mescal, pouring himself another finger or two. “Go ahead Jess,” Kincade said, taking another sip, “I'm interested to see how you tell all these folks in here that you're such a nice guy. Let's see how you go about this.

 

Jessie shook his head. “I... uh... may need some help. Remember, I ain’t gone to no charm school.”

 

Kincade laughed. “Oh hell... Do I have to get you outta every mess you get yourself into?!” Kincade raised his right eyebrow, winked at Jessie, and turned to also face the room. “Please excuse my young friend here. He doesn’t get to town much, notably cities as cultured at Chiricahua. I assure you that he’s a good boy, and here solely to lose what money he has to the tables and the drink of your fine community.”

 

Kincade turned and whispered to Jessie. “Smile and tip your hat to ‘em.”

 

Jessie smiled and tipped his hat.

 

“That’s better,” and Kincade slapped Jessie on the back.

 

While Kincade knew that Jessie would like to wrestle him to the ground for saying such things, Jess kept his eyes forward, offering a pearly white smile to all in the room, rolling his shoulders up in kind of an “aw shucks” manner. Within moments, the room relaxed, the piano started up, and the chatter recommenced as though nothing had happened. Two dozen pistols returned to their holsters.

 

“You said I was a good boy?!” Jessie poked his nose into Kincade’s face.

 

“You’re right,” said Kincade. “I probably was too nice.”

 

Jessie shook his head, realizing that Kincade was having tremendous fun at his expense. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Cause you’re so little and skinny. How’d you know it was me?”

“Cause you’re so big and ugly.” They both laughed. “Kincade, I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to see your miserable face again. Buy me a drink, will ‘ya?!” said Jessie, snatching the tequila bottle from the bar.

 

“Use a glass, will ‘ya?” laughed Kincade. “You’re in a town of culture.”

 

“You bet, real classy.” And Jessie slapped Kincade on the back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. “And you know what Kincade. I’ve always thought you’re a classy fella too.” They both returned to face the bar, lowering their voices.

 

"Jess," said Kincade, "Somethin’ happened up in Montana, on the road between Helena and Corinne. I’ll never be able to make it right. But I will make the scum responsible pay.”

 

“I know about Logan, Kincade. I heard about that robbery and have a hunch as to what really happened,” said Jessie. “I even seen your face on a Wanted for Robbery poster in the last town I rode through.”

 

Jessie could see Kincade visibly tense as though he’d struck a raw nerve. It was a mistake to mention the Wanted poster. Jessie quickly did what he could to heal the now open wound. “I don’t know where they got that picture of you Kincade. But when we’re done with Wil, we’d best bump off that photographer next.” Kincade’s smile returned. “You have enough trouble attracting the ladies as it is!” The tension eased.

 

Kincade spoke again. “Jess, Logan has rounded up the dregs of the southwest for that gang ‘a his.”

 

“Was Sloan one?”

 

“I met him once. The others are worse. Much worse,” said Kincade. “Killing is not only their business, it's their pleasure. They thrill to the pain of others. Logan’s gang is not fit to breathe.”

 

“Then we’ll just have to take the breath outta them,” said Jessie.

 

Kincade looked deeply into his friend’s eyes. He paused, and then said “Logan is my fight."

 

"Our fight Kincade," Jessie quickly followed. "Our fight."

 

It was immediately apparent to Kincade, that Jessie wasn’t about to budge on the matter. For better or worse, they would ride together.

 

Better for Kincade. Worse… much worse, for Logan.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

 

 

The next morning, before checking out of the Chiricahua Hotel, Kincade got a bath and a shave and ate a breakfast of T-bone steak, six eggs, and what the cook called Indian bread but bore no resemblance to Whiskey Pete’s. He downed a bucket of black coffee.

 

“Mornin’, Mr. Kincade,” beamed the young desk clerk, accepting Kincade’s room key.

 

“Mornin’”, replied Kincade, “I’d like to settle up.”

 

“Yes sir! Mr. Kincade,” the clerk beamed. “Did you sleep well?”

 

Kincade waited silently for his bill.

 

“I myself feel wonderful today!” offered the clerk. “Slept like a baby last night... like a newborn baby!”

 

“I can see that,” said Kincade, getting a little impatient. Then he thought how gracious Josephine always was to everyone, so he added “Perky, I would call it.”

 

“Wonderfully perky!” echoed the clerk.

 

Somebody tapped Kincade from behind on the left shoulder. Kincade jerked. “Dang it, Jess! Cough or somethin’ before you sneak up on me like that!”

 

Jessie coughed.

 

“Before you get up behind me, not after!”

 

“Oh,” smiled Jessie.

 

After settling the hotel bill, the two men walked into the street, turned left and down to the livery where Gold Digger had been stabled. “Mister,” said the boy mucking out stalls, “That’s one mean horse you got there!”

 

“Keep your voice down, son,” Kincade said. “Gold Digger hear you say that, makes him cranky.” And Kincade walked into the barn to get the palomino from its stall as the boy’s eyes grew wide.

 

Jessie, who’d already retrieved and saddled his appaloosa, stood in the street, reins in hand, twirling the ends so they’d smack into his left glove with a gentle but distinct pop. Kincade emerged from the barn, mounted up, his gear lashed to the saddle. His Winchester ’73 faced forward in the scabbard, the butt easily reached in front of the right knee, encircled by Kincade’s riata.

 

Jessie stood in the dirt, paused, and then looked up at Kincade. “Want me to cough again?”

 

“Funny, Jess.”

 

Jessie thought so too. He swung up and onto his saddle, completely bypassing the stirrup. “This here’s Left Hand Man – a good horse.”

 

“Mornin’, Lefty.”

 

“Where we headed? I been lookin’ for you, not Logan.”

 

“I figure he’s headed for Tombstone. There’s a lady has a saloon there. He tried to destroy her twice before. He’ll try it again just to get at me. Except this time, I’ll be there.”

 

“Well, you know Kincade. I myself kinda feel like headin’ south. Tombstone maybe. That sit with you?”

 

Kincade shook his head to himself as Jessie’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s go…”

 

For the first two hours ride, Kincade kept his thoughts to himself, knowing what undoubtedly lay ahead in Tombstone. Logan and his gang not only outnumbered them, but their skills at killing far exceeded Kincade and Jessie’s. He finally broke the silence. “You sure you want to stick with me, Jess? This could be our last ride, together or alone.”

 

“You my blood brother or not?”

 

“Yeah, I know - forever and ever. But when you’re lying in some back alley in Tombstone with your guts spillin’, don’t say I never gave you a chance to back out.”

 

“You’re makin’ me look forward to Tombstone more and more, pard. Got any other pictures you’d like to paint of my future?”

 

“Yeah! You’re gonna be the loser when I beat you racin’ to the top of that next rise. Hyahh Digger!” And Kincade took off like a shot, followed closely by Left Hand Man. They raced with the wind and finished in a tie at the top of the hill.

 

“Damn, Kincade! I thought Left Hand was the best.”

 

“Second best. But we’ll try again when they cool down.”

 

The days that followed were filled with friendly competition. “I bet Lefty can barrel through those bushes faster than Digger.”

 

“On that plow horse you haven’t got a chance.”

 

Another day they sat on their mounts as they let them drink from a fast flowing stream. Jessie said, “I’ll be in the water ‘fore you are.” He slid from his horse as Kincade cleared the saddle.

 

“I’ll swim to the other side ‘fore you’re out of your drawers.”

 

Both men splashed and floundered in the swift current, laughing out loud, and remembering much simpler times.

 

“So you won on this side, but I’ll beat you goin’ back.” They both jumped in together, laughing twice as hard.

 

The warm sun felt good as they lay exhausted on their bedrolls. Kincade looked at Jessie’s arm. “Still got that K scar, I see.”

 

“Still got that Indian bag around your neck.”

 

“Some things never change.”

 

“Not the things that really matter.” They were only a day’s ride out of Tombstone. They’d finished the last of the baked beans and Jessie was juggling the empty can back and forth in his hands. “Bet my draw is faster than yours,” he said.

 

“I’ll call you on that. You don’t know who you’re dealin’ with.”

Taking turns, they tossed the can, shooting at it from the hip. First they tossed it straight up. Then to one side and the other, and even behind where they’d have to turn as they fired. The can spun and flipped as each bullet hit. If a bullet ricocheted off the can, making it start to fall, the other shooter would hit it dead center. Neither of them ever missed.

 

“Damn, you’re good, Jess. Who taught you to shoot? It wasn’t me.”

 

Jessie picked up the battered can and heaved it as far as he could. “I was gonna wait for a good time to tell you. I guess this is as good as any.”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“I’m gonna tell you something you might not like.”

 

“If it’s coming from you, I’ll not take it unkindly.”

 

“Just remember that.” Jessie squatted down on his haunches and Kincade joined him. “I really missed you after you left for the ranches. Young buck that I was, I was so lonely. But then Wil Logan started bein’ real nice to me.”

 

Kincade’s jaw tightened.

 

“I think maybe he was hopin’ I’d tell him where you went. But I didn’t know and wouldn’t have told him if I had known.”

 

Kincade fell quiet, wondering what was coming next.

 

“Wil taught me to shoot a gun. And when he started formin’ his gang, he asked me to go with him.”

 

Kincade’s head recoiled. “Pretty rough company.” Kincade’s voice had an edge to it.

 

“That’s exactly what Miz Agnes Johnson said. You remember the widow woman I was livin’ with?” Kincade nodded. “Well she carried on somethin’ awful when I told her what I was gonna do. She cried and twisted her apron and had to sit down. She told me some awful things about Wil – things he’d done that I didn’t know about. She called him the son of Satan. There was even somethin’ so unbelievable that I thought she was making it up, but she swore it was true.”

 

“Why didn’t you pay attention to her?”

 

“Oh hell, Kincade, she’d never paid me no mind before. How come all of a sudden she feels responsible for me? I was just a kid and Wil’s gang seemed more like an adventure than anything dangerous or ugly. I found out she was right before long.”

“You went along with what Logan was doing?”

 

“I’ve done some things that I’m ashamed of, but I never got brutal. I decided to quit the gang when Logan started going completely loco about getting’ you. I told him I wanted no part of anything that would hurt you. He got so angry it was like he was comin’ apart. Told me I was a traitor. That he’d taught me everything I knew and you’d just run off and left me.

 

“I told him I’d had enough. Told him he was crazy.” Jessie paused. “He tried to shoot me! I ran out to Lefty and high-tailed it. He was yellin’ he’d kill me fer sure dead if he ever caught me riding with you.”

 

Kincade looked hard into Jessie’s eyes. “Were you part of the burning of the Proud Cat and the killing of my pard, Whiskey Pete?”

 

“No.”

“Did you have anything to do with the stage robbery at Corinne?”

 

“NO! Hell no, Kincade! That was planned after I left. But I know all about it from two of his gang that got drunk in a saloon I was in. They was braggin’ about it.” Jessie slowly twirled a twig between his two fingers, looking at Kincade without blinking.

 

Kincade sat silently, thinking about what Jessie had revealed. Finally, he picked up a stone and threw it in the river. “How come you didn’t tell me this before now, Jess?”

 

“Maybe I was testin’ our friendship to see if it was strong enough for somethin’ like this. It’s been a long time since we was together. Maybe you’d changed – maybe I’d changed too much. There’s got to be a right time to tell somethin’ – especially if it’s important. Right now seemed like the right time.” Jessie broke the twig in half. “You sore at me?”

 

Silence.

 

“You still my blood brother, Kincade?” There was something almost wistful in Jessie’s voice. Kincade could see that his friend felt cut to the core for what he’d done.

 

Kincade paused, then said, “I know what it feels like to be lonely, Jess. I understand why you did what you did. Forget it.”

 

He walked over to his friend, putting his hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “Thanks for tellin’ me.”

 

Come nightfall, after seeing to their horses, Jessie gathered wood for a fire while Kincade placed their gear close to a ring of rocks he’d arranged to hold back the hot coals. Now, with an even deeper feeling of brotherhood, Jessie told Kincade that his picture was showing up on Wells Fargo Robbery posters across the southwest. But it wasn’t just for Robbery. He was accused of being the leader of a gang of killers. He was Wanted Dead or Alive.

 

Kincade thought of the Corinne stage robbery, and Logan’s hideous laugh after the murder of the woman passenger. Because of Logan’s trick, Kincade might be running for the rest of his life, or what was left of it after the bounty hunters started up. Some of them were such skilled trackers, they could hunt a whisper in a big wind. And if he wasn’t killed outright, he’d end up spending 30 years behind bars, rotting in some prison hellhole.

 

Kincade knotted his hands and looked at Jessie who sat watching Kincade near the firelight.

 

"For the life of me,” said Kincade, “I can’t understand why you’d want part of this mess. You may be forty-eight hours away from a firefight unlike anything even you have fought your way in or out of.”

 

Jessie looked at Kincade without speaking.

 

“Our fight you say,” Kincade continued, his voice rising. “You always were blind loyal Jess. You owe it to yourself to get out of here, and if you got a lick of sense, you’ll do it here and now.”

 

Jessie flipped a twig into the fire, sending a small shower of sparks into the dark sky.

 

“Give me one good reason how you think you’re gonna get out of a ride into damnation, Jess.”

 

Jessie stared at his lifelong friend for nearly a minute without speaking, their eyes locked on one another. Jessie slowly moved his right hand to his belly, placing four fingers on the right grip of his six-shooter, the thumb on the left, and withdrew the weapon. He half-cocked the hammer, releasing the cylinder. With his left palm, he spun the half-dozen cartridges chambered inside. They clicked past the pistol’s firing pins like a diamond back rattler.

 

“One good reason, huh?” whispered Jessie. With blurring speed, Jessie snapped his right hand forward, spinning his Colt a half dozen revolutions before bringing to an instant stop, fully cocked and ready to fire. Kincade saw fury in Jessie's eyes. “There’s your one good reason.

 

“And now I gotta question for you, Kincade. Are you done tryin’ to run me out of your life?”

“Yeah,” Kincade said.

 

“Good. ‘Cause tomorrow is as good a day to die as any.”

 

And with that, Jessie stood from the fire, walked over to his saddle, unfurled a blanket, lay down and put his hat over his eyes.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The five killers stayed close to the river as they rode into Tombstone. For this job, Logan took only his segundos: Chico Fernandez, Bart Ramsey, Lex Everson and Coryell. These four were the very best of the very worst, their skills dealing the art of death without peer. Logan knew that Wyatt Earp kept the peace in Tombstone with an iron fist. Riding in with twenty gunhands would draw the Marshal’s attention and Logan didn’t want a warning of trouble to be sounded. The four men knew that Logan was headed for a showdown with Kincade, but they hadn’t yet been told the plan. Didn’t bother them, they were used to getting information on a need to know basis.

 

On the outskirts of Tombstone, miners pitched their tents. Closer to town, folks built shacks. One very small house had a white picket fence out front. It belonged to a 23-year old widowed woman, whose young husband had been killed two winters earlier in a Tombstone silver mine explosion. Poor when the couple first arrived, even poorer now, the widow eeked out a living by working 14 hours a day for the slavedrivers in a Chinese laundry. It had taken the widow over a year to save enough money to repair and paint that picket fence.

 

As Logan’s gang rode past, Everson threw his lariat to catch one of the carefully painted fence posts, dallied up, and tore down 12 feet worth. Just for fun. The 23-year old widow watched silently from the kitchen window as the mounted scum laughed in unison. She began to softly cry.

 

Logan said nothing. Whatever his boys did to show their rough side was fine with him. Logan occupied himself with The Cosmopolitan Hotel, the top turrets plainly visible in the center of town. The Territorial Flag flew over the building. "When I'm finished with Josephine, we'll just have to yank that rag down and mop her saloon floor with it!" snarled Logan. "Then we'll just mail it off to any lawman who believes anything he's doing amounts to squat.

 

"Pull up, boys. This'll do." ordered Logan.

 

As one, they dismounted near a clump of willows next to the steam. "We'll wait here," said Logan. "Decide how best to burn this berg and barbeque Kincade's sweet little Josephine.”

 

By nightfall the segundos were sitting around the fire, waiting for Logan to speak.

 

“Fernandez, you’re to go into town tomorrow and get the lay of the land. Right now ‘ya look like you do in them Wanted posters. Cut off that mustache and keep your head down. Leave that Mexican sombrero behind and wear Ramsey’s Stetson.”

 

Ramsey looked at Chico as if he’d kill him if the hat came back damaged.

Logan continued. “Talk to people - see if Kincade’s been seen around town. Don’t call him by name, you dumb fool - just a big stranger with a lot of guns. Go to the livery and ask if they’ve stabled a palomino stallion. Go to the blacksmith ‘cause he’ll be aware of new horses in town. Go to the gunsmith and the general store n’ see if any stranger bought ammunition lately. You got my drift??”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I ain’t stupid.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that. Then check out the saloon in the corner of that hotel on Allen Street. It’ll be run by a woman named Josephine.”

 

Fernandez laughed. “Burned her once on the Cherokee. Burned her a second time in Benson. Third time’s a charm, right boss?”

 

“’Cept this time, Kincade’ll be here. She’s his woman, and our bait. I want the layout of the saloon - where the doors are, the bar, the tables, the people that go there. Everything. You got it?”

 

“May take me more’n a day.”

 

“Just don’t come back without an answer for every question I’ve asked ya.”

 

“How come he’s the lucky one?” Ramsey asked. “What are we supposed to do? Sit here on our butts while he’s in a town with Doves, and liquor, and gamblin’?”

 

Logan looked daggers at Ramsey. “No, you sit here on your butts and thank your lucky stars that I ain’t killed you yet.” With that the five headed for their saddle blankets and a restless night.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

 

The Cosmopolitan Hotel was the finest building in Tombstone - bar none. It had been built thanks to Albert Bilicke, a millionaire who had made his fortune in gold mining, but preferred to live in bustling San Francisco with his wife of many years, their five children, twenty grandchildren, and he’d forgotten how many great grandchildren. They were the upper crust of the port city, and haughtily proud of it.

 

Bilicke’s business empire required that he travel frequently. During his stopovers in a town called Benson, he watched the success of Josephine and her Proud Cat Dance Hall and Saloon. He visited with her customers, asking their opinions of her, and why they chose the Proud Cat over the other saloons of Benson. Smart businessman that he was, Bilicke could smell money. He offered Josephine her own place inside The Cosmopolitan, and half ownership of the hotel as well. She’d refused and refused again. Until The Proud Cat burned.

 

Josephine was grateful to have a place of refuge, but she laid down some terms as well. No expense was to be spared in the construction, décor and hiring practices of her new venture. Josephine had an uncanny knack for good business. Bilicke had seen her considerable skills in Benson, so it didn’t surprise him when she also turned her attention to The Cosmopolitan Hotel, which, in her estimation, needed to be upgraded to befit the recent change in management.

 

The Cosmo was located only three blocks from the train depot and became a natural gathering place for the community as well as accommodations for travelers. The Hotel’s front desk was staffed by gentlemen who genuinely welcomed everyone who entered. Thickly upholstered lobby chairs beckoned weary travelers and congenial citizens. Tiffany lamps on table tops were laced with tassels and crystal. On winter nights, a crackling fire burned in the large fireplace at the head of the lobby. The upstairs rooms were elegantly but conservatively furnished. Every afternoon at four Josephine herself served tea and cakes in a dainty parlor to the women of the town. In exchange they granted her respectability and even admiration.

 

For the men of Tombstone a different room beckoned entirely. The adjoining saloon she named for herself - The Josephine. It was not just a place to drink, gamble, and enjoy the company of women, it was a luxurious palace. Entrance could be either through batwing doors on the street or a short flight of stairs from the lobby of the Cosmopolitan. The high ceiling was covered in ornate tin. The bar stretched nearly the length of the saloon, with a large mirror decorated with elaborate frostwork. The oak tables were in a variety of sizes and all the chairs had cushions of various colored plush. The gambling tables were new and the latest models. Josephine hired only the most experienced dealers and she kept a constant eye on them to see that each game was unfailingly honest.

 

At the back of the saloon, several doors led to rooms for entertainment of an intimate nature, with subdued lighting and soft featherbeds. Josephine’s ladies, as she preferred them to be called, were each beautiful in their own distinct way - blondes, brunettes, redheads, whites, blacks, and Orientals. It was Josephine’s pleasure to give each her own right to shine, in demeanor and in dress. Each wore her hair in the style most becoming – some with curls piled on top of their heads, some with tresses falling loose onto their shoulders, some with a crown of braids held in place with ivory needles. Their costumes also were individual. They could be form-fitting satin and silk corsets with swishing taffeta skirts below. The Oriental girl liked to wear a Japanese kimono, and a lusty brunette sometimes decked herself out in bright leather chaps over her legs exposed in black silk stockings. Josephine helped them design their costumes to be sure they were always in good taste. Then she put the cost of having them made on her expense account.

 

Josephine demanded that her girls be treated with absolute respect. As had been the rule at The Proud Cat, any wrangler who got out of line was brutally thrown through the batwings by a Sampson of a man who only needed a nod from Josephine to do his job. Josie knew from experience that the crowds loved music, so in the fashion of the Proud Cat, a stage was an important feature. The honky-tonk piano player could sing even louder than the piano on which he hammered.

 

Josephine’s ladies were a dozen beauties, but chosen for their talent in performing as well. And perform they did, oftentimes to the raucous applause of a packed house. At the heart of this very special place was the sweet owner herself. Josephine had never been more beautiful. Her dresses were always black - silk, satin, brocade, velvet, lace - always black. They could have beads and bangles, tassels and trimmings, tucks and pleats - always black. Her accessories were always white - lace shawl festooned over her arms, a white rose tucked in her cleavage, pearls in a long chain or in rows at her throat, little ermine pelts around her shoulders - always white. With her golden hair and crème colored skin, the word stunning seemed inadequate. But more – much more – than her incredible loveliness was her courtesy, good cheer and dazzling smile for all who entered. The patrons of The Josephine were falling in love with its proprietress just as they had in Benson.

 

She could make a nervous 16-year old wrangler feel at ease. “Hello cowboy. Welcome to The Josephine. I’m Josie in the flesh. May I get you something? The first one’s on the house to toast your arrival in Tombstone.”

 

To an old sourdough who was down on his luck she’d say, “This one’s on me, Sam. As much as you’ve spent in The Josephine, it would be my pleasure.”

 

Chico Fernandez took all of this in and sealed it in his mind to relate to Logan. He had done what he was told - talked with folks at the livery, blacksmith, general store. No sign of Kincade yet. Chico’s favorite haunt was the saloon, but in less than two days he’d spent all his money and could hardly hang out there without a drink or a game of poker. So he took up a position in an alley near the smithy. Here he spied on the men who entered, counted how many were townsmen and how many were cowboys or drifters. No one resembled Kincade. He rolled his smoke and thought of returning to Logan that evening.

 

He would never make it. Not that evening. Not ever.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

 

 

Big Red had been a blacksmith as a boy in Ireland. He kept on with his trade when he and his younger sister Abby immigrated to Sandia, New Mexico. They were happy living in a small house adjacent to the smithy, and Abby was being courted by a young farmer who was also from Ireland.

 

One day a mean looking gang rode into town and wanted Big Red to shoe their horses, which he did. When he asked for payment, one of them hit him from behind with a metal bar and knocked him cold. They raped and beat up Abby, and in a few days she died of her wounds. They torched the house and smithy. That’s when Big Red came to Tombstone.

 

Big Red was a giant of a man. Six and a good half feet of steel, covered by a thin veneer of flesh and blood. His two arms looked like railroad ties, his neck the width of a tree trunk. All topped off with a wild tangle of hair the color of strawberries. Red was a man of few words... a true force to be reckoned with. Working alone, with white hot iron your whole life does that to a fella.

 

He liked Tombstone. Work was good. He had friends. But Red’s affection for animals and kids was surpassed only by his hidden love for Josephine.

 

Oh, he would never, could never, say anything to her about it. He just didn't have the nerve. Even in the few short months she’d been in town, Big Red knew that most of Tombstone had grown to love Josephine, just as he had. And oftentimes, he was ashamed that his affection for her may have included a look or two at her stunning figure, rather than the sweetness and compassion of her soul.

 

Big Red would do anything to protect Josephine, and for two days he had been sure she needed protection. A burley Mexican had been questioning people all over town. He asked about a lot of things, but seemed particularly interested in The Josephine. What time did it open? What time did it shut down? Was there a side door or a rear door? How many men worked there?

 

And he asked about the proprietress herself. What time did Josephine show up? Did she come every day? Was she ever seen with a tall stranger who wore a lot of guns? Since Sandia, Big Red could smell a bandit a mile off, and this fellow was putting up quite a stench.

 

All along, Big Red had thought the man looked familiar. Then when he came to question the blacksmith about any strange horse, it struck him like a thunder clap. The Mexican was one of the gang which had ruined his life in Sandia. The hombre had shaved off his mustache, but Red would recognize those bushy eyebrows and mean, little, lizard eyes anywhere. Evil was always in the eyes. Red knew, without question, that this trash was gonna do in Tombstone what he’d done in Sandia. The Josephine would be raided and burned and his beloved Josephine would suffer as his sister Abby had. Big Red could not let this happen.

 

The evening of the second day this hombre had been standing for an hour and a half in an alleyway, watching the batwing doors of The Josephine. Red could stand it no longer. He was angry. Very angry.

 

Red's forge had been turning iron into putty all that day in a way so effective that putty had turned into a thin, white hot, soup. Big Red took one of his casting bowls, and filled it to the brim with molten metal. His massive hands gripped a three foot pair of tongs, strangling the bowl, which had begun to glow from the searing heat. He turned from his forge, walked into the alley, and moved towards the dark man. Funny how such a huge person could naturally move with the grace of a cat.

 

The bandit smelled the liquid, and felt the heat, long before he realized Big Red was right behind him. Fernandez spun on his heels, snapping a Winchester up from his right leg. But it never got any further that that. Red knocked off Fernandez’ hat, held the molten bowl over the killer's head, and poured it over his skull. Every single last scalding drop.

 

Big Red was used to the smell of burning hair and flesh. It was his business. Didn't bother him at all. Neither did the smell of a very bad man, whose entire head was stripped of hair and flesh in less than six seconds.

 

As Chico Fernandez crashed to the ground, Big Red looked into the empty bone sockets of a grinning skull. "That’ll learn ‘ya to harm Abby and Miss Josephine,” thought Red.

 

That same afternoon, the four men at Logan’s camp paced, circled, and snapped at each other like steam engine boilers ready to blow.

 

“Where the hell is Fernandez?” Logan snarled.

 

“Damn Mex!” spit Everson. “He’s probably shacked up with some cheap whore.”

 

“We hang around here much longer rust’ll start flakin’ off me,” complained Coryell.

“Yeah, let’s go. Damn Chico’s got my hat!” complained Ramsey. “Let’s skin our smokewagons and get to work.”

 

“Okay. You three get into town tonight and keep hidden. Don’t let nobody see your faces. Find Chico. Coryell, you find some high ground and set up across from Josephine’s saloon. Keep your eyes open for Kincade. I’m certain he’s comin’, if he ain’t here already. You see somethin’ you get yourselves back here pronto.

 

“Then we’ll all ride in together and tear Kincade apart.”

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

 

 

Late afternoon that same day, Kincade and Jessie could make out the rise to the south that held the town of Tombstone. About two miles out, they saw the spires of The Cosmopolitan Hotel. Kincade knew that Josie was beneath, preparing for the evening’s festivities. Like any mining town throughout the frontier, Saturday night was the favorite. And Josephine reserved her very finest, from her ladies to her libations, for Saturday nights. Inside The Josephine, the proprietress always thrilled her guests with the dazzling gowns which she wore only on Saturday nights. This Saturday night would be like no other, though not for reasons Josephine was aware.

 

Below the rise of the cemetery Boot Hill, not a half mile from where Logan and his men planned the destruction of the saloon and its mistress, Kincade and Jessie dismounted. The big man had been quiet for many hours and Jessie didn’t press him. But around the campfire, Jessie asked, “What’s the play?”

 

“We know Josephine’s life is at stake. Logan will go to her saloon.”

 

Kincade laid out his plan, conceived of, worked on, and worked again since he’d pulled Logan’s bullet from his left shoulder. Jessie listened intently. It seemed as if the spirits of Whiskey Pete, Little Blue, and Finley all listened to the plotted vengeance as well. The coals from the campfire burned low, blood red.

 

Finally Kincade finished and looked towards Jessie. “Got it?”

 

“Sounds good to me. Later tonight?”

 

“That’s my plan.”

 

Darkness arrived in its black glory. They could see the lights from the top floors of The Cosmopolitan Hotel burning brightly. When the wind shifted just right, Kincade and Jessie could hear The Josephine’s honky-tonk piano player in full glory. Kincade and Jessie were more than ready to move. The smell of Logan, of how he ravaged everyone and everything around him, made the two men choke. It's wasn't the smoke from the night's fire. It was Logan’s stench.

 

Gold Digger heard it first: the crack of dry limbs. The palomino's neck jerked up, his nostrils flared as the muscles pulled taut. Two riders were approaching their camp.

 

Jessie spun from his crouch, grabbing the Winchester 73 from Digger’s saddle, throwing it into Kincade’s waiting hands. With a lightning fast snap of his wrist, Kincade quickly racked the first cartridge, leveled the barrel to the trees where the two riders were about to appear and placed his finger on the trigger. His right hand prepared to chamber and fire the full magazine.

 

 

Jessie rolled to his right and yanked his 44 from the waist belt. He slammed the hammer back and jammed his elbow into his side where the recoil would be best received. Jessie was ready to fan six into the two riders as soon as they cleared the high brush.

 

"Show yourselves," Kincade shouted, “or you’ll be blown in half.”

 

Another crackle of dried twigs, and the two riders appeared. Another split second, and both Kincade and Jessie’s guns would have been set afire. But they hadn’t. Thank God they hadn’t.

 

The two riders dismounted, moved forward and stepped into the fading firelight. Both riders wore long dusters. The shorter and much thinner held a gentleman’s cane. Beneath his topcoat he sported a gambler’s vest, adorned with a shoulder holster tucked into the left of his chest. On his right hip sat a crossdraw rig and left handed holster, enabling him, should he find it necessary, to pull two guns before the object of his attention could blink.

 

The taller of the two wore a black hat, the brim and crown perfectly flat. He was big, foreboding, utterly confident in himself with the air of being in control of whatever situation in which he found himself. The silver badge on his chest caught the firelight. “Hello Kincade. I got a wire that you’d be showing up in my town.”

 

Kincade stood motionless, the Winchester leveled and aimed squarely at the chest of the larger of the two strangers. “Marshal, if you’ve come to arrest me, I’m telling you politely to move on. I’ve got unfinished business here in Tombstone and I’ll not go behind bars until it’s settled.”

 

“Wyatt,” interrupted the other stranger. “I think your friend here… a Mister Kincade I believe… it appears your friend may be wondering what our intentions are, riding into his camp tonight.”

 

Neither Kincade nor Jessie moved.

 

“Perhaps, Doc, they’re wondering if I might have seen his picture on a certain poster with the notation Wanted Dead or Alive, and if perhaps I’m here to do more than simply welcome him and his sidekick… it is ‘Jessie Keller’, isn’t it?... perhaps they wonder if we’re standing here in order to splatter them all over this yard. Do you suppose that might be the case Doc?” And the tall man with the silver badge over his heart raised his left eyebrow toward his companion.

 

“I have an idea!” said the thinner of the two riders. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Kincade that you know all about what happened up there in Montana. Assure him that you and I are both aware of Mr. Wil Logan’s double-cross, and that we have no wish to make a mess of him, of his friend, or of my best shirt that I retrieved from Mr. Woo’s Laundry only this afternoon. What say you my good friend?”

 

The tall stranger scrunched up his jaw and rubbed the chin stubble with his right hand. “You know… I believe the Doctor has exactly the correct prescription for the continued good health of us all.” And with that, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday grinned ear to ear.

 

Kincade’s heartbeat slowed, the tension disappeared and both hands lowered the Winchester. Marshal Wyatt Earp strode up to Kincade and extended a handshake. John “Doc” Holliday tipped his hat to Jessie.

“You know, Wyatt,” commented Doc, “I really think you had best enroll yourself in the School of Southern Gentlemen, of which I am a graduate summa cum laude. Not only would you improve your skills when welcoming visitors to our fine hamlet, but you would save the town tailor from the tedious task of patching errant bullet holes in your duster.”

 

All four men laughed. Kincade looked at Wyatt Earp. “That mean I’m no longer Wanted Dead or Alive?”

 

“The government posters are down. But I know why you’re here. You’re wanted dead – and not alive - by the Logan gang.”

 

“Are they here?” Kincade tensed .

 

“Probably but they’re keeping a low profile – so far.” He faced Kincade. “Logan’s my problem as a U.S. lawman. He’s Wanted, and I’ll take him in.”

 

“He’s been my lifelong enemy, Marshal. And now he’s after the woman I love. I’d say that makes him MY problem.”

 

Earp continued. “I’ll not have my town shot up unless it’s done legal. That’s why the good doctor and I rode out to find you. Step over here.” The Marshal pointed his finger at Jessie and motioned him to stand alongside Kincade.

 

“Raise your right hands.” They did. “Swear to uphold the law.” They did. “You’re deputized.” Wyatt Earp handed each a star.

 

Doc Holliday spoke. “He tried to make me do that. I told him his salary was unacceptable.”

 

“You can make it your fight if you want to, Kincade. I trust you will uphold the honor of the badge.” They went back to their horses. Before they could mount, Doc began coughing so violently that he had to lean against the saddle and grip the horn.

 

“Doc, you all right?” the Marshal asked.

 

“Like a daisy. Just give me a minute.” Holliday took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “Okay, let’s ride.”

 

“What’s wrong with the Doc?” Jessie asked as he pinned on his badge.

 

“Consumption.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“A disease that’s eating the life out of him. Earp watches him like a hawk.”

 

“Seems they’re a lot like us – blood brothers.”

 

Kincade smiled. “Forever and ever.”

 

The lights of The Cosmopolitan Hotel beckoned in the distance. Josephine’s enthusiastic honky-tonk piano player entertained the ever-growing crowd. Kincade pinned on his silver star. Things had changed for the two men standing around a dying campfire just below Boot Hill, Tombstone.

 

Better for them – worse for Wil Logan.

[Amos Dumas, SASS #8447 L]

Things are looking up for Kincade, now he is legal and has good help too.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

 

 

Tombstone had a reputation for many things, including silver, cattle and The Josephine Saloon. The men who handled the first two inevitably congregated at the third.

 

Across the street from The Cosmopolitan and several doors down from Red’s Smithy, sat a large two story building. Used by the cattle processors, it was, plain and simple, a slaughterhouse. When the cattle drives hit Tombstone, most of the herds would be loaded onto the railroad, and sent off to the dining tables of the East. But a hundred or so head from every herd were moved to Tombstone’s own slaughterhouse. The bellowing livestock didn’t take a bullet between the eyes solely for their meat. The butchers needed the hides for leather – for saddles, and holsters, and gunbelts and harnesses and such.

 

First the cattle were herded into the front of the building. After they had departed this world, the butchers stripped the meat. The bones and carcass were then dragged into the next room. That room was filled with, what looked like, open stone coffins. But these were larger than those found in any Boot Hill. They were three times as large. Stone vaults, with no lids. Side by side, row by row. About 30 of them.

 

Inside these vaults bubbled highly toxic acid.

 

The slaughterhouse crew would drag cattle carcass to the vaults. Using hooks much larger than a rancher would use for snagging hay bales, they would heave each carcass up and over the side wall and into the vault... two or three in each. As soon as the remains of the animal hit the acid, the butchers would jump back like jackrabbits as a tremendous boil frothed up, mightier than any witch’s caldron. The blistering acid tore at what remained of the beast, stripping it of all hair, all bone, all flesh. All that would be left was the leather hide. A very efficient process, start to finish.

 

Tombstone lived by few rules. But the town slaughterhouse had one: Don't ever let that acid splash on you when heaving the carcass in or out. Several of the crew had forgotten those words of warning over the years, and their scarred faces and bodies bore grotesque marks of eaten flesh, much worse than any fire could ever wield.

 

Logan’s three men had been stalking the dim streets of Tombstone with no luck. “Where the hell is Fernandez?!” snarled Coryell. “He’d better not be pickin’ over Josephine. If Kincade’s in town, that would muck up our party way too early.”

 

“Where the hell is that Mexican!?” said Ramsey. “We’re supposed to keep hidden and I can’t see a damn thing!”

“Maybe we can get a view of who’s comin’ and goin’ to The Josephine from that building,” Everson said. The three reached the back entrance of Tombstone’s slaughterhouse.

 

“What the hell is that stink?!” asked Everson as Ramsey kicked opened the alley door of the two-story building. “Maybe we’ll get a good view of the saloon, but God, this place stinks worse than a skunk!”

 

“Shut up,” barked Ramsey. “You just do as you’re told. We’re here to look, not smell. We’ll spot Chico and yank him back before Logan. He’ll be dog meat when the boss is done.”

 

"Somethin's dead in here," said Everson. "Over and over dead." But the three were used to the stench of death, so they pushed forward.

 

Moving through the front room and into the darkness of the second, the three bandits saw light filtering through the windows which faced The Josephine. The glass was about ten feet up the wall. But no matter. They knew they’d have a clear look from up there. All they needed to do was stand on the edge of one of those large stone boxes, all lined up side by side. Their minds raced with anticipation. What if Kincade was standing out front? To hell with Chico Fernandez! Letting Logan know they’d seen Kincade would set real good... maybe even earn them a turn or two at Josephine herself.

 

“Let’s get up there,” said Coryell. Ramsey ran forward, leaping on the first vault, immediately followed by Coryell and Everson.

 

"Nothing can stop us," Ramsey thought as they leapt upwards, “absolutely nothing."

 

Except for one thing.

 

An experienced butcher would know and never forget that years and years of splashing cattle blood and guts leaves more than a very unpleasant smell. It leaves a viscous scum that is slicker than horse snot. A butcher would know. An outlaw would not.

 

Coryell, Everson and Ramsey found out just how slick the moment their boots hit the vault’s edge. Unfortunately, the three were unable to share their surprise amongst themselves. All three plunged headlong into the vat's liquid, disappearing from sight in a thrashing explosion of unspeakable agony, and utter efficiency.

 

The hides retrieved from the first stone vault the next day would not be used for saddles, or holsters or harnesses...

 

Wil Logan would be entering Tombstone alone, without guns to back him up or information about Kincade.

 

It didn’t matter. Because he had an ace-up-his-sleeve that would insure Kincade’s death.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY

 

 

Jessie and Kincade stood at the hitching rail across the street from the windows of The Josephine. Inside, they could see the crowd. Cowboys lined up one by one, preferring to stand and belly up to the bar. Hoisting their boots to the brass rail at their feet, they would proudly place both hands splayed on the polished wood, rapping their glasses smartly to catch the barkeeps’ attention, and any ladies who might be gazing their way. "Whiskey!" they would shout, and the bartenders would eagerly respond, splashing their glasses full. Once in hand, the cowboys would spin ‘round to the crowd, enabling them to take stock of the ladies like proud roosters counting their hens.

 

If they’d had a lick of sense, their eyes would have bypassed all the plumage, lace and the promise of petticoats. If they’d known, those cowboys would have quickly placed their glasses, empty or full, on the bar, tipped their hats to the bartenders and bid them goodnight, preferring to live another day rather than get drunk another night. For there, inside The Josephine Saloon, sitting about twelve feet from the piano player’s stage, waited Wil Logan.

Kincade and Jessie had two choices. They could either enter The Josephine through the Allen Street entrance, or come in from behind via the interior of The Cosmopolitan’s lobby. They chose both. Jessie took the Hotel lobby entrance. Kincade chose the batwings. The two of them looked at one another as they left the darkness that surrounded the hitching post, and began their move towards the lights of the hotel. They said nothing. What would be the point? From the innocence of when they were children, to a lifetime of learning what it meant to care or to kill, it had all lead to this: a warm Saturday night in a lawless town named after the stone tablets of dead men.

 

“How appropriate,” Kincade thought to himself. “How could the Reckoning possibly take place anywhere but here?” Kincade watched Jessie step onto the wooden planking of the boardwalk, pull back the door to The Cosmopolitan’s lobby, and disappear inside. Well, this was it.

 

Kincade paused in front of the batwings facing Allen Street. He looked up at the lights of the hotel. Room after room of bright lights. He wondered how many couples were up there, Dancing in the rooms of The Cosmopolitan. The building almost looked like a carnival. Red brick, with each of the room's street front exteriors decorated with a painted white arch, like a monotone rainbow sitting atop each window.

 

Kincade slowly turned back to Allen Street. He looked west, to the shops of Tombstone. Then north at the dark windows of the slaughterhouse. And to the east, where the train depot sat, quiet for the night. At the hitching rail, Gold Digger waited. "Yes.. I'll try to be careful, my old friend," thought Kincade. "But Josephine is here. And no harm will ever come to her again, not so long as I breathe.”

 

Kincade pushed the batwings of The Josephine left and right, and stepped inside.

 

The sight of her took his breath away. His dreams of her were not nearly so lovely. Josephine wore a black silk dress with layers of ruffles going from waist to hem. A wide lace collar was held by an ivory cameo at her incredible cleavage. There were white flowers in her golden hair.

Kincade stood just to the inside of the batwings, his heart pounding. No matter what he had been, no matter his living alone all these years, Josephine had forever changed him.

 

Kincade now understood the trails of his life... the ultimate reason he’d been sold by the old Indian, the reason he had learned how to care about Jessie Keller, the reason he would stop the scum sucking gutter trash named Logan. Every bit of his life, the good and the bad, had forged Kincade into the man he’d become, and for some unexplainable reason, this man had captured Josephine’s heart, and she his. If he were to be killed tonight, it would all have been worth it. Because of Josephine, and for the first time in his life, Kincade felt complete.

 

As she always did when she heard the batwings swing open, Josephine turned, eager to welcome her newest guest. Her jaw fell open.... "It can’t be!"

 

And at the very same moment Josephine’s eyes met Kincade’s, Wil Logan saw the gunfighter he'd waited years to kill.

 

He saw Kincade...

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

 

 

In booming bravado, Logan shouted, “Kincade, it’s finally just you and me!” He stood and reached for his guns.

 

It would take a moment, but only a moment, for the patrons of The Josephine to realize what was about to happen. Only a moment for the honky-tonk piano player who was in the midst of a festive tune, for the attentive bartenders busily pouring generous drinks for the cowboys of Tombstone, for those standing and those seated at tables, it only took a moment to realize what was happening. Their wish for a fine Saturday night in the town of Tombstone was cataclysmically coming apart, destroyed by the angel of death himself: Wil Logan.

 

Kincade had been momentarily distracted by seeing Josephine after so long a time. But Logan had no such hesitation. He immediately capsized the table before him, launching it across the room towards Kincade and the entrance to The Josephine. The bottle on the table crashed forward, throwing shattered glass onto guests left and right. Logan then heaved three chairs, two of which slammed into the piano player who fell to the floor. The goldfish jar full of tips, just above the piano's high note keys, tipped over, spilling the change onto the hardwood below. A big ranch hand who had been thoroughly enjoying the piano player's tune... so much so that he'd tipped back his chair onto two hind legs... was upended and smashed backwards into yet another table. He found himself flat on his back wondering what the hell had happened, and just which no-good coot he'd have to beat the tar out of to make sure it never happened again. But he would never get that chance. No cowboy had ever run into a cold-blooded murderer as ruthless as Wil Logan.

 

The saloon erupted in chaos. In hysteric haste, chairs were overturned, drinks spilled, cards scattered. Gamblers scooped their winnings into their hats and bolted out the batwing doors. Other men ducked under tables or plastered themselves against walls which seemed out of the path of the gunfighters. Josephine’s ladies were screaming and shoving, struggling to get up the stairs and out of the room.

 

Seeing the blue steel of Logan’s shooters clear leather, Kincade knew there would be two-foot flames of gunfire belching from both barrels before he could take another breath. He skinned both his Colts and dropped to the floor, rolling and firing at the enraged bull facing him with guns blazing. Kincade quickly returned to his feet and lunged towards the bar. His head and back smashed into the wood just above the bar’s brass foot railing. He was dazed, but he wasn’t hit.

 

 

Shaking his head to clear it, he grabbed a chair by the leg and heaved it toward the advancing Logan. As it sailed across the room, Kincade jumped up and emptied both chambers. Logan laughed manically as he staggered but did not fall. He threw a heavy glass liquor bottle at the bar which exploded just over Kincade’s head.

 

Josephine stood dumbstruck. She couldn’t believe the mayhem around her. Her head flinched as she focused on Logan, suddenly recognizing him as the man who had burned her place to the ground not once but twice. Josephine flashed back to the horrors on the Cherokee - the station in flames, the blood, the killing. And The Proud Cat, recoiling at the appalling memory of Finley burning alive in the fire. No, not again! Her mind screamed out, “How is this possible?! How could this all be happening?!! After all these years, all the miles, all the sleepless nights filled with unspeakable nightmares... how could this be happening here?... in Tombstone… to my guests… my place… not now, not here, not again!” But hell had returned. She couldn’t just stand there doing nothing.

 

As Kincade was dodging and ducking Logan’s barrage of lead, he suddenly became aware of Josephine. He was horrified! Surely she would be cut to ribbons as she darted between him and Logan, consumed with the safety of her ladies and her guests. She seemed to pay no attention to the hail of bullets flying around her.

 

“Josie! For God’s sake turn over that table and get behind it! He’d just as soon kill you as me!” She quickly did as he said, knowing she would only put Kincade in greater danger if he felt he had to protect her.

 

Kincade sailed across two tables, knocking one down to the hardwood floor, spinning around as he wedged his back to the table's upturned top. With blazing speed, he opened the cylinders from both revolvers, dumping the spent casings, and reloading twelve from his chest bandoleer.

 

At exactly the same moment, the back door to The Josephine crashed open, and Jessie burst onto the stair landing. He slammed into two screaming ladies trying to escape. As the three of them tousled, Jessie’s eyes searched the room for his blood brother below. No matter what happened to him in the next few moments, Jessie was determined that Kincade must not die. Absolutely must not!

 

Jessie saw Logan move forward toward an overturned table, kicking a chair backwards so violently that it disintegrated against the rear wall on impact. Logan had his guns jammed backwards to waist level, each thumb shoved onto the hammers, eyes wild, voice roaring like an animal. Jessie had to do something. He had to get Logan’s attention, now!

 

Jessie fired his gun three times and shouted over the wailing and screaming, “Logan! Your boy Jessie’s back! I come to kill ‘ya!”

 

Josephine immediately recognized Jessie from the stories Kincade had shared with her in Benson. She screamed, “Help him, Jessie! For God’s sake, help him!”

 

Jessie cleared the three steps in one gigantic leap and somersaulted onto the saloon floor below. His gun was cocked and aimed toward the dog that had tormented so many for so long. But Logan was fast – fast enough to spin on his heels. At the very moment Jessie was pulling the trigger, Logan emptied his guns into Jessie, blood spurted from his stomach like a ruptured dam. His only shot went into the ceiling.

 

Kincade was so intent on reloading that he was hardly aware of other actions in the room. Grabbing the leg of a stool, Kincade heaved it over the top of the table. As it sailed across the room, Kincade jumped up to continue his fire. But he couldn’t. He could only watch Jessie as he desperately attempted to distract Logan in order to save Kincade’s life. He heard the shots, saw Jessie double over and slump onto the floor at Logan’s feet. “Oh, God no...” Kincade exploded with nearly uncontrollable anger, his pistols opening up on Logan.

 

Josephine screamed. "JESS!!"

 

As Kincade's first shots left the barrels, Logan sprang towards the Saloon’s front bar like a cat. Kincade's bullets flew by Logan’s head, slamming one after the other into the piano, blowing out the backside.

 

Logan was up and over the bar, vaulting past the petrified bartender whose terrified eyes darted between the madman and the gunny sack Logan had stuffed beneath the bar when he first arrived in The Josephine. Logan glared at the bartender as he crashed down into the walkway below the backbar's mirror. “One move and I’ll blow your head off!”

 

Suddenly, the room went quiet. Only a few whimpers from customers who were now experiencing their first taste and first acrid smell of what hell was really like.

 

"Jess... Jess! Are you alright?" yelled Kincade.

 

Nothing.

 

"JESSIE!"...

[Amos Dumas, SASS #8447 L]

DYNAMITE???

[Kincade 79985]

Amos,

 

Are you speaking of weapons or the storyline?

 

Thanks for always bumping the story back up front.

 

Kincade

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

 

 

“Kincade... he's not moving! Jessie's not moving!" screamed Josephine.

 

"Stay there. Get down. Don't move Josie,” answered Kincade. "Please... don't move." One of Josephine’s saloon ladies, crouched behind the table with her, began to cry.

 

Like the viper he was, Logan began to laugh from behind the bar. "Welcome to my party, Kincade. Ain’t this fun? After all these years, it’s just you and me provin’ who’s the better man.”

 

"Then step out, you scum sucking pig!" Kincade came back.

 

Dragging the gunny sack to his side, Logan laughed again – a quiet, sinister cackle of a laugh. “You’re a sad case, Kincade. Ever since I knowed you, all you cared about was your sense of respect. Remember the woman passenger at Corinne? Tried to save her, didn’t ya? Now, you got your pretty little Josephine caught in a crossfire. Hell... you can't even take care of your women! You, and your kind, make me sick!" Again, Logan laughed through the foam spilling from the corners of his mouth.

 

"I said step out Logan," yelled Kincade. "Step out and get yours!"

 

"I told you Kincade. It's my party. Why, you're my guest of honor! I even brought a little present for you. Cutest little present you ever did see." Again, Logan laughed, and again, the cry. But it wasn’t from Josephine’s saloon lady. The cry was coming from behind and below the bar.

 

"You been a pain in my ass all my life. But, seein’s this is my party, and you bein' my guest of honor, I'll give you your present anyway."

 

Kincade's hands tightened on the ivory grips of the twin Colts.

 

"You bein' such a gentleman and all, I think I'll just stand up, and give it to you personally!" announced Logan.

 

"Go ahead, you tub ‘a guts," said Kincade.

 

"Are you ready?"

 

Kincade yanked back the hammers on both guns, ready to split Logan’s head into a canoe. "Sure Wil. I'm ready."

 

"That's good Kincade. I've been waiting to give this to you for some time." And with that, Kincade could hear Logan, with some scuffled effort, stand. Without wasting a second, Kincade aimed his shooters towards the backbar and Logan’s voice.

 

Kincade's entire body froze.

 

There, in front of Wil Logan and pinned by the throat, wild eyed and absolutely terrified, stood the 6 year old girl from Julesburg:

 

Melissa Wilcox.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

 

 

 

Little Melissa was so afraid.

 

Feeling Logan’s calloused hand choking off nearly all her air; smelling his wretched breath swirling into her nostrils; coughing from the acrid gunsmoke that wafted through the air; staring into the barrels of Kincade’s guns; looking at the shattered tables and chairs; watching the stunned piano man and paralyzed bartender gape at her with eyes the size of saucers; seeing the terror in the horror-struck faces of everyone who now stood frozen in their tracks throughout the room; seeing a man lying on the floor covered in blood; little Melissa Wilcox knew she was going to die just like her Mama.

 

“Don’t shoot me, Mister. Please don’t shoot me!” Her tiny voice was between a scream and a sob. Kincade could plainly see the shivering terror ripple through the little girl’s fragile body.

 

Logan had planned for this exact moment since he had turned the school yard in Silver Spike into a shooting gallery. Seeing Melissa in Julesburg, then following her, grabbing her at the creek - it was all so perfect. Melissa’s kidnapping had nothing to do with providing nightly amusement for the gang who rode with him, but as insurance for exactly this moment. It was why Logan held his dogs back, warning that if any of them so much as touched the girl, he would rip their arms off.

 

Logan wanted the little girl fresh, unharmed, unspoiled, assuring him that when he finally met Kincade face to face, the little girl would stop Kincade from doing anything to Logan for fear of harming the child.

 

After Melissa’s abduction, Logan turned the girl over to one of his segundos, Lex Everson, who was to keep her captive until the time was right. Understanding Everson’s pace with the little girl would be different than theirs, he gave Everson orders to meet the gang in Tombstone, and promised the outlaw he’d slit his throat if anything happened to her.

 

Logan reveled in the outcome of his planning. He always schemed for an ace. Knowing Kincade since childhood, little Melissa was Logan’s Ace of Hearts.

 

Kincade hesitated, riveted by the panic in Melissa’s eyes. "Don't.”

 

Again, Logan laughed, a sickening, retched, evil laugh. His assumptions fulfilled.

"Do you like it?" hissed Logan.

 

"Let her go, Logan," said Kincade.

 

“That’s just what you said at Corinne. Remember what I did to that lady?” Logan took his gun hand, and slowly moved the barrel of his shooter to little Melissa’s temple. “Who’s gonna shoot first, Kincade? You? I see you’re wearin’ a deputy badge and here I am Wanted Dead or Alive. Why not shoot me now, Kincade? Of course I might just dodge a bit and you’d hit Melissa here. Too bad your heart’s so soft.”

 

Logan glared at Kincade with revulsion. “Hey, Kincade... now that you’re a Law Dog, I think it’d be best if you took off that star and tossed it over to me.”

 

Kincade didn't move.

 

"I said toss it over!" Logan rammed the barrel of his pistol into Melissa’s head, hard. He cocked the hammer. The small girl let out a terrified wail.

 

Josephine screamed, "Oh no, please. She's just a little girl! NO!"

 

Slowly, Kincade holstered one gun and unpinned the deputy badge, tossing it toward Logan.

 

"You see I might get some criticism for shooting an officer of the law, but not for shooting a man wanted dead or alive for a little murder and robbery in Corinne." His laugh was almost a growl. "I seen those posters with your picture. Shooting you will not only give me pleasure but a reward from the Wells Fargo folks. Now what could be nicer?"

 

Logan was in his element. "Well, I think I'll end this guessing game and fire the first shot myself. Or is it your turn? I forget. Up to me - up to you - who's gonna die, Kincade?"

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

 

 

 

The rage inside Kincade rose up like a tidal wave. Bigger, larger, more ferocious than anything he had ever imagined possible. But Logan was right. From this angle, Kincade’s shot could kill the little girl.

 

Logan’s finger tightened on the trigger, as his reptilian eyes locked onto the paralyzed gunfighter. “You’ve always been the one, haven’t you Kincade. You and your self-righteous ways. You were weak when we was kids. You’re even weaker today. Let’s see how brave you are at dyin’...”

 

Logan’s final bravado was all the distraction Jessie Keller needed. Clutching his bloody shirt in his left hand, and a gun that held one final bullet in his right, Jessie pulled himself to his feet and lurched toward Logan.

 

Using the speed reserved solely for a very few brave men, Jessie put his final round into the brain of one Wil Logan. The shot was so clean, and so close, that it blew the far side of Logan’s skull into a hundred pieces. The flared lead exited Logan’s shattered head and slammed into the wooden face of the bar in The Josephine Saloon.

 

Josephine rushed to catch Melissa as she crumpled to the floor. “Someone go get the Doc! Hurry!!”

 

As Kincade ran to break the fall of Jessie, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday crashed through the hotel lobby door, six-guns at the ready, entering the saloon itself. They ran to Kincade and knelt by his side. Seeing the ghastly wound in Jessie’s gut, it was clear to them both that Jess was at death’s doorstep. Both felt unbelievably hollow for being only minutes late. But now, there was nothing they or anyone else could do.

 

Kincade held Jessie in his arms, wishing he could do something... anything. Jessie’s question came as a whisper. "Is she... is the little girl… okay?" asked Jessie in a voice that could barely be heard.

 

"Yes. She's ok...thanks to you.”

 

“Are you hit?” asked Jessie.

 

Kincade shook his head. “Be still. The doctor’s coming...”

 

Jessie’s voice was soft and he clutched his stomach which was pumping blood onto the saloon floor. “Kincade, I gotta tell you something...”

 

“You don’t need to tell me anything. Just take it easy till the doc comes.”

 

“Listen...” Jessie’s glazing eyes lowered to the old Indian medicine bag, resting on Kincade’s chest.

 

“Please... just listen...”

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

 

Kincade cradled Jessie. He bent closer so he could understand his soft, slow words.

“You remember when I was a kid there was this lady named Miz Agnes Johnson. She took me in.”

 

“Yes, Jess. I remember Agnes Johnson.”

 

“And I told you how upset she was when I said I was gonna join Logan’s gang?”

 

Kincade nodded.

 

“And remember I said she’d told me somethin’ about Logan that was too awful for me to believe?” Jessie looked into Kincade’s eyes. “There’s got to be a right time to tell somethin’ – especially if it’s important. Now’s the right time to tell you somethin’ cause it’s all the time I got.”

 

“Jess,” Kincade said. “I really don’t...”

 

Jessie grasped Kincade’s hand hard. “Please...” Kincade fell silent.

 

“Miz Agnes Johnson had a sister named Angela... married a soldier from the Fort outside ‘a town. He treated her like dirt. Even so, she birthed him two boys at one beddin’.

 

“The two babies looked so much alike that the soldier couldn’t tell ‘em apart. So, he took a knife and carved two different marks on their arms. Angela hated him for doin’ it, but he told her to shut up. He wasn’t one to take orders from nobody, ‘cept the two cavalry officers that he named the boys after.”

 

“Agnes Johnson said these two boys was as different as night and day. One was good. The other was bad. Worse than bad. He’d drown newborn kittens, set fire to their neighbor’s shed. Older he got, the worse it got. His Ma would say to her soldier husband, ‘That’s your son - not mine! He’s just like you!’ He beat her bad for that.”

 

Wyatt and Doc Holliday stood above Jessie, listening to every word.

“One day, these twins was playin’ in the yard. ‘Bout half dozen renegade Indians snuck up and grabbed those two boys. The Captain at the Fort said when too many girl babies had been born in a tribe, the braves would steal white boys and bring ‘em up as Indians.”

Jessie’s voice was getting softer and Kincade had to lean closer to hear him.

 

“Angela went crazy. Her husband and a troop of soldiers went lookin’ for the Indians that’d took those boys. Found ‘em too. But one of the twins was gone. Seemed one boy had been stolen by an old Indian who’d never had a son. Disappeared with him.”

 

The Tombstone doctor arrived. He opened his satchel. Holliday took a knife and helped to cut away Jessie’s shirt, exposing a horrific wound. He held back the cloth as the doctor did his best to stop the increasing flow of blood. Jessie kept talking.

 

“The boy they found was the bad one. They could tell right away from the mark carved into his arm.” Jessie clenched his teeth in excruciating pain. But Kincade listened, knowing that for some reason, Jessie felt he had to finish.

 

“Miz Agnes Johnson’s sister never got over losin’ the one boy she loved. She’d cry all night sometimes. She hated the son they found. Whenever the boy would make hell, she’d say to him ‘Your brother would never do something like that! If I had to lose one son why couldn’t it have been you?!’ I was there. I heard her say it!”

 

As the town doc tried his best, Holliday pressed his hand against Jessie’s gut, failing to stem the loss of blood. Jess was approaching delirium.

 

“This boy... the one they found... he grew up hating his brother. His Ma finally died of a broken heart. The boy blamed his brother for that too.” Jessie stopped, his eyes began to flutter. The Doc put his stethoscope back in his bag and slowly shook his head to Holliday and Earp. Josephine gasped, holding Melissa Wilcox close to her heart.

 

Jessie began to breathe in short rapid bursts. With one very weak hand, Jess pointed a trembling finger to the Indian medicine bag on Kincade’s chest, where the skin began to crawl.

 

“Kincade...” Jessie whispered. “Go look at Wil’s arm. Miz Agnes Johnson... her sister Angela was your mother.”

 

As Jessie labored for breath, Wyatt walked the few paces to where Wil Logan’s body lay. The Marshal took the fabric on the sleeve of Logan’s right arm in his powerful hands, tore, tore again, stood up and stepped back.

 

There, carved into Wil Logan’s dead flesh, were five gashes. The first four resembled a lightning bolt. The fifth single line stood by itself. But those first four lines weren’t a depiction of a message from the heavens. The four linked together to form a “W”, a message from hell.

 

The scar on Kincade’s right bicep began to ache, as the old Indian’s secret of the medicine bag and leather patch inside were revealed. The “K” stood for Kincade. But the final line wasn’t a line at all. It was an “L.” It stood, on the arms of both men, for the last named they shared: Logan.

 

Wil was Kincade’s Blood.

[Kincade 79985]

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

 

 

Friends – really good friends – know instinctively - without talking about it - what makes the other so special. Jessie and Kincade had known each other for nearly all their lives. Over the years, they’d become almost like brothers. That brotherhood had been built on caring enough to understand each others strengths and weaknesses, while judging neither. Their friendship was built on trust, respect, a love for life and a belief in one another. They were brothers in their hearts.

 

You could see the brotherhood in their eyes as Kincade and Jessie looked at one another for the last time, on the floor of the corner saloon of The Cosmopolitan Hotel in Tombstone, Arizona Territory. In the final analysis, it’s all in the eyes.

 

Kincade felt Jessie’s grip tighten in his hand. But only for a moment. A moment was all it took.

 

Jessie died in Kincade's arms.

 

 

 

Tombstone’s Boot Hill was a cold and lonely place, fit for no one but the dead. The peel of the one church bell only made that bleak Sunday morning all the lonelier, as Kincade saw to the decent burial of both Jessie Keller and Wil Logan. Both of his brothers.

 

As the two coffins were covered in earth, Kincade felt the medicine bag over his heart. He now understood its secrets so well. The Circle of Life – opposites – balances. He and Wil were as different as black and white. One had been raised by a caring old Indian who’d found the son he’d always wanted. The other by a bitter mother who’d wanted what the Indian had taken. Whiskey Pete had been a loyal pard to Kincade; the segundos were faithful only to their greed and lust for violence. Jessie had been full of love; Wil full of hate. All were balanced. These balances made Kincade the man he had become.

 

As Kincade left Boot Hill to the tumbleweeds, he now understood the depth and power of the beaded Circle of Life symbol on the old Indian’s medicine bag.

 

With Wyatt’s help, Kincade wired Jethro Wilcox back in Colorado that Melissa was safe. As soon as arrangements could be made, Jethro’s little girl would be heading home.

 

The next day’s telegrammed reply carried yet another surprise: “Thank God Stop Inform me date and time Stop Will meet with happy heart Stop Bringing Melissa’s new mama Cissy Dye Wilcox Stop.”

 

Kincade remembered the Dry Head Canyon. He smiled, knowing this brave woman would be the perfect one to help Melissa overcome her trauma. Cissy would do more than find her little girl’s grave. She had found her chance to love little Melissa for the rest of her life.

 

Trains to Tombstone arrived once every week. As Kincade took care of Melissa’s travel arrangements and details, Josephine filled her days showering love over the little girl, never leaving her side. She bathed Melissa in perfumed bubble bath. She washed her hair and tied it with ribbons. She immediately put three seamstresses to work on complete outfits – dresses, coats, satin-laced bloomers and warm nighties. She bought Melissa shoes, stockings and even a porcelain doll.

 

Melissa sat wide-eyed and silent. Her world was topsy-turvy. After being denied everything by the outlaws but one blanket, bread and water... after being tied by Everson into a gunny sack and lashed onto his saddle for days on end... she could hardly believe this beautiful, tender, generous lady was giving her all this attention.

 

Josephine had a little bed put in her own room. When the nightmares came and Melissa cried out, she would be lifted into the big feather bed and held in Josephine’s safe arms until she slept again.

 

The train’s departure day arrived. After placing the little girl’s carpet satchels on board, Kincade and Josephine helped Melissa up the passenger car’s steps and into the kind hands of an elderly lady who was also traveling to Colorado.

 

Both knew Melissa Wilcox was on her way to becoming the confident little girl she once was, when upon reaching the train platform, she flashed them one of her dazzling smiles. “You will come visit me, please, and meet my new Mama? Maybe I’ll be seven by then.”

 

Kincade and Josephine stood and waved from the station as Melissa blew kisses from the car’s open window, staying there until after the train disappeared from sight. Her arm in his, the two left the platform and walked down Allen Street to the Cosmopolitan. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday were there waiting for them.

 

“The best of mornings to you, my dear Josephine,” smiled Doc, tipping his hat and bowing deeply. “You took ravishing, as usual.”

 

“Thank you, Doc,” she said. “You are, and have always been, a gentleman.”

 

“There are a few folks who might take exception to that,” Wyatt said.

 

“Brutes and louts, each and every one,” replied Holliday.

 

Josephine turned to Kincade. “I’ve waited to ask you until Melissa was safely on her way. Goodness knows she’s had enough of it all. But how did Wil know you were his brother? Even you didn’t know.”

 

“It struck me several days after Jess die...” Kincade paused, took a breath, and continued. “... after what Jess said in your saloon. It must have happened when the old Indian brought me into town. It was real hot that day. I took off my shirt. Wil saw the “K” on my arm, just like the “W” on his. He knew I was the brother he hated. He spent the rest of his life doing just that: hating me.”

 

Josephine took Kincade’s arm in hers, and drew closer.

 

“Kincade,” Wyatt said in a very official manner as Doc smiled in anticipation, coughing and smiling again. “Mr. Holliday has asked me to give something to you. Every time he saw it in the Tombstone Post Office, he’d laugh himself silly.”

 

Holliday shrugged, because Wyatt’s story was true. The good Doctor really did think it was funny.

Marshal Wyatt Earp carefully removed something from behind his saddle, and unrolled a tattered poster, issued by and the property of The Wells Fargo Stage Line Company. At the top, one word rang out: ROBBERY! Below, and to the right, were the words: KINCADE WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE! And to the left of that, a grainy photograph of Kincade.

 

"Robbing a stagecoach!” said Doc Holliday with mischief in his eyes. “And here Josephine insists you are such a kind and sensitive man!”

 

The four of them laughed heartily. “You know Kincade,” added Holliday as he looked thoughtfully at the Wanted poster, “I really think that’s your best side. Funny, you look much taller in the photograph than you do in person.”

 

Another burst of laughter, which sent Doc into a fit of coughing that would have made it all even funnier, had it not been for Holliday’s deteriorating health.

 

“Kincade,” said Wyatt. “the good Doctor and I are leaving Tombstone today for a little trip up north. Word has it that the healing waters of a western Colorado town called Glenwood Springs may be just what Doc needs to cure that cough of his.”

 

Doc raised his eyebrows, unsure of what any ground water could possibly do for him when good whiskey was all the liquid he needed. But, this Glenwood Springs would have fresh cards, players and poker games aplenty. And that did seem like good medicine.

 

“I have a little favor to ask of you Kincade,” said Wyatt. Looking at Doc Holliday with a wink, Wyatt continued. “Present company accepted, there’s a lot of tough rabble here in Tombstone that need their attitudes adjusted upon occasion. I’ll be unavailable for the task. I’ve seen your skills at rabble-rousing, so I would like you to sit in for me while I’m away. Raise your right hand. Without your gun please…”

 

Kincade smiled. “Are you sure you’re comfortable doing this Wyatt? I have no experience at your job.”

 

“Ah, but you come with excellent references,” Wyatt replied, looking over to a blushing Josephine who was obviously and hopelessly in love with Kincade.

 

“Oh, to hell with the oath,” Wyatt said as he unpinned his Marshal’s badge, placing it in Kincade’s hand. “I’ve already informed Mayor Clum of your appointment, and Doc here is in a hurry. You never want to keep him waiting. It makes him grumpy. Just ask a number of the permanent residents of Boot Hill.”

 

Wyatt reached out his hand and firmly shook Kincade’s. Doc coughed into a white linen kerchief, tipping his hat to Josephine. “You will take care of our sweet Josephine, won’t you Mr. Kincade?” Doc asked as he looked towards Josie, who dazzled the three men in her black velvet prairie skirt and fitted red brocade top. Her long blond hair spilled to her waist, seductively hiding a black ribbon round her neck secured with an ivory broach.

 

“Oh and Kincade,” Wyatt said as he and Doc Holliday stepped up and into their saddles. “That battery of guns and bullets you insist on carrying around simply won’t suit your new job. I’ve visited with Josie, and she and I have picked out a handsome new wardrobe that befits the new Marshal of Tombstone. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

 

“Extremely handsome,” laughed Doc Holliday, pointing his finger at Wyatt. “You’ll look just like him!” And with that, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday rode out of the dusty town of Tombstone, Arizona Territory.

 

 

 

 

"Kincade... I...." Josephine fell silent.

 

Kincade stepped forward, his hands drawing Josie close into his body. His arms encircled her petite waist as she looked up into Kincade’s deep blue eyes.

 

He spoke. “The old Indian’s medicine bag tells us that for everything, there is an opposite that brings balance and meaning to life.” He took his right hand, and gently brushed a blond curl from Josephine’s brow. She moved her hands to tenderly caress Kincade’s face, her fingers running into his hair.

 

“And what do you suppose that means for us?” Josephine whispered as her hands moved across his chest.

Kincade paused, realizing the answer could be the most important of his life. He drew his hands up and into hers, their fingers gently weaving four hands into two.

 

“Josie... I...” And he stopped. For nothing else needed to be said as their two hearts became one. Only their eyes spoke as lips tenderly met.

 

For all the answers, to all the questions, are always found, in the eyes.

 

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

*********************

 

 

To our friends at SASS:

 

Josephine and I hope you enjoyed this adventure, the first of 7 Kincade western adventure novels.

 

Much of what you've just read is true. I would be happy to now open up this Post for any and all of you to ask questions or share whatever you wish.

 

This has been fun for us.

 

Josephine and Kincade

[G. I. Tarpicker, SASS #998]

Good story, my friend. Buena suerte. -- GIT

[Amos Dumas, SASS #8447 L]

Great story! Enjoyed it start to finish and will miss my daily reading on the SASS wire.

 

You have a GREAT day and keep up the, "Tall Tales but True".

 

Amos SASS 8447

[Kincade 79985]

Thanks Amos and GIT and the bunch 'a you.

 

Josephine and I are thinking about sharing the sequel to "Kincade's Blood": "Kincade's Fear". It starts 4 days after Kincade's Blood ends...

 

us

[Amos Dumas, SASS #8447 L]

BTT for a good read.