Kill Crazy (4 page)

“Aye.”

“So why does an Englishman wear a monocle?”

“He wears a monocle so that he will only see half of what he can nae understand. Sure, and you remind me of that Englishman, Elmer. You see only half of what you can nae understand.”

“Just 'cause I said it looks to me like you're goin' to do a little courtin'?”

Duff made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then held to his eye as if it were a monocle. He laughed, then started toward the barn to saddle Sky.

Chapter Six

Burt Kennedy was a cowboy from the Bar H Bar, a ranch that was located about three miles north of Chugwater. Kennedy had a six-foot-three-inch frame, upon which was well distributed two hundred and twenty-five pounds of mostly muscle. He was smitten with Biff Johnson's recently arrived red-haired beauty, and had put on his finest clothes to come into town this afternoon.

He brought twenty dollars with him, and intended to use as much of the money as was necessary to entice Cindy Boyce to spend all her time, just with him.

He had been waiting patiently for her to leave the table where she was sitting with Schumacher and some other man, a short, sandy-haired man whom he didn't recognize.

Finally, after waiting for at least half an hour, he walked over to the table.

“Cindy, I been here for half an hour,” Kennedy said. “I wish you would keep me company. I got me some money to spend, and I aim to spend it on you, which you should like, 'cause I ain't seen either one of these fellers buy you so much as one drink in all the time I been here.”

Cindy smiled up at Kennedy.

“I'm sorry, honey. I didn't know you were waiting for me. Of course I'll spend some time with you.

Kennedy grinned broadly, but the grin left his face when he saw the little sandy-haired man reach out and pull Cindy back down in her chair.

“You ain't goin' nowhere,” he said. “You'll be stayin' right here with me.”

“Mister, if you don't get your hands offen her, I'm goin' to mop up this floor with your scrawny little ass,” Kennedy said angrily.

“He's right, Emile. I have been with you long enough,” Cindy said. “I need to spend a little time with some of my other friends, now.”

Emile smiled as well, but his smile was totally without mirth.

“Cowboy, I don't believe I know your name,” Emile said.

“It's Burt Kennedy. Not that it makes any difference to you.”

“Oh, that's where you're wrong. It does make a difference to me, Kennedy. You see, me an' you are about to have us a fight.”

Kennedy grinned broadly. “A fight? Yeah,” he said. “But you're a little scrawny to be fightin' me all by yourself, ain't you? What about you, Schumacher? You aimin' to join in? That would make two of you and one of me. That might even the odds up a bit.”

“Kennedy, I don't think you know what you are getting into here,” Schumacher said.

Kennedy laughed. “Yeah, I do. Come on, I think I'm goin' to enjoy this.” He made his hands into fists, then held them out in front of his face, moving his right hand in tiny circles. “Come on,” he said. “I'm goin' to put the lights out for both of you.”

“Huh-uh,” Emile said. “That ain't the kind of fight I'm talkin' about. We're goin' to fight with guns 'cause I plan to make this permanent.”

“No, I ain't goin' to get into no gunfight with you or anyone else,” Kennedy said.

“I ain't in this fight,” Schumacher said, getting up from the table and walking away.

“Well, that just leaves me an' you now, don't it?” Emile said.

“That's right, just me an' you,” Kennedy said. He smiled. “But don't worry, I'll make it quick for you.”

“How quick? This quick?” Emile replied.

Emile drew his pistol, pointed it at Kennedy's head, then put it back in his holster.

“Was that quick enough for you?”

The speed of Emile's draw, as well as the unexpectedness of it, caused Kennedy to react in shock. He held his hand out toward Emile.

“This here argument don't have nothin' to do with guns.”

“I'll let you draw first,” Emilie said.

“I told you, there ain't goin' to be no gunfight.” Kennedy doubled up his fists again. “But if you'd like to come over here and take your beatin' like a man, I'd be glad to oblige you.”

“I said draw,” Emile repeated in a cold, flat, voice.

By now, everyone in the saloon knew Kennedy had stepped into a situation that he hadn't planned for. They began, quietly but deliberately, to get out of the way of any flying lead.

It wasn't until that moment, seeing the others move out of the way, that Kennedy began to worry that he might actually be losing control of the situation. He was still holding his fists in front of him, and he lowered them, then stared at Emile incredulously. “Are you blind, mister? Ain't you noticed that I'm not even wearin' a gun? If you're figurin' on forcin' me into a fight, you can just figure again, 'cause I ain't goin' to do it.”

“I'll give you time to get yourself heeled,” Emile offered.

“I told you, I ain't goin' to get into no gunfight with you.”

“If you ain't goin' to fight, then get out of here. Get out of this saloon, out of this town, and out of this valley.”

“No, I ain't doin' that, either,” Kennedy said. “I got a right to live where I want and to say what I want. And I'll be damn if I let some sawed-off runt like you talk to me that way. Now if you ain't a complete lily-livered coward, you'll shuck out of that gun belt and face me like a man.”

“Mister, the only rights you have are the rights I let you have,” Emile growled. “Now, you got two choices. You either walk through that door right now, or you pull a gun. Which one is it goin' to be?”

“I told you, I'm not packin' a gun.”

“Somebody give him one,” Emile said coldly. He pulled his lips into a sinister smile. “This fella seems to have come to a gunfight without a gun.”

“I told you, there ain't goin' to be no gunfight, and I don't want a gun.”

When no one offered Kennedy a gun, Emile pointed to Schumacher. “Give him your gun,” Emile ordered. “You aren't going to be using it.”

“You heard the man, Emile. He don't want a gun,” Schumacher said.

“Oh, I think he does.”

“Emile, leave him be,” Cindy said.

“You're sweet on him, are you, Cindy?” Emile asked.

“No, I'm not sweet on him. But he's a nice man, and he's always real friendly when he comes in.”

“Schumacher, I said give him your gun.”

“No,” Schumacher said. “If I give him a gun, you'll kill him.”

“That's right.”

“Well, I don't want no part of it.”

“There ain't no call in gettin' him into this,” Kennedy said. “This is between you 'n' me. Now if you are really interested in fighting, shuck out of that gun belt and face me like a man.”

Again, in a lightning move, Emile snatched his gun from his holster. This time he cocked it, the sound of the sear as it engaged and turned the cylinder making a loud double click in the now-quiet room.

“No!” Kennedy said. He held both hands out in front of him. “No, please,” he begged.

Emile smiled at him, a slow, evil smile. Then he put his pistol back in his holster.

“Give him your gun, Schumacher,” Emile said.

Schumacher hesitated for a moment. Then he took his gun out of the holster and lay it on the bar.

“I'll turn it so's the handle is toward you,” Schumacher said. “That'll make it easier for you to pick up.”

“It's—it's on my left. I'm right handed.”

“No problem, go ahead and pick it up. I'll let you do it,” Emile said.

Kennedy paused for a moment.

“Pick it up,” Emile said again, his voice low, but demanding.

Kennedy looked at the pistol. A vein was jumping in his neck and those who were close enough to him could see his hands shaking.

“Do it,” Emile said again.

“No, I ain't goin' to. You ain't goin' to get me in no gunfight.”

Again, Emile jerked his pistol from his holster, and using it as a club, brought it across Kennedy's face. The blow cut Kennedy's lip, and it began to swell.

“You ready to pick up the gun?”

“No.”

This time Emile slapped Kennedy in the face, but Kennedy did nothing.

“Now, look at this. You are almost twice as big as me. But you stood there like a lily-livered coward and let me slap you in the face. I wonder, just what is it going to take to get you to fight?” Emile asked.

“Take off the gun,” Kennedy said, only now it was no longer a demand—it was a plea. “Take off the gun and we will fight.”

“Huh-uh. You opened this ball, that means we'll fight the way I want to fight.”

Again, in a lightning draw, the pistol was in Emile's hand, and this time he brought it so hard against Kennedy's face that his knees were buckled. Now Kennedy's lip was bleeding and his left eye was swollen shut.

“Pick up the gun.”

“No.”

“Mister, for God's sake, that's enough!” Woodward called.

Emile drew his pistol again, and pointed it toward Woodward. “You want in on this do you, cowboy?”

“No, but . . .”

“There ain't no buts. You are either a part of it, or you keep your mouth shut.”

Emile turned his attention back to Kennedy. “Pick up the gun.”

“Please,” Kennedy said, his voice a whimper, almost a sob. “Please.”

“Cindy,” Emile called. “I want you to look at your boyfriend now. He ain't so big and strong now, is he?”

“Emile, please, stop,” Cindy said.

“I'm tired of playing with you,” Emile said. Again, he pointed his pistol at Kennedy, and drew the hammer back.

Kennedy began to shake visibly, and he lost control of his bladder. A stain appeared on the front of his pants.

“Well, look here, folks,” Emile said derisively. “This big, strong cowboy just peed in his pants.”

Not one other person in the saloon said a word, shamed as they were by what they had just witnessed.

“Get out of here,” Emile said, dismissively. “Get out of here and don't come back. Next time I see you, I'll shoot you on sight.”

Kennedy looked around the saloon, tears of shame and humiliation in his eyes.

“I—I,” he started, but he couldn't finish whatever he was going to say.

“I, I, I,” Emile mimicked.

Kennedy turned and hurried out of the saloon.

“Ha! Did everyone see that?” Emile shouted.

Not one other person in the saloon responded.

“Cindy, come on back over here, girl. Come sit with us again.” Even as he was speaking to Cindy, he made a motion with his hand to invite Schumacher to rejoin him at his table.

“You shouldn't have done that, Emile,” Cindy scolded. “He didn't do anything to you.”

“He didn't do anything to me because I had a gun. But you saw him. He is, what? Six-feet-two, six-three, maybe. He's got eight or nine inches on me in height, and at least seventy-five pounds in weight. I've seen his kind before. Muscled-up bullies who love to beat up on smaller men. If I had been unarmed, he would have beaten me to a pulp.”

“I have to admit, Cindy, that Emile is right,” Schumacher said. “I've known Kennedy for over two years now. He has always been quick to fight, as long as he knows he has the advantage.”

“Nevertheless, I think what Emile did was wrong.”

 

 

“You know, Schumacher is right,” Ben said. “Kennedy always has been a bully. Maybe it was about time he got his comeuppance.”

“No,” Woodward said. “Nobody needs to be belittled like that. I'm ashamed of myself for backing down. I should have tried harder to stop it.”

“And get yourself shot? You saw how fast this Emile person is,” Walker said. “Yeah, maybe Kennedy got a little humiliated, but at least he didn't get hisself killed.”

“There's the boss,” Dale said, nodding toward the batwing doors just as Duff came in.

Chapter Seven

When Duff MacCallister stepped into the Fiddler's Green Saloon, he was greeted warmly by at least a dozen customers, in addition to receiving a personal greeting from Biff Johnson, the proprietor of the watering establishment.

“Duff, my boy!” Biff called. “How goes the struggle?”

“Good prevails, lad, as always,” Duff replied. “I'll be for havin' a wee drop of scotch if ye nae mind. I'd like a bit of the mist of the moors on m' tongue.”

“The scotch is bad stuff, but I've a new supply of bourbon that I'm sure you would like,” Biff said.

“Sure 'n' away with ye now,” Duff said. “Aren't you for knowin' that bourbon is the devil's own brew?”

Such banter was normal between the two, for Biff Johnson had been one of Duff's first friends when he'd come to Chugwater from his native Scotland. In addition, Biff was married to a Scotswoman, which helped to cement the bond between them.

Duff lifted his glass and gave his toast. “Here's to the heath, the hill and the heather, the bonnet, the plaid, the kilt and the feather!”

“And while goin' up the hill of fortune, may we never meet a friend comin' down,” Biff replied.

“Aye, m' lad, well spoken,” Duff said.

Duff took a sip of the drink, and held it on his tongue for a moment to enjoy the flavor before swallowing.

Turning, Duff saw five of his cowboys sitting at a table, and he raised his glass in greeting to them.

“Biff, won't you introduce me to your friend?” Cindy asked.

Duff took a deep breath when he saw her long red hair, her flashing blue eyes, and a figure that was well displayed by the provocative dress she was wearing. She looked so much like Skye McGregor that she could be her twin. Skye McGregor was the woman he had planned to marry. It had been Skye getting murdered by a dishonest sheriff that had caused Duff to seek revenge, then leave Scotland.

“Duff, I've hired a new girl to help squeeze an extra coin from some of the tightwads who frequent my establishment. Cindy Boyce, meet Duff MacCallister.”

“Well now, and what a foine-lookin' lass ye be. 'Tis no doubt but that you'll be able to entice the boys to buy another drink.”

“If they were all as handsome as you, I'd take pleasure in my job,” Cindy said.

“Handsome, you say? Now tell me, lass, how is that eyes as beautiful as the sky over Scotland could be so blind?” Duff replied.

Cindy and the others laughed.

“Would you be for doing me a favor, lass, and find out what each of the men at that table would want for a drink and provide it, on me?” He pointed to the table where his men were sitting. “They all work for me, and a more noble and loyal group of lads one is nae likely to find.”

“I'll be glad to,” Cindy said.

“You just missed a bit of excitement,” Biff said, speaking in a quiet voice. “Although, I wouldn't exactly call it excitement. More like a bit of ignominy, I would say.”

Biff told Duff about the exchange between Emile and Burt Kennedy.

“The poor man peed in his pants before he left,” Biff concluded. “I doubt I'll ever see him in here again, and I don't blame him. Nobody did anything to stop it. Hell, I didn't do anything.”

“What could you have done?”

“I've got a shotgun back here,” Biff said.

“Aye, but from the way you were telling the story, you could nae have shot the little man without hitting Kennedy as well.”

“Yes, that's probably true,” Biff agreed.

The piano player finished a song, then stepped up to the bar to get a refill on his beer.

“You seem to be in good tune today, Mr. Bailey,” Duff said by way of greetings.

“Well, now, I consider that a fine compliment coming from you, Mr. MacCallister,” Mickey Bailey said. “Say, Biff, why don't you pick up the pipes and have our friend give us a tune?”

“Would you be willing to do that, Duff?” Biff asked.

“Aye, 'n' what kind of Scotsman would I be now, if I refused a request to play the pipes?”

Although Duff had his own pipes, Biff's wife, Rose, had inherited a set of pipes from her father and after Duff and Biff had become friends, Biff had begun keeping them under the bar just for such an occasion as this.

 

 

Cindy had not returned to Emile Taylor's table since the incident with Burt Kennedy several minutes earlier. No one else in the saloon had shown any interest in joining Emile and Schumacher either, so the two men sat at their table talking quietly. Because they were engaged in their own private conversation, neither of them noticed as Duff took the pipes, filled the bag with air, and began playing “Scotland the Brave.”

 

 

The music filled the saloon, and Emile Taylor looked around in irritation.

“Who the hell is that? And what is that contraption he is blowing into?”

“His name is Duff MacCallister,” Schumacher said. “He owns a big ranch north of here. He's from Scotland and that thing he is blowing into is a musical instrument that's called bagpipes. That's somethin' they play over there.”

“I ain't never heard nothin' so loud.”

“First time I heard it, I thought it was kind of strange too,” Schumacher said. “But truth is, I kind of like it now.”

“How can anyone like that? If you ask me, it sounds just like a train blowin' its whistle or somethin'. Someone needs to teach that son of a bitch some manners,” Emile said. “Ain't he got better sense than to start makin' noise like that when folks is talkin'?”

Schumacher chuckled. “Well, there's the problem, my new friend. Duff MacCallister is not the kind of man you can teach anything to.”

“Really? It has been my experience that if you use the right tools, you can teach anybody, anything.” Emile loosened his pistol in his holster. “If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Schumacher responded. “Well, I said you couldn't teach MacCallister anything, but seeing the way you gave Burt Kennedy his comeuppance, I might just change my mind. It could be that you might just be the one who could talk to MacCallister.” He chuckled. “MacCallister is such an arrogant son of a bitch, I wouldn't mind seeing him drag his ass out of here the same way Kennedy did.”

“Mayhaps I'll just do that for you,” Emile suggested.

When Duff finished, he handed the pipes back to Biff. There was a polite applause from most of the people present, as well as several comments as to how good it had sounded. The comments for the most part were from people who now understood and appreciated the music of the bagpipes. But there was one dissenter.

“What do you call that?” he shouted.

Duff knew that this was Emile Taylor, because Biff had pointed the diminutive man out to him. And from the tone of Emile's voice, Duff realized that the question wasn't actually being asked for information. However, he purposely ignored the animosity and answered as if the question had been friendly.

“Ah, 'tis called ‘Scotland the Brave,'” Duff said. “A song that is dear to every Scotsman's heart.”

“I wasn't talkin' about the name of the song, I was talkin' about that caterwaulin' sound you was makin'. It sounded like cow bellowin' for its calf.”

“There's some that say you have to develop an ear for the pipes, I'll admit,” Duff said. “But to me, the sound of the pipes is like m' own mither's voice.”

“Then you mother must've had a voice like a screechin' tomcat,” the man said.

The smile left Duff's face. “Sure now, friend, and I'd take it kindly if you wouldn't be for talkin' about my mither in such a tone.”

“Is that a fact? Well, mister, I don't really give a damn what you take kindly,” the man said. Getting up from the table, he walked to within a few feet of Duff and let his hand hang loosely near the handle of his pistol. “Of course, you are a big man so it could be that you would like to do something about it.”

“Would I be talking to Emile Taylor, now?” Duff asked.

Emile smiled. “Yeah, you are. I reckon you've heard of me.”

“I'm afraid I have nae heard of you. Mr. Taylor, I am Duff MacCallister, and I tell you my name, because I have found that when two civilized gentlemen learn each other's names, then there is apt to be less hostility and more comity between the two. I was rather hoping that would be the case here.”

“What is comity?”

“It just means a more harmonious relationship.”

“You mean like as if we was friends?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I tell you what. You apologize to me for hurtin' my ears like you done with that screechin' contraption you was makin' noise on, and maybe I won't shoot you.”

“Oh, I have nae intention of apologizing to you for that, or for anything else,” Duff said. “I gather, from your demeanor, that you consider yourself quite skilled in the art of quickly extracting your pistol from its holster.”

It took Emile a moment to comprehend what Duff was talking about; then he laughed.

“You do have a strange way of asking me if I'm fast with a gun, mister, but yeah, you might say that.” By way of demonstration, as he had done with Kennedy, Emile snatched his pistol from his holster, brought it up to Duff's face, and glared at him for a moment. Then, with a self-satisfied and arrogant laugh, he put the pistol back in the holster.

“If you had been here a little earlier, why, you would have seen me in action. Right, fellas?” he called aloud to the others in the saloon.

Not one person responded. Everyone in the saloon knew Duff, and knew he could not be buffaloed as Kennedy had been. They watched the drama unfold with increasing interest.

“And tell me, lad, is it your skill with the pistol that gives you license to be so unpleasant? Or is it that you are just naturally such an arse?”

Everyone in the saloon laughed at Duff's remark.

“You can't talk to me like that,” Emile said.

“Mr. Taylor, it would seem that he already has,” Biff said. “I should have said something to you earlier when you were tormenting poor Mr. Kennedy, but I wasn't sure how far you were going with it. But I'll not let you do something like that a second time. So now, I'll be asking you to leave.”

“And if I'm not ready to leave?” Emile challenged.

“Then I'll just have to have you thrown out.”

“Oh?” Emile turned toward Biff and lifted his right hand to shake his finger in the man's face. “And just who do you think you can get that can throw me out?”

Taking advantage of the fact that Emile's attention was diverted, and his right hand was no longer close to his pistol, Duff quickly closed the distance between them.

“Sure now, lad, 'n' that would be me,” Duff said.

With his left hand he grabbed the back of Emile's collar. With his right hand, moving so quickly that Emile didn't even realize it had happened, Duff pulled Emile's pistol from its holster and stuck it down in his own waistband. Then he grabbed Emile by his collar and the seat of his pants and, picking him up, hurried toward the batwing doors, where he threw Emile bodily into the street.

Duff's action was met with a loud cheer and applause.

“You son of a bitch! You're going to die for . . .” That was as far as Emile got with his challenge, because when his hand went to the holster, he discovered that the pistol wasn't there.

“What the hell?” he shouted. “Where's my gun?”

“Would you be lookin' for this now?” Duff asked, throwing Emile's pistol into the street.

Emile ran to pick it up and, swinging it toward Duff, pulled the trigger. The hammer made a clicking sound, and that was when Emile noticed for the first time that the cylinder was missing.

“Oh,” Duff said. “And you'll be needing this.”

Duff was holding the cylinder in his hand and he threw it out into the street as well. But when Emile started to reach for it, Duff shot at it and the bullet sent the cylinder farther down the street. Emile ran after it, and Duff shot again, sending it even farther down the street.

“Hey, Taylor, turns out maybe you ain't the only one can shoot a gun around here!” shouted one of the many saloon patrons who had come out front to stand on the porch.

Duff stood in the doorway with the pistol in his hand watching Emile Taylor, who, hesitantly, reached for the cylinder. Duff let him pick it up this time and watched as Emile put the cylinder back in his gun. Once his pistol was reassembled though, Emile made no further demonstrations toward Duff. Instead, he just put it back in his holster, then turned and walked away.