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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Rescue
By Jim Hanley
Clint Barker listlessly filled the shot glass with the cheapest whiskey in the saloon and watched the tipsy cowboy pour the rotgut down his throat. “’Nother,” the man demanded.
“You haven’t paid for the last two,” Clint said.
The man scowled and reached across the mahogany counter to grab the bartender’s shirt. Others at the bar looked at the commotion with the same expressionone that said mistake. Before the drunk’s finger firmly held cloth, Clint grabbed the man’s shoulders, lifted him from the ground and tossed the drunkard to the hard, wooden floor. The stunned troublemaker reached for his gun but before he could lift the revolver from his holster, a bottle struck him in the forehead. Barker came around the bar, yanked the unconscious cowpoke up, pulled bills from the man’ s pocket, counted out a few, threw the remaining dollars on top of the man, and returned behind the bar. Within a few minutes, the drunk woke up and groggily scampered out, the collected bills held tightly in his hand.
The men at the bar and sitting at the tables chuckled at the scene and the drunk’s foolishness. Clint Barker was not a man to mess with. A burly, quick-tempered ex-alcoholic, he had stopped drinking and tested himself daily by taking on the job of barkeep. Previously, he’d been a lawman in a thriving Texas town, rumored as one of the quickest draw in the state and successful in driving the lawless element from the area, until one day he was challenged in a shootout he didn’t want.
While at his desk, a shot had broken the small window in the front of the jail facing the dusty street. Charging out the door, Barker was facing a young man he recognized: Buster Lloyd, the slight, smooth-faced son of a man killed by Clint during a failed hold-up. The youth had stared at the Sheriff, defying him with a wordless challenge.
“This needn’t go further,” Sheriff Barker had said, “your mama lost one foolish man, let’s not make it two.”
“You killed my father and deserve to die,” the young man answered, his voice still modulated with a youthful high pitch.
Barker had stretched his hand out and away from his holster in a gesture to avoid a fight but the youth saw opportunity and grabbed at his gun. Barker waited a second then quickly drew his revolver and, even with the delay, had his weapon pointed first. The boy never slowed and pulled the trigger prematurely sending the first bullet into the post holding the overhang. The robber’s son pointed his gun to fire again, his aim clearer but before the youth could shoot, a bullet punctured his chest and he fell backward, dead before he hit the ground. In the following days, Sheriff Barker learned more about the boy: he was thirteen, had been devastated by the loss of his father, had become increasingly sullen until he snapped and in a fit of rage swore to avenge his dad. The town people appealed to the Sheriff, who had become increasingly withdrawn, not to let the incident get to him, that young men died often before experiencing life, that the war had killed many a youth pretending to be older. Nothing worked and a few weeks after the incident, the Sheriff resigned, but not before seeking comfort in the bottle. Shamed when he staggered down the streets he once patrolled in sober awareness, he rode out, heading for any distant place far from the memories, settling in Kansas.
After drying out on the trail, Barker had entered the town of Rampling where he got the job at a large saloon in the center of town. At a busy establishment with a half dozen whores in demand and a piano player usually ignored, Clint Barker settled into his new life. Rumors traveled across states carried by trail hands and itinerants, and word of the bartender’s former life was the grist of gossip, reinforced by Barker’s frequent quelling of trouble in the bar. By the strength of his bulk, the speed of his fists and his growing reputation, Clint kept the peace in the establishment. The prostitutes were especially grateful of his handling of overzealous cowhands whose long, celibate journeys made them aggressive, even hurtful at times. The women were also wise in ways of fending off lustful men, expect for Emily, a young pretty woman, abandoned to the trade by her father after he lost his wife and decided on a wandering life of a trapper and hunter. Emily’s was very cautious and selective regarding who she would bring upstairs. This made her more appealing to the rough men who viewed her as a unbroken Mustang waiting for their taming. More than once, Barker had to handle a cowboy unwilling to accept a no.
While Clint was off, another bartender took over and was less interested in controlling the behavior of rowdy cowboys and the increasingly bad element who had found their way into the town causing trouble and committing crimes. The local bank was held up and stagecoaches along the road just north of the town had been stopped at gunpoint. Soon, the criminals clustered in a make-shift camp of old Army tents and hastily-built shanties east of town. Word was that there were thieves and killers operating out of that base, robbing and murdering in near and distant areas, returning with loot to pool for more extensive and daring crimes. When a few strayed into town and attempted to intimidate the residents, most times, the sheriff was able to stop them, with a gut butt, or on occasion, with a bullet, but they kept coming, albeit in small numbers. These men were replaceable pieces of a collection of evil men.
One afternoon when the alternate bartender was on duty and Barker slept in the boardinghouse across the street, two men rode into town and tied their horses in front of the saloon. At that moment, Barker awoke and, as his practice, opened the window to let the breeze in the room, clearing out the musty air. As he breathed in, he saw the men stop and look up and down the town, motions he knew from his lawman days were suspicious. Nodding to each other as if the next step had been planned, one of the cowpokes went into the saloon while the other stayed outside, continually looking around. In a short time, Barker heard a scream and saw the second man come through the front door, his pistol pointed forward and dragging a weeping, struggling woman. From the distance, he couldn’t see who she was until the men turned to mount and hoist the resisting woman onto one of the animals. At that point, he knew the kidnapped woman was Emily and one of the men was someone she had rejected a few days before. When Emily let out a loud screech, the man who held her raised his hand to strike and Barker reacted instinctively by yelling, “Hey.” The other rider turned in the direction of the window and drew his revolver. Barker backed away just as a shot shattered the top pane. He dove under the bed and retrieved his Colt. The cowboy and the protesting woman were moving down the street while the other man stayed behind for a minute, his weapon still pointed toward the window. Just as the remaining cowboy pulled on the reins to turn his horse in the direction of the others, Barker stood in front of the window and fired, his shot striking dead center. In the distance the kidnapper slowed and then picked up speed, Emily’s dress blowing in the wind. Barker dressed quickly and ran downstairs just as the Sheriff arrived and was leaning over the body in the street. At the same time, the relief bartender came out of the saloon and Barker asked what had happened.
The bartender explained, “That man came in and asked for Emily. When she saw him, she shook her head, saying he was rough with her and the other whores. Her rejection angered him and he grabbed hold of her He pulled Emily toward the door, one hand around her waist and the other with a pointed pistol to discourage anyone from helping her.”
Barker looked to the Sheriff, “What are you going to do?”
“Not much. They are probably takin’ her back to that camp a few miles out of town. Likely a dozen men there, maybe less with a few goin’ off to rob. I don’t have the men to go out there.”
“What about Emily?” Barker asked. “She’s just a kid.”
“And a whore. There are risks with that job.”
“I ain’t defending her choices, but in that camp they won’t treat her like they would in an upper room of the saloon.”
“Like I said, there’s nothin’ I can do.”
“I can,” Barker said and as he turned away, the Sheriff grabbed his arm.
“You’re one man, and if they learn you shot one of themwhich they probably will you won’t last long.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m goin’ after her.”
“Ýou gonna try by yourself?” The Sheriff asked disbelievingly.
“No,” a voice answered from in back of the forming crowd. As the townfolk separated to see who spoke, they saw Beatrice Lattimer, known in the trade as Buxom Betty, a boisterous, plain-headed whore whose raucous laugh would echo through the saloon like a freight train. She was the only woman of her occupation who required no help with drunken patrons intent on roughness. Men desired and feared her at the same time.
A man deep in the crowd laughed but was quickly silenced by Betty’s stare.
“I’m goin’ with you or without you. Emily was like a little sister and I ain’t lettin’ those men do her harm.”
Barker knew it was useless to argue. “You got a gun and know how to use it?”
“My daddy sold guns for a livin’ and he taught me how to shoot from the time I could hold a pistol. I have a weapon like every other painted lady.”
“I’m leavin’ shortly so if you’re coming, be ready quick.”
The other bartender spoke up, “You can take my horse, Betty. I’ll be workin’ most hours for a while.”
Within a half hour, Betty was standing outside the saloon wearing men-style britches, a flannel shirt, a long coat and a felt hat that seemed too large for her head even with her thick hair pushed inside. After getting directions to the outlaw location, the riders headed out with many of the town residents staring at the odd duoa bartender and prostituteintent on rescuing a young woman from a gang of thieves and killers. In the saloon, the local gamblers took low-odds bets on their survival.
On the route, Betty pulled on the reins and when Barker stopped his horse, she looked at him, “What are we going to do when we get there?”
“We need to see how many men are there, what the place looks like, then decide.”
“We can do that but I can go into that camp and they won’t suspect a woman. Probably think I’m there to do business.”
“That’s too dangerous,” Barker said.
Betty laughed. “No matter what we do, it’s dangerous. You ain’t got long to come up with a better idea.”
He couldn’t. When they approached the make-shift huts and tents and could look from a slight rise not far away, they counted eight men, and no sign of Emily. “There could be more in the tents,” Barker warned. He added, “If some are away committin’ crimes we need to act fast before the others returned.”
As Betty suggested, she would ride in there, likely drawing suspicion but not gunfire. Tucking her gun in her waist and under her coat, she nudged her horse into a trot and proceeded into the outlaw encampment. Barker tied his horse to a tree far enough so as not to be seen or heard. As she entered the camp, two men approached her, one with suspicion, the other with a lecherous look, as Barker learned of events later. Betty dismounted and said to the men who were now standing in front of her with their arms loose and not far from their holster, “I hear you boys need a whore but why take the kid? You need an experienced woman like me. I’ll give you a special rate.”
The men and two more who overheard her words laughed loudly. “Ain’t gonna cost us nothin’ out here, and two for the price of one.”
As the one spoke, a man came out from a tent and Betty looked toward him. She knew he was the one who dragged Emily off. Behind him, the young prostitute stepped out, her dress ripped, her face moist with tears and her cheeks bright red from hard hits. As the buxom whore turned and stared at the two in front of her, one of the men grabbed her arm. “Let’s try the merchandise,” he said and yanked her toward a tilted shack. Betty pulled her arm free and the horny thief angrily lifted his hand to slap her. When the blow struck, Betty reeled but quickly gained her footing, reached under her jacket and drew the revolver, firing before the man could react. The stunned other man lost seconds before he reached toward his holstertoo late. Betty shot him and he fell on top of his buddy. In the very quick activity, Emily pulled a knife from the belt of the kidnapper who was too distracted to feel the blade being lifted and thrust into his back. Startled by the shock of pain, he pulled at the handle which freed the backed-up blood, and weakened, he crumbled. In the brief moments that the killings took, another of the camp outlaws moved silently behind Betty and aimed for a fatal shot, but his effort was stopped by the rifle bullet that came from a distance. Swirling to see the fourth man fall, Betty then quickly charged toward Emily and pulled her into the tent as shot clipped the cotton and dug the ground around the poles. From his position, Clint counted five remaining men who had taken cover behind the makeshift structures and the other tents. He knew the two women were safeat the time. Moving cautiously, he entered the camp from the north side where he was less likely to be seen. With the sun at a slight angle, the figures inside the tent cast an internal shadow against the thin cotton walls. Betty and Emily were huddled in a corner. A man was moving in the direction of the tent and Barker lifter his rifle to aim and just as he fired his bullet striking its target two shots rang out and bullets whizzed around him. Largely unprotected, he dove toward a stack of wood so quickly that he dropped the rifle and any attempt to retrieve it would have been deadly. While the shooting continued, Barker wasn’t able to return fire with his handgun but the volume of bullets must have conveyed to Betty that he was under siege because she came to the front of the tent and shot an outlaw focusing on the wood stack. Barker figured her action would at least split the direction of bullets between him and the tent with the latter offering little protection against the penetrating shots. He stood for a second and with one man in clear view, he shot rapidly knocking him down with the second bullet. Now, the bartender realized the sides were even: two against two; Betty had proven as capable as any man.
Barker duck-walked to the tent where the women were and opening the front flap, peered inside. Emily was cowering in a corner and Betty stood defiantly facing the opening, gun in hand. “It’s me, Barker,” he said in warning. Just as he entered, the older whore aimed in his direction and fired, startling him. The bullet punctured the tent and Barker heard a grunt from directly outside and a body fell forward knocking a tent pole loose. The next sound they heard was a horse racing furiously out of the camp, likely ridden by the last outlaw, Clint thought. At a close distance, the bartender could see both were unharmed although Emily was on the edge of hysteria. Betty dropped her gun and lifted the shaken younger woman, slowly taking her outside. In the light, they all saw the still forms of the men shot, most with blood flowing from their body and coloring the dry dirt. Barker rounded up their horses, taking one from the camp for Emily, and all three rode out, exhaustion and relief showing in their faces.
As they entered town, a crowd formed in front of the saloon and the Sheriff came out of his office, all registering surprise at the return of the trio. The other whores charged through the crowd, one in partial dress, and hugged the two woman, maintaining a hold until they were all back inside. The Sheriff approached Barker, who was tying up the horses.
“Never thought you’d make it back.”
“Betty evened the odds.”
The next day, Betty was up early. She walked to the telegraph office and then back to the saloon. Emily, still rattled by all that had happened, stayed upstairs, tended by the others in between their customers. The next day, Betty reached across the bar during a slow period in the saloon and grabbed Barker’s arm. “Come with me,” she said. They went upstairs, past her room and into Emily’s. Still pale and hesitant, Emily smiled weakly.
Betty sat on the edge of the bed, and spoke to her, “Honey, this ain’t the life for you. I have a sister who’s married to a preacher in Kansas City and I wired her about you. She’ll help you settle there and get a job, not like this one. My sister gave up tryin’ to save me,” she added with a chuckle, “but she’ll do me the favor. Clint will help you pack. The stage will be here in an hour.”
Barker and Betty stuffed a worn suitcase with clothes that Emily could use in a respectable home, and piled the remaining dresses in the center of the room, while Emily bathed and dressed for the journey. The three waited for the stage, and after Emily boarded, Clint and Betty stared at the departing coach.
“That was a good thing you did, Betty,” Barker said.
“If someone had done that for me” she said wistfully, not completing the sentence. “Come on, we got our jobs to tend to.”
As the sun stood on the edge of town, preparing to sink below the horizon and invite the darkness, the two saloon workers went inside.
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