Hell for Leather Read online

  HELL

  for

  LEATHER

  by

  joshua lee yancey

  copyright 2013

  for Rachel

  my wife

  Zeke wanted to think of himself as a good man but it was difficult most times, specifically times like this. Granted, there weren’t many ways for a man like him to scratch out a living anymore. Lee had surrendered at Appomattox nearly ten years before and issued his General Orders No. 9 making Zeke, and more than one hundred thousand other Confederates, aimless soldiers, scarred and skilled at killing. Most happily returned to the lives they knew before the war, but for Zeke, there was almost as much pain waiting for him at home in Nashville than there had been for him in all the battles he had seen. He could still see her eyes of antique mahogany. Difficult times indeed.

  Zeke closed his eyes and wished he were anywhere else. This robbery was going wrong in a hurry.

  “Zeke.” Clayton snapped him out of his memory, “Anything?” Zeke cast his gaze out the window. Such a beautiful day. Such an ugly scene. Outside the way station, the vast landscape stretched to the blue horizon in all directions but one with mountains rising up faintly in the west. All around them the spare vegetation offered him an unobstructed view for miles. There was nothing. He turned back and shook his head. Clayton turned his attention back to the station manager kneeling at his feet. The poor man was blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. His terrified wife and daughter cowered in the corner, also bound and blindfolded.

  “I’m not sure you’re telling the truth.” Clayton’s voice was eerily calm and cool, “My man here says he doesn’t see a thing, and I’ve never met another fella with eyes as sharp as his.”

  “Please,” whimpered the manager, “I swear to you. The relief driver was delayed and the others haven’t arrived yet. I don’t know why, but nothing is here. There is no gold.”

  “I know the relief driver is delayed.” Clayton assured him, “We delayed him.” The other three members of his gang chuckled, but not Zeke. Clayton knelt down beside the man and put his hand on his shoulder. “We can do this one of two ways, either you tell me where the shipment is, or I let my associate Jeremiah loose. Now before you answer, you should know that he’s got his lustful eyes all over your lovely wife and daughter.” The two of them began weeping more profusely.

  “I swear to God,” the manager gathered all his wits, “there is nothing here.” Clayton stood and punched the man in the jaw as hard as he could. The manager fell to the ground, his head bouncing like a soft melon on the rough wooden floor. At the sound of it, his wife and daughter gasped and cried even louder.

  “It’s okay.” he told them, “I’m okay.”

  “Not for long.” said Clayton dismissively before turning to the hulking Jeremiah, “See what you can do.”

  The burly miscreant sneered. He towered above the mother and daughter, then bent over and inhaled deeply. The girl, who couldn’t have been a day over fourteen, began weeping through her blindfold.

  “Girl,” Jeremiah said to her, “you’re about to become a woman.” He grabbed her by the elbow and hoisted her to her feet. The girl’s mother did all she could to attack her daughters would be rapist, but with her hands tied behind her back, there wasn’t much she could do but wail and hurl insults. In return she received a sharp blow to the jaw from Jeremiah’s knee and fell to the floor silent and unconscious. The manager seemed too scared to say anything but “please” which he simply repeated over and over again barely audible whisper.

  Zeke stepped away from the window.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled at the mountainous figure who now had the young girl slung over his shoulder.

  “Stay out of this, Zeke.” came the reply. Theodore and his equally disturbing brother Samuel looked on and simply giggled at the sight. They would be no help. Zeke turned to Clayton.

  “This ain’t what we agreed to.” Clayton seemed bored with it all

  “Zeke,” he said, “sometimes you have to improvise.” At that, Jeremiah laughed and turned to carry his victim into an adjoining room. In a flash, Zeke had drawn his Colt revolver and was pointing it square at Jeremiah’s back

  “You take one more step,” he said, “and I swear to God I will send you to your judgment.” Jeremiah stopped.

  “You ain’t got the stomach.” he said over his shoulder. Zeke pulled the hammer back.

  “You have no idea what I’ve got the stomach for, but you best believe that I will kill you where you stand if you don’t put that girl down.”

  “What the hell’s got into you?” Clayton’s hand was moving slowly to his rifle. Before he could reach it, Zeke’s left hand flew to his holster and out came the second Colt. Wanting to make his point in a hurry, he pulled the hammer back without hesitation.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” he said to Clayton, then to the other three, “If any of you move, I’ll burn you down. Now let that girl go.” Slowly, Jeremiah lowered the teenager to the floor.

  “You’re making a big mistake.” said Clayton.

  “No. The mistake was agreeing to do this job with you. You said we weren’t going to hurt anybody.”

  “The only one’s gonna get hurt now is you.” Jeremiah’s teeth were clenched. In the distance, they could hear the faint sound of a stagecoach approaching. The five men stood frozen, not knowing what would happen next.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Clayton of no one in particular.

  “It’s the Wells Fargo driver.” whimpered the manager, “I told you he was delayed.” Clayton nodded to Theodore.

  “Check it out, Teddy.” Theodore edged over to the window.

  “Looks like he’s telling the truth.” he said.

  “Goddamnit.” cursed Clayton under his breath, “So what do we do now, Zeke? You shoot that six off now, they’re liable to hear it and come in blazing with the scatterguns.”

  “We kill him and rob the coach.” offered Samuel.

  “You kill a Wells Fargo teamster,” said Zeke without taking his eyes off Clayton, “and they’ll cover this territory with Pinkertons.” Clayton considered this quietly.

  “Then what do we do Zeke?” Zeke would have to admit that he had no plan. The coach would be there in minutes and he had absolutely no idea how they would get out. As he stood there trying to think of something, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. He would never know if it was that son of a bitch Samuel who had hit him or his brother who was, by definition, also a son of a bitch. The last thing he remembered was the floor coming up to meet him.

  When he came to, he could hear the teamsters outside watering their horses. He opened his eyes and his gaze met the wide-open stare of the mother whose blindfold must’ve come loose when Jeremiah struck her. She did not blink.

  Christ, he thought, they killed her. He struggled to his feet and made his way to the back door. In the distance he could see his four former compatriots riding away in a cloud of dust. They had taken his horse with them. He was stuck.

  In a blaze, his senses came back to him. He had to get away. Quickly he slid down into a small gulch behind the station and headed in the opposite direction of the disappearing dust cloud. He concealed himself in a bramble thicket and waited. It was his only option.

  Shortly, the teamsters burst through the front door of the station and jumped onto the coach. They were in a commotion and rode off in all haste after the four horsemen. Zeke lay in the thicket until night fell and then set off on foot in the direction that seemed to offer the most cover for a man who wished to remain hidden. The station manager would surely be able to identify him by voice if he was ever caught. He was on the run now and would be for the next three years.

  Ev
en before anyone had heard him say a word, it was evident that George Smythe did not belong in the territories. He was impeccably dressed and seemed to be able to walk through the dusty streets without getting his shoes dirty. When he did speak, all suspicions the citizens of this little town might have had about him were confirmed: he was English

  “Good day, Madam.” He said, addressing the proprietress of what he was told was the finest boarding house in town, “I should like to rent one of your rooms for an indeterminate amount of time.” Betty looked up from her bookkeeping and saw dollar signs as she examined him from toe to top. He was older, in his forties she would guess. Clean. Well-dressed. Just the sort of clientele she was hoping for.

  “Well you’ve come to the right place.” she smiled broadly, “We have the best rooms this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Excellent.” replied Smythe, returning the smile and removing his purse from his vest, “Will one week be a sufficient amount? I may stay longer.” Betty’s eyes grew wide.

  “Certainly.” she answered, “I’ll have your things brought to our finest suite.” She opened the door behind her counter and yelled, “Thomas, and get your lazy butt in here!” smiling at Smythe she added, “We have a guest.” Presently, a young Negro, presumably Thomas, entered and fetched Smythe’s bags, silently carrying them upstairs to the master’s suite. “Let me give you the tour.” said Betty, taking Smythe by the arm, “This is the billiard room. Feel free to play any time you like. The dining room is through this door and the parlor is in the back. We also have a selection of fine whiskeys and cigars, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Madam. Perhaps later.”

  “Very well.” Betty shifted her feet, “Will you be wanting any, um…..entertainment?” Smythe blinked, unsure of her meaning. He stared at Betty, waiting for clarification. Betty raised an eyebrow and turned her head slightly. Smythe simply furrowed his brow. “In the bedroom.” whispered Betty, feigning mortification.

  “Ah,” Smythe finally understood, “No, madam. I am here on very urgent business.”

  “I see. Well if there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”

  “I’m looking for a man. Someone skilled at tracking.”

  “Well there are a couple of good bounty hunters around here. You could try Cooper’s bar.”

  “Much obliged.” said Smythe, trying out his American vernacular and doffing his bowler hat.

  Cooper’s place was at the edge of town and was as far as some of the rougher travelers ventured. It was widely known that the Sheriff tolerated certain elements so long as they stayed out of the town center and didn’t make trouble for the citizens. It was just the sort of place Smythe was looking for. The bar’s scruffy assortment eyed him suspiciously, but noting the absence of a star on his jacket, commenced to ignoring him. If he wasn’t a Marshal or Sheriff, they didn’t care what he was doing.

  He approached the barkeep who seemed none too eager to speak to him.

  “Good afternoon.” Smythe offered a smile.

  “Yeah.” was all he got in response.

  “I wonder if you might help me.”

  “That depends.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “No kidding.” The barkeep was not impressed.

  “His name is Ezekiel McAllister.” A rough looking man at the bar put his drink down and turned his attention to Smythe.

  “Never heard of him.” answered the barkeep. Smythe removed his coin purse and opened it. Slowly, he put two dollar coins on the bar. As he spoke, he slowly added coins, one after the other.

  “Of course,” he said, “I would expect to pay for the information.” Another coin. “I assure you, I mean to help him.” The barman exchanged glances with the rough patron who was now paying his undivided attention to the strange Englishman.

  “Who are you?” asked the bartender, “Marshals?”

  “Do I sound anything like an American authority figure to you? No, I am not a marshal. I work for a very wealthy family and I am here on a very urgent personal matter.” The bartender seemed to consider this. The rough man said nothing.

  “Okay,” said the bartender eventually, “he’s right there.” With that he picked up his coins and stepped away. Zeke was still giving the Brit all his attention.

  “Ah,” said Smythe, “Jolly good. I’ve come to the right place.” Zeke’s right hand rested on his revolver. Smythe approached him extending his hand. “Mr. McAllister,” he said, “my name is Smythe. George Smythe.” Zeke’s hand didn’t move.

  “I don’t shake hands with strangers.” he growled.

  “How odd.” replied Smythe with a somewhat forced joviality, “Then how do you make friends?”

  “I don’t.” answered Zeke matter-of-factly.

  “Very well. I need help with a very dangerous matter and I believe you are the man best suited to the task.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Is there somewhere more private we could talk? The information I must impart to you is of a somewhat personal nature.” Zeke took a long sip of his beer and wiped the bristles on his chin.

  “I got some business outside of town. You can ride with me if you want.”

  “Splendid. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I don’t have a horse.” Zeke snickered and shook his head.

  “Harold,” he said to the bartender, “can I borrow Mable for a little while?”

  The sun had moved into the western half of the sky when Zeke and Smythe finally made it out of the town’s limit. As the buildings slowly disappeared behind them, Smythe gazed in wonder at the vista before them. To him, it seemed the sky was much larger than in his native England, and the sun was almost certainly brighter. He glanced over at Zeke whose eyes were nearly closed as he squinted against the sun, the brim of his black Boss of the Plains hat casting a sinister looking shadow across his weathered face. Zeke noticed him staring and turned his ice-cold glare on Smythe, who promptly went back to admiring the landscape.

  In the distance, he could see mountains rising against the horizon, how high, he could not say. The ground was dotted with small brush and seemed relatively devoid of grass. This seemed strange to him as his native land was one of the most verdant places on God’s green Earth. Smythe enjoyed this change of scenery a great deal. He had spent the majority of his time confined to cities like London, Boston and New York. This kind of wide-open space still gave him pause despite the fact that he had just spent several days crossing it by train.

  Before very long, the two of them had entered a small pass between the foothills. Here, the brush became sparser and the grass all but disappeared. The sides of the pass rose up on both sides leaving a relatively small trail between the walls. Smythe grew wary. This was the sort of badlands one heard awful stories about. Unsavory men springing from crevices to bushwhack unsuspecting travelers. Indians attacking from the numerous hiding spots to claim scalps. He hoped Zeke knew what he was doing.

  He seemed to, thought Smythe who had taken to surreptitiously examining him out of the corner of his eye lest Zeke turn that stare on him again. Zeke’s dress was that of a man accustomed to acting only out of necessity. There was nothing ornamental about him or his persona. If he spoke, it was only to convey needed information. This caused Smythe some ill ease, truth be told. He wanted to converse. He enjoyed it, but Zeke seemed to have a severe disdain for words, no matter whose they were. His clothing had seen better days, but that wasn’t unusual out here. Smythe had noticed that there were other things to worry about than one’s appearance in this wild country. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about it gnawed at his intellect.

  Zeke’s dark brown topcoat stopped at knee length, which was not what Smythe had come to expect. Many of the cowboys he had seen wore longer coats, he presumed because they were warmer. Why wouldn’t Zeke want that? After some pondering, he realized that a longer coat might be more prone to getting in the way when mounting a horse or hunting. He was pleased with himself for having contrived this
explanation and he found it in keeping with Zeke’s idiom that he would favor practicality over fashion, or what passed for fashion here. Having solved that riddle, he then took note of Zeke’s holsters, which were what he had come to learn were called “cross draw”, meaning that a right-handed man would wear a gun on his left hip with the hilt facing forward. In order to draw it, the shooter would have to reach across his body rather than straight down to his hip. This also puzzled Smythe and he thought about asking Zeke why, but that idea frightened him a little. He would rather figure it out on his own anyway, he told himself.

  Smythe tried to remember all the different types of holsters he had seen since arriving in America. The most common one, he figured, was to have it on your strong side, strapped to the hip or thigh. He tried to imagine the mechanics of drawing a weapon from such a holster and in so doing, he unwittingly began miming the action. Zeke noticed and looked at him with a furrowed brow. Smythe smiled slightly, trying to hide his embarrassment and went back to doing the calculations in his mind.

  If one were to draw from the hip while mounted, he thought, the coat would get in the way. The vest might bunch up and snag it. One would have to bend the elbow to a steep angle to reach it. He thought that any one of these reasons would make it more difficult. He realized that with it on the opposite side, unless one’s coat were buttoned, it would be quite easy to draw and fire with some speed. Two mysteries solved, he told himself. The last distinguishing element of Zeke’s dress was fairly easy to dissect. He wore the rough leather gloves that everyone here seemed to own, however, his were modified slightly. On his right glove, the thumb and first two fingers were cut off at the knuckle. Clearly this would allow for greater sensitivity to a trigger as well as for loading rounds into one’s weapons. Zeke was very clearly a gunslinger. Everything about him made that clear, even the way he moved. He had the easy gait of an apex predator and that aura even seemed to extend to his horse who walked more like a lion than others of his same breed.