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Glaring white sunlight, painfully bright, faded everything outside to a uniform, washed-out tan. A light breeze, seemingly created out of the rising heat waves, struggled to assemble a dust devil, failed, and dropped its burden, dispersing as fast as it had come. Not even the few bloated, black flies dared risk exertion in the stifling oppression of the one-hundred-twenty-degree temperature. Moving as little and infrequently as possible, the inhabitants of Lone Gulch, Nevada endured the midday furnace, praying silently to survive until the coolness of nightfall.
Mateo Ramírez, the bartender in the Desert Rose Saloon, was one of them. Only went the two men standing at the far end of the bar listlessly raised an empty glass to signal for service did he leave his perch on a high stool behind the thick, pine plank and amble slowly to a place before them. Mateo didn't like his customers. Their hard, cruel faces were not so uncommon. Many who passed through the batwings had a certain coldness. But a vacancy in their eyes spoke of Bandido, of that kind of men and women, he allowed---who had chosen to follow the trail of violence and death to make a living.
He had seen more than his share of their sort, and the disreputable clothes, scraggly, untrimmed hair, and yellowed teeth of this pair, only added to Mateo's sense of unease. All the same, a customer was a customer. At their next high sign, he slid from the stool and shuffled towards them. Mateo's eyes drooped with a lethargy that infected everyone in Lone Gulch. His all-but closed circle of black mustache nearly surrounded thin, indio lips made even more meager by the protruding teeth they fought to cover. His movements, as he raised the bottle and poured whiskey, were those of a fragile, old man. He exhibited no greater quickness, in defiance of custom, in reaching out to take the ten-cent pieces from in front of each man.
"Que la chingada! How can you drink that stuff in this weather?" he asked for perhaps the tenth time since the two drifters had entered the saloon. Mateo didn't expect an answer, it was too hot for conversation, but he persisted in expressing his own feelings on the subject.
"Mira, a shot or two of tequila I can understand. It makes you sweat and cleans out the body, cools a man off. Or a cerveza, foamy and cold from the limestone spring in our cellar. Oh, si, that I believe to benefit one like yourself----or me, for that matter. Por queue no? If you gentlemen will watch the---how you say, store?---I shall go and attend to that very thing." Licking his lips in thirsty anticipation, Mateo departed without getting a reply.
Braylon Fisher looked up at his partner. Dust begrimed their clothes and clung, in sweat-dampened clots, to their 3-day stubble of beard. Cash Peterson's gray eyes showed an irritated redness like that of an enraged bull. From the stinging, itchy discomfort he felt when he blinked, Braylon knew his own must look the same. Wetting dry lips with his thick-feeling tongue, Braylon curled his mouth into a sullen sneer.
"Big deal you figured out here, Cash. The colonel's not going to be too happy about it....and I sure ain't. Hell and tarnation. They sure named this burg right proper. Lone Gulch. It was a bust before it ever got to be a boomtown. So just tell me where and how we find all this tidy sum of money you say's layin' around out here?"
"Now dang it, Braylon. It was here the last time I was through. That's why I contacted Foreman an' he sent you. An' that was a little over six weeks ago. It's not my fault you took so long gettin' here. We hit a bad time, that's all. This dry spell and the heat. Most places out here, when it gets like this, they take a see-esta, like the Mezkins. You wait til' sundown. You're gonna see this place come a-live." Cash's slack lips peeled back in a wet smile, revealing his neglected, rotting teeth. He peered anxiously into Braylon's mean, amber eyes.
Braylon went back to vent his spleen. "A two-man job, you said. Hell, from the look of it, two eleven-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears sprats could handle it. I wouldn't want to say you were bettin' your life on this turnin' out right, Cash. Howsomeever, you dragged me away from a right nice little money-making scheme the colonel had goin' over Sacramento way to help you relieve these folks of some excess gold---and I don't like makin' all these miles for nothing. I joined the gang after the War because I thought I could make out better than on my own. So, whatever we take outta here, it best impress me more'n what I've seen so far."
"Relax, Braylon, relax. I'd never tell Colonel Foreman anything that weren't so. What we both need is a bath, some grub, and a little snooze. When that pepper-belly gets back from samplin' his own wares, we'll have him rustle us up some fri-holies and beef. Then a nice tub over at that barbershop and a soft bed. All we got to do after that is wait until the sun goes down and the fun starts.
Mateo returned then, clutching two sweat-beaded, brown bottles. He emitted a beery belch, clinked the containers together, and addressed his patrons.
"I have proven the wisdom of my words, Senores. And, being a wise and cautious man, I have returned with that proof to console me through this day of great tribulation."
"Yeah. Fine, fine. Now, you got any eats around here? Grub? Co---comidas?"
Mateo's face brightened. "Ay, comidas, si!" Then he took on a look of regret. "Only it desolates me, Senor, to have to inform you we do not serve meals in this place. There is, of course, the loncheria of Isabella Morales de la Rosa, who has the honor to be my sister, although unfortunate enough to be married to that worthless loafer of a bum, Alejandro la Rosa...."
"Jesus! We didn't ask for a look at your family tree, hombre. All we want is some grub." Cash nodded in agreement with Braylon's words.
Mateo placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. A barefoot boy of about ten, clad in the white, pajama-like clothes of a peon farmer, dashed in through the rear door. Both garments were cut off raggedly short, above the knees and elbows, obvious hand-me-downs. He snatched a straw sombrero off his head and clutched it in front of his chest with both hands. His black, intelligent eyes were fixed on Mateo.
"Si, Papa? The boy's eyes wavered, taking in the two trail-stained, mean-looking men at the bar.
"What is it you wish, Senores?"
"Some beans, tortillas, beefsteak, if there is any and coffee," Braylon commanded. "Make that well Don."
Mateo rapidly translated the order into Spanish. Then admonished his son, "Andale, Pablito."
"Carne de res por los hombres malos?" Pablito asked to be sure his father truly meant to serve these gringos from their scant supply of beef.
"No, burro estupido! Carne de borrego."
Pablito grinned, his eyes alight with glee. He knew most gringos hated mutton. That would show them.216Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOanNvPWN3k
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From unknown hiding places, which afforded protection from the infernal heat of the afternoon, crickets, cicadas, and frogs miraculously appeared as the sun set beyond the distant mountains. Their nocturnal chorus seemed to beckon to the human inhabitants, who started to appear, singly and in clumps, on the streets of Lone Gulch. A piano began to tinkle in the small dance hall saloon and moments later the staccato, bell-like notes of a trumpet and excited, ringing rhythm of many guitars answered up from the Desert Rose Saloon, and the shrill laugh of a whore came from the Frontier Rose Parlor. Braylon and Cash hit the boardwalk from their hotel as the last light faded from the summer sky.
"I'll give you there's more people, Cash," Braylon's grudging admonition was followed by further derision. "That still don't say the money's flowin' like you said."
"Oh, no? Hell, Braylon, look around you. Them girls over at the Frontier Rose's don't give it away; an' eats, likker an' cards come dear, too. Only one place you'd figure not to be open this time of day, right? The bank. Well, considerin' the upside-down way people live around here, that ain't the case. They got a nice little bank here, with a night deposit system to take care of what's taken in at all these other places. One teller and a clerk keep the door open until about an hour after closin' for the saloons and all. That's what I wrote to Colonel Foreman. So what we have to do is wait until these nice folks gather those gobs of money in one place for us and then help ourselves.
"Sorta makes some kind of record, won't it? I mean, pullin' an armed robbery on a bank at midnight? Not everybody can do that, right Braylon?"
"Don't go spendin' that money until you got it in your hand, Cash." They broke stride and Braylon pushed open the batwings to the Desert Rose Saloon, They entered and bellied up to the bar. "Beer."
"Same for me."
"We're gonna have to do some lookin' around first, Cash. Check out things. Like where's the law in this town?"
"There's an old coot who's town marshal. He'll be at home now, asleep. He's got two young deputies. They're big and strong. Work nights, of course. 'Bout the only thing they're really good for is to break up any ruckus that starts in one of the saloons or the bawdy house. One of 'em don't even carry a gun. He uses an axe handle. The other packs a Winchester. Something comes up, he cracks the feller alongside the head with that saddle gun and drags him off to the lockup. Real high-toned lawmen."
"Hmmmm." Braylon drank deeply of his beer, wiping white traces of the head from his mustache. He checked the time shown on a pendulum clock hung on the wall above the small stage where the Mariachi band played: 8:45. It was going to be a long night. Hell! Some big things were brewin' and he was missing out on them. The rest of the gang was headed sound to Arizona on a big operation Foreman had planned; and here he stood, caught up in a two-bit stickup arrangement, dreamed up by a cuss who wasn't even rightly a member of the gang. When he joined up with the others, with little or nothing to show for it.....He'd give the colonel a piece of his mind, don't think he wouldn't.
Beside him, Cash suddenly gave a choking guffaw, spraying beer from his mug as he set it down to dig his elbow into Braylon's ribs. He continued to giggle and nodded towards the doorway where a new arrival had entered the saloon.
"What in tarnation's got into you?" Braylon turned his head to see what prompted this display of hilarity from his partner and came up short. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in wonder. Nowhere had he seen anything quite like this bizarre creature that walked like a man (if he was a man) standing just inside the batwings. The man's attire featured a weathered, wide-brimmed cowboy hat and a tasseled leather vest adorned with intricate beadwork draped over a loose-fitting plaid shirt. There, all relationships to things seen or known before stopped for Braylon.
For his lower half, he wore knee-length breeches. Leather chaps provided an extra layer of protection. His boots, sturdy and well-worn, had some strange kind of embroidered patterns along the edges. Around his waist, a leather belt held a carefully crafted scabbard, like the kind a US Cavalry officer might wear. But the oddness didn't stop there.
"What that funny lookin' thing on his shoulders?" Braylon asked Cash in a soft, near-whisper. "A shawl? If that is, somebody musta been smokin' some Mezkin locoweed when he sewed it up. Looks like an Apache scrawl that took a wrong turn someplace. My, my.....wonder how much he paid for that thing. Ain't it hideous?"
"Well, I'll be, that's one fancy piece of iron he's totin'." Cash indicated the scabbarded shamshir the stranger wore. "Ain't no cowboy from 'round these parts sportin' a blade like that. Goldang! He's a big one though, ain't he? Better'n six feet, I reckon."
The short, stocky outlaw's eyes took in the stranger's impressive height, broad shoulders, and thick muscular column of neck.
"Yeah, but he's sure skinny." Braylon's observation made no allowance for the ample, well-corded muscles that showed in the man's forearms and at his throat. "Whaddya think he is?"
Cash studied the newcomer's golden-tanned skin, dark hair, and black, glittering eyes, which had a slight almond shape. They contrasted confusingly with his hugeness and the long, Anglo-Saxon straightness of his nose. Full, occidental lips formed a generous if slightly stern-looking, mouth. Cash shook his head in doubt.
"Well, his skin's darker than a well-cooked biscuit, like he's been soakin' up that Nevada sun. I'd say he's one of them Italians, you know, from that boot-shaped place across the ocean."
"Now hold your horses, Cash. That feller there ain't no Italian. Italians, they fancy them big cities like Chicago, not these dusty trails. Whooeee!" Braylon pointed rudely at a pendant the man wore around his neck. "Would you look at that shiny thing danglin' from his neck?"
"Who's he think he is wearin' that kinda jewelry in a place like this?" Cash gave a closer look. "You think that thing's gold, Braylon?"
"That or brass. If it is gold, it'd be worth a fortune. I seed somethin' like that once in a church. A picture of Goliath wearin' somethin' like that 'round his neck."
"You was in church?"
"Hush your dang fool mouth. Now, just what do you suppose he uses that big ol' hairy thing for?"
Braylon pointed to the man's scabbard and sword hilt. It was like nothing either man had ever seen before, ornate and shiny with intricate patterns, like rugs sold in a fancy shop. It gleamed in the light of the saloon's chandelier, and there were golden inlays that looked fancy. Then Braylon and Cash's eyes drifted to the hilt of the sword. By the look of it, it had a grip made of some rich-looking dark wood, maybe ebony or the like. But what caught their eyes was the golden pommel, shaped like a star or some celestial thing. It had swirling designs, like a dust devil captured in metal.
Cash peered myopically for a moment, and took another draught of beer. "Now, Braylon, I reckon that fancy blade of his might shine like a star in the night, but you know as well as I do, it don't matter much in Lone Gulch. If he's plannin' on usin' that shindig of a sword anywhere near these city limits, he might as well be stretchin' his neck for the hangman's noose. Out here, it's Colt revolvers and Winchester rifles that do the talkin', not some twirly blade from a far-off land. Bet he's just struttin' around like a peacock, showin' off his feathers without much sense of what's what in these parts." Cash took another belt. "We might as well do a little funnin' of him, huh? An' if'n that turns out to be gold, maybe we can, uh, take it off his hands?" as Cash talked on, the man walked toward the bar with a measured, unconsciously arrogant stride.
As he progressed through the room, silence followed in a rippling wave. Every man in the saloon eyed the oddly dressed man with the wary gaze of one looking upon the strange and alien. The Mariachi music faltered and stopped in mid-phrase. When the stranger reached his destination he leaned slightly forward and spoke quietly to Mateo Ramírez.
"Khavi. Mitavanam yek chizi dashteh basham?"
Mateo blinked, not recognizing the foreign words.
"Mande? No intiendo. Cheese? I don't have any cheese." When he received no reply, Mateo continued again in Spanish. "Por favor, habla usted Espanol o Ingles?"
"Aaaah, ye-e--es. English." The words came in a breathy sibilant, near whisper that hinted that this was a favored joke of the huge man. "So sorry, please. I want khavi, yes, no?"
"Oh, coffee. Si. Momentito."
When the steaming brown brew had been delivered, the man took a deep, soothing sip and sat the mug on the bar. "Mamnoon. Thank you."
"De nada." Mateo Ramirez handled the transaction with the aplomb of a man accustomed to dealing with the most outlandish of customers.
Braylon and Cash exchanged puzzled glances that showed that each saw this as an opportunity for a little fun at the stranger's expense. Cash wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and threw back his head.
"Whoooooeee! What kind of strange foreign critter we got here, boys?"
Braylon shook his head once, as if to clear it, completed the gesture of drinking from his beer, and sat the half-filled container back on the bar before answering. "Gol-dang, boys. I ain't seen me no man dressed up in gal's skirts this side of San Francisco." Braylon winked hugely at the other men in the saloon, picking up the line of rude jesting. He turned towards the oddly dressed man and raised his voice, as many are accustomed to do when addressing a foreigner.
"You Chinee-boy, ha? You worked lail-load?" Several men glanced from Braylon to the stranger and back again, then cleared the space between them. They sensed, from long experience, that the funning would soon turn nasty. The foreigner remained quiet, ignoring Braylon, looking intently at his beer mug.
"Hey, boy! I askee you, look-see, chop-chop. You worked sumbitch darkee mine, huh? You lan'lee boy, washed clothes....no ticket, no lan'lee, yes?"
The man slowly, deliberately finished his coffee. He still did not raise his eyes to look at Braylon Fisher. Braylon's voice flushed and sudden fury sounded warningly in his voice.
"I'm talkin' to you, boy. What the hell are you doin' drinkin' in a white man's bar? Answer me, you dark-skinned shike-poke bastard!"
A flicker of a tight-lipped smile creased the stranger's face. He breathed in deeply and exhaled in a suppressed sigh. Then he stepped clear of the bar. When he looked up, his eyes had gone flat, deadly, black spots that bored into Braylon's narrow face. The man's mouth turned hard and cruel. His lips writhed like muscular snakes as if he found it distasteful to address anyone so inferior as the pigeon-breasted creature with the lank, greasy, blond hair who had insulted him.
"In the annals of my country's history, an astute philosopher once cautioned against the folly of engaging an unknown force. Regrettably, the echoes of this sagacious counsel reverberated unheard in the ears of a seasoned military strategist, once a satrap of the great city of Hormuz. This venerable commander, who three centuries past imparted this very wisdom, found himself in a paradox of his own making. Ignoring the prescient words he once uttered, he met his demise on the battlefield of Persevera. This tale serves as a poignant reminder that even the architects of wisdom can become ensnared in the web of their own decisions, as the sands of time etch yet another chapter in the storied epic of Man.
"Alas, it is also a grievous misfortune that the refinement of your lineage and the acumen to restrain your infidel tongue elude you in the company of those of superior standing. Permit me to introduce myself – Reza Ali Hakim of the S'ara ghazi hambastegi, erstwhile Master of the Horse and parchamadar to His Imperial Majesty, the Shah of Persia."
Braydon Fisher flushed a deeper red to the roots of his long, stringy blond hair. Spittle formed in the corners of his thin-lipped mouth and flew wildly as he shouted. "I don't give a damn if you're King Solomon! No flat-faced sumbitch talks to me like that and lives!"
"Senor....senor!.....He has no gun." At the same moment, Mateo Rodriguez sought to warn Braydon, his hand reached under the bar, grasping the heavy mallet used as a bung starter. He brought it out, gripping it tightly.
Reza took two swift steps forward, his right hand sweeping across his body, grasping the hilt of his sword. "Long ago, I was known in your country as Donald West." the surname came out, "Vest."
For an instant, recognition seemed to flash in Braydon Fisher's eyes, some stray thread of memory nudging at his consciousness. Then he brushed it away, unable to make a solid connection. His hand dipped to his side as he made his play. The well-oiled Remington slid smoothly from its soft pouch holster, Braydon's hand closing on it, thumb drawing downward on the hammer. Then a bright ribbon of light seemed to dance before his eyes, surprise freezing him for an instant as the scabbard transformed suddenly into an unholy tool of death. Reza further paralyzed him with a shrill cry of "Allah-o-Akbar!" that sounded even more frightening than a Rebel yell.
Reza's shamshir sword came out edge-upward, swinging to the right in a graceful, rising arc. For an instant, his face glowed with satisfaction.
Braydon Fisher felt a sharp, snapping pain in his right wrist as if someone had jerked tight a looped piece of wire. Distracted by the unexpected sensation, he glanced downward. Horror and disbelief blanched his face pale white as he saw his gun and hand lying on the floor at his feet. Bright crimson spurted from the useless stump. Stunned, he dropped to his knees, left hand clutching his arm above the right wrist.
Reza's shamshir continued on its circular swing, far to the right, before he reversed his hold, closed palm now upward, bringing the blade back level, just above Braydon's shoulder height. Braydon looked up in time to see it coming. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.
For a fraction of a second, Braydon felt triumph. The dumb bastard had missed. He still had a chance. He gave his left arm orders to draw the police model, converted Colt, tucked into his waistband with the butt to the front. But his arm wouldn't obey. Reza changed his position, legs wide-spread, arms over his head, holding his weapon high in a two-hand grip. Braydon's vision blurred as he watched this and he shook his head in exasperation at this turn of events.
That's when his head fell backward off his neck to dangle between his shoulder blades by a narrow strip of flesh. Twin fountains of blood geysered towards the ceiling from his severed carotid arteries and Braydon's body did a brief, gruesome death dance before falling to the floor. Reza ignored the corpse, advancing on Cash Peterson.
That's one down, Reza thought exultantly. But where are the others? They were supposed to be riding together.
"Hey, friend, I don't want no trouble with you," Cash whined all the while his hand slid cautiously towards the butt of his holstered Colt Frontier .44 revolver. Reza's sword descended again, swinging sideways once more. Cash felt a fleeting flash of sharp pain, followed almost at once by a strange tingling sensation running up his right arm and the tap-tap----tap-tap sound of his fingers hitting the floor.
"Then we ensure it, haan?"
Cash screamed and fell to his knees, clutching at his bleeding, useless right hand. Several saloon girls had been screaming in terror from the time Braydon's head fell off and now other voices joined theirs in frantic cries.
The batwings flew open and two burly, broad-shouldered men entered. One held an axe handle at the ready while the other swung a Winchester "Yellow Boy" saddle carbine in one ham-huge fist. They advanced on Reza, who once more held the yek-rah, on-guard position, legs spread, sword vertically in front of him, both hands on the hilt, held on a level with his navel. A fast glance from both men apprised them of the situation. They moved in swiftly and the deputy with the axe handle made a swing.
Bright, naked steel flashed and the axe handle lost six inches of length. Reza had no desire to harm those whom he recognized as being the authorities, but he intended to protect himself from harm long enough to end the combat and explain what had happened. As he shifted his attention to the other man, he saw the deputy with the rifle start to bring it up to his shoulder. Reza took a step backward and changed the position of his sword.
That's when Mateo Rodriguez swung the bung starter with all his might.
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