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TWIN ADVENT
Edward Drobinski
Copyright © 2024 by Edward Drobinski All rights reserved
Table of Contents
Return to Jerusalem, NM ....................................... 1
Rex the Redbone Coonhound ..................................... 9
Trip ......................................................... 11
Sage ......................................................... 15
The White Rider .............................................. 19
Ranch with Rooms to Let ...................................... 37
Kasmeyer Meets the Rider ..................................... 39
Cattle Rustling .............................................. 43
Doc and Jane ................................................. 46
Four on Four ................................................. 50
Jimmy Ling’s ................................................. 55
Judkins on No One’s Side ..................................... 58
Betrayal ..................................................... 65
Billy’s Stand ................................................ 67
Little Fay ................................................... 70
The 9:15 from Tijuana ........................................ 75
A Disciple’s Account ......................................... 79
Revelation ................................................... 83
The Killing of O’Bummer ..................................... 116
Russian Bill Threepersons ................................... 123
Roll Away the Stone ......................................... 128
Shootout .................................................... 130
Judkins’ Twenty Pieces of Eight ............................. 136
Battle of Jerusalem ......................................... 137
Like a Thief in the Night ................................... 142
Page 1
Return to Jerusalem, NM
Doc Lambert Peacemaker couldn’t help smirking when he eyed the garishly dressed vaqueros and sort of smirked when he facetiously asked; ”You and your girlfriend plan on having a long dance?” Their black exterior dress covered their more colorful, hidden attire. But, Doc could see through them. It wasn’t hard.
Four eyes looked up at him and brightly replied; “ ............
“
“You deaf or stupid?”
The “gunslingers,” facetiously postured for a duel on otherwise empty Main Street, Jerusalem, diverted their attention from each other and continued to look at Doc on his horse, Big Red Bullet.
The tassel studded vaquero thumbed his handle and said; “Who be wants ta know?”
Doc Lambert Peacemaker smirked and figured there was no point in telling them his name if his reputation and wanted posters had not yet reached them. There are so many imitators, they’d likely think it was one of them. So he just said; “You’re in my way,”
which didn’t seem particularly true on Jerusalem’s wide,
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otherwise sparsely occupied Main Street. Doc continued; “You got five,” and started reverse counting; “Five, four, .... “
The two ground dwellers made moves for their guns, but before they could draw them from their holsters, Doc pulled his and filled their heads with more lead than was there previously. Doc dismounted Big Red Bullet, and just to be sure that he had done his job and was safe, he put another bullet into the heads of each of the bodies staring stupidly at the red sky with their mouths open. He mumbled his trademark to each; “You’re fine now,” and he meant that sincerely as he did every time.
He took Big Red Bullet’s reins and walked him across the quiet street, tying him to the post in front of the Wildfire Saloon.
He pocketed something from his saddlebag and walked right in through the swinging doors hearing the creak make another effort to settle itself. He walked past the bar and everyone pretended not to see him. But he detected a few eyes at twelve o’clock in the clouded wall mirror behind the bar.
Twin Advent
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He continued on to the full table of eight at the rear. He tapped the grizzled man who was sitting at the corner furthest from the entry on the shoulder and said; “If you don’t mind I’d like that chair.”
The seated man was surprised by the semi-polite entreaty. He wanted that seat as it was the safest one in the place and had gotten there early to claim it. While his mind ambled around Doc stepped up his request a bit, putting the index finger of his right hand on his gun handle and saying; “You’ve got five to get out of that chair. Five, four, ....... “
The grizzled man held up his empty left hand, palm forward, stood up and took a step away. Doc said; “Much obliged for your kindness.”
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Doc sat and surveyed the room. Right across from him was a kid who appeared as if he couldn’t be more than 16 years old. A waitress approached and seductively asked if she could get him anything.
Doc said; “I’ll have some of the whiskey that hasn’t been watered down.”
“That’ll cost ya.”
“I’m golden,” Lambert Peacemaker said smiling and pulling a doubloon from his pants pocket.
As she stepped away the kid called out; “Me too.” He looked right at Doc and said; “You killed Negrito.”
“Was that their names or their colors?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s some point here, junior?”
“Negrito was top gun here.”
“Right. Was.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Doc inhaled over his to determine its strength and the kid copied him.
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An ancient stranger two seats to Doc’s right said; “What the kid’s trying to tell ya is that nobody in this room has any problem with you killing Negrito. Just that you probably don’t know what you got yourself into. Negrito was Lefty’s top man.
Kasmeyer ain’t gonna be happy.”
“Kasmeyer?”
“Lefty Kasmeyer, the sheriff and mayor.”
“Oh well. Lefty’s gonna get me. I’m so scared.”
“Fed appointed sheriff. If he gets dead they’ll just send another. And Lefty’s not going to confront you directly. He’ll have some vaqueros do it. He might even offer you the job of being his top gun.”
“Job?” Doc chuckled. “I got the job. I beat the top dog, and I’m in charge.”
“Used to be that way until the feds moved in two years ago.”
Doc hadn’t heard about that and hoped the man was wrong. He said; “I see that the place became a talky one too.”
“Forget it. I was just trying to be helpful.”
The waitress was back again. “Enjoy your whiskey?”
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“Was alright. Bring me one more.” He turned to the ancient stranger and said; “Where’s the card game here?”
“The name is Buck; Buck Carter. There are many card games in town. All of them are run by and fixed by the feds through their purchased vaqueros.”
“None here?”
“Nope, not allowed and no interest.”
The waitress returned with Doc’s drink. He paid her and slid it to the stranger. He said to the kid; “You ain’t old enough to drink,boy.
A portion of the preceding event was reported by the local monopoly press run by flunky Mark Silverberg as follows.
The Jerusalem Fake Face
All the News That’s Fit to Print
Since 1864
Early evening yesterday an unknown White Christian assailant entered town on horseback and shot to death two of our finest citizens, Chief Deputy Negrito Sanchez and Assistant Deputy Luis Ramirez, who were on routine patrol for your safety. This is being considered not only two murders, but an act of domestic
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terrorism as reports indicate that the assailant was shouting racial epithets before firing upon the two public defenders.
Sheriff “Lefty” Kasmeyer considers this to be as flagrant and cold blooded a violation of Jerusalem’s democracy as he has seen in his two year tenure here. He is requesting information from anyone who knows the identity and/or whereabouts of the multiple murderer to be reported to him. Any failure to do so will be treated as aiding and abetting the violation of our democracy and will be dealt with accordingly.
The bulletin board at the Wildfire Saloon contained the following anonymous message.
“The number of mestizos and mulattoes has grown so much in these realms, and so have the excesses and crimes that they commit every day, striking terror to the heart of the population, who is unable to do anything about it, because as Vaqueros they ride on horseback with guns, desjarretaderas, and scythes, and they gather in gangs and nobody dares to confront them. His Supreme Majesty would remedy this by ordering that none of the aforementioned be allowed to be here, much less be able to carry such a weapon in a town or in an uninhabited place under the penalty of death by hanging, preferably with agonizing torture preceding.”
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Page 9
Rex the Redbone Coonhound
Doc named the dog Rex. Shortly after he arrived in town the dog started trailing Doc around. No one had ever seen him before, but he looked rather healthy and well fed, as if he had been once part of a loving White family.
A Redbone Coonhound is an American breed of hunting dog. As a coonhound, the Redbone is primarily a hunter of small game that hide in trees, such as coons, opossums, and squirrels, but is also capable of handling big game like bears and cougars. Its hunting strategy is to tree wild game where White human hunters can then shoot the target, rather than directly hunting and subduing the prey.
The breed dates back to pre-Civil War from the Southern United States, and its foundation stock derives from bloodhounds and foxhounds brought by immigrants from Scotland. Unlike other coonhounds which are primarily bred for hunting skill rather than appearance, the Redbone is characterized by its rich red coat in addition to its ability to track game trails for longer than other breeds.
Rex had a particular dislike for Mexicans, the darker they were the more drooling teeth he had. This was likely the result of the fact that his White human family was wiped out by the
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Kasmeyer supported Mexicans. They also strangled his brother
“88,” and his mate Eva, for no discernable reason, other than cruelty, while he was out foraging.
Rex now followed around Doc and Big Red Bullet, whenever they were in town. Once he saw how Doc had easily mowed down the two vaqueros at the outset of his first visit, he considered Doc to be a kindred spirit.
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Trip
Doc Lambert Peacemaker had been riding Big Red Bullet through the southwestern desert, mostly the Chihuahuan for five fall days and nights, with a sixth approaching. He was getting as far away from the Coffeyville, Kansas jail cell from which he had just escaped as Big Red Bullet would take him.
In the golden heartland of Kansas, under the vast, stretching skies, a lone rider named Doc prepared for a journey that would test the limits of endurance and spirit. With a sturdy horse named Big Red Bullet, a map of the stars, and a heart full of adventure and a yearning to return, Doc set out from the sunflower fields towards the distant horizon where the land met the sky.
The days were long, and the sun was relentless, but the nights brought cool relief and a sky full of stars to guide their path.
They traversed the rolling prairies, where the wind whispered tales of the old frontier, and the only sound was the rhythmic thud of Big Red Bullet’s hooves against the earth.
As they approached the edge of Kansas, the landscape began to change. The flat plains gave way to rugged hills and valleys, and the air grew thinner. They were entering the No Man’s Land, a stretch of territory that was as wild as it was beautiful.
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Doc and Big red Bullet encountered herds of bison that roamed freely, their massive forms casting long shadows in the early morning light. They crossed paths with prairie dogs that chirped warnings to each other as the travelers passed by their burrowed towns.
The journey was not without its challenges. There were rivers to ford, storms to weather, and the constant threat of bandits and wild animals. But Doc was resolute, and Big red Bullet was unyielding. Together, they pressed on, finding solace in the silence and solitude of the open trail.
As they neared New Mexico, the air grew warmer, and the scent of sagebrush filled the air. The terrain became a canvas of reds and oranges, painted by the setting sun. They had entered the land of enchantment, where ancient pueblos stood as monuments to the past and the spirits of the ancestors seemed to linger in the whispering winds.
Finally, after weeks of travel, Doc and Big Red Bullet arrived at their destination. They stood atop a high mesa, looking out over the sprawling desert below. It was a moment of triumph, a testament to the bond between rider and horse, and the enduring call of the wild that beckoned them forth on this long ride.
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He had spent two of his twenty-something years in the Coffeyville, Kansas jail as the result of a federal charge and conviction for the “crime” of inciting a riot, more technically identified as having conspired to incite an insurrection against the government, whether that insurrection occurred or not. In particular Lambert Peacemaker had drunkenly expressed to an undercover federal agent that he thought that the last mayoral election was fixed, and should be ignored, primarily because twice as many votes were counted than there were registered voters.
Doc preferred riding to walking for many reasons, one of the least of them the fact that he limped on his left leg, the result of a fed planted trail explosive, encountered while alone prior to his incarceration. He’d of killed the perpetrator if he knew who that was.
The sun was either setting or the moon was rising. Whatever was happening, it was causing an eye catching mix of reds and yellows in the sky as well as on the ground, which didn’t provide any warmth.
On his trip, he had bypassed signs directing him to a few towns in Kansas, Colorado, and Oklahoma which Doc knew were fully
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under the control of the feds and the US Army deployed to partner with Mexican cattle rustlers.
It was 1866. New Mexico Territory had not yet been taken over by the feds, though they were making unofficial incursions. The territory was still an area claimed by many, but controlled by none. Authority’s tenuous confusion was what Doc liked.
Doc decided to stop in Jerusalem, a town he used to know and liked in his youth.
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Sage
A sharp clip-clop of iron shod hoofs deadened and died away, and clouds of yellow dust drifted from under the cactus out over the sage.
Jane Gage was at her window gazing down the wide purple slope with dreamy and troubled eyes. A rider had just left her and it was his message that held her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting her brother and mother who were no doubt coming to resent and attack her right to befriend a White Christian gunfighter.
She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to the little village of Jerusalem was to involve her. And then she sighed, remembering that her father had founded this remotest border settlement of New Mexico. They had many horses, but all the cattle were gone. To her family belonged Sparkle Spring, the water which gave flora, beauty, and life itself to the village and made living possible on that wild purple upland waste. She could not escape being involved by whatever befell Jerusalem.
The last few years had marked a change which had been gradually coming in the lives of the peace loving White Christians of the border. No one, but her father, had risen against the invasion of trigger-happy Mexican rustlers.
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Jane prayed that the tranquility and sweetness of her life would not be permanently disrupted. She wanted the sleepy, old, quiet pastoral days to come back and last always. Trouble between the White Christians and the Mexicans made her unhappy. She wished only to go on doing good and being happy. And she thought of what that great ranch meant to her. She loved it all; the grove of cottonwoods, the old wooden house, the amber tinted water, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek, clean limbed, blooded racers, and the sun browned riders of the sage.
The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Gage to the question at hand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threw their bridles. They were seven in number, and Sheriff
“Lefty” Kasmeyer was the leader.
“Did you get my message?” he asked, curtly, while using his left to self-consciously feel for his missing right arm.
“Yes,” replied Jane.
“I sent word I’d give that rider Peacemaker half an hour to come down to the village. He didn’t come.”
“He knows nothing of it;” said Jane. “I didn’t tell him. I’ve been waiting here for you.”
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“Where is Peacemaker?”
“On the road, I suppose.”
“Here, J. Enmoron,” called Kasmeyer, turning to his men, “take the gang and fetch Peacemaker out here if you have to rope him.”
The dusty booted and long spurred riders clanked noisily into the grove of Jerusalem and disappeared in the shade.
“Kasmeyer, what do you mean by this?” demanded Jane. “If you must arrest Peacemaker you might have the courtesy to not involve me. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It’s absurd to accuse Peacemaker of being mixed up in that shooting fray. He was with me at the time. You’re only using this as a pretext. What do you mean to do to Peacemaker?”
“I’ll tell you presently,” replied the Sheriff. “But first tell me why you defend this worthless rider?”
“Worthless!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly. “He’s nothing of the kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There’s not a reason why I shouldn’t champion him and every reason why I should. It’s no little shame to me, Kasmeyer, that through my friendship he has roused the enmity of my people and become an outcast.”
“But, Jane Gage, the man is a gunslinger!”
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“As if your Mexican police force isn’t.”
“I’m not so much against that. You can give the child proper teaching,” said Kasmeyer. “But I’m sick of seeing this fellow Doc hang around you. I’m going to put a stop to it. You’ve so much love to throw away on these beggars of gunslingers that I’ve an idea you might love Doc.”
“Maybe I do love him,” said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir her heart. “I’d never thought of that. Poor fellow! He certainly needs someone to love him.”
“This’ll be a bad day for Doc unless you deny that,” returned Kasmeyer, grimly.
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The White Rider
And it came to pass that on the eighth day of his journey, a tired, gray pilgrim on horseback approached the home he had left in search of adventure and knowledge when a young man. The White Rider had unceremoniously travelled for what seemed an overly long lifetime, and only now had any inkling that, as a child, he was ridiculously and overly susceptible to the provocative, cackling, shrill, bugle wails of the disingenuous, painted sirens. The lures had posed on the steep mountainside outside of town, right on the slope where he was now perched, as the cacophonous sentries, positioned at the desired land’s gates made a mockery of the fixed, written words of the coverless book he had favored in youth. The White Rider pulled back the reins and dismounted his white companion and together they took in the view.
His eyes panned over a setting which seemed to be other than what his memory recalled. Below were the brown and the flimsy, which had callously encroached on the green and the sturdy which were what was in his mind. On the ground near him were the charred stumps and the haphazard, blackened, fallen logs. The visible insects had devoured the majority of the softer brown wood, but seemed to have no interest in the parts which had been scorched. These remnants, which were slowly being absorbed by
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the earth on which they now rested, sat like an un-excavated burial ground.
His now diminished ears heard nothing, but the sporadic echoing whistle of the earth upsetting wind; making an abundance of short lived dust devils. It howled in gusts in defiance of soothing convention, as it unsuccessfully tried to once again regain the stature deceiving, un-kept promise of the former flamboyant prominence of the other. Yet, he also knew that the insistent wind had its undeniable mellowing place in his realm of otherwise stagnant and mounting heat. It immediately made a liar of him when it blew dust into his horse; Zelus’ eyes.
Without the benefit of hands, she had no way to brush away the rude, petty grains which accumulated to hamper her vision. The shaking of her head alleviated much of the initial intrusions, but was ineffective when the moisture induced widening muddy deposits at the corners. The grounded White Rider used his fingers to clear her eyes. As always, she first mildly balked, afraid of injury to the vital, sensitive area, before surrendering to her knowledge that the White Rider would never do her harm. The White Rider found the repetition of the old story somewhat silly; but never said so. This was the millionth time he put his hands under her chin and said; “Hey girl; you
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should know by now that I’d never hurt you.” Like always, Zelus sighed and relaxed while the White Rider cleared her eyes.
The time consuming trip was no doubt clearly foreseeable by the enlightened. But now, he thought that he was finally home. The thoughts of what might have been if he was brighter and more fortunate were ones he had to forget. The past was gone and now irrelevant. It was simple as that as he had managed to think in his busy rational moments. He had long prior learned how to hold back the publicly embarrassing tears, saving them for his ample idle solitude. The White Rider rubbed away his own accumulating corner deposits.
He came to a complete halt on the bounteously recalled, but presently treeless hill. He overlooked the town. He could only now try to fool himself by doubting that it was the place he did once seek to leave. Things had changed. That person was not him; it had to be someone else caught in the inevitably, drowning whirlpool. The harsh realities of what he truly believed, but didn’t want to remember, only served as a testimony to his long term and wasting, weak culpability. The thought had to go away, if he had any chance of keeping on, though he knew that his keeping on had no relevance to anyone but to him, Zelus, and possibly his present boss. He recognized this depressed mindset was just another manifestation of self-indulgence; popular with
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the privileged and their affected, sarcasm laden mimics, while in reality he knew that it was just another simple display of humanity’s will to go on; all too often used for short term personal gain. Still in its grips despite accurate recognition of the enemy, he temporarily considered willing himself to death, but could not sustain the pain ending thought. The illogical, sorrow generating, yet irrepressible hope of a deep rooted, childish dream would not let him succumb to the comfortable numbness.
He attempted to get out of his head and into what was around him today; in what apparently passes for someone’s version of
“reality,” their own. In that process the White Rider found it easier and truer to substitute his own. He had come to know that his attitude had much in common with what everyone else dealt with daily; and here he was, reflecting on it like another poor imitation of Narcissus. Yet, if he were to insist on only viewing his own perceptions, it would only solidify his isolation. He took a long drink from his brown, fringed, leather canteen; in that process apprehensively noticing that the only remaining water contained in it rested at the bottom. His eyes went to Zelus. At first she was apprehensively looking at him.
She then whinnied; low, sad and shyly; shook her head from side to side, though that movement was no longer personally
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necessary. She looked the other way; not in any sense of defiance; not in any sense of boredom; not in any sense of disgust; not in any sense of ill will; but maybe in a sense of a feeling of inadequacy coupled with the sense of a feeling of;
“Get off it. It leads nowhere!” The White Rider thought that he might understand and caressed her.
The magnificence of his anciently and possibly mistakenly recalled fertile valley; its compelling view, punitively, pitilessly and perhaps condescendingly, was obvious to him and was right in the face of Zelus and he. His exhausted and partially open eyes looked, though the part of him which insisted on survival recommended that they be closed. He resisted survival compulsions and saw that the steep hillside itself, not only evidenced a consuming inferno; the date anyone’s guess; only displayed sawn tree stumps which because of the regularity of the cuts, appear to have been taken down prior to the fire. Now they were apparently resolute in their commemorated mortality; a museum of undesired, immobile tranquility, no longer having any hope of shifting their many lost branches in the fickle breeze. Their un-moving, but making-the-best-of-things remains overlooked the wrinkled, parched, presently desert town, as reluctantly, did the White Rider. He thought that he remembered bucolic, green, springtime
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dalliances, happily extending their bold, newly acquired progressions into a cloudless, blue sky, which seemed well within reach. Though there was no evidence of his memory, he was stubbornly certain that he was right. For a privileged, melancholically, happy and hopeless moment, his possibly objective faulty, primal recollection of what he dreamed of in his youth; as to the beauty which once was on, above, and below the hill, on which he now stood, pounded his brain like exhilaration coupled with an unspoken admonishment. The remnants of the sweet dream were clearly in front of his face. The reality was much as his almost forgotten, foolish, and romantic, once upon a time fantasy. The unattained dream which he now considered to be the innocent delusion of a youthful and erroneously thought to be a never-to-come-again oasis of the sincerely joyful shared the libidinous embodiment of a loving soul which had long prior succumbed to the infectious, prevalent passion, or never really was, outside of his thoughts. It was the substance of fantasy to be enjoyed only when one was alone and ready for sleep. At some compromising point, his prior resistance to the predominant and ever-flowing waves wore out.
The comfort of the old innocent songs were overwhelmed by a silent cacophony of guilty, tainted, universally, though not personally produced ugly realities, which were the result of a magnanimous smiling viewpoint which seemed to be clearly right
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in front of his faulty brain and eyes. While the heart of the saddened one was capable of an extremely limited foray into the present life of a hermit monk, his nether regions seemed to have a mind of their own and without any semblance of sociably acceptable constraints, looked elsewhere. Was there any choice?
It was a storm of relentless, blinding dust which gratuitously dropped its dominant, physically “real,” and un-welcomely imposed obscurations on the desperate, unhappy groupings he sought to elude. Unlike many years prior, he now knew that he rightly belonged with them. He knew and hated that stupidly stubborn aspect of himself, in which he appeared as reticent or shy, but was a truly unwilling and unenthusiastic prognosticator and procrastinator, in fear of the horror he had seen inflicted on the openly vulnerable. There was no way to live with open eyes and simultaneously avoid it. For her and only her, he had frantically prayed to un-listening ears for a cessation of the cruel wind; each entreaty performed with less zeal than the prior failure, until it was gone. He knew that he and she were just more of the condemned, didn’t understand why it had to be this way, and yet still desired to attempt a personally judicial, righteous journey home for the others. Maybe his lost, seemingly simple, misremembered dream could be their way, if not his. Besides, he had nothing to gain by denying the others who had done him no harm.
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Below him in the valley, though he found the implied idea of his lofty placement personally repugnant, yet egoistically impossible to ignore, he saw the scraps of his failed dream. The barren, desolate appearance of the tangibly inescapable, brutal physical environs of his originally desired home below caused him to chastise himself for long ago having taken a series of wrong turns, simultaneously almost forgiving himself when he realized that the arduous excursion was not what he sought. It was merely what seemed to be there; bearing the testimony of all that went before him and all that he had heard about then. For
‘Occam’s Razor’ aficionados, the simplest and easiest criticism was that it was unforgivably common. The White Rider was harder on himself. Despite all the good justifications, he couldn’t forgive himself for taking a route which, had he taken the trouble to mindfully scrutinize, was obviously a route to hell.
Can a teenager be expected to understand the experienced, unobstructed, regretful viewpoint gained in old age? Perhaps that was so for a few geniuses imprisoned in the company of many timid followers of rules. It seemed a travesty, in any sense of his concept of justice, for his current mindset to be only possible after a youth of regretted, self-indulgence, away from those he loved. There must be another way; a path hidden.
........ He thought that he would not be convicted by a jury of his peers as he had never seen it, and had no practical reason
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to think that it existed anywhere outside of the pretenses of the holier-than-thou-outdo-doo-dah-daddy positions already claimed by the fame seeking, mental defectives. Yet, every unexplainable thing in him told him that he should have known and that he was guilty and did not have to wait for the legalities of a sentencing hearing. The punishment was inflicted before charges were filed.
He again wondered if he were yet another person merely consigned to the wrong time and place. He had been so mistakenly sure of the decency of so many other locations that he found the question unanswerable. He had to try to forget the failure of all that was part of the past and hope and believe that he was about to enter something new; as well as something old. A successful life seemed to demand the contradiction. Without the belief in that one in a million, “miraculous,” and naïve long shot, he may as well have stayed up on the hill with the butchered, burned and unirrigated tree stumps. If the denizens of the valley city were averse to him, so be it. He could know that only after having tried to befriend them.
He again mounted Zelus and rode his companion of thirty years.
The white mare now struggled with every step she took on the sloped and treacherous terrain. He held the reins slackly and made no effort to compel her to move with anything other than
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the speed and course with which she was most secure. As he experienced the careful slow steps she took, he again gazed into their valley destination. It didn’t look as if it could have been the likely recipient of the idealized, weathered memories he had of a youth spent in wordless modification of the place, which he had thought was purposely, stupidly and onerously set on thwarting every feeble attempt he made to find any paltry sense of freedom. Now, he was saddened, as it merely appeared dry, forlorn and abandoned.
Despite his undesired, underwhelming feeling that he was likely to be returning to a place which had obviously seen better times, his corrected and egalitarian emotions made him want to enter the town of his birth; strongly and inescapably. He was reticent to appear as someone pompous, patronizing or condescending to the town he loved; but left. He also knew that this perception would inescapably be that of some; he could only hope not many. This was nothing more than a sad joke to him. He had lost the protracted match, time was running out and he wished that he had never left. Yet he knew all too well the authority and prominence of appearances. Despite the length of his trip, his blue denim shirt, pants and open jacket were only lightly soiled and he still had the company and friendship of faithful Zelus. She meandered assuredly through the obstacles,
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her eyes necessarily fixed in concentration on the confounding stumps and deteriorating logs.
The White Rider reluctantly peered toward the river to his left; or what remained of it. The playground of his swimming childhood had become a congregation of clustered dry islands interspersed by small trickles insufficient to provide aquatic cover for a shellfish. For a brief moment he wondered if this was the place he had left. His doubt was extinguished by his sighting of the irrigation ditches, now much too high above the river to be the receptacle of anything other than the hot, dry air.
He momentarily considered going back to the farce with which he was fluent after a lifetime of learning the patois. ....... He couldn’t bring himself to and he realistically thought it best to continue on as he hadn’t the time to backtrack. Going back was an option open only to the young.
He rode a few more steps, until a bearded man on foot, with glasses in need of recurrent manipulation turned the switchback corner. He had to stop Zelus as the bespectacled man was too busy carrying on a heated conversation with a person whom only he saw to pay any attention to others who might be on the hill.
When they got close he could see that the bearded man was young; no more than thirty years of age. The Stranger came to an
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abrupt, jerking stop and used his quivering fingers to reposition his glasses higher on his nose, poking an eye in the process. Embarrassed, he said; “Why don’t you watch where you’re going!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m standing still. Can’t you see?”
“.............. Well, good that you think you are.” The Stranger inserted two fingers under his glasses, and rubbed a blinking eye. He mumbled; “I do see some movement. Where are you going?”
The White Rider extended his right hand, palm up, toward the town, and said; “To the place of my birth. Is it still home to anyone?”
The bearded one again meddled with his glasses, leaving them more misaligned than they had been prior to his alteration. He tugged at his beard and said; “Why must you ask difficult questions?”
“.............. Perhaps, I can rephrase it. Does anyone live there?”
“I don’t know. No difference to me.”
“Have you been down there?”
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The Stranger cackled when he replied; “Questions. Questions.
Questions. But, this one is finally an indication of lost presumptions. Thank you. No, I have not.” He found this uninformed response singularly amusing and added; “I have been well advised to avoid this demise, euphemistically known as Cambio de la Vida. Jesus has said; ‘Let the dead stay with the dead.’”
Zelus snorted and looked back toward her mount as if to say;
“Both of you have got to be kidding.” The White Rider said; “No matter what it is now called by the inexperienced young, I will always remember its sweet wonders. When I was born there it was known throughout the country as Bethlehem a place of abundance.
It matters none to me if it has mockingly become known as Cambio de la Vida, as I will always belong there. It is merely a circling back to an infancy; oblivious to labels.” Thinking that he had said something discourse ending, if not particularly dazzling, he smirked as he confidently retrieved a hand rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket and struck a match, lighting it.
The pedestrian Stranger with the vision challenge jumped back and his glazed eyes widened in horror. He said; “This place is so dry, an ember could trigger a raging wildfire. Didn’t you see the condition of the river?”
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He inhaled deeply and said; “Yeah? ....... Hard to miss. My compliments on your fantastic grasp of the obvious. ....... Now, who’s asking the stupid questions?”
The bearded one again frantically tried to straighten his glasses, and quickly circumvented Zelus, in a quick stepping attempt to get away from the flickering flame. He had moved ten feet when he stopped and called back, seeking the last word;
“You’re crazy! You’re absolutely crazy! ......... What do you think is on the other side of the ridge?”
The White Rider calmly shrugged and said; “I don’t remember. I really don’t. ........ Maybe nothin’ worth rememberin’. Maybe Paradise. ........ What day is today? I can’t remember that either.”
The Stranger wasn’t asked, but chose to blurt out; “I don’t know. I really don’t. ....... Whatever its un-name, it’s a day to move on.”
“Finally, we agree on somethin’”
“There’s nuthin’ down there.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Look, all you can see is fallen down shacks.”
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“Can’t see over the ridge from here.”
“Gotta be the same. I’ve been in these parts all my life and I never seen a damn thing. ‘Sides, there’s no water down there. If you make it to the ridge you’ll never make it back.”
“I don’t know. Don’t matter. My boss wants me to deliver a book to some lady.”
The Stranger couldn’t control his laughter. He said; “Hey, jerk.
(Giggle.) You can (Snort.) just throw the book away (Mucous wiped on sleeve.) and say that you delivered it.”
“I ain’t like that. That’s why he pays me good.”
“Wages! Wages! S***! Can get that anywhere without dying of thirst. Man!! Use your f****** head.”
“ .................................... “
“What?”
“I was usin’ my f****** head.”
Snort. “Try usin’ it the shrewd way. How’s he gonna know? This one time won’t hurt.”
“I don’t know how he’s gonna know. He’s pretty damn smart though.”
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“Smart compared to you I guess.”
“He’s got the biggest cattle and horse operation back east. What you got?”
“ ................. Probably inherited it.”
“Made it all himself. That’s what everyone says.
“Dangerous down there.”
“Got a gun for the rattlers.” The White Rider retrieved a tiny, leather bound, un-titled book from his saddlebag and read aloud.
“Just as it is the task of the enlightened beings of numbers to make generous, good use of their numbers to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner, which the beings of substance can understand; it is also the task of the enlightened beings of substance to make generous, good use of their substance to explain things in a two-fold, in sync manner which the beings of numbers can understand; both parties at once being clearly overt and clearly mysterious. It is at this point that the third riders make themselves known to all. Differing ability levels are recognized and respected. An honest effort is all that is required. But, woe be to those who hold back or deceive. They not only hurt the other, but themselves. Their inaction or falsity condemns all to a tedious, boring lifetime of ‘preaching banalities to the choir,’ at best. It is at this point that the
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suicide phantom of Styx makes its presence known and the haunting, black specter has achieved what it and you think to be immortality. But, it is Death.”
The White Rider dismounted in order to put the book back in his saddlebag.
Zelus became uncomfortable standing unevenly on the slope. She carefully worked her way down to the field and commenced running at full tilt.
The White Rider called back; “What’s a scribe doin’ in the wasteland?”
“Lookin’ for somethin’ worth stealin’. What else?” .......
“What the hell was all that crap supposed to mean?”
The now pedestrian White Rider laughingly replied; “You’re the smart one. You tell me. F*** do I know? It’s just my job to deliver this little book. Figured I’d take a look at it at night. ........ I just gotta keep movin’. Got a great, great horse helpin’ me. ....... See ya, ...... maybe.”
The Stranger walked west, away from the river, continuing to fidget with his glasses. When he got out of normal hearing range, Zelus started back up the hill to the White Rider. She moved more quickly this time, as she had learned the terrain.
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The White Rider dwelled a bit, smiled, puffed and straddled Zelus, who complied and demonstrated her continuance to show their mutual disdain for paths. They went straight down the hill, more and more certain that they were on their way home. He uttered; “Head for Siempre Carretera. ..... Bethlehem.”
He pulled the reins gently and Zelus slowly loped over the dry shrubs, their disturbed cotton now loose and filling the air near ground level with snow flurries The White Rider was fearful that he was too late, but he and Zelus were aiming to go over that ridge.
Twin Advent
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Ranch with Rooms to Let
Lambert Peacemaker rode Big Red Bullet back to the secluded place they had seen the “ROOMS FOR RENT” sign. The sandy access was lined with thick trees and bushes, just how he liked. After about five hundred feet the clearing revealed a ranch house showing signs of a lack of recent maintenance; not bad, but not over eager.
He saw no people, but lights were on inside. He dismounted, climbed onto the front porch, and knocked at the door. A teenage boy opened the door with his right, holding a six shooter in his left.
“Hold on there, pardner. I’m just looking for a room.”
“Can’t be too careful these days. You know, it’s kind of late.”
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“Yes, I can appreciate that. I should have stopped when I passed here a few hours ago. Sorry.”
“Come on in.”
“Thank you kindly. I grew up in these parts. Seemed a little different then. Your dad home?”
“Dad’s gone. I’m the man of the house now. Have a seat.” He waved toward an old ladder back at the kitchen table, which faced the floor to ceiling, cooking fireplace.
Doc sat feeling unusually quizzical. He said; “Doc, Doc Lambert Peacemaker.”
The kid sat next to him saying; “Gage, Wheeler Gage.”
“About that room?”
“Yeah, ain’t much; but it’s clean, the roof don’t leak, and you got your own entry.”
“Let’s have a look.”
The room was fine and Doc took it paying up front in gold.
After getting settled and after the lights were out, ‘round midnight Doc retrieved his cache of gold from his saddlebag, and buried it, two feet down, near what looked like a grave.
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Kasmeyer Meets the Rider
“Look!” said one of Kasmeyer’s men, pointing to the west.
“A rider!”
The horseman, silhouetted against the western sky, came riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from the left, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till close at hand.
“Do you know him? Does any one know him?” questioned Kasmeyer, hurriedly.
His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads.
“He’s come from far,” said one.
“That’s a fine hoss,” said another.
“A strange rider.”
“Huh! He wears black leather,” added a fourth.
With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Kasmeyer stepped forward in such a way that he concealed the rider.
The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch that while
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performing it the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group before him.
“Look!” hoarsely whispered one of Kasmeyer’s companions. “He packs two black butted guns low down. They’re hard to see; black agin them black chaps.”
“A gunman!” whispered another. “Fellers, careful now about movin’ your hands.”
The stranger’s slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner of gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking. Yet, as well, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances with men.
“Hello, stranger!” called Kasmeyer. No welcome was in this greeting only a gruff curiosity.
The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax.
Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements on the part of Kasmeyer’s men broke up the little circle.
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“Mebbe I’ve kind of hindered somethin’ for a few moments, perhaps?” inquired the rider.
Kasmeyer said; “In this here country all the rustlers an’
thieves an’ cut-throats an’ gun-throwers an’ all-round no-good men jest happen to be White Christian gunslingers. Which of the no-good class do you belong to?”
“I belong to none of them.”
“Here stranger, this’s none of your mix,” began Kasmeyer. “Don’t try any interference. That’s more than you’d have got in any other village on the New Mexico border. Water your horse and be on your way.”
“Easy. Easy. I ain’t interferin’ ........... yet,” replied the rider. The tone of his voice had undergone a change. He was dry, cool, biting. “I’ve lest stumbled onto a queer deal. Seven feds all packin’ guns. Queer, ain’t that?”
“Queer or not, it’s none of your business,” retorted Kasmeyer.
“Where I was raised a woman’s word was law. I ain’t quite outgrowed that yet.”
Kasmeyer fumed between amazement and anger. “Meddler, we have a law here something different from woman’s whim law! ... Take care you don’t transgress it.”
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“To hell with your different law!”
The deliberate speech marked the rider’s further change, this time from kindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a transformation in Kasmeyer and his companions. The leader gasped and staggered backward at a blasphemous affront to an institution he was bound to appearing to be personally held most sacred. “Come on, men!” he called. “Come men out of here!”
The rider smirked, saying; “Thought so.”
“Who are you? We are seven here.”
The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular in that it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the big black gun sheaths swung round to the fore.
“Lassiter!”
Kasmeyer put out a groping hand, palm forward. The life of his eyes dulled to the gloom with which men of his fear saw the approach of death. But death, while it hovered over him, did not descend, for the rider waited for the twitching fingers, the downward flash of hand that did not come.
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Cattle Rustling
Kasmeyer has allowed Mexicans to rustle US cattle taking a cut, thereby causing former ranchers to become operators of rooming houses. The vaqueros are quick to shoot with no penalties. The only penalty is for saying that this is so. If you don’t get shot you get DA Garfunkel on your ass.
Wheeler Gage’s dad was killed standing up to them.
“Want to know what’s really going on? ........ I’ll tell you anyway. US President Demontia Graft was worried that the United States congress would not ratify a treaty allowing all Mexicans to come to the US, not have to obey our las, and be voting citizens.
This ‘Package’ was designed to enhance the benefits for monopolistic, multi-country big businesses; his owners along with the deep state, both financially and through having as yet unreleased evidence of Demontia sexual perversion, through allowing more and more low wage mexican workers and resident consumers into the US, forming company towns where free White Christians once lived and are now replaced by more-government-cooperative, dumb thugs, Demontia’s personal force majeure; and he did not want Sheriff, Mayor, and Major General ‘Lefty’
Kasmeyer either to endanger his forces or miss an opportunity
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for victory. Prior to that US Vice Admiral Bruce Milly had convinced the President, which to be fair isn’t all that difficult a task, that a campaign against the already dwindling White Christians of Jerusalem would weaken White resolve against sreggin invasion, along with the campaign’s contributions to substantially swej owned big business through lowered wages and more consumers, as well as the “positive” effect the marked increase in military spending would have on the overall economy, insofar as that is purposefully incorrectly computed and reported. And if it ever matters, the sreggin and swej will all vote for their benefactors, the dems, and the White Christians will never attain any public office or power.
There was a major concern that the White Christians wanted to reclaim the territories of Jerusalem, if not all of New Mexico because they did not recognize any land deals made by federal US
Graft. So that was the reason why the US feds, through their illegal Mexican lackeys, invaded Jerusalem-Bethlehem in the middle of the treaty negotiations. If the White Christians would win the Battle of Jerusalem, they would have likely interpreted that all territories gained would be void, freed and not part of US territory. It has been claimed that Mexican Brigade under Major General “Lefty” Kasmeyer military communications indicate that the US feds intend to fully take and keep Jerusalem, the
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lack of which would have halted their westward expansion.
Lastly, if and when a legitimate vote might be established, the deep state, dem, feds and the swej will have bought the alien vote for two hundred years.
There is nothing that can be done. The overwhelming number of illegal sreggin and mexicans allowed here steal our cattle, steal our homes, steal our way of life, and will surely kill we White Christians with impunity.”
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Doc and Jane
“I’m only wonderin’ if Kasmeyer an’ his men’ll raise a storm down in the village,” said Doc.
“Yes, he’ll raise the storm; after he has prayed,” replied Jane.
“Come.” She led the way, with the bridle of Doc’s horse over her arm. They entered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by great low branching cottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun sent golden bars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrast to sage tired eyes. Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a tree top somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still air floated the freshness and murmur of flowing water.
The home of Jane Gage was a flat, long, wooden structure with a covered court in the center through which flowed a lively stream of amber colored water. In the massive blocks of heavy timbers and solid doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who had built against pillage and time; and in the flowers and mosses lining the stone-bedded stream, in the bright colors of rugs and blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner with hammock and books and the clean linened table, showed the grace of a daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand.
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Jane turned Doc’s horse loose in the thick grass. “You will want him to be near you,” she said, “or I’d have him taken to the alfalfa fields. ...... Why did you come to Jerusalem?”
Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as if he had just remembered himself and had tarried longer than his wont.
“Ma’am, I have hunted all over the sage desert for somethin’.
An’ through your name I learned where to find it; here in Jerusalem.”
“My name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it and from whom?”
“At the little village; Samaria, I think it’s called, some fifty miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a White Christian gunslinger, a rider who said you’d know where to tell me to find ......”
“What?” she demanded, imperiously, as Doc broke off.
“Joshua Gage, your father’s grave,” he answered low, and the words came with a wrench.
“What do you know of Joshua Gage, who died in my arms? What were you to him?”
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“Did I claim to be anythin’?” he inquired. “I know people, relatives, who have long wanted to know where he’s buried, that’s all.”
“Relatives? He never spoke of relatives, except a brother who was shot in Texas. Doc, Joshua’s grave is in a secret burying ground on this very property.”
“Will you take me there? ... You’ll be offendin’ the feds and Mexicans worse than by breakin’ bread with me.”
“Indeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Thank you, Jane Gage,” replied the rider, and he bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court.
“Will you not stay, sleep under my roof tonight?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, an’ thanks again. There’s that gatherin’ storm in the village of Jerusalem below. No, no. I’ll go to the sage. I hope you won’t suffer none for your kindness to me.”
At Doc’s low whistle the red horse whinnied, and carefully picked his way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand and together they passed slowly into the shade of the city of Jerusalem.
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“Either my friend or Lefty Kasmeyer would be lying dead,” she thought. Kasmeyer would be surely.“ Oh, you fierce blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach you forbearance, mercy? Doc, it’s divine to forgive your enemies.” Jane’s reply came in Doc’s voice which emanated from somewhere inside her head. “Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath. Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion after today. Give me my guns.”
Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy cartridge belt and gun, filled sheath and a long rifle. These she left for him. She went back in and passed through a huge low ceiled chamber, like the inside of a fort, and into a smaller one where a bright wood fire blazed in an old open fireplace, and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort as was manifested in the home like outer court; moreover, it was warm and rich in soft hues.
Twin Advent
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Four on Four
The legendary Gunfight at Bethlehem was actually the coincidental result of the long simmering feud, with feds Lether Jigga, “Fat Ass” Al Braggo, “Flabby Fanny” Willis, and Al Greenfield on one side; and de facto Jerusalem Town Marshal Doc Lambert Peacemaker, de facto deputies Jesse James, Russian Bill Threepersons, and Zealot Simon on the other side.
Jesse James is often erroneously regarded as the central figure in the shootout, although Peacemaker was town marshal that day and had far more experience as a sheriff, constable, marshal, and soldier in combat, while Doc Lambert Peacemaker’s involvement seemed most integral.
After silver was discovered nearby, Jerusalem quickly grew into one of the richest mining towns in the Southwest. Jesse James, a
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former Quantrill Raider was working underground as a bank security guard, and Doc, the town marshal, represented “law and order,” though he also had a reputation for being power hungry and ruthless, despite any evidence of that being scant and based on hearsay. The Jigga, Braggo, Willis, and Greenfield contingent were illegitimate government appointees who were scarcely removed from entire inconsequentiality through the performance of what their owners demanded, lived on a ranch outside of town which they had confiscated from its rightful White owners who were displaced by government supported mexican marauders working as cattle rustlers, thieves and murderers. The struggle between these two groups for more or less control of Jerusalem and the outlying territories came to a temporary false ledge in a blaze of gunfire.
On the morning, Jigga and Willis came into Jerusalem for supplies. Over the next twenty-four hours, the two men had several violent run-ins with Doc and his people. Around 1:30 PM, Braggo rode into town to join them, along with Greenfield. The first person they met in the local saloon was Doc, who was delighted to inform them that their partners Jigga and Willis had both been pistol whipped and disarmed. Doc likely wasn’t much surprised when Braggo and Greenfield immediately left the saloon, vowing revenge. In fact he might have been hoping for a
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fight, to settle matters once and for all, after the government contingent kept promoting through their controlled Mark Silverberg “The Jerusalem Fake Face” that he had pulled off a stagecoach robbery in cahoots with mexicans, leaving two Whites dead, presumably his quick shot doing.
Doc was a little over six feet tall, a major line of demarcation in a smaller, pre-steroid time, thin, with a rather handsome sun tanned face and prematurely graying hair. His expression when he smiled was very close to the ruddy, complacent and hard appearance of any number of federal politicians, but his tough good guy aura never quite dissipated as did theirs. There was a certain intelligence in his face, like the pragmatism of those currently being considered for appointment to some federal office.
Around 6 PM, the Peacemaker contingent spotted the four members of the phony government gang. They were navigating their way on a thin strip of land difficult for their horses, on a ledge below Doc and his early troops. They didn’t see him, giving Doc the drop on them.
The famous gunfight that ensued lasted all of 30 seconds, and around 30 shots were fired. Though it’s still debated who fired the first shot, most reports say that the shootout began when
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Doc Lambert Peacemaker pulled out his revolver and shot Willis point blank in the chest, while Jesse James fired a shotgun blast into Jigga’s chest. Though someone, likely Doc, wounded Braggo with a shot in the stomach, his largest target, Braggo managed to get off a few shots before dying, as did Greenfield.
When the dust cleared, the fake government representatives were dead, and Jesse James and Doc Lambert Peacemaker were wounded, though in a more annoying than serious way.
Of more significance phony Sheriff “Lefty” Kasmeyer, who claimed to have witnessed the shootout, but didn’t, charged the Peacemaker contingent with four counts of first degree murder.
When Doc became aware of this threat, he said; “Come and get me, wej gip.
The action completely subsided.
Now, in all fairness, Doc was de facto both deputy US Marshal and Jerusalem City Marshal as a result of his having taken out top dog Negrito when he first came to town. Without any doubt, they killed the phony government representatives; however all four Earp brothers had been the target of repeated death threats made by that group who were upset by Doc’s interference in their illegal activities, and Doc had been subjected to criminal accusations, though none of the fake government flunkies dared
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to threaten him with any kind of violence. Whatever their faults, few called the fake government poseurs stupid; their IQ’s apparently more or less equal to the popular average.
"If God will let me live to get my clothes on, he will see me."
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Jimmy Ling’s
Doc returned to town wanting to re-see the candy store of his youth. He directed Big Red Bullet to a right turn off of Main Street to Candy Lane. But, “Molly’s Treats” wasn’t there. He was almost sure that he was on the right block, as “Burt’s Saddlery”
and “The Boot Emporium” were still there. So he hitched up Big Red Bullet and went inside what was now called “Jimmy Ling’s”
Doc couldn’t believe his eyes. It was an opium den. Doc knew that when he was greeted by a side wall lined with supplies of opium paraphernalia such as the pipes and lamps that were necessary to smoke the drug. A few patrons decorated the luxurious trappings like the sumptuous tufted couches, while reclining to hold their long opium pipes over oil lamps that would heat the drug until it vaporized, allowing the smokers to inhale the vapors.
These kind of establishments were usually run by Chinese mobsters, in this case “Jimmy” Ling, who supplied the opium and prepared it for visiting non-Chinese smokers with luxurious trappings and female attendants, a euphemism for prostitutes, through federal kickbacks to the authority regime. Doc knew the routine from his journeys in and through The Wilderness. It disgusted him.
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On a prominent yet nondescript couch sat Bag Man Hunter; an opium den regular. He was with his brother’s wife, nomenclature for his being the bag man for his father; absent federal President Demontia Graft, punctuated or not, the puppet for the de facto leader – Capitol Hilly. Hunter was playing toesies with his brother’s wife, Hallie.
Doc shook his head in disgust. He calmly decided it was best to put a dent or three in the alleged “big guy’s” money supply line. Unacknowledged, he carefully removed his gun from his holster and put bullets in the heads of Hunter, Hallie, and for good measure, some clowns he didn’t know who were raucously occupying a plushy yellow Chinese Chippendale couch.
Bang, bang, b-b-bang, bang, bang; and Doc felt better than he had in months. Doc, just to be sure that he had done his job and was safe, put another bullet into the heads of each of the bodies staring stupidly at the “decorative” bronzed accent tiled ceiling with their mouths open. He mumbled his trademark to each; “You’re fine now,” and he meant that sincerely as he did every time.
The sound of the gunfire must have raised “Jimmy” Ling from his pleasant US stupor, and he came out from somewhere in the back of the establishment saying; “This not good for bidniz.” Doc
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found it perversely amusing that Ling’s concerns were first, foremost, and only for the concerns of his flunky “bidniz,” and he couldn’t help but laugh out loud while he plugged the kimono dragon in the same manner as the other recently engaged undesirables.
Just to be sure that he had done his job and was safe, Doc put another bullet into Ling’s head now staring stupidly at the
“decorative” Persian rug with his mouth half open. He mumbled his trademark to the formerly “protected” opium proprietor;
“You’re fine now,” and he meant that sincerely as he did every time.
He became aware that he was now being quietly stared at by a small contingent of female attendants/prostitutes. He waved the
“goodbye” and departed town on Big Red Bullet, before they could notify the authorities.
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Judkins on No One’s Side
“It won’t do,” said Michael (The Kykel) Judkins, an intelligent man who had seen better days. “We’ve had our warning. Plain and to the point! Now there’s Doc Lambert Peacemaker. He packs guns, and he can use them, and so can the daredevil boys now following him. But they’ve little responsibility. Can we risk having our homes burned in our absence?”
Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as the blood left it.
“Judkins, you and the others rent these houses?” she asked.
“You ought to know, Miss Gage. Some of them are yours.”
“I know? ... Judkins, I never in my life took a day’s labor for rent or a yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold.”
“Bivens, your store keeper, sees to that.”
“Look here, Judkins,” went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheeks were burning. “You and j. Enmoron and Garfunkel pack your goods and move your families up to my cabins in the grove.
They’re far more comfortable than these. Then go to work for me.
And if aught happens to you there I’ll give you money; gold enough to leave Jerusalem!”
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The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could ever have equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what he felt for Jane Gage. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of her father!
“No, it won’t do,” he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. “Miss Gage, there are things that you don’t know, and there’s not a soul among us who can tell you.”
“I seem to be learning many things, Judkins. Well, then, will you let me aid you; say till better times?”
“Yes, I will,” he replied, with his face lighting up. “I see what it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And if better times ever come, I’ll be only too happy to work for you.”
“Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day, Judkins.”
The lane opened out upon the sage enclosed alfalfa fields, and the last habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the meanest. Formerly it had been a shed. Now it was a home. The broad leaves of a wide spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor.
Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as the
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hand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. This little dwelling place was just outside the Jerusalem village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Gage entered the unfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of four called Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a creature so fairy like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly.
“Muvver sended for oo,” cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, “an’ oo never come.”
“I didn’t know, Fay; but I’ve come now.”
Fay was a child of the great outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips. Her eyes were violet blue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children of Jerusalem were Jane Gage’s friends; she loved them all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among the children there were none near her age, and the other
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children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild, lonely child.
“Muvver’s sick,” said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the hut.
Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.
“Mrs. Larkin, how are you?” asked Jane, anxiously.
“I’ve been pretty bad for a week, but I’m better now.”
“You haven’t been here all alone with no one to wait on you?”
“Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in.”
“Did you send for me?”
“Yes, several times.”
“But I had no word. No messages ever got to me.”
“I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill and would you please come.”
A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as she fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of
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dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plait and weave a web. Jane Gage knew it now, and in the realization further coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her ancestors.
“Mrs. Larkin, you’re better, and I’m so glad,” said Jane. “But may I not do something for you; a turn at nursing, or send you things, or take care of Fay?”
“You’re so good. Since my husband’s been gone what would have become of Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak to you. This time I thought surely I’d die, and I was worried about Fay. Well, I’ll be around all right shortly, but my strength’s gone and I won’t live long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you’ve been asking me to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?”
“Indeed yes, I remember. I’ll be happy to have her. But I hope the day ......”
“Never mind that. The day’ll come; sooner or later. I refused your offer, and now I’ll tell you why.”
“I know why,” interposed Jane. “It’s because you don’t want her brought up as privileged.”
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“No, it wasn’t altogether that.” Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand and laid it appealingly on Jane’s. “I don’t like to tell you. But, it’s this: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of those who gossip, gossip of your love for Fay and your wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn’t take Fay as much for love of her as because of your religious duty to bring up another girl for some privileged White Christian man to marry.”
“That’s a damnable lie!” cried Jane Gage.
“It was what made me hesitate,” went on Mrs. Larkin, “but I never believed it at heart. And now I guess I’ll let you ......”
“Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, but never a lie that mattered, that hurt anyone. Now believe me. I love little Fay. If I had her near me I’d grow to worship her. When I asked for her I thought only of that love.
... Let me prove this. You and Fay come to live with me. I’ve such a big house, and I’m so lonely. I’ll help nurse you, take care of you. When you’re better you can work for me. I’ll keep little Fay and bring her up; without religious teaching. When she’s grown, if she should want to leave me, I’ll send her, and
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not empty handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you.”
“I knew it was a lie,” replied the mother, and she sank back upon her pillow with something of peace in her White Christian, worn face. “Jane Gage, may Heaven bless you! I’ve been deeply grateful to you. But because you’re religious I never felt close to you till now. I don’t know much about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the same.”
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Betrayal
The king was dying. He had ruled his kingdom for over forty years, with wisdom and justice. He had a son and a daughter, Princess Lila. She was his pride and joy, and he had groomed her to be his successor. He trusted her with all his heart, and he knew she loved him dearly.
But he was wrong
Lila had a secret advisor, Lord Jamar, a pretentious, jealous, cunning and ambitious commoner. He had seduced her with sweet words and promises of power. He had convinced her that her father was weak and senile, and that she deserved to rule in his place. He had planted a seed of treason in her mind, and watered it with his lies.
Together, they plotted to kill the king and seize the throne.
They bribed some of the royal guards to poison the king's wine, and waited for the night of the banquet. Lila pretended to be the dutiful daughter, and toasted to her father's health. She watched him drink the tainted wine, and felt a surge of excitement.
But she was wrong.
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The king had suspected something was wrong. He had noticed the strange glances between Lila and Jamar, and the whispers of some of his guards. He had tested the wine before the banquet, and discovered the poison. He had switched the cups, and prepared a trap for his traitorous daughter and her devil.
He drank the wine, and pretended to choke. He fell to the ground, and feigned death. He watched Lila and Jamar smile, and reveal their true colors. He heard them declare themselves the new rulers, and order the loyal guards to be executed. He waited for the right moment, and then he rose.
He was alive.
He drew his sword, and charged at Lila and Jamar. He caught them off guard, and struck them down. He reclaimed his throne, and ordered the traitors to be arrested. He wept for his daughter, and cursed her devil. He had lost his heir and his heart, but he had another, his son Barron.
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Billy’s Stand
The sun was setting over the dusty town of Deadwood, and Sheriff Lefty was getting ready to call it a day. He had just finished locking up the last of the outlaws he had captured in a daring raid on the notorious White Evangelical gang. He was about to head to the saloon for a well-deserved drink, when he heard a loud knock on the door of his office He opened the door and saw a tall, lanky man with a long beard and a wide brimmed hat. He had a bandana covering his mouth and nose, and a pair of revolvers holstered on his hips. He looked like a typical gunslinger.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Sheriff Lefty asked, reaching for his own gun.
The man lifted his bandana and revealed a familiar face. It was Kid Billy Antrim, the most wanted outlaw in the west. He had a wicked grin on his face and a gleam in his eye.
"Howdy, Sheriff. Remember me?" he said.
Sheriff Lefty felt a chill run down his spine. He had crossed paths with Kid Billy Antrim several times before, and each time he had barely escaped with his life. He knew that the Kid was a ruthless killer who had a personal vendetta against him. He also
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knew that the Kid had a twisted sense of humor and liked to play with his victims before finishing them off.
"What are you doing here, Billy?" Sheriff Lefty asked, trying to sound calm.
Kid Billy Antrim laughed, and pointed at the rose in his lapel.
"Oh, this? This is just a little souvenir I picked up from your wife. She was very generous with her wardrobe, among other things. You see, Sheriff, I've been following you for a while now, and I've been watching your every move. I know all about your little raid on the White Evangelical Gang. I know you captured my brother, Jesse, and locked him up in your jail. And I know you're planning to hang him at dawn tomorrow. Well, I'm here to tell you that you're not going to do that. You're not going to do anything ever again. Because I'm here to get my revenge. And I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to me and my family. I'm going to make you suffer like you've never suffered before. And I'm going to do it in style. That's why I'm wearing this rose. Because I want you to know that I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anything. And I want you to die with the image of me with this rose burned into your brain.
That's how much I hate you, Sheriff. That's how much I want you to suffer."
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Kid Billy Antrim finished his speech and drew his guns. Sheriff Lefty did the same. They stared at each other for a moment, then fired. Bullets flew in the air, sparks flew from the metal, and blood splattered on the ground. When the smoke cleared, only one man was left standing.
It was Kid Billy Antrim.
He had shot Sheriff Lefty in the heart, killing him instantly.
He walked over to his body and spat on it. Then he took off his rose and threw it on the corpse. He smiled and said, "There.
That's for you, Sheriff. And this is for Jesse." He took out a stick of dynamite and lit it. He tossed it into the jail, where Jesse was still locked up. He heard a loud explosion and saw flames and smoke rise from the building. Jesse walked out. He laughed and said, "That's for you, brother."
He mounted his horse and rode away, leaving behind a trail of flowers. He had gotten his revenge. He had gotten his retribution. And he had done it in the most blooming way possible.
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Little Fay
At the home of Jane Gage Little Fay was climbing Wheeler Gage’s knee.
“Does oo love me?” she asked.
Wheeler, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme test to prove this cavalier.
“Does oo love my new muvver?” she asked, with bewildering suddenness.
Jane Gage laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.
It was a still drowsy summer afternoon, and the three were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage slope. Little Fay’s brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother; the childish, mystic gloom, had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness.
She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Gage the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possession
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infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Wheeler, Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion.
“Does oo love my new muvver?” repeated Fay.
Wheeler’s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.
“Why don’t oo marry my new muvver an’ be my favver?”
Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Wheeler this was the first he had been unable to answer.
“Fay; Fay, don’t ask questions like that,” said Jane.
“Why?”
“Because,” replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meet the child’s gaze. It seemed to her that Fay’s violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom.
“Oo love him, don’t oo?”
“Dear child; run and play,” said Jane, “but don’t go too far.
Don’t go from this little hill.”
Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been granted her for weeks.
“Jane, why are children more sincere than grown up persons?”
asked Wheeler.
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“Are they?”
“I reckon so. Little Fay there; she sees things as they appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An’ an Indian an’ a dog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right.”
“Well, what does Fay see?” asked Jane.
“I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay’s mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an’
wantin’ to know more, meets with strange falseness from you?
Wait! You are false in a way, though you’re the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say is this. Fay has taken you’re pretendin’ to; to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. An’ her little formin’ mind asks questions. An’ the answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So she’ll grow up gradually takin’ on that falseness, an’ be like the rest of the women, an’ men, too. An’ the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin’ to love me when you don’t. Things aren’t what they seem.”
“Wheeler, you’re right. A child should be told the absolute truth. But, is that possible? I haven’t been able to do it, and all my life I’ve loved the truth, and I’ve prided myself upon being truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. I’m learning much,
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my brother. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And, and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal. How much, how little, I couldn’t say. My heart is almost broken, Wheeler. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attempt serious thought I’m dazed. I don’t think. I don’t care anymore. I don’t pray! ... Think of that, my friend! But in spite of my numb feeling I believe I’ll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God. I’m on the rack now; I’m senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. I’m waiting the hour.”
“It’ll soon come, Jane,” replied Wheeler, soberly. “Then I’m afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an’ for years you’ve been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe as you; that you’ll come out of it all a finer woman. I’m waitin’, too. An’ I’m wonderin’; I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?”
“Wheeler! ... My dear friend! ... It’s impossible for us to marry!”
“Why; as Fay says?” inquired Wheeler, with gentle persistence.
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“Why! I never thought why. But it’s just not possible. I am Jane, daughter of Gage. You are Wheeler, son of Gage. Our father would rise out of his grave. I’m still a woman. And you; you are Wheeler!”
“Mebbe I’m not so much Wheeler as I used to be.”
“What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself!
You can’t change the one habit, the purpose of your life.”
A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face. “No” he said.
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The 9:15 from Tijuana
Doc gave the crew a heads up that the 9:15 from Tijuana was overstocked with dark skinned mexican males of young to early adult age, but that the situation was already taken care of. How he knew was unquestioned, simplifying the crew’s decision making process to a question of methodology; how best would it be stopped?
Explosives was the best answer; 60% nitro dynamite. If you place enough of the sticks on the track in front of an oncoming train, it will explode under the train. The visible damage is fairly monumental, but functionally, it removes the train from play forever, making the passengers splatter all over the place, a function of how much cutting materials, like nails, are added.
The fuse time on the oversized gunpowder charge is 30 seconds, so if you place it when the train isn't coming it will just damage the track. But if you place it in front of the train as it approaches the train will trigger the explosion regardless of how much time is left on the fuse.
In the heart of the rugged wilderness, where the tracks cut through dense forests and winding valleys, there existed a legendary Mexican train called “Domino.” Its blackened locomotive, adorned with brass and steam vents, barreled through
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the night, carrying secrets, dreams, and the weight of countless lives.
But hidden among the passengers was a shadow; an enigmatic figure known only as “The Midnight Saboteur.” His motives remained shrouded in mystery, yet his actions spoke louder than words. On moonless nights, when the world slept, he would slip into the train’s belly, navigating the labyrinthine tunnels beneath.
The Saboteur had a singular purpose, to dismantle “Domino” in one huge blast. His tools were precision and patience. He studied the train’s schedule, memorized its weak points, and calculated the exact moments when chaos would reign supreme.
Domino thundered across the ancient trestle bridge; a fragile structure suspended high above a chasm. The Saboteur had clung to the track, fingers brushing against rusted bolts. Moonlight danced on his face as he affixed a bundle of dynamite to a critical joint.
The train’s rhythmic clatter masked their movements. The Saboteur’s pulse quickened. He set the timer, whispering a silent sarcastic farewell to the passengers. The bridge trembled, its wooden beams protesting the impending doom.
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As Domino, carrying crew and roughly 150 mexican darkies reached the midpoint of the trestle, the Saboteur’s heart pounded. The explosion ripped through the sky, splintering wood and metal.
The bridge collapsed, and in millions of pieces the train plummeted into the abyss. Flames licked the sky, illuminating the chaos; the twisted wreckage, the screams of the doomed.
The Saboteur watched from the shadows, torn between triumph and regret. The Iron Serpent was no more, but its legacy would echo through eternity. Was it vengeance? Rebellion? Or perhaps a desperate plea to halt degeneracy?
In the aftermath, investigators combed through the debris. They found no trace of the Midnight Saboteur; only whispers carried by the wind. Some claimed the Saboteur was a ghost, a guardian of forgotten truths. Others believed the dead passengers and crew were martyrs, sacrificing themselves for a cause lost to time.
And so, the legend persisted; an explosive enigma etched into the annals of railway history. The Domino’s demise became a cautionary tale. Beware the darkness that lurks beneath progress, for sometimes, it takes a saboteur to reveal our deepest fears.
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In the chaotic splatter; all the darkie bodies remote, in pieces, and not recognizable as human in tiny, bloody, strips of flesh and bone, like a Haitian delicacy, Doc’s crew was perturbed. They wondered how they could show in this large but scattered case, as they had been taught, just to be sure that the job had been done well and that everyone was safe, by putting another bullet into the heads of each of the bodies, while saying; “You’re fine now,” and meaning that sincerely as he did every time.
Doc anticipated the question, held up his left hand, palm forward, and said; “Don’t waste your lead. Let the dead stay with the dead.” His right hand pumped one shot into the abyss, adding; “It is done.”
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A Disciple’s Account
Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn’t get much light on. A stranger come to town, an’ was seen with the preacher. This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice, an’ a beard of gold. He had money, an’ he ’peared a man of mystery, an’ the town went to buzzin’ when he disappeared about the same time as a young woman known to be mightily interested in the new preacher’s religion. Then, presently, along comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, en’ he up an’ spots this preacher as a famous proselytizer. That riled the stranger, an’
from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. An’ it ended in the stranger goin’ to the meetin’ house where Jane was listenin’, en’ before her en’ everybody else he called that preacher; called him, well, almost as hard as Joshua called Kasmeyer here sometime back. An’ the stranger followed up that call by drivin’
the proselytizer out of town.
People noticed, so ’twas said, that Milly’s sweet disposition changed. Some said it was because she would soon become a mother, en’ others said she was pinin’ after the new religion.
An’ there was women who said right out that she was pinin’ after the preacher.
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Anyway, one mornin’ Doc rode in from one of his trips, to find Jane gone. He had no real near neighbors; livin’ a little out of town, but those who was nearest said a wagon had gone by in the night, an’ they thought it stopped at her door. Well, tracks always tell, an’ there was the wagon tracks an’ hoss tracks an’
man tracks. The news spread like wildfire that Jane had run off with the preacher. Everybody but the stranger believed it an’
wasn’t slow in tellin’ why she run off. Her mother had always hated that strange streak of Jane’s, takin’ up with the new religion as she had, an’ she believed Jane had ran off with that preacher. That hastened mother’s death, an’ she died unforgivin’. Father wasn’t the kind to bow down under disgrace or misfortune but he had surpassin’ love for Jane, an’ the loss of her broke him.
From the minute I heard of Jane’s disappearance I never believed she went off of her own free will. I knew Jane, an’ I knew she couldn’t have done that. I stayed at home awhile, tryin’ to make some sense. So I set out to find Jane. An’ I tried to get on the trail of that proselytizer. I knew if I ever struck a town he’d visited that I’d get a trail; a smell. I knew, too, that nothin’
short of hell would stop his proselytizin’. An’ I rode from town to town. I had a blind faith that somethin’ was guidin’ me. An’
as the weeks an’ months went by I growed into a strange sort of
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a man, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of me. Two years after that, way over in a panhandle corner of Texas, I struck a town where my man had been. He’d jest left. People said he came to that town without a woman. I back trailed my man through Arkansas an’ Mississippi, an’ the old trail got hot again in Texas. I found the town where he first went after leavin’ home.
An’ here I got track of Jane. I found a cabin where she had given birth to her baby. The feller who owned the place was a mean, silent sort of a skunk, an’ as I was leavin’ I jest took a chance an’ left my mark on him. Then I went home again.
It was to find I hadn’t any home, no more. Father had been dead a year. Mexicans lived in the house where Jane once was. I stayed awhile, an’ I grew old watchin’. Father’s farm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled, his house weathered till it wouldn’t keep out rain nor wind. An’ Wheeler set on the porch and whittled sticks, an’ day by day wasted away. There was times when he ranted about like a crazy man, but mostly he was always sittin’ an’ starin’ with eyes that made a man curse.
I figured he had a fear that I needed to know. An’ when I told him I’d trailed Jane an’ had got trace of her, an’ saw where she’d had her baby, I thought he would drop dead at my feet. An’
when he’d come round more natural like he begged me to give up
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the trail. But he wouldn’t explain. So I let him alone, an’
watched him day en’ night.
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Revelation
Revelation 1