THE TRAIL TO THUNDER VALLEY
The Dammit Gang Rides to Chimney Rock
Another Dammit Gang Short Story by Jailhouse Jim
SASS # 13104
(October 1881)
THE LONG RIDE HOME
The Gunfight Behind the Jersey Lilly is over and Deadwood
is once again safe. The town is doing a brisk business and everything is
returning to normal. Even that temperamental Brit has put down the whiskey
and poker chips, at least for a time, and is getting to know his daughter.
Late at night he is seen strolling down main street with Marta on his arm
and a foolish grin upon his face. Did he comb his hair? Is he planning
on making Marta an honest woman? Many in town hope that is the case for
Marta raised that girl doing odd jobs and menial labor by herself for the
last 17 years. Many of the town’s upper crust looked down on her because
of her trouble not knowing the real story. It seems as though, at least
for now, Filthy Lurce has come home and is planning to stay.
The Dammit gang has hit the saddle and is riding out of
town. Howdy is heading for Doodyville, Jesse and Sawmill are heading for
Northern California, Mad Mike is heading to Nevada Territory, Weaver Gal
and Dan Diamond are heading to Arizona Territory, The Professor Fuller
Bullspit is heading back to Chimney Rock, and other gang members are heading
to the four winds. The creak of old saddles and the crack of the whip over
the horses heads echo in the stillness of the morning air. The dust cloud
begins to rise from the well worn trail as the weary gunfighters head out
of town. The dust hangs in the air settling ever so slowly as the wagons
and horses pass through the valley. Laylow Curley, Double Scotch, Jittery
Jim Jonah, and Youngblood stop at the edge of town and look back. Filthy
Lurce is there with his family, raising a hand in a salute to the quartet
of riders. The riders pause for a moment, give a final wave, and slap spurs
to the horses.
The four men ride at a canter for miles before slowing
down to a walk. No words are being spoken for each man is alone with his
thoughts. Hours later, the men arrive at the dirty little dugout they call
home. The fire is cold and the dugout smells of old hides and damp earth.
Jittery Jim offers to take care of the horses as Laylow Curley and the
rest head into the dugout. Double Scotch cracks open a bottle of their
best home brew while Youngblood opens the windows to let the stale, dank
air from the room. Laylow starts a fire and begins to slice bacon into
a pan to feed the group of tired men. Soon there are potatoes frying and
a slab of elk broiling. The stale air is soon replaced with the smell of
fresh country cooking.
Out in the corral, Jittery Jim unsaddles each of the
horses then rubs them down with a handful of straw. Each of the horses
gets a big bait of grain then turned loose. One by one the horses roll
in the dirt to get the feeling of the saddle from their backs. Youngblood
watches his old horse from the window thinking of how many times that old
horse has carried him into battle and is still able to roll in the corral
after a long ride home.
A TIME TO RIDE
After the men ate the substantial meal prepared by Laylow,
they set around the fire with a stiff drink and a good cigar. The men are
laughing, reminiscing about the fight in Deadwood, and talking about the
new friends they made while there. “You know fellers,” Laylow began, “We
always end up back here after a fight. All those folks are celebrating
in a saloon while we sit in an old dugout that smells like ancient buffalo
hides and dirty socks. We never just ride out to have a good time without
ending up in somebody else’s trouble. What do you boys think about riding
over to Chimney Rock on Saturday for a few days just to play a few cards
and have a drink or two? I know we just got back but it sounded like a
good idea when it came to me.” “Chimney Rock,” Youngblood started, “Why
Chimney Rock? There are plenty of saloons a lot closer than that we can
do the same thing.” There was a twinkle in Laylow’s eye as he grinned.
The old cowhand knew there was more to the story, he always knew. He had
lived too long on the frontier not to know when something was up with Laylow,
something usually ending in gunplay.
Saturday morning brought the winds of hell as they blew
through the cracks in the walls of the old dugout. There was a thin layer
of frost on the corral boards and the grass had an icy look to it. Youngblood
was up early as usual and was saddling the horses. None of the horses were
anxious to leave the confines of the warm barn and were not cooperating
with Youngblood. “You bunch of cantankerous old crow baits, you’re going
to get saddled whether you like it or not.” Youngblood’s old horse just
turned and looked as Youngblood ranted like a madman. The horse’s turn
would come soon enough. The horse knew it, Youngblood knew it.
Youngblood stamped the mud and frost off his boots as
he entered the dugout. The opening of the door brought an icy gust into
the one-room dugout. Laylow and Double Scotch were settin’ on the edge
of their bed in their long handles trying to shake off the cobwebs caused
by too much Tequila. Jittery Jim had a slab of ham frying and had dug up
some eggs somewhere. Jim was the only one dressed for the day and the weather
with those Hair On Chaps of his. Laylow barked at Youngblood, “Close that
door you old galloot, I’m freezing my a## off here.” Youngblood grinned
and accepted a plate of vittles from Jittery Jim. “Laylow is in top form
today isn’t he? What’s he got around his waist? Is that a pink sash with
a blue palm tree?” The three men rolled with laughter while Laylow snarled.
After breakfast, the four men closed up the dugout to
keep the critters out while they were gone. One time Double Scotch left
a window open and a raccoon got into the dugout. There wasn’t one thing
that the coon hadn’t gotten into. Flour, salt, sugar, coffee, and such
was scattered from H#** to breakfast. Worse part was, the coon was still
in the dugout when Filthy Lurce opened the door. That coon when up over
Filthy’s head biting, snarling, scratching, all the way. Filthy was fit
to be tied and given his generally unpleasant disposition, it is a wonder
the coon got away alive. Everyone makes sure the dugout is closed up after
that little trial. The men gather up their traps and head out into the
bitter cold. Cinches were pulled tight with bedrolls and slickers carefully
tied onto the saddles. Provisions were stuffed into saddlebags along with
plenty of extra cartridges.
Youngblood led the small cavalcade out of the warm barn
into the misery mother nature had provided. As Youngblood cleared the gate,
he felt the old Paloose bow his back, the show was about to begin. The
old cowhand gathered the reins in one hand just as the Cayuse started to
buck. “You feelin’ your oats today fella?” Youngblood laughed. The old
horse bucked, jumped, sun-fished, crow-hopped, spun to the left then to
the right, and took off across the prairie at a dead run. Youngblood sat
in the saddle as comfortable as if in a rocking chair. How many times the
duo had gone through this little morning ritual. The other three men sat
their horses havin’ a smoke while Youngblood provided them with this little
rodeo. As the horse finally tired, Youngblood cantered back to the group
with a grin. He liked these cold morning romps as much as the horse did.
The riders pulled their jackets up under their chins and rode away from
the dugout to whatever Laylow had come up with this time. It didn’t really
matter, they would follow Laylow no matter what or where.
The wind swirled dust around the riders, sand blasting
their faces raw, as they headed east to Chimney Rock. The dust storm got
so severe in places, the cowboys stopped and tied kerchiefs over the horse’s
muzzles to help them breathe. This little romp has turned into a miserable
ride just to have a little fun. What did Laylow know about this town he
wasn’t telling? No matter what is was, there was probably trouble coming
with it. The miles seemed to just fall behind the merry band as they traveled
east from the valley into the desolation of the high desert. Landscape
of grasslands and trees gave way to brush and rocks, then just to rocks.
Why on earth would anyone live up in this Hell Hole? Over the Cajon pass
and down into town they went. The town was nestled agin’ some rocky, sand-blasted,
miserable looking hills, that held a certain desolate beauty in the fading
light. It was just past dark when the gang rode up to the livery stable.
There was no one about so they stabled their own horses, fed them, and
carefully wiped the debris from their backs. They gave each of the horses
a generous bucket of grain and only then did they stop to look and listen
to the town.
Lights started appearing in the windows of the buildings
in town. The tin-panny sounds of the saloon piano broke through the evening
air. The town seemed normal with folks hurrying around, trying to finish
their daily chores. Several horses were tied to hitchin’ rails, and there
was still a wagon at the general store. What is up with this town? The
men held to the shadows as they went to the hotel for a decent night’s
sleep in a bed with a real mattress. Ah the good life at last.
TROUBLE'S BREWIN'
The cowboys riding for the RR Bar (RR) Ranch in Apple
Valley just finished fighting the worst range war in recent history with
the Last Stand at Chimney Rock. A good rest is what they needed but knowing
the cowboys from Lucerne Valley, the weary cowhands would be rarin’ for
a party, dancin’, courtin’, and getting the ranch back in order. That rest
would be short-lived though because some no account is settin’ fires all
over the southwest. The fires during the summer nearly burnt the town of
Chimney Rock to ashes. The cowboys from the RR Ranch fought the flames
to a standstill as they licked at the outskirts of town. Once again the
RR cowhands thought they would be able to let their hair down. Surely nothing
else was going to happen.
The gayety was going to be short-lived as Professor Fuller
Bullspit called a town meeting and announced the news. Jittery Jim Jonah
had sent him telegraph to warn the town the Dammit Gang was lookin’ fer
a game and some fun and were coming to town the first weekend in December.
For those folks who have happily never heard of the Dammit Gang, they’re
a bunch of hard-cases from all over the western United States. They come
from all walks of life. There’s law officers, wagon menders, blacksmiths,
nurses, doctors, retired folks, spinners of yarns, soiled doves, and many
other professions. Many of these hombres were on a path down the outlaw
trail but turned off before they got too far. The worst of the bunch, and
their leader, was a surly hombre who’s goes by Laylow Curley. Laylow’s
Segundo’s are none other than Jittery Jim Jonah, Double Scotch, Filthy
Lurce, and Youngblood. Whenever the call is put out by any of these hombres,
the Dammit gang fork their broncs and slap leather to meet up with Laylow.
Now the RR ranch hands are a proud bunch of cowboys who
ride for the brand originated by Roy and Dale. They’re also real proud
of an orphanage they support so they are not about to let a bunch of no
account drifters tear up the town. Who are these Dammits to think they
can just ride into town and have their way with them? Rowdy Yates steps
up with the Professor and raises his hand to settle the crowd down. “Hold
it down folks. You don’t understand. Whether you know it or not, there’s
Dammits that live here among you right now who are your neighbors and friends.
You have lived and worked alongside these Dammits without even knowing
who they are. Why even Weedy and Howdy Doody are among the Dammits.”
Cliffhanger steps up in front of the crowd as well, “That’s
right folks, this gang is not comin’ to town to tear it up. You need to
understand who they are and what their idea of fun is. This bunch of miscreants
get their greatest pleasure from riding and fighting at night. They like
to pull a cork, smoke a good cigar, and play a few hands of poker.” M.C.
Ryder shouts from the crowd, “Professor, you know that bunch down to the
saloon runs a crooked game. Don’tcha think there will be trouble if they
start playin’ with them.” The professor doesn’t answer right away. “MC,
We have those kids at the orphanage to think of you know and that has spread
us pretty doggon thin. The Last Stand at Chimney Rock, the fires, and the
Gunfight Behind the Jersey Lilly has us all worn-out. That bunch down to
the saloon is getting bolder by the day and soon, if something doesn’t
happen, they will be taking over the town. We haven’t been able to get
them to leave on their own and that no-account Sheriff is on their payroll
so he needs to be rooted out too. It wouldn’t hurt ‘em none to get their
feathers clipped a bit and that Dammit bunch is just the one to do it.
What I do know fer sure is, we can’t do it ourselves and I don’t want another
murder in town by that bunch. Remember the last man to stand up agin’ them.
If’n ya don’t, head up to Boot Hill and look for the fresh grave.”
A non-descript man slips out the back of the meeting and
heads directly to the saloon. The man heads to a table at the back of the
saloon where three men are settin’. The men were unkempt, dirty, all sporting
scraggly beards, and carried their guns tied down. These were men not to
be toyed with for they were bad, bad men with ill tempers and who were
too quick to shoot rather than listen. The men looked up slowly at the
new arrival to the saloon. The man was shaking and having a difficult time
tryin’ to talk. “Boss, I was just over to the town meeting and they were
talking about this here Dammit gang coming to town.” “The Dammit gang,”
Bucket of Blood growled, “Just who is the Dammit gang?” “I’m not sure,”
the man whined, “But it sounds like fer sure there a comin’ and they’re
probably going to want to get into a game.” “Well then, they can help us
along with fattening our kitty then,” Bucket of Blood laughed. Little did
these men know, over in the corner was a feller eavesdropping on them.
They paid him no never mind cause he carried two little guns. No gunfighter
used little guns in this town
CHIMNEY ROCK DAWN
Laylow Curley slowly opens his eyes and looks towards
the hotel window. The sun is full up as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.
How long has it been since he has slept this long and this well? He rolls
out of bed and looks out the window while he attends to an itch. Youngblood
is setting in front of the saloon in a chair. It’s just like him to be
up and about already. Does that old man ever sleep? Laylow gets dressed,
shakes out his boots then pulls them on, and slings his gunbelt around
his hips. He quickly checks the loads in his six-guns as he always does.
You never know when they must be counted on. Laylow runs his fingers through
his hair then slams his trail-worn hat on. He gently opens the door, looks
both directions, and slips down the hall to knock on Double Scotch’s door.
There’s some rustling in the room but no response. Laylow turns the knob
and the door gives way. Inside is Double Scotch, still in bed. Is there
someone with him? Sure enough, “When you get done there boy, I’ll be havin’
breakfast down to the Boarding House. Laylow heads down the hall and meets
up with Jittery Jim. “Double Scotch is a little busy still but will be
along directly.” Both men laugh and head down to meet up with Youngblood.
As they exit the hotel, Laylow signals to Youngblood to meet them at the
Boarding House for breakfast.
The three men set at a table in the corner soes they can
watch the door. Kentucky Gal comes up with a pot of coffee and a plate
piled high with hot cakes. “Morning boys, I expect you’ll want the works
for breakfast?” The men nod as she heads back to the kitchen. In short
order, she comes back with bacon, eggs, home fried taters, and a big slab
of beef for each of the men. Double Scotch finally arrives and grabs the
coffee pot to pour a cup. The hombre with the little guns shows up and
low and behold, it’s Phantom. Kentucky Gal brings them both some food as
well, but has a big Ole smile for Double Scotch. How come she wasn’t as
NICE to us like she is to Double Scotch? That boy has sure got a way with
the wimmin. A tough looking hombre comes into the room and makes a beeline
to the corner table stopping just short of Laylow. “Hello Laylow.” “Howdy
Desert Dawg,” Laylow quipped. Desert Dawg sat in the open chair and poured
himself a cup of coffee while Laylow introduced the gang. “We heard you
were coming Laylow. What have you got planned?” Laylow’s eyes have that
twinkle in them and he has that mischievous grin again. “Why, we just rode
over here to have a few drinks and a friendly game of cards.” Desert Dawg
fired back with, “You never just go out to have a friendly game and drink
Laylow. You know that bunch over to the saloon runs a crooked game so why
would you want to have a friendly game with them?” Laylow grinned again,
“Well, I was talking to Rowdy Yates at the Howling Wolf over in Deadwood
and he said I might enjoy playing a friendly game with those fellers. I’m
downright sure those fellers will play honest with me.” “Well boys, if
you’re asking fer trouble, that’s the place to find it in this town. Don’t
never say you haven’t been warned,” Desert Dawg said as he got up to leave.
THE CHIPS ARE DOWN
The four old friends bantered back a forth a bit then
get up to leave the boarding house to take a tour around town. As their
feet hit the boardwalk Phantom whispered, “Laylow, those galloots know
yer comin’ and are planning a skinnin’.” Laylow grinned that grin again,
“I like it better when they know what’s comin’, or do they?” The men laughed
as they made their way down Front Street to look the town over. There wouldn’t
be a game until this evening so there was plenty time to take a look around
and get any supplies they might need for the trip home. Phantom headed
over to the Dry Goods Store to get some extra cartridges for his guns,
lots of extra cartridges. The town Sheriff watched as the gunfighters lazed
around town all afternoon. Desert Dawg had been by to see him earlier in
the day so he was well aware of what the evening had in store for him and
the card sharps. The Sheriff’s biggest problem was his own however. He
had been taking money from that no account bunch of want-a-be card sharps
to look the other way when they fleeced unsuspecting folks from their hard
earned money. The Sheriff knew the shyster’s game was to hide extra chips
in their clothing and when a game looked to have a big pot, the dealer
would declare it a table stakes game. Now everyone knows table stakes means
you can only play with the amount of chips you have showing. The card sharps
would simply keep raising with hidden chips until no one had any chips
left to call the bet. The sharps could win by default. The Sheriff didn’t
know what Laylow Curley had up his sleeve but he knew Laylow would not
allow the sharps to cheat him. There’s where the trouble will come from
and with Laylow’s Segundos in town with him, it will be big trouble.
The sun set crimson in the west as Laylow and Double Scotch
headed for the Saloon. Youngblood and Jittery Jim would come in separately
to watch from a distance. Laylow pushed the batwing doors open and surveyed
the crowd. Cigar smoke was thick in the air and the lighting was limited
at best. Laylow and Double Scotch eased up to the bar and ordered a drink.
Both gunfighters turned and rested their elbows on the bar watching the
game as it was being played. Near as Laylow could tell, there was the dealer
and at least one accomplice in the game. The road agent was stashing chips
in his sleeves and pants cuffs. Why was he doing that? Laylow would find
out soon enough. So far all of the pots were small. It looked like there
may even be another road agent in the crowd looking at the other gamblers
hands and signaling the dealer. Double Scotch already had a girl. Man that
kid works quick! Is that Shush Dammit on his arm? How did she get here?
It didn’t take long to fleece the miner for his gold so now there was an
open chair. The old miner got up and said quietly to the dealer, “You cheated
me and I’ll see you are well paid for your deeds.” The dealer stood up
as if he was going to draw on the miner. Laylow calmly intervened, “He’s
not heeled friend.” The dealer’s look was incredulous as his face flushed
with anger, “He shouldn’t be callin’ someone a cheat unless he is able
to back it up.” Phantom ushered the old miner from the bar and to his camp,
“Keep a cold camp tonight if’n I was you friend.” The old man nodded with
obvious signs of relief as he too knew how close he came to his maker.
Laylow sat down and bought his chips. After organizing
his chips, Laylow signaled he was ready to play. Laylow scrutinized the
dealer closely during the first few hands. This man was dirty and smelled
like an old buffalo hunter, he smelled of death. Laylow instantly despised
this man and what he represented. The man had no couth or demur what so
ever, clearly bred from the loins of border trash and river scum. Men out
on the frontier were generally honest, hard working, and pious. Even as
a gambler a man could be relatively honest. Smooth card handling is the
way to successfully play cards and make a living at it. Set-up style cheating
was not tolerated and when a gambler is caught, it usually meant gunplay
or a rope. This worm was the latter of these. He knew very little about
smooth card handling as he fumbled the cards with nearly every shuffle.
He was obviously going to have to cheat to win. Laylow saw that he carried
his belt gun tied down but figured on this snake as having a hide-out as
well. The dealer’s road agent was another dirty hombre wearing a buckskin
coat and the same smell of death as the dealer. Laylow could see a bulge
under the road agent’s sleeve suggesting a sleeve-gun. He would need to
watch for that.
Double Scotch and Shush Dammit worked their way behind
Laylow to keep the crowd off his back. One problem cured, figure Double
Scotch to know where he would be needed most. Youngblood was near the piano
with his Springfield and Jittery Jim was cruising the bar creating a diversion.
What is he wearing?. Wait! That looks like Filthy Lurce up on the catwalk
and isn’t that Howdy Doody on the other catwalk. Rowdy is over on left
side of the bar and Marshall Phil De Grave is now tending bar. Phantom
had worked himself in behind the dealer. Well now, it looks like the gangs
all here. Laylow was ready to play for keeps now. Laylow kept winning small
pots and had a pretty substantial pile of chips in his corner. All the
other men had bowed out of the game one by one until the dealer, his road
agent, and Laylow were all that were left. The dealer was starting to get
cocky now and they were getting ready to set up the sting. Laylow caught
the dealer trying to deal off the bottom of the deck but stopped him before
he could lay the card down. “Burn that card mister. I won’t be dealt off
the bottom. You be real careful now cause I won’t take kindly to you doing
that again, “Laylow snarled. The dealer was visibly shaken and he was infuriated
at being caught cheating. This saddle tramp isn’t that clever to beat him
at this game. The cigar smoke was getting so thick in the saloon it looked
as if there was a fog settling on the table. That was fine with Laylow.
He has been in smoky gunfights before and he liked it that way.
SET UP FOR THE KILL
Laylow knew the game was for keeps now. The dealer had
regained his composure and the pot was starting to build. Bet, raise, bet,
raise, it kept going around the table until Laylow’s chip pile was beginning
wane, the chips were nearly all on the table. Here was the showdown. Laylow
noticed the other man’s chip pile didn’t seem to be going down as quickly
as his even though the bets were steadily increasing. SOOOOO, that’s why
this man was stashing chips in his clothes. The dealer declared this game
to be table stakes only and this is how they would try to fleece him of
his money. Laylow knew his men had identified any other potential road
agents in the crowd and was ready to or already had neutralized any threat.
Laylow couldn’t know but the Sheriff, even as he played, was riding hell
bent for Texas. The game was over here and he didn’t need the Dammits after
him. He had a grubstake, his life, and he was making little time getting
out of town. Four other hombres were locked in the town jail and the ones
left in the saloon were well covered without even knowing it.
By now a large crowd had assembled around the game. This
game was the biggest ever seen in this saloon and is causing quite as stir.
Laylow’s six-gun leaped suddenly into his hand and pointed towards the
road agent. The road agent’s eyes flared wide instantly with the realization
he was in deep trouble now as the man behind the gun was prepared to kill
him. The area behind the road agent cleared, as if by magic, of innocent
bystanders. The road agent looked around the crowd but wasn’t able to find
a friendly face. The dealer’s face dropped as if he had been shot when
he saw Laylow’s gun. His face was crimson red with fury and he began to
sweat profusely. “Friend,” Laylow growled’ “Pull out every chip you have
hidden and put them on the table.” The road agent was beginning to panic
“I don’t…” Laylow grabbed his sleeve and dumped a handful of chips onto
the table. “The hell you don’t, I said NOW!” Laylow barked, “Or you won’t
see the sun rise again unless it’s through 6’ of dirt.” The road agent’s
hands were shaking so hard he spilled chips on the table, floor, and across
the bar. Laylow said to the dealer, “Let’s get back to the game. My friend
has bet all of his chips.” “Then place your bet friend,” the dealer offered
seeing Laylow didn’t have enough chips to cover the other gamblers bet
or to call the hand.
The road agent had counted out his chips and it was clear
to all the spectators Laylow was going to be short. Everyone groaned as
they thought the game was over. The dealer and road agent’s faces beamed
as they thought they had the game in the bag now. Laylow pushed the rest
of his chips into the pot. “You don’t have enough to call cowboy,” the
dealer said smugly. “One minute friend,” Laylow said quietly, “I have one
more chip.” “One is not enough,” the dealer replied sarcastically. “One
of his chips is plenty to call any bet,“ someone in the crowd yelled. Laylow
reached into his pocket and slowly placed a Dammit Chip onto the pile,
“CALL!” The dealer looked at the chip as if the devil had rode in straight
from hell and was sitting in the middle of his table. Everyone west of
the Mississippi knows what a Dammit Chip is. It has no limit, can call,
or raise any bet, and is covered by any Dammit gang member. There has never
been a dispute over the use of a Dammit Chip in any game, ever, at least
by anyone living to tell the story.
Both the road agent and the dealer were clearly in a panic
now. All their work has come down to this one hand. Everything they had
put together these last months was about to come crashing down if they
couldn’t find a way out. Who is this saddle tramp they had happily never
heard of until tonight? Suddenly, the road agent makes a try. A derringer
appears in his hand from nowhere pointing towards Laylow. Laylow could
have killed him fair and square but instead grabbed the gun, quicker than
a rattlesnake, then smashed him square in the mouth with the other. Broken
teeth and blood were strewn across his chest and the table. In the background
you could hear a pin drop. As Laylow cracked the road agent, every Dammit
weapon was heard being cocked. The dealer and his cohorts were disarmed.
“We are going to finish this hand fair and square friends, show your cards.”
Youngblood eared the hammer back on his Springfield and pointed it towards
the dealer. The road agent, with his face beginning to swell and eyes turning
blue, laid his hand down, he had one pair. The dealer was smug, seemingly
undisturbed by the rifle pointed at his brisket, as he laid his cards down
revealing a full house and said, “Beat that friend.” Laylow sat expressionless
as he took his own sweet time to show his cards. The dealer thought he
had won when Laylow didn’t show his cards right away. As he started to
rake in the pot, Laylow said, “Wait friend, I need to show you my cards.”
Laylow spread the cards in his hand, one at a time, and gently placed them
on the table. “Straight flush” someone yelled, “You win mister”.
The dealer fell back into his chair, beaten at his own
game. He scans the crowd looking for any sympathetic face. All of his men
were covered or had disappeared. The dealer, totally dejected now, asked,
“I have to know friend, What is your name?” “Why, I thought you would know
by now, I’m Laylow Curley.” “I should have known. I had heard you were
coming” the Dealer said, “May I take my leave.” Laylow was curt, “You may
leave this table, this saloon, and this town in that order and right now.
If I see you or your cur friends come daylight, you may be sure, you will
stay permanently planted here until you turn into worm food.” The dealer
and the road agent, along with their cohorts, slowly get up and walk out
the doors like stray dogs with their tails between their legs.
AMBUSHED
Laylow Curley gathers up his chips, especially the Dammit
Chip, and heads to the bar for a celebration toast. The town was ecstatic.
The gamblers had been ordered out of town. Everyone wanted to buy Laylow
and his men a drink this night. Everyone was well lit in short order, all
but a few including Laylow. Laylow knew the gamblers may want payback so
he posted a couple of men to watch the town while the celebration raged
on late into the night. After several hours of celebrating, Laylow eases
up to his room. This has been a very productive evening he thinks but those
shysters left out of town too easy and too quiet. Laylow know he is not
done here. As Laylow crests the top of the Hotel stairs, something or someone
ghosts across the window at the end of the hall, or was he mistaken?
A shot rings out as glass shatters into the hallway. A
bullet flips Laylow’s hat off his head as it zings into the open space
of the lobby. Laylow blew out the lamp and crouched against the wall while
his eyes adjust to the darkness. Laylow could hear the sound of boots running
down the boardwalk and up the stairs behind him. BOOM! Ole Youngblood is
firing with his Springfield. Dammit! He got away. Howdy Doody and Double
Scotch bound up the stairs two at a time shouting, “Are you alright Laylow.”
Laylow is p+**ed. “That bunch of worthless lizard belly scum shot a hole
in my only good hat. Get the gang together at the Saloon. They had their
chance to leave peaceable, but their lust and foolish pride is going to
let them stay and feed the worms.” Howdy’s toothy grin could be seen easily
in the half darkness, “We goin’ after the curs tonight Laylow?” “Yes Howdy,
we are. Go get your best pyrotechnic night loads and a shotgun. Tell all
the boys to get ready for a night fight.” The whole Dammit gang meets at
the Saloon within minutes. This night fight is going to be different for
the gamblers have holed up inside the town itself. This is going to be
old-fashioned street guerrilla warfare.
NIGHTFIRE IN CHIMNEY ROCK
Laylow steps into the crowd of gunfighters with a stone
face. “Men, I won that game fair and square but those lousy vermin wouldn’t
let it go. Now they’ve gone and shot up my good hat. We are going house
to house and we are going to root all of them out of town for good. The
town knows what we are doing and knows not to get involved. You have any
resistance, any atall, use your shotgun first and finish it with a rifle
or six-gun.” Rowdy Yates steps up to Laylow, “If’n you’ll have us, the
Brimstone Pistoleros are in town and want to join this little scrap. We’re
neighbors to the RR and want to help them git their town back.” Laylow
grins. He knew there would be some residents wanting to join up. “Welcome
to the fold my Pistoleros friends. We are always willing to accept a hand
from a neighbor. Onliest thing is, you will be considered a Dammit after
a night with us. You could call it guilt by association,” Laylow laughted.
As the gunmen filter out into the night, horse’s hooves could be heard
thundering down the trail out of town. Well, at least some of them had
some sense. Doors were being kicked in, followed by shotgun blasts. Huge
balls of flame could be seen as the gunfighters advanced through the town.
Even Rocky Shush Dammit is out in town helpin’ clear out the gamblers.
That gal may look real lady-like and she can cook, sew, and cut hair, but
she can twirl and shoot a six-gun with the best man out there too. Rumor
has it she sets a pretty good horse as well No wonder the gang has grown
fond of her, good in the kitchen, with a gun, and on a horse, it don’t
get no better than that.
There goes one of Howdy’s booming shots, followed by almost
demented laughter. Was that the crazy Limey laughing? How did he get here
anyway? The flash from Howdy’s shotgun blast reflects off the rocks behind
the town creating an almost eerie glow of shadows dancing on the rocks
as if demons were celebrating the demise of the gamblers. The demons would
know there would be worthless souls for the taking after this night had
ended. Those boys sure were having a time of it, good time that is. “MORE
SMOKE,” someone yells. There was no hiding for the gamblers when Howdy
touched off his Pyro loads. The sky would be lit up and the riflemen would
clean the building of gamblers with surgical precision. Clouds of sulfurous
black powder smoke were everywhere. There was so much smoke, some of the
buildings looked to be on fire. Rooting out the gamblers was as if chasing
ghosts in these noxious white clouds. Some of the gamblers were able to
escape because of the smoke but the results were the same, they were gone.
In a back alley behind the Dry Goods Store, the dealer
waits for his expected prey. The gambler’s men were getting beat back as
if they were nothing. This was one bad bunch they had tangled with like
nothing they had ever encountered before. The dealer was waiting for one
man, Laylow Curley. Even though the town has turned against him and he
had lost his foothold here, Laylow must die tonight. Laylow was watching
from the Saloon as the last of his men charge into the night. He sees the
dealer beckoning him into the alley. Is this a setup or a showdown? Laylow
checks his loads again and thumbs a cartridge into each of the empty chambers.
This was going to be the final showdown for the gambler. Laylow ghosts
along the walls of the General Store and into the alley from the opposite
direction the dealer would be expecting him. He saw the dealer crouched
behind a water barrel and slowly slipped up on him. “Raise your hands and
turn around, you no account piece of snail pus (Laylow was obviously still
P’off about his hat).” The gambler did exactly what he was told to do.
He turned slowly only to look down the barrel of a .38-40 Colt. The gambler’s
hands were beginning to sweat. He carefully wiped them on his shirt, careful
not to get too close to his gun, yet.
There was no doubt in either of the men’s minds. Only
one man will walk away from this alley tonight, the best man. Neither man
had any delusion of the outcome. They were clearly facing an adversary
capable of ending either or both of their lives. The time seemed to be
passing unbelievably slow as they faced each other in the alley. There
were only shadows of light at best it seemed but each man could envision
the other’s face. The gambler wipes his hands again as Laylow slips his
six-gun back into his holster. It was time to finish this. The gambler’s
draw was lighteningly fast. Laylow’s was only a fraction slower as he watched
a crimson flame blossoming from the barrel of the gambler’s handgun. Laylow’s
hat goes spinning from his head again. Dammit! What has this turd got against
Laylow’s hat? Laylow fist is jumping from the recoil of the big Colt. He
doesn’t hear a sound as everything appears to be in slow motion. A red
stain is starting to spread on the gambler’s chest through four small holes
that are nearly touching. The gambler’s gun is firing harmlessly into the
dirt at his feet. Clouds of smoke have filled the alley yet Laylow can
see the gambler is still standing. As Laylow stooped to pick up his hat,
he noticed another hole in the crown, Dammit! He turned once again to the
gambler. The smoke had finally begun to clear. As Laylow walked towards
the gambler, he fell to his knees, then to his face without a sound, his
life draining into the sandy soil of the town. Laylow stares at the man’s
motionless body for several minutes, then, tosses a lone poker chip onto
his back. Laylow thumbed shells back into his six-gun and heads back to
the saloon. They boys should be filtering back there by soon. Now he would
have that drink.
THE AFTERMATH
As the Dammit gang enters the saloon, the mood is victorious.
The men and wimmin are recounting the night’s action as if it was happening
in front of them again. Some of the gamblers had gotten away, hidden by
the smoke, but they would be found in the morning when the rest of the
town turns out. Men with long range rifles would drive the gamblers from
the rocks above the town while the men with short guns would clear the
town itself. For now, the Dammits would have a drink to another successful
night action. Sometime during the night, the men would find their bedroll
if even for just a few minutes sleep before the sun will once again shine,
only this time, it will shine on a free town.
At the Boarding House, Kentucky Gal brought the nighttime
warriors their breakfast. “You boys played hobb on those gamblers last
night fer sure. Professor Fuller Bullspit found the gambler in the alley,
dead. No one knows who got him but there was a single poker chip layin’
on his back. Who ever did that showed him a gambler can live by the chip
or die by the chip. What an irony and a final insult. Youngblood looked
at Laylow with that all knowing look he always had when he knew Laylow
had been at work albeit unseen work. Only Laylow and the gambler would
know what went on in that alley last evening, or did Youngblood know something?
“The Sheriff left town before the fray too. That was his horses you heard
running from town last night. You know he was a company man on their payroll.
He was the smartest one of the bunch though by getting out of town before
the fray,” she said. Laylow stood up and addressed the roomful of men,
“Thanks for coming boys, you saved my hide again. Did you all have a good
time last night?” Howdy hollered, “Boy did we, this was one of the best.
We are going out and finish what we started last night and the town is
going to help us. By afternoon, the RR hands will have their town back.”
The day’s engagements would be uneventful and almost mundane compared to
the previous night’s action. The town was grateful to the men for liberating
their town and for giving them the chance to start over fresh.
The mood is subdued as the Dammits saddle their horses
for the lonely ride home. Each rider is methodical in saddling his horse
or hooking up his wagon taking more time than would normally be necessary
for the task. None of these cowboys want to leave this town. This is the
life they want, life in the western lands where justice is delivered by
Sam Colt on the prairie, not in a courthouse. A life where wimmin and kids
can walk the streets and travel unmolested. A life where a man’s word was
bond and stronger than any piece of paper with scratching on it. A life
of brutal work with long hours and little pay. A life of honor among friends.
Back these warriors must go to their surreal lives, modern clothes, real
jobs, and real problems. Back into storage go the cowboy clothes, boots,
spurs, and guns. Many of their closest confidants haven’t a clue as to
the adventures these un-noticed cowboys live each time they ride for the
Dammit brand.
Back into real society to their wives and children these
heroic gunfighters will go unnoticed. They will be temporarily disguised
in uniforms, business suits, and dresses until Laylow Curley or his Segundos
once again call them forth to ride the range alongside Hoppy, Roy, Audie,
Gene, John, Randolph, Gabby, and so many countless other childhood heroes
who made the world right and good. What will remain with these “Cowboys”
as they ride the trail through their real lives, are the friendships forged
and the memories of valiant battles they fought alongside their new found
friends.
One by one the Dammits step into the stirrups and touch
spurs to the willing steeds. Laylow Curley, Jittery Jim Jonah, Youngblood,
Double Scotch, Howdy Doody, Filthy Lurce, Shush Dammit, and all the rest
trail out of Chimney Rock and back to that other life until the west comes
alive again, if only in their dreams.
The End?
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