THOMAS LANG "Blackjack"

Copyright (c) 2018 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

By R. Peterson

Rising hot air mingled with an emerging cool night breeze and caused a nervous tumbleweed to jump the water-trough in front of the seed supply store and skitter across the deserted street. Most of the town’s residents were already tucked safely inside the two rows of clapboard buildings escaping the swirling sift that covered graves and smothered dreams. The wandering weed bounded into and then over the crate-filled alley next to the Territorial Emporium before vanishing. It was an hour before oil-lamp-time.

Sheriff Thomas Lang noticed five horses tied to the hitching post in front of the Four Bullets Saloon. Four of the animals belonged to local ranchers. The fifth, a black stallion frisking beneath a saddle ornamented with Nevada silver looked out of place in the small Montana mining town of South Fork.

The stranger sat at a far table facing the door along with John Weston, Joseph Glenn and Amos Fowler. He was dressed in ebony from the silk hat perched on the top of his swarthy head to a pair of square-toe riding boots. The sheriff noticed a pair of silver-handled Smith and Wesson 44’s with oiled holsters tied-tightly to the man’s St. Louis traveling pants. The man gave him an appraising look from behind an overgrown and thickly waxed handlebar mustache, then grinned smugly before he introduced himself as Jean Claude Noir and invited the sheriff to join them. The wooden table was cluttered with new playing cards, paper-money, coins, and three open bottles of Texas Red-Eye whiskey.

“Not when I’m working thank you,” Lang tipped his hat.

“Why not?” Noir’s smile reminded Tom of a crocodile. “We’re all friends here. My American friends call me Jack … Black Jack.”

The sheriff ignored Black Jack and walked to the bar where Otis Wilson poured him a tin cup filled with coffee. “This city slicker been in town long?” Tom asked Otis.

            “About four hours,” Otis said. “He cleaned out Spencer Grover’s ranch hands just before you come in. I’ve never seen one man so lucky at cards!” Lang turned and watched as Jean Claude Noir dealt another round of Acey Deucey. In the dim light the cards blurred between his long fingers. It was hard to tell if he was a cheat. Unless he slowed down you couldn’t tell where the cards were going … or coming from.

Weston and Glenn both threw their cards in right away. Amos Fowler did his best to hide a smile with an ace of hearts and a deuce of spades showing as he covered the twenty dollar pot. Noir who had a Queen diamond/seven clubs spread obliged him with a smile as he tossed in another handful of gold coins. It took almost a minute for Amos to cover the raise, searching through all his coat pockets and borrowing money from both John and Joe before matching the bet.

Amos exploded as Black Jack dealt him his last card … an ace of spades. “You no good fur skunk!” Amos bawled as Noir slapped down his own nine of clubs and swept the pot into his arms. “I don’t know how you stack them cards but I want a card count before that money goes anywhere!”

Noir stopped dragging the money toward him and his eyes went hard and cold. “You calling me a cheat … friend?”

A tomb-like silence descended over the saloon. The piano player’s fingers which had been pounding out a lively rendition of Oh Susanna suddenly froze just above the keyboard.

Amos gulped audibly. It sounded like a thirsty horse drinking from a trough. “I’m asking for a card count is all.”

            “I say the card count is fine,” Noir whispered. “You also calling me a liar?”

            “I’m just saying this game ain’t right,” Amos mumbled. “No one is that lucky!”

            “This is no longer a game of chance but a matter of honor,” Noir said pointing to the single action Colt that Amos wore tucked into his canvas pants. “You have defamed my good name and I demand satisfaction!”

Time slowed. Amos sat at the table trembling, obviously looking for a way out of his nightmare. Sheriff Lang was already moving toward the table trying to keep the old miner from doing something stupid. His boots felt like they were filled with lead. Jean Claude Noir’s voice rang above the saloon din like a ship’s bell. “… or are you yellow?”

Tom watched Amos’s swollen fingers yank the old revolver from the holster and point it at the smiling Noir. It took another long second for his arthritic thumb to pull back the trigger and then another second to aim. His arm was shaking so badly if he had been shooting outside he couldn’t have hit the sky. Still the Frenchman grinned. Fire and unburned gunpowder boomed from the end of the barrel as Amos’s shot went wild sending a lead slug into the wall at least four feet above and to the left of Noir’s head. There was a moment of silence then Amos slowly lowered his gun. “I ain’t no chicken!” The grizzled miner’s voice held a childlike wonder.

“On the contrary,” Noir laughed. “More like a plucked duck ready for a cooking pot.” His own guns flashed like two lightning bolts. The twin blasts blew Amos out of his chair and sent him spinning across the room. Blood gushed from an inch-wide hole in his forehead and from the socket where his right eye had been.

Sheriff Lang’s guns were already out. “Drop em!” he commanded Noir.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and then lay both the fancy guns on the table. “There are plenty of eyewitnesses sheriff,” he said. “The unlucky fellow attempted to murder me.”

Thomas Lang looked around the room. He didn’t need to question anyone. They had all seen what happened.

“He’s right, sheriff!”  The dead man’s best friend, Joe, hung his head and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Amos fired first!”

“I want you out of this town tonight,” the sheriff stared at Noir. “Gather up your winnings and get out!”

            “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Noir said as he stood, re-holstered his guns and then swept the money on the table into a large traveling bag. “I have business dealings with a prominent local rancher first thing in the morning.”

The saloon patrons all watched as Noir stopped to whisper in the ear of one of the young whores Otis Wilson hired as weekend entertainment. Her face was brightly painted but she couldn’t have been much older than fifteen. He slapped her on her ample hoop-skirted buttocks before drawing her close and clomping and singing softly as he dragged her, giggling, up the stairs to the rooms above.

Sheriff Lang walked to the bar for another cup of coffee and to clear his head as Amos Fowler’s friends carried his body out the front door. “I wonder who the lucky rancher is that Black Jack has business with?” the sheriff mused as Otis reached for the coffee pot.

            “I suspect that would be Miss Walker,” Otis said as he filled the cup with the black brew. “He was showing expertly rendered drawings and one daguerreotype just before you arrived that could be no one but Elisabeth.

-------2-------

Thomas Walker was up before dawn and was surprised to see Noir’s black stallion tied to Elisabeth’s barn when he arrived at the bustling ranch and gold mine just as the sun was rising. He didn’t want to interfere in any of Elisabeth’s business dealings so he waited under a bushy tree at the top of a hill until the gunman left. But he was worried … very worried.

“I see you had a visitor,” Tom said as he walked into the kitchen. Elisabeth had her back to him and she seemed upset.

“Spying on me now?” It was as if she had pulled a mask over her pretty head. He could now tell nothing from her expression. There was coffee on the stove but she didn’t offer him any.

“Jean Claude Noir is a dangerous man,” Tom said. “He shot and killed Amos Fowler over a game of cards. I rode out here to make sure you were okay.”

“Noir is from New Orleans and you’re right,” Elisabeth said turning so that he could see her sad eyes. “He is very dangerous. But his business with me has nothing to do with you … and I don’t want you coming around here anymore.”

“Elisabeth, if you’re in some kind of trouble let me help you,” Tom pleaded. He reached for her but she turned away.

“People can travel thousands of miles and they can cross oceans and grow big and fat or they can wither away to the size of corn sticks but they will always remain the people they are, Tom … nothing can ever change that.” Elisabeth shook her head. “You need to go now!”

“Elisabeth please!”

Elisabeth set her jaw in a way that Tom had only seen a few times. “Don’t make me call Pepe Mendez and have him throw you out, Tom … I know you two are friends.”

The sheriff noticed Elisabeth’s Mexican foreman lingering near the barn. Elisabeth was right. Tom didn’t want trouble between them either.

Thomas Lang hated riding away from the bustling Blue Bonnet ranch and mine but there was nothing he could do. Elisabeth didn’t want him there. He knew something was wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it as he mounted Comanche.  For the first time he could ever remember he rode away from the ranch at a dead run pushing the wild mare from Texas for all she was worth.

-------3-------

The days that followed were a misery for Tom. He grew sullen and restless even as the stranger from New Orleans celebrated every night. Noir paid for drinks-on-the-house with refined Blue Bonnet ore bearing a stamped “B” in the gold and Tom wondered how much of the bullion Elisabeth had given him.

            Noir bragged of being engaged to Elisabeth and said a wedding was to be forthcoming. Tom couldn’t believe it and figured it was all made up lies from a braggart until he saw Elisabeth’s buggy parked in front of the Territorial Emporium and watched her come out followed by the proprietor Mrs. Vera James. “The alterations should be ready in a week,” Mrs. James said. “I’ll let you know when you can drop by for a fitting.”

It wasn’t until Elisabeth’s buggy disappeared down the street headed out of town that Vera noticed Tom and strolled over. “I must admit I’m a little disappointed,” she said.

            “How’s that?” The sheriff was still watching the buggy in the distance.

            “The wedding dress Elisabeth ordered,” Mrs. James said. “I always thought it would be you two getting hitched!”

-------4-------

            Tom pleaded an illness to the city council and then stayed drunk on his ranch for almost a week while a deputy replaced him. One morning, after soaking his head in a watering trough, he decided to ride to Elisabeth’s ranch and demand an explanation. Fall was in the air and all the leaves were turning red and brown. He was halfway to her ranch when he heard a familiar neigh and decided to investigate on foot. Elisabeth and Jean Claude Noir had a blanket spread on the grass and were having a picnic in the very spot that her and him had once enjoyed. “I don’t see why all of this is necessary,” Elisabeth’s voice sounded annoyed.

            “We’ll be man and wife in two days and I don’t want anyone to consider our marriage anything but legitimate,” Noir pushed her down on the blanket and Tom could see them kissing.

            In a daze, Tom wandered back to where he’d hitched Comanche and then rode hard. He would have ridden south all the way to Texas but there were too many loose ends … to many goodbyes to make.

-------5-------

The banner hanging across the main street in South Fork said Wedding Celebration tomorrow: Elisabeth Walker and Jean Claude Noir Esquire.

Tom had planned on only visiting the saloon to say goodbye to a few friends when he was met by Noir at the door. “Your services are no longer needed in this town, sheriff.” Black Jack grinned as he spat the last word. “With the help of my fiancée I’ve given ample monies to the city council - enough to hire a new sheriff and half a dozen deputies.”

Tom looked past him to see Lemont Hicks and a dozen dirty cowhands all of them wearing badges. Then it was over … everything. Tom had never felt so low. “I just need to say my goodbyes to a few friends …” Tom tried to push past him.

Noir grabbed him from behind and sent him tumbling into a street dusted with a fine powder of snow. “You’re washed up in this town,” Black Jack crowed. “If you got any man in you, you’d go for your gun!”

Tom realized for the first time in years that he didn’t have a Colt peacemaker strapped to his side. Whiskey and guns just didn’t mix.

Jean Claude pretended that he’d just noticed too … and tossed the sheriff one of his own guns. “Whenever you’re ready, sheriff!” He laughed loud enough that the whole town could hear. “Or are you yellow?”

Tom figured he had nothing to lose and was about to use the gun when Elisabeth kicked it out of his hand. She picked the fancy revolver out of the snow and then held it over her head pulling the trigger on empty chambers.

            “Black Jack Noir has never won a fair fight in his life,” she said. “He can’t beat you in a gun battle and he knows it!” Elisabeth looked at her intended with a face filled with venom and loathing. “He’s nothing but a cheap card cheat and a bush-whacker.”

            “Why you little tramp!”  Noir hissed. “You’ve ruined everything!” He drew his own gun but before he could fire Elisabeth dropped the useless gun in her hand and pulled a Walker Colt from her apron pocket. For years afterward citizens were still trying to describe what they saw. Noir was lightning fast but Elisabeth’s actions were like trying to watch an arrow fly from a bow. She blasted him three times while his gun was still leaving its holster.

And then Elisabeth was kneeling in the snow beside Tom crying. “Oh Tom, I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I can survive anything in this world as long as I know you’re in it … but I can never live without you.”

            “Remind me never to complain about your coffee,” Tom quipped pointing toward the body sprawled in the new fallen snow. This brought a fresh round of tears.

            “It’s okay …. Everything will be alright now,” Tom whispered as he held her tight.

            “No it won’t,” Elisabeth bawled. “Upstairs in Noirs’ luggage … you’ll understand why I wasn’t worth dying for.”

-------6-------

While the saloonkeeper and several of the new deputies talked to the witnesses, Tom headed upstairs to see what Elisabeth was talking about. Everyone agreed that Elisabeth had shot in self-defense. Inside a large carpet bag propped next to the bed Tom found several drawings of Elisabeth along with several wanted posters showing her as an accomplice to the notorious James Gang. So this is what he had on her … Blackmail! There were also several letters from New Orleans showing he had a wife and starving children waiting for him down south as well as his own wanted posters. Noir was wanted by authorities in three states for robbery and murder.

Tom shredded the drawings and posters and tossed them onto the coals inside a wood burning stove. He also found one of Noirs’ jackets with a springboard sewn inside both arms that allowed him to transfer cards from hidden pockets whenever he chose.

Tom tossed the jacket to the saloonkeeper as he came down the stairs. “Elisabeth was right,” he said. “The man was a criminal. There’s a pile of money on the table up in his room … make sure everyone he cheated at cards gets their money back … and his wife and children in Louisiana get what’s left.”

 As Tom drove the buggy back to her ranch, Elisabeth leaned on his shoulder to whisper in his ear, “Is my coffee really that bad?”

Tom laughed. “Do I dare say?”

THE END?