**Caution--- contains violent and adult themed material**
If you have taken the time to read this teaser chapter and have enjoyed it, I would appreciate comments etc.
Thanks John R. Stuart.
A sample chapter from book four of CONFEDERATE KNIGHTS
BY: JOHN R. STUART
CONFEDERATE GLADIATOR
CAPTAIN COLM CAMPBELL
September 1st, 1889 - 4pm - Ciudad Juarez, South
Texas, Confederate States of America
“Forgive me father for today I will certainly sin.”
“You are forgiven my son,” the priest replied with a touch
of distain in his voice.
“If you were a Catholic I would suggest at least ten Hail Marys.
However, I realize that penance will not occur.”
Knowing from previous experience that the confession was at
an end the young priest stood and stepped out, he then paused beside the door
to the confessional and waited for Captain Colm Campbell to exit the darkness
of the booth. The priest adjusted his cassock and waited for the tall man to
speak, but as usual he was reticent, as if the cool darkness of the
confessional offered protection and sanctuary. The priest tended to like men
that were careful with their words, but this soldier, well ex-soldier took the
art of Spartan speech to new levels of brevity.
Campbell surprised him by speaking first, “Technically aren’t
you obliged to stay in the confessional and allow me to leave in privacy?”
“Captain you have taken confession with me now for quite
awhile, I find the pretense of secrecy redundant in this situation.”
“Ugh, I suppose considering how long we’ve known each other there’s
little need for anonymity any longer.”
“Coffee Captain?”
The Captain just grunted and followed the priest to the
small shady courtyard at the rear of the church. Father Hortez added a heaping
teaspoon blue and white splatter ware coffee cup that held the strong black
coffee that he brewed. It was cool under the wild Olive trees but the late
afternoon heat simmered like flames on the tiles of the courtyard dancing
before both of their eyes after the darkness of the church.
“Thanks father, for a holy man you make a reasonable cup of
coffee.”
The soldier took a sip of coffee and then added a dash of rum
from his hip flask. As always he drew his gleaming revolver and laid it on the
table beside the coffee pot. The table seemed to groan from the weight of the .36
caliber Griswold.
The priest grimaced at the sight of the large handgun.
“Father, in my line of business a man can never be too
careful.”
“Captain, I truly don’t understand why you come to me for
confession. Clearly you are not a member of the Holy Catholic church, yet every
Thursday you arrive at my church. Without fail, every Thursday at precisely
four in the afternoon. What are you, Presbyterian, Anglican - United perhaps?”
“Regular as clockwork Father, aren’t I. I trouble you for
confession because there are no Presbyterian churches here in Juarez and I
patronize your church in particular because it’s the closest to the
Conquistador.”
“The Conquistador is one of the vilest saloons located here
in Juarez; you could find much better accommodations, considering you are a God
fearing man, a man of learning and fine manners. Why anyone would reside in a
whore house is beyond my imagination?”
“Father - a whorehouse and saloon is one of the most honest
places of business that a man can find. There’s no bullshit. You pay for the
women, you pay for the food and booze and no one offers any pretenses. I find
the honesty of free trade - quite refreshing.”
The Conquistador was one of the oldest saloons and
whorehouses in Juarez. It had survived the bitter fighting in 1870 when the
Mexican forces tried to stem the initial invasion of Mexico by the Confederate
army. The attack by the Rebel military had come across Rio Grande River on
river rafts and had turned Juarez into a hotly disputed battlefield for nearly a
week.
The gallant yet, ill prepared Mexican army had been
concentrated at Juarez in anticipation of an attack, but the Mexican Generals
had not foreseen a land assault from the north and a simultaneous river borne
attack from El Paso. It was the first disaster suffered by the Mexicans in the
war, but was later considered a minor battle in the war of invasion which
Mexico eventually lost.
Prior to the surprise invasion relations between Mexico and
the Confederacy had been tense for several years and Confederate President
Robert E. Lee saw Mexico as the next jewel in the crown that was Confederate
global expansion. The invasion and subsequent seizure of Mexico had consolidated
the Confederacy’s control of North America and later had further spurred
President Longstreet to turn the Confederate military machine North into
British controlled Canada.
“The Conquistador may
be vile but it has amply met my needs Father for nearly a year. Let’s say I
have grown attached to the ladies, and the food is tolerably good. Especially
the enchiladas. You should try them some time. The enchiladas, not the
prostitutes.”
“I don’t think the Holy Father,” and he glanced towards the
sky, “would approve if one of his humble servants were to patronize that den of
iniquity, no matter how good the enchiladas are!”
“Your loss.”
“Both God and I worry about you Captain. You walk a
dangerous path.”
“You and God seem very interested in this lowly sinner.”
“God is interested in every member of his flock and when you
visit me here at Sacred Heart you become a member of my flock.”
“I guess priests should be worrying about sinners, it sort
of comes with the territory, don’t it Father.”
“Captain Campbell - you are unusually chatty this afternoon.
It’s a nice change, but distinctly out of character for such a dour and
infamous pistolero as yourself.”
“Still partially drunk. Too much tequila last night.”
The priest laughed. “Ah, the evil tequila. It does tend to
loosen a man’s tongue. Some of the things I have heard in the confessional from
my parishioners when they are drunk would truly shock you.”
Campbell drained his coffee and picked up his revolver. He
spun the chambers, cracked open the breech and double checked the six shells.
He took a soft oil impregnated cloth from his duster’s pocket and carefully
wiped the weapon as if he were polishing a piece of priceless ecclesiastic
silver.
The priest sighed to show his displeasure that a weapon was displayed
within his sight, “I believe you revere that weapon more than you love God -
Captain. You worship that killing machine as if it were a divine angel.”
Campbell raised the big Griswold towards the sun, “Father
Hortez I have been a member of the Church of the Gun since I rode with General
Nathan Bedford Forrest at Murfreesboro and with General Jeb Stuart at
Gettysburg and the Serpents Mounds. This Griswold Avenger revolver has been my
priest and my savior and continues to do so to this day.”
The soldier took his watch from his vest pocket and snapped
it open, as he did so the town clock began to chime the hour.
“Four o’clock - almost show time, I’ll take my leave Father.
Perhaps I’ll be back later in the evening.”
“Captain before you go may I tell you a story. I suspect you
will not heed my advice, but there is an old Roman parable I would share with
you.”
“By all means. God’s
word should be reflected upon, but do so quickly.”
“Not God’s words. I heard a story at seminary school- the
tale of the Two Gladiators and the Giant. Have you heard it- ah no, then I
shall proceed. In the early days of the Roman Empire two brothers were taken
prisoner by the Romans in Britain. Both Gauls were fierce warriors and seeing
their true value they were sold as slaves to the finest gladiator school in all
of the Roman Empire. In Rome they fought dozens of battles for the enjoyment of
the frenzied crowd in the famous Coliseum. So great was their prowess that the
Emperor granted them their freedom. The two brothers knew no life other that
war and the arena. They had developed big egos and they were very full of
themselves. They considered themselves undefeatable. With no trade other than
combat they remained gladiators even after they were freed, however now they
were able to choose who they would fight. They grew rich and prosperous. Then
one day a new champion arose in the arena - a giant Moor, he was said to be
seven feet tall. This Moor defeated all comers and rose to prominence. So
famous was he that he challenged both of the warrior brothers to combat. The
brothers debated the merits of facing such a giant. Ultimately one decided to
fight and the other did not. The Moor killed his opponent, and the other
brother retired and took up farming and lived out the remainder of his days in
peace and tranquility.”
“This grows tiresome Father - what am I to glean from this
parable?”
“Captain, the morale of the tale is this. You hold your fate in your own hands.”
“Well then Father, I sincerely hope I don’t chance to
encounter any giants.”
“Good luck Captain Campbell. I’ll say a prayer for you. Remember
my son the longer a streak of good luck continues, the greater the odds it will
end. May God watch over you.”
“Many thanks Father. It’s nice to have God’s protection, but
I’ll stick with the Griswold.”
Eight hours earlier. - The Conquistador Saloon
The sun was streaming through the curtains of the third
floor window of the whore’s room. Dust motes danced in the beam of light like
tortured fairies as the naked whore crossed the room to squat above the camber
pot. When she was finished pissing she returned to the wide brass bed and poked
the sleeping man under the sheets with her finger.
“Wake up Colm. You have much to do today. Today is Thursday
my pistolero,” she said in English that was heavily accented with Spanish.
Campbell rolled over and started to snore, “Mi dios,” she
swore and she climbed onto the bed and began to aggressively shake him.
He came awake with a start and pushed her away, “Esperanza for
Christ’s sake woman, can’t you leave a man in peace?”
“Get up, get up you lazy drunken bastardo. Today is Thursday
and I want to be paid. You owe me for the last month. I don’t fuck you and let
you sleep here in my bed for the goodness of my soul. Get the fuck up,” she
yelled.
“Quiet Esperanza - I beg you. Your wailing will deafen me.”
“Then get up, you lazy prick,” and she shook him again.
He grabbed her pale arm and pulled her on top of himself and
proceeded to kiss her deeply, “Fuck me first and then I’ll go and attend to
business.”
She raised herself over his groin and deftly positioned his
erect cock at the opening of her pussy, “I think I should renegotiate our
arrangement. You are far too horny, even for a Scotsman,” and she settled into
a steady gliding rhythm above him.
When they were finished he pushed her gently aside and went
to retrieve his clothes from the chair beside the whorehouse window. He paused
and brushed aside the dirty lace curtain. Across the street he could see a
party of six men gathered in front of the barbershop. They were an eclectic
group, both young and middle-aged, two looked like Mexican desperados, one looked
like a dapper dude from the East, one was an tall ebony skinned Negro wearing a
gray Buffalo solder’s coat and hat and the last two looked like regular run of
the mill gunmen of the Confederate West. Campbell had seen two of them before, one
looked like the albino, but the rest were newcomers to Juarez. They were a
diverse gathering of men, but they all had one thing in common, there was a
simmering violence in their stance and bearing, as if they were perpetually at
the boiling point.
He grunted and began to slip on his trousers, Esperanza
asked, “How many are there today?”
“Only six. Perhaps the novelty of challenging me has begun
to pale.”
“Then I certainly want more money for fucking you. Soon they
will stop coming.”
He was pulling on his dull worn brown boots, “It’ll be a
frosty day in Hell when they stop coming!”
She shrugged on a chintz patterned robe and began to brush
her long black hair, “It could end in another fashion, and then I’d be sad. I
do like being your special Chiquita.”
He turned and examined his right boot; the sole was beginning
to come loose at the toe and would require attention very soon. Either that or
he’d need to squeeze some cash from his upcoming wages for a new pair. He hated
wearing shabby boots and decided the only solution was to buy a new pair.
She saw him looking at his boots and smiled, “You pay me
first then you look for new boots. My payment comes first, before you waste any
money my pistolero.”
He gave her a long look that was difficult to interrupt,
“Have my uniform ready, and make sure that little coach roach does a better job
on my dress boots. I want them gleaming,” and he buckled his holster around his
waist.
She raised her hand and with the brush gave him a mocking
salute, “Si my General. As always, all will be ready for you. Enjoy your
haircut and shave.”
“I plan to enjoy my quiet time with barber. It’s one of the
few opportunities when I find some peace and solitude. And don’t call me
General.”
“General, pistolero, Capitán, Gun Smith or Angel of the Gun.
What does it matter what I call you? One day you will walk out that door and
never return. You don’t have to do this. There are other ways to earn a living.”
“If I don’t do this, then what would I do. I am what the
Confederacy has made me.”
“One day you will end up in Boot Hill with only a crooked
wooden cross to mark your passing and then what will become of me?”
“Will you place flowers on my grave?”
She threw a pillow at him, “Don’t come back without my
money,” she called but he was already halfway down the stairs and didn’t hear
her.
As he stepped through the swinging saloon doors a short wide
structured caballero in leather chaps and a red fireman’s style shirt, topped
off with a green sombrero with silver embroidery fell into step behind him. The
Mexican was armed with a pair of Colt Peacemakers and he carried a sawed-off
Winchester shotgun in his powerful hands.
As the Captain passed him, he said, “Buenos Diás Rodrigo. It
looks like it will be a beautiful day.”
“Si Capitán. I see the dogs have gathered at Esteban’s. I
have heard of the Buffalo Soldier. He has a formidable reputation Senior Capitán,”
His mouth was full of chewing tobacco and he stuffed another chaw into the side
of his mouth as they walked across the street.
“Don’t they all my friend, don’t they all?”
Campbell barely nodded at the six men that were gathered in
front of the barber’s shop. The two desperados kept their sombreros low across
their faces and Campbell heard them softly murmur with reference in their
voices as he passed, “Ángela de la pistol.”
Before the Captain reached the door the young well dressed
dude who was leaning against the red, white and blue striped barber’s pole said,
“Looks like today’s the day you die Captain Campbell.” His voice cracked with
nervous tension.
The oldest man on the porch, the albino, he was dressed in
good quality, but worn trail gear, cuffed the dude on the shoulder and said;
“Show yer betters some respect boy.”
The Captain ignored the discourteous remark and entered the
barbershop.
Rodrigo placed his back to the door and raised the gun into
the ready position. The dude snarled,
“Looks like the fearsome Captain is
afraid to walk the streets without a dog to watch his back.”
Rodrigo spat a long string of tobacco juice at the dude’s
feet, the brown juice splattered onto the man’s gray spats, “Careful senor
fancy pants - this dog as a nasty bite.”
The dude smiled and pointed at the Captain’s bodyguard,
“After I kill the Captain, I’ll kill you as well.”
There was a cardboard “OPEN” sign on the door and Campbell
flipped it around to the “CLOSED” side.
“Have a seat Senor Campbell,” and the barber locked the
barbershop door behind his client. The barbershop was empty except for Esteban
the proprietor and the Captain. The proprietor bowed and waved Campbell towards
his new hydraulic black and nickel plated Koch barber chair. Esteban’s chair
was the first of the new modern chairs to come west of the Rio Grande River and
the chair’s arrival had elevated Esteban’s from a mediocre shop to that of the
best in town.
Campbell sank into the black tooled leather and wiped the
sweat from his brow as Esteban spun the chair so it faced towards the shop
door. Before he settled in for his haircut, Campbell eased the brass Griswold Avenger
from the holster and rested it on his lap. With a flourish the barber draped
him with a clean white cotton sheet and wrapped his neck with a length of paper
to keep the clippings from falling under the Captain’s collar.
The barbershop smelled of tobacco, tequila, soap, hair
tonic, French eau de cologne and the leather from the long black razor strap
Esteban was using to hone his pearl handled cut-throat razor. Campbell and the
barber had long ago settled into a routine. Esteban knew exactly what the
soldier wanted and he did it quietly and efficiently, however, he did not
perform the haircut and shave quickly. Campbell viewed his quiet time of
solitude in the cool darkness of the barbershop as a brief interlude in his
otherwise noisy and chaotic existence. Unlike most of Esteban’s clients he
didn’t require the barber’s normal cheery banter and discussion of the latest
town gossip and politics. The presence of Rodrigo with his sawed off shotgun at
the door insured Campbell a short stint of peace and quiet. He paid Esteban
well for this special attention and he viewed it as money well spent.
Campbell kept the revolver in his right hand and he focused
his attention on the door and windows of the shop. Once, several years ago in a
gold-mining town in Montana he had been attacked by three men while he was getting
a shave and he had shot and killed all three with the Griswold he had concealed
beneath the barber’s sheet. These days the presence of Rodrigo was a strong
deterrent to another such surprise attack, but Captain Colm Campbell was not
the type of man that liked to take any opportunity for safety for granted. The
revolver remained in his hand.
As the barber worked on his hair Campbell thought back to
the summer of 1861 when he had sent his students home, closed his classroom and
walked out of the school. Three days later he presented himself to one of the
recruiting officers at one of the dozen or so recruiting stations that had
sprung up in Richmond, Virginia. Campbell was the oldest son of a family of Scottish
immigrants that had settled and prospered in Baltimore, Maryland and while they
were not a family of slave owners, his family were staunch supporters of the
Confederate Cause.
As talk of war between the North and Southern States
escalated he had been devastated when Maryland remained loyal to the Federal
government. His elderly father had ranted and raved and argued with his
brothers at the dinner table about State’s rights and their moral obligation to
support the Cause, yet his father’s strict religious beliefs made him reluctant
to send his sons to combat. The younger
Campbell was torn because he felt convinced that calmer heads would prevail and
the discord would be solved without bloodshed. He was not a coward, yet he
fervently hoped he would not be required to bear arms. His God was one of mercy
and goodwill towards your fellow man, not the God of blood and thunder. Eventually
Colm was the only member of the Campbell clan to answer the call to arms and to
serve the Confederacy, his brothers remained neutral.
He was twenty one years old when the war began and he had
just finished his first year as a history and philosophy teacher at the
prestigious Orion Academy for Young Christian Men in Baltimore.
Campbell was mustered into Confederate army and initially
found himself in the 101st Virginia Infantry. His potential and high
intelligence, combined with his University education saw him transferred and
promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the 3rd Regiment- Tennessee
Cavalry under the famous Brigadier General Nathan Bedford Forrest.
After sustaining both a leg and arm wound in the action at
the Battle of Murfreesboro he spent three months convalescing in Chattanooga,
upon his return to active service he was promoted to Captain and was
transferred to the 1st Virginia Volunteer Cavalry Regiment under the
illustrious commander Major General J.E.B. Stuart. Campbell saw extensive
service with the 1st Virginia and was twice mentioned in dispatches
and was decorated with the Snarling Wolf’s Head -2nd class for
heroism at the Battle of The Serpents Mounds. While a peaceful man by
disposition he developed into a steady and resourceful officer and had earned a
reputation as a fearless combatant that would never back down from a scrap. He
carried a Griswold revolver throughout the war and when he left the service at
the war’s end in 1863 he returned to Baltimore with the intention of returning
to teaching. When he returned home he hung the gun along with his saber above
the mantle in his father’s house.
Like many veterans of the Confederate War of Independence he
struggled with his return to civilian life. He was restless and unsettled and
found teaching boring. Dissatisfied with civilian life he took down his weapons
and re-enlisted in the Cavalry in the fall of 1864. Permanent life in the Army had changed him. He
became short of temper and took offense easily. A fellow officer once described
him as bitter, arrogant and aloof. Those comments led to a duel which ended the
other officer’s life. Campbell had a distinct inability to deal with people
that he considered idiots, cretins or fools. As a result he fought a series of
twelve duels with fellow officers and the husbands of women that he had affairs
with.
Colm Campbell never married, but he was very popular with
the ladies. Southern Belles, officer’s wives, schoolmarms and ladies of every
description found him dashing and attractive and he never had to seek the
attention of the fairer sex. Perhaps he could have been more selective and
discrete regarding his paramours and this inability to think with his big head
as opposed to his little head often led him to trouble that inevitably ended in
violence.
He always dressed well, even when he was out of uniform. He
spent his much of his salary on good horses and fine clothing, and was
considered a vision of sartorial splendor. In particular he insisted on wearing
handmade boots and custom tailored uniforms of the finest materials for both
his full dress uniforms and his field dress.
The fact that he fought twelve duels (all with the gun) while
serving in the military and survived without a single wound made him a
celebrity in the Confederacy where the law of the gun was now a Right. In a
duel he exhibited the same calm and fearless nature that he presented in
combat. He was a deadly shot and while he was courted by every firearms
manufacturer in North America and the rest of the world to endorse their
revolvers he stuck faithfully to the 1861 model Griswold that he had purchased
when he first enlisted. The largest arms maker in the Confederacy - Peter
Thorenson was severely miffed when Campbell refused to endorse his new Thor
revolver. For Campbell the only gun that felt right in his hand was the
Griswold.
His military service took him to every conflict fought by
the Confederacy from 1864 to 1884. He saw extensive action in the Mexican
campaign, did duty in numerous forts across the Western Confederacy, fought in
two Indian campaigns and for three years he commanded a company of free Black Confederate
Buffalo soldiers in the 23rd Alabama Cavalry out of Fort
Leavenworth, Kansas.
His military career came to an end when he seduced the
youngest daughter of the Major of San Francisco. This affair created a serious
scandal and Campbell was called out for his actions by both the girl’s father
and brother. The duels were fought back to back in the highly ritualized Dance
of Arms on a frosty February morning on a hillside overlooking the Pacific
Ocean. In his normal detached, calm deliberate fashion he killed both the
father and son and then rode out of town. Campbell said he retired from military
service, but in reality he was forced to resign his commission - he never truly
felt in his heart that he was anything other than an officer of the
Confederacy.
He took to wandering across North America, visiting Canada,
Mexico and what was left of the U.S.A. Not quite a nomad, he was a restless gypsy
and he tried his hand at a wide variety of jobs as he travelled. For a brief
period he was a history teacher at the famous Texas Military Institute in
Galveston.
In every case his previous history as a gunman would follow
him and gunmen anxious to prove their skill with a gun and their courage would
seek him out. These gunfights were not the regular ritualistic duels sanctioned
by the Confederate government; they were vicious, wild, no holds barred dirty
street fights- where anything was acceptable.
By the time Campbell arrived in Juarez by stage coach in 1887
he had killed an additional sixteen men, and he had become a living legend - he
was known as the Captain of Death. Not even Campbell could explain why he
stopped his ceaseless wandering when he arrived in Juarez, he had no concrete
reason for remaining in Juarez, perhaps he simply couldn’t face the effort
required to initiate further movement.
He settled first in the Diamondback Saloon, where he dealt
faro and doubled as a strong-arm man to protect the whores. A week after he
arrived at the Diamondback he was in a gunfight with a notorious gunfighter
from El Paso. While Campbell killed his opponent with a single shot, his adversary’s
bullet struck the muzzle of Campbell’s beloved Griswold revolver. The bullet
entered the muzzle of Campbell’s gun and lodged itself in the chamber and
shattered the firing mechanism - destroying it, the gun he had carried for
close to twenty years was beyond repair.
Campbell dropped his revolver and walked towards the General
Store which was a hundred yards down the main street of Juarez. To reach the
store he had to step over the body of the man he had just killed. In the store
he bought a new holster and a pair of Thorenson Thor .44 caliber revolvers.
After he loaded the guns and belted the holster around his waist he went to the
Western-Confederate telegram office and sent a telegram request to the Griswold
& Gunnison Manufacturing head office in Georgia to commission a custom made
brace of their new Griswold Avenger single action .36 caliber revolvers. He
insisted that they be stock guns, except for two alterations, his new guns
would have rosewood plough shaped grips and no sights on the barrel. The Avenger
was virtually the same as the original 1861 model, but was now a single action
gun.
As Esteban brushed the hair clippings off Campbell’s neck some
fell onto his lap and he realized that his once black hair was now grayer then
previously.
“Esteban, soon my hair will be the same color as my uniform.
Appears I’m getting old.”
“No Capitán, you are still a young caballero.”
The Captain reached into his waistcoat pocket and found his
last silver dollar. He stood up and stretched and handed the coin to the barber.
He looked in the mirror to admire his fresh haircut, “Superb job as always
Esteban.”
Esteban deftly pocketed the coin, “Muchas gracias Capitán
Campbell. Best of luck today, I have seats reserved near the front today, seats
for the entire family. It cost me fifty cents.”
“That’s double what the Herald was charging last month.”
“Supply and demand Capitán, supply and demand!” and he
unlocked the door.
The barbershop porch was empty as Campbell stepped out. He
jumped down the three steps to the dirt road as if he had suddenly developed a
burst of boyish energy and Rodrigo had to hurry to catch up. They made an
incongruous pair as they walked down the street. The tall gringo and the short
squat caballero, but this was a trip they had made numerous times before and
they arrived at the livery stable on the south end of town without incident.
The six gunmen from the barbershop were standing in a line
before a worn oak desk that was sitting in the shade just inside the livery’s
interior. The desk was manned by two representatives from the El Paso Herald.
Justin Larue, the paper’s managing editor and his crony Eli Crozier, and behind
them leaning against a stall wall was Joe Pendleton- their ace reporter.
Crozier was bent over the table carefully entering in his
ledger the name of the first man in line. The man standing before Larue and
Crozier was the arrogant dapper Eastern dude. The applicant was wearing a cheap
light blue suit, a gray Derby hat and gray spats over his boots. He was
sporting a long waxed moustache that curled up at the ends until it nearly
touched his sideburns.
“All right Mr. McNichol, where do you hail from?” asked
Crozier.
“Boston, Massachusetts - born and raised.”
“Next of kin and their address please Mr. McNichol.”
“That won’t be required. I plan to kill that old soldier
today and collect the Herald’s two thousand dollar bounty.”
“Next of kin and their address, this is required Mr.
McNichol. But if you don’t want to provide the information you can take your
sorry Boston ass out of here,” drawled Larue.
The easterner begrudging gave Crozier the name and address
of his mother. Larue coughed and held out his hand, “Twenty dollars in gold, no
folding money. You know the rules.”
McNichol dropped a Confederate double eagle twenty dollar
gold coin onto the table.
“Excuse me Sir, we are not done,” said Crozier.
“What more do you want - a full biography?”
“Your tally Sir, we require your tally.”
“What do you mean tally?”
“Why - how many men have you fought and killed?” asked
Larue.
“Oh, that’s easy. Fourteen.”
Both Larue and Crozier raised an eyebrow and turned to look
at each other in disbelief. If McNichol had killed fourteen men they most
certainly would have heard of him before today.
McNichol sensed their doubt, “Do you doubt my word gentlemen?
I won’t be disrespected.”
Crozier bent to his ledger, “Fine Sir, fourteen it is.”
Campbell had come in and joined Pendleton in the stable’s
shady interior, the day was starting to heat up and the shade was a welcome
relief.
“Howdy Captain.”
Campbell remained silent, he was there for the shade for the
coolness not conversation and he held the reporter in the same low esteem as he
did the two newspaper men at the desk. All three were vultures that profited
from the death of others. He despised them, but realized that in his present
circumstances they were a necessary evil, but one he barely tolerated.
Pendleton continued talking and Campbell continued to ignore
him, he was completely focused on the six men before him. He had seen two here
before and had a reasonable idea as to their skills and the danger they
presented, the other four were new to Juarez and he watched them intensely. He
observed every movement, they way they held themselves, their manner of speech,
were they calm or sweaty and anxious. He took in every detail. Pendleton had
written in one of his articles that Captain Campbell studied his opponents the
way a tiger watched his prey just before he stalked, killed it and devoured it
with gusto. It was the only newspaper account of his exploits that Campbell had
read, and he’d only read it because Father Esteban had insisted. Campbell had
to admit the El Paso reporter had an excellent way with words, but he was still
a snake in the grass.
Once the administration work of the newspapermen was
finished, Crozier took the six men out behind the stable to a small shooting
range. Across the rear yard a twenty foot long, three foot high field-stone wall
had been built. Positioned on top of the wall about six feet apart were two
sets of six brown whiskey bottles. Sixteen feet in front of the wall a section
of rope had been strung between two posts establishing the position for the
marksmen.
Larue called out, “McNichol you’re up first. Stand at the
rope and draw and fire when I give the word.”
McNichol strutted proudly forward and stood at the rope; he
took a thin black flask from his hip pocket and took a long drink. Campbell was
reasonably certain the man wasn’t quenching his thirst with water. He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle
to his pocket. Then he turned to the look back towards where Campbell stood
under a sun awning with the newspapermen and smiled. He turned away and ground
his feet into the red dust as if he needed better traction. McNichol pushed his
coat away from his left hip and exposed in his belt a .45 caliber 1873 Colt
single action Army revolver, the Equalizer model.
Larue called out, “Fire.”
As the gun leapt forward with considerable grace and speed
Campbell noticed that the front sight had been filed off the muzzle. McNichol’s
arm leveled out and he quickly fired six times. The roar was deafening and the
sound of the bottles exploding was lost in the noise of the gun fire. Larue and
Crozier stood with their hands covering their ears. McNichol slid the gun back
into his belt and walked back towards Campbell.
He said with a smug smile, “That’s how you do it old man,”
and he took a position behind the other gunmen where he began to reload the
Colt.
Crozier scurried forward through the smoke to inspect the
results of McNichol’s shots.
Larue nudged Campbell with his elbow and leaned towards the
Captain, “I’m not a man that approves of violence, but I’m looking forward to
seeing that smug little man’s blood on the ground.”
“Perhaps,” was Campbell’s answer.
Crozier called back, “Five of six.”
The next man up only hit two bottles and then Crozier
replaced the bottles for the next gunmen. Thus all six men had their turn in
the hot sun, firing at stationary glass targets. Crozier dutifully recorded the
results of each man’s attempt in his ledger.
Larue approached them, “Present yourselves at 4:30 today at
the grandstand and I will announce the name of the lucky gunman. Until then
gentleman I suggest you have a good meal and try to relax. It may well be your
last day on this earth.”
Campbell wiped the sweat off his face as the six men left, “Gentlemen,
I’ll see you at the diner. I’m powerful hungry.”
The waiter brought four plates piled high with steak, fried
potatoes and beans and positioned them before Campbell and the newspapermen.
Campbell said a short prayer and then dug into his steak with zeal.
“Are you hung over Campbell?”
“Just a touch, I’ll be right as rain by show time.”
“You’d better be.”
Larue took a drink of beer and then lit a short cigar,
through a mouthful of smoke he said, “I like the Mexican in the white leather
chaps. He has an interesting look and he hit all six bottles. His record is twenty
men. He’ll look good in a photograph propped up in his coffin, with that big
sombrero and those droopy moustaches.”
Crozier added, “True, true - he has the look of a true
desperado. Makes for good press.”
“I disagree,” said Pendleton. “You’ve fought more than your
fair share of Mexican pistoleroes. It should be the obnoxious little dude from
Boston. I can really portray him as a nasty little prick.”
The newspapermen continued this discussion and Campbell
continued with his steak until he was finished. He took a drink of black
coffee, leaned his chair back and said, “The dude.”
“Pardon,” said Larue.
“I said - the dude, he’s an obnoxious little piss-ant, but
he’s a quality gun hand,” and he stood up and pushed his chair back, “I’ll see
you at five. I’m going to change into my uniform.”
Outside Rodrigo was waiting, “Capitán, this gringo wishes to
have a word,” and he pointed to where the tall albino waited in the shade of
the diner’s wall. “I watch your back Capitán.”
Campbell shook hands with the man and said “Well?”
“I need this chance Captain Campbell. I need it bad. That
was my last twenty dollars. I can’t go back to my wife without that bounty. I
can’t feed my family anymore.”
“That’s no concern of mine.”
“I’m good, fast and true. I can kill you. I know I’m the
one.”
Campbell smiled, “You are good. I’m doing you a favor, just
go home to your wife. She’d rather have a live pauper in her bed than lay you
to rest in the cemetery.”
At five in the afternoon the sun had reached a position over
the western sky from where it bore down with a startling intensity over the
promenade that had been constructed in front of the twin sets of bleachers.
Each of the grandstands was twelve rows high and held 240 spectators. It was
unusual to see a full house. Campbell could see that the seats were nearly full
today, garnering a very nice profit for the El Paso Herald. Vendors were mingling
with the crowd hawking small wrapped packages of food and several bartenders
were selling cool beers and sarsaparilla under a tent at the rear of the arena.
This entire production had been the brainwave of Larue.
Before Campbell had first arrived in Juarez he had passed through El Paso and
before he crossed the river he fought and killed a man who accused him of
cheating at poker. Then within a month of settling in Juarez Campbell killed
three more men.
Larue had approached Campbell in the poker room of the Conquistador
Saloon and presented his idea of a modern day gladiator contest, but instead of
swords and spears the combatants would face each other with guns. At first
Campbell refused, but Larue pressed his point. The newspaper editor suggested
that since the gunmen were going to come and challenge Campbell he should at
least be able to profit from the deadly gunfights. Campbell had to agree, his
father had once told him, “If you’re good at something- you should never do it
for free.” Campbell was deadly with a gun, perhaps the best in the entire
Confederacy.
The El Paso Herald had constructed an arena to host the
weekly gunfights, paved the narrow rectangle where the fights occurred and
built a sturdy grandstand of wooden bleachers covered with awnings to keep the
paying spectators cool. In homage to the days of the Roman Empire the shooting
gallery was christened- The Juarez Coliseum.
Under an awning set up near the grandstand McNichol was
posing for a photograph. Crozier took three pictures, posing the dude in a
variety of positions. In each pose he was brandishing his Colt. Then to his
surprise the Mexican in the white leather chaps moved in and stood before the
camera. Campbell stormed over to Crozier.
“What’s this mean? We selected the dude.”
“Better discuss it with the boss Captain. This weren’t down
to me.”
Campbell found Larue talking to the Mexican and the dude at
the center of the promenade.
“What game are you playing at?”And he grasped Larue by the
shoulder and turned him away from the two gunmen.
Larue shook him off, “One moment Captain Campbell,” and he
turned back to the two contestants,
“Take your spots over at the red brick line
and await the signal.”
“I asked you what game are you playing at here?”
“It’s simple Captain. We’re raising the stakes. Profits are
down. Considerably down. We needed to spice things up - to maintain profits
etc. Don’t forget this is a very lucrative business we have here. So today you
fight two men.”
“This wasn’t in our agreement Larue. The deal was - one
gunfight for fifty dollars in gold, plus ten percent of the take for the sale
of the seats. I’m not fighting two duels today.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You do it my way or you go back to
your whore with an empty wallet. And it’s not two separate duels. You fight
them simultaneously.”
“That’s suicide. I
won’t do it.”
“Alright, then you disappoint this fine crowd and Pendleton
writes the article branding the Captain of Death as a craven coward. Your name
won’t be worth two bits. Either way I make money.”
Campbell stood sweating. He was caught between a rock and a
hard place. He could walk away without his payment and be branded a coward. He
wasn’t particularly concerned about that word. He knew he wasn’t craven; after
all he’d ridden with Forrest and Stuart through the smoke and thunder. But he
was broke and he didn’t have any prospects other than turning to bank robbery.
He weighed his options, and then said, “A hundred dollars in
gold and twenty percent of the rake, and I’ll take the gold now.”
Larue laughed, “I knew you were a cold blooded killer, it’s was
just a question of the negotiating an the right price!”
Larue handed him five - twenty dollar gold coins, which
Campbell slipped into his jacket pocket. Campbell smiled, “Larue, you should
remember men that are killers like me are often take offense easily.”
“Pardon me….” But the Captain was already walking towards
his mark at the west end of the arena.
Crozier looked up from the three legged stool he was sitting
on, “If you’re successful Captain, this will be numbers 65 and 66. Good Luck.”
“You look magnificent Capitán,” and Rodrigo touched his hand
to his sombrero in a salute as Campbell walked past him and stepped to his mark
in the arena.
He was wearing his custom made cavalry uniform. Light gray
Jodhpur style pants with a wide gold strip down the leg, gleaming thigh-high
black boots with Mexican silver spurs. A short black Hussar jacket with
multiple rows of silver braid across the chest covered a crisp white cotton shirt;
the sleeves of the jacket were decorated with the swirls of shining silver
braid that indicated his rank of Captain. Perched on his gleaming salt and
pepper hair was a black kepi with a silver C.S.A cavalry cap badge. His
Griswold was set on his left hip in a finely tooled gray leather holster and
the brass cartridges gleamed in the afternoon sunshine.
The crowd went silent as he stood on his mark approximately
twenty feet away from the Mexican and McNichol.
This was when the Honorable Don Martinez Lopez, the Mayor of
Juarez made his appearance as announcer. He began in Spanish and then repeated
his spiel in flawless English.
“Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls.
Welcome to the 33rd gunfight of the Captain of Death here at the
Coliseum, the greatest and may I say deadliest gunman in the world. The illustrious
Capitan Colm Campbell. This is a special occasion, yes, very special, because
today the Captain will make history. You are all thinking how can the great
Captain possibly exceed his previous exploits? Well, let me tell you.”
He paused for effect and then continued, “Today he will
engage two combatants in simultaneous combat. A no rules contest were the
victory goes to the man that walks away. Be that wounded or unscathed. The good
Captain has made history by eliminating his previous sixty-four adversaries.
And today he faces the Dapper Kid, direct from Boston, Massachusetts. An
effective and vicious killer, his tally is fourteen men.”
McNichol bowed to the crowd on either side of the arena and
waved his Derby hat.
“And our second deadly and esteemed contestant, hailing from
Mexico City is Jesús Romero Medina, a calm and effect gunman, his nickname is El
Rayo, the Lightning Bolt. Twenty men have died at his hand.”
While the announcements were being made Campbell remained
quiet and calm, he looked neither to the right or left. He didn’t see the sea
of faces waiting patiently to see blood spilled and men die. If he had looked
to the right, he would have seen Esteban sitting with his wife and four
children and behind them near the back of the bleachers was Esperanza. As he
waited for the signal he prayed, he recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Larue stepped away to the side of the field of fire and took
a large red silk handkerchief from his pocket, “Ready Captain?”
Campbell nodded.
“You know the rules gentlemen, there are no rules. At my
command - commence firing.”
Campbell had spent the afternoon reviewing in his mind how
to best to face McNichol in the gunfight and avoid death. McNichol was fast,
but was he as fast and accurate when the sun was shining in his eyes and he was
wired full of nervous tension. The Mexican Lightning Bolt was another story. He
was much older more mature, more experienced and he didn’t appear to be wired
with fear. He’d kill the Mexican first as he seemed the greater risk.
The Dude and the Mexican were standing facing him, the Dude
was on the Mexican’s right side, they were approximately 3 feet apart.
When Larue yelled -“Fire,” Campbell took two quick steps to
his left and as he drew the Griswold from his hip he dropped to his right knee.
He could hear both the Dude and the Mexican’s guns firing. Campbell’s first
shot took the Mexican in the shoulder and spun him around 180 degrees, the
second bullet went through the back of the Mexican’s right leg.
As he turned to fire at the Dude he felt bullets plucking at
his jacket sleeves. He could see the Easterner’s eyes widen in surprise as
Campbell’s third and fourth shots hit him directly in the chest. McNichol fell
to the paving as twin fountains of blood spewed forth from the wounds.
Campbell’s gun hand dropped towards the ground with a spiral of smoke snaking
up from the muzzle.
The crowd which had been dead silent during the fight went
hysterical, screaming “Captain, Captain and Ángela de la pistol.”
Rodrigo ran forward and clapped Campbell on the shoulder. The
Captain shook him off with a grunt and began to walk towards the exit - his gun
was still in his hand. He paused in front of Larue, raised the revolver and
shot the newspaperman between the eyes.
The sun was dropping behind the adobe walls of the church as
Campbell stepped into the interior’s cool darkness. The only light inside came
from a bank of stubby white candles that the pious had lit before the altar and
from the huge stained glass window depicting Christ in his moment of torment on
the cross. Campbell sat on the smooth worn seat of the confessional.
“Have you come to confess my son?”
“Not this time Father, It appears I need my final rites.”
The priest heard a thud as Campbell’s revolver crashed to
the floor and discharged, then another loud crash as Campbell collapsed against
the confessional wall and his head hit the pierced screen.
The priest rushed to open the confession and assist the
Captain. When he pulled the door open Campbell fell completely out of the booth
onto the stone floor of the church, he landed in a pool of blood that had
seeped out from under the door.
“Mi dios!”
The Captain of Death’s final words were, “Weren’t no giant Father Hortez,
appears that little piss-ant from Boston was faster than I thought.”
