Everett Brooks and the Midnight Riders: Part 1
Welcome to Heaven's Hollow.
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
“The good sheriff usually doesn’t let folks walk around the town heeled, but he seems to have made an exception twice over in your case.”
Everett Brooks looked up from his breakfast to see a well dressed, barrel-chested man standing over him and studying the two Colt Open Top revolvers holstered in his belt.
“Three times over if you count that,” Brooks motioned to a rifle leaning against the wall behind where he was sitting.
“A Henry repeater, eh?”
“Vintage 1860.”
“Get that in the War, did you?”
Everett Brooks nodded perfunctorily.
“Fought for the Union, judging by the Henry.”
Brooks’ face darkened slightly, and he shook his head before answering, “On the losing side, matter of fact. I was one of Mosby’s boys.”
“How in God’s name did a militia boy like yourself come by such a fine specimen?”
“Took it off a dead Yank at Loudoun Heights.”
“Did you also come by that scar at Loudoun?” The stranger pointed at the old wound that slashed its way across Everett Brooks’ forehead.
“Was a different scrum where that happened. One I’m not too inclined to talk about, truth be told.”
The stranger stuck out a bearish hand, “My apologies, sir. Here I’ve been bombarding you with questions and I’ve yet to introduce myself. The name’s Duncan MacTavish, but most people around here just call me The Scotsman.”
“Most people everywhere call me Everett Brooks.”
“May I join you?” MacTavish gestured at the chair opposite Brooks, who gave a cursory nod as the big man settled into his seat. “I must confess I already knew who you were. I’ve seen your face staring out from many a Wanted poster over the years, which is why I’m surprised the sheriff’s allowed a well known troublemaker such as yourself to wander the town armed to the gills.”
“My troublemaking days are over. These days I hunt bounties. Sheriff’s got no cause to deny me the tools of my trade. Anyways, what’s your excuse for carrying that .45?” Brooks nodded at the nickel-plated revolver in a cross-draw holster on The Scotsman’s left hip.
“Oh, this? Well, being the richest man in town has its privileges,” MacTavish grinned broadly.
“I can see that,” Brooks grunted as he took a sip of coffee.
“So what brings you to Heaven’s Hollow?”
“I already told you: hunting bounties.”
“Anyone in particular?”
Brooks took another swig of his coffee, set the cup down, and fixed The Scotsman with a pointed stare, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. MacTavish?”
For the first time since he had interrupted Everett Brooks’ breakfast, Duncan MacTavish fell silent. Brooks could see turmoil playing out behind the man’s eyes as he wrestled with himself over what to discuss with the bounty hunter. Finally, The Scotsman sighed in resignation and leaned forward.
“I own a saloon just down the street. You might’ve seen it: The Scotsman’s Hall? I also own a large cattle ranch a few miles outside of town, as well as a majority stake in the gold mine in the hills above Heaven’s Hollow. As I said before, I’m the richest man in this town. That means I’m used to getting what I want. And what I want right now is to hire you.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“You’re a gunslinger, and a killer. A damn good one too, if the stories about you are to be believed. I want to hire you to do what you do best.”
“I’m not a killer-for-hire, Mr. MacTavish. Not anymore.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not asking you to kill anyone.”
“Then what is it you want from me?”
“There’s a gang of road agents been terrorizing this town for a few months now, attacking miners, travelers, and traders. They’re starting to seriously cut into my profits from the gold mine, as well as threatening the prosperity of the rest of the town. I want you to deal with them.”
“Get the sheriff and his deputies to handle it,” Brooks waved dismissively.
“For all his bluster, our good sheriff is a lazy coward. He wants the glory of the job without any of the responsibility that’s supposed to go along with it. As far as his deputies go, I think they’re working with the gang.”
“So then hire Pinkertons.”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars a day!” MacTavish declared earnestly. “That’s more than a Pinkerton makes.”
“But not more than I’ll make if you’d just let me deal with my bounties.”
“I’m not asking you to give up on your damned bounties! As a matter of fact, I think you’ll find I’m trying to make your life easier.”
“How’s that?” Brooks raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“I know what happened between you and the Midnight Riders. Bloody hell, everyone west of the Mississippi knows about that. I also know it’s them you’re hunting, and they’re the reason you’ve found yourself in our little frontier paradise.”
“You sure do seem to know a lot for a pampered, rich son of a bitch.”
Duncan MacTavish let out a burst of good natured laughter, “You’re not wrong. A man in my position has to be well informed. It doesn’t hurt that you’re famous, like it or not.”
“I used to like it. Not too sure how I feel about it these days.”
“If you’ll permit me to get to the point: I think these road agents are members of your old gang.”
“So that’s what he meant,” Brooks whispered enigmatically.
“Who meant what now?”
“Oh…an old friend of mine who lives in town. He wrote me a letter about a month ago telling me I should visit Heaven’s Hollow as soon as struck my fancy. Though he recommended sooner than later.”
“I see. And who is this erstwhile compatriot of yours? Maybe I know him, and can point you in his direction.”
“You ought to know him. He works for you: Pistol Pete Crosby.”
Duncan MacTavish roared with laughter once again, “My good man, I think I would know it if a gunslinger of such renown as Pete Crosby worked for me.”
“Pistol Pete Crosby,” Brooks corrected. “And he does work for you, except you know him as Rudabaugh Jenkins.”
MacTavish was stunned, “Rudabaugh Jenkins is Pistol Pete Crosby?! That…shaggy, wild haired mountain man is one of the deadliest gunfighters in the Territory? Why, I had no idea!”
“I expect that’s on purpose. There’s a lot of folks out there who are keen to bury him.”
“And how is it you came to make his acquaintance?”
“He’s a Virginia boy, like myself. We both rode with Mosby during the War, then we came out west together and ran a crew for awhile. I haven’t seen him in years, so you can imagine my surprise when I got his letter.”
There was a sudden commotion outside, followed by a woman screaming, and a solitary gunshot echoed in the tranquil morning air.
“Everett Brooks! I know you’re in there! You get on out here, you yellow bastard! NOW!” The words were bellowed in a rickety cadence of slurred speech. Everett Brooks narrowed his eyes in suspicious familiarity. Without saying a word, he got up from the table, walked out of the hotel’s plush dining room, through the elegantly appointed lobby, and out onto the wooden sidewalk. Duncan MacTavish followed right behind, a mystified expression on his face.
It was early fall in the Montana Territory, and the first hint of snow lingered on a mild breeze. Everett Brooks stood with his arms crossed on the top step of the sidewalk, and a haggard looking cowhand standing just below him in the muddy street. Passersby gave them a wide berth even as they watched the unfolding drama with curiosity.
“Well, if it ain’t the great outlaw hisself,” slurred the clearly intoxicated man. Brooks regarded the disheveled stranger with a bemused stare.
“Tommy Tramer, as I live and breathe. Never thought I’d see the unfortunate day we’d cross paths again.”
“You gonna wish we hadn’t. I hate your yellow guts for what you done to me.”
“Tommy, you were a useless and stupid drunk then, and it looks like you’re still a useless and stupid drunk. Much as I’d like to do otherwise, I’m gonna let you walk away. This time.”
“You know he let me back into the Riders after they done in you and your woman? Whole gang knows you’re here, Everett Brooks, and they’re gonna come for you.”
“Good, you saved me the trouble of having to find them.”
“You’re damn right, cause I’m fixin’ to deliver you myself.” Tommy Tramer tightened his grip on his revolver. Everett Brooks didn’t move, and his arms remained crossed.
“Walk away, Tommy. It ain’t going to end well for you if you decide to be dumb and draw down on me.”
Tommy Tramer was deaf to reason, his face red with drunken fury. He started to raise his gun. Before Duncan could register what happened, a thunderous crack rang out, and Tommy Tramer dropped in the mud, writhing in agony as he clutched a bloody hole in his thigh. Meanwhile, Everett Brooks stood impassively on the sidewalk, a smoking Colt Open Top held in his right hand. He holstered the revolver, stepped into the street, and crouched down next to Tommy.
“You sonofabitch!” his victim howled. “I’m gonna lose my leg!”
“Relax, Tommy. I shot you in the meat of your thigh. Worst you’ll have is a limp for the rest of your life, which won’t be very long if I ever see your sorry ass again.”
Everett Brooks regained his feet and turned to Duncan. “Let me get my jacket and my rifle, and we’ll go see what old Pistol Pete knows about the Riders.”
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Quickdraw southern bounty hunter
put a round in a criminal's thigh
He won't be walking anymore
at least not anyplace afar by.
Why do I keep imagining Dr. King Schultz?