Loe raamatut: «Damn Loot!»

Mario Micolucci

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DAMN LOOT!

A Western Novel

by Mario Micolucci

Translation

by Chelsi Craddock

Story and cover art by Mario Micolucci

To my father, with whom I have shared a life-long passion for the genre.

Although set in a real geo-historical context, it is a work of fantasy. Therefore, names, characters, places and events are the result of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to facts, places or people is completely random. The mention of famous people who really existed only serves to define the historical background of the events. In fact, they never take an active part in the development of the plot.

Any total or partial reproduction or any diffusion in digital format of the work, not expressly authorized, is to be considered a violation of copyright.

Index.

Little Pit.

Gratitude.

This side of the law.

Good manners.

Good business.

A crazy plan.

Dirty whores.

An honest man.

The manly maid.

The old-fashioned way.

Heaven and Hell.

A sacred right.

Nameless souls.

Silver fever.

An act of mercy.

Damn Billygoat!

A just reward.

A pre-drawn verdict.

Damn loot!

1 Little Pit.

Little Pit was a miserable little town. It always had been. Miserable, dusty and run down.

It was born as decaying as the souls of those who built it, and the persistent beating of the sun only made matters worse. The only thing that could explain its continued existence was a small watering hole from which to draw a few buckets of muddy water to sprinkle over the sparse vegetables. The watering hole was the only one for miles, but it wasn't worth much to anyone, save the occasional drifter who stumbled across it after surviving a journey across No Man's Land.

Anyone who came to the town certainly did not do so for enjoyment. Many of its inhabitants had less-than-respectable pasts that they were trying to escape. Sometimes they were even brought there against their will. Whether they were on the run or had been banished to that snake-pit hellhole to die of exposure, the occasional visitor would usually appear at the watering hole, weary and nearly dead, without a penny to their name. If they did happen to arrive there with any wherewithal, it was so rare that it would never have been enough to sustain any local business.

In Little Pit, no saloon was to be found. At least, not anymore. One day many suns ago, an enterprising Joe Otthims came back with a load of beer and whiskey, the source of which is better left a mystery. It was enough to put behind a countertop and call it a saloon, which is exactly what Joe did in his rickety old cowshed. As not entirely unpredictable, the years came and went, but the patrons were few. Old Joe, having nothing better to do with his time waiting for patrons, whittled away at his inventory until he had no more. He ended up a drunkard without a drop to drink.

Through the years, Joe’s saloon crumbled into kindling until all that remained was its welcome sign. Now illegible and softened by rot, it dangled on its last remaining rusty hook. It swung in distress with every gust of wind. The grim creaking sound it produced was typically the only noise that filled the unnerving silence of that place. It was a place made of crumbling buildings whose inhabitants were equally worn and weary souls. The town was a hodgepodge of transients, fugitives, and outcasts. The women were usually either discarded wives or whores so used up they weren’t employable even by the worst brothels. More often, both.

Truth be told, not all the wayfarers who sought relief from the well were completely destitute. In that lawless and godless place, however, the art of making a living through commerce was completely lost on the townspeople. To compensate, many took advantage of the persuasive power of firearms to earn their keep. The unlucky newcomer who brought anything of value became the unwilling prey of the crook who got to him first. The resulting spoils usually offered them at least a few dollars to get properly roostered at Joe’s saloon. In fact, the few patrons that Joe had in his best years were mostly his own fellow town folk who were the first to take advantage of the generous donations of passers by.

On a harshly dry and windy day like many others, a man arrived on horseback and approached the watering hole. Apart from his hat and boots, he wore only dusty, threadbare rags. However, strapped to the saddle was a curiously suspicious parcel. The inhabitants of Little Pit were very fond of curiously suspicious parcels. In fact, curiously suspicious parcels very often contained happy little surprises. The man was well armed and seemed to be in quite hurry – all excellent signs. His surly demeanor and body language suggested that he was not to be prodded. However, before that theory could be proven, Hugg Badfinger put a bullet in his head.

The watering hole was perfectly framed by the little window on the door of the outhouse; the ideal spot from which Hugg Badfinger could point his rifle without being seen. Hugg never relieved himself without Jagg, his tried and true Jacob Hawken rifle. It wasn’t that strange of a habit to keep. After all, there were plenty of dandies out there who never did their business without a book. Hugg couldn’t read, but his aim sure as heck made up for it.

The sound of the shot drew some attention, but it was his kill and he had no intention of sharing the spoils with anyone. Hugg sent his young son to do the picking while he stayed back and made sure no one got the bright idea to enter his space.

There was no need. Everyone in Little Pit knew that Hugg’s left index finger was as prone to bouts of cold-blooded murder as a baby was prone to bouts of colic. No one was safe from his unpredictable wrath; not even his oldest boy who he gunned down over a petty squabble and his Misses who tried to protect him. God rest their souls.

There was no doubt that of all the scum that Little Pit had to offer, he was the most loathsome. As a result, he was also the most feared and respected.

Scurrying around like a ferret, the young boy expertly raided the corpse, pocketing the valuables. He then grabbed the bridle and returned to their dilapidated shack with the horse in tow. While all of this was going on, Hugg popped out of the outhouse, taking more care to keep the rifle well aimed than to finish pulling up his drawers. He walked heedfully up to the house, his empty holster not the only thing swinging in the dusty breeze.

“All right, kid, how’d we do?” The man’s bulky mass loomed over the boy who, in contrast, was slim and small in stature; his mother’s son. Hugg had no doubt, however, that he was the boy’s father. Not because he had ever trusted the harlot he had regretfully married; as far as he was concerned, only the shiny forty-four in his belt was to be trusted. He had no doubt because of the thick and wiry reddish hair, freckled complexion, and snaggle-toothed features they had in common.

“Yes, Paw. I have a nice cowhide belt. In the holster there’s a brand new Colt Navy, then I found this gold paperweight with about a hundred bucks in it. I really shoulda taken the boots and hat. They weren’t bad at all, but in my hurry I didn’t get a chance to take ‘em. You want me to go back and fetch ‘em?” The boy finished his sentence without meeting his father’s gaze. He never looked anyone in the eye. He observed the world with meticulous detail, but never let it show. He was the only person in the entire town with the skill enough to be able to exchange more than four words with Hugg without sending him on a rampage. Finn was his given name, but everyone called him Weasel.

“No, let those four scoundrels out there scrounge for scraps. That way they won’t bother us for a while. Y’know son, if you wanna get a pack of dogs out of your hair, toss a bone at’em and wait for’em to tear each other up.” The boy had already come to that conclusion on his own, and knowingly chose not to pick the generous guest completely clean. He was getting pretty good at letting his father believe that he was the one in charge.

“Whew, I thought I messed it all up again. What do you say we take a gander at what’s in the parcel, Paw?”

“Hold your horses, boy! Take the saddle off the horse and put him in the lean-to before he shits all over the parquet.” With a shit-eating grin he spat on the floor, which was made not of parquet, but of rough cut, split, raw wood planks.

The boy did as he was told and led the animal through a back door that allowed access to the shed without having to leave the house. When he returned, he found that his father had just opened the cloth of the parcel on the table and was evaluating its contents. His eyes glistened as he surveyed the haul.

People always said that Badfinger was heartless. Oh, how wrong they were! The deep sentiment that Hugg felt about treasure was both tender and all-consuming.

The objects in the carefully obtained haul he was scanning resembled the image he had had in his mind when he first laid eyes on the package strapped to the stranger’s saddle. There was only one thing he hadn’t anticipated: the quantity. As he scanned over the banknotes, which were carefully folded and secured with a fine golden clip, he grew ever more elated. Goods like this couldn’t belong to the likes of him, let alone the baboon he just offed. That guy would have either spent the money or kept it crumpled in his breeches. The hat and boots were too prissy for him too; they clashed with the rest of his getup like a glass of milk on a saloon bartop.

“So, Paw, how’d we fare?” Damn good. Too good. Weasel knew it already, and in his gut and he was starting to get worried.

“When’re you gonna learn how to valuate a haul? You can’t figure it out on your own?” he replied, winded with excitement. “I’d wager to say the guy and his cronies have been aiming high. They must’ve cleaned out the whole family of some big shot. Look at these jewels! I never seen diamonds like this. And this little revolver? It’s got ivory and mother of pearl in it, with solid gold finish. By ginger, I’m droolin’ all over myself!” He ran his hand across his mouth and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s pretty fine, but damn near useless. It’s the kind of so-called weapon them Nancies like to carry,” he wiped some more spittle with his filthy sleeve then used it to try to shine the pistol. “It even has a backloader. Wouldn’t want to get gunpowder all over Nancy-boy's pretty little hands! Reckon its owner must’ve had it made just for him,” he continued, examining it.

“Dang, Paw, I’ve heard about ‘em before, but I’ve never seen a gun you can load in a single stroke!”

“Simmer down, kid. Backloading is a stupid invention and won’t stick around for long. If you want to shoot straight, it’s best to load the chamber yourself. Leave the toys to the babies. Way I see it, this ain’t no different than the other baubles we found in our haul. Good to get a few dollars, but not something you use to put a bullet in somebody’s behind.”

He pulled out his long-barreled gun which he kept squeezed between his pot belly and his belt. He then slammed it on the table next to the smaller one and stood up straight, as though he were introducing a prize-winning hog. “Now this is a weapon. Eats black powder like a sow and shits it out in forty-four caliber pellets! Progress advances and the world becomes more and more confusing, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: when talkin’ weapons, nothin’ shoots better than a Walker Colt and that’ll still be the case a hundred years from now. Sure as shootin’.”

The overall value of the loot was very high; much more than he had ever possessed. Because of this, the man was in a fantastic mood. After he pinched his son’s cheeks raw, he burst into a resounding laugh.

"Finn, get me my Navy." His tone became serious, pensive.

"Right away, Paw!"

Is he really doing this? thought the boy as he handed it to him in its black and shiny leather holster.

Hugg pulled out the revolver, weighed it and flipped over in his hand. Being a thirty-six caliber, it wasn’t a particularly powerful weapon, but it would do the trick. In his huge wooden palms it looked like a purse pistol.

"It’s well made. A tad small. Little more than a toy, but for a kid like you it'll do fine," he said, handing it over to his son. He did so with some reluctance. He had no intention of using it anytime soon. He could actually make a few bucks hocking it, but now that he had that spread of riches in his possession he had to have someone to watch his back. Not that he trusted the little snot much, but he was the person he was the least wary of. More than that, he was cheap labor. All in all, he had pretty much hired him with a play gun and some ammo.

Finn took the gun with gratitude. “I’ll put it to good use. I did have a great teacher after all.” His old man didn’t ever really spend much time teaching him how to use one, but he was there nearly every time his father cleaned, loaded, and shot his. Finn had always been very observant. On top of that, his father had let him practice on a rusty old Paterson he had picked off of a dead Buffalo soldier. It had a little too much play between the barrel and the cylinder, but heck, it was a gun, and for years it was the only toy he had until it finally quit on him.

“If I ever find myself backed into a corner, I want you to have my back. You'd better not forget.”

If there was anyone in the all the West with an impeccable memory it was Finn Badfinger. Even the most minute and unimportant details of people, places, and events were indelibly etched in his mind. No, his memory was anything but lacking, and he would prove it.

"I won't forget, Paw!" Weasel took the revolver, put it back in the holster and fastened the belt on his waist. Then, with a swift action, he pulled it out, pretending to point it at an invisible adversary. He threw it into the air, grabbed it again, twirled it on one finger and put it back in place in one quick movement. The award for his performance was the back of a hand square in the jaw. The boy found himself on the floor with a red, swollen cheek and a puffy lip.

"Where did you learn that buffoonery? When you pull out the gun, it's for shootin’ and when you shoot, you shoot. Period. You want to be a gunslinger or a two-penny circus act?"

Weasel looked at his feet. “Sorry, Paw.”

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it. If I catch you playin’ to the gallery again I’ll ram that toy between your cheeks and pull the trigger so fast you won’t know what hit you.” He knew from experience that his father was dead serious.

Hugg went back to the table with the haul to try to summon back the good mood he was in. Muttering under his breath, he struggled to calculate how much he could possibly get for it all. The sums he was coming up with were in the thousands of dollars. That cheered him up a bit. It became short-lived, however, when he found himself unrolling a large sheet of paper. He hated when he couldn’t understand things, and there was nothing he could understand less than a document full of writing. One thing he did know: rich and powerful folks could perform miracles by showing a piece of paper like that one. It looked official and the stamps seemed familiar, like the designs printed on banknotes. If tiny banknotes could hold so much power, maybe this big one would get him even further.

As he looked on, Weasel’s stomach grew increasingly uneasy. It was something Hugg had mentioned in passing that Finn didn’t think his father fully took note of while in the throes of his greedy bliss. The dead thief had not acted alone. Sure, he was alone when he had gotten to Little Pit, but that probably meant that he double-crossed his accomplices and took all the loot for himself. No doubt they would be on his heels in no time. If that band of outlaws could overpower the carriage of a big-shot, who when traveling with valuable goods would usually have some kind of security with them, they were not safe there. He had to turn the conversation back to the accomplices.

All in all, his old man was a clever man. Given enough time, he would always come to sensible conclusions. The threat, however, was imminent, and his greedy bastard of a father was so intoxicated by the bounty before him that he needed a little help to get back on track.

“Paw, you know what that paper is?” he began.

"No, but it could be worth somethin’." How could it not? If it had been placed among the most precious jewels, there had to be a more than valid reason.

"Why did you say ‘the guy and his cronies’ before?"

"Don’t be stupid, boy. You have any idea how many watchmen rich folks have when they run around? You think that goose made off with all that loot by his lonesome?"

"I see, Paw. But where do you think they are now?"

"How in tarnation should I know? As far as I'm concerned, they can all go..." Hugg froze. He stared off into the distance for a few seconds, then barked, “Holy hell! We got to get out of here!”

1 Gratitude.

Hugg Badfinger and his son ran around like headless chickens as they scrambled in preparing to skip town. To avoid unwanted attention, they distributed their haul between the pockets of their vests and the saddle bags of their two horses: one new recruit and good ‘ol Frik. The latter was a scrub of a horse. He was almost a mule in both appearance and gait, but he had always been reliable and devoted to his owner. In looking at him, there wasn’t much to expect in the way of physical abilities. Moreover, his unsightliness was a great deterrent to thieves. If anyone wanted to steal a horse, they would be looking for a more presentable animal - not this poor, raggedy beast. Despite Frik’s years of honorable service, his master would not bat an eye at the choice between haggard ‘ol Frik and the glimmering chestnut steed he had just procured. Poor Frik was handed down to Weasel. Neither seemed to mind at all.

Having two mounts would make the desert around them decidedly smaller, but it was just past noon and crossing it at that time would not be pleasant at all. Perhaps it would be easier to wait a couple of hours before heading out, in order to reach the nearest town by nightfall. Better yet, leave before dawn and arrive with the sun already high, but still not really hot. By doing so, they would be taking advantage of the cover of darkness to leave the town without risking exposure to gunfire from their curious neighbors. Not that they shot at each other at every opportunity, but that curiously suspicious package and their sudden hurry may have piqued someone’s interest. If this was true, the only way to accommodate them would be through about fifty grams of black powder, a little lead, and a smoking barrel.

They were all valid considerations, but the most likely scenario was that someone had caught on and was now organizing a band of ruthless professionals to spring on them at any moment. They may have even organized a little frolic in the town square. A frolic of bullets, fire, and death.

Another alternative could be to stash the corpse to throw off any pursuers. It would have undoubtedly been the easiest and safest way, but it would likely raise the alarm among the townspeople and immediately remove all doubt as to the value of the stolen goods. If that happened, they would have advanced on them like a pack of rabid canines.

Badfinger concluded that, as always, he would go with the most cynical choice. His loot was worth too much. It was worth much more than the miserable existence of a bunch of deadbeats. Nobody's life, apart from his, was more precious than that haul. If those hypothetical outlaws killed off all of the town’s scoundrels, they would be doing him a favor because it would reduce the number of potential witnesses. That loot was his. His and his alone. He was possessive and could not bear the idea of anyone else knowing of its existence. He even had to push away unhealthy thoughts regarding the fate of his own son.

One look at Hugg was all Weasel needed. He immediately knew what he had decided and took action. They mounted their horses and bolted out of the shed in a cloud of dust and wood splints. In doing so, they did not allow anyone time to react in offense.

"Paw, if we wear out the horses like this, they’ll never make it across the desert!" the boy objected, while Frik huffed and puffed to keep pace with the chestnut horse. The scrub was holding his own by comparison, but only because the other mount was worn out from the charge he had just made.

"We ain’t crossing the desert, we're hiding out. Now shut up and follow me, nitwit!” His cruel and barbaric ways could make him look like a brainless cretin who relied on violence to get what he wanted, but Finn knew very well that his father was no fool. Once again, he had opted for the best solution.

They spurred on the horses until they disappeared behind a hill, thus giving the impression of advancing deep into the desert. Once out of sight, they changed direction and climbed a high hill from its only passable side. Its other side, the one visible from the town, was nothing but a steep cliff. There, the ground was calcareous and consisted of innumerable caves and ravines: the ideal place from which to see without being seen.

They stashed the stolen goods in a small natural hollow where they took care to further conceal them with foliage. They tied up the horses in a cave, then crawled up the bank of the ravine to keep watch on Little Pit.

"We’ll leave for Agua Dulce before dawn," Hugg said.

"I don't understand, Paw. Since it's a stone's throw from here, why don't we just go straight to El Paso? It's a big city and a couple of extra gringos won’t be noticed. Agua Dulce has so few people we’ll be noticed right away. You’re the one who told me that! "

"Don't you go on thinkin’ that now you got a gun you can tell me how things are! If I’m the one’s taught you those things, it goes to show that I know more than you. Lots of the folks headed for El Paso make a stop in Agua Dulce to cool down and water their horses. So, smart-ass, we ain’t gonna get noticed there either. Also, as you said: there ain’t many folks there, so that means we have less a chance of running into a damn bounty hunter what knows my face. You know your harlot mother and moron brother ain’t the only ones they know I killed.”

"Sorry Paw, I’m still learning." Weasel’s eyes flashed with fire for a fleeting moment. However, he kept his gaze low, as he always did, so the older man did not notice.

Night fell, and with it, a bitter cold. The damned desert was always that way; It would fry you during the day, then it would freeze you after sunset. Nevertheless, the two had years of experience in that hostile land, so they never traveled without a blanket. Even Finn had one of his own. It was half worm-eaten and home to more than a few lice, but it was warm and that was all that mattered.

It wasn’t long until they spotted a group of eight individuals under the moonlight in the clearing below. They stopped their horses some distance from the town and sent a scout ahead. The scout removed his coat before he rolled in the dust and continued, on foot. They must have heard the rumors of the unconventional hospitality that Little Pit offered their guests when they arrived. The man, covered head to toe in filth, looked like a wretch of no interest to the townspeople. This would allow him to approach the watering hole undisturbed to feign drawing water while scanning the town.

He arrived in the town and was immediately approached by Studd Mash, a.k.a. Saloon. The man had one leg shorter than the other, which was how they recognized him from a distance and under the moonlight. With his slanted posture and his unbalanced gait he resembled the tattered old sign which was once Joe’s welcome sign, which incidentally seemed to have the word “Saloon” faded on its face, at least as far as Hugg could tell. They watched the man hobble over to the guest, roughing him up in a search for valuables and then leaving, shaking his arms in frustration. As he walked away, his hat fell to the ground and he picked it up.

"Paw, that coot is wearing our benefactor’s hat!"

“Crimany, son! How the heck do you see that?”

"I didn't see it, I guessed it. His would never have fallen to the ground because he has a string that keeps it tied under his chin. He put it on there so his hat wouldn’t keep falling off on account of his hobbling.”

"I think you might be right. Only Studd would be dumb enough to show off his stolen hat to the first drifter in sight. Well, ‘bout now I’m thinkin’ the town frolic is a sure thing.”

The incognito scout sat on the ground with his back against a planked wall pretending to rest. After some time, he slowly got up and disappeared behind a barn. Some moments later, a fire broke out. He must have hidden some burning fuel in his leather pouch. That must have also been the signal. While the townspeople came out into the open to try to tame the flames, the group of outlaws galloped toward them. They rode in like a wave of death and caught the townspeople by surprise, taking out anyone brave enough to draw their weapon. A few anxious moments were enough for the few surviving inhabitants of Little Pit to have been disarmed and lined up for interrogation. Of the assailants, only one seemed to have cashed in his chips.

Meanwhile, some of the outlaws began raiding homes to avoid being shot from behind. The risk was real. In fact, before they could react, someone had fired a couple of shotgun blasts from Sean's house. The first of the two made its mark, taking out another of the invaders.

“Only six left now”, said Hugg.

“Wrong... You didn’t count me.”

Clack

The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked sent his words from the tip of his tongue down to the pits of his bowels.

Father and son both put their hands in the air and slowly turned around. A thin man with hate in his eyes was pointing the business end of a shotgun at them. With a barely-there mustache and a grin like a fox in a hen house, his appearance was a real slap in the face. He was, however, on the right end of the barrel, so all said and done he had the upper hand. Hugg, making the best of his predicament, contented himself with a smirk and spat on the ground.

“I came up this hill to get a bird’s eye view of the plain. Y’know, we don’t like surprises,” he tilted his head back, “Lo and behold, look who I find perched on top – two ugly ass buzzards ready to dine with the corpses.” The man ran his tongue across his lips. “C’mon! What you just standing there for? Unbuckle them holsters and throw ‘em under my feet. Any funny business and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

Their choices were few. They had to do what he said.

“All right now, maggots, kick that shootin’ iron over the cliff.”

It wasn’t just some old, shoddy gun, it was a buffalo gun, and a damn good one at that. Hugg hesitated for a moment. He instinctively looked for reassurance in his son’s eyes, but found none, as the boy was pointedly looking down at his feet. It was as though the man had asked him to drop his drawers. Without his precious Jagg he felt naked as a worm. The forefinger of his tormentor began to put pressure on the trigger and once again, Hugg had no choice but to do what he was told. He sent his weapon - his beloved weapon - to its violent end, smashed on the rocks below. If he got out of this alive he would first have to find himself another rifle, or at least a decent pistol.

"Come on, gentlemen! Let’s go join the others down there. You sure don’t wanna miss the party!” Badfinger realized he despised the man’s voice even more than he despised his face.

“You didn’t happen to’ve run into a gunslinger on horseback in the past few hours, did you? We’ve been searching for him all across the desert. He just means so much to us,” said the ruffian during their descent. He walked a few steps behind them keeping them at gunpoint.

In situations like this, it’s always best to keep one’s mouth shut. Both hostages stayed silent.

“I get it - you don’t want to sing. On the other hand, I always thought vultures loved to be heard. It’s pretty sad to have to go to a party without being able to serenade the crowd. But don’t worry; once we’re down there I’ll introduce you to Lane, and I guarantee you he knows how to make you sing like finches.”

Yep, he talked too damn much. In any case, Hugg felt his blood freeze in his veins at the prospect of being tortured.

The day had started out to be the best day he had ever had, but now it was on its way to conclude as the worst one.

BANG!

“You two! Turn around slowly.” That most certainly was not the same irritating voice as before.

Their former captor stared wide-eyed at the sky from a rocky shelf several feet down from the path. It seemed that his look of surprise was due in part to the hole in his forehead. A man with an icy glare and fairly well-groomed travel clothes peered at them from behind a Colt. He had another revolver on the left side of his belt, along which a battery of pre-loaded charges were visible. The guy was the very picture of a lawman.

"I'm Cardigan Smith. Texas Ranger. Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the company of that criminal?” He was a lawman, and a dangerous one. He wasn’t the usual high-ranking windbag. He was a Ranger. That meant that he was a skilled gunman or a former bounty hunter who had chosen to work for the state. The operative arm of the law.