Bully

Outside the wind howled louder than a Commanche on the war path. Snow blistered against the stout cabin walls and settled on its sturdy roof at least three feet high. Night was beginning to settle on the land, a fact that made the hour more forbidding and cold.

Inside the trading post and sometimes hostel for travelers, it was bright, warm and cozy. There were several people sitting at crudely hewn tables. Most of these were from the stage coach that had been stranded earlier by the sudden snow storm. There were a couple locals, mostly trappers who still tried to make a living on the dying fur trade. In the corner of the large center room sat a man alone. He was still dressed in a long winter coat. He had his hat pulled down over his face as he ate the first home cooked meal in two weeks.

Behind the bar was Old Man Tilton. He was a well known character in those parts and was trusted by most as a fair trader. He had several Indian women working for him, and probably they were his wives as well.

Seated together were four people waiting for the stage to start up again. They were traveling as a group from some place back East. It was a good thing for them that the stage had made it to Tilton's Roost, because the eastern clothing they were wearing would not have kept them from freezing to death in the sudden snow storm. Two were men and two were women. They seemed to be a pair of two couples.

Nearby was the stagecoach driver, a burly man named Drinker, and his companion, a smaller man called Zephran ' Salty' Crooner. No one knew if Drinker was the driver's real name or one he had earned a long time ago through exhibitions of prodigious beer drinking. And Salty was famous for his wit and peacock courage.

One of Tilton's Indian women carried a large bowl of soup over to the passenger's table. She was dressed in old leather. She placed the soup bowl on the table and scurried away.

"My God, that savage smells," commented one of the women. She was a pretty blonde with rosy cheeks. Her husband, a lawyer from New York, reached over and patted her gloved fingers.

"Now, now, my dear. These are the backwoods. We have to expect the people to be backward as well," he said.

"Well, Luther, its just human courtesy to wash once in a while," retorted the blonde.

"How long again will our business take in Dodge City?" asked the other gentleman.

"Not too long. I shouldn't need to much time to wrap up the property settlement. I had hoped this would be a vacation of sorts. Sadly, its not turning out so well. With this bad weather and all.," replied the blonde's man.

"If Dodge City is as rowdy as they say it is," said the other woman, "then perhaps it would be best if we did not stay there long. I'm already homesick for New York."

"And I as well," agreed the blonde.

"There, there, Lucy," said the lawyer, "everything is alright. We're warm and fed. Not too bad, is it?"

Lucy glanced over at the Indian woman. "Not if you're a squaw, I guess."

If the Indian woman understood what the blonde was saying her face revealed nothing.

Salty leaned close to his friend and whispered, "High falootin bunch, ain't they?"

Drinker laughed. Using his hand to hide his face he said softly, "Probably never even saw a horse shit." Salty laughed out loud, which drew looks of disapproval from the gentlemen.

Tilton came out from behind the bar and slapped the squaw on her rump. "Get in the back and see to your chores, Chenica," he said gruffly. Then he walked over to the Easterners' table.

"Everything awright, folks?" he asked.

"Fine, my good man, just fine," replied the lawyer.

"As well as can be expected," added Lucy.

Back in his secluded corner the stranger chuckled. The lawyer was going to say something to him when the door to the tavern burst open. Winter stormed into the room as a huge man entered behind it.

"Git that dur closed," bellowed Tilton.

The big man turned and slammed the door shut. Dressed in fur and rawhide he was a huge, dominating figure in the confines of the tavern room. His face was hidden in a great black beard. All that could be seen were two beady blue eyes as they scanned everyone in the room. Then he brushed off the snow and stamped over to the bar.

He leaned his buffalo gun against the bar and slapped a gloved palm down. "Barkeep, git me some liquor. I'm mighty cold and need some warm'in."

"What will you have, stranger?" asked Tilton. Though he knew most people in those parts, Tilton didn't know the stranger.

"Whisky, what else!"

Tilton poured the big man a shot and watched it go down in one gulp. So he poured the man another one.

"Git me sum food!" the big man said.

Tilton called out to his first squaw. Chenica came out quickly from the back and stood behind her man. She had been bought by Tilton two years ago. Then she had been a pretty young woman whose price had been a fine horse. Already she was aging from hard work. She never complained. Her Indian stoicism remained her only protection. Tilton wasn't a bad man, just a hard one.

"Go get this hombre something to eat," ordered Tilton. As the Indian woman ran back to the kitchen, the big man watched her with a greedy eye. He was hungry for more than food.

He turned around, placed his hands on his hips, and addressed the people sitting at the tables. "I'm Black Marko. I be straight from Tennessee, where I was the biggest, baddest man alive. Anyone here think that ain't true."

The people from the East had nothing to say. Nor did the trappers. It was up to Salty to get up and smirk at the giant.

"I reckon you ain't heard of some of the bad men we have around here, Marko. Don't tell us how bad you is. Tell them," said Salty.

"Little man, watch your mouth. What bad men you talk'in about?"

"Why, men like Kid Colt and the Rawhide Kid. Those boys are faster than snakes and tougher than wolves. Better watch yer mouth if yuh meet up with them," warned Salty.

Marko walked over and stared down at the spunky man. "And wer can I find these bad men?"

"How should I know. Wer you ain't looken, I guess. I'm just giving yuh a friendly warning."

Marko laughed and pushed Salty back in his seat. "Thank yuh, yuh old coot. Better you should go warn those fellows."

Chenico brought out Marko's food and put it on a table. The big man sat down and are noisily. The other people in the tavern tried to ignore him. They couldn't leave because the storm outside still raged.

Presently, Marko leaned back in his chair and belched. Over at her table, Lucy turned up her nose in disgust. The big man noticed.

"Something over here yuh don't like, missy?" he asked. The squaw came over to Marko's table to clean up.

Lucy turned her face in the direction opposite of where Marko's table was. The big man laughed and reached out grabbed Chenica. He fondled her buttocks and legs.

"Now, I'm in the mood for something else," he said as he squeezed her breasts. "Should it be this squaw or that blonde lady over there."

Salty started to get up, anger blazing in his brown eyes. His friend pushed him back in his chair. He leaned forward and whispered, "Let their men take care of those women."

Marko got up and dragged the squaw over to the table where the Easterners were sitting. "What do yuh dudes think. Should I take this Indian bitch, or one of yer pretty women?"

The lawyer managed to muster the courage to reply. "I think the Indian woman is more suited for your needs."

Marko pushed his bearded face into the lawyer's. "I think you're right, because you thin blooded bitch couldn't handle a real man, sonny."

He twisted the squaw's arm and pulled her close. "Now let's yuh and me find a place more private," he said with a laugh.

Chenica glanced over her shoulder at Tilton. For a moment her Indian stoicism broke and wild fear widened her eyes. But there was nothing behind the bar that was going to help her. Tilton kept his eyes focused on the floor.

Marko pulled the woman toward a door which led to a small storage room. "Now I'm agonna have some fun. Been a long time."

"I reckon not."

The words were clearly spoken. They came from the far corner where the stranger sat. Marko turned and spat in that direction.

"Who says that?" he bellowed. He pulled a gigantic bowie from his belt. When the stranger got to his feet, the big man burst into mocking laughter.

"I ain't got nothing to be afeered of. Not from a little cus like yuh," said Marko. The stranger was less than average height. Nor had he a broad or thick body. However, this didn't seem to matter to him. His blue eyes blazed beneath the rim of his white hat as he steadily regarded Marko.

"I said no!" he said.

Marko pushed the Indian woman away and stalked over to the smaller man. Twenty feet separated them. The big man brandished his knife with a big grin on his face.

"That's far enough, mistuh," said the small stranger. As he did he opened his coat and let it slide to the rough cabin floor. He was dressed in dark blue, with double breasted buttons on his shirt. At his hips were two guns. His hands arched over those guns as he warned the big man.

"Yuh gonna shoot me, little man," taunted Marko. He brought his knife up to his ear. Then with a flick of one thick wrist he hurled it at the stranger.

Faster than the eye could follow, the stranger drew one gun and shot the knife out of the air. An instant later the smoking gun was back in its holster.

"I said no." repeated the gunman.

"Yuh puny punk. I ain't carrying no weapons now. If yuh shoot me it will be murder. I'm gonna tan yur hide," bellowed Marko as he rushed the stranger with his mighty arms spread wide. The stranger made no move to draw. Instead he kicked his table toward the giant, catching Marko at the knees, and knocked him down. Marko braced himself on his arms and looked up at the stranger just in time to catch a faceful of chair. It was a sturdy chair made of thick wood. Marko's ugly face split under the blow, and he fell forward in a pool of his own blood.

Silence thickened in the cabin. Then the stranger spoke.

"Hey, barkeep, yuh want to take out the trash."

Tilton came over and pulled Marko's broken body into one of his back storage areas. The stranger took off his hat and adjusted his fiery red hair. Then he picked up his table, gathered a new chair and asked the squaw to bring him some more food.

The Easterners sat in stunned silence. Not so stunned was Salty. He shook his head and spoke to his partner.

"Know who that hombre is, Drinker?"

"Not sure, Salty. Who is he?"

"Why that little fellow's no other than the Rawhide Kid."

THE END