The Bastard Boys of Montezuma

By Jaromy Henry

Cash Holliday and Marshall Earp are the illegitimate sons of the most notorious gunslingers in the West. Despite a lingering bad economy in 1896, the two operate a flourishing detective agency, largely thanks to selective partnerships.

When Sheriff Kristof Varga hands Marshall a bounty for the infamous Cactus Kid, they realize their business could change overnight. But Cash receives a letter stating some of his late father’s possessions are in Tombstone and he becomes interested in a different pursuit. Faced with lying to his best friend, crazy superstitions, a girl with a mysterious past, and a Pinkerton agent who is hot on their trail, Cash must decide if he’s willing to risk their lives for the secrets of a father he never knew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359371969

Book preview

The Bastard Boys of Montezuma

The Bastard Boys Of Montezuma

COPYRIGHT PAGE

Copyright © 2018 by Jaromy Henry

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without the express consent of the author.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

Henry, Jaromy

The Bastard Boys of Montezuma / by Jaromy Henry

Summary: Cash Holliday and Marshall Earp are the illegitimate sons of two of the most famous men in the West. When Cash learns some of his father’s possessions are at a pawn shop in Tombstone, he will have to decide whether the secrets of a man he never knew are more important than their safety.

ePub ISBN: 978-0-359-37196-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-359-36062-8

Printed in the U.S.A.

First American Edition, 2018

ALSO BY JAROMY HENRY

The Blood Maker and the Witch’s Curse

For Myranda Rose and Madyson

Fast is fine, but accuracy is everything. Wyatt Earp

Montezuma, KS

1896

Chapter 1

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Across the street, I counted six crows perched on the rooftop of the funeral home, which was as ironic as it was prophetic. Those with a superstitious disposition claimed if you saw this bird all by its lonesome, you would suffer a terrible curse of bad luck. These same folks also steered clear of black cats, avoided walking under ladders, and were extra careful when handling mirrors. Yet, they believed two crows bestowed good fortune upon their onlookers. I’ve never heard tell of what the popular stance was on finding three, four, or even five of these luck-bringing black birds, but my theory was logical enough: it’s a game of chance determined on-the-fly by the highest authority present at the time of observation. Spotting six of these creatures, however, was likened to seeing the devil himself. A gathering of a half-dozen crows was the most ominous sign of all—even non-believers found themselves cringing at such a sight. This meant death was coming.

By what methods the actual amount of luck was deduced and recorded, I’m uncertain. I can’t imagine it was an exact science. Which is one reason why I seldom bought into any of these tales of erroneous drivel: old wives’ tales, tall tales, and fairy tales. Today destined to be different. For one thing, death was coming.

This reminded me of a rare and somewhat poetic book regarding the terms of venery, The Book of Saint Albans, in which they formally referred to a group of crows as a murder. I found this to be a rather fun fact at the moment and smiled at myself for such an apt association.

This was the type of amusing brainchild only I could enjoy. An explanation would require divulging too much information for anyone else to understand, and I wasn’t much of a sagebrush philosopher. I preferred to keep these thoughts to myself and deal with others asking me what I was smiling about as opposed to explaining my sense of humor. 

I stood on the boardwalk of Aztec Street, the main road into Montezuma, waiting for a job I had picked up. My head ached while beads of sweat rolled down my face like a leaky pipe. I felt terrible and smelled even worse.

A grub worm screamed out something about fried chicken and baked beans, which told me the time was high noon. My stomach growled like an overprotective dog at the aroma from the kitchen as it drifted past and tempted me to abandon my mission. I was hungry, but there was no need to get excited about food; I had other—more pressing—matters to handle. Since I was struggling to get over a summer cold, I surprised myself for being able to smell anything. This combination of hunger and profuse sweating didn’t bode well for me, and I was ready to rest. Sleep would come soon enough, I suspected. For now, though, I would have to deal with the discomfort of an empty stomach and the chafing which often occurred from wearing damp clothes. I was pretty confident the sweat was a result of the heat (some of which was being produced by the bystanders crowding the thoroughfare), but I hoped my fever was breaking.

The crowd was growing more and more impatient as everyone waited on this impromptu squabble. By the looks of it, the whole town had turned up, including the little children. The schoolhouse let out early so everyone would have an opportunity to attend the event. Even the vagabonds had come out of the woodwork.

These corpse-and-cartridge occasions weren’t very common anymore, and I doubted if they would be legal much longer. Not that Montezuma would ban them; action would come from the governor’s office. There was even a rumor circulating regarding some of these folks in highfalutin, influential positions talking about the barbaric nature of these occurrences and how a refined society with a civilized bureaucracy couldn’t allow such brutality to exist. This was an anti-savage movement pushed by the same people who were okay with stealing land and murdering tribes of men, women, and children. This concept was not subject to irony, but the idiocy of their hypocrisy was still up for debate.

Even I pondered what this said about humanity considering we enjoyed the prospect of watching another man die. This dark pleasure was reminiscent of the hordes of people who waited to watch the gladiators of the great colosseums of the Roman Empire compete for their lives. And while this notion might sound duplicitous in light of my profession, I have no dust in my eyes. I’m as guilty as anyone, if not more; I am only saying I considered the morality of these events.

A reflection of the sun flashed off of a passing stagecoach headed toward Great Bend, and I squinted from the blinding light. I couldn’t help but think about the heat. It was sweltering, an accurate forecast by The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Yet, the almanac also mentioned an afternoon shower. Considering there wasn’t a breeze or a cloud in the sky, today’s weather prediction wasn’t exactly panning out. I wasn’t complaining about the lack of rain, bad weather tended to complicate things.

I leaned against a rough, splintered beam outside of Zuma’s Trading Post, leafing through the pages of the most recent book I had purchased. Zuma’s kept an insufficient supply of reading material in stock for my liking, but as luck would have it, I was able to find something I hadn’t read. This didn’t mean the novel was a new release. My selection was only current by Zuma’s standards. This particular book was first published in 1859. Other than Bibles and a few magazines, including Field & Stream and The Ladies’ Home Journal, the Trading Post carried only two or three novels on their shelves at any given time.

This habit, and anything else having to do with intellectualism, always seemed to annoy Marshall. I wasn’t perturbed by his actions. He was more of your typical cowboy: a red-blooded, stout-hearted, muscular, all-around man’s man of average height.

I was quite the opposite. Anyone who knew me would attest to the fact: I loved reading. Even as a small boy, I had a passion for learning: I devoured books with a fierce, unwavering ferocity rivaled by few others. I retained facts and faces with the same ease as someone learning their name or address, committing them to memory with an uncanny ability of recall. 

Gazing at the first page of the thirty-year-old bestseller, I believed there was a great likelihood Mr. Charles Dickens might have lived here amongst us in the impoverished and dismal homestead of Gray County. This thought came to me after reading the first twelve words of the novel: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Like the next six words, I believed we were living in an age of wisdom. The creation of new technology was making the impossible, possible. Things we had only imagined and dreamed about were becoming a reality. It was also an age of innovation and industrialism—what with the invention of the horseless carriage, the locomotive, and there were even rumors of a flying contraption in Kitty Hawk.

Unfortunately, this was also an age of foolishness. I experienced this feeling every sunrise-to-sunset with each commission we took. Most would argue the two seventeen-year-old bastard boys were young and dumb or just plain stupid. Since I considered myself to be a somewhat educated individual, I would tell these naysayers I preferred to be called an oxymoron. Of course, no one knew the meaning of such a compound word and most considered the term a fancy insult. I had once heard a boy trying to replicate this taunt by calling his friend a moron, leaving off the combining form. Moron wasn’t even a word, as far as I knew, but I decided not to correct him. This wasn’t my place. Besides, we could be as immature as the next little shaver. The reality was as elementary as the child: Marshall and I were between hay and grass. We were neither men nor boys; we were half-grown.

As I continued to watch the frustrated crowd (who would soon be calling for a lynching if something didn’t happen with a quickness), my mind drifted to the time I almost died when I was twelve. After being bit by a baby rattlesnake, the doctor informed me the littlest rattlesnakes were often more dangerous than the bigger adults. He said you always had to be more careful around the young ones. Lately, this had taken on a new meaning for me and had become my maxim, especially considering the current economic climate.

Most folks would argue the problems and crime plaguing our city and the surrounding communities stemmed from the economy. To quote my late mentor and first real boss, Papa Mastai, It was as harsh as the high-noon sun on a fair-skinned rider. Everyone was doing their best to get through what was being referred to as the Panic of 1893, and we were already three years into this mess.

President Cleveland had repealed the Sherman Silver Purchase Act, which he proclaimed from Washington’s platform to be the most significant part of the problem, but this wasn’t helping the mining towns who relied on silver. Every resident, from the small boroughs to the large cities, was suffering from this depression—including Montezuma. I figured J.P. Morgan was the only man turning a profit these days.

Marshall had no opinion on the matter. He rarely got caught up in politics or worldly news. I wish I could have been more like him in this aspect, but I wasn’t. I also wasn’t buying this claim about silver the current administration was promoting to be the root of the issue, and neither were the Republicans.

If Washington were to focus on our region through the lens of a magnifying glass, they might determine this was more likely an example of cause-and-effect. Our communities livelihood had been hurt when they decommissioned the old Santa Fe Trail and the military post of Fort Dodge.

As a result, these boomtowns were on the verge of going bust, and the people of these poverty-stricken areas were scraping by through any means necessary. For a good many of these folks, life out here also felt like desperate times. In a prime example of this level of desperation, many women with good morals and strong convictions were being forced to enter into prostitution to help their families make ends meet. I hate to be the one to mention this, but some of the criminal activity was growing out of necessity. This was good for us. Lawlessness was favorable for investigation work.

I hope they get this on with. It’s hot enough to peel the hide off a Gila monster, a street peddler said as he pushed past me with a cart containing various medicines and tonics.

Excuse me. What do you have for a summer cold? I asked, flagging him down.

The best there is. He fumbled for a small brown bottle. These are Liquid Lightning Drops. They cure colic, cramps, diarrhea, flux, cholera, and nausea.

Is it good for a fever?

The peddler was on a roll and likely didn’t hear my question. He continued, They heal cuts, burns, bruises, scratches, bites of animals, serpents, and bugs.

I have a headache and a temperature.

Well, you’re in luck, lad. They break up bad colds, influenza, croup, and sore throats. Only two bits for instant relief.

I handed him the correct change and took the bottle.

A rather large woman holding an infant, who had been standing beside me, appeared to be unnerved by my mention of sickness. She walked a few steps away, and I heard her start a conversation with another woman with child.

She said, I swear they must think we have all day. I’ve got a lot of work to do before my husband gets home. I’ve got dinner to finish preparing, then supper tonight, cleaning, and laundry, not to mention the sewing and mending. You wouldn’t imagine how rough little boys are on clothes. And do you think whoopings work? I strip them down to nothing and tear their hides up with a switch, but do you think they learn? I’ve also got to… She continued gabbing about her workload and child-rearing difficulties, but it appeared to be falling on deaf ears. The other woman excused herself and walked away, but this didn’t prevent the round lady from complaining to anyone else within earshot.

Salty droplets of perspiration continued to rain down from up and under my hat, spilling onto the off-white pages of my novel and splattering the tops of my boots. My shirt had continued to soak through to my skin. I had taken the Liquid Lightning drops but had yet to feel any sort of relief. Best case scenario, I was sweating out the fever. Worst case, I was hot and sick.

I would gladly substitute a glass of snake poison for a mug of Sassafras tea if I thought it would help, but the saloon only served Peyote tea, and I wasn’t a prospect for anything harder than a medicinal shot of whiskey.

Despite my lingering illness, I had a big day ahead of me. In fact, I had already mapped it out, including a cold bath at Vera’s Boarding House the moment this job was over. I was long overdue to be washin’ out the canyon, and the sour smell I emitted was concrete proof.

On top of everything else, the news was reporting a deadly influenza outbreak in our area. I was trying to keep my chin up, not wanting to become anxious about something I hadn’t even been diagnosed as having. I decided to focus my attention on other more positive things. Like how today marked our first day back in Montezuma in weeks, and how we had gotten as lucky as a four-legged rabbit when the sheriff handed us a wanted flyer for Chester Jack Fields and his brother, Collin Ray. I recognized them right off but didn’t let Sheriff Cottontail know this.

These criminals were here in Montezuma, and I knew who they were. They had recently bragged about discovering a gold mine and even showed me their haul. Considering these men were using aliases, I’m sure this was a cover story to justify their new found riches.

Aside from our undeniable good luck concerning these bandits, I was excited to be home for numerous reasons and had arranged dinner reservations with my mother tonight at Cholula’s. I missed our talks. She would beg me not to spend the money on such extravagances, but despite the economy, I could afford to treat her to a nice meal. Besides, I had yet to find a better steak during any of my travels.

We got into town early—maybe fiveish—learning of the current street confrontation from the town barber, which worked perfectly in our favor. Before we arrived though, we were gone on an extended expedition to Silver City, New Mexico, resulting in us putting to death Albert the Tall Boy Williamson and garnering a hundred dollar reward from our good sheriff.

Are you going to stand here and read? Marshall asked in his usual irksome tone as if I were reading The Communist Manifesto.

I looked up and blew a drop of sweat from off the tip of my nose. What’s that? Do I detect a hint of jealousy at my ability to ascertain enlightenment through book-learning, Marshall? Perhaps I can get you one with lots of illustrations.

Perhaps I should ask Lester to arrest you for using such big words.

Too many syllables I presume? I apologize. What I was trying to say was, ‘Would you like a picture book?’ Marshall shook his head and rolled his eyes. Even though I didn’t like seeing the sweat ruin my pages, for spite, I went back to my book.

The local deputies, whom I loved to refer to as Tweedledee and Tweedledum (they not only resembled these characters but also acted like them), walked closer to the crowd warning everyone to keep hydrated. To be fair, they probably weren’t referring to the whiskey glasses and beer steins sloshing onto the wide floor planks.

Despite a statewide prohibition which was enacted in 1881, the laws weren’t much enforced, and most bars could get away with a hundred dollar fine to keep the alcohol flowing. This, in turn, kept the double doors swinging.

Tweedledum stepped off of the boardwalk into the unobstructed rays of the sun and onto the dirt and cobblestone. His right foot landed a little softer than his left. Staring at his boot which now had squished two mounds on either side of it, he grimaced and shouted, Crap! He stood in a pile of fresh horse manure yet to be cleared away by the town’s sweeper. He stomped his boot into the dirt, kicking it back and forth into the air, making his way over to the sheriff. He looked like a giant chicken scratching for worms.

Everyone, save for a couple of drunkards who didn’t know any better and one of today’s competitors, huddled under the covering of shade from the local stores’ awnings. Even still, we were all squinting like a blind man trying to read the newspaper as we waited for the next horserider. More and more people who had bored of this exercise took up drinking while the barmaids worked their way through the crowd selling spirits for the local saloon.

Most of the gamblers were standing around wagering on whether or not Robert Lewis would even show up. John Williams, the other participant in the duel, was standing center stage in the dead heat. He would sporadically holler for the yellow-bellied coward to "come out and die