The Chicago Kid

By W. J. Humphrey

Using the alias of "The Chicago Kid", Ben Wright trails Coyote Jack Roberts and his outlaw gang, the men who killed Ben's grandfather when they robbed the bank at Little Black Water, New Mexico Territory. Ben has vowed to "get" every member of the gang, but he still has time to help persons in trouble, such as orphans.

As he trails the outlaws, he meets up with a Mexican gunfighter, The Angel of Death. She is also chasing the Roberts gang because of a raid they pulled at her family's ranch in Mexico. They finally make their way to the Owl's Nest, an outlaw haven in the mountains north of Silver City. In a series of confrontations, blood will flow. Will it be outlaw blood, or the blood of The Angel and The Kid?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667868066

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The Chicago Kid

W. J. Humphrey

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-66786-805-9

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-66786-806-6

© 2022, William Humphrey. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 1

January 1, 1967;

near Santa Rosa, New Mexico

Consuela Alvarez opened the door of the hacienda of the Double Bar W and was enveloped by a tsunami of children rushing into the house. Great-grandfather, Great-grandfather, Happy New Year, they shouted, not quite in unison. Ranging in age from six to twelve, they made a wild dash to Andy Wright and hugged the old man.

Careful, kids, their father, Joe Wright, said. Don’t knock him down.

If I can stand up to a charging herd of beeves, these young’uns ain’t no problem, Andy said.

Turning to the housekeeper, he said, Consuela, fix these little tykes some hot chocolate.

Andy looked at Joe and Joe’s wife, Jane. Glad to have y’all here for the holiday. Sure is nice to have some excitement in this old house. You two take the bedroom across from mine. Divide the kids between the other bedrooms.

Tell us a story, Great-grandfather, Benjie said. The ten-year-old beamed with anticipation.

Tell us about Great-great-grandfather Ben and his blood-brother, Kwahu, suggested Jo-Jo, Benjie’s twin brother.

Yeah. Tell ‘em another one of those tall-tales you’re so good at, Johnny, the twelve-year-old said, sarcastically.

You apologize, John, Joe said, or, you can go to bed right now. No hot chocolate or anything else for you. Everything Grandfather told you kids is true. Maybe instead of spending a week on the ranch, I’ll take you to Santa Fe, and you can stick your nose in some dusty books, and you’ll find out everything told you was true.

Got a new Palomino, just for you, Johnny. I guess the twins can have fun taking turns riding him, or they can ride him double, Andy said.

I’m sorry, Great-grandfather. It’s just hard to believe that anybody, even Great-great-grandfather Ben, could do all of those things.

I know, Johnny. Pa was a man among men, but he never considered himself special. Just another rancher in the territory, then the state.

The family sat around the fireplace in the living room, its fire radiating warmth on the cold winter night. Hot chocolate and yellow cake with chocolate icing for everybody, even Johnny.

About that story, Great-grandfather. Really would like to hear one, Johnny said.

Well, I got a humdinger of a story for all of you. Joe, I don’t even think you’ve heard this one. It’s about a young gunslick, one of the fastest draws in the New Mexico Territory, maybe the whole Southwest.

Was he an outlaw? eight-year-old Hope asked.

He was on the right side of the law. Well, most of the time. But he was looking for outlaws.

Why was he looking for them? Faith, who had just turned six, asked.

Because they had robbed a bank and killed someone the gunslinger thought a whole lot of.

Did he kill ‘em all? Benjie asked.

You’ll have to listen to the story, honey, his mom said.

Sit back, kids, and I’ll tell you about when Pa was known as the ‘Chicago Kid’.

Chapter 2

May 24, 1888;

Little Black Water, New Mexico Territory

Ben Wright was five months past his sixteenth birthday, and he looked nothing like the boy who came to the Double Bar W ranch three years earlier. Six-foot-two. Muscles rippled from his broad shoulders to a relatively narrow waist. Hard work on the ranch had given him bulging biceps and strong forearms. At the same time, Andrew Wright’s health was declining rapidly. With Charity married and living in town, Ben was constantly looking after his grandfather.

Ben had brought his grandfather, Colonel Andrew Wright, into town to Ma Kelly’s Café so he could visit with some of his friends. Then Ben went to McBride’s Mercantile to see his sister and his young niece, Abigail Matilda McBride. The eight-month-old laughed as Ben played Peek-a-boo and Got your nose with her.

Sis, never thought I’d like playin’ with babies like this. Guess I need the practice so I’ll know what to do after me and Belle get hitched next summer. Want us to have a bunch of kids.

You’ll make a good father, Ben. If you want to, I’ll let you get some practice changing diapers.

Think I’ll pass on that, Sis, Ben said, laughing.

After a few minutes, Charity took Abigail and began rocking the child as she sang to her. Ben grabbed a bottle of sarsaparilla from behind the counter and put a nickel in the till. In the distance he heard some popping noises.

Is somebody shooting fireworks? Charity asked.

Ben sat the bottle on the counter and walked toward the door, right hand resting on his new pistol, a .44 caliber Smith & Wesson. The model was nicknamed the Russian because the czar had bought thousands and thousands of them for his army.

Sounds more like gunfire, he declared.

A minute later, the door swung open, and Mr. Reynolds, the gunsmith, ran in. Need to get over to the café, Ben. The Colonel’s been shot. It’s bad.

Ben ran to Ma Kelly’s Café. His grandfather was lying on the boardwalk. He had a wound to his chest, and he had been gut-shot.

Ben knelt beside him. Easy, Grandfather. We’ll get you took care of.

Too … late, Ben, his grandfather gasped. Take care … of … the … ranch, grandson.

As Ben cradled the old man, he felt the death-rattle; Andrew Wright struggled to take his last breath.

On Saturday, the entire town came to the funeral. Just about all of the ranchers and their hands were there. Anticipating the large turnout, the service was held at the larger Catholic Church, instead of the small frame building the family attended every Sunday. After the preacher said his piece and said a prayer, Ben walked from the first pew to the pulpit. He cleared his throat as he looked at the mourners.

"Thank you, Preacher, for your words. And I want to thank all of you for paying your respects today. Colonel Andrew Wright—soldier, rancher, grandfather. He built the Double Bar W into the biggest ranch in this part of the New Mexico Territory. He treated the men working on it more like family than hired hands.

And he took in two orphans when he should have just been enjoying these last three years. Sis was easy to take in. I wasn’t. I know I vexed him a lot, but he never got real mad at me. Never give up on me. Thank you, Grandfather.

Ben walked from the pulpit and stood in front of the coffin. He placed his right hand on it. In front of all you people, I swear to you and to Grandfather, I’ll get every one of them low-lifes. And I don’t mean to take ‘em in to the law. Every one of them’s gonna die!

Chapter 3

On Sunday afternoon, Ben had time in town with Charity and Johnny McBride. And he played some with Abigail Matilda. Then he had supper with the Driscolls. After the meal, he sat on the porch with Belle; they began to make plans for next summer. Their wedding.

Ben was up Monday morning before sunrise. He began packing his saddlebags. A change of clothes. Several boxes of cartridges for his pistol and a couple for his new rifle—an 1886 Winchester, which fired a .45-70 round. This rifle had more stopping power than the one he used when he was learning to shoot. Under the false bottom of one of the saddlebags Ben hid almost five hundred dollars and several bank drafts. In the other saddlebag he hid letters of introduction from the bank president and Marshal McBride. On top of that false bottom he had dodgers for each member of the gang.

He said good-bye to the ranch hands, Mr. Colby, and Kwahu. After placing the saddlebags on Desperado, Ben tied a cloth sack containing his possibles to the saddle horn. Possibles were supplies one needed when traveling the trail, such as food, metal plates and cups, and cooking utensils. Two bandoleers of .45-70 cartridges crisscrossed his chest. Ben stepped up onto Desperado and turned the big black away from the house. He nudged her into a fast walk.

Ben had a lump in his throat; he was sure he would never return to the ranch. Alive, anyway. But he would send as many of those low-lifes to meet Old Scratch as he could.

As he came close to Little Black Water, he circled the town to the south. Charity had had a terrible crying spell yesterday, and he didn’t want to cause another one today. Past the town, he picked up the trail to the west. The next town, smaller than Little Black Water, was about ten miles or so down the trail. He didn’t really expect the outlaws to be there, but maybe somebody had seen them pass through.

He rode down the main street of the village, pulling rein at the marshal’s office. Ben rapped on the door and walked inside. There were two men sitting around a desk. Ben looked at the older man and said, Howdy, Marshal. I’m Benjamin Wright.

The younger man stood up and said, I’m Marshal Langford. What can I do for you?

Lookin’ for some men. Wonderin’ if they came through here.

Wright, huh? You kin to the man killed the other day in that holdup?

Ben nodded. My grandfather. Trailin’ the ones that done it.

What you intending to do if you find them? Bring them in to the law? the marshal asked.

Bring their bodies in. Got dodgers on every one of ‘em. Says ‘Dead or Alive’. I choose ‘dead’.

Sounds like you gonna attract trouble. Don’t need that in my town. Move on now, or you can cool your heels in a cell for a few days.

I ain’t causin’ no trouble, Ben said loudly. Just want justice for my grandfather. Yeah, I’ll move on. And your town done lost all the business the Double Bar W used to do with it.

The older lawman said, I’ll make sure he clears the town line, Marshal.

As Ben and the lawman rode out of town, the old man said, Going about this the wrong way, sonny. Take some advice?

I’ll listen. But I’m still ventilatin’ every one of ‘em.

"Just saying. Whenever you come into a town, don’t go to the law. Visit saloons and other places they would go to. And listen, don’t talk. Somebody will be running their mouth if them men are there, or have been there."

Makes sense, Ben said. Anything else?

Change your name. Marshal picked up on it right away. And he sure ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Well, I’ll be leavin’ you now, kid. Watch your back trail.

Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll do what you said.

Ben rode along the trail. He could easily make the next town by late afternoon. Wouldn’t even have to push Desperado to do it. He could keep Ben, but what last name would he use? He could think on that later.

He had to change the way he acted. He could pretend to be a young gunfighter. But he had to be sure only the right people challenged him—the outlaws. He remembered the way Kid Morrell had acted. He could be kind of like that.

Maybe he didn’t have to come up with a last name. Lots of gunnies were called Kid Something-or-other, like Kid Antrim, also known as Billy the Kid. But others were named for where they were from. Cimarron Kid, Pecos Kid, Durango Kid.

Ben smiled. He would be the Chicago Kid.

Chapter 4

Ben rode down the main street of the next town. He passed the marshal’s office. There were shops, stores, saloons, and a couple of cathouses. Ben saw a boy, probably around eight, leaning against a post in front of the mercantile. Hey, son. Where’s the best hotel in town?

The Gentry House, right over there. The boy pointed across the street to the left. Only one in town.

Where can I board my horse?

They got a stable back behind the hotel, the boy said. People staying there don’t have to pay for anything but feeding the horse.

Thanks, kid, Ben said. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it to the kid.

After stepping down from Desperado, Ben looped the reins around the hitching rail and grabbed his saddlebags, the possibles sack, and his Winchester. Saddlebags draped over his left shoulder, he walked into the hotel. He laid the rifle on the counter and signed in, his name as The Chicago Kid and his residence as Just passing through.

This … this simply will not do. I need a real name and a city or state, the clerk said.

Ben grabbed the man by the shirt and practically dragged him over the counter. His face only inches from the clerk, Ben growled, That’s … my … name. Am I gonna have a problem with you?

No—no, sir. It’s just the owner. He wants that, the clerk whined.

Well, if he’s got a problem with that, just trot him up to my room. Reckon I might just have to change his mind.

In his room, number 6, Ben laid his saddlebags on the bed. He placed his rifle and his bandoleers on the dresser, the cloth sack on the floor beside the dresser. After coming downstairs, he led Desperado to the stable. He found a teenaged boy working there and made arrangements for taking care of the big black. Playing the tough gunfighter to the hilt, he said, "You take good care’a her. If I have a problem, you gonna have a real problem. Savvy?"

Yes … yes, sir. I’ll take good care of her.

Ben walked around the town for a while. As he encountered men walking from the opposite direction, he forced them off the boardwalk and into the dusty street. But he still acted politely and gentlemanly each time he met a lady. Coming back to the hotel, he rang the bell on the counter repeatedly until the clerk rushed up to him.

Where’s a good place to eat?

"Best food’s at the Café Mejicano, if you like their kind of food."

Obliged. Hear anything from your boss about that sign-in book?

He won’t give you no guff, the clerk said.

Ben smiled. If he does, you might just end up ownin’ yourself a hotel.

In his room, Ben took the dodgers from the saddlebag and studied them, more carefully than he had done his homework when he was in school. These wanted posters Marshal McBride had given him were for men known to run with Coyote Jack Roberts. The marshal had stressed there could be others that he didn’t have papers on.

The leader of the gang was Coyote Jack Roberts, and Ty Hastings was his second-in-command, or segundo. Each man was in his early thirties and had been in and out of prison since age sixteen. Each was of average height and weight.

Man Mountain Reeves was the muscle of the gang. He stood almost six-foot-eight and weighed just under 300 pounds. His favorite weapon was a Bowie knife, but he could kill a man with his bare hands—usually by snapping the person’s neck.

Slick Parnell was probably the fastest draw of the group. He wore a double-rig gun belt carrying two Colt Lightning six-shooters holstered butt-forward. And he was a deadly shot. Montana Ray Haywood was almost as fast; his weapon of choice was a double-action Colt Peacemaker. The two tolerated each other, but neither man respected the other.

Loco Tom Sweeney could best be described as a loud-mouthed punk, who in his mind was just as good as Parnell or Haywood. But his specialty was back-shooting or goading a drunk into a gunfight for an easy kill. Dude Hastings, Ty’s younger brother, had about as much backbone as Loco Tom. About the only good thing you could say about him was that he was an immaculate dresser, just about always wearing a suit, boiled white shirt, and a black string tie.

Taking a small bottle of oil and a bar of soap from the same saddlebag, Ben worked the inside of his holster, cutting down on the friction when drawing the pistol. When he finished, the inside of the holster was slicker than snot on a doorknob.

Leaving the hotel again, he walked into the mercantile and began looking at the men’s clothing.