Description

A Tale of Reconstruction-Era Texas

A tale of Texas during the post-Civil-War Reconstruction Era. Recently married Winslow Summers spins the yarn of a mysterious Yankee Carpetbagger he encounters in old Bastrop. The stranger -- one Aaron Strauss -- guns down a member of the hated Texas State Police and is awarded the title "The Bastrop Kid" by the local folk. Strauss forms a gang of ne'er-do-wells and manages to coerce Summers away from wedded bliss and into a bizarre series of adventures which range far and wide over old Texas. The obsessed Strauss leads the gang in pursuit of the Comanche chieftain who had abducted and tortured his fiancee.

Chapter One

The first time I set eyes on Aaron Strauss I sniggered to myself, way down deep inside where nobody could hear. I stopped to watch the lanky stranger step off the stagecoach onto Bastrop's main drag. He dusted off his big-city sack suit and wiped his wire-rimmed specs with a hanky, then swept the street with his gaze.

Folks stopped to stare at the new arrival. I heard the same comment five times over, "Just what we need, another wet-behind-the-ears Carpetbagger."

The way the stranger wore that bowler hat cocked over one side of his head told me he wouldn't last the day without running up against some sort of trouble- not in this town. I had dismissed him as a goner and was resolved to continue about my business, when those gray-blue eyes seemed to light on me. Killer's eyes they used to call them? like Jim Bowie's.

I'd faced down my share of trouble, but something about the stranger's cold stare sent a shiver down my spine. He picked up his carpetbag valise and walked toward me. Why me? Must be something about my baby face. Lost puppies and strangers just seem to wander in my direction.

"Wonder if you'd mind directing me to the nearest hotel."

"Reckon the one behind me is as good as any."

He looked a little embarrassed. "Thank you, sir. My regards."

I looked around to see if he might be talking to someone else. "Don't mention it."

Curiosity being what it is, I decided to stay in town a little longer, just to see what might transpire. I took up residence at the Mina Emporium, ordered a shot of redeye, and found myself a table where I could sit with my back against the wall. Sooner or later, every man in Bastrop wanders through the Emporium. All I had to do was herd my drink around real slow, and I'd be guaranteed the cheapest entertainment in town.

I had to wait a little longer than I expected, but the drama was well worth the price of the ticket. About four-thirty, the dude came prancing through the swinging doors like he was some kind of show horse. It wasn't even a whole minute before the town galoots began buzzing around him like June Bugs at a turd-feast.

Swamp-Eyes Dahlberg always seemed to be the first among that bunch to smart off. He didn't disappoint anyone that day. Ol' Swampy sauntered up and fingered Strauss's plaid lapel.

"God Dang, feller, that suit's so loud I'll bet it could win a hog-callin' with nobody wearin' it!"

The stranger issued a bland smile that seemed to encourage Dahlberg to more devilment. I took a sip of redeye and leaned back in my chair. I knew a good performance when I saw one.

Now, Dahlberg wasn't a giant by any means, but he was mean and wiry. I've seen him punched to the floor more than once and still get up to kick his opponent's genitalia. He just had a way of wearing a man down.

Swamp-Eyes decided to insult the man's manhood by mincing around like an upstairs whore. He assumed a raucous falsetto, "Now, where did I put my purse? Oh, I must have left it back in Boston!"

The Emporium rang with its first good laugh in over two weeks. The dude made his way to the bar. About that time, Paddy O'Laughlin decided to join the production. O'Laughlin was the grand-daddy of all Irish drunks. He'd come up from San Patricio just before the war with the Yankees. I doubt if there's an Irishman in Texas that hasn't come out of San Patricio by hook or by crook.

Paddy was genial when bumming drinks or doing jigs for money, but his temper had a nasty turn to it. No one in Bastrop knew what would set the man off, so most folks found it wiser to buy him a drink upon arrival and then steer wide of him. Paddy walked up to the bar, tucked his thumbs behind his belt, and rocked back on his heels.

"Well, well, what have we here, lads? He's too tall to be one of the little folk. He's too clean to be from Texas. Maybe he's from the New York home for the blind. Can't see without them things, I'll bet."

Paddy made a grab for the stranger's specs. A blur of plaid, and Paddy found his wrist surrounded by slender fingers. Sweat ran down the Irishman's forehead into his eyes. I watched his temper turn with the flow of crimson to his cheeks.

Paddy's liquor-scented breath spewed out a warning, "You'll be lettin' go of me arm now!"

The eastern dandy released his grip and smiled the same bland smile at O'Laughlin. About that time, Dahlberg realized he had been pushed from the limelight. He seemed determined to regain first billing.

"You're a mite cocky, mister uh- "

"Strauss." The stranger turned to face the bartender, but continued speaking to Swamp-Eyes. "I'm going to have some liquid repast, now. Care to join me?"

Dahlberg looked around the room, asking with his eyes for someone to translate the stranger's high-faluting lingo.

"Don't mind if we do," interjected O'Laughlin. He turned to the barkeep. "We'll be havin' some o' your finest, Cal."

Calvin Biggs, proprietor of the Emporium, leaned down to retrieve a bottle of his good stock from beneath the bar.He set out three shot glasses and poured. Strauss picked up the center glass and lifted it in a toast.

"Cheers!"

He sipped at the Bourbon and returned his glass to the bar. O'Laughlin wasted no time in getting his liquor to its destination. Swamp-Eyes hesitated a moment, looked around the Emporium through the mirror, and tossed down his Bourbon. The noise abated, as though the audience knew the climax of the scene had come.

Dahlberg leaned on the bar with his elbows and grinned at his empty shot glass, then at the stranger. "You're the god-damndest feller I ever seen in my life! You're the prissiest feller I ever seen in my life! Why, you got civilization oozin' out of ever pore in your body. What the hell brings a dandy like you to Texas, anyhow?"

Strauss's eyebrows danced merrily above his wire rimmed specs. "Why business, of course."

Apparently the warm glow had faded from Paddy's belly. He grasped Strauss' lapel. "I'll be havin' me dessert now, if y' please."

Strauss looked down at his lapel, then at Paddy. "It is customary for a gentleman to return another gentleman's favor."

Paddy stared at the stranger with bloodshot eyes. "Well, I ain't no gentleman, and you appears to be well-fixed." He tapped the bar near his empty glass and nodded at Biggs. Biggs looked at Strauss for approval to pour, received an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and returned the bottle beneath the bar.

O'Laughlin stared at the empty shot glass, as though expecting some invisible Irish Pukah to fill it. The crimson hue didn't stop until it reached the top of Paddy's thinly-clad scalp.

"I've never been so insulted in all me life!"

He cocked his ham-like fist, took aim for the bespectacled man's mouth, and swung. In the twinkling of an eye, Strauss moved his head barely enough to evade the Celtic bludgeon. He grasped his attacker by elbow and shoulder, and shoved. O'Laughlin slid across the barroom floor on his ample belly. A roar of laughter erupted from the patrons of the Emporium.

Dahlberg made his move while the dude's attention was still directed at the Irishman. He grabbed the shoulder of Strauss' jacket and swung at the same time. I'm not really sure what happened next- it happened too fast. Strauss somehow blocked the blow with his left forearm, then punched his tormentor in the belly with his right fist. The punch seemed to lift Dahlberg about an inch off the floor.

Instead of following up with a left, Strauss hit him again with a right. Blood spattered from Dahlberg's cheek. He flew backward like he'd been kicked by a mule. It was then I saw the stranger slip his hand in and out of his pocket, while everyone else watched to see if Swamp-Eyes would get up. Strauss' knuckles were unscarred and unbloody. Unless I missed my guess, this feller had acquired a style of fighting a man doesn't learn on the south forty.

The dude turned and finished his drink, threw some coins on the bar, and doffed his bowler to the crowd. He walked past Swampy's moaning carcass and out into the street. I tossed down my redeye and ambled out the door to see where he would go next. He stood waiting for me beside the water trough.

"I hope I didn't disappoint you."

Somehow he knew he had captured my curiosity. There was no use denying it. "What did you hit him with?"

His lips turned up slightly at the corners. "That's a trade secret. You're a very perceptive man, Mister, uh- "

"Summers. Winslow Summers."

He extended his hand. "I'm Aaron Strauss."

"Mister Strauss, I guess a man's business is his own, but I can't help but wonder about yours."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, grinned at his shoe-tips for a moment, then looked up at me. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Why don't you try me?"

"You come back into town Monday and you'll know what business I'm in."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

His eyes lost their twinkle. "Because I haven't decided yet."

He turned and walked back to the hotel, leaving me with a feeling of unease in my gut--and my gut is rarely wrong.

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