Love, from Houston

Sheriff O'connor called the Missus and told her he was going to be late for dinner. His son had caught a two-point by the river last night, so it upset O'connor greatly to be cheated out of warm deer meat. Cold deer meat tasted like rotten jerky.

Samson, the local delivery boy, was blood-stained from head to toe. It looked like someone had struck him above the eye once or twice. One of the bank robbers had even sliced his fingers with a blade of some sort. He had one hand wrapped around with a white, by then blood-soaked, shirt. He was bruised on his face from where he'd jumped over the counter in a rush to escape incoming gunfire. From the look of his torn jeans and marks of dirt, Samson had even fallen a few times before reaching the Sheriff's office.

Sheriff O'connor unlike the fellow from Austin County, Houston, liked to keep a tight shift. He wasn't about to let this one go. Houston had called him that it was one of those registered robberies that were occurring throughout the country. In particular, they were blaming a group of individuals named the Banditos, a group of Mexicans posing as priests to rob banks in small counties. O'connor didn't smell Mexican in the area and he didn't think they were responsible for anything. Houston just wanted a reason to start a brawl with the other side, Arizona being a tension-filled border town.

Even at the onset of the crime, Houston already had a suspect in their jail-cells, a local farmer named Fernando. It looked to O'connor like someone was getting paid. What the hell did he mean by registered robberies, anyway?

"They look Mexican to you?"

"Mighty good n' English Mexicans, if they be that, sir. Clerk handed them bills of money but they brought bags like we's going to fill them up with the revenue that this town makes. One of'em yelled for the money in the safe. Weren't no safe to be seen in the bank, sir. I delivered onto the clerk, Mr. Silverstein, whom was the first they shot in the head, his correspondence like all last month. Ain't never seen anything like it, myself, sir. Three or four of'em was in the back, looking for the loot but one girl was a screaming 'on 'ccount of her pa' just gotten shot and all but them was not the types ot be hearin' o' it and shot her right there, in cold blood, yes, sir, they did and then the leader one of 'em might have called him Spike, I don't care, sir on account that girl was a pretty one and I was personally involved with getting closer to the miss but them just shot her dead like she were nothin'. Don't believe it were no Mexican's myself, sir."

O'connor called out to his help. "Brian, Brian!" The boy ran into the place, confused, as though he'd been hiding.

"The hell you been boy!"
"Oh, nowhere, sheriff. That mess with the bank got everyone in town rowdy, damn near starting a mob toward the Houston office. Rumor is they're about to burn the place down with that Mexican in it."

"Well, I got an eye-witness testifying he never saw no Mexicans step into a bank. Give that message to Houston. Go Quick as you can, take ole Rusty."

"That ole mule can't hold me. I'm taking Roger's horse."
"Okay, take him, then but don't complain when Roger sees you and tries to shoot ya in response to you stealin' o' his property."

"The mule it is, Sheriff."

O'connor watched the boy leave, taking with him a plumed cowboy hat that old Gibson had given O'connor as a gift for his birthday. "Is that it?" asked O'connor, turning back to Samson, who had been sitting quietly trying not to move his injured hand.

"When they couldn't find the safe, o'rowdy they got, mad as heck, I tell you. Shots were fired onto the skies, so early it were no one cared to here o'it, of course, except I and the dead which lay at me feet. By that time, they'd gagged some folks and thrown them in a corner, so they stays quiet an' all, except the missus opened'er eye like the Spike fella tole'r not to and she got a good one to the stomach. Husband, we bit man, not taller than the counter got one on the neck. They says nothin' to me, I figure, they thinks I know nothin' anyway. By then, when I heard the shooting and I saw it, I was frightened out my wits, so I ran. I'm no gunslinger, as you knows it, Sheriff."
"Neither were they, Sammy," O'connor said, "They just got to you, that's all. Ain't no men to be scared of in my town, except old Ray but he lives near the river, so you up to fish that way on your own accord. There's even a warning posted."

"Kids took it town. They like to see the tourists get run-down by old Ray as he come out his house with the cane and threatens to shoot you with his un-loaded thirty-thirty. 'Course these men were different. Big-muscly fellows one can't even look to their eye without instilling the fear of'em. I could see the one that stabbed the man in the throat didn't even look down to do it. These weren'tna regular Mexican robbers, that I knows it now for sure, now I think it."

"Who's the girl they shot? She known to you, you mentioned."

"That's banker's daughter of course. Miss Jenna. You seen miss Jenna, Sheriff, she come round this here place everyn' Thursday, for hella-knows-what, I tell ya. It's the strangest thing."

"Yea, I know Jenna," O'connor said, sighing. "Well, go on your way, Sammy. Things just took a turn in our favor, unfortunately."

"Watchamean by that, Sheriff?"

"I'm going to have to call him."

"Oh, no, Sheriff, that'll put ole Mr. Houston on Edge. No need to disturb the peace on account this small robbery."

"Jenna was no pretending not to like ya, Sammy. She didn't like ye on 'ccount she was in love with the other fellow. We ain't supposed to call on 'ccount'o the town agreement but this Houston fellow gone too far. He ain't no Sheriff. He's trying to decide who lives and who dies and that's God's decree, I reckon."

"If you say so, Sheriff. I'd rather you have not call him. He'd be one to come to me straight and I been afraid of too many men for the day."

"Wells, we ain't never make no calls in this place and the town paid mighty for them blasted talk-things, so we're callin' on one this month if it kills me."

****

Dr. Brokin laid the paper down on his table. He was smoking a cigar outside, on the porch with his feet up on a stool. He wore his old detective hat from when the old Sheriff had left him the job. It'd been a while since he'd seen anyone, in particular some babe from her mother's womb run down the dirt-road in her boots and Sunday dress with a message in hand. After the death of the last outlaw near Ember town, no one dared step foot near his abode. His wife, it was said, was the last to see him breathing. Of course, there were the mail couriers but they stayed away, as well, until that day.

"It's from the courier, sir, from the tele-office!"

"Slow down, miss--?"

"Rita," said the girl, blushing.

"Who put you on this here tele-office in a dress?"

"It were my beloved Edison. Why, he was just here in his beautified blue suit but knows better than to cross you, of course, Dr. Brokin."

"How old is this Edison fellar. He not treating you un-naturally is he?"

"No, sir!" Rita said, indignantly, "My Eddy is quite the gentleman. It took me three good walks around the town to get him to hold my hand, so there won't be slowing down of that any by you, sir!"

"Don't get snippy, Rita," said Dr. Brokin, taking the message from her. "Oh, let's see what we have here."

Dr. Brokin crumpled the sheet and it seemed like he straightened for a minute. His eyes just scanned the paper for a few seconds. Then, he put his cigar in his mouth, got up, tipped over the stool and looked out over the town. "Go home, Rita," He said. "I'm going to get my horse." He went back inside the small house and came back out buckling a gun-belt around his waist. One of the straps came over his should, where a smaller pisto hung around the chest area. It was three guns total. Two at his sides and one across his chest. He didn't look dangerous at all but he was no tame lion, that much Rita knew.

"But, sir!"

"Go home, Rita."

****

IT was striking five o'clock in the clockmaker's store. He was running out of time. No one had stepped inside for the last five months and his rent was due. The clocks all around his store were clicking noisily, tick-tock, tick-tock, counting down to the closing of his store. After squinting a bit, he thought he saw a ghost approaching the store. He blinked and yet again there he was. A man, clad in brown with an overcoat and a detectives hat wearing alligator-brown cowboy boots and a set of .39 caliber revolvers, which had the potential of taking off a man's hand at his sides. It was Dr. Brokin.

The man stepped inside. The loud spurs on his boots made the clockmaker nervous.

"Seen Sam around, Rudick?"

"Went back to Houston, to convince him not to burn the station down."
"Poor family," said Dr. Brokin, "Lost another father."

"It's just a Mexican, Dr. Brokin. He been one of those bank robbers from last night, it's said."

"Of course, you weren't there."

"Ner was I saying that I were. It's just what's been said. Half the town could be seen this morning parading the streets with torches and the like, ready to toast the man."

"None of them think to ask the man for their money first?"

"Money? There weren't no talk of money around here, Doctor."

"Bank was robbed, you do know what's in a bank, right Rudick."

"What you be doin' here, Doctor, I ain't starting no trouble on your account."

"Wasn't asking you to."

Dr. Brokin, then, in a split second pulled out one of his guns and shot him right between the eyes. Blood dripped from his forehead. The clockmaker fell face-down on the glass covering some of the watches. As he fell, the clockmaker's hand revealed a small lever through which an arrow's point was seen.

O'connor got there late, as usual.

"You here already?"

"Rode half the night, O'connor, just to find that these people are still up to their old tricks."

"You did say you were going to be the one to end his time."

"That's not funny. He's hiding the whereabouts of good old Sam, that means he knew where he was. They proly got him tied up somewhere. Let's just hope old Houston doesn't know I'm coming this time."

O'connor pushed the clockmaker to one side. "How'd you see the arrows?"

"What arrows?"

"You shot him for no reason?"

"I guess I didn't."

"I don't think you know what kind of place this is now, Dr. Brokin but we don't shoot to kill anymore."

"I see," Dr. Brokin said, "Then why do you shoot at all?"

"Because there's bad people."

"Killing them and letting them live doesn't compute in my book, Sheriff. Now, you called me. If I didn't care about Jenna, I'd as soon just leave but he messed with the wrong guy. My wife, that I believed was an accident. This, this was payback for his man, Simpson which I dragged up to the hill and disposed of as was ordered by you, mind you. That's twice. You don't come across me twice and live to tell about it."

"Those were different times."

"Houses like mine don't burn down with people in them," said Dr. Brokin.

"It's probably true that Houston burned it but you're holding an old grudge and this job is about justice."

"Stay out of my way, Sheriff."

Houston was on the phone with the president talking about how it should start. "Foil my plans? No, no. Dr. Brokin is just that broken. He lives in the town of Ember now, far away from here, where we just got the people to burn down a jail to upset the other side. It's going to be contreversial for sure but they can't prove anything. One more Mexican dead and one less to defend them when the war starts." The house was orange and built in the middle of town like it was a palace. It had two floors and it was guarded from all sides.

Horses were reigned in the back for the quick getaways and men with auto-matic weapons were posted by the doors. It was Americas age of technology and the recent trades with the German had made guerilla warfare possible in small towns, especially for Houston who had attained a measure of wealth and power among the people that was un-heard of since the time of Washington. He was a little chubby man about five-foot eight, one-inch shorter than the feared Dr. Brokin but he was well-built from the chest down. And he had no issues with the man now.

Houston knew that no one would be worried about a small bank robbery on the edges of a forgotten town. Four people had died, people die all the time. It was time to blame the Banditos for something other than stealing his precious cargo of Tequila that was supposed to cross borders unharmed. It was as thought he stupid Bandito's were making fun of him and he had to get them back by going to war with their whole country or being the cause of the inciting incident.

Little did he know that the pain would come from the side like a sniper's bullet through the chest. Men, gathered all around the plaza, were working for him to seek out the potential threats and he gets shot in the chest, as though he wasn't protected at all. At first, he tried to breathe but it was as though time had stopped completely. He felt himself land on the chair slowly and one of his hands went to his jacket coat pocket in astonishment, feeling on the blood coming out of him. Then, he regained himself enough to bring out his gun and shoot at the skies with it. This brought the attention of armed men outside his door. The ran inside and saw him sprawled on the floor, fallen off his chair.

They looked over and saw a hole in the window. Then, they were both on the floor, beside Houston.

This is how it went down. The carriage arrived at five, close to six, across the way from the huge orange house. It was busy with people because the town was known for high trading. It's part of what made Houston so rich. In seconds, the carriage was gone. If anyone had ridden it or not, that was un-clear. O'connor was signaled to run and he was off like a beast to a bar. Men followed him, noticing him as a Sheriff instantly. However, those men who entered with O'connor didn't come back out, so there was no reason for Dr. Brokin to follow.

In fact, Dr.Brokin, weapons revealed was walking past the house. He saw three men with black suits and auto-matic weapons drawn. They saw him. "Hey, fellas," He said, "How's the weather?"

"No rain today," one of them said.

Suddenly, bullets rang.

People screamed. Women and children were taken up by men and brought in-doors to the nearest establishment. Various vendors broke their wares down and began to push their cards hurriedly out of town.

The three men on the tried the doorknob but found the house locked. It was at this time that they turned back to look at Dr. Brokin and he was there smoking a cigar in front of them but by the time they turned to point their guns at him, he'd shot them all at least three times each around the chest.

More men came out, in a hurry.

The fire from their semi-weapons rang like crackling fire-crackers on a grill. No one was taking the dirt roads.

Dr.Brokin jumped behind a molasses barrel, next to the bar where O'connor had gone in. When the firing squad stopped to reload, Brokin's revolver spun in his hand. He blasted a man right through the hands and ran at another, spinning his gun sideways as he saw him and shot him on the cheek. A hole rang through to the other side of his head. The bullets were gone and he reloaded in a matter of seconds, pointing both guns upward, shooting down two men who appeared on the roof. Another man behind him fell, of a sudden, as a sniper's rifle's shot blasted through the air. Dr. Brokin saw him from the ground on the roof of the bar. It looked like O'connor had taken a wound ot the leg. Dr. Brokin had a slash across his arm from when he'd jumped to the floor. His coat was torn from that side, as well.

He entered the house. The first room was only an open hallway with a couch and a table in front of it. It was probably done for the comfort of the ladies but all that Dr. Brokin saw inside were potential targets. Men were up on the railings of the stairs with their guns pointing down.

The revolvers switched sides in his hands, as he actually shielded them. The men shot down at him. Dr. Brokin stepped outside and to the right, closing the door as he went. A man came out and he took out the gun at his chest quickly and shot him on the side of the head. A chinese man crashed through one of the windows gun-drawn and yelled as he shot but Dr. Brokin had him aimed in seconds and he shot him on the chest instantly.

After re-entering, Dr. Brokin saw that more men had hit the floor than was necessary. One of them drew his weapons and shot him, clasping his ear. Blood spurted out from beside it but it had barely missed his head. Dr. Brokin brought his gun up and finished the job.

****

At the president's office.

Message: "Men responsible for the robbery of the small town of Luke's bank have been taken care of. Fernando, a casualty of this unnecessary mess, has been recompensed in kind with the town's money, as it comes to their attention that an innocent man was killed for no reason. Oh, and on a personal note, Dr. Brokin sends his regards in the following: 'Love, From Houston.'"