The Hoods of Terror

CHAPTER 1

Saturday nights inside the Whiskey Horn Saloon in Millville, Kansas, were pretty much the same as any other of the small-town dram mills in 1883, except tonight the dirt streets outside the hall were going to be shortly soaked with blood.

Inside the large smoke-filled and whiskey-breath room were clumps of men in varying degrees of sobriety seated and betting at the tables of chance. Others were lined up at the long mahogany bar discussing the latest grain and corn prices. Some sat drinking rye at the back of the room, chewing and spitting and farting along with the tinkling medleys of the upright piano.

On week-day nights, the gambling and drinking was slower. Most of the doves of the roost from Ida Belle's house of shame near the railroad tracks would traipse up the hill to the Horn and pick up the first gent with a gleam in his eye, drag him head back down the hill and onto her well-worn mattress.

This never happened on Saturday nights. The belles all stayed in at Ida Belles, taking care of all the walkin trade they could handle. Madam Ida always stood ready at the door, screening the sobriety and funds of each customer and turning away those who didn't qualify. The complainers found themselves staring down the barrel of Ida's silver pocket pistol.

Tonight was different.

In the darkened alley between The Whiskey Horn and Needham and Austin's Millenary, a heated argument was taking place.

A big man had a young dove pinned against a wall.

Don't lie to me, bitch, he said. You took coins out of my pocket last night while I was asleepin' in yore bed!

No! No, she said. I didn't!

Lie! There weren't no other place they coulda gone!

I never touched your money! she said. Some of the girls do that, but I never.

She tried to wrench away from him.

Damn it, she said, struggling. Let go of my arm. You're hurting me!

Clumsy with the whiskey he had drunk, and the alcohol firing his temper, the heavy set young man pinned her slender white arm behind her back and pushed her tighter against the wall. Her softly curved body was wedged tight on the wood siding of the dark building.

Yore lying! he said, breathing liquor fumes into her face. I weren't so drunk I don't remember how much money I had. There was four twenty-dollar gold pieces in my pants. This mornin' there was two.

Stop pushing! she said. You're breaking my arm.

There was only two coins! Two!

Let me go, dammit, I'll scream. I really will!

With her free hands she reached back over her shoulder and clawed his face.

Oww! Shit! he said.

He spun her around to face him and slapped her face hard with a meaty palm.

Her head snapped to one side.

He continued slapping her head from side to side.

Dazed, she started to collapse.

He caught her by the armpits.

Stand up, whore!

Using his fist now, he began viciously punching her face.

The girl was moaning now. The blows continued one after the other.

Struggling to fend off the blows and regain her balance, she pawed helplessly in the air with her hands. Tears were spilling from her eyes mixing with the rivulets of blood pouring from her nose.

Finally, the young drunk stopped punching her face and snatched her long blond hair down behind her, whipping her head back.

Now, you listen, he said. No lyin' slut never took no money from me afore and none is goin' to start now!

Mollie May glanced coldly at the unshaven face of the drunken man.

She spit on his face. Pig!

With her cat-like fingernails she lashed out at his eyes.

In an instant, a light from the end of the alley reflected off the keenly honed edge of the knife clutched in the man's hand.

Mollie May saw what was coming.

Noooo... she whined, putting her hands up before her.

The man raised his arm.

No! Don't! Wait! she said. I'll give you the money. I'll give you anything you want!

He grinned crookedly and stepped back. His arm lashed out. The blade sliced through the air.

The pretty girl's throat slipped easily open, the gash spurting rich blood onto the bodice of her dress and onto her arms.

She stared wide-eyed at her attacker, visibly aware she had been dealt a death blow. Yet, hope was in her eyes that the nightmare was not true; and she would survive to live and laugh another day. But clearly, she knew her days were over.

She tried to form words. They gurgled in her throat. Then, her head tilted forward and she crumpled onto the dirt at the man's feet.

At the moment of the knife-slash and peering from behind a rain barrel at the end of the alley, four wide eyes, blinked. This was followed by an audible gasp.

Two young boys sprang up, barely able to hold onto the gunny sack filled with supplies in their arms.

They turned and started running down the boards in front of the store.

Looking up from the body at his feet, the man sought the source of the footsteps.

What the hell....?

Staggering, he ran to the end of the alley.

Squinting into the darkness, he spotted the boys.

Hey! Get back here, you whelps!

He began lurching after them.

Damn yore hides, get on back here!

The bloody knife dropped from his hands.

Suddenly sobered by the seriousness of the situation, he began chasing them in earnest, stumbling at times.

The youngsters ran erratically, tripping, petrified with fear, terrified by the violence they had just witnessed. Groceries were strewing from their bags.

Behind them, the panting man stopped running.

Dazed and not fully aware of what he was doing, the.45 caliber weapon at his side swung easily up and fastened on the back of first boy.

Wham!

Then, the other.

Wham!

Purple-crimson muzzle flashes sent lead slicing through space toward their targets.

The explosive sounds of the pistol echoed through the streets.

Their backs ripped open, the boys in turn lunged forward several feet and came to a halt face down in the dirt of the street.

Three tin cans rolled forward on the wooden sidewalk and stopped.

Then, there was silence.

The man gaped at the smoking gun in his hands.

Clutching his forehead, he cried, Jesus, whad I do?

Legs weak, chest heaving, he stood helpless on the dark street.

Slowly, he raised the gun's muzzle to his temple.

The gun was trembling in the grip of his hand.

Finally, tears streaming down his face. He slowly lowered the gun and put it into his holster.

Voices and running footsteps were approaching.

The big man wheeled around, suddenly alert. He glanced frantically to both sides of the street, seeing no one. The footsteps became louder.

One thought...Escape!

A few yards to his right was a dark alley between two unlit buildings.

Desperately forcing his liquor-sodden body to move, he scuttled into the inky blackness and its safety.

CHAPTER 2

Inside the Whiskey Horn at a corner table in the late afternoon, the long flexible fingers of gambler Morgan Elliott manipulated the square-edge playing cards deftly, snapping each over to reveal its decision.

The eyes of the men at the table stared intently at each turn.

Earlier, there had been a sense of relaxation; casual words were tossed about good-naturedly. Now, there was a sense of seriousness hanging in the air, as thick as the layers of tobacco smoke overhead. Most of the pots in the center of the table were being pulled over by the tall man wearing the three button pocket vest and long black dress coat.

Few words had been spoken for quite some time, most communication being small hand gestures from the tight-lipped participants.

Morg Elliott, the gambler with the piles of chips before him, was the only one smiling. Being taciturn when playing cards, he rarely spoke, and only then in quiet tones. His poker mask remained rigid as granite; his only movement was from the wrist down. His eyes were always darting, studying the slightest telltale signs of his opponents.

Morg was visibly amused by this game. The men around the table had been playing foolishly, drinking too much whiskey, betting into the most impossible of odds.

Morg broke the strained silence. He turned over his hole card.

Well now, gentlemen, he said. It appears the lady has smiled on me again.

He reached out and scooped the chips mound toward himself.

Owen Tobler, the town's blacksmith, shook his head.

That’s' it, he said. I'm flat. He tossed in his cards.

One by one, the others did the same.

Tobler pushed away from the table, stood and walked away.

The others stayed seated, looking defeated.

The jaw of farmer Jared Bidwell was grinding

I'm out, too, he said.

Morgan continued stacking the chips.

Jared went on. You know, friend, I can't help guessin' you mighta slickered us.

Morg shot him a glance.

I'm not statin' that for a fact, Jared said. But I've never seen cards turn so smooth in one game in all my life.

His voice had a threatening edge to it, but not enough to provoke the gambling man into pulling his six-gun.

Jared's face was getting redder. He was obviously waiting for a response.

Morg finished stacking his chips. Now visibly alert, he studied the angry man across from him.

He spoke quietly.

You be careful now, he said. You've had considerable whiskey. If you suspect there's something wrong with the turn of the cards, you best think twice before you make something of it...

He smiled slightly.

...friend.

Slowly, Morg slid his chair back from the table.

But, keep in mind you might of played your last hand.

He watched for any sudden movement from the man.

He went on.

Poker is a game of skill...friend. So why not admit you been folded by someone more skillful than you.

His right hand now had moved beneath the table top.  His long black jacket slid open.

Either way, it's your move.

The men still seated at the table slowly eased their chairs back.

Jared sat still. His eyes were blinking, obviously weighing what to do.

Morg didn't blink.

Jared stood up abruptly.

That move brought Morg's Colt out in a split moment and pointed at Jared's middle body.

Jared blanched. He began taking deep rapid breaths.

Then, he squared his shoulders.

No sir, he said. I will not draw my gun on the likes of you.

He tugged on his hat and adjusted the brim.

Glaring, Jared said, I'm guessin' any fool who sits to a game with slickers like you should not feel sorry for hisself.  His voice was dark. Howsomeever, I think you cheated us. Therefore...good evenin'.

With this, he spun and walked out of the Whiskey Horn Saloon.

Morg looked at the others, still rooted to their chairs.  He reholstered his gun and slowly folded his hands before him.

The rest of you fellas, he said quietly. You guessing you been cheated?

Each shook their heads quickly. They scooped up their meager earnings, stood and walked off. One moved to the back of the saloon where a fiddle player was stringing a frisky river song.

Morg muttered, People do too much guessin' in these parts. It ain't healthy. 

He pulled out his watch and glanced at it.

Enough for one afternoon.

He stood, yawned, stretched his lean body and put on his black derby hat.

After cashing in his chips at the bar and packing winnings into his money belt, he downed one whiskey shot and walked out into the warm evening air.

The small zebra dun gelding danced nervously at the rail as the tall man approached him.

Come on, Cannon Ball, Morg said.  There's a new faro saloon up the river. Let's go check it out.

At the end of the dirt street, the last rays of the September setting sun were filtering through the cottonwoods along the banks of the Arkansas River.

By the time the last rays of the sun were gone, the man and horse were following a trail along the river, miles from town. They maintained a steady lope through the rolling countryside, lit by the silver glow of the bright rising moon.

Morg muttered, Damned fine evenin', ain't it C.B.?

Cannon Ball shook his head and blew. He always reacted to the sound of Morg's voice.

What Morg couldn't guess was that back in Millville, a commotion was beginning to play out.

CHAPTER 3

H ere! Here! Over here! Lift that lantern! Oh, good Christ, look at the blood.

Blazes! Are they dead?

'Course they are, you damn fool. Look at the size of the holes in 'em.

I wanta see. Step aside. Holy shit!

Another ran up.

What is it? I heard shots! Oh, no! Oh, no!

Men were now rushing up from all directions. The dust they kicked up rose and settled over the bodies of the dead boys.

Who are they? one shouted. Do you know 'em? another yelled.

Roll 'em over.

Jesus, they're so young. Who in hell would wanna kill kids?

Damn, one said quietly. This don't make  no sense.

Thunder! It's the Klaine kids! Sam! Run fetch their ma!

Uh, maybe we should cover them up?

No. Leave 'em be.

Look. Everybody, look! Here comes that new sheriff.

Sheriff. Over here. Coupla kids. Someone went and shot a coupla kids.

Another said, Murder's the word, friend. Murder.

Everyone moved back and let the sheriff through.

Sheriff Bill Kelsey, newly appointed a few days previous, stooped and felt the small bodies.

He shook his head. 

Standing up, he addressed the crowd. 

Anybody see who done this?

There was no response, only hushed murmurs.

I said, did anybody see who done this? See anything?

More murmuring.

"I did,