Calico Jack

         The Mexican stood in the middle of the street between the hotel and the ferrier. Dressed head to toe in black and the hem of his coat dragged on the ground, sweeping away his bootprints as he walked in the dust. His black calfskin boots were scuffed and dirty, and a vest covered his collared shirt. He was not a particularly tall man, but never slouched and had built a reputation that belied his small stature. His name was Juan Garcia, but he called himself Calico Jack. “Juan Garcia” just didn’t have the same ring to it; he needed something more colorful.
         He’d adapted the name “Calico Jack” after his sister died. When he lived back east in Florida with his parents, he’d heard sailors telling stories of a pirate terrorizing the coast about a hundred years ago. Those stories fascinated him and the name “Calico Jack” evoked something in young Juan. He decided when he left everything else behind to go by “Calico Jack.”
         The streets of Muskeegie were deserted, save for the lone Mexican. It was a shithole, a one-horse town. A crossroads town, Muskeegie was remarkable only for          the fact that it had the only hotel and saloon in the county. One side of town had a ferrier’s shop and a blacksmith across the street from the hotel. On the other side, the saloon sat across the street from a general goods store. The sheriff’s office was behind the saloon. Most of the time, the sheriff was in said saloon, drunker than a skunk in heat.
         The air was hot and dry; the sun beat down up his back. Calico Jack didn’t mind the heat; he was used to it from having grown up in Florida. At least Muskeegie didn’t have the humidity and mosquitoes that Florida did, though there were flies. He hated mosquitoes. They were responsible for the fever that killed his parents.
He was only thirteen when his parents died of the fever. His sister, Esmeralda was only 7. They’d always been poor, but without their parents, there was little they          could do. So, he lied about his age a bit and signed on with a wagon train moving west. Esmeralda thought it was great fun and played with the other children as Juan worked their way west. Her laugh would float on the prairie wind and her smile would brighten up Juan’s day when he’d lay down exhausted. There was no hint behind her eyes of the tragedy that had befallen them at such a young age.
         Now, Esmeralda was dead and Calico Jack was alone on the streets of Muskeegie. He’d spent well over a year looking for the man he was about to face. Looking over his shoulder at the sun, he was reminded of the oppressive heat in Florida. Sweat rolled down his neck and the silver band of his black hat shone like glittering diamonds. Calico Jack’s hand stroked the tooled leather of his holster and he checked the sidewalks and windows of nearby buildings once more. His lip twitched as a bead of sweat rolled down his face and over his mouth; it was salty. He could hear the metallic ring of a hammer beating out metal at the ferrier’s shop just behind him to his right. Calico Jack adjusted his coat, tucking the right side of it behind his holster while keeping his left hand concealed under the other side. He awaited his opponent: Red Rock Ferguson.
         Calico Jack was just about to call him out when Red Rock stepped out of the saloon. Red Rock was nearly seven feet tall. His shoulders look nearly that wide. An unkempt mane of fiery red hair betrayed his father’s Irish heritage. A product of life in the lawless west, Red Rock’s nose was crooked and deformed. He had a tale for every scar and a scowl for anyone who crossed his path. He wore ragged buckskins, looking every bit the part of a Tennessee mountain man just in town after two months in the wild. The most intimidating part of his attire was the twin gun rig he wore low on his hips. Even in the holsters, his polished Colt Peacemakers gleamed in the sunlight. He squinted as he looked down the street at Calico Jack.
         Calico Jack recalled the fear he’d known when he first encountered Red Rock Ferguson. He recalled the feeling—his legs shook and he’d fallen to his knees, helpless. A rage started to build in him. He was going to finish avenging his sister, here and now, in the streets of Muskeegie.
         He didn’t have a fancy two-gun rig like Red Rock, but he didn’t need it. He started his quest for revenge with just a knife. The first man he killed, Running Dog Gonzales, a greasy half-breed Mexican/Apache, carried a Schofield revolver. Calico Jack used that to kill the second man. The second man, Ricky McGillicutty, didn’t have much of worth on him, but he had enough money for Calico Jack to buy something special for Red Rock Ferguson.
         “I was just about to call you out, Red Rock,” Calico Jack shouted. He shifted his weight slightly, getting ready for the inevitable. A horse whinnied from the ferrier’s shop.
         “You ain’t got the guts, you miserable spic. I swear you’re stupider than you are ugly. Don’t you know calicos got more than one color? Or are you a different kind of pussy? You ain’t even man enough to stand up for your sister,” Red Rock countered, his hands hovering over his pistols. “Yeah, I remember her. She was a sweet, spic whore. Shame we had to bust her head when she wouldn’t let Gonzales have a poke.” He grinned, his half-rotten teeth leering from behind his lips.
         “You’re the last one, Red Rock.” Calico Jack said, ignoring the insults. Such words were the tools of fools. Red Rock was the last in a line of men Calico Jack was looking for—the men that brutalized and killed his sister.
         Shortly after their parents’ death in Florida, Juan and his sister moved to west Texas, hoping to start over away from the insects and fevers of the Florida swamp. It was a tough life, but they managed okay for a few years. His parent’s dying wishes were for Juan to care for his little sister. Esmeralda was petite, with long, black hair and deep, green eyes. She had a way of looking at Juan and pouting that let her get her way every time without fail. Juan always thought her laugh sounded like bells ringing and hope to one day find a good man to marry her and provide for her in a way he never could.
         Then one day, Red Rock and his gang of thugs showed up and took a liking to young Esmeralda, who was working in a local bar. They followed her home that night and forced their way in. Juan and Esmeralda never encountered such vile men in Florida. Paralyzed by fear, and in pain from the beating Red Rock had administered to him, Juan could only watch as Ricky McGillicutty, Running Dog Gonzales, and Red Rock Ferguson took turns raping his sister and beating her when she resisted too much. He lay paralyzed with fear and grief as one of the beatings went too far and cracked her skull. The men panicked and ran when they saw grey matter mixing with blood on the earthen floor of Juan’s house.
         Juan never forgot that day. He vowed to bring his sister’s killers to justice, no matter what the cost. He scraped enough money together to buy a big knife and started following the gang’s trail. Irrational rage clouded Calico Jack’s mind; it never occurred to him that avenging his sister’s death could be dangerous.
         He found Running Dog Gonzales in a whorehouse in Tombstone, Arizona. Calico Jack burst in on Running Dog while he was enjoying the company of one of the ladies and pissed himself when Running Dog pulled a gun on him without even getting off the whore. The memory of Running Dog’s laughter burned in his memory. Calico Jack experienced a moment of clarity and took advantage of his humiliation to plunge the knife into Running Dog’s chest. The blood burned as it washed over Calico Jack’s hand and he took grim satisfaction in the man’s death. But even as he smiled as Running Dog gurgled and died, Calico Jack was reminded of the noises his sister made after her skull was cracked. His smiled faded. He yanked the knife out, took Running Dog’s gun and fled. The whore didn’t appreciate having a man killed with her legs wrapped around him and Calico Jack had to leave town with a posse on his heels. But, he had Running Dog’s gun and the knowledge that his sister was one-third avenged.
         After that first kill, Calico Jack was sick for hours. He wasn’t sure if he could finish the job, but he became more confident as he practiced with Running Dog’s Schofield. He made that gun his own.
         Ricky McGillicutty took a little longer to find. Three years longer, in fact. Calico Jack tracked him to a saloon in Carson City, Nevada. In the three years, Calico Jack had been forced to defend himself many times and was quite a good shot with his Schofield revolver. He grew to enjoy shooting it. Shooting Ricky McGillicutty with it brought great satisfaction to Calico Jack. He relished each thump of a bullet as it slammed into the thug’s flesh. He even found himself admiring the patterns the blood was making on the wall behind McGillicutty, patterns very similar to the splatter of his sister’s blood as the men beat her for not submitting to them. As McGillicutty slid down the wall, dead, Calico Jack found himself choking up and fled that town, too. Deep down, some part of him knew he was treading down a path of which neither his sister nor his parents would approve.
         Once he’d tracked Red Rock to Muskeegie, Calico Jack decided that he needed something special for the large ruffian. In the back of his mind, though, he could see his sister’s disapproving glare at the pleasure he took in his revenge. He pushed it aside and pressed on, determined to finish the job.
Now, the two headstrong men stood on the dusty street in Muskeegie, staring at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Calico Jack flinched as dust blew into his eyes. Time slowed down.
         Calico Jack looked through bleary eyes as Red Rock reached for his guns. His hands gripped the butts of his pistols as his thumbs rested on their hammers.
Calico Jack lifted his left arm, throwing aside his coat, revealing a double-barrel shotgun. He pushed forward and started to march towards Red Rock.
Blinking to flush the dust out of his eyes, Calico Jack could barely make out the large red-headed thug pulled back the hammers on his guns as he drew them out of his holsters.
         Calico Jack increased his pace, his right arm supporting the shotgun as he raised it to aim. A huge target, Red Rock Ferguson’s pistols cleared their holsters and started to track upwards towards Calico Jack.
Finishing his second step, Calico Jack’s eyes widened when he saw Red Rock’s pistols pointed straight at him. The man was fast. Red Rock pulled the triggers on his twin pistols.
         The report echoed in the streets of town. Puffs of smoke preceded the bullets as they flew out of the barrels towards Calico Jack. Though Red Rock Ferguson was fast, any gunfighter worth his salt can tell you that speed is not always the best thing in a gun fight. Red Rock was fast and sloppy. The bullets whizzed by either side of Calico Jack’s head.
         Flinching at the buzzing snap of the bullets whizzing past his head, Calico Jack pulled the first trigger of his shotgun. The booming thunder of the shotgun drowned out Red Rock’s pistols and the blast caught the big man square in the chest.
         The recoil of the first barrel pushed Calico Jack’s shotgun upward and he pulled the second trigger. Mixing in with the previous shot, the twin reports formed a roar that deafened Calico Jack.
         Gore splattered Calico Jack as Red Rock’s head erupted in a plume of crimson and gray goop. The second shotgun blast had caught the big man right in the face. He body flopped to the ground, spattering the ground. The blood from his head mixed with the dirt of the street, forming a gruesome, scarlet sludge around his shoulders.
         Calico Jack stared at the gory mess of Red Rock’s blood and brains mixing with the dirt. The image of his sister’s shattered head echoed in his mind. Sinking to his knees, he dropped the shotgun like it was diseased. His sister’s face came unbidden to his mind and he fought back tears. He had become no better than the men he hunted.
         How long he sat there crying, he didn’t know. Flies were beginning to buzz around Red Rock’s carcass when he heard the unmistakable sound of spurs ringing as someone walked towards him.
         Calico Jack looked up to see the sheriff pointing a rifle at him. The sheriff seemed a little unsteady as he told Calico Jack, “Yerunder arrest. Me’s thinkin’ you be Calijo Crack.” The words were so slurred, Calico Jack had difficulty making them out.
         Calico Jack simply replied, “My name is Juan Garcia.”