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Houston

Tom Doherty Associates

The traveler, dressed in blue denim and riding a big strawberry roan, halted at the spring. He looked around cautiously for a few moments, then stepped down from the saddle, intent upon watering himself and his horse.

"Stand right where you are, fellow!" a deep voice commanded from behind the green willow saplings. "You're covered with three shotguns!"

The traveler stood still for a moment, then slowly raised his hands above his head.

"Drop that gun belt slow and easy," the voice continued, "then take off that coat. Shirt and pants, too."

The man complied, then stood in his underwear awaiting the next order.

"Take that rifle out of the scabbard and lay it on the ground, along with your saddlebags and bedroll. Then take off the saddle and bridle, and give that horse a whack across the rump."

A short while later, the horse, minus its saddle, galloped off into the woods.

"Now," the voice commanded, even louder now, "start walkin' and don't look back."

Looking toward the saplings, the traveler finally spoke: "I suppose you could say that I'm a tenderfoot. Do you mind if I put my boots back on?"

"Guess you can. You've got a long walk ahead of you. Put 'em on, and be quick about it."

With his boots on, the traveler spoke to the willows again. "Which direction?"

"East," was the response. "And if you look back, you're dead."

Wearing nothing but his underwear, boots and Stetson, the traveler moved away from the spring in short order. He did not look back.

A considerable length of time elapsed before Tom Baker stepped from the willows to review his booty. He decided quickly that he had made a fair haul. The purse he found in the inside coat pocket contained two hundred dollars. He threw the coat aside and picked up the pants. He tinkered with a fob for a moment, then pulled the chain, extracting an expensive-looking watch from a small pocket just below the belt loops. He searched the pockets thoroughly, but found nothing else of value. He discarded the pants.

When he found that the saddlebags contained only a few hard biscuits, and the bundle tied behind the cantle consisted of nothing more than a bedroll and a change of clothing, he discarded them also. He picked up the gun belt and the Henry rifle and trotted back to the willows, where he mounted his swift bay and headed west.

Though mounted on a speedster, Baker rode along at an easy trot. He never pushed the animal unless crowded. A man had to take care of his horse.

Tom Baker had been a thief all of his life, but only recently had he turned to such serious crimes as the robbery he had pulled off just now. His third within the past six months.

A native Texan, and the only offspring of a poor dirt farmer and his sickly wife, Baker was now twenty-four years old, stood a little less than six feet tall, and weighed about one-ninety. He had brown hair and eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Quite ordinary in appearance.

He had never worked at any one job for more than a few weeks at a time, and had done most of his eating at his mother's house. The frail woman had died the year before, and since then Baker had been living on whatever he could steal. He was a fair hand with guns, long or short, and had often imagined himself the leader of a band of tough outlaws. A dozen men. That's how many it would take to pull off some of the jobs he had in mind. And the newspaper writers would no doubt begin to call the outfit "Baker's Dozen" right from the start. He smiled at the thought, and chuckled softly.

He patted the two hundred dollars in his pocket. Easy money. The whole job had taken less than two hours. A hundred dollars an hour. He patted the money again. He had spotted the well-dressed traveler in the town of Leatherwood that morning, and had noticed his purse when he paid for his breakfast. After determining the man's direction of travel, it had been a simple matter to outdistance him and lie in wait at the spring. The man would surely stop to water his horse.

Nor could the traveler ever identify him, for the man had not seen Baker's face. In fact, the man had seen nothing. Baker would sell the traveler's Peacemaker, rifle and watch to someone at least fifty miles away, and never hear a word about the robbery. He would hole up at his dead mother's cabin for a while, then begin to scout around for something bigger. Something really big. Big enough to require the help of a dozen men.

As he rode into the yard and stepped from the saddle, he laughed aloud and began talking to himself. "I'll have to remember that shotgun trick, 'cause that joker sure bought it. Big as he was, he wasn't wantin' no truck with three shotguns. I could have claimed to have twenty and he'd have believed it, 'cause he sure couldn't see nothin'. Yessir, I'll be usin' that shotgun trick again."

He loosed his horse in the flimsy corral, then returned to the cabin, where he hung the traveler's rifle and gun belt on the bedroom wall. Then he took a seat in a kitchen chair, where he sat for a while admiring the watch he had stolen. Its case was made of solid silver, he decided, with lots of fancy tooling, and the large Roman numerals on its face appeared to contain a sprinkling of gold. Baker began to talk to himself again. "Purtiest watch I ever saw," he said softly. "Prob'ly made over in Europe somewhere. I'll bet they don't give these things away, and I won't be givin' it away either. No, sir, whoever gits it is gonna pay a right smart for it." He finally laid the watch on the small table beside his bed, then set about building a fire in the stove.

Half an hour later, he sat at the table eating warmed-over rabbit stew. The fact that the stew was thin and watery bothered him not, for very soon he would be eating considerably higher on the hog. He had cash money now, and would have even more after he turned over the guns and the watch. He would ride down to Menardville tomorrow and see what the market would bear. Selling the guns would be easy, but he might have to ride all the way to Fort McKavett to dispose of the watch. Any officer at the fort would be proud to show off such a fancy timepiece, and they all had money.

Baker loitered away the remainder of the day around the cabin, then went to bed at dusk without ever lighting a lamp. He slept soundly throughout the night, for he was a man without conscience.

He was on his feet at daybreak, eager to begin his busy day. He buckled on his gun belt, then stopped in the kitchen to eat a few bites of the leftover stew. He ate sparingly, for he intended to order up a large T-bone steak when he reached Menardville. He dumped the remainder of the stew in the yard, then filled the pot with water. No more rabbit stew for him this week.

He took a few steps toward the barn, then changed his mind. He must make a trip to the outhouse first. He changed directions in midstride, taking the trail that led to the dilapidated, one-hole affair. The door squeaked on rusty hinges as he opened it and stepped inside. He hung his gun belt on a large nail that he had long ago driven into the wall for that purpose, then dropped his pants and began to make himself comfortable.

He had scarcely taken his seat when the door squeaked again, and he found himself staring into the business end of a .41-caliber, double-barreled derringer. Behind the deadly little weapon stood the traveler Baker had robbed at the spring. The man held the gun about twenty inches from Baker's nose. "Good morning," he said, smiling.

All color drained from Baker's face instantly. "Whatcha think you're doin', fellow? Whatcha —"

Baker never finished the question, for the traveler had squeezed the trigger. "Just wanted to hear that voice one more time," he said, as Baker's eyes turned to glass and his lifeless body slumped against the wall, "to make sure I had the right man." The traveler retrieved his purse from Baker's pocket and saw that his money was still intact. He stepped outside, and when he removed his hand, the rusty hinges squeaked again as the door closed on its own. Then he dropped the little Remington into his pocket, just standing there for a moment.

Baker's career as a holdup man had been short-lived, for yesterday, he had waylaid the wrong man. Of all the men in Texas that he could have chosen to rob, he had picked Camp Houston, a man who was feared, or at least respected, by every gunman in the West.

Houston had originally come from Arkansas, and had been in Texas off and on for the past ten years. He had been involved in three cattle drives from Texas to Kansas, and had walked the streets of Abilene, Ellsworth and Dodge City. He had been as far north as Montana Territory, and west to California, and had forgotten none of the things he had learned during his travels.

He had been raised on a farm a few miles west of Little Rock, the only child born to John and Rebecca Houston. He had been given the somewhat unusual first name "Campbell" because it had been his mother's maiden name. The name was shortened to "Camp" before the boy was knee-high.

Aside from the horses and cattle that were produced on the John Houston farm, hogs and chickens were sometimes butchered and, along with garden truck, peddled on the streets of Little Rock. Consequently, during his growing years young Camp learned not only how to farm and raise livestock, but how to market his merchandise as well.

Camp's had been a happy childhood, and he had already been about grown when his parents had their final argument. His mother moved out of the house the year he was fifteen, and remarried a year later. His father remarried a few months after Camp's seventeenth birthday. That was the day the youngster decided to leave Arkansas for good. He had no ill feeling toward his father's new wife; he simply believed that at six foot three and a hundred ninety-five pounds, he was big enough to be on his own. The very next day, carrying a thousand-dollar stake provided by his father, he loaded a pack mule, then caught up the best saddle horse on the premises. He shook his father's hand, then hugged his new stepmother, who was only six years older than he. Then he picked up the mule's lead rope and threw a leg over the big bay saddler. A few minutes later, he was out of sight. That had been ten years ago, and Camp had not been back to Arkansas since.

He found work on a ranch near Waco right away, and stayed there all summer. When the winter layoffs began, he was the first man to go. He had saved his money, however, and could very easily survive the winter without a job. Which is exactly what he did.

He took a job on a ranch near El Paso the following spring, worked till after the fall roundup, then drew his pay and headed north. It became his custom over the next few years to work hard and save his money through the spring and summer months, then loaf and travel all winter. It was a simple, uncomplicated life to which Camp Houston adapted quite easily, for he loved traveling and learning new things.

His life suddenly took a different turn shortly after his twenty-second birthday. That was the year he killed his first man. The shooting took place in the town of Brownsville, when a local gunslinger named Lew Thompson accused Houston of attempting to romance a saloon woman that Thompson considered his own. Houston's claim that he had never even met the woman went unheard as Thompson slapped him across the mouth and challenged him to a gunfight in the street.

One thing Camp Houston had never been short on was guts. He accepted the challenge immediately. He had practiced with his Colt for years, and was an expert marksman. And though he had never fired a shot at another human, he felt that he was fast enough to defend himself against any man. He was confident as he stepped out on the street to face the gunman.

There was no waiting around and no arguing. Nor did Houston wait for the gunslinger to call the draw. He simply drew his Colt and shot Thompson between the eyes. Thompson got off a shot as he fell, which went through his own foot.

The Cameron County sheriff arrested Houston within the hour, and kept him in jail overnight. He released Camp next morning, however, because one citizen after another, and sometimes several men at a time, came to his office complaining that young Houston was guilty of nothing more than executing his God-given right to defend himself; that he had been slapped and falsely accused, then challenged to a gunfight. The saloon woman herself had provided the clinching testimony, saying that she had indeed never met Houston.

"Half the people in town are raising hell about me locking you up," the sheriff said as he unlocked the cell door. "Guess you ain't gonna be needing that lawyer you mentioned, 'cause there ain't gonna be no charges." He walked the few steps up the hall to his office, and Camp followed.

"Here's your hardware," the lawman said, handing over Houston's gun belt. "If I were you I'd damn sure strap it on, 'cause I've got a feeling you're gonna be needing it pretty often. Lew Thompson was known as a fast gun, and his reputation's on your back now." As Camp buckled on the gun belt, the sheriff stood by rolling a cigarette. He gave it a final twist, then touched it with a burning match. He blew a cloud of smoke, then began to nod very slowly. He pointed to the Colt on Camp's hip. "They'll be coming," he said. "You mark my words: they'll be coming."

The sheriff's prediction had been correct: they came. For the next three years they came on a regular basis, some a few years older than he, most younger. Would-be gunslingers had sought a reputation elsewhere of late, however. It had been two years now since anybody had insisted on testing Camp's hand, most likely because the word had gotten around that there were no survivors.

Now, standing outside Tom Baker's outhouse, Camp Houston opened the door again and took the dead man's Colt. Then he moved cautiously toward the cabin. After deciding that no one else was on the premises, he walked to the bedroom, where he immediately spotted his guns hanging on the wall. He dropped Baker's gun on the bed, checked the loads in his own Peacemaker, then strapped the gun belt around his middle.

He took his Henry off the wall and checked to see that it was still loaded. When he spotted his watch lying on the bedside table, he picked it up and checked the time. Eight o'clock. He returned it to his watch pocket and reattached the chain to his belt loop. He had bought the watch from a Mexican last year. Though the fancy workmanship was enough to make an unknowing person think it cost a lot of money, it was actually quite inexpensive. It had been made in Mexico, and sold new for about five dollars. Camp had bought it for a dollar, and it had proved to be a good conversation piece and a dependable timepiece as well.

He stepped into the yard, then walked to the barn. He opened the corral gate, freeing Baker's horse, then walked at a fast clip to the other side of the hill, where his own saddler was tied to a sapling. He shoved his rifle in the boot, then mounted and headed back to the spring at a canter. The big roan covered the distance in less than two hours.

As the animal drank from the spring's runoff, Camp sat in the saddle rethinking yesterday's event and shaking his head. The holdup man had not been very smart. When ordered to leave the spring in his underwear, Camp had walked no more than three hundred yards, then watched from concealment as the robber searched and discarded Houston's belongings and then rode away on a good-looking bay.

When Camp walked back to the spring and saw that the robber had taken only the money, the watch and the guns, he put on his clothes, picked up the bridle and began to track his horse. He had walked only about a mile when he came on the animal in a small meadow, munching grass. Catching the roan was easy, for he would stand if a man talked to him softly and approached slowly.

Mounting bareback, Houston rode back to the spring. He saddled the roan, retied his bundle behind the cantle, then remounted.

Having tender feet had not been Camp's only reason for asking the thief for permission to put on his boots, for high inside the leg of the left boot, in a special pocket sewn by an Austin bootmaker, rode the little Remington derringer. Camp had removed the weapon from his boot as soon as he reached the woods, and carried it in his hand. All the while, he was hoping that the robber did not decide to follow him, for the accurate shooting range of the little double-barrel was woefully short.

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Excerpted from Houston by Doug Bowman. Copyright © 1998 Doug Bowman. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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