Dusty Books, Frontier Librarian

Chapter19

Another great showdown... a brief ruse on their part... Dusty tied up and held at gunpoint... A prepared statement by one of the felons... Dusty's rebuttal extempore... Babe gets the message... Babe to the rescue... The Fire... shot and senseless... Babe saves Dusty's life... A decision to abscond... Off to a new life...

My past, ironically my imagined, embellished and whole cloth past came to haunt me at 3:01pm when these two varmity looking creatures found me. I had sent Babe on an errand, and he wasn't expected back until evening, since he had taken the train to Truckee to see about some large bolts he needed for a little project out at the cabin.

I spotted them coming up the street, ambling slowly, but obviously wet behind the ears, still young 'uns you could tell from this distance. Course to me everybody is a child, for all practical purposes. The street was deserted as is usual on a sleepy afternoon. I stepped off the porch, walking down the street towards them. I wanted to get a closer look. There was a tall one about my size and build, and a little wiry fellow a bit like Babe in stature. I drooped onto my cane, extending my infirmities to make the appearance of an even more feeble nature than was actual.

They all but walked right by me, not recognizing me. I didn't know them either, but some chord about them was familiar, a note from the past, if you will.

The little one walked back to me and asked "Do you know Dusty Books?" I told him indeed I did, and would they follow me, since I knew right where he was at that moment. Notice I did not embellish the point one iota! I led them over to the front door of my establishment, very slowly mind you. I asked them to sit, and shuffled over to behind the counter, where underneath lies my sawed off shotgun, just in case of troubles, suspended just belwo the counter. It is a left over from less civilized days, but in this case a welcome remnant of the past. Babe kept it well oiled. I did not unbutton my coat to reveal my iron just yet. Pausing dramatically I said 'Joke's on you, fellows. You've found him, such as he is. I am Dusty Books!'

I could tell they were surprised and unbelieving, they glanced confusedly between them. "You the feller in the Dime novel?", the little one inquired. I admit I relaxed a bit jumping to the conclusion that they were autograph seekers. "I suppose you gentlemen would like an autograph?" As I bent over looking for my spectacles, since the first step to a legible autograph is being able to see the page clearly. The large fellow leaned up against the counter moving towards me, but not in what I thought a threatening manner.

"To whom shall I dedicate it?" The little one replied, "John Dayton and William Stout!" This must have been a signal, because Stout bounded around the counter and seized me by the arms, pinning me from the back. His grace and agility surprised me. But it was my carelessness that let them get the drop on me. Well possibly not, since the accurate statement is that I have lost my edge. I feel it in my bones, there used to be a 10th of a second of protection, that was now palpably missing from me. It is one of those signs of mortality one can't escape but noticing.

They must have planned this is some detail on their first visit. As I was being dumped into my rolling desk chair and being tied with a cord Stout had carried with him, Dayton went to the front door and secured it, pulling the shades, placing the 'Closed' sign in the window. By then I was trussed up like a bird ready for cooking, on my rolling seat kept behind the counter to avoid getting up to do business as much as possible. Stout fired up the oil lamp on the counter as Dayton pulled the shutters, throwing the place into an eerie darkness. The lamp sent foreboding shadows extending to a large scale on the walls and the surrounding books.

In this horrific atmosphere I sat, trussed to my seat, all but helpless in appearance. I was confused at first; the attack was so sudden. I figured it would disarm and possibly make them careless if I acted more confused than I actually was at the time.

Somewhat formally I was reintroduced to John Dayton and William Stout, the children of the robbers I had encountered on the plains. They had come for revenge, expecting to fight a lusty and worthy opponent to avenge family honor, whatever the version there is of that commodity among horse thieves.

I felt that when their adversary turned out to not be the heroic figure of the book that it dampened their enthusiasm to a major degree. I sensed a lack of resolve, and yet I knew they could be dangerous, though quite as dumb as their Fathers. In William Stout I saw none of his father at all, except around the eyes. He was of a different size, in fact of the same makeup as myself, heavy of body and what could be an imposing figure, if there lurked even a gleam of intelligence behind those eyes. His father was a skinny drink of water, and tall to boot.

John Dayton appeared a little less insane than his forebear, having a better control of his weaponry, and his senses. He seemed to have things pretty well thought out. I trusted his aim, by his demeanor he might know how to use what he knew how to point at me. He did exhibit a need to talk, at least at first. It seems he needed to work himself up in a lather, possibly not assisted by the fact that his nemesis was an old fellow who obviously was a few cards short of a deck.

I sensed he really desired to state his charges, and if I drew him into conversation my demise would at least be delayed, and there was the bare possibility that he might burn himself out. But I am an optimist on such subjects.

He had prepared of all things a speech for the occasion! Judging by the delivery I think someone else might have prepared it, since he didn't read or pronounce the words as if they were his. He delivered this in a declamatory style that, though it showed some rehearsal in gesture and some thought in content, was most amateurishly rendered. I shall reproduce it as best as I can remember. Whatever I leave out is better than included. I shall indicate my comments with parenthesis, which I don't usually use by taste, trusting the value of commas and semi-colons. But I want to set off the speech from my thoughts, lest the reader become confused.

"We have found you, Dusty Books! We have bearded the lion in his den. Retribulation (Retribution?) for the dastardly killing of my Father, Jack Dayton Desperado of the Plains. (Stout made the first noise that had issued from him since he came in, sort of a grunt directed at Dayton.) Oh, yes, and his father too! (added quickly as if to appease anger). Retribulation is now on its way to you, cowardly wretch!" (Them is fightin' words where I come from, Partner!)

"I now recount the act before I, uh We, complete our act of revenge. You Sir, some 15 years ago when we were but lads, killed my parent and watched his die like a dog in the dust, raising no hand to help him. You stabbed by Dearly Beloved Father, after you watched the life's blood drain out of Bill Stout. And to add insult you then brought their two lifeless bodies to an officer of the law to collect a reward on their carcasses, and ultimate abomination, witnessed their lifeless bodies being hung in order to carry out the sentence of a kangaroo judge, even though they were dead at the time.

We could not make vengeance with the Judge. He has been burning in the fires of Hell for lo these last 10 years, dying of apoplexy after a meal a mere mortal should not have attempted. And we could not wreak our havoc on the Sheriff, since he perished in a Cattle Stampede. We found you when this little volume (He had to grab it from the counter when I had left it) This little volume recounted your deeds and led us to you.

Mr Books, since I cannot use the familiar with the murderer of my parent. What have you to say for yourself? (I assure you I had plenty to say) We have decided to watch you squirm and plead, but we will not be diverted from our task, you miserable polecat!"

With this last scathing remark, which I supposed he thought was high insult, which was the way it was taken, he raised his arm up, finger pointing to heaven in a final dramatic and defiant gesture. Now that the prepared portion of the program was over, he seemed to sink back into his much lesser and unrehearsed self. I resolved to try a little spellbinding and a good deal of butter on these two yokels, just to amuse myself and possibly even save my life. The last part was more important to me, but I really wanted to best them at their game.

I had a few things to my advantage. Showing a tremendous likeness in character to their two hapless fathers, they had not even searched me, or taken my weapon, or bothered to check for the gun on the little shelf under the counter. Wouldn't blame them for that. You don't think of guns in libraries, unless you are a 49'er. A fool and his life are soon parted. They were so pitiable, wet-behind-the-ears tenderfeet. But I did not doubt revenge served up on a cold plate would motivate these half wits to action against me. I acted merely to self-preserve, and had no vengeance in my heart, except for the insults, which I found lacking in creativity and depth. I have been insulted by those who are adept at such matters, and these were rank amateurs.

I had a little time to kill, since I knew Babe would eventually be back and would probably rescue me from their vile clutches. I felt that I had been given the Golden opportunity when asked to speak. They could not have given me a fairer gift, except if they hadn't been born.

I asked to be allowed to be untied, and to stand behind my counter in order to lean on it to help me stay up. These fools went for my old man pose, and that wasn't their last mistake. I then suggested a restorative, a Brandy I keep in the library behind the counter. A snifter was what I needed. They gulped theirs with no appreciation or couth at all, rather like knocking back a shot of red eye. This libation is meant to be sniffed and sipped. This was '5 Star' all the way from San Francisco, by way of the Napa Valley, made by Monks up there. It was far superior to my first exposure to any such drink, that peach concoction in South America on my sea voyage.

I served them as a device to make certain that I got my restorative. They were cooperative, and once settled in I launched into my 'defense' in a much more spellbinding style, and I had had no rehearsal! I told them a mix of fact, fantasy and pure butter which I shall attempt to recount here. My whole idea was to stall, but keep their interest. I felt no mercy would be forthcoming, lurking in their black little hearts only revenge. I also had no desire to attempt to drink them under the table and out of their senses, the latter being a short excursion indeed, let alone being a waste of good brandy. I felt confident of my assistant rising to the occasion and rescuing me from these two. I began by standing and limbering up as they had loosened my bonds. Pausing Dramatically I began. I shall use the parenthetical methods here was well, just for clarity between what was said and what was thought.

"Gentlemen! I do want to thank you for the courtesy you have shown in allowing me to speak, and though the excellent and most clear presentation that preceded me will be a tough act to follow (This is butter. It was clear as mud and more like muck) I will make the attempt.

To begin I want you to observe the character of the fellow on the front cover of this dime novel. This is a product of exaggeration of the highest water, designed to excite the reader and sell the books. Compare me to this fellow on the cover and you will see the sense of this. It is in the barest of terms, a summary of my adventures, but painted with such a wide brush.

Both you Gentlemen are men of the world. You do know your Fathers were desperate characters with bounties on their heads. (I sensed a swelling of pride in both of them, deciding to play off that if I could.) The truth is I was witness to a Death, a noble and brave one (Surely not, shot while escaping a little tin can jail) I may had made his departure more comforting and thus easier, but no matter. (I saw Stout wipe a tear self-consciously on his sleeve)

I had no party to the second death. I was merely doing my duty bringing such characters to justice. I want you to know that I gave the Sheriff the rewards to give to their families. (Oh get me a shovel. I was pouring it on thickly) I assumed him to be an honorable man. I did not kill your father, he surrendered to me after a terrible fight of some hours, bare-chested on the sand toe to toe, he almost besting me several times.

When I came upon Jack Dayton he was in great grief over his true friend and Saddle Buddy Wild Bill Stout who had been wounded in an escape attempt after a daring robbery of what I believe was some transport method. (William said 'It was a Stage with armed guards and a strongbox, I'd bet.' Actually it was an old nag that they had stolen escaping from jail, while being held there waiting for the judge, after a petty theft.)

Bill lay dying, mortally wounded in 6 places (all of which was his side) and Jack was desperate (after all he had shot him with the Sheriff's cannon by mistake). Knowing the signs that his friend was dying, no cure possible, his friend's heart pumping out his life's blood with every beat, mortally wounded and in grave condition. (Good idea, putting him in a grave)

Jack got the drop on me, professional outlaw that he was (More Butter, please Oh and pass me some gravy as well). In my saddle bags he found my volume of Shakespeare, thinking he had found a Bible and that I might be a preacher to send his friend off with a kind word. This lacking he asked me to find comfort in the Bard's Immortal 'Hamlet' (Jack raised his hand like he was in schoolroom asking who was this 'Bird' and was Hamlet some sort of pig? I replied)

The name for the writer Shakespeare is the bard and Hamlet is his greatest play, of whom your father was a devotee, uh he liked it a lot, John. (John told William 'Mother always said he like the entertainment over to the saloon. I had another notion of his taste, but of this I had no doubt, having most likely met is 'spouse' while she was employed there as a hostess with a room upstairs for gentlemen callers with 25 cents!) I read for them both, your beloved fathers, at some length. Bill was unconscious at first, but seemed to revive at my reading. In fact he was listening raptly to one of the most famous passages when he passed on.

I can quote much of it from memory, though it is failing me at times. (I gestured grandly, since I felt they were enjoying the show.) To be or not to was, that is the interrogatory!"

(In summary, I then facsimilied some version off the top of my head. They of course went for it hook line sinker rod reel fisherman pier, to coin a phrase! As I described Bill's passing in glowing terms, almost including an Angel chorus leading him to heaven, William was weeping openly, truly moved. I patted his shoulder reassuringly. This one was hooked, now for the next fish. I moved over to John.)

"Your Father was so moved that he dropped his weapon and broke down kneeling in the sand, and I was able to affect his capture."

I was so involved that I had forgotten Babe would be back. Just as I was about to go into Lord knows what and make John weep, there was a knock on the front door. All three of us jumped. I, perhaps the most convincingly of the three. Stout's gun was in his hand suddenly in one more surprise move, and Dayton's was aiming square at the door at chest height.

"Dusty?' came Babe's voice. I told them I didn't want my friend hurt and wanted to tell the rest of the story before they avenged themselves, and asked them to let me send him home to his ailing father. John waved his gun in assent.

"Harrison" I said forcefully" I have two guests in here visiting. Why don't you mosey on over to your Stepfather and take care of him like you said you should."

"What's that?" Babe said.

"I said, Harrison, go home and take care of your stepfather. I have two gentlemen I need to care for here."

"I'll do it, Dusty old pal!"

"Good Boy" I said. I only told my captors, who relaxed again as they could hear him clump off the porch, that he was a good fellow who took care of his father. I grabbed their attention by saying 'Where was I? Oh, yes, your poor father! He would have none of burying William's dad, even after I was in control. He was inconsolable, insisting that we take his body with us back to town.'

John commented with a supportive nod from William that they were buried side by side in boot hill at home. I feel I might have had a chance of a reprieve, but I take no chances with shifty fellows. I was prepared for what happened next, and of course they were not.

Babe busted in from the back. He had taken my hint about taking care of his father and was prepared for the two men, with his hunting shotgun. As there (sic) attention was diverted I pulled my sawed off from the little shelf, and hit William as he was taking aim at Babe. I hit him square in the right leg. I was aiming for his head, too! But I'll only admit that here! After a short delay he fell like a redwood tree in the forest. As he lost his balance he flailed wildly, knocking over the lamp. The oil burst into flame, and the flames grabbed the wall, jumping with a crackle to surround us almost as fast as I can write this. The entire contents of the library started to burn, the roof catching next. Billows of choking smoke covered everything. I can still taste it in my mouth as I write.

Meanwhile Babe had unloaded both barrels of his field shotgun on John, making him go back in a sprawl. The culprit actually got off a shot which richoceted (sic) wildly, grazing the side of my head, knocking me senseless. I crumpled to the floor thinking I was about to find if heaven was really there or no.

I came around a few minutes later, unceremoniously dumped on the back of my horse. How Babe managed to lift my bulk is testament to his strength, but not his judgment. He had decided to high tail it out of there, once he had me safe and out in the street. It was too late to save either of the culprits, even though he did make the attempt, good soul that he was. But this conflagration was too much for him to bear. He ran when he saw that the entire street had caught, and still no fire crew had come. We have about 17 competing fire crews in town, and I guess they were occupied with somewhere else, probably a red hot poker game. Babe was a very tired man. He is asleep on the cot here as I write. He deserves a rest. He saved my life. I have formulated a plan that just might give us both a little peace. It will mean abandoning the cabin, and whatever I can't carry. Chances are it won't be disturbed too much and it is over the rise from the water, so it might not be noticed too readily. If it is, it looks just like what it will be, an abandoned miner's cabin.

I think their size similarity to myself and Babe will result in us being declared dead. The fire must have taken out most of the city, all the abandoned buildings, surely, though I don't think it will be traced to the library, since it is all on fire. I can see the glow in the sky yet, in this dark before the dawn. After I came to I was able to ride upright, and Babe and I discussed what kind of trouble this whole thing might cause, and mutually agreed to pack up and get out. I have already packed my most valued possessions except those that I left as proof for my memoirs. I am not going to divulge our intended location, but it was one of those spots in my travels I found quite nice, and it is not a little South American Town with the godawfulest peach brandy. I will solder my box shut and hide it before Babe awakes. We will abscond by our choice, and uncomplicate our lives, courtesy of Dennison.

All I can say in conclusion is that I hope the rest of my life is just a bit quieter than this part has been.

Bless you, Dear Reader. God Bless you and remember never let the truth get in the way of a good story, more or less. There I go again dispensing the wrong advice. You'd think I'd have learned something from it all.

Signed,

Dusty Books, Frontier Librarian (Retired)

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