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The Ballad of Violet and Johnny
by Santa Crux
The Ballad of Violet and Johnny
Johnny was born ‘neath an evil moon
And little loved be grew,
Till one day fair maid he met
And love was born brand new
I’ll wait for you anon my love
I’ll keep a light for you
I will wait right here my love
My heart does long for you.
Strong and fair, his gun a blur
He shot his father through,
He kissed his love, climbed on his horse
And fled to start anew.
My life’s an empty shell my dear
As I keep this light for you
When will you return my dear?
My heart does break for you.
He walked into her bar that night
Stole heart and body too
She melted for his chest so strong
His eyes so icy blue.
You have come to me my love
And I have come to you
Shall we go away my love?
My heart belongs to you.
Wild and cold he led her wrong
Betrayed what she held true,
An outlaw’s life, all lies and harm
And every deed she’d rue.
I cannot be like you my dear
Let me go from you,
Your soul is cold as ash my dear
My heart does freeze for you.
She turned her back on evil ways
On Ringo and his crew,
She took her stand and killed her man
And died ‘neath skies pure blue.
I lay me down beside you love
My bullet shot you through,
As yours has done to me my love
My heart does bleed for you.
I will lie right here my love
My heart does bleed for you.
Scene 1 - June 1863
The green grasslands of Wyoming, the grass flattening with the wind, a few cattle grazing contentedly. Two youngsters race across the field, the boy chasing the girl. The girl is flaxen blonde, her hair in two tight plaits, awkwardly braided as if by an amateur or the girl herself. She is as gawky as any girl at the brink of maturing yet her slender hands and fine boned face gives a hint of beauty to come. She wears a pair of denim pants and no-nonsense boots; still her feet fly. Her mouth is open, her eyes dancing, her bangs flung back from her forehead by her speed.
The boy behind is a little smaller, a little younger, as tow-headed as the girl. Where her clothes are sturdy and serviceable, his are thread-bare and grubby. His knees churn with determination. He’s close but her longer legs will soon have her pulling away. In an act of crazy determination, he flings himself flat-out, clipping her heels before he crashes to the ground and rolls. He whoops as the girl stumbles and falls with a great whump of air.
Violet is shocked and surprised as she tries to catch her breath.
- You tripped me on purpose; why’d you do that?
She can barely get the words out as she gasps to fill her lungs.
Johnny scowls a bit at her criticism.
- I wasn’t gonna lose again. I always lose.
His scowl turns into a wide grin displaying a missing tooth.
-Not this time though! I won.
Violet examines her grazed elbows and grass-stained clothes. She frowns.
-It’s not funny. That hurt. You didn’t play fair.
-Ah so what! You’re just mad ‘cause you always win.
Violet thinks about that for a while because she does always win. Ever since she met Johnny she has always been ahead – a little taller, a little older, a little faster. She used to tease him something awful till her daddy told her it wasn’t nice.
-Don’t be so cruel to Johnny, Violet; he doesn’t have as much as you do.
What he meant by that was that Johnny’s daddy was a mean man. Really mean. Sometimes he hit Johnny even when he wasn’t bad. When he was drunk he just got meaner.
Maybe most little girls in town wouldn’t know about such things but Violet’s daddy owned the Trading Post – the general store and saloon in town. Milt Taylor came into town regular every week to play poker and knock back a few drinks. After his wife died he still came, but he brought his six year old son with him. While his father gambled inside the saloon, Johnny played in the street or slept in the wagon. As time went on, Taylor took to staying late, almost never leaving before the saloon closed for the night. One cold rainy night, her mother sent Violet downstairs to empty the slops bucket. As she turned to go inside, she noticed Johnny Taylor huddled beneath his father’s wagon. His shivering figure brought out her protective instinct and soon she had her mother’s permission to have the boy come upstairs for a cup of cocoa.
After that it became a weekly occurrence. Milt Taylor drinking steadily into the night; his son sitting upstairs waiting for the time he could go home. Sometimes he would fall asleep there. At closing time Taylor would shout up at the living quarters above the bar. Violet’s mom would rouse the sleeping child and send him down. On bad days his father would forget and go home without him. Johnny would wake the next morning and wait for his daddy to show up. The wagon would roll up and they’d send out the boy. More often than not his father would greet him with a clout on the ear and a growled threat.
That lasted for about a year until Johnny refused to go with his dad to town anymore. He said he was old enough to stay home alone; his father eagerly agreed. From then on, Violet and Johnny only saw each other at school. Until Johnny stopped going to classes when he was about ten. After that sometimes he’d come to town and occasionally, like today, she’d go out to the little spread his dad ranched outside of town. She visited more since her mama had died last year. She got restless sometimes and her father found it hard to say no to her. Somehow it was a comfort to be with Johnny; he knew what it was like to lose your ma.
Lying there Violet found her anger had disappeared. It was hard to stay mad at Johnny. A grin grew on her own face as she looked up at the dancing eyes of her friend.
Johnny held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.
-Come on. Let’s go into town. You got money to buy a barley stick?
Violet frowned and looked around.
-Won’t your daddy be upset if he comes back and you’re gone?
Johnny shrugged, a scowl changing his face.
-Nah, he’s gone over to Mitch Franklin’s, he usually stays a while. But you don’t have to worry. He don’t raise a hand to me no more – and if he did, I’d kill him – I swear I would
Johnny, don’t you talk like that. It’s not right.
-I’ll talk any way I like.
-You never used to be like this – all angry and mean. You’ve changed. You sound –
Violet didn’t get a chance to finish her thoughts. Johnny grabbed her arm impatiently and yanked her over to the rail where the horses were hitched.
-Come on!
***
Scene 2 - November 1867
A crowd was starting to gather in the alley behind the Trading Post. The reluctant light of a November dawn cast a cold light on a sprawled body. The sheriff was hunkered down beside the dead man, examining the bloody wound on the back of his head.
-Somebody hit him hard, all right. Musta taken it with him, there’s nothing around here coulda broke his skull like that.
Sheriff Jacob Kent shivered. When the big teamster pounded on his door a few minutes ago, he’d hastily pulled his pants on over his long johns and thrown on a jacket. The wind off the mountains swirled around the open neck of his undershirt. The chill went deeper than that. A damned murder. In his town.
Milt Taylor had finally gotten himself killed. Kent wondered if he’d cheated the wrong man at cards or had said something to rile one of the many men who drank hard and long most every night at the Trading Post.
He hoped it was a saddle tramp not one of the townsfolk. He’d hate to have to hang someone he knew for getting rid of the most ornery so and so in town.
He looked up at the pair of teamsters who’d discovered the body.
- Can you boys take his body over to the doc’s? I’d best be getting home and get dressed a little more decent before I have to go asking questions.
He rose to his feet.
Just then Violet Swenson came out the back door of the saloon, a broom in her hand. She’d turned into quite a little beauty, Kent thought. Long straight hair like her mother, god rest her soul, but pure blonde. Must be from her daddy’s side – he was a Swede. She stood there, her startled reaction turning to curiosity- she probably didn’t find people in the alley bright and early very often. Jacob Kent turned to shield her view of the body.
-Sorry, Miss Swenson, someone’s been killed out here. Can you tell your daddy I’d like to ask him a few questions down at the jail this morning if he could come by?
-Certainly, Sheriff Kent. Who is it that’s been killed?
-Sorry to say it’s Milt Taylor.
The young woman gasped and swayed, her face chalk white. Kent took a step forward to brace her, but she recovered, looking around the alley.
-Sorry, miss, I shouldn’t have said it straight out like that. I plumb forgot you might know him. Come to think of it, I’ve seen you with his son at the Emporium.
-No, Sheriff, I’m fine. I’ll tell daddy.
The young woman turned back to the saloon, showing a shapely figure beneath her plain cotton dress. She must be near sixteen now, the sheriff figured. Someone would be courting that gal pretty soon. With a sigh, he turned back to Milt Taylor and helped the boys load his body on their wagon.
Violet told her father about the murder, made a quick excuse, saddled up her mare and rode out to the Taylor spread. She rode fast. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be the one to tell Johnny what had happened but she had a feeling that the sheriff wouldn’t be too impressed if Johnny let out a cheer on hearing his daddy was dead. Deep inside, she harboured an even more awful suspicion.
The last time she’d seen Johnny was couple of weeks ago – the day his grandpa was buried. At the grave side he told her what had happened at the reading of the will. There was a wild, dangerous energy to him. Not for the first time, Violet felt a little afraid of her childhood friend.
-I don’t get nothing in the will.
Johnny had made this curt announcement when Violet had approached him with her condolences. He explained.
-You knew the land we live on belonged to my grandpa – my ma’s pa. Daddy was just a saddle bum that swept my mama off her feet. Next thing you know, ma’s in a family way and my daddy’s saddled up and ready to ride before I’m even born. Grandpa and ma’s brothers had a thing or two to say to him about that.
-So he homesteaded the ranch, hating every moment of it. And when mama died he still stayed on. I sure as hell knew it wasn’t because of me. I guess grandpa let him think there might be an inheritance after the old man passed on – not for daddy, but for me. Pa probably figured he’d be able to get the money off of me somehow.
Johnny’s glittering blue eyes remained cold as a mountain stream through the whole story. Violet felt a wave of pity for her handsome friend, but Johnny was simmering with anger and hatred. He went on.
-The lawyer read out the will in that deep preacher voice of his. It turns out there ain’t no inheritance – not for daddy and not for me. He got to this part where Grandpa wrote ‘Milton Taylor was the death of my daughter and that bad blood runs in the veins of his son.” Turns out he left all his money to my uncles and their families. I don’t get a penny.
Violet reached out, grasped his hand in her own and pulled his arm close so it was held against her body. She felt the heat where his lean arm crushed against her breast. She sucked in a breath at the feel of it.
-I’m so sorry, Johnny. He shouldn’t have said that about you.
-He sure enough shouldn’t have.
Violet felt the young man’s fury emanating from his rigid body. He was scaring her again.
She’d been helping out her father more and more at the Trading Post these days and rarely got the chance to visit Johnny anymore. When she did she found herself uneasy at the changes in him. When she saw him in town he often had a few younger boys that hung around him. He ordered them around like he owned them. If they were slow to act, he would give them a cuff on the ear or a rabbit punch in the back of the head. They were all afraid of him.
Whenever she visited him at the ranch, he’d be out behind the barn practicing his sharp shooting. Not with a rifle, though he was a mighty fine shot with his Winchester. No, he’d worked last summer on a cattle drive down to Abilene and came back with a hand-gun, a Colt revolver that he wore like a gunslinger, low on his hip, constantly practicing – drawing and firing at a block of wood he’d marked with a bull’s eye.
Last time she’d been out there, he grabbed a couple of empty patent medicine bottles and dragged her with him out to his practice range. He gave her the bottles and told her to set them up on the stump. She put one down and backed away. Like a blur he drew and fired, smashing the bottle to bits. The Colt was back in its holster by the time she looked back at him.
-Mighty impressive.
-Put out the other one.
She had the bottle by its top about to balance it on the stump when the bottle exploded in her hand, glass fragments flying. Stunned she looked at the bottle top still held in her fingers. She dropped it.
-Pretty durn good, huh?
Johnny had jogged over to her, as proud as could be. Violet was filled with a sudden fierce anger; she slapped his face as he got near. In a flash her arm was yanked behind her back. Violet found Johnny’s face close to hers, twisted with anger.
-What did you do that for?
-You could have blown my hand off.
-Don’t be dumb. I know what I’m doing.
-Like blazes you do.
They were shouting at each other, nose to nose, held close by Johnny’s arm pinning hers behind her back. Suddenly his lips were on hers, clumsy but demanding, crushing her backwards as his other arm slipped around her waist. Violet went still, bewildered and shocked until a strange arousal she’d never felt before led her to respond. She grabbed his head in her hand pulling his face even closer to hers, hungry for the contact.
They kissed with all the unpractised passion of youth, fumbling hands running over each other, revelling in the powerful sensations of their bodies. It had taken all of Violet’s strength to finally pull away and they had stared at each other, both shocked at what had just taken place.
-Um, I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean – Well -
-It’s alright, I know. Me neither. But, we can’t- “
-No, no. Your daddy would kill me.
At that thought, Violet began to blush. The sensations that had seemed so natural and beautiful in Johnny’s arms she now saw were all the things that her father had warned her against in his awkward speech a while back about the ‘birds and the bees’. She turned away.
That had been the last time she’d seen Johnny before the funeral. And this would be their first time since then. She was on her way to him. The feeling of foreboding increased.
Violet caught sight of him while she was still riding to the ranch; he was saddling up his bay gelding in the corral. Beside him were saddlebags and a bed roll. Her heart sank. Johnny was leaving. He already knew Milt Taylor was dead. And as sure as she’d ever known anything, Violet Swenson knew that Johnny had killed his father.
-Johnny?
Johnny Taylor looked up as he heard the horse approach, his hand instantly on his gun. He eased it off as he saw who it was.
-Hi, Violet
His troubled face managed a grin.
-Johnny, did you-? Your dad, he’s-
-Yeah, I killed him. He had it coming. He stole the money I’d saved up, lost it in a crummy poker game. Wrecking my life just like he has since the day I was born. I finally told him in that alley what a sonuvabitch he was. And he just laughed and turned away, like he didn’t need to listen or pay any attention to me. I had my rifle in my hand and he still just turned his back. He wasn’t afraid of me.
Johnny laid his forehead against the leather of his stirrup.
-He shoulda been afraid of me.
His voice was muffled against the saddle.
-Turn yourself in. Tell the sheriff it was self-defense. Everyone knows how bad he treated you. You’ll get off.
Johnny looked up at her leaning down from her horse. He saw her frantic concern, took in her lovely figure and pretty face. It sure was nice having one person in this world who gave a damn about him. He hated that he was going to have to leave her behind.
He reached up and pulled her into his arms. He set her down gently beside him.
-Sorry, Violet. I stove in the back of his head. Even if the sheriff liked me, he’d have a hard time believin’ it was self-defense. No, I’m leaving town. It’s high time anyway.
-No!
That one word held every bit of compassion in Violet’s tender heart and every pang of longing in her young woman’s body. She clung to him, finally breaking down into sobs, her face pressed against his shoulder. He looked over her head at the horizon, worried that the sheriff and his posse might be on their way. The chill of fear took his attention from the beauty clutched to his chest.
-I gotta go, Violet. But I’ll come back. I’m gonna make a name for myself, make some money. Then I’ll come back and take you away from this town. We’ll buy a little place of our own. I promise.
She looked up at him, dark lashes heavy with tears, hope warring with her strong common sense.
Johnny leaned in towards her, the smell of horses, hard work and fear on him. He caressed her gently, whispering in her ear.
-You’re the one good thing that I have in my life, Violet. No matter what happens, I’ll come back for you. We’re supposed to be together – you and me.
He backed away a little and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger, releasing it to slide across his hand and away. The bright smile that could make her heart soar crossed his face. He leaned close to her ear and murmured.
-Trust me.
Violet pulled closer, holding him in a fierce hug, afraid for him on the run with her not beside him. Afraid for herself, left behind all alone.
-You go, then. Ride like the wind. I will wait for you. I won’t tell the sheriff nothing.
Johnny held her tight, took her lips in a kiss that was bruising, wild and full of desire.
-I love you, Violet. I’ll be back. Honest.
She watched him ride away, dust rising in a cloud as his horse flattened into a hard gallop. She rode slowly back to town in a roundabout way so she didn’t run into the sheriff on the way back to town. She never told anyone she’d seen Johnny not even the sheriff when he asked. She missed Johnny awfully.
***
Scene 3 - November 1872
The Trading Post was finally closed for the night. Fred Perkins, the piano player, was mopping up under the tables while Violet Swenson wiped down the bar.
-Thanks, Freddy. You don’t have to do that, you know.
- Yeah Miss Violet, I know. But with your daddy gone, it don’t seem right to leave you alone here at closing time. I’ll go check the storeroom, then I’ll be off.
-Thanks.
As Perkins went into the back room, Violet mechanically continued to polish the railing of the bar. It had only been a couple of weeks now since her father had died. She still found herself crying every so often, caught by a wave of sadness just when she thought she was over it.
She was filled with confusion these days. Everybody told her she should sell the Trading Post. No work for a woman, folks had said. Funny how it was fine for her to work there when she was helping her daddy, but now that she was running the business herself, the rules had changed. It didn’t matter. This was her life now; it was what she knew, what she was good at.
Fred came out of the storeroom, dusting his hands on his pants.
- Looks like you need more whiskey.
- Thanks, Freddy. I’ll tell Jed when he comes by with the flour and harness leather I ordered.
- Night, Miss Violet.
- Night, Freddy
The piano player tipped his hat in farewell as he pushed through the saloon’s swinging doors
Suddenly Perkins catapulted back into the room. His head smacked into the piano and he lay still.
Violet’s hand whirled to the sawed-off shotgun she kept beneath the bar. She looked up to see a six-shooter pointed her way. She looked beyond it to the slim figure dressed in black looming in the doorway. Blond stubble roughened his young cheeks; cold blue eyes glittered under a wide-brimmed hat. Sensuous lips pulled in a tight grin showed off even white teeth.
-Johnny!
Her shotgun clattered back on the shelf as Violet scrambled around the end of the bar. Taylor holstered his ivory handled Colt and strode across the saloon. He pulled Violet into his arms and held her tight. His lips fulfilled the promises made five years before. Neither of them spoke as he ran both hands through her long straight hair, pulling her chin up to his face and kissing her again, long and deep. He hesitated for a moment, backing off to stare at her as his thumbs brushed along her cheekbones. Then it was her pulling him closer, her tongue searching his mouth for answers only a lover could know. His lips moved down her face, kissing her chin, her neck and finding pure pleasure in the space between her breasts. Her head was flung back, eyes closed, revelling in the touch she had craved for long years. A groan behind them shattered the magic.
Fred, she remembered guiltily, and looked past her childhood sweetheart to the man on the floor. He was rubbing his chin and trying to stand up. Suddenly she was angry. She looked accusingly at Johnny Taylor.
-What did you do that for?
He smiled and shrugged, taking in the man’s frilled shirt and the garters round his arms.
-He’s a piano player, ain’t he? I hate piano playing.
Johnny wasn’t about to admit that a wave of pure jealousy had come over him when he had watched Violet talk so nice to the piano player. The little weasel was lucky he hadn’t gunned him down where he stood. Funny after all this time, how his feelings for Violet hadn’t changed. He had been with a lot of women since he had left town, but soon as he’d heard that old man Swenson had died, he’d jumped on a horse and ridden hell bent for leather towards home, the need and hunger for his old flame suddenly as strong as the day he left.
He wheeled toward the man on the floor, dragging him to his feet by his shirt collar. He took a look at his face, marred by a purple bruise lumping on his forehead.
-Fred Perkins. So now you’re the piano player. Just like your pa was.
-Johnny. Johnny Taylor!
Perkins recognized the cowboy even though Johnny was a few years younger than him. He found himself suddenly gripped by his shirt front, almost dangling from the shorter man’s fist. A deadly sneer had replaced Johnny’s lazy grin.
- The name’s Johnny Ringo. And don’t you forget it. And don’t forget I hate piano playing. If I walk in here and you’re playing that thing, you’ll wish you weren’t.
-Sure, Johnny, whatever you say.
Perkins was anxious to get his feet back on the ground, ready to agree with just about anything Taylor said. Suddenly, his back was smashed against the bar and he felt the cold steel of a .45 up against his cheek.
-What was that you just said?
Johnny was almost growling, his thumb on the pistol’s hammer.
-Uh - no sir, you won’t find me playing the piano.
The gun was cocked now and hovering below Perkins’ chin.
-What did you call me?
-Johnny, I called you…
A shot blew past Perkins’ ear shattering a bottle behind the bar. Instantly the gun was pressed up under his chin. The piano player was in a panic. He gulped heavily, frantic for release.
-What was my name again?
-Um, Ringo, Mr Ringo. Mr Ringo.
Perkins closed his eyes to blot out the murderous glare of his tormentor. The cold metal was withdrawn and the grip on his shirt loosened. Perkins almost collapsed once he was on his own two feet. He held onto the bar like he was at the rail of a storm-tossed ship. Ringo reached out and straightened Perkins’ collar, the easy grin back on his face. He looked Perkins in the eye and said softly,
-Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back.
Perkins fled like he could outrun the bullet he feared was coming after him and didn’t stop till he got home. With shaking hands he poured himself a shot of whiskey. Maybe he should have gone to the sheriff but he didn’t give two cents for his life if Johnny was still on the streets after he did. Besides he was pretty sure he couldn’t trust the new sheriff. Not the way you coulda trusted Jake Kent.
Violet stood in the middle of the saloon, her hands fisted at her side, a sick feeling in her stomach. The whole exchange had been over before she could intercede.
-What’d you do that for? Fred didn’t do nothin’ to harm you.
Johnny turned his easy smile on Violet.
- Fred and his pals used to throw rocks at me when I was a kid. Time he found out what it feels like. Besides, I hate piano music. Reminds me of sitting outside this same door, freezing while my daddy sat in here, havin’ his fun.
Violet couldn’t quiet the sense of wrongness she felt at what she had just witnessed, but her lonely body yearned for the handsome man that Johnny Taylor had become.
-What’s this – you calling yourself Johnny Ringo?
- When I left, I didn’t want to call any attention to myself. Besides, the Taylor name was about the only thing my daddy gave me. I didn’t want any part of it.
Suddenly she looked over her shoulder at the Wanted posters nailed to the wall. Partway down she read the name Kid Ringo. She gestured at the poster.
-That’s you, ain’t it? You’ve got a price on your head.
-That old thing? That’s out of date.
He walked over to rip it off the wall and crumple it up. She noticed his gloves, leather with the fingers cut off – the gloves of a gunslinger.
- Oh Johnny, what’s happened to you?
-What are you talking about? I did just what I said I would. I made a name for myself. Made a little money –enough for a homestead. And I came back for you.
- I’ve been waiting for you five long years. Letting life pass me by. I’d about given up hope.
-It don’t look like life has passed you by at all. Look at you- running this place all by yourself.
He reached up to brush his fingers along her jaw.
-You’re even more beautiful than I remember.
Violet blushed and lowered her gaze. She had spent a thousand nights dreaming that Johnny would come back for her – walk in that door, take her in his arms. And now he was here. She reached back for the bottle of whiskey and poured two shots. She pushed one forward and held the other up for a toast.
-Well Johnny Ringo, welcome home.
Johnny touched his glass to hers then tipped the contents into his mouth for one fiery swallow.
- I’m sorry to hear about your daddy. He was a good man. Treated me fair.
A shadow crossed Violet’s face. She poured another whiskey.
-Had he been sick?
-No, it was a hold-up. A couple of outlaws on the run. They gunned him down in cold blood. Shot their way out of town, killed Sheriff Kent and one of his deputies. Jake Kent wasn’t cold in his grave before Jack Challenger and a couple of other tough hombres came into town and took things over. He’s sheriff now.
-Guess that’s good news for me. Sheriff Kent wouldn’t forget my face, that’s for sure. He had too much history with the Taylor family. Maybe this Challenger will let a cowboy have a fresh start.
-Johnny, you mean that? You coming home to settle down?
-Sure, honey. Soon as I read about your pa, I knew it was time to come home.
Violet looked at the man her Johnny had grown into – a strong man and a hard one from the way he acted with Freddy. No wonder he’d been angry – Johnny hadn’t had it easy here in LaGrange. He’d taken what he had and made a life for himself.
Johnny Ringo looked at the beautiful lady before him, smelled her fresh woman’s smell and knew he’d made the right decision. His lovely Violet had a good business in a town where he could lie low for a while.
He edged closer and fondled her hair. Slowly he unbuttoned her blouse so he could admire every curve of her luscious body. She stood in front of him, longing but unsure. He folded her in his arms, lifted her and carried her up the creaking stairs. The candles flickered in the silent saloon.
***
Scene 4 - November 1874
The empty shot glass fell from Maylene’s hand and rolled across the bar. The noise roused the new widow and her head jerked up. Her tear-filled eyes looked around startled. Violet picked up the overturned glass and gave it a wipe.
-Time you went to bed, May, get yourself some rest.
-I can’t sleep. I can never sleep. Not since Martin got himself killed. Gunned down like a dog by those rustlers. We were supposed to have a life together.
Violet knew how this was going to go. It was mostly the whiskey talking. A few months ago Maylene had been a complete wreck. She was a lot better these days, managing on her own out at the homestead, keeping the Triple M going despite her loss.
But once a week or so she’d come into town and, once the supplies had been loaded on her wagon, Violet knew that her widowed friend would come into the bar. Sometimes she’d sit at the corner of the bar, drinking quietly and steadily, leafing through an illustrated magazine until the rest of the customers were gone. Then she’d talk to her friend about Martin until she passed out. Violet would help her up to her spare room upstairs. The next morning May’d get up, pale and silent, to take her wagon back to the ranch where she’d stay in lonely isolation till the silence got too much for her and she came back into town.
Violet hadn’t known May before Martin Montgomery had brought his new bride to town. They’d talked a little when she’d come in most weeks for supplies. She’d seemed pretty quiet, a bit of a dreamer. It wasn’t until a close call at the Trading Post that they got to be friends.
It had been just past noon and May had been examining a bolt of fabric in the otherwise empty store. Violet was in the back storeroom when she felt a pistol at her back. A nervous voice whispered urgently.
-You be quiet Miss Violet, we’re going inside and you’re going to clean out the till and give that money to me.
She was pushed forward into the saloon.
-Quit shovin’! Don’t worry, I’ll give you your money. Just don’t shoot.
Violet spoke as loudly as she should, hoping Maylene would hear her warning and lay low. As soon as they were back in the Trading Post she took a quick look around. She couldn’t see the young widow.
She stepped behind the bar and debated whether to go for the shotgun or just give the man the money. Violet took a hard look at the man who was training his six-shooter on her. Though he wore a mask over the lower part of his face, Violet recognized the darting eyes above it. It was an ornery young saddle bum who’d lost a pile of money in a poker game yesterday evening. Though her fingers itched to grab her hidden shotgun, she realized she’d be crazy to try.
Suddenly the sound of a rifle chambering a round could be heard behind the cowboy. He wheeled at the sound then froze as he heard Maylene’s warning.
-Put that gun down, mister.
Lightning-quick, the hold-up man dove to the floor and twisted his gun to bear on the rifle-bearing Maylene. Cool as steel she aimed and fired. The revolver clattered across the floor as the man writhed on the floor clutching his forearm which was gushing with blood.
In one quick stride Maylene was at his side, driving the rifle-stock into the side of his head. He crumpled and the saloon was silent. Violet stared at Maylene, stunned.
-Where’d you learn to shoot like that?
My daddy was a cavalry officer. I grew up in one army fort after another. Learned how to shoot when I was little.
-Well you sure saved my skin. Thank you. I guess I’d better call the sheriff – get this piece of trash taken to the jail.
After Jack Challenger’s deputy Angus Gray had dragged the man off, Violet poured Maylene and her a whiskey.
Since then they’d become good friends. After Martin’s death, Violet had mostly been a sympathetic ear for the young widow’s pain and loneliness. But she also saw the steel beneath the gentle exterior. When Johnny sneered about Maylene Montgomery being a scared mouse, Violet had smiled and said:
-She can take care of herself.
Violet was protective of Maylene and her heart went out to her on the days when her friend sat with her glass of whiskey, slumped with grief. Tonight had been a bad one.
- Come on, I’ll give you a hand.
Violet put her shoulder under Maylene’s arm and guided her up the stairs. The young widow needed a little help with her boots and fell on the bed back fully-dressed, the tears trickling from her eyes to be lost in her dark curly hair. May’s soft voice followed Violet as she went to her room.
- I’m telling you Violet. Once you’ve lost your man, nothing else matters.
Violet closed her door behind her and leaned back, eyes closed against tears of her own. My god, the pain May was feeling.
She took off her hat and took the derringer out of her belt. Since she’d taken over the bar she’d taken to wearing men’s clothing in a futile attempt to make the customers keep their distance. She’d gotten mighty tired of the insinuations, propositions and proposals she heard every night from lecherous and lonely cowhands.
What really kept the men away was them knowing that she was Johnny Ringo’s girl. It wasn’t easy being Johnny’s girl. He was sometimes gone for months at a time and when he came back, he was dangerous and demanding and unpredictable. Whatever they had together had somehow slipped away along with all the dreams she’d ever had and all the principles her daddy had ever taught her. She’d lied to keep Johnny out of jail, taken stolen stagecoach gold for the upkeep of the Trading Post and nursed outlaws shot up by lawmen. Her daddy had been an upstanding man, a pillar of the community; she’d ended up an adventuress and the mistress of the meanest outlaw in the territory.
Well, the second meanest. What nobody else in town knew was that Jack Challenger was the worst outlaw in the Territory. He was the leader of the gang that ran the biggest rustling operations in southeast Wyoming and planned many of the stagecoach robberies on the Cheyenne to Deadwood stage line. Johnny had spilled the beans one day when he was drunk and had sworn her to silence right after. It was the first time she’d ever seen Johnny afraid.
It seemed like Johnny had finally found someone as mean as his daddy. And Violet was just as scared of Challenger as Johnny was.
When Maylene’s husband had been killed, Violet had been angry and upset. She’d told Johnny what had happened. He’d acted strange and a chill had grown in her gut. She accused him bluntly.
-Was it you, Johnny? Did you kill Martin Montgomery?
-No, Violet, I swear it. I wouldn’t do nothing to anyone around here. You know that.
Violet knew he was lying but she didn’t want him to know she wasn’t believing his lies anymore. Truth be told she was afraid of Johnny Ringo. Things were different now. The boy she once knew was gone, replaced by a cold-blooded outlaw. For a long time, she had deluded herself that she could get him to settle down. But he never seemed to think they had enough money. He loved it – the stealing, the killing. He enjoyed it when the men in the bar went silent and scurried out the door when he came in.
Hardest of all for her was the change in his feelings toward her. He was never happy with her anymore, grumbling about the amount of time she spent running the Trading Post.
-Why don’t you sell this place? Running a saloon is no place for a woman. It’s men’s work.
-Well, the Trading Post is all mine. Wyoming is the only place in the United States where a woman can own a business and I’m proud to be part of that.
- You sound like a damned emancipationist.
Johnny could barely rein in his scorn. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and shot it back.
- You make sure you pay for that drink.
Violet’s voice showed her annoyance. She frowned as she balanced her ledgers at her desk.
- Put it on my tab.
Johnny slammed his glass down on the bar and walked out of the Trading Post. Violet shrugged and turned back to her books. Disagreements like this happened more and more.
He’d never laid a hand on her but more and more lately their fiery relationship had more hard words than tenderness. When they did end up in bed, it had all the desire and excitement that it ever had. But the innocence and friendship had gone. More often than not after one of their arguments Johnny would walk out, saddle up and disappear for days or weeks. He would come back and they would go on as if nothing had happened.
But this killing was the final straw. Her best friend’s life was shattered and she knew it was Johnny who’d killed Martin Montgomery. She didn’t dare tell May. It wouldn’t bring back her husband and if she said anything, it could cost both of them their lives. But she would tell Johnny she wanted out. Not one penny more would she take and not one bit of help would she give him. Even if her decision had come too late to help Martin and Maylene.
She’d talk to Johnny soon as he came back, she vowed. She would tell him that it was over between them. He’d be angry. He would walk away from her. She sagged back against the door as a tear trickled down her cheek. God help her, she still loved him.
***
Scene 5 - May 1875
Violet wrapped the bandage tight around Johnny’s arm. Anger fought with fear and mingled with grief. Johnny looked so good, his strong body in her hands, his eyes the same brilliant blue they were the day she first fell in love with him. Today, she’d betrayed Johnny to that straight-shooting stranger and Roxton had made a fool of him. Johnny didn’t take kindly to being tied up and having his gun taken. Now Johnny Ringo was angry enough to kill someone and that someone was Jeremiah Roxton. She tried to distract Johnny by scolding him, but she only succeeded in getting herself annoyed with his belligerent manner.
Behind her back Johnny started talking slow and quiet. Violet’s annoyance turned to fear. She heard a dreadful sound that made her heart skip a beat – the hammer of a Colt .45 pulled back ready to fire. She could tell he knew what she had done though she denied it the best she could. There was no emotion on her lover’s face, no tenderness or regret.
She saw it now. He was as cruel and mean as his daddy had been. He had dragged her down into the gutter with him and it looked like she was going to die at his hands. Suddenly it didn’t matter anymore – her life. She had let her love for Johnny Ringo blind her until she had lost sight of what was right – everything her father had stood for. And now Johnny was going to use her as bait in a trap to kill May Montgomery and Jeremiah Roxton.
Violet knew one thing for sure. She would never let that happen.
***
It felt good to stand there with a two by four in her hand, Johnny Ringo sprawled at her feet. She’d be able to make things right - save May’s life and Roxton’s too. But before they could make their getaway Jack Challenger got the drop on them. The quick-thinking Roxton fired a shot and ignited the coal oil spilled on the floor; now flames licked along the dry wood. The Trading Post, the only thing she had left in this world was about to go up in flames. Violet didn’t care anymore.
She hustled May and Roxton out of the bar, knowing there was one last thing she had to do. Johnny Ringo had destroyed enough lives and had stolen from her every bit of her innocence and self-respect. He had to pay for that.
Smoke and sparks billowed out of the swinging doors as Johnny staggered through them. He saw her revolver trained on his chest and drew his gun with stunning speed. But he didn’t pull the trigger. He hesitated. They stood there for a brief moment in a Mexican stand-off, a look of puzzled disbelief on Johnny’s face.
Violet never hesitated. She stared in Johnny’s eyes, the ice-blue eyes of her childhood love and shot him through the heart. He hit the ground hard, gun in hand, the puzzled frown a grimace now. And before he died he fired his gun one last time. Violet gasped as the bullet slammed into her chest.
Sounds were muffled. It was hard to breathe. Her legs wouldn’t keep her upright. She tried to say something to May but she felt herself slipping, slipping away. It was done now.
I will lie right here my love
My heart does bleed for you.
The End
My thanks to Rann for her encouragement and helpful suggestions. Also a thank you to Mary Whimsey and Rann whose great stories reminded me how much I loved westerns as a young person.
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