By Jess Nevins
[rated PG for language]
Stan Lee Presents : The greatest heroes of the post World War II era...Captain America, Sentinel of Liberty...The Whizzer, Fastest Man Alive...Miss America, Strong and Beautiful Heroine...Sub-Mariner, Prince of Atlantis...and the Human Torch, the fiery android...they are The All-Winners Squad!
What Has Come Before: The All-Winners Squad, in battle with Future Man, were caught by a temporal beam and cast into the past. Captain America was sent into the Belleau Wood during World War One, where he helped a brave group of American doughboys and the Freedom's Five to thwart the schemes of Baron Blood and Master Khan. As Master Khan was defeated the Vision appeared and brought Captain America home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If you're an American of a certain age - i.e., mine - you grew up with Westerns. You saw them in the movie theaters - everyone from John Wayne to Gene Autry to Tom Mix. And not just the good movies, either; you grew up watching the B and C movies. You grew up listening to the radio shows. You read the comic books. You knew who Lash Larue was, and why Trigger was the best possible name for a horse, and why nobody, but nobody, messed with Hopalong Cassidy.
Then we got older, and grew up, and we discovered that the historic West was not the Wild West of our imaginations, the West that we'd read about all those years. We found out that a John Wayne film like The Alamo had as much to do with the real West as...well, as a John Wayne film like The Sands of Iwo Jima had to do with World War Two. Those Westerns we read and watched and enjoyed so avidly were dressed-up fictions, designed to provide us with entertainment and maybe - maybe - teach us a little something about our culture.
But not about our history. For that is singularly absent from Westerns. The historic West - the real West, the time and place in which so much of our country was made - contains a great deal of heroism and triumph, and just as much tragedy and villainy. But so much of the darker side of America's history reflects badly on us. Which is why we never read about it, as children.
The real West had a few gunfights. Not as many as downtown New York City now, at the end of the millennia, but a few. It had some horse thieves and cattle rustlers - but not as many as the average city has car thieves. And it had some shootouts between various groups of Indians and white settlers - but not as many battles as many inner-city gangs have today.
What the real West had in abundance was determination, and sacrifice, and a wide range of peoples from any number of backgrounds - white, black, Asian, and Native American. The real West had sacrifice on all their parts, and great efforts and sufferings and change. It was a time of enormous upheaval and social change. It was a fascinating time for our country, one whose history is still only partially written.
But when you read further into the history of the West, you find that, while the stereotypes of your youth may not have been wholly or even partially true, and the real West was far grittier and "real" than we've been led to believe, there were still heroes active during those years, creating legends and living up myths. Some you've heard of, like the Two-Gun Kid and the Rawhide Kid. Some, like Matt Slade or Whip Wilson, you won't have heard of. But, like the Marvels of the 20th Century, these heroic cowboys fought evil and helped the downtrodden and innocent, many while wearing masks.
And some of their deeds, though forgotten today, are the equal of any feats of the Avengers or Fantastic Four. One such was one of the last mass gatherings of the heroic masked cowboys, in Nevada in 1882...
A dry, hot, grit-filled wind was blowing across Hawthorne, in the Nevada territory, the day the masks rode to town. It was a Sunday afternoon at the end of August, and nobody in town could remember a summer that had been hotter or filled with more...unpleasantness. Back in the spring silver had been discovered in several places in the territory, and of course that had brought people in from all over; not just from the territory, but from all points of the compass. And Hawthorne, being the largest town within several days' ride of many of the strikes, was the place they all came to, to post claims and load up on supplies. The railroad had laid down track in Hawthorne, back in '78, and so Hawthorne was the terminus point for all the miners and would-be miners. And Hawthorne was where the territory's Sheriff kept his office, and so Hawthorne was where people went to lodge complaints. And claim bounties.
With all that, Hawthorne should have been happy; the town elders - those who'd helped found the town back in '61, and who'd stuck around during the wild and bad '70s - should have felt overjoyed at all the money flowing through and into the town, and all the people using the boarding houses and saloons and cathouses.
But they didn't. For all that their wallets were full and tight, and Hawthorne was more successful and growing larger than any of them had dreamed, none of the town elders - or anyone else, for that matter - felt good about life in Hawthorne that August.
For one thing, it was hot. Not just the normal summer's heat of Hawthorne; that was something everyone was used to. No, this heat was unusual, and bad. It didn't slacken during the night, and the shade was no relief. The heat wasn't the humid, sticky pressure of the East and South; one of the things some of those in Hawthorne had come to the town for over the years was to get away from the wretched stinking hell that was New York City (and Boston and Washington and Richmond) in the summer. But the heat this summer - the summer that, months and years later, the town folk would refer to as the summer the masks came to town - seemed to follow you around, to take you in its jaws like a terrier with a rat, and to never let you go. Deaths from heatstroke were up, and twice as many babies died of colic or crib-death or just from the heat as normal. Some of the younger folks in Hawthorne, the ones who disobeyed their Mas and Pas and went off to play with the Shoshone or Paiute kids, came back with wild stories about the heat somehow being a living thing that was deliberately trying to kill the folks in Hawthorne. (Nobody in Hawthorne put much stock in that - damn Injuns were full of outlandish stories like that - but come three in the morning, when you were lying in bed, covered with sweat, sheets sticking to you, and feeling like you were running a fever - and for the fortieth night in a row - that story didn't seem so wild.)
For his part, the Sheriff in Hawthorne, who was passing friendly with the Shoshone (and the Paiute and the Washo, and the coloreds and the Chinamen, and everyone else who passed through Hawthorne - it wasn't right, the others in town thought, a white man pallin' with those types, but the Sheriff was a big man, and quick with his guns, and he'd saved everyone in the town, twice over, at least, back in the '70s - he'd faced down the Medinnus brothers, for one, and they were as bad as they came - and so no one said much about it), had gone out to talk with the Shoshone at their camp up north twice already, and while he agreed that the heat wasn't a living thing, his face looked troubled when he talked about it, and he wouldn't say what the Shoshone thought about it.
And it wasn't just the heat, either. There was a wind, blowing from the Southeast. It wasn't a particularly strong wind, but it was constant, and it was always carrying grit and sand, and doors and walls and roofs didn't seem to stop it. After a couple of hours of that wind most people were snappish and angry; after a couple of days best friends and husbands and wives would be calling each other names a Dutch whore would blush to say. And after a couple of months...
After a couple of months a man would shoot his own mother for breathing too loud. Fact was, there were more fights that summer than there had been in the previous four years put together. And these weren't the usual saloon dust-ups, either; knives and guns were regularly drawn during these set-tos, and once a man was down he'd be lucky to get up without a new red smile beneath his jaw or without a transfusion of lead. To the town elders in Hawthorne it all reminded them of nothing so much as the mad, bad '70s - and no one wanted to go back to those days.
So no one was exactly surprised when they saw the masks ride to town. Most of the folks in Hawthorne were leaving church services, mopping their brows and necks and looking forward to the Sunday social dinner that night, when they saw the crowd of masks riding in.
There was 36 of them, half leading packhorses. The crowd was only surprised, at first, at what they were seeing; they were hot and tired after a boring sermon, and almost none of them had ever actually seen any of the masks, and so they didn't quite know what to make of them. At first.
Then one of the quicker of the kids - Neil Gow's boy, it was - took a look at one of the dozen riders who wasn't wearing a mask, and he cried out, with no small amount of awe in his voice, "Whip Wilson!"
That broke the crowd out of its stupor; they started putting together faces and masks with the descriptions they knew from the yellow sheets and pulps they knew and loved (the latest chapter of Ned Buntline's The Rawhide Kid and the Black Rider versus the Iron Mask at the Falls of Death had come in just Friday, and that was all anyone would talk about at Kell Carpenter's saloon), and then they moved. Fathers ran home for their rifles and scatterguns, and mothers pulled their teenagers and young'uns back into Pastor Reese's church (over the kids' objections - most wanted to meet their heroes).
Others on Hawthorne's street - Plexico, sweeping the porch in front of his package and guns store, Ms. Holland straightening up the shutters and steps in front of her school, and Angelo rocking in his chair on the porch of his cathouse - noticed the crowd and leapt and ran and hobbled inside their various businesses.
Within thirty seconds the street was empty except for the 36 men and women, and the wind and the occasional tumbleweed or loose plant blown along.
One of the riders, an older man wearing the dusty and worn clothes of a trail boss, and no mask, hawked and spat and lit up a thin cheroot and said, "Well, shit. Looks like we cleared out another town, boys."
Another of the riders, a tall woman whose striking beauty, long flowing red hair, and finely tailored clothes were only partially obscured by the filth and dust that covered all the riders, said, "Must be your ugly face, Slade - that's enough to make that statue of Liberty in Washington cover her eyes and weep for mercy."
This drew some laughter from the others. Slade tipped his hat back and looked at her and smiled and said, "You weren't so particular last night, Annie."
She smiled and said, "Well, it was either you in my sack, or that rattlesnake - and you done killed the snake."
Amidst more laughter he smiled and tipped his hat to her, acknowledging defeat.
The youngest of the riders, the one known as the Kid From Dodge City, said to Slade, "What now, Boss? I dunno about you, but I could use a taste of whiskey--"
The second female among the riders, known to the others as Arizona Annie, puffed on her cigar and said, "That's not what you want a taste of, Dodge - I seen you looking at that cathouse. And, yeah, they do French here."
This caused several of the more tired-looking riders to visibly perk up, and the two known as the Kid From Texas and the Dakota Kid nudged each other in the ribs.
One of the lead riders, a grizzled man in his 50s, turned and growled at the rest, "There'll be time for that later. For now we got a man to meet."
The various Kids hunched in their saddles. Although none were afeared of much, Caleb Hammer was a legend among the gunfighters and badmen of the territories and states west of the Mississippi; it was him who'd ridden into Chiricahua territory, back in '77, and taken the Mexican outlaw Lander, who none of the other lawmen wanted to come near to. He was tougher than weathered leather, Hammer was, and meaner than a whore asked to take credit after the fact, and if he told you to shut up, you shut, and quick.
The other rider next to Hammer and near Slade, who wore all-black, including a black mask with a silver hawk embroidered on the face, said, "You sure about this, Slade?"
Matt Slade puffed on his cheroot and nodded. "Gunhawk, this is where he said he'd be in the wire he sent."
As if hearing his name mentioned, a figure stepped into the street in front of the riders. He held his rifle ready, but after squinting and seeming to satisfy himself, he hoisted his rifle on to his shoulder and began walking forward. Matt Slade dismounted and met him halfway.
They shook hands, and the Sheriff of Hawthorne said, "Thanks for coming, Matt."
Matt Slade said, "Ain't a man or woman here but who owes you their life, one way or another, Sheriff. They's all pleased to come."
The Sheriff said, "Wait'll you hear why I called you here, Matt. We'll see if you're so happy to make Hawthorne's acquaintance then."
Back with the rest of the riders, the Western Kid flipped his hat up, squinted at the Sheriff, and said to his companion, the Ringo Kid, "'zat him? I thought he'd be taller."
A spooky voice from behind both said, "He is as tall as he needs to be, Western Kid."
The Western Kid and the Ringo Kid hunched over, hearing the Phantom Rider speak, and exchanged nervous glances. Another, older man among the riders said, "You're the Phantom Rider, ain't you?"
The pale, gleaming white mask of the Phantom Rider inclined towards the speaker. "I am, Reno Jones."
Reno Jones chewed on his toothpick a moment, then said, "I heard you died, back in '77."
The featureless mask stayed looking at Reno Jones, finally saying, "I did."
The others around the Phantom Rider shied away from him, and the black-haired Comanche woman, who had refused to speak to any of them but Matt Slade, the Rawhide Kid, and Arizona Annie, made a strange gesture with her hands.
Matt Slade shook hands again with the Sheriff, then turned and walked back to the other riders. He said, "The Sheriff cleared out the boardinghouse for you buncha gunswifts, and he's paid for you to go enjoy yourselves with at Angelo's. Go clean yourselves up and meet at Carpenter's saloon for supper. We'll talk about what this is all about then."
Six hours later the thirty six - cleaned, bathed, their clothes washed and their various bodily needs seen to - were seated around the six big tables in the saloon. Kell Carpenter - a tall, bluff, hearty man who tried with limited success to cover his nervousness by continually cleaning the bartop and running about filling everyone's glasses - had retired, with visible relief, to one of the rooms upstairs after the Sheriff gave him the sign. The Sheriff sipped at his whiskey and looked at the crowd, who were chatting among themselves with no obvious sign of impatience. He sighed, took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair; he was feeling his age, of a sudden, and the hard part hadn't even come yet. He was not looking forward at all to sleeping rough again, either. Too damn many nights in his feather bed.....
He stood up, and the crowd immediately fell silent. The Sheriff pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket and took his time lighting it. He took a puff, found it satisfactory, and then looked at the crowd.
He said, "Thanks for comin'. I know you all have lives of your own and would rather be with your women - and men, Annie." The redhead smiled at gestured at him with her whiskey bottle. "I appreciate your coming all the way out here on such short notice. I just hope you won't...well, anyway, thanks for comin'."
Matt Slade said, "We all owe you, Sheriff." There were answering nods from the others; it was no more than the truth.
The Sheriff said, "Well, after this, we're even." He sipped on his whiskey and went on. "The reason I called you here...well, shit. This ain't easy for me to say, so let me say it in my own way."
Blaze Carson sipped his cognac - it was only a fair vintage, but he'd been exceedingly pleased that there'd been any to begin with; that Carpenter fellow had apparently been saving it for a special occasion, and decided this was it. And all Blaze had had to do was sign a dedication to Carpenter's son, who, apparently, was an enormous fan of those accounts that that Binder chap wrote about him. Blaze was surprised when Carpenter produced a copy of Blaze Carson Versus the Scum of the West - a very sensationalized account of Blaze's capture of the outlaw Peterson - and all Carpenter wanted, in exchange for the cognac (it was an Angouleme '74; a very average year, but this far west of the Mississippi one didn't quibble) was Blaze's dedicating it to Carpenter's son. A fine exchange, Blaze thought. He said, "We are, none of us, going anywhere, John. Please - take your time."
The Sheriff said, "Thanks, Blaze."
He said, "See...this all started back in May. The heat, I mean. This is Nevada territory. We're used to hot summers. But this bitch heat was a lot worse than anything any of us could remember."
"I didn't think nuthin' of it at first, but then the fights started. Y'all know about the silver strikes, of course. That brought a lot of different folk into the territory; not just miners and prospectors, but Easterners and such, and a lot of emancipated coloreds, and some Chinamen, come East from California and from the railroads."
"I wouldn't'a thought much about that; a little extra work for me, maybe, but I don't mind that, that's what the town pays me for. But with the heat came fights. Bad ones. Not just the usual loudmouths flappin' their jaws in saloons, or tryin' to beat up a whore, either. We've had more shoot-outs in town than I can remember. I'm lucky that none of these rannies can shoot worth cowshit. But now they're talkin' - the folks in Hawthorne, I mean - about running the Chinamen out of town at gunpoint, and we got a few Johnny Rebs--"
This drew whoops from the Kid From Texas and the Texas Kid, both of whom had fought for the Confederacy in the War Between The States, and didn't care who knew it. This in turn drew glares from the Masked Rider and Whip Wilson, who'd served under U.S. Grant and were proud of it.
The Sheriff turned a sour look on the Kid From Texas and the Texas Kid. "I got nuthin' 'gainst a man who fought in that war because he thought he was defending his home - but some of your fellow veterans have come to town and brought that Night Riders bullshit with them, and now they want to string a few of the coloreds up, to send a message to the others."
The two Confederate vets scowled, the Texas Kid muttering, "Goddamn Alabama pighumpers."
The Sheriff said, "These fellas are from Laredo, Kid."
The Texas Kid glowered but said nothing.
The Sheriff said, "And everyone wants to drive the Shoshone and the Paiute and the Lahontan off their lands. I thought we'd got rid of that nonsense back in the Seventies, but suddenly it seems like the folks in Hawthorne ain't had enough of dead brothers and husbands and burning towns after all."
"The Shoshone, as you might imagine, ain't none too pleased 'bout this. They know that if they go to war with us, they'll lose, but they aren't gonna let themselves get pushed any farther off their lands, especially since this time they ain't done nothing to deserve this."
"Me, I've been talking with Chief Washakie, the Shoshone chief, trying to make sure they don't start nuthin'."
"Now, what got my interest, and the reason y'all are here, is that the Shoshone are arming themselves for war - but not with us. From what Washakie said, they've got bigger buffalo than us to catch."
"I sat and shared a pipe with Sleeping Rabbit - that's Washakie's medicine man. I don't claim to understand everything he said, but from what I understood, up by the Arc Dome, there's this other tribe of redskins..."
The Sheriff sighed and took a deep drink from his glass. "This is gonna sound pretty wild, but...this other bunch of Indians is working some kind of spell that's making the weather worse. Sleeping Rabbit said that this other tribe is going to keep doing this until everyone but them has killed each other or is dead, and then they're going to take over the Territory - and points East and West, too. Rabbit said--"
The Gunsmoke Kid said, "Hold on there, Sheriff. You brung me down from Carson City because of some drunken Injun's fairy tale?"
The Sheriff looked sharply at the Gunsmoke Kid. "I'm about twice your age, Gunsmoke, and I been around some, and I've seen enough to know that some magic is real, and that most medicine men know what they're talking about, and should be listened to. I ain't the only one, either. Two-Gun, Rawhide, Phantom, Ringo, Colt - you five dealt with some peculiar folks back in '73 and '76, I heard."
The five nodded, and the Phantom Rider said, "They were from the future."
The Sheriff nodded and said, "I guess. Anyhow, Gunsmoke - there's more to the world than what's in your holster and whiskey bottle. And you should know that if I brung y'all down here it's for a good reason."
The Gunsmoke Kid looked doubtful, but shrugged.
The Sheriff said, "So the Shoshone are getting ready to take a walk up to the Arc Dome - that's about two days' ride northeast of here - and let this other tribe know they ain't none too happy about this. But what Sleeping Rabbit told me was that the Shoshone don't think they can do it. Not by themselves."
"And that's where you all come in. I told Sleeping Rabbit that I'd call in some friends of mine who I thought could help. And here you are."
Red Larabee spoke up for the first time. "John, you know any of us here is willing to take a bullet for you - but why call us? We ain't none of us as young as we were; even the Kids ain't spring chickens no more. Me, I've been running a ranch over by the Kickapoo Reservation; I ain't had to slap leather for going on a couple of years now. I reckon I'll remember how to, soon enough, but...ain't there younger folks you shoulda called, rather than asking us old men?"
The Sheriff smiled and shook his head. "Maybe so, Red, but you're worth any ten bravos. And where we're going experience is gonna be as important as a pair of fast hands. I don't want to ride with no one who's gonna be dribbling it down his leg when things get hairy."
The Prairie Kid took a toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at a table in front of the Sheriff. "What're they doin' here, then?"
All eyes turned to look at the five figures at the table. The Sheriff gestured at Matt Slade and said, "You wanna handle this one, hoss?"
Slade nodded and said, "I wasn't plannin' on calling these folks originally - I never worked with them, m'self, and didn't know how to reach them anyhow - but they just showed up on the morning afore the rest of you arrived."
One of the five - a tall Apache dressed in war-paint - rose and held his right hand up, palm out, and said, "How. I...ugh... Apache Kid. Ugh. I...come...help. Ugh."
The Black Rider, who had not removed his full-face mask or gauntlets, said, "Coyote, how about you drop the act? These folks are okay. 'Sides, they ain't Easterners and ain't gonna fall for the 'ugh' act."
The Apache Kid and his companions did not smile, but the others in the room could sense their amusement. The Apache Kid said, "I've worked with some of you before. Others I only know about by your reputations. For those I don't know, and who don't know me, I'm Running Coyote, of the Mescalero. You might have heard of me as the Apache Kid."
"My fellow People are Red Wolf, of the Cheyenne, Arrowhead, of the Navajo, the Red Warrior, of the Dakota, and Black Eagle, of the Comanche."
Black Eagle, a woman of great beauty in her twenties, dressed in the garb of a Comanche warrior - an outfit many people in the West - black, white, and Indian - had learned to fear - smiled and said, "'Comanche' is what our enemies called us, Running Coyote. We prefer 'Nemurnuh.' And I am a Keewazi, as you are a Mescalero."
The Apache Kid smiled and bowed his head and said, "My apologies."
The Prairie Kid drawled, "That's real nice, but you didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
Black Eagle stood up. She momentarily looked all of the men and women in the room in the eye, leaving each of them with the uncomfortable feeling that she'd seen behind their masks and read and heard their thoughts. She finally said, "I am Black Eagle, you who are called the Prairie Kid. We are here because I summoned us here."
"I am Keewazi. We have no love for the Shoshone, for they drove us from lands East of here, many years ago, but I am here nonetheless."
"You see...among my people I hold a special place. Once every generation is born what we call a Dreamer, someone who is strong in puha, what you might call power or magic, and who dreams of other places and times. A Dreamer sees both the past and the future - whatever Father Sun sends in dreams."
"I am the Dreamer to the Keewazi and to our leader, Quanah Parker. I have seen the face of our enemy, and know what they plan. They must be stopped. So I have come to help you do that."
"Red Wolf, Red Warrior, the one you call the Apache Kid, Arrowhead - they are here because the leaders of their tribes are aware of the threat, and what the Wind is a harbinger of. They have been sent to help you, and me. They represent their peoples on this mission. That is their honor."
Caleb Hammer said, "You know who our enemy is?"
Black Eagle said, "Yes. They are a group of the Old People. In the hills where the Keewazi live, there is a tribe called the Cheemurzwa, which in our tongue means 'the Old People.' They were there when we arrived, many years ago. They have always kept themselves apart from us; they are, it is said, half man and half...other, and they are strong in power. Very strong."
"They are peaceful, usually, but even among them evil lives. Some months ago a group of them broke away from their ancestral grounds and went North. The remaining Cheemurzwa would not discuss it, and none among the Keewazi knew why. Until I Dreamed of them."
"Does that answer your question, one called Prairie Kid?"
The Prairie Kid said, "I suppose."
Black Eagle sat, and the Sheriff said, "Look. Times are changin'; y'all know this. When's the last time we rode out and raised hell? Matt, you 'n' me go back, what, twenty years? When's the last time we rode out and caught someone the way you and me did back in '74, when we chased down that Harris bastard?"
Slade smiled in remembrance. "All the way to Mexico and back. Been a time, John."
The Sheriff pointed at the Black Rider. "Rider - and you, Whip - how long you been riding together - ten years? When's the last time you made a ride like you did in '79, when you brought back Hartin?"
The Rider shook his head. "Been awhile. I'm guarding a riverboat on the Mississippi, these days."
The Sheriff turned to Matt Slade. "Matt, you rounded up everyone mighty quickly - how'd you know where to find them?"
Slade grinned somewhat sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Folks are...easy to find, these days, John."
The Sheriff said, "Settled down, you mean. Let's face it, folks - we're gettin' older and slowing down. The '70s are come and gone, and now there's folks out here who won't stand for them days and them ways."
"So, yeah, I called you here to put a stop to these...Cheemurzwa. I figure that's as good a reason as any for us to get together. But...well, let's also have us one last ride afore we're too old to mount up and ride 'til our horses drop. So what do you say, folks - you willin' to risk yourselves to save the Territory?"
The others raised their glasses or cigars, or just smiled in response. The Crimson Avenger grinned beneath his mask and said, "Shit, John, it's been a couple of years since I been shot - I figger I'm overdue."
Author's Notes:
See the notes at the end of Part 3.
Next issue: Old Guns, Part 2