Chapter 4: Buried in Boot Hill

One.

Two.

Three times Dixie sneezed as Laney moved closer to her. He stopped when he saw her eyes watering and tears running down her face.

"And I thought you might be faking, my dear, but if so, you are a much better actress than I gave you credit for. As ridiculous as it may seem, it's almost like I'm stirring up a cloud of pepper any time we get close together today." He puffed toward her, leading her to sneeze again and his men to laugh at her predicament as they turned to admire her despite her sneezing and tears. "Wonderful, Miss Cousins! I finally have you under my complete control. See?"

He breathed in as if to puff at her again, leading the men to tense in anticipation of a good belly laugh.

What they didn't know was that Brisco was anticipating that moment, too. As Laney blew a puff of breath toward her, Dixie sneezed and the cat hissed, followed by a growl as it jumped from Laney's arm, scratching him in the process.

The men laughed at the same time and Brisco moved fast. He hit the first man as he spun, sending the surprised henchman crashing into the window, over the sill as the glass broke around him, and then, with a cry, out to fall down into the temporary street below.

Brisco didn't have time to look, for he was already moving on to the first of the pistoleers. Grabbing a pressing iron—it was cold, regrettably—from atop the bureau, the bounty hunter chopped down with its base on the man's wrist even as he was turning back toward his captive. The man cried out as his pistol went flying from his hand, but he screamed even louder as Brisco's boot hit right below his kneecap less than a second later. The man crashed downward toward the floor.

Again, Brisco kept moving, bringing the iron around for a blow to the side of the middle pistolero's head. The man dodged sideways yielding a glancing blow for Brisco but the man lost his footing and fell to the floor with a crash.

However, Brisco didn't come through unscathed. Two of his fingers gripping the handle hit the man's head in the process, causing the iron to slip from his grasp. It went flying, hitting the far wall and falling somewhere behind the bed. There was no time to retrieve it; Brisco's boot crashed down on the man's wrist causing him to lose his gun.

The Colt went skidding across the floor, too far away for Brisco to get it either, for the third pistoleer was moving. With the gun coming up toward him, Brisco stepped forward as he made a block with his left hand and brought a smashing blow in with his right just a moment later. The pistolero twisted, falling.

It was at that exact moment when, somewhere, in the back of his mind, Brisco heard Dixie scream, but it was too late. As he turned toward her, he got the briefest of glimpses of Lon Laney and something large and dark speeding toward his eyes.

He had practically no time to react before a terrible pain hit him and all went black.

~ABCJ~

The forest was dark about a mile from Lon's Valleys. The only lights were the stars above and the gentle glow of some lights in the temporary town in the distance.

Comet stood looking toward those lights, almost as if he expected them to change. With his ears up and occasional shifts of his head, the horse was seemingly alert for any signs of anyone approaching and any wild animals, too.

At a few seconds past 12:03 AM local time, Comet picked up a foot, put it down carefully so only the front of the shoe was touching the ground, and then dragged it toward himself. The curious mark he made was immediately adjacent to four other, very similar marks, each made at approximately an hour interval after the one before. All, that is, except for the first, which was made approximately one hour after Brisco's departure at 7 o'clock that evening.

Looking at the set of marks, the horse shook his head for a moment before giving an expression that Brisco might have considered to be one of concern, if horses are actually capable of such looks. He continued to look toward the lights for another fifteen minutes before scuffing the ground through the middle of his five marks. At that point, he took another look all around and then started walking toward the distant lights of Lon's Valleys.

~ABCJ~

He wasn't sure why he was dressed in the muddy football uniform or why he was being carried on the shoulders of others wearing uniforms as muddy as his own but he heard his name called out several times as the group carried him in the door and then, rather roughly, dumped him on the floor.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings. He was in a bar in Cambridge after a game versus the Yalies. Brisco couldn't remember doing it but he felt as if he'd scored the winning points.

"Here's to Brisco! Brisco County! Yaay!" called one of his teammates.

When his name was called, two older men dressed in business suits turned their heads to look in his direction. Quizzical looks covered both faces before they turned back toward each other at their table. Brisco sat down but the ever-present beer seemed to pass him by each time despite his best efforts to snag one of the mugs.

"Excuse me," called the younger of the men, who was now standing near him. "Excuse me, but did I hear correctly that your name is Brisco County?"

"That would be me," Brisco replied.

"Not exactly a common name," said the man, "so I hope you don't mind me asking but are you related to a U.S. Marshal?"

The man looked friendly and not threatening, so Brisco nodded. "Yes, sir. That would be my father, Brisco County, Senior."

There was a smile. "Mr. County, my friend and I are friends of your father's. We worked together on occasion for some Treasury cases some years ago. Would you join us for a drink?"

When they reached the table, Brisco said, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. Either one of you."

"Please, tell your father that Misters Borden and East said hello."

Brisco was about to reply but the bar slowly faded from view. In its place was a letter, covered with his father's familiar handwriting. Brisco read the first couple of lines aloud, but as he continued, he heard his father's voice taking his place.

"Thank you for sending the regards of my old friends Borden and East. As undercover agents who once worked directly for the president, I expect that you won't be too surprised when I tell you that those aren't their real names. I haven't run into them in years so I suspect they are getting close to retirement age, though, like me, I doubt that any of us will ever accept that curse.

"That said, son, understand that they can be trusted if you're ever in a jam and seem to have no way out. They've helped me on more than one occasion and I am happy to say I've returned the favor. Both are quite wily; in fact, if you recall the story I once shared with you, it was East who told me the importance of always having a knife, or at least a sharp nail, buried in Boot Hill…"

His father's voice and the image of the letter faded as drums started pounding around Brisco and waves of nausea swept over him. It took him a few moments to realize that they weren't actual drums but, rather, the pounding of his head. He couldn't be sure but he suspected that both the beat and the nausea were due to a powerful knockout blow administered by Lon Laney.

As he tried, unsuccessfully, to stand, he made two other important discoveries. Instead of being dumped on the floor of that Cambridge watering hole, he was actually on the floor of a small, dark room with the only light coming in through an open transom above the door. To make matters worse, his hands and feet were tied, with his hands secured tightly behind him.

Brisco struggled for a time but found that the bonds allowed no play; there would be no twisting to escape them. Therefore, he paused for a few moments to try to clear his head and come up with an escape plan.

His first thoughts were of Dixie; where was she and was she safe? Had she been able to escape from Laney's clutches? Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for her in his present condition, so he tried to put her out of his mind with an unspoken promise.

I'll get to you in a little while, Dix. Just hang on, Sweetheart.

Something about his late father his late father was next to fill his mind. Senior had hunted down and brought to justice some of the toughest outlaws in the west before finally meeting his fate at the hands of the Bly Gang. He'd always been careful when writing letters to his son to make sure that no information they contained could come back to cause trouble for him or his family if such a letter was intercepted by his enemies. In particular, when it was something they'd discussed, Senior would sometimes use an anagram or a similar word to remind Brisco of the meaning without coming right out and saying it.

Moments later, Brisco was struggling against the ropes, forcing his wrists down his back as he tried to bring his heels up. Contorting himself as much as he could, he finally felt his hands touch the back of his boots. Then he reached the heel and finally the tiny sharpened projection on the outside edge of each where they wouldn't be able to harm Comet.

Comet! Where is he? he wondered as he repeatedly worked the rope against the nail that he'd pounded it into the boot heel. After having cut off the head and using a file to bring the shaft to a short but sharp point, it was practically invisible. It was also quite effective at sawing through ropes if one could reach it. Fortunately, it didn't take long. The rope was cut, jaggedly, and he had his hands free in just a few minutes. It took even longer rubbing them to restore his circulation before he went to work on the rope at his ankles.

The rope binding his feet was almost untied when Brisco heard a bump at the door. He looked up and then started trying to find a weapon before Laney or his thugs came back in to finish him off, but he was having no luck. He was still feeling around when the door splintered at the lock and came flying open.

Still without a weapon in hand, Brisco was about to try to go on the offensive against his enemies with his feet still half asleep when Comet stuck his head into the room.

The horse cocked his head at an angle as Brisco exclaimed, "Well, it's about time you showed up!"

Author's Notes:

According to a 2015 report entitled "The best and worst cat breeds for allergy sufferers" by Daniel Coughlin published on msn dot com, Persian cats are regarded as being among the worst breeds for allergy sufferers due to the dander that accompanies their heavy shedding. The word allergy was originated in 1906 by the Viennese pediatrician Clemens von Pirquet, from the Greek words "allos" (other) and "ergon" (work).

Brisco's horse Comet was portrayed as the smartest horse in the world. In actuality, several horses were used, with each being trained in certain skills. I don't remember him ever counting time, but who's to say he couldn't?

When this story was conceived, I had the idea of how Brisco County, Sr., might be used in it but I never guessed that R. Lee Ermey, who played Senior, would pass away before the story could be completed. Therefore, this chapter is dedicated to Mr. Ermey's memory.

Finally, I'm not considering this a crossover but who's to say that Brisco County, Sr., might not, at some point in his career, have crossed paths with two rather famous Secret Service agents in their journeys across the wild, wild west?