Savage Texas: The Stampeders by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone Page A

“She was in my shop once with . . . with somebody.” Perkins had been about to say the name of Johnny Cross, but despite his alcohol-dulled mind, saw prudence in not doing so. Considering that Timothy had just professed his infatuation for the woman, Timothy might get jealous and imagine he could somehow take on Johnny Cross. Timothy didn’t need trouble with an old pistol fighter who once rode with Quantrill and Anderson.
    “She’s a mighty pretty woman, Timothy. Maybe the prettiest I’ve ever seen anywhere. Which means there’s going to be a lot of men trying to get with her . . . you might have better luck setting your sights a little lower. Don’t look sad . . . it’s the same with me. Like the saying goes: I could grease up a Chinaman and pin his ears back and swallow him whole quicker than I could turn the head of somebody like Miss Canton, so I just accept things as they are. I’m not going to spend my time trying to do what can’t be done.”
    “But I like her, Mr. Perkins. Like her a whole lot. Whole lot.”
    Otto Perkins smiled and put his arm around Timothy’s shoulder. They began to walk, going in the direction Timothy had been moving before. “My friend, the first day you come sweep my floors for me, there’s something I want to show you that may give you a different perspective of Miss Canton. You see, Tim, sometimes things ain’t what they appear. And people, too. Most of all people.”
    Timothy had no idea what Perkins was talking about, but nodded because he’d learned that it made life easier, as a man of feeble mind, just to pretend and go along with what smarter folk said.
    “She was at my house this afternoon,” said Timothy. “She met my mama. She might still be there, I reckon.”
    Perkins halted. “Miss Canton?”
    “Yes.”
    “If she is still there, Timothy, I think we should not go in. I have reasons for that.”
    Timothy, who was much less upset now than he had been earlier in the evening, found himself in agreement. They walked on toward the hidden-away shack home of the little Holt family, but the prospect of them actually entering the house seemed lessened now.

    They turned a corner and came in view of the Holt shack, and noticed a man standing past it, smoking a cigar and apparently watching the little house. When he noticed Timothy and Perkins, he seemed to start a little, but a moment later took on a relaxed stance and drew deeply on his cigar. “Gentlemen,” he said in a burst of thick smoke.
    “Hello, sir,” said Perkins.
    Timothy strode up to the stranger. “Why you watching my house, mister?”
    “Your house? Here?” The man nodded toward the shack.
    “I remember you,” Timothy said. “You were out on the street when . . . when . . .”
    “I was,” said the man. “I remember seeing you from across the street. I’m sorry you were treated that way. It wasn’t right.”
    Timothy stared at the ground, silent.
    Perkins asked, “Why this place, and this little house, on this night?”
    “Just out for a walk and a smoke,” the man said. “Name’s Brody. Wilfred Brody.”
    “Otto Perkins. And you’ve already met Timothy here.”
    “Good to meet both of you. Good evening, gentlemen.” He puffed his cigar, touched the brim of his derby hat, and walked away.
    “Nice enough gent, I suppose,” said Perkins. “But there’s something there that just feels a little . . . odd.”
    Timothy said nothing. He went to the door of his humble dwelling and put his ear to it. After listening a few moments, he said, “I think Mama’s in there by herself now. Come on and let her meet you.”
    Perkins was in his own mind ready to go on to his own room at the rear of his photography studio, but instead he joined Timothy and went inside. When the door closed them in, the man they had met appeared again out of the dark. He stared at the house, listening and waiting, then at last whispered to himself, “Well, seems she isn’t in there after all. I sure don’t know