The Night John Percival Kacy Shot Destin Wallace Dead
When John Percival Kacy entered my saloon that fateful June evening, Summer of 1867, it was clear as day he aimed to kill a man.
The doors swung quietly shut behind him, his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat, the burning amber of his cigarette lighting his shadowed face as best it could. It felt in that moment as though light itself had taken a step back from him, just to play it safe.
He took three strides into the bar and those three strides put an end to every conversation in the place. Inola ceased playing the piano, even. Inola never stopped playing that thing, but… those three strides…
She and I shared a look from across the room, then. Being the only two women in this place, we looked out for each other. I smiled at her but it was a smile that said to stay alert. She nodded.
I finished my pour, closed the tab and set the beer glass down on the bar, taking a wet cloth to my forehead to wipe the sweat off it, and I watched, knowing something was about to go down. Something loud.
John Percival Kacy pushed the brim of his hat up his forehead until we could see his eyes and he could see ours. He looked around the room quietly. He was handsome. Slick brown hair poked out from under his hat, stuck to the skin of his neck by heat and sweat. A beard covered his square jaw, no more than three days old. He had blue eyes, and their piercing stare seemed to cut a hole through the air on its way to you.
John Percival Kacy looked calm, and he looked violent.
“I would like to have words with a man named Destin Wallace,” John Percival Kacy said, addressing the room.
He said nothing more, for now.
I knew who Destin Wallace was. Everybody did. Destin Wallace was a bad man. He was sitting right there, too, at a table on the far corner of this very establishment, looking right at John Percival Kacy, not saying a damn word. Didn’t need to, either.
Destin Wallace was powerful, you see? He had money, enough to be a mean son of a bitch and get away with it, sure, but also enough to have men willing to do violence in his name, if it came to that.
So when John Percival Kacy said he wanted to have words with Destin Wallace, a threat hidden beneath every syllable - the way he spoke it - one patron said, without missing a beat, “I am Destin Wallace,” and the man sitting next to him said, “nope, ’fraid I am Destin Wallace,” and then a third man said it and, like that, every crooked son of a bitch in the room spoke up one after the next, claiming to carry that name. The rest of my patrons quietly filed out of the saloon, knowing a storm was brewing.
Once the final man claiming to be Destin Wallace had said his piece, the air grew thick with dread, all eyes trained on John Percival Kacy, waiting to see what he would do now.
“Well,” John Percival Kacy said calmly, “alright then.”
That is when John Percival Kacy began his killing.
He pulled out two pistols from holsters hidden under his long coat and started shooting at all the Destin Wallaces in the bar. They shot back, of course, but he took his time, methodically taking aim and pulling triggers, his feet sliding across the floor with grace, and the Destin Wallaces did not, all of them in a damn hurry like teenagers when they fuck, so he hit them and they missed him. He emptied the barrels of both his pistols to the last chamber and surprised me when he discarded his weapons to the floor.
He had reached the bar by then and he grabbed the beer I had just poured a minute or a second ago — I could not tell you — and he threw it, hard. The glass flew right across the room in a straight line and hit one of the fake Destin Wallaces square in the face. John Percival Kacy walked away from the bar then but as he did I saw something shiny twirl in the air and land in front of me, spinning on the counter before it came to a stop. A fifty-cent coin. The man had paid for the damn drink. I could not help but smile. Then John Percival Kacy pulled out two more guns from somewhere on his person and resumed his killing. You see, John Percival Kacy had come with a lot of guns…
By that point I had ducked behind the bar, my mom hadn’t raised a fool and bullets were flying everywhere. I cannot tell you what happened next, except to say that it was noisy and a lot of men died. I don’t know how long the firefight lasted, I reckon not very long at all, but it felt like an eternity. Eventually, however, the place grew quiet, except for the moans of men not dead yet but on their way, and then I heard some words.
“I’ll give you everything I have.”
I recognized that voice. It was the voice of a mean son of a bitch reduced to begging. It was the voice of the real Destin Wallace. The last one, too.
There was silence, then.
I heard someone rummaging in a pocket, what it sounded like, and I hear a match being struck, and a flame catch fire, and a cigarette be lit, and someone sucking hot smoke into their lungs.
“Please…” The last Destin Wallace pleaded.
There was a moment then, of quiet, that held in it a world of possibilities, before I heard John Percival Kacy exhale cigarette smoke from his lungs, taking his time about it, too.
“No,” John Percival Kacy finally said.
It was calm, the way he said it.
Then John Percival Kacy shot Destin Wallace in the face, and that was that.
I remained crouched on the floor, very still and quiet as a mouse, my back to the bar.
I heard footsteps approaching, calm and unbothered.
They stopped right across the bar from me.
I hear the four legs of a bar stool drag on the floor, and then the strain of old wood as a man put his weight on it.
I heard smoke being sucked through a cigarette.
A moment passed, and I heard smoke being exhaled, a big cloud of it just above my head now, the smell awakening a craving in me.
After a moment, I raised my hand over the edge of the bar — where he could see it — and made a V with my index and middle finger.
John Percival Kacy understood.
I felt his cigarette touch the place where my two fingers meet. I closed the V on it and brought the tip of the cigarette down to my lips. I took a long, slow drag, closing my eyes and enjoying the burn of the smoke traveling down my throat to my lungs.
John Percival Kacy broke the silence.
“The sign outside reads Anabelle’s Place,” he said, “Are you Anabelle?”
I said that I was.
“Well, Anabelle,” he continued, “I am impressed by your piano player. She did not leave her post during…”
“…All the killing?” I finished for him, feeling a little bold.
“All the killing, yes,” John Percival Kacy acquiesced.
“Inola is Cherokee,” I explained, “they don’t scare easy.”
“Perhaps you might ask Inola to play us something?”
“Inola,” I called, not loud, but she heard.
The piano started playing a beautiful, soulful melody and, when it did, I finally stood.
I found John Percival Kacy busy rolling a cigarette, just about done with the task when he looked up and our eyes met for the first time. The floor behind him was littered with dead men, fifteen by my count, so I took refuge in those blue eyes of his. John Percival Kacy understood, and held my gaze for a long time, as long as I needed it to be held, not saying a word. A match struck wood somewhere below his face and lit the newly rolled cigarette which now hung from his lips, smoke snaking up the air, drawing grey lines between our faces that could not stop the blue of his eyes from casting a spell on me.
I poured him a beer and poured myself one, too.
“Tomorrow morning,” I said, “the entire town will breathe a little easier.”
“Is that so?” John Percival Kacy said to me.
“It has been just about two years, now,” I began, “since Destin Wallace set foot in this town and made his word the law. For the folks who live here, the thugs at Destin Wallace’s heels made already difficult lives much worse, every opportunity they could, and so did he. Now their bodies lie on the floorboards of my bar, staining them red. You put an end to those two years tonight. They could have turned into ten. Into even more. I saw no end to it.”
“I apologize for taking this long, then,” John Percival Kacy said, taking the cigarette to his lips to draw smoke again.
“I apologize for the mess, also,” he added, his eyes still holding mine.
“Inola will fetch the carpenter tomorrow, before dawn,” I said, then I explained, “he is our coffin maker, him and his two boys will come and collect the bodies before the townsfolk wake.”
John Percival Kacy licked his thumb, then, and ran it across my cheek. He did this gently.
“Blood,” he said, showing me the red smudge now on his skin.
His touch, tender and leathery, echoed on the surface of my cheek long after his thumb had left me. I savored the sensation.
Inola finished playing her song and looked to me. I nodded. She stood and walked across the bar to the entrance, careful to step over the many corpses without tripping. She locked the two doors and disappeared up the stairs to her room. I boarded her in the spare on the second floor, some of the lesser folks not looking too kindly on 16 year old Cherokee orphans in this town. I loved how she played the keys, and we got along, besides she did more than her share helping me keep Anabelle’s Place running, and was paid a fair wage for it, too.
Now it was just me and John Percival Kacy, thin ropes of cigarette smoke dancing their way up to the ceiling between us, lighter than air.
I smiled tentatively at him.
He took his hat off and ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair, messing them up just right.
He looked me dead in the eyes.
He returned my smile.
“I’d very much like to kiss you, Anabelle,” he said to me.
I was lonely, and hungry, and for the first time in ages, I felt safe, so I leaned over the bar and kissed him.
I felt his stubble scratch me a little and liked it.
He tasted like smoke and cinnamon, which I assume he chewed sometimes.
I put a hand on his cheek, caressing him, and leaned into the kiss, my mouth half opening, enough to give room for my tongue to taste more of his flavor.
I moaned into his mouth, my senses awakening now.
When our lips separated I turned from him and made my way toward the stairs. I heard him pick up his hat and follow, and I smiled.
I led him up the staircase to the second floor, all the way to my room.
I stopped at the foot of my bed, turned to him and began unbuttoning my blouse.
He undressed without a word, his eyes never once leaving my body.
He drank me up like a tall glass of clear river water.
“I have never seen a woman as fine as you,” John Percival Kacy said when I was done, standing naked in front of him, “…and I am flustered.”
He was remarkable-looking, too, his body scarred in many places, mostly knife cuts and old bullet wounds, but he was slender, just muscular enough, tanned — probably did a lot of farm work — and he had a good cock on him. It was hard already, and it was thick, enough for me to wonder if it would fit comfortably, but not enough to give me too much pause about it.
“I can work with flustered,” I said to John Percival Kacy.
He walked up to me and pressed his hungry lips to mine, closing his eyes and breathing me in through his nose. He put one hand on the back of my neck and the other on the small of my back and gently tipped me onto the bed behind me. He did not put himself on top of me and enter me without due diligence, the way most men do. He lay next to me instead and, still kissing me, slid a hand between my thighs and pressed it against my mound.
I was already wet from desire but his touch made something inside me ignite. His fingers spread my lips and slid up and down my opening, wet and burning hot, his palm grazing my button, sending soft shockwaves through my entire body. He did not stop kissing me, trapping my lusting moans in his mouth, keeping them only for him, something I suspect he enjoyed. My hand found his cock and I returned his generosity in kind. He grew harder in my grip and suddenly my moans were met with some of his own.
He slid a finger inside me, deep, his lips leaving my mouth for my neck, at first, then my shoulder and finally my breast, wrapping themselves around my fully erect nipple, his tongue teasing it softly.
“Another…” I moaned to him, my eyes closed and my grip on his cock tightening.
John Percival Kacy understood.
I felt a second finger slide inside me, joining the first. He hooked his fingers and rubbed them to the roof of my wanting cunt, teasing it, encouraging this fire inside me to spread, to consume me.
My strokes on his cock accelerated. I felt his tip get wet, sticky, and I relished in feeling his excitement spread on my fingers, a promise of things to come. His mouth was generous on my breasts, sucking and licking vigorously, leaving one breast wanting for just long enough before moving to it and letting the other rest. He was intense and gentle at the same time, perhaps letting the violence of the evening seep out of him carefully, a way to exorcise his demons with lust instead of lead. In any case, his touch was intoxicating and my need for him only grew as the minutes passed.
“I give myself to you,” I said in a hoarse whisper, “and I beg you to take your fill of me, and more…”
John Percival Kacy understood.
He climbed on top of me. I spread my legs wide to receive him. With one swift thrust of his hips, he pushed his perfect cock inside me, completely.
“Fuck…” I breathe out, feeling his cock stretch the soft wet membrane of my needy cunt to its absolute limit. My eyes shut tight and my hands closed on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin until they drew blood.
“Should I…” John Percival Kacy began, but I cut him off.
“Don’t you dare,” I said, “I have needed this for far too long.”
So he moved out of me and back in, filling me again, more completely than any men before him ever had, and with each new thrust the pain I felt from taking his compelling size lessened, giving room to something else. A pleasure, rough and untamed, born of intoxicating friction, which climbed and swelled in me as John Percival Kacy settled into the rhythm of his fucking.
His hands traveled all over me, exploring me, caressing my breasts, my neck and face, sometimes sliding a finger or two inside my mouth for me to suck, sometimes balling into a fist around my hair, roughly, and using his grip to guide my face to his for a long and fervent kiss.
Both my hands moved across his back, collecting and spreading beads of sweat that had pearled on his skin, until they reached his ass. They squeezed. I felt the movements of his muscles through his soft skin as he fucked me. It felt impossibly erotic. The force in him, the vigor, his movements almost but never quite brutal, just flirting with the edge of it.
Without warning, John Percival Kacy pulled me up, swung his legs under me, and sat up straight upon the bed so that I now straddled him. He licked my chest between my breasts, hungrily replacing sweat with saliva, and, his hands on the soft pale flesh of my ass, set about guiding me up and down his cock, so that gravity helped him fill me even more perfectly.
My back arched.
My eyes rolled back.
In this moment, John Percival Kacy’s cock felt like a miracle.
It fed a want inside me that had never been quelled, never been satiated, never been even close to met.
I felt rapture. I felt it grow, and fill me, and overwhelm me, and I dug my fingers into John Percival Kacy’s hair, drenched from the strain of his perfect love-making, and I held on to him for fear of vanishing completely into this wave of bliss, never to be seen again.
In the apex of my pleasure, I felt his cock swell inside me and I heard him breathe out the most perfect, broken, scattered breath. I forced my eyes open because I needed to see the release on his face just as I felt it in my loins.
In this moment I found John Percival Kacy to be the most beautiful man on this green Earth.
He was vulnerable and true, naked before me, and his love-making, perfectly matching mine, had carried us both to a peak I had simply never reached. His strong arms pulled me to him, pressing my burning skin against his. I hugged his head against my chest, holding him tightly as I felt his cock unload torrents of hot, thick pleasure inside me.
When the room around us stopped spinning, and the sound of our breathing settled into some semblance of normalcy, he lay me down again, guiding my head to a soft pillow, and took his place next to me. He wrapped an arm around my body, kissed my naked shoulder, and fell asleep almost immediately.
My sleep followed, not far behind.
I woke up the next day to a vacant space next to me and for the longest second of my life I thought John Percival Kacy had left, but he appeared at the door, then, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, and some bread and jam. He wore pants but had no shirt on, and I took in the sight of him, relishing in every toned angle, every scar, every inch of the very fine man he was.
“Inola helped me find my way around your kitchen,” John Percival Kacy said by way of an explanation, approaching the bed before carefully laying the tray down on my bedside table.
He joined me on the bed. We ate the food and drank our coffee, and shared a cigarette, all of it in silence, but a comfortable one.
Eventually, he raised his hand to my jaw and gently turned my face so that it faced his, and he kissed me. He pulled away, seemed to think twice about it, and kissed me a second time, before leaving the bed.
I watched as John Percival Kacy put on the rest of his clothes. He did it slowly, and he did it facing me. It is a small detail, but men get dressed with their back to me, after sex, usually. Not him.
“May I know your name,” I asked John Percival Kacy.
He had finished dressing and perched a cigarette on the tip of his lips, about to light it. I don’t think the question took him by surprise, but he did not give me an answer right away.
He seemed to consider something, and then he seemed to make up his mind about it.
“Destin Wallace had a brother,” John Percival Kacy revealed to me, then, in that soft-spoken way of his. “Another bad man, the final name on my list. I must find him. When I do, I will put some lead in him, too. Once I have done this, I will lay down my guns. I will come back to you then, and you will draw me a hot bath. I will clean myself up and make love to you. Then, perhaps over eggs and beans, I will tell you what my name is, and in that very same breath I will ask you to be my wife.”
John Percival Kacy tipped his hat to me then, and left without another word.
That was fine, for I did not doubt he would return to me.
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