SEPTEMEBER 11, 1861

The "Devil" Texan
by Michael Quebec
Original characters created by Ella Davis and Michael Quebec
Alias Smith and Jones and related characters were created by Glen Larson
The Lone Ranger and related characters were created by
Fran Striker and George W. Trendle

New York, Somewhere in the neighborhood of Park, Worth, and Baxter aka "The Five Points", 1832

The little boy huddled in his room, his hands cupped over his ears, his eyes shut tight, and his body bent tight over itself in a fetal position on the dusty floor.

The little boy's bedroom had the stink of wet mold and dry dust. Yet, the sickly sweet aroma of French perfume, seeping in from the bottom of the doorway that separated his mother's room from his own, cut through the pungent air.

The overwhelming odors made the boy's stomach heave and his temples throb with unimaginable pain. The boy's tongue went numb in his mouth.

However, what made the boy's heart race with rage were the sounds emanating from his mother's adjoining room.

The boy could hear his mother's bedsprings creaking, up and down, with the weight of two people in the heat of intercourse.

The boy heard his mother's "customer", her "john", shout out obscenities between his short, sharp, rapid breaths that came in pants.

The boy's mother screamed out, sometimes sounding as if she were in pain, and sometimes sounding as if she were giggling with orgasmic joy.

This laughing, this seemingly enjoyment on his mother's part, is what enraged the little ten year old boy the most.

The boy stood himself up from the floor; his head still light, his legs wobbly beneath him, and his eyes still seeing blurrish red.

Amidst the filth of his bedroom, the splintery wood floor that cut into the boy's bare feet, rotted from years of moisture, the moldy walls that was the domain of a few cockroaches and "daddy long legged" spiders, the cracked window from which sunlight seeped through, amidst a torn curtain, the boy stood. His hands reached for the scissors that lay upon the dusty shelf near his bed.

Opening the door, the boy saw what was by now, a very familiar sight in his short ten years of life.

The boy's mother lay upon her back on her bad. Her hands gripped the brass railing of her bed, her painted, long fingernails glistening in the light.

The mother's face was heavily made up, red rouge upon the cheeks, creamy red upon the lips, and blue and black mascara, making her eyes appear bigger than they actually were.

The bright, read sequined dance-hall girl's dress, was still upon the boy's mother.  However, both her breasts and her bottom half were exposed.

As the "john" drove himself into his mother, she screamed . . .while smiling. "Yes! Yes, you hurt me so good!"

The "john" was a huge, hairy, middle-aged gentleman who was balding. The boy recognized the "john" as a customer who frequented Lysaight's Saloon, the pub where his mother worked, when she wasn't "moonlighting" turning tricks.

The "john" was so busy with the mother's legs over his shoulders, driving himself in to her, that he didn't notice the small boy now standing behind him. The john didn't notice the extra weight on the bed, nor the scissors that were raised high upon the back of his neck.

The mother, however, wasn't really in the heat of passion. It was an act. It was work. Opening her eyes, she saw her son standing menacingly over her "customer."

"Butch, no!" she shouted.

It was too late. The points of the scissors drove deep into the back of the "john's" neck, severing the top of the man's spine.

The "john" didn't even have time to yell out in pain. The John's mouth gaped wide open and his eyeballs nearly burst out from their sockets as the boy pushed the blades deeper into the hairy back.

The mother yelled out. The dead "john's" "tool" continued ejaculating involuntarily into her, even as he fell over her, the blood from the wound dripping over her face.

The mother continued screaming in terror, convulsing in shock.

The boy backed off, pulling out the scissors, which made the blood flow more freely and splatter into his face.

The boy's eyes were blank. Coldly, he observed his mother screaming in horror, offering neither sympathy nor cruel gloating. This young boy, Butch Cavendish, simply observed his mother with the calculating objectivity of a scientist working on a lab rat.

*****

The Interrogation Room

"She just lay there, shaking. Looking back on it now, it was almost funny. Gibbering away rather stupidly. The more I look back on it, the more I believe that the woman's dull mind was the result of the advanced stages of syphillis."

The Masked Man was genuinely shocked, not just at Cavendish' story, but at the sheer contempt that Cavendish held for his own mother.

"A pretty cold and 'matter of fact' description of your MOTHER, Butch. Especially after you murdered a man in front of her."

"She was a WHORE, detective! The fact that she accidentally gave birth to me merits no feelings of loyalty!"

The Masked Man thought to himself, "I was just trying to get him to talk, so I can stall for time, and give my shoulder the time it needs so I can break free. But now, his story's got me hooked. How can a child so young grow up like that, warped with that much hatred?"

The Masked Man then asked, "You're talking about loyalty to her, like it's a feeling you're forced to have. What about love, Cavendish?"

Cavendish genuinely didn't understand. "What?"

"I'm talking about the love of a mother and her child," responded the Masked Man. "Regardless of the circumstances, she was your mother, after all! The Five Points may not have been the ideal place to raise a young boy alone, but she did what she had to, to feed you didn't she?"

Anger welled up within Cavendish's breast. Defensive, he shouted, "Obligation, detective, not 'love', as you call it! What would you know of The Five Points?!"

To himself, the Masked Man answered silently, "A lot more than I'd admit to you, maniac! But when the time's right, you'll know who I am!"

Cavendish continued, "My so-called 'mother' had an obligation to keep the dark secret of my birth away from my father's 'respectable' family...away from his growing political career!"

Cavendish's mind then raced back again, twenty years past, as he now related the story of  a fateful meeting between himself and his father, senator from New York who was also a former customer of Cavendish's mother.

*****

New York, 1842

 
The sweet smell of fine wood varnish and laquer only highlighted the ornately decorated office of the senator.

The office was clean, the window that gave a peak into the world outside was so clear, it was practically invisible. 

The fine desk, with it's papers on top all neatly arranged and orderly, was dark wood. The quill pen on top of the papers appeared to be gold lined.

The personal library of the senator's had all the classics of the time, and the bookends, two cupids pointing their arrows, resembled greek statues of bronze.

The young Butch Cavendish ran his fingers across the senator's, his father's desktop, as he addressed his distinguished, if aloof and cold, 'patriarch.' 

Young Cavendish felt the smooth, cool, texture, which contrasted so much to his own home "fixtures" growing up.

Even the air tasted sweet to young Cavendish's lips. 

The gentle sounds of carriers and buggies strolling along just outside in the warm afternoon added to young Cavendish's longing for this type of peacful, contented, and respectable life.

The senator's harsh voice, which contrasted sharply to the seemingly gentle features, clean and well groomed appearance, and slight frame of the senator himself, cut into young Cavendish's short enjoyment of this pleasant, if alien, enviornment.

"I can't intervene on your behalf! Any interference on my part with the admissions officials at West Point would surely raise suspicions as to your 'connection' with me!"

"Connections?" Young Cavendish was dumbfounded by the senator's pretensions, even in this private meeting between the two of them. "You are my FATHER . . . are you not, senator?"

The senator sighed. His chest sunk in as the frail mouth dropped."I'm one of the leading moderates on the floor of the Senate. I'm one of a handful of Northern Senators that's been able to appease the South and silence any talk of secession. If my indiscretions were to become known, it would ruin my career and jeopordize the stability of the Union!"

"I had no idea that you were so . . . significant . . .father," said the young Cavenidish fascitiously. Cavendish made sure to emphasize the word "father", making it strike at the senator's pride like a blow.

"I'm a married man! Recently so, when I met your mother years ago. My political enemies wouldn't hesitate to seize upon that fact! Now, I've seen to it that you wouldn't be left wanting.  I've done my best to atone for that mistake!"

The senator didn't intend to lash out at the young Cavendish. The senator geneiunely felt guilt for having "carried on" with a Five Points whore while still a newlywed. It didn't occur to the senator that those feelings would cause emotional damage to his illegitimate son. After all, to the senator, he owed the boy something, simply because they were father and son. 

But because young Cavendish was born out of a "mistake" . . . and through the union with a whore and a woman who was "beneath" the senator as far as "class" went . . . the senator was not inclined to have any other feelings towards the boy.

Young Cavendish knew this. The indifference was what hurt deeply. To young Cavendish, it felt as if his heart had been cut out.

"Is that all that I am to you, sir? A mistake?"

The senator didn't answer. He simply lowered his head.

Without looking up at his son, the senator asked of the young Butch, "What is it that you're asking me to do? You want me to influence the admissions, have them readmit you . . . after you've been expelled from West Point? What about that local girl that accused you of . . . assaulting her?"

"That stupid country girl conspired to have me expelled, senator! As for West Point, there's nothing more they can teach me!  But I do want to see my enemies at the Point, those who are jealous of my genius, eat crow when I'm fully commissioned as an officer in the coming war with Mexico!"

The senator couldn't believe what his bastard son had just asked of him. "A commission?! You want a field commission after being expelled from The Point?! What possible . . . excuse . . . can I have to justify such an act?!"

"You underrate yourself, father dear. Among  your closest friends are men who are very high-placed in the military.  Men who owe a great deal of their own success to your . . . shall we say . . . intervention. Men like General Winfield Scott and Zachary Taylor. Men who normally wouldn't or couldn't be moved . . .unless it was by a close and generous friend, such as yourself."

Reminded of his past interventions for "friends", and of his corruption, the senator looked up at his son with disgust.

"And as for your ability to lead in the field Butch?"

"My battlefield theories of tactics and strategy have been compared by my professors to those of Frederick, Alexander . . . Napoleon's!"

The senator rolled his eyes and sighed. To himself, the senator thought that young Butch Cavendish was a pompous ass. 

Perhaps, if he granted Butch's "request" . . . this young thorn in the Senator's side that threatened his growing political career . . . just might get killed on the battlefield in the coming war with Mexico that was sure to ensue within the next year.

The senator took out a form letter and a stamp. He signed the letter, then handed it to his illegitimate son.  As Butch reached for the paper, the senator pulled back.

"If I do this, will you-?"

"Promise to leave you alone? Why father dear, your love and support is what's been keeping me going since I was a child. But take heart . . . father. You just might get your wish, regardless of my agreement to deny you the pleasure of my company. If war comes with Mexico, I might indeed get killed."

The senator handed Butch the paper.

"Present that letter to General Taylor's secretary. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy."

With that, the senator wheeled around in his seat and turned his back on young Butch, seemingly to attend to various letters and paperwork.

Butch Cavendish looked on at his father. Butch stood there for a moment, as if waiting for something more from the senator. Squeezing the letter in his hand, Butch's trembled as the paper made a faint, crinkling sound.

Butch rapidly turned around and left the room.

The Interrogation Room

"So you received a field commission, after being dropped from the officer's program at West Point," said the Masked Man. "That's how you got to serve in Mexico?"

"At Cerra Gordo and Mexico City, under General Winfield Scott. 'Ole' Fuss n' Feathers' . . . one of my father's more arrogant and incompetent friends. He got his tail whipped by the Seminoles in Florida. That would've never happened to me."

The Masked Man shook his head. He actually started to pity Butch Cavendish.

Cavendish then added, "I will say this. In Mexico I did serve with a few . . . very few . . . halfway competent men. One was Captain Robert E. Lee. Of course, he's now the Confederacy's most celebrated general." 

Butch Cavendish's eyes then began to dim. The Masked Man saw that Butch's mind was indeed beginning to drift again.

Cavendish continued, "The other competent officer in Mexico wasn't even an officer in the regular army. He was a captain of the Texas Rangers, attached to the main force entering the city. I met him in Mexico City. His command of his men and his fighting spirit made me realize that I might have indeed found an equal. I hated him for that! I knew that in the future, if my plans were to see fruition, he would have to die."

Cavendish then turned to the Masked Man. "His name was Daniel Reid."

The Masked Man's eyes widened, opening as far as they could expand beneath his mask.