Last Chance Saloon

by Cole Shelton

  The gunfighter slid noiselessly from his horse and slipped inside past Ma Tully who was still wrestling with the enormity of what she’d just done. He strode to the passage door and walked to Room Three. Slowly, carefully, he turned the big brass handle and eased the door open to a thin slit. He saw a burly figure of a man crouched with his long rifle beside the open window. If Brett had ridden a few more feet, he would have been blasted out of the saddle. Using his boot, Brett edged the door open wider. The would-be ambusher still hadn’t heard him. Stealthy as an Indian scout, Brett approached him and finally thrust a Colt Peacemaker into his spine.

  ‘You have a choice,’ the gunfighter said slowly. ‘Either you can be a damn fool and sing out, in which case I’ll blow you apart, or you can talk and I’ll merely put you asleep. When you wake up, you’ll have a sore head but you’ll still be breathing. Decide now.’

  ‘I do not wish to die, señor,’ the Mexican implored.

  ‘You’re working for Delaney,’ Brett accused.

  The Mexican sweated. ‘Sí, sí, my very big mistake, señor.’

  ‘They’re in the saloon?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Five of them.’

  ‘Where are they staked out?’

  ‘Señor Delaney will kill me!’

  ‘And I will if you don’t talk now,’ Brett warned. ‘Where the hell are they?’

  ‘Señores Grogan and Parker are high up, on balcony,’ the Mexican whimpered. ‘The one they call ‘Kid’ is behind bar, but I think he has no gun. Señor Malloy is at poker table by balcony stairs.’ He was weeping in fear as he now came to betray his boss. ‘And Señor Delaney, he is in office doorway.’ He shook visibly. ‘Be smart, amigo, there are too many guns against you. Ride out before you get killed!’

  Brett brought his gun handle down on the Mexican’s skull and the hapless man crumbled like stale cake and slumped to the shredded carpet on Room Three’s floor.

  The gunfighter looked out the open window at the street. No one moved there. He backed to the passageway and saw Mrs Tully wringing her hands in the foyer.

  ‘One more favour, ma’am.’

  ‘Name it,’ she trembled.

  ‘Look after my horse.’

  ‘Yes, certainly, Mr Cassidy.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he promised.

  ‘I pray so,’ Ma Tully said fervently.

  The gunfighter walked back to the street and appraised the Last Chance Saloon. The piano music had faded away. He heard an angry expletive from Jessie followed by the slamming of a door. Obviously there had been a disagreement inside. But then all became as silent as an Indian burial ground. He saw that none of the four windows had been cleaned, all being caked with dust and grime. Unless someone inside stood at the batwings, it was unlikely he could be detected crossing the street.

  He lifted his six-shooters.

  It was time for justice, time for his guns to speak.

  Half way across First Street, he halted and levelled one gun at the furthest right window. He fired a single bullet that bored a hole through the top of the dusty pane. Immediately the Last Chance Saloon erupted with the thunder of guns, all instinctively aimed in the direction where the sound of the explosion came from.

  Bullets hammered and shattered windows into a thousand fragments, exposing the street, but the gunfighter wasn’t there to be seen. Instead, taking advantage of their attention being momentarily diverted, he barged in through the batwings, both guns blazing.

  The Mexican cowpoke had told the truth.

  Grogan and Parker were crouched on the elevated balcony, emptying their guns at the smashed window. Malloy saw the gunfighter and shouted a desperate warning.

  But it was too late.

  Brett’s first bullet thudded into Grogan’s chest. Bellowing like a stricken steer, Grogan grabbed the balcony rail, lost his grip and plummeted headlong to the faro table below. His heavy body split the table in two before slithering to the floor. Parker managed to fire one hasty shot that splintered the batwings inches from Brett’s shoulder, but before he could pull trigger again, the gunfighter’s twin Colts boomed in deadly unison.

  Dead on his feet, Parker crashed to the balcony carpet and lay as still as stone.

  Brett Cassidy turned to face the bar. Kid Jorgenson had one arm in his sling, the other resting on the bar counter next to his beer. Just a couple of paces away, Malloy tipped a poker table on to its side, spilling cards and drinks into the sawdust, then crouched behind it. Still standing just inside the creaking batwings, Brett blasted two slugs into the table top. The upturned table shuddered and a third bullet bored right through, just nicking Malloy’s shoulder. Cursing, Buff Malloy reared to his feet and began pumping lead at Brett Cassidy who stood like Nemesis, motionless in the eerie half light. Two of Malloy’s bullets burned past Brett’s ribs and a third tore flesh from the gunfighter’s left arm. Ignoring the stabbing pain, Brett fired a single bullet that lifted Malloy clean off his feet and slammed him hard against the bar. Brett’s next shot snuffed out Malloy’s life before he hit the floor.

  Jorgenson cried out, ‘Don’t shoot me! I’m unarmed, as you can see!’

  Suddenly Brett heard a scuffle and Jessie’s door was booted open.

  Using Jessie as a human shield, Delaney had his left arm clamped around her waist, his right hand holding his derringer to the side of her head. The saloon girl was white-faced, frozen in terror as he pushed her roughly out of her room.

  ‘I know you two go back a long way, Cassidy,’ Delaney said. ‘Well, unless you want to see your old friend’s face blown off, drop your guns!’

  ‘He means it, Brett,’ Jessie wailed.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Brett said coldly.

  The gunfighter’s eyes were like dark pools of death as he slowly lowered his Peacemakers. He didn’t drop them, he just slipped them both back into their leather holsters. Kid Jorgenson chuckled, then he laughed mockingly as his hand that had been resting on the wooden counter now slid into his sling and pulled out the six-shooter he’d had concealed there.

  ‘I’ll take him, boss,’ Jorgenson boasted. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

  He angled his gun to aim at Brett but before he could pull the trigger, the shadow of a man loomed at the shattered window. A long carbine held by the Reverend Jason O’Toole intruded into the saloon. A split second later, the gun thundered and a bullet carved into Jorgenson’s ribcage, killing him instantly. The Kid dropped, his gun clattering over the bar top. Momentarily, Delaney’s attention switched from Brett and focused on the preacher at the window. Jessie took advantage of this brief respite, wriggled free from her boss and scrambled to one side.

  Suddenly it was just Brett Cassidy and Garth Delaney facing each other across the dimly-lit Last Chance Saloon. Brett’s draw was a blur, his right side gun clearing leather as Delaney levelled his derringer. Without seeming to aim, Brett fired from his hip, his gun blasting a slug into Delaney’s chest as the saloon owner’s finger found the trigger. Delaney’s derringer snarled as he staggered to his left side, his bullet winging well wide of the gunfighter who calmly fired the final shot to finish him off. Brett turned to the man at the broken window.

  ‘Thanks, Preach,’ Brett said. ‘I owe you.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the best sermon I’ve preached for a while,’ O’Toole said, still shaking visibly. ‘My wife didn’t want me to come – but I had to.’

  ‘Reckon there’s one more thing you can do for me,’ Brett Cassidy said. He nodded to where Jessie was sobbing into her hands. ‘This lady’s special to me. Right now she needs some pastoral care.’ He added wryly, ‘And maybe some preaching wouldn’t go astray either if she’s in the mood to listen.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Jason O’Toole agreed.

  While the preacher tramped the boardwalk to come in through the batwings, Brett walked through the now-silent saloon and entered Delaney’s office. He went straight to the saloon owner’s desk. What he was looki
ng for was still on top of Delaney’s pile of papers. Selecting two documents, he folded them and strode back through the saloon and outside. The street was no longer deserted. Half a dozen folks had ventured out on to the boardwalks and two more lamps had been lit. It was like the town was coming to life, new life. He made straight for the lodging house where Ma Tully regarded him with awe. She was trembling, drinking the strongest coffee she’d brewed for years.

  ‘So you sold this place to Delaney?’

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated what she’d told him yesterday.

  The gunfighter took the folded documents from his shirt pocket. Wide-eyed, Ma Tully gasped as he ripped the bill of sale into pieces, but handed the original title deed of the Red Butte Lodging House back to her.

  ‘I don’t believe you ever sold it to him, ma’am,’ Brett Cassidy said, shrugging.

  ‘Mr Delaney!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank you!’

  He asked her, ‘My horse?’

  ‘Safely stabled behind the Lodging House,’ she told him.

  ‘So long, Ma Tully.’

  Two minutes later Brett Cassidy rode his horse back up First Street. Behind him, the local undertaker and his assistant were running like rabbits to join the townsfolk now venturing into the Last Chance Saloon. Dozens more lamps were being lit. In fact, as Brett rode out, it seemed like the only unlit place on First Street was the law office. Brett had a hunch both lawmen would be replaced tomorrow.

  He rode his roan right out of town and headed for Lonesome Valley.

  Riding under the canopy of a big full moon and a million stars, Brett Cassidy reached the long valley where settlers had made their homes. With Delaney in a pine box, the homesteaders would be able to farm their land and bring up their families in peace. As for Brett, he hoped this really was his last mission as a professional gunfighter. Of course, he’d put away his guns and ‘settled down’ once before but he wanted to give it another try. This time he had a very special reason. Well, he hoped he had.

  He reached Harmony’s fence line and found the gate she’d left open for him.

  Riding through, he closed the gate behind him and followed the track across the dark grass to where Harmony’s lamp flickered in her single window. It was as if that light was beckoning him. He passed the old wagon and the barn. Harmony had heard his approach because she flung open the door and stood there waiting. The young widow had changed out of her mourning garb into a blue floral dress she’d made for herself. Even as Brett rode in, he could make out her wide-open eyes, glowing face and the deliciously firm curves her dress could not conceal.

  He reined the roan on the edge of the lamplight, and before he could empty his saddle, she ran to him. By the time his boots crunched the grass, she was in his arms.

  ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she cried.

  ‘That’s more than can be said for Delaney and his gang,’ he announced as she clung to him. ‘They won’t trouble Lonesome Valley again.’

  Suddenly she drew in her breath sharply. ‘There’s blood on your shirt!’

  ‘Just a flesh wound,’ he said dismissively. ‘Left arm.’

  ‘You come inside, Brett Cassidy,’ Harmony stated.

  ‘Sounds like a command,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘It sure is and you’re obeying!’

  Once in the cabin, she helped him shrug out of his bloody shirt. Malloy’s bullet had passed right on through, ripping away flesh, but Harmony told him firmly she was going to clean and bandage it. Brett made no protest. He drank the coffee she made him while she sponged his wounded arm. It had been a long time since a woman had touched him like this. A man could get to like this sort of attention.

  ‘This valley owes you so much,’ Harmony said as she wrapped the bandage over his wound.

  ‘I just repaid a debt,’ he reminded her quietly.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to just ride out,’ she murmured, tying the bandage.

  ‘I have a home in the mountains,’ he reminded her.

  ‘With just yourself for company.’ Harmony’s hands trailed away from his bandaged arm and covered his. She added in a husky whisper, ‘Like me.’

  ‘Two of a kind,’ he agreed softly, pulling her on to his lap.

  Brett kissed her and she responded passionately, her mouth full of soft promise.

  ‘We have a lot to talk about, Brett,’ Harmony said. ‘Could take an hour, maybe all night. Could be even longer.’ Then she blushed as she blurted out, ‘One thing’s for sure. You’re not going to sleep in the stable.’

  ‘Never intended to, Harmony,’ he said.