Curly Bill and Ringo

by Holt, Van

  He turned and looked at her.

  “You’re a fool if you keep thinking about Miss Sarah all the time the way you do,” she said. “She ain’t for you.”

  “Who is she for?”

  “I don’t know. But it ain’t you.”

  He went on out and heard her say to the four walls, “The damn fool.”

  He figured she was probably right about that. Anyway, he had this foolish notion that anything was possible. Sooner or later, he told himself, Miss Sarah was bound to see what a great fellow he was. And if all else failed, he could always steal her.

  Lost in thought, he had the Appaloosa untied before he noticed the tall man in black standing on the boardwalk, idly smoking a cigarette.

  “I thought there was something familiar about that horse,” the tall man said.

  “Ringo!” Curly said with a broad grin. “How the hell are you?”

  “Too early to tell,” Ringo said. “I’ll know more about it after I’ve had a few drinks.”

  “You’re at the right place,” Curly said. “All the booze you can drink right in there, and the prettiest little bartender you ever saw to pour it for you.”

  “You know I never go in places like that,” Ringo said.

  “Since when?” Curly asked in surprise.

  Ringo’s glance strayed toward the hotel. “Someone might get the wrong idea.”

  “Nobody in this town gives a damn,” Curly told him.

  “Somebody might.”

  “Who?”

  “You know I never mention names.”

  Curly decided this was one of those times when Ringo wanted to be mysterious, so he shrugged and let it go at that. “I was just going to take my horse to the stable,” he said. “If you want to walk along, we’ll go to the Bent Elbow afterwards. I planned to go there anyway.” He grinned. “It always makes me realize how lucky I am that I ain’t Jackpot.”

  He led the horse down the street and Ringo fell in step beside him. It seemed to Curly that Ringo had grown a little taller, and he tried to stand up straighter himself, feeling proud to be seen with the legendary gunfighter.

  “You think it’s safe?” Ringo asked quietly.

  Curly glanced at his hard expressionless face. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think your friends like me too much,” Ringo said.

  Curly rubbed his big chin, glancing toward the Bent Elbow.

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. What makes you think that?”

  “You’re not very observant,” Ringo said. “You’re always looking, but you never see anything.”

  Curly glanced aside. “I see more than you might think.”

  Ringo shrugged and changed the subject. “I hear you killed Mad Dog Shorty.”

  “That ain’t very funny,” Curly said.

  “I never said it was funny. I’m just telling you what I heard. It’s all over town how you beat him up in the saloon, then followed him out of town and blasted him with a shotgun.”

  “There’s just one thing wrong with that story,” Curly said. “I ain’t got a shotgun.”

  “You used to have one.”

  “That reminds me, Ringo. My shotgun disappeared while we were in Mexico, or on the way down there. I remember you going back to get it after you had me in the saddle at that waterhole, but that’s the last time I can remember ever seeing it. What happened to it?”

  “I sold it,” Ringo said. “We were both broke, so I sold it for a few pesos. I thought you knew about it.”

  “I don’t remember anything about it.”

  “Hell, I told you I was going to sell it,” Ringo said. “You said all right.”

  Curly had a feeling that Ringo still had the shotgun and that he had used it on Mad Dog Shorty. But he shrugged and said, “There’s a lot about them days I don’t remember. So I guess you’re right.”

  “I never use a shotgun anyway,” Ringo said.

  “You didn’t use to,” Curly said. “But with that bum arm, I thought you might of started using one.”

  “I never said there was anything wrong with my arm,” Ringo grunted.

  “You didn’t have to. Like I said before, I see more than you might think.”

  “Try not to tell everyone you see about it,” Ringo said in a soft but savage tone, watching the Hatcher boys and the Bishop kid come out of the stable.

  “Hey, Curly,” Cash said, “Billy’s been showing us how fast he can draw. He thinks he can beat you. I told him he couldn’t. Show him who’s right.”

  Curly patted the Appaloosa on the rump and the rangy gelding trotted by them into the stable. “You boys know I don’t play them kid games. I’m too old to make a fool of myself.”

  “Aw, come on, Curly,” the Bishop kid said. “It won’t hurt nothin’. I want to see what kind of chance I’d stand against a famous gunfighter like you.”

  Curly glanced at Ringo out of one eye and Ringo just looked back at him as if to say, You got yourself into this with your big mouth, telling everyone what a famous gunfighter you are. Now get yourself out of it.

  “Well, if you put it that way,” Curly said, “I don’t reckon it would hurt nothing. But I don’t want you to go and get sore if I win. I got my reputation to think of, you know.”

  He didn’t like the way the kid smiled. “I won’t git sore.”

  “Just being able to draw fast won’t mean much in a real gunfight if you can’t hit nothing,” Curly said. “Let’s see who can put the first five slugs in a tin can before it stops rolling. That all right with you, kid?”

  The kid shrugged. “Sure, Curly. Any way you want it is all right with me.”

  Cash and Comanche Joe found a couple of tin cans and set them on the ground about twenty feet away. Curly noticed that Ringo moved over and stood with his back against the barn wall, smoking his cigarette in silence, his eyes half closed against the bright sunlight. The Hatcher boys and Billy Bishop let on like he wasn’t there, but Curly had a feeling all this had something to do with the tall lean gunfighter.

  “You ready, kid?” Curly asked.

  “Sure thing, Curly,” the boy said, looking sort of smug and smiling his secret smile as if he knew something Curly didn’t.

  “Cash,” Curly said, “toss a rock in the air and when it hits the ground we’ll draw and shoot.”

  Cash found a small rock, pitched it up and when it hit the ground Curly reached for his gun.

  Before he even got it out of the holster, the Bishop kid’s gun was roaring, and before Curly got off more than two shots the Bishop kid’s gun was silent. Even though Curly was concentrating on his own can, he could see the boy’s can jerking and rolling crazily and he knew Billy had put all five of his bullets through it.

  Curly quit firing and felt his face getting hot as he looked at the boy, who was still smiling. Cash and Beanbelly were also grinning and Comanche Joe laughed his short laugh that sounded like a grunt. Curly had a feeling they had set him up.

  “Maybe you wasn’t ready, Curly,” the kid said. “You want to try again?”

  “That’s okay, kid,” Curly said, putting his gun away. “If I wasn’t ready, it was my fault.”

  The Bishop kid began reloading his gun. He looked at Ringo and said, “Would you like to try it?”

  Ringo stood motionless against the barn wall, watching the Bishop kid through his cold blue eyes, his hard face showing no expression. After what seemed a long deliberate silence, he said quietly, “I’ll pass.”

  The kid let his glance drop away from Ringo’s level stare, but he had the smug, sly look on his face as if he had won another victory. He and Cash exchanged a glance and then they walked out to take a look at the cans.

  Curly and Ringo went back up the street, neither speaking for a
bout twenty steps. Then Curly glanced at Ringo out of one eye and said, “I just let him win.”

  Ringo kept his face blank and his eyes straight ahead. “Sure you did.”

  “You think you could beat him?”

  “I think so,” Ringo said.

  “Hell, I thought I could beat him,” Curly said. “If you’re so sure you could, why didn’t you give it a try?”

  “Never let a man know how good you are with a gun,” Ringo said. “As long as that kid thinks he’s better than me, he’s not likely to shoot me in the back. It’s those other three who worry me. They know they’re not in my class and they’d never give me an even break.”

  “You don’t have to worry about them,” Curly said. “I’ll keep them in line.”

  “I hope so,” Ringo said, and flipped his cigarette into the dust. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Curly grinned. “Ringo, you’re a man after my own heart.”

  Chapter 13

  As Curly and Ringo were leaving the Bent Elbow, they saw Cash and Beanbelly going up the street to the Road to Ruin. The Bishop kid was watching the street through a crack in the wall of the livery stable and he whistled to warn them. Cash and Beanbelly looked around, saw Ringo and exchanged a silent look. Then they went on to the Road to Ruin.

  In a way it was an insult to a man like Ringo—the idea that he might shoot them in the back or something. He could have easily killed both of them without taking any advantage. But they were judging him by their own standards and not taking any chances. Curly figured it was Cash’s idea for the Bishop kid to warn them if he saw Ringo, for Cash was suspicious of Ringo and felt certain that Uncle Willy had sent for him to put a stop to the rustling by eliminating the rustlers.

  Curly and Ringo stopped in front of the Bent Elbow and Ringo idly lit a cigarette, his face showing no sign that he had noticed anything. But after a moment he blew smoke out in a long sigh and said, “So many clowns. They make me mighty sad.”

  Curly grinned uneasily. “I thought you liked clowns.”

  “Maybe the first one,” Ringo said, “But after a while a man gets tired of laughing.”

  “I don’t remember when you ever laughed,” Curly said. “Hell, I’ve been trying all these years to get you to laugh.”

  “I didn’t know you were trying,” Ringo said. “I thought your foolishness just came natural.”

  “A little of both, I guess.”

  The talk was getting too personal for Ringo. He threw his cigarette away and said, “I’ll see you later, Curly. I think I’ll go take a nap before supper.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you then,” Curly muttered.

  Ringo walked on up the street without answering.

  Curly entered the hotel dining room at ten till six, about the time Miss Sarah usually ate her supper. But she was not in the dining room. As he sat down at a table, old Darius Winkler appeared from the kitchen, a look of pure misery on his oily round face.

  “You sick or something, Darius?” Curly asked. Then he grinned, “Old Don Juan been using too many chili peppers again?”

  Darius sighed and sat down on the other side of the table, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. “I know why you come early,” he said. “I don’t blame you. Feel the same way myself. But it’s no use. We both waste our time.”

  Curly frowned. “What are you mumbling about?”

  Old Darius raised his bloated face and looked at him with sad eyes. “Earlier she say she don’t feel so good. Is it all right if she go up to her room and lie down for a while before time to start waiting on tables. Sure, go ahead, I say. But when I think she going to be late I go up to wake her up. Just about to knock on her door when I hear them talking. It’s that tall bad man and he say—I know his voice anywhere—`Take off those ridiculous clothes,’ he say.

  “Then as I try to get away a board creaked and he opened the door wearing nothing but only his pants and pointed at me with his gun. I waved my arms in the air for him not to shoot and he didn’t or say anything. He just stand there and watch me come down the stairs with a hard look on his jaw. But now I’m afraid to go back on second floor while he’s here.”

  Curly sat numb and silent for a long moment, feeling as though a mule had kicked him in the belly. Slowly and carefully he lit a cigar. Behind the flame of the match he felt his eyes brightening with anger, with the thought that he had been tricked, betrayed. He puffed on the cigar and watched old Darius wave the smoke away from his damp eyes. For old Darius he had no particular sympathy. He needed it all for himself. For old Darius he felt nothing but a mild indifferent scorn, for ever believing he stood any chance with Miss Sarah when Curly himself had had no luck.

  “You weren’t up there trying to eavesdrop and spy on them, were you, Darius?”

  “I got responsibility to know what kind of people I got staying here in my hotel, because of the other guests.”

  “What other guests?”

  “The ones who may be arriving almost any day now,” Darius said. “They should be here already. But I think they afraid to come here while he’s here. But don’t change subject, Curly. Why he say her clothes ridiculous? Her clothes not ridiculous.”

  “I reckon what he meant was, any clothes at all would be ridiculous under the circumstances,” Curly said, trying to hide the strange sick feeling inside him.

  “Then it’s true, what I was afraid of,” old Darius said, wiping his eyes. “Old fool. Curly, why didn’t you say to me, ‘Darius, don’t make such a fool of yourself. You’re sixty years old. Act like your age.’”

  “I reckon I was too busy making a fool out of myself to worry about you,” Curly said. He pushed back from the table and got heavily to his feet. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was, Darius. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

  “She may not even come down,” old Darius said. “I guess I have to wait on tables, to go with everything else.”

  Curly left the dining room without answering. He had his own misery to think of. How much of it showed on his face he didn’t know, but there was no one on the street to see it.

  The town was dying before his eyes. He felt like the whole world was dying, while he grinned like a fool and tried to hide the pain in his heart.

  Somewhere behind the smile there was a growing anger that gradually covered the smile like clouds spreading over the sun. He felt gloomy and bitter by the time he got to the Bent Elbow.

  Cash and Beanbelly were standing at the bar. He lined up beside them and poured himself a drink from their bottle. “Cash,” he said, “stop telling people I killed Mad Dog Shorty. It ain’t very funny.”

  “I think you prob’ly did kill him,” Cash said. He and Beanbelly were both grinning.

  “Like I say, it ain’t very funny.”

  Cash shrugged, but didn’t say anything.

  Curly downed his drink and poured himself another. “Ma said if you didn’t get them dogs away from there she’d take the shotgun to them.”

  “What am I going to do with them dogs in town?” Cash asked.

  “Maybe it would be better to let her shoot them,” Curly suggested.

  “I don’t want them dogs hurt,” Cash said. “I reckon I’ll have to bring them in the next time I come.”

  “I reckon you will,” Curly said. “But I reckon I won’t ride along with you that trip.”

  “Guess they’ll have to live on scraps people throw out,” Cash said, reaching for the bottle. “I sure can’t buy feed for them.”

  “Hell, butcher a steer for them,” Beanbelly said, grinning. “That won’t cost nothing. Or we could steal some chuck from Blondie’s free lunch counter for them. Except I’d hate to give them old dogs anything that’s fit to eat,” he added, licking his lips. “I sure wish old Jackpot would get in some chuck and some women so I wouldn’t have to walk o
ver there every time I get hungry.”

  “I’ll be here when they’re gone,” Jackpot said.

  Curly gave him a mean look. “You prob’ly will. I’ve noticed it ain’t so easy to get rid of people you’d just as soon not have around.”

  “I’ve noticed that too,” Jackpot said.

  Curly looked at him with hard eyes, trying to decide how best to annihilate him. But Jackpot was like a fly that wasn’t worth swatting.

  Curly again reached for the bottle. “Cash, what’s this stupid game you and the Bishop kid have started playing with Ringo? He ain’t the kind of man you play games with.”

  “What game are you talking about?” Cash grunted.

  “I heard Billy whistle to warn you when he saw Ringo. Was that your bright idea?”

  “What if it was?” Cash asked. “I don’t want him sneaking up on us the way he did Mad Dog Shorty.”

  “I thought you said it was me killed Mad Dog Shorty.”

  “You know I was just joking about that.”

  “I know. It was just your way of having fun. But don’t try to have any fun with Ringo. He ain’t got no sense of humor.”

  “The hell with him,” Cash said. “He’s too high and mighty. He needs bringing down some.”

  “I’ve felt that way myself a few times,” Curly said, wiping a big hand across his mouth. “But you ain’t the man for the job.”

  “Maybe I ain’t,” Cash said. “But I know who is.”

  Curly glanced aside at his lean pockmarked face. “Who?”

  “Billy,” Cash said.

  “Cash,” Curly said, “don’t get something started you can’t stop. It may seem like fun and games now, but it will get mighty serious. I know that man.”

  Ringo rode out of town early the next morning, before anyone else was up. He was long gone by the time Curly got to the hotel. There was no one else in the dining room when Miss Sarah brought his breakfast. She must have guessed by the look on his face or his unusual silence that he knew something, for she retreated to the kitchen without a word and avoided his eyes when she returned a little later with the coffeepot to refill his cup.