Open Hands

by Travis Herche

PART TWO

  He rode in with his head down, the broad brim of his black leather hat easily concealing his face. He remembered this town as a quiet little stage stop. But now it was all in a shindy. Folks running all over the place, standing in small groups talking, and most of them sneaking glances if not outright staring at him.

  A man in a clean suit wearing a gun and a star was standing outside a barber shop on the left, puffing at a cigar.

  The rider dismounted and tethered his horse, then slowly looked up. "Marshal Williams?"

  Russ nodded.

  "I'm Open Hands." He extended a hand. Russ shook it slowly.

  Standing next to Russ was a round, nervous man who seemed to be hiding behind his spectacles. "Open Hands? You don't look like a savage."

  His nostrils flared slightly. "I assume you are referring to the Shoshone."

  "Yeah."

  "You are correct: I am not Shoshone."

  "Then how'd you wind up with a name like that?"

  "The Shoshone gave me this name. I prefer it to my other one."

  They glanced at each other and shrugged. Russ: "Okay. So can you help us?"

  Open Hands reached into his knee-length black leather duster and pulled out the poster. "This the guy giving you trouble?"

  "Yeah." Russ pointed up the street. Sherman was on the front porch of the Hotel, leaning against the railing. His muddy rifle was still with him.

  "Well, this ain't an ordinary wanted poster," said Open Hands. "It doesn't say he's wanted for anything, exactly. They're just looking to ask him some questions. They do that sometimes when they can't prove it was him. So I can't arrest him just with this handbill. Has he done anything here that you can arrest him for?"

  "Promiscuous display of firearms," volunteered Higgins.

  "No," said Russ sadly. "Not unless I order him to surrender his firearm and he refuses. And I haven't done that. He burned down that water tower over there yesterday, and he burgled the general store last night. And before that he robbed the stage coach. But we can't prove any of it."

  "So you want me to get this man out of your town but I can't legally arrest him?"

  "There's a reward."

  "That's a missing person reward. You can't arrest people for that."

  Higgins' mouth moved but he made no sound. He turned helplessly to Russ. Russ lifted his hat and scratched his balding head. "Look, all I know is: he's got to go. And your nephew seems to think you're game enough to take him."

  Open Hands had ordered Buck to stay at the RO until he came back. He anticipated trouble and didn't want his nephew around when it went down. Buck had been hard to restrain. Only after he had been promised a ride on any horse in the ranch did he agree to stay.

  "It's never about how tough you are," said Open Hands. He tapped his forehead a few times.

  "Will you help us or not?" Russ demanded, extending a silver Special Deputy star.

  Open Hands squinted up the street at Sherman and licked his lips. Then nodded and clipped the star to his shirt under the coat. "Yeah, I can help you. But I want the reward money. And I need what's left of your tower."

  Russ looked at Higgins. Higgins looked at the burned out remains of the tower, now just four charred posts sticking out of the ground. Shrug. "It's all yours."

  "You may want to clear the street."

  He turned and walked slowly to the tower. The town was getting quiet. Folks could tell there was going to be trouble. He stopped in the center, with the four blackened posts around him, and turned slowly. Took a long, deep breath through his nose. Smelled the wet ash and the dust. An empty street, a quarter mile long. The only soul on it was Sherman, standing on the Hotel porch with the rifle in his hands.

  Open Hands looked up. No clouds. Two birds circling lazily overhead. He could take this whippersnapper. But the Marshal was right: he had to use his head. Another deep breath, so he could shout at the top of his lungs. "Hey! Shootin Sherman! I hear you can fight like the Kilkenny cats!"

  Sherman shifted nervously. "Yeah, I can!"

  "Oh, you can, can you?"

  "You better believe it! I killed seven men!"

  "I bet you didn't kill more than two!"

  Sherman stepped forward. His screechy voice was already getting weak from shouting. "I'm the best gunman in the Utah Territory!"

  "You know what you are?"

  "What?"

  "A flannel mouth! Now I'm gonna show you what a real gunman can do, and then I'm gonna come over there and haul you down to a hanging. And then, I'm gonna have a nice big cup of Arbuckle's and go back to being a real man!"

  Sherman cranked the lever on his rifle, ratcheting a round into position. "You're gonna wish you hadn't said that!"

  "Yeah, you're gonna wish you'd never heard the name of Foster!" Open Hands threw open his duster, revealing six sawed-off shotguns. Two in holsters riding low against his thighs, two high on his hip, and two strapped against his chest. His belt was filled with bright red 12 gauge rounds. In the same motion, he chucked the coat off his shoulders onto the ground and grabbed the first pair of guns off his thighs. Then he dropped to one knee and fired the left barrels into the first post, blasting it into charcoal dust. Opened his arms to point at the posts on either side and emptied the right barrels. The post on the left shattered; the one on the right needed more persuasion. He dropped the shotguns and spun, lifting the second pair off his hips. One shot to the damaged post shattered it. He dropped the third gun and put both hands on the fourth, then fired both barrels into the last post. Dropped it in the dust and whirled back to a stand facing Sherman. The whole dance had taken less than three seconds.

  "If you drop you guns now," he shouted, "I won't hurt you!"

  Sherman shook his head. "No way!" Just a kid. Young and stupid. He didn't understand the decision he was making.

  Open Hands shook his head sadly. "See you at the bone orchard!"

  With that, he began a slow walk up the middle of the street. The windows on either side were barely open. Folks were peeking out, watching him. His hands were empty, but he still had the two guns against his chest.

  Sherman leveled the rifle and fired. Open Hands grimaced involuntarily but the aim had been poor and the bullet raced away past him. Sherman chambered another round and took a second to aim before firing. This one whizzed by very close on his left. Another shot. Miss.

  Sherman was getting frantic, but Open Hands still had plenty of ground to cover before he was within shotgun range. Another shot. Wetness just above his right knee. Open Hands glanced down and saw a tear in the side of his pants. A graze. Nothing serious. He limped forward.

  Sherman let out a vicious war woop, perhaps more to steady his own calming nerves, and fired another shot. This one was so badly aimed it shattered a window up ahead. Screaming inside the house, but not the kind of screaming that said someone had been hit. Open Hands kept walking.

  Another shot. Something smashed against his chest like a sledge hammer and he stepped back to keep his balance. The wind was knocked out of him. He put both hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths. Then put his head up and pulled the left shotgun out of its holster. A bullet was squashed against the side of the barrel. He tossed it over his shoulder and kept walking.

  Sherman dropped the rifle, hands shaking, and pulled his elaborately decorated revolvers from their holsters. Two simultaneous shots, both wide misses. Two more. Then a pepper of gunfire as Sherman emptied his guns at full speed. Sherman silently counted the shots. Two, four, five, six, seven, nine, ten, eleven ... he saw the twelfth shot coming before it hit. It buried itself in his left shoulder, breaking the collar bone. His arm swung back wildly and he stopped in his tracks again.

  Sherman was standing fifty feet away, wreathed in smoke, with two empty guns in his hands and a shocked look on his face. Open Hands deliberately pulled the last shotgun from its holster and jogged forward. Sherman was rooted to the spot, staring as if it a ghost.

  Open Hands stepped up
onto the porch and leveled his weapon in Sherman's face. "You're under arrest," he said, "for assault with a deadly weapon."

  About the Author

  Travis Herche is a professional online coach. Find out more at www.travisherche.com