Miami Gundown

by Michael Zimmer

  “Yeah, I savvy.”

  “Boone.”

  I looked at him, puzzled by the strained tone of his voice. “Yeah?”

  “Once we pull outta that-there store, you is gonna have to find your own way to the river. Think you can do that?”

  “I can do whatever I have to do. Just tell me what it is.”

  “I wish I could, son, I surely do, but when you get over there, you gonna be on your own.”

  I nodded grimly, determined not to let him down a second time. “I’ll do it,” I vowed.

  “Lena, honey, grab me a couple of them revolvers, will you?”

  Lena rushed to comply, returning within seconds with all three of the handguns I’d ordered the scavengers to leave behind. Jim took the guns one at a time and checked their loads. Then he shoved two inside his belt and handed the third to me.

  “Shove that in your britches,” he instructed. “It’s loaded. When it’s empty, don’t waste no time reloadin’. Just give it a toss and keep runnin’. The only revolver you needs to hang onto is your own. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, unaware at the time of the irony of my response—a white man calling the family slave sir.

  Then Jim did something I never would have expected. He handed me his double-barreled shotgun, the one Pa had given him so many years before. “That there scattergun is loaded full-bore, Boone. She’ll kick like a mule when you pull the trigger, but she’ll do the job.”

  I nodded solemnly. I knew Jim loved that old smoke pole. It represented something between him and my pa that I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “You be ready, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man smiled affectionately. “You’ll do fine, Boone. Just remember to duck when you see someone shootin’ your way.”

  I swallowed and nodded and moved out in front of him. The firing from the saloon seemed to intensify, and I sensed that time was running out. Taking a deep breath, I bolted from the shelter of the log cabin like a rabbit startled from its hedge. I was heading for a small lean-to stable just south of the saloon and was just about there when a man stepped out from behind a corner of the stable and pulled the trigger on a large-bored carbine.

  Getting shot was like running full tilt into a chest-high log placed across my path, with about the same results. My top end stopped instantly at the bullet’s impact, but my legs kept pumping. I believe if there had been a wall in front of me, I might have made good progress going up its side. Unfortunately there wasn’t, and I landed hard on my back and shoulders, rapping my skull in the process.

  I laid there for a good, long bit, listening to the roaring in my ears while the sky danced and shimmied overhead. I don’t know why the man who shot me didn’t finish the job. Jim said afterward he’d taken off like a scalded cat as soon as he saw me go down. It was Jim’s speculation that the shooter wasn’t a Klee man, just some deserter caught up in the fight.

  After a while I became aware of a distant ache in my shoulder and soon came to wish that it had stayed there. But you don’t get your hide drilled without paying a price in pain, and mine wasn’t long in coming. Groaning, I pushed over on my right side, protecting my left shoulder as best I could under the circumstances. I was starting to become aware again of what was going on around me and took notice when a bear-like roar from the saloon was following by a ragged cheer. A knot of men burst out the front door with their guns blazing, fat Jacob Klee waddling swiftly at its head. They were rushing the store, pouring lead into the building like they meant to blast it off its limestone foundation.

  Swallowing back the bitter taste of bile, I shoved awkwardly to my feet, drawing my Colt as I did. I wouldn’t have been able to handle Jim’s shotgun even if I knew where it had flown, and I clean forgot about the spare revolver that had bounced out of my waistband on impact. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but I’d suddenly had a gut full of Jacob Klee and his lawless clan. Drawing a deep breath, I bellowed his name into the street.

  You know how when the action is going fast and furious and everything seems to be happening all at once, and then, in the middle of it all, there’s that tiny fraction of time when complete silence falls over the scene? That was the void my challenge filled, and I truly doubt that anyone would have ever heard it if not for that brief moment of quiet. But they did, and Klee’s men came to an uneven stop in the middle of the street, half turning toward me while still keeping an eye on the bullet-riddled storefront.

  “Jacob Klee!” I yelled again as loud as I could.

  The shooting tapered off, then ceased. Klee’s men—maybe ten of them altogether—backed away uncertainly. At the store, Ardell and Punch stepped outside with their revolvers drawn, though sloping toward the ground. Nobody spoke. Every eye was locked on me.

  “Jacob, if it’s me you want, then come and get me.”

  The old man pushed to the front of his crew, and as much as I despised that belly-jiggling skunk, I have to admit that at least he’d been out front leading the charge. It was more than a lot of those generals up north were doing.

  “You killed my nephew, McCallister!” Klee shouted.

  Just so you know, all of our conversations that day were spoken in loud voices, what with the distance and the ringing in everyone’s ears from the gunfire.

  “You killed your own nephew,” I retorted.

  “That’s a damned lie.”

  “Is it? If you hadn’t been following us to steal our herd, he never would have died. He never would have even been there.”

  Klee started forward, and I have to admit he seemed to be moving fairly nimbly for a man of such girth. He was grinning as he approached, like he’d already finished the job and was anticipating the celebration.

  “You don’t look so good, McCallister.”

  Well, I don’t know what I looked like, but if it was anything close to how I felt, I suspect Jacob was being kind in his assessment. I know I was swaying on my feet and that the entire left side of my shirt was sodden with blood. Lena said later on that I looked as pale as a ghost and that she’d been half afraid that’s what I was, standing there to take revenge on the men who’d killed me.

  “I’ve got ambition enough to finish this chore, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I replied. “You and your kin have been a burr under the Flatiron’s saddle for long enough, Klee. I’m going to end it here.”

  Laughing, Jacob said: “That’s brassy talk, boy, but I’ll be your huckleberry. Lift that pistol anytime you see fit.”

  Jacob had been walking steadily toward me, but then he stopped about forty yards away. Gritting my teeth against the deep throbbing in my shoulder, I started forward. He looked surprised by my move, but held his ground. We both had our revolvers drawn, though hanging, muzzle-down, from our fists. I’d covered maybe twenty feet when I stepped on a clod of dirt no bigger around than my fist, something so slight and soft I wouldn’t have even noticed it if I hadn’t been so foggy headed. As it was, the clod staggered me to my right.

  Laughing, Jacob took a half step forward. “The hell with you, you little pup,” he called, and began to raise his revolver.

  The difference between me and Jacob that day was that Jacob tried to bring his gun up to eye level so that he could aim—which is smart if you’ve got the time. I didn’t. Jerking the Navy to waist level, I snapped off a round before Jacob even knew what I was doing.

  I still remember the look of astonishment on Jacob’s face when my bullet struck him in the gut. Jim said he grunted loud enough to wake the dead, although I didn’t hear it. Then the look of surprise vanished, and Jacob raised his gun with an oath vicious enough to peel paint. I got off a second round before Klee could fire his first, but my aim was all out of whack by then, and my bullet plowed into the dirt between the big man’s feet, doing no harm.

  Klee’s luck was better, and his slug caught me just under and to the outside of my ribs. It wasn’t a bad wound, as far as those things go, but I was so addled by t
he first that I went down instantly.

  Klee stood where he was, one hand covering the wound in his belly, the other still hanging onto his revolver. I could see blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, but he didn’t look especially weakened. Raising his head from where he’d been staring at the wound, he started cursing me for a trouble-making fool whose family thought they owned all of southern Florida—the usual trash you’d expect from a horse thief and slave stealer—but he was also lifting his gun for a second shot, and I knew I couldn’t just lay there and let him take it without challenge. Pushing to my knees, I brought my revolver around in a slow arc, settling the tiny brass post at the muzzle end on Jacob’s chest.

  Klee got his shot off first, and I swear the bullet came close enough to clip off some of the hair above my ear. But it didn’t hit me, and my shot sailed true. The Navy’s ball struck Jacob solidly in the chest, but the son of a bitch still didn’t fall!

  “God dammit,” I shouted in frustration. “Klee, drop your gun!”

  Instead, he spat a bloody glob into the dirt at his side. Looking at me with those little, pig eyes blazing, he started to bring his revolver up one more time. That ol’ boy was determined, but so was I, and I got my final round off before he could pull his trigger. This time, Jacob Klee went down hard, a hole about the size of a dime centered just above the bridge of his nose.

  It’s taken me a lot longer to tell you about this than it did for it to happen. I suspect the whole thing—from the time I shouted for Klee to come and get me, until he hit the ground like a load of bricks—didn’t take more than a couple of minutes. What I didn’t know at the time, as focused as I was on Jacob Klee, was that Ardell and Punch had taken that opportunity to walk out into the street behind those Klee boys, so that after the old man fell, they were standing right there with their guns drawn. I don’t think Klee’s gang knew they were there until Ardell told them to drop their guns or get the same treatment as the old man. I guess with the snake’s head chopped off, those boys had lost their will to fight, because they threw their weapons down without protest. That much I saw. Then I keeled over unconscious.

  Session Ten

  If you’re thinking about ending this interview anytime soon, now might be a good time. That last disk is full, and Lord knows I’ve about run out of story. I don’t mind going on if that’s what you’d like, I just don’t want you to think there’s enough left of this tale to fill another disk.

  Fair enough, I’ll keep talking as long as you keep recording.

  First off, I need to confess that I don’t recall a whole lot about what happened after I hit the dirt out there in the middle of Miami’s solitary street. Most of what I’m going to tell you about the following few days is what I gleaned afterward from Ardell and Jim and Lena and Punch.

  I reckon it’s safe to say I got hit pretty hard by that deserter I scared up out of the lean-to. His bullet poked a hole in the hollow of my left shoulder so close to my lung the boys were half afraid to move me. Not that they had much choice. Although most of Miami’s leading citizens had scattered like their britches were afire when the fighting broke out, Jim figured they’d be back as soon as they realized it wasn’t a cavalry regiment swooping down on the place, but just a bunch of cow hunters, most of whom weren’t quite dry behind the ears.

  Feeling a need to move fast, Jim sent Ardell into the shot-up store to fetch a coil of hemp that they used to hog-tie all but one of Klee’s gang. With the clan secured, Jim told Punch and the man they’d left untied to bring in those stolen Flatiron horses, including that little gray filly of Pa’s.

  I probably ought to mention that, of the whole bunch, Ardell and Lena were the only ones to come through that Miami fracas unscathed. Roy had taken two serious wounds to his chest and was laid up inside the store, where Lena was doing her best by him, and poor ol’ Punch really earned his nickname that summer; besides the piece of buckshot he’d collected at Chestnut Thumb, he caught a second bullet in the calf of his leg and another—more burn than gouge—across his ribs there in Miami. Ironically it was that deep scratch over his ribs that he complained about the most, claiming for years afterward that it never stopped itching.

  Ardell brought a chair out of the saloon for Jim to sit in and keep an eye on the prisoners, then hurried down to the river to commandeer another skiff for our return to the north bank. He told me on the ride home how a bunch of Yankees in naval uniforms had stood outside the main entrance to Fort Dallas and watched as he readied the tiny craft. He said he’d been worried they might come over and try to put a stop to his efforts, but thankfully they’d seemed content to stay where they were and mind their own business. By the time Ardell had everything arranged on the river, Punch and Klee’s man had returned with the horses, including Pa’s filly.

  With Lena’s help, Ardell got me and Roy into the skiff, then went back to fetch Casey’s body, wrapped in a quilt stripped from some hardcase’s bedroll, and placed it in the boat at our feet. I don’t know if Ardell sailed us across the Miami or rowed, but he did mention some weeks later that, although the river was wide at its mouth, the current wasn’t bad because of the incoming tide.

  If you want more details about the next few days, you’d need to hunt up Ardell and ask him, since I was more out of it than not. The last I heard, he was living in a nursing home in Tallahassee, so if he ain’t kicked the bucket over yet, he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Ardell Hawes. If you talk to him, tell him I said howdy. Hell, tell him to write me a damned letter. I ain’t heard from that ol’ boy in a many a year, and I’d like to know what he’s been up to.

  Anyway, Ardell and Lena got everyone back across the Miami, including the stolen horses. I came around a little as they were packing us onto the mounts we’d ridden south on. They’d strapped Casey belly down over his saddle and put Roy on my bay so they could tie him horn to cantle. Even with that, Lena had to ride up behind him to keep him from falling off. They sat me atop Casey’s little marshtackie, where I guess I swayed like a clump of sea oats in a brisk wind. Although I didn’t fall off, I sure wasn’t much help. Mostly I just sat there in a fevered daze, the world spinning every time I opened my eyes.

  Jim brought the column to a halt a few hundred yards down the trail and ducked into the woods where we’d left the lookout the night before, bundled up like a sack of flour. He returned several minutes later carrying the lookout’s suspenders, the ones Casey’d used to tie the man’s wrists and ankles while me and Jim held him down. Jim figured the guy must have had a small knife hidden somewhere, besides the heavy belt knife Jim had tossed into the bushes. We’d been careless not to check and paid a grievous price for our mistake.

  To Jim’s credit, he never brought up my decision not to cut the lookout’s throat when we had the chance, but the old black man’s words to my decision to—“Let him live”—haunt me to this day.

  We do, Jim had said, we might someday regret it.

  He was sure right about that.

  I was hurting real bad that first day on the trail. Every muscle and joint in my body seemed to protest the slightest movement of my mount, and sweat soaked through my shirt and trousers and socks, turning my hair as wet as if I’d been caught in a summer downpour. Finally I became aware of Ardell standing beside my saddle, shaking me awake and saying I needed to let go, which was about the easiest chore I had to do that day. I tipped outward, and Ardell helped me to the ground, then passed me on to Lena, who led me over to where my blankets were already spread out on the ground beside a cabin I didn’t recognize. I remember Lena talking to me, but I couldn’t tell you what she said, nor did I attempt a reply. I just fell back in my bed and slipped into sweet unconsciousness. I’d hear voices from time to time or feel fingers prodding at my shoulder that I’d weakly try to swat away, but I don’t think I ever opened my eyes to see who it was doing the talking or poking. When I finally did pry my eyes apart, the sky was once again gray with dawn.

  “You awake, massa?” a vo
ice asked.

  I nodded weakly, and Lena shouted loud enough to make my head throb: “Mistah Ardell, Massa Boone be awake now!”

  Squinting, I let my head loll to the side. Lena was sitting on her calves beside my bedroll, dipping a remnant of her skirt in a bucket of water. She brought the rag dripping across the grass to my forehead and, oh my, did that feel good.

  “You thirsty, massa?” she asked. “Papa Jim says I’m to give you all the water you wants, on account of that fever.”

  “I could drink,” I admitted. Truth is, I was so parched I could have emptied the Miami, or at least exposed a good deal of its banks.

  Lena dipped a cup from the same bucket she was using to soak her rags—something that would make a lot of people squeamish today, but which we didn’t think too much of at the time—then lifted the back of my head with one hand and tipped the tin mug to my lips. I swallowed it down quick and grateful, and could have drunk more, but decided the effort wasn’t worth the way moving woke up all the aches and pains that must have been slumbering with me.

  With my head back on a folded blanket that served as my pillow, I looked up to see Ardell leaning over me, his face a mask of concern. He didn’t waste any time getting to the point.

  “That wound in your side isn’t much more than a scratch, but we’ve got to get that bullet out of your shoulder. It’s going to go bad if we don’t.”

  By bad, he meant infection.

  “Get it,” I said in a voice still raspy and dry.

  “It won’t be easy. Jim thinks it might be sitting close to a lung. If I go digging around in there with a knife, I’m liable to puncture the damned thing, and I don’t want to do that.”