by Ralph Cotton
Peerly awakened from his drunken stupor the next morning before daylight, his fingers spider-walking around in the dirt and finally wrapping around the whiskey bottle that had rolled away from him in the night. He took a drink, gagged and coughed and held his hand to his chest until his insides settled. “God Almighty, I’ll never drink like that again,” he vowed to unseen forces.
A few feet away, Reese snored.
Peerly stared back along the trail for a moment, something having caught his attention. He wasn’t sure what it was, a sound, a glimpse of something in the grainy dark light. Whatever it had been, it caused him to reach over and shake Reese by his boot. “Wake up, idiot,” he said in a harsh lowered voice.
Reese stirred, then sat up cursing.
“Shut up, gawddamn it,” Peerly scolded him. “I believe we’re being followed.”
“Hell,” Reese growled, “who’d be following us?”
“I don’t know,” Peerly said crossly, working his way up onto a knee and drawing his pistol from his holster. “But get your drunken ass up and let’s get out of here. I get the willies, waking up with somebody on my trail.”
“Damn, Nez,” Reese complained, “it could be anybody on the trail this time of morning. It doesn’t mean we’re being followed.”
“It doesn’t mean we’re not either!” Peerly insisted. “Now let’s ride!” As an enticement he held the bottle out to Reese and swished it around.
“Oh God, obliged!” said Reese, snatching it and turning up a drink.
The two stood up, Peerly staring back with his gun in hand. They found the horses less than three yards away, grazing alongside the trail. Mounting quickly, they rode off along the trail and did not stop until they put over two miles behind themselves. When they did stop midtrail and look back, Reese asked, “Think it might be the army? They ain’t happy about us not disbanding as quick as they wanted us to.”
“Naw, it’s not the army,” said Peerly, still keeping his voice lowered. “They’re too busy disarming every sonsabitch along the Mississippi to care about us ole boys right now.”
“I’m starting to wonder if you seen or heard anything at all,” Reese said. “Whiskey makes things happen that don’t ordinarily happen.”
Before Peerly could respond on the matter, a series of six pistol shots resounded steadily in the silent morning air. “There, Delbert!” Peerly said sarcastically. “Was that real, or was that whiskey shooting a gun?”
“Jesus!” Reese exclaimed, having jerked around in his saddle. “That’s some serious shooting, is what that is.”
“Yeah, that sounds like gun practice to me,” said Peerly, “and it’s coming from the colonel’s place, just over the rise.” He looked toward the sliver of sunlight on the eastern horizon, then turned his horse and gigged it forward. . . .
In her front yard, before walking forward and setting up six more targets, Julie opened the chamber of the big revolver—the devil’s gun—that Baines Meredith had given her, and let six smoking shell casings drop to the dirt. She replaced them with fresh loads, then closed the chamber, slipped the revolver into her tied-down holster and stooped and picked up the warm casings.
Her first six targets had stood to the west, the same direction they had been standing the past three days at this time of morning, a silvery background of darkness partially concealing them. She made the rough one-foot-square tin targets from the blackened remains of the barn roof. She’d nailed each of them to a stick and poked the stick into the ground, placing them at a different angle from the house each day, to make sure she always fired from varied positions.
Shooting was not something she ever wanted to take for granted, Baines had told her. She thought about his words as she walked forward, gathered the tin targets and carried them to the other side of the yard. Every shot had to be fired as if it were meant to save her life. Someday it would be, she told herself. She stuck the target sticks into the ground in a staggered row, with the glare of rising sunlight standing behind them. Then she turned and walked away twenty-five paces and stood with her back to the tin targets.
She knew when she turned there would be only a split second before that glare of sunlight began affecting her vision. In that narrow instant she had to clearly see all the targets as one as her gun came up and began selecting each target individually. To keep her reflexes sharp, this morning she would do something different. She would take out three of the targets, but fire another shot into the second and third one before they hit the ground.
She calmed herself, let her arms hang limp for a moment longer, before making a sudden move. She turned, and her gun came up cocked and aiming. From left to right she quickly hit the first target with one shot. The second target she hit twice, firing quickly, the second shot hitting only an inch from the first while the target flew backward and fell to the dirt. With the third target she did the same, firing two shots almost as one, seeing each bullet spin the target in a different direction, showing her beyond a doubt that she’d hit it with both shots.
In the stand of woods, Nez Peerly and Delbert Reese had just walked their horses up into a place where they could see Julie standing, facing the two remaining targets. They hadn’t seen the first three targets fly backward to the dirt. All they saw was Julie standing with the gun in hand, hanging at her side.
“I’ll be damned, she’s back,” Peerly said quietly. “Can you believe this?”
“She’s not only back,” said Reese. “She’s practicing her shooting.”
“Yeah.” Peerly grinned. “Practice is what she better be doing.” He nodded at the two targets still standing and chuckled. “Looks like out of all five shots the only thing she hit was the air and the dirt.”
“How’s her being back here going to sit with Plantz if he’s wanting this place?” Reese asked.
“Not very damn good,” said Peerly. “Not very damn good at all. He’s going to jump all over me for not getting rid of her like I said I would.” He stared at Julie, watching in contemplation while she replaced the spent shell casings from her revolver. “Unless I can get rid of her once and for all before he gets back here.”
After her shooting practice, Julie spent the next hour fixing breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee for herself. When she’d finished eating, she cleaned and put the dishes away, poured another cup of coffee and sat back down at the table. She drew the big revolver from her holster, dismantled it onto a soft cotton cloth and began cleaning it, one part at a time. She did not hear the soft boot steps creeping along the front porch until a creaking board caused her to snap her eyes up from the dismantled pistol and freeze, listening intently, realizing that for the first time since she’d arrived, she had failed to lock the front door.
Outside, a thumb reached across a gun hammer and cocked it slowly, quietly. From the table Julie heard another soft, creaking footstep on the porch. Her eyes went to the rifle she’d leaned near the fireplace. She began to make her move just as the door opened a crack, letting in a slanted ray of early-morning sunlight. She hurried. Could she do it? Could she make it in time? Her thoughts raced; so did her actions.
The door swung slowly, all the way open. “Whoa!” said Sheriff Daltry, both hands going up, gun and all, at the sight of the rifle swinging up in the woman’s hands, pointed at his chest from across the room.
“Your next move will be your last one,” Julie said with harsh clarity.
“Yes, ma’am! I realize that!” said the sheriff, speaking quickly. “Please don’t shoot! I’m a lawman, doing my job! I followed two militiamen here. I saw animals in the corral! I knew the place was supposed to be abandoned!”
Julie did not breathe any easier. She kept the rifle to her shoulder and said, “Lower the pistol at arm’s length and let it fall to the floor.”
Daltry frowned but did as he was told, settling down with a deep breath. He raised his hands chest high again after the pistol made a thud on the floor planks. “There now, ma’am, see? I ain’t trying to cause you any trou
ble. Allow me to open my duster; I’ll show you my badge.”
Julie nodded calmly and kept her position, seeing the sheriff’s tin badge come into view on his chest as he slowly opened his faded riding duster. “If you be Miss Julie Wilder, Mrs. Constance Whirly at the boardinghouse told me everything that happened to you whilst I was gone on my rounds.”
“You’re Colbert Daltry,” said Julie. It was not a question; Constance had mentioned the sheriff by name while Julie stayed with her.
“I want you to know how sorry I was to hear about the colonel,” said Daltry, “and about having something like that happen in a town under my jurisdiction.” Even as he realized that this young woman had heard of him, he saw no gesture from her to allow him to lower his hands.
“Step inside, Sheriff,” said Julie. “Close and latch the door behind you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the sheriff.
While he turned and ran the big bolt forward, Julie asked, “You said you’re trailing two militiamen?” As she spoke she nodded at the gun lying on the floor.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the sheriff. He stooped, picked up his pistol, then turned, closed and latched the door. “I followed their morning tracks to the tree line, after I heard shots coming from here.” He nodded in the direction of the sparse woodlands. “Don’t get spooked, ma’am, but those two murdering cowards were watching you this morning.”
Julie only nodded slowly. She lowered the rifle halfway. “Did you recognize them?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. It was Nez Peerly and Delbert Reese. Both rode under Ruddell Plantz.” He lowered his voice as if to keep their conversation between the two of them. “Miss Constance told me these are the ones who killed the colonel and did what they did to you. She described your horse . . . the same buckskin Peerly’s riding. I figure I’ll never make a charge stick on them for what they done to you and your pa, or the Shawlers. But maybe I can catch them for something else they do.”
Julie lowered the rifle the rest of the way. “Obliged for you trailing them, Sheriff. I know there’s nothing the law can do for me and my situation. I’m not expecting anything from you.”
“I know you’ve got no reason to think you’ll see justice done for the colonel or yourself. But if you write out a complaint against these men, I’ll stay on their tails from now on, until I get something on them, or die trying.”
“I’m not making a complaint, Sheriff,” Julie said in a calm tone. “I know you mean well . . . but after that complaint gets made, you’ll be riding off on your rounds again, and I’ll be here facing Plantz and his men all alone.” She offered a tired and tolerant smile. “Obliged, but I think I’d better leave things as they are. I’ll never know for sure who did what things were done here. I expect that’s just the Lord’s will.”
The sheriff gave her a questioning look, noting the pistol dismantled on the table. “Miss Julie, you ain’t out to take justice into your own hands, are you?”
“No, Sheriff, of course not,” Julie said quietly.
“Because I heard all the shooting going on out there,” he probed.
“Yes, I am practicing,” said Julie. “But I can’t shoot anybody. Ask Constance what happened between me and Peerly in the livery barn.”
“She told me.” Daltry looked embarrassed for Julie. “I suppose you ain’t going to be out for vengeance at that.”
“Not me,” said Julie, wearing a poker face.
“Plantz and his men have no worries about me coming after them. I just want to come back here and live in peace.”
“That’s an unusual attitude, Miss Julie,” said the sheriff. “But I expect that’s the best way to look at it, all things considered.”
“This is how I want to leave things,” said Julie. She leaned the rifle against the table. “I still have some hot coffee here; may I tempt you with a cup?”
The sheriff grinned and swept off his battered, sweat-stained hat. “Yes indeed, ma’am. Consider me tempted.”
Chapter 21
Beneath a hot, noonday sun, Nez Peerly jacked a round into his rifle chamber and laid the gun alongside his arm in the tall grass on a rise overlooking the trail toward Umberton. He sipped tepid water from a canteen and sweated profusely beneath his hat brim. “I’ve quit drinking for the rest of my natural life,” he said hoarsely to Reese, who lay flat on his back in the grass, his hat sitting over his face.
“Why don’t we just go on back to Umberton and get enough whiskey to make us well?” Reese responded.
“Did you just hear me?” Peerly said in a scorching tone of voice. “I quit, gawddamn it!”
“All right, you quit, gawddamn it,” said Reese, half mocking Peerly. “That don’t mean I have. I’m whiskey sick, and I need to get well, quick as I can.”
“We won’t be long,” said Peerly. “He has to come this way back to town, unless he wants to ride far the hell out of his way.” He capped the canteen and laid it aside. “I ain’t letting this chance slip past me. He was out there talking to that woman. There’s no telling what they’ve cooked up for us.”
“Are you sure this ain’t all about being able to tell Plantz that the Wilder woman is back, without you looking bad?” He spoke without raising his hat from over his face.
Peerly gave him an evil look. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the side of his head under the hat. Slipping his finger into the trigger guard, Peerly eased his thumb over the rifle hammer. But then he got his rage under control and lowered the rifle.
“Hmmm? Is it?” Reese asked, raising his hat from his face and looking over Peerly just as the rifle barrel turned away from him.
Peerly only grinned, gave a little chuckle and said in a friendly voice, “You’re a lucky sonsabitch, Delbert. Has anybody ever told you that?”
“A time or two, I reckon,” said Reese. He lowered the hat back over his face. “Let me know when you see him coming . . . I’ll back your play.”
“If you’re going to back my play, you best get ready to do it,” said Peerly. “I see his hat bobbing up over the rise right now.”
Reese jerked the hat from over his face and turned onto his side, facing Peerly. “All right, what do you want from me?”
“Crawl around through the grass and get on the other side of the trail from me,” said Peerly. “Make sure you keep out of my gun sights.”
“You bet,” said Reese, scurrying away on his belly through the tall grass.
Peerly watched the old sheriff ride up into sight, coming at him along the trail. Picking up his rifle again, he wiped sweat from his forehead and waited until Daltry was less than fifty yards away and still closing. “Time to die, Daltry, you wife-mongering old turd,” he whispered, as if he took personal offence at the rumor he’d heard about the old sheriff being chased out of Sante Fe.
Daltry had only seen the two sets of hoofprints the first mile coming back from the Wilder farm. Once the prints ran off south, he decided he’d done all the trailing he could for the time being and stayed on the trail toward Umberton. He could not have known that the two militiamen had swung wide intentionally, to make him think they were gone from the trail. But then they had ridden back and set up their ambush.
Without concern Daltry had been riding along at an easy gait, deciding how to tell Constance something about the day’s events that might soften her bristly attitude toward him and get him back on her good side. He knew Baines Meredith had stayed at the boardinghouse while he’d been off making his rounds. Knowing Baines, and well, to be honest, he thought, knowing Constance too, he had a pretty good idea there had been some—
His thoughts stopped abruptly when the impact of Peerly’s rifle shot snatched him up from his saddle and hurled him backward onto the hard ground.
Both Peerly and Reese lay silent for a moment listening to the sheriff’s horse’s hooves pound away from them along the trail.
“Is he dead?” Reese called over in a hushed tone. He remained hunkered down in the grass.
Peerly called out to t
he sheriff, “Hear that, Sheriff Daltry? My pard wants to know if you’re dead or not. What say you?”
“Oh, God . . . Oh, God . . .” the wounded sheriff began to repeat in a weak rasping voice, as if reciting a death chant.
“Sounds like he’s mighty damn near it to me,” Peerly called out to Reese, in an almost playful tone. Standing from amid the plains grass, he walked carefully toward the downed sheriff, rifle in hand. “There’s something I always wanted to ask you, Daltry,” he called out, feeling bolder once he saw the sheriff’s arms spread out, his hands empty and a spewing gout of blood rising and falling from the large hole in his chest. “Is it true, that story about you and the piano player’s wife?” He jacked a fresh round into his rifle chamber.
“I have . . . never been to Sante Fe,” the dying sheriff gasped. “Is that . . . why you . . . done this?”
Peerly shrugged. “Not just that. What did you and that Wilder woman have to say about me and my pards? I expect she’s hell-bent to have us all hanged, after all we done to her?” Peerly liked the idea of admitting what he’d done to the dying lawman, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.
Daltry shook his head. “She . . . don’t want trouble. Said she wants . . . to live . . . in peace.”
“Aw, now, that’s real touching.” Peerly grinned. “Hear that, Reese? The poor woman wants to live in peace. Let bygones be bygones. Turn the other cheek, I bet. Love her tormentors, the way the good book says.”
“Leave her . . . alone,” Daltry pleaded. “She can’t . . . hurt you.”
I know she can’t hurt us. I saw her shoot,” said Peerly. Laughing, he stepped in closer, stooped down and riffled through the sheriff’s trouser pockets. All the dying sheriff could do was watch his money, an old pocket knife and some rolled-up fishing string go into Peerly’s greedy hand, then into his pocket. “I’m thinking if she’s so obliging, not wanting to put the law on us, maybe she half liked what we did to her.”