The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  "Damn you men," she lashed out. "My husband wouldn't ask for help either. You think you can handle every problem by yourselves." Tears formed in her eyes and she put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry; it's so frustrating not to be able to help somehow. Of course I'll tell your friend if need be. Why can't he help you?"

  "He has a wife. He's offered, but if something happened to him and he left Becky a widow, I'd never forgive myself." Bronson saw her stricken look and quickly added, "No offense meant toward your husband."

  It seemed her shoulders dropped in resignation. "None taken. This is a difficult time for me and you." She stretched up and kissed him on his bruised cheek.

  "Take care and come back, John Bronson." Jessica turned and ran into the kitchen.

  His hand felt where she had kissed him. Could there be feelings like this only knowing each other a few days? Yeah, there could be, but he couldn't be distracted now; his and Tommy's lives depended on him thinking straight and acting fast. The features on his face turned hard with resolution as he walked out the rooming house door.

  Bronson walked down Front Street, keeping in the shadows. Most people out walking the boardwalk held their heads down to avoid the dust blown from the wind. Several horses were standing at the hitching post in front of the Bitter Creek Saloon. The time was 6:30, a half an hour before the meeting.

  He ducked into the alley next to the saloon and went to the rear of the building. The Colt was in his hand and his back to the building when he emerged from the alley. The sounds of conversations and a piano being played drifted through the high windows. No one waited. A door toward the corner opened and a man came out carrying a sack. Bronson watched the man, an apron around his middle, go to a box and empty the sack with the sounds of bottles breaking. When the bartender went back in the saloon, Bronson opened the door and eased into a storage room.

  Another door stood cracked open and it led to the saloon. He looked out the door and waited. The pistol went back in his holster and he scanned the saloon to see if anyone looked about anxiously.

  The clock over the bar read seven o'clock when a man walked in and turned his head side to side. He was the hard case from the stable. He went to the bar and asked the bartender a question. No one had followed him inside. The man again looked around. Bronson walked through the door and stood where the bar turned to the wall. He wanted a clear shot if there was gunplay. He hadn't been seen.

  "You looking for me?" Bronson's voice carried over the din.

  The cowboy slowly turned and faced Bronson. Both men's hands were near their gun butts.

  "Appears so, if you want that kid back," the cowboy said.

  "You Matson? Where’s my nephew?" Bronson shook his head no when the bartender brought a glass and bottle of whiskey over.

  "Fill my glass up, Luke, then give us some room," Matson said to the bartender, who poured the shot glass to the brim. "Leave the bottle." He threw some coins down on the bar. Luke picked the coins up and ambled down to the other end of the bar. The two men were by themselves for the moment.

  The shot went down in one quick swallow, and he filled it again. "You sure you don't want one?" Matson asked.

  "No, lets get down to business; I want the boy…now."

  Matson looked at him with a sly glint in his eye. "You good with that thing?" he nodded toward the Colt in the holster.

  "I'm still alive." Bronson felt something was coming down other than what he wanted.

  "How much gold you take out of mountains? And don't lie, I already been told enough to know it’s a good piece." Matson's eyes showed pure, naked greed.

  "I haven't had it all assayed," Bronson said. "But I'd say close to five…six thousand dollars worth."

  "I knew it! Where is it?" Matson licked his lips, his excitement made him look like he had a fever.

  “Stashed away in the mountains for safe keeping.”

  “You telling me you ain’t keeping it here?” Matson said. He poured another drink and downed it in one swallow.

  Bronson slowly shook his head no, never taking his eyes off Matson. “You tell me where to meet you and the boy and I’ll give you the gold for him. No one else, just you and Tommy.”

  “How soon can you get it?”

  “It’ll take me a day and a half to get it and be back here.” He heard a loud curse and glasses rattle. The blacksmith had come into the saloon and sat at a table facing Bronson.

  He was drinking shots of whiskey as fast as he could pour them. He looked angry and mean and stared at Bronson with a challenging, belligerent look. He also had a gun belt on and a pistol in the holster.

  “You setting me up, Matson?”

  He turned and looked behind him. “No, but it appears he don’t like you none.”

  “What about the deal?” Bronson asked. “The gold for the boy.”

  “Let’s see, you said a day and a half. There’s a burnt out homestead about five miles north of town, on the stage road. You see that when you came in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meet me there with the gold, an hour after sunset, in two nights. You understand. You don’t want the boy hurt, don’t try anything tricky. Prospectors ain't too smart, that's why I'm telling again-don't do nothing stupid.”

  “Don’t worry, you just be there with Tommy. Now, I’m expecting a little trouble with the smithy, so I’m not having my back to you. Leave and don’t come back while I’m in here.”

  “You might be biting off more than you can chew, Bronson. He’s not bad with a gun and tougher than most men around here. And I see you’re favoring them ribs.” Matson grinned and held his hands up.

  “Yeah, I’ll go, don’t get yourself killed now, cuz we made us a deal.” He turned and walked out, giving a salute to the blacksmith on his way.

  The smithy stood up and yelled at Bronson. “I don’t go for nobody sticking a gun in my face. You done it twice.”

  Immediate silence came over the saloon. Men playing billiards across from Bronson laid their sticks on the table and moved away from the line of fire.

  Bronson sidestepped from the bar and faced the blacksmith.

  “Why don’t you go home? You don’t want to draw on me.”

  The blacksmith’s hand dropped to his pistol and had it halfway out of the holster when his eyes widened. His pistol barrel had almost cleared the holster.

  The Colt .44 was cocked and pointing at his chest. He never saw Bronson draw.

  “Drop it on the floor.” Bronson said his voice low and cold, like a winter wind. The blacksmith opened his hand and the pistol clattered to the floor.

  “The only way you’re keeping me from beating you to death is that gun. Why don’t you put it away and we’ll see what kind of a man you are.”

  Bronson hunched over a little and moved to the side of the billiard table. “Come here.” He motioned with the Colt. The blacksmith cautiously moved toward Bronson, a puzzled look on his face.

  “You made a good point,” Bronson said, holstering his Colt. He picked a cue stick up from the table and slammed it over the blacksmith's head. The smithy reeled back, blood flying from his scalp. The stick had broken in two pieces, the bottom, heavier half, still in Bronson's hand. He came in low and swung up with the stick, catching the smithy under the jaw and dropping him to the floor. Bronson stepped up and kicked the man in the side. Once…twice. Each time he kicked, the man grunted and tried covering up his gut.

  With every hard swing, Bronson felt the pain, but it almost felt good. He dropped to one knee on the smithy's back and grabbed the back of his shirt collar, lifting his head.

  "I could kill you now and I don't think anyone would care," he whispered into the man's ear. "See, no one has tried to help you. A truce? Or do you want me to finish this the only way I know how?"

  "Truce," the smithy gasped. Blood ran down his face and he held his side. "I think you broke my ribs."

  "We're even then. Now listen to me. You brace me again and I'll kill you. No warning, just a bullet. Understan
d?" The smithy nodded through clinched teeth.

  Bronson stood up, panting and holding his side. He looked around and met the eyes of some men looking at him. They turned away and went back to playing cards and sipping their drinks. Watching in the mirror, he walked out the back door.

  Chapter Eight

  Jessica was in the parlor knitting when he came in to the rooming house. She saw him take his hat off and a hand went to her mouth.

  "Are you hurt?" she asked going to his side.

  "No, the blood is someone else's. I met the man that took Tommy."

  "Why don't you have him?"

  "You were right; he wants my gold in trade for the boy." Bronson crossed the room and sat heavily into a chair. He paused.

  "I have to ride out tomorrow and retrieve the gold. He gave me a day and a half to get it back here."

  "Are you going to be able to ride with your ribs like they are?" she asked, trying to keep the concern out of her voice.

  "The ribs are getting better; they might not be broke like I thought." He rubbed his side. "Maybe I can get you to bind them with a leather strap tomorrow, before I leave."

  Jessica turned away from him and put her knitting in a bag. "I can go for you, I know how to ride."

  "I couldn't have you do that, but I appreciate the offer. You're a fine woman, Jessica." He stood up and went over to where she was standing and took one of her hands.. "When this is over, I'd like to talk to you some more…I'm thinking about you all the time, ever since I first saw you," he said.

  She pulled her hand away, put her arms around his neck and hugged him, burying her face in his chest. "You've been in my thoughts too, John."

  They stayed together until the sound of the front door opening sounded. Jessica dropped her arms and they took a step apart as Mrs. Sheehan closed the door behind her.

  "I'm sorry if I interrupted you," she said, taking in the scene with a quick glance. A smile crossed her face when the Jessica and Bronson stepped farther back from each other. She wore a round hat with a veil.

  "You didn't interrupt anything, Mrs. Sheehan. Mr. Bronson and I were just visiting," Jessica said, a slow blush running up her face.

  "My name doesn't ring a bell with you, Mr. Bronson?" She lifted the veil and took her hat off.

  "I'm sorry, you look familiar but I don't remember you," Bronson said with a puzzled expression. "And no, I don't know your name."

  "I worked at the Pronghorn Saloon in Laramie. One of the men you killed there was my husband."

  Bronson abruptly moved Jessica behind him. "What're your intentions, Mrs. Sheehan? I know you aren't here looking for me, but it seems too much of a coincidence."

  Her face paled, and then she took a step back, her hand to her breast. "You don't think…oh my goodness. You freed me, Mr. Bronson." Relief showed on her face and she doubled her fists in front of her. "He was about the meanest polecat that ever slunk around on two legs. Seemed like he took pleasure in beating me almost every day. The only reason I worked in the saloon was he made me. No, I'm in Rawlins because I've met a good, strong man and he's going to ask me to marry him one of these days."

  "I'm sorry I acted like I did, Mrs. Sheehan. The way things are going on right now, a man has to be careful when he runs into folks from his past."

  Jessica came back around Bronson and held onto his right arm.

  "I understand. I'm working as a seamstress down at the Chinese tailor's place. Long hours and hard work, but it's worth it to earn my money honestly." She looked from Bronson to Jessica. "You'll let me continue to stay here, won't you?" she asked.

  "Certainly, there's no reason not to. I'm happy for you, Mrs. Sheehan," Jessica said. She walked over to the woman and patted her hand.

  "Please, call me Trudi, both of you." She put her hand out toward Bronson's.

  "I'm John. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you to not mention me to anyone until I get some things cleared up." He shook her hand, taking care not to squeeze it too hard.

  "Of course I won't. When I saw you yesterday morning, beaten up, I thought you had troubles."

  "Thank you, Trudi," he said.

  The mood and atmosphere were broken. Bronson picked his hat up and headed to the stairway. "I'll be leaving at first light. Goodnight, ladies, the pleasure has been mine."

  As his footsteps echoed up the stairs, Jessica whispered, "He's an interesting man."

  Trudi leaned in closer. "Where did you met him, here?"

  "He ate lunch with us at the stage stop at Brown's Canyon when we were on our way back from Casper. Hannah asked him something about his horse. He looked so hard and uncaring, yet he talked with her, gave her his full attention and I saw something inside him that I liked." Jessica averted Trudi's eyes and smiled. "I enjoy his company."

  "I've never talked to him before, but I'll tell you about what I know of him," Trudi's eyes seemed to glow.

  "No…I want to hear him tell me about his past. It's only right. I don't mean any offense to you, Trudi."

  "None taken. I'm off to bed now. R. T. is going to take me for a carriage ride Sunday, so I won't be around for dinner," Trudi said, heading toward the stairs. "Goodnight."

  "Goodnight, I'm glad we had a chance to talk," Jessica replied.

  Chapter Nine

  Fingers of dawn streaked the sky and a south wind blew, rattling the shutters. Bronson took the linen binding off and wrapped a leather strap he taken from his bedroll once around his chest. After cinching it as tight as he could, he put his shirt on and buckled the gun belt around his waist.

  He walked into the kitchen and saw Jessica with a pot of coffee on the stove and a flour sack on the table.

  "Here's some food for you," she said, pointing at the sack. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. "You said you needed help with your leather binding last night."

  The coffee was hot and tasted good. Bronson lightly tapped his side. "I did it this morning, thanks."

  "Let me check, if you don't get it tight enough, it won't help, particularly if you're going to be riding today." She motioned with her hands for him to unbutton the shirt.

  When the shirt was hanging open, he raised his hands up to shoulder height. Jessica reached inside the shirt and put her fingers between the strap and his side. "Not nearly tight enough, Take your shirt off and I'll do it proper."

  He grunted twice when she took the slack out of the strap. "There, that should hold you. When will you back?"

  "If I can ride hard, I'll be back tonight. That'll give me some time to scout out the meeting place," Bronson replied.

  "Are you going to kill him?" she asked an edge of wariness to her voice.

  "Only if he tries killing me. But if he doesn't have Tommy with him, or the boy's hurt, he'll pay with his life." Bronson's face had turned hard.

  “Did Mrs. Sheehan tell you?” he asked, hesitant to leave the kitchen. Uneasiness was in his voice. “What had happened?”

  “No, I told her I wanted you to tell me, when you’re ready.” Jessica picked the sack of food up and handed it to him.

  “After I get Tommy back tomorrow night, we’ll talk.”

  “Be careful, John.” She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on his cheek. “I care for you.” Pushing a strand of hair back from her face she looked him in the eyes and left the kitchen.

  He watched her leave and felt a longing. Bronson wanted to take her in his arms. Shoving his feelings for her back in a recess of his mind. I can’t think about her now, it just might get me killed.

  * * * *

  The sun crept over the Haystack Mountains in the east as he rode in the direction of the Stone Ranch Stage Stop. Tumbleweeds danced in front of him from the wind and bits of sand bit into the back of his neck. Shoshone loped in an easy canter and Bronson rode him like they were one creature, rather than man and horse.

  Less than an hour later they passed a small canyon where the burned out ruins of a homestead could be seen. This was where Matson intended to meet Bron
son the next night. He reined the horse toward the cabin and pulled up outside the building. Partial walls still stood, but the windows were gone and the roof had collapsed. It nestled in sagebrush covered ridges of rock outcroppings. Each ridge had a long shelf and overhanging slabs of rock.

  His knees nudged the horse up a game trail to the top of the canyon. A small grove of scrub oak ran up a draw on the other side. The plains opened up in front of him, a sea of sagebrush and the white tails of antelope looked like whitecaps during a storm. The Ferris and Sweetwater Mountains reached into the early morning clouds on the horizon. Bronson loved the vastness of the country and never tired of it.

  He headed north again and pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth to keep the dust out. Five hours later he watered his horse in Willow Creek, a mile past the Brown Canyon Stage Stop.

  The sun warmed his back at first, and as it rose higher, baked the sweat out of him. They angled east until they came on to Sand Creek. He let Shoshone walk at his own pace and the two followed the creek toward Strand’s.

  It was late afternoon, his face with a coat of dust covering it, when they rode into the stage stop. The empty horse corral greeted him. Bronson slipped out of the saddle and led the horse to a barn. He took him inside to a stall, took the saddle off, and hung a bag full of oats over the palomino’s head. After pouring a bucket of water into the stall’s trough, Bronson soaked his bandanna and wiped his face.

  The barn seemed to shake from the wind gusts. A continual slamming of a door stopped him. He lifted his head and turned toward the sound. It was hard to determine the direction the banging came from, but he was sure it came from the log house. Sweat dripped off his sides, under his shirt. An icy tendril of fear worked its way into his gut. The wind picked up strength and the door banged louder. Bronson cracked the barn door open and looked out. He saw the house twenty yards away, almost obscured by a curtain of blown dirt and dust. He could see the ghost of the door, swinging wildly in the windstorm.

  The Colt materialized in his gloved hand as he left the barn and ran to the cover of a large cottonwood tree growing between the barn and house. He concentrated on sounds beyond the banging door and howl of the wind. Another quick run and he was next to the house, around the corner from the front door that he saw had finally wedged itself partially open. Heat off the logs of the wall warmed his face, the smell of straw and mortar in the chinking brought him memories and he prayed his friends were alive. He had left his hat in the barn, so his hair blew around his face.