The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  "Ain't no criminal gonna tell me what to do. You got ten minutes to come out with your hands up. After that, you're a dead man."

  Bronson turned to Sloan. "I'm not letting him take me, but you need to get out. I wasn't planning on getting trapped in the jail."

  "I think I'll stick around. The sheriff couldn't have been planning on me being here or you getting the drop on the mob. He must have been watching to see the lynching – which means there shouldn't be too many guns out there. We can get out." Sloan had a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Jessica stepped down from the train car, she looked up the street to the jail with trepidation. Am I going to lose him before I get to know him? She felt her blood course through her veins faster when she thought of Bronson. The image of her dead husband invaded her mind but she felt no guilt. James would want her to find someone else. The future with Hanna, Tommy and John would probably come down to this one night, she thought. Her pace toward her house seemed to nearly be a trot. She looked to both sides of the street and saw the group of men milling around outside the bar. Oh no! I’ve got to go back. Jessica turned around then stopped. If I go back they’ll protect me. I can’t do it. I don’t want to put Sloan and John’s life in danger. She turned again and headed back in the direction of the rooming house. The night appeared still, no wind for once, and warm.

  Memories from her years of being married and working the spread side by side with her husband continued to flood her consciousness. A small smile spread over her lips when she remembered the time Hanna was born. She longed for a companion, someone to watch the rain come down and be comfortable with silence and the company of each other. John Bronson would do that, she thought.

  Myrtle scurried about bringing food to the two men at the table. She looked up at when Jessica closed the door and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?”

  I’m not going to start crying. I need to be strong. “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. Where’s Hanna?” She stopped and nodded at the two men sitting at the table.

  “Next door. She’s staying the night.”

  Jessica walked into the kitchen.

  Myrtle put the plate of chops down on the table. “Call me if you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.” She followed Jessica through the swinging door. “What’s going on? Is he okay?”

  “Yes. I brought John’s friend back with me. His name is Sloan. I’m just not quite sure of him, he drinks a lot.”

  “Chester Sloan? Big man with a stomach that shows he ate well?” Myrtle asked, eyes opening wide.

  “That’s him. How do you know him?” She couldn’t hide the puzzled look. Myrtle came up with some odd things at times.

  “We were going to get married once, about ten years ago in Cheyenne. My daddy had a ranch and Chester was going to run it after we were married. Then he came up two days before the wedding and said he couldn’t do it.” A wry smile passed over Myrtle’s lips. “He told me staying put just wasn’t in him. He asked me to ride with him and travel while he worked different towns as a marshal or sheriff. I told him no. He said he loved me but couldn’t marry stay in one place. Begged me to go with him.”

  “What did you do?” Jessica poured coffee for the two of them and gave one to the older woman.

  “Oh, I cried and carried on. Told him he was a coward and I didn’t want to see him again. The last I saw him he was riding out of town when the sun was coming up. I heard about things he done, but I never heard from him again. Not a letter or telegram. Nothing.” She sighed and took a sip of coffee. “I’d like to see him.” Myrtle put a hand on Jessica’s arm. “I wish to God every night that I’d have gone with him. Pride wouldn’t let me then.”

  “Listen!” Jessica whispered. Her face turned white. The sound of gunfire could be heard.

  She went to the closet and took a 44-40 Krager rifle out of it and checked the magazine. “I’m going to help him. I’ve got to,” she said with a determined look.

  “Jessica,” Myrtle said taking her apron off.

  “I said I’m going to help him.”

  Myrtle opened the closet and brought a small box down and handed it to Jessica. “Here, extra ammunition. You might need it.”

  Jessica took the box and looked Myrtle in the eye. “Thanks, I knew you’d understand.”

  “Tell Chester I’m here. Tell him to come and see me when this is over.” A tear streaked her cheek. “Tell him to come and see me,” she whispered.

  “I will.” Jessica touched Myrtle’s hand and with the rifle in her hand, left through the outside back door.

  The shooting continued until she reached the corner, and then stopped. Jessica strained to hear any kind of noise but the night and town was silent as a graveyard. A wind out of the south started blowing, kicking up dust.

  When she came to Front Street, the wooden boardwalk echoed from her fast moving steps. She didn’t see anyone looking out their businesses, or homes. A typical lynch party with no one wanting to be a witness. The jail sat four blocks down the street and she felt urgency in her heart.

  She hurried the next two blocks and as she passed an alleyway a hand reached out and took her arm. “Mrs. Hinkle, you don’t want to go any farther.” Her thumb cocked the hammer.

  Jessica turned and pulled loose from the grip. “Mr. Kelly. What’s the president of the Stockgrower’s Association doing out here?”

  “I heard the shooting,” he said, pointing toward the jail, “and came out to see what was going on.”

  “I need to go,” Jessica said. She nodded and started to walk away when Kelly’s hand grabbed her arm again and yanked her into the darkness of the alley.

  “Let GO!” A curtain of fear dropped over her face. She dug her heels into the ground and started to bring the rifle up.”

  He slapped her face and his eyes turned hard. “You sodbusters don’t listen. Just like your husband didn’t.”

  Her body froze. “David? You killed my husband?” She felt the rifle being taken from her hands and she was roughly shoved down the alley.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’m the president of the Association. I don’t kill people, I have it done.”

  Jessica stumbled when Kelly shoved her again. She fell against a building wall and sank to the ground. “The sheriff told me it was drifters.”

  “Yeah, he pretty much does what I tell him,” Kelly said. “Get up. I heard you had something for the hard case. Staying at the widow’s boarding house. How nice.”

  Her hands scrapped the wooden walls as she pushed herself to her feet. “What are going to do with me?” She jerked when another volley of gunshots broke the stillness of the night. “Please, let me go.”

  “You don’t need to worry. I’m just going to keep you from getting hurt out there. It looks like there’s a jail break. I imagine it’ll be over in a little bit.” A toothy grin flashed over his face.

  Jessica started running down the alley, away from Kelly. She heard him curse her.

  “Damn you! Get back here,” Kelly shouted. He ran after her, holding the Krager by the rifle barrel.

  Her hair came loose and flowed from her head. When the fist curled around it and yanked, she flew off her feet with a pain so sharp she thought her scalp would tear off her skull.

  Jessica’s scream was muffled by Kelly’s hand covering her mouth.

  “You’re a problem,” he said, his hand going from her mouth to her neck. He started squeezing with one hand and his strength astounded her. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hinkle.”

  She struggled and tried breaking the grip with both of her hands. Spots of bright light seemed to flash through a dark shroud that was obscuring her vision. Panic took over and she thrashed and bucked, trying to draw in a breath of air.

  No! Her mind screamed. I won’t die like this!

  Her hand felt the stock of the rifle still being held by Kelly, butt down. She gripped the rifle and her finger went through the trigger guard.

  “Goodby
e, Mrs. Hinkle.” She heard him say as she pulled the trigger. The rifle fired and the weight of it fell on her as Kelly was thrown back from her. She saw him stand still, bent over, not saying anything.

  Her face was covered with something wet. Kelly grunted then dropped to the ground with a thud. She knew he was dead when he hit the alley floor and a puff of dust blew up and was carried away by the wind.

  Jessica scrambled to her feet and picked the rifle up, levering another round into the chamber. Her hand went into the pocket of her dress and took a cartridge out of the box and shoved it into the loading tube.

  Intermittent gunshots sounded while she headed toward the jail, but on the street to the north of Front Street. She didn’t want to be accosted by another innocent bystander like Kelly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I'm going to cut loose with the rifle and my Colt," Bronson said, taking the rifle in one hand and the pistol in the other. "You get out of here and take cover over by the alley and give me some covering fire, and then I'll come. Okay?"

  "Yeah, just make sure you got both guns loaded full, I ain't nearly as fast as I used to be." Sloan had his rifle and pistol in both hands. "What are you waitin' for? Let her rip."

  Bronson stuck the barrels of the guns out the window and started firing. Sloan, with the quick speed of most fat men, ran out the door shooting too, and disappeared from Bronson's sight toward the alley. The jail filled with gunsmoke from Bronson's shooting. The return shots came intermittently, probably from the gunmen taking cover from his volley of gunfire. He heard a lone shot in the distance but couldn't think of a reason for it and it left his mind as quick as it had entered it.

  He reloaded both weapons and poised to make his break when Sloan put the covering fire up. A moment later, gunshots rang out from the side of the jail, and Bronson crouched low shooting as he ran to the alley. He ducked around the corner where Sloan knelt behind a water barrel shooting the rifle as fast as he could lever the bullets into the chamber.

  "Where do we go?" Sloan asked, reloading the Winchester. Sweat beaded his face.

  "I'm tired of being bushwhacked. Let's go after them. I don't think there's more than two or three; at least it hasn't sounded like it." Bronson turned and looked at Sloan. "What do you think? Take on the law?"

  "The Sheriff here is dirty. He was watching when them cowpokes were gonna hang you. A true lawman wouldn't do that. Lead the way."

  "We'll go down the alley and come at them from the east. I think they might be holding up in the tailor shop." Bronson turned and trotted down the alley with Sloan behind him, puffing from the effort.

  "Slow down, John. I run much further I'm gonna keel over." Sloan's hand held his chest.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, go."

  At the alley exit, Bronson peeked around the corner then took cover behind a water trough. Sloan rumbled up and nearly fell down beside him.

  "Lord, hold up a minute," he panted. He rolled over on his back and took deep breaths.

  "You okay, Chester?" Bronson asked.

  "I… don't think so… my… chest feels like I got… kicked by a horse." The words came out in gasps.

  "You stay here, there's something wrong with you." Bronson patted Sloan's shoulder. "I'll see if I can tell how many men there are."

  "You'll come back and get me." Sloan gritted his teeth. "No, go, I can't help you. I'm sorry John."

  "I'll try to find someone to come for you." Bronson left Sloan behind the trough and made his way across the street. There weren't any shots so he figured they didn't know where he was, or they were waiting for him, ready to kill him in the dark. He ran north and ducked down the alley that connected to the back of the tailor shop. He saw a shadow and cocked his pistol as he melted into the shadows.

  "Move and you're dead," he whispered.

  Jessica stopped and turned toward the direction of his voice. "John? It's me, Jessica."

  He rushed to her side. "What are you doing? You could be killed."

  "I'm going to help you, and don't try to send me away." She looked into his eyes and saw his feeling for her in the depths of them.

  "All right, but you can help most by getting some help for Chester."

  "He's been shot?"

  "No, something's wrong with him, he's sick. He might be dying. Help him and that will be helping me, but for the love of God, be careful. I don't want to lose you."

  Jessica agreed, and after Bronson told her where Sloan was, she ran in the direction where Sloan lay. Bronson watched her until she disappeared into the night. He moved down the alley until he saw the back door of the tailor's shop. Putting a hand on the door latch, it opened the door silently.

  * * * *

  She saw the huddled form lying on his side, motionless. "Chester," she whispered, kneeling down next to him. Her hand gently shook his shoulder. "Chester," she whispered again. "Can you hear me?"

  A low moan came from his lips. He pushed himself into a sitting position. His face was pasty white and drawn. He clutched his chest and when he saw Jessica, he smiled. "What are you doing here, Missy?"

  The sound of his voice scared her. "I need to get some help for you, Chester, can you hold on?"

  "Yeah, I'm okay, just some squeezin' going on in my chest. I think it's my heart."

  Jessica felt his forehead and noticed his skin had a clammy feel to it. "Has this happened before?"

  "Once, about two – three months ago, but I got over it; I think I'm starting to feel a little better." He acted as if he were going to stand up.

  "You stay put." Both of her hands forced Sloan back to a sitting position. "I'm going to get some help, promise me you'll stay here and not try to move or go anywhere."

  "Where's John?" he asked.

  "Across the street. I'll get you some help and see where he's at. If he needs you, I'll come back and get you." She got up and headed toward her home. The moon hadn't come up and the town seemed darker than usual.

  * * * *

  She ran all the way home and burst through the back door. Myrtle was in the kitchen and jumped at the noise.

  "Myrtle, come with me, Sloan's heart's giving out."

  Without a question, Myrtle slipped into a shawl and followed Jessica out the door.

  "Can you ride bareback?" Jessica asked.

  "If I have to," Myrtle replied.

  "Let's ride the horses, it'll be faster."

  The women went into the barn and put bits in the mouths of two horses in stalls next to Shoshone. Both stood on milk stools and mounted then rode out of the barn and down to Front Street and farther down to the railroad tracks. There, they turned east and at a fast trot headed toward the jailhouse block and the ailing Chester Sloan.

  Jessica held on to the horse's mane with one hand and the reins with the other. She looked over her shoulder to make sure the older woman was keeping up. She smiled ruefully when she saw Myrtle on her horse only a few feet back.

  When they neared the jailhouse alley, Jessica pulled up and slipped down the side of the horse. Myrtle did the same and they tied the reins to a metal ring set into the side of a building. With the Krager leveled in front of her, she ran the rest of the way close to the building walls. She put her hand up at the exit and peered around the corner. A dark bulk lay motionless by the water trough.

  Oh no! Don't let him be dead, she thought.

  Myrtle rushed past her and dropped to her knees by Sloan's side. "Chester, can you hear me?"

  His voice sounded like it came from a distance. Faint and weak. "Who's there?" He tried drawing his gun out his holster.

  Myrtle's hand went over his and held the pistol in place. "You don't want to shoot Myrtle, do you?"

  "Myrtle? My God, is it really you or did I die?" He rolled from his side to his back and sat up with her help. "It is you. What are you doing here?"

  "To help you. Jessica has to go find Bronson."

  "Do you know where he is, Chester?" Jessica asked, her eyes searching across the stree
t toward the dark buildings. One of them had a dull light glowing from the inside.

  He shook his head. “I must have passed out for a minute; I…I don’t know where he is.” Sloan’s breath still came in labored gasps.

  "Jessica, you go and I'll stay with Chester, we'll be okay. Be careful," Myrtle said.

  "She shouldn't go, she might get killed." Sloan struggled to try to get to his feet, but Myrtle pushed him back with one hand.

  "You keep still. Your color's coming back so don't do anything foolish right now." Myrtle felt his forehead. "Talk to me Chester," she whispered.

  Jessica rose to her feet and with the rifle in her hands, crossed the street and went down the boardwalk in the direction of the one building with a light shining inside. It was the tailor shop, and the front door was unlocked. It looked like there was a hallway that led from the door. To her side, apparently the work room, two small windows were broken out, but she didn't want to chance looking in them. As her hand grabbed the doorknob, a shot went off from inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Bronson couldn't see Jessica's running form anymore, he opened the door and slipped in the dark building. He could hear voices from the front. One of them was a woman's.

  "Where's the rest of the posse?" the female voice asked.

  "There ain't no posse, just Simmons and us."

  "Shut up and keep a lookout. We're gonna finish this now. I think they're still across the street. There! Someone moved by that water trough."

  Bronson recognized Sheriff Hadleman's voice, and thought the woman's might be Trudie Sheehan, but he hadn't heard the other man before and didn't know who he was.

  Bronson crept closer until he could make out four silhouettes. He cocked the Colt and in a low, deadly voice, said, "Don't move. Drop the guns."

  No one moved, and then the sound of a pistol hitting the floor broke the silence. A pair of arms raised into the air. "I was just doin' what I was told to. Didn't agree with it."