The Wild Gun

by Jory Sherman

  He would ride that lonesome trail of the confirmed bachelor.

  He waved good-bye to the two women in the doorway and rode off toward Cheyenne.

  The day was still young and he had much to do.

  There was a banker to scold and papers to file.

  And he had a thousand dollars in his pocket.

  Enough money to last him a good long while.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Jeremy Conway squirmed in his chair as he listened to Cord.

  “You’re nothing but a scoundrel, Conway,” Cord said. “You sold out a widow and an orphan to feather your own sorry nest.”

  “I was within the law. I sold a mortgage that was probably going into default. Nothing wrong in that.”

  “Legally, no. Morally, yes. The Barnes family trusted you. And you broke that trust.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this, Mr. Wild. You have no say in my business.”

  “I have a say in the Barnes’s holdings,” Cord said. “And I just wanted you to know that the JB Ranch is on firm footing now and you will not be a part of its future growth. In fact, if I have anything to say about it, your reputation here in Cheyenne is about to take a long, hard fall.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Wild?”

  “That’s a promise, Conway.” Cord rose from his chair and walked to the door. He turned to face the banker before he left.

  “Unlike you, Conway,” he said, “I always keep my promises. Word of mouth is a powerful instrument in a town like Cheyenne.”

  Then he patted the butt of his pistol.

  Conway blanched as Cord closed the door behind him.

  And his hands began to shake.

  • • •

  Cord walked to the land office.

  He did not see Orson Farrell, who had been watching him since Cord first entered the bank.

  Farrell had been waiting for just such an opportunity ever since Wild had driven him from the 2Bar2. He had bought a used pistol in the pawnshop near the jail and thought about killing Wild if he ever showed his face in Cheyenne.

  Yes, Wild had spared his life, and he should have been grateful.

  Instead, Farrell knew that he had shown cowardice to a man that Horace hated. Now, he thought, he had a chance to redeem himself and claim the reward Horace had offered.

  As soon as he saw Wild walk to a little building that offered courier service, he knew that it was time to show Wild that he was not a coward. He would show Wild that he was not afraid of him now that he had a fair chance.

  Cord stood at the counter of Cameron’s Delivery Service with a folder full of the papers he had just registered at the land office.

  “Do you know where the JB Ranch is?” he asked the clerk.

  “Why, yes, we have a map showing all the ranches within thirty miles of Cheyenne,” the man said.

  “I want these delivered by tomorrow,” Cord said.

  “Can do.”

  “I’ll pay you in advance.”

  “That will be seven dollars and fifty cents, sir. Guaranteed delivery by four thirty tomorrow afternoon.”

  Cord paid the man.

  “I’ll need a receipt,” he said.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The clerk wrote out a receipt and took the folder, put it in a box behind the counter. Cord folded up the receipt and put it in his pocket.

  “Sir,” the clerk said, “did you come here with someone else, or were you meeting someone outside after leaving here?”

  “No. I came alone. Why?”

  “There’s a man across the street who has been watching you. I noticed him because he keeps slipping his pistol just a little ways out of his holster every few minutes.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Right across the street, sir. He may be wanting to rob you. We have that kind in Cheyenne, and I saw him in the Fandango Saloon last night. There were at least half a dozen known gunmen in there, but they all gave this feller a wide berth. There was something about him that smelled of trouble.”

  “Thanks,” Cord said.

  He looked out the window and saw Orson Farrell standing in front of a dry goods store, a gun belt low on his hip, his hand near the butt of his pistol. The man did not slouch but stood upright, one shoulder leaning against a post that held up a small roof affording shade for the goods on display in front of the store: linens, shoes, blankets, and bolts of cloth.

  Cord stepped out of the building and looked both ways, up and down the street.

  “Hey, Wild,” Farrell shouted from across the street. “I’m calling you out, you sonofabitch.”

  Farrell’s hand closed on the grip of his pistol.

  “You had your chance,” Cord said. “Life or death. Change your mind?”

  “I ain’t no coward, Wild. You buffaloed me once. Now you’re goin’ to pay the piper.”

  Farrell drew his pistol.

  Passersby stopped in their tracks when they saw the pistol leave its holster.

  Cord crouched and his hand streaked toward his Colt.

  A woman clutched her small son in front of a nearby drugstore.

  A man ducked into a haberdashery a few stores away. He carried a basket in his hand and was not armed.

  Cord fired first. A split second later, Farrell shot his pistol.

  People on the street ducked for cover.

  Cord’s bullet slammed into Farrell’s chest, knocked him backward against a barrel that sprouted bolts of multicolored cloth. The bullet from Farrell’s pistol whizzed just above Cord’s head and whumped against the wall of a building that housed a notary public. It sent splinters flying and left a hole in one of the boards.

  A woman screamed.

  Cord walked across the street. He cocked his pistol.

  Farrell lay sprawled on the planks that served as a boardwalk in front of Maggard’s Dry Goods.

  He was still alive, with blood spurting from a black hole just below his breastbone. He gasped for breath.

  Cord kicked the pistol out of the gunman’s hand.

  “Bastard,” Farrell hissed, his voice weak and breathy.

  “You don’t learn real good, do you, son? Looks like you’re the last of Horace’s men to die.”

  “Huh?”

  “Horace is dead and so are you,” Cord said.

  Farrell choked on blood, and his next breath sprayed a fine mist when he tried to speak.

  Cord watched him die a few seconds later.

  “Go get the sheriff,” someone shouted.

  Cord looked at the man who’d shouted.

  “And the undertaker,” Cord said.

  Then he walked away from the dead man and down to where his horse stood hipshot at a hitch rail. He mounted up and rode toward the street that would take him into the mountains.

  He knew that there were plenty of witnesses who saw the gunfight and knew that Cord had killed in self-defense. There was little chance that the sheriff would be looking for him.

  There was one less hard case in the world. And there were plenty more left in Cheyenne.

  Such men gravitated to the towns like moths to a flame.

  And the world was better off without them.

  Cord reloaded his pistol as he rode, but he hoped he would never have to fire it again.

  “Fat chance,” he said aloud and patted Windmill on the neck.

  Windmill whickered as he pranced toward the foothills, his rubbery nostrils already sniffing the fine clean air of the mountains.

 

 

 
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