Curly Bill and Ringo: They Rode to Hell Together

by Van Holt

  Curly saw about a million stars and then reeled into blackness.

  When he came to he was lying on the floor and Comanche Joe was lying unconscious near him. Ringo was gone and the place seemed strangely quiet and deserted.

  Curly rubbed his head and looked up. Jackpot was leaning over the bar, grinning down at him. It was the first time he had smiled in ages.

  Curly sat up and groaned, “What happened?”

  Jackpot told him with unusual relish. When Ringo laid Curly out, Comanche Joe had come off the floor and dived at Ringo, and had dived head first into Ringo’s descending gunbarrel. According to Jackpot, it had taken Ringo about a second and a half to take care of both of them. Then he had turned on his heel and strode out of the saloon, thrusting his gun back into the holster.

  “You mind handing me down a drink, Jackpot?” Curly asked.

  “What’s wrong, Curly?” Jackpot taunted. “You don’t feel like standing up?”

  Curly didn’t even feel like replying. He sat on the saloon floor for a while holding his throbbing head with both hands, and then managed to climb to his feet. He found a bottle on the bar and turned it up, not bothering with a glass.

  “You ain’t worried about your friend?” Jackpot asked, indicating Comanche Joe.

  “Not till he comes to,” Curly said. “When he does, he’s liable to go after Ringo again. But this time I don’t know as I’ll try to stop him,” he added, rubbing the lump on his head.

  “I thought Ringo was your friend,” Jackpot said. “But I’m beginning to think you stretched the truth a little when you said that.”

  “Jackpot,” Curly sighed wearily, “don’t keep buzzing around me. You just ain’t worth killing, especially when I’ve got a headache like this.”

  Comanche Joe suddenly climbed up the bar, reached for the bottle he had started on earlier, and turned it up. Then without a word he staggered out of the saloon, carrying the bottle with him. Curly didn’t feel like warning him not to cause any more trouble, but he doubted if Comanche Joe felt like causing any, at least not for a while.

  Curly looked at himself in the mirror and he hardly recognized the unhappy face staring back at him out of hooded, bleak gray eyes. In all his life he had never seen a more miserable looking fellow. His hat had been knocked off and his unruly black hair hung down on his frowning forehead. He bent over to pick the hat up, and when he raised back up his headache seemed twice as bad as before, if that was possible. “What did he hit me with anyway?”

  “His gun,” Jackpot said. “Drew it and clobbered you before you could even blink.”

  Curly looked at his solemn dark face in the mirror again.

  “I reckon it ain’t my day.”

  “Your day is past,” Jackpot said.

  “Don’t talk in riddles, Jackpot. If you’ve got something to say, you better get it said before I get my strength back. Then I reckon you and me will go around and around.”

  Cash and Beanbelly came in wet with sweat from their grave-digging. Beanbelly was carrying his coat and his grimy shirtsleeves were rolled up. He was drooping with exhaustion, but Cash was in better shape.

  Curly looked at Jackpot. “How long was I out?”

  “Not long. Just a few minutes.”

  “What did you boys do,” Curly asked, “shovel a little loose dirt over him?”

  Cash was looking at his head. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

  “Ringo came in and laid him and Comanche Joe out with the barrel of his gun,” Jackpot said, smiling.

  Beanbelly’s eyes flickered toward the door, and Cash looked uneasy. “Where is he now?” Cash asked.

  Jackpot shrugged. “Went back to the hotel, I guess.”

  Cash looked relieved. “I meant Comanche Joe,” he said, rubbing his mouth.

  “The hell you did,” Curly said.

  “Well, where is Joe at?” Cash asked.

  “Staggered off someplace with a bottle. Went back to the shack, I guess.”

  ‘’If he gets drunk, there’ll be hell to pay,” Beanbelly said.

  “There sure will,” Curly said. “Ringo will kill him.”

  “If somebody don’t kill Ringo first,” Cash said.

  Curly glanced at him. “Who’s going to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Cash said bitterly. “But I don’t reckon it will be you. Billy was faster than you. Now you’re second best, but that ain’t good enough. When you’re second best, you’re as good as dead.”

  “What does that make you, Cash?”

  “When you’re as far down as I am, it don’t matter,” Cash said.

  Curly put his hat on the bar and held his throbbing head in his hands. The talk was making his headache worse.

  “You mean you got a hangover already, Curly?” Jackpot asked. “You ain’t even sobered up yet.”

  Beanbelly looked at Curly. “You gonna let him talk to you that way?”

  “I ain’t decided what to do about him yet,” Curly said, still holding his head. “Him or Ringo either.”

  “You better hurry up and decide something,” Cash said, his voice shaking. “Ringo’s gonna kill us all, if we don’t get him first.”

  “You better go see what Comanche Joe is up to,” Curly said. “If he keeps drinking, he’s liable to try something crazy.”

  “You ain’t all that sober yourself,” Jackpot said.

  “Come on, Beanbelly,” Cash said. “I got to get my rifle anyway.”

  “What for?” Curly asked.

  “You know I can’t hit nothing with a handgun,” Cash said. “But I ain’t seen many people who could beat me with a rifle.”

  “Cash!”

  But Cash and Beanbelly went on out without answering. Curly stood there at the bar holding his head, not even drinking. After a while the batwings creaked and Ringo came in. It was getting dark in the saloon and Curly didn’t actually look at him. He just saw him out of the corner of his eye in the mirror. Ringo stepped up to the bar and glass clinked on glass as he poured himself a drink.

  “How’s your head?’’ he finally asked, sounding a lot quieter and calmer than before.

  “I’ll live,” Curly said, still not looking at him. He didn’t want to see what might be on Ringo’s face. He didn’t want Ringo to see what might be on his.

  “I’m sorry about that, Curly,” Ringo said after another silence. “You must know by now that I’ve only got one arm that’s any damn good. I couldn’t fight you with my fists. But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have hit you with my gun.”

  “What would happen if someone did that to you?” Curly asked. “Would you let it drop if he came around later and said he was sorry?”

  “I don’t know,” Ringo said after a moment. “I guess it would depend on who it was and why he did it.”

  Curly’s mouth twisted with a bitterness that he knew went beyond getting hit on the head with a gun, but that was something he could talk about. The other he couldn’t. Not to Ringo. “It wouldn’t matter who it was or why he did it. You wouldn’t let it drop. If you couldn’t use your fists, you’d go after him with a gun.”

  Ringo poured himself another drink and sipped it thoughtfully. “I guess I might,” he said finally.

  “Then I reckon I’ll have to come after you with a gun,” Curly said. “You’ve only got one good hand, so I can’t use my fists on you.”

  Ringo looked at him carefully. “You’re not serious, are you, Curly?”

  Curly was beginning to get mad, and that made his head throb even worse, and that made him still madder. “Why the hell shouldn’t I? You’ve as good as said that’s what you’d do in my place. Do you think you’re any better than I am? Do you think you’re the only one who’s got any pride?”

  Ringo turned back to
his whiskey. Apologizing was not something he’d had much practice at, and the words didn’t come easy. “If there’s any way I can make it up to you.” he said. “I’d try to do it.”

  “There is one thing you can do,” Curly told him. “Give me back my shotgun.”

  “I haven’t got your shotgun.”

  “All right,” Curly said. “I’ll settle for the shotgun you used on Mad Dog Shorty and the others.”

  “I’ve already told you that wasn’t me. You better quit doubting everything I say, Curly. Sooner or later it will get you in trouble.”

  “Then tell me who it was.”

  Ringo stood very still. An infinite weariness was beginning to show through his poker face. “I can’t do that. I promised him I wouldn’t. I couldn’t tell you anyway. But if you think about it awhile you should be able to figure out who it is.”

  “I’ve already thought about it,” Curly said. “And I’ve decided there ain’t anyone else. It’s just you and it’s been you all the time. The killing started when you came here and it will stop when you leave.”

  Ringo sighed. “It doesn’t matter if you want to think that, Curly. I came here to kill them and I probably would have if he hadn’t beat me to most of them. So if you want to blame me for that, go ahead. But I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “There is,” Curly said. “I don’t like the way you’ve been behaving.”

  Ringo nodded. “I thought that might be part of it, and I guess I can’t blame you for that. A lot of people seem to share your opinion. I run into them everywhere I go. But by now you should know I don’t mean everything I say.”

  “It ain’t so much what you said. It’s more what you didn’t say. I don’t mean just here lately. I guess it goes back a lot farther than that. I keep thinking about the way you used to ride off without a word to anyone and maybe I wouldn’t see you again for two or three months.”

  “I never was much at goodbyes,” Ringo said. “And I knew I’d be back before long. When I say goodbye, I only want to say it once. But it seems some people won’t have it that way.”

  Curly had a feeling he was thinking of Miss Sarah when he said that.

  “I wish to God you hadn’t come back this time,” Curly heard himself say. “I liked you a lot better when I thought you was dead.”

  Ringo nodded, hiding whatever he felt behind the hard surface of his face. “I sort of figured that. A lot of people feel that way, some who wouldn’t like to admit it. That’s one reason I didn’t try to let you know I was still alive.”

  Curly reached for the nearly empty bottle and refilled his glass. His lids felt swollen and heavy over his narrowed eyes. “You didn’t care how I felt. I doubt if it ever even crossed your mind.”

  Ringo studied his empty glass for a long moment. “I think we’re wasting time,” he said.

  “Looks that way.”

  Ringo reached in his pocket and laid some silver on the bar. “I hope you don’t decide to do anything foolish, Curly. I’d sure hate to have to kill you.”

  Curly looked at him in blank surprise. Surely Ringo realized that was the worst thing you could say to a man with any pride. It was like a slap in the face. He should have known Curly couldn’t let the matter drop now. But Ringo had always felt that he could talk to him any way he wanted to and Curly would let him get away with it.

  “Do you think you can?” Curly asked, his surprise giving way to bitter resentment.

  “I’d hate to find out,” Ringo said.

  Curly stood there drinking in silence and didn’t see him go out, although he heard the batwings swing open and shut. After Ringo left, Curly drank steadily for what seemed to him a long time. When he finally left the saloon himself, he was a little unsteady on his feet and feeling mean and nasty as a hydrophobic skunk.

  The street was dark and there was a damp cold wind blowing. An odd-looking moon peered down through a ragged hole in a black cloud. He reeled along the street displaying a reckless grin to hide the misery he felt. He had no clear destination in mind, but found himself wandering from habit toward the Road to Ruin. There was nothing there that he wanted, but there didn’t seem to be any other place left that he could go to. All other paths and doors were closed to him.

  He swung his head about, looking for any sort of diversion, and saw Ringo standing in the shadows near the hotel, smoking a cigarette. Even in the dark there was no mistaking that tall, proud, aloof shape. Curly stared at his cold hard face with hatred, a hatred born of frustrated love. Frustrated love for both Ringo and Miss Sarah.

  “The high and mighty Ringo,” Curly said, sweeping off his hat and bowing so low he almost fell on his face. “Is it all right, sir, if I walk by you here on the street? I’ll try not to get close enough to offend you. Hold your nose and close your eyes and you won’t even notice me.”

  “You’re drunk, Curly,” Ringo said. “Go sleep it off.”

  Curly stood there swaying and frowning at his hat for a long moment before carefully replacing it on his head. “Drunk? Not yet I ain’t. I may get drunk later on, if the spirit moves me and the bug juice don’t run out. But at this point I’m sober as a judge. Sober as old Hanging Judge Parker hisself, when he sent twelve men out to stretch rope all at the same time. Can you picture that, Ringo? Twelve men doing a jig in the air all at once, hanging from a long row of ropes. And some of them prob’ly hadn’t done nothing worse than borrow some sodbuster’s broken-down plow horse for a while. Or maybe shot some cold-eyed marshal who was long overdue in hell for his crimes against humanity. Or maybe it was the jury the old judge hung that time. Maybe they decided to let some poor devil off and the old judge decided to hang them in his place, as an example to future juries. You’ve heard of hung juries, ain’t you, Ringo?”

  “I hadn’t heard about that one,” Ringo said, smoking his cigarette and watching the empty street.

  “That’s a mighty careless thing for a man with so many enemies to do,” Curly said. “Someone’s liable to take a shot at that cigarette.”

  “If you mean one of your seedy friends,” Ringo said, “I wouldn’t put it past them. But they better make the first one count.”

  Curly frowned, and stood stiff and dignified to offset the tendency to weave about on his feet. “You’re always running my friends down. That ain’t a polite thing to do. I never run your friends down that way. But come to think about it, you never had very many friends, did you, Ringo?”

  “I never asked for any.”

  “No, of course not,” Curly said, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “You never asked anyone for anything. You’d die first.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it,” Ringo said, watching the street and the shadows as he spoke.

  “I hope I ain’t boring you too much,” Curly said. “Let me know if you get tired of me standing here talking to you.”

  “I will,” Ringo said, flipping his cigarette away.

  “Always the same old Ringo. A stone face and a heart to match.”

  “I don’t know why you ever bothered about me, Curly. I’ve often wondered.”

  “So have I! I·can’t think of any reason why I ain’t already put a bullet in you!”

  “Don’t talk yourself into doing something stupid, Curly,” Ringo said quietly.

  “I keep thinking about what you said in the saloon,” Curly said, scowling. “About how you’d hate to have to kill me. I’m asking you again—do you think you can?”

  “If I had to,” Ringo said.

  “You never did have a very high opinion of me, did you, Ringo?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Curly. I’m not sure what you mean by the question.”

  “You always thought you could beat me at anything, didn’t you?” Curly said, surprised at his own bitterness. He was aware that he had lost his sense of
humor. He was also aware that it no longer mattered. A lot of things no longer mattered. “Guns. Cards. Women. Anything. You were always a little better than me at all the things that counted, weren’t you, Ringo?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Ringo said.

  “But it’s what you think, ain’t it?”

  “What I think is my business, Curly.”

  “Well,” Curly said, “we can find out about one of them things, right here and now. Draw, you bastard,’’

  Ringo studied him carefully, his own face hidden in the shadow of his hatbrim. “You’re not actually thinking about going for your gun, are you, Curly?”

  Curly wasn’t sure just what he had been thinking about. The idea must have been hidden at the back of his mind all along, festering and growing there in the dark, until the words were out before he realized it. He was more surprised himself than Ringo appeared to be. But it seemed to him that he had already done too much talking to try to back out of it now. He would feel like a fool. Worse yet, it might appear that he had lost his nerve at the last moment.

  “You damn right I’m thinking about it,” he said. “I’m going to count to three and then draw. One.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool, Curly,” Ringo said. “You wouldn’t stand a chance sober, much less drunk.”

  There it was again, Ringo’s galling assumption that he could beat him at anything.

  “What makes you so sure of that?” Curly asked resentfully.

  “I’ve seen you shoot.”

  “Maybe I really did just let Billy Bishop win that contest,” Curly said. “Did you ever think of that?”

  Ringo didn’t say anything and Curly knew he didn’t believe him. Ringo never had believed much he said, taking if for granted, like everyone else, that Curly lied all the time. And Curly had never lied about anything important. Not to Ringo. While Ringo had often lied. Maybe not with words, but with his silence. Curly lied with words, Ringo with silence, what was the difference.