The Legend of Perley Gates

by William W. Johnstone

  That suited Perley just fine. He was frankly relieved to have escaped another meeting with the giant. “I wasn’t figurin’ on havin’ more than a couple of drinks anyway,” he informed them. “Gotta get up early in the mornin’ and strike out on the Deadwood Stage road. Gonna check every stage stop between here and Deadwood. If Grandpa traveled up that road, somebody is sure to have seen him . . .”

  He stopped talking when he realized no one was listening to what he was saying. Instead, both women seemed to have been hypnotized, staring at the front door again. He turned to see what had caught their attention just as Liz uttered one word: “Riker.” Then she looked at Stella in total despair. “What in the hell is he doin’ here?”

  Stella was just as shocked. They had fled Ogallala to escape his vengeful wrath, certain that he would give up after a while and return to Kansas with the rest of the crew from there. As if having Brady Ennis released from jail wasn’t enough, now they had the mad dog that was Riker in the house as well. And Riker had sworn to take his revenge on Liz.

  The question that sprang to mind was, how did he know to come to Cheyenne, and specifically, this saloon? And the answer that followed immediately was Kenny Lamb, the scoundrel who had run off with their packhorse.

  “That son of a bitch,” Liz fumed. “Kenny Lamb, he must have gone back to Ogallala and met up with Riker. He’s just ornery enough to tell Riker where we were heading.” She moved her chair a little more to the side, so she would have her back to him, hoping that maybe he would just glance around the room, then leave without looking closer.

  Stella, still facing the door, watched the belligerent Kansas cowhand as he walked over to the bar. “I don’t think he spotted you,” she said. “He’s gone over to talk to C.J.”

  Equally concerned, having had some history with Riker himself, Perley watched with Stella, his hat pushed down low on his forehead. He was trying to weigh his options, in the event Riker did spot Liz and recognized Perley as well. If they were lucky, since it looked as though he hadn’t seen Liz, Riker might move on to look in another saloon. That possibility was immediately shot down, however, when they saw Riker talking to C.J. With no idea who he was, C.J. turned and pointed to their table.

  “Oh, shit!” Stella exclaimed, her tone hushed and tense. “No, C.J., don’t tell him.”

  But it was already done.

  Doesn’t look like there’s much chance of talking my way out of this one, Perley thought as Riker made his way toward their table in the corner. The devilish smile of satisfaction on the man’s broad face was not to be perceived as a friendly greeting. When he was close enough to get a better look, his smile widened as he recognized Perley as one of the Texas hands in the saloon in Ogallala.

  “Well, well,” Riker gloated, “if this ain’t somethin’. It’s like Christmas in summertime. I’ve been lookin’ for you, bitch,” he directed at Liz. “We’ve got some unfinished business to take care of.” He shifted his smirk toward Perley then. “And to find you still hangin’ around her—it’s almost too much to ask for. You ain’t got your two brothers here to keep you from takin’ a whippin’, have you?”

  “No, they had to get back to the ranch,” Perley answered. “I know they’ll be sorry they missed you. Looks like that knot on the side of your head is healin’ pretty good. Still a little swollen, though, and kinda yellowish, ain’t it? I reckon, if you keep it clean and don’t get into any kinda trouble, it’ll heal up good as new.”

  Taken aback, Riker was dumbfounded by the seemingly senseless babble coming out of Perley’s mouth. “You’re a damn talker,” he said, finally coming up with an insult. “If it hadn’ta been for this bitch sneakin’ up behind me with that bottle, I’da shot you, and your brothers, too. But I reckon you’ll have to do.”

  “I reckon she fetched you a pretty good lick with that bottle,” Perley said. “But she kept you from shootin’ one of us and havin’ to go to prison for the rest of your life. I figure that’s what she had in mind when she did it. As far as I’m concerned, I’m willin’ to let bygones be bygones, and I reckon Liz, here, would say the same thing. So, whaddaya say, Riker? You ready to act like a human being? Shoot, we could all be friends.”

  There followed a full minute of dead silence, with Riker gawking in openmouthed disbelief. When he finally spoke again, he blurted, “Friends? You talk like a crazy man. You ain’t no friend of mine, and I’ve had about enough of your talk. You’re wearin’ a gun. I’m callin’ you out in the street, and we’ll see if you can back up your foul mouth, you damn jackass.”

  “I reckon you know it’s terrible bad luck to shoot a crazy man,” Perley said. “Ain’t no tellin’ what’ll happen to you. Don’t make any sense to me. I think it’s a bad idea all the way around, so I’ll decline your invitation to see which one of us can kill the other one first. So, I reckon that ends this discussion and we can all go about our business.”

  “Mister, you’re the craziest son of a bitch I’ve ever run across, but you ain’t talkin’ your way outta this.” Riker looked around him, then back at Perley. “Everybody here heard me call you out, fair and square, to settle this thing. There ain’t no gettin’ around it. I aim to kill you, and if you run, I’ll come after you and shoot you down like the yeller dog you are. So, what’s it gonna be—take your chance facing me out in the street, or get it in the head sittin’ here in that chair?”

  “Riker,” Perley said, dead serious now, “I’m tryin’ to save your life. I don’t wanna shoot you, or anybody else, but if we go out in the street, you’re a dead man. You won’t give me any choice.”

  Riker almost laughed but held his reaction to a wide grin. The confrontation was going the way he wanted it to, and he couldn’t resist playing some mind games himself. “I bet you ain’t ever shot a man, have you? I mean, killed a man facin’ you and him trying to kill you. I have—more’n one. It ain’t like killin’ a dog, or a deer, ’cause they ain’t tryin’ to kill you. You ever done that?” When Perley didn’t answer, he said, “I didn’t think so.” He drew his .44 and aimed it at Perley’s head. “Get up outta that chair and face me right now, right here, or I swear, I’ll shoot you where you set.”

  There was not a sound in the entire saloon now, except for the scraping of customers’ chairs as they cleared the floor. Liz, having sat speechless during the challenge, was now certain there was no way out for Perley. He had spoken a lot of nonsense to Riker, hoping to talk him out of it, she guessed, but none of it worked on the crude cowhand. She was familiar with Riker’s reputation with a gun. Perley was not. She could hold her tongue no longer.

  “Leave him alone, Riker. You’ve got no quarrel with Perley. Your quarrel is with me. I’m the one that hit you in the head with a bottle.” She glared at him, her anger growing every second. “I wish to hell I had hit you harder.”

  Riker cut his eyes quickly toward her before returning to stare at Perley. “I’ll take care of you later,” he warned Liz, “and if you pick up that bottle, I’ll shoot you down first.” Back to Perley, he threatened, “In the chair, or on your feet like a man? I’m done jawin’ with you.”

  There was no way out. He had hoped to confuse Riker to the point where he would get disgusted and forget about taking his vengeance. Perley should have known better, but he was now caught with no option other than to face the man.

  “All right, Riker,” he said and got up out of his chair. “I’ll face you, but let’s take it to the street. Somebody’s liable to get hurt in here.”

  “Oh, somebody’s gonna get hurt, all right,” Riker snarled. “But I ain’t worried about no bystanders. We’ll have it out right here. I ain’t givin’ you the chance to take off outside and hide someplace.” He backed away from the table and positioned himself opposite the end of the bar, leaving a space of about fifteen paces between them.

  “We don’t have to do this, Riker,” Perley said as he reluctantly took his position near the back wall.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Riker boa
sted. “Pearly Gates,” he scorned. “Say hello to Saint Peter for me.”

  Then, not waiting for Perley to turn to face him squarely, he reached for his .44. Liz saw it, but in telling it later to C.J., she wasn’t sure she really saw it. In a single moment’s time, Perley’s weapon was in his holster, then it was in his hand, cocked and aimed at Riker, who had not cleared leather. Stella saw it, too, but remembered it only as a blur.

  Riker, dazed by the sight of the Colt .44 barrel staring straight into his eyes, was caught with his own handgun only halfway free of the holster.

  “Don’t,” Perley commanded, and Riker knew he was done.

  They stood frozen for a long second while Riker made up his mind.

  “Take your hand off of it and walk on out of here,” Perley ordered. “Go on back to Kansas, where you belong.”

  Riker swallowed hard. He knew he was a dead man if he tried to pull the weapon. Feeling the shame of his defeat, he released the .44 and let it drop back in the holster, turned around, and walked out the door. The silence in the saloon lasted for another thirty seconds, replaced then by a whispered wave of astonished comments.

  Liz looked at Stella and uttered just one word: “Damn!” It was hard to believe that this was the same Perley Gates who had befriended them.

  The women stared at each other, speechless, until Stella went over to stand beside Perley.

  “You think he’ll be back?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied as he released the hammer on his pistol and returned it to his holster. “He might. It don’t ever pay to trust a man like that, so I reckon it’d be a good idea to be careful, especially if you go outside the saloon. Sidewinder’ll shoot you in the back if you turn it to him.”

  “You never said you were that fast with a gun,” Stella said.

  Perley shrugged. “You never asked.”

  “It never occurred to me,” she admitted, thinking back over her brief history with the shy, easygoing Texas cowhand. She knew Liz felt the same way. Perley was a good man, and a good friend, but they had both given thanks for avoiding a confrontation between him and any of the reckless gunmen between Ogallala and Cheyenne.

  Another thought came to her. In the excitement of the face-off between Riker and Perley, Stella had forgotten about the oversized animal upstairs with Cora. She wondered now if Brady had heard the excitement taking place in the saloon beneath him. She glanced quickly up toward the top of the stairs, expecting to see him, but there was no one. She remembered, then, having heard Cora comparing her sessions with the brute to mating with a buffalo. There were no gunshots, so evidently, they had been oblivious to the scene downstairs. Perley’s had enough to deal with, Stella thought. Best we finish our drinks and hustle him out of the Cattleman’s before he’s confronted with Brady Ennis.

  She took his elbow and led him back to the table, where Liz was still sitting, trying to combine the Perley she thought she knew with the Perley she had just witnessed. Lightning was the only word she could think of to describe the scene.

  “I guess we’d better have that one last drink and let Perley get on his way,” Stella said to Liz when they returned to the table. “He’s gotta get an early start in the morning to go find his grandpa. Ain’t that right, Perley?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Perley answered. “I’m figurin’ on gettin’ a real early start, and I need to get down to the stables before Tuttle locks me out.”

  Still somewhat amazed by what she had just witnessed, Liz was not inclined to rush Perley off. But after Stella went through a series of contortions to her eyebrows and forehead in an effort to silently signal her, she finally understood and remembered the buffalo in Cora’s room. “Right,” she drawled. “It won’t do to have your head aching in the morning. Me and Stella are gonna be getting busy here in the saloon in a little bit anyway.”

  They had one last drink, and both women urged him to visit them again if he was back that way. He promised that he surely would, then said so long to C.J. When he turned to go, first Stella, then Liz stepped up to give him a hug, causing him to grin, embarrassed.

  “Take care of yourself, Perley,” Liz said.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “Good luck finding your grandpa,” Stella added, “alive and kicking.”

  He gave her a grin, turned, and walked to the door, where he paused. It was already getting dark by then, so he took a good look outside before leaving the doorway. Like he had told Stella, it was best to be careful after the standoff with Riker. He was sure the man wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him in the back. Perley wasn’t planning on giving him the chance, so he took a moment longer to look up and down the street before stepping out of the doorway and heading down the street to the stable. He felt lucky to have avoided Brady, and so far, it appeared that Riker had decided not to push his luck.

  The really unfortunate result of the evening was that there were witnesses to the speed with which he drew his gun. He could not explain why he was so fast with his hands—he just was, like how some boys can run faster than all their friends. He probably wouldn’t have even discovered his ability had he not always won in contests with his brothers when they were younger. His father had warned him against exhibiting that talent to strangers, lest he gain a reputation for himself. It was advice that he had accepted and was the reason he had been reluctant to duel with Riker. At least I wasn’t burdened with the guilt of having killed a man back there in the saloon, he thought, even if it was a lowdown bully like Riker.

  He remained on his guard, walking close in the shadows of the buildings along his way, until he reached the safety of the stable. The altercation at the saloon had delayed him beyond what he had planned, so he was relieved to see that the lock was not yet on the barn door. He pulled the door open and called, “Mr. Tuttle?”

  “Yeah—Perley?” the call came back, and in a few seconds Tuttle came from the tack room, carrying a lantern. “I was about to give you up. Thought you mighta found you a bed with one of those women at the Cattleman’s.”

  “Reckon not,” Perley replied with a chuckle.

  He paused for a moment before starting to speak again. In that moment’s pause, he heard the metallic clicking of a hammer cocking. Without conscious thought, his survival instincts took over and he spun, drawing and shooting at almost the same time. The two shots sounded almost as one, but the bullet from Perley’s .44 doubled Riker over, while Riker’s bullet embedded itself in the barn wall.

  Shocked speechless, Tom Tuttle dropped his lantern, causing a fire to start in the loose hay spilled on the barn floor. Perley yelled at him to stomp it out, otherwise the barn might have soon been enveloped in flames.

  Perley turned back at once to make sure Riker was through. In severe pain, Riker could not move. He lay there, doubled up, groaning pitifully. Perley picked up the six-gun Riker had dropped and stuck it in the man’s belt.

  “I expect we’d best get the doctor and the sheriff,” Perley said. He walked over and stomped out a few small flickers that Tuttle had missed.

  “Right,” Tuttle murmured, just then regaining his senses. “Bob Joyner’s the night deputy. I’ll go find him. Dr. Shaw usually stays in his office pretty late. You can probably catch him there. It’s right next to the undertaker, between here and the Cattleman’s.”

  “I just passed it,” Perley said. “I’ll get him.” Before running out the door, he paused to speak to Riker. “I’m goin’ after the doctor. Just lie still.”

  He and Tuttle both left on the run, leaving Riker curled up in pain. There was nothing more Perley could do for him, except put a bullet in his brain to stop his suffering, but he wasn’t inclined to do that.

  As Tuttle had speculated, Dr. Shaw was still in his office, having a shot of whiskey for his rheumatism. He was not happy to hear of the need for his services, but he dutifully picked up his bag, even though he didn’t expect to do much good, after Perley told him Riker was gut-shot.

  They got to the barn a few min
utes after Tuttle came back with Deputy Joyner. While Doc examined the wounded man, Joyner questioned Perley. Tuttle had already told him that Perley was not at fault and had only defended himself.

  “That feller lyin’ there come up behind him and took a shot at him, but he missed, and Perley didn’t. That’s the whole story.”

  Joyner was willing to take Tuttle’s word for it and told Perley he was free to go.

  “Why the hell didn’t you shoot him again and put him outta his suffering?” Doc complained to Perley. “There ain’t nothing I can do to save him, with that bullet in his gut. Who is he? Has he got any friends or family around here?”

  “No, sir,” Perley said. “He was ridin’ for some ranch back in Kansas, and he followed a whore over here from Ogallala to kill her and kill me for helpin’ her.”

  He went on to relate the circumstances that brought Riker tracking them to Cheyenne with the evil intention of murdering the two of them, while Tuttle nodded in agreement.

  Deputy Joyner listened patiently until Perley finished, then, showing no emotion, walked over and shot Riker in the head.

  “He’s outta his pain now,” Joyner declared. “I’ll go get the undertaker.”

  Dumbfounded, Perley looked at Dr. Shaw. Doc shrugged and said, “Best thing for him. I’ll need two dollars for examining him.”

  “You can get it when the sheriff comes in in the mornin’,” Joyner said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Upon the advice of Tom Tuttle, Perley decided his best bet was to follow the stagecoach road to Deadwood. The Cheyenne station was right in front of the fancy Inter-Ocean Hotel, and he was fortunate to find a handsome Concord coach, pulled by a six-horse team, in front of the hotel that morning.

  The driver, a man who gave his name only as Russ, was happy to advise Perley on the journey he was about to undertake. According to Russ, it was three hundred miles through the rugged mountains of the Black Hills in Dakota Territory to get to Deadwood. For a passenger on the stage, the trip took about fifty hours, with stops to change the horses about every ten miles. Perley figured it would take him about a week to make the trip on horseback, depending upon how rough the trail happened to be. Fort Laramie, one hundred miles from Cheyenne, was a common crossing of trails from all directions, according to Russ. So, if Perley had not discovered any trace of his grandfather before reaching it, Russ thought he could surely find evidence of him there.