A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

“Me counting my winnings right in front of you?”

  Charlie leaned back, surprised by Coe’s arrogance, and shook his head angrily.

  “’Cause by my accounting, it appears you’ve played like hell again, Charlie,” he laughed and reaching over, picked up his winnings once more.

  Charlie’s face reddened with rage. Put into a fury at the gunfighter’s chortle, he swung his left hand across the table and grabbed Coe by the left wrist. “Shut your fly-trap, cowboy,” he swore. His eyes flashed dark anger.

  Coe tightened his smile and glanced down at his wrist, composed. After a long pause, he rolled his eyes up at Charlie and pushed a full set of bushy eyebrows together. “What’d you say?” he chuckled, daring, and threatening.

  Charlie snarled at Coe’s suppressed laugh and, even more angered, reached to yank his Colt, but before he could blink, he found himself staring into the shooting end of Frank Coe’s Peacemaker.

  “Some folks in these parts call me fast?” Coe said.

  Charlie inhaled and gritted his teeth. His eyes widened in amazement at the man’s quickness.

  Ben reeled back, astonished and shocked at the gun hand’s draw speed.

  “I can’t really tell. Do you think I’m fast, Charlie?”

  The veins in Charlie’s temples bulged. He glared at Coe without making a sound.

  Coe glanced over at Ben. “How about you, Brother Gunn?”

  Ben looked at Charlie, then to Cap Millett, and finally back to Coe. He nodded slightly.

  Coe smiled and cocked the gun’s hammer with his thumb. His eyes contracted into tiny beads of black. He leaned across the table, pushed the pistol into Charlie’s cheek, and smiled. “Go ahead and pull that leg iron, Charlie. It’ll be the last thing you ever do in this world.”

  All of the Millett cowboys, Ben, and Cap tensed, unsure of Coe’s intended play.

  Charlie stared bravely into Coe’s eyes, but his half-opened mouth told another story.

  After several uneasy seconds, Cap reached over the table and patted Charlie’s wrist, but kept his full gaze on Ben. “Don’t do anything foolish, Charlie,” he said with a fair measure of respect and then added, “Why don’t you let go of Frank’s wrist before something unfortunate happens?”

  Charlie inhaled and quickly scanned the porch. Eight Millett cowboys surrounded the table. He looked at Coe roughly and then released his grip on the gun hand’s wrist.

  Coe pulled his hand back and slowly removed his Colt from Charlie’s face. “You’re in a sure enough horn-tossin’ mood, huh, Charlie?” he said and shook his head slowly.

  Charlie rubbed his flushed cheek, but kept his hard glare on Coe.

  Coe, enjoying the stage and Charlie’s embarrassment, pushed his tongue against his bottom lip and continued to taunt the rustler openly by thrusting the barrel of the Colt toward Charlie, “You must be some kind of hard egg, a real buckaroo?”

  Millett squared his eyes at Coe and shook his head in disapproval.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Ben stated and started forward only to find his progress cut off by two Millett cowhands.

  Millet smiled and lifted his hand from Charlie’s wrist. He glanced over at Ben and said, “Now boys, you both might be angry about losing all your cattle money, but this game has been on the up and up the whole way.”

  Charlie relaxed slightly and placed both hands on the table, still eyeing Coe and the Colt. “That so, Cap,” he muttered.

  “That’s so,” Millett said forcefully.

  “Then how come I played two straight days with your boys and never won a pot?”

  Millett ignored the question and glanced over at Coe. The ranch owner gave his hired gun a slight nod of his chin.

  Cole swung his eyes to the pistol and then with a click of his tongue holstered the gun.

  Millett eased his gaze back to Charlie. “Hell, son, I don’t know,” he said with feigned ignorance. “Maybe you just ain’t a card-hand.”

  Ben moved past the two Millett cowboys and up to the table. He sunk both hands into the clasp of his gun belt and studied Millett carefully from head to toe. “Well, E.B. won’t take too kindly to your hospitality, Cap, I’ll promise that.”

  Millett eyed Ben menacingly and inhaled deeply. “Don’t you try and threaten me you petticoat cowboy,” he exhaled through clenched teeth. “I’ve killed sorts who were three times the man you are or will ever be!”

  Ben twisted his lips together and started for his Colt.

  In a flash, eight Millett guns cleared leather and fell on Ben.

  Millett pushed his lips tight against one another and held up a hand. Regaining his composure, he signalled for his hands to holster their guns and then smiled broadly at both Gunn brothers. “I know E.B., son, and it ain’t me he’s going to be angry at.”

  Charlie slapped the table once more at Millett’s pronouncement. “Damn,” he muttered and turned his head away from the table.

  Millett leaned back in his chair and dug into a vest pocket. “Since I know your pa and how he gets, I’m going to give you boys enough coin to get you back home,” he said and laid six five-dollar coins in front of Charlie.

  Charlie exhaled roughly, stared at the coins, and then picked each up.

  Millett smiled. “Good,” he said, and then called toward one his cowboys, “Get these boys their horses. I believe they are ready to leave our hospitality.”

  Minutes later, a red-faced Charlie took his reins from one of Millett’s gunmen and stepped up in the stirrup. A painful awareness of his inadequate play before Coe still riled his thinking. Before riding away, he looked down at the gun hand and uttered, “How far to the soldiering town?”

  The Millett gun hand kept a straight face and pointed south. “Ten miles or so,” he said. “You looking to rid yourself of Cap’s free coin?”

  “Watch your mouth,” Charlie growled and turned his pony’s head toward The Flat. “I’m lookin’ to find a place where a man can git a decent drink and an honest card game.”

  Fourteen

  August 1878 - The Flat, Texas

  Pure and July dusted their pants and stared through the doorway into the front room of the Cattle Exchange. The saloon was a favorite haunt of many trail dusters in the grimy town below Fort Griffin known locally as The Flat. Amidst the carrying-on of the saloon’s brisk trade, Pure spied Ben and Charlie Gunn. Both men sat at a card game with their backs to the door.

  Pure nudged July and pointed at the two brothers.

  July’s gaze followed the outstretched arm and then came back to Pure. “You had those boys pegged dead to rights,” he whispered and then pushed his hands against his gun belt, settling the band comfortably on his hips.

  Pure watched Charlie throw a handful of cards on the table and then swear loudly. “Be damned, Coe! These cards are cooked through and through!”

  The buzz of the Exchange stopped, but only momentarily, at the outburst.

  The man dealing across from Charlie turned crimson at the call. “I thought you might have learned something out at the ranch, Gunn,” he answered obligingly. “But it appears not.”

  Charlie jumped to his feet but respectful of Coe’s draw, kept his hand away from his Colt. “What’d you say?” he shouted and placed both hands palm down on the table.

  The corners of Frank Coe’s mouth curled up. “I said that I’m glad the boys told me you were headed this way, Charlie. I thought I’d come over and get Cap’s thirty-dollars back.”

  Pure kept a tight eye on the dealer and inhaled deeply. “That’s not your average card preacher, July. Keep a good eye on his gun.”

  July nodded and eased behind Pure and into the saloon. He worked his way along the rough planked wall to a position that gave him a front view of Charlie and Ben and the back of the card dealer.

  Pure waited for July to get into place and then strode to the bar.

  The bartender ignored Pure’s approach. His attention fixed on the disruption at the card table to his left.

  “Some place
, huh?” Pure shouted over the roar. His voice carried a raw edge to it. He removed his hat and ran a hand through slicked back hair. “Appears to be some cold-blooded sons of Texas in here.”

  The bartender tossed a quick glance at the slight-framed cowboy in front of him and then turned his concentration back to the card table. “What can I get you?” he asked dismissingly.

  Pure twisted his body slightly and stared at Charlie Gunn’s back. “Those boys certainly have gotten cross-grained with one another.”

  The bartender never glanced back but asked once more, “What’ll it be, cowboy?”

  “Beer,” Pure obliged and pushed his gum forward in his mouth.

  Charlie Gunn eyed Frank Coe and lifted both hands from the table. “You’re a long ways from the ranch, Coe and you don’t have Cap Millett or his boys to protect you now.”

  Pure watched the build-up to gunplay. The code demanded that he and no one else settle things with the Gunns. Determined to interject himself into the fracas, he drifted a few paces from the bar and whooped loudly, “Well, look at this everybody!”

  The patrons closest to Pure turned at the hoot of excitement.

  Pure swiveled at the on-lookers and spoke to the man nearest him in a thunderous voice. “I never figured the day would come that I would see one of the Gunn brothers take a man’s play head-on!”

  The saloon quieted at Pure’s statement.

  “No sir, I never did.”

  A growing murmur circled the saloon floor. Some of the regulars, recognizing the vilification headed for the doorway; others, eager for action, remained but moved out of the lane between the card player and the slender cowboy.

  Ben jerked his head in the insult’s direction, seething. He fixed a hard stare on Pure, inhaled deeply, and after a second of recognition, loosened a slow smile. “Well lookey, Brother Charlie,” he said, “it’s our neighbor from back home.”

  The remaining Exchange patrons stepped back several more steps upon hearing Ben’s jovial tone and resumed their own boisterous exuberance. Still, each kept a watchful eye on the card players and the lone cowboy.

  Charlie lifted his shoulders and shrugged at Coe before turning back toward the bar and Pure. “Howdy, Pure,” he said and rested his right hand on his pistol butt. “You alone,” he squealed and then looked around the Exchange. “Or is the little black bull still slobbering after you, hungry for that Reston teat?”

  The movement and noise of the saloon stopped abruptly at Charlie’s words. All eyes settled back on Pure. Gunplay was familiar here and the Exchange customers all recognized the warning signs.

  Pure’s expression glazed over at the affront, but he held his tongue and instead scanned the room hurriedly, searching for Nate and the others.

  July leaned forward from the wall and spoke in a low voice, “Little black bull come down the mountain, Charlie.” The low, dull, authoritative grumble caused all heads to turn toward the black cowboy.

  Charlie spun slowly on his heels at July’s voice. The rustler’s eyes wandered along the front wall of the Exchange before his gaze settled on the six-foot-four Reston ranch foreman. His gaze dropped to July’s gun. He paused for several seconds and then curled his lips away from his teeth. “Hoe, boy, hoe!” he sang and clapped his hands together in rhythm. “Chop that cotton all the day long.”

  July, his right foot braced against the Exchange wall, stared at Charlie, expressionless.

  Charlie, all smiles now, glanced down at Coe. “Get up, Frank,” he said dryly and swept an upturned hand toward Pure and then July. “I want you to meet some neighbors of ours, Pure Reston and his colored slave boy.”

  Coe slipped out of his chair with little effort and took to his feet with a tip of his hat.

  “And Pure,” Charlie continued with a raised brow and a voice thick with contempt. “This here is Frank Coe. His boss speaks highly of the fine breeding of -R cattle.”

  Pure retrieved his hat from the bar, pulled it securely to his head, and nodded at the Millet gun hand. “Mr. Coe,” he said respectfully.

  Charlie turned and squared his shoulders at Pure. “I heard about your brother, Pure, and want you to know both Ben and I think it was a terrible tragedy,” he said. His tone dripped with insincerity.

  Coe smiled at Pure and then turned toward July. The hired gun held his hands chest-high and his palms turned out.

  “Howdy, friend,” Coe said.

  July acknowledged Coe’s signal with a quick nod and motioned for the gunman to move several paces to his left.

  Coe gave July a slow nod and moved as instructed.

  Pure waited until the gun fighter settled away from both Gunns and then gestured at July to watch the gunman.

  July’s answering nod was quick and barely discernible.

  Turning back to Charlie, Pure crinkled his brow and then just as quickly widened his eyes. “I forgot you Gunn boys never learned to read nor write.”

  “Watch your tongue, cowman,” Charlie warned.

  Pure smiled softly. “So it’s understandable that neither of you would know that the slaves were all freed in ’63.”

  A murmur of laughter filled the Exchange.

  A blush of anger rushed across Charlie’s face at Pure’s taunting.

  Ben looked at his brother and then took a step forward. “It’s okay, Charlie,” he said. “Pure, here, is just trying to rile your temper up some.”

  Pure turned toward Ben and exhaled loudly through his nose. “Where are Nate and the other two, Ben?”

  Ben glanced over at Charlie and scratched the back of his head. “Where are those boys, Charlie?” he asked quizzically.

  Charlie shrugged, puckered his lips, and in great exaggeration rubbed his forefinger down the corner of his mouth as if deep in thought. “Let me see if I can remember,” he said.

  During the lull, Coe lowered his hands slowly. Pure caught the gunman’s movement and cleared his throat loudly.

  Coe stopped his hands at Pure’s warning.

  Ben glanced at Charlie and then mumbled, “Oh, you know what?”

  Pure tossed a look at July and shifted his eyes toward Coe.

  “What’s that, brother?”

  July removed his leg from the wall and focused his attention on the gunman’s back.

  “Clark is with E.B. trading cattle,” Ben chuckled and then pointed at Pure. “And Nate and Foss are headed north.”

  Charlie slapped his thigh. “That’s right, brother.”

  Ben looked at Pure smugly. “They were looking to meet up with…why…you, Reston…all the way up the trail in Dodge City.”

  Pure’s face dropped slightly at the mention of Dodge City. His body tensed and a grim foreboding raced through his thoughts. Paint.

  July saw the change in Pure’s expression. “Just like a bunch of cackle hens, Pure,” he called out in an attempt to jar Pure’s attention back to the mess at hand. “Nate and Foss are obviously too frightful of a town like The Flat.”

  Charlie’s face flushed crimson. He jerked his head around at July. “Nobody asked your opinion, colored-boy!” he shouted and lowered his gun hand toward the Colt handle protruding from his holster.

  Pure snapped back to the present, narrowed his eyes, and watched as Charlie, Ben, and Coe moved into fighting stances. “I’m sorry boys,” he said, sharply. “Appears July struck a chord with you.”

  “This isn’t going to happen in here!” the bartender growled furiously and swung a double barrel shotgun from below the bar. He levelled the gun on each man in turn and then ordered, “Take it outside! Now!”

  Ben tossed an angry glance at the bartender. “Mind your own business, sagebrush, or you’ll find yourself done up just like the fella next to you is fixing to be!” he warned.

  Pure relaxed and focused on the room.

  Ben looked away from the bartender and turned his attention back to Pure. “You didn’t strike a chord with us, Reston, we’re fine,” he said tight-lipped.

  Pure exhaled. “You’re fin
e, Ben? You sure of that?”

  Ben rolled his fingers against his palm. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Because you don’t look fine.”

  “Don’t press it, Pure.”

  “You almost look a little peaked, if you ask me.”

  Ben’s finger stretched out full. “I said watch your mouth, Reston.”

  “You’re not poorly, are you?”

  “No!” Ben blurted out, and then regaining his composure said, “Me and my brother are just a little tired from working so much lately.”

  Pure sensed Ben’s growing irritation and decided to prod him into a fight. He tossed a quick gaze back at July and said, “You hear that, July?”

  “Uh-huh,” July muttered never letting his glare leave Coe.

  “Now that has got to be big news.”

  “What’s that, Pure?” July asked.

  “Two Gunn brothers tired from working.”

  July chuckled aloud. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  Charlie’s face flushed at the back and forth.

  “Imagine a pair of heel squatters like these two doing actual work.”

  Charlie lashed back. “Watch your tongue, Reston or I’ll –”

  Ben laughed aloud. “It’s nothing but a joke, Charlie,” he said, calm and deliberate. “Ain’t that so, Pure?”

  Pure narrowed his eyes. He ignored Ben and bore a hard, killing look right through Charlie. “Watch my tongue or you’ll do what, Charlie?” he asked coldly.

  July wrapped palm flesh around his Colt handle.

  Charlie twisted his lips together and clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened.

  “Easy, Charlie,” Ben whispered. “Easy, brother.”

  “Outside!” the bartender screamed again.

  Pure pushed harder. “You’ll do what, Charlie, bushwhack me outside somewhere?”

  Charlie looked around the Exchange at a mob of now interested faces. “Shut-up, Reston!” he screamed.

  “How about I just turn my back to you?”

  “I’m warning you, Reston!”

  “So you can drill me with six bullets?”

  “I mean it!”

  “Six on one, that’s the way you Gunn brothers fight, ain’t it, Charlie?”