The Last Shootist

by Miles Swarthout

  Gillom tried the chow mein at Jim Mammon’s Chinese Café in South Clifton. The noodles and chopped vegetables had some stringy chicken in it, which he found quite tasty in its sour brown sauce. This establishment, run by a wealthy young Chinese who owned several restaurants in town, was recommended by the hotel clerk. Inside, booths ran along a long hallway. Each booth had heavy curtains that were never open while eating, after an old Chinese custom offering complete privacy to a man who might be entertaining a paramour. The restaurant was perfect for Gillom, who didn’t wish his presence known in this rough town. His waiter, an Oriental of indeterminate age in wide-legged blue pants and tunic, didn’t have many customers to serve early, but he didn’t seem overly friendly to this young white man, either. Just like they say, inscrutable, Gillom thought. But as he paid his cheap bill, he tried conversation.

  “Mister, I’m sore from my last few days riding stagecoaches. Can you recommend a bathhouse where I can soak my weary bones?” The teenager wasn’t certain he’d been understood, as the Chinaman stood next to the table stroking his long braided hair.

  “No bath, no. Laundry?”

  “No. I need a hot bath.” Gillom held his back. “Sore bones.”

  “Ah. River. Hot.” The waiter pointed vaguely north, uptown.

  “Hot springs? In the river?”

  The Chinaman nodded, took his money and dirty dishes away. Gillom left him a good tip, hoping to strike up a friendship later.

  The scrawny desk clerk in the hotel confirmed. “Yeah, there’s hot springs along the river on Potter’s Ranch, little over a mile north of town. Take a towel and bathing attire, or go bare as you dare. Mineral water’s free, but don’t drink it, not pure. Never know who you’ll run into at those springs after dark. Parties been known to get a little wild, late nights.” The clerk grinned. “Just what I’ve heard.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Gotta get these bent ribs healing faster, Gillom decided, after banging around in stagecoaches these past three days. So he took a towel and soap from his room, exited the hotel, and stopped in a saloon to order a bottle. The bar’s business was just starting to pick up as the day shift from the mines got off work, so the youth got his whiskey without being bothered about his age. With his hat pulled down and towel tucked under his arm, he set off north up the main street of Clifton along the west side of the river, trying to disappear into the crowd. He noticed the street was dirty, empty cans and rubbish around, for this town evidently had no sewers or trash collection. He wanted to get to the springs about dusk so he wouldn’t have to bumble around in the dark without a light, trying to find a bathing spot.

  As he hiked the dirt road north toward the mines higher up in Morenci, Gillom wondered how this river got its name, San Francisco? It couldn’t run across this wild territory all the way from that major city in northern California?

  Two boys were using slingshots made of y-shaped pieces of wood with rubber innertube attached to rocket small stones across the river from its east side, trying to hit the tin roofs of houses in North Clifton, the best residential area. The boys didn’t shoot at him when Gillom approached what looked like an old wooden ranch house back among the trees, away from the riverbank. Several rock pools were spaced alongside the river thirty yards or so apart and he could see wisps of steam rising from the biggest of them. Gillom sat and began pulling off his boots and dirty socks. He was careful to keep his holstered guns within reach as he removed shirt and pants, but kept his long johns on for decency’s sake.

  “You youngsters git on home, or your mothers will paddle you for being late for supper!” Two heads jerked up like otters’ in his direction, and then realizing he was right, the youths scampered off toward town. As darkness fell, Gillom had the springs to himself, some peace and quiet at last, after several long, confusing weeks. He stuck his foot in the water, agitating more steam and bubbles from the bottom.

  “Ahhhh.…” A sigh bubbled up from deep within as he levered his body into the mineralized waters. It was warm, not too hot, just the right temperature to take some of the ache out of his sore muscles, if not his heart. He tasted a drop and found it salty. Gosh this feels good, just what the doctor ordered. He smiled. This water north of town looked fresher, cleaner, for slag from the Arizona Copper Company was granulated and dumped next to their smelter. Gillom had seen it massed along the riverbank in Clifton, leaving the river water there dirty. He gave the underwear on him a good soaping, trying to cleanse his body and socks along with his mind.

  Lights were coming on in town, the amber glow of coal oil lamps and some that looked to be brighter electric. The electric age had reached even remote Clifton. Then, a whistling in the night. Someone’s coming! It was an old cow tune about Texas he vaguely recognized. A tall man in a cowboy hat he could barely make out against the darker backdrop of the town’s mountains wandered up.

  “Mind if I join you in the spring, pardner?”

  “Nope.” Gillom put the soap down and rested his free left hand next to a holstered Remington. He still wore his big hat, so he might go unidentified.

  “Long ride up from Silver City, where they celebrated these hot springs.”

  “Good for saddle sores,” Gillom agreed.

  “Yep. I became fond of hot springs breaking horses over in New Mexico, up in the mountains.”

  Gillom squinted in the gathering darkness, trying to make out the stranger’s face.

  “Which mountains?”

  “San Andres. Little horse ranch up top run by a compadre. Pretty country up there.”

  “Sam Graham! Thought I recognized your voice!”

  Graham was partially undressed but he hesitated, naturally cautious due to his popularity with law enforcement. “Who?”

  “Gillom Rogers, you bandido!”

  “Gillom! You young sonofagun, still kickin’!” Sam Graham splashed into the hot pool in his long johns, gave the teenager a wet abrazo.

  “What the hell you doin’ up here, Sam? Thought you were headed back to Texas?”

  Blackjack’s older brother settled down into the hot spring up to his neck.

  “Kid, I told everybody where I was really goin’, I’d a-been bushwhacked long ago for the reward money on me. So I usually tell ’em someplace, then head the opposite direction. Thought you went to Bisbee?”

  Gillom uncorked his whiskey bottle and took a sharp swallow. “Knew I brought this bottle along to celebrate somethin’.” He passed it over to his outlaw friend. “I was in Bisbee. But a pal and I got into a gunfight and killed some jaspers who ambushed us one night. Couple of ’em were miners, and that caused me to get run out of town by the .45-.60, their Safety Committee. Had a nice job, too, guardin’ their bank, and was makin’ a name for myself around town.” The teenager removed his hat and even in the dark Sam could see he looked peaked.

  “Vigilantes! Sonsabitches! Those .45-60’s just do the copper companies’ bidding, beating and killing and running any folks they don’t like right out of their tight-assed town, to hell with any laws to the contrary. They’re notorious across the West.”

  “But you recommended Bisbee to me, Sam.”

  “Well, you wanted an honest job and Bisbee is boomin’. Gene Rhodes didn’t want you ridin’ the outlaw trail with me. You heard him chew me out, Gillom, and I don’t cross my friend, Gene. But I didn’t tell you to go shoot anybody there.” The tall Texan took another big swallow and passed the bottle back.

  “How is Gene?”

  “Feistier’n a snared bobcat. We busted a last cavvy of green broncs and drove ’em down to the Bar Cross for summer roundup after you left, and I branded their cows a couple weeks, which I don’t like doin’ much, jus’ for travelin’ money. Then I drifted west, Lordsburg, up to Silver City, lookin’ for employment.” Even in the moonlight, Gillom could see the outlaw wink. “Gene’s back down in Tularosa, cuddling wife and new baby.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  Graham shook his head, spread his hands wide, fu
ll of no answer. “Jus’ know they welcomed one.”

  “What brings you to Clifton, Sam?”

  “Oh, this is reputed to be some wild place, so I had to see it. Lotta money runs through these eastside saloons from these miners. Kid Louis and his strong-armed band of rustlers used to rule this remote mining district. They got a few Laws in Clifton and Morenci, but they ain’t as effective as Bisbee’s. No vigilantes up here.”

  “Glad to hear that. I noticed nearly everyone’s packin’ a pistol. I came up lookin’ for my girlfriend. She’s a cute Mex, Anel Romero. Met her dancin’ in the Red Light Saloon. She doesn’t even know I got fired from the bank; she just disappeared on a Friday night one week ago. Left all her clothes behind in Bisbee, no word for me or her roommate. I’m afraid she might have been kidnapped by a pimp up here, Luther Goose. He runs a whorehouse, the Blue Goose. Bastard was leaning on Anel to come work for him, probably not dancin’.”

  “So why don’t you go there tonight, see if she’s in?”

  “Those three guys we shot in Bisbee were his bodyguards, following his orders to kill us. Luther Goose had me roughed up twice and I ain’t laid a finger on him. Those jaspers were wrestlers, bruised a few ribs, wrenched my arm. That’s what I’m doin’ in these hot springs, tryin’ to heal up.”

  Sam Graham seemed to soften, his blue eyes almost melancholy in the moonlight.

  “Wasn’t that just the best place, those hot springs on Gene’s ranch? Only thing we had to worry about up in those mountains was getting’ bucked off.”

  “Sure was. Gunfighter trainin’ with you, Sam, an’ listening to Mister Rhodes’s wisdom. Like going to school.”

  The older outlaw nodded. “What do you aim to do about this gal then, whether or not she’s now in the soiled sisterhood?”

  “Well, just got into town today on the stage. Stayin’ at the hotel. Thought I’d ask some questions, quietly, keep my head down. Don’t dare go into the Blue Goose. Minute Luther spots me, he’ll try to gun me again. I saw him brace a crooked faro dealer in the Bonanza in Bisbee, where my buddy bartended. Goose is one mean, loudmouthed pimp.”

  Sam Graham stared at his young friend a long moment, took another philosophical sip of cheap whiskey. “How many men you killed now, Gillom?”

  “Uh, let’s see.… Six.”

  “Whaddya think about that?”

  “Well, J. B. Books said he never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and that’s my feelin’, too. Just defendin’ myself from some bad sonsaguns who were tryin’ to make me bleed. Gunfightin’ sure is excitin’, Sam, but not very pleasant business. Killin’ isn’t somethin’ I want to make a livin’ off doin’. Mister Books warned me not to expect a long life if I did much of it.”

  “He was right. Most of us robbers and pistoleros harbor some kind of death wish. Got to or we wouldn’t keep at it, for it ain’t easy work. How old are you?”

  “Just turned eighteen.”

  “Umm … well, you’re no longer some green gun kid, that’s for sure. What’d you finally name your two Remingtons?”

  “I didn’t. Just a foolish whim.”

  The outlaw nodded, took another sip. Gillom realized he wasn’t getting his money’s worth out of his whiskey, for Sam was drinking most of it.

  “This girl, she really worth causin’ more bloodlettin’ death for, if you can find her?”

  There was no hesitation. “You bet. We decided pretty quick we were in love.”

  Sam Graham raised his borrowed bottle to his young pal. “Then to love, wherever her pretty ass may be.”

  Gillom walked Sam back to the Clifton Hotel, up the back stairs to his room so they could look at photographs of Anel he’d paid for in Bisbee. He even showed him the picture of them kissing, which the outlaw appreciated. Sam was saving money by brush camping until he got better acquainted with this tough town, nearly hidden between these wild, mineral-laden mountains. Gillom’s sore ribs felt better after their soak, but he still needed a good night’s rest after his long travels. He offered to buy his outlaw friend breakfast tomorrow and they parted on their first night together again with a strong handshake.

  * * *

  Gillom met Sam Graham over a late breakfast in Jim Mammon’s Chinese Café. He liked its curtained booths, so nosy people couldn’t watch you eat or overhear what you were talking about. Breakfast was standard American, eggs or pancakes, nothing Chinese-flavored.

  “Didn’t spot her in the Blue Goose last night, Gillom, or a couple other saloons thought I should check. ’Course I wasn’t flashin’ her picture around you gave me, or mentioning Anel’s name. No sense warning this bad hombre you’re searchin’.”

  “I’ll put word out, quietly, if I’m gonna get anywhere tracking her. I shouldn’t be seen around town with you, Sam. You’re my undercover man.”

  “Where will we meet up, to exchange news?”

  “Hot springs again, dusk. My ribs are still achin’, so I can use a hot soak every day.”

  “Me, too,” agreed the outlaw. “Whaddya gonna do today, kid?”

  “I need a haircut, and more pain liniment. I’ll show her photograph to the druggist and the barber. They have lots of customers. I’ll stay out of the saloons, better lie low. Don’t want to get shot in the back in broad daylight, just walkin’ around.”

  Sam grinned. “Me, either. I gotta buy some clothes, get these dirty ones cleaned. Then I’ll be out in the brush, nappin’. Had a late night.” He winked and Gillom smiled for the second time since he’d run into his outlaw pal again. He couldn’t quite believe it, having breakfast in public with a very wanted man.

  “Breakfast’s on me. Thanks for your help, Sam. I probably couldn’t find her without you. You leave first, so I can talk to this waiter.”

  The handsome outlaw nodded and got up to part the velvet curtains for a peek. “Dusk. Hot springs.”

  Gillom took the time to get his Chinese waiter’s name, Young Ah Gin. He showed him Anel’s photograph.

  “Sorry. No see.”

  * * *

  It was the same at the avenue barbershop where he got his long blond hair cut shorter, even indulged in his first professional shave, had his sparse mustache trimmed. His skin felt good, clean, and the tonic Mr. Springer slapped on his face woke him fully up. No, the barber hadn’t seen anyone who looked like Anel. But he only served men. Mexican women, he didn’t pay much attention to.

  Gillom bought more Tiger Balm at the apothecary’s for his sore ribs, then slipped into the back hall to rub it on under his shirt. Its sharp odor clashed with his bracing face tonic, so anyone could really smell him coming. A bottle on a back shelf caught his eye, Casonet’s Candy Cathartic. TRAIN YOUR BOWELS TO DO RIGHT! the label shouted. “Constipation leads to lethargic liver and eventually, Bright’s Disease,” it warned. Whatever that was?

  Maybe that’s my problem, Gillom thought. My bowels are tied up from riding these stagecoaches. Everything’s bottled up inside me, and it’s going to make me crazy if I don’t calm down. The druggist agreed a good laxative never hurt, so the teenager bought a small bottle and chewed a candy. The young, bespectacled druggist shook his head looking at Anel’s picture. She wasn’t a customer.

  Gillom was smart: he decided to rest in his hotel room that afternoon, where he wasn’t far from the lavatory, right down the hall.

  Thirty-seven

  “Reverend New!” Bond Rogers greeted her pastor as he came out of the Fair dry goods store in downtown El Paso with a wrapped bundle under his arm. The widow crossed the dirt street, pausing until one of the city’s street trolleys passed, pulled by Mandy the mule.

  “Missus Rogers. Nice to see you, dear. Another hot day, is it not?” He mopped his brow with a handerchief. “Feels like I’m being punished for my sins.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “We are summering in Hell.”

  The Reverend smiled in spite of his rectitude. “Let’s hope not.”

  “I just heard from Gillom. He wrote to say he was heading home soon, when h
is affairs in Arizona are tied up. He missed his young friends and hoped to be back here before school starts in the fall.”

  “Capital! If they let him back in Central School. Has he shot anybody yet?”

  Bond Rogers was taken aback. “I don’t think so. Gillom’s working in Bisbee as a bank guard.”

  The parson placed a finger to his pursed lips. “Ahhh. Bank guard. So he found those missing guns, Books’s revolvers?”

  The mention of those unlucky guns again flustered Bond. “I don’t know. Gillom must have gotten a gun to guard a bank, but certainly nothing to go to jail in Bisbee for.”

  Reverend New favored her with a righteous smile. “For God shall bring every work into judgment with every secret thing, whether it be good or whether it be evil.”

  Gillom’s mother frowned and turned away, not even wishing her pastor a good day.

  “When he returns, Missus Rogers, remember, spare not the rod from the wayward evildoer! See Marshal Thibido if you need help!”

  * * *

  Another quirk about this mining town crammed into a canyon was its lack of sunlight. Gillom noticed the surrounding mountains of the Gila Range cut off its sun for many hours, so Clifton got fewer hours of daylight even during longer summer days. Almost half a normal day this tough town rested in shade, which was perhaps symbolic of its violent reputation, which he’d heard about. For throughout the 1890s, a corpse a day was often pulled out of this bullet-riddled canyon.

  Unlike in Bisbee, the sixty-five Chinese in Clifton were allowed to reside in town and they stuck together for safety, most residing in shanty houses pitched together on the riverbank. Their real socializing, tong meetings, and pleasurable interludes took place in a network of caves and tunnels the celestials had dug underneath their houses, where they were wont to retire evenings for a peaceful pipeful. Fat Choy, who’d gotten his name from a Chinese New Year’s greeting—“Gung hoy fat choy,” or “Good fortune”—was indeed fat and jolly to the white citizens who knew him, but his real good fortune came from running the biggest opium den in town.