by Lou Bradshaw
At midnight they took a break, and food and coffee were brought in. A bar with hard liquor had been there since the beginning. Some were drinking much more than they needed to, and one of them was among the leaders. I wondered how long his skill would match his luck.
After about thirty minutes, when everyone was somewhat refreshed, and all necessities had been taken care of, play resumed. By one thirty, Izzy was among the top three players… there were only three players left. The heavy drinker was still alive and well. By two o’clock, Izzy and one of the mine owners had cleaned the, by then, drunk out.
For the next two hours the battle raged back and forth across the table. The mine owner got stupid a couple of times and was down about a third of what he had been at his best. He was looking none too good and Izzy asked, “Do you need a break, Mr. Cleavland?”
“Little lady, I thought you’d never ask. Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“You should have said something… I’m always ready for a break.”
“Well, darlin’ you were on a streak, and I wouldn’t have been much of a gentleman to wreck your luck just because of my miscomfort, now would I?”
“How gallant… who said chivalry is dead?” then she gave him a peck on the cheek. She batted her eyes and asked, “Do you want to continue or are you willing to call it a game?”
“To be frank, I feel like hell, and if I stay at it, you’ll have it all in no time.”
So the game had ended with no bloodshed and Izzy had about forty five hundred to the good after her buy in. I’d won nearly five hundred on side bets with the other invited guests. So it was a highly profitable evening.
Later that morning… actually, it was early afternoon, we were talking over breakfast, “What do you think, Max? Should we get out while we’re ahead?” she asked.
“My thoughts exactly.” I told her. “Where would you like to go next….Cheyenne, Kansas City, or somewhere else?”
“I think I’d like to see Cheyenne… I’d been thinking of going to Cheyenne for a month or two, then back here for a bit… Then we could work our way south to San Antonio for the winter.”
That sounded perfect to me and I told her so.
A week later we were standing in front of the stage station waiting to board the early stage for Cheyenne. The sun wasn’t quite up yet and they were loading luggage into the boot by lantern light, when a man stepped out of the shadows.
“Morning Miss Dorry.” He said.
I didn’t recognize him at first due to the shadows and the overall gloom. He was tall, thin, and looked pretty grubby, but he was holding a sixgun in his right hand… and it was pointed at me.
He stood about ten feet away. He took a step forward into the yellow lantern light. Despite his overall rundown look and the ragged beard he wore, I knew John Slack when I saw him.
“I missed Blue on the trail, but I got you, boy. That’ll have to be enough.”
I took a step away from Izzy. Then I lifted my walking stick and pointed it in his general direction.
“Whatta you expect to do with that, hit me in the throat again? You won’t never get close enough. You’ll be dead before you can get to me.”
“I’m not going to hit you with this, but I’m gonna blow your stupid ugly face off”.
I left it at that. I didn’t tell him how, nor did I elaborate. I just let his imagination take over, and it did. He moved his feet as if to take as step, and then he straightened himself and stood taller. So I tilted the cane a little higher. In the dim light, I could see his mind working; his tongue touched his lower lip. I remembered that from playing cards with him… he did that on a bluff.
His eyes went from the cane to my face and back again… His eyes were moving, but the fool had his pistol pointed at the cane. That’s where he saw the danger. His weapon was ignoring the man who held the danger. He didn’t want to die. Dying wasn’t part of his plan; killing was his plan. He couldn’t conceive of himself dying…. Other people died. He was a sure thing killer. If he hadn’t wanted to torment me, he’d have shot me from a hundred yards off and in the back.
I could see that he didn’t want to believe it, but he was afraid not to believe it. It made me think of people who had doubts about religion, they can’t logically justify God, but they’re afraid not to believe in Him. John Slack was about to find out for sure.
Now he was sweating. I could almost smell the fear coming from him. No one wants to be torn apart at close range by a shotgun blast. His eyes were betraying him; he couldn’t keep his eyes off my walking stick. I thought that any half second he would turn and run like the coward he was, but that would only mean I’d have to keep looking over my shoulder. He started to move, and I didn’t care if it was to shoot or run.
He was still staring at that walking stick, when I made my move. He must have seen my move out of the tail of his eye because at that moment he tried to correct himself and put his attention on the man and not the stick. I could see it in his face… he knew he had lost… he knew he was going to die. In one smooth motion, I slid my Colt from the holster, raised it, and shot him at the base of the throat. His weapon exploded and put a gash in the side of the stage to my left.
I turned to Izzy, and she stood transfixed staring at what used to be John Slack laying face up on the boardwalk in a pool of blood that was starting to form. She turned and looked up at me, and then she put her pistol back into her purse and said, “Are we ready to go?” Poor stupid John, even if he had killed me, he would never have walked away alive.
“Almost.” I said and turned to the stage agent. “You can tell the law that his name is John Slack, and there’s paper on him from the US Marshals’ Office all up and down the line. If there’s any questions, contact Deputy US Marshal, Ben Blue of Taos, New Mexico. I’ll be in Cheyenne” Then I took Izzy’s hand and helped her into the coach.
We were clear of the city limits before Izzy stopped shaking and recovered her voice. “Max, when did you have that walking stick converted to a shotgun?”
“This old thing?” I said and I tapped it two or three times on the floorboards causing her to flinch each time. “No my dear… this is something I learned from our mutual friend… it’s called misdirection.”
The End
About the Author
Lou Bradshaw is a lifelong story teller, who spent most of his life as a commercial illustrator and graphic artist. Deadlines, clients, and vendors were all sources of sleep depriving stress. To combat insomnia, he would often create stories in his mind to take the place of what was bothering him. Soon, some of those stories had grown to the point that they needed to be put on paper. Taking up a felt tip pen and a loose leaf binder, he found something new, challenging, and exciting. He soon filled multiple binders and his distraction had become a passion. Upon retirement, he began assembling notes and scribbles into novels… the rest is history.
One of the unique features of his work is that as a dyslectic child, he was considered either slow or lazy by most of his teachers.
Lou and his wife Avon live in the Missouri Ozarks, where they enjoy the great outdoors, golf, and their grandchildren.
Visit me on Facebook at Lou Bradshaw Artist – Author or www.facebook.com/loubradshawarts.
Also check out my blog “Your Daily Dose of Nonsense” at
Lou Bradshaw.BlogSpot.com