Wheeler's Choice

by Jerry Buck

  I fired one shot.

  The man grunted, discharged his pistol into the ground, and toppled over the side. He landed heavily by the foot of the ladder and lay still.

  I looked around cautiously before turning the body over.

  It wasn’t Bayliss.

  I edged around the feed shed next to the windmill and looked toward the front of the stable. Bayliss had to be nearby.

  I worked my way to the door of the stable and peered in. Several lamps cast a yellowish glow, but most of the cavernous interior of the big barn was pitch black. Because of the danger of fire, Ham Bell had only a few lanterns in the stable.

  “I’m comin’ in after you, Bayliss!’’ I called.

  I threw myself into the darkened barn. I landed on my right hip and shoulder and rolled until I hit the side of a horse stall. A horse whinnied nervously and thumped a hoof onto the ground. The interior smelled of hay and horses and grain and manure.

  I looked around the end of the stall. There was no movement except for the stamping of frightened horses.

  “Bayliss!’’ I called.

  My answer was a hail of lead.

  Bullets splintered the wooden stall. More than one gun was firing. I figured Bayliss had at least two more men with him.

  The horse in the stall next to me panicked. It kicked at the side, and each kick sounded like gunfire.

  “Texican! You gonna meet your maker!’’ Bayliss shouted from the darkness.

  “That’s what you said in San Miguel!’’ I shouted back.

  “I knowed it! When you come askin’ for me and Bill Smoot—I knowed it! I shoulda finished th’ job when I had you in my sights!’’

  “I’m here to finish it for you!’’ I called as I flipped open the loading gate on the right side of the cylinder. I pulled the hammer back two clicks to half-cock. I pushed out the two spent shells with the ejector and slid in three .45 cartridges up to the rim. As a safety measure I always kept the hammer on an empty chamber. I now had a full load of six.

  I had to draw Bayliss out where I could see him.

  “This the way you settle your quarrels, Kid?’’ I said. “Hiding in a barn with two men to back you up? I thought you fancied yourself a shootist.’’

  Bayliss quickly answered, “I’m yore match an’ more any day, Texican!”

  “Bayliss,” I sneered, “you shoot women and unarmed men. Doc Holliday knew a brave gunfighter like you was hiding in a barn, he’d laugh himself silly. You ain’t nothing but a dirty little coward! A yella-bellied, back-shootin’ coward!”

  Bayliss screamed and fired a volley of shots at the same time.

  “You son of a bitch! Kill the bastard! Kill ’im!”

  Lead flew all around me. Bullets bit into the wooden stalls and ricocheted off the ground. I hugged the ground and was showered with wood splinters.

  The gunfire drove the horse in the stall beside me into a frenzy. It lunged wildly forward, tearing the gate off its hinges.

  The horse plunged into the dark area of the barn.

  I was right behind the horse. Bayliss hadn’t shown himself yet. He needed a target!

  I was going to smoke him out!

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I ran out behind the horse. I tried to avoid his flying hooves, but I also wanted to stay close enough to deny Bayliss and his friends a clear shot. In a moment the horse would turn and run to the other end of the barn, or a bullet would knock him down.

  Either way, I would be exposed to three guns.

  At the first shot, the horse abruptly spun around. He nearly ran me down charging to the front of the barn.

  I was an easy target, standing in the open center of the stable. There was enough light from the lanterns for anyone to see me. But I couldn’t see anyone hiding in the shadows.

  I debated. Should I stand and slug it out, or should I do the prudent thing and dive for protection into one of the horse stalls?

  It was eerily quiet in the barn after the shot that sent the horse running away. Even the horses were still.

  I was in the open. Why didn’t Bayliss take advantage of it?

  “Bayliss!” I called. “Stand and show yourself like a man!”

  In answer, a form emerged from the dark at the back of the livery stable.

  I had my gun ready. At least I would get one of them.

  The man walked toward me into the light.

  It was the Kid!

  Kid Bayliss looked at me and said, “Here I am, Texican.”

  His gun was in his holster.

  Bayliss stopped about twenty feet away. He was shorter than I remembered. His lean body was tense. His right hand hung loosely by his gun butt.

  “Where your pals?” I asked.

  He said, “Why dontcha ask yore pals!”

  A voice called from the rear of the barn. “Ben, it’s me. Alamo and Dusty. We got his two friends here.”

  Two men stepped out of the shadows into the light. Their hands were held high and their holsters were empty. Alamo and Dusty walked behind them with drawn guns.

  “We heard the shootin’ an’ figgered you might be in trouble,” Dusty explained.

  “Came in the back way and found these Jayhawkers tryin’ a ambush ya,” added Alamo.

  “Thanks,” I said, dropping my gun back into its holster. “I guess I could use some help, after all.”

  I turned my attention to Bayliss and said, “Kid, looks like it’s just me and you.”

  He sneered. “That supposed to scare me?”

  Even in the dim light I could see his eyes. They picked up highlights from the lanterns. Mean eyes. Killer eyes. Shifting here and there, calculating the odds and figuring how to win an advantage.

  I said, “I didn’t come here to scare you. I came here to kill you.”

  “Then les have at it!”

  “I’m going to give you an even break,” I said. “That’s more’n you gave my wife when you shot her in cold blood in that bank in San Miguel.”

  Bayliss laughed a cheerless cackle. “Reckon you plannin’ to talk me to death.”

  I said, “Grab your piece anytime you feel lucky.”

  Then I fell silent, sizing him up. I kept my eyes riveted to his. As badly as I wanted him, I wasn’t going to go for my gun first. I knew from experience the man who wins a gunfight is the man who takes his time and doesn’t allow himself to be hurried.

  His eyes gave him away.

  I caught the flicker a split second before his right hand flashed to his gun. It was a Colt Artillery model with a five-and-a-half-inch barrel. The shorter barrel made for a faster draw.

  He had the gun out of the holster quicker than a wink.

  His thumb automatically pulled the hammer back as he brought the gun up. The click was clearly audible. His finger slipped onto the trigger.

  The gun arched upward.

  It seemed that time had stopped.

  My own gun was already in my hand, cocked and aimed squarely at his chest.

  CRACK!

  My bullet slammed into Bayliss.

  His eyes registered surprise. No one had ever beaten him to the draw before.

  CRACK!

  Eighty grains of lead punctured Bayliss’s forehead right between his killer eyes. It blew the back of his skull off.

  In a final death twitch, he fired his gun. The bullet thudded harmlessly into the ground.

  The impact of my bullets carried him backward. Bayliss landed in a pile of manure.

  His two friends were bug-eyed, fearful I would turn on them next.

  Alamo, reading their thoughts, asked, “What’ll we do with these two bushwhackers, Ben?”

  “Turn ’em over to the marshal,” I said, holstering my gun. “My quarrel was with Bayliss.”

  “I never seed anythin’ so fast in my life, Mr. Wheeler,” Dusty said. “Lightnin’ ain’t even that fast!”

  Alamo said, “Bayliss thought he was fast. There’s allus somebody down the trail who’s faster. Bayliss met that man.”r />
  I remember walking out of the stable and crossing the Santa Fe tracks.

  The noise from the saloons and the activity on the streets was deafening, yet I was lost in my own thoughts.

  I passed the Alamo, the Lone Star, the Alhambra. I looked in the Long Branch. Chalk Beeson’s orchestra was belting out some tune. I backed out and kept walking.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, I found myself in front of the little Union church on the edge of town. The church was locked. I stood on the front stoop for a long time, just staring up at the sky. A shooting star arched across the sky.

  At last the tears came, and I said a silent prayer for Abby. I had killed the man who robbed her of life, but it would never bring her back.

  The next day at the Long Branch my money was no good.

  If I tried to pay for a round, Alamo or Pete or one of the boys grabbed my hand and said, “This ’un’s on me, Ben.”

  There were plenty of rounds. Dusty’s account became more colorful with each telling. And Dusty never seemed to tire of telling it again and again.

  “I seen it with my own eyes,” he said. “Mr. Wheeler charged into that Elephant Stable with his gun a-blazin’. Them varmints didn’t have a chance. It were better’n any dime novel I ever read. Mr. Wheeler traded shot for shot with ’em. He never flinched once. Then he was eyeball-to-eyeball with Kid Bayliss. The Kid had his gun out, but slicker’n bear grease Mr. Wheeler drawed his gun and taken ’im. He put two shots into the Kid. Wham! Bam!

  I protested, but Dusty’s embroidered version was accepted as fact.

  Dusty and Alamo had saved my life, but neither seemed to realize it. Dusty had me conquering all three men single-handedly. But Dusty himself had acted heroically in entering the barn in the dark, and he wasn’t even aware of it. I tried to give him proper credit, but neither he nor anyone else would listen. I’m afraid Dusty had read too many Ned Buntline books.

  Chalk Beeson’s little orchestra played “Yellow Rose of Texas,” and Chalk sent over a round of drinks on the house.

  Later, after more rounds of drinks, I noticed Dusty was no longer with us. Concerned that the liquor might have made him ill, I asked Alamo.

  Alamo chuckled. “I think he’s gone dove huntin’,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Man builds up a powerful urge on the trail,” he said. “Even a boy just leamin’ how to be a man.”

  Still later a gaunt man with a drooping mustache, dressed completely in black except for his stiff white shirt, came to our table. He wore a marshal’s badge.

  “Name’s Wyatt Earp,” he said. “Like to talk to ya ’bout last night.”

  Earp and I sat down at a back table, and the barkeep brought us a bottle. Earp poured us each a glassful.

  “Just got back from Hays,” he said. “Bat told me what happened. Like to hear it from you.”

  I told him how I had been bushwhacked outside the Varieties and ended up killing Bayliss in Ham Bell’s livery stable. I told the story simply, step by step.

  “It ain’t no secret you been lookin’ for Bayliss,” he said. “You done ever’thing but put a notice in the Ford County Globe. What’s your business with Bayliss—and Smoot and Rollins?”

  I finished my drink and said, “Back in April, Smoot, Bayliss, Rollins, and Montana Smith robbed the Stockman’s Bank down in San Miguel, Texas. I practice law in an office over the bank. My wife had just left my office and went downstairs into the bank. She had the misfortune to walk in during the robbery, and Bayliss shot her in cold blood.”

  Earp said, “I took him for a no ’count. Never figgered he was a woman killer to boot.”

  “They hightailed it outa town—but not before I wounded Montana Smith,” I continued. “I finished the job on him later that night when we caught up to him holed up in a line shack. To make a long story short, I rode north with Angus Finlay’s cattle drive to find the rest and bring ’em to justice. You know I found Bayliss. I’ll find Smoot and Rollins, too.”

  Earp looked at me, then said, “Mighty fancy shootin’ for a lawyer.”

  “I wasn’t always a lawyer,” I said. “Used to marshal over in Colchester.”

  His fist hit the table, rattling the bottle and glasses.

  “That’s where I know your name!” he said. “Been gnawin’ at me ever since you hit town!”

  I said, “I put my cards on the table, Marshal. How about you? You fixing to charge me with anything?”

  For the first time I saw the hint of a smile on his thin, hard face.

  “Charge ya with what?” he asked. “Defendin’ y’self? Engagin’ in a fair fight? If I left it to the town council, they’d probably pin a medal on ya. Kid Bayliss was a public nuisance. Sooner or later he was gonna kill somebody—or git hisself kilt. I might have done the job myself. Word was he already had a couple of killin’s notched on his gun butt. You done a public service.”

  After a moment, Earp added, “’Sides, you can’t fault a man for avengin’ his family, ’s a man’s duty. Been my wife, I’d track ’em to the gates of hell—and kill ’em two steps inside!”

  I said, “The job’s not done. You know where Smoot or Rollins might be hiding out?”

  Earp leaned back in his chair. “Rollins I can’t help you with. He used to run the three-monte game over at the Alamo. But he skedaddled outa town like a scalded dog soon’s he heard from Luke Short you was askin’ about ’im. Now that’s a piece of work, Luke Short. Too bad you ain’t got no quarrel with ’im. Anyways, Doc Holliday seems to think Rollins headed back to the riverboats.”

  I nodded and said, “Only thing I hear about Smoot is that he’s developed an interest in railroads.”

  “The kind that carry greenbacks in the express car,” Earp said.

  He spread his hands and added, “But that’s outside my jurisdiction. Still, I pick up things. Train was robbed outside of Hutchinson last month. Folks seem to think Smoot had a hand in it. Makes ’em edgy here ’bout. Dodge ain’t got no banks. So we gotta send our spare cash back to Leavenworth on the Santa Fe. Mighty temptin’ to a man with Smoot’s callin’.”

  As I started to leave, Earp asked, “By the way, what you want me to do with them two yahoos that was with Bayliss? I’d like to hang ’em, but I don’t think the judge’d approve.”

  I shrugged. “Let ’em cool their heels in the lockup for a spell. Then I’d show ’em the county line.”

  Angus forked another helping of wild pheasant onto his plate and said, “Glad you talked me into eatin’ at the Great Western, Ben. Mrs. Galland sets a fine spread. Don’t remember the last time I tasted buffalo.”

  “The turkey’s not bad, either,” I said. “Wild game’s the specialty of the house.”

  “Tasty,” he said, “but I’ll be hanged if I’ll drink the lemonade.”

  I smiled and said, “You had a few toddies before I could drag you over here.”

  Angus put down his fork. I could tell from the serious expression on his face what was coming.

  “Ben, about the other night—”

  “Angus,” I said, “you’re heading back to San Miguel in the morning. I hope you’re not going to lecture me our last evening together.”

  “No lecture, I promise you,” he said. He picked up his fork and poked at the food on his plate.

  “Ben, you killed that fella Bayliss. He was the one what shot Abby. Why don’t you come back to San Miguel with me? Pick up your law practice. I’ll back you for the legislature. Who knows, maybe you could be in the governor’s chair one day.”

  He shoved the plate aside, reached for the lemonade, and took a swallow. “Look at what you got me doin’, Ben.” He made a face. “I’m not gettin’ any younger. I’ve got to start lookin’ for someone to take over the Lazy A. Come in as my partner. Whatta y’say?”

  I thought for a minute.

  “I’d say that’s a mighty temptin’ offer, Angus, and I’m touched. If Abby were alive, you wouldn’t have to ask me twice. But you and I
are alike, Angus. Neither one of us walks away from unfinished business.”

  “I figgered that’d be your answer,” he said, disappointed.

  “After I get this settled—if the offer’s still open—who knows?”

  Angus sighed. “You said we was alike, Ben. I don’t know. I’m leavin’ in the morning, and I’ve got to leave behind some unfinished business.”

  “What you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. This wasn’t like Angus at all.

  “Dusty Morgan’s not ridin’ back with us,” he said sadly. “I’m afraid he’s fallen into the clutches of a calico queen.”

  “Dusty?” This was surprising news, but then I remembered what Alamo had said.

  It was also distressing news. The hard-hearted harlots of Dodge City were notorious for milking naive cowboys of their trail money—and then dumping them.

  “He says he’s in love,” Angus said. “I say it’s just a lot of adolescent moonin’ by a lad tryin’ to prove his manhood.”

  I asked, “You want me to look into it?”

  “I was hopin’ you’d say that. But please,” he said, waving a hand, “don’t shoot the vanquished virgin.”

  “Now, look! What—” I started to protest, then broke into laughter.

  “You old goat! I bit for that one!”

  Angus, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, said, “Let’s order some coffee and gooseberry pie, and I’ll tell you where to find our young Lothario.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The second-floor hallway over the Alhambra Saloon ran straight from front to back in shotgun fashion. It was illuminated by a single, flickering lantern, as apparently suited its nefarious purposes.

  In keeping with that, I had come up the backstairs and jimmied a window to get in.

  Angus had asked me to keep an eye on Dusty, and I was not one to stand by and let a friend stick his head into a noose. Dusty was still a naive kid and unlikely to recognize the ruses of an experienced hussy. He would mistake her flirtation for true love.

  I was about to give him a rude lesson in love.

  Dusty had not hesitated to come to my aid. Here I was coming, unasked, to his. This was much more risky than gunplay. Dusty’s pride was at stake. There was imminent danger I could lose a friend.