The Christmas Trespassers

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “I would appreciate it even if some other jackrabbit out there won’t.”

  Connors smiled again.

  “Sit down and enjoy your smoke while we check the sentries.”

  “I’m beholden again for your hospitality.”

  A breathless trooper Davis soon returned and reported.

  “All sentries okay . . . and awake, sir.”

  “Good. I guess we can relax a mite for the time being.”

  The troopers seemed to unflex and some of them lit up cigar stubs, rolled up cigarette papers, and fired up their pipes.

  Connors’s Irish blue eyes were aimed at the Wise Old Man.

  “Coolidge said you had a bagful of tall tales. It’s early yet. You want to pull one out of that bag and spin it . . . maybe one we’ll enjoy in this situation?”

  “Well,” the Wise Old Man inhaled from the meerschaum, “I don’t know how much you’ll enjoy it, but it does rather put me in mind of another group and another fellow . . . some call it ‘Blazing Guns of the Bible.’”

  “How the hell can that be?” Sergeant Seth Coolidge remarked. “There wasn’t any guns during Bible times.”

  “No, not exactly, but did any of you hear about a man called Jason Evers . . . sometimes known as the ‘Silent Gun’?”

  There was a negative response from the troopers.

  “Go ahead and tell us about this so-called Silent Gun,” Connors nodded.

  “Well, Jason Evers had a reputation as what is known as a gunfighter, or pistolero, or shootist. And that reputation was somewhat unsavory. Evers’s gun was for hire, sometimes as a bounty hunter on the side of the law and sometimes on the other side . . . more often than not.

  “Every story’s got to have a start and finish. This one may well have begun in a flyspeck of a Kansas town when a young lad named Jason Evers walked into that town carrying all his earthly possessions in a bag slung over one of his broad-beamed shoulders. It was evident that he had walked a long way.

  “Three brothers swaggered out between the batwings of a saloon. It was easily discerned that they were brothers by their pig eyes imbedded in their porcine faces. They were the dregs of the Casper clan—in descending order: Rafe, Ralph, and Rodger, each over six feet and weighing fifteen or sixteen stone.

  “Rafe stepped in front of Jason, while Ralph and Rodger flanked him.

  “‘Who you, boy?’ Rafe grunted.

  “No response.

  “‘Never seen you before,’ Ralph noted.

  “Jason didn’t speak.

  “‘We’re the welcomin’ committee,’ Ralph barked.

  “‘Talk to the “welcomin’ committee.”’ Rodger grinned. Even their voices sounded the same as they taunted.

  “‘Hey, boy, you look at your betters when they’re talkin’—you hear?’

  “‘Maybe he can’t hear. Maybe he don’t talk. Maybe he’s a dummy.’

  “‘What you got in that bag, dummy? Let’s have a look.’

  “Rafe took a step closer and grabbed for the bag. But Jason brought up a lightning fist and knocked him flat on his back. The other two jumped in swinging at the youth, and they became a whirlwind of flailing knuckles and hammering fists that sent them both bleeding to the ground. But Rafe rose, drew his gun, fired near the boy’s feet, aimed at his midsection, and jeered as a considerable crowd gathered round.

  “‘Maybe the dummy can dance.’

  “He fired another shot near Jason’s boot.

  “‘Go ahead and dance, dummy!’

  “Two more shots even closer, but Jason stood statue still, unmoving, as Rafe aimed again.

  “‘This one’s going right through your knee.’

  “A shot rang out but not from Rafe’s gun, which flew from his hand onto the ground in shattered pieces.

  “A tall man on horseback moved his pistol slightly toward the other two Caspers.

  “‘Believe you’ve had enough fun for the day, fellows. Drift.’

  “They did, as the tall man dismounted and approached the youth.

  “‘You’re not short on grit, son. What’s your name?’

  “‘Evers. Jason Evers. Yours?’

  “‘Just call me J.B.’

  “‘Thanks, J.B.’

  “The youth picked up his bag, turned, and started to walk away.

  “‘Just a minute. Jason, you don’t waste many words.’

  “‘No, sir.’

  “‘Put up quite a fight and didn’t back down; but the odds were against you. There’s something that would at least tilt those odds. What do you do?’

  “‘Worked in a stable, mostly.’

  “‘It’s one thing to be born in a stable; it’s another to go on working in one. You remind me of me sometime ago—and about balancing those odds . . .’

  “‘What about it?’

  “‘Come with me, Jason.’

  “‘Why?’

  “‘I’ll introduce you to a friend.’”

  The Wise Old Man adjusted the pipe in his mouth and struck a match to relight it.

  Connors’s eyes, and ever so slightly, his head, moved from Adamchock to the coffeepot, to the Wise Old Man, and back to Adamchock, who lifted his hand toward the kettle.

  “Say, Old Man . . . care for a redo on that java?”

  “No, thanks, I seldom indulge my vices—or virtues—two at a time.”

  “Well,” Coolidge nodded, “in that story you’re tellin’, J.B. sounds like the gunslinger and that Evers fella more like a fistfighter.”

  “Patience, Sergeant C, that’s just the first act. The next finds the two of them in a field just outside of town where J.B. is removing something from the saddlebag on his mount. Evers looked around and then spoke for the first time since they left the village.

  “‘I don’t see that friend you talked about.’

  “‘He’s right here in my hand.’

  “J.B. extended a gun, holster, and cartridge belt.

  “‘Mr. Evers, meet Mr. Remington. He’s got a cousin, Mr. Colt, but Remington’s a lot smoother and faster on the draw. You ever shake hands with one of these before?’

  “Evers moved his head negatively.

  “‘Well, it’s about time you did. Strap it on.’

  “Not much later J.B.’s voice was calm, but instructive, terse, and deadly serious.

  “‘There’s them that keep the hammer on an empty chamber. I’m not one of ’em. Don’t you be, either. Might need that extra bullet. Now, this is important. Never . . . never squeeze the trigger unless you’re willing to kill . . . and I mean kill without compunction or hesitation. Got that?’

  “‘I got it, J.B.’

  “‘Good. Because an instant of hesitation could cost you your life on account of the other fellow won’t hesitate and that’s the difference between the quick and the dead. And you’d better be quick or else you’ll be dead . . . and if you miss once, shoot again . . . fast. Follow me?’

  “‘I follow, J.B.’

  “‘And don’t do anything dumb, like aim to wound. That lets him get off a shot, a shot that could kill you. And never aim for the head. Know why?’

  “‘Too small a target.’

  “‘Partly right. The other part is that the head moves quicker than the rest of the body. The chest, lad, that’s the place . . . broader and slower . . . and that’s where the most vital target is . . . the heart. Now, speaking of that, don’t give him a broad target by standing square on. The less he has to aim at the better your odds of coming out alive. Got that?’

  “‘Got it, J.B.’

  “‘And forget that crap about watching his eyes. He shoots with his thumb and trigger finger. When that hand starts to move, you move faster . . . unless you decide to move first . . . and don’t worry about being fair . . . worry about being alive. That’s why I say don’t squeeze unless you’re willing to kill . . . just like war. Only difference is a gunfight is a war between two people. Hook. Draw. Fire. Three elements in one swift, sure, motion. Hook. Draw. Fire. Repeat th
at.’

  “‘Hook. Draw. Fire.’

  “‘Good. Now, there’s just one other element. Accuracy. All the rest is bullshit unless you hit the target. Part is natural. The other part is practice. See that tree over there with that knobby trunk?’

  “‘I see it.’

  “‘That’s a man who’s willing to kill you . . . unless you kill him first. That apple-sized knob in the center is that son of a bitch’s heart. When I say “now” his hand is starting to move. You move, too. Hook. Draw. Fire. Fast, but not too fast or the barrel won’t be level. You ready?’

  “‘Ready.’

  “‘Let’s give it a go . . . NOW!’

  “Hook. Draw. Fire is what Evers did. Once. Twice. The first shot was a close miss. The second split the knob.

  “‘Sweet. Sweet and smart. Your hand was made for the trigger. So are your reflexes. Good beginning. A couple more hours today, and we’ll keep at it tomorrow . . . and then some.’

  The Wise Old Man held out the meerschaum as if it were the Remington.

  “Hook. Draw. Fire. Scores of cartridges later the day’s lesson was done except for what J.B. had to say as they moved toward their horses.

  “‘Practice, practice, practice—rehearse, rehearse like an actor rehearses a stage play; but this is no stage play. It’s life or death. His or yours.’

  “‘I see you wear two guns; you always carry a third one in a saddlebag?’

  “Evers began to unstrap the Remington.

  “‘Not my gun. But leave it on and I’ll tell you about it while you ride back on that horse we rented.’

  “‘Not we, you rented. I don’t have any money except for a little loose change.’

  “‘You want to hear it?’

  “‘Sure.’

  “‘Then, mount up.’”

  “Adamchock,” Connors pointed, “throw a couple more pieces of mesquite on that fire; it’s burnin’ low.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, stranger, tell us about that Remington pistol.”

  The other soldiers nodded and even voiced approval.

  “All right, Lieutenant, but I’ll tell it in my own fashion and version, as I, myself, heard it told.”

  “Shoot.” Connors smiled.

  “Yes.” The Wise Old Man returned the smile. “And so the next chapter begins during a saloon card game. Of the six players who began, three had dropped out and quit the game. That left the youngest player, Jimmy Sanders, and a fellow, Truscutt Jones, with a disarming Southern lilt to his voice, who looked like a riverboat gambler because that’s what he mostly had been . . . and J.B. was the third.

  “J.B. had been a heavy winner but didn’t like what he had seen the last couple of plays. Consequently, he dropped out of the current hand as Truscutt Jones was dealing. On the table a sizable pot with just about an even amount of currency in front of the two remaining players.

  “‘Cards, young man?’

  “‘I’ll play these.’

  “‘Dealer takes a single. Your bet.’

  “‘Table stakes. That’s an even hundred here.’

  “‘I’ll see the hundred,’ Jones drawled.

  “‘And I’ll see the top card in the deck because you drew from the bottom.’

  “‘Repeat that!’ he ordered not with a drawl.’

  “‘I repeat that you cheated. You drew an ace from the bottom, and . . .’

  “That’s when J.B. spoke up.”

  “‘I never volunteer an opinion, but if you ask for mine, youngster . . .’

  “‘You stay out of this, Mr. Butt In,’ Truscutt Jones snarled.

  “‘Thank you, sir,’ Sanders smiled at J.B., ‘but I’m old enough to take care of myself and . . .’

  “Truscutt Jones reached across and slapped young Sanders.

  “‘Suppose we settle it outside in the tradition of the South?’

  “‘Suppose we do.’

  “Sanders rose and in the next few minutes a town crowd had gathered to observe a death duel.

  “Both drew simultaneously. Sanders was fast; but Truscutt Jones was a crack-second faster. His shot hit the young man’s midsection and he fell mortally wounded but still alive.

  “To everyone’s surprise the gunman swiftly turned his pistol in J.B.’s direction and spat.

  “‘Here’s yours, Mr. BUTT IN . . .’

  “That’s as far as he got. J.B.’s first bullet hit Truscutt Jones’s heart, the second bullet hit the first bullet.

  “With his fading breath the young man spoke to J.B., who leaned over him.

  “‘Thanks . . . my gun and rig . . . do you hear?’

  “‘I hear.’

  “‘Take it . . . give it to someone who’ll be better with it . . . than I was . . . ’”

  And the Wise Old Man tapped out the burnt pipe tobacco in his palm.

  “Well, that’s how J.B. told it to Evers, but in his own way . . . with just one more addition.”

  “What was that?” Lieutenant Connors inquired.

  “A short, bald-headed gentleman approached J.B. and introduced himself.

  “‘Sir, I’m Stacy Spencer, local barber and undertaker. Can I be of service?’

  “J.B. handed the bald-headed gentleman two double eagles.

  “‘They won’t be needing any haircuts. But you can bury the two of them up in boot hill . . . not too close together.’

  “And as for Evers, the Remington tutelage went on . . . until—”

  “‘Well, Jason, that’s as much as I, or anybody, can teach you. The rest is up to you, yourself. But you’re a natural. Like I said, your hand was made for the trigger, you’ve got keen-seeing eyes and a sharp instinct. ’

  “‘J.B. . . . I . . . I want . . .’

  “‘Don’t start getting talkative now, son. Keep the gun. You can sure as hell use it better than the last owner. And that horse and rig is yours . . . paid for.’

  “It was difficult for Evers to speak . . . or even swallow.

  “‘Besides teaching me . . . how to use a gun . . . you . . .’

  “‘Everybody ought to have some kind of a teacher—even with a gun. I had one.’

  “‘Who was that?’

  “‘Not much older than me. In a way we sort of taught each other. Name of William Frederick Cody.’

  “‘You know, J.B., I don’t even know what your initials stand for . . . J.B.’

  “‘James—and—Butler.’

  “‘Butler. That’s your last name?’

  “‘Middle name. Last name’s Hickok. James Butler Hickok.’”

  At the mention of Hickok the verbal reaction of the troopers ranged everything from “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” to “Holy shit!” And the words “Hickok” and “Wild Bill” echoed across the campfire in surprise, astonishment, and even awe.

  As the reaction receded Lieutenant Connors turned to the Wise Old Man.

  “What is it that would make a man like Hickok take such an interest in a young stranger?”

  “The Bard of Avon wrote, ‘There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.’ Who can tell? Perhaps it was watching the ‘young stranger’ as you call him, stand unflinching against insuperable odds, or as Hickok mentioned, the lad reminded him of his own young self in less fortunate times. Or perhaps to make up for one of his own less fortunate misdeeds. Maybe for not interfering more overtly on behalf of the young card player. But it happened.”

  “Well,” Sergeant Coolidge questioned, “what happened after that . . . to the two of ’em? That ain’t the end of the story . . .”

  “No, it’s not. Hickok and Evers parted company. Wild Bill proceeded north toward the Black Hills and Deadwood in the Dakotas. Evers, to the Southwest, Arizona, New Mexico Territories, where his Remington became a gun for hire . . . and so was he.

  “At first his workload was mostly legitimate, bank guard, payroll delivery, sheriff’s deputy, in the course of which he was sometimes challenged, or drawn into a gunfight where his ‘Hook. Draw. Fire.’
capability rendered him victorious and the challengers dead. But as time went on and his reputation grew he became less particular about what he was hired to do. And as his reputation grew so did his fee. He would hire out on either side in a range war depending on where the double eagles were stacked higher. He became known as the ‘Silent Gun,’ because he was spare with words and let his gun do the talking.

  “Years later, the story goes, Jason Evers was commissioned by a cattle baron to go up against a pistolero with an even greater reputation, hired by an opposing cattle baron. An ice-blooded gunfighter called Wilson.

  “Shortly before the appointed time, midnight, Evers sat at a table in a customerless saloon, his waistcoat hung on a nearby peg on the wall, while he sipped a glass of sarsaparilla.

  “Jason Evers whirled, gun drawn, as the batwings swung open.

  “No. It was not Wilson, but a frock-coated man holding a Bible, who paused a second, then approached slowly.

  “‘May I sit for just a moment, Mr. Evers?’

  “Evers looked up at the saloon clock . . . Eleven forty.

  “Evers nodded.

  “‘My name is Reverend Thomas Kinkaid.’

  “Kinkaid placed the thick Bible on the table and sat.

  “‘Haven’t got much time, Reverend, for Bible reading.’

  “Evers noticed a fresh bruise on the side of the reverend’s face.

  “‘What is it you want?’

  “‘Peace. I want to urge you to leave town instead of...’

  “‘Meeting Wilson?’

  “‘Killing or being killed.’

  “‘Have you talked to Wilson about this?’

  “The reverend lowered his head.

  “‘Yes.’

  “Evers pointed to the bruise.

  “‘Did he do that?’

  “The reverend nodded.

  “‘I see you didn’t turn the other cheek.’

  “‘I came here to reason with you.’

  “‘Here’s my reason, Reverend. I was paid to do a job. I’m going to do it. Or die trying.’

  “‘Mr. Evers . . .’

  “‘My time’s running out. You tried, Reverend. Your conscience is clear.’

  “‘I hope yours is, Mr. Evers.’

  “Reverend Thomas Kinkaid rose with his Bible and walked toward the front of the saloon, paused near the peg with Evers’s coat, as Evers looked again at the clock . . . Eleven forty-five.