Bullets Don't Argue

by William W. Johnstone

  They followed him around behind the cabin to a small shed and a fenced-in hog lot. “Yep,” Rooster announced when they rounded the corner of the cabin, “the gate’s wide open.” He hurried toward it, only to stop suddenly when he reached it. “Oh, Lordy,” he sighed and shook his head. Perley stepped up beside him and saw the cause. There lying in the muck of the pigpen was Rooster’s sow, a bullet hole in her head. “My sow,” Rooster mourned softly. “They shot my sow. She was gettin’ ready to have pigs, too.”

  The act had gone far beyond mere hazing. Rooster’s food supply was affected by such an act of cruelty. With the killing of his sow, there could be no more pigs until he bought another one. It was too much for Perley to ignore. “If you were lookin’ for Coy and his friends, where do you think you might find ’em?”

  “Oh, I know where to find ’em,” Rooster replied. “They’ll be settin’ around in The Buffalo Hump, raisin’ hell and drivin’ Jimmy McGee crazy.”

  “Is that a fact?” Perley replied. “I expect they wouldn’t get too wild since the sheriff’s office is within hollerin’ distance from the saloon.”

  “Ben locks up his office pretty early and don’t want nobody botherin’ him after dark. So Jimmy just puts up with it till Coy and his friends get tired, or too drunk, to keep at it.”

  “Seems to me this Coy fellow owes you the price of a new sow,” Perley said. “How much does a sow like that cost?”

  “I bought Sally there from Luther Boston. I gave him thirty dollars for her. I don’t know if that’s a good price for one that small or not, but Luther’s a fair man.”

  “I don’t know, either,” Perley said, “but that fellow oughta pay you for killin’ your pig.”

  Rooster shook his head. “There ain’t much sense in takin’ this up with Coy, ’cause he ain’t likely to give me a penny for his mischief.” He shook his head again as he thought about the likely outcome of his demand for payment. “I reckon I’ll just have to be grateful him and Whit Berry and Shorty Thompson didn’t decide to burn my cabin down ’stead of just smearin’ poop all over it. I reckon they still think they’ll get the cabin when they run me off.”

  Perley couldn’t help his feeling of sympathy for the simple man, but he reminded himself that he had already lost enough time. He should have been back with his brothers long ago, and it seemed that each new day had caused him to get farther and farther away. He had planned to start back north in the morning, come hell or high water. And now, Rooster presents this cow pie to step in. This ain’t none of my business, he thought. I’ve got business of my own to tend to. He looked at Sally, the dead hog, then back at Rooster, who just kept slowly shaking his head. It was hard to decide which one looked more pitiful. “All right,” he finally decided, “it ain’t but a mile back to town. Grab hold of her back legs and help me throw this hog up on your packhorse. A man buys a sow, he deserves to get the damn sow.” Confused by the young stranger’s actions, Rooster stood undecided until Perley told him again to grab Sally’s hind legs.

  They picked up the dead sow and laid it across the horse’s back. Perley gave it a firm nudge and judged it heavy enough not to fall off on the short ride to town. “Perley, what the hell are you doin’?” Possum asked when Perley stepped up into the saddle.

  “Rooster and I have to make a delivery of a hog he just sold,” Perley said. “Give us something to do while you folks are settin’ up your camp.” He looked back at Rooster and said, “Come on, Rooster.” Rooster dutifully climbed on his new black horse, although he clearly showed little enthusiasm for it.

  * * *

  “Howdy, Fred,” Jimmy McGee looked up to see Fred Brooks walk into the saloon. “I was wonderin’ if you’d forgot today’s Saturday.” He reached down and picked up a clean glass, then poured a shot of whiskey in it. Fred was a hardworking young man. He worked with his father, Horace, who owned the stable. “Where’s your pap? He ain’t drinkin’ today?” It had become sort of a ritual. Father and son usually walked over to The Buffalo Hump every Saturday afternoon for a drink of whiskey before going to the house for supper.

  “Papa’s messed around and caught himself a little case of the bellyache,” Fred replied, “said he better not put any of your whiskey on top of it.”

  “Hell, a shot of my good corn whiskey woulda most likely cured his bellyache,” Jimmy joked.

  “That’s what I told him,” Fred laughed. “He said it was Mama’s cookin’, but I told him I’m eatin’ her cookin’ and I ain’t got no bellyache.” They both laughed at that.

  It was enough to catch the attention of the three men sitting at a table against the wall. “Ain’t that somethin’?” Coy Dawkins remarked. “Feller came to the saloon without his papa to hold his hand. Whaddaya think about that, Shorty?” Feeling ornery, which was his usual state, he made sure his comments were loud enough to be heard at the bar. Most of the usual crowd had already gone, even though it was early for a Saturday. Jimmy knew the reason was because of the three drifters.

  “I don’t think a little boy that has to have his daddy hold his hand is man enough to come in a place where men are drinkin’ is what I think,” Shorty said.

  “Maybe you oughta ask him to leave,” Coy said. “But do it politely, so you don’t hurt his feelin’s. He might go get his daddy.”

  Amused by his two partners’ japing, Whit Berry joined in the fun. “You’d best watch what you say, Shorty. He’s wearin’ a gun.”

  “Damned if he ain’t,” Shorty responded and pretended to shake with fear. His performance brought a big laugh from the other two.

  Since it was impossible to pretend not to hear, Jimmy moved to the far end of the bar and motioned for Fred to go with him. “Don’t pay no attention to those bastards,” he said softly. “The one called Shorty is supposed to be a fast gun, so don’t pay any mind to what they’re sayin’. Matter of fact, it might be the best thing to just walk on outta here.”

  “Hell, I’m not gonna slink outta here because of some loudmouth drunks,” Fred insisted. “I’ll stay till I finish my drink, and maybe I’ll have another one.”

  “Fred,” Jimmy started, “I just think it’s best to . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy,” Fred interrupted. “I ain’t about to face any of ’em in a gunfight. Let ’em talk, I ain’t gonna rise to the bait. I’ve got better sense than that.”

  Jimmy gave him a shake of his head. “These boys are bad news. Don’t give ’em any trouble.” He caught a movement at the table out of the corner of his eye and already knew it was too late. “Well, all right, Fred, I know you gotta go. Hope your pa gets better.” He said it loud and fast, hoping to push Fred toward the door.

  “That’s right, Fred,” Shorty slurred, “you’d best get your girly ass outta here. I’m sick of lookin’ at you.” He waited for his response but when there was none, and Fred did not move, he said, “You’re wearin’ a gun, maybe you’re thinkin’ about usin’ it.”

  “No, I’m not,” Fred stated flatly. “So, I’ll finish this drink and then I’ll leave.” He tossed the whiskey back and put the glass down on the bar. When he turned to leave, he caught the round from Shorty’s. 44 in the middle of his chest. With one feeble attempt to grasp the bar, he slid to the floor, shot through the heart.

  “You see that, Coy?” Shorty blurted. “That old trick, bang the glass on the counter and go for his gun. You saw it! It didn’t work this time, by Ned. I caught him. I’ve seen that move too many times to get took by it.”

  “I saw it,” Coy said, “You were a step ahead of him. Hell, anybody could see what he was up to. You were just too fast for him.” He turned to Jimmy. “That’s what you saw, too, weren’t it?”

  “If you say so,” Jimmy said, afraid to say otherwise. “Somebody oughta go down to the stable to tell Horace.”

  “I’ll do it,” one of the two men who were sitting at another table volunteered as they hurried toward the door. “We’re leavin’, anyway.”

  “Drag him outta here!” Coy d
emanded, pointing a finger at the two men. They immediately turned back and collected Fred’s body, then carried it out the door.

  Whit stood at the door, watching the two men hurrying across the creek to the stable after leaving the corpse in front of the saloon. He remained there for only a few minutes before he looked back at the table. “Here he comes.” He returned to the table to join his friends, where all three were ready to receive their victim’s father.

  In an effort to prevent more bloodshed, Jimmy went to the door to intercept him. “Horace, don’t come in here, you’re liable to get shot, too. I’m sorry as I can be. I tried to get Fred to leave. I don’t want you to get killed.”

  Horace pushed on by, far enough to get inside the door. “You damn murderers!” He yelled at the three leering faces.

  “You’re lookin’ to get the same as he got,” Coy replied. “And I’ll sure be glad to accommodate you. It ain’t none of our fault that fool son of yours tried to outdraw Shorty Thompson. He was lookin’ for trouble and he got it.”

  “You lyin’ son of a bitch!” Horace blurted, bringing Coy to his feet. “Fred ain’t never started no trouble!”

  Jimmy grabbed Horace’s elbow and dragged him out the door. “Get your boy and get outta here! There ain’t no use in you gettin’ yourself killed, too. Go on!” He ordered. “Give him a hand, Zeke,” he said to one of the two who had taken the news to the stable. To the other one, he said, “Go get the sheriff.” A moment later, he was shoved aside when Coy came out the door, his gun in hand. Seeing the two men carrying the body away, he raised the pistol and took aim. Then realizing it would be hard to convince anyone that it was anything other than outright murder, he reconsidered and holstered the weapon.

  In a matter of minutes, Sheriff Ben Pylant walked cautiously in the door. Before he said a word, he was greeted by Coy Dawkins. “Come on in, Sheriff! ’Preciate you comin’ over to check on things. Don’t know what that young feller was thinkin’ when he drew on Shorty. He shoulda knowed better, but we was lucky, didn’t nobody get hit but him.”

  “You say Fred pulled on Shorty first?” Pylant asked.

  “That’s what I say,” Coy answered, then cut his eyes over at the bartender. “Jimmy there’ll tell you the same. So would anybody else.”

  Although Jimmy remained silent, Pylant said, “So it was a case of self-defense, was it?”

  “Pure and simple,” Whit answered him. Desperately seeking to avoid any confrontation with the dangerous three, Pylant said, “Well, I reckon that’s that.” Then aware of a look of contempt in the eyes of Jimmy McGee, he said, “I’m surprised to hear Fred Brooks would have done something like that, though.”

  Whit smiled. “You know how it is, Sheriff, whiskey makes some fellers do crazy things, things they wouldn’t do most of the time. He mighta heard Shorty had a reputation and he wanted to be the one who took it from him.”

  “Well, I just wanted to get it all straight, so I guess that’s all I can do,” Pylant said and retreated toward the door.

  “Yep,” Coy said, “you got it all straight.” Pylant went out the door, hearing the chorus of raucous laughter behind him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Holding Buck to a slow walk, so as not to inspire the pig to slide off Rooster’s packhorse, Perley led them down the street and crossed the little bridge built over Oak Creek in front of The Buffalo Hump Saloon. There were three horses tied at the hitching post in front of the saloon that Rooster recognized as those belonging to the three men they sought. “I ain’t so sure this is a smart thing to do,” Rooster said. “Maybe I’d best go get the sheriff.”

  “He’ll most likely tell you the same thing you said he always does, that nobody saw these fellows at your hog lot.” He stepped down from the saddle. “Do you know which one’s Coy’s?” he asked, nodding toward the horses.

  “That gray on the end,” Rooster answered nervously.

  “Gimme a hand,” Perley said and took hold of the dead hog’s front feet. With Perley’s direction, they laid the pig across Coy’s saddle. When he was sure it would stay put, Perley stepped back and commented, “It’s pretty near the same color as the horse, ain’t it?”

  “I reckon,” Rooster answered quickly. “Let’s get outta here before somebody sees us.”

  “Whoa!” Perley stopped him. “We’ve just delivered the pig. We ain’t collected payment for it yet.”

  “You tryin’ to get me kilt?” Rooster exclaimed. “Coy’s gonna raise enough hell when he finds that pig on his saddle. We’d best get the hell away from here before he comes out and sees it!”

  “Maybe not,” Perley said, trying to calm him. “He might not realize how much trouble he’s causing you by shootin’ that pig. This’ll give him the chance to do the right thing by you—might make him feel better when he thinks about it.” Rooster couldn’t think of anything to reply to that, so he reluctantly followed Perley inside.

  Perley paused just inside the door of the expansive barroom, unnoticed by the three men standing at the bar, who were absorbed in a contest involving a dartboard on the wall. Instead of throwing darts, however, they were competing with their skinning knives. One of the three, Shorty Thompson, turned to look toward the door when Rooster walked in behind Perley. He grinned and nudged Coy Dawkins, who turned to see what he wanted. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Coy started. “Rooster Crabb, I ain’t seen you in a couple of days. I thought you’d crawled back in that hole in the ground you came out of.” Jimmy McGee, on his knees, his back to the door, scrubbing up a puddle of blood recently left by Fred Brooks, could only groan in dismay upon hearing the remarks.

  Taking an easy guess, Perley said, “I reckon you’d be Coy Dawkins.” He could see why Rooster was intimidated by the burly dark-featured brute who was standing with his feet spread apart and a wide grin beneath a heavy mustache.

  “That’s right,” Dawkins sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name’s Perley Gates. I’m a friend of Rooster’s.”

  “Perley Gates!” Whit Berry exclaimed. “Did he say his name’s Perley Gates?”

  “That’s what it sounded like to me,” Coy said. “Perley Gates,” he repeated. “You musta been lookin’ for the church, Perley. This is the saloon. You’d better get the hell outta here, this is where the devil hangs out.” His two partners laughed to show their appreciation for his humor. Encouraged by their chuckles, he continued. “And the devil’s kinda particular about who hangs out with him.”

  Perley said nothing, waiting patiently for the coarse humor to run its course. When the laughter was finally replaced with three puzzled faces staring at him as if wondering why he was still standing there, he spoke again. “Like I said, I’m a friend of Rooster’s, and I’m just helpin’ him deliver a pig you bought from him.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Coy roared. “I never bought no pig from him.” Still inclined to amuse his friends, he looked at them and said, “Perley, here, says I bought a sow from Rooster.” They guffawed in appreciation of his humor again. “I don’t know nothin’ about no sow.”

  “I think it’s comin’ back to you now,” Perley continued. “At least, you remember that it was a sow you bought. You remember shootin’ it in the head and leavin’ it for Rooster to deliver, right?” By this time, all three were staring openmouthed, wondering if they were looking at a crazy man. “Good,” Perley went on. “Now you remember. Well, we brought you your sow. Her name’s Sally, and Rooster hopes you enjoy her.”

  Convinced of his insanity now, Coy blurted. “You’re crazy as hell. You say you brought me a hog? I don’t see no hog.”

  “That’s a fact, Coy,” Shorty echoed. “We don’t see no hog.”

  “She’s outside layin’ across your saddle,” Perley said. “We didn’t think you’d want us to bring it in here in the saloon. So you got your pig, all we need now is for you to pay the bill, and that’ll be fifty dollars. Then we’ll leave and let you get back to playin’ with your knives.”

/>   “Fifty dollars!” Coy exploded. “For that damn little runty sow? The hell you say!” He stopped then when he realized that he had as much as confessed to having shot Rooster’s hog. His outburst was followed by a long period of silence as his two partners waited to see what he was going to say next.

  “It might seem a little high,” Perley went right on. “But the pig had to be delivered here to you at your headquarters, and there was a little cleanup fee for the decorations on Rooster’s cabin. All things considered, it seems like a fair price.”

  Feeling as if he had been backed into a corner, Coy resorted to what he knew best. He lowered his head like a bull and charged. With no desire to meet the enraged brute head-on, Perley took a fighting stance and crouched as if to repel the attack, confident that, though smaller, he was faster. Just before the moment of impact, he took a step to the side and stuck out his foot, causing Coy to crash headfirst into the bar. The collision with the counter was so severe that it caused it to rock back an inch or two and knocked over a bottle of whiskey on top that sent the bartender, Jimmy McGee, scrambling to catch it before it hit the floor. The contact between Perley’s foot and Coy’s ankle was enough to cause Perley to spin around, almost in a complete circle. As he spun, he saw Shorty Thompson reach for the .44 strapped to his leg. With no time to think, Perley’s reflexes took command and Shorty’s pistol fell to the floor and he dropped to his knee, holding his shoulder. Whit Berry slowly released his pistol, which was halfway out of the holster, and let it sink back down when he saw Perley’s .44 aimed at him, waiting.

  “Now, there wasn’t any cause for that,” Perley said to Shorty and Whit, since Coy seemed to have knocked himself out on the bar. He paused to kick Shorty’s weapon out of his reach. “Rooster, here, is in the business of raisin’ pigs, and when a man shoots his sow, he’s out of business. I’m sure Coy never thought about that when he shot that sow. And when he thinks about it, he’ll most likely agree that he needs to pay for that pig. So here’s what we need to do.” He pointed to Whit. “Since your partner’s shoulder hurts, you dig into Coy’s pockets and see if you can come up with that fifty dollars he owes Rooster.” When Whit hesitated, Perley said, “He ain’t gonna know who took his money. When his head’s clear, you can just tell him I took it.” Whit went right to a vest pocket on the shaken man and pulled out a roll of money and offered it to Perley. “It looks like he can afford that pig,” Perley said. “You just count off fifty dollars and put the rest back in his pocket. We ain’t lookin’ to rob anybody. We’re just doin’ business. His pig’s on his saddle, waitin’ for him.” He took the money from Whit and handed it to Rooster. “It’s been interestin’ doin’ business with you gentlemen, but Rooster is out of the business of sellin’ sows, in case you might be thinkin’ about buyin’ another one. I’m sorry about that bullet in your shoulder. You might wanna have a doctor take a look at it, if there’s a doctor around here. Anyway, I hope it heals up real quick.” With a nod of his head, he motioned for Rooster to head for the door, and he backed slowly after him. “I hope this will be the end of any business we have to talk about.”