by Gene Curry
After a while, Murphy came out of the saloon, tipping his silk hat to a couple of ladies on their way home. I watched while he went down to the jail and spoke to the sheriff. I saw the sheriff shaking in head in the lamplight from the jail window. Murphy went back to the saloon and I waited by the window.
It got later and darker and nothing happened and past midnight I decided to get some sleep. Three slugs of whiskey helped me to get it, though it wasn’t easy at first. A few hours later I went to the window and looked up and down the street. I checked the lock on the door and then my guns. The door was still locked, the guns were where they were supposed to be. I went back to bed and slept uneasily for the rest of the night. In the morning it was good to get out of the room and go downstairs to drink strong fresh coffee. It was early with a still cool wind blowing through town from the hills, a vivid red in the morning sunlight. I walked down one side of the street and back on the other. I saw the sheriff watching me from the jail window. Everything I did was of interest to the sheriff. The door of the saloon was open and the swamper was sweeping up inside. More than anything I wanted to grab somebody by the throat and choke the truth out of him. I had come so far to get a job done that had to be done—and I was getting edgy.
After the desk clerk gave me a week old newspaper I went back to the room and read it, glancing up every few minutes to look at the street. The life of the town was starting all over again—another day in which I had no part. I saw Murphy and Dolan walking together in their street, on the way to the bank. They talked to the sheriff on their way there and again he shook his head. They were waiting for news of something and I knew that I was part of it. So was Jessie.
It was close to noon when I heard a commotion at the east end of the main street. I buckled on my gun and went down to see what it was. It was a woman and two boys in a wagon and as it came closer I saw the body in the back. When it reached the bank it stopped and the woman started to scream.
“Murphy! You dirty sneaking animal, come out and see what you’ve done. Murderer! Killer!”
The sheriff got to the wagon before Murphy and Dolan came out of the bank. I went closer to hear what they were saying. Farragut said in a rough voice, “Major Murphy had nothing to do with the murder of your husband, Mrs. Tunstall.”
“Then he had it done just like he had it done with Fred’s brother. Brady did the first killing. Did you do this one, Farragut? Did you blow my husband to shreds with a sawed off shotgun?”
Of course, who else? My sweet Jessie.
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs. Tunstall, still vowing to exact vengeance on Murphy, rode slowly out of town with the body. Murphy looked after her shaking his head. He had even removed his hat. Dolan had gone back into the bank. Farragut didn’t seem to give a damn.
Murphy put his silk hat on and looked at me with a faint smile. “This is terrible, Mr. Saddler. To think that she blames me. You must have been watching from the window all evening. You know I never left town. We were all here, in fact.”
I was sick of Murphy and his polished manners. He had plenty of hard cases to back him up, and I still didn’t hold back. “The woman is right, Murphy. You had it done. The girl rode into town hours ahead of me, plenty of time for you to hire her to murder Tunstall. She’d be glad to do it for the money and whatever else she gets out of killing. Nobody saw her ride through—by your order. Then when you heard my story, you decided why not let Saddler kill her? She’s already killed a lot of men, why not let her do one more for the clever Major Murphy? With all those other killings behind her, who’d believe that she hadn’t killed Tunstall?”
“Rubbish, Mr. Saddler. I never even saw this mad girl.”
I said, “You saw her all right, tinhorn.”
“Back off there, Saddler,” Farragut cut in. “Nobody talks to Major Murphy like that. One more badmouth name like that and I’ll …”
“You’ll what?”
“Gentlemen, no need for all this,” Murphy said, unruffled as ever. Some of the hard cases had drifted down from the saloon and were waiting to see how the play went. “If this woman is here and did kill Mr. Tunstall, then Mr. Saddler will take her back to Arizona to be hanged. That is, if she comes back to town. Isn’t that right, Mr. Saddler?”
I said, “You know she’ll be back.”
Murphy shook his head. “I know nothing about her except what you’ve told me. If you don’t want to take her back you can testify at her trial here. Mr. Tunstall was an important man and the Territorial Prosecutor will want to take the case. Your testimony will be more than enough to send her to the gallows.”
For a moment I almost killed Murphy, but I knew I would die a moment later in a hail of lead. “No hangman,” I said. “This is between the girl and me. You and your people stay out of it.”
Murphy remained bland. “Is that legal, Jack?” he asked Farragut.
Farragut gave his legal opinion. “Legal enough,” he said. “We have no proof that she killed Tunstall, but Saddler came here to arrest her or kill her—I don’t know what—for killings that he says he can prove. If she won’t submit to legal arrest ... I’d say Saddler should get first crack.”
“So be it then,” Murphy said.
He was turning away when I said, “Somebody’s going to get you someday, Murphy. Everybody gets it in the end and so will you.”
Murphy smiled. “I hardly think so. You have to know your business and I do. Nothing’s ever going to happen to me. I’ll die rich and old in bed, and now I’m going to eat a fine lunch prepared by one of the finest chefs in the Territory. It’s all a matter of knowing what you want from life and how to get it.”
Farragut started to follow Murphy but was waved back. “You better stay around here, Jack,” Murphy said. “If anything ever gets into court you’ll want to know—see—exactly what happened.”
Farragut nodded and went to sit in front of the jail. I went to the hotel porch and sat in a rocker. Everybody was off the street now, but there were faces at all the windows. The wind was hot and blew dust in little balls that rolled along the sidewalk. It could be a wait because you never knew what Jessie might decide to do.
But it didn’t turn to be such a wait after all. It was so quiet, except for the wind, that I heard a horse coming in from the east trail while it was still a long way out. Farragut sat up straight in his chair and looked over at me. I stayed where I was until I knew for sure it was Jessie and not some stray cowboy.
It was Jessie all right, looking small and almost frail atop my big horse. She had shortened the stirrups to make them fit better. Curly Fitch had said it right, had summed up everything in a few words. He was right—it was a hell of a thing!
She passed Farragut without looking at him and even he, hard man that he was, didn’t try to stare her down or say anything at all. To get to the saloon she had to ride directly past the hotel, and when she saw me she reined in and climbed down and hitched the horse. By then I was on my feet, ready for anything she tried.
For somebody who had tried to kill me, she wasn’t awkward about meeting me again. “You’ve come a long way, Saddler. You should have stayed where you were or taken another road. It always comes back to you and me, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t about to give her any more chances to sneak-shoot me. I said, “Tell me something. Did you crease my head on purpose or just miss?”
She laughed. “You didn’t come all this way to ask me that.”
I said no. “We have other business,” I said. “But I’d still like to know.”
“I don’t altogether know, Saddler,” she said. “Maybe I changed my mind at the last instant without knowing it. It wouldn’t have been so hard to kill you. I had you cold.”
“You don’t have me cold now.”
“So you say. You say a lot.”
“Why the hell did you have to start all over again in this county?”
“Gunfighting is my business, or didn’t you know by now?”
“Blasting a man w
ith a shotgun isn’t gunfighting.”
“You don’t see any shotgun in my hand, Saddler. It’s right there on the saddle. You want to ride out and we’ll let this go. I didn’t kill you then, why should I kill you now? I won’t be stopped by you or anybody. Is that plain enough for you? I’m going to make a name for myself that’ll last a hundred years. When Billy the Kid is long forgotten I’ll be remembered, just like my father.”
“I’m going to stop you,” I said.
“So you say, Saddler,” she repeated. “You want to have a drink first?”
I said I wouldn’t mind that. “But no tricks this time. I guess Murphy won’t mind a few free drinks.”
We walked across to the saloon and I was wary of her all the way. She wasn’t going to drop me twice; this time I’d be ready for her if she tried anything.
The saloon emptied out when we came in; Murphy must have gone upstairs as soon as he saw us coming. Even the bartender had cleared out; we had the whole place to ourselves. I went behind the bar and found Murphy’s bottle of good sour mash.
“That suit you all right?” I asked.
“Suits me fine,” she answered. “You know, this isn’t a bad town. I think I’m going to like it here.”
I poured two big drinks and we put them away.
“No more for me,” Jessie said, smiling in her crazy way. “I have a job to do.”
“So have I.” I drank the second drink, using my left hand. She smiled again at my wariness. “No need for that. I gave my word—no tricks.”
There we were in the empty saloon with the whole town waiting for the crash of gunfire. Now there was no big hurry: the town could wait. A fly buzzed in the stillness; there was no other sound.
“I guess it’s time, Saddler,” Jessie said.
“No better time than now,” I answered, feeling the sweat starting to come. It wasn’t the sweat of fear. We walked outside together and faced off in the middle of the street.
She paused. “So here we are again, Saddler,” she said. “It couldn’t have ended any other way.”
“Looks like it,” I said. “We might as well get it over with. Goodbye, missy.”
“We’ll see about that,” Jessie said as her hand flashed down to her gun. The Colt Lightning blasted a bullet at me. The gun came up with the cylinder turning. Her bullet touched my side as I fired once and hit her in the chest. I didn’t hit her in the heart and I don’t know why. I’ve never found it hard to hit somebody in the heart. She fired again as she fell.
I walked over to her with the gun cocked and ready in my hand. The .38 was still in her hand and I would have shot her again if she had tried to use. I suppose I would have shot her again.
I bent down beside her and took the damned gun from her hand and threw it away. Blood seeped from the hole in her chest. Her eyes were open and she was smiling.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “I nearly got you, didn’t I?” she said in a whisper. “I came that close.”
“You were very good,” I said, knowing she’d be dead in seconds.
She clutched at my hand; her own hand was turning cold. “I want you to remember me,” she whispered. “Please don’t forget me. When people ask about me, tell them ...”
“I’ll say you were the daughter of Jesse James. I won’t let them forget. Jesse would have been proud of you, missy.”
And then she smiled and she died.
Well, that’s how it ended for Jessie and me, and even now that it’s all in the past I still feel bad about it, what I had to do. I couldn’t bring myself to turn her over to the law. I couldn’t let them hang her and I couldn’t let her go. There was no way she would ever change; in time she would get worse, even more dangerous than she was, if that’s possible. It’s a shame though, because she was such a great looking woman.
I still try to understand her, but it’s hopeless. I have no idea what drove her to do the things she did, and I don’t think she knew herself. I don’t even know if she was Jesse James’ daughter. It hardly matters now, but it would go a long way toward explaining the craziness in her. No matter how many songs and stories they write about Jesse, he was still a killer—and they say bad blood will tell. She was as bad as they come, and that doesn’t do a thing to make me feel better.
I prefer to remember the good moments we had; our nights together when there was no talk of killing; her soft young body and yellow hair. Like I said, even now when the miles and years have rolled away behind me, I’ll see some girl and be reminded of her. Then I remember that she’s dead and turned to dust, and that I’ll never see her again, but you get over anything in the end. More or less you do. There’s nothing else to do but keep on living your life, making the best of the cards you draw. Only a fool would think you can do anything else.
You could hardly call me a sentimental man, but even a man like me tries to hold onto something from the past. For me these things are few but Jessie, good or bad, is one of them. All this happened in Dade County, Arizona, a long time ago. I met a girl there and liked her a lot—and in the end I had to kill her.
What else could I do?
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