by Phil Dunlap
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for nothin’, Sheriff. Sooner or later, the council will see that what they’ve done was to set a boulder rollin’ down a steep hill. The farther it travels, the faster it goes, and the more damage it does when it reaches the bottom. That’s when they’ll look to you to clean up the mess.”
“Hmm. That’s about the way I see it, too. I’ve been givin’ some thought to early retirement.”
Horace said nothing as his blade sliced effortlessly through the sheriff’s two-day growth. The raucous cheering and laughing that drifted out the doors and open windows of the saloon became noticeably subdued ever since the two latest additions to the town’s growing population of shootists strode into the barroom.
***
The large man ordered a whiskey, gulped it down, and turned to survey the room. His eyes fell to Brazos Boone almost immediately. He nudged his partner, then set his empty glass on the bar, pulling his duster back behind his six-shooter to give him clear access to the tools of his trade. He was a gunfighter, no question about it. The only question was whether he had what it would take to end the grip of fear that Brazos Boone held over the town’s population. From the squint in his eyes, the big man was here to try his hand at that very thing. It must have been his contemplation of the one thousand dollar reward that brought a smile to his pockmarked face.
“You the fella they call Brazos Boone?” he said. His voice was deep and without emotion.
“So I’m told, stranger. And who would you be?”
“Call me Black John. My friend here is Stringer Johnson.”
“Heard your names, I believe. Something about an oversized pig farmer and his lunger lacky thinks they can whup up on their betters. Them guns you’re totin’, they loaded?”
Black John’s face twisted into a flush of anger. His narrowed eyes spewed hatred. Stringer drew back his duster and put his right hand on the butt of his converted Colt Army revolver. They were both so incensed by Brazos’ condemnation of their legitimacy as gunmen, their intention to blow Boone into the next county was undeniable.
“You’re about to find out.” Black John was puffed up like yeast rising on a hot stove.
Brazos’ wide mouth eased into a knowing smile, a display of calm acknowledgment. That had been, as most knew, Brazos’ plan all along, ever since he’d heard from one of the teenage boys who swamped out the livery every night that the mayor had sent for some gunslingers to run him out of town. That information was like a slap in his face, but after giving it ample consideration, he could see some benefit. Maybe he’d claim that reward himself, right after he proved there was no one within fifty miles that could take him. In fact, maybe the ante should go up by a thousand for each fool he shot down. By his accounting, things were looking good to add a couple thousand to his poke. As Black John yanked his six-shooter, Brazos burst into that grand smile of his. Then the silence was shattered, and the place was filled with smoke and the sounds of a dozen men scrambling for cover. When a breeze, drifting in through the open windows, slowly blew the gray haze of gunfire from the room, the only ones not getting up off the floor were Black John and Stringer. They were both lying on their backs, faces twisted into surprised grimaces, as their shirts soaked up the last bloody vestiges of their wretched lives.
A predictable cheer rose from the saloon as patrons, scrambling to regain their seats, dusted themselves off after their hasty visit to the floor, and gulped huge swigs of whiskey in recognition of the gunman’s continuing string of entertaining shootouts, which seemed to play to the delight of a saloon full of inebriated cowboys. Brazos took a deep bow and lifted his glass to accept their tribute to his shooting prowess.
Over at the barbershop, the sheriff took his newly shaven face out the back door to avoid any involvement in whatever he surmised had just happened to some poor soul. Before going in the back door to the jail, he turned at the sound of the undertaker’s wagon trundling down the rutted street, rattling to a dusty stop in front of the saloon for the third time in two days. At least someone’s business was looking up.
***
The days passed, and the body count was mounting. Seven men had met their maker over the span of two weeks. Brazos Boone didn’t have a scratch on him. Hizzhonor, the mayor, wasn’t about to call the whole thing off. Admitting that a mouse like Barnes might have been right would have been out of the question. The plan just needed more time to work. Besides, hadn’t the county seen its owlhoot population reduced by seven? Billings saw this as an added benefit of a brilliant plan.
When Barnes stopped by the mayor’s office one day, Billings was conveniently away on business. Barnes knew just what that business was, but it wasn’t worth the effort to confront him, especially in the state he knew the mayor would be in. Mayor Billings had on other occasions, after stumbling over his own ill-conceived plots, retreated to his back room with a bottle of brandy and not shown his face for days. Barnes figured this to be another of those occasions. He shrugged and returned to his own sanctum sanctorum to add up more columns in his ledgers, to take his mind off the recent bloodshed.
***
On a rare visit down from the mountain into Chesterfield, Charley Pike happened to be in the saloon when Black John and Stringer Johnson were gunned down. He was amazed at how the townsfolk seemed to approve the actions of this gunman he’d never heard of before, this Brazos Boone. He also was confused by the complete absence of the law. Sheriff Blanding was nowhere to be seen. That’s when he started asking questions, puzzling over how this pistolero could get away with baiting a man and not have to answer to someone? He was even more confused when he found out there had been five more men who had fallen before Brazos’ six-gun in recent weeks. He left the saloon looking for Blanding, hoping to get some answers.
When he stepped through the door of the jail, he found Sheriff Blanding sweeping the floor, trying to herd several small mounds of dirt that had blown in through the cracks and crevices of the tiny wooden structure into a dustpan of sorts. Blanding looked up as young Pike entered.
“Close that door, Charley. I get enough dirt and dust blowin’ through here already without you addin’ to it.”
“Sorry, Sheriff. Just stopped by to ask you somethin’, that’s all.”
“Well, get to it, boy. I ain’t got all day.”
“I was just wonderin’ how come you didn’t wander over and have a talk with that Brazos Boone fellow after he gunned down those two men. I mean, I know those coyotes were troublemakers, themselves, but I–”
“You come here to question the way I handle my job, Charley? You got some nerve, young fella. Maybe you figure you’d like to pin on this badge, that right? Make yourself a target?”
Taken aback by the sheriff’s words, Charley had a sheepish look on his face as he blurted out, “No, sir, Sheriff. Just curious. You’ve always been a good sheriff, and I reckon I figured you’d have taken that fellow Boone down a notch or two by now. Sorry if I offended.”
Sheriff Blanding slumped into the swivel chair behind his desk, letting the broom drop to the floor. Charley watched as he saw a look of defeat take over the sheriff’s craggy face.
“Truth is, Charley, I’m too old and too slow to tackle a shootist like Boone. He’d gun me down before I could start to make my move. Maybe I oughta just turn this hunk of tin in to the mayor. Whole thing was a damned fool idea, anyway.”
“Idea? What idea?”
“I figured you’d heard. Thought maybe that’s why you came down outta those hills, since you’re better with that Colt than I ever was. I know you and your pa could use the money.”
“What money are you talkin’ about, Sheriff?”
“The mayor and a bunch of his cohorts cooked up this scheme to get rid of Brazos Boone for good. They’d had enough of his ridin’ in, shootin’ up the place, and ridin’ off every whipstitch, without considerin’ the consequences of his actions, nor the cost of repairs to windows and walls, and anything else that gun-toter figured to plug
, which has on occasion included a horse or two.”
Charley waited to see where the story was headed, but the sheriff just drifted off into staring out the window as if he were in a daze.
“Uh, you haven’t said what the scheme was all about. And, you ain’t mentioned any money, either.”
“Oh, yeah, the money. Well, the mayor got the council to agree to a reward of one thousand dollars, payable to whoever puts Boone in the ground. Like they figured, a passel of coyotes have ridden in here for just that reason, and so far, none have ridden back out except in the back of the undertaker’s wagon.”
Charley rubbed his chin as he pondered the thousand-dollar reward. He had seen Brazos gun down two men and he had to admit the man was fast. But he also knew he, too, was fast, very fast. Maybe he should give some thought to collecting that reward, himself. Lord knew he and his pa could use the money. But today, as was the normal state of affairs for Charley Pike, he had ridden into town unarmed. There had never been any reason to strap on his Colt just to come into Chesterfield for one sarsaparilla, and, of course, to visit Miss Emily at the general store, before going home with the week’s supplies.
The sheriff watched Charley’s expression turn from confusion to interest. He liked Charley, and now he saw something in the young man’s eyes that he didn’t like. He thought he detected more than a hint of fascination with maybe claiming that thousand dollars, himself. Yes, Charley Pike was good, better than most, but Blanding wasn’t so sure he was a match for the likes of Boone. And now he was feeling guilty for even mentioning the mayor’s ill-conceived scheme, and he knew he’d hate himself for opening his big mouth if anything bad should happen to Charley. Rather than allowing a nice kid to get killed, he began mulling over what he could do–short of getting gunned down–to put a stop to Brazos’ willful shooting spree.
“Charley, if you’re thinkin’ what I figure you’re thinkin’. Forget it. Ridding Chesterfield of the likes of Boone is a job for the law, and I aim to do my job, somehow. Now you run along and visit with Miss Emily and put Brazos Boone out of your mind. You hear me?”
Charley go up, and headed for the door, but the look on his face said he was still thinking about it. “Uh, yeah, sure. See you later, Sheriff,” Charley said as he strolled onto the dusty main street of the town. He was still pondering how he might go about bracing Boone when he stepped through the door to the general store. The sight of the slim and attractive figure of Emily Johnson dusting merchandise behind the counter changed his expression. He quickly removed his hat. She smiled demurely at her recognition of him.
“Hello, Charley, so very nice to see you.”
“Uh, yeah, nice to, uh, see you too, Miss Emily,” he said, staring alternately at the floor and at a display of shirts stacked on a table. Emily liked his boyish shyness. It made her feel pretty and admired.
“Charley Pike, when are you going to start calling me Emily, and drop all this ‘Miss” stuff?” She stomped her foot in mock anger.
“I-I’m sorry, Mi-, er, Emily. Just meanin’ to be polite, that’s all. Don’t want you to think ill of me.”
“Politeness is important, of course, but there comes a time when friends just have to get past the formalities and act like the friends we are. After all, don’t we visit every week when you come to town, and don’t we talk about things more personal than we would if you were just another customer?”
“Well, sure, but–”
“But nothin’, Charley Pike. Now sit over there and I’ll fetch us a cup tea and you can tell me all about your week.” He took a seat on a stack of flour bags as Emily went into the back room, returning moments later with two cups of steaming tea on a wooden tray. Charley wasn’t all that interested in drinking tea, but if it afforded him time with Emily, he figured he could endure burning his tongue a few times on the tasteless brew. It couldn’t come close to the Arbuckle’s coffee he and his pa drank so strong he sometimes felt the need to chew it.
“Now, tell me everything that’s going on with you, Charley, and I mean everything.”
Charley wasn’t certain she meant ‘everything’, but this would be a good time to find out more about this Brazos Boone character that seemed to have the whole community in a death grip. Emily lived in town and would surely know whatever was happening.
“Emily, what do you know about the mayor’s plan to rid Chesterfield of that gunman over at the saloon?”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Charley Pike? What gives you the idea I’d know anything about such a man?”
Slightly red-faced at possibly overstepping his bounds by not thinking before he spoke, Charley recovered quickly by letting it be known that he was aware that she’d never let her innocent lips be involved with gossip over the likes of a gunslinger, but what he meant was had she maybe overheard customers that drifted in and out of the store talking about the shootings.
“Oh, that’s what you meant. Sorry I jumped to conclusions. Well, as far as that awful man, Boone, I’ve heard the mayor has put up a reward of a thousand dollars to anyone who can outshoot him. What do you think about that? I think it’s scandalous, personally. Don’t you? A scheme like that can’t help but bring the wrath of evil down on us, can it?”
“Uh, actually I was thinking it would be a good way for some enterprising young fella to get ahead, maybe start a ranch and ask some pretty gal to marry him.”
Emily’s face reddened at the suggestion. She began shifting nervously on the stool she’d dragged over for their tea party. Her expression got serious as she put her teacup down, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips.
“Charley Pike, that’s simply an awful idea. Why, what if the young man got himself killed? What would the poor girl do, then? Did you ever think about her? What girl would allow someone she cared for to take such an outlandish chance? And for what, some dirty old piece of land all full of tumbleweeds and cactus?”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t be interested in a fella with a thousand dollars, Emily?”
“I, uh, didn’t exactly say that. But I’d feel awful if you, er, the fella got killed. There’s not enough money to bring back someone you care for after he’s dead.”
“Does that mean you care for me, Emily?”
“Well, of course it does, silly. Don’t you know that by now?”
Charley blushed, got up, thanked Emily for the tea, and said he’d see her soon. He had to go home and think about a few things. She watched him leave, with a foreboding that he was about to do something very foolish, and that she might be the reason.
***
A man with a long black coat rode into town just as Charley was leaving. The man was tall and had a mustache that drooped clear to his chin. His eyes were dark and deep-set, barely discernable beneath the brim of his sweat-stained Stetson. Charley caught a brief glimpse of a nickel-plated revolver at his waist. The man’s stovepipe boots gave him away: he was neither cowboy nor drummer. He could only be another gunslinger here to put down Brazos Boone. Charley went to his wagon, dropped the sacks of flour, bacon, and beans in the bed, then climbed into the seat. He whistled his horse to a walk as he passed the stranger in the black coat, turned to watch as the man dismounted in front of the saloon, strode up the two steps to the saloon, and disappeared inside. Charley clucked his horse to pick up the pace, up the narrow road back that snaked around boulders and across a burbling stream up the mountain where he lived with his father, Buffalo Jack Pike, a hero of the War Between the States. Pike, who found at an early age that he was a natural born rifleman, had been proud to wear the distinctive green uniform of the command of Colonel Hiram Berdan, in a highly-decorated unit called Berdan’s New York Sharpshooters.
***
The man in the black coat strode into the saloon and went straight for the bar, tapped a quarter on the planks spread across two huge old wine barrels, and motioned the bartender to bring him whiskey. When he was served, he leaned over to the bartender and whispered something. Brazos noticed the two men talking very
quietly and his curiosity was piqued. He walked over to the bar and turned to the man.
“You’re new in town, stranger, and that gets you a free drink on Brazos Boone. What’s your pleasure?”
The man looked up, then returned to his own drink without saying a word. Brazos was inflamed by the man’s rude manner. No one turns his back on Brazos Boone, he thought. He grabbed the man’s coat and spun him around. They glared at each other for a moment.
“I ain’t a man you want to dismiss lightly, stranger,” said Brazos through gritted teeth. “When I offer a man a drink, I expect him to accept.”
Without expression, the man again turned his back on Boone, gulped his whiskey, and ordered another. Boone stepped back a few paces, and rested his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“Since, by your actions, you’re callin’ me unfit to drink with, I’ll just oblige you with a test of skills, see if you know how to use that shiny six-shoter. You can pull on me anytime you’ve a notion. I’ll wait, take your time.” Brazos’ eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched.
The man took one more sip, then placed his glass on the bar. His eyes were as hard and cold as Brazos’. He, too, slid his hand down to his sidearm.
“I’ll oblige you, pardner. But I doubt you know who you’re goin’ up against. Damned few men would think to pull on me, but you’ve called the trick, so let’s have at it.”
With that, the man started his draw. He was fast, but not quite fast enough. Brazos plugged him a split second before the man got his shot off. Brazos felt the tug of a forty-four as it ripped through his sleeve, the first time anyone had even come close before. He stuck a finger through the hole, staring in amazement that this total stranger could have actually nearly got him. The man lay dead at his feet, and he didn’t even know his name. The saloon crowd gave him a hearty hoorah, and everyone went back to their drinking. Brazos turned to the bartender.
“Sam, you have any idea who this jasper was?”
“No idea. Don’t make much difference now, does it. ‘Course, he ain’t likely to get much of a marker without a name to put on it.” The bartender returned to wiping down the bar top as if nothing more important had just happened than a drunk falling off his chair, an almost hourly occurrence at the town’s only saloon. Brazos went back and sat with his friends, while two others dragged the man outside to catch a ride with the undertaker.