by Phil Dunlap
Huck turned to Trumble. “You take him on back down the street, while I go and arrange for our reward. I saw a sign in a window on our way into town. It said ‘Undertaker and Tonsorial Parlor.’”
With no small amount of grumbling and muttering, Trumble led the horse carrying Dakota Joe using all three ropes tied together to keep as far away as possible from the deteriorating body.
Huck stomped up on the plank sidewalk and entered the sheriff’s office. He removed his hat and stood in front of the desk, a makeshift contraption consisting of two barrels with a wide plank across them. The sheriff looked up from holding a handkerchief to his nose.
“Now what?”
“Well, sir, I was wonderin’ if we could discuss the reward for the man we brung in. It’s a feller called Dakota Joe, and I hear he’s worth, uh, about five hundred dollars.”
The sheriff picked up the top sheet off a pile of reward dodgers stacked on the end of his desk. He tossed it in front of Huck. “This the fella?”
“That’s him, yessiree, in the flesh. He’s the one I done plugged after he murdered some poor squatter out there ‘bout twenty miles beyond them foothills.”
“Can you prove it’s him?”
“I knowed him on sight. You can have a look for yerself.”
“Hmmm. Can’t say as I, uh, favor visitin’ with a rotting corpse.”
“Can’t you just take my word for it?”
“Oh, it ain’t your word I’m bound to cogitate on. Fact is, we got ourselves a problem. It concerns the reward.”
“Uh, what kind of problem you talkin’ about?” Huck frowned suspiciously.
“The reward has already been claimed, and paid out.”
“What! How can that be? My partner and I just brung in the body. How can you pay a reward before the corpse arrives?”
“I knew it was on its way. She said there’d be a drover bringin’ ol’ Dakota Joe in. She claimed the reward. Said it was her husband that was killed, therefore it was the just thing to do.”
“She?”
“The widder woman. ‘Course she tells a slightly different tale. Says she plugged him herself just as he was about to do to her what he’d done to her husband.”
“Well, how’d you know we’d be bringin’ in the right fella?”
“She pulled out that right distinctive Smith & Wesson of his with the silver snake on the grips. Half the country has seen him with it. Too often, up close. Never saw another’n like it.”
Huck stood staring at the sheriff with a look that suggested he’d just consumed a bowl of persimmons. He swallowed hard. He’d just been bamboozled by a skinny little stick of a woman, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. And why the hell hadn’t he thought of pickin’ up that .44?
“But, I–” Huck stammered.
“Aint no sense chewin’ on it no more. There ain’t nothin’ I can do to change the circumstances. Sorry, son; better luck next time.”
Huck slunk away to meet up with Trumble halfway between the sheriff’s office and the undertaker’s establishment. He was muttering to himself when Trumble came up looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Let me see it. I ain’t never seen five hundred dollars all in one place before.”
“And you ain’t goin’ to now, either.”
“Huh? What do you mean? You got the reward money, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“What! How come you don’t have it? There was a reward. I know ‘cause I saw the poster.”
“It ain’t that. The widder woman done claimed the reward before we got here. She beat us to town. Said she’d shot him. She said a feller came along and offered to haul the corpse into town for her. The sheriff believed her and took her to the bank to get her the reward.”
“How in tarnation could she have beat us here?”
“Someone musta hitched up her wagon.”
“Now what lamebrain would do such a thing?”
“I reckon you know.”
Trumble hung his head. “All that work and we still ain’t even goin’ to get a bite to eat for our efforts.”
The two of them settled on the steps in front of the hotel. Both leaned on their knees, with chins buried in their cupped hands. Just then, the rattle of a wagon could be heard approaching. Huck looked up to see the widow holding the reins, sitting up straight and proud, with a peaceful look on her face. When the wagon was within a few feet of the boys, she pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. She looked down at Huck with a smile, the first he’d seen after all the tragedy that had befallen her. She’s durn near pretty, Huck thought. Too bad she ain’t a tad more honest.
“I want to thank you for helpin’ me. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying out there on the prairie cold as a stone. I feel bad for claiming the reward, but without the money, I’d have nothing. And with my poor husband dead and buried, what chance would a woman alone have in this godforsaken wilderness? ”
“Reckon we know the feeling,” grumbled Trumble.
“You boys work a ranch hereabouts?” she said.
“No, ma’am, we’re out of work. I was on my way to ask for a handout when I saw that man shoot your Henry,” Huck said.
“Got no jobs at all?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I sure am sorry to hear that. But you’ll come up with somethin’ one of these days. Best of luck to you both.” She clucked her tongue and slapped the reins against her team’s rumps. She gave the boys a dispassionate nod as the wagon rumbled on out of town.
The boys watched it disappear in a dusty cloud. Huck looked at Trumble, and Trumble looked right back, his expression turning dark as a storm cloud.
“I don’t like that look on your face. What’s rattlin’ around in that empty space where a brain ought to be, Trumble? C’mon, out with it.”
“Maybe you shoulda let Dakota Joe do what he intended before you took yer shot.”
***
THE FIRST DEADLY SIN
Damn these worthless cowboys. Kids, nothin’ but kids. Children playin’ at bein’ all growed up. And guns. That’s all they ever think about. Guns. Carry ‘em everywhere. Pull ‘em for no reason at all. Lord, I wish there was a way to let ‘em see the foolishness of it. But for every one who is lucky enough to learn his lesson and come out alive, there’s another fool to take his place. And now, and now I’ve got these new ones to contend with. I’m not sure if I got the strength for another one.
As Booker Curless sat moodily at one of the back tables in the Cattle Company Saloon nursing a glass of whiskey, the town’s doctor, John Merrill, strode in, noticed him, and walked over to his table.
“Mind if I sit?” he said.
“Help yourself, Doc, although I ain’t up to a party or nothin’.”
“Just a little serious drinkin’ and some company,” the doctor said. “So, Booker, I hear you got a complaint. How come you haven’t come to me about it?”
“I got no complaint, Doc. Where’d you hear such nonsense?”
“From that mouthy, worthless deputy you used to have, of course. Smartest thing you ever did was to take his badge away and kick him out. I must admit, though, he was useful in passin’ on every tidbit he ever heard. How else would anyone learn spit in this godforsaken wilderness? If we was to wait on you to share anything important, why we’d all die of ignorance.”
“Aww, now Doc it ain’t that bad. I just don’t believe in gossipin’, and that’s what near all of what goes for news around here is.” Booker took a small sip from his glass. He rolled it between his long, thin fingers and then set it back on the table.
“I ain’t talkin’ about gossip, and you darn well know I’m talkin’ about you. Now what’s goin’ on?”
Booker curled his mouth into a squirming worm, then rolled his eyes.
“Leave me alone, Doc. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me that a little peace and quiet won’t cure. I’m a mite weary of bein’ the town’s conscience. That’s all.”<
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Doctor John, as most folks called him, leaned back in his chair with a disgusted look. He knew Booker Curless well enough to know that when the man took a firm stand on something, there wasn’t any point in arguing. He sipped his whiskey with a look of resignation.
As they continued to sample the light brown whiskey, allowing only the occasional word to pass between them, a couple of rough looking drifters entered through the batwing doors, looked around, then sidled up to the polished oak bar. One of them ordered a couple of whiskeys. “Yer best,” he said.
The bartender glanced up from wiping a glass, nodded, and shuffled over to reach for a bottle off the back bar. One of the drifters pulled his sidearm and fired a shot into the stack of glasses a foot away from where the bartender was reaching, exploding the glasses into tiny shards. The smoky blast scattered the few other patrons, most of whom thundered for the nearest exit. The bartender ducked and cowered behind the bar, clearly not eager to get the same treatment as his stack of glassware had just received.
“I said whiskey, not that mule piss you sell to the other fools that gather in this joint.” The man slipped his revolver back into its holster. He waited for the bartender to gain his composure and find the “good” stuff under the bar.
The doctor frowned as he turned to Booker. “Well, ain’t you goin’ to do somethin’ about that? Can’t let scum shoot up a man’s establishment just for the hell of it. And, unless my memory’s playin’ tricks on me, it’s still illegal to fire off a six-shooter in town.”
Booker didn’t make a move. He just sighed, and picked up his own glass once again.
“That fellow’s right about the slop ol’ Ed serves in here.”
“That ain’t the point, Booker, and you know it. What’s happened to you? You ain’t been yourself lately. Why a couple years ago you’d have put a bullet through that fellow a’fore he could blink again. Lately you been takin’ to the far side of the street whenever one of them saddle tramps rides in. What’s become of the toughest gunslinger this side of the Rio Bravo?”
“I reckon I ain’t that man no more, Doc. Times are changin’ and I reckon I gotta face the fact that I have to change with ‘em.”
“Now that’s just a load of bull, Booker, and you know it. The times ain’t gonna change until every one of those gun totin’ saddle tramps is run outta the state. That’s when decent folk will start comin’ back and settlin’ down. Raisin’ families.”
“Maybe so, but my time for makin’ ‘em run is comin’ to an end.” Booker got up and walked slowly to the door, never glancing at the two men at the bar. He cupped his hand over his eyes as he stepped out into the blazing sunlight. With long, even strides, he crossed the dusty street and disappeared into the tiny office with the fading sign that creaked on rusty hinges each time the wind took a mind to blow. The sign simply said: Sheriff’s Office, Daltry, Texas.
***
After Booker left the saloon, the doctor remained, drinking alone and remembering back on a time when things were different, when Booker first came to Daltry and cleaned out the footpads and owlhoots that had all but taken over. Booker Curless was but twenty years old when he came riding in, all six-foot-two of him, wearing a Colt .45 in a cross-draw holster. He was gangly and awkward when he walked, and people began calling him beanpole. That didn’t bother him, though. He took all the ribbing in good humor. Ribbing coming from storekeepers and other church-going folk didn’t bother him at all.
Young Booker hadn’t been in town for more than a week before a trio of scruffy owlhoots drifted into Daltry. The sheriff at the time, an aging gunslinger-turned-lawman named Bix White, had dodgers on all three of them tacked to the wall outside his office. The men had been inside the saloon no more than a few minutes before the barber rushed into the sheriff’s office nearly out of breath, holding one of the dodgers. He tossed it on the desk, and commenced to stare the sheriff down, awaiting some response. When he got none, he leaned forward and frowned mightily through bushy eyebrows that grew together like tangled tumbleweeds.
“Sheriff White, I reckon you know there’s two scoundrels sittin’ over at the Cattle Company a’fixin’ to raise a ruckus. So there ain’t no sense in my pointin’ them out. I know you saw ‘em ride in. You put these pictures up, so you know who they are. And, I saw you skedaddle back inside once you laid eyes on ‘em. So what do you plan to do about it? The decent folks hereabouts are lookin’ to you to keep that kind of trash outside the town limits.”
The barber stood, stiff-armed, with fists balled, waiting for some response from the old sheriff. What he got came as a shock. Sheriff White stood up, un-pinned the badge from his shirt, and tossed it on the floor.
“Find someone else to face down them owlhoots. I’m tired. I’m old and gettin’ slow. Yeah, I know who they are, all right, and I know it’ll take a better man than this old coot to take ‘em down.”
With that, White began gathering up his personal belongings and stuffing them into his saddlebags. Then, as if going out for a stroll, he sauntered out the door toward the corral. The barber watched after him, blinking in disbelief, completely stunned by what had just happened. Anyone nearby might have seen the trickle of perspiration that started down his forehead.
But, as it turned out, fate was about to visit on the town an unusual turn of events just as Bix White passed the saloon bound for parts unknown. Booker Curless glanced up only briefly as he walked slowly down the street, stopping at each window to survey the merchandise displayed there. He was like a child staring at a candy counter, wishing a kind customer would volunteer to buy him some rock candy or a licorice stick.
He was passing a lady’s dress shop when a woman stepped out from the door with her arms full of nicely wrapped packages. She smiled as he stopped and tipped his hat to her. She turned and started down the plank walkway in front of the saloon when the three gunmen slammed out the doors, loud and obnoxious by their language and mannerisms. One of them ran squarely into the lady, knocking the packages from her grip. Without recognition of the deed, the men continued on with nary a comment, laughing and cursing loudly, as if the woman had been no more to them than a pesky branch that jutted out too far from a tree, hindering their progress.
Taking it all in, Booker was instantly irritated at such rude behavior. He stopped to ask the lady if she was unharmed, bent down to help her gather her belongings, and, once she was again on her way, took matters into his own hands. He strode purposefully after the men, gaining on them quickly with his long strides.
“Hold up, fellers, that wasn’t very gentlemanly of you. I think you owe that little lady an apology.”
One of the men spun around, his hand instantly on the grips of his six-gun.
“I don’t know who you are, kid, but no one talks to the Calder brothers that way. Best you be runnin’ off to your mama before you start leakin’ blood all over the street.”
Booker drew with such lightning speed, the man didn’t get a chance to finish his own draw. His bowler flew off and began rolling down the street, a bullet hole dead center in the crown. Booker held the three with a hard gaze. His Colt was already cocked and ready for whatever response the three had in mind. The quickness of his draw had been enough, however, to change their minds about further confrontation, and they turned and hurried to their horses, which were tied to a nearby hitching rail. They mounted up and rode hard straight out of Daltry.
A crowd of sorts quickly gathered around Booker who was suddenly quite embarrassed about the whole incident. He waved off the praise that came his way, hurrying off to the privacy of a back table at the Cattle Company Saloon. Solitude was the one thing Booker Curless never seemed to get enough of.
After giving due consideration to the incident with the Calder Brothers, and while trying to decide the town’s next move after Sheriff White’s sudden and cowardly departure, several folks began musing among themselves that maybe Booker should run for sheriff. A younger, faster gun could be just what the town needed. Before t
hey could make up their minds to ask him, however, another gun-happy drifter figured to draw on the skinny kid, maybe teach him a lesson. He thought better of his position after Booker had his Colt drawn and stuck in the face of his antagonist before the man even had a firm grip on his revolver’s walnut grips. Two wide-eyed wannabe gunslingers standing nearby just swallowed hard and slipped off to down one more shot of whiskey at the saloon before making tracks for the county line. That pretty much sold the town on where to find their next sheriff.
Booker had figured running for sheriff was probably just another way of making him the butt of the joke, but he went along with it and threw his hat into the ring, anyway. He could laugh at himself as well as the next fellow. That’s the kind of man he was. He’d try anything, once. And besides, he needed an honest steady-paying job, something other than riding herd on a bunch of dumb longhorns. He needed something that would keep him from spending long days in the saddle, which just served to chaff his skinny butt. Cowboying hardly paid enough to keep him in bullets, which he shot off at a ferocious rate in order to perfect his natural affinity for handling a Colt, something that he’d taken to early on.
To his great surprise, those townsfolk hadn’t been kidding, and he won the election by a landslide. He’s been the sheriff ever since. 18 years. He hasn’t changed much over that time, either. He’s still a little gangly, and a lot grayer, but he doesn’t miss much that goes on around him. His gaunt face and deep blue eyes are always searching, taking in his surroundings like a wolf on the prowl. He knows his town, and the town knows him, and they respect one another. And, today, if anyone joked about his scarecrow appearance, he’d still likely laugh it off.
***
The two men in the saloon had never stepped foot in Daltry before, but they were beginning to like what they saw, and getting used to doing whatever they wanted without any attempt from the law to curtail their raucous behavior. After all, shattering a whole stack of glassware with a bullet from a .45, right in front of the town’s sheriff without a hint of reprisal, was most certainly an encouragement to such men.