Diablo Smith

by Phil Dunlap

  But they hadn’t ridden into Daltry just on a whim. They had come for a specific reason: Booker Curless. The sheriff’s reputation with a gun had spread well beyond Daltry, and the county for which it served as County Seat. These men were looking to make their own reputations by bringing down Daltry’s popular sheriff. They had gotten the idea from a drunken drifter who had claimed to have once been Curless’ deputy. For a few drinks, the man’s mouth began to run like a spring in the desert. The men liked what they heard, and formed a plan to benefit from what they saw as a weakness in the sheriff. A weakness to parlay into a reputation. And from what they’d seen so far, well, it was certainly encouraging to say the least.

  ***

  Booker Curless had survived the War between the States, where he learned early on what having courage meant, and how it felt to shoot a man just because he was wearing the wrong color uniform. Of course, that other fella was also shooting back. Things were different now. That war was long over, but there was a new war that plagued the frontier, a war between decency and outlawry. Men like Booker were all that seemed to stand between those two opposing forces.

  Booker sat with his head down, almost as if in prayer. Fact was, that was likely just what he was doing, praying. Booker wasn’t a particularly religious man, but of late he’d taken to being introspective, moody, and distant. Friends couldn’t figure what it was that changed the man from fun loving and gregarious to solemn and dark. From a man who could put a bullet through a playing card at fifty feet with a Colt .45 to a man who had trouble identifying his own horse from across the street. But then, if you really knew Booker Curless, you knew what it was that troubled him. Not that the knowing meant anything. Or solved anything. You had to know the man real well to recognize the problem. It was honor and fear all rolled up into one tidy package. Booker Curless was slowly losing his eyesight, and it scared the hell out of him. What he couldn’t see, he could sense. Maybe even smell. Of course, what he probably smelled was the pack of wild animals gathering for the kill. And he was pretty certain he was the prey.

  ***

  Maybe it was fate, herself, that visited Daltry that day by putting Booker not three feet from the doctor’s office the very moment Doc John stepped from his door. Surprised, Booker jumped back suddenly. “Oh, sorry Doc, I come near to bowlin’ you over. Didn’t see you.”

  “That don’t come as a surprise.”

  “All right, I’ll admit it. That’s what you want, ain’t it? My eyesight ain’t what it used to be,” Booker snapped, looking away. “You happy, now?”

  “You ain’t sufferin’ just from poor eyesight, you’re also sufferin’ from the first deadly sin. It may come as a big surprise, Booker, but you ain’t got the whole world all wrapped up in brown paper with a string tied around it, and it’s time you realized it. Everybody needs help at one time or another. And, like it or not, you’re goin’ to get some, right now, from me.”

  “Them’s nice words, Doc, but it’ll take more’n words to help me see who I’m shootin’ at. I don’t aim to end up like ol’ Wild Bill, hisself, pluggin’ some innocent soul who weren’t even aimin’ to shoot back.”

  “Come inside and take a seat. A package arrived on the mornin’ stage. I had you in mind when I sent off for it special about two weeks ago.”

  “What kinda package?”

  “Samples. A whole set of samples from an optical company back east.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Just you sit back in that chair and I’m goin’ to show you.”

  Booker was too tired to argue with Doc Merrill. He did as he was told as the doctor pulled the shades to the two windows in his office. The room grew very dim as Merrill lit a lantern and turned the wick up high. He began unrolling a piece of paper with letters on it. The letters were stacked in a pyramid shape, with a single large letter at the top, each row adding more letters, and each line getting smaller and smaller. He tacked the paper to the far wall. Booker squinted at it, then scratched his head.

  “That’s mighty strange writin’ you’re puttin’ up there, Doc. What’s it supposed to say?”

  “Ain’t supposed to say nothin’ at all. It’s a chart for determinin’ how bad your eyesight is.”

  “I don’t need no paper with a bunch of meaningless letters on it to tell me how bad my eyes are gettin’, I already know. All you gotta do is ask.”

  “That ain’t the scientific way of doin’ things, Booker. Now just settle back and let me do my work, will you?”

  Booker grumbled as he sighed and slumped back in his chair.

  “Take a peak at them letters on the wall and tell me the first one you can’t make out.”

  “Doc, I don’t have time for such foolishness. I’m leavin’,” he said as he started to push out of the chair.

  Doctor Merrill put a hand on his shoulder and gave Booker a shove back into the seat.

  “This ain’t foolishness, Booker. You give me a few minutes and I’ll prove it. Now just you stay in that chair and answer my question.”

  Booker grumbled but complied with what he was being asked. He couldn’t actually make out any letters on line three. The doctor picked around in the box of glass and wires until he came to the one he was looking for. He grinned as he pulled the strange contraption from its slot.

  “Here, stick this on your nose and wrap these wires over you ears.”

  Booker had no more than done what he’d been told than his eyes lit up.

  “Damn, Doc, I can read all the lines. What is this, a miracle?”

  “Spectacles. I told you I could change your view of the world, and this combination of wires and polished glass is how I intend to do it. Step outside and tell me how they work.”

  Booker went to the door, opened it, and quickly recoiled from the glare of an intense midday sun. He cupped his hand over his eyes, blinking.

  “I can see just fine, Doc, but I ain’t sure them gunslingers are goin’ to wait until I get used to bright light before they start shootin’.”

  “Well, I got a solution for that, too. Here try these on,” Doc John said as he handed Booker a pair with dark brown glass.

  “Looks like these was made from a bottle of sarsaparilla,” Booker snickered. He slipped the dark spectacles on. Again, a big grin crossed his face. “Damn! This is a miracle.”

  ***

  Booker was on his way to the saloon when the two troublesome drifters came through the door, laughing and cursing. One drew his revolver and put a bullet through the window of the dry goods store.

  “Good shot, Jake, you just killed a building.” They both doubled over in laughter. That’s when one of them spotted the sheriff coming their way right down the middle of the street, and wearing his dark spectacles.

  “Whoa, Jake, will you look at that. Unless my eyes are deceiving me, there’s a blind man comin’ our way, and he’s wearin’ a badge. You don’t suppose he’s plannin’ on takin’ us in for makin’ too much noise, do you? In fact, do you s’pose he even knows we’re here?”

  “Let’s ask him. That right, Sheriff, you comin’ for us bad boys?”

  Booker didn’t alter his course, just kept coming straight for the two hardcases. He pulled up about twenty feet from them. His first words brought more laughter from the two.

  “Better unbuckle your holsters, gents, we’ll be takin’ a jaunt over to the dry goods store, where you’ll be makin’ restitution for the damage you done to his window. After that, we’ll saunter on down to the jail and you can pay the $10 fine for disturbin’ the peace. I reckon you better hand over your gun belts, now.”

  The two men looked at each other with incredulity. The one called Jake dropped his hand to the butt of his revolver. He gave Booker a hard look, just before he yanked his Remington .44 and brought it to bear, thumbing back the hammer.

  Jake’s face turned from a vengeful, twisted scowl to one of screaming pain as Booker’s bullet slammed into the man’s shoulder, spinning him to the ground. Jake’s
partner started to draw, but, noted quickly that Booker’s Colt was cocked and pointed directly at his head. He pulled his hands away from his own revolver and took a step back to show he wasn’t planning on pressing the issue further. Jake writhed in the dirt crying out for someone to fetch the doctor. Neither one of them had seen anyone draw a six-shooter that fast.

  Doctor Merrill took his time getting to the scene, as several citizens gathered around the scruffy gunman, clucking their tongues and chatting casually about whether he’d likely live or die. No one appeared ready to commit one way or the other. In fact, no one seemed really to care, one way or another. When the doctor arrived, he directed some of those milling around to stand aside and let him take a look. He poked and prodded, seemingly unmoved by the man’s screams of pain.

  Doc John looked back and smiled at Booker as he walked away, while three men carried the wounded man to the Doctor’s office.

  ***

  “Son, I hope you know what happened here, today. You come close to committing one of them deadly sins I told you about, earlier. Did you know that?” Doctor Merrill said.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about, Doc. Ain’t real sure I care. Those coyotes are no longer a threat to Daltry, and that’s what concerned me the most. What’s all this about a sin?”

  “You ever listen to the preacher when you was growin’ up?”

  “Why, sure, my ma made certain I was sittin’ on them hard oak planks every Sunday. Why?”

  “Ever hear tell of the Seven Deadly Sins?”

  “Can’t say I have. What’s that got to do with what just happened?”

  “You were fixin’ to go up against them two without a chance in hell of even seein’ ‘em, let alone hittin’ one. You know that don’t you?”

  Booker hung his head, hemmed and hawed around for a moment, then spoke up. “Yeah. Reckon I do. These spectacles you fixed up for me were the ticket, though. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Don’t need no thanks for helpin’ save a good man from himself. That first deadly sin I spoke of, that’s the sin of Pride. Thinkin’ you can do whatever you’ve a mind to even when the ability to do it on your own has done flown the coop. You understand what I’m sayin’ to you, Booker? It wasn’t just the spectacles, why, shucks, they been around for a long time. It was you finally seein’ you needed some help. That’s what folks are supposed to do for each other. That’s what we’re here for.” The doctor raised an eyebrow in anticipation of Booker’s recognition of the obvious.

  Booker stood motionless as Merrill’s words swirled around in his head. Then, as if a match had been struck in a dark room, a broad grin came across his still boyish face. His expression turned from puzzlement to understanding as his eyes lit up.

  He took his spectacles off, blinked from the glaring sun, then promptly put them back on.

  “Doc, you made your point. I reckon I have been a little bull-headed. And you’re right, it never occurred to me to ask for help. Thanks. For everything.”

  Booker walked away whistling, a renewed confidence that he wasn’t really all alone in his struggle to keep the town of Daltry free from the wrong element. Doc Merrill wasn’t feeling too bad, himself, as he watched the transformation that had occurred right in front of him. Booker Curless was already beginning to seem like his old self, and Daltry’s best chance at becoming a prosperous community was back on track.

  ***

  THE TEXAS VINEGARROON

  When young Cactus Bob Benson rode into Langtry, Texas, he was saddle weary and bone dry, a situation he planned to remedy at the first saloon he came to. Trying to find work, he had followed the railroad west from San Antonio only to discover the crews had already moved on past Langtry. At first, looking for a job with the railroad hadn’t seemed like it would be so damned difficult. But it sure is proving to be, he thought, shaking his head with disgust. Now it was looking as if he’d have to chase the track-laying crews all the way to El Paso. But not today. He was too tired to go any further, even if he had to toss his bedroll under a mesquite tree for the night.

  But things began looking up when he spotted a shabby, unpainted shack with a wide porch and a sign that said, “Law West of the Pecos” along with an accompanying message declaring the place a saloon. And with cold beer, to boot. On the roof, another sign proclaimed the proprietor as Judge Roy Bean. Now there was a name he’d heard of–somewhere–although he couldn’t rightly remember where. Obviously it was someone’s idea of a joke, as it was a well-known fact that there wasn’t any law west of the Pecos River, and for sure no judges. That part of Texas was about as bad a place as any in the 1880s, with the possible exception of the Indian Territories west of Fort Smith, Arkansas, the home of Judge Isaac Parker, the notorious “hanging Judge.” Parker was a man Cactus Bob had taken great pains to steer clear of at all costs, especially after having had a small disagreement with a deputy U. S. marshal, whom he’d managed to elude only after several days of hard riding south to escape the marshal’s jurisdiction. And he wasn’t eager to meet up with any real judges, which he didn’t figure to be a problem here in Langtry.

  Cactus Bob dismounted in front of the saloon, wrapped his horse’s reins around a hitching rail after letting the roan slurp up a bucket of water at a trough across the dusty street. There were a number of tents and rickety buildings dotted around housing all sorts of businesses, none other of which appeared to carry any remedies for what ailed Cactus Bob–a parched throat accompanied by severe loneliness, the cure for which could be found in a bottle of whiskey and the touch of a soiled dove.

  He stomped up the four rickety steps to the porch and pushed through the doors to see a white-bearded man behind the bar, alternately wiping up a spill on the bar and sipping liberally from a bottle.

  “Howdy, old man, how about a shot of that stuff you’re drinkin’? Name’s Cactus Bob Benson, and I’m dry as an old bone.”

  “Cactus Bob, huh. Did you just call me ‘Old Man?’” said the bartender.

  “Well, as I look at that shaggy clump of white brush clingin’ to your chin, it’s right clear you ain’t no youngster.”

  The bartender grumbled something as he brought up a bottle, poured a shot, then replaced the bottle beneath the bar.

  “There you are. That’ll be two-bits.”

  Cactus Bob dropped the coin on the bar and downed the whiskey with a shudder. He tapped the glass for a re-fill.

  As his glass was refilled, he asked, “Who’s the pretty lady there on your sign? She work here?”

  Behind the bar was a tattered poster of an attractive woman. Across the top a hand-lettered caption said, “Miss Lillie Langtry, The Jersey Lily.”

  The bartender squinted as he leaned forward, putting his face only inches from Bob’s.

  “Now exactly what do you mean by ‘work,’ sonny?”

  “I think you know, old fellow. I can pay.”

  “Pay for what?”

  “A little of her sweet company for the evening, old timer.”

  Suddenly, the bartender reached below, pulled out a large book, slammed it on the bar in front of him, dropped a Colt revolver on top of the book, and shouted, “Bar’s closed, gents, and court’s in session. The honorable Judge Roy Bean, presiding.”

  Several men who had been standing around or sitting at tables rushed to gather at the bar. All eyes shifted to Bob.

  Bob frowned as he said, “Court? What court, and who’s the defendant?”

  “My court, sonny, and you’re the accused. You just violated one of Langtry’s most time-honored laws right in front of the aforementioned judge–me. How do you plead?”

  “Plead? What the hell law did I violate? I was just havin’ a drink. I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Did you or did you not besmirch the name of the finest lady anyone of us in this establishment ever heard of–the beautiful Miss Lillie Langtry, the darling of the British stage–and after whom I have named this town, not to mention this establishment.”

 
; “How could I have be, uh, be–”

  “Besmirched?”

  “Yeah, that. Why, hell, I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you let your mouth get ahead of your brains and foolishly made a filthy, suggestive comment about our pure and perfect Lillie. Uh, you prefer a jury, or a ruling from the bench?”

  “I don’t prefer neither. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, and you ain’t no judge, neither, old man.”

  Judge Bean cracked a wooden gavel on the top of the bar, and then placed his hand on his revolver. “Guilty!” he shouted, to the whoops and hollers of the other patrons. “And that’s my rulin’. How much money you got on you?”

  Looking about at the faces of the other patrons, each of them glaring at him like he’d spit in their beer, he was at a loss to comprehend what was happening to him. He shook his head as he drew seven one-dollar bills and six bits in change from his coat pocket. “I, uh, have …”

  “Whatever you got, that’s the fine. Hand it over,” said Bean, fingering the Colt.

  Whatever Cactus Bob was, he knew better than to take his protest to anything remotely resembling a grab for his own revolver, which rested comfortably beneath his duster, making it impossible to draw before he found himself lying on the floor with a bullet in him. He slapped his money–every cent he had to his name–on the bar with an angry growl.

  “That all there is?” said Bean.

  “Damned right. You done cleaned me out, you old–”

  “Be careful with your mouth, sonny. You’ve already seen what a heap of trouble ill-considered verbiage can bring.” Bean grinned at Bob with a ‘gotcha’ expression on his weatherworn face.

  “Uh, yes sir. That’s every cent I got.”

  “Then it appears to me, you better make tracks out of here. We got laws against vagrancy. In fact, it may just be a hangin’ offense, sonny. I’ll have to look into that,” Bean said, with narrowed eyes. He opened his law book and began leafing through the pages.