"Yes."
"You didn't believe him?"
"No."
"Do you believe me?"
"Can't you cut it out?"
"It's too far advanced. I'd have to gut you like a fish."
"What can you do?"
"Very little. Palliation. Keep you warm and comfortable as possible. See that you eat as well as you can as long as you can. Give you drugs for the pain."
Books looked at him intently. "What you're saying is, I am a dying man."
"I am."
Books strode to the leather chair, threw the crimson pillow at a wall, and sat down, making a strange, twisted face. "I will be God damned."
"I'm sorry," said Hostetler.
"No, you're not. I said, you don't approve of me."
"That's neither here nor there. You're a human being and my patient. Therefore I'm sorry."
Books stared out a window. "I never expected to go this way."
"I'm sure you didn't."
"If I'd known this was coming."
"If it's any consolation, no one does."
"How long have I got?"
"There's no way to tell. You must be in a lot of pain already. For the life of me, I don't know how you rode down from Colorado in your condition. That, by the way, may have done you damage. Hurried matters along, I mean. Excitation of the cells."
"You said I am strong as an ox."
"Even an ox dies."
"Put it this way. If you were a betting man, how long would you say?"
"Two months. Three months. Six weeks."
"You betting wind or money?"
"Money."
"Will it be a hard death?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Can I go out? Can I have a drink? Can I play cards? Can I make love to a woman?"
"For a while. Later on you won't want to. Or be able to."
"How much later?"
The doctor shrugged. "You'll know when."
"God damn it."
"Books, I am sorry."
"So am I."
Charles Hostetler looked at the watch in his vest. "I must go. Another call to make, a pregnancy, any day now. That's the way it goes. I'll stop by tomorrow with something for you to take. For the pain. Oh, and I'll bring a book along, so you can read up on carcinoma. If you care to."
"I care to."
The doctor rose, picked up his bag.
"You can do me a favor," Books said. "Keep it to yourself I am in town."
"I surely will."
"I guess you won't mention I am a goner."
"I won't. That's your privilege." The doctor went to the door. "See you tomorrow."
There was no answer.
He sat for some time after Hostetler had gone, a man of stone. He was exhausted. The wind which had trailed him to El Paso continued to blow outside, begging round the corners of the house to be let in, and though the windows were closed, over the wind he heard, once, a high ringing sound, iron on iron, like that of clapper on bell.
He thought: Well. I am not going to the Orndorff, or the Big Gold Bar, or the Red Light, or a parlor house. So long, bare-assed blonde. Good-by, redhead. Farewell, octoroon. I am going to hole up in this room and die like some animal. In two months, three months, six weeks. And a hard death to boot. That will pleasure hell out of a lot of people. But I will not think about it now. I will have a drink and read the paper.
He stood up, took the whiskey bottle from the closet shelf and had a long pull, replaced his pillow in the armchair seat, picked up his paper, and sat down again.
He thought: This is the last newspaper I will ever read. I won't buy another. I have skimmed newspapers all my life and never got the whole good out of one. Well, I will read every word in this one and when done I will know for a fact what was going on in the world on the twenty-second day of January in the year 1901. It is a damned important day to me. For a sizable part of it, I did not know I was about to die, so in a way it was my last one alive. From now on, however many days I am allowed, they will all be downhill.
The first item which caught his attention was on the front page:
Cowes, Isle of Wight, Jan. 22—The death mask of the queen will be made by Mr. Theed, the famous sculptor. He was summoned to Osborne House on Sunday to be in readiness for the work. Artists and sculptors the world over are interested in Mr. Theed's important mission.
He thought: I will not break. I won't tell anybody what a tight I am in. I will keep my pride. And my guns loaded to the last.
Gillom Rogers slept late, then yawned downstairs to the dining room. The regulars, the two railroaders and the teacher, had long ago breakfasted and gone, and the house was quiet. His mother sat opposite while he ate, sipping coffee and appraising her son as though to sustain a conviction that he could not yet be a man. Shave or not, tall or not, handsome or not, profane or not, intractable or not, seventeen, she believed, was still a boy.
Gillom nodded toward the rear room. "He in there?"
"Yes."
"What'd you feed him? Horseshoe nails and a cup of coal oil?"
"Sshh. He'll hear you."
"Who gives a damn."
She recalled washing out his mouth with soap when he was ten. "School this afternoon?"
"Hah."
"What, then?"
He tilted his chair to reflect. "Let's see. The Connie first, I guess."
"They won't serve you."
"I'll get roaring drunk, then go on down the Line and raise hell till they throw me in the juzgado."
"Gillom."
"Well? Mind your own business."
In the entry, a clock ticked.
"Don't speak to me that way," she said. "If your father were here, he'd—"
Gillom banged his chair down and braced his hands against the table as though to tip it over. "I've told you, Ma," he warned. "Don't talk to me about him. Don't ever. I won't have it."
"I am not to use his name in your presence."
"That's what I said."
It was a boyish call to battle she must accept. If she stood her ground, told him the truth, she might gain an enemy, but if she permitted him to bully her into retreat, she lost more than a skirmish: she lost a son. So she mustered herself. She met his scowl with a composure seventeen could never match.
"I love you," she said. "You know that, and take advantage of it. But the truth is, I loved him more. I always did, I always will."
He let go of the table, then did not know what to do with his hands.
"If it grieves you, I will never mention your father again. But I will speak of my husband whenever I wish."
She won, temporarily at least, and at what cost she could not estimate. He saucered his coffee, blew to cool, then attacked again, as the young do, this time from the flank.
"School. It don't amount to a hill of beans. I can learn more around town."
"I hope so."
"I know so. Who do you think moved in with us yesterday?"
"His name is Hickok. William Hickok."
"Hah."
"He's the U. S. Marshal in Abilene, Kansas. He told me."
Gillom drank a noisy triumph. "Are you dumb, Ma. Wild Bill Hickok was shot dead in Deadwood twenty-five years ago."
"I don't believe you."
"In the back. He was playing poker. The cards he held— they call it the 'Dead Man's Hand.' A pair of—"
"Gillom."
"I saw his guns, when he got off his horse yesterday. A pair of nickel-plated Remingtons. He carries 'em in holsters sewed to his vest."
"Who?"
He could not saucer his excitement. "Ma, we've got the most famous gun man in the world nowadays! Living with us, right here on Overland Street! Oh, he's mean. He's killed thirty men!"
"Gillom, you tell me!"
"Hold your hat. J.B. Books!"
Bond Rogers' cheeks flamed. She rose, turned, steadied herself with the chair back. She stared at her son, then swept from the room.
"Come in."
She entere
d, but couldn't decide whether or not to close the door behind her. If she left it ajar, Gillom might overhear. If she shut it, she put herself at the mercy of a violent man, perhaps a depraved. She left it open but set her back to it and clutched the knob.
"Mr. Books."
"Mrs. Rogers."
"You are J. B. Books."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You have rented my room under false pretenses."
"Sometimes I advertise, sometimes I don't."
"I will not have anyone of your stamp under my roof. I demand that you pack up and leave."
"I'm sorry."
"This is my room, I remind you. I want you out of it within the hour."
"I am sorry. I can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't propose to say."
"You will not go!"
"No."
"That is your last word."
He considered her, a rag of amusement at the corners of his mouth. "You have a fine color, ma'am," he said, "when you are on the scrap."
Confused, angered by the compliment, Bond Rogers whirled, stumbled against the door, and slammed it shut after her, only to confront her son. He stood in the hall, eavesdropping as she had suspected, but his expression stunned her. He regarded her with the same acuity, the same deliberation, the same glimmer of amusement she had just fled from, and the discovery that she might be mistaken, that he might be a man after all, not a boy, that she might in fact be alone with two strangers, both of whom had gained admission to her house under false pretenses, terrified her. Gillom did not move. She fled from him to the telephone on the wall, lifted the receiver from the hook, spun the crank, and adjusted the mouthpiece to her height.
"Central? Will you please connect me with the City Marshal's office? I don't know the number, I haven't time to look it up. Marshal Thibido. Thank you."
Moses Tarrant, who owned a livery stable on Oregon Street, stopped in the Acme Saloon. The place was almost deserted, since the gambling rooms were upstairs. A penurious man, Tarrant drank little and, when he did, held it well, but on this day he could no longer hold the news he had to tell. During the osmosis of a nickel beer he informed the barkeep that J. B. Books was in El Paso. He knew Books was, he said, because he had the man-killer's horse in his stable. To Tarrant's surprise, the barkeep heard him with indifference, continuing to polish glasses with his apron and to rack them. Disgruntled, the liveryman drained his glass and departed. The instant he had gone, however, the barkeep left his bar unattended, climbed the stairs with unusual celerity, and announced to a table of five men playing draw that J. B. Books was in town. Among the players was a man named Shoup and one named Norton.
"I'm the City Marshal. Walter Thibido."
"How do you do."
"I'm told you are John Bernard Books."
"You are told right."
"I've seen your face in the papers, but I wouldn't recognize you. Must of been a young picture."
"I'm handsomer now."
The marshal was not of a mind to banter. He appeared to have dressed in his best bib and tucker for what was to him a momentous, possibly a historical, occasion—in a serge suit and a clean shirt and a brass badge and, on his right hip, in a new holster, the Peacemaker he carried only on Sundays.
"Have a seat," Books offered.
"Don't think I will."
Books noted that he held his hat in his left hand and kept his right free, his collar crimped him, his shoes squeaked, and most important, that he was breathing hard with responsibility. This signified he had nerved himself to make the supreme civic sacrifice if necessary, which made him unpredictable, which made him dangerous.
"Breathe easy, Marshal. You are closer to your gun than I am to mine. Besides, I seldom kill anybody before noon. How did you know I was here?"
"Mrs. Rogers' boy spotted you, and told her. She telephoned me."
"So you welcome me to El Paso."
Thibido was more interested in mortality than irony. "I sure as hell do not. She claims you told her you were Wild Bill Hickok or she'd never of rented you a room. She wants you out of it. I don't blame her."
"Neither do I."
"So do I want you out, Books. I checked my bulletins before I came over, and didn't find anything I could hold you for. I wish I had of. But I want you out of town. We've got five railroads here and they'll be glad to sell you a ticket to any damn where."
"I won't be hurrahed."
"I'm not trying to. I'll buy the ticket."
"For purely personal reasons."
"Purely personal."
"Such as?"
"Such as I've been marshal a year now and I like it. I sleep at home and my wife is a good cook. I've got six deputies in uniform and we draw city pay the end of every month. I don't have to depend on fines. Such as about all we have to handle is drunks and cardsharks and a robbery and a knifing now and then and what I don't need is a genuine rough customer like you. You dally here and you'll draw trouble like an outhouse draws flies. So I want you on your way far away. Directly. Today."
"I might not be inclined."
"Then I will by God incline you. I told you, I have six deputies and I can badge as many men as I need. We will smoke you out or carry you out feet first, and the Council will back me up. So you say which, Mr. Gun Man. It's your funeral."
Books considered him. By the end of his peroration he was red in the face and breathing harder and shifting from foot to foot on his squeaky shoes. He was also flexing and unflexing the fingers of his right hand and saying inside, probably, a prayer.
"I can't go," said Books.
"Can't?"
"No. I am in a tight."
"You'll be in a worse."
"Not worse than this. I have a cancer."
"A cancer?"
"Of the prostate."
"That's too thin."
"Ask the doc, Hostetler. That's why I came down here from Colorado, to see him. He examined me yesterday. I don't have long. I will die in this room."
Walter Thibido was a small muscular man in his forties. He looked at Books and his face worked. Suddenly he dropped into a chair, bent forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, and through his fingers expelled relief.
"Whoo. Whooeee."
He reminded Books of someone who had just stepped from a Turkish bath into a cold shower.
"I tell you the truth, Books. When I came here I was scared," he said, smiling through his fingers. "I know what a man like you is capable of when he's cornered. On the way I wondered who'd get my job, and if the Council would give my wife a pension, and if it'd snow the day they put me under. Whooeee."
He shook his head, straightened up, found his hat. "Cancer. Cancer," he chortled. "Oh, that's rich. By God that's rich. When I think of the close calls you must of had, and now this. The great killer doesn't die of lead poisoning or a rope necktie after all—he's done in by his crotch!"
He realized what he was saying. "Excuse me if I don't pull a long face. I can't."
Books was silent. And perceptibly, as he went unchallenged, the marshal was restored to full fettle. He had done his duty and survived. He had not had to draw his weapon. He had been handed his dignity and authority on a silver platter. To the best of his knowledge, his conscience and prostate were in excellent shape. He leaned back, hooked his thumbs in his vest.
"I'm a lucky man, Books. We had bloody hell in El Paso a few years back. Wes Hardin was killed over on San Antonio Street six years ago. John Selman blew his brains out. Then George Scarborough killed Selman. Then some tough—Will Carver maybe—killed Scarborough. Before that, Dallas Stoudenmire killed Hale and Frank Manning killed him. Oh, we've had more than our share. Well, when they hired me last year I thought, This is a new century, the hard cases have killed each other off, the wheel of fortune has finally stopped, I can be a peace officer and stay healthy and someday die in bed. Then Mrs. Rogers on the telephone. I thought, My God, I was wrong, here she goes again. There is just one killer left and by God if he doesn't
decide to dance one more fandango and in my town. I will have to face him. Today your string plays out, Thibido. J. B. Books is going to put out your light today. But you're not, are you?" He smiled jovially. "Cancer. If that isn't rich."
"You talk too much," Books said.
It was as good as a slap. Walter Thibido recoiled, then grimmed up and regained his earlier truculence. "As much as I damn please." He stood. "I will ask Hostetler. But I believe you. You stay put right here, where I can keep an eye on you."
"Where would I go?"
"That's right, where would you? Say, by the way, how long does he give you?"
"He doesn't know. Maybe six weeks."
"Six weeks."
"You can do me a favor, Thibido."
"I owe you one. Or Hostetler."
"Keep it under your hat I'm cashing in."
"Why?"
"My being in El Paso, maybe that's news. Dying is my own business."
"All right. Anyway, I don't want some tinhorn trying to cut your time short. Or making a liar out of Hostetler. And you can do me one."
"One."
"Let me see your guns."
"In the closet. On my vest."
A bantam rooster again, Thibido squeaked to the closet, pulled the curtain aside, felt for the vest on its hanger, and one at a time, with a kind of reverence, brought out the Remingtons. "Jesus." He inspected them professionally. "Just like I heard. Made to order."
"They were."
"Double-action?"
"Faster."
"But less accurate."
"Not if you know how."
"Modified, I suppose."
"A special mainspring, tempered. I had the factory file down the bents on the hammer, too. You get an easier letoff when you put pressure on the trigger."
"Five-and-a-half-inch barrels."
"Greased lightning."
"I'll stick to a Colt's."
"You do that."
The marshal cocked his head. "I could take them, you know. Now."
"But you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?"
"No." Books spoke evenly. "Because if you did, I'd go out and buy a gun, any gun. I can still get around. Then I'd come for you. Your deputies would swim the river. You'd be alone. You and I know how it would turn out. It would snow the day they buried you. So put my guns away."
The Shootist Page 2