The Shootist

by Glendon Swarthout

  The object of "The Stretcher" meanwhile hung suspended. He was a man in his late thirties, a man powerful and mustached, but also a man uniquely ugly. One cheek was scarred, and one brown eye, his left, was exotropic; it deviated outward, so that while his vision was in fact unimpaired he seemed to have the facility to attend two different things at once, in two different directions. This gave him an unnatural advantage, for it enabled him to concentrate simultaneously on criminal matters north and south of the border. He was noted for his achievements on both sides. North, it was said, he had murdered by knife; south, he had served time for the rape and strangulation, while drunk, of a girl nine years of age. He was sometimes referred to as El Tuerto, or "Cross-eye."

  Presently he was engaged in conversation by the two cowmen. He had failed to deliver a certain number of head by a certain date—cattle neither his nor theirs. Worse yet, he had been advanced a sizable sum. Of this default the cowmen reminded him, and reminded him additionally that they had but to give the word, send the horses, and he would find himself, or various parts of himself, strewn over the valley from hell to breakfast.

  The stretched man begged for his life. He was the sole support, he asserted, of a wife and ten small niños. His children would starve, his wife would take to the streets, and he called upon God and the Virgin and the generosity of the Americanos to spare him. He begged at the top of his voice. Sweat poured from his upper body. Blood welled from under the ropes above his wrists and ankles. The horses stood steady, disconcerting insects with their tails.

  The cowboys laughed and passed the bottle. The two cowmen pondered El Tuerto's fate. One of them had a notion.

  "Books is in El Paso. Some roomin' house. A goner, they say."

  "I heard," said the other. "Killed two drifters tryin' to kill him."

  "Serrano's's'pose' to be good with a gun."

  "May be. Books is holed up, though. He won't come out."

  "Shit he won't. He won't kick off in no bed. One of these days he'll come out for the bright lights and one more go-round. That's the time."

  They pondered anew.

  "Bear and a bulldog."

  "You might be right."

  "Want to try it?"

  "Might's well. Might be fun."

  They reclaimed the bottle and, standing, accompanied by the others, moseyed to the stretched man. His body quivered. A few minutes more under such skeletal tension and he would be on the brink of idiocy.

  They made him a proposition. They had intended to kill him here, but they would give him a chance. Go into El Paso and wait for J. B. Books to come out of his hole. When he did, find him and draw on him.

  El Tuerto babbled a disinclination.

  They repeated the offer: agree to take Books on, or they would start the horses. If he killed Books, they would cancel his debt. If, on the other and more likely hand, Books killed him, everyone was square.

  Serrano continued to demur.

  One of the cowmen cupped a palm, poured from the bottle, and let a little whiskey into the rustler's exotropic eye. He screamed.

  The cowmen smiled.

  "If it doesn't sound too uppity, Mr. Books, I am the premier photographer hereabouts," said Mr. Skelly. "I have photographed the most prominent citizens of El Paso—male and female. And I'd be pleased—and honored—to do a full-length portrait of you—on the best solio paper. Free of charge."

  "Why?"

  "Why, why because you're a famous man, sir. Next to Mr. McKinley—I photographed him, by the way—one of the most famous visitors to our fair city in years. It will give my studio —what shall I say?—style. Normally I charge four dollars a dozen for portraits. You shall have a dozen with my compliments."

  Books considered him.

  "You can send them to friends and relatives—a treasured keepsake."

  Mr. Skelly prided himself on his salesmanship.

  "That's the time a man should be photographed, sir—when he's in his prime—the full bloom of his manhood. Too often we let things slide until it's too—"

  "All right," Books consented.

  Skelly clapped his hands. "Fine! Fine! Now if you'll just slip into a coat, please, I'll bring in my camera and equipment. Right on the front porch—won't be a minute, sir!"

  When the photographer returned, Books waited by the bed in vest and Prince Albert coat. Skelly put down his case and stood the camera on his tripod.

  "The latest, most modern equipment, I assure you, Mr. Books. A Conley eight-by-ten camera with a twelve-inch rectilinear lens—the best money can buy. Now let me see."

  He surveyed the room and settled on the open area between the chiffonier and the south window, posing his subject against the wall of lilies. He then stationed his camera, turned the base cogwheel to raise the red maplewood box to the proper height, and turned a second cogwheel to run out the bellows. His focusing cloth was cut from the green baize of a billiard table top. Draping it over the box and his head and shoulders, he stooped to the ground glass and adjusted his bellows to correct focus.

  "There. There. I have you now, Mr. Books."

  From his case he took a plateholder and inserted it in the camera, then brought out a variety of objects—a tin trough, a wooden handle, a small bottle of alcohol with a wick in the top, a length of quarter-inch brass pipe, and a box of magnesium powder. Affixing the wooden handle beneath the trough, he poured into it a mustard spoonful of powder, set the bottle of alcohol in its holder behind the trough, and attached the length of pipe so that one end opened near the bottle wick.

  "What in hell is that thingumajig?" Books inquired.

  "Why, my flashpan, sir—a recent invention. There's never light enough indoors—so we make our own. Now one more thing—this powder pops very bright and very slow—a one-twenty-fifth-of-a-second flash. Startles the dickens out of some of my customers—they'll flinch or blink and ruin the whole thing. Are you sure you'll hold still when she goes? When you're under fire? A photographer's joke."

  "I am sure."

  "If you aren't, I have a headholder outside. Stand it up behind you out of sight—clamps your head like a vise."

  "I said I am sure."

  "Fine. Now one last thing, Mr. Books. Stand erect, please. And if you won't take offense—please put your hands in your trouser pockets—to draw back the lapels of your coat."

  "Why?"

  "Well, sir, they tell me you carry your weapons in a most unusual manner. If we could catch just a glimpse—just a glimpse, mind you—of the handles, it would add—what shall I say?—a certain style to the portrait."

  Books scowled but shoved his hands in his pockets, squared his shoulders, and Skelly ducked once more under his focusing cloth.

  "There they are! Perfect, sir! Now, by George!"

  He folded the green cloth, tucked it away in his case, pulled the slide from the plateholder, and striking a match on the seat of his pants, lit the wick atop the bottle. In his left hand he grasped the squeeze bulb, in his right the flash-pan, tilting it at a forty-five-degree angle.

  "Ready, Mr. Books? Assume whatever expression you think appropriate, sir—something on the—what shall we say?— threatening side, perhaps. Don't move now—this is for American history!"

  Skelly stuck one end of the brass pipe in his mouth and squeezed the bulb and puffed into the pipe and his exhalation blew the alcohol flame through a hole at the rear of the tin trough and ignited the magnesium powder and for one twenty-fifth of a second, while the shutter opened, the room was lit celestially. Instantly thereafter it was darkened by a pall of acrid smoke, and by the time Books had blinked, Skelly had put down the flashpan, extinguished the flame, whisked two cardboard squares from his case, flung up the windows, and was fanning smoke as his subject hacked and coughed and further profaned the atmosphere with curses.

  "Sorry, sir! A small price to pay—for the photographic art!"

  Beaming, eyes shut, he fanned with might and main till visibility was restored. When it was, gratification vanished from his c
ountenance in much less than one twenty-fifth of a second. Books's face was close to his, and the expression on the gun man's face was, whether appropriate or not, unmistakably threatening.

  "You are giving me a dozen pictures, is that right, Skelly?"

  "Yes, sir," Skelly swallowed.

  "All I need is one."

  "Yes, sir."

  "How many more can you make?"

  "From the negative? Why, as many as I care to—I guess."

  "And you will care to make one hell of a number, won't you?"

  "Why, why should I, Mr. Books?"

  "Because I am dying and you know God damned well I am, don't you?"

  "I—I heard something of that—what shall I say?—nature, sir. I regret—"

  "And you will turn out pictures of the famous man-killer like sausages, won't you? And peddle 'em for a dollar a crack, won't you?"

  "Oh, Mr. Books—how could you think—a man in my position—"

  "So here's what you do, Skelly. You send me over my one as damn soon as you can, and fifty dollars cash with it. Or I will come down to your place of business and ram some of that powder up your rear end and put the end of a cigar to it and there will be a hot time in your ass that night. Do you follow me, you cheapskate?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Jan. 22: Peter Donley, an old-time Arizonan, killed himself with a revolver at Briggs in Yavapai County. He asked a man who was stopping with him to go and get him some whiskey. While he was gone Donley placed a Colt's revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet was a big one and broke his jawbone and neck. It is supposed that he killed himself because he was suffering with the grippe.

  He stopped reading to take laudanum. He resorted to it every two hours now, night and day, and had used half the twelve-ounce bottle.

  Before picking up the paper he listened to the high ringing sound, iron on iron, like that of clapper on bell, as the nine o'clock streetcar passed the corner on its last run.

  He was bone lonesome. Once, years ago, up in the Dakotas, he and three others had staked out a claim, and while his partners had gone off to Deadwood to register it and obtain tools and provisions, he had lived alone on the claim. For two weeks he roughed it in the rain, under a black sky. Later, he had had to kill one of his partners to get his share of the dust, a middling amount but rightfully his. But here, tonight, with a roof over his head, reading by an electric light and listening to a streetcar, people sleeping above him, in the heart of a city, he was lonesomer than he had been up in the Dakotas in the rain, under a black sky.

  Jan. 22: An Albuquerque dispatch says: Francis Schlader, the "Healer," who is attracting so much attention in the Territory and elsewhere because of his marvelous power to heal the sick and cause the blind to see, yesterday calmly and bluntly announced that he is Christ. Among his callers night before last was Rev. Charles L. Bovard. Rev. Bovard tells of the interview in the following letter:

  "My object was to settle from his own statements just what he claims to be and do. It seemed to me that the Christian people and sensible people in general ought to know what he avows. After several questions of less import, I asked him plainly: 'Do you claim to be Jesus Christ returned to earth?' Looking me steadily in the eye with a demoniac glare, he answered: 'I am. Since you have asked me, sir, I say plainly, I am!' I did not argue with him. Life is too short to waste time trying to teach a jackass to sing soprano."

  He slept soundly, but only for an hour. Discomfort waked him then, and though he dozed, on and off, resisting the succor of the drug, in half an hour he could endure the torment no longer. He sat up in bed, and in the dark reached for the bottle with such clumsy desperation that he knocked the glass candy compote off the table to the floor. He swore and, fumbling, found the bottle and put his mouth to the top like a child to the breast.

  He thought: For babies and grown men: Ol' Doc Hostetler's El Paso Paregoric.

  He had to wait now. The effect of the laudanum was not only of shorter duration but each dose took longer to bring him surcease. He got out the chamber pot and tried for several minutes to use it, but in vain. His bladder was distended; it hung in his guts like a great rock. "You will gradually become uremic," the physician had said when pressed. "Poisoned by your own waste, due to a failure of the kidneys."

  He thought: The hell I will. I will stay up as long as I have to. Piss or bust.

  After a time the quaking tendons of his calves and thighs would not support him. By means of the bed he hauled himself to his feet, despairing. Any dog could lift a leg. This was what he had come to. A shell of a man squatting over a slop-jar in the dark, praying not for happiness or fame or nerve or fortune but the simple animal ability to unload.

  He went to an open window and let himself down on his knees before it. It was snowing. He put out his hands and was pleased by the melt of flakes upon his flesh. Somewhere, out in the night close by, earning his three dollars, a man guarded him, some poor bastard who would rather be home in bed than watch over the life of one who was soon to lose it. He heard a mockingbird, astonished by the snow, singing in a tree. Its song was lovely. For some reason it reminded him of the four lines of poetry Hostetler had recited for him, but he could recall only the first: "Weave a circle round him thrice…" Two other lines were all the poetry he knew:

  "Under the spreading chestnut tree/ the village smithy stands…"

  He thought: When we were kids, we used to play a game. "I Wish." Well, I wish I had listened to birds more often.

  I wish I had more schooling.

  I have strayed the western parts of the U.S., it must be the most beautiful country God ever made, and I wish I had paid more attention to it.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride—but I have sold my horse.

  I wish the last man I killed, in Tonopah, up in Nevada, had killed me.

  I wish I had not been so good with guns so early.

  I wish I had been born peaceable.

  My strength is gone. That was one of the most shameful things I ever remember, being flat on my back with a stringbean kid laughing at me.

  It won't be long now. A month? Three weeks? Two? Jesus.

  I wish I had married Serepta, and settled down, and had a son to leave my guns to. I was forty then, and she was twenty-eight.

  I wish I had been to San Francisco.

  Hostetler said one morning I will wake up and know I can't get out of bed. I have to beat that morning by one. So it is a matter of timing, as it usually is. If I am going to make a move, I must do so before it is too late, even twenty-four hours too late. But first I have to decide the move.

  I wish I had sailed on a ship just once, and seen the Sandwich Isles.

  I wish I had not left home so young. I would like to know what became of my people.

  Bond. A crackerjack name for a woman. She is sorry for me, but she wants me dead and I do not blame her. I was wrong about her. She has class. But she also has plenty of starch in her corset. She speaks up to me. She will scrub blood out of a carpet. She may be a lady on the outside, but inside she is full of the Old Harry, and I have not met many like that. I could love her. Given time, I could make her love me, but that would not be fair. Given time, I could straighten out that boy. Somebody had better do it soon, or he will go the way I did, or worse. Given time. I wish I knew why he hates me. Not three days ago he thought I was ace high. Given time.

  I wish I had not been such a loner all my life.

  I wish I had been more worthy of love, and given a damn sight more.

  God I wish I had it to do all over again. I would do it better.

  He left the window and tried the pot again, this time with a dribble of success, then got back into bed and touched each Remington to be certain it was where it should be.

  He thought: Shoup and Norton were names I really did not know, but there are three I will remember: Jack Pulford; Serrano; Jay Cobb. They would sell their souls, Thibido said, to put my name on the wall.

  So. I had no show to w
in before. Now I have. It is a game of draw poker now. I am the dealer now, not a God damned cancer. Not death. I can call the play. I can hold my pair, my guns, and draw three cards:

  One. I can lie here and die slow.

  Two. Or I can blow out my own brains. But I have too much sand for that. Besides, it has no style. There would be no honor in it. It is not the way that J. B. Books should go.

  Three. The third card. Or I can pick my own executioner.

  I wish I knew which one of them is the sure shot. I wish I knew which one deserves to kill me.

  What was that line? Yes. "Weave a circle round him thrice…"

  Pulford.

  Serrano.

  Cobb.

  "There's a man to see you," she announced. "A Mr. Beckum."

  Books was lathering his face. "See me about what?"

  "I intended to tell you who he is. I'm well acquainted with your temper. I can still see that poor young reporter flying down the front steps."

  "Well?"

  "He's an undertaker."

  Books put down his brush and mug to turn and look at her.

  "We have three in town. He's the best known. I must say he's being a little forward. Of course, you don't have to see him."

  He went back to his lather, scowling into the mirror. "It snowed last night," he said.

  "Yes. It's melted this morning, though." She could almost hear him thinking.

  "Thibido said he was putting a man outside the house at night. Did he?"

  "Yes. He strolls up and down across Overland. Most of the time he leans against a tree. I'm not sure how effective it is."

  "If it bothers you, I can tell Thibido to take him off."

  "No. I don't mind."

  He finished lathering. "All right. Send him in."

  She hesitated.

  "Don't worry, we'll get along. He's probably come by to thank me."