The Shootist

by Glendon Swarthout

"Thank you?"

  His smile was foamy and sardonic. "On behalf of his profession."

  When his visitor entered, Books was stropping a razor suggestively on the palm of his hand. "Come in. Have a seat."

  "Thank you." Uncertain of his reception, however, and immediately aware of the razor, Beckum remained standing. "I hope you don't mind my stopping by, Mr. Books. That is, I hope you don't think it untimely."

  "Not at all. I like to see a businessman with get-up-and-go."

  Despite the black he wore, Beckum was the picture of rotund, hog-jowled health. He was practiced in two attitudes: a heartiness which belied the imminence of death and a gravity which underlined the transcience of life. He alternated them like pairs of shoes, getting the most wear out of both.

  "I admit to hearing certain—certain unfortunate things about your physical condition, Mr. Books," he said gravely. "I came by to express my heartfelt regret."

  Books began to shave. "And?"

  "And to discuss something with you. As you know, there are certain—certain arrangements which must be made, and practical folks often make them in advance. That is, we are mortal men, Mr. Books, all of us, and if we are prudent as well, we—"

  "What's your proposition?"

  "A simple business one, sir. You are a very respected and prominent individual," said the undertaker heartily. "Seeing to the final details for you would attest to the excellence of my mortuary service. To be truthful, the kind of advertising money can't buy. Therefore I am prepared to offer you embalming by the most scientific methods, a bronze coffin guaranteed good for a century regardless of climatic or geological conditions, my best hearse, the minister of your choice, the presence of at least two mourners, a headstone of the finest Carrara marble, a plot of a size and in a location befitting your status, and perpetual care of the grounds."

  "For how much?"

  "For nothing, sir. For the privilege."

  "How much will you clear on the deal?"

  "I beg your pardon. You must be joking. I'll be out a very large sum, I assure—"

  "In a pig's ass you will."

  "I misunderstand you, sir."

  Razor arrested, Books paused to consider the reflection in the mirror of the undertaker behind him, who seemed in turn to be mesmerized by the reflection, half lather, half menace, of the gun man before him.

  "Here's what you will do, Beckum. Just what they did to Hardin here, after he was gone. I read about it. You will lay me out and let the public in to have a look at fifty cents a head, children ten cents. Then when the curiosity peters out you will pick the gold out of my teeth and wrap me in a gunny sack and stick me in a hole somewhere and hustle your loot to the bank."

  "Mr. Books, I assure you—"

  "Assure me? What the hell good will your word be when my veins are full of your God damned juice? Who will keep you to it?"

  The undertaker shuffled his feet, confused as to which pair of shoes he should be wearing.

  Books raised his blade, resumed shaving. "No, here's what you will do, Beckum. I want your guarantee I will have a proper grave. Later. And I want a cut of the proceeds and a headstone. Now. Cash in hand and a stone to be delivered in two days or sooner. I want a small stone, good quality, with this on it—'John Bernard Books 1849-1901.' That's all. No angels or jabbery. Got that?"

  "I find such an arrangement distasteful, sir. That is—"

  "Or I will go to your competitors and deal with them."

  "I see. You're a hard man, Mr. Books."

  "Not hard. Alive. And the living drive harder bargains than the dead." Books rinsed his face and dried it with a towel. "I'll have fifty dollars now."

  Beckum pinched the tip of his nose. "That's too high. If I deliver a stone and give you fifty, I'm cutting it too thin. I've done some arithmetic, and my guess is no more than three hundred will want to view the remains."

  "Three hundred? You underestimate me."

  "Shoup and Norton have been a great help, I must say. If you could manage to shoot—"

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thirty's my top, sir."

  "Forty. Run an ad in the paper."

  Beckum sighed and reached for his wallet. "Very well, forty it is." He handed Books two twenties. "I'll set my stonecutter to work on the inscription at once."

  "Two days or sooner," Books repeated. "I am running out of time."

  The undertaker put away his wallet and shook a solemn head. "I am grieved to hear it, Mr. Books. I am deeply grieved."

  He knew the comings and goings of the house as well by now as the comings and goings of his pain. The boy was out for the evening. He could hear the mother running water in the bathroom down the hall. He gave himself a whore's bath at the washbowl daily, but he would need a real one soon, in a tub, and doubted he could do it by himself.

  The salaries paid to the Prince of Wales out of the British treasury add up to $680,000 a year, and he has a private income besides. Nevertheless Andrew Carnegie, the laird of Skibo castle, could buy him out several times over and still have enough left to give away a library or two when he felt like it.

  That reminded him. Taking his time, he pulled himself out of the armchair and, working slowly along the brass rail at the foot of the bed, reached the chiffonier, opened the top drawer, and counted his money. There was two hundred dollars from the sale of his horse, and Beckum's forty. And the photographer, Skelly, owed him a portrait and another fifty, plus what he had in his wallet. At this rate he would soon be another Andrew Carnegie.

  He closed the drawer, worked his way back to the chair, and taking up the newspaper again, read two filler items:

  Rumors that Professor Garner, the monkey talk man, was dangerously ill and in distress in Africa have been denied. He is pursuing his studies in Simian conversation as enthusiastically as ever, and is enduring the deprivations and dangers of life in a savage country with the hope of gleaning from the chatter of the apes some slight addition to the facts of science.

  Bishop Potter's proposal to organize a vigilance committee of five thousand to inquire into the causes of New York's rottenness is causing Tammany to tremble in its shoes. Poor old Tammany is having a hard time to bluff through these days.

  He was ten years old and riding in a spring wagon behind a team of mules with his grandfather, who was driven occasionally to desperate undertakings. They were making a journey of forty miles and two days across San Saba County to the farm of relatives, cousins. His grandmother had three months previously gone to visit the cousins, and while there had died of a fever and been buried. For the three months of his bereavement his grandfather had brooded. It was not right that his wife should lie in alien soil; he wanted her home again, near him, on the home place. He could not eat, would not rest; he talked to himself. And so, finally, old man and boy set out upon their journey. When they reached the cousins, they dug up the coffin, a plain box of gumwood, and hoisting it into the wagon, started homeward. The sun was hot, the way endless. On the first day the lid and sides of the coffin began to swell. By midmorning of the second day the bloating of the corpse had attained such proportions that nails and gumwood could not contain it. The lid burst open. A great groan escaped, and a stench. They stopped the team and hammered at the lid, in the heat and stench they jumped up and down on it, they danced upon it, ki-yi-ing like crazed Comanches, desperate grandfather and terrified grandson, until they were exhausted, until they vomited, but to no avail. They drove on and, detouring to a village, applied to the blacksmith for help. The smith a mighty man was he, and the coffin was soon sealed tight with iron bands. They took it home then, and reburied her in the shade of a live-oak tree, and put up a simple wooden cross, and his grandfather, whose name was Galen Books, would sit by the grave in the evenings, and chew tobacco, and explain to his wife what they had done, and why.

  He burst from dreams and covers, groaning, to sit bolt upright in bed. His longjohns were damp with sweat, but in a moment he was cold, and shivered. He groped for the bott
le but could not find it.

  With an oath he pulled the lamp chain, blinked in the light, and drinking from the bottle, grimacing at the bitterness, capped it. He looked at his watch, a good gold Elgin with a small diamond centered in the case cover. It was not quite two o'clock in the morning. The last dose had enabled him to sleep for less than an hour.

  But this one did not relieve him. Pain grew into agony. The disease was ravaging him now, feeding on its cells to create new cells, extending itself throughout the lower third of his trunk. Pins, needles, scissors, knives stabbed him, were withdrawn, and stabbed again and again. He let himself slide from the bed to the floor and placed his forearms on the arms of the leather chair and rocked his pelvis back and forth as though he were a child riding a hobbyhorse. He yearned to cry out, to wake the house, the town, the world, to the enormity of his suffering.

  "Oh Jesus," he whimpered. "Sweet Jesus. What have I done to deserve this? Oh, I can't go on much longer. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ."

  The laudanum failed him. Staggering, he stumbled to the closet, swept the curtain aside, found the whiskey on the shelf, uncorked, and poured it down. He put the bottle back and waited, trembling, to be eased.

  Suddenly his stomach convulsed. Reeling forward, falling to his knees, he jerked out the slop-jar and vomited, ridding himself not only of the remnants of his supper but the laudanum—he realized too late—as well. And then, emptied, on hands and knees, head hanging over his own spew, teeth chattering with cold, in that animal posture he knew fear for the first time in his adult life.

  "Oh God," he whispered. "Oh my God I am afraid to die."

  He closed his eyes in fear. Out of nowhere the second line came to him, and in his mind he added it to the first: "Weave a circle round him thrice/ And close your eyes with holy dread…"

  He opened them. On the frosted lampshade by the bed, blue, brown, and green birds of paradise seemed to flap contemptuous wings at him.

  Fear convulsed to rage. Rage endowed him with a strength he had not felt for days. Erupting up, he snatched the glass compote from the table and hurled it wildly, shattering it against the wall of lilies.

  He was unappeased. Lurching to the closet, he tore one of the Remingtons from its holster and, hanging onto the curtain rod, threatened the ceiling with the weapon.

  He thought: God! You hear me, God? Maybe I don't believe in you, but you damned well better believe in me! J. B. Books! See this gun? I kill with it! You kill, too, but I make a slicker job of it. I kill bad men, you kill good. I have reason, you don't. You are killing me hellish slow, and I do not deserve such treatment. You wrong me, and I will not be wronged. So let us have it out, God. Face me! Be a man and face me now if you have the guts—stand and draw or back off! God damn you, God, throw down on me and kill me now or let me live!

  She did not know him. He did not know her.

  To surprise him, she had entered without knocking. He sat in shirt sleeves in a leather armchair on a crimson pillow trimmed with golden tassels.

  They haunted each other.

  "Johnny?"

  "Ma'am?"

  She came closer.

  "Johnny, don't you know me?"

  Suddenly he did. It was her voice. Only her voice was the same.

  "Serepta!"

  "Yes! Yes!"

  She ran to him. He did not rise but lifted both arms and spread them to receive her, and she dropped beside him while he took her in his arms and pulled her close and pressed his face to her hair and they laughed together, softly, and murmured to each other until he held her away so that he could look at her again. There were tears in his eyes.

  "My God, I'm glad to have you here, Ser! I thought nobody I ever knew would come see me!"

  "Oh, Johnny dear!" She leaned to kiss him on the mouth. "I came as soon as I heard!"

  "Here. Sit up here, on the bed, near me."

  He helped her. They smiled at each other, and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Have I changed so much, Johnny?"

  "No. You have not. It has been so damned long, that's all."

  "Eleven years."

  But he had lied to her, gallantly. She was blowsy now, a blowsy, irrevocable thirty-nine. Her face was puffed and lined, and she had slathered on the rouge and powder and plucked her eyebrows into brazen arches. When she removed her bonnet the auburn mane he remembered had been clipped inexpertly to a shag, and rinsed with henna. He was sure he could not have changed as radically. Love had been her life eleven years ago, to give and to take. La, la, la, she had sung beneath him, a song as lovely as that of a mockingbird enraptured by snow. Now her concerns were probably spider webs at the corners of her eyes, a touch of arthritis on a rainy day, perhaps a bunion. His heart reconciled him to this new, this old Serepta Thomas, however, and to the treachery the years had done her. She was here, that was what counted, when he needed her, and he was grateful. He would take today with him to the grave.

  "It isn't true, is it? About you?"

  "That I have a cancer?"

  "Yes."

  "God how I loved you, Ser."

  "And I loved you. It isn't true."

  "It is."

  "How long do they give you?"

  "Weeks."

  "Oh Johnny, no." She turned her head and used her handkerchief again.

  "Don't cry, Ser. We all have our time. How did you know?"

  "You're famous, and bad news travels fast. I'm living in Tucson now, and the day I heard I got right on the train."

  "Good girl."

  He took her handkerchief and brushed beneath her eyes. The cloth was frayed, and smelled of fivepenny perfume.

  "I must look a sight."

  "For sore eyes," he smiled. "Why did you come?"

  "Why do you think? To see you again, to be with you. I haven't forgotten, Johnny. I never will."

  He took her hands in his. They were chapped. He had lived with her in Tularosa for two years. She had not asked marriage, nor had he offered it, because he was with her one day, gone the next. Then, when he returned one time from Colorado, she had left him for a freighter named Pardee.

  "Are you still with Pardee?"

  "No. He took off for California last year. Just up and skipped."

  "Leaving me for a freighter. There was no future in that. Didn't you know the railroads were coming?"

  "Oh, he made good money at first, and he was decent to me. He never carried a gun. Then there was less and less to haul and he started drinking. After that it was the old sad story—I had the same black eye for six months. When it would go to clear up, he'd freshen it."

  "Did you have kids?"

  "Two. Two girls."

  "I'd have given you boys, Ser."

  "And a black veil too. I couldn't have stood it, Johnny, watching you go off and worrying were you coming back alive or dead."

  "Look how long I lasted."

  She shook her head. "I couldn't have stood it. I loved you too much."

  "We should have married."

  "Spilt milk."

  "We should have."

  "You never did?"

  "No."

  "And you're alone. That's just awful. I'm so glad I came."

  "So am I." He put her hands to his lips. "Oh God I am."

  "Would you still like to?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "Get married."

  "Now?"

  "That's something I wanted to talk to you about. Life's bunged me up pretty bad, Johnny. I'm not near forty yet, and no prospects. I had to scrape to buy a train ticket. We could just call in a minister and say 'I do.' I'd have the certificate. I'd have something to go on."

  His smile was wry. "Not much. I've sold my horse. I have two guns and a gold watch."

  "I'd have your name."

  "How far would that take you?"

  "A long ways, maybe."

  He freed her hands. "How?"

  "You're too modest, Johnny. You don't know what a high mogul you are. Shoot, everybody's heard of J. B. Books— every
body talks about you. You're in the papers all the time. And after you're gone, I'd be Mrs. J. B. Books, your widow. I'd be somebody."

  "That wouldn't buy you bacon."

  "Well, it might." She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "You see, that's how I heard you were ailing bad. There's a newspaper reporter here in El Paso. He tracked me down someways and wrote me to come see him. So I did, this morning, on my way here. He wants to get out a book on you—you know, your life and killings and such—he'd write it and put my name on it—The Shootist: The Life and Bloody Times of J. B. Books, by Serepta Books, His Wife—he says it would sell back East like a house afire. He'd split with me."

  He lay back in his chair, away from her. "His name Dobkins?"

  "Yes. How'd you know?"

  "I kicked him out of here the other day."

  "Why?"

  "He wanted to do the same thing with me, only in the newspapers. The yellow-shoe son of a bitch. He's a sticker, though. He won't quit."

  They were silent. She was gauging him. After a moment she put on a pout.

  "I never did understand you, Johnny," she pouted. "I still don't. What's the harm in it? A wedding certificate—a piece of paper."

  "I don't object to that. The book I do."

  "Why?"

  "How much do you know about my life? How much does Dobkins know?"

  "Well, two years I do—what a lover you were. And what all you told me. He said whatever we don't know he'll make up. You know, gory things—shoot-'em-ups and midnight rides and women tearing their hair!" She laughed. "Oh, it'll be a corker, Johnny, I promise!"

  His look shut her like a door.

  "No," he said. "I will not be remembered for a pack of lies."

  She had been sure of him, of the natural advantage of the well over the ill. Now she did not know what way to go, whether to try for his soft side or to indict him for a hard heart. She tossed an emotional coin.

  "It cost me three dollars for the train here, Johnny," she said, knotting her handkerchief. "One way."

  "I'll buy you a ticket back."

  "I gave you two years of my life. Can't you help me now, when I need it? My little girls—"