The Shootist

by Glendon Swarthout

  "Dis iss all?"

  "That is all."

  "But you are a man of middle age. To haf lived your life —to haf nuzzing—"

  "I traveled light."

  "Zo."

  "I have a watch." He handed it over. "And my shaving things—razor, brush, mug. But I will need them."

  "You could now sell dem to me," said Steinmetz. "You could a bill of sale sign, und I would get dem lader."

  Books pulled at an end of his mustache. "And I would have the money now?"

  "Vy nod?"

  "How much?"

  Steinmetz calculated. "Ten dollars?"

  "Hell no. Fifty."

  "Too much."

  "That's a good watch. Gold case and a real diamond. And it is J. B. Books's watch. It will fetch double for that reason, and so will the rest, and you know it."

  "Twenty dollars?"

  "Fifty. For the lot."

  "Some guns you haf."

  "They are not for sale."

  "Thirty?"

  "Fifty."

  Steinmetz rose. "Goot day, Mr. Books." He bowed and left the room.

  Seconds later someone knocked.

  It was Steinmetz, hat in hand. "It iss true—you are dying, Mr. Books?"

  "I am."

  The secondhand man shook his head. He seemed on the verge of tears. "To haf lived zo long—to haf zo liddle. I am Chewish. I am a stranger in dis Texas, among too many goyim. I haf nod long from the Old Coundry come, but a wife I haf, und two sons, und my store, und already some land, und money in the bank. Yes, I will fifty dollars gif you."

  Books looked out a window. He did not know whether to be offended by the comparison or gratified by the price. Part of that price was pity, he was sure—and he had sworn only last night not to accept it from anybody. Pain blurred his thinking. He wanted the fifty dollars desperately. It was not too dear for his possessions, but it assigned a pitifully low value to his pride. He swallowed it. "Sold," he said.

  He thought: Day after tomorrow.

  Squatting, staring fixedly at the noble Indian on the wall who sat astride his pony and surveyed a wilderness with sorrowful mien, he strained, hoping the row of china cherubs along the rim of the slop-jar would strike up their harps in happy paean to his ability to piss. They did not. His bladder cramped. He was past the point of simple strangury. He could no longer urinate at all.

  He thought: Day after tomorrow. I have difficulty walking now. My lower back will not allow me to sit or stand more than a spell. This was the first day I could not shave myself. Tonight, when she brought my supper tray, I was not hungry. I can't take anything in at one end or let loose of anything at the other. So, if I intend to go out with my boots on instead of in a stinking sickbed, it is day after tomorrow. The laudanum should see me through till then. If I asked Hostetler for more, it would be a temptation to hang on. Besides, I have started getting ready. When the solid citizens of El Paso line up to gawp at me, they will have their money's worth. Beckum will put a mean look on my phiz and my clothes will be cleaned by dry process. Now for the next step. A clean cadaver.

  Taking a towel and washcloth, he went to the door, opened it, listened. The house was still. She would be asleep at this hour, the boy would be over on Utah Street going to hell as fast as he was able.

  He limped along the dark hall to the bathroom, turned on a light, and ran hot water into the tub. When it was half full he tempered it with cold, then leaned against a wall to extricate himself from his longjohns, then bending, both hands on the edges of the tub, somehow got into it and groaning, lowered himself until he could sit submerged to the waist.

  There was soap in a rack, and he washed himself where he could reach. The heat of the water seemed to allay the pain, was pleasing, in fact, to his genitals. He sank back, enjoying the sensation. But when he sat up, the bath had weakened him. Try as he might, he was unable to pull himself into a squat. He was helpless. He whimpered.

  "Bond," he whimpered.

  She would not hear him, he was trapped, far from his room and his drug. He would sit in the tub until he roared in agony like a bear.

  "Bond!" he yelled in panic. "Bond!"

  A sound on the ceiling, her springing out of bed, and in another moment he could follow her rapid footsteps down the stairs.

  The door opened. She wore a flannel bathrobe. Her hair was up in rag curlers. "What in the world?"

  "I can't get out."

  "John, why in heaven's name didn't you ask me to help in the first place?"

  "Because God damn it I can take my own bath!"

  "Obviously you can't."

  "I didn't want you to see me."

  "Do you think I haven't seen a man before?"

  "Hell."

  "Have you washed your back?"

  "How in hell could I?"

  "Men are such infants." She came to the tub and soaped the washcloth. "Now lean forward."

  "Hell."

  "And stop swearing."

  "Well, you haven't seen a man with cancer before."

  "I have now." She scrubbed his back retributively. "Are you in pain?"

  "All the time now."

  "You should have told me you wanted a bath."

  "I said I would not be a burden to you."

  "Hush."

  She pulled the stopper, laid a hand towel on the tub bottom so that he could stand securely on it and, bustling, bringing a large towel, dried his upper body. "Now, take my hands. I'll pull you up."

  "Don't look at me."

  Together, adding her strength to what remained of his, they got him into a crouch, then upright, and she assisted him out, wrapping him in the towel.

  "We'll leave your underwear here," she said. "I'll wash it tonight and hang it and it'll be dry by morning. Now, put your arm around my waist. I'll help you back to bed."

  They swayed down the hall, into his room. She laid back the covers, removed the towel and when he had sat down and stretched out, covered him again.

  "The laudanum," he muttered.

  She uncapped and handed it to him, and he drank. "Bond, stay with me a bit," he begged. "Till the stuff works."

  "All right."

  She sat down in the armchair beside him. The only light was a faintness emanating from the bathroom through the open door. They could scarcely see each other's faces.

  "Ah, God," he sighed after a time.

  "Better now?"

  "Yes."

  So quiet was it in the room that she could hear the ticking of his watch on the library table.

  "I have come to a sad state of affairs," he said abruptly. "Just last night I told myself I would not take pity from anybody. Now I take anything they will give."

  The rag curlers occurred to her. She began to untie them. "John."

  "What?"

  "You are getting ready—to do something, aren't you?"

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Having your things cleaned. Taking a bath. Letting the laudanum run down."

  "I wish I had met you years ago."

  "Aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "It would be useless for me to inquire what."

  "It would."

  "You frighten me. I suppose I'd be more frightened if I knew."

  "I will say this much. My life has not amounted to a damn-all. Maybe my death will."

  "I see. May I ask a favor of you?"

  "You may ask."

  "Before you—before you do whatever it is—will you see my minister for a few minutes?"

  "Why?"

  "It may be that—that he can give you some comfort, some understanding. Some peace."

  "I doubt it."

  "It's possible. Will you for my sake? I want to do everything I can for you."

  "You have done enough."

  Suddenly she slipped from the chair and knelt and laid her head beside him.

  "Oh, John, I will mourn for you!" she whispered. "You believe no one will—but I will! I'll remember your strength and your goodness and cour
age! I'll remember always!"

  She was crying. He moved his fingers in her hair. "I will talk with the reverend," he said. "Provided you do one more thing for me."

  "Anything!"

  "Day after tomorrow," he said. "When you see me then, in my Sunday duds, there will be no tears."

  She thought of armed men coming through these windows into darkness, of explosions like blows upon the door of doom, of blood staining her carpet and, soon, her heart. She shuddered.

  "No tears, Bond."

  "I promise."

  "Day after tomorrow."

  Unshaven, shirtless, in clean underwear and trousers cleaned by dry process, seated on his crimson pillow, Books received them.

  "This is the Reverend Henry New, Mr. Books," she said. "Reverend, J. B. Books."

  They shook hands.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Books."

  "Likewise."

  "I'll leave you gentlemen now," Bond Rogers said. "It was kind of you to come, Reverend."

  "It was my duty, Mrs. Rogers. Thank you for the opportunity."

  When she had gone, Henry New took the straight chair. "How are you feeling today, Mr. Books?"

  "As well as can be expected."

  "I'm pleased to hear it. And I was sincere with Mrs. Rogers. I'm truly pleased to have an opportunity to meet a man of your—your distinction. A 'shootist'? I think that's the polite term."

  "'Killer' usually."

  "Well, now that's somewhat crude. I'm sure you prefer 'shootist.' It has an elegance."

  Books was unresponsive.

  "A fine woman, Mrs. Rogers."

  Books made a church of his fingers.

  "She tells me you are—very ill."

  "I am dying."

  "I see. I regret profoundly to hear it. But you are not a young man. We can at least rejoice that God has granted you a fairly full measure. Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a shock of corn cometh in his season.'"

  Books had expected an older man, a Bible-bouncer, a deacon who would rant and roar and stomp the floor and take an errant soul by the scruff of the neck and throw it through the Pearly Gates as though they were swinging doors. That was the kind of preacher with whom he could cope, and from whom he might indeed gain a brimstone solace. To his dismay, Bond Rogers had sent him a ringer—a man not a day over thirty-two or -three, a bright-eyed, apple-checked, razor-brained whippersnapper first in his class at divinity school who could draw from the Old Testament as fast as he, Books, could draw from his vest. He groaned inwardly. The last slug of laudanum was wearing off. He did not feel equal to the Reverend Henry New this morning.

  "Do you believe in a life after death, Mr. Books?"

  "I don't know."

  "In a Heaven? In a Hell?"

  "I don't know."

  Henry New nodded. He seemed satisfied. "I confess to a certain perplexity in these matters myself. But of one thing I am positive. I know that God exists. I may not be a religionist, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, but I know, as surely as I know we sit here, that He exists, that I am His servant upon this earth, and that His wisdom is infinite. I prayed for you this morning, Mr. Books."

  "Much obliged."

  "As soon as Mrs. Rogers telephoned, I went to my study. I prayed, first, that God Our Father look with compassion upon His wayward son, John Bernard Books, and forgive his sins, and take him soon into that fold to which all men, great and small, aspire. That—"

  "Sins?"

  "I had reference to the killings."

  "Hold on, Reverend. I have been in a tight or two, but they were not of my making."

  His visitor raised a deprecatory hand. "Let us not debate the past, Mr. Books. My concern today is the future. I prayed this morning, second, for divine guidance. It struck me that with Mrs. Rogers' call I had been granted a unique opportunity. A man nearing his end, a man whose name was synonymous with profligacy and destruction—was there not some way his demise might be used for holy purposes? I prayed for vision, for a sign from Him. And suddenly the scales fell from my eyes! Eureka!" The minister's eyes burned like candles. "I went immediately to my desk, Mr. Books. I wrote as though Another's hand directed my pen!" From an inner pocket of his coat he whisked a folded paper. "Here!"

  "What is it?"

  "A statement from J. B. Books. To be read from every pulpit in the land. A testimonial to the mercy of Almighty God. Here, sir, read it."

  Books would not take the paper. "No. You tell me the particulars."

  An annoyed Henry New twisted in his chair. "Well, it's brief, and to the point and if I do say so myself, eloquently phrased. In the main, it—"

  Books scowled. "The particulars."

  "Very well. You repent your misdeeds. You beg the Lord's forgiveness." With each sentence he tapped the paper impatiently on a knee. "In the main, you address yourself to the younger generation of this country. You exhort them to profit by your example. To take the high road rather than the low. To practice continence, cultivate humility, love virtue. To turn the other cheek rather than resort to violence. To bear in mind that it is the meek, not the proud, who shall inherit the earth. Et cetera. Can you not appreciate how effective such a document might be among the younger, lawless element of our population?" He lowered his voice confidentially. "If a Gillom Rogers, for example, were to hear it, and to heed its lesson? I need go no further." He proffered the paper a second time. "I urge you to read and sign it, Mr. Books."

  "No."

  "What? You will not? Why not, sir?"

  "Because it is a pile of shit."

  Henry New's apple cheeks ripened. "I beg your pardon!"

  "I never sit with my back to a door," Books added. "And I will not sign anything I do not believe in."

  Frowning, the minister bit at a fingernail. "I can't believe you understand the consequences of refusal, Mr. Books. I have offered you a last chance to attest to the glory of God, to be an instrument of His will. To give your imminent death meaning."

  "Meaning." Books grimaced. "The last two weeks every son of a bitch who walked into this room wanted something different out of my death. I am sick and tired of it."

  "Ah, but you cannot ignore it!" countered the minister. "With every passing hour it becomes more prudent of you to lift your eyes unto the hills. Should you reconsider, and sign, I can practically guarantee your ultimate redemption."

  Books's agony overwhelmed him. The last dose of the drug he had taken only a half hour earlier, and he was damned if he would exhibit his need for another, no matter how dire, before this bunkum artist.

  "On the other hand," New warned, "should you persist in refusal, I tremble to predict the outcome. I caution you, sir —the fate of your very soul may be at stake. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.'"

  Books could scarcely sit still. His spine cracked. The poison in his system suffused his limbs with heat. He wanted to whimper, to howl, or to take the piss-ant parson over his lap and spank the sanctimony out of him. His fingers tugged at the pillow tassels between his legs. "I will take my chances," he choked. "At least I will see my cards sooner than you—and I will bet my hand is as good as yours."

  The Reverend New tucked away his statement and ascended from his seat. "Sir, I did not come here to be insulted by a man of your ilk."

  "No—you came here to comfort me—like hell you did! You came here full of opportunity and crap!"

  New proceeded to the door. He turned. To his astonishment, to his almost sensual pleasure, Books's cheeks were wet. The minister permitted himself a tremor of self-esteem.

  If he had not beaten the assassin at his own game of bluff and threat, if he had not cast this Devil Incarnate into the pit of contrition, he had at least reduced him to tears.

  "You are lost, Mr. Books," he sniffed. "I wash my hands of you."

  "Oh, Preacher," cried his archenemy, "if I had my strength, wouldn't I boot your hypocritical ass out of here!"

>   "Piffle." New adjusted his tie, regarding with infinite contempt the shambles of a man who sat playing with the tassels of a pillow. "Good morning, sir. I leave you to your alcohol and opium."

  "And my death!" Books sobbed. "You leave my death to me!"

  He sobbed to himself. Henry New had gone.

  He thought: Tomorrow.

  It had taken him two hours and two long pulls at the laudanum bottle and two chasers of whiskey to recover from the minister's visit. He knew now that he was very near the bottom of the well, both physically and emotionally. The disease, the pain, the confinement, the loneliness, had finally undone him. He could no longer trust that steel self upon whom he had relied, in a pinch, for so many haphazard years. It must be tomorrow. And in the early afternoon he sent for Gillom Rogers.

  "Close the door."

  Gillom closed it, staring at the man on the bed. He had not seen Books for days. He had never seen such a face.

  "Tell me. Which is the best saloon in El Paso? I mean, the one with the most class."

  "That's easy. The Connie."

  "Connie?"

  "The Constantinople. It's brand new. Oh, it's jim dandy. They really spent the spondulix on that one."

  "All right. Now tell me something else. Do you know a man named Pulford?"

  "Sure. Runs the faro layout at Keating's.. They say he's sent a couple to Kingdom Come. Is he slick, is he fast. Wouldn't I like to see him and Jay Cobb go to it, though."

  "What about Cobb?"

  "Jay? He's a pal of mine. He's hiding out now, but I know where."

  "Hiding out?"

  "I'll say. Thibido let him out of the juzgado the other night. He went to Tillie Howard's and got drunk and hurt one of her girls and got thrown out and then tried to gun down the rest of the girls. Thibido's looking for him. He won't bring him in on his feet, though, not Jay." Gillom's ears itched now. "Why?"