Shot to Hell

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

“Good, good,” Wheeler responded, “I knew we could count on your support.”

  His voice trailed off and he appeared puzzled. “Ralph, is there something else?” she asked.

  “Might as well, just spit it out,” he declared. “In a meeting like this, we’ve always needed a little bit of something stronger to drink than coffee. Strong drinks help make strong decisions.” He hesitated, trying to decide how to tell her the majority of the members didn’t want to meet in the dining room.

  “That’s easy enough to fix,” she said. “Why don’t we have the meeting in the Buffalo Hump?”

  Her suggestion caught him completely by surprise. “What? Why, with you being a lady and all, I was afraid you’d be offended and refuse to attend.”

  She laughed. “I hope you’ll find that I’m just as much a lady in a saloon as I am anywhere else. There’s more room in the saloon, anyway, and Rachael will be delighted to hear you’ve decided to change the meeting site.”

  “That’s mighty gracious of you to understand,” he said. “You’ll attend then?”

  “Yes, indeed, I’ll be there, me and my partner, Mr. Possum Smith. We’re not gonna miss this meeting.”

  * * *

  After making sure Floyd Jenkins didn’t have any of Ned Stark’s men posing as barbershop customers waiting for him to open his door, Perley and Possum stopped by the hotel briefly before riding down to Rooster’s cabin to tell him about the meeting. He had left after breakfast that morning to return to his cabin to care for his stock. They knew he would be fighting mad if the town council held a meeting and he wasn’t there. In spite of the fact he was not an official member of the council, he made sure his complaints and suggestions were always heard. They found the little man slopping his hogs when they rode down the path from the creek-side trail.

  “Hope we ain’t intrudin’ on a family reunion,” Possum called out to him.

  Without missing a beat, Rooster answered right back. “Not at all. Relatives are always welcome. Just find you a place at the trough.”

  Continuing the banter the two always seemed to enjoy, Possum said, “Me and Perley rode out here to tell you there’s a council meetin’ called for seven o’clock tonight at the Buffalo Hump. The members of the council, of which I am one, wanted me to tell you it’s for members only, so you ain’t invited.”

  “Like hell, I ain’t!” Rooster erupted to Possum’s satisfaction. “I’ll have my say about it.” He hesitated, then asked, “What’s the meetin’ about?”

  Perley answered him, “They’re finally gonna sit down and do some serious talk about settin’ up a vigilance committee to protect the town.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” Rooster said. “I’ve been tellin’ Ralph Wheeler that for I don’t know how long. They already know I’ll ride with the vigilantes.”

  After they talked about what might come as a result of this meeting, they told him about Ned Stark’s visit to town that morning and the fact that either him, or one of his men, had taken a shot at them when they were coming out of Wheeler’s Store. “Well, if that ain’t a sign we need that meetin’, I don’t know what is,” Rooster commented. They stayed with him, helping with some of his chores until it was getting around suppertime and he decided to go in with them to eat at the hotel.

  “I’ve gotta go check on Floyd,” Perley said, “make sure he’s all right. He was a little shaky after his visit from Ned Stark this mornin’.” That led to a discussion about Stark’s visit to the jail and Perley promising to spend the night with Floyd.

  “Whaddaya have to spend the night with him for?” Rooster asked.

  “Stark came after him for proppin’ Curly’s body up outside his shop,” Perley said. “And Floyd said Stark came close to shootin’ him in his jail cell. So he’s scared Stark might still be plannin’ on comin’ after him, but I doubt he will now.”

  Rooster saddled up his horse and the three friends rode into town. When they got there, Perley stopped at the barbershop to see how Floyd was getting along. He appeared to be fully recovered from his morning fright. Still working, he told Perley he’d fix himself something to eat and see him later at the meeting. So Perley went from there to the stable to put Buck away for the night, then he went to the hotel for supper. When he got there, Possum and Rooster were already eating, so he sat down at the table with them.

  Seeing him come in, Rachael picked up the coffeepot and a cup, and brought it over. “Thank you, ma’ am,” he said, politely. “Reckon you’re disappointed to hear you ain’t gonna host the big council meeting tonight,” he japed.

  “I wasn’t too tickled to hear Ralph Wheeler wanted to have it here in the first place,” Rachael claimed. “Just extra mess to clean up.” When Possum asked her if she was going to the meeting with Emma, she answered no. “Emma and you are the owners of this business, and I’m not likely to volunteer to ride with the vigilantes, so I reckon I’ll just be happy with whatever you and the others decide. Likely, nothing much will come of it, except Henry Lawrence will sell a lot of whiskey.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” Rooster remarked with a chuckle.

  The discussion focused upon the possibility of the members finally deciding to take up arms and lasted long after supper was finished. When it was approaching seven o’clock, they left the dining room and walked down to the saloon. Ralph Wheeler was already sitting at the head of a long table that Henry Lawrence had arranged out of several small saloon tables pushed together. In deference to Emma Slocum, Ralph had pulled a chair up beside his to set her a little apart from the men. When Emma arrived a few minutes before seven, she went to the other end of the table to sit beside Possum, wishing to be treated as a partner and not a woman. Perley had to smile when Rooster went up to the head of the table and sat down in the chair set aside for Emma.

  The meeting started on time, and right from the beginning, it was obvious that the topic to be discussed was of concern to everyone there. Henry Lawrence had taken the liberty of writing an oath of allegiance to the town of Bison Gap and a promise to defend it. After a brief paragraph stating that, he left spaces for everyone to sign the sheet, which he described as a contract to defend the town. It served its purpose, for the signing of the sheet turned into a solemn commitment to the future of Bison Gap. This, of course, came after a heated discussion of the recent course the town had taken toward a wide-open retreat for the lawless. Halfway through this discussion, a late arrival entered the meeting that caused a general pause in the call to arms. Starting near the front door, the noisy pockets of debate subsided like the ebbing of a wave as he moved toward the council table in the back of the room. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hope I’m not interrupting the meeting,” he said.

  “Why, no, sir, Reverend Poole,” Ralph Wheeler responded, obviously flustered to see the Baptist minister appearing in the saloon, especially when practically all the men in town were there to pledge their intent to start a war. “We were just meeting to discuss some of the problems that needed to be fixed.” His initial thought was that the preacher couldn’t have come at a worse time. And his message of brotherly love and love thy neighbor had a time and place, and the place was in the church, not the saloon.

  “I heard what the meeting was about,” Reverend Poole said. “And I came to join the vigilance committee. I own a rifle, and I know how to use it.”

  There followed a moment of shocked silence, broken by a sudden burst from Rooster Crabb. “Hallelujah, Preacher! Have a drink of likker.”

  “Maybe just one,” Poole said and sat down in a chair John Payne pulled out for him.

  With the meeting taking on the new feeling of a righteous crusade, the sheet of signatures was soon filled with the names of volunteers. Many of the names were in spirit only due to age and physical capability, but there was a core of a dozen men who seemed capable of forming a home guard, ready to respond in force when trouble threatened. Future “training” meetings were scheduled to follow to organize an effective response. As interested
as anyone there, Sheriff John Mason could not help but be amazed by the response of those in attendance and didn’t hesitate to volunteer when asked if he would help with the training meetings. It gave him a lot to think about, especially in regard to Ned Stark. He was startled momentarily when Perley leaned over his shoulder and spoke quietly, “Looks like you ain’t alone anymore.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The meeting broke up then, but the drinking continued for a good portion of those who came to observe, much to Henry Lawrence’s satisfaction. The Reverend Harvey Poole made one last announcement before he left. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and I’d like to remind you there’s another battle that needs to be fought, this one against the devil. You’re all welcome to worship with us.” Walking out the door, Poole saw Perley outside, talking to Rooster, so he stopped to talk to them.

  “Howdy, Parson,” Rooster greeted the preacher. “After hearin’ you’re a fightin’ preacher, maybe I’d better come to one of your services.”

  “You know you’d certainly be welcome,” Poole replied. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve got some strong convictions about doing what’s right.” He looked at Perley then. “My wife and I haven’t been in Bison Gap long enough to know very many of the people. We just finished building the church a couple of months ago. But I’ve already heard more than a few people talking about you. And you might guess, I have a strong curiosity about a man with a name like yours. Is it your real name, or just one that you go by? You have to admit it’s an odd name for someone in your business, Perley Gates, unless it’s supposed to have a double meaning.”

  “What kinda business do you think I’m in?” Perley asked.

  “Judging by what I heard at this meeting tonight, I mean with the killings of the two outlaws—Curly somebody and I don’t remember the other one’s name—I assumed that to be your business.”

  “Hell, no, Parson!” Rooster exclaimed. “Perley ain’t no gunslinger. He’s just got the gawl-dangedest reflexes the Good Lord ever saw fit to put in a man. And he goes a long way outta his way to try to keep from usin’ ’em.”

  “To answer your question, Reverend,” Perley started the explanation he had repeated so many times in his young life. “Perley’s my real name, named for my grandpa, but it ain’t spelled like the Pearly Gates up in Heaven. It’s spelled P-e-r-l-e-y, and the business I’m in is raisin’ cattle up in northeast Texas.”

  “Well, please accept my apology, Perley,” Poole said. “I always get in trouble when I assume something before takin’ the time to get the facts. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Perley said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Poole said and offered his hand. When Perley accepted it, the preacher said, “I’d like to see you in church tomorrow.”

  “’Preciate it,” Perley responded. When Poole turned and walked out of earshot, Perley said, “I’ll stop by and pick Rooster up on the way.”

  “Hah,” Rooster snorted. “I don’t know how good the preacher built that church of his. It might not be stout enough to keep from cavin’ in if I was to walk in it.”

  Floyd Jenkins walked up to join them then. He had waited until Reverend Poole left. “Looks like we’re gonna have us a vigilance committee, don’t it?”

  “Looks that way,” Perley answered. “Once some of these saddle tramps and outlaws find out about it, it oughta make Bison Gap a much better place to live.”

  “They ain’t had time to find out about it yet,” Floyd said, “so you’re still gonna stay over at my place tonight, ain’tcha?”

  “Sure, Floyd. I said I would, if you still think you want me to.” After Floyd’s apparent change of attitude earlier in the day, Perley had hoped he had changed his mind about that night as well. “I dropped my bedroll off when I was there earlier. I’m just gonna go down to the stable and tuck Buck in for the night. Then I’ll see you back at the barbershop.” Turning to face Rooster then, he said, “I reckon I’ll see you at breakfast.” Another glance back at the door of the saloon told him that Possum was still engaged in a discussion with Emma and Dick Hoover. “Possum looks like he’s fittin’ right in with the other members of the council,” Perley said to Rooster. “If he stays here much longer, he’s liable to run for mayor.” He turned back toward Floyd, who was waiting to walk with him.

  * * *

  After spending a little time with Buck, as well as having some more conversation with Horace Brooks about the way the meeting went, Perley walked back up the street to the barbershop. With his saddlebags on his shoulder and his rifle in hand, he went around to the back door of the shop as Floyd had suggested. He told him the front door would be locked and he would be in the back where his living quarters were. Perley found the door, located between the barbershop and a modest addition, complete with kitchen, bedroom, and a small parlor. Still farther back, and attached to the house, was what looked like a small barn. This was where Floyd practiced his mortician sideline. Perley knocked on the door between the shop and the house. In a minute, he got a glimpse of Floyd at the window looking to make sure it was him at the door.

  “Come on in, Perley.” Floyd welcomed him into his kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I needed a little coffee after the whiskey I drank. How ’bout you?”

  “I reckon I could handle a cup of coffee,” Perley said

  They had a cup of coffee, then Floyd wanted to show Perley around the place. “You’ve seen the barbershop, I reckon, so I’ll show you the rest.” He led him from the kitchen through a door that opened to a larger room, divided by a curtain to separate it into two areas—a bedroom on one side, and a small parlor on the other. “I put your bedroll on the sofa under the window there,” Floyd said and pointed. “I put a chamber pot by the sofa, so you won’t have to go outside to the outhouse.” Then, pointing to a door in the back wall between the bedroom and parlor, he said, “That goes to my back shop where I build my caskets.” He led the way.

  Admitting to himself that he wasn’t totally disinterested, Perley followed him into the large workroom, filled with stacks of boards Floyd used in his business. Over against the back wall he saw a casket on a table. “That’s one of the caskets you build?” Perley asked and started walking over to examine it, purely because he thought it was polite to show an interest.

  “Yep,” Floyd replied.

  He had no sooner said it when Perley stopped in his tracks and took a step back. “Dang! What is that smell?”

  “That’s Curly Williams,” Floyd said.

  “You ain’t buried him yet?” Perley exclaimed, the odor backing him up some more.

  “I ain’t had time,” Floyd explained.

  “I believe I’d take time before I lived with that smell,” Perley said, backing all the way to the door.

  “I’ll put him in the ground tomorrow. I’ve got two fellows that’ll dig a grave and drop him in it for just enough money to buy a few drinks at the saloon.

  “They musta drank enough whiskey to kill their sense of smell,” Perley commented. “I don’t believe I could handle that job.” He turned around and went back in the door to the living quarters.

  * * *

  “You go in and tell him,” Slim Garrett replied when Eli Priest told him to approach Ned Stark about the whiskey. Stark had been sulking in the little room that served as his private bedroom ever since they came back from town that morning. He never slept out in the front room where the rest of his gang slept on straw pallets like a bunkhouse. But he usually sat out in the room with them until he turned in for the night. This was not a typical night, however, and he was still burning with anger after having to make the hasty retreat from Bison Gap.

  “You know I can’t go in there and talk to him,” Eli complained. “I thought he was gonna put a bullet in me for takin’ that shot this mornin’.”

  Listening to their discussion, Jack Sledge grunted in amusement. “Yeah, Slim, you go on in there and tell him you’ve got a complaint. Tell him Eli ain’t happy ’cause we’ve run outt
a likker. ’Course, he might remind you, Eli, that he was plannin’ to go in the saloon and buy some likker before you had to leave town all of a sudden.”

  “I’m gettin’ tired of listenin’ to all your bellyachin’,” Carl Leach announced. “Mopin’ around like a bunch of little babies. “I’m goin’ into town and get me a drink of whiskey.”

  “Yeah, sure you are,” Eli said.

  “I’m tired of settin’ around this damn house,” Leach said. “We’ve been suckin’ our thumbs around here for days.” He strapped on his gun belt and plopped his hat on his head. “Hell, I wasn’t in town this mornin’. Can’t nobody point their finger at me.”

  Realizing then that Leach was serious, Eli said, “Hell, it’s too late to go to town now. They’ll probably be closin’ up by the time you saddle up and ride in there.”

  “Then, by God, I’ll open ’em up again,” Leach declared.

  “You’d best tell Ned what you’re aimin’ to do,” Frank Deal cautioned, “especially when he’s in one of his black moods, like he is tonight.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Leach said, “you tell him when he comes out of that damn room.”

  “What about that Perley Gates feller?” Junior Humphrey asked.

  “What about him?” Leach barked at the simple giant. “I hope to hell I run into him. I’ll buy him a drink, then shoot his ass and claim that hundred dollars.”

  “Eli missed when he took a shot at Perley Gates,” Junior said. “But that other feller is what’s got Ned so mad.” When Leach asked what other fellow, Junior answered, “That feller that stuck Curly in a box, that barber. I was in the cell room with Ned. He wanted to shoot that feller and almost did. He had his .44 aimed at him and almost pulled the trigger. That’s why he’s so mad. He’s mad at hisself for not shootin’ when he had the chance.”

  “You ain’t got no sense, Junior,” Eli snorted. “He didn’t shoot ’cause he was in the damn jailhouse, and he didn’t want anybody in town to hear the shot. Same reason he got mad at me. The only difference is when I took a shot at Perley Gates, it was a gamble worth takin’ ’cause, if I’d hit him, that woulda got rid of all our trouble in that town. That undertaker feller ain’t no danger to anybody.”