Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  “Pleased to be here, Cousin.”

  “We’ll start later on this afternoon. Right now, let’s wander on down to the house. Mrs. McCorkle and the others have been cookin’ all morning. Big crowd here. I ’spect the neighbors will be visitin’ and such all afternoon.”

  “Funerals are barbaric. Nothing more than a throwback to primitive and pagan rites.”

  “Is that right?

  “Yes. And dreadfully hard on the family.”

  Weddings and funerals were social events in the West, often drawing crowds from fifty to seventy-five miles away. It was a chance to catch up on the latest gossip, eat a lot of good food—everybody brought a covered dish—and see old friends.

  “We got the same thing goin’ on up on the Missouri,” Smoke heard one man tell Cord. “Damn nesters are tryin’ to grab our land. Some of the ranchers have brung in some gunfighters. I don’t hold with that myself, but it may come to it. I writ the territorial governor, but he ain’t seen fit to reply as yet. Probably never even got the letter.”

  Smoke moved around the lower part of the ranch house and listened. Few knew who he was, and that was just fine with him.

  “Maybe we could get Dooley put in the crazy house,” a man suggested. “He’s sure enough nuts. All we got to do is find someone to sign the papers.”

  “No,” another said. “There’s one more thing: findin’ someone stupid enough to serve the papers when Dooley’s got hisself surrounded by fifty or sixty gunslicks.”

  “I wish I could help Cord out, but I’m shorthanded as it is. The damn Army ought to come in. That’s what I think.”

  Smoke heard the words “vigilante” and “regulators” several times. But they were not spoken with very much enthusiasm.

  Smoke ate, but with little appetite. Cord was holding up well, but his two remaining sons, Rock and Troy, were geared up for trouble, and unless he could head them off, they would be riding into disaster. He moved to the boys’ side, where they stood backed up against a wall, keeping as far away from the crowd as possible.

  “You boys best just snuff out your powder fuse,” Smoke told them. “Dooley and his bunch will get their due, but for right now, think about your mother. She’s got enough grief on her shoulders without you two adding to it. Just settle down.”

  The boys didn’t like it, but Smoke could tell by the looks on their faces his words about their mother had hit home. He felt they would check-rein their emotions for a time. For how long was another matter.

  Having never liked the feel of large crowds, Smoke stayed a reasonable time, paid his respects to Cord and Alice, and took his leave, walking back to the bunkhouse to join the other hands.

  “When do we ride?” Fitz asked as soon as Smoke had walked in.

  “Don’t know. Just get that burr out from under your blanket and settle down. You can bet that Dooley is ready and waiting for us right this minute. Let’s don’t go riding into a trap. We’ll wait a few days and let the pot cool its boil. Then we’ll come up with something.”

  Fine words, but Smoke didn’t have any plan at all.

  * * *

  They all worked cattle for a few days, riding loose but ready. In the afternoons, Smoke spent several hours each day with Parnell and his pistol. Parnell was very fast, but he couldn’t hit anything but air. On the third day, Smoke concluded that the man never would be able to hit the side of a barn, even if he was standing inside the barn. Since they had plenty of rifles, Smoke decided to try the man with a Winchester. To his surprise, Parnell turned out to be a good shot with a carbine.

  “You can tote that pistol around if you want to, Parnell,” Smoke told him. “But you just remember this: out here, if a man straps on a gun, he best be ready and able to use it. Don’t go off the ranch grounds packing a short gun, ’cause somebody’s damn sure going to call your hand with it. Stick with the rifle. You’re a pretty good shot with it. We got plenty of rifles, so keep half a dozen of them loaded up full at all times.”

  “I need to go in and get some books and papers from the school.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Cousin. You’d just be askin’ for trouble. Tell me what you need, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “Perhaps,” the schoolteacher said mysteriously, and walked away.

  Smoke had a feeling that, despite his words, the man was going into town anyway. He’d have to keep an eye on him. He knew Parnell was feeding on his newly found oats, so to speak, and felt he didn’t need a baby-sitter. But Smoke had a hunch that Parnell really didn’t know or understand the caliber of men who might jump him, prod him into doing something that would end up getting the schoolteacher hurt, or dead.

  Smoke spread the word among the men to keep an eye on Parnell.

  “Seems to me that Rita’s been lookin’ all wall-eyed at him the last couple of days,” Pistol said. “Shore is a bunch of spoonin’ goin’ on around here. Makes a man plumb nervous.”

  “Wal, you can relax, Pistol,” Hardrock told him. “No woman in her right mind would throw her loop for the likes of you. You too damn old and too damn ugly.”

  “Huh!” the old gunfighter grunted. “You a fine one to be talkin’. You could hire that face of yours out to scare little children.”

  Smoke left the two old friends insulting each other and walked to the house to speak with Cord, who was sitting on the front porch, drinking coffee.

  Cord waved him up and Smoke took a seat.

  “I’m surprised Dooley hasn’t made a move,” the rancher said. “But the men say the range has been clear. Maybe he’s counting on that Danny Rouge to pick us off one at a time.”

  “I doubt that Dooley even knows what’s in his mind,” Smoke replied. “I’ve been thinking, Cord. If we could get a judge to him, the judge would declare him insane and stick him in an institution.”

  “Umm. Might be worth a shot. I can send a rider up to Helena with a letter. I know Judge Ford. Damn! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Maybe he’d like to come down for a visit?” Smoke suggested. “Has he been here before?”

  “Several times. Good idea. I’ll spell it all out in a letter and get a man riding within the hour. I’ll ask him if he can bring a deputy U.S. marshal down with him.”

  “We just might be able to end this mess,” Smoke said, a hopeful note in his voice. “With Dooley out of the picture, Liz could take over the running of the ranch, with Gage to help her, and she could fire the gunslicks.”

  “It sounds so simple.”

  “All we can do is try. Have you seen Parnell and Rita?”

  “Yeah. They went for a walk. Can’t get used to the idea of that schoolteacher packin’ iron. It looks funny.”

  “I warned him about totin’ that gun in town.”

  “And I told Rita not to go into town. However, since I’m not her father, it probably went in one ear and out the other. Dooley and me told those girls fifteen years ago not to see one another. Did a hell of a lot of good, didn’t it? Both those girls are stubborn as mules. Did Parnell get his back up when you warned him?”

  “I . . . think perhaps he did. I tell you, Cord, he can get that six-shooter out of leather damn quick. He just can’t hit anything with it.”

  The men chatted for a time, then Smoke left the rancher composing the letter he was sending to Judge Ford. The rider would leave that afternoon. Smoke saddled up and rode out to check on Fae’s cattle. As soon as he pulled out, Parnell and Rita left in the buggy, heading for town.

  * * *

  “I shan’t be a moment, Rita,” Parnell said as they neared Gibson. “I only need to gather up a few articles from the school.”

  Rita put a hand on Parnell’s leg and almost curled his toenails. “Take as long as you like. I’ll be waiting for you . . . darling.”

  Parnell’s collar suddenly became very tight.

  He gathered up his articles from the school and hurried back to the buggy.

  “Would you mind terribly taking me over to Mrs. Jefferson’s house, Parne
ll? I have a dress over there I need to pick up.”

  “Not at all . . . darling.”

  Rita giggled and Parnell blushed. He clucked the horse into movement and they went chatting up the main street of Gibson. They did not go unnoticed by a group of D-H gunslicks loafing in front of the Hangout, the busted window now boarded up awaiting the next shipment of glass.

  “Yonder goes Miss Sweety-Baby and Sissy-Pants,” Golden said, sucking on a toothpick.

  “Let’s us have some fun when they come back through,” Eddie Hart said with a wicked grin.

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “We’ll drag Sissy-Britches out of that there buggy and strip him nekkid right in the middle of the street; right in front of Pretty-Baby.”

  They all thought that would be loads of fun.

  Golden looked at an old rummy sitting on the steps, mumbling to himself. “What the hell are you mumbling about, old man?”

  “I knowed I seed that schoolteacher afore. Now it comes to me.”

  “What are you talkin’ about, you old rum-dum?”

  “’Bout fifteen year ago, I reckon it was. Back when Reno was just a sandy collection of saloons and hurdy-gurdy parlors. They was a humdinger of a shootin’ one afternoon. This kid come riding in and some hombres decided they’d have some fun with him. In ’bout the time hit’d take you to blink your eyes four times, they was four men in the street, dead or dyin’. The kid was snake quick and on the mark. He disappeared shortly after that.” The old man pointed toward the dust trail of the buggy. “That there, boys, is the Reno Kid!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “The Reno Kid!” Golden hissed, as his front chair legs hit the boardwalk.

  “He’s right!” Gandy, a member of Cat Jennings’s gang almost shouted the words. “I was there! I seen it! That there is shore nuff the Reno Kid. He’s all growed up and put on some weight, but that’s him!”

  “Damn right!” the wino said. “I said it was, din I? I was thar, too.”

  “That’s why he don’t never pack no gun,” another said. “Who’d have thought it?”

  “He’s mine,” Golden said.

  “We’ll both take him,” Gandy insisted. “Man lak ’at you cain’t take no chances with.”

  “But he ain’t packin’ no iron!” another said. “Hit’d be murder, pure and simple.”

  Golden said a cuss word and leaned back in his chair.

  “Here they come!” Gandy looked up the street. “To hell with it. I’ll force his hand and call him out. Make him git a six-gun.”

  “I’ll keep you covered in case he’s packin’ a hideout gun,” Golden told him.

  Both men stood up, Gandy stepping out into the wide street, directly in the path of the buggy.

  Parnell whoaed the horse and sat glaring at the gunslick.

  Gandy glared back.

  “Will you please remove your unwashed and odious presence from the middle of the street, you ignorant lout!” Parnell ordered.

  “Whut the hale did you say to me, Reno?”

  Parnell blinked and looked at Rita, who was looking at him.

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” Parnell said. “Now kindly step out of the way so we may proceed on our journey.”

  “Git outta that thar buggy, Reno! I’m a gonna kill you.”

  “He thinks you’re the Reno Kid.” Rita gripped Parnell’s arm.

  “Who, or what, is the Reno Kid?”

  “A legendary gunfighter from the Nevada Territory. He’d be about your age now. No one has seen him in fifteen years.”

  “What the hale-far is y’all whisperin’ about?” Gandy hollered. “What’d the matter, Reno, you done turned yeller?”

  “I beg your pardon!” Parnell returned the shout. “Begone with you before I give you a proper hiding with a buggy whip, you fool!”

  No one seemed to notice the tall, lean, darkly tanned stranger standing in the shadows of the awning in front of the Pussycat. He was wearing a gun, but then, so did nearly every man. He stood watching the goings-on with a faint twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes.

  If it got out of hand, he would interfere, but not before.

  “Y’all heard it!” Gandy shouted. “He called me a fool! Them’s fightin’ words, Reno. Now get out of that there buggy.”

  “I most certainly will not, you . . . you . . . hooligan!”

  “I think I’ll just snatch your woman outta there and lift her petticoats. Maybe that’ll narrow that yeller stripe a-runnin’ down your back.”

  Before he even thought about the consequences, Parnell stepped from the buggy to the street. His coat was covering his pistol. “I demand you apologize to Miss Rita for that remark, you brute!”

  “I ain’t a-gonna do no sich of a thing, Reno.”

  “My name is not Reno and oh, yes, you will!”

  “Your name shore as hell is Reno and I will not!”

  Gandy could not see most of Parnell for the horse. Parnell brushed back his coat and put his hand on the butt of his gun, removing the leather thong from the hammer and stepping forward, drawing as he walked.

  Gandy saw the arm movement and grabbed iron. Parnell stubbed his toe on a rock in the street and fell forward, pulling the trigger. The hammer dropped, the slug striking Gandy right between the eyes and knocking him down, dead before he hit the dirt.

  Shocked at what he’d done, Parnell turned, the muzzle pointing toward Golden just as Golden jerked his gun out of leather.

  Parnell instinctively cocked and fired, the bullet slamming into Golden’s stomach and doubling him over. By this time, Rita had jerked a Winchester out of the boot and eared the hammer back.

  “That’s it, Reno!” Eddie Hart hollered. “We don’t want no more trouble.”

  Parnell looked at the dead and dying men. He felt sick at his stomach; fought back the nausea as he climbed back into the buggy, first holstering his pistol. He picked up the reins and clucked the mare forward, moving smartly up the street.

  “I feel quite ill,” Parnell admitted.

  “You’re so brave!” Rita threw her arms around his neck and gave him a wet kiss in his ear.

  Parnell almost lost the rig.

  “I seen some fancy shootin’ in my days, boys,” Pooch Matthews said. “But I ain’t never seen nothing like that. Damn, but that Reno is fast.”

  “Like lightnin’,” another said. “Smoke’s been holding an ace in the hole all this time.”

  The stranger walked back into the Pussycat and up to the bar. “You got rooms for rent upstairs?”

  “Sure do. Bath’s out back. That was some shootin’, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” the stranger chuckled. “I will admit I have never seen anything like it. I’ll take a room; might be here several days.”

  “Fix you right up. Even give you a clean towel. Them sheets ain’t been slept in but once or twice. Maybe three times. Clean sheets’ll cost you a quarter.”

  The stranger laid a quarter down on the bar. “Clean ones, please.”

  “We ain’t got no registry book. But I’m nosy. You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  “No.”

  “If you gonna hire on with Dooley, the room is gonna cost you fifty dollars a night.”

  “I never heard of anyone called Dooley. I’m just tired of riding and would like to rest for a few days.”

  “Good. Fifty cents a night, then. The schoolteacher is really the Reno Kid. Dadgum! How about that? Where are you from, mister?”

  “Oh, over Nevada way.”

  * * *

  “Dammit, Parnell!” Smoke grabbed the reins behind the driving bit. “I told you not to go into town wearin’ that gun.”

  “He’s the Reno Kid!” Rita shouted, and everybody within hearing range turned and came running. “I just watched him beat two gunnies to the draw and kill them both. Right in front of the Hangout.”

  Smoke looked at Parnell, shock in his eyes. “You hit something? With a pistol?”

 
; “I stubbed my toe. The gun went off. I am not the Reno Kid.”

  “He ain’t the Reno Kid!” Charlie said. “I been knowin’ Reno for twenty years.”

  Parnell turned to Rita. “You see. I told you repeatedly that I am not the Reno Kid.”

  “Oh, I know that, honey. But I sure got everybody’s attention, didn’t I?” She hopped from the buggy and raced over to Sandi to tell her story.

  “Reno changed his name about fifteen years ago and went to ranchin’ up near the Idaho border.” Charlie cleared it up. “But he shore left a string of bodies while he was gun-slingin’.”

  Smoke turned back to Parnell. “You really got them both?”

  “One was hit between the eyes. I’m sure he’s dead. The lout called Golden took a round in the stomach. If he isn’t dead, he’ll certainly be incapacitated for a very long time.”

  “What the hell is in-capassiated?” Hardrock muttered.

  “Beats me,” Pistol said. “Sounds plumb awful, though.”

  Parnell climbed down from the buggy and Corgill led the rig to the barn. Smoke faced the man. “All right, Parnell. You’re tagged now. There’ll be hundred guns looking for you . . .”

  “That is perfectly ridiculous!” Parnell cut in. “I am not the Reno Kid!”

  “That don’t make no difference,” Silver Jim told him.

  “This time tomorrow the story will be spread fifty miles that the Reno Kid has surfaced and is back on the prowl. By this time next week it’ll be all over the territory and they’ll be no tellin’ how many two-bit punks and would-be gunhawks comin’ in to make their rep. By killin’ you. Welcome to the club, Schoolteacher,” he added bitterly.

  Charlie patted Parnell on the back. “You go git out of them town duds, Parnell. The four of us is gonna take you under our wing and teach you how to handle that there Colt.”

  Parnell stood with his mouth open, unable to speak.

  “But Parnell don’t sound like no gunfighter’s name to me,” Silver Jim said. “Where was you born, Parnell?”

  “In Iowa. On the Wolf River.”

  “That’s it!” Charlie exclaimed. “You ain’t the Reno Kid, so from now on, your handle is Wolf.”