Nathan Gould- Gunfighter from Green Mountain

by Bruce Graham

  “Sure, but give me another.” Billy turned to me. “You know Ben Thompson?”

  “I never had the pleasure. I’m new here.”

  Billy laughed. “If you want to meet him, you better talk to him before he comes in here tonight, because I’m going to let his hot air out through little round holes. Someday you’ll brag that you knew me when I dropped Ben Thompson.”

  For the moment I decided not to contribute to the conversation.

  The bartender put a glass of whiskey down and picked up a coin that Billy threw down.

  Billy wandered toward the faro game in the customary corner. I waited, ignored as I wanted it until I could get out of Texas. I nursed a drink for a few minutes, then left the saloon. I ambled across the street to the hotel and sank into one of their outside chairs. A train of mules loaded with buffalo hides lumbered by and stopped at one of the processing shops.

  The chimes at the Court House rang five o’clock.

  A young man, in black frock coat, with tie, and wearing a plug hat rode by and to the livery stable down the street. He emerged a few minutes later without his Prince Albert coat, and with a single pistol on the hip. A boy ran to the saloon across the street and called out “Here comes Ben Thompson.”

  The man in black stopped in the middle of the street, a hundred feet or so from me. He wore a thick black mustache, even though he didn’t look any older than I. His cheeks were sunken under dark eyes set wide under a high forehead. He seemed to hunch himself up taller two or three times.

  Billy came out of the saloon and stood, legs far apart, thumbs into his gun belt and looked in Ben Thompson’s direction. “Thompson, you and I have a score to settle.”

  Thompson took several steps toward Billy. “Coombs, you’ve tried this town once too often. You’re trying to put my brother out of business. Stand down here and take your medicine.” He took several more steps.

  Coombs stepped off the wooden sidewalk and into the street. He hunched his shoulders and went for his gun.

  As swiftly as the eye could follow Thompson’s hand flashed to his gun.

  Coombs shot first, before Thompson’s pistol was out of its holster.

  Thompson showed no sign of being hit, but coolly flicked up his gun. The gun flashed, at the same instant as Coombs got off his second shot.

  Coombs’ midsection flexed backwards, legs and shoulders forward. His pistol and gun hand dropped. He flopped backwards on his buttocks, just as Colonel Winters had dropped with my slug in him. His back dropped to the ground and he lay still.

  Thompson stood for a moment, as if relishing and studying the moment. He slipped his pistol into its holster and stepped solemnly toward Coombs.

  Men were gathering on the sidewalks. They milled around, while Thompson disappeared into the saloon.

  I simply sat and watched the people examine the body in the street, haul it off and then melt away to do whatever it was they had been doing before the fireworks. A man wearing a badge stood for a few minutes making notes while another mule train of buffalo hides went by. The man with the badge went into the saloon, I figured to get some information from Thompson and witnesses.

  When the man in the badge emerged from the saloon he glanced up and down the street. He looked at me. I let my gaze move around, not remaining on the man. The man strode across the street to stand in front of me. “You’re a stranger.”

  “I’ve never been here before, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You saw the shooting.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “What for?”

  The man frowned. “You wanted for anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’m out of the Union Army a few weeks ago.”

  “That’s in your favor. A lot of Unionists up this way, not like out east or the south. You know Ben Thompson or Billy Coombs?”

  “No. Except for seeing them today. I just arrived. I heard Coombs speak big in the saloon about doing in Ben Thompson. But that’s all I know, except for seeing the shooting.”

  The man glanced up and down the street. “Okay, here’s the story. People in town hate one or the other of them. I have problems getting a straight story about what happened from people who live here. I want to know the truth, and I don’t care who it hurts or helps.” He tapped a brass star on his shirt. “I’m the Sheriff. Rufus Carson. Tell me who drew first.”

  “The dead man drew first. But he was taunted and challenged by Thompson, who could have gotten out of the way and just left him alone. The dead man fired twice and Thompson got off only one shot.”

  The sheriff sneered and shook his head. “What you say isn’t the code of the West. If Thompson had tried to avoid a shootout Coombs would have found him somewhere else, some other time, to force a shot swap. Did you ever kill a man?”

  I swallowed and licked my lips. “In Mobile, on picket duty. Two of them.”

  “Can you handle a gun?”

  “A ’51 Navy.”

  “Good enough. How would you like to be my deputy?”

  “Maybe. Why would you want it?”

  “Because you have no roots here, nobody you’re obligated to, you can deal with everybody equally. I’m native here, and served in the Texas Brigade. Lots of people here don’t trust me. But if they know I’ve hired a Yankee as my deputy, they’ll expect to get better treatment. The judges will like it and when I bring a charge based on your evidence they’ll think it’s probably fair. It pays 50 dollars a month and room and board at your hotel here.”

  “I won’t have to face down Thompson, will I?”

  Carson smiled. “He figures I’m going to round up a posse and arrest him and he’ll be heading out of here before morning. I gave him that choice and he took it.”

  “I’ll do it, but I’m not very fast on the draw.”

  He continued to smile. “Practice, practice, practice.” He drew a billfold from his pocket and handed me two twenty dollar greenbacks. “Get yourself settled and I’ll see you in the morning at the office, the County Clerk will swear you in.”

  So began the job that, although I didn’t realize it, would be my law work of longest tenure. For a month I simply meandered the streets from noon to dark, or made the rounds of the county’s roads, stopping to speak with ranchers and settlers. Carson patrolled the business district after dark, when the chance of some crime was greatest. I was surprised at the infrequency of disorderly conduct, the almost complete absence of gunplay, the few complaints presented of public offenses. When a buffalo hunter rode through town waving and firing his pistol, I was able to quiet him down by stopping his horse and surprising him by jerking him out of the saddle. He was speechless and agreed to stop when I simply said that he’d be in jail if he didn’t let me hold his gun. When the hunter reclaimed his gun from Carson at midnight the sheriff slapped him on the back and wished him well.

  Harry Cole was a notorious hell raiser who arrived from a flight to the Mexican border and bragged that he’d do as he liked and Carson and his “boy deputy” couldn’t do anything about it. He set up shop in the Buffalo Horn saloon. After he roamed the town one night, shooting randomly at the buildings on Main Street, Carson resolved to shut him down. The sheriff and I went to the saloon at dawn and persuaded Ed Williams, the proprietor, to let us in. We found Cole asleep in the back room, reeking of booze. The sheriff slipped Cole’s gun belt and pistol into a sack that he threw out front. We then yanked off the reprobate’s pants and shirt and hauled him out of the saloon and dragged him to the livery stable, Cole whining and swearing all the way. Carson roused the owner of the livery stable and while Cole shouted and stumbled around saddled the man’s horse. The sheriff tied Cole’s pants around the horse’s neck and threw Cole onto the saddle. “Don’t come back,” said Carson and whipped the horse into and down the street, to the hoots and laughs of spectators among the townsfolks.

  “He’ll be some angry.”

  “Good. He’ll be humiliated enough that he’ll stay away.
And we’ve picked up an extra pistol for the office.”

  Twice a week I resorted to a hummock and a clump of trees far outside of town where I practiced manipulating my technique of fast drawing and the proper slant of my gun belt. I reviewed in my mind how Thompson had avoided being hit by two hostile bullets and yet was able to deliver a single fatal shot to his enemy. It struck me as curious that any skilled gunfighter would feel that his speed in gun handling would be superior to others on all occasions, even more frequently than not, when they were using the same type guns from the same sort of holsters.

  I hadn’t seen Thompson until after Coombs made his play. I pondered the possibility of a dueler moving to one side or the other which would allow an opponent’s bullet to go wide, perhaps by not much but enough to survive. In this way, the oncoming lead would have one chance in three to hit home: left side, right side and center. On the assumption that the opponent was quite accurate, a jump to one side or the other had a high probability of escaping the enemy’s first shot, since the enemy would surely be planning his aim for the stance of the target.

  If, however, the adversary was a poor shot, or his aim was impaired by alcohol or nervousness, a move to one side or the other actually might increase the possibility of being hit, since there would be one chance in two that the jump left or right would coincide with the bullet going wide at the same spot from an adversary with sloppy pistol skills. In this context the key element was diagnosing the opponent’s mental and emotional state.

  And was it true that the holsters were identical on two opponents each intent on shooting first? I paused in my drawing and removed my gun belt and sat on a large rock. I studied the holster. The bulk of the pistol was carried in a wide set up, the barrel down into a closed pocket, wrapped with a single, wide loop around that kept the pistol in place. Keeping the pistol in place while the wearer rode was a key part of the holster structure.

  I noted that a slit in the front of the holster---above the pistol’s hammer---would permit the barrel of the gun to clear the holster a fraction of a second before it would have cleared the uncut leather. That, of course, would cause the pistol to be loose while riding on my horse around the county. But there was a solution: while riding between locations I could keep my pistol in my bed roll behind the saddle and swiftly put it into my holster for any confrontation that might develop. And while walking the streets of Buffalo Gap would not need a fully tight holster.

  I got out my penknife and spent an hour slitting the holster, then digging out the lining in the slit lips so that my ’51 Navy could clear the holster. I was interested in the speed of the pistol’s jerk from the holster. I practiced for almost another hour, then fixed my bedroll in such a way that the pistol would be held securely.

  I mounted up and headed back to town.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  One night, after my rounds, I found paper and wrote the first notes that I had penned since I had left the Army:

  Dear Jennifer:

  I am a deputy sheriff here in Buffalo Gap and hope this finds you well. I’d like to hear from you, perhaps we could meet while you are traveling. I still love you.

  I also wrote my father a letter, saying that I was in law enforcement and wanted to hear from him. In three weeks I received a note saying that he was glad to have received my letter that he missed me that things in Bartonsville were the same and that Judith was planning to marry.

  I had no problem with the ranchers and settlers when perambulating the county. The sheriff provided me with a Henry rifle, a war time lever action piece that used innovative metal cartridges. “Don’t waste the ammunition,” he counseled. “It’s expensive and hard to get.” I approached each homestead and ranch slowly, walking my horse and stopping far enough from the house that I could hear and be heard. I would raise my hands above my head and call: “Hello, the house. Deputy Sheriff Gould. Checking up to see how things are.”

  Typically the door to the house or the barn or shed opened and a man emerged, rifle in hand or pistol at the belt. “We’re fine. How are things in town?”

  I tried to demonstrate who I was with a bit of genuine news, such as “Reverend Miller’s down with the grippe,” or “Judge Simmons will be in town next week.”

  “Goodbye and God bless,” the man would say.

  I would turn and walk my horse away.

  Some of the settlers were more or less than welcoming. Unionists might have heard that I was a former Federal trooper and would offer water, vittles or rest, some of which I might accept. Secessionists might have also heard that I was a Yankee and would be curt and almost abusive, and barely civil. And newcomers, young people with small families were almost always cheerful and generous with chatter and good wishes.

  The trickiest time was meeting or overtaking riders, especially more than one. I would loosen up access to my pistol and rifle in the scabbard and try to take their measure from their dress or manner. Many wore Confederate gray, full or partial, or were seedy looking or bearded and shifty seeming. When approaching from behind I would call out “Passing, by your leave, Deputy Sheriff.” I would expect them to be suspicious and veer to one side, but would still engage them in conversation, remarking on the weather, which direction and how far it was to town or sweet water or good feed for their horses or a ranch where they could find shelter.

  I studied approaching strangers, their eyes and their garb. Again, many would show Confederate gray, and most were somewhat bedraggled. I showed my hands high with the reins, and greeted them early, with a wave and a “Deputy Sheriff. How are things back that way?” They might reply with some words or simply grunt and groan. Again, I would say where and how far town was and where they might find shelter.

  In all cases, when I passed the other travelers I jogged my horse for a short distance until I was confident that I wasn’t going to be the recipient of bullets in the back.

  Once in a while I encountered a family in a wagon, usually new or relocating settlers. I would keep my hands visible, be amiable, identifying myself, ready to provide directions and aid. They were always warm and friendly.

  Occasionally I came on a rolling business, for example “Uncle Roscoe’s Herbs and Treatments for All Ailments,” or “Dental Work of First Quality.” The proprietor and mule skinner would greet me with a smile and some long-winded salutation, as if fully free of fear, possibly because of the sawed off shotgun he kept at the ready under the box. I would greet him with affability and direct him toward town, without apprehension of attack.

  Once in a great while there was the beaten and bruised unfortunate, huddled by the roadside, asking for succor and claiming to have been set upon by knaves. I would take what information he could give and take him on my horse to the nearest settler’s where he would be assured temporary comfort pending my dispatch of help when I returned to town. I would then set off in the direction the victim indicated was the way that the criminals headed, but with little expectation of finding them.

  A couple of times there was the sprawled and lifeless body by the side of the road, usually cold, sometimes even rigid, without identification or anything of value. I would move the remains into the brush and make note of the location before moving on. On my return to town I would file notes at the sheriff’s office and notify either Doctor Ramsey or the undertaker and coffin maker about the injured traveler or the corpse, and confer with the sheriff on how to seek out those responsible.

  Once I took off after the villains responsible for attacking a person found on the highway. The victim was, of all persons, a Mexican priest whose command of the language was poor. He was bedraggled and otherwise unhurt. He said that his two Anglo assailants, who he met going in my direction only an hour or so earlier, had taken his mule and his money from the collections by his flocks in the small towns, and, what seemed to trouble him as much, his communion kit. He identified one of them as in Confederate pants and hat and armed with a long rifle and the other as bearded, in ragged denim and armed with two old looki
ng handguns. I directed him toward a nearby ranch and took off at a gallop in search for the criminals.

  In less than a half hour I caught up with two men on horseback, leading a mule, who fit the priest’s descriptions. I called on them to stop, and identified myself as a Deputy Sheriff. The man in Confederate clothes spun and raised a rifle and fired. The other man went off the trail and brandished a pistol. I was a couple of dozen paces from them, pistol in hand. I fired twice at the man with the pistol. The man cried out, flopped off his horse and rolled around on the ground.

  The other man dropped his rifle and put up his hands. “You got us, friend. We give up.”

  The man on the ground began to gurgle and whine.

  “Help him, he’s badly hurt.”

  I climbed down from my horse, pistol on the still mounted man. “On the ground, face down.”

  The man slipped off his horse and dropped onto the ground. “Help him, he’s dying.”

  I went to the man rolling around and crying out. When I reached down to help him he flicked a pistol in my direction and fired.

  The bullet grazed my arm. I instinctively aimed my pistol and fired, hitting him in the chest.

  The man went limp. “He’s dead now.” I stood up and went to the other man sprawled on the ground. I put a kerchief on my arm. Now I had the problem of dealing with this mess. With the other man’s help I loaded the body onto the mule. I put shackles onto the man and mounted him on his horse and retraced our steps back to the priest, who was hobbling on the road. I dismounted the man, and had the priest get on his horse. Our caravan eventually made our way back to town.

  On the way I again felt the pangs of guilt, just as when I’d killed the two deserting Confederates on picket duty. Even though I’d been justified in killing the man, I felt that I might have done something to avoid it. But I noted that my anxiety was less. Was I becoming callous as I grew older?

  When word got around town about what I had done the sheriff took me into his office. “Nate, you’ve got a reputation.”