Nathan Gould- Gunfighter from Green Mountain

by Bruce Graham

  I said nothing.

  “You killed Walter Royce.”

  “And?”

  “His companion has spread the story that you shot him when he was down and giving up. That’s what he told the Judge.”

  I sneered and showed the sheriff my still healing arm wound. “What does that have to do with his companion robbing the priest and shooting at me?”

  “Not a thing, but it’s the story that’s going around. I don’t believe it, but there are two bullets in Royce, one at very close range. He has family up north and they want something done. The fact that you winged him might make the difference.”

  “And me being winged?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “We’ll see. Keep up the good work.”

  Three days later the sheriff told me that the County Attorney refused to prosecute me. But a couple of Royce’s relatives were in town. “They’re at the Taylor Hotel. Be careful.”

  This was after I’d practiced my gun hand, cut my holster and resolved to jump aside during a gunfight. I’d also done some computing about the speed of bullets. I had learned that most handgun bullets traveled about 1,100 feet per second. A shootout at 300 feet would cause the bullet from each gun to take about a quarter of a second to reach the target, but the flash of the discharge would be seen instantaneously. So if I kept the exchange at long distance I would have a slight time in which to jump one way or the other before the bullet got to me.

  I went to my hotel that evening and to my room after supper. A little before 11 o’clock there was a ruckus outside, a couple of men firing off guns and shouting. I knew that I’d be expected to do something about it, so I strapped on my pistol and went downstairs. “Be careful, Nate,” said the desk clerk. “It’s the Royce family and they’re looking for you.”

  A couple of shots rang out and the shouting continued.

  I went out the back door of the hotel, crept behind the building and the adjacent millinery shop and to an alley that led into the street. At the head of the alley I could see a man milling about on horseback and another man directly across from the hotel front door in the shadow of the apothecary shop. I walked from the alley, and down the sidewalk away from the hotel two or three stores, then strode across the street and into an alley between the livery stable and the Buffalo Horn Saloon. I strode back toward the man was at the apothecary shop. I was at his side when I thrust my pistol into his ribs. “Freeze, Royce.”

  The man stiffened.

  “Undo your gun belt.”

  The man did as I directed.

  The man on the horse was shouting curses. He fired a gun in the air.

  “Hand it to me, and slowly. What’s your name?”

  “Carleton Royce.”

  “And your brother on the horse?”

  “Wendell.”

  I took the gun belt. I threw it behind me a few feet and threw off the man’s hat. I held his hair in a vicelike grip. “Now, walk into the street. Between me and Wendell.”

  Royce shuffled into the street with me tight to his back, hand on his shoulder.

  I shouted: “Wendell, stop and stand still.”

  The man on the horse stopped reeling about and held his gun in the air.

  “I have your brother, Wendell. Drop your gun.”

  The man on the horse stared and quieted the horse. “You going to kill us like you did Walter?”

  “Drop your gun. Otherwise I’ll shoot you.”

  “Drop it, Wendell,” said Carleton Royce.

  Wendell Royce threw down his pistol.

  “Okay, climb down and lead the way toward the Sheriff’s Office, nice and quiet.”

  By this time people had begun to gather along the street.

  I followed Wendell Royce, keeping a tight grip on Carleton Royce, to the sheriff’s office. In a few minutes the two Royce brothers were in a cell, whining about what they’d do if they got out.

  I filled out the paperwork for two charges of disturbance of the peace, recovered Carleton Royce’s gun belt and Wendell Royce’s pistol and went back to the hotel and to bed. The next morning I learned from Carson that the Royce brothers had been sent out of town, fifty dollars short from court fines and without guns, with the Judge’s warning not to return.

  “I’m running out of room in the office from all of the extra guns you’re forfeiting,” said Carson with a smile.

  Patrolling around town wasn’t much easier than prowling the County. Carson and I took alternate Saturday evenings after dark until the saloons closed. The procedure called for prowling Main Street to the south end, looping east and walking up outside of Main Street back north, then looping west and south again, and back up Main Street to the Office. We wore our pistols and carried shackles that we let jangle so that people knew it was us. In two years of walking the beat as it was called in the Police Gazette, I was never face to face with imminent death in town even once. The buffalo hunters, drovers and drifters were rough cut and raucous, but calmed down if met with strength, patience and simple words.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Carson and I were lounging on the sidewalk in front of the office one morning when Seth Gookin, the telegraph agent, rushed up. He threw a wire at the sheriff, and rushed away.

  The sheriff read the wire and groaned. He handed it to me.

  I looked at the paper:

  Longley boys headed you. Good luck, God bless.

  Sheriff, Wichita County

  “Do you know the Longleys?” asked Carson.

  “Never heard of them.”

  “The younger one, Bill, is the meanest and worst. His big brother, John, is bad, but can be reasoned with, sometimes. The one in the middle, Tom, is a Methodist Circuit Rider.”

  “I presume it’s Bill and John we’re worried about.”

  Carson nodded. “I think it’s time we went fishing till they come and go.”

  “Have you had any run-ins with them?”

  “When I was a deputy city marshal in Dallas they were hell raisers, and Bill was only sixteen. It’s not simply that they’re bad, they’re so unpredictable that they can fly off the handle and be just mean and cruel for no reason.”

  “How do they earn a living?”

  “A protection racket. The tell businesses that they’ll ‘protect’ them for a certain fee. I can see them squeezing the hide processors here, otherwise they’ll cause such trouble the hunters will go elsewhere. The saloons will be glad to kick in a few dollars a week for peace. And without a complaint we can’t do a thing. So they’ll wander the town, drink and cause a ruckus, drain out money and threaten anybody who challenges them.”

  So for three days we went about our usual business, until Carson returned from the stage depot. “They just arrived.” He went into the office.

  I didn’t notice anybody whose actions would have indicated trouble for a day, although the normal hubbub at the saloons seemed subdued.

  Carson said that it would be normal for even the raucous people to avoid anything that might conflict with the Longleys’ brash behavior. “I won’t even get after them for serving Bill, he’s under age. We just go about our work as usual.”

  But early one morning five gloomy men who I knew were the hide merchants arrived at the Sheriff’s Office. “Sheriff,” the apparent leader said, “The Longleys are running the town into the ground. They expect each of us to pay them for protection. We have to get it some place and it’s the hunters. And they say they won’t stand for it and will take their trade somewhere else.”

  “That won’t help them,” said Carson. “Those vultures will follow them there and get the money anyway.”

  “It won’t help us that way. You have to do something.”

  “I could get them for extortion.” Carson took a form from a desk drawer. He wrote on it for several minutes. Then he pushed it across the desk toward the dealers. “Sign it, all of you.”

  One by one they signed. One of the merchants said, “They’re holding the saloons.”

  Carson took the paper
and slipped it into the center desk drawer. “Do you know where we can find the Longleys?”

  The leader stared. “They’re always together at the Buffalo Horn. Late at night they play faro, or at least one does. They’re clever. They never get too liquored up to be off their guard. They talk about you, like they know you.”

  “They know me all right,” said Carson. “And they don’t like me.” He stood up and waved a goodbye to the merchants. When they were gone he took down the Henry rifle from the rack. He loaded it and flicked it about. He rested the Henry on the desk and took out his ’60 Army pistol. He sat down and very carefully proceeded to unload it and reload it. “We may well need this to be in good condition.” He laid out two sets of shackles. “Better get some sleep. We’ll go out about ten, ready for action.”

  I went to the hotel and laid down and was at the office at nine. Carson and I relaxed for a few minutes, when I made the rounds. When I was back at the office the sheriff grabbed his Henry and checked his gun belt and headed for the door.

  I checked my pistol and followed him into the street. We strode to the Buffalo Horn and in the door. Carson led the way to the faro table, appearing to see the man he wanted. He called out: “John Longley, you’re under arrest.”

  A man in denim leapt up and spun, pistol in hand. Without a word he fired the pistol once.

  My pistol was in my hand. I fired once, twice, three times. The man in denim collapsed in a heap and lay still.

  Carson dropped his rifle and stood, swaying, then leaned against a table behind him.

  The men around us were shrinking back, pushing tables, knocking over chairs, throwing glasses and gambling paraphernalia onto the floor.

  “I’m killed, Nate. I’m done.” Carson dropped onto his buttocks, Henry across his thighs. “He was too fast for me.” He turned sideways and stretched out on the floor and was quiet.

  I stood transfixed. I looked around, wondering if the other Longley was about.

  Several men knelt around Carson. One looked up and shook his head.

  From behind me, I heard a gruff voice. “Deputy, you were quicker than any man I have ever seen.”

  “Somebody get the Doctor,” I said, and felt like kicking the lump of clay lately known as John Longley. I holstered my pistol and picked up Carson’s Henry. “Where is this piece of crap’s brother?”

  The gruff voice was brief: “He’s at the Sagebrush.”

  I strode through the crowd and into the street. At the corner of Market and Buffalo Streets was the Sage Brush Saloon, two steps up from the dusty street. I walked toward it on the opposite side of Buffalo Street in the shadows of the buildings. I was not halfway there when the swinging doors of the Sage Brush flew open and a tall man emerged into the gloom. He spun away from me and strode toward the livery stable. He half walked, half ran into the livery stable.

  I was as yet not so brave, or still so foolish, as to walk directly into a darkened and open building, aware that a gunfighter waited within for me. Instead, I worked my way slowly toward the livery stable in the shadows of the buildings, hand on my pistol. I studied the livery stable: No door on my side; I’d be best going to the rear and coming up on him from the dark inside.

  I was almost to the rear of the livery stable when an uproar inside told me that my quarry had taken to his horse in order to make an escape. I finally found the door and burst in on a disheveled old man pulling on his pants.

  “He’s gone, Nate,” muttered the man. “He rousted me out to get his horse.”

  The hoofbeats of Bill Longley’s horse died out while I wondered whether I was fortunate or frustrated not to have clashed with him.

  The three men seated around the sheriff’s office the next morning had identified themselves as the County Commissioners, authorized to name an interim sheriff to succeed the late Sheriff Carson. I sat behind the desk and was quiet while they went through the formalities of calling the meeting to order while one of them---I can’t remember any of their names---took notes. Finally the man in the center with a heavy gray and white moustache cleared his throat. “Sheriff Carson did a wonderful job. But we need a strong replacement. You’re young but dealt with Longley very well. I think you should be our temporary sheriff until next year, when a permanent is elected. I’ll admit that we consulted with the Judge before we arrived here.”

  The other two men nodded.

  “The pay is 75 dollars a month, and room and board since you have no property. Will that be all right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The job will be easier with John Longley gone,” said the man taking notes. “Even though I hear that he’s not as good with a gun as his late brother. I’m surprised that he was so quick in shooting it out with the two of you.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know I was a deputy,” I murmured.

  The man in the middle lurched to his feet. “We’ve sent word to Carson’s family in Dallas, he has a brother and two children who live with his sister, his wife died when the second one was born. I believe that’s all.” He pushed his chair back and moved toward the door.

  The others followed the apparent leader out the door into the sunlight.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. After two years serving under Carson I was in charge as Sheriff, but could be out in a little over a year. I’d killed two men who deserved it, and was beginning to accumulate enemies: Clay Allison; The Royce Family; Bill Longley. I was fast with my gun, but I hadn’t been up against any of them who were accounted good. I credited my killing John Longley to Carson having been his target with me having time to respond. For the time being, however, the pay was okay and I appeared to have the respect of the people of Buffalo Gap. I had no other good choices.

  That afternoon I saw to Carson in his rough wooden casket loaded on the train bound for Dallas. I returned to the office, greeting once in a while by a respectful citizen. At the office I took up a pen and paper and wrote:

  Dear Jennifer:

  I hope this finds you well. I have just been appointed acting Sheriff of this County, following the sudden death of the sheriff in a shootout. I’ve been called upon to kill since I left Austin.

  And I don’t like the feelings.

  Nate

  Putting the letter in the mail I hoped that Jennifer might come to visit or at least respond.

  I thought that we might make an effort to track down Bill Longley, but maybe it wouldn’t work. Bill was only a teenager and the merchants would probably prefer not to call attention to their vulnerability and risk stirring up the young troublemaker. Besides, he wasn’t directly involved in Carson’s killing. When no one approached me about circulating “Wanted” information about Bill Longley I let matters lie.

  Within a few days the community settled down to business as usual. And I was happy to accept my pay and benefits and quietly deal with the minor, usually miniscule, issues that hardly upset my days and nights. One quiet afternoon I decided to go through Carson’s desk in order to bring my own order into the system. In one drawer was a pile of wanted circulars, some with sketches or photos, some going back to the War. I divided them into three piles, stale, questionable and current. Several of them of fugitives from murder charges I posted on a previously blank board in front of the office. Many of the others I cast away.

  Suddenly I started when I came upon one seeking one Nathan Gould, of Austin, for the murder of a man on the steps of the Capitol.

  Carson must have known of me as a fugitive but simply didn’t care. And there was no reason for anyone to know. Many years later, when I had become more cynical and callous, I realized that I was a small cog in one of the great devices in the settlement of the West, the use of hardened killers as law enforcers because they could, first, be depended upon to uphold the community, even at the expense of morality, second, be more efficient in what violence was needed to so uphold the community, and third, be bought.

  I threw the circular into the office stove along with bunches of the others. And I knew that it was o
nly a matter of time before someone caught up with me.

  That time was shorter than I wanted.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A stocky stranger with twin pistols hung low appeared in the sheriff’s office shortly after an autumn noon. “Mike Martin, from Austin.”

  I was reading the Dallas newspaper with my feet up on the desk. I studied the man for a few seconds. “And?”

  The man had definite Hispanic cast to his face. “I’m here to claim a reward.” His voice had a lilt like someone whose English had been a second language when he was younger. His black, curly hair edged out from under his small slouch hat.

  I yawned. “All right, so claim it.”

  “There’s a reward offered for a former Union soldier who killed a well liked man on the steps of the Capitol about three years ago.”

  I dropped my feet onto the floor and slowly stood up and stretched. I drew Carson’s Henry rifle down from the rack behind me with a quick movement. “Do you have a warrant? Are you a lawman? Can you identify this worthy?”

  Martin stood, weight on one leg, hands on his pistol grips. His left side pistol was reversed, so he could quickly reach the weapon with his right hand when his right hand gun was out of bullets. “No, no and probably. The reward is for him dead or alive. I’ll need to take him to Austin or send a picture of his corpse to Austin to claim the reward. Do you have a photographer’s shop here in town?”

  “No. A traveling photographer comes through about every month or so. He was here two weeks ago. So you’ll need to stick around until the photographer comes, if you know where to find this man. Otherwise, if you take him dead, he’ll be mighty ripe by the time you get him to Austin, and without a picture you’ll have killed him for nothing.”

  The man glanced around the room. “I guess I’ll wait for the photographer to get here before I make my play.”

  “He may be gone by then.” I held the Henry in my hands.

  The man nodded. “That’s the chance I’ll take. I figure he has business here and won’t want to give it up.” Martin turned and sauntered toward the door. “I’ll bed down at the Buffalo Horn for a few days.” With that he went out the door and closed it behind him.