by Ed Roberts
Squinting down the barrel of the rifle, the sheriff’s son centred the sight on Dave Booker’s ear. There could be no foolishness about ‘winging’ the man. If he was merely wounded, then there was every chance that he would still get off a shot at the man standing in front of him. Then again, even if he was shot right through the head, there was the possibility that his hand would contract in his death agonies and he would fire that pistol anyway.
‘ . . . you intend to do?’
‘What d’you think, Parker? You’re a dead man.’
There was no point in thinking this over now, because if he did that then he might not even be able to bring himself to fire. The thought of killing a man made Jack feel sick inside, but this was apt to be the only way of saving his father’s life. He heard his father say loudly in a voice which was utterly lacking in fear or any other recognisable emotion, ‘You best do what you will then.’
‘Kneel down and I might let you live,’ said Booker. ‘Go on, on your knees!’
‘I don’t think it for a moment. You going to kill me, just do it.’
And then time ran out and Jack knew that if he didn’t act right at that point, then his father would be killed. Keeping the bead centred on Booker’s head, the boy called out as loud as he could, ‘Booker!’
The reaction from the range detective was as swift as a striking rattlesnake. He began turning towards Jack and raising the pistol to aim as he did so. Whereupon Jack Parker squeezed the Winchester’s trigger and saw the man’s head snap sharply back as the ball hit him straight through his forehead. Just as Jack had expected, the shock of being shot made the other man’s hands twitch convulsively and the pistol went off with a sharp crack, which echoed back and forth like rolling thunder.
Sheriff Parker’s reaction was almost as fast as Booker’s had been, for as soon as Jack fired, his father went for his own pistol and let fly two shots at the man who had been holding him at gunpoint. Assured that his father was safe and had not been harmed, Jack got to his feet, found his legs a little unsteady, and then wondered why the horizon was swaying, as though he were on board a ship at sea. Following which, he fell to the ground in a dead faint.
When he came to, Jack found that his father was cradling his head in his lap and gazing down at him lovingly. Embarrassed at having passed out, and hoping that his father would not think it an unmanly proceeding, the boy tried to spring to his feet. The sheriff restrained his son, saying, ‘Hush now, boy. You rest there.’
‘I don’t know what happened, I just came over unwell. . . .’
‘What happened was that you saved my life, son, and I’m deeply sensible of it. That was a fair bit of marksmanship there.’
‘He’s dead? Booker, I mean?’
‘Dead as a doornail,’ replied his father cheerfully, ‘I put a couple of balls in him as well, but that was to no purpose. You took him straight through his skull, he was dead before he hit the ground, I reckon.’
‘Can we go home now? I feel better.’
During the ride back to Mayfield, neither Sheriff Parker nor his son had much to say. For Tom Parker, death had come close to claiming him that day, and even a hardened lawman such as he felt a little thoughtful about this. He had been sure that he was about to breathe his last. Jack’s feelings were very different. He was mightily glad that he had been able to save his father’s life, but the enormity of what he had done threatened to overwhelm him. He had a vivid recollection of the first time that he met Booker, which meant that the man had not been a stranger to him. He had been a living, breathing human, and now he was no more. To snuff out the life of a fellow being was an awe-inspiring thing to have done, and the youngster doubted that he would ever recover from the experience.
As they neared town, Sheriff Parker reined in his horse and said solemnly, ‘You saved my life this day, and I’ll not forget it. You want to work properly as a deputy, you surely earned the right. Hell, we make a good team. You’ve a conscience and a mind of your own too, which is not a bad thing. What do you say, son? That what you want?’
Before today, nothing would have thrilled Jack more than to hear such words from his father. But a killing can change everything. He said slowly, ‘Truth to tell, sir, I don’t think I’m cut out for this, not nohow. I killed a man. I don’t ever aim to do such a thing again, not so long as I live.’
Jack’s father eyed him thoughtfully, and at length said, ‘What would you have, then?’
‘I reckon college’d suit me better, sir. I’m sorry to disappoint you. . . .’
‘You could never disappoint me, son. You’ve the makings of a fine man. For what it’s worth, I’d say you’re making the right choice. Some can shoot a man down and then carry on and do the same thing again, if it’s needful. Others, you’re one, only kill but once and then only when there’s no other choice.’ Tom Parker looked a little regretful though, and finished by saying, ‘Mind, it’s a crying shame. We would have made the hell of a team. Parker and son, lawmen to Benton County. Got a ring to it, wouldn’t you say?’ Then he laughed and spurred on his mount.
Even years later, when he became first a lawyer and, in later life, a judge, Jack Parker was never able to work out the truth of all that had happened in those few weeks in the summer of 1891. Pressure was brought to bear by the governor in Cheyenne, which led to the release of not only Timothy Carter, but all the southerners whom he had recruited as mercenaries. Once freed, the Texans had all headed straight back to their own territory, mindful that they had come within a whisker of being either lynched or brought before a regular court on a capital charge.
As for his father’s aims and intentions in the matter, Jack never did learn why Mayfield’s sheriff was so keen to massacre all those men. The mayor gave up his position shortly afterwards, and a friend of Tom Parker’s was appointed to the job. The Wyoming Stock Growers Association folded up a short while later, but how that was connected with the events that July, Jack couldn’t work out either.
One thing about which Jack Parker did not have any doubts or uncertainties, even in old age, was that those exciting days in July 1891 were when he ceased to be a boy and became a man, if not overnight, then certainly within the space of a few weeks.
