Last Chance Saloon

by Cole Shelton

  ‘Been a long time,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Seven years, I reckon.’

  ‘Buy me a drink, Brett,’ she invited.

  ‘Thought you’d say that,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing changes, Brett. You know that.’

  Jessie May Killen was once the undisputed highest-paid and most sought-after queen of Lincoln City and that’s where he’d met her. She’d worked in the Lucky Cowboy’s Palace owned by Jim Wiley who’d hired him for a kill. Wiley’s brother had been stabbed to death in his cell by a rogue lawman who subsequently had his badge taken away from him by an angry town. Jim Wiley wanted the trigger-happy ex-lawman in a pine box and so he sent for gunfighter Brett Cassidy. He recalled earning those seven hundred and fifty dollars in full view of the town by out-drawing and killing him with a single bullet between his eyes.

  ‘I’ll have a whiskey,’ Jessie said at the bar. He recalled with a wry grin she used to boast she was able to drink any man under the table. Maybe she still could. He told the bartender, ‘Make it two.’

  ‘What are you doing in Red Butte?’ she asked.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

  ‘Long story, Brett.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he prodded.

  ‘After you left Lincoln City, I hooked up with Jim Wiley. Then Lucille his wife cottoned on and I no longer had a job. Found myself a good man in the next town. He was the bank manager, but he was shot dead in a hold-up. Two masked men just busted into the Cattlemen’s Bank and shot him at point blank range. I told the townsfolk they ought to hire you, but the law caught up with them before they got around to writing the letter. Hung them both from a cottonwood tree.’ She signalled the bartender for another shot of whiskey which Brett paid for. ‘I was down on my luck, working in places I don’t care to talk about, when I met Garth Delaney. He brought me here and set me up here, in his Last Chance Saloon. I figured it was my last chance, too, so I’ve made the best of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  ‘I’m not just a common saloon whore here, Brett,’ Jessie said. ‘I sing, I play the piano, I have my own room and I’m in charge of all the saloon girls. I don’t have to accept any old cowpoke’s company. If a man’s dirty, he has a bath before he’s alone with me and he pays for the bath, too. I set my own prices and Mr Delaney takes a percentage.’ She smiled at him, softly now, a smile he knew from long ago. Playfully, she offered, ‘However, for an old friend like you, it would be half price, maybe even less.’

  ‘Your memory’s not so good, Jessie,’ Brett said.

  Jessie’s smile faded. ‘Oh, that’s right, I remember now. Brett Cassidy never pays for a woman.’

  ‘You remember right,’ Brett confirmed.

  And of course, Jessie told herself as she looked Brett Cassidy over once more, he didn’t need to.

  All the same, she felt a trifle annoyed at his rejection. She’d had men fight over her; she’d had range riders spend a month’s paydirt for thirty minutes alone with her in Room Two. Only last week some very eager beavers who lived in Red Butte boasted they’d even given up drinking whiskey so they could save up for ten minutes with the Last Chance’s saloon queen. It mattered not to Delaney. Even if he was missing out on his whiskey profits, he took a substantial cut from every interlude in her bedroom.

  But Brett Cassidy wasn’t like them, she thought furiously.

  He never had been.

  ‘Have it your way,’ she snapped. ‘You always did.’

  Jessie had a short temper and she tapped her fingers on the bar counter in frustration. She didn’t like it when a man rejected her, even if it was for a good reason. It trampled on her pride. Brett looked past her. Delaney was still seated at his table watching him like a dangerous hawk, Malloy was pouring himself another glass of wine, but Kid Jorgenson had reared to his feet. Smelling trouble brewing, Brett watched Jorgenson drift towards the bar counter.

  ‘So what are you doing here, Brett?’ Jessie demanded.

  ‘Just passing through.’

  ‘You’re never just passing through,’ she remarked sharply.

  ‘We once had a good time in Lincoln City but that’s in the past,’ Brett said. ‘Now stop prodding me.’ He suggested, ‘Find yourself a customer.’

  ‘Damn you, Brett Cassidy!’

  Jessie turned away from him, her elbow spilling her whiskey which slopped over her saloon dress. She swore like a trooper and then saw Jorgenson standing just a few paces away. And by the fire in his eyes, the Kid was spoiling for a fight.

  The saloon girl stepped back from them both.

  ‘So do you two gentlemen know each other?’ she asked.

  ‘Me and the preacher-lover have met,’ Jorgenson confirmed.

  ‘Preacher-lover?’ Jessie exclaimed, laughing.

  Brett leaned back against the bar counter, cold eyes appraising Jorgenson whose fingers were flexing.

  ‘I was considering teaching that crazy loon, Preacher O’Toole, a lesson, when this stranger interfered in what was none of his damn business.’

  ‘He’s no stranger to me,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Mr Delaney, Buff and me were watching you,’ Jorgenson spoke up. ‘We figured you must have known him.’

  ‘I’ll introduce him,’ Jessie said as the whole saloon listened. ‘This is Mr Brett Cassidy, the famous gunfighter. I saw him in action in Lincoln City, saw him beat a man to the draw and shoot him right between the eyes. Killed him on Main Street with half the town watching on. You see, Mr Cassidy has a reputation.’

  A murmur floated through the Last Chance Saloon. Card games and the pouring of drinks were temporarily halted. A very young saloon girl, suddenly very nervous, slid from a patron’s lap and ran under the balcony to her room.

  One old timer, whose grey beard reached way down past his waist, piped up with, ‘Yeah, sure I’ve heard of him. He’s a professional! I reckon he killed the Barkley brothers. Mind you, those two varmints got what was coming to them. Good riddance, I say.’

  Having heard Jessie and the old timer talk about Brett Cassidy’s reputation, Jorgenson faced him squarely.

  Brett saw eyes glittering in anticipation. He’d seen men with eyes like this before, men eager to enhance their own reputation by beating a professional gunfighter to the draw, or by getting him to back down. It didn’t matter which, but with most young upstarts the preference was to kill. And Kid Jorgenson’s face had ‘killer’ written all over it as he stepped slowly towards the new man in town.

  ‘So what is a famous gunfighter like you doing in Red Butte?’ the Kid asked in a mocking tone.

  ‘None of your business,’ Brett said slowly.

  ‘Working for anyone in this town?’

  Watching, Jessie suddenly regretted what she’d broadcast to the whole saloon. Sure, she’d been annoyed at Brett. How dare any man knock her back! It was a blow to her self-esteem, but reflecting now, she didn’t want Brett Cassidy shot dead on her account. After all, they had history between them. There had been good times, even though they were long ago. Looking at Jorgenson, whose eyes were brimming with confidence, she now worried the Kid was younger, maybe, yes maybe, even faster. She needed to pour water over the simmering coals.

  Breaking the silence, Jessie blurted out, ‘Mr Cassidy told me he was just passing through.’

  Irked by her interruption, Kid Jorgenson nevertheless kept his eyes fixed on Brett as he addressed Jessie in a sneering voice, ‘Button your lip, woman.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s none of your business, sonny,’ Brett repeated slowly. There was a hardening edge in his voice as he said, ‘Calm down and have a quiet drink.’

  But Jorgenson wouldn’t be denied his intended prey. In any event, he couldn’t afford to walk away. Delaney, his boss, was watching, so were many of the townsfolk, not to mention a bunch of young guns from the Lazy F who looked up to him. To merely cool off and have a drink would mean he’d drop in their estimation.

  Jorgenson’s left hand edged lower.
/>   ‘No one tells me what to do.’

  ‘I just did, sonny,’ Brett Cassidy said, ‘and I’ll give you another piece of advice.’ Now his tone went suddenly cold as he warned, ‘Don’t drop your paw any closer to that gun.’

  Jorgenson’s fingers lingered, hovering one inch above his Colt.

  ‘Heard about you, Cassidy,’ Jorgenson drawled. ‘I was in Jericho Creek playing poker with a couple of friends when your name came up. They said you’d retired, put away your guns. I reckon, though, you’re all washed up, a has-been.’ Smirking, he challenged, ‘Of course, if you want to prove me wrong . . .’

  Brett knew where this was leading.

  He’d been through all this before with other young roosters in other towns, would-be gunfighters wanting to carve a notch and make a name for themselves. Jorgenson was just crazier and bolder than most. Deliberately, Kid Jorgenson edged his left hand lower until the tips of his long, spidery fingers actually touched his leather holster. Grinning provocatively, he stroked the pearl handle of his six-shooter, then lifted it – just an inch.

  But he didn’t even clear leather.

  Brett’s draw was lightning fast, a single swoop of his hand and his Peacemaker was firing from the hip. Sudden thunder rocked the Last Chance Saloon as Brett’s bullet shattered the bone in Jorgenson’s upper left arm, snapping it from his shoulder. Yelping in pain, blood soaking his shirt, Jorgenson danced in agony then crashed headlong over a poker table with his gun spilling to the sawdust-covered floor. Screaming profanities, Jorgenson clutched at, then lost his grip on the blood-spattered table and slumped to the floor where he lay writhing like a fish out of water.

  He was next to his unfired gun. It was close to his right hand. Too close.

  Brett’s boot took away any temptation Jorgenson might have felt by kicking his notched gun clear. White-faced, Buff Malloy clawed his own gun but Delaney restrained him with a quick, quiet word.

  Meanwhile, Brett bent over and scooped up the Kid’s Colt.45.

  ‘Bartend,’ he broke the stunned silence.

  A little moustachioed man wearing a stained white apron over his check shirt and black pants left the faro table where he’d been serving drinks and scampered like a scared dog back behind the bar counter.

  ‘Yes, yes, Mr Cassidy?’

  Brett tossed him Jorgenson’s gun.

  The sweating bartender, shaking like a leaf, caught the weapon with both hands.

  ‘Keep this gun for Kid Jorgenson and give it back to him when he grows up,’ the gunfighter said.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the barman stammered.

  Meanwhile Jorgenson, still mouthing foul expletives, squirmed in the sawdust on the floor, his fingers desperately trying to stem the blood flow.

  Brett addressed the saloon, ‘Someone take this young fool to the doc.’

  Two Lazy F riders looked directly at Delaney who gave them a brief nod. They ran over to the wounded Jorgenson, lifted him to his feet and escorted him out through the batwings. Delaney rose to his feet and nodded to Jessie who hastily resumed her place at the piano and started playing ‘Old Dan Tucker’ again.

  Brett stood at the bar counter as Garth Delaney approached him.

  Far from seeming hostile at Brett’s shooting of his man, Delaney was smiling. It was an oily, almost friendly smile.

  ‘Nice shooting, Cassidy,’ Garth Delaney paid the gunfighter a compliment. ‘I’d like us to have a friendly chat. Fact is, I could use a man like you.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brett Cassidy appraised the man who owned Red Butte. In his immaculately-tailored suit and necktie, Garth Delaney could easily be mistaken for a bank manager. He certainly looked the part. Unlike Jorgenson and Malloy, he didn’t appear to be armed. He wore no guns in holsters, although Brett figured that under his suit there could easily be a concealed weapon. He’d known tinhorn gamblers to be like that – no visible guns but a deadly derringer loaded and hidden in a waistcoat pocket. So Brett wouldn’t be fooled.

  ‘I’m partial to friendly chats,’ Brett said.

  ‘Good, very good, Cassidy,’ Delaney said, still smiling. ‘Name your drink and it’s on me.’

  ‘A beer will be fine,’ Brett decided.

  ‘You heard Mr Cassidy,’ Delaney told the bartender.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the bartender said, still shaking.

  Just then the batwing doors burst open. The portly sheriff Brett had seen relaxing with his boots on the desk and a cigar wedged between his lips now swaggered inside, closely followed by his wiry, wide-eyed deputy. The sheriff clutched a Colt Walker revolver in his right hand while the deputy, looking even more nervous than the bartender, used both hands to carry a rifle. Two pairs of eyes ranged over the saloon.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ the sheriff boomed.

  ‘We heard a gunshot,’ the deputy said, backing up his boss. ‘Then I saw Mr Jorgenson outside the doc’s surgery and a trail of blood leading back to this saloon. So we assumed . . .’

  ‘Ah, good detective work, Deputy Caine,’ Delaney complimented him in a semi-mocking tone. ‘One day you’ll wear the big shiny badge.’

  The quip brought a round of raucous applause from the saloon patrons and Deputy Caine actually beamed in appreciation.

  Then Garth Delaney addressed the town sheriff. ‘It’s really good you responded so quickly, Sheriff Tremelling. Shows this community their town is in good, safe hands. However, in this particular instance, you can both calm down. Fact is, two men had a minor disagreement, a shot was fired and Kid Jorgenson has been taken to our esteemed medico, Doc Applegate, to be patched up. He’ll be fine, back at work tomorrow I reckon.’ He added, ‘Nothing much to it.’

  ‘Well, if you say so, Mr Delaney,’ Tremelling acquiesced.

  ‘Yes, I say so, Sheriff,’ Delaney repeated slowly.

  If ever Brett Cassidy needed confirmation who ran this town, here it was. Even the town’s law officers were subject to Garth Delaney whose smile was fast becoming very smug. Here was a man who was obsessed with power. His word was law, accepted without question. It wouldn’t surprise him if these lawmen even received pocket money or other perks from him.

  ‘Then we’ll return to office duties, Caine,’ Tremelling told his deputy.

  ‘Wait,’ Delaney commanded them. ‘On your way out, collect a bottle of whiskey from my bartender. On the house, of course. Take the bottle back to the law office. It’ll help you with your duties.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Delaney, sir,’ Sheriff Tremelling said respectfully.

  The sheriff collected their bottle and both lawmen parted the batwings and left the saloon. At Delaney’s word, Jessie’s fingers began to caress the piano keys once more, card games resumed and drinks were served over the bar. Brett told himself this man who owned the law and most of the town was going to be a formidable opponent. At this moment Delaney couldn’t know he was working for the Lonesome Valley homesteaders, so maybe it was time to take advantage of his ignorance because one day soon he’d be sure to find out. He would play his cards carefully.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Brett said to Delaney.

  ‘That’s good,’ Delaney said, pleased with his remark. ‘Now for our chat. We’ll talk in my office. Follow me.’

  Brett saw how the saloon patrons all stepped aside for Garth Delaney as he strode across the floor. He noticed too that Buff Malloy was scowling. Ignoring Malloy, Brett caught up with Delaney and walked with him stride-for-stride under the balcony where there were five closed doors. The first one was Delaney’s office; the others with signs ‘Mature Jessie’, ‘Honey Hannah’, ‘Irena’ and ‘Cleopatra’ were the rooms where his saloon girls plied their trade. Delaney unlocked his office door and made straight for his polished mahogany desk where he sat down and waved the gunfighter to a cushioned chair. Brett glanced at Delaney’s desk. It was heaped high with papers and piles of money. He noticed the bill of sale for the lodging house. The price was a pittance but it was counter-signed by Ma Tully. Right by the b
ill of sale was an official deed, still in her dead husband’s name but probably not for much longer. Delaney just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.

  The bartender came in with Delaney’s wine and Brett’s beer.

  ‘Close the door on your way out, Simon.’

  The bartender obeyed and shut the door on the saloon noise.

  ‘I’m not a man to waste time so I’ll get straight down to business, Cassidy,’ Delaney said. ‘You said you were impressed by the way I run this town. Well, you impressed me too. When the Kid prodded you, I wasn’t sure what you’d do but you treated us all to some mighty fancy shooting. The Kid was a fool, got what he deserved. He was lucky not to be on his way to Boothill.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot to kill.’

  ‘Figured it was that way.’

  ‘Where is this leading, Delaney?’

  ‘When I heard Jessie say you were Cassidy, I remembered that name and a story that was going around at the time. Reckon I heard it six, maybe seven years ago. It was a story about Hangman’s Bend, where a professional gunfighter named Cassidy killed a certain Seth Wallace.’

  Brett recalled the killing sure enough. Like the last assignment in Jericho Creek, he’d been hired by the Town Committee. Wallace had virtually taken over Hangman’s Bend single-handed and the town was cowering in his shadow. There was a litany of crimes to his name, including murder, rape and theft. No one dared to stand up to him, especially as he’d attracted two young hellions as his sidekicks. That was until Hangman’s Bend hired Brett Cassidy. The gunfighter’s first bullet, right through Wallace’s heart, ended his evil reign. The hellions moved on even before Wallace’s body turned cold.

  ‘That gunfighter was me.’

  ‘Story said you were paid three thousand bucks.’

  ‘More actually.’

  Delaney raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you were worth it.’