by Darrel Bird
ceiling of the saloon. But other than that, and the usual complaints from the townsfolk, it was a quiet week. They turned the cowboy loose on Wednesday morning so he could go look for work on the ranches to make enough to pay the twenty- five-dollar fine.
“That cowboy may end up clear up in the Grand Tetons before he stops,” the sheriff said, and chuckled at his own sense of humor. “Don’t ’spect we’ll ever collect that fine.”
By Thursday John had a plan laid out in his mind, and he approached the sheriff with it.
“Sheriff, they keep the back door of the saloon locked during business hours, and it’s two-inch-thick oak. If you would be willing to stand at the door of the saloon with that twelve gauge double barrel, I will go in and arrest Kirk. If shooting starts, you and I both can contain them in the saloon. If people not of the Bar S brand want to come out, let ’em out. Does that sound OK to you?”
“Sounds good to me, Son. I ain’t near good enough nor quick enough to stand in the way of that bunch of snakes, but I can hit anything with that twelve gauge. They won’t get past me.”
“Then it’s all done but the doing. Could I ask you for a paper and pen? I promised my mother I would get a letter off, and I would hate to go and get killed without doing it.”
“Sure, John, just sit right here and use my desk. It’s time for me to go get some coffee anyhow.”
Saturday afternoon a group of riders with horses wearing the Bar S brand came riding into town; all six of them tied their horses to the saloon rails and went in. The sheriff and John watched through the office windows as they dismounted.
“OK, Sheriff, we’ll let them get good and drunk before we go in.” He rolled the chamber in the forty-four and stuffed a hand full of bullets in the pocket of his short jacket.
The sheriff calmly breached the double barrel shotgun and injected shells into the chambers.
“Sheriff, you got an extra pistol I could borrow?”
“Got a thirty-eight right here in the drawer; it will do at close range,” he said, handing John the pistol.
“Reckon I am ready then,” John said, stuffing the pistol under his belt. He made a couple practice runs jerking out the pistol and dry firing, then loaded it and stuck it back in his waistband.
They sat in silence for the next two hours. “You ready, Sheriff?”
“Ready as I’m ever gonna get.”
“All right then.” And they stepped out the door. They walked to the door of the saloon, and the sheriff stopped out of sight of the door and motioned John to go on in. John went in and stood in the middle of the floor. Kirk was playing cards at one of the poker tables on the far side of the room, his face toward John.
“Kirk Wilhelm, you’re under arrest for the murder of Melinda Morgan!”
Kirk looked up from his card game. The room got quiet.
“I am Deputy John Shay, and Sheriff Benson is right outside the door with a shotgun. If anyone makes a move toward a weapon, you will be shot. Anyone but Bar S crew is free to leave this room. If you want to leave, walk around the side of the room; keep your hands where I can see them.” “The sheriff will let you out the door. Keep walking and don’t look back.”
“I want no part of this,” one of the men said, and started easing toward the door. Others began following him. The sheriff looked coldly at them down the barrel of the shotgun.
“You and that old sheriff figure to take down six of us, kid?” Kirk asked.
“You got one more to contend with, Kirk.” Rag walked out and stood beside John. Out of the corner of his eye John saw a different Rag than he was used to seeing. Instead of the old snub-nosed thirty-eight Rag always carried, he wore a polished, low cut holster with a forty-five. His hand hovered over the weapon.
“I thought you went back to the ranch, Rag.”
“I took the boys home, all right, but I figured you had a good reason for staying in town. So I took it on myself to find out why.”
The fight started so quickly that John could hardly keep track. Kirk reached for his pistol, and four of the Bar S crew followed. The roar of gunfire was deafening in the room. John shot Kirk through the throat and the chest, Rag shot two of his men, and the sheriff shot one. When the smoke cleared, four men lay dead, the other two begging for their lives. The sheriff walked into the room with his pistol drawn.
“You men had better answer my questions, or I aim to turn this man loose on you, do you hear?”
“Y-y-yes, Sir,” one of the men said.
“Did this man kill the girl?”
“Yes, Sir, he said he did.”
“And did Red Jenson have the Morgans killed? Now think carefully before you answer me. You will only get one chance.”
The man looked at his partner, then spoke again.
“Yes, Sir, he had Kirk and them three kill them. I tell you for a fact, Mister, I haven’t liked none of this. I just needed the job bad is all.”
“Me, too,” said the other man.
“I know you boys need to work to survive, but you have become an accessory to a double homicide, which brings a life term in this territory. I’m not going to hold you boys if you will sign a statement to what you just told me. Then I’ll let you out of Wyoming. Do you boys think you might like to do that?”
“Yes, Sir, Sheriff, we sure would, wouldn’t we, Duke?” The other man nodded his head vigorously.
“You march right over to my office in front of me, then. Disarm them, John.”
The men led out with the sheriff; John and Rag followed. In an hour they had the affidavits signed. They got on their horses and left town, following the Denver road.
“Why did you let them go, Sheriff?” John asked.
“They are just cowboys. Most cowboys are like children; they go where they are ordered. Ain’t no point in taking their lives away from them for working for the brand.”
“Those boys will be more careful who they work for in the future.”
“What do we do about Jenson?”
“We watch and wait till he comes to town. He’ll come because he is short six riders, so he ain’t got nobody to work his cattle. He’ll think they just got lazy, and he’ll head for that saloon over there. That’s when we pick him up. Say, Rag, would you care to be a deputy for a short while?”
“I could do that, Sheriff, but only until Jenson is behind bars or dead.”
“From the way you handled that pistol, I sort of gathered that. I am a good judge of men, but I’ll leave it at that.”
John stared at Rag, who looked like a different man, with the oiled and polished holster. The handles of the forty-five showed years of use; the metal glinted in the light from the window. Rag looked around the office, his eyes glinting like the handles of his forty-five: cold, hard, and unknowable.
“He’ll be here by tomorrow; let’s get it done.”
The next morning Jenson came loping up to the hitching rail of the saloon and stormed through the door.
“Where them no-good men, Fatty? They get drunk and sleeping it off upstairs?”
The bartender motioned to the front of the room with his thumb at Sheriff Benson, John, and Rag. Jenson had been so mad when he came in that he hadn’t noticed the three men with stars on their chests, following him into the room.
“What is all this, Sheriff?” Jenson bellowed.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Morgan and his wife, Jenson. I have sworn affidavits from two of your men. The other four are dead. You’re going to hang, Jenson.”
“The hell you…,” and he went for his gun. He was dead before he hit the floor.
On Monday morning Rag walked into the sheriff’s office to wait for John. The forty-five had been replaced with the customary snub-nosed in its small holster on his belt. John arrived soon after.
“Well, Sheriff, I best be getting on back with Rag. I want to thank you,” John said as he walked out onto the sidewalk with the sheriff.
“Son, Cheyenne needs you. This is a good town, and it will prosper in th
at future you talked about. And you have the heart of a lawman. I am too old to function any more. I have given my life to serving what I believed in, and I think that is your destiny.
“I need to retire, and the City Council has agreed to allow you to serve out the rest of my two-year term. The vote was one hundred percent. I think you have a good chance of being elected next term. Will you step up to the task, John?”
John looked up and down the streets of the town of Cheyenne. He saw a woman cross the street with her three children, two little girls and a boy. He remembered the pastor’s sermon on taking responsibility. He remembered what the Lord had said: Many are called, but few are chosen. He knew he could not walk away.
“You go on, Rag, I got to stay.”
“I kind of figured that was going to happen. Good luck, John,” said the mysterious man. “If you ever need any help, you know where you can find me.”
John Shay shook his hand, turned, and walked into the sheriff’s office, the tired old peace officer’s hand on his shoulder.
The End
