The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  “Rawlins, we’re the proprietors of a rooming house. If you’re going that direction and need a place to stay, the name is Hinkle’s Rooming House, just off Front Street, behind the hardware store.” She appeared to blush and put her hand out. “My name is Jessica Hinkle and this is my daughter, Hanna.”

  “John Bronson, my pleasure.” Bronson shook her hand. He liked the firm handshake she had.

  “Your husband is already there?” Bronson asked. He didn’t know why he was making small talk with this woman. The urgency to get to town and retrieve the boy felt like hot coals in his belly, but he waited for her answer.

  “I’m a widow, going on a year.” Her eyes lowered from his. “We had a little place out south of town until he died.” She looked at him with sorrow in her eyes. “With Mr. Hinkle gone, I couldn’t run the spread, so I sold it and bought the rooming house.” Bronson and the woman had wandered from the door to a corner of the building.

  Bronson saw, through a window, the girl had gone outside and was petting the palomino. “My sister and her husband were hung a couple of days ago. Accused of rustling. I’m on my way to Rawlins to fetch my nephew.” His voice had lowered.

  “Your nephew lives there?” She had moved closer to him and put a hand on his arm. She saw what she did and quickly took it off.

  “No, I was told he was taken there and being held, at least until this afternoon.”

  She seemed not to hear. “I’ve heard talk that homesteaders, like we used to be, are being murdered for the land. There have been five hangings in the last year, and no one arrested,” she said. “The sheriff is as bad as the murderers.”

  “I reckon the law would have to be blind or in with the killers if no one’s been caught and tried.” Bronson looked uncomfortable and put his hat on. He took a step and turned back to her. “If I’m around town in the next few days, would you mind if my nephew and I come to visit?” He cleared his throat. “Never mind, I don’t know how things are going to work out. I hope I didn’t offend you, ma’am.” What am I doing?

  “Not at all, I’d like that. You come and have dinner with Hanna and me. We’d like that...and call me Jessica.”

  “All right...Jessica. Maybe in the next day or so if things go like they should. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure, what's the matter with me? You said your nephew is being held until this afternoon. What do you mean?” Her mouth set and the bright blue eyes turned darker.

  “It means after I find him, he isn’t going to be held by anybody.” Bronson tipped his hat. “I’ll be seeing you, Jessica.” He opened the door and left the building.

  She watched him say goodbye to Hanna, then mount up and turn south on the road. Jessica felt a warm glow in her as she saw him nudge the horse into a lope.

  I hope to see you again. I have a feeling someone is going to wish you weren’t coming, John Bronson.

  * * * *

  Black smoke rose in the air and blew away in the wind. The locomotive pulled several cattle cars as it chugged out of town. Bronson rode in with thoughts of Jennifer Hinkle still on his mind.

  I can’t believe I’m thinking about a woman I talked with for only a few minutes. He shook his head and frowned. Get your head on right, John, Tommy first, and then whoever killed Ellie and Sam. If I’m still alive, then you can think about her.

  Front Street had a hotel, four saloons, two livery stables and an assortment of eateries and stores lining the north side. The train tracks ran along the south side of the street and the remainder of the town had sprung up behind Front Street, including Jennifer Hinkle’s rooming house. On the south side of the tracks, Mexicans and Chinese lived in shacks and tents. The Mexicans worked the ranches and herded sheep, the Chinese left over from building the railroad were struggling to exist by businesses they started and ran on the north side.

  The livery stables were both on the west end of town. Bronson turned up the street. The horse walked at an easy pace, ears twitching from the sounds of the departing train. He rode past the first stable. Two men stood outside talking. One had the look of a hard case, his gun hung low, hat pulled down to keep the sun out of his eyes. The other man wore a blacksmith apron and had big, muscular, forearms.

  Bronson could feel the two men look at him as he rode past. Out of the corner of his eye, he sized them up. Another fifty feet and he would be to the second livery stable, that’s where his search would start. From one end of town to the other.

  “Uncle John!” A voice cried out. Bronson turned and saw the hard case run into the barn. The blacksmith looked around questioningly. The palomino spun on its back legs when Bronson yanked on the reins and galloped to the stable. Bronson jumped off, gun in hand and pointed it at the blacksmith.

  “Where is he?” Bronson cocked the hammer back.

  “Who are you talking about?” The blacksmith raised his hands and stepped back, eyes widening. Sweat broking out on his face.

  “The boy, Tommy Hudson.”

  “Settle down, partner,” the man said from inside the barn. “I think you need to ease off. The young'un is right here, safe and sound for now.”

  Bronson couldn’t see anyone in the dim interior of the building. He lowered his pistol. “Let him go.”

  “And who might you be?” asked the voice.

  “The boy’s uncle, I’m here to take him. His folks are dead.” Bronson strained to see where the man was standing inside the door. The barn was dark, he couldn’t see anything but shadows. "I'm sure you helped save the boy."

  “Ah, the prospector; I guess we need to do us a Pow-Wow here. You know, a little trading of valuables."

  “What do you want? Gold? I've got some.” He reached for his saddlebags then stopped. “I can get it for you today,” Bronson said, remembering he had left the gold with the Strands.

  “You sayin’ you don’t have the gold with you?”

  “I stashed it. Below Willow Hill. I’ll go get it and be back tonight. Send the boy out so I can see him,” Bronson said.

  “You stay right there.” The sound of the cocking pistol that emitted from the darkness of the barn was loud. “We’re leaving, don’t follow us. You understand?”

  “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t make sense,” Bronson asked. “I can be back tonight I told you.”

  "You show up at the Bitter Creek Saloon tomorrow night, 'round seven. We’ll talk some more about what we’re going to do with you and my little friend here. There might be some problems you will have to take care of. Seven tomorrow night; I'll be looking for you.”

  "What problems? Wait!"

  The sounds of a person climbing into a saddle drifted out the door. "Heeyah!" The man was on a bay, galloping around the side of the barn. He held Tommy in front of him, the boy's hands tied with rope, and headed south. The horse jumped the tracks and with ash and dust kicking up behind them, rode out of sight down a wash.

  Bronson watched them ride away feeling helpless and mad. He turned toward the blacksmith and his head snapped back from a sucker punch on the jaw by a huge fist. He hit the ground rolling, his head feeling as if a two by four pounded a staccato beat on his head. His Colt went flying from his hand.

  “Nobody pulls a gun on me and gets away with it.” The blacksmith kicked Bronson in the side.

  He grunted feeling his rib crack. It was hard to draw a breath. Bronson pulled his legs up to protect his body as another kick glanced off his back.

  “Damn prospectors; think they can stick a gun in anybody’s face.” The blacksmith kicked again, but missed. He reached for Bronson the same time Bronson kicked out with his foot. The boot hit the blacksmith in the face, knocking him backwards and flattening his nose. Blood sprayed out over his front.

  “Now you’re dead.” He turned and grabbed a hoof-pick off the side of the barn and crouched low. Bronson lay on the ground, his arms wrapped around his chest and his knees pulled up high. A deadly smile was on the blacksmith’s face. “Say your prayers.”

  Bronson yanked his pant�
�s leg up from over his boot, reached inside and pulled the .32 out. His teeth clinched from the pain of his ribs. “Hold it,” he gasped. “Another step and I’ll kill you.”

  The blacksmith stopped in mid-stride and lowered the hoof-pick. “Don’t shoot,” he said. The hoof-pick dropped to the ground. "You can't shoot an unarmed man, less you're a coward.

  Bronson held on to his side with the hand holding the pistol and pushed himself to his feet with the other hand. It was difficult breathing and it felt like a fire burned in his side.

  Several people who had gathered during the fight moved away, still watching the two.

  With the pistol pointing at the blacksmith, Bronson picked his Colt up from where it had fallen and staggered to the palomino. With a grunt, he climbed into the saddle. “You ever come at me again; I’ll put a bullet in your head. Understand?”

  The blacksmith nodded his head. His eyes stayed on Bronson, a glint of cruelty still in them.

  Doubled over from pain and the injury, he turned the horse and rode up the street, heading north past the last livery stable. He turned at the next street and let the horse have his lead. Two blocks down, the sign out front of the house said, Hinkle’s Rooming House. He looped the reins over the rail of the hitching post and slid out of the saddle, almost falling. He lurched to the front door and banged on it. A minute later, it opened and a heavyset, older woman looked at him in surprise.

  “My lands, what’s happened to you?” She saw his bruised and bleeding face, the hand protectively around his chest.

  “Beat up. I think he broke some ribs kicking me."

  "When who kicked you?

  Bronson shook his head. "Is Jessica here?” It was an effort for him to talk.

  “No, she’s due back this afternoon on the stage. I'll help you in.” The woman put an arm around him and helped him move inside the house. She led him to the stairway, and then stopped. “Can you make it upstairs? I’ll put you in a room then get the doctor.”

  “Yeah, I can make it. Let me give you some money.” Bronson said his voice low and pained.

  “Posh, that’ll wait. This might hurt climbing them.” She started up the stairs with Bronson in tow.

  He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling with each step. After what seemed like a year, they came to the landing and she opened the door to a small bedroom. She sat him down and looked at him with concern.

  “My name’s Myrtle. You might feel more comfortable sitting until the doctor gets here. Will you be all right if I leave to get him?”

  “I’ll be okay. Thanks, Myrtle.” He sucked air in as shallow as he could. Each breath felt like a knife blade twisting in his ribs.

  She left the room and returned with a pitcher of water and a washbasin, setting it on a small chest of drawers. “I’ll go get the doctor now.” The door closed behind her.

  He laid his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. A damp cloth wiped his brow. He jerked up then grunted. Jessica held the cloth in her hand. “The doctor’s out of town. I’m going to have to bind those ribs. It’s going to hurt.”

  “It’s good to see you,” he said through his teeth. “Go ahead.”

  Myrtle and Jessica had strips of cloth they wrapped around his chest and cinched tight.

  “You can’t take a very deep breath but you should be feeling less pain now,” Jessica said. She took the cloth and wiped his face again.

  “Much better. Here...I need to pay you.” He moved his hand toward his pants pocket.

  “Don’t worry about that now,” Jessica said. “You rest and I’ll bring you something to eat in a little while.”

  “My horse, I need to take care of him.” She was right, the pain isn’t quite as fierce.

  “We’ve already done that. We have a small barn in the back and Shoshone is in there eating oats. Don’t worry about him,” Jessica said, turning to leave. “Mr. Bronson?”

  “Call me John, please.”

  “John, are you hiding from anyone? Is there anyone looking for you?” Concern was in her voice.

  “No, there won’t be anybody coming here trying to find me. I’m not going to be a risk to you.” His eyes bore into hers.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to know if you were in danger. Excuse me for asking.” She left the room and her footsteps echoed down the stairs.

  Bronson picked up the wet cloth off the table and wiped his face. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  Myrtle had her hands on her ample hips. “You don’t know much about talking to women, do you? You couldn’t see the concern in her eyes?”

  “I only met her this morning at the stage stop. But I have to say, I thought about her all the way to town.”

  “Well, let’s just hope you haven’t hog-tied yourself all ready.” Myrtle took the cloth out of his hand, rewet it in the basin, and handed it back to him. “You rest; one of us will bring you up something to eat this evening.”

  “Who do you think will be bringing it?” he asked. “I don’t want you to have to run up and down these steps.” A sly grin started to form on his face.

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see now, won’t you?” Myrtle replied.

  Chapter Five

  The wind whispered in through the open window, bringing warm air and the sounds of dogs barking and children playing. Bronson had dozed off again. He stood up and faced the mirror above the chest of drawers. His weathered features bruised with a cut on a cheek that had crusted over stared back at him. “At least you didn’t get your fool nose broke,” he muttered. His arms face and neck tanned from the hours in the sun panning gold made his skin a dark brown. Bronson’s sunburned back from digging the graves was still bright red and his pale chest was a stark contrast.

  There was a rap on the door. “Mr. Bronson, are you up?”

  He opened the door to Jessica holding a covered tray. “I brought you some dinner.” She set the tray on the drawers by the washbasin. “There you are potatoes and beef,” she said nervously, “and some homemade bread.” With a quick look to the bandage on his chest, her hand smoothed the apron covering her dress.

  “Jessica, please. I’m sorry about this afternoon,” he said. “I haven’t been around folks much and I took what you said wrong.”

  She seemed to shrug off a burden from her shoulders. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have snapped like I did. What happened to you?”

  Bronson told her about coming into town, hearing his nephew call from the barn and what had turned into him taking a beating. “I was told to meet someone tomorrow night at the Bitter Creek Saloon. Why, I don’t know." He sat down on the bed.

  “That is strange,” Jessica said. “Did you strike it rich?”

  “I found a nice small strike that worked out in four months.” He saw her question forming. “I have enough to last me through the winter, maybe longer.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?” asked Jessica. She picked the tray up and put it on Bronson’s lap.

  “I wrote once to Ellie and told her I might help them with buying some cattle. Damn!” he shouted.

  Jessica jerked back from his outburst. “What?”

  “One of those hard cases at the ranch asked if I was the miner. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

  “Someone must know you have gold,” she said. “Enough that they’re willing to try and trade your nephew for it, I’d say.”

  “I think you might be right. I’m going to have to mull this over a piece,” He said taking small bites of food from the plate.

  “You speak very well, not like the ordinary cowboy. Have you been to school?” Jessica asked. She seemed less nervous around him.

  “I’ve been around a long time. Picked up reading and writing when I was a kid; even studied law for a while back east.” He put his fork down and moved the tray to the bed.

  “Why aren’t you dressed in a suit and a lawyer then?” she smiled at him.

  “Things don’t always happen like we’d li
ke them to. I clerked and read law with an old friend of the family. He was a circuit court judge. The brother of a man who’d been sentenced to hang shot him down in cold blood one day. I found him still alive and he told me who shot him just before he died in my arms.” Bronson ran his fingers through his hair and stood up. “The law said since there weren’t any witnesses and nobody could prove it was the brother, they couldn’t arrest him.” Bronson paused and seemed lost in his thoughts.

  “That’s terrible, so the man never paid for the murder then?” Jessica asked.

  “I was eighteen years old. I loved that old judge. No...He didn’t get away with it. I tracked him down and killed him.”

  Her hand went to her mouth.

  “I practiced with a gun until I could shoot pretty straight and get it out of my holster fairly fast. I let him draw first then put a bullet in his gut.”

  “So were you arrested?” she asked.

  “No, some friends of the judge fixed things. No witnesses, they said; kind of ironic.” His face was in a shadow, as the last bit of dusk was waning.

  “Have you killed many men, John?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her mind. “Have you ever murdered anyone?”

  “No. Everyone I killed was because they drew on me first.”

  “And you have some more killing to do,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  “I reckon so.”

  “Killing doesn’t solve everything. It won’t bring anyone back.” Tears formed in her eyes and one lone tear trickled down her cheek. "I'd told you my husband had died, he was murdered."

  “Who did it?” Bronson asked. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.

  “We never found out. The sheriff said it was drifters, but drifters don’t hang people,” she said.

  “Were you there when it happened?” Bronson asked. Just what in God’s name has been going on here?

  “No, Hanna and I were in town, getting supplies. There was a note pinned to his shirt saying rustlers were hanged. When we arrived home, the sheriff was there and had him cut down. He said someone told him there was trouble at our place and he better get out there. He was too late, he said. James was already dead. For a time I prayed every night I could kill the men who did it, then realized other than bringing them to justice, killing them wouldn’t bring him back. You must know that.” Her rigid look collapsed, replaced by deep sorrow.