The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  “I know it won’t. I put my pistol away for over a year because I was tired of the death it’d brought. I was a deputy U.S. Marshall for a time, maybe paying back the judge for all he had done for me, I don’t know...but someone hung my sister and her husband and have their son. No one will stand in my way of getting him back and making someone pay.”

  Jessica looked at him, and then bowed her head. “When I think of what happened to my husband, I wish I had known you then.” Her tears flowed freely down her face. “I hate whoever killed him. If I could, I’d kill them too,” she sobbed.

  Bronson put his arms around her and pulled her next to him. A stab of pain shot up his side but he didn’t mind. He felt the wetness on his bare skin and he spoke to her with a low, soothing voice. “It’s all right, cry all you want.”

  Her body racked and shook so hard from the sorrow she released he wondered how long she’d kept it closed up inside her. Her face was buried in his chest and he stroked her hair.

  Jessica pushed away from him and stood up. “My goodness, look at me. Crying like a baby.” She was blushing and grabbed a stray strand of hair that had come loose.

  “Sometimes it’s good for the soul,” Bronson said. He had liked the feel of her so close.

  “There are chores and dishes to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” She picked the tray up and closed the door of his room on her way out.

  He didn’t move for a minute hoping she’d come back in, but he heard her going down the stairs.

  Bronson took his gun belt off and laid the holster on the floor. The pistol went under the pillow. The .32 was left in his boot after he’d taken them off. He drifted off to sleep with the image of Jessica in his mind.

  Chapter Six

  The sun warmed his face as it crept through the window. He lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds, seeing if there were any noises out of the ordinary. Satisfied with what he heard, and pressing a hand to his side, he eased out of the bed. A small groan escaped his lips when a sharp pain wedged in his side.

  “Damn, that hurts.” The sounds of dishes clattering and conversation drifted through his door. He gently pulled his shirt on, put on his boots, and took the Colt out from under the bed. Holding it in his hand, he shoved it in the holster and put it under the mattress. The .32 was repositioned in the boot and he went downstairs to the dining room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bronson,” Jessica said, a platter of food in her hand. “Join us for breakfast. This is Mr. Henshaw, Mr. Ramsey and Mrs. Sheehan. Folks, Mr. Bronson is another guest who joined us last night.”

  The three nodded their heads as they continued to eat. Henshaw swallowed and sipped some coffee. “Bronson...you from Laramie way?”

  “Not really. Spent more of my time up north,” Bronson replied, sitting down and accepting the platter from Jessica. He noticed the woman, Mrs. Sheehan staring at him.

  Mr. Henshaw rattled, “I work for the Cheyenne Sentinel newspaper. It seems I remember a deputy marshal by the name of Bronson, ambushed around Rattlesnake creek. Not you, eh?” Henshaw turned away from Bronson and spoke to the group. “Quite the story, I’ll have to tell you all about it.”

  “Perhaps later, Mr. Henshaw. I don’t care for tales of violence at the table.” Jessica glanced at Bronson. “Mr. Henshaw is here to write a story on the success of the Stockgrower’s Association.”

  “That’s right. Since they’ve hired a range detective, the amount of rustled cattle found has been amazing,” Henshaw said.

  The portly man sitting at the table who hadn’t looked up, shoved one last fork full of cakes into his mouth. He chewed and slurped some coffee. “I work for the Comstock Mining Company. Ed Ramsey. I’m buying proven gold claims. My company has some big plans for around here.” Ramsey said.

  Mrs. Sheehan sat with a straight back, her fork idly picked at the food on her plate. She quickly looked away when she saw Bronson looking at her. The others waited for her to speak.

  “You never have said why you’re here, Mrs. Sheehan,” Henshaw said.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to,” Bronson said. “It’s not polite to ask someone’s business out here. You must not have lived in the west long,” Bronson said to Henshaw.

  “Two years. I came out from Chicago to visit the frontier. I worked for a newspaper there. This is exciting to see a land prosper from so many different directions.”

  “And do the laws work like they should...with all this prospering?” Bronson asked.

  “Well, in a frontier way. Criminals are hung. Look what happened here a while ago. The citizens took a murderer and hung him from a telegraph pole.”

  “And you agree with that? Revenge? Talking the law into your own hands?” Bronson stared at Jessica. She stood silently by the wall, taking in every word.

  “When the elected or appointed sheriff doesn’t or can’t bring criminals to justice, yes. Criminals must be punished. Why, just a few days ago, a man and woman were hung for cattle rustling. Too bad a woman was hung, but justice prevailed.” Henshaw looked around the room, making his point.

  “Justice prevailed. I like that term. I think I agree with you,” Bronson said in a voice cold and hollow.

  Breakfast was finished in silence. The men left the rooming house, Mrs. Sheehan went to her room, and Jessica cleared the table.

  “He doesn’t live in the present time, does he?” Bronson asked, following Jessica into the kitchen.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Bronson?” Myrtle asked. She pumped water into a bucket and put it on the stove. A large sink had the cooking pans in it, covered in water.

  “Better, thanks. I appreciate your help last night. Can I give you a hand?”

  “For land sake, no. This is my job and I can do it. Thank you, though.” Myrtle said. She looked at Jessica and then Bronson. A grin formed on her face.

  “What are you going to do about tonight?” Jessica asked, trying to hide the concern in her voice.

  “See what the man has to say. Try to get my nephew.”

  “Do you want me to get the doctor to check your ribs?” Jessica asked.

  “No, you’ve fixed them up good. He can’t do anything different. I'll just have to be careful and not let anyone hit me there again 'til they're healed.”

  “I see you don’t have your gun on, why not?”

  “I’m armed, but I didn’t see a need to make your other guests uncomfortable right off.” He took the cup of coffee she offered. They went into the dining room and sat down. Bronson liked being near her. He wanted to drag the time out.

  He reached into his pocket and brought out several coins. "Here. How long will twenty dollars keep my room rented?" The double-eagle sounded hollow as it was laid on the tabletop.

  "Two weeks, room and board. Fresh linen once a week." She picked the coin up and wrapped her fingers around it. Jessica stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I have work to do. Hanna is taking care of your horse; she is out there feeding him now. I can hardly keep her away from him. I hope you don't mind." She turned and went into the kitchen.

  Bronson went out the front door and around to the small barn in the back of the rooming house. Inside, there were four stalls on each side, all empty except one. He saw the palomino eating oats from a pail Hanna was holding under his head.

  "Someday, Shoshone, I'm going to ride you down the street and everyone will look up and say, 'there's Hanna Hinkle on a beautiful horse.'" The horse seemed to nod its head in agreement.

  "Maybe you can ride him in a couple of days, Hanna. I think he likes you. Shoshone won't let just anybody feed him," Bronson said, walking up to the stall.

  She nearly dropped the pail when he spoke.

  "Sorry I spooked you. A person shouldn't come up on someone without letting them know, should they?" Bronson asked.

  Hanna had relaxed when she saw who it was. "That's okay, Mr. Bronson. We usually don't keep horses here. Mostly they stay at one of the stables." She put the empty pail down and stroked the neck of the horse. "
I like him."

  He reached in his pocket and handed her a coin. "I'll hire you to care for him while we're here. A dollar a week sound all right to you?"

  "You don't need to pay me, I'll do it for nothing."

  "No, you work, you get paid, now keep it but make sure your mama knows." Bronson smiled and felt her warmth when she smiled back. "You want to walk him in the corral later, he'll work with a halter just fine."

  "All right, Mr. Bronson. Don't you worry about Shoshone. I'll take good care of him."

  He pulled the scabbard with the Winchester in it from his saddle that sat on the stall railing, and walked back to the house. In his room, he put the rifle under the bed, then went back downstairs and sat in a chair in the parlor. His hand brushed lightly over his bruised face and he grimaced from his hurt ribs.

  The sound of steps brought his attention to the hallway and he caught a fleeting movement of Mrs. Sheehan leaving the house.

  I need to start thinking and try to make some sense of all this. Why take Tommy? Thoughts rambled through his mind. Ellen and Sam were killed for their ranch but I can't figure out about the boy unless Jessica is right. I better find out tonight and get some answers.

  * * * *

  A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air as four men sat around the table in chairs. The room’s windows were shuttered and the single oil lamp gave off a dull, yellow glow. A fifth man, tall and dressed in black, paced back and forth across the floor. Every time he turned and faced the table, he glared. He carried two Colts…

  “Matson, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man yelled, kicking a spittoon from the table to the wall.

  One of the men at the table squirmed in his chair. “There’s money to be made, Royce. They said he struck it rich,” Matson said.

  “You don’t think they’d said anything to keep from hanging? Now you have a miner who killed the Kid out to find his nephew.” Royce Waldrip quit pacing and folded his arms over his chest.

  “I wonder if I should arrest him for the Kid’s murder?” The speaker had a soft belly and wore a badge on the front of his vest.

  “Do we really want an inquest into the hanging of the Hudson’s, Sheriff?” Waldrip asked. He walked over and picked the spittoon up and set it down by the table, then spit into it. “And, Matson, I guess you’d have the boy testify? He can point us all out, you fool.”

  Matson stood up. “Listen, I think the boy could be traded for the miner’s gold. I could use the money. What did he say his uncle’s name is, Bronson?” Several heads nodded. “I’ll talk to this Bronson tonight and tell him the boy for his gold, then I’ll take care of him when we trade.”

  “Sit down, Pete. I don’t want to take any chances. Get rid of the boy now. We’ll take care of Bronson later. Wait a minute; this might turn into something better. There’s someone in town buying up gold claims. If Bronson filed his claim and you can get rid of him also, we can sell the claim and make some money. How’s that sound?” Waldrip beamed and slapped Matson on the back.

  “How would we get the claim in our names?” Matson asked a puzzled look on his face.

  “Why, Sheriff Hadleman can help us on that, can’t you Sheriff?”

  “Maybe, it’ll cost some money, but I think I could talk the county clerk into making a new claim out,” he said, taking a chew of a tobacco plug. “With a different name on it.”

  “I like the way you think, Lester,” Waldrip said to the sheriff. “Get rid of the kid, Pete.”

  “But, if Bronson has some gold, why not get it too?” Matson asked.

  Waldrip’s eyes narrowed. “He can’t have enough gold to warrant the risk. Now, do as I tell you. Understand?”

  Matson picked his hat up and turned to leave. “I don’t know that killing the boy is what we oughta do. There’s gold to be made,” he muttered.

  “What? What’d you say, Pete?” Waldrip lowered his arms and pulled his coat back behind his two pistols. “You disagreeing with me?”

  Fear crept into Matson’s face. “I wouldn’t draw on you, Royce. I’m fast, but no where as fast as you. I’m going to go now and take care of the kid.”

  “That’s good. We don’t want him found…ever.”

  Chapter Seven

  Matson turned and left the room. A moment later, a horse taking off at a gallop could be heard.

  "He worries me some, Royce," Sheriff Hadleman said. "Matson ain't looking at the long term…he's greedy, and he ain’t that smart."

  "I know. Maybe in a couple of days we'll have a talk with him. I'll feel better when that boy is dead. There's too much going on to make a mistake for a few sacks of gold." Waldrip spit again. "If he don't listen up, we might have to have the detective pay him a visit. Larson, mosey around town and see if you can find out if that fella’s staying here.”

  Larson was the blacksmith who had beaten Bronson up. “I saw him ride off, but I don’t know where he went. I hurt him good; he might have found a place to hole up and lick his wounds.”

  “We need to find him and keep an eye on him. Things are going to be busy for a little while. I’m taking Ed Ramsey out toward the Ferris-Haggerty mine tomorrow and show him some claims for sale,” Waldrip said.

  A tall, slim, elegantly dressed man spoke up. “Just don’t do anything that’ll make the Stockgrower’s Association look bad, Royce; not everyone in it feels the same way as you and I.”

  “I won’t, Mr. Kelly. Now that we've been able to get rid of them homesteaders on Horse Creek, you'll control all the water in the valley once we buy the land. Hadleman will get the proceedings started in the next couple of weeks.” Waldrip looked at the sheriff and nodded his head.

  “We just need to get rid of the pests getting in the soup,” Hadleman said. “After the Hudson’s son and that Bronson character are done away with, we can take a few more of the small ranches over. By the end of the year, you might own most of Wyoming, Mr. Kelly.” Hadleman laughed at his humor, and then shut up when no one else joined in.

  “Since I’ve been president of the association, we’ve come a long way, eh?” Kelly said.

  * * * *

  Matson rode his horse hard in an eastern direction from town for a mile then angled to the north.. He was still angry, being ordered to kill the boy. Why, there’s money to be made. Bronson would show up at the saloon expecting to find out how to get his nephew back. Matson knew Bronson would swap his gold for the boy. I mean, they are blood.

  After an hour of riding, Matson slowed the blowing horse to a walk. They meandered through a grove of cottonwoods, following a small creek and came onto a small, log cabin with a corral at the side. He leaned over and opened the gate and rode the horse into the corral. He wearily climbed down and loosened the cinch of the saddle, took the bridle off, hung it on the railing and put a halter on the horse’s head. Matson was pouring a can of oats into a feed box when a short, stocky, man came out of the cabin.

  “Where’s the kid?” Matson asked.

  “Inside, I tied a rope around his ankle and then to the stove, and his hands are tied. He ain’t going nowhere.” The man's mustache drooped over his lip and his brown hair was long and brushed against his shoulders. An old worn-out pistol hung holstered at his side.

  “What’s up? I thought you weren’t coming out until tomorrow.”

  “There's a change of plans, Russell. Waldrip wants me to get rid of the kid…now.”

  “You mean kill him?” Russell asked. “When I told you about Bronson's gold I wasn't planning on killing no kid."

  “Yeah, that's what he means.” Matson thought he saw a glint of fear in the stage stop manager's eyes. He noticed a movement from the cabin and saw the young boy staring at them from the open doorway. He saw the knotted rope around the boy’s ankle and his bound hands. The kid had a lost, vacant look.

  “I think I figured out a plan on the way here. We might be able to have our steers and brand ‘em too.” Matson pulled Russell away from the cabin. He didn’t want the boy to hear w
hat lay in store for him and his uncle.

  Matson left the cabin and rode his horse toward town at a slow trot. The sun crept down behind the hills to the west and the wind blew in his face. Matson knew there was a possibility Waldrip would find out what was going on, but, if the result was Bronson dead, then why would he care? Since Matson seemed to be the only person who wanted the gold Bronson had to have, there shouldn't be any complaints him taking it for himself. That's right. Ain't no one but me taking the chance.

  * * * *

  Bronson strapped on his holster and Colt. I can't stop thinking about Jessica. Her smile, the way she walks. Feelings surfaced he didn't realize were there. This woman, or widow, he had to remind himself, was becoming very important to his life. Every time I see her, my gut tightens into a knot. But, he thought, first things first. He'd get Tommy and finish the business at hand before he tried to see where his future might go with this woman.

  An evening wind blew dust up from the streets. Coming out of the south seemed to be common for it since it didn't seem to stop much. He checked his .32 and shoved it in the belt at the small of his back, under the brown vest he wore.

  "Are you going out?" Jessica asked, seeing him walk down the stairs, a hand holding his side.

  "Yes. There's someone I have to meet about Tommy," he said, stopping at the bottom of the stairway.

  "You have no one to help you." It wasn't a question, just a statement made with the sound of sadness in it.

  "No, I don't. But I need to ask you for a favor."

  "Anything…what is it?" she asked. Jessica moved nearer to him and looked into his eyes.

  "If something should happen to me, get a hold of Wendell Strand at the Stone Ranch Stage Stop. He knows who to contact if I don't make it."