The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  Bronson kept his back to the logs until he was next to the door. He kicked it open the rest of the way and crouched low as he entered the house with his gun cocked, expecting the worse.

  The room was empty. “Becky, Wendell!” he shouted. No one answered. Through the open door, the wind blew in dust and the sound of horses approaching. Bronson lifted his head and went to a window and pulled the curtain back. Two riders with a string of horses rode in from the east, heads down, fighting the wind. He slipped back away from the window and moved to the side of the open door. Cursing floated by and the dark form of a man with a shotgun in his hand, climbed off a horse.

  “You stay there,” the man said to his companion, angling toward the door.

  Bronson couldn’t see the other rider. He moved back into the shadows as the barrel of the shotgun protruded into the room.

  “I'm holding a scattergun!” The voice hollered. “Anybody in there better show himself.”

  Chapter Ten

  Bronson eased the Colt back in the holster. “It’s me, Wendell, John Bronson.”

  “John? What the hell are you doing here?” Wendell came inside the door, the sawed-off shotgun pointing to the floor.

  “I need to get something from you. That Becky?” He motioned outside.

  “Yeah, the damn wind spooked the horses and they broke out. Busted the gate. We spent all afternoon rounding them up,” he said, slapping the dust off his shirt.

  “Let me help put them up, then we can talk,” Bronson said. He walked by Wendell and waved to Becky, sitting on her horse by the cottonwood.

  “I hardly recognized you with your hair blown about like that. Lucky I didn’t shoot first.”

  “You’re not that kind of man, Wendell.” He slapped him on the back and leaned into the wind while he walked toward the horses. Becky waved to him and handed him the leader rope. Bronson led the horses to the corral, opened the gate and took them inside. After closing the gate, he took the halters off and opened a side door to the barn.

  Wendell and Becky were inside dumping oats into feedbags and putting them on the horses as they came in. The horses acted content to be out of the wind.

  Bronson helped Wendell fix the front door and Becky put coffee on the wood stove after she stoked it up. The wind still shook the house intermittently as they sat at the table and sipped the coffee a half hour later.

  “I need my gold, This Matson fella told me he'll trade the gold for Tommy tomorrow night,” Bronson said. Emotions flashed across his face. “There are some ruthless men in Rawlins. Something’s going on, maybe a land grab because small ranchers are being hung, places have been burned out and it doesn’t seem the law is finding out who’s doing it.”

  “Have you gone to the sheriff? He has to do something, he's the law,” Becky said.

  “There’s only one person I trust in that town; her name’s Jessica Hinkle, runs a boarding house there. She’s helped me without asking for anything, a fine woman.”

  Becky and Wendell looked at each other and a smile touched Becky’s lips. “I think I know her, has a little girl with flaxen hair. The two look the same person, just one being older than the other,” Becky said, her hand twisted a piece of hair. “Her husband was killed, if I remember right.”

  “Hung and no one was caught. She and her husband owned a small place south of town. After he died, she sold it and bought the boarding house,” Bronson said. “I met them on my way to town from here, and I took a room at her place.” When he spoke of her, his features softened.

  The chair leg scraped as Wendell stood up and went through a door. A few minutes later he came back in carrying the four sacks of gold Bronson had entrusted him with. “I better go back with you,” he said, setting the sacks down on the table.

  “I can’t have you do that. If things get where I can’t handle it, I’ll get a hold of you and ask for your help.”

  “You give me your word?”

  “No, you’re not a gunfighter. You can't hesitate if you have to kill someone. No shooting to wound, you'd have to blow 'em apart with your scattergun." He saw Wendell pale a bit.

  “I have to admit I've never shot anyone, not even an Indian when they used to try to steal the horses we was handling for the Pony Express.” Wendell said. "Doesn't mean I couldn't, to help a friend."

  "I know. There was a man I rode with a couple of years ago, when he was a deputy sheriff. He quit, last I heard, but I think he’s down around Carbon.” Bronson raised his hand to stop Wendell's objection. "He's good with a gun…and he doesn't have a family. No widows because of me, but I appreciate your offering."

  "Do you have another sack?" Bronson lined up the gold sacks on the table.

  Becky went behind a counter and brought a small oilskin sack to him. He opened the four sacks and poured a small amount of gold dust out of the four and into the fifth sack. When they looked about equal in size, he tied the top of the oilskin and handed it to Becky.

  "This is for Tommy if things work out. When I get him, I still want to bring him out here until this is over."

  "Sure, but if you get him, why not leave the rest alone? Take him and start a new life somewhere." Becky held the sack of dust, waiting for an answer that she already knew.

  "Because someone killed Ellen and Sam, and I think Rawlins needs cleaned up for the decent folks."

  "Meaning Ms. Hinkle? I can see when you talk about her, there's a spark in your eye. Why do you have to do it?" Becky asked.

  "Can you think of anyone better?" A gust of wind rattled the window shutters. Bronson turned to the sound, a rueful smile on his face.

  "God help me, but no, I can't," she said.

  “I have to leave at daybreak so I can be back early.”

  “We’ll eat now, and then you can get to bed,” Becky said. She left the room and came back a few minutes later with some venison steaks and potatoes.

  Wendell and Bronson drank a glass of whisky and the room had a feeling of somberness. After they had eaten Bronson went into a small room that had a mattress made of straw lying on a small pole frame. The four sacks of gold were still on the table.

  The wind had died down during the night, still blowing but not with the intensity of the previous day and night. Bronson packed the gold into his saddlebags after he’d saddled Shoshone. Wendell came into the barn, a weapon in his hand, hanging barrel down.

  “Take this; it’ll help you more in a tight place.” He handed the sawed-off, double barrel shotgun to Bronson and a sack of shells.

  “You’re giving me all your firepower, Wendell. Here, take the Winchester back, I can buy one in Rawlins. I’ll get your scattergun back to you,” he said, pulling the scabbard and rifle from the saddle.

  Wendell took the rifle and gazed around the barn. The horses didn’t pay any attention to them and what little noise they made was a changing of weight on their hooves or a swish of a tail. The smell of dry hay and horseflesh mixed with the air.

  “Something on your mind?” Bronson asked. He had Shoshone’s reins in his hand, ready to lead him out of the barn.

  “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead and who knows what would have happened to Becky. I can’t let you do this by yourself, John. I’m going with you,” he said in a determined voice.

  Bronson sighed. “Wendell, we’ve talked about this already. If you go, I’d be watching out for you and not myself. Someone will have a lot better chance of killing me if you’re with me. I appreciate the offer. Taking care of Tommy will help me more than anything else. I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it.” He put his hand out.

  Wendell gripped his hand and they shook. “We’ll be here for you and the boy, you can count on that.”

  “I know. Tell Becky I said thanks for the food.” He opened the barn door, mounted the horse and rode out, heading south on the road.

  Wendell waved, closed the door and walked back to the house.

  * * * *

  The wind didn’t cool the day down as Bronson rode toward Rawlin
s. He stopped again at the spring in Brown’s Canyon and watered his horse. A small battered coffee pot came out of the saddlebags. He started a small fire and made coffee. The sack Becky had left for him had bread and venison in it. Under the shade of a cottonwood tree, he ate and drank coffee.

  After he’d seen the burned-out cabin where Matson wanted to meet, he thought of a plan to make the risk of meeting a little smaller. He didn’t want to go to town first so he’d stay at the spring for a couple of hours. If his timing worked out, he would arrive at the homestead about six. He thought an hour would be enough time to wait and watch. I've got to quit worrying. The man wants gold for the boy. That's all. He's greedy. His hand went to the Colt and caressed the hammer. The way things have been going I can't believe something won't go wrong.

  It was a quarter to six when he approached the burned out cabin from the northeast. His eyes moved from the horizon to side to side, looking for any movement that wasn't an animal. Nothing. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. He tied Shoshone’s reins to a large iron ring on a post at the front of the place. "You keep quiet, boy. We don't want anyone to know we're already here," he said softly to the horse. Pulling the shotgun out from under the saddlebags, he looked into the remains of the cabin. The caved in roof lay on the floor and empty windows looked out to the prairie. Jennifer and I need a place like this, he thought. Prairie as far as you can see. Bronson shook his head and climbed up to the second shelf of rocks behind the homestead, saw a gap in the rocks, and crawled into it. With the overhang, no one would see him if they came from the other side of the canyon and he was back underneath enough he didn’t think anyone could pick him out from the cabin side.

  The heat of the day was dying and the rocks he lay on had cooled a bit. The prairie grass moved in waves from the wind, looking like a brown sea; an empty sea. No one was riding to the cabin. Bronson looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was 7:15. The sun would be setting in an hour. Shoshone stood at the tie ring, his tail swishing in a lazy circle.

  The rattle of small rocks tumbling down the hill made Bronson freeze. He could hear someone panting for breath. A moment later, to the side of him and coming from behind, a large man with a rifle in his hand worked his way down the side of the outcropping. When the stranger went lower, a large boulder blocked Bronson’s view of him. He squirmed out of the gap and rose to his feet, the shotgun in his hand. He crossed the shelf noiselessly, crouched behind the boulder and took his hat off. Bronson felt the rough edge of the rock on his face and a few beads of sweat splattered on his feet. He looked around the boulder and saw the man perched behind a rock with the rifle lying on top of it, pointed toward the cabin.

  Bronson stepped around and held the shotgun. He cocked both triggers the same time he said, “Looking for someone?”

  The man jerked his head up and turned toward Bronson. “Sneaky, ain’t ya? I'm a range detective and you're under arrest.” He spun around with the rifle and fired. Bronson felt a tug at his shoulder and pulled both triggers. The blast from the double barrels caught the gunman in the chest, throwing him backwards off the shelf of rocks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a motion and down below near the cabin was Matson, with the boy sitting on the back of the saddle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bronson saw Matson take his rifle out of the scabbard and fire. The bullet ricocheted off a rock five feet above Bronson; he dropped between two rocks. Matson fired two more rounds, each coming closer than the previous one. Bronson wouldn't shoot back fearing he might hit Tommy, so he wormed his way lower, taking cover where he could. The shots kept coming until Matson turned his horse away, spurring it into a run. The figure on the back of the horse bounced and jostled. The dusk made it hard to see clearly but something wasn't right with Tommy.

  Bronson glanced at the body as he ran down the canyon side. It looked like a short, stout cowhand with a droopy mustache and long, dirty hair that splayed out behind him. The horse was skittish; he blew air out his nose and nickered when he saw Bronson. Pulling the reins free, Bronson swung into the saddle and took off in pursuit of the fleeing horseman.

  Shoshone's quarter horse lineage gave him speed and his Morgan bloodlines gave him endurance. His head low and stride long, the distance between the horse in front of him closed. Bronson leaned down by the horse's neck and patted him gently.

  When they had made up half the distance that separated them from Matson, muzzle flashes and gunshots sent the sound of whizzing metal past Bronson. He yanked the reins to the right and Shoshone cut hard and ran across the prairie. Bronson prayed the palomino wouldn't stumble or step in a rabbit hole. He turned in the direction of Matson and ran parallel with Matson's route, keeping him sight and pulling closer. Dusk was turning to night.

  Matson crested a ridge and reined his horse close to the edge of a gully and fired his pistol again at Bronson. Shoshone cut to the left and right, never giving themselves as a broadside target.

  Bronson saw him stop and turn his horse to face Bronson. He reached behind him and grabbed the boy flinging him off the saddle and into the dark depths of the arroyo.

  "No!" Bronson yelled. He couldn't believe what he saw. A minute later Shoshone dropped to his back haunches as Bronson yanked on the reins, jumped out of the saddle and slid down the bank. The bottom of the gully was dark and shadows covered the ground. He heard sagebrush crack when he walked over it. He reached down and brought a chunk of the brush up and struck a match, lighting the brush on fire. The flame put out an eerie glow and flickered from the wind as he walked down the wash. By some brush he could see a pant leg, bent at an awkward angle. The bulk of the body was hidden by cuts in the bank made from a past flow of water years ago.

  "I can't lose you boy, you're all the family I have," he whispered. Images blurred and he didn't realize the wetness on his cheeks came from tears running down his face. He had a fleeting thought of the men he'd killed and the hard life he'd chosen to live, ending with him crying over his dead sister's son lying in the bottom of a gully because of greed. He bent over the body and lowered the flaming bush to see him.

  "Damn you Matson!" His shout came out in a rasp. The horse jerked his head up.

  * * * *

  Clothes stuffed with straw and tied together to make it look like the body of a young man laid on the dirt in the bottom of the gully. A ruse; hope crowded in next to his anger as he scrambled up the bank and leaped into the saddle. Again, they took off at a flat run headed east. Bronson could smell the dust still lingering in the air but had to bring Shoshone down to a trot because of the darkness. A full moon was out, illuminating the prairie enough that he thought he could pick up the track if Matson didn't take time to try and cover his sign.

  Crying like a woman. God, he must be getting old. This last week showed he wasn't as hard as he used to be. But, when you're in your forties and lived by the gun, a long life wasn't expected. Maybe that's what's happening. A chance for a long life. He could be a family man, with Jennifer, Hannah and Tommy. Put the gun up forever, be normal. Right?

  He let the horse have his lead. The tracks Bronson could see were closer together, so Matson had slowed also and Shoshone was following the horse in front of him.

  It was apparent Matson was going to double-cross him, but was Tommy still alive?

  * * * *

  The last half mile he rode at a gallop. Matson could see the cottonwoods and the outline of the cabin, dark and quiet. He pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the horse to a butt-dropped stop. Looping the reins over the hitching post, he went inside and ignored the tied-up, gagged boy who was lying on a cot.

  A matched flared and he lit the oil lamp that sat on a rickety table.

  "That damn uncle of yours. What am I gonna do with you boy? I never signed on to kill a kid." Matson went to a cupboard and took a bottle of whisky out and put it to his lips. He took a long draw before he set it on the table.

  Tommy's eyes bulged as he struggled with the ropes around his slim wrists. He tried tal
king through the dirty rag tied around his mouth.

  The whisky bottle made a gurgling sound as he drank a quarter more of the bottle. A chair groaned as he sat down. "I'm in a fix, boy. You're alive and suppose to be dead.

  —Don't look at me that way. I was trying to get the gold and keep you from being kilt, but I don't know now. There ain't much I can do with you if I want to stay living." He sighed and took another drink.

  He got up and went over to the cot and untied the rag. "I'm in a passel of trouble, you hear me?" Matson had a grip on both of Tommy's narrow shoulders.

  Tommy leaned away from the whisky breath. "My Uncle John is going to get all of you for killing my folks." His eyes turned wet and reflected the light from the lantern. I just wish I could kill you," he screamed. Sobs racked his body and he turned his face to the wall.

  "Well now, I'll bet you do." Matson got up from the cot and took a bedroll down, filling it with a few extra clothes and some salted beef hanging from the rafters.

  "It comes down to this, kid. Me or you - and I ain't ready to die just yet." He saw Tommy's eyes widen as he took his knife out of his belt scabbard.

  “I was told to kill you, but I can’t. I’m no child killer.” He sat heavily in a chair. “I don’t what I’m gonna do. If I let you go, you’ll turn me in and I’ll swing from a rope or your uncle will try to kill me.”

  The door crashed open from Bronson’s foot and he came in low with his pistol cocked. “Don’t move Matson,” he warned.