The Last Gunfighter

by Stephen Paul

  “I’m going to be there just long enough to find someone. I should be on the next train to Rawlins.”

  “That’s good, ma’am. There’s a westbound stopping at Carbon around six tonight, you should try to be on it.”

  “I will, thank you, sir.”

  * * * *

  The rocking of the coach must have made her doze because she woke with a start hearing the conductor shout, “Carbon, Carbon, Wyoming, five minutes.”

  Smoothing her dress, the anxiety built in her chest at the task of locating Sloan. What would she do if he refused to come to Rawlins? Bronson had sounded confident Sloan would come, but what if he didn’t? She would have to have another plan to get Bronson out of jail if this trip ended in failure.

  Jessica got off the train after it stopped and went into the ticket office. A young man sat behind the window reading a newspaper. He looked up when she approached.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” He put the paper down but remained seated.

  “I’m trying to find someone. Do you know a Chester Sloan?” Jessica asked.

  “Most of us know Chester.” He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “You can probably find him down at the Railroad Saloon.”

  “And where would that be?” she asked. The grin on the young man’s face didn’t escape Jessica’s notice. “Is there something funny?”

  “No ma’am. Just go down the street out front, it’s about two blocks from here.”

  She thanked him and left, more trepidation entering her body as her footsteps sounded loud on the boardwalk. When she was near the entrance to the saloon a man came out the swinging doors and passed her. He was broad shouldered, dressed well and had solid look about him.

  He nodded to her.

  “Mr. Sloan, Mr. Sloan!” she called. He stopped and turned back to her.

  “Sorry, my name’s not Sloan, he’s inside.” The man looked at her then tipped his hat and went on his way.

  The saloon was dim when she entered. Sawdust lay on the floor, the bartender wiped some glasses and a heavyset man seemed to be sleeping at a table, a nearly empty whiskey bottle setting on the table in front of him.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, putting both hands on the bar.

  “I’m looking for a Mr. Sloan.” She prayed it wasn’t the apparent drunk sleeping it off.

  “Over there.” He pointed toward the drunk.

  Jessica’s heart dropped. She glanced at the door then took a deep breath and walked up to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Sloan?”

  His head rolled and bloodshot eyes opened and looked at her. “You talking to me, lady?” He coughed and reached for the bottle.

  “Are you Chester Sloan?” she asked incredulously.

  “At your service. What can I do for you?” His words were slurred a little. The patched coat he wore didn’t hide the stomach that hung over his belt, nor the pistol belted on his waist.

  “I’m afraid nothing. A friend wanted me to get you - he’s in trouble and needs help, but I think I’ve wasted my time. I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you.” She turned and started walking away.

  “Hold on, little lady. Who’s the friend?” The chair scrapped on the floor as he pushed back.

  She saw a fat, older man with a week’s growth of beard, threadbare clothes and a face lined with deep wrinkles, burned dark from the sun. The only clean looking thing about him was the gun at his side.

  “John Bronson. He’s in trouble in Rawlins.”

  “Bronson, huh? Haven’t heard from him for a while. Why’s he in trouble?” Sloan’s eyes seemed to clear a little.

  “He’s in jail, accused of murder. I’m afraid he might be lynched,” she said.

  “John’s killed some men, but he never murdered anyone that I know of. What do you want from me? I’ve been out of touch for a few years.” He kicked another chair out. “Here, sit down.”

  Jessica brushed the seat and sat down. “John told me to get a hold of you because he needs help. He seemed to think you wouldn’t have to think it over. Apparently he made a mistake.”

  Sloan’s eyes closed and for a moment Jessica thought he’d fallen asleep until a callused hand brushed his long, gray hair out of his face.

  She heard him sigh and say, “How do we get to Rawlins?”

  “There’s a train heading west around six tonight.” Her shoulders sagged wondering if she had made a mistake coming for him. But John had said to get Sloan. “How long do you need to get some things?”

  “Not long, I just have to pack a few of my wares. Let’s go over to a cafe and get some food.”

  He took her elbow and guided her out of the saloon. She pulled out of his hand as they walked across the street to Lew Jow’s cafe. After they settled into their chairs and ordered food, Sloan leaned toward Jessica.

  “Last time I heard about Bronson, he’d put his gun up and was going to go prospecting in the Ferris Mountains. I think that was over a year ago, I been having a hard time keeping things straight lately.” A Chinese girl brought them coffee and Sloan pulled a half-pint whiskey bottle out his coat and poured a small amount into the cup. “Care for some?” He held the bottle up.

  “No, I don’t drink. Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Sloan?” She looked uncertain and wary.

  “Sure, fire away, Missy.” He sipped from the coffee cup and smacked his lips.

  “You’re not quite what I expected. Have you been drinking like this long?”

  “Ah, one not to mince words, are you? Why do you ask? Do I look that bad?” He smirked and turned away from her stare.

  “Honestly, yes, I expected an older person, but one that kept his pride from being a lawman, not a down and out drunk.”

  “Don’t be harping about my drinking, I handle it just fine,” he said gruffly. “And who said I was down and out?”

  She took a deep breath. “John’s life is in danger and I don’t think this is something you should get involved in. I believe I had better try to find someone else.” Her eyes shined from the tears welling in them. “He said you were the last gunfighter he knew. I guess he made a mistake.” Jessica started to get out of the chair.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Bronson and I rode together for a few years, both of us deputy U.S. Marshals. A hard, dangerous life it was and it almost killed both of us.” She sat back down as he continued. “John went his way and I went mine after we quit. Yeah, I drink a little too much whiskey, but I think it’s too late for you to find someone else. Guess I’m going to Rawlins whether you like it or not.”

  “Mr. Sloan” she began.

  He held his hands out in front of him, above the table. “Don’t you worry none, I’m not a falling down drunk yet. His right hand became a blur and his pistol barrel appeared next to her ear. “Yup, I still got it.”

  Her hand flew to her face. “My goodness!” Jessica’s eyes were wide as he holstered the Colt. “Will you stay sober?”

  “Probably. What about the sheriff in Rawlins? He must not be concerned with upholding the law.”

  The girl came over and set down two plates of beef and noodles. She filled their coffee cups and left. Sloan again poured a small amount of whiskey into the cup.

  “I think he’s as bad as the men that tried killing John a few nights ago,” she said.

  “And you think he might be lynched? Why?” he asked between bites of food. “Better eat up.”

  Jessica told him about Mrs. Sheehan’s conversation saying her man friend told her Bronson would probably be lynched for the killings, like George Parrot. She picked her fork up and stirred it around on the plate.

  “I don’t know when, but I would think soon, so they can get rid of him,” she said, putting her fork down.

  “You care for him very much, don’t you,” he said, some yellow teeth showing between his smile.

  She felt herself blush but met his gaze. “Yes I do, and I’m going to do what needs to be done to keep him safe. No matter what; do you understand me, Mr. Sloan
?”

  “Yeah, I do, and I envy John for having a woman like you.”

  Jessica started to protest, then thought, I am his woman, and I just hope John realizes it.

  * * * *

  Jessica looked across the seat at a snoring Sloan, whose chin rested on his chest. His hat was pulled low over his eyes and he swayed with the motion of the train. He certainly didn’t look like a gunfighter, though, she had to admit, the pistol appeared next to her ear as if by magic. There was more to it than just being a fast draw, but Bronson said he was a gunfighter. Time would tell. Jessica said a short prayer asking that Sloan be more than he seemed at the present time.

  He hadn’t taken a drink in the last hour, but the smell of liquor continued to exude from him. She grimaced when Sloan belched and turned his head to the side. Her hand smoothed the green dress as she looked out the window.

  “How long before we get to town?”

  Jessica jerked when he spoke and she saw the bloodshot eyes staring at her. “About an hour, I think. How well do you know John?”

  “Well now.” He cut a plug of chewing tobacco and stuck it in his mouth. “We rode together off and on for three…four years.”

  “I’ve heard people mention him and Laramie, will you tell me what happened?”

  A dark shadow passed over his face. “Yeah, I’ll tell you what I heard, but I wasn’t there so most of what I know is from stories folks told.

  * * * *

  The posse rode west out of Laramie at a gallop. Bronson figured they were four to six hours behind the train robbers. The sun was past high noon when they came to the train, steam idling from its boiler and a mere tendril of smoke coming from the smoke stack. Men and women milled outside by the passenger coaches. A chunk of track lay off to the side. A body covered with a blanket looked like a doll tossed carelessly from a train car.

  “Five outlaws, heading towards Rattlesnake Pass,” the conductor said. “They got the mines’ payroll.”

  The half-breed and Bronson saw the horseshoe print in the dirt with the worn inside mark, giving it a half moon shape. As long as they could find the tracks with the distinctive shoeprint, they could follow it to Utah, if they had to.

  The sun had gone down an hour earlier when they crested a ridge and saw the campfire below in a long draw.

  “We’ll sneak up on foot,” Bronson whispered, pulling his rifle out of the scabbard. “Be quiet and spread out, don’t group together.”

  The posse was made up of eight men - all were good hard working townsmen – except for the half-breed and him. The breed was the best tracker in southern Wyoming, and he was the law. They clambered down through high grass; hardly a sound came from the descent. Huddled forms under blankets could be seen in the dying embers of the fire.

  Bronson felt uneasy, something didn’t seem right. Then he knew. No horses stood tied to a line rope, none hobbled. Ambush! “Get to cover,” he said with urgency.

  The first gunshot caught a young storekeeper in the chest, throwing him to the ground, dead before he hit. A barrage of shots came and men screamed when they were hit. Bronson spun around when a slug hit him in the left side. It felt like he'd been branded with a white hot poker. A second shot dropped him when it tore into his upper leg. Pain blurred his vision. He fired toward the muzzle flashes he saw in the rocks above him. Toby Yates, a hand at the livery stable, fell on his legs. The wound to his head telling all that his life was gone. The gunfire sounded like thunder echoing down the draw.

  It seemed like he'd closed his eyes for only a moment when he looked around. Smoke lingered like a veil and the campfire burned low. I must have blacked out. The footsteps coming toward him froze all thought of trying to get up. A shot fired.

  "Anyone living, kill 'em. No witnesses," a voice said. Spurs jingled.

  The rifle was near Bronson's hand. He was going to take a chance that all the gang were down from him. If he made a mistake, he'd be dead. His fingers touched every rock before taking hold of the Winchester. Rolling to the side, he pulled the trigger and levered shells in the chamber as fast as he could. When the rifle's hammer came down and clicked he threw it aside and started firing his Colt.

  Like a dream he saw men fall, clutching their bellies. Others fired back then turned and ran. He heard horses galloping off toward the east. Using the rifle as a crutch he pushed himself up from the ground. No one moved. He groaned with pain as he hobbled up the draw then whistled. A moment later the palomino trotted down to him, blowing out his nose from the smell of gunpowder and death.

  Bronson tied a bandana around the wound on his leg and poked a neckerchief into the hole in his side. Grabbing the saddlehorn he pulled himself up and into the saddle. He kicked Shoshone in the ribs and they took off at a gallop after the escaping murderers.

  Every hoofbeat shot pain into Bronson’s body as the palomino raced through the dark. He hoped there was enough moonlight where Shoshone wouldn’t step into a hole. As the horse and lawman continued to pursue the gang at a reckless speed out of the draw they came out onto the sagebrush plains heading back east toward Laramie.

  He could hear the horses in front of him but not quite see them. They went up a slight ridge and met a dirt road. Dust was in the air and Bronson urged Shoshone into a run.

  The sides of the palomino lathered and foam flew from his mouth. Bronson patted the horse on the neck and knew he couldn’t run the horse much farther. He pulled back on the reins and brought Shoshone back on his haunches when the lights of the stage stop came into view. He took off again at a trot and circled the station so he came in without the moon at his back. No shadow preceding him. Three horses, still blowing air, were tied to a hitching post in the front of the building.

  He thought if the men knew he was behind them they would have extinguished the lights. Pulling up to a standstill, he eased himself out of the saddle and grounded the reins. The Colt had one shell left so he loaded the remaining five chambers. The .32 came out of his saddlebag and went into his waist where he could draw it fast. On feet heavy from the shock of bullet wounds and a slow loss of blood, Bronson approached the stage station, bent down, took his hat off and peeked into a window.

  The stage stop looked to be run by a man and woman. They were backed up against a wall, a look of fear on their faces. Two men sat at a table each drinking from a bottle of whiskey in their hands. They were saying something to the couple but Bronson couldn’t hear their words. Where was the third man?

  From out of his vision came a bottle that shattered near the head of the station man. One of the men stood up from the table and pulled his pistol out. Bronson knew he only had a moment before the man or woman, hell maybe both, were shot. He went to the front door, pulled the Colt out and pushed on the door latch as quietly as he could. When it felt unlatched he shove with his shoulder slamming the door open.

  “What the hell?” one of the men yelled turning toward the door that had crashed open.

  Bronson hit the floor on his stomach with the gun out in front of him. He saw the two men and the couple. The palm of his hand came back over the hammer and his finger kept the trigger pulled back. Four shots fired and the two men were kicked back against the table from the bullets hitting them in the chest.

  “Look out!” the woman screamed. A shot went off.

  He felt the slug go into the inside of his right shoulder. The third man tried cocking his rifle again but it’d jammed. Throwing the rifle down the outlaw drew his pistol and shot at the same time Bronson fanned his last two bullets at him. Both bullets hit his target, one low in the gut and the other higher, near the heart. Blood sprayed out of the wound in pulsating bursts. The killer took one step back and sank to the floor, dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bronson flicked the cartridge cover open with his thumb and began ejecting the empty casings. “Anyone else here?” He crawled farther into the room, trying to reload the pistol.

  “No, just the three. My God!” the man said seeing the wounds. “Let us h
elp you up. Becky, take his arm, he’s been shot more than once.” The man and woman helped him into a chair.

  “They were going to kill us.” Becky said, fear showing in her eyes, like a trapped deer. She went behind the bar and brought a bottle of whiskey and a glass. The glass was filled to the brim. “Here, drink this. Wendell, bring some bandages, we need to stop the bleeding.”

  Wendell pulled some cloth rolls from behind the counter. “What’s your name,” he asked.

  “John Bronson, I’m a U.S. Marshal. I’ve got to go, there’s still two other men.” He grunted when Becky pulled the neckerchief from the hole in his side.

  “If I don’t get these to stop bleeding, you won’t make it five miles. We did hear one man’s name. Sheehan. Said he would be at the Pronghorn Saloon in Laramie.” Becky poured some whiskey on a cloth. “This is going to burn some, but we need to clean it out.” With deft fingers she pulled his shirt out and unbuttoned it. She saw some more bullet scars and her eyebrows rose up but she didn’t say anything.

  Bronson gritted his teeth. “Go ahead, but make it fast.” His body stiffened when she put the whiskey soaked cloth to the bullet hole. Her hand went around his waist. “It didn’t come out the other side. You need to get the bullet out. The other two went straight through, you’re lucky, no bones hit.”

  “If you can bandage me up I’ll get fixed up in Laramie, if the doc’s around. I have to go after them,” he said drawing a breath in. “They killed my posse, ambushed them.”

  “Becky, do what you can for him, and I’ll saddle the horses,” Wendell said moving toward the door.

  “What are you doing?” Bronson asked, a puzzled look mixed with pain crossed his face. He looked from the woman to the man.

  “We’re going with you. If the Doc isn’t around, Becky can take the bullet out. I’ll give you a hand, you can’t do much, hurt as you are.”

  “You can’t go with me, it’s dangerous.”