“Hey, you, old man.”
Elmer turned toward him, and by way of greeting, lifted his beer.
“Would you be Elmer Gleason?” The tone of the young man’s voice was anything but friendly, so Elmer didn’t answer.
“Didn’t you hear the question? I asked if you are Elmer Gleason.”
“I’m Gleason.”
“They tell me you rode with Jesse James. Is that right, Mister—Gleason?”
The young man set the last word apart from the rest of the sentence, and said it with a sneer.
Again, Elmer didn’t answer.
“You know what? I don’t believe you rode with Jesse James at all. I think that’s just a lie you’ve been spreadin’ around, hopin’ it would make people think you are somebody.”
Elmer picked up his beer, then walked around behind the bar. He sat the beer down on the bar and looked at the young man.
“It ’pears to me like you ’n me got started on the wrong foot,” Elmer said in as friendly a voice as he could muster. “Suppose I buy you a drink. What will you have?”
“I don’t want nothin’ from you, Mr. Outlaw,” the young man. “Is there a price on your head for riding with Jesse James? If there is, how big is the reward? I might just collect on it.”
“I don’t think there is any paper out on me,” Elmer said.
“You don’t think? Well, Mister, that might be the truest thing you have said so far. You gotta have a brain to think, and since you don’t have no brain, then you don’t think.”
Elmer sighed and shook his head. “Doesn’t look to me like I’m goin’ to be able to get onto your good side, does it?” Elmer said.
The boy chuckled. “Now, that there is a good one,” he said. “Mister, maybe you don’t know this, but I ain’t got no good side for you to get on. Most especially with old, cowardly outlaws like you.”
“What’s your name, boy?” Elmer asked.
“The name is Clete. Clete Wilson,” the boy said with an arrogant smile. “I reckon you have heard of me.”
“No, sir, I don’t reckon I have.”
The smile left the boy’s face. “You’re lyin’. You’ve heard of me, and even now you’re quakin’ in your boots.”
“You think so, do you, boy?” Elmer asked.
“Don’t call me boy! I just told you what my name is. If you want to talk to me, call me by my given name.”
“All right, Wilson,” Elmer said. “I’ll call you by name, because it is important that you hear what I’ve got to say. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m plumb worn out, and one thing about reaching my age is that I don’t have to put up with assholes like you if I don’t want to.”
Even though Elmer’s words were spoken calmly, they were clearly heard and understood by everyone else in the saloon. By now, everyone had grown quiet as they sat, nervously, to see where this was going.
“Well that’s just too bad, Mr. Gleason, because you’re goin’ to have to put up with it whether you want to or not.”
“Just what is it that you’ve got stickin’ in your craw?”
“You, Mister. You are stickin’ in my craw,” Wilson said.
“Have I killed someone close to you? Your father, your brother, perhaps?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” Wilson answered. “I just want my name in the paper. And I figure that killin’ someone that used to ride with Jesse James will get my name in the paper.”
“You know what else will get your name in the paper?” Elmer asked.
“What?”
It had not been mere restlessness that had caused Elmer to walk around to the back of the bar. Nor was it to offer to buy Wilson a drink. Elmer had walked around to the back of the bar to stand in front of the double-barrel Greener twelve-gauge shotgun that Biff kept there. In a smooth and nonthreatening motion, Elmer reached under the bar, wrapped his hands around the shotgun, and brought it up. He pointed the gun directly at Clete Wilson and watched as the arrogant, overconfident smile faded.
“You can also get your name in the paper by dyin’,” Elmer said. “And I’ll be glad to oblige you in that.”
“What?” Wilson shouted, the expression on his face now one of pure terror. He put his hands up. “No, no, wait! This ain’t fair! You ain’t even given me a chance to go for my gun!”
“Fair? Who’s talkin’ about fair?” Elmer asked. “You don’t understand, do you, boy? I ain’t no gunfighter like you are, so there ain’t goin’ to be nothin’ fair about this. This here is just goin’ to be a killin’, plain and simple. So if you’ve got ’ny prayers, boy, you better say ’em.”
Elmer pulled the two hammers back, and the deadly click of them coming into position sounded exceptionally loud.
“Please, Mister, I—please, don’t kill me.”
“Elmer,” Biff said sharply.
Elmer glanced over toward him.
“Before you kill this little piss ant, make him move away from the bar. That Greener is going to open up a hole big enough for you to drive a freight wagon through him, and that’s goin’ to mean a lot of blood. It’ll clean up pretty easy over there behind the stove, but it’s harder than hell to clean up here, right in front of the bar.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Biff. I don’t see no need to put you through all the trouble. All right, boy, you heard the man. He wants the killin’ to be done over there behind the stove,” Elmer said. “So I reckon we had better move on over there.”
Elmer’s words weren’t angry or threatening. On the contrary, they were as quiet and as calm as if he were just suggesting that they change tables to drink a beer. And the more terrifying because of the lack of emotion.
Elmer came back around to the front of the bar. By now, all the others who had been standing at the bar had moved over to the side wall. Those who had been sitting at tables moved as well, so there was nobody left on center stage except Elmer and Wilson. And Wilson was shaking uncontrollably. He sank down to his knees, then clasped his hands in front of him.
“Please, Mr. Gleason, don’t kill me,” he begged.
Elmer let both hammers down, and Wilson breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m goin’ to let it pass, this time,” Gleason said. “Almost,” he added.
Still gripping the shotgun by its stock, Elmer brought the barrel around in a vicious arc, landing on the side of Wilson’s head. Two teeth and a stream of blood spewed from Wilson’s mouth as he fell forward, flat on his face.
“Damn it, Elmer, you went and got blood on the floor anyway,” Biff said.
“A little piss, too,” someone else said, pointing to Wilson’s pants, which were now obviously wet.
“I’ll give a free beer to anyone who will drag this boy’s sorry ass out into the alley behind my place and leave him there,” Biff said.
Two men responded immediately to the offer.
“Take his gun belt off and leave it with me,” Biff said. “I don’t want him comin’ back in here, blazin’ away.”
Business returned as usual in the saloon as the two men, one on each leg, dragged Clete Wilson across the floor and out through the back door.
Kansas
Crack Kingsley had been riding for eight hours. Behind him, like a line drawn across the desert floor, the darker color of hoof-churned earth stood out against the lighter, sun-baked ground. Before him the Kansas plains stretched out, not in hills but in motionless waves, one right after another. As each wave crested, another was exposed, and beyond that another still. The ride was a symphony of sound: the jangle of the horse’s bit and harness, the squeaking leather as he shifted his weight upon the saddle, and the dull thud of hoofbeats.
He had filled his canteen in a creek this morning, and it was already down by a third. He had no idea how far it would be to the next dependable water hole, and already his tongue was so swollen with thirst that, in a condition that was rare to him, he did not have a cigar clenched between his teeth. As a means of preserving his water, he allowed himself no more th
an one swallow of water per hour.
Squinting at the sun, he guessed that an hour had passed since last he’d last allowed himself a drink, so he stopped his horse, mopped his brow, then reached for the canteen. He had just pulled the cork when the shot rang out.
The bullet hit his horse in the neck, and blood gushed from the wound. Without a sound, the animal went down. Kingsley jumped clear to avoid being pinned beneath it. As he did so, however, he dropped the canteen and water began running out. He scurried to pick it up, not knowing how much of the precious fluid he’d lost.
Crack pulled his rifle from its sheath, then ran to a nearby arroyo. Jumping down into it, he was not only concealed from the approaching posse, but he also had the advantage of cover. He cocked his rifle, then slithered up to the top, lay his rifle on the parapet and waited. There were three men approaching.
“Ha, lookie here!” one of the men said. “I told the sheriff he was turnin’ back too fast. We got ’im now. We’ll teach that son of a bitch not to treat women they way he done the sheriff’s daughter.”
“I wouldn’t be all that sure if I was you, Poke,” one of the other men said. “All I’m seein’ there is the horse. Don’t see him nowheres.”
“Well, he’s got to be around here some’ers,” Poke said, sliding down from his saddle. “He sure ain’t goin’ to get far without his horse.”
Poke dismounted, then holding his pistol at the ready, walked over to the horse and gave it a kick.
“Damn! Where’d he go?”
Poke put his pistol back into its holster.
“I reckon ’bout the only thing we can do now is start back.”
When Poke put his pistol back in its holster, that meant that not one man of the three had a weapon in his hand. With a huge, triumphant smile spread across his face, Kingsley stepped up out of the arroyo. His rifle was raised to his shoulder and he was pointing it at Poke.
“You boys give up too easy,” Kingsley said.
“Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Poke shouted. He made a panicked grab for his pistol, but even before his hand reached his pistol, Kingsley fired. Pumping the lever of his rifle, he fired two more times, and all three men lay dead or dying on the ground.
Crack started toward the horses, aiming to capture one of them, but they were all frightened by the gunshots and bolted away. He still had no horse, but he also knew, now, that there was nobody else on his trail. That meant he no longer had to avoid the towns, but could go into the next one he saw. He had no choice now but to walk.
It was hard going. An hour or so into his walk, his feet began to swell inside his boots. As the day wore on, he began tiring, and he started breathing through his mouth. The hot, dry air created a tremendous thirst, and the more he thought about it, the thirstier he got. His throat grew more and more parched, and his tongue swelled. He tried to keep up the schedule of one swallow of water per hour, but he was working much harder now than he had been when he was riding, and it was nearly impossible to wait for an hour between swallows. In addition, there wasn’t much water left. He drank the last of his water at about five in the afternoon. He started to throw the canteen away, but decided to keep it in case he did stumble across a water hole somewhere.
Then, just before dark, a scattering of weathered buildings rose from the plains before him, somewhat distorted in the shimmering heat waves. Gathering what strength he had remaining, Kingsley started toward it. Staggering into the little town, he saw a pump beside a horse watering trough, and hurried to it. Moving the handle a couple of times, he was rewarded by seeing a wide, cool stream of water pour from the pump mouth. Putting his left hand in front of the spout, he caused the water to pool and, continuing to pump, drank deeply. Never in his life had anything tasted any better to him. With the killing thirst satisfied, Kingsley rose up from the pump, stuck a cigar into his mouth, lit it, then looked around the town. Just down the street, a door slammed and an isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around a nearby pile of horse manure.
These sounds were magnified because the street was silent. No one moved, and Kingsley heard no human voice, yet he knew there were people around. There were horses tied here and there, three of them in front of a building which was identified by a sign as the Silver Dollar Saloon. Kingsley walked over to make a closer examination of the horses, looking at their teeth and their eyes, and feeling their legs. He also examined the saddles, realizing that the more expensive the saddle, the more likely the horse is of good stock.
Across the street from the saloon, in Millie’s Café, Deputy Sheriff Stuart Mosley was having a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee. Because of his position near the window, he saw a man come walking into town, then drink water from a pump as if he were dying of thirst. When he finished drinking the water, he came farther into town, and Mosley got a good look at him. When the man reached the front of the saloon, he stopped and looked at the horses. He did much more than look. He made a very thorough examination of them.
Mosley knew every horse the man examined, and knew their owners, but he had no idea who the man was who was showing so much interest in the horses. He was looking at them as if he were about to buy one of them.
Or steal them!
Mosley got a real strong feeling, in his gut, that that was exactly what the man was planning. After all, he did walk into town, and that meant he needed a horse. And if he was planning on buying one, he would have gone straight to the livery, where a huge sign announced clearly: HORSES FOR SALE.
Thinking this needed further looking into, Mosley finished the last bite of his cake and the last swallow of his coffee, then stood up.
“Deputy, you sure you don’t want another cup of coffee?” Millie offered. “Second cup is free.”
“Thank you, no, Miz Turley,” Deputy Mosley answered. “I’d better be getting on.”
For Kingsley, the horses were inviting, and he thought about getting on one and just riding away right now. But the horses would still be here, and even more inviting for the moment was the thought of a cool beer. He had made his selection and, giving that horse a pat on the neck, he stepped up onto the porch, then pushed through the batwing doors to go inside.
The shadowed interior of the saloon gave the illusion of coolness, but it was an illusion only, for the heat was just as oppressive inside as it was outside. Kingsley stepped up to the bar and slapped a dime onto the counter.
“Beer.”
The bartender drew the beer, then made change for the dime. Kingsley left the nickel on the bar, then picked up the beer and drained it without even putting the mug down. Finished with the first beer, he used his finger to slide the nickel across the bar toward the bartender.
“I’ll have another one,” he said.
“Mister, you sure come in here with some kind of thirst,” the bartender said. “What you been doin’ that’s got you so thirsty?”
“What business is that of yours?” Kingsley replied, and, stung by the unexpected hostility of the retort, the bartender said nothing else. He merely refilled the mug.
Kingsley put another dime onto the bar. “I’ll have ten of them Long-Nine cigars,” he said.
Taking the dime, the bartender turned to the glass cabinet that contained loose pipes and chewing tobacco, makings for roll-your-own cigarettes, various kinds of snuff, and a box of long black cigars. Taking ten of those from the box, he handed them to Kingsley, who put all ten of them into his shirt pocket. He had just put them away when he heard a loud, accusing voice from just inside the door of the saloon.
“Mister, what was you doin’ lookin’ at them horses so close?” The questioner’s voice sounded a little like a locomotive letting off steam. Turning toward the front door, Kingsley saw a big man, easily six feet four inches tall, staring at him. The man was also wearing a badge.
At first the badge startled him, then he realized that if the lawman knew who he was, he would have called him by name. Instead, he
was only questioning Kingsley’s interest in the horses.
“I’m a man that appreciates horses,” Kingsley said. “I was just lookin’ at them.”
“You walked into town, didn’t you?” The man had a mustache that curved up at each end, like the horns on a Texas steer. He was wearing a long-barreled Colt sheathed in a holster that was tied halfway down his leg. He had an angry, evil countenance, and looking directly at him was like staring into the eyes of an angry bull.
“Suppose I did?”
“It just makes me wonder, is all,” the lawman said. “I mean, you havin’ such an appreciation for horse flesh.”
“My horse stepped into a hole just outside of town. He broke his leg and I had to shoot him.”
“Why didn’t you bring your saddle into town?”
“It’s ten, maybe twelve miles out of town. Too far to be carryin’ a saddle.”
“Well, I’m a generous man,” the lawman said. “Why don’t I hitch up a buckboard, and we’ll just go out there and get your saddle?”
Kingsley thought of the three men he had just killed, lying out there by his dead horse. At least one of them, he knew, was wearing a deputy’s badge. It wouldn’t be good for this lawman to see that.
“No need,” Kingsley said. “I’m pretty tired from the walk. I plan to just leave it out there for now. Thought I might go back after it tomorrow.”
“That ain’t no problem, Mister. You don’t have to go. I’ll go get it for you.”
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
There were only six others in the saloon, and that was counting the bartender. By now all conversation had stopped as the six men watched the interplay between Deputy Mosley and the stranger who had just come into town.
“Mister, seems to me like Deputy Mosley is offerin’ to do you a big favor, ridin’ out there to get your saddle for you. What you got against that?”
“I’ll tell you what he has against it,” Mosley said. “He don’t want me goin’ out there ’cause he knows there ain’t no saddle out there. There ain’t no saddle at all.” He looked directly at Kingsley. “He don’t have a horse, he never did have a horse, and he come into town with no other purpose than to steal one. Now, that’s the truth of it, ain’t it Mister?”
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Page 5
