The Legend of Perley Gates

by William W. Johnstone

  Perley’s remarks served only to draw another drunken grin across the bully’s face, evidence that Perley had finally responded in a fashion that was going to call for the drunkard to fight or back down. Too late, Perley realized that the man was now even more encouraged to call him out, if only to avoid any appearance of backing down in front of his companions.

  “Mr. Pearly Gates,” he slurred, “you’re wearin’ a gun and I’m callin’ you a low-down yellow boot-lickin’ dog. We’ll settle this thing out in the yard, and if you don’t come out to face me, I’ll come in and send your sorry ass to them Pearly Gates you’re named after. If you ain’t man enough to stand up to me, you can get down on your knees and lick my boots. And just maybe I’ll let you live.” He looked back at the table. “That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, boys?”

  “Yeah, boy!” one of his friends blurted. “That’d do it all right, Poss—down like a dog!” Both men roared with delight at the prospect.

  Perley, you’ve stepped in another cow pie, he thought, remembering what his brothers would say when he found himself in a mess. He stood gazing at his challenger, who appeared to be getting drunker by the moment. Perley had to wonder if the man would be able to walk out in the yard without falling on his face. As disgusted as he was, Perley had no desire to shoot the belligerent ass. It would be like shooting a bird in a cage.

  “All right,” he decided. “You want to shoot it out, so that’s what we’ll do. But we’re gonna do it fair and square, Poss.” He paused. “Is that your name?” He received no more than a foolish grin in response. “Bob, here, can be the judge—make sure everything’s on the level. All right, Bob?”

  Bob nodded, anxious to see the shooting, and Perley continued.

  “We’ll both empty our handguns and leave one cartridge in the chamber, just like a real duel, so we’ll both get one shot. Is that agreed?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Poss mumbled. “One shot, let’s get started.”

  “Empty your gun,” Perley said, but Poss made no move to do so.

  “That’s right, Poss,” Bob Byers said, taking enjoyment in his role as judge of the duel. “Empty ’em all but one. Them’s the rules.” He watched as both participants emptied cartridges out of their cylinders.

  “This duel is between Poss and me,” Perley said, glancing at the two still sitting at the table as he spoke. “Whoever’s left standing gets to walk away without any trouble from anybody else.”

  “Sure,” one of the men replied. “You don’t have to worry ’bout that.” He nudged his friend beside him and laughed. “He don’t know how fast ol’ Poss is.”

  “All right, then,” Perley said. “Let’s go.”

  They all went outside to witness the shoot-out between the two antagonists, some a little more unsteady than others. Unnoticed by the group, Perley pulled Buck’s reins off the hitching rail as he walked past and flipped them over the saddle horn. Bob, still acting in his official capacity as judge, laid down the rules. The duelers stood back-to-back, their guns holstered while he gave them instructions.

  “When I say go, start walking. I’ll count to ten, and when I say ten, that’ll be the signal to turn and shoot. The fastest gun will decide the winner, I reckon.”

  When both participants nodded agreement to the rules, Bob said, “All right—one,” and they started pacing off the distance.

  At the sound of “ten,” both men turned. Confident but not above cheating, Poss anticipated the count early, actually reaching for his .44 a fraction of a second before Bob yelled ten, firing the shot as he turned, before Perley’s gun cleared his holster.

  As Perley had gambled upon, however, Poss’s shot was wide by a good five feet because he was too drunk to shoot accurately. His miss served to suddenly sober Poss up considerably, especially since Perley had not taken his shot as yet and seemed in no hurry to do so as he carefully took aim.

  Frozen in a paralyzing panic, Poss thought to turn and run, but didn’t seem capable of making his feet move. The few onlookers seemed just as shocked, as Perley cocked the hammer back and drew down on the helpless man. With no real desire to kill a man, even this fool, he lowered the pistol, pulled the trigger, and shot Poss in the foot. The shocked silence was broken by the sound of the .44, followed by a painful howl from Poss, as he hopped around in a circle on his good foot.

  Perley pressed a thumb and a finger against his lips to blow a sharp whistle. In a matter of seconds, the bay gelding trotted up beside him, leading the sorrel. Perley holstered his .44 and stepped up into the saddle. Pausing only long enough to bid them all good day, he nudged Buck and was on his way at a lope. When he reached the river trail, he looked back to see Poss sitting on the ground, trying to get his boot off while the three witnesses stood around gaping.

  With Perley out of sight, Poss’s two friends helped him up onto the porch and sat him down on a bench. While they got his boot and sock off, Bob went inside to find something to treat the wound with. He was searching under the counter for some rags when his father came from the kitchen.

  “You in here, Bob?” Russell asked. When Bob replied, Russell added, “What was the shootin’?” When Bob told him what had just happened, the old man chuckled. “Shot him in the foot?” Bob said he did, causing his father to chuckle again. “Perley Gates,” he said, “just like his grandpa.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Relieved to finally be on his way, Perley held Buck to a steady lope for a good mile or so before reining him back to a comfortable walk. It was getting along in the afternoon, and he had already spent more time at the trading post than he could have foreseen. In a little while, he saw the long ridge paralleling the river, so he started watching for the trailhead Russell Byers had told him to look for.

  As the old man had said, there were several small trails cutting away from the more traveled river trace, but as he had also predicted, the one Perley sought was easily identified. The gap up the middle of the ridge was obvious, and there was still a tall cottonwood that appeared to have been bent and almost uprooted by a high wind. Perley paused for only a few moments to look back the way he had come, not really expecting any pursuit from Poss or his drunken friends, before starting again. Then, leaving the river behind, he took the trail through the gap, heading almost straight north.

  The country he rode through became more hilly and heavily forested the farther he went, but with no mountains in sight. He reminded himself that Russell had said it was at least fifty miles to the small mountain chain called the Sans Bois. He hoped he could cut that distance in half before having to make camp that night. There were no signs that the trail he was following was heavily traveled. In fact, he began to wonder if it was used by anyone, for it was narrow and grown over in places by bushes and tree branches. He suspected it was an old Indian trail that was no longer used after the relocation of the tribes.

  It was almost dark by the time the trail crossed a narrow stream, so he decided he’d best make camp there since it was the first water he had come across in the last two hours. He turned Buck upstream and followed the water for about fifty yards before settling on a spot where the stream widened a few feet and there were a few patches of grass on the banks. He couldn’t help thinking that he could have probably built his fire in the middle of the trail and nobody would know the difference, for he had seen no sign of anyone else having used the trail in a long time.

  * * *

  In the afternoon of the next day, the narrow trail ended at a wagon road running east and west along the southern side of a mountain range. He felt sure the mountains were the Sans Bois, and the road had to be the trail to Fort Smith, Arkansas, because it was obviously well traveled. Russell Byers had told him that he would be about a mile east of the joining of two roads, one from McAlester and the other from Atoka.

  He took a long look at the mountains before him. They were not high mountains, but they seemed high in contrast to the flatter land around them, and the heavily forested slopes showed no signs of inhabitants. Well
, he thought, I think I found the Sans Bois. Now how the hell am I going to find Grandpa? He nudged Buck with his heels and started up the road toward Fort Smith.

  He hadn’t traveled far when he came upon what looked to be a wide creek, and he was happy to see a trading post beside it. It was a small affair, little more than a shack actually, but a roughly lettered sign over the porch proclaimed it to be Brown’s Store. There was a dark-haired man with a bushy gray beard sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, smoking a corncob pipe. Perley turned Buck off the road and pulled up before the porch. The man watched him intently as he dismounted but didn’t bother getting up from his chair.

  “How do, young feller? Ain’t never seen you pass this way before. Dewey Brown’s the name. Welcome to my store. Maybe I’ve got whatever you’re short of.”

  “Howdy,” Perley returned. “Mostly I just need a little information. I could use some help findin’ somebody.”

  Dewey frowned at that, his dark eyebrows lowering in a squint. “You a lawman? I know most of the deputy marshals that ride this territory, but I don’t recall seein’ you. What’s your name?”

  “Perley Gates,” he answered and was interrupted before he could say more.

  “Hell, no, you ain’t,” Dewey replied. “I know Perley Gates, and you sure as hell ain’t him.”

  Perley smiled, happy to hear his response. “I expect that’s my grandpa you’re talkin’ about. I was named after him, and I sure ain’t a lawman.”

  Dewey paused to consider that, not yet sure he could believe him. He got up from his chair and stood at the edge of the tiny porch to study Perley as he dismounted. “Perley’s your grandpa, huh? You don’t favor him none.”

  “Reckon not,” Perley said. “Folks say I don’t favor anybody in my family, but we’re pretty sure I ain’t a bastard. So, my pa named me after my grandpa, and that’s who I’m lookin’ for.”

  He went on to tell Dewey why he was trying to find his grandfather and why it happened that his family didn’t know where to look for him. “Last we heard, he’s got a place around these mountains somewhere.”

  Dewey listened, somewhat fascinated. “I’ll be go to hell,” he remarked. “Perley never said nothin’ about havin’ a family down in Texas. Closest thing to a family I ever heard about was a Choctaw woman that stayed with him for a spell, and I think she run off on him.” He paused to scratch his head while he thought about it. “I was thinkin’ about ol’ Perley the other day, wonderin’ why I ain’t seen him in a while. Come to think of it, I bet it’s been six or eight months since I’ve seen him. He used to show up here every month or so, lookin’ to trade some hides for coffee and flour. Hope he ain’t come to no bad luck—run into some of them damn outlaws that like to hole up in these hills, or somethin’.”

  Perley listened patiently before pressing for the information he came for. “I’d like to find him to see if he’s all right. Maybe you can tell me how to get to his place.”

  “I know about where it is,” Dewey said. “I never been there. I never go anywhere, matter of fact. I ain’t got nobody to watch my store for me. There’s a cave up in them hills that’s a favorite place for outlaws to hole up. It’s right in the middle of this mountain range, and I’ve heard Perley say his camp ain’t too far from it. Matter of fact, he said it was too damn close to suit him; said he’d run into some of them jaspers once in a while.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would tell me how to find that cave,” Perley said. “At least, that would give me someplace to start lookin’ for Grandpa.”

  “Sure,” Dewey replied. “What I said about Perley’s camp, it’s the same thing for that outlaw cave. I know about where it is, but not exactly. Like I said, I don’t get away from the store very often.” He started to give directions but stopped when it became clear the way was more complicated than Perley would likely remember. “Come on inside,” he said. “I’d best draw you a map.”

  Perley followed him inside and waited while Dewey tore off a piece of wrapping paper and found a pencil. Then he proceeded to sketch a rough map, which Perley was grateful for when he saw the many turns and trails he would have to recognize.

  Feeling he should buy something from Dewey since he had made such an effort to help him, Perley bought a sack of coffee beans with some of the money he had brought with him. Even though he didn’t really need them, it was always a good idea to have extra coffee. He thanked Dewey then and set out on the road to Fort Smith, planning to go as far as he could before darkness caught him.

  He had ridden only about two miles when he reached the first turn on his map, a trail that forked off between two hills. The trail took him deeper and deeper into the mountains, winding through slopes of oak, pine, and some hickory, until he came to a fork where Dewey had indicated he should turn off to take a new trail. He continued until darkness began to threaten the slopes, and when he came to a stream, he decided to call it a day and make camp while he could still see.

  As he unloaded his horses and prepared to build a fire a couple of dozen yards from the trail, he thought about the solitude of his surroundings. He wondered if this was what his grandfather had needed most, and while Perley might understand it, he knew for sure he hadn’t inherited that trait from his namesake. Solitude might be good every once in a while, but he couldn’t remember meeting a man who had lived alone for many years without getting funny in the head.

  After a peaceful night, morning found Perley studying his crudely drawn map. He wished it would have been possible for Dewey to note the distances between points, so he might have some idea how long it was going to take to reach the rough circle at the end. The circle represented no place in particular, since Dewey didn’t know exactly where his grandfather’s camp was located. But it would tell him where to start looking, so he saddled up to continue his search.

  He had not ridden more than a few minutes when he heard a rifle shot. He pulled Buck up at once to listen for more shots, but there was just the one. It sounded to be no more than a mile or two away, and in the midst of hills now surrounding him, he could only guess from which direction it had come.

  Most likely it was someone hunting, he figured. Deer, maybe, and he wondered if he should try to find out for certain. If it was a hunter, as he suspected, the man might know where his grandfather’s camp was. If it was a shot fired for some other reason, it might be in his best interest to know that as well, so he decided to find out.

  Judging by the sound and the echo of the shot, he guessed that it may have come from the west of him, so he turned Buck toward a narrow gap between two hills in that direction. Finding a game trail between the hills, he followed it cautiously, lest he suddenly expose himself to whoever had fired the rifle.

  After about fifty yards, the game trail led down a gradual slope toward a wide stream. He pulled up short just before starting down when he suddenly spotted the shooter. Perley had guessed right, for the man was securing a young deer on his horse, preparing to step up into the saddle. He was dressed in animal hides, so it was hard to tell at that distance if he was looking at an Indian or a white man, so Perley decided to watch him for a little while before making contact.

  He held Buck and the sorrel back in the cover of the trees until the hunter started up the trail on the other side of the stream. Then he signaled Buck to go forward. Once across the clearing and the stream that bisected it, the trail climbed gradually for about seventy-five yards before starting back down again. About to follow, Perley reined Buck back when he realized he had lost sight of the man. Afraid he may have been spotted, he backed the bay gelding a few paces to take advantage of some bushes crowding the game trail.

  He was thinking that he might have gotten himself spotted by following too closely, so he considered doing an about-face before the hunter took a shot at him. Then he noticed the top of a narrow ravine beyond the bushes, with a rocky path down the middle of it. That was why he had lost sight of the hunter! The man had evidently ridden down the ravine; the loose grave
l disrupted at the start of the path verified it.

  Determined to be a little more cautious now, Perley dismounted and led his horses down the steep path, alert for anything resembling an ambush. Even as he did this, he kept telling himself he should have hailed the hunter as soon as he came upon him at the stream. If the man discovered him now, he might naturally think he was being stalked. Rubin and John would be ragging my ass if they saw me, Perley couldn’t help thinking. If there wasn’t but one cow pie on the entire ranch, Perley would step in it, John liked to say. He decided to look a little farther, anyway. After all, he reasoned, if I’m close to Grandpa’s camp, this fellow most likely knows where it is, if he hunts around here.

  He continued down the path until reaching the bottom of the ravine, where it opened upon a grassy clearing. Looking across the clearing, he saw a cabin built up against the face of a cliff. In front of it, the man he had been following was in the process of taking his deer carcass off his horse. With his back toward the ravine, he had not as yet seen Perley.

  Close enough now to see the hunter clearly, Perley realized that he was older than he had appeared from a distance. At the moment, he was struggling to pull the deer off, his short legs bowing under the deadweight.

  “Hello the camp!” Perley yelled.

  Thinking to call out a neighborly greeting, Perley instead scared the hell out of the little old man, causing him to jerk backward, pulling the carcass off the horse in the process. Although he landed on the ground with his deer on top of him, the sprightly old man rolled out from under his doe and scrambled up to draw his rifle from the saddle sling.