A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  “I know that.”

  Pure’s expression flushed curiosity. “You do?’

  “Yeah.”

  “How could you know?”

  “I know you.”

  Pure chomped down on the gum. “Yeah. I suppose that’s right,” he allowed.

  “Never been my way to judge.”

  “Not a bad way to be,” Pure said.

  “I suppose.”

  Pure turned. “How long have you known?” he said.

  “Since the dust-up in The Flat.”

  Pure nodded. “Because of my shooting of Ben?”

  July interrupted quickly. “Nothing more needs saying.”

  Pure lowered his chin. “Suppose not,” he said.

  A moment passed.

  Then another.

  Suddenly, July rose up in his saddle. His eyes sparkled. “Green,” he said.

  Pure frowned. “What’s that?”

  “The kid, I believe his last name was Green.”

  Pure took a deep breath. “Sounds about right,” he said.

  In the distance, the distinctive clop of unshod hooves on grass and sand sounded.

  Pure turned an ear toward the sound. He listened intently for ten seconds and then pulled the stem-winder from his pocket. “Seven minutes past,” he said.

  July nodded. “What’s the hour?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  July nodded again. “So as to these Gunns, what’s the plan?”

  Pure closed the Elgin and slipped the watch back in his pocket. He fixed his gaze square on July and then slid the Winchester from its sheath. “Try not to get killed, I suppose.”

  Journal Entry - At six minutes past three o’clock on the afternoon of January fifth in the year 1879, Pure and I sat horseback in the middle of a scrub trail one mile outside of Dogtown. It’s strange how a man can remember in detail a day that happened almost fifty years prior. But that day, that day is as keen in my mind as a fine whetted blade.

  We waited on the far side of a sharp bend, killing time, plotting… and waiting for the arrival of E.B. and Nate Gunn. Sixty seconds later, at seven minutes past three, E.B. and Nate Gunn rode headlong into us and what followed was certainly not the outcome expected by any of the parties involved.

  And on that day, in that time of no organized law in McMullen County, Pure and I became the law…became our own law. I guess maybe we had been for some time. But we weren’t alone, for most men in those days, during those times, became their own law.

  And sometimes that law was, if not just, at least good…and at other times it was just sure enough bad. I reckon it’s an easy enough thing to do…look back…and make a judgment fifty years forward.

  But five decades later with the difficulty far removed, an outsider can expend little effort and absolutely no blood in pronouncing that we should have behaved better on that fateful day. But for all the hell that was to occur at eight minutes past three o’clock on January fifth…I can tell you with great certainty that we comported ourselves as men must in lawless times when dealing with that defiant outlawry.

  Forty-Seven

  January 1879 - One Mile Outside of Dogtown, McMullen County, Texas

  E.B. Gunn stared straight down the barrel of Pure’s Winchester. “It don’t have to be this way, Reston,” he said.

  “You ain’t the law,” Nate hissed.

  “That’s true enough,” said Pure.

  “But close enough,” July remarked. The bore of his Winchester was level with Nate’s heart. “Now hold on to those reins good and tight with both hands, boys.”

  E.B. shot a quick glance at his holstered Colt and then looked back at Pure. “You aim to shoot us down in the middle of this trail? Like dogs?”

  “That seems to be the best we could come up with on short notice,” Pure said.

  E.B. grimaced. “We’ve both suffered dead through this thing.”

  “Some more than others,” Pure said.

  “Weren’t Gunns who started this?”

  “Then it won’t be Gunns who end it,” Pure said.

  “Be reasonable, Reston. You know one cartridge won’t stop me from yanking my pistol and getting off a shot or two at you.”

  “Didn’t plan on stopping at one cartridge, E.B.”

  “Why don’t we split the gold coin straight down the middle?”

  Nate shot a hard look at E.B. and mouthed what?

  Pure’s expression glazed dark. “Split my own gold coin with me?”

  “Better’n men dying here today.”

  “Some might disagree.”

  July kept a hard gaze on Nate.

  “So whataya want, Reston? All of the coin?”

  “Just what’s mine.”

  “What about what you took from me?”

  “I guess we can discuss that after.”

  “After? After what?” E.B. asked frantic.

  “After I get back what’s mine and justice.”

  “And what of our justice?”

  Pure rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum to his front teeth. He bit down hard on the chicle and said, “That’s something you might want to fight for…same as us.”

  E.B. frowned. “You’re a hard-barked son-of-a-dog, Reston,” he said.

  Nate fidgeted in the saddle. “Justice,” he spat. Bright red flushed across his throat. “You’re the one who killed Street!” he screamed out. “It was you that night, Pure Reston. We all saw your piebald, Mr. high-and-mighty!”

  Pure glowered at Nate. “La muerte de vaca, Nate?”

  Nate’s fidgeting stopped. His face flushed with the truth.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Pure said. His voice was rich and thick. “It was you who started all of this.”

  Nate swallowed hard. “Like E.B. said before, you’re loco, Reston.”

  “You’re the one who wrapped them boys in Reston hides!”

  “You can’t prove any of that, Reston!”

  Pure raised his brow. “Buckshot gave you the spurs, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He did,” Pure said. He was suddenly aware of exactly what happened in Cañón Cerrado. “What you couldn’t know, Nate was that Buckshot knew whoever we found with his spurs would be his killer.”

  “I didn’t have Wallace’s spurs, Reston? Looks like you got it all wrong again.”

  A dark grin tugged at Pure’s lips. “But old, E.B. took those spurs from you, didn’t he, Nate?”

  “I ain’t afraid of you, Reston,” Nate said, with little conviction.

  “I know it was you, Nate.”

  “I told you before, you got it all wrong,” Nate protested.

  “You want to know how I know? Because Levi Edwards told me so this morning. Levi told me that your pa was soused that whole week…in Dogtown.”

  Nate grinned and dropped hold of his reins. “I’ll see you in hell, Reston,” he swore. His hand flashed for his Colt.

  Pure swiveled the Winchester away from E.B. and fired once into Nate’s stomach.

  A low, guttural moan oozed from Nate’s mouth. He grabbed his belly with his left hand and then slumped forward across his horse’s neck. Although his face was buried in the horse’s mane, he still tried to yank the pistol, but the gun never left the holster.

  A shocked E.B. turned toward the gun fire and screamed, “Damn you, Reston!” His face turned an enraged purple. In the blink of an eye, he dropped off the left side of his horse, and almost simultaneously, shots blazed from his pistol. On the ground, he tugged at the reins in an attempt to turn the horse’s head into him and create a shield between himself and his assassins.

  Pure wheeled and sighted the Winchester on E.B., “Damned, Gunns!” he cursed. Suddenly, a dull pressure drilled through his right shoulder. The shock of burning fire hit immediately and spread throughout his chest.

  E.B. shouted, “How’s that, Reston?” His first shot had caught Pure in the shoulder socket. E.B. kept up a relentless barrage of gun fire.
His second bullet passed through Pure’s right lung. The third whizzed overhead. “You’re gonna die right here.”

  July swung his Winchester away from Nate and onto E.B.’s horse. He pushed his boots against his stirrups and rose in the saddle looking for a clear shot at E.B. over the horse’s neck. Blocked, he cursed the elder Gunn, moved his aim down, and shot E.B.’s horse twice through the ribs.

  The horse screamed and fell forward on its front legs, away from E.B.

  E.B. pulled against the reins, but the horse’s weight yanked him forward into the dying beast.

  July’s horse danced on its back legs. He took a wobbly shot at E.B., hitting him in the left thigh. “Be still, damn you!” he yelled at his horse and then levered another round.

  E.B. fumbled to his feet and fired a quick charge into the -R foreman’s exposed left side.

  July recoiled from the bullet, inhaled, and then squeezed the Winchester’s trigger. His shot veered right of E.B.

  Pure’s horse screamed and reared on its back legs. His right arm nearly useless, Pure slid from the saddle and crumpled to the ground. Unable to gain his feet, he placed the butt of his rifle into the ground and pushed himself to his knees. An agonized expression colored his face. Struggling against the pain, he let out an excruciating scream and fought against blacking out.

  E.B. screeched at July. Spit flew from his mouth. He raised the Colt and extended his arm. “Gotcha,” he laughed, crazed.

  Pure cursed loudly and swung the Winchester from the ground. With deliberate indifference to his afflicted state, he pushed the rifle into his broken shoulder. The pain twisted his face. He cussed louder. And without conscious aim, he pulled the trigger. The explosive kick forced a louder string of curses to fly from his mouth. The crack of bone against bone resonated in his ears.

  E.B. collapsed forward, mouth open, face down, and instantly dead. His Colt was forever encased between his palm and fingers.

  Pure immediately looked in July’s direction. “You ok?” he groaned.

  July rolled off his horse and landed on his back. His expression locked in a painful grimace. He placed the palm of his right hand across the gun wound. “I’ve been better. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ahead, Nate, still prone over his saddle horn, groaned. He reached forward and gathered up his rein and then pulled the horse’s head around so he could see Pure. “This ain’t finished, Reston,” he soughed. “I’ll be back, ya hear?”

  Pure reached across his body with his left hand. He tried to pull his Colt, but the movement paralyzed him in pain.

  Nate tried to rake a spur across his horse’s ribs, but he couldn’t raise the heel of his boot. The horse, its head hung low, walked forward past Pure and continued west, headed for home.

  Pure gasped for breath. His eyes followed Nate as the horse shuffled by.

  “I’ll never stop, Reston,” Nate whispered. “Never.”

  Pure tried to turn and keep a line of sight on the oldest Gunn but instead collapsed on his side. A mixture of dried grass and dirt flew into his eyes. The matter blinded him. He blinked rapidly and tried to clear his vision, but Nate became lost in a murky haze.

  “I’m coming back to kill you and anyone who rides with you.” Nate moaned. He coughed up a mouthful of blood with his tortured promise. “If you marry, I’ll come back and kill your wife.”

  Pure panted for air. He ignored Nate and looked across the trail at July. “Can you get up?” he said.

  Nate continued his threats in a raspy, rattling voice. “If you have kids, I’ll come back and kill every last one of them.”

  Pure lay back. “July, can you get up?” he asked again.

  July strained to lift his head. He glanced down at the red liquid oozing out of his body and then fell back. His wide-opened eyes stared into the bright afternoon sky. “Not right now,” he said. “I think I might need to rest here for a bit.”

  Pure’s face contorted in acute pain. He closed his eyes and gasped in rapid puffs. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Me too.”

  Journal Entry - We lay there until sunset. That evening, a couple of cowpunchers headed home from an afternoon of high spirits in Dogtown stumbled across us. Those boys hauled us into town, and Doc Morton had a go at us. We both survived, but how is still a mystery to most folks in the county. Pure’s right shoulder was broken at the shoulder joint and his right lung had collapsed. Me? I was shot right in the top half of my right kidney. I bled a fair amount, but as you can plainly see, I can still get around pretty good. It took six months for me to get to where I could ride a horse again, but Pure’s recovery took longer…almost two years, and even then he never had the use of his right arm again.

  E.B., of course, was quite dead. The day after the shoot-out, Levi Edwards recovered Pure’s cattle money rolled up in E.B.’s hot roll and Buckshot’s spurs. As Pure had figured, there was just under fourteen thousand in coin. After settling his bill with Levi, Pure had just enough coin left over to pay the caudillo in full. Pure sent word by messenger to the caudillo before our two-week deadline had passed. In his message, Pure explained why we couldn’t show in person and invited the Mexican leader to come visit us at the -R headquarters.

  And Nate…well…we were just left to wonder about Nate for a long time after that day…

  Part Four

  Ending

  (n). the last part; finish; death.

  Forty-Eight

  April 1879 - The -R Headquarters, McMullen County, Texas

  The caudillo sat on a cowhide chair in the large great room of the Reston bunk house. The Mexican leader stared into the rock fireplace on the north wall of the building and then over at Pure. A stream of sweat glistened from his neck.

  “Can’t seem to get the chill out of my bones since the shoot-out,” Pure said. A wool blanket covered his extremities.

  The caudillo nodded and then lifted the end of a wide piece of cloth hanging from his neck and swiped at the sweat. “I’m sure it will go away in time,” he said and then allowed his gaze to drift down at his lap. A leather wallet hung over his right knee.

  July looked at the caudillo and grinned. “I told you we’d get you your gold.”

  “So you did, amigo,” the caudillo said. “And me, I never doubted that you would.”

  Pure cleared his throat and looked over at the caudillo.

  The caudillo turned back to Pure and smiled.

  “There’s a favor we need,” Pure said and then lifted his chin toward July.

  “For you amigos, I would be happy to help.”

  July lifted a small leather pouch from his chair. He tossed the bag toward the caudillo.

  The Mexican leader caught the pouch in mid-air and raised his brow.

  “More gold,” July said.

  The caudillo glanced over at Pure.

  “Five hundred in coin.”

  “And what is it that you need?”

  “We want you to find Nate Gunn,” said Pure.

  “Ahhh,” the caudillo nodded. “The one who rode away.”

  Pure nodded and glanced at his right arm. The extremity hung limp and useless from his shoulder. “Busted up as we are—,”

  The caudillo motioned at Pure with a sweep of his hand. He untied the string on the wallet and opened the satchel. “I understand,” he said and stuffed the leather bag inside. “And if I find him?”

  July glanced over at Pure.

  Pure twisted his back against his chair. After settling in a comfortable position, he looked at July and then the caudillo. “Do what you figure to be the right thing,” he said.

  “And if I don’t find him?”

  Pure stared up at the ceiling.

  The caudillo waited patiently.

  After a long pause, Pure lowered his head and said, “What was it a fella once told me in Mexico?”

  The caudillo rocked back and forth in his chair. A wide gin split his lips.

  Pure set his gaze on the Mexican leader. “Oh yeah, that fella told me, I think
you can do this,” he said.

  “Ok, amigo, I will try my best.”

  July rocked forward in his chair. “But, just in case you don’t find Nate.”

  The caudillo swung his gaze over to July.

  “Then make sure you let us know.”

  “I understand,” the caudillo said and rose from the chair.

  “Good fortune,” Pure said.

  The caudillo shrugged and lifted the wallet to his shoulder. “Very good fortune,” he said. “I will try my best to find this man, this I promise.”

  “Not much more any man could do,” Pure said.

  “Or promise,” July said.

  The caudillo bowed and then looked once more at July. He paused for several seconds.

  “What’s on your mind,” July said.

  The caudillo held his thumb and forefinger almost together. “I have a small curiosity,” he said, puzzled.

  Pure looked at July.

  July swung his gaze over to Pure, shrugged, and then looked at the caudillo. “Please,” he said.

  “You took two horses that day in Bandit Town.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you needed the two because if you were to going to catch your friend, you were going to ride day and night.”

  “I remember.”

  “That in doing so you would probably ride one of the horses to its death.”

  July nodded.

  “My curiosity is this, did you do this thing?”

  July allowed a knowing smile to settle across his mouth. “Yes, I did,” he said.

  The caudillo nodded and moved for the door. “Now that, amigo is a story worth telling,” he said.

  Journal Entry - Neither of us ever saw the caudillo again; although once a year until 1881, a messenger would arrive on the -R with a message from the Mexican leader. And every message was always the same…as far as he could promise us, Nate Gunn was not in Mexico. In 1881, we heard rumors that the caudillo had been hanged by his militia. I suppose it was true.

  And Nate Gunn? Well he was never heard from again. Not by us anyhow. Some said he had ridden north and was hanged in Nebraska in 1883 for stealing cattle. Still others told stories of his living in Mexico and running a great cattle ranch down there. Who can really say if he lived through Pure’s bullet that day in 1879? But dead or alive, he continued to plague the -R.