by Lou Bradshaw
I put my left hand on my back like I had the rheumatics and grimaced as I came all the way up. And there standing not ten feet away was that nasty weasel, Ferd Lacy. He had his gun in his hand and it was cocked, but it was hanging at his side.
“You know who I am, Rawhide?”
“Yeah, you’re the back shooter who couldn’t kill a man at twenty yards with a handgun.”
“I must say, I was a bit surprised to see you here. And I’m a lot closer now.”
“That was a pretty cheap stunt you played on Glazer… strandin’ him out there in the hills… He got killed by a bear, not that you would give a damn.”
He looked around to see if anyone had heard me. There were a couple of men just coming out of the saloon, they hadn’t heard, but they stopped to watch a killing. Folks are funny that way.
“You plannin’ to shoot me, or are you gonna take me in there and buy me a beer?”
“No… I’m gonna shoot you; I’m just waiting for you to touch your gun… I want everything fair and square.” And then he let out a nasty little chuckle.
Being left handed, I wear my holster on the right side for a cross draw, but a number of men wear their guns butt forward like Hickok did… it seemed to work for him better than some of those who came later. So I just curled my right hand around like I was going to grab that gun butt. He watched and waited. Then he touched his tongue to his lower lip and waited. I turned slightly to my right and he tensed.
I knew there was no way on earth I could get that Colt out of my holster fast enough to beat him, so I did the only thing I could do. And that was nothing. He was getting fidgety and starting to sweat.
“You gonna pull that thing or not…” I seemed to hear him say, as my left hand came from behind me, and I underhand tossed my razor sharp Bowie in his direction. My aim was off a little, but I hadn’t done an underhand throw in a coon’s age.
I heard his pistol click about the same time the knife hit him in the large neck muscle… I’d been aiming at the base of his throat, but like I said, I’m a little out of practice. He stood there for no more than a second before his knees folded and he fell on his face in the dirt jamming the knife in farther.
There wasn’t anything to do for him except pull the knife out. So I did. I must have cut through that big vein because he lost a lot of blood in a short amount of time. Looking up at the two men standing on the boardwalk, I heard one of them say, “It was a fair fight, Mister.”
Swinging into the saddle, I told those men, “That’s Ferd Lacy. He’s a killer and a hired gun. You’d a thought he’d be smart enough to check his cartridges now and then. I’m sure there’s some wanted posters with his name and face on ‘em… you two can split the reward.”
“When the marshal or the sheriff or the constables come, you tell ‘em that if they want to talk to me, they’ll have to look me up…. ‘cause I’m driftin’.”
Turning to Dog I said, “Come on boy. Let’s go look at some Angels.”
The End
About the Author
It might be said that Lou Bradshaw is a late bloomer, but in reality, he has been a story teller his entire life. Lou was making things up from the time he was old enough to put two words together and form a simple sentence. To tell someone of a happening was not just a statement of fact. It became an adventure in embellishment and hyperbole. He just didn’t start writing things down until he was 64 years old.
According to him, all he ever wanted to be was cowboy, but in the small town where he lived, there weren’t any cowboy jobs to be had. And when he married the lovely Avon Thomas, she really didn’t want to live in a bunkhouse. So he turned to his second career choice, that being a commercial illustrator. After years in the graphic arts industry, he worked himself into management positions. Deadlines, employee relations, budgets, and many other problems meant many sleepless nights. He found that creating stories in his head helped him fall asleep. Soon, those stories became so complex and expansive; he had to write them down…. The rest is history.
When asked why he hadn’t started sooner he replied, “Nobody ever told me I could write… Then I realized that nobody ever told me… I couldn’t.”
Remember: “Life is much too important to be taken seriously.”
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