A Reason to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  Perley shrugged helplessly. “I’ll do what I can, but you know John ain’t the easiest person to control when he gets a notion in his head that he wants to do something. I’ll do my best to make sure he gets back home.”

  Unfortunately, his brother enjoyed a good brawl like the one they’d had in Ogallala with those Kansas cowhands. To John, that was all just good clean fun.

  “I’m depending on you,” she repeated as he went out the door.

  Perley shrugged. “I promise, I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  As usual, the supplies they came to town to buy were loaded at Bill Henderson’s store, and once they were secured, they drove the wagon up the short street to Patton’s Saloon.

  They were greeted by Benny Grimes. “Well, look who’s back,” he called out as the two Gates brothers walked in the door. “I heard you were up in the Black Hills, minin’ for gold, Perley.”

  “Howdy, Benny,” Perley replied. “Yep, I just got back last week, but I wasn’t up there lookin’ for gold. I was lookin’ for my grandpa.”

  “Did you find him?” Benny asked as he poured two shots of whiskey.

  “Found him, but he didn’t come back to Texas with me.” Perley glanced at John, who tossed his whiskey back and banged the empty shot glass on the counter for a second one. To Benny, Perley said, “I reckon I could stand another one, too, but that’ll do it for me.” He leaned over closer to John and whispered, “Martha told me to make sure you didn’t have more than two.”

  “Is that a fact?” John replied. “Martha said I could have just two, huh?” The smug look on his face was one Perley had seen many times before when John was told he couldn’t do something. “Well, maybe I might just have three, or four. That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, Benny? What about that, Perley? Did she say anything about that?”

  With a straight face, Perley answered. “She said I could shoot you.”

  “Well, that ’ud be one less drunk in town,” a voice from a table in the back corner commented purposely loud enough to be heard at the bar.

  Suddenly all the noisy chatter in the saloon went dead quiet.

  John recognized the voice of Zach Taylor, a cowhand for the A-Bar-T—the man who had bloodied John’s nose and blacked his eye. He was the man Martha had complained about to Perley.

  “If he shoots you, that’ll be one less blowhard in town, won’t it?” John came back. He turned back to Benny then, willing to let it go at that.

  “Is he the one Martha said gave you a black eye?” Perley asked.

  John nodded.

  “I’m guessin’ he got worse than that.”

  John nodded again.

  “How much worse?”

  “I knocked all his front teeth out,” John said.

  Perley nodded.

  Sensing a storm about to happen, Benny made a plea for sanity. “Your drinks are on the house, boys, if you’ll leave right now. I still ain’t replaced all the broken tables and chairs from the last fight.”

  “Now, Benny, you know I didn’t start that fight, and I paid you for my part of the damages,” John protested. “He started it. If you’re gonna throw anybody out, it oughta be him and his two friends with him.”

  “Doggone it, John, I ain’t throwin’ you out. I’m just askin’ you to leave, so we don’t have another one of those fights in here.”

  “A reasonable request,” Perley said. “We were just fixin’ to leave, anyway. Come on, John.” He knew his brother well enough to know that he was already heating up. “Thanks for the drinks, Benny.” He took hold of John’s arm and started toward the door.

  John followed, but not willingly.

  Too late, Perley thought when he heard the sound of a chair being pushed back from the table. A moment later, he heard the taunting challenge he’d hoped wouldn’t come.

  “You’d better slink outta here, Gates, or I’m liable to kick your ass. I ain’t forgettin’ you got in that lucky punch last time when I wasn’t lookin’. All you Triple-G bastards are double-dealin’ back shooters.”

  John turned to face his accuser. “I thought you learned something last time I did some dental work on you. Looks like I was wrong. You’re gonna need another lesson.”

  Perley stepped between the two men, now only a few feet apart. “Looks like you nailed all of us double-dealin’ back shooters that ride for the Triple-G. That’s us all right. It’s time we made a truce between the two outfits. No hard feelin’s. Whaddaya say? You’re man enough to forget about losin’ your front teeth, ain’tcha? I know John ain’t mad at you no more for his black eye and bloody nose.” He nodded toward Taylor’s two friends, now standing behind him. “Look at your two friends. They don’t want any more trouble between our outfit and yours.”

  The two cowhands looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

  Taylor was equally astonished, but was halted for only a couple of seconds before replying. “Feller, damned if you ain’t been chewin’ on locoweed or somethin’.”

  He and John started to square off with each other.

  Perley had to think of something quick. One glance at Taylor’s two friends told him he was going to be in it, too. “All right,” he barked and held his hands up in the air, asking for everyone’s attention. “I know John didn’t want this to get out, but I ain’t ready to see another man’s skull crushed over nothin’ more important than a little misunderstandin’ between two hard-workin’ cattlemen.” When he was sure they were listening to him, he continued. “And I don’t wanna see my brother go to prison for using his lethal right hand again.” Giving Zach Taylor the best version of a sincere expression as he could create, he went on. “Not many folks outside our family know about John’s right hand—maybe Benny, a few others—but not many know the Texas Rangers have it on record. They know that John can throw a punch that’s the same force as a mule’s kick, and they’ve warned him that the next time he throws a full punch and kills a man, he’s goin’ to prison.” He paused to see if his yarn had any effect on the three A-Bar-T riders.

  Their blank expressions told him they weren’t sure if they were hearing a fairy tale or not.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’. You fought him last time and he only knocked your front teeth out. He told me about it. He said it was all he could do to hold back that skull-crushin’ power when you bloodied his nose, but he kept on just givin’ you little taps to keep from going to jail.”

  Skeptical expressions showed on all three of the A-Bar-T riders.

  At the same time, Taylor had a hesitation to advance the fight. Finally, he said, “I ain’t never heard such a tall tale in my life. I ain’t never heard of such a thing.”

  “That’s what that Texas Ranger said. What was that feller’s name, John? I don’t remember. All I remember is what a god-awful sight that man’s skull was after that one punch.”

  “I ain’t afraid of him,” Taylor said, talking directly to Perley. “I ain’t afraid of nobody.”

  “I can see that, and I admire you for it, but I can also tell that you’re a smart man, too. Sometimes it pays to forget about little scrapes you’ve had with somebody, especially when we all work together durin’ roundup. I don’t blame you for doubtin’ me, but I had to warn you, just to clear my conscience. But if you don’t believe me, I reckon you can find out for yourself.” Perley shrugged and stepped back. “Try to control that right hand, John.”

  John, as fascinated by the tale as anyone, did a poor job of keeping a broad smile off his face. He doubled up his fists and assumed a half-crouch as if ready to fight. Perley couldn’t help thinking how formidable his brother looked. He was not alone in his thinking.

  One of Taylor’s friends spoke up. “I don’t know, Zach. Maybe he’s right. Us ranchers here in the valley oughta be more about helpin’ each other.”

  It was all the incentive Taylor needed, and he used it to take an honorable retreat. “Well, I was ready to fight, but I reckon you’re right. We oughta be tryin’ to help each other
, ’stead of fightin’.”

  They shook hands all around. The A-Bar-T men returned to their table. Perley and John started for the door, and as they passed by the bar they couldn’t miss the wide grin on Benny’s face.

  He shook his head as if amazed and whispered low, “Damned if you ain’t the biggest bullcrapper I’ve ever seen. You damn-near had me believin’ that stuff.”

  “I promised Martha,” Perley said.

  CHAPTER 12

  “You say that gunslinger that killed my nephew is named Perley Gates?” Clementine Cobb asked when Garland Wilson brought her supper and a second plate for her father, who was locked up with her.

  When the town was left with a wounded old man, who was not guilty of any crime, they didn’t know what to do about it. Dependent upon his daughter and grandson to meet him at the train station, he found himself alone and in need of help. The town council, which was made up in most part by the same men who had caused him to be shot, decided it was the Christian thing to do to at least have the barber dress his wound and find a place for him to recover. That last part was the hardest, for no one wanted to take the old man in. The council decided he could stay in Wilson’s toolhouse with his daughter. That way, they figured, she could take care of him at least until Jim Little Eagle came back from Muskogee.

  The couple of days before Jim returned had turned into a week with still no sign of the Choctaw policeman, however. Finally, Elvis Farrier took it upon himself to telegraph Fort Smith and request a deputy marshal be sent to pick up their prisoner.

  “That was his name, all right,” Wilson answered her question. “I don’t think you could really call him a gunslinger. He just pitched in and gave us some help when we needed some.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Clementine said. “I know a gunslinger when I see one, and that feller was fast. Damn fast to beat Slick Dorsey. Slick was the fastest I’d ever seen until we ran into that Perley Gates. He was on his way to Texas is what I heard you say the other day.” She had made it a point to get as friendly as possible with Garland Wilson, and he had become accustomed to making conversation with her whenever he brought food to her and her father.

  Since she had no intention of being carted off to Fort Smith by a deputy marshal, she wanted to know all she could about Perley Gates. She didn’t know how much time she had before a deputy showed up. She’d figured Wilson would get careless sometime, but much to her frustration, he had not slipped up so far. She glanced over at her father, who seemed to be getting worse instead of improving. Even if she got a chance to escape, how could she take him with her? She resigned herself to the fact that she might have to leave him, consoling herself with the idea that the people in Atoka would have to let him go eventually.

  “Yep,” Wilson answered. “He’s a Texas man. I think his family has a ranch just below the Red River somewhere. He ain’t no ordinary gunslinger—the kind you’re talkin’ about. He was takin’ care of that little boy after your gang killed his parents.”

  “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with that business,” Clementine said contritely.

  “Oh, no,” Wilson cooed sarcastically. “I wouldn’t think that of a nice refined lady like yourself.” He pulled his revolver from his holster and unlocked the door. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to step back against the wall, I’ll set this bucket of water inside.”

  “I thought you’d know by now you don’t have to hold a gun on me to get me to do what you want,” she complained. “It makes me feel like a common criminal.”

  He couldn’t suppress a chuckle for her remark. “Clementine, you are a common criminal. What else would you call somebody who murders a man and a woman, and leaves their little boy an orphan?” He chuckled again. “I have to say, though, it’s been entertainin’ to have you as a guest.”

  “I’m right glad to hear that, Garland, damned if I ain’t.”

  He waited until she backed all the way against the rear wall before setting the bucket in. Had he been looking at her instead of where he was going to set the bucket down, he might have noticed her eyes opened wide with surprise. It was his fate to never know who struck him down, at least in this life, as his head was caved in with one mighty blow of his blacksmith’s hammer. He collapsed, facedown, never to see the light of day again.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Clementine demanded. “I’ve been locked up in this damn chicken coop for a week.”

  “I didn’t know where you was,” Junior Grissom replied. “And I had to lay low in the daytime, or they mighta seen me.” He struck a foolish grin. “You ain’t mad at me, are you?”

  “Nah, I reckon not, but I figured you’d come after me before now.” She had trusted that the simple giant would risk everything to rescue her. But she had begun to fear his wound was more severe than they’d figured, and that was the reason he hadn’t come.

  There was also concern about the money in the saddlebags belonging to her and Brice. The money from the bank robbery in Wichita, Kansas, was a sum large enough to require splitting it up to carry. Surely enough for most men in her business to take it for themselves and head for parts unknown.

  It’s a good thing Junior doesn’t have enough sense to run off with it, she thought. Like a faithful old hound, he came back to find his master. “Have you got the horses?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’re tied behind the store in them trees by the crick. I got your horse and my horse, and I took Brice’s horse, too.”

  She started to ask why he didn’t take all their horses, but decided to compliment him, since he took the horses carrying the money. “You done good,” she said as she bent over Wilson’s body to make sure he was dead. There was little doubt. She pulled the gun belt off his body and strapped it around her waist, then went through his pockets for anything of value. Finding very little, she picked up the pistol he had dropped. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  “What about him?” Junior asked, pointing to her father, sitting propped up against the wall, trying to eat a biscuit.

  He had remained silent to that point, watching the assault upon Garland Wilson as it unfolded, unsure of his fate now that his daughter was free.

  Clementine turned to face her father. “What about it, Papa? Can you ride?”

  “I ain’t sure,” Clive Cobb rasped painfully as he tried to swallow, then choked up part of the biscuit. “But I’m damn-sure willin’ to try.”

  “You don’t look too good,” Clementine said, shaking her head, concerned, “and we’ve got to do some hard ridin’. We’ve gotta be outta Injun Territory before a deputy from Fort Smith shows up here. We’ve gotta head for Texas and across the Red where the deputy marshals ain’t got no authority. When we get to Texas, I need to get word to Coleman that Brice has been killed.” Brice was her brother Coleman’s eldest son, and her brother was not likely to take that news without demanding revenge. It was her intention to exact that revenge for him, if she could catch up with this Perley Gates.

  “Well, I ain’t plannin’ to stay here,” her father complained.

  “Let’s see if we can get you on your feet,” Clementine said. “Gimme a hand here, Junior.”

  They took Cobb by his shoulders and lifted him to stand, causing him to grunt with the pain. Soon blood started from the wound in his side. As soon as they released him, he slid back down the wall, unable to stand on his own.

  The old man groaned. “I ain’t sure I can make it yet.”

  Anxious to get away from there before someone stumbled upon the escape, Clementine had to make a decision. “I reckon you ain’t got much choice. I don’t know what they would do with you after I’m gone. We can set you on a horse, but you’ll have to be able to hang on. We can’t stay here till you get better, and that’s a fact.” She thought about it a moment more before suggesting an alternative. “On second thought, if we was to leave you right here, they’d have to take care of you till you get well. Then they’d have to let you go.”

  The distress that sugge
stion caused was obvious in the old man’s face. “Hell, the only reason I’m here is because you said you and Brice would take care of me. If you leave me here, even when I get well, I ain’t got no place to go.”

  “Then I reckon you’ll have to ride,” Clementine said. “Pick him up, Junior, and let’s get the hell outta here.” The oversized simpleton bent down, easily picked up the wounded man, and led the way to the creek bank where the horses were tied.

  “Put him on Brice’s horse,” she instructed, and watched while her father strained to throw his leg over the saddle.

  By the time his body was seated, his trouser leg was saturated with fresh blood from the wound in his side.

  “All right. Turn him loose,” Clementine said and stepped back to watch him.

  As soon as Junior released his arm, the old man remained upright for only a moment before keeling over to the side. He would have fallen to the ground had Junior not been there to catch him.

  “He can’t make it,” she decided. “Lay him down over there against that tree. We’ll have to think of some other way, Papa,” she said to him. “Don’t you worry.” She went to the horses then to check her saddlebags to make sure all the bank money was just as it was the last time she’d checked it. It would be taken back to The Hole to be divided up as usual.

  In a few minutes, Junior joined her. “I set him as easy as I could.”

  “I ’preciate it, Junior. It looks like he ain’t gonna make it. That bullet musta tore his insides up, and I don’t wanna leave him like this.” She released a long sigh. “He’s my papa. I don’t want him sufferin’, but we can’t stay here. We’ve got to get the hell away from here before somebody comes lookin’ for ol’ Garland.”

  “I understand,” Junior said. “I’ll put him outta his misery.” He drew the .44 handgun from his holster.

  Clementine quickly stopped him. “Not with that, you damn fool. Everybody will hear that. Use your knife and do it fast, so he won’t have time to know what’s happenin’.”