Shotgun Charlie

by Ralph Compton

That felt good, thought Haskell as he regarded the still-stunned crowed. They began surging forward toward him. He waved the smoking shotgun at them, clawed free a revolver, and cranked off a shot over their heads, then more into the mass of them. They shrieked and howled and someone dropped and oh, wasn’t it as it should be? He could not help bellowing a laugh at the morning sky.

  Then as he began whipping the horse into a renewed frenzy, he glanced back at Pap and saw Big Charlie Chilton running toward the old man. From a dozen yards away, the big bumbling boy shouted and waved his massive arms, rage and terror and fear all writ large on his equally large face.

  Oh, thought Grady Haskell, this day just keeps getting better!

  . . .

  Mex felt an arm clawing at him, looked down into the eyes of a man angrier than any man he’d seen in a long time. Then another, and two women, all angry, so angry . . . They slapped and grabbed at his legs, dragging at him, at his horse as the big beast danced, wild-eyed and foaming, neighing and thrashing. Mex felt himself being pulled from his saddle, losing the battle, the sacks of cash feeling as though they weighed more than anything he’d ever carried.

  Mex held tight to the saddle horn with his left hand, his knuckles popping and tightening on the worn leather knob. Almost without thought his right hand snatched at his Colt. He pulled it from the holster and swung it blindly, madly, downward at the attackers, not intending to do anything but get them away from him. He was following an animal urge to free himself from them, not even aware of the fact that his thumb had begun cranking back on the hammer, all the way, to the deadly position.

  Another jostle, another tug, and his finger jerked against the trigger. The sound hushed the crowd for the briefest of moments. In that slice of time, as Mex jammed his spurs hard into his horse’s gut, a man who seconds before had been dragging hard on his leg, staggered backward and dropped against two of his fellow townsmen, a smoking ragged hole, puckered red and black, carved into his white-and-blue-striped shirt.

  As Mex raked his horse hard with his spurs, he glanced back, his heart filling his throat, and saw the man he’d shot staring at him, eyes beginning to glass over, blood gouting from his slack mouth.

  And then other hands grabbed at him, caught him unaware, and before he had time to react, he slipped free from his saddle. The last thing he saw was a rain of fists and clawing hands and howling, rage-filled faces, eyes wide and wild, all driving down at him. The pain they delivered to him was intense and quick, and then blackness overtook him.

  Chapter 19

  For a few hours after leaving the camp, Charlie had trudged along in the dark, half paying attention to the trail, though he did step off a time or two. As he walked he pondered on the events of the preceding few hours. How on earth was he supposed to figure out what it was Pap had wanted? Was he truly angry with Charlie? To his mind, Charlie hadn’t done anything to offend the old man.

  But in keeping with Pap’s wishes, he walked on. But with each step that led him slowly from the only fellow who’d ever really felt like a friend, a father sort of figure to him, Charlie’s thinking turned to the old man’s reasoning, and it occurred to him that maybe Pap was doing nothing more than protecting him. It became clear that Pap didn’t want Charlie to get mixed up in Grady’s big heist. Heck, Charlie didn’t want any of the boys to be part of it. But the boys were grown men, as Pap had told him. And if they chose to throw in with a no-account like Grady Haskell, then so be it.

  But the part Charlie couldn’t fathom was the way Ace, Mex, Simp, and Dutchy so easily hitched up with Haskell, ignoring all that Pap had done for them. He reckoned wading through life with Pap leading them wasn’t the same as making a whole wad all at once.

  He could see the appeal, he guessed, but Charlie didn’t hold with thievery. He knew what effort went into earning a dollar, and all those dollars that they were going to steal had to be earned by someone. Now that he thought on it, he was a little surprised that Pap would go along with such notions at all.

  Something scuffed gravel off to his right, under a scarp of rock, though it was difficult to tell exactly what it was, given the clouded moon. Charlie paused, listened, his head cocked toward the sound, one hand on the hilt of his knife. There it was again, low down toward the ground, but quick and slight. Charlie relaxed. Likely it was a snake or some other night critter hunting.

  For a few moments he had dim thoughts that it might be Grady tracking him, especially now that he was well away from the camp. Haskell was the sort to sneak up on a man and lay him low, shoot him in the back, stab him, or worse, then leave him there for the varmints to fight over. Charlie shuddered at the gruesome thought he might end up as wolf bait or a grizzly’s meal. At that, his stomach growled, a low, long mournful sound. It reminded Charlie he’d only picked at his own supper, and now he was paying for that. He swigged at the water in his water bottle, resisted the urge to drain it, unfamiliar as he was to the countryside and what opportunities for drinking water it might offer.

  The going was slow, as the moon refused to do much more than peek for seconds at a time from behind its dark cloudy scrim.

  The more he thought about Grady Haskell, the more Charlie grew agitated with himself. There was no way on earth Haskell could be talked out of his plans to rob the bank, and now that Charlie was out from under Pap’s stony gaze, a creeping guilt worked its way up Charlie’s spine, its cold claws digging in and refusing to leave him be.

  Should he have done more to stop the crazy plan? Maybe so. Could he have done anything, other than probably get himself shot? Maybe, maybe not.

  Charlie dithered like that for long minutes, and only when he had begun to doubt his initial reason for leaving the camp did he realize he had stopped in the trail. When it did occur to him, he scratched his lengthening beard stubble on his big, wide jaw, sighed inwardly once more, and turned around.

  He calculated that he might make it back to the campsite by daybreak, and he knew the boys would have ridden to Bakersfield by then. They’d only been camped a few miles out. His advantage was that he would be traveling at a fast walk when they were still sleeping. Beyond that he had no real idea how fast he’d get there, though he doubted he’d catch up to them before they made it to town. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too far behind. He might make it in time . . . to do something. What, he had no notion yet.

  Something had compelled him to turn, that clawing in his gut that wasn’t hunger. It was what he’d heard someone call a little voice. Or maybe it should have been in his head. He didn’t much know or care, but he did know that when he’d followed it in the past, he’d been glad he had, for the most part. But this time? Would he even make it to the town in time?

  “Can’t hurt to try, Charlie,” he said aloud, hitching up his trousers, readjusting the gear bag he’d slung over his shoulder, and picking up and putting down those big legs at double speed.

  . . .

  The return trip back toward the campsite took Charlie less time than he thought, though he’d not guessed correctly the number of hours until daylight. He blamed the low clouds and hiding moon. By the time the spot where he and Grady had tussled came into view up ahead, Charlie realized he could see most everything clearly enough to make out what might be the distinctive shapes of men and horses. But of those he found none.

  He walked on and soon the campsite itself revealed itself from out of the trees. Charlie paused on the outer edge looking in. No sign of the horses, no bedrolls, no nothing.

  “Hello the camp,” he called softly, his eyes skittering about the little clearing and into the trees beyond. No response. He repeated himself, a pinch louder this time, but heard nothing. The camp was bare, the only life a thin curl of smoke rising from the otherwise cold fire. Charlie kneeled, palmed the inside face of a few of the rocks that made up the campfire ring. They still offered slight warmth. He stood and glanced around the quiet site again. The men hadn’t been gone long.
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  Pap must not have been the last out of the site, he reasoned. The old man was particular about making sure a cook fire was good and out before moving on.

  “It’s dry out here in the West, Charlie,” Pap had told him months before. “Drier’n a cork. Always douse your fire, then douse it some more. At least till she’s good and cold. And if you don’t have water, make water, right on it. Won’t harm nothing.”

  And with that, the old man had unbuttoned his fly and urinated on what Charlie had assumed were dead cold ashes and coals. But it steamed and Pap had nodded and winked. “You see? Take care of the natural world, Charlie, and she’ll take care of you.”

  Recalling that little lesson brought a smile to Charlie’s face. And as he had precious little water in his canteen to spare, he glanced around, still saw no one, and mimicked Pap’s method. The last of the warm coals were soon doused.

  He continued on toward town, hoping Haskell’s plan of taking their time once they got to town hadn’t changed. Grady had thought that if they didn’t appear hurried they might not attract as much attention. Charlie wasn’t sure what the thief had based that logic on. But Charlie had silently disagreed. It seemed to him that the more time they spent there, the more people would remember them. But he hadn’t offered his thoughts on the subject because he hadn’t wanted to help Haskell in any way.

  Charlie stopped now and again to check hoofprints, saw several piles of road apples from the horses, and, as with the campfire, held his hand over them to see if they might offer telltale warmth. They did. Good, that meant the boys weren’t that far ahead.

  He came up on the outer edge of town sooner than he expected. He’d seen a handful of squat shapes up ahead to his left, and as he drew closer he realized they were shacks. They became more frequent, some taller, more impressive, until the road was flanked with houses, businesses, a few men who gave him looks.

  The road forked once, and a man in a black suit and bowler hat rushed by him. He wanted to ask which way to the bank, but held his tongue. No mention of a bank by a stranger in town could be a good thing.

  He knew he was getting closer to the center of town, the location of the bank, at least according to Haskell, because he saw more people out and about, not surprising given that it was a workday and not the Sabbath. But he noticed something else too about these people. They were in a hurry. Just to get to work? Maybe so, but many of them looked alarmed, flustered. And they all seemed to be headed toward the same spot—right where he was headed.

  “Hey, mister,” he said. “What’s happening here?”

  The man to whom Charlie spoke looked him quickly up and down. “Some commotion down at the bank. I dunno.” He stopped, looked Charlie up and down. “Strangers, they say. Like yourself.”

  But Charlie was already pushing past him. The closer he drew to what he guessed would be a growing throng before him, the louder the shouts grew. Before he turned a corner, his boots hammering hard on the wooden boardwalk fronting a line of shops, a mix of false-front buildings and low-line adobe structures with low-hung ramadas, he heard a shot, followed by screams and frenzied shouts.

  He tossed his gear to the boardwalk, where it hit, then tumbled off the edge. But Charlie didn’t care; he was beelining for the growing crowds. There were two, one to his right, one left. Bristling from the throng at the right, a horse rose above the people, lunging and spinning, neighing and thrashing. Charlie had appeared in time to see what looked a whole lot like Mex being dragged from his mount, mismatched eyes beyond wide, black hair splayed outward, a silent scream formed on his big mustache-topped mouth.

  Charlie was set to bolt into the fray to help his friend, but the throng to his left drew his attention, and what he saw there made him stop, big head shaking. No, no, no, this can’t be.

  He couldn’t imagine that what he was seeing what actually happening. Right there before him, time seemed to slow almost to a stop, all the bristling sounds and sharp smells of horse, gunpowder, the shrieks and angry shouts of the other crowd all dissipated, pinched out. Charlie felt as though he couldn’t take another step, as if he were waist-deep in river muck, as if boulders were tied to his boots.

  There before him, as if he’d bloomed into view, Grady Haskell sat his horse larger-than-life, a gnash-toothed grin spread across his pocked face, a revolver in one hand. In the other he’d drawn that single-shell shotgun of his, the snout of the barrel smoking. The recipient of the shot was a crumpled mess on the street not but a few feet from the stamping hooves of Haskell’s horse. The crowd surged forward, but Haskell swung around on them, still smiling, bulging money sacks flopping across the saddle horn before him. He cranked back on the revolver’s hammer and sent a shot slicing over the heads of the crowd.

  With the speed of a snapped finger, time sped up, sound rushed in, smells blossomed, and Big Charlie Chilton found himself shoving townsfolk away from him, flinging angry people left and right as he drove through them like a plow cleaving packed earth.

  “Pap!” he bellowed. “Pap!”

  Still a few strides from the crumpled form, Charlie drove forward at top speed, dropped to his knees on the cobbled street. He lifted the curled form into his lap and yes, it was Pap, no mistake. A mass of shredded cloth—shirt, vest, coat—gathered in a bunch in Charlie’s beseeching fist. But the old man’s chest had taken the full brunt of the shotgun blast.

  “Pap!”

  The old man’s head lolled, his eyelids fluttering open. “Charlie?”

  His breath was a weak, raspy thing. Charlie wasn’t even sure he’d heard it.

  “Don’t pay him no never mind, you big oaf!”

  Charlie looked up to see Haskell still there before him, his horse dancing even as the hesitant people moved closer. Charlie wanted to lunge at him, but he didn’t dare upset Pap, who was still breathing and still staring up at him.

  The crowd rushed at Haskell, who was gigging his horse around in a circle. He looked down once more at Charlie, who returned the vicious glare. Then Haskell squeezed another round right into the crowd, then another. More screams rose, and howls of pain and rage filled the air.

  Haskell appeared to be enjoying the show. As a last gesture, as he wheeled his horse around to head on out of town, to follow the thundering retreat of Ace, Simp, and Dutch, Haskell threw the shotgun hard at Charlie.

  Charlie saw it coming in enough time to instinctively fling an arm up. The shotgun slammed into it, smacking the bone. Charlie ignored the pain, tried to struggle to his feet, but Pap let out a shudder and a moan. “Pap, it’s all right now. I’m here. Ol’ Charlie’s here.”

  By the time Charlie tore his gaze from Pap, Haskell was nothing but a long, howling laugh trailing behind his thundering form, kicking up a thin cloud of dust as a few townsmen cranked off haphazard shots at his retreating back, his sweat-soaked brown hat bouncing across his shoulder blades from the stampede strap about his neck.

  The only thing Charlie wanted to do now was track him down and kill him with his own bare, brawny hands.

  The only thing the townsfolk of Bakersfield wanted to do was kill the people responsible for robbing their town, killing or wounding a number of their fellows, and creating a scene the likes of which they’d never seen.

  And the only one left alive, since they had already set to hard, gang work on the howling form of Mex and had, as far as they could tell, killed him, was the big man on his knees in the street, cradling the old stranger. All they saw were strangers who hadn’t been in their peaceful town before all this mess took place. And right then, strangers were the only people who needed to be blamed.

  But Charlie wasn’t paying attention to them. He was too busy pleading with Pap. The old man was still with him, smiling up at him, even as blood slowly welled up in a thin line between his lips, leaked out the side of his mouth.

  Charlie bent low over Pap’s face, kept his right ear close to Pap’s mouth,
whispered close and urgently into the old man’s ear. “Pap, don’t you leave me now. I got big plans for us. I . . . I figured out a way for us to have that place we talked of so often. You know, that place in the mountains where we’re going to keep stock, grow that garden—biggest one you ever did see. It’s going to be a big old spread where we can keep chickens, place tucked back in the mountains where we ain’t never going to be bothered, you wait and see. . . . Pap? Pap?”

  Charlie pulled back, looked at Pap. The old man’s eyes were still open, filming with a death glaze, staring at him, a wide smile on his bloody lips. His silly dented bowler hat sat a few feet away, the bent silk flower more crumpled than ever.

  Charlie swallowed, nodded, a lone tear rolled down his face, balanced on the end of his nose. “I reckon you heard me all right.” The tear dropped, hit Pap’s cheek.

  Then the crowd set upon Charlie with a howling vengeance.

  Chapter 20

  “Gentlemen, I expect you know why I convened this meeting.” Horace McCafferty stood at the head of the long table in the council chamber. The rotund man thumbed the lapels of his amply cut frock coat and jutted his chin, though it was so round no one noticed. He regarded each of the men in turn.

  “Oh, get on with it, Horace. We got bigger things to deal with than you today.”

  The fat man winced. “I am merely trying to perpetuate the air of dignity and respect that befits this institution we have erected.”

  “Institution?” Gimble, the editor of the Bakersfield Gazette, snorted and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Horace, there’s nothing to convene. We need to get this dang show on the road. We have a bank full of people handled so savagely that they might never recover. One man, old Muley Timmons, was shot, clubbed, and then, sadly, expired of his wounds. God rest his old soul. Good man. Then there was our fellow on the council, Tollinson, the banker, and his subordinate, the Matthews boy, a good lad. Both of them treated rough enough that we might never get the full story of what happened out of them. And we have a giant of a man imprisoned for crimes we can’t in all likelihood pin on him.”