Shotgun Charlie

by Ralph Compton

  Charlie welcomed the idea. No more was said. No more needed to be said . . . for the time being. They resumed their former way of progressing—the old lawman in the lead, bent low and scouring the snow for tracks. Charlie followed close, hunched low and ready to squeeze the trigger on the shotgun. He kept the remaining shells divided between his two outer coat pockets, their reassuring weight bumping against his gut as they walked.

  Marshal Wickham halted, straightened, nodded ahead to where the trees thinned at the top of a rise. “See what I see?”

  Charlie squinted. “No . . . wait. It’s starting to get light.”

  “Yep,” said the lawman. “Good for us. Bad for Haskell. We’ll wait here a few minutes more. Hold your patience, Charlie. That bad seed isn’t going anywhere soon.”

  It was all Charlie could do to stay low as the sun made its slow climb skyward, brightening the landscape surrounding them, the snowfall slowing at the same time. Despite the sad, brutal situation they found themselves in, Charlie thought the snow was such a pretty thing, like a gossamer blanket laid over everything. Too bad so much evil rummaged under it.

  “It’s time, Charlie. Let’s climb up to the rise, see what’s what.”

  They did, switchbacking and keeping an eye out for anything that might vaguely resemble a killer in waiting. As they topped the rise, both men flattened out in the snow. And for the second time, the old lawman nodded, said, “See what I see?”

  And Charlie did—down the slope in the gulch below sat the little miner’s shack that had to be the one Haskell had mentioned. But the most unusual bit of it all was the thread of smoke rising out of the shack’s tin chimney pipe, up into the windless gray sky of early morning.

  “What’s he on about?” Wickham squinted at the shack. “Does he think he’s done with the posse? Or maybe he figures he can snipe easier from inside at whoever else comes?”

  Charlie shrugged, studied the lay of the land. Now it began to make sense to him. Stretching from the shack in a long curving fashion southward, the trail they had been following for days led down. That meant their camp for the night was not too far down there too. He thought of Nub, of Missy, Marshal Wickham’s horse, and the horses of the two other men, Deputy Scoville and his friend. He hoped the morning would turn warm and sunny for the horses.

  “Because there’s smoke doesn’t mean Haskell’s in there.” Wickham said it aloud, though it sounded to Charlie as if it had been a private thought that had somehow escaped through his mouth.

  He nodded. “But what if he is?”

  Wickham turned his head, half faced him. “Then we best find out.”

  “How?”

  “Simplest way’s the best, I find. And that means we take him as close to head-on as we can. I expect he’ll be looking for trouble first from the trail down below. That’s the direction we would have come from. But if we approach the shack from the northwest, to our left, we can maybe gain a little edge on the surprise. There’s no window that side, the side facing the trail from the south. With any luck there won’t be a window on the north side either.”

  Charlie nodded. “And it looks like there’s plenty of rocks and a few trees to hide behind as we get closer.”

  “You’re learning, Charlie Chilton. Now let’s go back downslope, head north toward that copse. Good place for us to set off toward the cabin from.”

  It took them much of an hour to make their way to the stand of trees that bristled to the northwest of the shack, some four hundred yards away in the gulch. By then the sun had crested the ragged peaks around them and set the snowed landscape to glittering. It was pretty, but harsh and blinding, and had made their route a slow affair.

  They made it to the trees and slumped with their backs to a couple of large ones, facing the shack. “He’s down there, warm and snug, and we’re up here shivering in the trees. I’d sorely love a little campfire right about now.”

  Wickham nodded. “Not a prayer, Charlie. We can’t tip him off yet. Might be he doesn’t know there’s anyone left out here. Now, I think we should low-crawl toward the shack. You angle up and over, and then come down at it straight on from the north. I’ll come at it from this side, the northwest. Then when we both get about thirty yards or so from it, I’ll motion to you like this.” He waved his left arm in a wide arc. “And then get set, because I’m going to open the ball.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means I’m going to raise a ruckus. Likely I’ll shout something to provoke him into action. With any luck he’ll scamper on out his south-facing door and come around right into my sights.”

  “What’ll you do then?” asked Charlie, blowing on his fingers.

  Wickham recoiled as if the big young man had slapped him. “What do you think I’ll do? I’ll shoot the evil creature.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. “But what about me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think I deserve a chance to . . . to lay him low?”

  Wickham smiled, shook his head. “Charlie. You aren’t a killer. You ever shot a man, Charlie?”

  The big man shook his head no.

  “Well, I have. And it’s not something you can let go of. Ever. You’re a good person, Charlie. Don’t let Haskell taint you any more than he has already. Now stop yammering at me and let’s get going.” Wickham cat-footed away from him, looked back, and said, “Keep your head low, Charlie Chilton. And do as I say and we’ll make it out in good shape.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie nodded. “You too.” He watched Wickham go for a moment, not sure of anything, not convinced of anything. He crouched low and headed in his own direction.

  Scant minutes later, they were still both in sight of each other, despite a few moments when they lost sight of each other behind boulders, scrub bushes, and stunted trees. Charlie looked toward the shack. Smoke still climbed up steady but thin out of the chimney. We don’t even know if he’s in there. Maybe he’s long gone. And where are the man’s horses? Should have three or four of them.

  A far-off whinny, then another, were his unexpected responses—from the east, sounded like. Charlie strained to see up that rise behind the shack, raised himself up on one knee—had to be Haskell was keeping the horses in those trees to the east. . . .

  A spang! sound cracked the silent morning air. Rock chips spattered in Charlie’s face. He dropped down, more out of instinct than strategy, and gritted his teeth, one hand held to the right side of his face. He pulled it away. The cold red palm was speckled with blood.

  “I see you out there, you big galoot! I knowed you was coming! Ol’ Grady knows everything, Charlie boy! Wanna know another thing I know?”

  The cold air carried Grady’s voice perfectly straight to Charlie’s ears. Charlie shook his head, tears of rage stinging the tiny rock cuts on his face. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “No! You shut up now, Haskell!”

  “Charlie boy, I got you pinned. I can even see your big ol’ ham legs, Charlie boy!” As if to prove his point, shots, one after another, drove all around Charlie, some digging into the earth, spraying snow and gravel in their paths, some spanging off the big rock behind which he was poorly hidden. One chewed a divot in the toe of his right boot.

  Charlie let out a yelp and pulled his legs up as tight as he could to his body. He was pinned down. He tried not to make the sounds he was making, but he couldn’t help it. And the lead kept raining.

  There wasn’t a thing he could do. It was a matter of time before one of Haskell’s shots hit him. Then another, and another. . . . Think, Charlie, he told himself. Think of something smart. . . .

  Then he heard another voice, a different voice. It was Marshal Wickham. The shots stopped. Charlie peered around the base of the big rock, saw Wickham rise like a black-coated ghost, standing tall in the snow. His coal-colored duster flared and his rifle was pointed, cocked, and ready to deliver.


  “Haskell, you cowardly no-account dog spawn! Come on out of there while you still can! This is Marshal Dodd Wickham and my posse has you surrounded! Surrender now or die soon!”

  Wickham didn’t wait for a response. He cranked shot after shot into the flimsy little cabin. Splintered chunks of raw planking erupted like startled birds from the walls. Charlie propped himself up, sent a shotgun blast at his side of the shack, and was pleased when it tore a ragged hole straight through. He thought, for the briefest of moments, that he saw someone inside spin and drop out of sight.

  Excited, Charlie looked to his right. “Marshal! Get down!”

  But Wickham wasn’t listening to Charlie Chilton. He was thumbing shells into his repeating rifle, even as Haskell recouped inside the shack and began firing back at the marshal. Charlie guessed that the man must be gauging distance, though it made little sense, since the distance was not all that far. But his bullets were chewing up furrows in the snow, ever closer to the lawman.

  “Get down, Marshal!”

  Marshal Wickham ignored his shouts and looked up, regarding each encroaching shot with a cool regard before glancing back down at his task at hand—refilling the rifle. Wickham was also grinning.

  Something happened to Wickham’s rifle, though, because he thumbed the hammer and jerked the lever hard a few times, trying to free some bit that had jammed. It would not comply. And then, as Charlie shouted again, one of Haskell’s bullets drove into the lawman’s left thigh, above the knee. The old man howled in agony, threw down the rifle, and clutched at the raw wound.

  Blood sprayed the freshly churned snow. Time seemed to slow as Charlie watched Wickham fight to keep himself upright. Even as more of Haskell’s shots laced the air around the old lawman, he shucked a revolver with his right hand and cranked the hammer back, sent a bullet at the cabin, then another. The shooting from the shack stopped, and as the snapping echoes of gunfire dwindled in the little ravine, Charlie heard unintelligible but angry oaths snarling from within the shack.

  “I don’t bleed. . . . I don’t bleed!”

  What did Haskell mean by that?

  Then, like a rabbit, a boot appeared, retreated, reappeared in one of the holes in the west wall, kicking, sending fractured, bullet-pocked boards sagging outward.

  “Ain’t the way it was supposed to happen, dang you all!”

  As Haskell ranted from inside the shack, Charlie jammed in another shell, snapped the shotgun closed, and hustled toward Marshal Wickham in a low run.

  He’d covered half the distance when the marshal’s gun cracked again. The man’s face was a carved gray mask of pain and teeth-gritted satisfaction, even as a shot drove into his breadbasket, then another behind it higher up into his chest.

  He snapped upright, spun in a half circle, and faced Charlie, his eyes wide, as if the lawman was about to tell him some great secret. Blood streamed out the sagging left side of his mouth and even before he fell, Charlie lunged two, three great strides toward the shack. Through the hole in the wall Haskell had kicked wider a second before, Charlie saw a face peer out, eyes wide, then disappear.

  Charlie bellowed, “Haskell!” as he brought the shotgun to waist height. He didn’t wait for a response, but snapped his finger hard on the gun’s trigger. It barked smoke and flame, tearing the hole in the shack wall even wider.

  As he spun and bolted down the short rise to Marshal Wickham, he tossed the shotgun aside, barely heard the gagging, clotted sounds coming from within the shack.

  “Marshal!” Charlie dropped to his knees five feet from the old man, who lay stretched on his side in a blanket of churned red snow, eyes staring skyward.

  “Marshal Wickham!” shouted Charlie, crawling the few final feet. He gently laid the man on his back, held his face in one hand. “Marshal? You hear me? It’s Charlie Chilton, Marshal.”

  For a moment nothing happened. Charlie looked to see if the man’s chest showed signs of movement. It didn’t seem so, but then again the man wore a whole lot of layers. Then Wickham’s eyes snapped closed, opened again, and a long breath escaped his lips. “Charlie,” he said in a relieved whisper. “Is he . . .”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon he’s done for. You done him in.”

  “Good, good. Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir, rest easy. I’ll get the horses and we’ll make it back to town in quick shape, you’ll see.”

  “No, Charlie. Stop that. I’m too old to listen to lies.” He smiled weakly. “Charlie, drag me to that tree there. I want to sit up.”

  “You sure that’s—”

  “Charlie, don’t argue. I am the law, after all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As gently as he was able, Charlie curled his hands beneath the man’s arms and dragged him backward through the snow the few yards toward a decent-sized pine. The lawman gritted his teeth and held his breath until they made it to the tree.

  Chapter 42

  “Charlie, listen to me. Come close.”

  The big young man leaned in. “Yes, sir? What can I get you? I’ll build a fire. . . .”

  “Charlie, listen.” Wickham licked his bloody lips then spoke in a slow, measured manner, stopping and gritting his teeth now and again. “You don’t need to prove anything. You got to promise me you won’t tote my old carcass back there to Bakersfield. Them folks don’t know a good thing when they got it anyway. My being there won’t make a whit of difference.”

  But Charlie knew, from the way the man spoke on the trail, that Bakersfield, for all its faults, was the place the marshal considered home. That he had no one else, and nowhere else to go. “I can’t promise that, sir. No, sir, can’t do it.”

  “Confound it, boy, you . . . oh, I’m in no shape to argue with a man as big as you.” He cracked a smile, offered one slight wry chuckle. “Dig out my flask, will you?”

  Charlie patted the old man’s coat, felt how thin Wickham was. He unscrewed the top, held it to the marshal’s lips.

  Wickham sipped, pulled a wide sour look. “No, no. I don’t need it. Got no taste for it. Isn’t that something, after all these years, when I could use it, I don’t want it?” He chuckled. “Life is a funny thing, Charlie.”

  “I reckon it is, sir.”

  “I’m no sir to you, Charlie. I’m Dodd. Dodd Aloysius Wickham, God rest my sainted mother’s soul for naming me such. Always gave me highfalutin airs.” He coughed, got control of it, then said, “Now, look, Charlie, if you won’t leave me be out here, where I belong, then for your own good, don’t go back there. It’s a fool’s errand, Charlie. Those people want blood. Your blood, my blood, doesn’t matter.”

  He grimaced, blew out a mouthful of air. “They’ll take what they can get. You’re already on the short list of bad men they got pinned to their walls. You go back there and you’ll end up at best going through some sham trial, and then you’ll be swinging by a rope. A darn big rope, judging from the size of you. But it’ll be a rope, nonetheless, Charlie. There’s no way it can end good.”

  Charlie said nothing, but his furrowed brow told Wickham the big man was at least considering what he’d said.

  “Just go, get gone, Charlie. You’ve paid whatever debt you may have earned because of the crime.”

  A moment later, Charlie shook his head. “No, sir. I reckon I’ll head back to Bakersfield, just the same.”

  “Confound it, boy, the judge will send you to prison.”

  “Maybe so. I reckon if that’s what the law sees fit to do with me, then that’s the way I’ll head. I won’t be talked out of it, won’t be a man who runs from his duties, his obligations in life. Some of the choices I made weren’t good, some not so bad, but I never ran from a one of them. Once a thing’s decided, it’s decided.”

  Marshal Wickham sighed, sank back against the tree, tired. As if the conversation had taken too much from him. His eyelids fluttered closed and his breathi
ng grew shallower.

  Charlie bent low over him. “Sir? Marshal?”

  The dying man opened his eyes. His voice came soft, faint, but Charlie heard it. “Glad to know you, Charlie Chilton. You’re a good man. Frustrating as all get out . . . but a good man.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I reckon I’m trying.”

  Marshal Dodd Wickham seemed to relax then, and a soft smile spread on his face. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed to a thread, then stopped, and his wiry frame sagged slowly against the tree.

  Charlie stood, still staring at the old man. A tight weight filled his chest, his throat. Why did it happen to these men, the good ones, the ones who seemed worth knowing? Why couldn’t he have had more time with them? Why were there men like Grady Haskell in the world? Men who fouled all the good things, the nice things, for the rest of the people trying to do what they needed each day, week, month, year, just to be happy. That’s not a lot to ask, he thought. Not much at all.

  Chapter 43

  Charlie’s jaw tightened as he turned his gaze toward the shack, visible in the rock-knobbed draw. Haskell was still up there. Charlie hoped the man was alive, holed up like a sick animal, the sort of beast who needed to be put down lest he infect others, over and over again.

  Charlie felt a new, hot anger burn in him, burn like a hot fire up a chimney, clean up from his guts to his throat, to his nose, and into his brainpan. Felt it fill him. He ground his teeth together, his cheek muscles bunching. He walked straight toward the little cabin they’d been firing at.

  From this distance it looked unchanged, as if no one had moved inside. Part of him hoped Haskell was dead, good and dead. Part of him secretly wished the man was still very much alive so that he could put him down himself. Finish off the hydrophobic beast once and for all, come what may to himself.

  He stared at the shredded cabin a moment more, then gathered air and bellowed, “You in there, Haskell?”

  The response was slow, but it was there. And it was unmistakable. Haskell was still alive.