by Paul Bagdon
Will was building another cigarette when the batwings slammed open, one ripped from its hinges, and three horsemen, as wet and dripping as they’d be had they been dragged across a wide river, swung down from their saddles and hauled off their ponchos. “Whiskey—lots of it,” one rider said, using his hand, curved as a scoop, to sluice water off his horse.
“You can’t bring them horses . . .” the bartender called. “I ain’t gonna clean my floor in the . . .”
The rider who’d dismounted first drew his .45 and put a slug into each of the prominent, almost crab-apple-sized nipples on the nude poster over the bar. The ’tender went back to pouring liquor.
Will stood—somewhat shakily—and faced the horseman. “You never did have no manners,” he said. “Ridin’ yer damned horse into a fine place like this an’ then shooting at the only tits we got to look at. Why hell, I oughta kick yer ass back out into the rain.”
The gunman swung toward Will, crouching a bit, planting his boots one a foot ahead of the other, his Colt already in his hand—and then his hard, bearded face broke into a broad smile and he ran to Will. The two men embraced, cursing one another, pounding each other’s backs, laughing.
“Yer jus’ as ugly as you ever was,” the gunman shouted. “You still chasin’ them sheep when you get lonely?”
“Seems to me you put the wood to the fattest, ugliest, smelliest whore in Fort Worth an’ then never paid the poor heifer. Ain’t that right, Austin?”
“Paid her? Why hell, I give her the biggest thrill in her life!”
The other men were shedding their ponchos and dragging the saddles from their horses. They were young, perhaps eighteen or twenty, but it was obvious to Will that these boys were gunfighters—or at least, young fellas who knew about killing.
Will nodded in their direction. “Who’s the crew?”
“They ain’t mine. We done a little bank together and that’s the end of it. We split equal four ways an’ then we’ll ride off in four different ways.”
“How about you pull the saddle offa your horse an’ we’ll set at a table an’ drink some beer an’ talk things over?” Will said.
“You betcha,” Austin answered. “Hell, I ain’t seen you in . . . what, six, seven years? Not since you—”
“Closer to eight,” Will interrupted, moving to a table. He watched as his friend pulled cinches.
There’d been four of us figurin’ to take the Wells Fargo stage. Rumor had it the coach was carrying pay for silver miners—American bills, not army script. The trail at one point was a long, sweeping curve around a marsh and there were trees on both sides. We heard the rumble and rattle of the coach long before it came into sight. Each of us outlaws pulled his bandanna up over his nose, covering most of his face.
“Don’t feel right,” I said quietly, our horses standing together.
“Why? It ain’t the shotgunner’s nor the driver’s money. They ain’t gonna die for it.”
“I dunno. Seems like we been tappin’ coaches a little too hard around here, Austin. This one’s it for me—I’m takin’ my split an’ haulin’ ass.”
Austin thought that over as the sounds of the stage grew louder. “Might could be you got a good idea there, Will.”
We had planned the heist out pretty thoroughly. Austin and me would come out from the trees in front of the coach and hold our guns on the shotgunner and the driver. The other two men would drag out any passengers and get the cash box secured under the front-facing seat. We’d collect the guns any passenger might be carrying—and those of the shotgunner and the driver—and ride off, rich, happy, without having spilled a drop of blood.
That’s when the plan went straight to hell.
The fellow riding shotgun raised his weapon toward me and I shot him in the chest. The driver reached for a holstered Colt and Austin put a slug into his shoulder, slamming him off the seat and onto the ground.
There was a barrage of pistol shots and the percussive boom of a shotgun at the passenger door, and both of our partners went down. Three Pinkertons shoved their way out of the coach and opened fire on Austin and me. Austin’s horse—a strong, fast bay—caught a bullet that tore off one ear and a good piece of his head, and he went down, hard. Austin did his best to push off, but his horse came down on his lower left leg and boot, pinning him. He fired at a Pinkerton as he struggled to get free, but missed. His second round took the man in the stomach. He screamed and went down. The Pinkerton with the shotgun was looking for me, butt of the weapon to his shoulder, but the coach horses were between us. The battle was over. We were outgunned, and Austin, although he was able to free himself, was a target for a pair of angry, bloodthirsty hired guns who’d just seen their partner gutshot.
I spun my horse away from the carnage and slammed my heels into him. Then, after a couple of long strides, I hauled back on the reins, rolled the horse back over his haunches, and pounded back to the stagecoach, thinking what a damned fool I was. I wrapped the reins loosely around my saddlehorn, pulled my hide-out derringer, drew my rifle from its scabbard at my right knee, and rode in firing and shouting like a goddamn madman.
The Pinkertons hustled to the rear of the coach. Austin, face as pale as that of an alabaster doll, leaned against the open stagecoach door, his left foot held off the ground. I galloped directly at him, my good horse picking up speed, coming at Austin like a runaway train. Austin latched onto my horn with both hands and swung on my horse behind me. A cluster of pellets from the shotgun snarled by us like a swarm of angry hornets, and a couple of pistol rounds weren’t too far off—but we made it.
“My foot’s busted,” Austin yelled into my ear, “but I can ride OK.”
“Ya damned idjit,” I called over my shoulder. “You let that pissant Pinkerton kill your horse . . .”
“I figured I’d git us a bottle of rotgut, too.” Austin grinned as he set a tray of beer and the bottle of whiskey on the table.
“I shoulda warned you,” Will said. “The whiskey here tastes like it run straight outta Satan’s boot.”
“Don’t make no matter. Booze is booze, no?”
“Not this dragon piss.”
Austin drank off a half schooner of beer and poured from the whiskey bottle until the mug was full. He tasted it and smiled. “Ain’t bad this way,” he said.
“Well.”
The silence between the two men settled in very quickly and very uncomfortably.
“Look,” Austin said, “I never seen you since you dumped me off onto that sorrel stud. He was a good horse.”
“Yeah. He was. Best in our crew—’cept mine. His owner didn’t have no use for him, not with all that Pinkerton lead in him.”
“Mmmm. What was that feller’s name—you recall?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Decent fella, though.”
Will took a sack of Bull Durham from his vest pocket, offered it to Austin, who refused, and rolled himself a smoke.
“Ya know, I never knew why you come back when the Pinkertons was gonna shoot my ass off,” Austin said. “Thing is, Will, I never got to tell you thanks or nothin’.”
“No need,” Will said. “I guess I woulda done it for any outlaw.”
“Well, here’s the thing: I owe you, Will, an’ I wanna pay you off.”
“I got all the money I need, Austin. There’s—”
“That ain’t what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Austin said. “I . . . uhhh . . .”
“What?”
“I worked for Hiram for a bunch of months when the law was hot after me while you was in Folsom, Will. He was a good man. Me an’ him, we usta throw horsehoes an’ so forth. He was my boss, but he was my friend.
“An’ when his ol’ . . . when Sarah wasn’t about, I used to ride the girls on my horse—at a gallop, Will. They loved it. They’d laugh an’ so forth an’ have one he . . . heck of a good time.”
Will nodded and began to roll another cigarette. “I wonder, can we talk about somethin’ else—?” Will began.
“No. No, goddammit, Will Lewis. That devil One Dog killed folks I . . . I loved. I’m goin’ to put a lot of lead into them sonsabitches—but One Dog, he’s all yours, Will. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s the way it will be.”
Will sucked down a beer, thinking. “You ride with me, you’ll more’n likely die,” he said, “an’ probably die hard.”
Austin grinned. “So will a pile of them murderin’ scum.”
Will considered for a long moment. “This ain’t a pleaure ride, Austin—no robbin’, no stealin’, no whor-in’. It’ll be hard ridin’ an’ lots of blood.”
For the first time in the saloon, the grin disappeared from Austin’s face. His eyes caught and held Will’s. “Understood,” he said. Then, he repeated, “Understood.”
Will shook his head. “Dammit, Austin, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ into here. One Dog an’ his crew are—”
The grin came back to Austin’s face as he interrupted Will. “What those loons are is not as tough as we are. Right? All we gotta do is kill the whole goddamn bunch an’ then we’ll be all set. Right?”
Will shook his head again. “Damn,” he said.
“Looky here, Will,” Austin said. “You ever seen a man as good with a gun as me?”
“Yeah. Me. An’ I seen this gunnie standin’ on one leg waitin’ to see how many holes the Pinkertons could put into him.”
“Well, hell. They up an’ shot my horse an’ he fell on me. Other’n that, I was good.”
“Good with a busted-up foot an’ no ammo an’ standin’ there like a cigar-store Injun.”
Austin’s grin disappeared again. He leaned across the table until his face was but a few inches from Will’s. “I’ll say this: I’m ridin’ with you no matter how you flap your mouth. See, all you do is think on your own self. Hiram, he was my friend. I rode his girls around, an’ I paid a whole ton of respect to Sarah. I whacked fence poles for Hiram, an’ I hefted bales. Like I said before, he was my friend. An’ Sarah an’ the girls . . .”
“You got supplies?” Will asked quietly.
“I will have, come tomorrow morning,” Austin said. “A goddamn prairie dog could bust in that mercantile there an’ clean ’em out.”
“OK. Grab me a bunch of Bull Durham—the sacks with the papers. We’ll ride at first light.”
Austin held out his hand across the table. Will took it and they shook.
“You still handy with that Colt?” Will asked. “I mean when you ain’t clumsy enough to let a horse fall on you an’ you got no ammo?”
Austin drained the schooner he’d been holding and picked a new, full one from the tray.
“Name a target, Will.” Austin began to stand.
“Stay sittin’ right where you are.” Austin sat back down. “See them shot glasses on the shelf under the lady whose tits you shot off?”
“Sure.”
“When I say shoot, you pick off every other one from right where you are.”
“They’re kinda tight together, Will.”
“Yeah. They are. So will One Dog’s men be if we get to them at the right time.”
“Hell, man—this ain’t no contest.” Austin grinned. “I could do this here in my sleep. But look—s’pose you pick off the ones I leave? I don’ wanna ride with no ol’ fart who can’t handle iron. You got some years on you, Will—an’ you was locked in Folsom for—”
“Shoot,” Will said.
Austin had pushed his chair back, balancing it on its hind legs. His pistol was in his hand with speed that brought a smile to Will’s face. The six shots were thunderous in the saloon, but still not as loud as the storm outside.
“You nicked the fourth one.”
“Yer ass, Will Lewis—the sumbitch already had a notch in it. Now, ’cordin’ to what we agreed, you was—”
The shot glasses Austin left seemed to disintegrate at the same time. Will holstered his Colt. “OK?” he said.
Austin reached across the table once again. Once again the men shook hands.
The men Austin rode in with were having a fine old time, shooting holes in the walls, blowing bottles to smithereens, drinking with both hands and paying with neither.
“Your boys are tearin’ hell outta this place an’ they’re not payin’ a dime,” Will said. “I was wonderin’, could you get the whole goddamn bunch outta here?”
“I’ll make sure they pay up, Will.”
“Ain’t the point. That ol’ fella don’t need this horsehit. He ain’t a bad ol’ guy and I come to like him while I been here. I can see cowhands at the end of a drive with some money in their pockets raisin’ some hell, but these clowns of yours, they piss me off. If you don’t shag ’em out, I will, Austin—and then the damn fools’ll be carried out boots first.”
Austin drew his .45, tipped out his cylinder, and filled the empty spaces with fresh cartridges. He pushed his chair back and stood, right hand all but touching the grips of his weapon.
“Hey,” he hollered. “Hey. You boys put your rigs on your horses an’ git out. We was together for one thing—that bank—and we done it good. Now, git.”
“Austin,” one of them said, “the storm an’ all . . . We ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not nowhere. We’re real happy right here.”
“Well,” Austin said, “let’s talk about this, OK?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about. We—”
Austin drew and fired his Colt twice. Both slugs found a home in the outlaw’s gut.
“What you boys gotta do is split his take, an’ like I said, git outta here, storm or no goddamn storm. Ever’body understand? Oh—an’ take that mouthy sumbitch’s body out an’ toss it in the street.”
No one answered, but the two outlaws began slapping wet blankets on the backs of their mounts.
“An’ lemme say this: I never seen nor heard of none of you. We never rode together. Any one of you who says different faces me—an’ if you back-shoot me, my pardner here will do what needs to be done.” Austin picked up a schooner and drained half of it. “You boys worked out OK. We all got money an’ that’s all we was after. But don’t cross my path . . .”
The men began to saddle up. Austin stood by the table, his Colt comfortably fitting his hand. When they’d all ridden out of the saloon, hats pulled down, slicker collars wrapped around their necks, Austin pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket and strode to the bar.
“This oughta do it,” he said to the bartender, dropping the money. “If it don’t, there’s more where that come from.”
“That’ll do her fine,” the ’tender said. “I’ll thank you, sir.”
“Ain’t no ‘sir’ involved. I’m a common thief jus’ like the boys I chased outta here.” He grinned. “ ’Cept I’m a bit faster an’ a whole lot smarter.”
Will shook his head slowly from side to side. “Jesus,” he said. “He ain’t changed a bit.”
Will and Austin drank their fill, wrapped themselves in their ponchos against the storm, and fought the wind to the cathouse. The barber was passed out on the floor by his table and the hempa smoke was as strong as a skunk trapped in a closet.
“Damn,” Austin said, “if that don’t smell good, I dunno what does. I ain’t had me a decent smoke since me an’—”
“There’ll be no smoke and damned little booze, Austin. I remember you after suckin’ that weed, an’ you was as crazy as a shit-house rat. I’ll plug you myself, you start that craziness.”
“Feisty as ever,” Austin grumbled, following Will up the stairs.
“Take any room you want,” Will said. “They’re all empty.”
Austin tried the doorknob of the room next to Will’s. “Sumbitch’s locked,” he said, and kicked it hard. The door was stout; it stayed closed.
“Take another one,” Will said. “They’re all the—”
Austin drew and emptied his Colt into and around the doorknob. He pushed the door lightly with his boot, and it swung open with only a tad of metal-to-metal squealing. He gri
nned at Will, said, “ ’Night,” and pulled the battered door closed.
The storm and the rain hung around like stink on a manure pile through the night and into the day. Will and Austin stood glumly at the cathouse door.
“Well hell, we might jus’ as well get some grub, Will,” Ausin said. “Don’t make no sense to ride in this shit—an’ any tracks there was is long gone.”
“Yeah. Rain’s fallin’ on One Dog, too, though, an’ I doubt he’s stupid ’nuff to try to move cattle an’ horses in this storm. I figure he’s holed up somewhere. We’ll catch up soon’s we can ride. This mud is like greased ice; we’d be sure to bust up our horses, slippin’ an’ slidin’ an’ goin’ down.” He watched the windswept rain for a minute. “Food across the street ain’t too bad. Don’t matter if it was, howsoever—it’s the only choice we got.”
Will had always been amazed at Austin’s ability to consume food. A Mexican gunslinger in their gang years ago had referred to Austin as el gordo—the fat one. The gunsel had told Austin the Spanish term meant “the fast gun,” which had pleased Austin immensely.
Will ordered a couple eggs and some bacon and coffee. Austin ordered a dozen eggs, fried; the biggest steak the joint had, cooked bloody rare; a pair of helpings of hashbrown potatoes; a soup bowl of grits and hot sauce; a pot of coffee; and a quart of liquor. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere today,” Austin said defensively about the booze. “A li’l taste won’t make no difference.” He poured a pair of inches into Will’s coffee cup. Will didn’t refuse it.
Austin ate like one of those newfangled threshing machines chopped wheat: there was a constant input of food into his mouth until his plate was as empty and barren as a harvested field. He sat back, belched loud enough to scare a good dog that had been sleeping near the door, and filled his coffee cup with booze. “I once heard,” he said, “breakfast is a important meal. That’s why a ramrod will always make sure his men are fed good of a morning on a drive.”
“I never been on a drive where the grub—any meal—was decent,” Will commented. “Beans an’ salt pork three meals a day ain’t what you’d call fine eatin’. What me an’ the other hands would do was to put a bullet into a beef every so often, bust one of its legs, an’ tell the trail boss the poor critter stuck a hoof in a prairie-dog hole. ’Course there was no reason to waste that meat, so the cook’d grill up a slew of steaks an’ chops an’ so forth.”
