The Running Gun

by Jory Sherman

  “Dan,” Pete called out a few moments later, “somebody’s coming.”

  Dan pulled Dapper from the creek and tied the reins of his bridle to a tree. He hefted the pistol in its holster, let it slide in and out. That was becoming a habit too, almost routine, like pulling on his boots, or putting on his hat.

  “How many?”

  “Just one, far’s I can make out. Taking his sweet time, too.”

  There was still plenty of light left in the sky to see. Dan picked up his spyglass from among his belongings and lifted it to his eye. He adjusted the focus and gazed at the oncoming rider. There was something familiar about him, but he was still too far off to identify.

  “Can you make him out, Dan?”

  “Yeah, I can see him.”

  “Know who he is?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Friend or foe?” Raskin asked.

  “We’ll know pretty soon. You just be ready.”

  A few minutes later, Dan looked through the spyglass again. He sucked in a breath. He could hardly believe his eyes. The rider was Jake Krebs.

  The man just didn’t give up, Dan thought.

  “Foe,” Dan said as he handed the spyglass to Pete. “Just stay here. No matter what happens. This is my fight.”

  “Who…?”

  Dan put a finger to his lips then turned his horse. He figured he could flank Krebs before the man caught sight of him. Then it would be too late. Krebs was reading tracks, his and Pete’s tracks. Dan walked his horse, not making a sound. Slow and easy, he thought. He came within twenty yards of Krebs before the killer spotted him. Then, it was too late.

  “Where’s your friend, Cord?”

  “He’s not your worry, Krebs. There’s just me and you here.”

  Krebs looked around as if suspecting an ambush, or that Cord was covered. He turned back to Cord, his mouth wrinkling in a wry smile.

  “I should have killed you when I shot your brother, Cord.”

  “You should have.”

  Krebs slid his hand closer to the butt of his pistol—slid it slow so that it was barely noticeable.

  Cord noticed it. He turned his horse sideways, clawing for his pistol. He slipped it from his holster, cocking as he raised it.

  Krebs was a mite too slow. He had his hand on the pistol’s grip and it was halfway out of its holster when Cord squeezed the trigger. The pistol belched fire, spewing lead and sparks from the muzzle. There was a look on Krebs’ face.

  The look of a man who knew he was about to die.

  The bullet smashed into Krebs, splitting his breastbone, shearing off splinters that pierced his heart, severed an artery, and mushroomed into a lead fist that cracked his spine before it blew a hole the size of a goose egg in his back. He gurgled something as blood gushed from his mouth. His pistol slid from his grasp and hit the ground before Krebs leaned to one side and started to fall.

  His eyes flared open for just a fraction of a second and then glazed over with the frost of death.

  Cord let out his breath as the smoke from his pistol cured up in a lazy spiral. He sniffed the sweet smell and thought of his brother, avenged, finally, after so long a time. His tense muscles were just beginning to relax when he heard Pete shout.

  “Did you get him? Somebody’s coming, Dan.”

  Cord heard the hoofbeats and then saw who it was. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The rider was Ben Alexander.

  “He’s a friend, Pete,” Dan said as he rode the short distance back to his friend. “Relax.”

  Pete wore a puzzled expression on his face. But he had learned his lesson, apparently, for he didn’t ask Dan who the approaching rider was.

  Five minutes later, Alexander rode up. He saw the body of Tyler, looked at Pete, then at Dan.

  “Coffee ready, Dan?” Alexander said.

  “You can smell it, can’t you, Ben?”

  Alexander laughed and swung down out of the saddle. “You boys weren’t hard to track. I see you got Jake Krebs. At least I saw his body back there.”

  “Yeah. The bastard tried to pick me off, but he lost this race.”

  “You had some trouble with Tyler?” Ben said. “Or did he catch a bullet back in Kerrville?”

  “He caught one here, Ben.”

  “You throw it to him?” Alexander tied his horse to a sapling near the creek so the horse could drink.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you must have had a good reason. Unless you just hate lawmen.”

  “I’m beginning to get me a little hate, since you mention it.”

  Alexander laughed again, a dry laugh that sounded brittle as a dried cornhusk. He walked over to Tyler and touched him with the toe of his boot.

  “Getting stiff,” he said. “He draw on you, Dan?”

  “He tried to. I beat him to it.”

  Alexander walked over to the fire, looked at Raskin, a merry twinkle in his eye.

  “Pete Raskin,” the marshal said. “I’m Ben Alexander. You can call me Ben.”

  “How do you know my name?” Pete asked.

  “It’s my business to know who rides with Cord here.”

  “Are you going to arrest us?”

  “Nope. I have a message for you, though, and a couple for Dan.”

  “What message?” Pete asked.

  “That business of horse stealing in Austin? I took care of it. You can go back home. Anytime you want.”

  Pete’s face brightened. He grinned wide and stretched out a hand to shake Ben’s.

  “Why, thank you, Ben. Are you sure?”

  “Yep, I’m sure. Now, I’ll get me a cup and have some coffee. You take a walk so’s I can talk with Dan. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, sir. I don’t mind at all. Use my cup, it’s already set out.”

  Pete left Dan and Ben alone. Dan poured coffee into his and Pete’s cups. He sat down in front of his saddle, leaned back against it.

  “You want to tell me about Tyler there, Dan?”

  Dan told him, handed him the money he had taken from the dead man.

  “This shows you how clever Krebs was,” Ben said. “And, Tyler was right. Krebs had some politicians in his pocket. He had big plans—thought he could go all the way to Washington.”

  “If he killed everyone in his path,” Dan said.

  “By the way, I looked at those Mexicans back in Kerrville. You want to know who killed them?”

  “I killed one.”

  “There were two more and they were executed. Shot in the backs of their heads. At close range.”

  “By Krebs?”

  “Who else?” Ben said.

  “He was a bastard. But I got him. He wanted to kill Jerico Jones. He paid Tyler to do his dirty work, as I told you. At least Krebs won’t be killing anyone else.”

  Ben was still fingering the money Dan had handed him. He handed it back to Dan.

  “You keep this. Split it with Pete if you want to. Consider it reward money.”

  “It was Krebs’s money. I don’t want it.”

  “Dan, you’re going to need it. You’re still a wanted man until you can clear your name. The reward on you has gone up and it’ll go up more when I take Tyler and Krebs into San Antonio.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to have to tell them that you shot Tyler and Jake Krebs.”

  “Why? Are you trying to get me hanged? After all your promises?”

  “No. But there are still lawmen out there who don’t know you’re innocent. You’ll have to hide out a while longer.”

  “I won’t do it, Ben. I’m sick of the owlhoot trail. I just want to go back home and make peace with my mother and maybe someone else who thinks I’m a damned outlaw.”

  “Yes, you will, Dan. Just lay low long enough for me to notify the authorities that you’re no longer a wanted man, that you killed in self-defense. As for your mother and your gal, Priscilla, I saw them both. And I brought letters to you from both of them.”

  “What did
you say?”

  “Well, I couldn’t tell them everything, of course, but I told them you weren’t an outlaw, but working on a case for me.”

  “And they believed you?”

  Ben laughed. “I had some trouble convincing Priscilla’s daddy, but yeah, they believed me.”

  Ben reached inside his shirt and brought out two letters. He handed them to Dan.

  “I’d be careful about going back to see your ma or Priscilla right now, but at least they won’t shoot you if you show up.”

  Dan took the letters, slid them inside his shirt to read later. “Ben, I’m grateful for what you done. I want to have a future, not a past. Not like the one I got, anyways.”

  “Keep the money, Dan. You’ve earned it.”

  Dan looked at the money again. It was dirty money, blood money, but he knew his mother needed it. He’d give some to Pete, of course, maybe half if he wanted it, and take the rest to his mother as soon as he could. It would last her a good long time.

  “All right, Ben. I’ll take it.”

  “It won’t take me too long to clear your name. Maybe a week or so. And you can’t go home to your mother until then. I’ll let you know when your name is cleared.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Maybe you can take the money to my mother, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “You spoke of your past, Dan, and I know it’s been hard on you. But here’s something to think about. The Mexicans have a saying. It’s ’el pasado es polvo.’ ”

  “What does it mean?” Dan asked.

  “It means ‘the past is dust’. Whatever you did, whatever happened to you up in Abilene and since, will blow away in the wind.”

  Dan wondered. All a man had was his reputation, and his was the worst.

  To Dan, the past wasn’t dust. It was a dust storm that had followed him like a dark and dangerous cloud.

  The End

  About the Author

  Jory Sherman, who has been a full-time writer for over fifty years, began his writing career as a poet in San Francisco. Sherman has had four books of poetry published, all of which went through multiple printings. A Professor of Literature (University of Florida) Warren French, noted: "Jory Sherman has a strange and powerful knowledge of language and an almost perfect ear." Jory began writing at age 8, when he was grief-stricken over the death of his puppy, Doopers. He read James Joyce's Ulysses at the age of 10 and fell in love with language and mythology.

  Sherman has published more than 1000 articles and 500 short stories for various magazines and anthologies as well as over 300 books with Doubleday, Zebra, Avon, Berkley, Walker &Co., Tor, Forge, Bantam, Major Books, Pinnacle, The First Ozark Press, White Oak Press, and others. He has created and packaged series for Avon, Harlequin Gold Eagle, Pinnacle, Paperjacks, Zebra, Bantam, and others. His works have won numerous awards including the Western Writers of America Spur, Missouri Writer’s Guild “Best Book”, and a Pulitzer Prize nomination in Literature. His memoir, Bukowski & Me, will soon be available from Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery.

  Jory Sherman lives in Pittsburg, Texas, on Lake Bob Sandlin where he continues to write and paint.

  Learn more about him and his various works at:

  www.jorysherman.com

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