Bullets Don't Argue

by William W. Johnstone

  Regaining his bravado once it became clear that Perley was not inclined to do further harm, Shorty winced painfully and gasped, “This ain’t the end of it, not by a helluva lot.”

  “I’m right sorry to hear that, I know I feel like we’re all square now,” Perley said and backed on out the door. Outside, he found Rooster already in the saddle, anxious to get away from the saloon. He was about to step up on his horse but hesitated when he saw someone coming from the sheriff’s office, so he paused in case he was coming in response to the shot fired.

  “Rooster, I heard a shot,” Ben Pylant called out, genuinely sorry to hear yet another gunshot from the saloon. “What’s goin’ on? Any trouble? Who’s this you got with you?”

  Perley wasn’t sure he was the sheriff until his morning coat fell open far enough to expose the star on his vest. Otherwise, Perley would have taken him for a lawyer, or maybe a deacon of the church. “This, here, is Perley Gates,” Rooster said, “and he fired that shot you heard ’cause if he hadn’t, he might be layin’ dead in the saloon right now.”

  “Did anybody get shot?” Pylant asked.

  “That no-account, Shorty Thompson, got shot in the shoulder ’cause he pulled on Perley, but Perley beat him to the draw.” He looked at Perley and grinned. “By a long ways,” he added.

  Perley could only describe the look on the sheriff’s face as worried when he heard Rooster’s report. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, obviously trying to decide if there was some action required of him. When he finally spoke, it came more in the form of a complaint. “Dag-nab-it, Rooster, I’ve told you before not to aggravate those three jaspers. It just makes ’em more rowdy.”

  That was too much for Perley. “Sheriff, I just shot a man in there because he was fixin’ to shoot me. Is that what you call rowdy? In most towns I’ve been in, that’s more like attempted murder.”

  “Just a little tussle that caused Shorty to try to keep that damn gunslinger from killin’ Coy Dawkins.” The remark came from Whit Berry, who was standing in the doorway now, listening to their conversation. “You oughta see poor Coy, scraped half his forehead off.”

  “He done that to hisself!” Rooster exclaimed.

  “Coy’s still settin’ on the floor in there. Sez his head’s broke,” Whit said. “And Shorty’s got a bullet in his shoulder. Seems to me you oughta be throwin’ that gunslinger in jail.”

  Obviously reluctant to take any action, Pylant hesitated. “Well, as long as nobody got killed, I reckon we can just let it go as long as everybody sez it’s over,” he finally decreed. He paused again when he noticed the dead pig lying on Coy’s saddle. Afraid that might open a new can of worms, he ignored it. And hoping to change the subject, he asked instead, “Rooster, whose horse is that you’re settin’ on?” Rooster puffed up immediately and informed him that it was his, then went on to tell him about the events that led to his acquiring the horse. When Rooster was finished, Pylant turned his attention once again to Perley. “You gonna be in town a while?”

  “Nope,” Perley answered. “I’ll be on my way back to Lamar County, most likely tomorrow mornin’.”

  That bit of news seemed to brighten the sheriff ’s demeanor somewhat. “Well, that’s good,” he said. “You stayin’ out at Rooster’s?” Perley said that he was. “Good,” Pylant replied, then quickly added, “Not that you ain’t welcome in Bison Gap, just good that you ought not have any more run-ins with Coy and his friends. We need to keep the peace in town.”

  “Hah!” Whit Berry scoffed, still standing at the door listening. He remained there until Perley climbed into the saddle and followed Rooster across the little bridge to the road.

  * * *

  “Where you been?” Shorty wailed at Whit when he came back into the saloon. “I’ve gotta get some doctorin’ quick. My shoulder’s still bleedin’ and it hurts like hell.”

  “Quit your bellyachin’,” Whit replied. “There ain’t no doctor in this town.” He turned to Jimmy McGee. “Is there?”

  “Nope, no doctor,” McGee answered, “but Floyd over at the barbershop can take that bullet outta your shoulder. He’s got the instruments to do all kinds of doctorin’. He can most likely do somethin’ to make Coy feel better, too.” He was hoping the three of them would vacate the saloon, since their presence discouraged his regular customers, all but putting him out of business.

  “How ’bout it, big’un?” Whit asked Coy, who was able to sit up now, although he was still on the floor in front of the bar. “You wanna go see the barber?”

  “Hell, no!” Coy blurted. “I don’t need no haircut!”

  Whit snorted contemptuously. “Maybe not, but you sure got your bell rung.”

  Feeling like he was coming to his senses again, he demanded, “Where is that slippery cuss? I’m fixin’ to rip his head off.” He rolled over on his ha nds and knees, then with great effort, slowly raised his tremendous bulk up from the floor and stood there, steadying himself on the bar.

  Whit watched, mindful of the effort it took, and commented, “Well, you’re gonna have to move a little faster’n that. He’s already gone.” When Coy began to rock back and forth from one foot to the other, his head back as if about to howl like a wolf, Whit knew he was about to explode from his frustration. “Take it easy,” he said. “I know where to find him. He’s stayin’ with Rooster. I heard him tell that sarsaparilla-sippin’ sheriff he was.” That served to calm Coy down to some extent, so Whit went on. “We’ll take Shorty to the barbershop to get him fixed up, maybe fix you up, too. Then we’ll go call on this gunslinger and finish our business with him tonight. You think you can walk yet?” Whit asked. Coy said he could. “All right, let’s take Shorty to the barbershop before he closes.”

  Outside, when they went to untie their horses, Coy stopped short, forgetting the cause of his head-on collision with the bar. “What the hell . . . ?” he started. “What the hell is that on my saddle?”

  “That’s that sow you bought,” Whit said, chuckling. In spite of his pain, Shorty had to laugh, too, even harder when Coy pulled the pig from his saddle and flung it on the saloon porch, all one hundred and ten pounds of it.

  * * *

  Floyd Jenkins got up from the table where he was enjoying a cup of coffee and went through his shop to see who was banging on his front door. The shade with the Closed sign on it was drawn, but he could see the three men on his front step when he peeked around the edge of it. His first impulse was to ignore the knocking, since he was closed for supper. His second thought was, if it was the three men he thought it was, they would probably break the door down. So he opened up. “Evenin’, gentlemen. I’m closed for supper. Can you come back in the mornin’?”

  “If we come back in the mornin’, he’s liable to bleed to death,” Whit said, pointing to Shorty. “And if that happened, then it’d be your turn to bleed to death. You get what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir,” Floyd immediately replied. “Of course, I’m always open to care for the sick and wounded. Just bring him right on in here and let him lay down on the table. Let me just set this cup of coffee aside.” He looked up at Coy, who was seeming to hover over him. “What about your face?”

  “What about my face?” Coy shot back angrily.

  “I was just wondering if you wanted that fixed, too.” Floyd said in defense.

  “Never mind my face. You just dig that bullet outta his shoulder, so we can get the hell outta here.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Floyd replied and immediately started his preparations.

  While Floyd began his probe for the bullet, Whit started sniffing the air. “Is the little woman back there in the kitchen, cookin’ up supper?”

  “I’m not married,” Floyd answered. “That’s a pot of beans I’m cooking for supper.”

  “I’ll help you get rid of ’em,” Whit said and went to the kitchen. “I hope you’ve got some biscuits or cornbread to go with ’em,” he called out on his way through the kitchen door.

  “Help you
rself,” Floyd mumbled under his breath when Whit and Coy went in the kitchen door.

  “What did you say?” Shorty asked.

  “Nothin’. I was just tellin’ myself to heat up some water to clean that wound up before I get started probin’ around in it.” He went into the kitchen to the pump and pumped some water into a bucket. Coy and Whit were already busy eating his supper. When he placed the water bucket on the stove, he found his pot of beans almost empty. “Well, I see you found the beans without no trouble,” he commented.

  “There ain’t no biscuits,” Coy complained.

  “I reckon you shoulda et at The Buffalo Hump,” Floyd remarked.

  “Hell, they’da charged us for it,” Whit said. “You make pretty good beans, just didn’t make enough of ’em.” He stuffed another spoonful into his mouth. “You done with Shorty?”

  “Ain’t even started yet,” Floyd replied. “Gotta get some water hot first.”

  “Any coffee left in that pot?” Whit asked.

  * * *

  When Perley and Rooster returned from town, they found that the wagons had been moved about thirty yards up the creek from the cabin. Possum and Tom had pulled them up side by side, just as they had when anticipating trouble before. At the same time Shorty Thompson was being treated for his gunshot wound by Floyd Jenkins, a discussion of some concern was going on at Rooster’s cabin. The men were doing most of the talking, but the two women were hanging on every word. After hearing what had happened in the saloon, there was great concern that the incident might bring more trouble than the dead sow was worth. Perley admitted that his actions may have brought on a new confrontation with the three saddle tramps, but he was convinced that, if somebody didn’t stand up to them, they would soon run roughshod over the whole town. And the sow was important enough to Rooster that compensation was necessary.

  “He’s right,” Possum said. “And it’s pretty plain to see that the sheriff ain’t wantin’ to get in their way. A decent sheriff woulda run those coyotes outta town long before we ever got here. So, bad luck or not, it looks like we’re the ones who’ve got the job of standin’ in their way.”

  “At least you found out what the situation is in Bison Gap,” Perley pointed out, “in spite of the rosy picture Mayor Wheeler painted. So, you ain’t sunk any money in the town yet, and you can still decide if you wanna stay here or go somewhere else.”

  “What you say is true,” Emma spoke up then, “but I believe Mr. Wheeler is right when he talks about the potential of Bison Gap. And it is an opportunity to get a good foothold on the town while it’s still in the growin’ stages. If we get rid of these troublemakers, maybe we can discourage others like them from lightin’ here. It wouldn’t be long before the town would grow big enough, so three brawlin’ saddle tramps couldn’t cower the whole town.”

  They all paid attention while she spoke her mind. When she was finished, Tom Parker was the first to react. “Emma’s right. It’s likely to be the same wherever we go, so I think we oughta be willin’ to fight for our stake in this town. I’m for stayin’.” Rachael got up, walked over to stand beside him, and hooked her arm inside his to show her support for her husband.

  “Well, I reckon we’re stayin’,” Possum concluded, “so that settles that. Now, what we’ve gotta get ready for is a visit from those three coyotes. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna have one. They don’t sound like the kind to take a whippin’ like Perley gave ’em and just walk away.”

  It did not escape Emma’s attention that Possum had said, we’re staying. She didn’t bring it to his attention, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was planning to stay here in Bison Gap with them. From the beginning, the two of them had an understanding that he was going to take her to her sister’s house, and then he would be on his way to wherever he decided to go. The possibility of his staying with them brought her thoughts back to the proposed hotel. If he decided to go into that project with her, they could build a fine hotel. She had all but made up her mind that she had no desire to return to a farm, but she also knew that she had made a promise to Tom and Rachael. They had given up their farm in Butcher Bottom on the strength of her guarantee that she would buy them a farm somewhere else. Perhaps she could still do that and take on the challenge of the hotel, if Possum went into business with her. Her thoughts were brought back to the present situation when she heard Perley talking about setting up a night watch.

  “How do you think they’ll try it?” Tom asked. “Just ride in here shootin’ like a bunch of wild Injuns?”

  “They might at that,” Perley answered. “But I think they’re more likely to come sneakin’ around here in the middle of the night, when they think everybody’s gone to bed. I reckon it’s me they want, on account of what happened in the saloon. I’m guessin’ the fellow I shot is the fastest with a gun, since he beat the other one by a long way, but he’s got a slug in his right shoulder, and that’s his gun hand. So the most he’s gonna be doin’ is watchin’.

  “You reckon we oughta go see the sheriff,” Possum wondered, “see if he wants to help?”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Perley replied. “I doubt if he’d get involved, anyway. As long as it ain’t in town, he figures it ain’t his problem.” As soon as he said it, another thought occurred to him. “Instead of gettin’ ready for a shoot-out and taking a chance on one of you folks gettin’ shot, it’d be more civilized if they were just arrested and put in jail. Bison Gap has got a jail, hasn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” Rooster said. “We got a dandy jail. It don’t get used much, but it’s got iron cells with locks on the doors and everythin’. But how you gonna get Ben Pylant to go arrest them fellers?”

  “I’ll arrest ’em, myself,” Perley said. “I’m the one that caused all this trouble, so it’s my responsibility to keep it away from you folks.” Back to Rooster, he asked, “Where does the sheriff live?” Rooster said Pylant had a room in the back of the office. “Good,” Perley went on, “so he’s there all the time.”

  “I don’t know, Perley . . .” Possum shook his head, not convinced Perley was making sense.

  “You and Tom are gonna have to get everybody under cover and get ready for anything that comes in here tonight, in case they get by me,” Perley went on. “I expect you’ll have better protection in this cabin than you would in the wagons. We’ve got plenty of guns and ammunition, thanks to the deacons, so give everybody a rifle.” He noticed six-year-old Alice staring wide-eyed at him. “Except Alice, give her a big switch.” He winked at the child. “If I’m lucky, they’ll never get this far. But if they do, they don’t know how many of us are here. I’m the only one they’ve ever seen with Rooster, so I’m thinkin’ if they hit this cabin, you’ll answer ’em with enough firepower to discourage anything they had in mind.”

  “Most likely,” Possum agreed, “but I don’t see why you don’t just hole up here, too, and give us another shooter to answer ’em, ’stead of riskin’ your neck runnin’ around out there in the dark.”

  “Like I said,” Perley replied, “I think it’d be better if we could throw ’em in jail, maybe let the town have a part in givin’ ’em a trial. Maybe that would let them and anybody else know that Bison Gap ain’t a welcome place for outlaws and saddle tramps.”

  Possum shook his head slowly and shrugged. “Me and Tom and Rooster will take care of the women and children. You just be careful you don’t get yourself shot.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Perley said as he turned and went to his packs to get a coil of rope, then hurried to his horse.

  Behind him, standing in the door listening, Rachael turned to Emma and commented. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get shot.”

  “Yes,” Emma said, “he does a lotta crazy things, but he always seems to land on his feet, just like a cat.”

  When he reached the big bay gelding, Perley apologized. “Sorry, partner, we’ve got some more work to do tonight.” As was his usual cust
om, Buck made no comment.

  * * *

  “We shoulda made Shorty come with us,” Whit complained as they made their way along the creek in the dark, following a narrow trail that was rutted with gullies and roots. “This damn trail is hard enough to follow in the daytime when you can see what the hell’s in front of you.” He was beginning to suspect that Shorty wasn’t as ailing as he claimed when he begged off to stay in the tent they had been camping in.

  “We don’t need Shorty,” Coy replied, his voice gruff and determined. “He wouldn’t be no good to us, anyway, bellyachin’ about that shoulder. When we get to Rooster’s shack, I’m gonna burn it down, with him in it, if he won’t come out. I hope that damn gunslinger is still with him, and this time, we’ll shoot him on sight.”