GunFighter Gulch

A Bad Day to Die
by Gary “Gringo” Addis

In the mirror behind the bar, I watched him watching me. The heat of the young man’s ambition made my neck itch. He wanted to call me out into the heat of the midday sun, and kill me. No, that’s wrong. He didn’t want to kill me; he didn’t have the hard eyes of a killer. He merely wanted to have killed me. He wanted the fearsome rep. The reputation I had earned.

Sweat drenched his eyebrows, dripped into his gray eyes. He dried both palms repeatedly on his unbleached cotton shirt. He wore his gun strapped quite low on his right hip, the holster tied down. He’s been reading the dime novels, I thought, watching him watching me. I didn’t have to wonder whether he’d find the courage. The back-slappers whispering into his jug-handle ears had the boy half convinced that he was the baddest hombre on Earth.

I made him to be about eighteen, maybe even seventeen. He still had a lot of growing up to do. However, boys raised in a frontier town grow to manhood early. Plenty of grown men, myself included, had to lift our chins to lock eyes with this six-foot youngster. Besides, even a five-year-old can pull a trigger tuned to quick action. I didn’t want to cut his life short. But kill him I would.

My fingertips tingled. As he approached, the muscles along my spine and legs tensed; my shoulders and arms tightened. I breathed in deeply, and let it out slowly, forcing my body to relax. The boy carried himself ramrod straight, shoulders squared, elbows akimbo and right hand flexed, two inches from the butt of his gun. He was not relaxed. Oh, he’d still be plenty fast: his hand would be a blur of movement. He’d cock the pistol as he drew, but lift it high to sight along the barrel. Those extra feet of movement require an eternity. My gun would clear the holster by no more than an inch before I fired, and I would not miss. In his excitement, the boy couldn’t hit the saloon we were standing in.

My own excitement was building. God forgive me, I enjoy the heat of battle. The knowing that I might die before my next breath fills me with fear–no, I am not immune: I don’t have a death wish. But fear is a white-hot infusion of energy. I never feel more alive than in the moment after the last bullet is fired. I figured this was the boy’s first gallop out of the corral. He didn’t know whether he’d puddle the floor in fear, or accept death with laughter on his lips. And because he didn’t, I didn’t. I turned to face the threat.

“Something I can do for you,” I said.

His eyes widened and, quite involuntarily, drifted a fraction of an inch, to one side then to the other, seeking backup that wasn’t there. Seeking escape. At this moment, he wanted to be anywhere else. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to kill him.

“Go on, Eddie,” one of his brave friends hissed from the anonymity of the crowd. “You can take him!”

I smiled. “Edward, is it? Got me a brother by that name. Eddie, let me buy you a drink.” I turned my back to him, lifted one booted foot to the hardwood rail, and leaned on the bar. I motioned to the barkeep. Two shot glasses of whiskey appeared on the gleaming countertop. The kid didn’t know quite what to do. I slid a glass down the counter to my left, and hoisted the other.

He stepped up to the bar, and turned to face me. A cluster of his friends pressed in close, jostling us both. Staring into the faces staring into mine in the big mirror, I said, “Barkeep, you running a schoolhouse?”

The bartender, a big man with thick, hairy forearms, a brushy black moustache and a flabby belly, nodded at me, hustled the teenagers outside, then returned to his duty station at the far end of the bar. As if he witnessed this sort of thing every day, he nonchalantly lifted his dirty apron and began to dry the inside of a beer mug.

“Barkeep,” I said, “maybe you ought to wait outside with the rest of them. I wouldn’t want you to catch a stray bullet.”

The big man grunted. “Mr. Jolley, I seen you in action once before, down El Paso way. A man come up on you in the street outside Rose’s Cantina…was aiming to back-shoot you. I’m the one give you the warning. You whirled around in a flash, shot that hombre right between the eyes. I ain’t worried that you’ll shoot me by accident.”

I nodded at him, but didn’t take my eyes off the boy. “A lucky shot. You are?”

“Name’s Sam. Sam Goldsmith.”

“If I didn’t get around to thanking you that day, I’m doing so now. Much obliged, Sam.”

“De nada. It were my pleasure, Mr. Jolley. I hate back-shooters.”

“Sam, if this boy is half as good as he thinks he is, I may not be the only one slinging lead.”

The bartender grunted. “I ain’t worried. The young pup, he is pretty fast, but you…you’re somethin’ else. He won’t even clear leather.”

The young man glared at Sam, but directed his comment to me. “I heard tell you can quickdraw and shoot the center out of a silver dollar from twenty paces with either hand. But I don’t never miss, neither. And there ain’t nobody faster on the draw than me. I’m bettern’ you.”

I grunted. “Maybe. But to prove it, you have to kill me. You a killer, Eddie?”

He snorted. “You think I can’t kill a man?”

“I think most folks can do whatever it is they have to do.”

Eddie nodded briskly, fear still dancing in his eyes. “You damn right I can!”

“But you don?t have to.” I lowered my voice. “You want my rep? Hell, boy, it’s yours for the asking. I’ll turn tail for you, make you the big man to your amigos.” A man doesn’t come by a gun rep by accident, but once it is acquired, it can’t be scraped off with a razor. As long as I breathed, I’d wear the beard of infamy, like it or not. Lately, I liked it not. “Let me finish my drink, young man, I’ll get on my hoss and ride out of town, and never come back.”

Face flushed, Eddie said, “You…you ol’ has-been! You don’t give me nothing! It’s mine for the taking!”

I turned, and set my feet, my hands relaxed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of my pants. His eyes widened, and he squared his shoulders. I took two quick steps forward and leaned in toward the boy.

My nose almost touching his, I said, “You calling me names, little man?”

He stuttered, “You don’t scare me none, mister.” He stuttered, and licked sweat off his lips, but he didn’t turn tail and run.

“That right? Well, I don’t mind admitting that you scare me, bucko. I’m scared that you might get in a lucky shot, but mostly, I’m scared that I’m going to have to kill you. Hell, boy, look outside. The sun is shining, there’s a cool breeze blowing in from the mountains. This is a very bad day to die. For either one of us to die.”

He murmured, “You best be worrying about yourself. You got me figured for some snot-nosed kid. Well, you be figuring wrong.” He rolled his head on his thin neck to loosen the tension in his shoulders and jutted his chin forward. Pride shined in his eyes as he bragged, “I already killed me one man–he thought he was better’n me, too, but I proved him wrong! Sam, there, and everybody else in this one-horse town treats you like you’re some kind of big shot– Mister Jolley this, Mister Jolley that. Me, the whole time I was growing up, they all laughed when I walked by. Well, they stopped snickering at me– at least to my face– after I killed me a man. I aim to kill you, too, Mister. Jolley.”

“That right, Sam?” I asked the bartender. “This boy already put a notch on his gun?”

“Oh, yes, our little Eddie is a stone-cold killer. A few weeks back, him and his buddies was strutting around town like they always do, him snaking that gun out fast as lightning and pointing it at people for the pleasure of seeing the fear in their faces, when Silas Whitby, the town’s best barber finally got fed up. Silas, he come up on Eddie’s blind side and twisted the gun out of Eddie’s paw and slapped him in the mouth– he knocked him flat on his ass, he did, busted his lip real good. After Eddie here shook the cobwebs out of his head, he called Silas out; Silas just stared at the punk like he was dirt and walked back into his shop. But the rest of that day and that night and the day after, Eddie and his pals cussed at Silas ’till Silas went and got his old Colt dragoon.” The bartender lowered his chin to his chest for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes locked onto Eddie. If looks could kill, little Eddie would have been incinerated instantly. “Silas was my best friend, and that punk there shot him down like he was a mangy stray dog.”

Eddie threw a hard glance over his shoulder. “You shut your yap, Sam. I get finished with Mr. Jolley, I’m coming after you next.”

I cocked the gun no one had seen me draw, and poked Eddie in the gut. He swayed as if he were about to faint. After a long moment, he mustered the gumption to speak.

“You…you got the drop on me. You…you aiming to shoot me, without giving me a fair chance?”

“You didn’t give that barber much of a chance, did you?”

I dropped my gun into its holster, wiggled the fingers of both hands in front of his face, then shouted, “Go!” and drew again, and again poked the boy in the gut. He had not moved a muscle. His right hand hovered an inch from his gun, but he couldn’t have held it in those trembling fingers.

Holstering the gun once again, sighing with the senselessness of it all, I said, “Aw, hell, boy, you don’t have to apologize. Sam’s friend is already dead and buried, and you ain’t done nothing to me yet. So, let’s just forget the whole thing, all right?”

“I…I ain’t afraid of you. I ain’t afraid of no man.” Although his entire body trembled, and his shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, he stood his ground. Eventually, he would gather enough courage to go for his gun.

I sighed again, shaking my head. I hefted my glass and drained it, took the boy’s whiskey and drank it. Time to end this little set-to, one way or another.

“All right, bucko,” I said, “Let’s get it done.”

I walked through the batwing doors, crossed the wooden sidewalk, and into the middle of the street. The boy didn’t trail me outside. Standing alone in the middle of the rutted street, before long I began to feel a little foolish–and a lot exposed. I’m Rance Jolley, a bad man, a very dangerous man. I am maybe the fastest gun still alive and, unlike most quick-draw artists, I’m also a pretty fair shot. Pistol, shotgun, rifle or Apache bow, I generally hit what I aim at. But I can’t see around corners; I can’t stay on my guard twenty-four hours of every day. The boy’s survival instinct had overcome his bravado. But, ashamed of what he must perceive as his cowardice, he just might shoot me from a rooftop. I whistled two sharp notes. My horse tugged her reins loose from the hitching rail, and trotted up. I swung into the saddle and rode out of town.

The road was dusty and hot. I decided to make camp about two hours’ ride from the nameless town, beside a nameless arroyo, at the bottom of which resided a nameless, but very precious pool of water. I tied Susie to a stunted pine a few feet from the bank. She nickered at me.

“Sorry, honey,” I said, stroking her velvet muzzle. “I ain’t too partial to horse slobber in my drinking water. No offense.” She jerked her head away from my hand. She nuzzled me back, though, when I brought her a drink in my hat.

I had intended to get a room at the nameless town’s only hotel, get a shave, a bath and a thick steak. If I had put down the kid I could’ve enjoyed the town’s few amenities, even had a couple of cold beers nad a few hands of poker. For a moment, I regretted my decision. I wondered how many more the boy would kill before he got his. I would have been doing the town a favor. But the youngster would get his wish eventually. He’d kill one rancher or townsman too many, and the boy would become guest of honor at a necktie party. Else, one day he’d get in the face of some other shootist, and find out that he wasn’t nearly as fast as the mirror told him he was. Oh, well, better the next man than me.

First the bath and shave. After refilling my canteen, I unsaddled Susie, undressed myself, hung my gunbelt from a handy limb, and waded into the tepid water. It muddied quickly, but I reckoned it would suffice to wash the not unpleasant odor of horse and the stink of stale human sweat from my body.

Susie heard them before I did. She stamped a hoof, snorted through her nose, and nickered. Wallowing around in the pool, squirting water out of my mouth like a kid, I had wandered beyond reach of my weapons. Foolish me. Careless me. Dead me. I splashed toward the bank, and the overhanging tree limb that held my gunbelt. I transferred my straight razor to my right hand, filled my left with cold blued steel, and hunkered down in the water, nostrils barely breaking the surface.

“We got the drop on you, Mister Jolley!”

Another voice said, “Drop that gun right quick or we’s gonna commence shooting!”

“Yeah,” another voice said, “and they’s five of us!”

I stood erect. I held my pistol wide of my body, barrel pointed toward the sky. I had one man spotted; his rifle and his head peeked at me from behind a stand of saplings. But thick shrubbery concealed at least two more shooters, and I can’t hit what I can’t see.

“Nope,” I said. “You can just go ahead and shoot me down in cold blood, if it’s murder you’ve come here to do. I ain’t dropping my gun in no muddy arroyo– I got more respect for a good weapon than that.”

“You don’t, mister, we gonna plug you right where you stand!”

“Shut your yap, Caleb,” a voice I recognized snapped. “This is my business, I’ll handle it my way.”

Eddie the slayer of barbers stepped out of the bushes, and stood facing me, his cocked Smith & Wesson aimed at my midsection. One of his friends stepped up beside him, clutching an aging Colt Dragoon. Eddie glanced at him.

“Caleb, don’t you do nothing but bear witness, you hear? I told you, this is my business.”

“Sure, Eddie,” Caleb answered with a nervous giggle. “Me and Walter, we ain’t like you, we know we ain’t no gunfighter. ‘Sides, it ain’t like you gonna need our help with this hombre anyway. You the fastest gun alive, ain’t you, Eddie?”

“You’re damn right I am!” To demonstrate his prowess, he eased down the hammer of his gun, twirled it on his finger, offering it to me butt first, then, with a deft twist of wrist and thumb, he cocked the gun and allowed me another look down its barrel. A cute trick. But dumb. His weapon was a tuned double-action revolver, probably with a butter-soft trigger pull. Lucky as hell he hadn’t blown his own foot off.

The Smith & Wesson was a fine weapon, accurate and trustworthy, and Eddie fondled it as if he knew how to use it. In skilled hands, it was accurate enough to do the job, and it packed a hell of a wallop. But its accuracy and stopping power came at a price. The pistol was too bulky and too heavy for his weak wrists and small, sweating hands. Caleb was even less of a threat; he could hardly hold the heavy Dragoon level. From the stand of saplings a few feet to my left, the long, black barrel of a Sharps fifty-caliber buffalo gun occasionally wiggled. It’d be hard to miss me with that thing from twenty yards away. But, apparently I had been lied to: they were only three.

“You come on out of that water, Mr. Jolley,” Eddie said. “I aim to kill you, but I’ll do it in a fair fight.”

I nodded at him, and smiled. “Good to know. Uh, not that I’m about to die, you understand– nobody wants to die, especially on a sunny spring day. And buck-nekkid besides!”

The young man blushed. “You can put your clothes on. Your boots too.”

“Mighty considerate of you,” I said. “I thank you kindly.”

Moving slowly, every move telegraphed in advance, I waded ashore, retrieved my gunbelt, holstered the Colt, and buckled the cold leather tight around my bare waist. I set my feet about shoulder width apart, mud squishing between my toes. A gentle breeze tickled the fine hairs of my legs and chest, cooling my body. But blood coursed hotly through my veins; my hands felt as if they were being warmed before a roaring fire. I smiled at the two young gents I could see and the one I couldn’t.

“Okay,” I said, and patted my holstered gun. “I’m all dressed.”

Caleb snickered nervously. His eyes kept dropping to my privates, and where his eyes traveled, the barrel of the big Dragoon followed. I could have dropped all three before the sound of the first shot faded into the still evening.

“You sure you got enough help,” I said. “Why don’t I put on some coffee while you go get some more of your pals.”

Eddie glanced to either side. “They ain’t gonna do nothing. This is just between you and me, Mr. Jolley.”

“All right,” I said with a sigh. “But before we get started, I’m giving fair warning. Anybody standing armed around me when the shooting starts, I’m going to kill.” I pointed with my chin at the rifleman concealed in the thick brush. “Either lay that buffalo gun aside or you’ll be the second man to go, sonny. That little shrub you’re hiding behind ain’t going to stop no bullet. You ready to die? And how about you, Caleb…you ready to take a bullet?”

The barrel of Eddie’s heavy Dragoon drooped another inch. He steadied it with both hands, and snickered.

“Psaw,” he said. “You ain’t going to be killing nobody, old man. Eddie gonna drop you ‘fore you clear leather!”

I stared at Eddie. I stared hard at him, hoping he’d fold his cards, and take his wounded pride back to town. He wanted to. His nervous, shifting eyes, and twitching fingers spoke better than words of his reluctance to go to war with me. Oh, he wanted to back down, all right. But he would not: he could not. For months, I figured, the young bully had been swaggering around town, forcing folks to step aside and give him the whole sidewalk. And then I had come riding in, and made him back down. And in front of dozens of people. If he turned tail to me again, he’d become a laughingstock to his few friends as well as to his many enemies.

“I’m catching a chill,” I said. “If you’re so eager to die, why ain’t you going at? Why are you just stand–”

His pupils widened suddenly, and I knew it was time to do or die. He was fast, blazingly fast. Because he began his move first, he beat me on the draw. But another precious quarter-second of the last second of his young life he threw away, lifting the gun to waist level. The instant my gun barrel cleared leather, I fired, and I did not miss. My first bullet struck Eddie an inch to the right of his left nipple. My second bullet entered the underbrush a few inches above the threatening big black bore of the Sharps. I swiveled my pistol to Caleb. He had not budged; a spreading urine stain wet the crotch of his britches.
Eddie died instantly, the Smith and Wesson still clutched in his small fist. From the stand of saplings, I heard a moan. There’s nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal, so I moved carefully toward the rifleman.

“Toss the big Sharps,” I said. “Do it now!”

“I-I can’t,” the wounded gunman moaned. “I’m hurt…I’m hurt real bad. Please don’t shoot me no more!”

I moved aside a branch, and peered into the gunman’s hidey-hole. He would live; my bullet had entered the flesh of his right shoulder and passed on through. Hell, he wouldn’t even be sore in a week. I dragged him into the open. Caleb still had not moved. As I moved toward him, a terrible odor slapped me in the face, and a brown liquid ran down the boy’s pants legs. I ignored the stench.

“Boy, you take that dragoon off the barber your pal shot down?”

“I-I,” he muttered. “Please, mister, don’t shoot me! I didn’t do nothing!”

“Nothing, huh. You just stood there snickering like a mule while a good man died, that it?”

I stood in place for a few long moments, allowing my breathing to slow; now that the danger was past, enjoying my heightened awareness of all things living. Caleb interrupted my reverie all too soon.

“You…you gonna kill me and Walter, too, Mister Jolley?”

“You and your pals sneaked up on me…ruined my bath. As a rule, I generally kill any rabid dogs I come across. Y’all were planning to shoot me down, weren’t you?”

“It weren’t me, Mister Jolley! I didn’t do nothing!”

“You disgust me, you spinelesss little weasel. You created that monster lying over yonder, always patting him on the back, egging him on. You deserve to die. You’re holding a gun; use it.”

“I…I….” His entire body was trembling, but his fingers were frozen inside the trigger guard of the big pistol. He looked down at the weapon. “It’s all rusted…when Eddie give it to me, he told me not to shoot it…he was afraid it’d blow up on me or something.”

“Give it to me, you little shit.”

“I….” He moved his arms forward slightly, but couldn’t get his fingers to relax their death grip on the weapon.

I yanked the dragoon from his trembling hands and gave it a good toss into the underbrush. When the cocked old gun hit the ground, it fired off with a loud boom and a cloud of black powder smoke. I snorted in disgust and turned my back on Caleb.
“Don’t you move,” I said. “Neither one of you.”

I put my own gun away, unbuckled my holster, and pulled on my clothes. While I took my own sweet time saddling Susie, Caleb stood still as a tree, shit drying on his skin, stiffening his britches. Walter lay on a bed of weeds and twigs; he twitched and moaned, and bled into the soft, damp ground bordering the pleasant, sweet-tasting pool of water. When I was good and ready, I mounted up, and gazed down at the two living teenagers. Friends such as these, nobody needed.

“Sonny,” I said to Caleb, “You go find your mounts, tie your two friends across their saddles, then skedaddle back to town.”

“Yessir!” he said, turning to run.

“Wait,” I said, and he froze in mid-stride. “When y’all get back to town, you and Walter might as well tell the truth about what happened out here.” I smiled at him. “You might as well tell the truth, because I don’t figure anybody’s gonna want to come after me for squashing a bug like your pal Eddie. But if anybody does want to take issue with me, well…I won’t be hard to find. Adios.”

I whistled as I rode away. It felt great to be alive.