I killed Cole Clayton
.You see him? Riding down Main Street clear as day. That's Cole Clayton.
Skinny's adam's apple bobbed in his sweating, unshaven throat, a throat that seldom saw a razor. I could feel the heat of his excitement, almost near to panic.
I laid my cards face down & tossed a silver dollar into the pot. Clink.
Yeah?
Skinny tossed in a dollar.
My heart was pounding fast. Yet I didn't look right off. No, sir. Instead, I drank down the rotgut whisky in my tumbler, swallowed the burning stuff, made the face people always make, then & only then did I glance out that dirt-streaked window of the filthy frontier saloon.
It was a big man in a long black duster & black Stetson. Fancy belt buckle and silver spurs glinting in the dusty, hot afternoon light. He was riding slow, keeping one hand free at his side. His gun hand, I guessed. He was on a pretty damned fine horse. And I pride myself on the knowledge of horse flesh.
That's one hell of a horse, I said.
Skinny blew out a hoomph breath of pure derision.
It ain't the horse that's notable, it's the man. This Cole Clayton, he's a stone killer. Regulator. Gunhand for hire. Saw him in Abilene once. Never know he worked these parts.
I said,
Two cards.
I tossed two cards face down at him. He dealt me two from the deck. I drew them closer with my thumb & pricked them up & took a glance.
I tossed another dollar into the pot. Skinny was still watching Cole Clayton clip-clopping on his fine mount up the dusty street with narrowed eyes and a feverish expression.
Raise or call.
What?
Raise or call, Skinny. I don't got all day.
He thumbed up his cards for another quick look.
RAISE, he said, tossing TWO silver pieces into the pot. He was grinning now.
I tossed in two more silver eagle dollars & said, Call. Show me what you got.
Aha.
He turned over his hand, fingered apart the cards. Triumphantly.
There!
It was a flush. Good hand. Mine was better. I flipped my cards over.
Three aces.
He slumped back in his chair.
Jesus!
I raked in the pot with both hands. Twenty one dollars. I swept it all into my leather purse & pulled the drawstring tight. Skinny poured himself more whisky from the bottle.
I picked up my hat from the table.
By now Cole Clayton had ridden clopping past the window.
Some dust stirred up by the hooves of his fine horse still drifted out there. Two whores crossed the street, skirts swishing, under blue & yellow silk parasols. I recognized Ellen & Magdalena. I'd patronized them both a few times. Magdalena was better. Ellen talked too much for my taste.
I went to the bar & the old man handed me my gunbelt with the Colt stuck into the single holster. He was Sicilian. His eyes were always watering, like a cowboy out herding beeves on the prairie, yelling in a dust cloud. But he wasn't no cowboy. He was just an old man with a lined face & bowed shoulders. I couldn't see him on a horse. Or even a scraggly burro. In fact, I'd witnessed him a few times shuffling down the street to work in the mornings, crooked as a rake. When I first blew into this town he'd hired me as a broom boy, let me sweep out and tidy up the saloon in exchange for a few coins. I gave that up when a rancher hired me to watch his sheep, repair fences or whatnot. That's what I'd been doing for the past year. That and killing myself with rotgut whisky and playing endless hands of Five Card Draw with Skinny here in the dismal saloon.
I asked the old man now, clear & loud:
How much you want for that blunderbus you got behind the bar, Pops?
I knew he kept a monster double mouthed 10 gauge down there by his shaky knees.
He blinked those watering eyes. He seemed taken aback, but he licked his lips & said, in that grave, reedy, sad & ancient voice:
Let you have her for fifty bucks.
I pulled apart the drawstrings of my pouch and emptied out my just-won silver eagles onto the bar. I clapped down two that started rolling away with the palm of my left hand.
That's a down payment, I said. I'll get you the rest on Friday. Okay?
He bent down & picked up the shotgun & handed it over the bar to me. It was heavy and smelled cleanly of gun grease. I broke it open to peer down the barrels. The old man didn't keep her loaded but she was clean.
I clacked it shut again.
I'll need some shells for this cannon, too, Pops.
He nodded sadly & pulled open a drawer & brought out a bulging cloth bag. He handed it to me.
I opened it & glanced in. About thirty homemade canvas-jacketed shotgun shells sealed with wax, reeking of black powder. I picked one out & rattled it. Sounded like ball bearings clicking inside.
What's in these?
He laughed a dry, wheezy laugh.
Nail heads.
My mouth went dry.
Gracias, I said.
*
Once I tried to learn the gun. I moved into a shack down by the river. I spent all day every day shooting bottles. Dumping the empty shells out of the chamber onto the smooth river sand, reloading methodically, shooting again. One day a man rode by, among the tall straight soaring cottonwoods. He stopped there & sat his horse & watched me practice shooting the colored bottles lined up on a whitened fallen trunk. Every second or third bullet smashed a bottle & sent shards flying in all directions. Smoke drifting amid the cottonwoods. As I shook six empty shells out of the chamber of my piece, the man shouted down to me on the breeze: Howdy, boy. How's the shootin' going for ye this fine afternoon? I was sweating at the armpits, my shirt hung on me like a sack. The sun was on my hair, heating it molten. I didn't even turn my head. I'd squatted down & was busy reloading with bright fresh copper-cased rounds I took from the unknotted bandanna at my feet. Click, click... Could be better, I replied, raising my voice high, then standing & in one smooth snake-like movement swinging up the pistol & firing again. I kept firing until I'd spent all six bullets & I only hit three bottles. I stood back, blinking. The smoke haze drifted away over the brilliant river. The man said, Boy, might I presume to show you a few of my own little tricks? Who you be Mister, I cried. Some kind of a gunhand? He shifted on his horse. You might say that. Get on down here, then. Any help you can offer will be much appreciated.
He tied up his horse & walked down to me slow & silent. As he came he unbuttoned his coat. He was outfitted with a huckleberry & a Smith-Wesson 45 stuck into its leather holster. He stood next to me & drew out smooth & fast, so rapido I couldn't see it but as an afterimage, & drilled all four remaining bottles into fragments without seeming to trouble himself to aim. Then he broke open his smoking pistol & shook out the empty casings onto the sand & reloaded it with rounds he plucked from his coat pocket -- all the while sporting a thoughtful expression, lips pursed as if he'd tasted something sour. Goddamn, Mister, I said. Whatever the hell you can teach me, I'd be indebted to you.
Sure thing, I'd be glad to impart any of what I know about the science of gunplay, but first off, please tell me who you're practicing to kill, son.
Mr. Cole Clayton.
He holstered his pistol & took a step back. He looked at me under the brim of his Stetson. Then he took off the Stetson & beat some dust off of it onto his knee, shaking his head a little with his eyes half shut.
Did I say something wrong?
You said the name Cole Clayton. I hear you right?
I nodded. I was still holding my Colt. The river sound was loud in that sudden deep quiet.
Look here, Boy. I say with all the humility in my power that not too many gunhands in these parts could go up against me & hope to live long, but Mr. Cole Clayton is an even quicker draw & a better shot than I am. You learn from me, well, you get an edge but it ain't enough a one to win against Clayton.