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A jarring ride on hard wooden benches, an endless rattle, scorching cinders that
blow in the windows and attack the eyes whenever the train rounds a curve: his
train trip West had not been a pleasant one.
"Shut the window," holler half a dozen passengers, several ladies among them.
Despite a facade of gentility, the ladies holler the loudest, for they are the most
concerned about the appearance of their clothing.
"No," shouts back the fat balding salesman who sits in the seat behind Arthur
Marsall. The salesman sweats continuously and the odor of his sweating body is
reason enough to keep the window open.
Arthur says nothing. He cares little for his fellow passengers, save one Mary
Ellen Mills who sits four seats back en route from St Louis, while the open
window represents Arthur's only relief (and that merely partial) from the odor of
salesman and the scorching heat of the train. With luck, Arthur can feign sleep
until the train has passed through the curve. At worst, some would-be-gentleman,
anxious to ingratiate himself with the womenfolk, will slip past Arthur's prone
figure and attempt to lower the frame. The man will fail, of course, for the train
windows tend to stick fast. He will rouse Arthur from his make-believe slumber
and ask for his aid. "It's the women, you see," the man will explain, "messes up
their clothes," though the man himself will be rubbing at tearing eyes. Arthur will lend a reluctant hand. At the exact moment the window comes
crashing downward, the train will curve in the opposite direction and Arthur will
be left to his own devices to try to force the window up again.
"Avoid the Summer's heat; let the Union Pacific take you through cool Northern
breezes." the railroad's brochures promise. But in summer, the train routes across
the great North American prairie are pretty much the same: whether south, south
central, central, or north, they are hot, hot, and more hot.
Just as the prairie itself is pretty much the same, dull and more dull, like riding
forever through a golden brown meadow. Oh, one will see Indians, and an
occasional herd of buffalo, but Arthur suspects the Indians have been hired by the
train company—white men with a coat of red-gold paint, and the buffalo are
probably some tame herd the railroad keeps just for show.
For two days now, since the train crossed the Mississippi, life aboard has been
almost insufferable, hot and dull, a noisy company that Arthur doesn't particularly
care for, (and, he suspects, doesn't care much for him), and the endless rattle of the
I want to see scenery, thinks Arthur, waterfalls, tall trees, and jagged mountain
peaks, new, exciting places. Why did I risk imprisonment if the life around me is
going to be as monotonous as it was back home? But all he sees besides the
endless brown meadow are the irritated faces of his fellow passengers.
Once in a while, the whistle blows as they slow for a boxcar station in the
middle of nowhere: A railroad-owned grain elevator, a few farms, bright green in
the sea of golden brown, pigs and chickens by the railroad track, a barking dog, some geese. Men and women, children too, walking up and down the train aisles
selling meals at ruinous prices. But a few minutes later, the trainman hollers
"booard," and they are off through monotony again.
At that very moment, the candy butcher, a steady affliction since St Louis,
comes down the aisle parading his wares: Candy, overcooked corn on the cob; the
Sioux-City newspaper—all one page of it; Indian trinkets—useful as souvenirs if
one is heading back East, but hardly of value on the prairie, and tea-makings, the
candy butcher's best buy—tea leaves, hot water, sugar, lemon, and, sometimes,
Arthur knows them all, has inspected them all two or three times and knows he
cannot afford them.
He fingers the coins in his pocket; for despite the heat, he would really like a
cup of tea. But his few remaining funds must last until his arrival in the Wyoming
Territory, four tedious days and nights away, when he will be able to change bills,
he hopes, without being charged a premium.
Candy butchers must be the richest people in creation, he thinks. Even that best
buy, a cup of tea, cost of tea-makings and bringing the water to a boil included,
must represent something like a four hundred percent profit.
A glance is enough for Arthur, a bookkeeper by trade, to compare the value of
the candy butcher's stock at purchase with its appreciated value at the time of sale.
The long green fields of corn by the river's edge appear to him as tall rolled-up
dollar bills and, the cattle, gazing absently at the passing train, can be priced automatically at so much on the hoof, so much profit added when the rancher
brings them back East for sale.
Only a few short weeks ago, Arthur began to divert his employer's money to an
account of his own. Oh not much, just a few dollars here and there, it would have
added up, eventually. He'd have had a real stake, in time.
But he hadn't had the time. They had switched managers the previous Thursday
without a word of warning. The unctuous Mr. Thompson departed for the head
office and a new man was placed in charge, a second cousin once removed, they
said, of the President of the line.
"There'll be an audit, of course," the chief clerk told him, looking off abstractly
into the distance, as Arthur, knees shaking, halted in mid stride to give his
supervisor his full attention. "Nothing to do with us, of course; standard policy
when there's a change. Do you mind working a bit late?"
"Not at all," Arthur replied though he meant just the opposite.
If only he'd had another two weeks or even another two days! But he hadn't.
He'd had to cut and run.
Arthur touches his money belt. No, he does not have as much cash as he'd like,
but there is enough, he hopes, to give him a fresh start, to buy some land, some
farm tools, and maybe a few head of cattle.
How many times has he counted these imaginary cattle of his, watched as they
put his ranch's brand on the new calves, seen those calves grow in turn into
breeding stock . . . . And once again, he begins to plant the crop in his mind, to
harvest and sell, to reinvest the profits in new land. "Tea?" The candy butcher wakes him.
Arthur needs a cup of tea: his mouth is parched, his throat cottony, and his head
aches from another night of fitful sleep on the bumpy train. If only... if only he'd
had another week to plan and prepare his departure. Again he fingers his few
remaining coins: "No," he says. Chapter 2
Arthur Marsall has been in Benton for almost a week. Waiting. And still hasn't
figured out what he is going to do for a living or how he is going to pay his hotel
Not that it is much of a hotel, though it is Benton's best and only
accommodation—tiny, stuffy rooms with two soiled sheets, a blanket and a hard
wooden bed Arthur has to make up himself.
Nothing in the town is as the railway promised. The "rich, lush farmland" is
largely stones. The "beautiful scenery"—no denying its existence, not with a line
of mountains on the western horizon—cannot take the place of a steady living. For
the mountains are only a few million years old and have barely begun to be
covered with topsoil. In some places, huge sheets of rock protrude through the
ground, and the farmers, a patient lot, mainly from Sweden and Norway though a
few are Quakers from England and Germany, simply work around them.
The town itself is little more a strip along the railroad track. "Benton's a big
town, as towns go out there." But this isn't very big at all. Say, three blocks long
by two blocks wide.
Arthur soon knows each of Benton's six and a half blocks by heart. He walks
them steadily each morning and each evening for want of anything else he can
afford to do. He knows he has to get a job, if only to pay his continually mounting
hotel bill, but what jobs can a man find in the Wyoming Territory if his only skills are with accounts and ledgers. As for Arthur’s dream of owning his own ranch,
with a huge, ever-growing herd of cattle, that was just a dream, wasn't it?
Arthur arrived in Benton with little more than the clothes on his back, two clean
white shirts, half-dozen fresh collars, and a second pair of shiny corduroys he'd
already worn too many days on the train. He has a small stack of bills, the sole
proceeds of the embezzlement, but these won't last long. Simple things like shirts
and shoes are far more expensive here than in Philadelphia or Chicago.
The white shirts he packed so neatly mark him as a gambler rather than a ranch
hand, and have earned him only hard looks. He wore an old faded blue work shirt
on the train, a shirt his father had worn before him. Now, washed by hand in the
very same water he bathes in, it is all he has left to wear.
With the money Arthur took from the cashier's drawer, he was able to ride first
class from Philadelphia to Rock Island, coach from Chicago to St Louis, and then,
his "fortune" reduced to a small, half-inch stack of bills, was happy for just any
kind of seat on a train.
The candy butcher who came aboard at Iowa City made constant fun of him—
"Guy here takes the free cream and sugar, but won't pay for the tea. Says he works
for the railroad. Can you imagine?"
Arthur writhed in embarrassment each time he heard the candy butcher's call.
Once, Arthur was sitting with Miss Mary-Ellen Mills, a schoolteacher from St
Louis, who was on her way to Wyoming to accept a position in Happy Valley,
somewhere to the west of his own destination. Lost in conversation, Arthur hadn't
noticed the candy butcher creep up on them. "Do you want something, Miss?" the vendor asked and, when Mary-Ellen indicated Arthur might want something too,
continued gratingly, "Not him of course, he hasn't got the cash."
Well, Arthur had worked for the railroad, once, had a future there they told him,
though his progress had been slow enough. I'm a pauper, he thinks, unable to buy
a girl a cake and a cup of tea—much less buy one for myself. Embarrassment and
shame flood through him once again.
If Arthur had little money with him on the train, he has even less by the end of
his first week in Benton. His hotel bill, only partly paid, his one bath shared with a
pair of pants and his workshirt, and the too few, too small meals devoured more
than half of his remaining funds.
The prices in the saloon next door are as high or higher than those on the train.
The food is plentiful, good and tasty, but a man can spend almost as much at that
plain table as in the finest restaurant in Philadelphia.
Can he afford another, a final beer? The day has been a hot one. His throat is
as dusty as his clothes, for he spent the day trudging from store to store, asking
unsuccessfully for work. "A beer," he orders, though his heart sinks even as he
takes the first refreshing draught. He plucks a final handful of coins from his
pocket and slowly, reluctantly places the largest on the counter.
"My treat," says a voice in his ear and the coin is flipped backwards toward
Arthur's deadened fingers. "A whiskey and a beer here for the winner," says the
voice, "and I'll cover the beer here for my friend as well."
"Thanks," stammers Arthur, and would have babbled on in gratitude. But the
cowboy, his name is Fleming, Arthur learns shortly, pushes off with a friendly thumbs-up gesture, grasps the nearest dance hall girl by the arm and leads her off
toward a room upstairs.
In the days that follow, Arthur often sees Fleming standing just outside the
saloon joking with his friends. A tall cowboy with bad teeth and an ever-present
smile, the dome-shaped hat that he wears indoors as well as out with his long hair
streaming down in a pony tail beneath it sets him apart from the other men. The
top two buttons of his shirt are always open, displaying a silver locket resting
against his neck. The locket is a woman's, topped with a filigree of rosebuds, but
Arthur sees no one there cares to joke about it. Other men in the saloon may
appear more dangerous, like the two full-bearded mountain men who often sit at
Fleming's faro table, or a slick gambler called Graham whose silver-handled
derringer can be glimpsed each time he reaches inside his vest pocket for a
cheroot, but Fleming alone commands universal respect.
I would like him to be my friend, Arthur thinks, although the truth is that apart
from a certain innate generosity and a perhaps-not-altogether-traditional sense of
right and wrong, Fleming is not much better or worse than the other men around
him. If Fleming makes his living today with a deck of cards rather than a gun, who
is to say how he'll earn his keep tomorrow.
I wish I were a gambling man, Arthur thinks, just maybe I could win the money
I need. But he isn't a gambler; and the prospect of losing his few remaining coins
keeps him from the gaming tables. Still, the dreams of winning keep Arthur
coming back again and again to the doorway of the saloon. He has sketched it all out in his mind, a dozen times, as he sits in his room or
walks through the streets of the town:
The draw of the cards, his slow casual raising of the stakes. . . . One after the
other, the men at the table drop out of the pot, until only one opponent remains.
This man seldom has a face; he is, if anything, more like one of the clerks Arthur
knew back in Philadelphia, than like one of the dusty, all-too-real ranch hands with
tobacco-stained teeth who sit playing cards hour after hour in the saloon. In the
final betting round, Arthur is the winner. He gathers the bill-filled pot toward him
across the table. "The pot against the dance hall," he hears himself croak, or, in
another variation of his dream, "your farm against the pot." Another draw from the
deck, and there he is—the winner! Deed in hand! Fleming is the first guest at his
new ranch, and Mary-Ellen Marsall prepares supper in the kitchen.
Many times after dreaming this dream, Arthur gets up from his narrow hotel
bed, extracts the last dollar certificate from the depths of his suitcase, and is
halfway out of his hotel room before the dread hits him: what if I lose it all?
And men did lose; he'd seen this through the crack in the dance hall shutters,
men with farms, men who'd worked for a month or a season to get the money lost
in a night of gambling. But if Arthur cannot find work, what else can he do but
trust to luck?
Once again that evening, Arthur sets out on a long aimless walk that takes him
to the edge of town and out into the country. He follows the trail the stage
followed before they’d built the railroad, a trail maintained only because those who
came from the East to farm settled along it. About a mile from town, the road splits into two. To the north, the road soon
ends in a heap of rubble where the railroad construction workers piled the
unwanted rock. The remaining branch circles west toward the hills from farm to
farm, part boundary, part gateway. Soon, tomorrow perhaps, Arthur will have to
set out in this direction, hat in hand, to ask for work. He does so to occupy the
time this evening, walking for several miles, and passes only a single farm along
He walks until the sun disappears behind the western hills and the last light
flees from the graying sky. For an instant, the tall peaks to the north are bathed in
an orange-red glow. Then Arthur is immersed in a total, all-embracing darkness,
for the stars are hidden behind a thick bank of clouds, the lights of the town few
and distant. What am I doing here, he asks himself. And slowly, carefully, a tree
branch held before him like a blind man's cane, he makes his way back along the
Just at the edge of town, a single point of light marks where the lamp outside
the livery stable burns. He stops for an instant in the circle of its radiance and
recalls ruefully how he once told someone back home, jokingly, "Well, I can
always work in a livery stable."
And he could, if he knew something about horses, if he knew the right way and
the wrong way to rub them down after a ride, knew how to mix their feed, and
wasn't afraid to slip the feed bag over their enormous tooth-filled heads. He'd been on top of a horse exactly once in his life, a Saturday afternoon outing
with other men from his company—rented horses in the park, sedate horses,
already saddled, that walked one after the other in a line.
Not that he has the money to rent or buy a horse now. He curses his poverty,
his lack of foresight. For a moment, just one, he thinks, I shall kill myself, and
then he puts that thought away.
For an hour or more that evening, Arthur lay on his narrow hotel bed, with only
his black thoughts for company. At eight, he left the hotel and set out on his final
walk of the day; he had no particular destination in mind; really, this walk like his
first was just a way of escaping the voices and the music in the dance hall below.
This time, his route takes him to the eastern edge of town where several of the
merchants have built their homes. Their houses have large, heavily planted front
yards, and make Arthur just a little less homesick.
As he strides a second time that evening through the circle of light outside the
livery stable, he sees Arthur Graham walking toward him. Graham, a professional
gambler, spends most of each afternoon and evening seated at a poker table. Like
Arthur he is much given to walks; his nocturnal strolls are his way of tuning up his
body for the long night ahead.
Arthur has encountered Graham on these strolls before, but the two have done
little to acknowledge each other's presence.
Once Arthur stood side by side with Graham on the porch of their hotel while
the sun set slowly in the distance and the evening cooled around them. Graham
puffed slowly on a long brown cheroot as the sky to the west of town turned a final fiery red, fading slowly away until only the glow of Graham's cigar could be seen
outlined in the darkness.
Arthur could hear the rush of bats, shrill high squeaks, hear, rather than see
three men, passing on horses. A coyote howled in the desert far off to the east of
town and, a short while later, the answering howls of a much larger band of
coyotes sounded from the hills to the north. Neither man spoke in the ten or fifteen
minutes they stood there. But before Graham went back inside the dance hall, he
nodded to Arthur, a slight motion of his head in the darkness. This nod, and the
occasional "howdy," have been their only contact.
Arthur knows who Graham is, of course; Arthur has watched Graham sitting
hour after hour at the gaming table, watched him strip the cowboys and the farmers
of their money, seen him seeming to match his opponents drink for drink while
only sipping at his glass. Not that Graham always won: "I'm the goddamed best
loser this side of Natchez." But Arthur, with a bookkeeper's natural affinity for
numbers, notes that Graham's many losses consist of small amounts, while his few
occasional wins, toward the end of an afternoon or night of intensive play, may
strip his opponents of all they possess.
In this sense, Graham and Arthur are brothers. Hadn't Arthur, too, suffered
many small losses, many small remembered insults, until one day, carefully
planned, he took the money bound for the office safe, slipped it inside his coat, and
made his way to the station where his bags, already checked, were waiting to board
the train. And where has that money gone, Arthur asks himself, those few dollars that
once meant freedom? On tickets, Pullman fares, clothes, food, hotel, until no more
than a few coins and a single bill remain hidden in the lower compartment of a
Suddenly, Arthur is overtaken by a fierce trembling passion that forces him to
stand shaking at the side of the road: this evil man Graham, strolling nonchalantly
no more than a few feet away, has so much; he, Arthur, has so little. Literally
grasping for survival, Arthur picks up a thick piece of wood used to block open a
door to the stables during the swelter of the day. He hefts it in his hand. If they
would just give me a chance, he thinks. And brings the wood up into the air and
down on top of Graham's head. Chapter 3
He has no memory, none, of the walk from the stables to his hotel.
He should not have been able to walk up the broad front stairs without some
person hollering, "There he goes, a murderer," but somehow he has; somehow, he's
made it past the watchful eye of the clerk, up the two levels of narrow creaking
stairway, and down the darkened attic passage until he is in his own small room.
He didn't even light the oil lamp, but undressed in the dark, not wanting his room
to stand out like a beacon in the darkened rear of the hotel.
The valiant only die but once; a coward dies a thousand times. I know what I
am, thinks Arthur. He remembers how he felt when he first read the news from
Gettysburg: 10,000 killed. First, a wave of relief that he, Arthur, was alive, and
then only shame that he had not been there to fight alongside his schoolmates,
shame that he had failed to support and protect the older brother who now lay
among the dead on the long green Gettysburg plain. The older brother who lay like
a murdered gambler, dead in an alleyway.
No! A scream bursts from Arthur's lips. He sits bolt upright in the bed, his
heart throbbing. First, he paws at the air driving away unseen demons. Then,
realizing at last he is alone, awake in his room above the dance hall, he relapses
into fear. Has someone heard his scream? Would they know then, that he is the
murderer? Will they burst into his room, the marshal at their head, question him,
find him guilty, hang him on the spot? He lies motionless, determined to be silent,
to stifle even the sound of his breathing. But no corresponding sound of footsteps can be heard, no sound but the music of a Virginia reel from the dance hall on the
floor below, and slowly, gradually Arthur drifts off again into sleep.
To wake again, and again, each time with the same fearful dream, the same
inaudible scream on his lips.
The next morning, before breakfast, Arthur goes through the money belt he's
taken from the other man: Some newly minted bills, already worn and stained
from many hands, a few odd looking coins—are they Spanish?—two American
silver dollars, a gold nugget. The nugget might be worth a great deal of money,
though it will be some time before he will be able to trade it safely for cash. At the
moment, too many questions will arise about where and how he'd come by it. Still,
with the bills and coins, he will be able to pay the hotel for his room and have a
good, filling breakfast. He will be able at last to buy the work boots he needs and
covets. He might even hire a horse from the livery stable and ride out into the
country on a tour of inspection.
Oh, God. He has killed a man. The coins he plans to spend so casually belong
by rights to the dead man, not to him. The food he will buy, the boots he will wear
are on loan from a man murdered in an alleyway.
A few moments later, Arthur stands on the hotel mezzanine. He had hoped to
creep down the stairs and into the dining room undetected, but trapped under the
direct gaze of the ever-watchful desk clerk, has not been successful.
"Sir, about your bill; did you get the money? You said you were expecting a
wire." What could the man be playing at? No telegram had come for him the previous
evening. He would know that. The town was too small for everyone not to know
everyone else's business. Did this mean the clerk knew about the murder? Is he
testing Arthur, trying to get him to confess? Arthur thinks quickly.
"No. No, I didn't; but, you know, I did find a couple of coins I overlooked."
The clerk's eyes widen at the sight of the silver dollars. "Thank you, Sir," he
says, completing the entry in his book, "and here's your change." Arthur will have
breakfast after all.
In the dry goods store, Arthur uses his own money to buy a set of work
clothes—two pairs of the new Levi jeans, and several sensible work shirts. He
also buys a leather jacket reasoning that the sooner he wears and breaks in such a
jacket the better.
(Later, he will regret not having bought a pair of leather workpants for use in
the saddle, but he could not have known then that he would soon embark on a long
and fearful journey through the darkness.)
He buys a kerchief, two of them, for use in wiping the dust from his face and
neck, and considers, then rejects a pair of work gloves. The men he sees about him
all have calloused hands roughened and ready for work. Better his hands should
bleed for a brief period than reap a harvest of scornful looks.
That night, for the second time since his initial entry into Benton, Arthur goes
into the dance hall, adjacent to the bar. Not to gamble, though more than a dozen
men are already hard at work at three poker tables, nor to go upstairs with the girls,
though the two that sit near the bar, rouged and powdered, seem ready and willing to go with him, nor to drink—he is not much of a drinker and at home a single
tankard of ale with supper was just about his limit, but simply for the company and
the hope he might find the man Jake Fleming with whom he'd spoken on his first
day in town.
One of the poker games breaks up and a group of cowboys come over to the
bar. "It's the dude," says one of the winners, Bill Toomey to his friend pointing out
Arthur. To Arthur he says, "You're looking better feller. Got yourself some work
"Still looks like the rear-end of a horse," barks his friend Tom Feathers, the
biggest loser in the game that night. This insulting remark is not one Tom would
have made ordinarily, even to a dude, but he is angry from his continuing bad luck
at the poker table. The other cowboys look expectantly at Arthur. The dude has
been insulted; will it be fists or guns? Either way, they’d have some welcome
Slowly, Arthur becomes conscious of their expectations. But I don't have a gun,
he thinks, I don't know how to fight.
"You in the war, son?" asks one of the watching cowboys.
"I had a brother who died at Gettysburg," Arthur replies without turning to see
who has spoken to him. He keeps his eyes straight ahead on Feathers.
"While you cowered at home under the bed clothes," Feathers says.
Arthur slaps him.
A gun appears in Feathers' hand. "Hey!" Bill Toomey calls and grabs his friend's arm; when Feathers resists, two
other cowboys grab him from behind. "Tom, damn it, he doesn't have a gun."
"Go get your gun," Feathers hisses between clenched teeth.
"I don't have a gun," Arthur says. From out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees
Fleming, black hillbilly hat perched precariously on his head, standing among the
"Well then, I'll give you half an hour to get one," Feathers says. "Meet me
outside, or the boys and I'll come and get you."
Arthur looked about him, vainly hoping for someone who understands the rules
of civilization. You can't just challenge a man like that can you? Force him to
fight a duel he has no hope of winning? But all he sees are steely faces, the same
blank expressionless faces that have greeted him the last two weeks: "No work, no
work here," or "What is it you say you do?" and when he tells them, ask "You
know how to cut cattle?"
Feathers' sidekicks, Bill Toomey and Ted Barnes, are openly sneering. Steve
Wilson, the head bartender, the only man present besides Arthur who wears a
white collar, seems entertained by the prospect of Arthur's death, as if it were a
treat arranged especially for his customers. As for Fleming, the man he's thought
of as his friend, Fleming simply walks away.
Arthur staggers from the room. One hour and they will come for him. Unless
he runs, steals a horse from the stables; but they will be watching the stables,
waiting for him to run. He has no choice. He straps on the money belt he had taken from Graham,
makes it tight and secure at his waist. He leaves on the long-tailed work shirt he
had worn downstairs, the one that makes him look like a man, not a dude. He puts
on his new leather jacket.
I'll go out in style, he thinks and his mind flashes back to the previous evening:
the gambler lying in the alley, Arthur crouching beside him, carefully folding back
the dead man's coat tails and reaching gently to untie his money belt.
Something glints in the moonlight: a small pearl-handled derringer, strapped in
its holster. Arthur left the gun in place initially—what did he know about guns?—
but later, standing in the alleyway, preparing to leave—it had taken Arthur a long
while to accept that Graham was not unconscious but dead, that he would never
recover from Arthur's cowardly blow—Arthur knelt down a second time and
removed the derringer from Graham's body.
He'd made the discovery then: not one, but two derringers, each in a separate
holster. The first, visible, straps to Graham's chest; the second, hidden, is behind
the gambler's back. Graham could surrender the first, the most obvious of the
derringers when he entered a gambling saloon and still have a backup available.
Now the straps go around Arthur's chest, the holsters are made secure, a
derringer is placed into each holster. Arthur practices drawing from the front
holster once, twice in front of the mirror, and then his new, untanned leather jacket
goes on over the guns, hiding them from view.
Sometimes, it does not pay to think too much. The world seldom attaches the
importance to our lives that we do ourselves. Had Arthur stayed up in his room, played the greenhorn the cowboys thought him to be, this story might have taken
quite a different turn. Downstairs in the Benton Saloon, the quarrel between
Arthur Marsall and Tom Feathers is forgotten. Feathers is well on his way to
getting drunk, matched drink for drink by his good friend Bill Toomey. From time
to time, one or the other emits a guffaw and says, "Did you see the look on that
greenhorn's face? He's probably gone upstairs to clean the brown stains from his
"New pants, too," says the other, "Pity." and they both guffaw a second time.
For the other cowboys, too, Arthur is already the stuff of legend. So not one
person there can help but be surprised when Arthur appears at the entrance to the
saloon and hollers in a harsh quavering voice, "Tom Feathers. I've come back for
you. I'm wearing a gun, now."
Feathers looks up and tries to shake the cobwebs from his alcohol-clouded
brain. "Hav' a drink," he says, stumbling over his words.
But Arthur, still shaking with fear, does not hear him. "Didn't you hear what I
said, I've got a gun." He takes Graham's derringer from its holster and points it at
the drunken man.
"He's got a gun," someone hollers and cowboys and dance hall girls scatter.
In seconds, the center of the room is clear, except for a party of men at one of
the poker tables, Fleming among them, who seem more concerned for their hands
than their lives.
"Sit down," Fleming says, "We'll all have a drink." "I'm not afraid," Arthur says. Everything about him seems to be in slow
motion, as if it were part of a dream, a terrifying dream that had begun the night
before in the alley outside the stables.
"We know that," Fleming continues, "No problem. Have a seat. Things O.K.
with you Tom?"
"Yeah sure," says Tom from his kneeling position in front of the bar. An acrid
odor reveals that Tom like the legendary greenhorn has indeed gone to the
bathroom in his pants. "Can I get up now?" he says to Arthur.
Arthur sits down at Fleming's table, the gun held out lifelessly before him. He
doesn't, can't speak. He has risked all, died a thousand deaths in the loneliness of
his room, embarrassed himself, and it seems that no one cares.
"Can I get up now?" Tom Feathers calls a second time.
"Tell him he can get up," Fleming says.
"Oh, sure. Get up," Arthur calls to Tom, "Come join us for a drink." He smiles
at Fleming. Things will be all right then.
Fleming returns the smile, tongue showing between the gaps in his teeth. "And
you should probably put your gun away," he says to Arthur looking down as if for
the first time at the table where Arthur has placed the weapon.
"Oh sure," Arthur says a second time.
"Pearl handle," Fleming says admiringly, looking at the derringer, "Nice."
Abruptly, Fleming's eyes narrow. "Holy, shit," he says, "That's Graham's gun." To download the remaining chapters, go to https://www.shop.zanybooks.com/
You might also want to read a second exciting western by author Luke Jackson, The Canyon
Reuben Lee has followed the trail from Louisiana to Santa Fe trusting and being betrayed at each step along the way. Looking for the “Source of All the Waters,” he stumbles upon the Grand Canyon and the hidden village of the Havasupai where two white women are held captive. Reuben instantly falls in love with Helen Winston, the golden-haired teen-age daughter.
Helen’s family had been en route from St. Louis to California when their wagon train was attacked and Helen and her mother taken prisoner. Reuben persuades Helen to escape with him, accompanied by her friend Spring Morning, the daughter of a Spanish ambassador. The Havasupai chase the trio up the trail to the Canyon's rim and through the forest toward Flagstaff. Helen's childishness brings the threesome close to calamity time after time, but is offset by Spring Morning's courage and maturity.
They reach the town of Sojourn where Reuben must compete for Helen's attention with a horde of single men. But the Havasupai have not abandoned the chase. The town of Sojourn is destroyed in the Indian attack and Reuben and the two girls are the sole survivors.
Reuben and the girls live off the land avoiding the Apache until they find the Southern wagon route to California. Approaching a burnt-out wagon train to see if they can aid the survivors, they narrowly avoid a group of bandits who are robbing the corpses.
The town of Hostler's Rest, near the site of present-day Phoenix, is not what it seems. The general store is stocked with merchandise stolen from the wagon trains; the townspeople are scavengers living off the leavings of the bandits. Reuben loses Helen to the bandit chief only to discover Spring Morning is the woman he has loved all along.
Purchase and read your copy of The Canyon
today. To purchase more fine ebooks like the The Canyon
and The Gunfighter
, go to http://zanybooks.com.