The Last Shootist (9 page)

 

Twelve

 

Tularosa had the black reputation of an outlaw town, where unsmiling men arrived by horse or stage, between two suns and one jump ahead of the sheriff. Laws there were minimal and their few enforcers indulgent. It was a community of small farms growing alfalfa mostly, worked by Mexicans with a liberal splash of gringo blood running the town's businesses. Swift Tularosa Creek watered the long and narrow town with fingers and thumb of orchard and farmlet via
acequias
off the smoother ridges as they fell away from the narrow shelf of land below the Sacramento Mountains, which loomed barrier-long to the east. Transplanted Texans ran their cattle near springs in the stony hills and slopes extending up into the mountain range and fed their herds and horses on that alfalfa during the harder winters.

Gillom rode past mud-daubed adobes and a couple more substantial structures, the Santa Fe railroad office and the post office. It was a town of little shade. He smelled the stable at the south end of the town before he rode up to it. The old stableman was more interested in his supper, but they bargained a wash and a couple days' feed for his two tired horses.

“Gene Rhodes? Yeah, I think he's in town. Either at his wife's house, or at the Wolf, playin' cards. Right down this street, right-hand side.”

“Where can I get a good meal, maybe a bath, this time of night?”

“Tularosa House, center of town. Expensive, though, if they ain't already full.” The proprietor scratched his stubble. “The Wolf, too. Bed down in their storeroom, them that's over-indulged.” The old man smiled, displaying partially vacant gums. From the odor off him, this wasn't the man to ask the whereabouts of a bath.

The Wolf was better than he expected, with its head of the predator painted larger than life over the batwing front doors. A real grey wolf's head was mounted over the bar inside, jaw stretched, yellow teeth frozen in a snarl. Intimidating, especially on a dark night with a few whiskeys in your gut.

Gillom limped to the long counter, feeling every muscle ache after three days in the saddle, by far the longest ride he'd ever taken. The tall bartender eyed his young, grimy guest skeptically.

“Mister, I need a bath and a bed for the night.”

The barkeep smoothed his waxed mustache. “Can throw your bedroll in our back storeroom for a dollar. Wash trough out in the alley is free. Towel's your own.”

“I could also use a beefsteak, burnt, fried potatoes, and a beer.”

“That's
two
dollars. In advance.”

Gillom dug into his grimy new jeans for two singles, which he thumbed from a wad.

The bartender took his money. “Drop your gear in back. Time you clean up, your supper'll be ready.”

Gillom Rogers smiled for the first time in three days. Sauntering down the long bar, his limp forgotten, he noted the free lunch set out—pretzels, sausages, mustard, olives, crackers, and cheese. He helped himself to a pickle, crunching it, letting its sour juice run down his chin as he went out back to clean up.

*   *   *

Refreshed, Gillom sat at a table near the bar, demolishing his steak while he looked around the long barroom, lightly patronized this spring weeknight with a scattering of players at the monte, faro, senate, and poker tables, ending at an empty billiard table in the rear. In this outlaw town they had no trouble with a teenager drinking, so Gillom motioned for another brew. As he was served, he queried the nattily dressed bartender.

“Lookin' for Eugene Rhodes.”

“Sure. If Gene's not up at his horse ranch, he'll be over at the little house west of town he's renting for his wife, May, who's expecting. But he'll be in here sooner or later. Mister Rhodes is fond of poker.”

Gillom stopped in midchew. “I'll be here a day or two, restin' my horses.”

The barkeep smoothed his silk vest. “Who's lookin' for him?”

“Friend of a friend. From El Paso.”

“Uh-huh.” The bartender gave him a cool stare.

*   *   *

After an exhausted sleep on a hard floor, Gillom was up next morning for that bath and a haircut at the barber shop, turning in his dirty clothes at the Mexican laundry and having a big breakfast at the Oasis Café. He took his time checking on his horses at the stable, then bought a calfskin wallet at a leather goods. Nothing doing at the blacksmith's, so Gillom had a gunsmith clean his Remingtons while watching the process, then bought gun oil, a brush, and some rags to do it later himself.

Gillom relaxed outside the gun shop, letting a boy with a shoebox spit-shine his boots, the brown ones with a yellow lightning bolt on each leather top. He watched a couple schoolgirls idle down the boardwalk window shopping. The Wolf's bartender walked into his view from a side street on his way to work.

“Mister Rhodes was tending his yard not a half hour ago. Said he'd be in the Wolf tonight.”

*   *   *

A long nap that afternoon left him rested, so Gillom was in good fettle as he finished another beefsteak that evening. Friday night's arrival had aroused the saloon business and the gambling tables along one side of the Wolf were busy. The bartender, whom he'd been tipping well, caught Gillom's eye and nodded toward the stocky man who'd just walked in the front door. Short-framed, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds after a big meal, Eugene Manlove Rhodes had a handsome head of unruly blond hair. He caught the bartender's eye, too, and followed his nod to the teenager's table.

“You the sprout making inquiries after me?”

Gillom dropped his knife and fork and rose up. “Yes, sir, Mister Rhodes. Please, take a seat. Can I buy you a drink?”

Gene slid out a chair. “Only imbibe coffee or wate'. Whiskey's the cause a most of the killings in the West and I don't carry a gun.”

Gillom pantomimed drinking from a cup to a bartender. “Only take an occasional beer myself. Noticed your crooked nose. Thought you might be a scrapper?”

Rhodes grinned. “Neve' walk away from fisticuffs or a wrestling match. But when weapons come out and the combatants get blood-crazed, I head the othe' direction.” He thanked the bartender who served him his coffee. “You a two-gun man, I see.”

It was Gillom's turn to smile. “Carry one for either side of the border.”

Eugene Rhodes eyed the teenager thoughtfully. “What
are
you doin' here, kid?”

“Well, I needed to get outta El Paso awhile, catch some fresh air in some new country. Dan Dobkins, of the
Daily Herald,
mentioned your horse ranch up in the mountains.”

“Dan and I share an interest in writing and American history. Dobkins is a newspape' man, always reporting on the wilde' characters in this lawless land, whereas I make my Western stories up. I've had a couple articles published in
Out West
magazine from Los Angeles, so Dan encourages me during my visits to his sinful city.” The rancher scratched his bent nose. “I can understand why you'd want to leave a twenty-four-hour town like El Paso. Helluva fast city for a kid to grow up in.”

Gillom played with his new Stetson, curling the sides of the brim upward with his long fingers. He had to listen hard, for Eugene Rhodes spoke with a slight lisp, dropping his “r's” due to a cleft palate he tried to conceal under his broad mustache. The tough rancher didn't seem self-conscious, though, even of his high-pitched voice.

“Oh, I'll get back to the Pass. My mother lives there. My dad was a railroad engineer, died when I was just a tad, so I've gotta look after my mother.”

Rhodes nodded. “I'll take you to the San Andes when I pack a load of supplies up for my wrangle' day afte' tomorrow. Gotta hang round the house here awhile for May. Married a widow with a young son and she's expecting our first baby in a couple months. Horse ranch is too lonely for youngsters.”

Gillom started to thank him, but they were interrupted by a commotion outside the saloon. A horse squealed and someone yelled in pain as Gene took off from the table at a fast trot in his high-heeled boots. Gillom hurried behind his new host through the batwing door.

Outside a roan horse was hot-eyed and kicking, having loosed its tie-rein from the hitching post. A long-haired cowboy was down on both knees attempting to crawl away from the stamping bronco.

“What happened to you, fella?”

“Stom-ach cramps. Godamighty,” groaned the cowhand. “Somethin' I et.”

“Ohh,” smiled Gene. “And a big bruise to go with 'em. Miste', you'd betta see a docta', get some purgative.”

“Yah…” The cowhand crawled slowly away from his trouble.

Gillom joined the older rancher gentling his snorty horse in front of the crowd of gawkers who had run outside for the excitement.

“What was that about?”

“We've been plagued by saddle thieves. Few weeks ago I lost my best saddle right here in front of the Wolf. They ride off into the night, let you' horse loose to return, but you' saddle's headed somewheres else. So I trained this raw bronc Indian-style, to be mounted from the right instead of from the left. That jaspe' tried to mount him regula', on the left side, and got a hoof in the belly for his dirty work.” The explanation drew chuckles from the Wolf's patrons. “Any a you boys see that jaspe' spookin' you' horses again, give him a good kick for me, wouldcha?”

To shouts of “Sure will, Gene,” and “He ain't welcome round here,” the drinkers and gamblers filed back in the saloon.

Gene Rhodes tightened his half-broke horse's cinch and hoisted himself back onto his second best saddle from the wrong side.

“You a gamble', son?”

“Nope. Can't afford the expense of learnin' poker.”

“Good. Hold onto you' money. Poker's
my
affliction, so I'll cut the wolf loose in he' tomorrow night.”

“Okay, Mister Rhodes.”

Gene wheeled the anxious animal and booted him down the hard-packed street.

“Call me Gene!”

 

Thirteen

 

Walter Thibido was not in a positive frame of mind as he clomped up the few stairs to Bond Rogers's front porch. The marshal usually left domestic difficulties to his deputies and he hadn't enjoyed dickering with this imperious widow and her sassy kid in his jail. But those special guns were too valuable to ignore.

The mother answered his hard knock. “Marshal?”

“Missus Rogers. Those pistols turn up?”

“No, I'm sorry to say, they have not. I've no idea what happened to them.”

“I want to speak to your son.”

“Well, he's not here. Gillom left.”

“For where?”

“I don't know. He rode out of town and said he was going to catch a train, probably headed west.”

El Paso's top lawman glared at her, frustrated. He had not removed his Stetson in deference, and out of courtesy, she had not invited him inside.

“Probably took those Remingtons with him.”

“Gillom was not armed when he left here, that I saw.”

“When was that?”

“Three mornings ago. Early.”

“Uh-huh. We had a well-chawed body turn up in our alligator pond, San Jacinto Plaza, that same day. Young Mexican, nephew of this Serrano, from Juarez.”

Mrs. Rogers acted perplexed. “So?”

“Serrano was a cattle rustler, an all-purpose
bandido
. One of the bad boys J. B. Books killed in that shoot-out in the Constantinople. Now Serrano's cousin turns up as alligator bait on our side of the line, and his relatives are looking for another missing young kin to this same
bandido
.” The tightly wound lawman paced about in a little circle on her porch, thinking aloud. “Now your son's flown the coop, too. All three young men are connected to the Books shoot-out and I wanna know how closely?”

“I didn't read about any alligators eating Mexicans in the paper?”

“No, we're keeping that quiet. Frightens the tourists. But there were .44-.40-caliber slugs in that Mexican kid, so the alligators didn't grab him first. I'm gonna put out a wanted bulletin for your Gillom.”

“On what grounds?”

“He's a witness in a murder investigation. And suspected of gun theft. That's enough for the law to pick him up, anytime, anywhere he turns up.”

No arguing with this bully. Mrs. Rogers shut her front door. Walter Thibido shouted through it.

“You see or hear from your son, tell him to save himself more trouble, turn himself in. He's got more explaining to do!”

Bond Rogers rested her head against a framed tintype on the wall, of her mother and father and her brother, with her standing in front, all smiling on a sunny day somewhere else. She caught her breath and fought back tears.

*   *   *

Gillom Rogers spent another day lazing around Tularosa, browsing the limited goods in their general store. He got in more practice with his pistols in the alley out behind the Wolf, dry-firing only, not disturbing their peace. He spent another hour under an arch of cottonwoods on a bench in their little plaza writing a letter to his mother, Bond, reassuring her he was okay and had already met a fella who was going to teach him to wrangle horses. Gillom licked a pencil lead and listened to the mockingbirds in the cottonwoods' branches. The Wolf's bartender walked by late afternoon again on his way to work.

“Gotta move your gear outta our storeroom, son. Holding a fight in there tonight.”

“Then where do I sleep? I paid for that bare corner!”

“You can move back in after the fight's over. That spot's for drunks anyway.”

Gillom nodded to the older man, who waved as he walked off.
At least the locals are warmin' up to me a mite,
he realized.

*   *   *

Gillom was finishing another dinner steak when Gene Rhodes strolled into the Wolf.