Authors: Robert J. Randisi
Butler played some poker that evening, won a little bit of money while he was trying to gauge the caliber of the other players. He also paid some attention to Bat Masterson’s table. Bat did a good business, and from what Butler could tell, took money from all comers.
Earlier in the day Butler had met Bat’s deputy, a young man named Dean Collier. He was in his mid-twenties, and seemed to be in total awe of his boss. While Bat was manning his faro table Deputy Collier would come in and out, apparently with questions for his boss. At times Bat would roll his eyes, answer the young man, and send him on his way.
It was almost time for Butler to relieve Bat at his table when Collier came in again. He walked to Bat’s table, whispered something that caused Bat to wave his hands and abruptly close his table. He and Collier started for the door, then stopped short. Bat said something to his deputy, then turned and walked to the poker table where Butler was sitting.
“Want me to take your table?” Butler asked, looking up at him.
“How are you doin’?” Bat asked.
“I’m making money but I can get away.”
“I don’t need you to stand at my table, but I might have need of your gun, if you’re a mind to give it.”
“Got something you and your deputy can’t handle?”
“I might.”
Butler didn’t need to hear any more. He cashed out of the game and followed Bat to the door.
“Why do we need him?” Collier asked as they stepped outside.
“How many men have you shot at, Dean?”
“Well…none.”
“Then shut up.”
As they started down the street Bat explained to Butler, “We got a saloon at the far end of town—if we were in Dodge it would be in the red-light district. The bartender there sent a runner over to the office to say there was trouble brewin’. At that end of town that usually means shootin’. In the past I’ve been able to talk these fellas down, but the last time it almost came to gunplay. This time…”
“How many men we talkin’ about?”
“Probably half a dozen,” Bat said. “They’re young, and don’t think the law applies to them.”
“They’re not impressed with you?”
Bat gave him a look.
“Not everybody is impressed with me, Butler,” he said. “But even if they are, they been buildin’ up to tryin’ me on for size. I’m guessin’ tonight might be the night.”
This wasn’t what Butler had signed on for, but when Bat Masterson asks you for help you don’t refuse.
In the Bucket of Blood saloon, at the far western end of town, six men in their mid twenties, guns in their hands, were holding the entire place hostage.
“Come on, boys,” Tom Reed, the owner said. “This has gone far enough, hasn’t it?”
“Naw, I don’t think it has,” Fred Vance said. He was the leader of the other five. They worked only when they had to, took what they wanted when they were drunk enough. Not full-fledged outlaws, but certainly in training. Holding a saloon full of men under their guns seemed to excite all of them.
Reed tried one of the other men.
“Hastings, you got some sense. Talk to Fred—”
Before he could finish Vance stepped forward and backhanded him across the face. Reed, an older man in his late fifties, staggered and almost fell. He wiped his mouth with the back of his own hand and came away with blood.
“You’re goin’ too far, Reed,” he said.
“Ya think so?” Reed asked. “Then go for that gun I know ya got under yer arm, Tom. Go ahead, I dare ya.”
“You goddamned young pup,” Reed said. “If you didn’t have five guns backin’ you up—”
“I’ll tell them to holster their guns, Tom. That make you any braver?”
Before Reed could answer, Toby Allen called from the door, “Law comin’.”
“Masterson?” Reed asked.
Toby nodded. “He’s got somebody with him.
“One’s his deputy, Collier,” Vance said. “He won’t be much trouble.”
“You’ll get all the trouble you want from Bat Masterson, Vance,” Reed said.
“You think so?” Vance asked. “There’s six of us, Tom.”
“That don’t matter,” Reed said. “Bat’s faced better than you, more than you, many times before.”
“Yeah, well,” Vance said, “maybe this time he’s gonna bite off more than he can handle.” He turned his attention to the room in general. The tables were full of men who were drinking and playing cards, tables full of men who had no desire to go for their guns. “The first man who touches his gun is dead. Understand?”
“They understand, Vance,” Reed said. “We all understand. This is gonna be between you and Bat. That’s what you want, ain’t it? To prove what a big man you are?”
“You wait and see, Tom,” Vance said. “You just wait and see how big a man I am.”
“Your father’s turnin’ over in his grave, Fred.”
“My father was yeller to the bone, Tom!” Vance shouted, “That ain’t me. That ain’t never gonna be me. I ain’t gonna grow to a ripe old age with a yeller streak down my back.”
“Son,” Tom Reed said, wiping blood from his mouth again, “I don’t think you’re gonna grow to a ripe old age, period.
Bat put his hand out to stop their progress.
“What’s the matter?” Collier asked.
“Listen.”
All three men strained and listened to the night.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Collier said.
“That’s the point,” Butler said. “How many saloons have you been in that are that quiet?”
“Somethin’s wrong?” Bat asked. “Dean, I want you to go around back. Try the back door, see if you can get in, and then wait for us to move.”
“What do I do when you move, Bat?”
“Just follow my lead, kid,” Bat said. “Don’t fire your gun unless I do. Got it?”
“I got it, Bat.”
“We’re gonna give you five minutes to get back there.”
Collier nodded and took off on the run.
“You trying to keep him out of harm’s way?” Butler asked.
“Let’s just say he’ll get into less trouble back there.” Bat looked at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I might, if I knew how many guns we were walking
into.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bat said. “We shoulda stopped by the office for a couple of shotguns.”
“Probably one behind the bar.”
“Fat lot of good it does us there.”
“You never know.”
Bat looked at his watch.
“Two minutes, and then we’re goin’ in.”
Butler nodded, and checked his gun.
“What are they doin’, Toby?” Vance asked.
“Just standin’ there, Fred.”
Vance looked around the room, his gun in his hand.
“Remember what I said,” he announced to the room at large. “I can get my gun out faster than any of you.”
“Don’t worry, Fred,” Reed said. “We’re all gonna watch.”
“Good.”
He holstered his gun, and his men gaped at him.
“Come on, put them up,” he said. “We don’t want Masterson to come in shootin’.”
Toby and the other men stared at him, and then one by one they holstered their weapons.
“Now spread out,” Vance said. “Masterson won’t be able to tell you from the others in here. And nobody move until I do.”
His men nodded and began to move about the room, picking their spots and standing ready.
“Time,” Bat said.
“How do you want to play this?”
Bat shrugged. “You got somethin’ in mind?”
“I’m not wearing a badge,” Butler said. “I could go
in first.”
“If anybody’s watchin’ they’ve seen us together by now,” Bat said. “Might not make a difference.”
“You never know.”
Bat thought a moment, then said, “Okay, then, go ahead. Be ready to use that gun, though. These are a bunch of young pups who are on the verge of becomin’ wild dogs. Don’t let the look of them fool you. None of them looks like they shave yet.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And whatever happened in there, don’t give up your gun.”
“I won’t,” Butler said. “Just give me a couple of minutes and then come ahead.”
“I appreciate the backup, Butler.”
“Thank me when it’s over.”
He headed for the saloon.
Butler mounted the boardwalk in front of the Bucket of Blood—how many saloons had he seen with that name in his travels—and entered through the batwing doors. As soon as he entered he felt the tension, realized he was the center of attention.
“What’s wrong with that marshal?” Butler asked.
No answer.
“Likes to give people a hard time for no reason?”
“You a stranger in town?” someone asked. He saw that it was a man standing at the bar. He was tall, wore a gun like he knew how to use it—or like someone taught him to wear it. He was in his twenties. Behind him a portly man in his fifties dabbed at a bleeding mouth.
“That’s right.”
“Marshal’s name is Bat Masterson,” the man said. “That mean anything to you?”
“I heard of him,” Butler said. “Can’t say it means anything to me, though. Can I move away from the door now? I’d like to get a beer.”
“Get your beer,” the man said, “and stay out of trouble.”
“Much obliged.”
Butler walked to the bar, directly to where the bartender was standing with his hands out of sight.
“Beer.”
“Yeah, sure,” the barman said. He pulled his hands from beneath the bar and drew Butler a beer. When he set the mug down in front of him his hands returned to their place under the bar. Butler felt sure the man was caressing a shotgun.
“Where is he?” someone called out. Butler spotted the speaker, standing in a corner.
“Shut up, Toby!” the man at the bar yelled.
Butler marked Toby down as one of the young pups Bat was talking about, did the same for the one at the bar.
It was so quiet in the saloon they all heard Bat’s footsteps on the boardwalk. As the lawman entered, the tension heightened. Butler put his beer mug down to keep his hand free. He also tried to signal the bartender with his eyes, but didn’t know if his message came across.
“Oh, shit,” Bat said. “It’s you, Fred.”
“It’s me, Masterson,” the man named Fred said. It was the fella who had told Butler to stay out of trouble. “What’s on your mind?”
“I think the question is, what’s on yours, Fred.”
Butler saw Bat’s eyes sweeping the room. He’s picking them out, he thought. One by one. So far Butler only had two identified, but Bat would know better since he’d dealt with them before. That meant Butler was going to do better concentrating on his two.
“We’re just havin’ a good time here, Masterson. No need for the law to interfere.”
“Well, you see it as interference, Fred,” Bat said, “I
see it as doing my job.” Bat leaned over a bit to peer at Tom Reed. “What happened to your mouth, Tom?”
“This young whelp backhanded me, Bat,” Reed said. “He didn’t have five guns behind him I woulda—”
“Shut up, Tom!”
“Five more guns, eh?” Bat asked. He looked around the room. “Smart man, Fred. You got your men blending in with the crowd, huh?”
Vance said nothing.
“Of course you know that anyone who’s not with you is gonna hit the floor when the shooting starts.”
Vance frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.
“That means I’ll be shooting at whoever’s standin’.”
“Don’t matter,” Vance said. “We’re six against one.”
“You like those odds?”
“I’d bet ’em.”
“I tell you what,” Bat said. “I ain’t even gonna shoot at you, Fred. I’m gonna take out your men.”
“And I’m gonna take you out, Masterson.”
“Naw, you’ll be dead,” Bat said. “See, I got my own men in with the crowd. One of them has got his eyes on you right now.”
It was all Fred Vance could do not to turn around and look. He did hunch his shoulders, though. Butler pictured a bull’s-eye right between those shoulders. He’d back shoot the man without a qualm to keep Bat from getting shot.
“Yer bluffin’,” Vance said.
“I’ve never known you to be a good gambler, Fred,” Bat said. “You lose with cards, you lose with dice…you wanna lose with your life?”
Vance fumed silently, his face starting to burn.
“And for what? Just to prove somethin’ to yourself?
That you’re a big man? I’ll save you the trouble, son. You’re not a big man, and nobody thinks you are.”
“They will when I kill you.”
“Naw,” Bat said, “that ain’t gonna happen. You touch your gun, Fred, and you’ll be dead.”
“I’m tired of talkin’ to you, Masterson,” Vance said. “You been pushing me around ever since you started wearing that tin star. I’m gonna put a bullet right through it.”
Bat knew the time for talking had finally passed. Fred Vance finally had his courage up enough. It remained to be seen how many of his five compadres did, too.
“Well then get to it, son,” Bat said. “Get to it.”
As Vance went for his gun Butler looked at the bartender and shouted, “Now!”
He knew Bat was counting on him to take care of Vance because, even as he caught the shotgun tossed to him by the barman, he saw Bat turning away from the man.
All around them men were hitting the deck, leaving only Vance and his five partners standing. The odds were against Bat and Butler, but at least two of the men hesitated, and that worked in their favor.
Butler triggered one barrel of the shotgun and blew out Fred Vance’s spine before the young man could fire his gun at Bat. Meanwhile, Bat fired twice and dropped to one knee.
Butler turned to see who was standing. The one other man he’d picked out seemed stunned by what was happening, but the man next to him was grabbing for his gun. The gambler did not have time to hesitate, or feel sorry for the confused young man, Toby. He pulled the other trigger and blew both of them apart. As they slid down to the floor bloody bits of them adhered to the wall behind them.
Butler dropped the shotgun and drew his gun, but by then it had gone quiet. He looked around and saw no one else standing. Then one by one, several by several, the patrons of the saloon began to get back to their feet, looking around them.
“Goddamn!” Tom Reed said. “That was something!”
Bat was walking around the room, checking on the young would-be gunmen.
“They’re all dead,” he said to Butler. He turned to the crowd. “I need some volunteers to carry these bodies out of here.”
No one moved until Tom Reed shouted, “Get off your asses and volunteer, ya ungrateful bastards.”
Men began to come forward and one of them asked Bat, “Where should we take ’em, Marshal?”
“Not enough room at the undertaker’s for all of them,” Bat said. He was ejecting spent shells from his gun and reloading live ones as he spoke. “Take ’em to the livery down the street, throw ’em in one stall together. The undertaker can collect them from there.”
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement as men began hauling bodies out the batwing doors.
Tom Reed came up to Butler and said, “Thanks for the help.”
“I invited him,” Bat said.
“And thank you, Marshal,” Reed said. “I really thought those maniacs were gonna kill somebody today.”
“Thank your bartender, too,” Butler said, handing the shotgun back to the man. “He was quick.”
“I’m gonna give you a raise, Randy.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
“Get your customers to help you clean up the blood, Tom,” Bat said. “I got to get back to work.”
“Sure, Marshal, sure. Thanks again. You, too, mister.”
“His name’s Butler,” Bat said. “He’ll be in town for a while, working at the Bonanza.”
“Well, I don’t really care why you’re in town, Mr. Butler, just that you were here tonight.”
Butler shook hands with the man, then walked out with Bat. He replaced his own empty shells with live loads as they walked back to the saloon.
“How’d you get that bartender to toss you the shotgun?”
“He had his hands on it the whole time. I just sort of…sent him a message with my eyes.”
“Sharp man,” Bat said. “I’m glad he didn’t try to use it himself, though. Might have turned out different.”
Butler nodded and holstered his gun.
“Wanna deal some faro?” Bat asked. “I have to talk to the undertaker about the bodies.”
“Sure,” Butler said. “I’ll reopen the table right now.”
“Okay,” Bat said. “I’ll be in a little later on. And listen…thanks for back there. I don’t think me and the kid could’ve—oh shit, where’s the kid?”
Butler turned.
“We forgot about him. He must still be in the back.”
“Why didn’t he come in when the shooting started?”
“Guess you’re going to have to find out.”
“Crap,” Bat said. “Lemme go find him. I’ll catch up to you later.”
“I’ll be at your table.”
Butler was dealing and winning as Bat Masterson entered the saloon about an hour later.
“Close it up,” he said as he came by the table. He continued on to the bar to wait.
Butler closed the table despite the protests of the players and joined Bat at the bar.
“What happened?”
“I found the kid in the back room of the saloon,” Bat said, accepting a beer from the bartender.
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead,” Bat said. “Caught a stray bullet right in the throat. He never had a chance.”
“Jesus.” Butler asked the bartender for a beer. “I’m sorry, Bat.”
“You know what really gets me?”
“What?”
“I was the only one firing in that direction,” Bat said. “Must’ve been my bullet.”
“Well, for one thing,” Butler said, “I don’t think you missed, and for another thing, I was also firing that way. So don’t take it on yourself. Might have been me.”
“I never should’ve pinned a badge on him, as green as he was,” Bat lamented.
“He was old enough to know what he was doing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Bat said, “but that don’t make me feel any better.” He put his beer on the bar half finished. “I got a bottle of whiskey in my room. I’m gonna turn in. You do what you want.”
“All right,” Butler said. “See you in the morning.”
Bat waved and left the saloon, his shoulders slumped.
The bartender, Roscoe, came over.
“I heard,” he said. “Too bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Dean was a nice kid, but Bat was right,” Roscoe said. “He never shoulda been wearin’ a badge.”
“Maybe not,” Butler said, “but Bat can’t take that all on himself.” He picked up his beer. “I’m going to play some more poker.”
Roscoe nodded, picked up Bat’s unfinished beer, and wiped down the bar with a rag.