two of the boys at my table dead, we never did know why. Anyhow the barkeep who’s name was Brocius turned this fella over and you could have seen daylight through the hole in his chest and somebody said, that’s Little Dick West, and somebody else said it couldn’t be, Little Dick West was shot dead in Witchita more’n a year ago. But the first fella, he insisted, said he knew Little Dick by sight, said that boy was bad luck wherever he went and that he’d personally managed to steer clear of him plentyof times, in Abilene, in Dodge, in Tombstone. He’d seen him shoot a man like a yella dog on the streets of Tombstone.
“The second gent, he insisted too. Little Dick West was shot over a year ago in a Witchita whorehouse, he said. He knew it for a fact and there were other boys in the saloon who said they’d heard the same now that you mention it. Little Dick took two in the chest in Witchita. One even knew the name of the fella who shot him, McLoughlin I think it was, a farmer. Whose house burned down ’bout a month later. With McLoughlin and his wife and kids in it.
“Never could resolve that argument at the time. But it was Brocius the barkeep who killed him so that it was Brocius along with the sheriff who dragged him out to the street to wait on the mortician. Dead man’s heavier than you’d think and Brocius had some weight on him and by the time he’s through he’s puffin’. Now, Tuttles’ Saloon has three stairs from the porch to the street, just three. And Brocius is on the second stair when his leg slips out from under him and then next thing you know he’s lying across them stairs with his feet pointin’ east and his head turned ’round on his neck in a westerly direction.”
“Dead?” said the Kid.
“Dead,” said Joe.
“That’s pretty bad luck, all right,” said Faro Bill.
“I ain’t finished yet. Couple years later I’m riding into Abilene one evenin’. Naturally I’ve forgot all about what happened at Tuttles’ Saloon by then and I’ve had a few pulls on the Tangleleg along the trail from the Circle P to town so I’m not payin’ much attention and it’s only when I’m hitching up to the rail that I notice ain’t nobody on the street but me and two other fellas squared off maybe twenty yards away. And before I can even duck for cover they’re drawn and firing ’till both their guns are empty and I can smell gunsmoke all the hell over where I am and there ain’t but one man standing.
“Townsfolk start appearin’ like rats out of a burnin’ barn,crowding ’round this big heavy fella standing in the street reloading his pistol calm as you please, one hellova target and not a scratch on him, and this little fella bleeding into the dust, dead as dead can be. They go over and somebody says, I’ll be goddamned! that’s Little Dick West! and somebody else says, nah, they buried that backshootin’ back-stabbin’ sonovabitch Little Dick West over in Witchita some few years back and soon there’s an argument goin’ on that sounds awful familiar to me. So I walk over for a look. You say somethin’, Chunk?”
“That time I heard it too,” said Faro Bill.
“Me too,” said the Kid. “Coulda been one of the horses snortin’, though.”
“Ain’t the horses you fool,” said Canary Joe. “Sounded like ‘
I-ill
’.”
“He sure as hell is that,” said the Kid.
“Go on with the story,” said Faro Bill.
“Let’s have some more of that Tangleleg, Kid.”
“Hell, it’s all gone, Joe.”
“You got another bottle in your saddlebag, Kid. I saw you put it there.”
“Dammit, Joe. I was savin’ that for trail-whiskey.”
“Won’t be no trail for you, you don’t find me that bottle.”
The Kid stared hard across the fire at him a moment as though considering him serious or not serious and then rose heavily and unsteadily to his feet and disappeared into the dark and they could hear the horses’ hooves scuff and paw the ground at
“The second gent, he insisted too. Little Dick West was shot over a year ago in a Witchita whorehouse, he said. He knew it for a fact and there were other boys in the saloon who said they’d heard the same now that you mention it. Little Dick took two in the chest in Witchita. One even knew the name of the fella who shot him, McLoughlin I think it was, a farmer. Whose house burned down ’bout a month later. With McLoughlin and his wife and kids in it.
“Never could resolve that argument at the time. But it was Brocius the barkeep who killed him so that it was Brocius along with the sheriff who dragged him out to the street to wait on the mortician. Dead man’s heavier than you’d think and Brocius had some weight on him and by the time he’s through he’s puffin’. Now, Tuttles’ Saloon has three stairs from the porch to the street, just three. And Brocius is on the second stair when his leg slips out from under him and then next thing you know he’s lying across them stairs with his feet pointin’ east and his head turned ’round on his neck in a westerly direction.”
“Dead?” said the Kid.
“Dead,” said Joe.
“That’s pretty bad luck, all right,” said Faro Bill.
“I ain’t finished yet. Couple years later I’m riding into Abilene one evenin’. Naturally I’ve forgot all about what happened at Tuttles’ Saloon by then and I’ve had a few pulls on the Tangleleg along the trail from the Circle P to town so I’m not payin’ much attention and it’s only when I’m hitching up to the rail that I notice ain’t nobody on the street but me and two other fellas squared off maybe twenty yards away. And before I can even duck for cover they’re drawn and firing ’till both their guns are empty and I can smell gunsmoke all the hell over where I am and there ain’t but one man standing.
“Townsfolk start appearin’ like rats out of a burnin’ barn,crowding ’round this big heavy fella standing in the street reloading his pistol calm as you please, one hellova target and not a scratch on him, and this little fella bleeding into the dust, dead as dead can be. They go over and somebody says, I’ll be goddamned! that’s Little Dick West! and somebody else says, nah, they buried that backshootin’ back-stabbin’ sonovabitch Little Dick West over in Witchita some few years back and soon there’s an argument goin’ on that sounds awful familiar to me. So I walk over for a look. You say somethin’, Chunk?”
“That time I heard it too,” said Faro Bill.
“Me too,” said the Kid. “Coulda been one of the horses snortin’, though.”
“Ain’t the horses you fool,” said Canary Joe. “Sounded like ‘
I-ill
’.”
“He sure as hell is that,” said the Kid.
“Go on with the story,” said Faro Bill.
“Let’s have some more of that Tangleleg, Kid.”
“Hell, it’s all gone, Joe.”
“You got another bottle in your saddlebag, Kid. I saw you put it there.”
“Dammit, Joe. I was savin’ that for trail-whiskey.”
“Won’t be no trail for you, you don’t find me that bottle.”
The Kid stared hard across the fire at him a moment as though considering him serious or not serious and then rose heavily and unsteadily to his feet and disappeared into the dark and they could hear the horses’ hooves scuff and paw the ground at
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