this disturbance to their slumber. Canary Joe piled scrub and the last three logs on the fire and waved away the billowed smoke. Faro Bill Brody rolled and lit his Durham. When the Kid returned he had the bottle open and drank once long and defiantly before sitting down again. He passed the bottle to Joe and settled in.
“So as I was sayin’, I go for a look.”
“Was it Little Dick?” asked the Kid.
“Hard for me to say at the time, Kid. Though later I did develop an opinion. Tobacco stains on his shirt were right.Chewed-up-lookin’ hat was right. ’Bout the right height and weight. Problem was there was a ball in his right eye and another in his cheek some few inches down that played all hell with his good looks. He was dirty, though, even before he hit the street. That you could tell.
“Anyhow, the crowd’s still standin’ there arguin’ ’bout is he or isn’t he but me, I need a drink. Wouldn’t you fellas? I maybe seen Little Dick West shot dead in Newton, Kansas and now I’m maybe seeing him shot all over again. Kind of thing unnerves a man. So I head for the saloon. I’m just stepping through the doors when I hear another shot and turn and look and there’s the crowd movin’ away in little waves like when you toss a pebble into a gone-still pond and at the center of this partic’lar pond’s the shooter, the big fella, and he’s on his knees. And then I watch him fall and then he’s squirmin’ face down in the dirt.”
He took another pull from the bottle and passed it to Faro Bill.
“What happened?” said the Kid.
“Shot his goddamn balls off,” said Canary Joe. “Holstering up his Remington Model Three. Don’t know how in hell he done it but he managed. Few hours later, word in the saloon was he’d died from loss of blood.”
“Hot damn,” said the Kid. “That’s some yarn all right. You want to pass me that bottle, Bill?”
“Ain’t over yet,” said Joe. “Not quite. Six months, maybe seven months later I’m in Witchita, on my way to nowhere in partic’lar, just driftin’ through. There’s a noose back in Montana with my name on it but I ain’t worried. I’m in Rowdy Joe Lowe’s dance hall, drinkin’ and eyein’ the ladies, thinking about a little recreational expenditure that night if y’know what I mean. Now, ’member I said Little Dick West was suppos’d to’ve been shot dead in Witchita?
“The first time,” said the Kid.
“That we know of,” said Faro Bill.
“Shot by a farmer whose place burned ’bout a monthlater, with him in it. See where I’m goin’ on this?” said Canary Joe.
“I think so,” said Faro Bill. “You’re going to tell us you’re in there eyeing the ladies when in walks . . .”
“When in walks Little Dick West. That’s right. Stands directly beside me at the bar and orders whiskey, nice as you please. And this time I’m sure. I’m damn sure. There ain’t no ball in his cheek or his eyeball this time. He’s so close I can smell him and he don’t smell good. It’s the same damn hat and the same damn tobacco juice all over his shirt and the same damn Colt he pulled in Newton.
“I guess the folks in Witchita got pretty short memories as these things go because nobody even bats an eye seein’ him in there. The barkeep serves him, the drinkers keep drinking—hell, a couple of the ladies even give him a look by way of
well, maybe
. But me, I’ve seen him a bit more recently so to speak and I guess my memory’s a little bit better so I pay up for that last one and get the hell out of there fast as I can, because I know for plain honest fact that Little Dick West is the unluckiest man who ever walked the Lord’s green earth and that’s a certainty.”
A wind had come up from the west. The night was colder now those last few hours before dawn and the men drank silently a pull apiece and warmed their hands by the fire and the Kid shook his head thinking about luck and Little Dick West while Faro
“So as I was sayin’, I go for a look.”
“Was it Little Dick?” asked the Kid.
“Hard for me to say at the time, Kid. Though later I did develop an opinion. Tobacco stains on his shirt were right.Chewed-up-lookin’ hat was right. ’Bout the right height and weight. Problem was there was a ball in his right eye and another in his cheek some few inches down that played all hell with his good looks. He was dirty, though, even before he hit the street. That you could tell.
“Anyhow, the crowd’s still standin’ there arguin’ ’bout is he or isn’t he but me, I need a drink. Wouldn’t you fellas? I maybe seen Little Dick West shot dead in Newton, Kansas and now I’m maybe seeing him shot all over again. Kind of thing unnerves a man. So I head for the saloon. I’m just stepping through the doors when I hear another shot and turn and look and there’s the crowd movin’ away in little waves like when you toss a pebble into a gone-still pond and at the center of this partic’lar pond’s the shooter, the big fella, and he’s on his knees. And then I watch him fall and then he’s squirmin’ face down in the dirt.”
He took another pull from the bottle and passed it to Faro Bill.
“What happened?” said the Kid.
“Shot his goddamn balls off,” said Canary Joe. “Holstering up his Remington Model Three. Don’t know how in hell he done it but he managed. Few hours later, word in the saloon was he’d died from loss of blood.”
“Hot damn,” said the Kid. “That’s some yarn all right. You want to pass me that bottle, Bill?”
“Ain’t over yet,” said Joe. “Not quite. Six months, maybe seven months later I’m in Witchita, on my way to nowhere in partic’lar, just driftin’ through. There’s a noose back in Montana with my name on it but I ain’t worried. I’m in Rowdy Joe Lowe’s dance hall, drinkin’ and eyein’ the ladies, thinking about a little recreational expenditure that night if y’know what I mean. Now, ’member I said Little Dick West was suppos’d to’ve been shot dead in Witchita?
“The first time,” said the Kid.
“That we know of,” said Faro Bill.
“Shot by a farmer whose place burned ’bout a monthlater, with him in it. See where I’m goin’ on this?” said Canary Joe.
“I think so,” said Faro Bill. “You’re going to tell us you’re in there eyeing the ladies when in walks . . .”
“When in walks Little Dick West. That’s right. Stands directly beside me at the bar and orders whiskey, nice as you please. And this time I’m sure. I’m damn sure. There ain’t no ball in his cheek or his eyeball this time. He’s so close I can smell him and he don’t smell good. It’s the same damn hat and the same damn tobacco juice all over his shirt and the same damn Colt he pulled in Newton.
“I guess the folks in Witchita got pretty short memories as these things go because nobody even bats an eye seein’ him in there. The barkeep serves him, the drinkers keep drinking—hell, a couple of the ladies even give him a look by way of
well, maybe
. But me, I’ve seen him a bit more recently so to speak and I guess my memory’s a little bit better so I pay up for that last one and get the hell out of there fast as I can, because I know for plain honest fact that Little Dick West is the unluckiest man who ever walked the Lord’s green earth and that’s a certainty.”
A wind had come up from the west. The night was colder now those last few hours before dawn and the men drank silently a pull apiece and warmed their hands by the fire and the Kid shook his head thinking about luck and Little Dick West while Faro
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