The Last Shootist (5 page)

Thibido couldn't resist a little snide showmanship, gesturing. “Your prodigal son.”

A hand to her mouth. “Oh, Gillom…”

Gillom sat on the top bunk dangling new boots, his pile of new clothing beside him.

“I'm sorry, Ma. Reverend. He arrested me for no good reason.”

The Reverend New, full of thirty-three years of rectitude, nodded to his young parishioner. “Whatever the reason, let's get you out of this filthy place and home to put you on the stool of repentance.”

Thibido frowned. “Gave him my best cell. God help he should meet some of our other incorrigibles.” For punctuation, the drunk still sleeping on the bunk beneath Gillom groaned and shook a little in his delirium tremens.

Henry New steepled his fingers. “The way of the transgressor is
hard
. Why
is
he in here, Marshal?”

“Withholding evidence. He's got J. B. Books's revolvers and won't give 'em up. For my murder investigation.”

Gillom jumped down off the top bunk to grab the cell bars. “That investigation's
done
! Mister Books shot everybody inside the Constantinople and then that sneakin' barkeep shotgunned him in the back. There's no mystery about that, no more to learn.”

The marshal folded his arms. “Property of the court.”

“My
ass
! He wants Books's pistols to sell as high-priced souvenirs!”

“And you'll stay in my jail till you cough 'em up, thief!”

Mrs. Rogers blanched. “Marshal,
please
. Release my son and we'll locate those guns for you within a couple days.”

El Paso's finest considered her. “Missus Rogers, I checked at Central School. Evidently he took some shots at Johnny Kneebone, the blacksmith's kid. Made him dance down near the river day before yesterday, after class. Blacksmith isn't demanding an arrest, he just wants Gillom relieved of those weapons. Gillom can't go back to school for a while, either. The other kids are afraid of him.”

Henry New looked solemn. “
I'll
work with Gillom, Marshal. No more pistol shooting. His temperishness is finished. We'll find a job to fill his idleness. The way the twig is bent, that way it shall grow.”

Marshal Thibido considered the offer as he shifted from one foot to another in squeaky brown shoes. Finally, a reprieve.

“I defer to your wisdom, Preacher. And to your promise, ma'am.” With a last flourish, the marshal produced the brass ring, unlocked the iron door, and Gillom Rogers was free. The reverend and his mother followed Gillom up the jail corridor, past curious inmates. Marshal Thibido followed the chastened family right out his rebuilt jail's front door, hollering after them as they crossed the street.

“
Hooligan's Troubles
is playing down at the Myar Opera House, Gillom! Maybe you can get a starring role!”

 

Seven

 

His mother ordered him to stay home that afternoon, out of further trouble, while she visited several lady friends to spread word her son was seeking employment. Gillom watched her walk off in high-button shoes, stepping high, like her feet hurt with the task. The house was silent as he stood in the bedroom where J. B. Books had killed two midnight assassins only a week ago. Until echoes from that bloody set-to died down, Bond Rogers wouldn't have to slave afternoons cooking more big meals for boarders. They were all gone.

Sure his mother was gone, Gillom left the house and headed for Mose Tarrant's livery stable. All he needed now was a horse and tack.
With that damned marshal chasing me and my pistols,
he decided,
I gotta get the hell out of El Paso for a while
.

He hurried along Overland Street, keeping his head down under his new Stetson. Tarrant's stable was on Oregon Street, a cross street. He walked south, toward the river and Mexico. Glancing back, Gillom saw two Mexicans riding slowly along the street after him. Gillom had noticed these two young men sitting beside the dirt road under a shade tree, holding their horses' reins and conversing as he passed.

Gillom checked behind before entering the stable, and sure enough, the two Mexicans on horseback were still dogging him. Inside, Mose Tarrant was attempting to curry an anxious stallion tethered outside its stall.

“
Mose!
I need to buy a horse!”

“
Whoa,
settle down there.” Twisting the stamping stallion's bridle, the liveryman turned the gray horse's rear hooves away from his new customer.

“Got any money?”

“Yes, I do,” nodded Gillom. “Mister Books left me a little.”

“Really? After that shitty trick you pulled, sellin' me Books's horse without his permission?”

“Well, said I was sorry. Thought we settled our personal differences … before his shoot-out. You still got his horse?”

“Yessir. Dollar. His fistula's healin'. Expensive animal, though.”

“How expensive?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“
What!
That horse ain't no racer.”

The older stable owner gave the teenager a mercenary look. “Son, that horse
belonged
to John Bernard Books.”

“Well, I just need a fit animal to ride. Doesn't have to be blooded stock.”

“I'll look around. When do you need this mighty steed?”

“Oh, next couple days. You still got Books's saddle?”

“I do.” The tall, stooped white man gave the stallion's mane a couple last swipes with his brush, then led the restless bangtail back into its stall.

“Hundred and fifty dollars for all his tack.”

Gillom shook his head. “Pretty dear.”

“Hey, that's a Myres saddle, a good double rig. Where you ridin' to?”

“Oh, north, probably. Into the mountains.”

Mose Tarrant ran long, dirty fingers through his own thinning hair, brushing loose straw from the tangle.

“Then you'll need a breast collar, too, so that big saddle won't slip back when you're climbing. Might throw that in for the price.”

“See what I can afford.”

“Tomorra's Sunday. Come back Monday, see if I've found anything can still trot.”

Gillom grinned. “Gallop would be preferred. Thank you, Mose.”

Mose Tarrant cleared his throat, expectorated into the pungent dirt on his stable's floor. “Don't forget to bring your money, Junior.
All
of it.”

Gillom stuck his head round the barn's corner to peer both ways, up and down busy Oregon Street. He saw several Mexicans going about their business, but not those two young vaqueros.

*   *   *

Next morning, his arm hooked into his mother's, Gillom attended church. Methodists occupied the greatest number of churches at this turn of El Paso's century, five, and Gillom was seated in a pew of the oldest, Trinity Methodist South, on the corner of Texas and Stanton. His mother wanted his attendance noted but not to put Gillom on display, so they were seated near the middle of the congregation. Bond Rogers sat on the aisle, so her son couldn't escape.

From his pulpit, the Reverend Henry New was excoriating his flock about sinners swimming in “hot
agua,
” and how he'd rather be a doorkeeper in the House of God than dwell outside forever in the tents of wickedness. Biblical hot air drifted over Gillom like sleep until a rap in the ribs from his mother startled him awake. The preacher was climaxing about the Lord leading him to a sacred rock that was higher than
he
was, when the youth's bored glance out one of the side windows caught sight of two Mexicans riding slowly up to one of the tall oaks in their church's backyard. The young vaqueros halted and bent to speak to one of the girls skipping rope outside now that Sunday school had released. Gillom sat straight up in his pew seat. The little girls gabbed with those same Mexicans and pointed toward this church!

Gillom was restless through the final hymn and benediction, while the riders sitting their horses under the big oak were patient, quiet. After the service, Gillom tried to bound down the front steps past Henry New, but the reverend was too quick.

“
Gillom!
Any luck with the job hunting?”

“No, sir. But I plan on goin' lookin' tomorrow.”

His mother wedged in her two cents. “I heard Jay Cobb's parents need somebody to deliver milk from their creamery, after what happened to their poor son in the Books tragedy.”

Reverend New's smile folded into a funereal frown. “Their
only
son. Those who live by the sword, or the six-gun in young Jay's case, shall
perish
by it. I must step round with my condolences.” He turned back to Bond's wayward son. “Milk deliveries would be a starter job, Gillom, until you found something better. Did you find those pistols?”

Gillom wasn't partial to a Sunday grilling, especially with other parishioners hovering.

“Nope.” Gillom pushed from the knot of people awaiting the preacher's blessing and down the front steps. The reverend, however, always liked the last word.

“Hope you're not back in jail before you find a job!” he yelled at the retreating young man.

Bond Rogers stood embarrassed. Realizing even he might have overstepped the bounds of propriety, the parson patted Mrs. Rogers's wrist.

“A wise son maketh a good father, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.”

Mrs. Rogers gave her preacher a hard eye before marching away from the gossiping churchgoers.

There was no stopping Gillom as he strode toward the big oak up the grassy rise. Seeing him coming fast, the two Mexicans were already turning their horses.

“
Hey,
you fellers! Wait up!” The vaqueros gave their mounts the spurs. Only their dust lingered.

*   *   *

That afternoon Gillom told his mother he was going to see his pals.

“I can't look for work, it's Sunday. Maybe Bee or Ivory will know of a job, or they can spread the word at school tomorrow. See if anyone's dad's looking for someone full-time.”

“I'm surprised those boys would have anything to do with you after you shot at them.”

“That was just at Kneebone,
after
he stuck his knife in my bare foot. Don't believe everything the marshal said, Ma. I'm still friends with most of the kids at school. They ain't scared a me.”

Mrs. Rogers rubbed worry from her hands. “I certainly hope not. You'll never find any job if people are afraid of you, or hear even a whisper you're dangerous.”

“I'll be back for supper.”

“Think you'll find those pistols?”

Gillom's grin turned downward. “Don't bet on it.”

“Don't make J. B. Books your dime novel hero, Gillom. He was nothing more than a shootist.”

“Maybe, but he also made history.” Then he was out the front door, bounding down their whitewashed steps. He gave his mother a backhanded goodbye as he strode out their front gate. He halted on their wooden sidewalk to check up and down Overland Street, looking for Mexicans.

No spies in sight, so he turned left, away from downtown. When he saw his mother had closed the front door of their two-story brick house, he side-straddled their back fence, ran to the woodpile behind their backyard tool shed. Moving some firewood, Gillom dug out Books's revolvers again from their burlap swaddling. He'd soaped and cleaned the leather late last night in his bedroom closet, then oiled the old holster to preserve it and speed his draw.

I've gotta practice,
he realized.
Fire these pistols before somebody tests me. These two Remingtons are gonna be my only protection from thieves and pistoleros trying to prove their speed, so I better get comfortable with 'em. These guns and I need to become friends.

 

Eight

 

The bundle tucked under his wool coat, Gillom hopped the fence again and walked west, headed past the growing city's fringe. He knew of denser thickets, north of the Rio Grande, that were crossing points south for smugglers of guns, ammunition, cattle, and horses, with outlaws and tequila returning north through the same overgrown area. That dark country should be safe enough in the daytime, though, if he stayed on his guard.

Three miles outside El Paso, Gillom turned off the rutted road to hike into a bosque, a thicket of cottonwoods and heavy scrub brush just north of the river. Gillom recalled a big flood four years earlier in 1897 that had caused the Rio Grande to change course, isolating pieces of land between the old and new riverbanks. Gillom walked over the dry watercourse onto one such island, no longer legally in either America or Mexico until diplomats crossed sharp pens over the dispute. Brush-breaking was tiring, so he stopped to belt on his holster to free his hands. Ahead was a small clearing with a well-used firepit in the middle. He was entering bandit country!

Gillom sat down on a rock next to the fire ring to catch his breath and remove his coat. He picked up a small canteen he'd carried along, took water. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and took off his stiff new Stetson to enjoy some afternoon sun. Rising, he adjusted the single loop holster on his hips, making sure the double rig was belted low enough so his arms and big hands rested just below the revolvers' trigger guards visible in their leather pockets for a fast pull. He loosened the leather tie-downs over the hammers to keep the guns snug in their leather sheaths. Then, first with his strong hand, he drew the pearl-handled .44 Remington smoothly but slowly, extended his right arm, closed his nondominant left eye, thumbed the hammer back, and fired. Gillom Rogers hit the tall tree he was aiming at, but not the target joint of its low-hanging branch.

He took a deep breath.
Speed and accuracy need to be better,
he realized. Adjusting his gunman's stance a little wider, he reholstered his right revolver, stuck his empty right hand out for balance. He quick-pulled the gun on his left side with his off hand, extended his forearm, closed his dominant right eye, thumbed the single-action again, and pulled the trigger. This time his aim was wide, clipping a branch. His second shot was muffled by the dense underbrush.
Wonder if my gunfire will attract any attention?