Salisbury, 1958.
My day began when a constant throbbing filled my head. I was too heavy with sleep to identify its source at first. I slowly unfastened my eyelids. My Woolworth’s alarm clock shouted seven o’clock. I managed to surmise the crazy banging in my head wasn’t beer from the night before. The windows of my Harper Road quarters in Salisbury played an orchestrated racket to the monotonous beat of hailstones playing drum rolls on the glass accompanied by the trumpeting of driving wind. Reminded me of John Wayne’s film “The Searchers.” I always enjoy a good Western. Alongside Sleeping Beauty breathed gently in peaceful repose.
Ah well, the creaking wheels of justice needed oiling. As a working SIB sergeant, I had crimes to solve, evil to banish. Like the Lone Ranger but no mask. Tossing covers aside, I leapt out of bed with a magnificent Fosbury Flop, forgot to lower my undercarriage and crash-landed on my backside. Margaret turned over, snuggled into a pillow and chuckled. Women!
I cursed, struggled to my feet and wandered in a daze to the bathroom, trying to act dignified. Like an idiot, I overlooked the loose carpet at the top of the stairs that I kept promising to tack down. Margaret warned me a thousand times that one day someone would go tit over tail down the stairs, painfully. Women! And like all women, she was spot on. Someone did. Me. My foot caught in the carpet and I executed a neat Olympic gold medal swallow dive down the stairs. A dodgy feat without wings. I saw a brilliant flash as if struck by lightning and the world went black……
I stretched and yawned. I was tuckered out yet I hadn’t lifted a finger. An Arizona summer ain’t kindly disposed t’wards activity. My most difficult chore so far had been crawling out of my bunk. Actually, I fell out. I fingered a bump on my head. The sun speared through a narrow window and a warm band of gold crept across the desk and crawled up my chest to bathe my eyes. Out back the cell remained empty and gathering dust. I hadn’t hogtied anyone since Michaelmas.
It was a nic
e day and an idle day. There again, every day was a nice day and an idle day in quiet Hawk Bend. A stillness pervaded the scene, broken only occasionally by the rhythmic beat of pounding hoofs along the roadway. I was startled out of my reverie when the warped timber door that led directly on to Main Street creaked open and the familiar rotund figure of the Town Marshal burst in, trailed by a choking cloud of dust.
“Mornin’ Charlie.” I gave him a brief nod. “Nice day seems like.” I hardly ever saw him before high noon and that was approaching. He was always dreaming of Jeannie with the light brown hair. This gal strutted her stuff on the boards in the “Golden Nugget” saloon. His superior airs upset a few folk, though the pie eater reckoned to be everyone’s pardner. Even Running Carrier, the local Apache warrior chief, yearned to add Charlie’s scalp to his tepee collection.
Panhandle Charlie patted his dusty pants and hoisted the sagging gun belt strapped round his swelling midriff. The twin pearl-butted pistols he carried were in prime condition. No one had ever seen them exit holsters. He grunted, “It’s always a nice day in this Godforsaken ‘ole.” He sniffed. “Thet cawfee shore smells temptin’.”
There you go. I told you it was always a nice day, although I might dispute the ‘Godforsaken’ description, even if Hawk Bend weren’t much more than a cluster of adobe and frame dwellings squatting on a desert’s rim. Charlie viewed himself as worthy of bigger things than Marshal of a small gold mining habitation on the Arizona frontier.
He used to shack out in Maricopa, the county town, near Phoenix, where he was an unsung deputy, heard Hawk Bend’s Marshal got filled with lead in a shoot-out so came here to take over. He admits to a strong hankering to be County Sheriff. The present incumbent of that post, Cool Frank Elliot, was rumoured to be retiring to his cattle spread, shortly.
I’m a simple vaquero and knowing Charlie needed a deputy, chatted to him and got the job, fortunately. Only 30 bucks a month but less dangerous than punching cattle. No one else wanted it anyway. Jokers reckoned the law in Hawk Bend was weaker than a saloon girl’s elastic. But I could take it on the chin. The town was more peaceful than the Pope’s privy except, of course, the day Tommo The Kid dispatched Marshal John Watson to Boot Hill with lead poisoning. It was a sad end for a hombre who only wished to be left in peace with his butterfly collection.
* * *
I fished a tin cup out of a drawer and placed it on the desk. I’d made coffee earlier and slopped what was left in the pot into the cup, including dregs. “Har’y’are, Chief. Fresh’s a newly dug nugget.”
“Thanks, Les,” he drawled. “Now vacate my dammed chair so I can relax an’ get on with my chores. I got wanted posters to check over. You never know, a badman might mosey into town an’ I’ll rope ‘im an’ reap myself a handsome ree-ward.”
He was daydreaming, again. I levered my long body upright, grabbed my gun belt from the desk, strapped it on and knotted the tie-down round my thigh, firmly. I only packed one pistol, a Navy Colt. Carrying two would be cumbersome although that don’t count if you don’t use ‘em, like the Marshal. And I also knew who would need to be quick on the draw if a gunman went on the rampage in our quiet neighbourhood. And the vision didn’t bring a smile to my lips.Charlie slumped in the chair and began slurping the coffee I gave him. He said with an air of bravado, “Ah heerd Bob Ding’s in the district. If he’s an inklin’ to parade his ugly face in this bailiwick we’ll soon cook his turkey.”
Cook his turkey? I think he meant goose. I smiled. “Yes, Charlie, we shore will,” I said in agreement, knowing that ‘we’ meant me. Charlie was always kindling hope. Bob Ding topped the wanted heap for the County, worth $1000 dead or alive. Geez! His favourite pastime was robbing banks right across Arizona Territory. He was a tall, thin hombre with black wavy hair, far from ugly, and cut a real swell with female persons. But I wouldn’t know anything about that. He was an illusive character. Scandal reckoned he had more notches on his bedpost than on his six-gun.
Thankfully for Charlie’s grip on sanity, he didn’t know that later on that very same day he would come close, frighteningly, to gittin’ fitted for a wooden overcoat. Nor did I then.
“You gotta helluva stupid grin on your ugly mug,” Charlie hollered, querulously. “Git out an’ take a patrol. Let the God-fearing townsfolk know they’re safe in their beds with us an’ the good Lord lookin’ after ‘em.” As he spoke he rustled opened the Hawk Bend Evangelist Times, which he carried with him. The rag was a small tract produced by the church, where Charlie prayed more often than the pastor. As for me, I preferred holding the hand of Daffodil in the “Golden Nugget” than the hand of God.
* * *
I can take a hint. I slapped on my Sombrero, pulled the door and stepped outside, slowly. Dust devils played tag along the roadway and strong sunshine hit me like opening a furnace door. I didn’t bother reminding the Marshal that God-fearing townsfolk had thrown back the bed sheets several hours ago. I turned left and sauntered leisurely towards the town centre, the sun on my back, my silver stitched boots clicking on the raised sidewalk and the rowels on my spurs jangling in time to my steps. After all, remember I used to be a cowpoke before Charlie recruited me. I whistled, “Red River Valley.” I were some happy deputy.
Opposite the jail stood the barber’s shop run by Forgiven Thrift, where Tommo The Kid gunned down Honest John Watson, fatally, for threatening to confiscate his guns.
The weekly stage stood outside the Wells Fargo office, quietly. Bob Metcalfe, the driver, was just alighting, slowly. I nodded toward a couple of arrows stuck in the woodwork. ‘Injun trouble, Bob?”
He snorted. “We bumped into a small group o’ bucks who fancied their chances. Whisky Roy soon chased ‘em off, pesky varmits.” Roy Peach was an overweight Shotgun who was never seen without a long cheroot between his lips and ash down the front of his shirt. He had a face like the rear end of a longhorn, lugubrious.
Whisky Roy wasn’t universally adored by the town’s inhabitants. Many wished that his skill at indian fighting
would wane and that one thankful day he would be on the wrong end of an arrow or tomahawk. By such foolish notions are the seeds of vengeance fashioned. Roy was fully aware of his popularity and remained insularly aloof from all such criticism.
Bill was standing outside his premises, Burcher’s Stables, where I kept my close pal, a roan called Jeep. Funny moniker for a horse, I ‘spose. Don’t know where it came from. The handle sort of crept into my mind uninvited. “Hi, Bill, how’s tricks?’
“Heep’s fine. Just fed ‘im some oats t’ keep ‘im ‘appy.
“Jeep! Right. Keep up the good work. An’ don’t ferget the Marshal’s dung fer his roses.”
Bill chuckled, pinched his nose and sounding as if he was speaking through his bandana said, advisedly, “We all know what the Marshal wants.”
I thought the Marshal wanted dung. I smiled – slightly. Bill had a higher opinion of himself than his customers had. As I ambled on the distant bray of a burro echoed over the stables. Somehow the sound was pleasantly suggestive of the sleepy township. Well, sleepy when we don’t have gunmen calling on us.
Blackie, boss of the local rag, Eagle Gazette, waved a silent greeting through a large picture window that fronted on Main Street. He could’ve retired on his laurels a couple of years ago but he got a kick out of producing the newssheet and writing pieces for it. As I passed the “Golden Nugget” I heard faint tinkling of a badly tuned piano. I wondered if that beguiling beauty Daffodil was around. I surmounted a steady slope to reach Boot Hill on the edge of town and tipped my hat to the scraggly rows of rough wooden crosses and headboards that decorated the bone orchard. One read:
Honest John Watson here he lies
Tommo The Kid caused his demise
Perhaps y’can hear his sadly cries
He ain’t now collectin’ butterflies
The epitaph always raised a smile. I leaned for a moment on a scribbled sign reading “Firearms Prohibited.” From here the Sonoran Desert stretched to the horizon and beyond, the sun’s golden rays mantling the never-ending expanse of dry earth and burning rocks. The sand swirls looked like a rigid ocean around islands of stone. A huge army of giant Saguaros marched proudly across the great waste going nowhere. They reminded me of a previous sheriff called Angry George Nichols - big and prickly.
Clumps of stunted mesquite and thorn bushes created green patches amongst the barren earth. Orange flamethrowers and sand blossoms painted bright and cheerful colour on nature’s gorgeous yet perilous desolation. High above, a Harris Hawk floated miraculously without perceptible movement as it sailed around the blue sky. It’s the poet in me, you know.
I opened my watch. Nigh on high noon. I never expected to bump into Gary Cooper ‘cos the Great Southwest Railroad had no stop at Hawk Bend. And sure enough I didn’t. All the same, an inexplicable presentiment of trouble seeped through my sinews, perhaps ignited by the sight of that hawk hunting for its lunch. Anyway, something warned me that the day mebbe wasn’t so nice after all. I cast a long shadow.
From the depth of that mysterious wilderness came the quiet murmuring of running water of the creek that meandered round the outskirts of town and disappeared among the jumble of Lode Hill on the other side of town, rocks that reached for the sky and secreted gold that men washed for and fought and died over. I turned and angled back on my solitary stroll. The closetting heat that wrapped around like a blanket kept the good and the bad inside. Coyotes stayed hidden and even shade was deserted.
* * *
The tinny bell on the church clock began chiming twelve. My throat was as dry as the desert so I skirted a threatening tumbleweed bowling towards me and swung into the cool gloom of the “Golden Nugget.” The joint was as peaceful as Biddlecombe’s funeral parlour, almost. No poker, no monte tables. Too early. I expected John Wayne but guess he was absent scalp-hunting. Fat Windy Stevens beat his claws on the honky-tonk piano, badly. I think he was trying to belt out “The Yellow Rose Of Texas.” I saw nothing to make me edgy yet I twitched, triggered by a nameless fear.
A handsome lady leaned disconsolately on the bar, looking prettier than a new calf in springtime. She cut an elegant figure, looking like she was poured into her sleek long red frock. “Mornin’ Annie.” I touched my Sombrero and drawled, “Kinda empty ‘n ‘ere, ain’t it?” I spun a quick, nervous squint round the premises.
Annie was the spitting image of Margaret and a gal well worth riding the river with. She gave a small wave of a hand. ”Hi, Les. Early yet. If yer lookin’ fer Daffodil she’s still pressin’ her mattress.” A giggle ensued. “She enjoyed a rewardin’ evenin’.” After pause for thought she offered, “Thet rattlesnake Ding Dong’s traipsin’ ‘round the district. You’d be advised to keep yer powder dry or Boot Hill will lookin’ fer a new resident.” She had a voice that painted a picture needing no description. Women!
I grunted. “Bein’ so cheerful keeps you goin’, Annie. How about thet beer I’m chokin’ for?”
Annie footed a spittoon into line, pattered round behind the bar, her long skirt trailing on the pitted floorboards, and filled me a glass from a barrel. I tossed two bits on the scarred oak and downed a long slug. “Whew! Just whet the doc ordered. You ‘avin’ one?”
Her blonde curls bounced on her bare shoulders. “Naw, too early.”Seems it’s too early for everything. Mebbe. I wagged a cautionary finger. “If Bob Ding comes a-callin’ a mighty purty lady like yourself better keep them beautiful peepers peeled.”
Annie’s full red lips curled in a confident smile and if she didn’t blush she made arch eyes at me. “Careful Les, or Daff’ll be lookin’ fer a new beau.” The snap of her blue eyes was significant. “Flash’ll wish he stayed away if he tries messin’ with me.” She played a drumroll on the counter with blood-red nails. “My peacemaker’s waitin’ ready an’ loaded under here.” I guess Annie sure knew where to get her gun. She was reputed to be a crack shot and could slice a card side on from 20 feet.
* * *
It might’ve been too early for most things, but it weren’t too early for trouble. My unknown fears crept up on reality like a coyote on a jackrabbit. Sure enough, I was finishing my beer when a shout came from the street outside, followed by the crack of pistol fire. “What the helI - ?” I slammed my empty glass on the bar. It smashed. I loosed my gun and edged carefully to the batwings, banged them open and slid lithely outside into the sun with a half crouch of a stalking prairie wolf, just like The Duke would. I quickly adjusted my eyes to the brightness and witnessed a tall rider dismounting from a palomino, smoothly.
I shuddered, for I’d run plumb into my old sidekick, the famous outlaw Bob Ding, though palliness were stretched since Ding croaked Marshal P. Watts in Mercer some time since. Many folk reckoned plugging the four-flusher did Texas a favour. Sun streamed down from the sky like a tropical blast but fingers caressed the back of my neck, icily.
This weren’t no encounter I’d figured on. My courage was nothing more than a false veneer easily cracked. Ding threw his bridle and turned on me with a crooked smile on his teak-carved face. “Well, hiya Les. Fancy meetin’ you, pardner. Thar’s bin many moons since we was drovers in Texas.” That’s true. He hesitated and stared, his dark eyes narrowed. “Hey, I’ll be doggoned if thet ain’t a Marshal’s badge spoilin’ yer vest. I don’t believe it.”
I forced air into my lungs. “You better believe it, Bob. An’ we don’t encourage gunslingers hyar in Hawk Bend. Whet ya want with peaceful folk?”
He stroked his rough jaw. “Shucks, I ain’t lookin’ fer trouble. I rode in to draw some greenbacks from yer bank – “ He chuckled, knowingly. “ - but it’s closed so I’ll ‘ave me a whiskee ‘n ride on to Navajo County.”
“Whet was them shots I ‘eard?” I demanded, bluntly.
He shrugged. “I was ridin’ past the jail when yer Marshal emerged munchin’ a donut. Charlie, ain’t it? Remember ‘im in Maricopa. He ‘ad no spine then and he still ain’t got any. To stop ‘im gettin’ frisky I fed ‘im some lead and he ducked back inside quicker than a gopher down his ‘ole.” His piercing eyes gleamed with menace. “Don’t reach for the artillery, Les, or I’ll see ya cinched,” he warned, darkly. I divined he suffered a itchy trigger finger and a singular observation showed his right hand was more weathered than his left. That right hand had never seen a glove.
I stood firm, legs apart, arms hanging at my sides, fingers of my gun hand curled, ready. Danger loomed like a thundercloud, pregnant. If Roy Rogers is galloping to the rescue he’ll be too late, sadly. My heart thumped like a blacksmith’s hammer. “Pull in yer horns, Bob. Ya gotta cut dirt, else I’ll be a-tossin’ ya in the calaboose. Guns ain’t permitted in this town, any time.” Had he been in the vicinity Wild Bill Hickok would sure be proud of me.
Flash drew himself up tight as a fiddle string and glared at me, eyes like dagger points, stabbing. Thoughts swirled around his mind and his expression battled between a snarl and an evil grin. The snarl won, hands down. “Hidin’ behind thet tin badge won’t help ya. Ya think you can take Flash Ding, the fastest gun in Arizona – and Texas?”
I knew he was faster than a striking sidewinder for sure and not a hombre to throw up the sponge. I’m no fool and could throw a gun as quick as most men but Ding was something else – greased lightning. Death’s hot breath closed in, grimly. I half-turned away and he sneered. “Just like Preacher Charlie. Don’t like the taste o’ lead. ‘ope ya pray like ‘im. Ya’ll soon be meetin’ yore Maker.” Then, thank the good Lord, the wheel turned in my favour.
My movements caused him to believe I was scared (I was) and he dropped his guard, carelessly. I spun round and my hog leg jumped into my hand. He made a frenzied late grab for his gun and I pumped a bullet into his
arm as he was slow clearing leather. Sheer disbelief screwed up his face and his dragging hand released the pistol, which fell in the dirt.
It was my turn to act big. I growled, insistently, “Git on thet hoss an’ vamoose outa town. Ya come back hyar an’ mebbe ya’ll be gittin’ free board an’ lodgin’s – up thar.” I pointed towards Boot Hill. I was all fired up and talk tough easy when a hombre’s staring down the barrel of my gun. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one damn bit. Only he didn’t have a choice.
His fury waned and he retrieved and sheathed his pistol, cautiously. I watched his every movement, closely. He turned surly, climbed painfully and slowly into the saddle and spurred away, quickly. The hot rend of my bullet had torn flesh from his muscular forearm, which trailed blood in the dust kicked up by his horse’s hoofs. I could’ve killed him but I guess my one time sidekick was now on the other side of the street. I muttered to myself, “So long, ol’ buddy.”
As his disappearing figure slowly diminished in the gathering dust cloud so an inner voice constantly chided me for failing to shoot him dead or at least slam him in jail. I surprised myself, standing there watching a free $1000 riding away. Wow! A lot of dinero! Across the street Blackie’s astounded face loomed behind the Gazette’s large window. He’ll have a ripping yarn for his next edition. As for Panhandle, he’s sure to preach how he would’ve handled Flash Ding and earned himself that coveted ree-ward.
Annie’s voice rose behind me. “Ah was about to drill thet son-of-a-bitch when youse trumped me.” I turned. Her curves stood in the saloon door clutching a Winchester, expertly. She wore a wide triumphant smile on her pretty powdered face. “You sure were sneaky, foolin’ ‘im like thet.”
* * *
I twirled my gun back into its holster and tipped my Sombrero. “Ah sure was,” I uttered, proudly. “He won’t be back. Ah deserve another beer.” I stepped towards her, tripped over my spurs and my forehead crashed against the doorpost…..
A familiar voice penetrated my brain. “Wake up! You’re not really hurt.”
I forced open my eyes and found I was back home, spreadeagled at the foot of the stairs. The day was no brighter. The storm still raged outside and a rumble of thunder rolled across Salisury and vibrated through the house. Annie – no, Margaret stood over me in her long nightie. Stars were spinning round my head in a crazy dance. “Goddammit! Wat the ‘ell am I a-doin’ of ‘ere?” I sound like Hopalong Cassidy.
She sniggered. “Why are you speaking in that silly accent? You tripped down the stairs. Serves you right. Warned you to fix that loose carpet.”
Women!
END
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