The look on ‘Bullet’ Bob Cutter’s face was a mixture of fear and hate. It was a look I had seen a thousand times in a hundred towns. But it wasn’t until I became the Marshal of Abilene, Texas that I truly took note of the “look”. Something about the eyes flitting back and forth, the clenching of the jaw, the tiny pearls of sweat on the brow.
His hands hovered above the twin tied-down Colts. He’d added one since the last time I’d seen him. Only someone hunting trouble or a damned fool wore two guns that way. Sometimes the hunter and the fool were one in the same.
I had to give him his chance. “Listen, Cutter, You can get on your horse and ride, no harm done.”
Cutter, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, grinned. “I owe you for Tres Hermanas”. He paused. “You yella, Marshal?”
“Nope. Just don’t want to kill you.”
The look came back. “You ain’t funny, Marshal.”
“Not trying to be. I just don’t want to bury you.”
“I’m faster than you, Marshal!”
The cut was still healin’ on his forehead and I thought about why he’d ridden in to town in the first place. It had all started about a month ago.
* * *
It was one of those red-fire Texas summer afternoons that was both epic in its magnitude and unrelenting in its humidity. The air was breathless and thick with no whisper of breeze to offer respite. The sustained drone of cicadas was interrupted by the occasional cry of a Red-Tailed Hawk turning slow spirals in a cloudless blue sky.
The Mustang trudged lazily forward, a bright sheen of sweat painted on its copper hide. Its hooves kicked up dust brumes that, once airborne, seemed to hang suspended a few inches above the dry-baked trail before expanding into nothingness.
I was dog tired after tracking and running down a trio of stage robbers that took the Wells Fargo outside of Lajitas and then had tried to take the bank in Abilene; my town, my bank. I’d tracked them for almost three weeks and finally caught up to them this morning ten miles from here. A fourth set of tracks had come into the group a few days after I started tracking them. I thought it might be a drifter or someone just looking for a friendly face. After all, we were still in injun country. Two days ago one of them had ridden off toward the border. The little town of Tres Hermanas wasn’t far.
When I finally caught up there was a disagreement with these fellas’, as there usually is. They kept denyin’ the robbery, all the while tryin’ to get me to overlook the Wells Fargo money bag pokin’ out of a saddle bag.
When I asked about it, they decided to have a lead throwing contest. I don’t take lead throwing lightly. When you’re in it, you follow the words of Wyatt Earp and “Take your time, in a hurry.”
The first one that tried to slap leather forgot to loosen the tie for his gun and only succeeded in blowing a hole in the dirt. He was the first one to reach, but he was the last one to die.
The second one was faster, but not quite fast enough. He was carrying an 1851 Navy Colt. It was heavy and a little slow coming up, but it could’ve killed me none the less.
My pistol bucked twice and the man went down, his shot high and wide.
The third one used his horse for cover. I fired between the horses legs, catching him in the knee. As he fell, I fired again and his lead throwin’ days were over.
By now that last one had finally managed to get his gun clear of the holster. It didn’t do him much good and he joined his compadres.
As tired as I was after chasin’ these boys I knew haulin’ their carcasses back to Abilene was something of an impossible task. Not that I wasn’t able to do it mind you. It was just that these here boys had ridden hard for near three weeks to get away and I’d done the same to catch ‘em.
I knew I had about four hours of daylight left, but I knew I was in no shape for riding. I made a campfire and set up a place for the night. No use in tryin’ to head out for Abilene until morning, even if I was craving a bed and a good meal. I figured I’d load these fella’s long about sun up and then start for home.
The sun was beginning to set so I got out my coffee and hard tack and stoked up the fire. I still had bacon in my saddle bags, but I was just plum tired and wasn’t up for cooking it tonight. Even making the coffee seemed like a chore, but I was having my coffee no matter what.
I started the pot to brewin’ and then collected up the dead men’s guns. I left their rifles stuck in their saddle scabbards, but I dumped all of the pistols into a large flour sack I found in one of their saddle bags, tied it, and hung it on a saddle horn. I finished just as I heard the coffee pot boiling.
I poured myself a cup and walked back to my saddle bags. I pulled out my bible and settled in. I opened to where I’d left off: Proverbs 19. I read it aloud. “Better is the poor that walketh in his integrity, than he that is perverse in his lips, and is a fool.”
I looked at the bodies of the dead men. “You fella’s should have learned that.” I heard a coyote howl in the distance.
The dawn was pink and purple and off to the west I could see a few clouds. With the sun still making its climb I couldn’t tell if they were storm clouds or not, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I decided I’d head for Tres Hermanas just in case. If not, I’d head for the nearest town with a train station and get myself and my dead freight back to Abilene.
The wind had picked up by the time I took to the saddle and the clouds were moving in quick. They were dark and thick. Yes, sir, storm clouds like I feared and I would be lucky to make Tres Hermanas and still be dry.
I rode as fast as I could haulin’ three horses loaded with bodies. I was thinking I might need to look for shelter when I caught sight of the church steeple at Tres Hermanas in the distance and tried to pick up the pace a little. I knew it would be close.
I rode up to the only saloon in town and swung out of the saddle just as the rain started to come down. It was light, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way. I pulled my slicker out of my saddle bags and put it over my arm. Then I grabbed the saddlebags off of one of the other horses and slung it over my shoulder. It held the Wells Fargo money. I stepped up onto the boardwalk and looked past the batwing doors into the bar.
It looked like a hundred other small town saloons in Texas. Bad whiskey, Mexican soiled doves, gambling, and lots of trouble makers. I paused and looked back at the horses I’d brought in. I figured if the rain wasn’t bothering them, it wasn’t going to bother the fella’s tied to their backs.
I pushed open the batwing doors and entered the saloon. I took a quick look around to find any source of future trouble and then went to the bar. I saw a couple of faces I recognized from wanted dodgers, but I was not looking for trouble and all the faces in here weren’t wanted for anything too serious, so I kept to myself.
The bartender, a thick bodied Mexican fella with a big mustache, slid up to me. “Hola, Señior!” What brings you out on a day like this, eh?” Then he saw my badge. “Ah, you are a lawman. Maybe catching some banditos, sí?”
“Is there a hotel in town?”
“No, señior. But they sometimes let Rangers stay at the church.” He paused and looked hard at me. “I have seen you before, señior?”
“It’s possible.” I said.
“What is your name if I might ask, señior?”
“Marshal Bo Miller.
His eyes grew wide. “Sí! You are the Marshal of Abilene! I saw you shoot Jose Florez!”
“He made the challenge.”
“Sí, but you were fast. I’ve only seen one man faster than you. He is a Ranger. His name is. . .”
“Kyle Soren.”
“Sí! You know the Ranger?”
“For many years now. Who do I see at the church?”
“Padre Sancho. He will surely give you a room.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. Would you like a drink, señior?”
“What’s your name?”
“Roberto.”
“Well, Roberto, do you have coffee?”
“Sí.” He moved to small stove and picked up a pot. He poured a cup and set it on the bar in front of me.
I glanced around the room again. The talk had grown quiet and more than a few faces were looking in my direction. I nodded and turned back to the bar, my eyes falling on the mirror on the back wall. Two men began whispering to each other, then quietly got up and headed out of the batwing doors.
“I think they don’t like your company, señior.” Roberto smiled at me.
“They’re on the wanted dodger. I noticed ‘em when I came in. I got enough to haul back to Abilene without adding a couple more bodies, alive or dead.”
I was about to ask where I could get a meal when the batwing doors burst open to reveal a young man with a tied down Colt and fire in his eyes.
“I want to know where the son of a bitch is that killed those men out there!”
I turned to face the young man. “That would be me.”
The man walked toward me, his hand hovering over his pistol. “Those were my friends! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Name’s Miller, Marshal Bo Miller. And maybe you should pick your friends a little better.”
The young man stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. “You from Abilene?”
“Yup. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Bob Cutter.”
“Ah, so you’re Dan Cutter’s little brother. They say you’re almost as handy with a gun as big Dan.”
He smiled darkly. “I’m faster. They say you’re pretty fast.” He paused and then added. “For a lawdog.”
“I do okay in a lead throwin’ contest.”
“How about we find out?”
Roberto leaned over the bar. “Señior Cutter, I have seen the Marshal shoot. He is mucho fast. I think Señior Hardin would have trouble.”
“That so?” His voice had grown cold.
“Look, boy, if you want to die in this saloon, that’s your business, but I’ve got things to do and shootin’ you ain’t on that list.”
People start headin’ out the door like the place was burnin’ down. Roberta stepped away from the bar and headed for a side door.
Bob squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Those were my friends out there. You may’ve brought ‘em in legal like, but that don’t give you the right to leave ‘em layin’ dead in the rain.”
“Boy, I’m tired and not in the mood for the likes of you. If you want to die, go ahead and reach.”
His hand lashed out for his pistol. Instead of reaching for my gun, I hurled my coffee cup and hit him square in the face. The heavy, earthen mug hit him just right and he went down like a sack of potatoes.
I bent down to examine him and saw that the mug had left a large cut on his forehead. I smiled. “That’ll leave you a nice scar to remind you about bein’ stupid.”
I knew he’d be unconscious for hours, so I picked up my saddle bags. No stop for the night in Tres Hermanas. It was shoot this boy when he woke up, or ride on to the nearest train town in the rain. I chose the latter.
I stepped out of the saloon and threw my saddlebags over my horse. I threw the money bags over one of the others and put on my slicker. I swung up into the saddle and pulled my hat brim low. The rain was coming down in sheets, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to kill this kid if I didn’t have to.
Many of the saloon’s former patrons were lined up on the boardwalk’s watching me. They had expected me to shoot Bob Cutter. Or, lacking that, be killed by him. I think they were all a bit surprised at what had happened.
Roberto, soaked to the skin, looked inside at Cutter sprawled on the floor. “Why you no kill him?”
“He’s a kid, a stupid one right now, but maybe a little wiser. I hope so. I’ve given him a chance and I’m prayin’ he takes it.”
“Come again if you are ever in Tres Hermanas. I will always have coffee for you, señior.”
“Thanks, Roberto.”
“And try to stay dry.”
I smiled and nodded, then turned my caravan of horses into the rain.
* * *
So he had followed, learning nothing.
“I said I’m faster than you, Marshal! You getting hard o’ hearing in your old age? Maybe you’re slow as molasses? I AM FASTER than you!”
I heaved a sigh. “No, boy, you ain’t.”
I saw his eyes flinch. He thought about it for half a second. But that look of determination they all got came into his eyes and I knew he’d come to a decision.
As he reached, his eyes changed. He seemed to know what was coming. His hand locked around the butt of his pistol, but it was too late and he knew it. His destiny was in motion and not to be stopped.
There was barely a whisper as the barrel of my Colt cleared leather, my thumb instinctively ratcheting back the hammer. My pistol fired once, the concussion bouncing loudly off of the buildings around me.
The bullet struck him high on the left side of the chest. He spun in almost a complete circle, his knees buckling. He fell hard, landing in a spray of dust, his body bending as if he was kneeling in prayer. He tried to rise and slumped back to the ground. His pistol fell from his fingers. The look of determination had, in that instant, passed into surprise and then into fear.
“Damn that was fast.” The words were choked and barely audible. “So. . . Fast. . . I. . .”
I holstered my pistol and walked toward the young man. Around me folks were coming out of the shops and saloons. Some were cautious; others couldn’t get to the street fast enough. I’ll never understand some people’s fascination with watching a man die.
I knelt down beside him. With some effort, he turned his head to look at me, rising slightly as he did. His eyes seemed to be going in and out of focus and tears were forming.
“I’m. . .sorry, Marshal.”
His breath hit my face in a fog of whiskey and cigars. “It didn’t have to be like this, son.” I told him.
He coughed. “Yeah it did.” His voice was a whisper. “I ride for the brand.”
“Don’t we all.”
“This ain’t like I pictured it.”
“It never is.” I saw the light going out in his eyes.
“You think heaven will let me in?”
What kind of answer could I give this boy? No, son, I think you’re damned? I smiled down at him. “Sure, they’ll let you in.”
But my answer was too late in coming. ‘Bullet’ Bob Cutter swayed and then fell face down in the street. His hat flipped backward off of his head and a gust of wind caused it to tumble down the street.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned. Deputy Marshal Potter stood there, a Winchester in his hands. Doc Edington pushed past him and knelt.
“Too late, Doc.” I picked up Cutter’s pistol from the dirt.
“I’m the one with the doctorin’ know how, I’ll decide when it’s too late.” He said.
“I’m the one with with killin’ know how.” I said quietly and rose to my feet.
Potter leaned the Winchester on his shoulder. “He wore his guns low and loose, Marshal. You gave him a chance.”
Doc Edington got up shaking his head. He started to speak and then just turned and walked away. I couldn’t blame him. How many young men had he looked over since I’d become Marshal. He knew it wasn’t my fault, these prairie pups always ridin’ in to make a name. But I think he held some kind of resentment toward me just the same.
I looked down at Cutter, that young face. “This kid should have been drivin’ cattle.”
“What do you think Sheriff Mitchell will say?”
I looked up at Potter. “What’s that?”
“I said, what do you think Sheriff Mitchell will say?”
“Not a thing. Cutter didn’t come gunnin’ for him.” It sounded good as I said it, but I knew the Sheriff would be a problem. I had my suspicions he was running low and loose himself; maybe even helping out an outlaw or two.
“He won’t be none too happy I’ll bet.”
I handed Potter the dead man’s gun. “Not like I’m too concerned. Get Amos and take Cutter on up to Boot Hill.”
Potter started to walk away then paused and turned back. “Do you think his brother will come?”
I looked off toward the end of town. A dust mote whirled into nothingness and a blue tick hound was barking at a treed squirrel in the church court yard. People were beginning to move around normally, as if the dead man in the street was just a momentary pause in their day.
“He’ll come.” I said. “They always do.”