Читать книгу The Third Western Megapack - Johnston McCulley - Страница 6

THERE AIN’T NO MEN IN HEAVEN, by Gary Lovisi

The stage came in late from Rockville Flats, but that, in and of itself, didn’t mean a heck of a lot out here where time sort of stands still and even the morning sun seems to take its sweet time beginning another day.

No, it wasn’t a big deal that the Overland stage was late again, that was too usual. What was unusual was the man who got off that stage into the dusty dirt street of our little town. I’da sworn I’d seen his features before, a grim-looking shootist who looked like he meant his business and took nothing lightly.

He was dressed in black homespun and leather, with a dark slouch hat and red bandana, black shiny boots with silver spurs, and hanging real easy from a hand-tooled holster was a fancy six-shooter that looked to be rarin’ to get out and be put to use.

He was a bad one. I could see that right away as he dusted himself off and then gave the town the eagle-eye as the stage pulled away from the depot.

Mama had always warned me about bad men like that. How the world is full of them and how they be all over the West, infecting it with their wildness, drinking, cussing and gunplay. I remember Mama telling me there weren’t no men in Heaven at all as far as she was concerned – that they’re all bad and mean and just brought trouble to all women. I guessed I would be included in that grouping some day, once I growed up and became a man myself, but that just didn’t seem fair to me at all. Especially since at that time just being a 12 year old boy, manhood seemed a real long way off to me.

Ma had her reasons for the way she felt though. She’d been alone for a long time, bitter, consumed with hate and anger. It just burned her up. Pa had pulled out on us years back when I was born, gone out prospecting for gold. Or so he’d told Ma. He never came back. We never heard hide nor hair of him since. Ma worked herself to death trying to provide for me and my older sister. When sis died of the whooping cough, it broke what was left of Ma’s heart, and she blame Pa and all men for her terrible plight and our sunken fortunes in the world. Ma passed away and I hardly remembered her now. I was looked after by Sheriff Wilson, but I lived pretty much by myself these days.

Now we had this fancy shootist, and by the looks of him he was a dangerous man who’d not be entering into Heaven when he died either – but I was sure he’d sent his share of men to Hell just the same. I wondered who he was, and why he had come to our little town.

I ran to the jail up the street and asked the Sheriff if I could look through the old wanted posters again. Here was as mean-looking a group of cut-throats and rogues, bank robbers and gunfighters as you’d ever want to see. They was a sure scary lot. None of them, however, looked like the man just off the stage, but they all sure had something in common by the way they looked. Especially in the eyes. They all had that same cold stare that seemed to be looking far off at something just outta range. The man off the stage had it in spades, a wary sharpness, a piercing alert gaze that looked like it could melt ice in winter – and every one of them desperadoes what had a wanted poster looked the same way. It was a dangerous look, the look that dangerous men gave off. And now one of them was in our town.

I went back to the stage depot and it wasn’t long before I saw Sheriff Wilson and Bob Gritz his deputy come down the street. Keeping in step with their purposeful strides on the other side of the street was Timmy Wirth, the blacksmith’s son, a double-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms. His face stone cold with a flush of nervous fear, though he tried his best to hide it.

The shootist waited for them. Calm. Assured. He hadn’t moved from his spot in the street since he got out of the stage. He noted Timmy Wirth across the street with the shotgun, moving up on him, saw the sheriff and his deputy approach with hands near their six-guns as well.

“Don’t try nothing now,” Sheriff Wilson ordered careful, a twinge of the nerves creeping into his heavy voice. “I just want to talk to you, Jack. Peaceful-like. So let’s not have any trouble we’ll all be regretting.”

“That’s fine by me, Sheriff. I’ve been waiting for you. Figured you’d some around once you got wind of me being in town.”

“That’s real fine of you to wait here for me, Jack.”

The shootist smiled. Like ice. Chilling.

Sheriff Wilson smiled back hesitantly, said, “But damn, Jack, you’re the last person I ever expected to set foot back in this town.”

I saw Jack the shootist smile at that. He said, “Hell, Warren, it’s been a long time.”

“You look good, Jack, the years have been kind to you.”

The shootist allowed a grim look, dark and full of foreboding, as though he saw his entire life flash before him. Remembering. Terrible memories. “The years have been anything but kind, Warren.”

“Alright, Jack, but don’t you go fixin’ to go mean on me or make any trouble here.”

“No, Warren, I’m through with all that. I mean you no harm. Nor anyone else. After a time a man forgets all the pettiness that seems so important when he’s young and stupid. I’ve done my share of killing and worse. What’s done is done. I just hope I won’t have to be doing no more.”

“That’s right fair of you to feel that way, Jack. I’m glad to hear it.”

“It’s true, Warren. I don’t hold no grudges anymore. Life’s too short for that.”

By this time a crowd had gathered but Wilson’s deputy had most of the loungers and curious move off so they’d be out of earshot. Nevertheless, the place was a buzz with rumor and whispered talk about the stranger and the fact there might be gun-play before his talk with Sheriff Wilson was done.

“So what brings you here, Jack?” the Sheriff said getting down to business.

“A legacy, Warren, a promise to a friend.”

Sheriff Wilson looked skeptical. “Now, Jack, I thought you was…”

“Don’t worry, Warren, it’s not anything like that. Not revenge. Why don’t we go to your office and have a talk about it. You still keep a bottle of Tequila in the top drawer of your desk?”

* * * *

At the time I didn’t know what it was all about. I was surprised an hour later when Timmy Wirth, still wearing a bright shiny deputy badge, came looking for me.

“Joey, Sheriff Wilson wants to see you.”

“He wants to see me?” I didn’t now what to make of that, figuring I might have done something wrong, but unable to figure what it could have been.

“Come on, its alright. He just wants to talk to you.”

I said, “Is the stranger there with him?”

Timmy Wirth looked at me carefully, said, “Yeah, sure is, Joey, and I think that’s what it’s all about.”

I gulped nervously, then walked back with Timmy Wirth to the other edge of town.

When we got near the jail we could see there was some kind of commotion brewing outside in the street. Timmy and I walked closer and by the time we got to the jail there was a sudden chorus of screams and running people. The crowd cleared in a mad rush, the people who had blocked our view now running to safety. Suddenly I saw before me Kyle and Jonas Reed drawing on Sheriff Wilson and the stranger.

Shots were fired.

Timmy Wirth cocked his shotgun by Kyle Reed quickly took him out with a bullet to the gut. Timmy fell back, hit the ground, his shotgun flying into the street. The shootist quickly put one bullet in Kyle Reed’s arm, another in his shoulder, causing him to fly around like an out-of-control spinning top. Klye’s brother, Jonas, the faster of the two, very business-like, put two bullets into the stranger. Kyle Reed, not wounded in his shooting arm, got off a couple of shots at Sheriff Wilson, one of them hitting him in the head. With a loud wooof, like he’d been knocked with a sledge hammer, I saw the sheriff fall back into the open doorway of the jail. He lay there unmoving. I saw blood and it sent shivers all through me and a rage I’d never known since Ma had passed.

The scene grew quiet now, almost desolate, all the bystanders having long since fled. Timmy Wirth and Sheriff Wilson were out of the action, the sheriff’s other deputy, Bob Gritz, nowhere to be seen. Kyle Reed though wounded was still in play, his gun trained on the wounded unarmed stranger, his brother Jonas motioning with his weapon for the man to stand off and not make a play for his gun.

“We got no quarrel with you, Jack Slade. It’s the gold we’re here for and the gold we aim to take. Give it to us and you’ll come to no harm.”

The stranger, who by all accounts now seemed to be the deadly Black Jack Slade, just laughed at that as he made a teasing attempt to move closer to his gun. The Reed Brothers quickly dissuaded him with their own firearms – a couple of well-placed shots in the dirt at his feet in warning. The stranger nodded, calmly stepped back and waited.

It occurred to me that the Reed Brothers would kill the stranger as soon as he let out where the gold was hidden. Obviously he didn’t have the gold on him, probably the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. I knew the reputation of the Reed Brothers, seen their wanted posters for murder and robbery. They were a bad seed that would surely kill the unarmed stranger as soon as they got what they’d come for.

I stood frozen at the head of the alleyway. A few feet from me lay Timmy Wirth, writhing in pain, a silent crumpled mass, motioning for me to get away. To run. To hide. I remained frozen. I ignored him. Instead, my eyes locked onto Timmy’s shotgun laying alone in the street where it had been flung scant minutes before.

“I’ll kill you, Jack, if you don’t give up the gold.”

“I don’t have no gold, Jonas.”

Jonas Reed pressed the trigger of his six-gun sending a bullet into the unarmed man’s leg, and Black Jack Slade crumpled to the dirt of the street in a painful gasp.

“Next one will be a might higher up, Jack,” Jonas Reed warned grimly.

Klye Reed, wounded, but now standing beside his brother centered his six-shooter on the stranger, winced in pain, said, “We’re wanted men. We’re not playing games here. Give up the gold or we’ll kill you right now!”

“If I give up the location of the gold you’ll kill me anyway.” Slade replied.

“We’ll sure as hell kill you if you don’t give it up!” Klye barked. He was loosing patience. I knew I’d have to do something soon.

I made up my mind and moved out of the alley to kneel beside Timmy Wirth, telling him what I was gonna do, making it look like I was tending to his wounds. Timmy tried to stop me but I put my hand over his mouth. I told him to shut up.

Klye Reed took a quick look in my direction. I gulped and froze as he turned to shoot. He had me in a clear path of a bullet and I could see his finger ready and itching to squeeze the trigger.

“Klye!” The stranger barker. “He’s just a kid. Leave him be and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Well that got Kyle Reed’s attention and probably saved my life. Kyle and his brother both turned away from me, trained their guns and attention back on Black Jack Slade.

“Now you’re talking, Jack. Those are sensible words for once,” Jonas Reed said smiling now.

That’s when I made a leap for Timmy Wirth’s shotgun. It was heavy. My fingers scrambled for the trigger as I brought it up high, trying my best to aim the scattergun in the general direction of the Reed Brothers before they blew my head off. I knew I didn’t have much time. I also knew I didn’t need a well-aimed shot.

I saw Kyle Reed move his six-shooter my way, and that’s when I let loose with both barrels of the scattergun in a loud explosion that threw me back three feet into the street.

There was a loud scream.

It was from me!

I felt hot searing pain in my leg. I looked down and saw blood there, a small red splotch soaking into the fabric of my pants and slowly growing larger as I watched with terror. I pulled my eyes away from my leg and looked at the Reed Brothers, saw Kyle Reed slumped down in the dirt. He was dead, no doubt about that, his head was practically blowed off his shoulders by the shotgun blast.

Jonas Reed was down too, clutching his chest, silently mouthing cries of pain. I saw the stranger, still on the ground from his leg wound, with his gun in hand, crawl across the street to relieve Jonas Reed of his weapon.

I got up and hobbled over to the scene of the carnage. A scene I had significantly helped to create, which was not lost on me as I looked at what remained of Kyle Reed.

“You did a gutsy thing there, kid,” the stranger said to me. He quickly wrapped his wounded leg in a improvised tourniquet, then limped over to me to get a look at my own wound.

He smiled, “Just a flesh wound, kid. You’re lucky.”

He didn’t have to tell me how lucky I was.

“You saved my life and I thank you for that. You also saved the gold.”

“So there really is gold?” I asked full of excitement.

He just nodded, went and looked in at Sheriff Wilson. By then a crowd had gathered and people were helping the sheriff and Timmy Wirth. Wilson’s deputy, Bob Gritz, had returned and was putting Jonas Reed in a jail cell while old Harry Mortimer, the barber and mortician, was already measuring what was left of Kyle Reed for a Boot Hill coffin. It turned out Sheriff Wilson was only grazed by the bullet and Timmy was going to be okay too.

* * * *

Next day we were sitting in the sheriff’s office in the jail. Slade and Sheriff Wilson were finishing up a long glass of tequila. I waited and watched, wondering why I’d been called.

Finally the man known as Black Jack Slade looked to me and said, “I appreciate what you did for me the other day.”

“It took a lot of guts, Joey,” Sheriff Wilson aded. “With me wounded and out of action, and Timmy cut down, there was no one here to stand up for law and order.”

I nodded, still pretty numb after all the action the day before.

“I came to this town, Joey,” Slade told me, “to keep a promise to a friend. I wasn’t lying about the gold. It’s all there, right in Warren’s safe.”

“Real gold?” I asked.

“Real gold, Joey, and a lot of it, too. California gold.”

I looked at Black Jack Slade.

“Joey, years ago I met a man and we became good friends. He always talked about the son and daughter he’d left behind. Felt terrible about it and swore if he ever struck it rich he’d give them each a share of what he made one day. He’d hit pay dirt out in California, a mine everyone thought was played out. He worked it for years, like a crazy man. Eventually he found an untapped vein and struck it rich. He was killed a few months back. Before he died he made me promise that his son and daughter would get this gold. Well, Joey, that man was your father. Now Warren here told me about your sister passing away, and I’m real sorry about that, but that just means all this here gold belongs to you now.”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought of the father I’d never known. There were no memories there, just a big empty void.

“Joey, use that gold wisely, make something of yourself so you’ll make your old man even prouder of you than I am. He loved you powerfully. You’ll never know how much,” Slade said.

Sheriff Wilson took that as a cue, he stood up and shook hands with Black Jack Slade and wished him a safe journey. I watched him go, his limp barely noticeable, his six-gun saying at his side like winter wheat in a spring breeze.

I didn’t know what to make of all this. It had hit me so sudden and all, but when Sheriff Wilson called me over to the safe behind his desk, opened the huge iron door, and pulled out half a dozen heavy sacks of gold dust, I knew it wasn’t some dream but all too real.

I think I knew something else too.

That’s when I ran out the door of the sheriff’s office and over to the Overland Stage depot at the other end of town.

I saw the stranger there, a dangerous man, still the dreaded shootist, limping toward the stage. He seemed older now and more tired, but that look in his eyes and the bearing of his frame hadn’t diminished one bit. This was still a man you did not trifle with. But I had no choice.

I yelled out, “Wait! Wait, Mr. Slade!”

He turned slowly, watching me carefully as I ran over to him. The way he looked at me was strange, I noticed a sudden softness there, but for only an instant and then it was gone, replaced by his hard cruel eyes and tough visage. It made me more determined than ever in believing I was right in what I was thinking.

I said, “Thanks for the gold, Mr. Slade.”

He said, “It’s alright kid, least I could do.”

I said, “You knew my Pa well?”

“Well as any man can know another, I guess.”

“Was he a good man, Mr. Slade? I’ve heard some bad things said about him.”

“No, Joey, your Pa wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t as bad as most and was better than some, but mostly he loved you and your sister, even though I’m sure you don’t believe me when I tell you that.”

I smiled, confident now, then I said, “Sure, I believe you when you tell me that. Pa.”

There was a stillness so powerful it was like the day the Bible says when damnation has finally arrived.

Black Jack Slade stopped cold in his tracks, slowly turned back around and looked at me head on. His face was a mask. Not cold, just barren, unreadable. The gunfighter’s face that had been called out to draw.

“You’ve got that all wrong, son, if you think I’m your father.”

“So you’re just doing all this for a friend. Right?”

“That’s it. I’m just making a delivery, seeing to it you get what’s yours. As your Pa wished. Now I got other business to attend to.”

I didn’t say anything more about it and neither did he. The subject was closed. Tight. I saw he was making ready to board the stage. I had to say something.

“Well, then, goodbye, Mr. Slade. I thank you and wish you well.”

As he got into the stage he replied, “And I wish you well, Joey. I know your Pa is proud as hell of you – where ever he might be right now.”

“I know.”

“And Joey,” I heard him say just as the stage pulled out, “some people will tell you that there ain’t no men in heaven, but maybe, someday, when you’re a man yourself, you’ll understand that your Pa tried his best to get there.”

And I said, “I think I understand.”

And he just smiled and then was gone as the stage pulled out.

And under my breath I said, “It’s okay, Pa.”

But of course, he never heard me.