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THE SHOWDOWNThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by J. Grimm | |
| Sunday, 10 February 2008 | |
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THE SHOWDOWN I stood there, in the middle of the dusty main street, sweatin' more than I ever had before. The late mornin' sun was relentless and unforgivin'. I could feel the sweat runnin' down the back of my neck, ticklin' and itchin' at the same time, but I couldn't rub it. At that point, any move I made might have been misread as a draw, and then I could be caught off guard and gunned down. There was no way I would give this killer the satisfaction of gettin' the drop on me. I would have to wait until the giant town clock struck noon. As I stared him down, I thought about Donovan, the young man who had once been my younger brother. He was ten years younger than me and known, affectionately, as Van to all who had watched him grow up in our little Ozark Mountain town. It was what I would call him when we was runnin' through the woods alongside the mighty White River, late for school on account we spent most of the mornin' catchin' frogs on the riverbank. I quickly thought about all the times Pa and me had spent teachin' him the fine art of gun fightin': the quick draw; the speed load; repeat firin' by slappin' the hammer with his palm... six shots in three seconds. We even taught him the double draw. Some days he was just hard-headed and wanted to practice twirlin' the pistols with his fingers before shovin' them back into their holsters. "A damned waste of time," Pa would say. "The moment you draw that weapon, you better be ready to take a life, not put on a show. That gun twirlin's gonna be the death of you if you don't watch it, boy." Van was young, only seventeen, when he left our home in Missouri and went lookin' for work in a growin' Arkansas town called Little Rock. Didn't take long for him to get caught up in the web of gamblin'. A year later, he was caught cheatin' in a poker game with two men from our neck of the woods. When they called him out, Van stood and challenged them right there at the table. One stepped back and threw the deck of cards at Van's face while the other quickly stood to draw his gun. But, before he could free the pistol, two gunshots silenced the commotion. Both men fell, each with a bullet through the heart. Accordin' to the witnesses, Van drew both his pistols, fired one shot from each, and then re-holstered them before the last poker card hit the floor. When Van went to grab the money from the table, the bartender pulled a shotgun and tried to stop him. Van gunned him down, too. Right then, Van was a wanted man. He rode his horse half-way across the state of Arkansas and into the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri, followed by a posse of almost twenty men. He quickly lost them in the cave riddled, wooded terrain. As it turned out, the gamblers Van had gunned down were two of Mr. Haggley's three sons. Bart, the oldest by six years, and Tommy, the middle son, were the two he had killed. The third one, the one I had spent my school years with, and younger than me by a year, was Billy, a blacksmith like his father and the only son Mr. Haggley had left. At first, Van had denied ever knowin' who the men were. But he could never lie to Pa. All it took was that "look". The one that Pa always gave us to let us know that he knew we was full of it. It didn't take long for the news ‘bout Van's ruthless gun handlin' to get around and soon the sheriff came callin' on our homestead telling Pa that if we didn't hand Van over, he would arrest us all for hidin' a fugitive. Pa refused. That night we was visited by a force more powerful than any lawman; more ruthless than any killer known to any man in our parts. The force was a gang of black-hooded vigilantes that called themselves the Baldknobbers. Not much was known about the group; really only that they got their name ‘cause the members always had their meetin's on a treeless, grassy hilltop we call a "bald knob". Their meetin' place was about five miles or so out of town. The Baldknobbers' reputation was nastier than that of a rabid badger. They was the most feared group of men in this part of the country. When the Baldknobbers came a callin', someone was gonna die. Before we knew what was happenin' that night, our barn was aflamin' and the helpless animals screeched and bellowed as they died horrible deaths. Next was our garden. Then, the masked men surrounded the house. Pa insisted on confrontin' them, but I talked him into lettin' do it. I told Van to stay put, lettin' him know that I would convince the gang that I would be taking him to the Sheriff myself. He became pissed and began cussin' me. Then, he stood and dropped his hand to one of his pistols. Before he could touch it, my own hand moved so quick and on its own that even I was taken aback at how fast the barrel of my Colt .45 was at the tip of his nose. I took his guns and handed them to Pa, tellin' him to keep Van in his seat. I had been out on the porch , about five minutes into the negotiatin', when I heard a ruckus in the house: a crashin' of glass, a struggle, then, three gunshots. I tore back through the door with my Colt in hand. The first thing I saw was a fire in the kitchen, growin' larger by the second, caused by a lantern that was thrown on the floor. The window there was shattered and the back door stood wide open. It looked like they got restless waitin' for Van and came in to get him. Pa was on the floor with two bloody splotches on his shirt and Van's guns still in his hands. One of the barrels was still warm; Pa managed to squeeze off one shot at whoever shot him. Someone was gonna die for this... I swore it right then. Those goddamned Baldknobbers had no right. I carried Pa out into the night. He was still alive, barely. The cowardly gang had already fled. And it was there, by the light of the burnin' homestead, that Pa told me what happened. More important was that he told me which coward shot him. Then, as I watched what I thought was a bead of sweat roll down his cheek, Pa breathed his last breath in my arms. I then realized it was the first and last time I ever saw my Pa shed a tear. It would be a year before anyone back home learned of Van's fate: killed by a single gunshot that took off half his head. It took me that long to track down Pa's murderer. In my search, I learned he was a wanted killer in four states and was one of the most feared gunmen around. That didn't matter to me. I knew him. We grew up together in the same town. In the same school. I fished with him. Rode horses with him. He knew he didn't have to kill Pa to get what he wanted. Maybe it was an accident. I had tried convincin' myself of that many times. But Pa was shot twice... that was no accident. So, there I stood. Unmovin'. Starin' at this man on the other end of the street... a man who was now a stranger to me. I tried not to lock eyes with him, slightly ashamed for what I was about to do. Instead, I watched him breathin'. His shoulders risin' and fallin' with every breath. It was a nervous kind of breathin'. I could read his body language clearly. He knew how deadly a Colt .45 was in my hands and he, no doubt, was prayin' to be a split second fast than me when the moment of truth came. I could tell he didn't want to be there on the other end of that street bleeding a river of sweat under the scorching summer sun. We waited for the town clock's bell let everyone know it was noon. To let this coward know it was time to die. It must have been just a few seconds before the bell tolled, as I finally made eye contact with him, that I saw a tear roll from his left eye. Leavin' a wet track in the dust that covered his tanned face, anyone else watchin' that day probably mistook it as a bead of sweat... but I knew what it was. I don't believe he shed it for fear of death. Remorse. It was a tear for my Pa. He knew all too well that a good man died foolishly at his hand; a death that would soon be avenged with a single slug of lead accompanied by molten rage hotter than the fires of Hell itself. That tear was the one thing I had wanted from this coward before he met his maker. An apology. He never had to say a word... the message was loud and clear. The bell let out a deep yelp. He didn't hesitate. In a blink his gun was in his hand. I drew. Fired. Reholstered. The bullet tore through his head is a bloody spray takin' bits of bone and chunks of brain with it. He stood for only a second or two, dead on his feet. His pistol twirled eerily a couple of times around his trigger finger right before his knees buckled. I turned and walked to my horse, not wantin' to watch him fall to the ground. As I climbed up into the saddle, I said aloud, "Pa warned you ‘bout that gun twirlin', boy."
The Showdown ©2000 J. Grimm Copyright 2008 J. Grimm |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 19 February 2008 ) |
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