Death came to Calder the day I turned thirteen. Tall and
skinny I was, all hands and feet, fast outgrowing my britches. Pa was long of
limb too so I reckon I took after him; that was fine by me, for no better man lived
than my Pa. For fifteen years he’d kept the peace in Calder. Although folks in
town knew him as a gentle man, to drifters and troublemakers he was a man not
to be called less’n they could back their play with a gun. I sat on the front stoop of Sam Cooperman’s general store.
The large sign swinging over my head proudly proclaimed: Cooperman’s General
Merchandise, Hardware and Notionals. Coop, as he was known to the locals, had a
talent for woodcarving, and had spent the better part of a month working on his
sign; only last month he’d added the words “10 years of satisfied customers
in Calder.” Pa had given me an 1864 Henry for my birthday. That morning
I sat cleaning and polishing it, admiring the shine of the brass butt plate. I
worked the lever down and back a few times; it was smooth as butter. The empty
magazine could hold fifteen .44 caliber rimfire cartridges, but Pa was
particular about loaded firearms; said it did no good to carry a loaded weapon
less’n you aimed to use it. Sitting there in the sun, I had not a care in the world. I’d
spent two pennies on hard rock candy, and one cheek bulged happily as I chomped
away, trying unsuccessfully to whistle and chew at the same time. As I looked
up, a stranger rode warily down our quiet main street, his eyes hooded and cold
under his black Stetson, searching every doubtful shadow and alleyway. His horse was hard-pressed, covered with
sweat and grime. I considered myself some judge of horseflesh, having helped out
in the livery stable, and that sorrel gelding was a handsome animal, easily
seventeen hands high. Winded though he was, his step had lightness to it,
silently asserting he could still outrun anything on four legs that cared to
try. The rider sat lean and straight in the saddle, dressed in
faded blues, his shooter slung low on his hip and tied down. My eyes widened as
he changed direction and steered towards me. Unconsciously, I tightened the
grip on my Henry. Calder didn’t see many gunfighters, but my gut told me this
was one of them. I got up, eyeing him
uncertainly. Suddenly, the whole town seemed deserted, leaving only the two of
us. Across the street, the searing late afternoon sun glanced off the windows
of the saloon tickling my nose and making me want to sneeze. A door slammed
behind me, and I realized Coop had closed up shop. The man drew rein, and one hand pushed back his dusty hat.
He rested his hands on the pommel, regarding me steadily. He was more lean, sinewy strength than meat
and muscle, his tanned face almost gaunt, the features honed to a finely drawn
point. His eyes were a startling blue under black brows, and young though I
was, I sensed shadows in them. I
shivered in the heat, wanting to wipe my sweaty palms, but afraid to make a move
with the rifle still in my hands. What if he went for his gun? No way for
him to tell the old Henry wasn’t loaded. He nodded at my rifle. “Expectin’ trouble, cowboy?” His
voice was low and even, edged in steel. “No sir!” I gulped. “I … Pa give it to me. Today’s my
birthday and we’re… we’re goin’ huntin’ to …” I realized I was rambling and
clamped my mouth shut, flushed with embarrassment. The stranger’s cold eyes crinkled at the corners, and warmed
for a fleeting second. He squinted up at the sun. “Goin’ to be a bad one, son. Any place in this town a man
can get a cold beer and a decent meal?” “Saloon’s as good as any,” I said, indicating the Golden
Nugget. “Tell you what,” the rider drawled as he fished around in
his vest pocket. “You look like a man I can trust. I need someone to look after
my horse. Give him a good rubdown and some feed and water. The livery far from
here?” “No sir, just down the street by the blacksmith’s. I’d be
proud to take him for you, mister.” “What’s your name, son?” “Luke, Luke Trent.” Shimmering in the sun, a coin sailed through the air. I
caught it with my left hand. A whole dollar! Just to water his horse! “Thanks, mister! But you don’t have to pay me. For this
horse, I’d be glad to do it for nothin’.” He smiled then, and there was a shaft of sunlight in that
smile, banishing the shadows in his eyes. I found myself basking his presence,
no longer apprehensive. “Well, young Luke, I appreciate that, but take it anyway.
Call it a birthday present.” He dismounted, coming down light and easy on his feet. I took
the reins and the sorrel nosed at me, inquisitive, friendly as a pup. “I’ll be in the saloon,” the stranger said as he walked
across the street. I watched him go, and it dawned on me that he had never told
me his name. ***** He had come from the south, through the badlands, where
water and game were scarce, and his throat was parched and sore. He knuckled
sweat and sand out of his stinging eyes. It had been a long, hard ride but the
man who hired him in Sweetwater was paying top wages. He had been down to his
last few dollars… not in a position to be choosy. Jess Harper had come to Calder to kill a man. ***** He slapped at his vest, raising dust and pushed through the
batwing doors of the saloon. He stepped quickly to one side, away from the
door, waiting while his eyes adjusted to the semi-gloom inside. The place was
no different from any other saloon in the cow towns along the trail he rode. A
battle-scarred narrow bar ran the length on the room with a huge,
vulnerable-looking mirror behind it. Glassware and bottles were stacked on
either side of the battered cash register and a dozen or so tables were
scattered about the room, only a third of them occupied. He saw no potential
trouble at any of them, except perhaps the table in the far corner where three
young men argued over a poker game. The rigs they packed seemed too fancy for
ordinary cowhands. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the bartender staring
at him, a look of shocked recognition on his rotund face. Jess bared his teeth
in a feral smile and moved slowly to the bar. ***** I tended the sorrel as though my life depended on it,
currying his coat and mane to a burnished sheen. He deserved the best, his
lines long and smooth, muscles rippling under the skin. I even cajoled old Pop Wheeler
into letting me feed him some oats. I was scratching his forehead when the
shooting began. “What in thunder?” Wheeler muttered and we barreled out of
the livery stable together. I cast a backward glance at the sorrel and my heart
caught in my throat. The same magnificent animal which had nibbled playfully at
my hand suddenly thrashed frantically in his stall, snorting and wild-eyed with
fear. I ran back to him and tried to grab the bridle, but he tossed his head
and snapped at me. “Easy, boy, easy,” I whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ to be afraid
of, just some cowpokes lettin’ off steam, I reck …” I broke off, and unable to explain why, I knew what the
horse had sensed immediately. The shooting up the street involved his owner,
the stranger with the gleaming, blue-steeled shooting iron. I whirled and ran,
colliding with Wheeler who had stopped just outside the livery. Up the street I
could see people gathering outside the saloon. I heard someone shouting, but
could not make out the words. Then I saw my Pa’s tall, broad-shouldered figure
cross the street at a run, pushing his way through the crowd. I picked up my
feet and made tracks. If it involved the sheriff, it had to be serious. Fearing
a little for my Pa, and, oddly, also for the owner of the sorrel, I covered the
distance between the stable and the saloon in record time. I jumped on the
sidewalk and was on my way into the saloon when someone grabbed me. I yelped in
fright, lashing out with my feet. “Ow, fer crissake, Luke! You hold still now. You can’t go in
there.” I turned to see Hank Lawson, owner of the town’s only bath
and barbershop. He still held a lather-covered razor in one hand, and from the
bloodstains on his apron, I reckoned his hand had slipped when the shooting
started. “You let go of me, Hank!” I hollered. “I got a right! My
Pa’s in there!” Furious, I kicked out at him again and twisted loose. I sidestepped another pair of arms and dove
under the doors, loaded for bear. The Nugget was in an uproar, tables were
overturned with cards and broken glass strewn everywhere. The mirror over the
bar was shattered, along with several bottles; the smell of raw whiskey and
beer mingled with sweat and cordite. My eyes found Pa, his back to me, facing
the man who only an hour ago had paid me a dollar to take care of his horse.
The stranger held a gun, and it was pointed straight at my Pa. “I didn’t want any of this, Sheriff,” he said in his low,
quiet voice. He gestured toward the back of the room, and I saw a young man
sprawled on the floor, his head propped against the wall at an odd angle. His
eyes stared wide open, a bewildered look frozen on his face. I could see two
holes in his left breast pocket, no further apart’n a silver dollar. There
wasn’t much blood, which surprised me, until I saw a widening stain soaking
into the floorboards beneath him. The bullets must’ve slammed right through
him. My stomach turned queasy for a second. “Jess Harper,” Pa said slowly. “Last I heard you were hirin’
out as a town tamer down south. What the hell are you doin’ in Calder?” I watched, bug-eyed, as the gunfighter eased the hammer down
and the slid the gun back into its holster. His face was drawn, the eyes dark
and haunted. Jess Harper! In our town! And he had trusted me to take
care of his horse! My head swelled
with unreasonable pride as I recalled some of the stories I’d heard about him,
the drifter with a draw so fast no one was sure they’d seen it happen. His gun
was for hire, they said, but not just to the highest bidder. I had heard he was
something of a maverick, fighting for lost causes for no more pay than a square
meal and a roof over his head. Jess Harper, larger than life, here in
Calder! “Got a job to do, Sheriff,” he drawled and hitched his
elbows on the bar. “Soon’s it’s done I’ll be on my way.” “You’re a professional gun for hire, Harper,” my Pa said
sharply. “There can’t possibly be anyone in Calder to warrant your attention. I
know every man-jack here, have for many years.” Harper shrugged, a peculiar look on his face as he stared at
my Pa. Then his eyes shifted as he saw me standing by the door. Pa swung around
and I knew there’d be hell to pay. “What’re you doin’
here, young Luke?” Jess Harper said quickly, brushing past Pa. “This ain’t no
place for a young’un.” “I… I came to tell you I got your horse all fed and
watered,” I said lamely, looking askance at Pa, seeing the tight set of his
lips. “You two know each other?” Pa said. “Son, you wanna tell me
what this is all about?” “We met when I rode in,” Harper said. “I asked him to stable
my horse for me, that’s all.” “Gave me a whole silver dollar for it, too,” I said proudly,
and dug it out of my pocket. “See.” “Give it back to him, Luke,” Pa said quietly. “But, Pa … “ “Now!” I knew that tone of voice, and it brooked no argument.
Reluctantly, I shuffled over to Harper and handed back his dollar. He
hesitated, and then took it, giving my hand a quick squeeze in the bargain. “So, you’re the sheriff’s son, eh?” “Yessir,” I muttered, hangdog and angry. Angry at Pa for
dressing me down in front of Jess Harper, and angry at myself for being only
thirteen, too young to ride the trail with the likes of Jess. “Go on outside, Luke,” Pa said. He turned to Harper, and as
I sidled toward the door, I heard him say “Stay away from him, Harper. He’s
young and impressionable, and given to hero worship. You’re a hired gun, even
when you put on a badge to clean up a town. Look at you! You haven’t been in
Calder more’n a couple of hours, and already there’s a man dead and his two
friends shot up.” I stopped short, and took another look around. Sure enough,
there was old Doc Hawkins over in the corner, tending two young cowpokes, one
of whom looked to be more dead’n alive, his right hand shattered and bloody.
His friend was holding his left side, cursing and moaning that he was bleeding
to death. “You’ll keep,” Doc Hawkins grunted, cutting up bandages.
“Jest hold still, and thank the good Lord that Harper didn’t kill you. You had
it coming, from what I hear.” “They picked the fight, Sheriff,” Jess said. “If your fat
bartender here hadn’t announced my name to the whole bar, these fellows might
still be in one piece.” I watched him fish out the makings and roll a cigarette with
long, slim fingers, admiring the quick, spare movements. A thumbnail scraped a
match, and he regarded my Pa through half-closed eyes. The bat-wing doors
creaked in the breeze, dust motes dancing in the light that filtered in. I held
my breath against the tension in the room. “It was a fair fight, Sheriff,” the bartender ventured. “I
seen it all. That cowboy was lookin’ to put a notch in his gun. Harper gave him
a chance to back out of it, but he was feelin’ ten feet tall with his friends
in back of him.” Pa scratched at his sweaty blond hair, a gesture he used
when he was frustrated. “Yeah,” he sighed wearily. “Yeah, I’ll bet it was a fair
fight. Three against one! You’ve got quite a story to sell your customers now,
Hal. Should be good for business.” His eyes bored into me again. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’, Pa,” I yelled and turned tail. I stopped by the livery stable to look in on Jess’ horse. I
stroked his silken nose, and whispered into his ear that his master was all
right. I sniffed the familiar smell of warm horseflesh, saddle leather and
fresh hay, taking comfort in it. It was turning out to be quite a birthday. “You forgot this, Luke,” Pop Wheeler said, handing me my
rifle. Then he held out a box of cartridges. “Oh, and Happy Birthday!” “Gosh, thanks, Pop!” Pop Wheeler was a short, stocky man, his head sat square on
his shoulders, with no neck to speak of. One ear was plastered against his
head, like a crumpled postage stamp that had been stuck on crooked. His fists
were rough and scarred, and he took dirt from no man. When school was out and
my chores done, I like to hang out with the old man, listening to his stories
of the days when he was a bare-knuckle fighter of some repute. The stories got
better each time I heard them. “You take care now, son,” Wheeler admonished as I loaded the
Henry. “You know how your Pa feels about youngsters and firearms.” I grinned at him and leaned against the sorrel, rifle at the
ready. If I had felt any taller I would’ve gone plumb through the roof. “That’s quite a horse,” the old man said. “Harper must set
store by you, Luke, lettin’ you take care of his mount that way.” I stared at Pop Wheeler in open-mouthed astonishment. He sat
on an overturned barrel by the door, his blacksmith’s apron on the floor, his
legs stretched out in front of him. He crinkled a smile at me, looking for all
the world like an aggressively friendly porcupine, with his stubbly gray beard
and snub nose. “You know him? Pop Wheeler, you never told me knew any
gunfighters!” Wheeler fished out his chewed-up old pipe and tamped it
down. He flicked a match, and took his time lighting up. I waited impatiently,
knowing it did no good to push the man; he would just turn ornery and clam up
on me. “Ah,” Wheeler smacked on the pipe stem. “First pipe of the
day. Sure does taste fine.” He spat to one side, and squinted at me through the
smoke. “Cain’t rightly say’s I know him, young Luke, but I seen him in action.
Been a long time now, but judging from what happened today, I reckon he ain’t
changed none. Saw him clean up a town once, down Texas way, godforsaken place
called Paradise.” He guffawed, choked on the smoke and coughed violently. I
thumped him on the back, and he crowed like a rooster in a hen house, tears
streaming down his cheeks. “Arrrghh,” he wheezed, finally catching his breath. “Ahem,
thankee, boy, thankee. Well, now, them townsfolks hired Jess Harper to clean
out the outlaw element that had taken over. Fight fire with fire, ya know. Things were so bad decent folk were afraid
to venture outside. Harper posted a sign: ‘No Firearms within City Limits.’ And
sure enough, them boys took it unkindly. Jess took out the leader right there
on Main Street, along with three of his gang. The rest of them packed up and
skedaddled. You ain’t ever seen the likes of Jess Harper with a six-shooter.
Hell, I’m still not sure I saw it.” He
shook his head. I pulled up a crate and sat down next to him. I eyed his
pipe and remembered Jess’ cigarette, wishing I was old enough to smoke.
Sighing, I stuck a straw in the corner of my mouth and nibbled on it, brows
drawn together. “Yep, sounds like Jess all right,” I said sagely. “The town treated him badly, though,” Wheeler
muttered. “Soon’s the trouble was over, they wanted the badge back and him out
of town. Said they couldn’t have a marshal with his kind of reputation. Would
draw other gunfighters like flies to molasses. I heard stories of him helpin’
out folks that couldn’t afford to give him more’n a roof over his head. If he’s
really out to kill someone here in Calder I think … “ He got up with an oath and yanked the pipe
out of his mouth. Startled, I jumped to my feet and followed his gaze. Main
Street was quiet again. The crowds had dispersed, seeking shelter from the heat
and dust. A door slammed somewhere, and I heard a woman’s voice raised in
anger. Tumbleweeds raised a mutt dozing in the shade of the water trough, and
he slunk away, yapping furiously. Two men stood on the sidewalk in front of the
saloon, and as I strained my eyes, they stepped into the middle of the street
facing each other. There were no more’n twenty paces between them. It was Jess
Harper and my Pa. “What are they doin’?” I said aloud, a cold
trickle of fear raising the hackles on my neck. Even as I spoke, I saw Pa reach down and slip
the thong on his gun. I loved my Pa more than anyone else in the world. Ma had
died when I was but a shave tail, and he had raised me ever since. He was the
greatest man I knew, and faster than most with a gun and a rifle, but I knew
with dread certainty that he was no match for Jess Harper. I tried to shout,
but found my throat so dry I could barely muster a raspy croak. Heedless of Wheeler’s
warning cry, I stormed towards them, rifle in hand, tears in my eyes. My heart
was bursting in my chest; they were so far away, and I knew I would be too
late! ***** “I got no quarrel with you, Trent,” Jess said quietly. “You
can walk away from this.” The sun was dipping towards the horizon. Sweat trickled into
the sheriff’s eyes, the late hour bringing no relief from the heat. His chest
felt leaden; he could barely catch his breath. Perhaps it was the badge. At
times it seemed too much for any one man to carry. He licked his lips. They
tasted of salt and dust, and he swallowed tightly. “Can’t do that, Jess.” His voice was hoarse. “This is my
town, and it’s my job to protect it. I can’t stand by and watch you go gunnin’
for one of its citizens. You wont’ leave town until your … your business is
done, so …” He shrugged as his voice trailed off. “Luke’s a fine boy, Trent. Something to be proud of. He
needs his father.” Trent managed a wry smile. “You that sure you can take me?” “I don’t want to have to find out,” Jess said. His throat
was dry, and there was an ache behind his eyes. He didn’t want this, any of it.
Trent was a good man and this seemed a good town, but he had an embittered,
vengeful old man’s bounty money in his pocket. He squared his shoulders
wearily, pushing his hat off his forehead. As he did, he caught a fleeting
glimpse of movement on the roof the general store. His eyes narrowed to slits.
There it was again. “Harper! Don’t do it!” Trent yelled as he saw the other man
take a lightening step to one side, his right hand flashing down and up. The
sheriff drew, faster than he had ever palmed a gun before, but even as the gun
came up he knew he would never make it. As Harper’s gun cleared the holster,
Trent heard a wild yell followed by a rifle shot. Jess Harper slewed around,
his gun spewing death over the sheriff’s head. Trent jerked the trigger, too
quick, too anxious. The gunfighter’s shots came fast, sounding like a continuous
round. As the gunfire subsided, the lawman heard a crash and whirled in time to
see Sam Cooperman come tumbling off the roof of his store, a rifle still
clutched in his hand. He struck the store sign on his way down, bringing it
crashing into the street with him. Trent heard a half-choked cry, and saw his
son rush stumbling towards him, white-faced and stricken. Jess was swaying on
his feet, his right side bloody. He had been shot in the back and the only one
behind him was young Luke Trent. ***** “Pa! Pa!” I yelled and dropped the rifle. “Pa, you all
right?” Thunderstruck, Pa stared at me. His eyes went from my face
to the dead man in the street, and then to the gunfighter struggling to stand.
Suddenly the dreadful truth dawned on me. Perhaps there had been a joker in the
game Jess Harper had dealt when he rode into Calder. Sam Cooperman? Coop?
But how was it possible? Jess had not been shooting at my Pa. He was
gunning for Coop, which meant I had shot him in the back while he saved my Pa’s
life! My head reeled, and the Henry dropped from my nerveless fingers. “I thought he was going to kill you,” I said tonelessly. Pa holstered his gun, and walked over the body. Slowly, he
bent down, turning the storekeeper over on his back. There was not much left of
Samuel Cooperman’s face. Harper’s shot had taken him in the throat, and he
struck the ground head first. What remained was pockmarked with slivers of wood
from the store sign he had been so proud of. “Coop?” Pa whispered. “It was Sam Cooperman you were after?” Jess took a few unsteady steps towards him. I wanted to say
something, to explain. But how could I? He clamped a hand on my
shoulder, and I stood up straight, trying to give him some of my strength. He
took a deep breath, and I could see the pain it caused him. Harper smiled at
me, the hot dusty wind stinging his face, bringing tears to his eyes. Perhaps
it was not just the wind. We both turned to Pa. “My son damn near killed you,” Pa said accusingly. “And you
weren’t even shootin’ at me. What the hell’s goin’ on, Jess?” “It’s a long story.” Jess stopped. His voice was raw, as if
he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs for a very long time. He tried again. “He was just makin’ sure, Trent, coverin’ his tracks.” Pa shook his head. “I’ve known the man for over ten years,
Jess. We … we played chess together on Sundays. I’ve even deputized him on
occasion. Why him? It don’t make sense.” I picked up Jess’ gun and handed it to him. His hands shook
as he thumbed fresh cartridges into the chambers, dropping a couple into the
street. Wordlessly, I retrieved them, an ache in my heart. The Henry
lay where I’d thrown it, and I left it there. What had I done? Jess must have caught the anguish on my face, for he grabbed
me by the neck and dragged me over to Cooperman’s body. “Take a good look, young Luke. You must’ve known this man
pretty well. Recognize him now? Not a pretty sight, is he?” I trembled in his grasp as I stared down at the bloody,
broken corpse, swallowing the gorge that rose in my throat. I tried to turn
away, but he had an iron lock on my neck. “Well?” Jess’ voice was hard, mocking. “Still want to be a
gunfighter? To walk down the streets of a town and never know where the next
bullet’s comin’ from? Never sit at a table without makin’ sure your back’s
against the wall?” “Don’t go makin’ a hero out of me, son,” he said harshly.
“There’s nothin’ heroic about killin’ a man. You want a hero, look to your Pa.” “Let him go, Jess,” Pa said quietly. “I think he
understands.” Jess swore softly and with a violent shove sent me reeling
towards my father. Pa caught me and put an arm around my shoulders. I blinked,
furious at the tears in my eyes, confused and hurt by Jess’ words. I gazed at
Pa, looking for reassurance, but he moved me gently aside and advanced towards
Jess. “You didn’t answer my question. Why Cooperman?” Jess slid the gun back in its holster and drew himself up
with an effort. His vision blurred for a moment and he rubbed a weary hand
across his eyes. A dozen unanswered questions raced through his mind, a puzzle
with too many pieces missing. He had to tell Trent something, but what?
Would part of the truth be enough? “About fifteen years ago, Sam Cooperman ran off with another
man’s wife,” he said finally. “There was some shooting, and the husband caught
a bullet that left him partly paralyzed. He swore he would track the man down
and kill him. He was a wealthy rancher and hired the Pinkerton Agency to do the
tracking for him. It took him all these years, but one agent finally got
lucky.” He stopped and drew a painful, shaky breath. Trent’s face
was grey with shock. “Trouble was, by the time they found the man the rancher was
too old and sick to do his own killing. But he could afford the best, so he
hired me to even the score.” Jess smiled bitterly. “Pa! That’s not true! Coop couldn’t … “ “Shush up, son.” Pa made a cutting motion with his hand. “But he’s lying to you,” I cried. “You know Sam Cooperman
and he never …” I turned on Jess Harper, the hero worship I felt replaced with
angry disappointment. “Jess!” “Leave it lie, Luke,” Jess snarled. “This ain’t a kid’s
game, son.” He nodded at Cooperman’s body. “My business here is finished, Trent.” For a moment lawman and gunfighter regarded each other in
silence. Then Jess Harper turned his back on us, and walked away slowly,
carefully, favoring his side. Down the street Pop Wheeler came running, leading
the sorrel. “Thought you might need him,” he said as Jess nodded his
thanks. Pa came up behind him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Ease off, friend. Case you hadn’t noticed, you’re bleedin’ all over Main
Street.” The gunfighter’s face was drawn and exhausted, his mouth
bracketed by pain. He looked at me, a tall, skinny kid whose britches were too
short, and whose birthday had turned into a bloody lesson in life and death. He
smiled, but there was no sunlight in this smile. It was dark and sad, and I saw
the aloneness of the man and the hell he carried at his hip. “It’s not the first time, Trent,” Jess said quietly. “Don’t
worry about it, bullet just nicked me.” “At least let Doc Hawkins take a look at it,” Pa said. “Damn
it, Jess! It’s a good two day’s ride to the next town!” I watched as Jess clutched the stirrup for support, and
pulled himself into the saddle. The sorrel sidestepped nervously at the smell
of blood. Calming the animal with his gentle, sure touch he gathered up the
reins and backed away from us. “Does it end there then, Jess?” Pa asked softly and reached
a hand up to him. Jess Harper grasped it firmly, and nodded towards me. “You take care, young Luke. Remember to reload your rifle.
Gun’s no good to a man empty. Just be very sure you want the bullet to go where
you’re aimin’. Once it’s left the barrel it’s too late to take it back.” Jess, I didn’t mean to … I thought you …” Oblivious to the tears streaming down my face, I put a hand
on the reins, wanting it to be all right, wanting to be a kid again sitting on
the front stoop of the general store. “Pa! You can’t just let him go like this,” I cried. “He’s
hurt. He could die out there!” “He knows what he’s doin’, Luke,” Pa said, his voice low and
kind. He put his arm around my shoulder. “Now let’s go home. There some things
you and I need to be talkin’ about, son.” Old Pop Wheeler stood for a while, looking down Main Street
after Jess Harper, wondering about him and the trail he rode. The swirling dust
soon covered the blood that had soaked into the ground. ***** A few miles outside of Calder, Jess Harper drew rein. The
blood was seeping through the makeshift bandage he had fashioned; still, he
counted himself lucky the kid was not a better shot. The bullet had plowed a
deep furrow in his right side; it was painful but not life threatening. He
rolled a shaky cigarette; it was bent and misshapen, but he drew the smoke
hungrily into his lungs. Jess leaned back in the saddle, and the sorrel pricked
up his ears inquisitively. For the first time since the shoot-out Jess allowed
himself to wonder about what had happened. What terrible secret had Samuel Cooperman carried with
him that would make him try to bushwhack a man? It was obvious that Jess
Harper’s reputation and presence in Calder had brought back the past and a
guilty conscience to the man. But what was behind it? For the first time
in his life, Jess Harper had shot back at a man without having the slightest
idea why, nor was he likely to ever know. “Don’t it beat all,” he spoke around the cigarette dangling
from his lips. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a piece of
paper. He unfolded it slowly, a sardonic smile curling his lips. It was a
much-folded, yellowed paper but the legend was still clear: ‘Wanted for
kidnapping. $1000 reward. Contact Fenton Harding, Twin Rivers Ranch,
Sweetwater, Colorado.’ The face was much younger. Fifteen years was a long time,
but there was no mistaking the quiet, clean-cut features of Calder’s sheriff. Jess sucked on the cigarette, holding the glowing tip to the
paper. It caught quickly, and he held it until the flames engulfed the drawing.
Then he dropped it in the dust and picked up the reins. He would have some
explaining to do to the old man. The man who had died today would be buried as
the man who had helped a desperate woman escape a cold and cruel husband all
those years ago. Jess figured he could make the story stick. He turned his back to hot, dry wind and pointed his horse
south, towards Bowdrie. The End
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