Gunman's Rhapsody

Behind his house, down the slope, maybe half a mile, amidst the hardscrabble desert scrub, Wyatt stood and fired at an old whiskey barrel set upon a rock. He had drawn a target on it, and several times a week he would walk down there and fire at it. First from ten yards. Then twenty, then fifty. If you were shooting at someone beyond fifty yards, with a handgun, in Virgil’s phrase, you might do better to call him names. It was his second barrel, the first one having been, finally, shot to pieces. He used a single-action Colt.45 with a walnut handle. Wyatt liked to shoot. He liked the control. He liked the sudden expansion of energy when he fired and the Colt didn’t so much buck as levitate slightly, as if the restraint of gravity were momentarily removed. He fired five rounds, sighting carefully each time. He’d known for a long time that accurate was more important than quick. Then he flipped open the cylinder, ejected the spent shells, and loaded five fresh rounds, leaving the chamber empty under the hammer. He moved back ten yards and fired carefully again.

It wasn’t until he finished firing that he was aware of Mattie.

“Wyatt,” she said.

He looked around at her, as if he were waking from a light sleep. His hands were already unloading and reloading, taking the thick Remington cartridges from a tin box that said “.45 Colt” on it, and, in smaller letters, “50 Central Fire Cartridges.”

“Milt Joyce is looking for you,” Mattie said. “He came by and asked if you’d stop in and see him.”

“All right,” Wyatt said.

“What do you suppose he wants?” Mattie said.

“When I stop by,” Wyatt said, “I’ll ask him.”

“Ain’t he on the Democrat side?” Mattie said.

“I guess so,” Wyatt said.

He slid the reloaded gun, with an empty chamber under the hammer, into the worn holster he’d brought with him from Dodge. He picked his coat up from the rock where he’d folded and put it on and put the box of cartridges into the side pocket.

“Isn’t it awful warm to be wearing a coat, Wyatt?”

“I like to carry my gun,” Wyatt said. “But I don’t like people seeing me walking around heeled.”

“Even though you’re a deputy?”

“If I’m going to get somewhere in this town, it don’t help if people think I’m a gunman.”

Mattie nodded silently. But that’s what you are, she thought, that’s exactly what you are. But she didn’t say it. Wyatt wasn’t good at listening to her. He wasn’t too good at listening to anyone, except sometimes Virgil. So she followed him silently up the hill, and put out a clean shirt for him to wear when he went to see Mr. Joyce.

When Wyatt went into the Oriental, Milt Joyce came out of his small office at the end of the bar. He stepped behind the bar and took a bottle and two glasses and led Wyatt to a table at the far end of the bar. He set the bottle and glasses on the table and gestured Wyatt toward a seat. Before he himself sat down, he tilted all four chairs at the next table up against the table so no one would sit there. Then he sat next to Wyatt and poured a drink. He gestured toward the second glass and Wyatt shook his head.

“Don’t drink, Milt.”

“By God, that’s right, you don’t,” Joyce said. “Want some coffee? Soda pop?”

“No, thanks.”

“Not so many men around here don’t drink,” Joyce said.

Wyatt shrugged. Joyce turned his glass in small compass on the table.

“See where you got to be a deputy sheriff,” Joyce said.

Wyatt nodded. His hands were folded quietly on top of the table. His body seemed at ease in the straight chair. His white shirt was freshly starched under the dark coat and he was clean-shaven except for a mustache. He looked healthy and strong, Joyce thought.

“Virgil going to run for city marshal?” Joyce said.

“Might,” Wyatt said.

There’s a lot of space around him, Joyce thought.

“How ’bout you?” Joyce said. “Be interested in buying into the saloon business?”

“Got a faro table ’cross the street,” Wyatt said. “At the Eagle.”

“You can keep that. I’m talking about a piece of the whole thing.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I’m offering to sell you a quarter interest in the Oriental,” Joyce said.

“Don’t probably have that kind of cash right handy,” Wyatt said.

“We could work out a deal in services,” Joyce said.

Wyatt sat silently, his hands at peace on the tabletop. Joyce turned his glass some more. For a moment there was no expression on Wyatt’s face, and then there was the hint of a smile.

“You having trouble with somebody?” Wyatt said.

Joyce stared into the top of his glass as he turned it on the scuffed tabletop. Then he picked it up and drank half of its contents and put it down. He opened his mouth and let out his breath.

“John Tyler,” Joyce said. “Your friend Holliday got into it with him a while back.”

“I know him,” Wyatt said.

“You know what he does for work?” Joyce said.

“He’s a gunhand,” Wyatt said.

“He’s told people in town that he’s going to put me out of business.”

“Why?” Wyatt said.

“Doesn’t say. My guess is he’s been hired by some people who’d like me out of the way so they could take over my customers.”

“How’s he planning on doing that?” Wyatt said.