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The rain had finally soaked through my hat and was
slowly, excruciatingly slowly, dripping down the back of my neck. That was the
finishing touch that made my day complete. Now, as night approached, I was ready
to chuck it all, give up my far-flung ideas and just head back east. I thought
things could not get worse. As usual in such cases, I was wrong.
Gunfighter. How large that word had loomed when I was
sitting in front of the big fireplace at home, feet propped up warm and toasty
and reading a penny dreadful. I had practiced daily from the time I was twelve
and I believed myself to be the fastest gun to be found. I was, but only in the
section of Pennsylvania that I lived in. Sitting here in the rain lacked the
romance that I had believed the life of a gunfighter held
To be truthful, I didn't really know what I was doing
here, either. I mean, I had been hired by Ben Drisco, presumably to protect his
spread from "sneaking thieves." But now that I was on the job I was
beginning to wonder. His thieves looked to me to be simple homesteaders looking
for a place to roost. Sure, it was a shame to break up the big spreads, but the
way I saw it these people had to have a home as well. Such as it was, they had a
legal right to it. But from the time the land was granted until the plowmen got
their deeds took so long that these people became known as squatters.
In the gathering gloom I could see a movement far down
the trail. These were the people I had been waiting for. As they drew closer
they looked less and less like thieves. Two outriders were actually carrying
long barreled flintlocks. From their looks and their youth I took them to be
brothers. Tending the reins of a wagon's team was an older man with a strong
family resemblance. I took him to be their father. A frail looking woman on the
seat appeared to be the mother and wife of this small clan.
I stepped out into the road and kept my hand away from
my gun. Those two boys were on either side of me and I had no reason to think
that those old squirrel rifles weren't deadly. Rifles just like them had won the
Revolution. Heck, these could have been two of the same rifles. The boys
certainly looked sure of themselves.
Those two rifles were held in the crooks of their
arms, but they were pointing in my direction when I announced, "I've got to
send you back. The trail is off limits from this point."
"Want me to fetch him, Pa?" The lad was too
eager to help if you asked me.
"You wait, Son." To me he said, "What's
the idea? I'm on the way to Branscom Flat and I was told this was open
road."
"You were told wrong. This is Bar Four land.
Besides that, have you ever seen Branscom Flat during the fall rains? It's more
like a duck marsh right now." I hadn't seen it either, but I'd heard
stories. Besides, I wanted to get this family turned around without any trouble.
"We heard there was a town springing up
there."
"Springing is a good word for it. Or flooding,
take your pick. Why do you want to go there, anyway?"
"We're going to homestead."
"Somebody has given you a bill of goods. I'm not
kidding, there's no way you can settle of that flat. It really does get swamped
in the rain."
"Why don't you go back to the fork and turn
north. There's a little settlement called Kirbyville starting up and you could
stay there for a while. If it's okay I'll stop by later and talk to you."
The man sized me up. "You seem honest. All right,
I'll take your advice. Come around if you're a mind to."
I went back to my previous position to wait for my
relief. Twelve hours is a long time when you're not only bored but also wet. In
a way it gave me too much time to think, but then maybe it was time I did some
thinking. Something was wrong here. If it wasn't, this trail should be open. And
why had the family I had just met want to go to the flat anyway. Both sides of
this rose smelled bad. One thing for sure - this family had not been comprised
of sneaking thieves.
My relief showed up at the appointed time in the form
of a man just called Toad.
"Glad to see you. It's wet out here." A
grunt was all I got for my effort at conversation. I was going to tell him about
the family I had met but I changed my mind. His manner was such that I didn't
want to hear his response, if any.
I rode back to the ranch and stabled my horse. I took
the time for a good rub down with straw, for he had been just as miserable as I
had been out there. If I was good to him now, might he not go the extra mile for
me later? I thought so.
The others looked up when I entered the long
bunkhouse, but not a word of welcome was spoken. There were only four
gunfighters, but the rest of the ranch hands had taken over the far end of the
bunks, leaving the gunmen by themselves. Reputations do not make for
friendships.
Finally the oldest man of the little group, Buck
Hastings, looked up from cleaning his rifle and asked, "Any action?"
"Nope, just a little talk." I told him about
the family I had met.
"Why didn't you just shoot 'em?" He wasn't
joking.
"That's what you'd do? Kill the whole family in
cold blood? They haven't done anything wrong and don't deserve to get shot
at."
"Who's paying your hundred a month? The
sodbusters or this spread? Maybe you should move your gear down with those
thirty bucks a month cowboys."
"At least they've got some morals."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I didn't think you'd know. Ah, chow's on. Lets
go get it." I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away. It gave me a
funny feeling like his stare could actually touch the spot they were looking at.
The way he cleaned that rifle of his was eerie, too. I mean, I like my guns, but
he fondled that long gun like it was flesh and blood. Probably that rifle was
the only real partner he had in life, and his life consisted of taking away that
of others. He was not a man I would want for an enemy.
It was probably my name that gave him the idea. My
real name is Torrance Jackson, but I had picked up the nickname of Snake. This
was not due to my looks, although my mother always had said I was skinny as a
beanpole. No, I got the name from my speed with a six-gun. Back home we had more
copperheads than rattlers, but still, they struck fast. People who had watched
me draw and fire said I was just as fast. Hence they had pinned the name of
snake on me. Heck, I kind of like it. Torrance was a lawyer's name. Snake was
the name of a gunfighter. Or so I thought, for I was young and had a lot to
learn.
So, at any rate, when the crew had finished eating and
they leaned back in their chairs to roll smokes, Hastings made a dare.
"They call you Snake. Does that mean you're faster then a
diamondback?"
"Nope. It means I've got poison in my draw."
The crew smiled at my answer, but stopped when Hastings's glare made the rounds.
"Okay, wise guy, lets you and me go up that rock
canyon that we've got fenced off. We can have some fun."
I knew the place he meant. While this was open range
country, the hands had put up a fence of poles to keep the cattle and horses
from roaming into that place. It was so infested with rattlesnakes that a
critter would just be committing suicide to enter. It sounded like a very bad
idea to me, but wisdom comes with age and I was still young.
"All right, Buck, it sounds like a chance to burn
a little ammo. Let's go up right after breakfast."
"You're on. We'll see if you can live up to that
name."
From the sounds of the snores around the room I got
the idea that nobody else was too worried about the morning. Even Hastings's
wheezing rasp was sawing wood with regularity. For some reason I couldn't seem
to relax as much as the rest. Every time I closed my eyes visions of swaying
snakes heads came to me. It was worse when I fell asleep, for the heads kept
striking my in the face. I would wake up with a start, and then begin the whole
process over again. When morning came I felt like I had not slept at all.
Buck mistook the look on my face.
"Got cold feet, kid? If you want you can call it
off and crawl back in your bunk."
"You wish, Buck. I was born with warm feet.
Sometimes they're downright hot. You're not getting off that easy."
"I'm looking forward to it, kid. Let's go."
I knew what the older man had meant as soon as he said
it. We were going to try to beat the draw of the snakes, if you get my drift. We
would walk in and offer ourselves as bait, then draw and shoot them when they
struck. It was not a sport for the faint of heart.
When we crossed the fence Hastings motioned me to go
on ahead. I shrugged. Someone had to be first. We hadn't traveled fifty feet
when action came. It was the biggest kind of diamondback rattler, and it must
have been without food for a while. It was so anxious that it struck out at the
far reach of its hit zone. I drew as soon as I sensed the activity and it fell
dead with a bullet hole in its head.
"Not bad," was all Hastings said as he went
ahead of me for his turn. His gun handling was totally different. He was
strictly a rifleman, and he carried a Winchester '73 carbine like it was an
extension of his body. He had an adjustable sling that carried his 44-40
downward and right side up. With his hand on the action he simply had to swing
it into line to shoot.
The start of a rattle was all the time the next snake
had, for he was writhing on the ground, the victim of a two hundred grain slug.
"Your turn," was all Hastings said as he
surrendered the lead. It went on like this for another hundred feet before the
unexpected happened. The snake must have been lethargic from last night's chill,
for it waited until Buck passed his hiding place before it struck.
I had but a split second, and I have never made a
smoother draw in my life. After all the practice I had done it had become
instinctive, and my 45 seemed to appear and shoot of its own accord. Just inches
shy of Buck's leg the snake came to a standstill as my slug caught its head.
Naturally Hastings turned around in a flash. When he
saw what had happened a look of actual hatred came into his eyes. For a second I
thought he was going to take a shot at me! Then he said, "So what do you
think that proves?"
"Just that this hunt is over," I replied.
Then I turned and walked back to the ranch. Somehow I had made an enemy.
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