R. Trembly - Madigan

“No need for that, mister!” the old man said. “Wouldn’t do you no good anyhow; you shoot me and Bertha here goes off and cuts you in two. And we’d both be sorrier for the experience! This here sawed-off’s got the triggers tied back and only my thumb is keeping the hammer from fallin’! Why, if I was just to twitch a little she’s bound to go off! Be too bad if you happened to be standing in front of her when she did,” the old man grinned. “Now about that corn, do you want ‘em to have some or not?”

“Sorry, old-timer. “I’m just a little tired and edgy. Had me some trouble back up the trail a ways.” Madigan dropped the Colt back into the holster. “Meant you no harm.”

The old man took a long look, then spoke. “What kind of trouble you talking about? Now be sure of what you say, stranger. The information’s for me and me alone.”

Madigan wasn’t in the habit of telling others his business or, for that matter, his problems. But there’s something about looking down the twin barrels of a sawed-off twelve-gauge that loosens a man’s tongue a mite, especially when the man holding that twelve-gauge looks to mean business.

So Madigan told him about the men chasing him after he was forced to kill one of them in self-defense and of having to knock another man out to keep him from bushwhacking two other men. All the while the old man kept the shotgun leveled at Madigan’s midsection.

After Madigan was through, the old man shifted his weight to the other foot and said, “You say you shot a couple out of their saddles at near half a mile? Only one man I heard tell that could shoot like that, but never heard much about him being quick with a short gun. From what I just saw, you’re one of the fastest men I’ve ever seen with a Colt and I’ve seen plenty in my time.” The old man hesitated while he spit out a wad of chew, never taking his eyes off Madigan or letting the shotgun waver. “Ain’t always owned this stable, you know. Used to be marshal up to the rim country of Montana and parts east.”

Madigan took a long, slow breath. He had guessed right about this old man. He was more than capable of letting the hammer drop. Something Madigan had seen in the old man’s eyes had warned him that even though the man was old, he was still somebody to be reckoned with. Madigan hoped he could keep the man on his side.

“Used to be fast with a side gun myself, but gotten too old now,” the old man said. “Cant’ see worth a darn. Never figured to live this long, so now I’ve got to use this.” He shook the shotgun just enough to make his point, but not enough to take it out of Madigan’s belly.

Suddenly Madigan felt tired. “Old man, you going to shoot me or what? I’ve been in the saddle all day and I’d like to find an outhouse before I mess my jeans!” The old man laughed a little but never relaxed the shotgun.

“I might shoot you yet, depends on who you say you are.” There was a question in what the man had just said and Madigan took no time in answering.

“I’m Sam Madigan,” he replied. The old man stood firm.

“You can prove that?” he asked.

“I can. I’ve got my army papers in my pack.”

“Never mind the pack. You could have a gun hid there. Show me your rifle, the one you did the long-range shooting with!”

“It’s in my pack also, right at the top, covered with a leather sheath.”

“Get it with your left hand, real slow. Remember this here’s got a tied back trigger. It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone off before now with all the bull we’ve been spreading.”

Madigan carefully untied the corner of the pack and lifted it with his left hand, going slowly as not to upset the old man. “It’s right here in this cover,” Madigan said as he slid the.50–90 from its hiding place.

“That’s enough!” the old man said. “Only one man I heard of carries a Sharps with a black walnut stock and a silver butt plate.” He lowered his shotgun, letting the hammers down slowly, then held out his hand to Madigan. “Welcome to town, Mr. Madigan.”

“Call me Sam. What do I call you?”

“Most folks only call me to supper any more,” the old man laughed. “My name’s Talley, Roy Talley. Late of this place, but in my younger days I ramrodded some pretty tough towns along the way as town marshal. Then old age came creepin’ at my door, and well, you know how people are. They think when you get a little older you can’t hold your own any more.” Talley looked down at the shotgun in his hands.

“Sometimes they just get smarter. I did up till a few years ago, then I started to forget things. Little things at first, things that didn’t matter much, then bigger things that could get me or someone killed. So I came here, bought myself the livery and settled in.”

Madigan could see a sadness on Roy’s face, so said nothing, just waited for the old-timer to talk again.

“Some of those things I kept forgetting were things like loading my guns. Ever faced a man in a gunfight when your gun was empty?” the old lawman asked.

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Well, I did once. Only I didn’t know my gun was empty. Just cleaned it an hour before and had forgotten to reload it!” the old marshal said, shaking his head.

“What happened?” Madigan wanted to know.

“A coyote of a gunslinger called me out in the street. We faced off about a hundred feet away and he drew iron. I was pretty darn fast in those days and before he could clear leather I had my gun leveled on him.

To this day I don’t know why I didn’t pull the trigger. Anyhow, he just froze and we faced each other for what must have been two minutes before he let his gun fall back in its holster, then he turned on his heel and walked to his horse and left. Something inside told me not to press the matter and I didn’t. Later I discovered my gun was empty.” Talley chuckled to himself. “I turned my badge in that night and rode away a big man in that town just as I had in countless others. Only this time it was for keeps.

“Been a good life and even though Durango’s a rough and tumble town, I’ve been at peace here. I only get my dander up when someone comes sneakin’ round my place in the dark.”

Madigan looked at the old marshal and deep down inside felt sorry for him. Many good men had been used up by the wild towns of the West, only to be cast aside when his usefulness ended. It wasn’t like a banker that retired, a respected member of the town. When a town marshal got too old for the job, there was nothing left but to leave town so that the new man taking over didn’t feel like his toes were being stepped on.

Some of them, like Talley, were lucky enough to have saved some money, not easy to do on a marshal’s salary. They bought themselves a small ranch or farm and settled in to live a less trying life than they had been used too. Some liked it, some didn’t.

Others, with no money and no place to go, simply rode out of town a few miles and put a gun to their head. In a way, they were striking back at the town that had deserted them, for there would be a funeral and the townspeople would know what they had done. To most it made no difference, but to a few it was enough of a shock that they started small retirement funds for future peace officers in their later years. In time things would change, but for now many a man who had given his best for years looked forward to old age with fear. Madigan was glad that Talley had been one of those with a future, for in him Madigan could see many aspects of himself.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” Talley said, shaking his head. Madigan looked at the old marshal wondering what was next. “I did it again!” he said, showing Madigan the shotgun that was now open, exposing two empty barrels.

“I’d suggest you check it every so often just to be sure it’s loaded,” Madigan advised him. “Never know when you might need to pull the trigger and you’ll want to hear more than just a click when you do.” Roy Talley looked at Madigan with a twinkle in his eye.