Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

The Warden shoved her to the ground and galloped off with his men towards the high Sierras.

By the time Delilah reached the corral and had the gate open, Zebulon had cornered a horse. In one leap, he mounted and rode past her.

A shot rang out, a bullet creasing his scalp. Another bullet tore into the fleshy part of his arm.

He managed to hold on to the horse's mane until he was riding free and out of range.

EBULON RODE THROUGH THAT NIGHT AND INTO THE DAWN until his horse gave out. He walked another three miles before he fell asleep near a small stream. When he woke, the sun was directly overhead and he wasn't being followed.

He walked on, towards a range of humpbacked mountains. The only signs of life were isolated bunches of stray cattle and once, in the far distance, a line of riders. He waited until they disappeared, then walked through the night and the next day.

It was almost dark when he approached a large sign nailed to the trunk of a tree:

WELCUM TO GREASY SPRING GATWAY TO H

As he stumbled on, his legs buckled and he passed out.

e woke up in a ditch. His ribs were bruised and there was a knot on his head. A frog croaked and a few feet away a goat was chewing on garbage.

"Who's down there?" a voice called out.

Nobody but old Zebulon Shook, he thought. Humpin' his broken ass down a washed-out street of pain.

The goat made him think of his Pa. He wondered what the old bastard was up to. Most likely working another claim. "The higher the country the better": that's what he always said. Far away from the likes of flatlanders and sodbusters.

"If you ain't dead, say somethin', Mister," the voice called out.

Was that his voice, or someone else's? He remembered another time, in another ditch. He wasn't dead. He was sure of that. Not that it would be so bad to be dead. Anything to be shut of being… on the drift ever since — He heard a roll of drums, or maybe thunder, followed by rifle shots. Some kind of celebration, he guessed. The goat moved closer, staring down at him with melancholy eyes. If he had a pistol he'd shoot it, just to be one up.

A barefoot kid wearing torn overalls walked up to him holding a burlap sack in both hands.

"Are you that man that was holed up in the saloon?" the kid asked. "The one that was playing cards and then they shot him? That ain't you, is it?"

Something was squirming inside the kid's sack.

"A mess of rattlers," the kid explained. "I sneak up on 'em when they're goin' for frogs. But I got to be careful not to get bit.

The kid turned around, listening to more shots coming from the town.

"We got a big shoot-out going on. I seen three, not counting the one that killed my Uncle Ezra, who had it comin'. Did you know Uncle Ezra?"

The drumming sounded as if it was coming from inside his head.

"Are you a ghost, Mister?" the kid asked.

"Maybe," Zebulon answered. "What's your take?"

"I think you are. But I ain't afraid, if that's what you're askin'."

"That's good," Zebulon said. "Now you won't become a ghost yourself."

"Is this what happens when you get shot?" the kid asked. "You wake up and you're a ghost?"

"Only if you're afraid or don't know what you're doin'."

"Like you?"

The kid followed him as he crawled up the side of the ditch and walked towards the town of Greasy Springs, a muddy street of wooden buildings bunched around a saloon, jail, and blacksmith shop. Beyond the street there were green fields as flat as billiard tables, stretching to foothills and snow-peaked mountains.

At the far end of the street a dozen men crouched behind farm wagons and piles of stacked lumber. All of them were pointing rifles, shotguns, and pistols at the Last Chance Saloon, a large two-story building also serving as a hotel and barber shop.

Occasionally someone would fire a shot, then duck behind a wagon to reload — or take a pull from a bottle, or eat a chicken leg, or grab a slice from one of two roasted pigs.

Zebulon and the kid sank down behind a wagon next to a portly man with gray side-whiskers and a sheriff's badge pinned on red long johns.

"I need a doc," Zebulon said.

"The doc's inside," the Sheriff said. "You want him, be my guest."

He looked Zebulon over, confused by the fancy cut of his linen pants and silk shirt. "Business man, are you?"

"Bounty hunter," Zebulon replied. "Got creased chasm' a rack of prisoners that broke out from that prison hulk in Sacramento. A few broke ribs. Maybe part of a slug somewhere past my pump."

"Heard about that breakout," the Sheriff said. "Zebulon Shook, I think it was, and some other desperadoes. A bad bunch all the way around."

A bullet from the saloon split the wagon's tailgate, sending a splinter through the Sheriff's leg.

"Who's holed up?" Zebulon asked.

The Sheriff methodically took off his pants and removed the splinter. "Some mountain man. He rode into town last night with a bad tooth. When the doc pulled the wrong one, he went loco and shot the place up. Kilt two. Maybe three. Now he's holdin' the doc and the town artist hostage."

"What's he want?" Zebulon asked.

"Free passage to the mountains. That ain't possible as long as I'm sheriff."

When several men fired off another round, their volley was answered by a shot from the saloon.

"What's he usin'?" Zebulon asked.

"A shotgun and a Sharps rifle. Most likely a few handguns from those he shot."

"I can take him out," Zebulon said. "But it'll cost you."

"Tell you what," the Sheriff said. "You take out that mountain cocksucker and the town will stake you to a free room and three meals a day for a month. Plus any whore you so choose and whatever the doc charges to patch you up."

"Throw in a horse and saddle and I'm your man."

"Done," the Sheriff said, not taking his eyes off the saloon.

Zebulon turned to the kid. "I'll need your sack of rattlers."

The kid thought it over. "Ten cents for the little ones. Fifty for the bigs."

The Sheriff handed the kid two silver coins. "You're lucky to get this much, Chester. Now take yourself home. And don't keep huntin' snakes or you'll turn into one"

The kid dropped the sack and ran down the street.

Zebulon had more requests for the Sheriff: "I'll need two bottles of whiskey, a loaded shooter, and some 'baca to parlay with."

After the Sheriff gave him what he asked for, Zebulon hobbled to the rear of the saloon and heaved the rifle and the bag of snakes through a side window.

A few minutes later, there was a scream from the saloon, followed by a shot, then a curse and two more shots.

As Zebulon inched over the windowsill, he saw his Pa staring up at him from beneath an overturned table. Before Zebulon could speak he fell to the floor, passing out.

When he woke, his Pa was lying a few feet away, shoving a cartridge into a rifle — a hard task considering that part of one leg was blown off, and a rattlesnake was sliding across the floor a foot away from his head. Parts of other snakes were scattered near the bodies of two men. Aside from his shot-up leg and the blood oozing out of his gut, Elijah hadn't changed. A crooked scar ran down the right side of his face, slanting one eye and pulling down the corner of his mouth. The same curtain of white hair fell over his shoulders, and he was wearing the same greasy buckskin jacket and otter cap.

Elijah peered at his son through startled half-lidded eyes. "Was it you that pitched in them snakes?"

"They told me there was a mountain lunatic shootin' up the place," Zebulon said. "I didn't figure on you."