Ralph Compton - The Alamosa Trail

“Mr. Allison, my name is Chunk Colbert,” the man said. “Have you ever heard of me?”

“Chuck Colbert? No, I can’t say as I have.”

“Not Chuck, Chunk,” the man corrected.

Clay smiled. “Unusual name,” he said.

“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” Colbert agreed. “I’m a little disappointed you haven’t heard of me. You see, it’s a name folks are beginning to take notice of.”

“And why is that, Mr. Colbert?”

Colbert flashed a toothy smile. “Because I’ve killed seven men in fair gunfights.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve killed seven men, you say.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are proud of that?”

“I am, sir. Every one of those fights have been open and aboveboard.”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Why? Well, I don’t know that I can give you a reason for every one of them,” Colbert said. “But then I’m sure you understand. From what I hear, you’ve killed a lot more men than I have.”

“I’ve never killed anyone, Mr. Colbert, who didn’t need killing,” Clay said.

“Would you say that someone who is trying to kill you would need killing?”

“Well, yes, but there has to be more to it than that. I mean, someone wouldn’t be trying to kill you unless they had a reason.”

“It could be that they are just trying to get their name a little better known.”

“That’s foolish.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Allison. There’s not a man in the country, from New York to San Francisco, who doesn’t know your name, who doesn’t tell exciting stories of your exploits.”

“Maybe so. But I haven’t sought such fame.”

“Then that is where we differ, Mr. Allison, because, you see, it is something I seek,” Colbert said. “That’s why I’m going to kill you, tonight.”

“What?” Clay asked in surprise.

“Oh, not right this minute,” Colbert said quickly. He smiled, then held his hand out, offering a seat to Clay. “At least, not until after we have had our supper. I told the proprietor that your meal would be on me. I hope you ordered.”

“I did order,” Clay said. “After you,” he added, indicating that Colbert should take his seat first.

Colbert laughed. “I can see how you have survived as long as you have, Mr. Allison. You are a cautious man.” Colbert sat down, then Clay sat across from him. Clay’s food was brought to the table.

“Since you are buying the supper, I’d like for you to pay the man now, if you don’t mind,” Clay said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see me going through your pockets afterward and think I had shot you for your money.”

Colbert blanched for just a second. Then he laughed. “Very good, Mr. Allison, very good,” he said. “You are trying to make me nervous. I think I’ll just borrow that little trick from you, since you won’t be needing it anymore after tonight” He removed his billfold from his inside jacket pocket, then took out the money to pay for the meal and handed it to the waiter. “There, your supper is all paid for. Plus a generous tip for the waiter.”

“Thank you,” Clay replied.

Over the next several minutes the two men enjoyed a leisurely meal. They exchanged stories and laughed so frequently that anyone watching might think they were two longtime friends catching up on old times.

The other diners knew better, however, because some of them had overheard the initial conversation between the two men. They had passed it on to others until soon, everyone in the restaurant knew. Word spread beyond the cafe as well, so that before Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were finished with their supper, every table was filled and there were many more present who were standing along the walls, watching. As a result of the unfolding drama, all other conversation in the cafe had stopped as everyone waited, silently, to see what was going to happen.

Oddly, Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were not aware that the other conversations had stopped, or that they were the objects of such close scrutiny. They were so intent on the business at hand that they were oblivious to the large and deathly silent crowd.

As the last of the apple pie was eaten, Colbert signaled the waiter to pour them each another cup of coffee. The waiter did so, then withdrew quickly. Neither Clay nor Colbert noticed that the waiter’s hands were shaking.

“Mr. Allison, it has been a most enjoyable experience,” Colbert said. “I drink to our newfound but, of necessity, short-lived friendship, sir.”

As Colbert reached for his coffee cup, Clay saw that he was reaching for the cup with his left hand. Since Colbert had been using his right hand throughout the meal, that put Clay on instant alert. He gripped the handle of his pistol and waited.

As the cup was halfway up to his mouth, Colbert suddenly drew his pistol with his right hand. Seeing this, Clay pulled his own gun at the same time. Colbert tried to whip his gun up into firing position, but he failed to compensate for the tabletop. The pistol sight caught the bottom of the table, preventing him from getting the gun any higher. In desperation, he fired anyway, but the bullet missed. By now, Clay had his own pistol up and clear of the table, and had an unobstructed shot. His gun flashed and roared. A small black hole pushed through just above Colbert’s right eye. Colbert’s chair pitched over backward with the would-be assassin dead before he could hit the floor.

Even before the smoke cleared, Clay was on his feet, looking down at the sprawled body of Chunk Colbert, making certain that the shot was fatal. It wasn’t until he was totally satisfied that Colbert no longer represented any danger to him, that he glanced up. He gasped in surprise at the number of people who were there, looking at him in wide-eyed, openmouthed awe.

Clay punched the empty casing out of the cylinder of his pistol, then slid another bullet into the chamber. Holstering his pistol, he signaled the proprietor over.

“Why are there so many people here?” he asked quietly.

“Someone overheard Mr. Colbert challenge you,” the proprietor replied. “Word spread that there was going to be a shoot-out. These people came to watch.”

“The hell you say,” Clay said. He started to put the empty cartridge in his pocket.

“I will give you ten dollars for that cartridge,” the proprietor said.

Clay looked surprised. “Ten dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

Clay smiled. “Mister, you just bought yourself one worthless piece of brass,” he said, handing the shell casing to him.

The proprietor took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “Mr. Allison, there is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “If you knew Colbert was going to try and kill you, why did you agree to have supper with him? I mean, the two of you sat at the table and ate as if you were old amigos. There were some who left, believing the whole thing might be a hoax.”

“I ate supper with him because I didn’t want to send him to hell on an empty stomach,” Clay replied.

The proprietor laughed nervously. “Yes, to be sure, one wouldn’t want to go to hell on an empty stomach,” he said.

Clay started for his hat. “I believe the bill is all settled?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

“Then I must be going. I’ve a long ride ahead of me in the morning.” He got to the door, then looked around at the crowded restaurant. Most were still staring at him. Clay held up his hand. “Oh, you folks really should try the apple pie,” he said. “It is absolutely excellent.”

Not until he left the cafe did the crowd regain its voice. Everyone began talking at the same time, sharing what they had seen. As Clay walked up the sidewalk toward the hotel, he could hear the cacophonous babble behind him.