Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Nice horse,” Lem said. “I think I’ll start with this.”

“Start what?” Roper asked.

“Me and my brothers, we get to pick what we’re gonna keep. I’m gonna keep the horse.”

“I want his gun,” Bill said.

“I want that bottle of whiskey,” Cal said.

“I’m afraid you boys are shit out of luck,” Roper said. “You can’t have any of those things.”

“Now look,” Lem said, “if Sandusky warned you about us, he told you why. So it ain’t too smart of you to refuse. You might as well start walkin’ now.”

“I don’t intend to walk anywhere,” Roper said. “And I’ll advise you to take your hand off my horse.”

“My horse,” Lem said. “And those are my supplies you’re holding.”

“No,” Roper said. “It’s all mine. Step aside, and I’ll be on my way.”

Lem dropped his hand from the horse’s rump, and his two brothers tensed.

“There’s three of us,” Lem said. “You ain’t got a chance.”

“But I intend to resist,” Roper said. “Sandusky said you’re not used to that. Are my horse and what I have in this sack worth dying for?”

“Ain’t us is gonna die, friend,” Lem said. But his brothers didn’t seem as sure. They were used to scaring people and meeting no resistance. This obstinacy was new to them.

Roper remained on the boardwalk in front of the store. It gave him an advantage, looking down on his three opponents. They were sufficiently spread out, though, to give him trouble. If he could just get them to stand closer together…

“Your brothers don’t look so confident, Lem,” Roper said. “You better talk to them.”

Lem turned and looked at his brothers, then back at Roper.

“Don’t you worry, my brothers will do what they have to do,” he said, but he did move away from the horse, toward his brothers.

“Okay, boys,” Roper said. “Let’s get this over with. Either I mount up and ride out, or you go for those guns in your belts and hope they don’t blow up in your hands.”

“What’s he mean?” Cal asked his brother.

“Have you boys ever even fired those guns?” Roper asked.

Bill looked down at the gun in his belt, frowning.

“Never mind,” Lem said. “That’s enough talk. Start walkin’ or pay the price.”

“I already paid in there,” Roper said, jerking his thumb at the store behind him. “Out here, you’re the ones who will pay.”

“There’s three of us,” Lem said again.

“But you’re just three bullies, used to getting your way,” Roper said. “I’m a professional. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Goddamn you—” Lem said, and reached for his gun.

Roper knew that speed was revered when it came to gunplay, but it was accuracy that kept men alive. He calmly drew his gun and fired, first at Lem, because he was the most dangerous.

He’d been right about the three brothers. Beating men with their fists came easy to them. Gunplay did not. Lem had to grab for his gun twice, and by then Roper’s bullet struck him in the chest, knocking him backward and then onto his back in the street.

Cal grabbed for his gun, but only managed to pull the trigger while it was still in his belt. He shot himself in the leg just moments before Roper shot him in the belly.

Roper turned his attention to Bill last. The younger brother pulled his gun free of his belt, but as he tried to bring it to bear, Roper shot him in the hip. The bullet spun him around just at the same time he was pulling the trigger. The old gun exploded in his hand, and it was the backlash from that explosion that killed him in the end, not Roper.

When the shooting had stopped, Sandusky came out of his store to survey the results.

“Well, thank God,” he said.

Roper turned to look at him, then stepped into the street. He walked to the three brothers to determine that they were all dead. He still held his sack of supplies in his left hand.

His horse had shied from the gunfire but, tied fast, had been unable to run off. Roper walked to him now and patted his neck, speaking to him softly. Then he looked at Sandusky.

“Thanks for the warning, Sandusky.”

“Don’t thank me,” Sandusky said. “Every time I have a customer who looks like he can handle himself, I give him the same warning. You’re the first one who’s been able to do anything about it. So I thank you. Now my customers won’t have to worry about being robbed.”

“Glad I could help,” Roper said. He ejected the spent shells from his gun, reloaded, and then holstered it. “I’ll be on my way.”

Roper transferred the supplies from the sack to his saddlebags, then mounted up. He waved at Sandusky and rode out of Los Lunas. Just outside of town he took the bottle of whiskey from the saddlebags, uncapped it, and took a long pull. He’d killed men before, for good reasons and for bad, and it was never easy to deal with afterward. He always found the before easier. Even while he was using his gun, firing lead into men’s bodies, it was easier. It was the aftermath that weighed heavily on him—even during the war. He took another swig from the bottle and then replaced it in his saddlebag. Then he continued riding toward Amarillo, hoping he wouldn’t have to stop again until he got there.

29

Talbot Roper rode into Amarillo about eleven days or so after leaving Saint Joe. He’d stopped to restock only that one time in Los Lunas, carrying with him only enough supplies to see him through until the end of his journey. The one thing Roper did on every job he took was keep himself mobile, able to move at a moment’s notice without worry of leaving anything behind. Guns, horse, and saddle were enough. The rest he could replace later.

In Amarillo he reined in the Appaloosa in front of the telegraph office, went inside, and carefully worded a message to the lawyer to report his progress.

He came out of the telegraph office, untied his horse, and walked it across the street. He tied it off again in front of a saloon and went inside. One beer to cut the dust and he’d be on his way.

He trusted himself to avoid trouble in Amarillo, as he had failed to do in Los Lunas. For one thing, Amarillo had plenty of law. And the people had more to do with their time than hang around outside the mercantile or general store to rob people.

“Help ya?” the bartender asked.

“Cold beer,” Roper said.

“Comin’ up.”

The saloon was called The Bent Tree, and hanging over the mirror behind the bar was a huge bent tree limb. The bar was about twelve feet long, made of varnished and polished wood, with plenty of tables on the floor, some of which were set up for faro or poker.

Roper accepted his beer, paid for it, then turned and drank it while leaning against the bar. The cold beer cut the dust that coated his throat and spread a wonderful cool feeling through his belly.

It was midday, and only about half the tables were occupied. The gaming tables were not yet up and running. There was one saloon girl working the floor, but he knew by that evening there’d be three or four.

He nursed his beer, gratefully swallowed the last bit of it, then set the empty mug on the bar.

“’Nother?” the bartender asked.

“No, thanks. One was all I needed.”

“Stayin’ in town or passin’ through?”

“Passing through,” Roper said. “I’m on my way out right now.”

“Good luck to you, then.”

“Thanks.”

He came out and found a boy looking at his horse.

“What do you think?” he asked.

The boy turned his head and looked at him. He was about ten years old, had a dirty face, a blond cowlick, and brown eyes.

“Nice horse.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Does he have a name?”