Law of the Gun

by Martin H. Greenberg

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

One Man. One Gun. One Law. It's an American icon: the Western shootist, living by skill, courage and a willingness to spit in death's eye. Now, the greatest names in Western literature turn this mythical character upside down, inside out and every way but loose. . . In The Trouble with Dude, award-winning author Johnny Boggs saddles a once-famous lawman with some high-paying New York dudes in search of Western thrills who get more than they bargained for; in. Uncle Jeff and the Gunfighter Western master storyteller Elmer Kelton chronicles a quarrel between a hardscrabble Texas rancher and a killer for hire--with results that stun a town. . . William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone offer Inferno: A Last Gunfighter Story featuring series hero Frank Morgan. From a pistol-packing woman to a freed slave heading into a Nebraska winter and an education in gun fighting, The Law Of The Gun is about journeys, vendettas, stand-offs, and legends that end--or sometimes just begin--with the roar of a gun. . .

Release date: November 1, 2010

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 369

Sample

As a reader, author, and editor, there is little that fascinates me more than those archetypes of a particular genre that have grown in stature, somehow surpassing the trite and clichéd and reaching up and out to become mythical. The landscape of the American West, from novels and short stories to films and music, is filled to the brim with the mythic.

How is it possible that this landscape is both so known and yet unknown? How is it possible that it keeps changing and growing, continuing to offer surprises of place and character and story? Perhaps it is because we ourselves are responsible for the continued reinvention of our view of the frontier, of the places and people, the rivers and mountains. Perhaps because what is now myth was once common, and one day, we will in our own turn, take our place in some strange fashion as part of the mythic American West.

In the first anthology I edited for Kensington/Pinnacle, Lost Trails, I encouraged the authors to take advantage of the many unknowns in history about famous or infamous people—to tell a story of a lost moment in their lives. They responded with stories about Mark Twain and Buffalo Bill, John Wesley Hardin and Billy the Kid, and so many others. They are stories of real people who have risen to mythic stature by way of their deeds, both good and bad.

The anthology that followed, Ghost Towns, went in another direction—and often in unexpected ways. I asked the authors to explore the notion of ghost towns, real or imagined, and to feel free to utilize elements of the supernatural, should they so desire. It should come as no surprise that they did, in fact, feel free, and the anthology showed places that were both haunting and haunted, taking the reader to places that once were, and might never be again. These were the stories of mythic places in the West. That there are elements of the unknown or the supernatural should come as no surprise. Mythic places are often haunted by the spirits of those who lived and died there.

In this volume, I asked the authors to explore the most famous mythic archetype of the West: the gunfighter. Now, I must admit that part of this request was purely selfish. From my earliest memories of books and movies, I’ve liked gunfighter stories. If one enjoys western tales, it is almost impossible to not be steeped in the lore of this mythic figure. From the earliest days of the dime novels and the first movies all the way to the present day, the gunfighter has a mythic stature much larger than virtually any other western archetype.

As in the first two anthologies, I found myself surprised by the direction taken by the authors. Most of these stories are not the gunfighters imagined in popular films or dime novels, but rather very human characters, often trapped by circumstances into using the best tools they have to survive, make a living, or protect those they care about. In many ways, there is an air of dignity to these characters, and a sense of inevitability, as though they know their time is slowly winding down. Rather than go into detail about the stories, I’ll let you discover them much as I did, and hope that you find these mythic figures to be as engaging and interesting as you might have when you first read the term gunfighter.

One final note, then I’ll exit stage left, and allow you to continue on your journey. If Tombstone, Arizona, is “The Town Too Tough to Die,” it is entirely possible that the literature of the American West is much the same. It will continue on, albeit in changing forms, for as long as there are those who remember these mythic people, places, and archetypal characters. There will be books and stories, the occasional film or miniseries, and—it needs to be said—the oral traditions that continue in so many families today. Yet I dream of something more than this. I dream of the day when the American West once again captures the imagination of many, and there is a renaissance, bringing all of this to life for another generation.

The question of how this dream may be fulfilled is a difficult one, and the answer is ultimately up to those of us who write or edit in this genre, who make movies or television shows, and it is also up to you—our readers. On one side, we must continue to reach out, with new ideas and new stories, and let me assure you that the mine of the form is hardly even tapped yet. There is a great deal more to be told. On the other side, we must ask you to reach out, spreading the word that the literature of the American West is like a river. It is not gone, but changing and fluid, while still holding true to its essential course.

Working together, sharing these stories with your friends, family, and children, we can ensure that western stories in all their forms continue to live and breathe and bring excitement to future generations who need to know the West is not just a few museums, but alive and well today. There are still famous and infamous people, ghost towns and thriving communities, horses and cowboys and gunslingers still riding the ranges and living the mythic dream that inspires us all.

Thank you for your support of our shared genre, and remember to always keep one chamber unloaded for safety.

Stagecoach, Nevada, Spring 2010

Note: The editor is not responsible for the sequence of the stories in this volume. The order was set by the publisher.

The silver had tarnished, the etchings faded, the chain and fob long gone, and he couldn’t read the sentiment engraved on the inside of the case, which he had to pry open with a fingernail since the release mechanism hadn’t worked in years.

Snapping the cover shut, Lin Garrett wondered why he even kept the pocket watch. It didn’t work. Much like me, he thought.

Oh, he worked. A man had to work to eat, but Garrett didn’t put his heart into it anymore. He worked so he wouldn’t starve or freeze, but a proud man would never find enjoyment in mucking out stalls, swamping saloons, sweeping out stores, or being polite to dudes.

Staring at the broken watch, he sat on an overturned bucket inside the barn, trying to figure out how he had gotten so old, so worthless, so forgotten. Nothing to his name but a silver Aurora watch that had stopped keeping time ages ago. Years earlier, people had called him sir, spoken to him with respect, sometimes admiration, other times fearfully. Now, they hardly spoke to him at all.

Those dudes had, though.

They had driven up in a pair of Ford Model Ns, mud-splattered two-seaters about as basic as a body could find in a big city, but mighty fancy for a ranch in southern Wyoming. When one of those horseless carriages backfired, the noise and the odd sight of the automobiles sent his horse pitching, and Garrett found himself tasting gravel. Which, years ago, wouldn’t have embarrassed him. By grab, he had been dusted so many times he had lost count, had broken both arms, a leg, his collarbone and wrists at least once, and his nose was about as crooked as the road leading to the Aurora Cattle Company & Guest Ranch. Yet the dudes had braked their Fords hard, jumped to the ground, and raced to the corral. They pulled him to his feet, fetched his hat, dusted off his shirt, anxiously asking if he were all right. Even the Aurora foreman had ambled over from the bunkhouse and told Garrett he should call it a day.

The dudes hailed from New York, had come to Wyoming to live the West. They’d called him names like old-timer, hoss, and pard.

“The name’s Garrett,” he told them with irritation.

“I’m Seth Thomas,” said the tallest of the four. “Like the watch company.”

Garrett started to tell Seth-Thomas-Like-The-Watch-Company to go to hell, but he caught the foreman’s hard frown, realized that these dudes were paying customers, and, more important, he needed this job. So he shook each dude’s hand.

“That what brought you to this ranch?” he asked the tall one.

Seth-Thomas-Like-The-Watch-Company stared at him blankly.

“Aurora,” Garrett said lamely. “Like the watch company.”

The kid, maybe in his early twenties, shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

“Before your time,” Garrett said, and had headed for the barn.

The watch had been new when the mayor presented it to him in 1884, among the first solid silver watches produced by the Aurora Watch Company. Back then, Garrett had been a lawman, and the watch was a token of appreciation for valuable service to Flagstaff, Coconino County, and Arizona Territory. Or something like that. He had been written up in territorial newspapers, even in the National Police Gazette. Street & Smith had published a couple of dime novels that were supposedly based on his life. Or something like that. Garrett had never read the damned things. The Aurora Watch Company had failed in 1892, though, and around that time Garrett had pretty much become a failure himself. He couldn’t understand what had happened to him, other than he had just gotten old.

The barn door’s hinges squeaked, and Garrett slid the watch into his vest pocket. He pushed himself off the bucket, joints popping, hip and shoulder stiffening, as lanky foreman Sam Cahill, about twenty years younger than Garrett, approached him.

The foreman spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice, then hooked his thumb toward the door.

“You made an impression on ’em dudes,” he said.

“I been bucked off before. Ain’t the first time. Won’t be the last. Didn’t hurt me none.” He relaxed, forcing a smile. “Just my pride.”

“Uh-huh. Leader of the group’s Jason C. Hughes, nephew of Charles Evans Hughes. That’s the Charles Evans Hughes.”

Garrett said nothing. Charles Evans Hughes meant as much to him as the Aurora Watch Company meant to young Seth Thomas.

“Charles Hughes, the governor of New York, the gent William Taft offered the vice presidential nomination to, only Hughes turned him down. Those kids all just graduated from Brown University. Plan on enterin’ Columbia Law School, but first, they want to see the elephant.” He spit again. “They been readin’ Wister’s book.”

“Seems like everybody has.”

“Uh-huh. ‘When you call me that, smile.’ All that nonsense. One of those dudes asked me if I had knowed Trampas. Guess I’ll never understand book-readers.”

Garrett waited.

“Well, Wister spent some time on a ranch like this one. So did Teddy Roosevelt, or so I hear tell. So Jason C. Hughes has come here to shoot an elk, work cattle, chase mustangs, play cowpuncher with his friends. They’ve come to see the West, least the West they read about thanks to Mr. Wister.” Sam Cahill sighed. “Never thought I’d be nurse-maidin’ dudes, but it’s a new century, Garrett, and beef prices ain’t what they used to be.”

Garrett nodded just to do something. There wasn’t anything to say.

“They want you to take ’em.”

He had something to say to that. “What for? You got two hands to ride herd on your guests. You hired me—”

“I hired you so you’d have something to eat, Garrett. I put those boots on you ’cause what you had when I found you at the depot had more holes than leather. I put that jacket on you, and I hired you to take orders. Those dudes think you’re a bona fide Western man, a by-God Owen Wister hero, and I allow you look the part, or once did. They want you to show ’em the West.”

The foreman shifted his chaw to the other cheek, then shook his head. “Look, Garrett, I didn’t mean to speak sharp to you, but you see the fix I’m in. The kid asked for you, and he’s a top-payin’ customer from a mighty important family back east. At least three of our board of directors live in New York, so these are important guests.”

Board of directors! When Garrett had ridden for various brands back in his prime, before he had become a lawman, ranches were run by ranchers, not boards.

“Way I figure it,” the foreman kept saying, “you could take ’em down by Muddy Creek, show ’em some country, maybe find a bull elk or some muley, and check the herd down that way—my line rider quit two weeks back—let ’em push a few dogies, then bring ’em back here and we’ll send ’em back to the U.P. depot with their ear-splittin’, putrefyin’ horseless carriages. Give you some time in the open country. Got to beat muckin’ stalls. Do a good job, maybe I’ll let you be my line rider down yonder.”

With a final spit, the foreman held out his hand.

Sighing, Garrett clasped the extended hand, knowing he should have quit, knowing he was making a mistake.

He just didn’t know how big.

 

Jason C. Hughes, Seth-Thomas-Like-The-Watch-Company, and the two other dudes—one named Todd and the other Abraham, although Garrett couldn’t remember which was which—were advertising a leather shop in their chaps, brand-spanking-new boots, dressed like they had stepped off the cover of one of those dime novels. Sam and the wrangler had put the boys on the gentlest horses the Aurora had, and then sent Garrett, pulling a pack mule, toward Muddy Creek.

“Bring ’em back in a week,” Sam Cahill had instructed him, and with a wink added, “and try to bring ’em back alive.”

He kept the pace easy, pointing out a golden eagle, some curious coyotes, and letting the dudes chase after a handful of mustangs. At dusk, he watered and grained the livestock, boiled the coffee and fried the bacon, and even scrubbed the dishes while Abraham, or maybe it was Todd, fetched a flask from his saddlebags, and the dudes started drinking.

“Ever seen anything like this?” Jason C. Hughes asked.

“I’d be obliged,” Garrett said, “if you wouldn’t point that rifle in my direction.”

Hughes laughed. “It ain’t loaded.” He swung the barrel toward Seth Thomas and pulled the trigger. It clicked loudly. “You’re dead, Seth,” he said, and all the boys laughed.

He held the rifle up to show Garrett, worked the bolt, and laughed. “It’s brand-spanking new, old man. A Mauser, and I got the scope sighted in, so I’ll be able to drop an elk from more than a thousand yards. Dumb animal’ll never know what killed it.”

“That’s mighty sporting of you,” Garrett said.

“What’s that on your hip, Garrett?”

“An old Colt.”

“Old?” Todd or Abraham sniggered, pulling one of those newfangled hammerless automatic pistols from a holster. “That’s an understatement. This is what a Colt looks like now.”

“You learn that from The Virginian?” Garrett said. “Thought you boys wanted to live the West. We don’t carry toys like that in this country.”

That seemed to shut them up, and he poured a cup of coffee for himself, wishing he had thought to have brought along a flask. Six more days, he thought.

By the third day, he had had enough.

 

When Jason C. Hughes aimed the Mauser at the pack mule, Garrett charged across the camp, jerked the rifle from the New Yorker’s grasp, and heaved it into the arroyo. He wanted to scream at the kid, to tell him he had warned him about pointing it, that all weapons should be considered loaded, and that he wouldn’t tolerate this foolishness anymore. Yet all he could do was put both hands on his knees and try to catch his breath. The effort pained him more than getting dusted by a horse.

“You crazy old man!” Jason C. Hughes leaped to his feet, scrambling into the arroyo, kicking up red dust. “Do you know how much money that Mauser cost my father?”

As he filled his lungs, a shadow crossed over him. “Better watch yourself, old-timer,” a voice told him. “We don’t want you to keel over from a heart attack.”

Garrett instantly straightened, and smashed Todd’s nose. Or maybe it was Abraham’s.

A second later, the gunshot ripped through the camp, echoing across the countryside, and Garrett lay on his back, spread-eagled, thinking how this was a bitter end to sixty-five years. Killed by a bunch of greenhorns in the middle of nowhere for a miserable job that paid him thirty a month and found, the same wages he had drawn forty years earlier, only back then he had worked with and for men he had liked.

“Criminy, Abraham, put that thing away!”

“Hey, what’s all that shooting?”

“Abraham has killed the old fart! Fool almost broke my nose!”

The mule screamed, and hoofs stomped. More voices, but Garrett couldn’t understand the words.

Seth Thomas knelt over him, his face ashen, lips trembling.

Garrett flexed the fingers on his right hand, blinked, moved the hand and placed it on his chest. He felt blood leaking down his side, then slid a finger into the vest pocket, pulling out the shattered remains of the Aurora watch. Slowly, he sat up.

“He isn’t dead!” one of the dudes screamed in a nasal voice.

Garrett looked across the camp. Abraham sat on his bedroll, mouth open in surprise, the Colt automatic on the ground beside his boots. Todd stood over his friend, holding a rag against his bloody nose. Well, now he could tell those two apart. Jason C. Hughes had climbed out of the arroyo and wiped the dust off the Mauser with a handkerchief, more concerned about his rifle than Garrett’s health.

“You all right?” Seth Thomas asked.

He nodded. The .25-caliber slug had smashed the watch, then cut a nick across a rib before it spent off somewhere. The wound wasn’t much, although he’d have a hell of a bruise come morning. He smelled whiskey, realized Seth Thomas had unscrewed a flask and was offering him a drink, which Garrett accepted.

After pulling himself to his feet, he forced himself to walk over to Todd and Abraham, and just stood there, right hand on the butt of his old Colt. He kicked the automatic pistol into a clump of cheap grass. “Last person who shot at me got killed,” Garrett said.

Abraham swallowed. “It just went off. I didn’t mean—”

“That’s why I warned y’all about not pointing them things.”

“Old man,” Jason C. Hughes said, “you attacked Todd. Abraham was protecting our friend. Thought you had gone crazy.”

What he wanted to do was draw his .44, but he kept thinking about Sam Cahill, and kept remembering how cold winter got in Wyoming, how the bunkhouse stayed pretty warm, and that he needed a job. Criminy, it was an accident. The dude didn’t mean to shoot him, had just been scared. Let it go. Give you something to laugh about during the long winter. Then Seth Thomas’s voice sounded.

“My lord…you’re Lin Garrett, the famous Arizona lawman.”

 

He fingered the circular piece of tarnished silver, now punctured by a .25-caliber bullet, and could barely make out his name. He could see far just fine, but close-up, well, that was another story.

 

To Marshal Lin Garrett

From the People of Flagstaff, A.T.

 

The bullet had obliterated the rest, and Garrett tossed the remains of his watch case into the fire.

“My grandfather told me stories about the famous Lin Garrett,” Seth Thomas was saying. “Grandfather came from Boston bound for Arizona with…oh, I can’t remember the name.”

“The Arizona Colonization Company.”

“That’s it!”

“You never told me your grandfather was a Westerner,” Jason C. Hughes commented.

“Oh, Grandfather didn’t stick it out.” Seth Thomas shrugged. “He returned to Boston after a couple of years.”

“What was your grandpa’s name?” Garrett asked.

The dude told him, but Garrett shook his head. He couldn’t remember names anymore, especially names from thirty years back.

“I’ve heard of a Pat Garrett,” Todd said, just to say something. His nose had stopped bleeding.

“He got killed a short while back,” Jason C. Hughes said. “Read about it in the newspapers.”

“No kin,” Garrett said.

“Grandfather showed me a book that had been written about you,” Seth Thomas said. “One of those penny dreadfuls. He read parts of it to me, but I can’t remember much about it.”

“Nothing to remember,” Garrett said. “Just lies.”

“So you used to be famous, eh?” Jason C. Hughes laughed. “Maybe Owen Wister should write a book about you. And to think, Abraham almost killed you. That would have been something.”

“You aren’t going to tell Mr. Cahill, are you?” Abraham asked.

“No harm done,” Garrett answered, warmed now by Seth Thomas’s bourbon.

“Well, I haven’t killed my elk or deer yet, old-timer,” Jason C. Hughes said, “and I want to round up some longhorns!”

Garrett returned the flask to Seth Thomas. “We can check cattle in the morning, but they’ll be Herefords. Longhorns are a thing of the past in these parts. You can try out your cannon on the way back to the ranch. We’ll hunt up some elk in the hills.” He stared at Abraham. “Don’t forget your pistol. And don’t ever pull it on me again.”

 

He swung off his horse without a word, trying not to flinch from the pain caused by Abraham’s bullet, and fingered the closest track. The dudes slowly reined in, although Todd’s sorrel came close to plowing over Garrett as he studied the sign.

“What is it?” one of the dudes said.

“Elk?” asked Jason C. Hughes.

Polled Herefords, branded with the Triangle A, grazed nearby. Garrett rose, holding the reins to his bay, and walked a few rods farther, not answering the guests, and studied more tracks.

“Those are horse prints,” Seth Thomas said.

Still Garrett kept quiet, found a mound of horse apples, and broke one open, feeling it with the tips of his fingers.

“I hope you plan on washing your hands before you fix our supper, old-timer,” Jason C. Hughes sang out, and his pals laughed.

After he wiped his fingers on his chaps, Garrett mounted the bay, turned in the saddle and spoke with a purpose. “Tracks head toward those hills.” His chin jutted in that direction. “We’re following them.”

“There are plenty of cows here.” Stretching his aching legs, Jason C. Hughes pointed at the Herefords. “Why don’t we just work them?”

“I ain’t interested in those cattle.”

 

His boots scattered the ash from the fire in the small box canyon.

“When are we going to eat?” Todd asked.

“We ain’t.” Garrett muttered a curse as he looked at the four boys riding with him. One was off in the bushes answering nature’s call, two others looked just too tuckered out to even climb down from their horses, and the fourth, Jason C. Hughes, filled his stomach with whiskey.

“What is it?” Seth Thomas asked.

Garrett climbed into the saddle. “Four riders,” he said, “came into the pasture down there and gathered what I reckon to be twenty head of Triangle A beef. Most likely, they used a running iron on them here, and are herding them toward the state line.”

Hughes corked his canteen, keenly interested. “You mean…rustlers?”

“Looks like.”

“You’re joshing us!” exclaimed Todd.

I wish to hell I were, he thought, but shook his head.

“Should we ride back, tell Mr. Cahill?” Seth Thomas asked.

“Hell, no!” It was Jason C. Hughes who answered. “We go after them, right, old man? Kill some rustlers, now that’s something nobody will believe back in Manhattan. This is just crackerjack!”

“We need help,” Seth Thomas pleaded.

Hughes patted the stock of his Mauser. “We have all the help we need, right?” He pointed at the coiled lariat on Garrett’s saddle. “Just like The Virginian!”

 

He could put his heart into this. Do a good job, Sam Cahill had told him, and Garrett planned on doing just that. Tracking rustlers filled his bill, even if the posse riding behind him wasn’t up to snuff. Well, thirty years ago, he had ridden with posses about as worthless. Besides, at least Jason C. Hughe. . .