The Last Shootist by Miles Swarthout

it, letting its sour juice run down his chin as he went out back to clean up.
    *   *   *
    Refreshed, Gillom sat at a table near the bar, demolishing his steak while he looked around the long barroom, lightly patronized this spring weeknight with a scattering of players at the monte, faro, senate, and poker tables, ending at an empty billiard table in the rear. In this outlaw town they had no trouble with a teenager drinking, so Gillom motioned for another brew. As he was served, he queried the nattily dressed bartender.
    â€œLookin’ for Eugene Rhodes.”
    â€œSure. If Gene’s not up at his horse ranch, he’ll be over at the little house west of town he’s renting for his wife, May, who’s expecting. But he’ll be in here sooner or later. Mister Rhodes is fond of poker.”
    Gillom stopped in midchew. “I’ll be here a day or two, restin’ my horses.”
    The barkeep smoothed his silk vest. “Who’s lookin’ for him?”
    â€œFriend of a friend. From El Paso.”
    â€œUh-huh.” The bartender gave him a cool stare.
    *   *   *
    After an exhausted sleep on a hard floor, Gillom was up next morning for that bath and a haircut at the barber shop, turning in his dirty clothes at the Mexican laundry and having a big breakfast at the Oasis Café. He took his time checking on his horses at the stable, then bought a calfskin wallet at a leather goods. Nothing doing at the blacksmith’s, so Gillom had a gunsmith clean his Remingtons while watching the process, then bought gun oil, a brush, and some rags to do it later himself.
    Gillom relaxed outside the gun shop, letting a boy with a shoebox spit-shine his boots, the brown ones with a yellow lightning bolt on each leather top. He watched a couple schoolgirls idle down the boardwalk window shopping. The Wolf’s bartender walked into his view from a side street on his way to work.
    â€œMister Rhodes was tending his yard not a half hour ago. Said he’d be in the Wolf tonight.”
    *   *   *
    A long nap that afternoon left him rested, so Gillom was in good fettle as he finished another beefsteak that evening. Friday night’s arrival had aroused the saloon business and the gambling tables along one side of the Wolf were busy. The bartender, whom he’d been tipping well, caught Gillom’s eye and nodded toward the stocky man who’d just walked in the front door. Short-framed, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds after a big meal, Eugene Manlove Rhodes had a handsome head of unruly blond hair. He caught the bartender’s eye, too, and followed his nod to the teenager’s table.
    â€œYou the sprout making inquiries after me?”
    Gillom dropped his knife and fork and rose up. “Yes, sir, Mister Rhodes. Please, take a seat. Can I buy you a drink?”
    Gene slid out a chair. “Only imbibe coffee or wate’. Whiskey’s the cause a most of the killings in the West and I don’t carry a gun.”
    Gillom pantomimed drinking from a cup to a bartender. “Only take an occasional beer myself. Noticed your crooked nose. Thought you might be a scrapper?”
    Rhodes grinned. “Neve’ walk away from fisticuffs or a wrestling match. But when weapons come out and the combatants get blood-crazed, I head the othe’ direction.” He thanked the bartender who served him his coffee. “You a two-gun man, I see.”
    It was Gillom’s turn to smile. “Carry one for either side of the border.”
    Eugene Rhodes eyed the teenager thoughtfully. “What are you doin’ here, kid?”
    â€œWell, I needed to get outta El Paso awhile, catch some fresh air in some new country. Dan Dobkins, of the Daily Herald, mentioned your horse ranch up in the mountains.”
    â€œDan and I share an interest in writing and American history. Dobkins is a newspape’ man, always reporting on the wilde’