The Last Shootist by Miles Swarthout Page A

characters in this lawless land, whereas I make my Western stories up. I’ve had a couple articles published in Out West magazine from Los Angeles, so Dan encourages me during my visits to his sinful city.” The rancher scratched his bent nose. “I can understand why you’d want to leave a twenty-four-hour town like El Paso. Helluva fast city for a kid to grow up in.”
    Gillom played with his new Stetson, curling the sides of the brim upward with his long fingers. He had to listen hard, for Eugene Rhodes spoke with a slight lisp, dropping his “r’s” due to a cleft palate he tried to conceal under his broad mustache. The tough rancher didn’t seem self-conscious, though, even of his high-pitched voice.
    â€œOh, I’ll get back to the Pass. My mother lives there. My dad was a railroad engineer, died when I was just a tad, so I’ve gotta look after my mother.”
    Rhodes nodded. “I’ll take you to the San Andes when I pack a load of supplies up for my wrangle’ day afte’ tomorrow. Gotta hang round the house here awhile for May. Married a widow with a young son and she’s expecting our first baby in a couple months. Horse ranch is too lonely for youngsters.”
    Gillom started to thank him, but they were interrupted by a commotion outside the saloon. A horse squealed and someone yelled in pain as Gene took off from the table at a fast trot in his high-heeled boots. Gillom hurried behind his new host through the batwing door.
    Outside a roan horse was hot-eyed and kicking, having loosed its tie-rein from the hitching post. A long-haired cowboy was down on both knees attempting to crawl away from the stamping bronco.
    â€œWhat happened to you, fella?”
    â€œStom-ach cramps. Godamighty,” groaned the cowhand. “Somethin’ I et.”
    â€œOhh,” smiled Gene. “And a big bruise to go with ’em. Miste’, you’d betta see a docta’, get some purgative.”
    â€œYah…” The cowhand crawled slowly away from his trouble.
    Gillom joined the older rancher gentling his snorty horse in front of the crowd of gawkers who had run outside for the excitement.
    â€œWhat was that about?”
    â€œWe’ve been plagued by saddle thieves. Few weeks ago I lost my best saddle right here in front of the Wolf. They ride off into the night, let you’ horse loose to return, but you’ saddle’s headed somewheres else. So I trained this raw bronc Indian-style, to be mounted from the right instead of from the left. That jaspe’ tried to mount him regula’, on the left side, and got a hoof in the belly for his dirty work.” The explanation drew chuckles from the Wolf’s patrons. “Any a you boys see that jaspe’ spookin’ you’ horses again, give him a good kick for me, wouldcha?”
    To shouts of “Sure will, Gene,” and “He ain’t welcome round here,” the drinkers and gamblers filed back in the saloon.
    Gene Rhodes tightened his half-broke horse’s cinch and hoisted himself back onto his second best saddle from the wrong side.
    â€œYou a gamble’, son?”
    â€œNope. Can’t afford the expense of learnin’ poker.”
    â€œGood. Hold onto you’ money. Poker’s my affliction, so I’ll cut the wolf loose in he’ tomorrow night.”
    â€œOkay, Mister Rhodes.”
    Gene wheeled the anxious animal and booted him down the hard-packed street.
    â€œCall me Gene!”

 
    Thirteen
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    Walter Thibido was not in a positive frame of mind as he clomped up the few stairs to Bond Rogers’s front porch. The marshal usually left domestic difficulties to his deputies and he hadn’t enjoyed dickering with this imperious widow and her sassy kid in his jail. But those special guns were too valuable to ignore.
    The mother answered his hard knock. “Marshal?”
    â€œMissus Rogers. Those pistols turn