The Last Shootist by Miles Swarthout Page B

up?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry to say, they have not. I’ve no idea what happened to them.”
    â€œI want to speak to your son.”
    â€œWell, he’s not here. Gillom left.”
    â€œFor where?”
    â€œI don’t know. He rode out of town and said he was going to catch a train, probably headed west.”
    El Paso’s top lawman glared at her, frustrated. He had not removed his Stetson in deference, and out of courtesy, she had not invited him inside.
    â€œProbably took those Remingtons with him.”
    â€œGillom was not armed when he left here, that I saw.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œThree mornings ago. Early.”
    â€œUh-huh. We had a well-chawed body turn up in our alligator pond, San Jacinto Plaza, that same day. Young Mexican, nephew of this Serrano, from Juarez.”
    Mrs. Rogers acted perplexed. “So?”
    â€œSerrano was a cattle rustler, an all-purpose bandido . One of the bad boys J. B. Books killed in that shoot-out in the Constantinople. Now Serrano’s cousin turns up as alligator bait on our side of the line, and his relatives are looking for another missing young kin to this same bandido .” The tightly wound lawman paced about in a little circle on her porch, thinking aloud. “Now your son’s flown the coop, too. All three young men are connected to the Books shoot-out and I wanna know how closely?”
    â€œI didn’t read about any alligators eating Mexicans in the paper?”
    â€œNo, we’re keeping that quiet. Frightens the tourists. But there were .44-.40-caliber slugs in that Mexican kid, so the alligators didn’t grab him first. I’m gonna put out a wanted bulletin for your Gillom.”
    â€œOn what grounds?”
    â€œHe’s a witness in a murder investigation. And suspected of gun theft. That’s enough for the law to pick him up, anytime, anywhere he turns up.”
    No arguing with this bully. Mrs. Rogers shut her front door. Walter Thibido shouted through it.
    â€œYou see or hear from your son, tell him to save himself more trouble, turn himself in. He’s got more explaining to do!”
    Bond Rogers rested her head against a framed tintype on the wall, of her mother and father and her brother, with her standing in front, all smiling on a sunny day somewhere else. She caught her breath and fought back tears.
    *   *   *
    Gillom Rogers spent another day lazing around Tularosa, browsing the limited goods in their general store. He got in more practice with his pistols in the alley out behind the Wolf, dry-firing only, not disturbing their peace. He spent another hour under an arch of cottonwoods on a bench in their little plaza writing a letter to his mother, Bond, reassuring her he was okay and had already met a fella who was going to teach him to wrangle horses. Gillom licked a pencil lead and listened to the mockingbirds in the cottonwoods’ branches. The Wolf’s bartender walked by late afternoon again on his way to work.
    â€œGotta move your gear outta our storeroom, son. Holding a fight in there tonight.”
    â€œThen where do I sleep? I paid for that bare corner!”
    â€œYou can move back in after the fight’s over. That spot’s for drunks anyway.”
    Gillom nodded to the older man, who waved as he walked off. At least the locals are warmin’ up to me a mite, he realized.
    *   *   *
    Gillom was finishing another dinner steak when Gene Rhodes strolled into the Wolf.
    â€œ Gillom! You bet on fights? We got a dog and a badge’ goin’ at it tonight!”
    â€œOh, no. Don’t gamble, but I’ll watch.”
    â€œOkay. Maybe we’ll let you referee.”
    Gene asked his buddy the bartender for a glass of water, drank half of it, and then clambered from a stool on top of the bar counter.
    â€œOkay, you topers! You betting fools! We’ve got a badge’ going against a kille’ dog in